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Reblog if you want my endless love. 

Why Season Nine is Setting Up Dean for a Long-Term Love Interest (and Why I Think It's Castiel)

aka Why the First Half of Season Nine Wasn’t As Shitty for Destiel Shippers As You Think

So amidst all the brouhaha surrounding this season – the apparent “bro-zoning” of Cas and Twittergate fiasco and so on – I have been noticing a pattern. Supernatural is a show, according to all the wonderful, more observant meta-writers out there, that lives and breathes themes and symbolism and imagery. So far in season nine, the one constant, the one recurring motif, the one question that has been asked again and again, the one that I see (and I know I’m not the only one) – is love.

This is, for my own interests, basically a summary of the Dean/Cas side of the season’s love theme, of all things Destiel from 9x01-9x09. It goes without saying, I think, that 9x10-9x11 gave us even more… and great hopes for the rest of the season as well.

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can we just talk about the fact that its been 3 years since the boys were put together as a group and they have been with each other fOR ALMOST EVERYDAY IN 3 YEARS, ALMOST EVERY FUCKING DAY, AND I JUST REALLY WANT TO THANK THEM FOR NOT STARTING TO HATE EACH OTHER AND THANK THEM FOR BEING THE BAND THEY ARE WITH THE STUPID SAD BUT KIND OF not really FUNNY HUMOR AND THAT THEY ARE MAKING THE SONGS THEY ARE MAKING. THANK YOU ONE DIRECTION. You make me happy.

Reuploaded it

So I was saying instead of studying I Mako’d instead orz

I should really study right now omg orz

I had to polish that sketch because MAKO HNNNNNNNGGGGGGHSAFJSAHKHSAJHD do I really need to explain why I mean why not?

Okay I’m off to study now haha….ha…ha /crying

Ugh tumblr messed up the quality, so just full-view maybe?

…and sorry for the low resolution, I’m fond of drawing on small canvas okay :(

John folds his arms over his chest.  He stops talking.  He closes his eyes, delicate lashes drifting down towards deeply scored pain-and-suffering lines.  He stands perfectly still against the wall like an abandoned dust mop, and just exactly that colour too, and Sherlock can see his entire life crumbling, both of their lives, a thousand futures of cases and take-away and murders and sex and misunderstandings and jokes and obsession and quiet smiles and mingled blood gone in the blink of an eye.  A thousand threads of what-might-have-beens, all burning. (x)

click for full view.

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