<b><p></b> <b><p></b> <b><p></b> <b><p></b> <b>My future kid:</b> Okay,mom what's otp?<p/><b>Me:</b> *sobs*<p/><b>Kid:</b> What's wrong?<p/><b>Me:</b> Are you ready to have your life chopped in million pieces?<p/><b>Kid:</b> What?<p/><b>Me:</b> Joshler,Phan,Destiel,Stydia, Sabriel,Richonne,Gleggie,Daryl x Jesus,Negan,Steve Rogers<p/><b></b> and many more my sweet innocent child.<p/></p><p/></p><p/></p><p/></p><p/></p>
You know something I've never once seen mentioned on Supernatural? Jesus. I mean they've had angels, they've had demons, they've had freaking God, but no one even mentions Jesus. Why is that? I feel like he'd be a key character in the celestial family.
Which is weird in and of itself because a) Dean hates driving dogs in his baby; b) it’s not even his dog; and c) He’s still pissed at Sam for skipping out on him and their dad only to come back with a dog sized golden retriever he named Bones of all things. Jesus, Sam, you’d think you’re have a little more imagination considering you hid from one of the best damn trackers for two weeks only to name a dog after something we see every day.
Dean sighed to himself. All that and he still has somehow found himself on pooch duty in some dog park in the middle of Illinois of all things.
“He is limping.” Dean turned to the sound of a gruff voice coming from right behind in.
“Yeah well, he’s old.” His comeback was coming out before he got a good look at the guy he was talking to.
“This is ridiculous,” Dean mutters as he rolls out his mat, side-eyeing the fuck out of his brother. His sweatpants are already sticking to his legs with the heat of the room, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he’d worn shorts. “I’m gonna suffocate,” he declares. “I’m gonna die doing hot yoga and it’s gonna be embarrassing.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Would you calm down?”
“Ha!” Dean scoffs. “Easy for you to say. Look at you, with your goddamn hippie man bun and your short shorts and—”
“—These are regular shorts, Dean—”
“And with your fuckin’ tank top you’re in your natural habitat! Jesus, Sam, you’re like the king of the motherfucking granolas!”
“And you’re being a little bitch,” Sam counters, getting himself set up and sitting, cross-legged, to center himself. He closes his eyes. “The physio said this is the best thing for your shoulder, so we’re here. Now shut your trap and take it like a man.”