<b>The Winchesters take a vacation:</b> A whole episode where nothing is trying to kill them, toes in the sand, beers in hand. Relaxing and talking about hunts and events we dont get to see.<p/><b>Montage of Sam's morning routine:</b> The run, the work out, shower, shaving, hair grooming (sweet Jesus pls) and picking his clothes out for the day.<p/><b>Dean gets a game console:</b> Help him work out his aggressions in a safer manner.<p/><b>Winchesters vs The Flu:</b> One brother down, whiney and sick, while the other takes care of him. When he's better, the other is sick... rinse, repeat.<p/><b>Winchester Christmas:</b> A good legit one with Mary. Sam has never had a Christmas with his mom. Tree in the bunker, decorations, gifts, and if Cas is still around, have him tell the story of Jesus' birth, because he was there!<p/><b>Winchester Birthdays:</b> Mom is here now, lets have some birthday cake!<p/><b>Sam in the shower:</b> If we can't have the morning montage, let's at least have a shower scene, that's not water boarding!<p/><b>Brothers working out together:</b> We know they don't get those bods just by tossing monsters around!<p/><b>Winchester snow day:</b> 2 feet of snow and the brothers have to stay in, watching TV and playing board games!<p/><b>The Bunker gets a family room:</b> complete with TV, couch, recliners etc<p/><b>Evil Sam with FANGS!:</b> Sam turns into a Vamp, or Warewolf, or some other scary monster that has fangs! Of course Dean fixes him, but not before he becomes scary! (and perhaps bites Dean?)<p/><b>One or both Winchesters need reading glasses:</b> It just tickles me that they're growing old together.<p/><b></b> So maybe this is all too much to fit into just 1 season, so Im good with saving these for the next 5 seasons!!<p/></p>
Hey Rachel got a question for ya. Do you think Stiles would feel inadequate compared to all the buff sexy werewolves and push himself to the breaking point trying to look like he belongs? Cause I have this headcanon where he decides to work out to make himself look like he belongs beside the wolves but it doesn't work out to well and he winds up doing more harm than good. Which upsets Derek when he finds out (because he loves the idiot but he won't admit it)
Aw I can absolutely see this. Stiles, already prone to insecurity and the feeling of not being good enough, slowly being worn down by that itching knowledge in his skull of being that he’s not as strong as any of his friends, not as attractive as any of his friends, and sure as hell not as useful as any of them, right? Sure, he’s smart. He knows that. But what the hell use is that in battle? He can’t dive in front of a bullet to keep the others from hurting, can’t stand beside the others and fight at anything close to their level.
And no matter how much he smirks at enemies’ jibes and plays off as enjoying being the group’s token human (”means I get to leave all the heavy lifting to you guys, right?”) it’s a feeling that would keep building up over time, pushing at the back of his skull every time the pack insists he be left behind on a certain mission, that he should stay where he’s safe, or gets offhandedly told he’ll just slow the others down. Every time they go running out in the preserve and he gets to sit behind and watch the car. Every time he goes out with the group and finds himself wondering what he looks like in everyone else’s eyes: this circle of beautiful beyond belief, supernaturally perfect people and then… him.
He couldn’t share his worries with the others –– Scott would get that worried look in his eyes and insist Stiles is perfect the way he is. Lydia might not share the same speed and strength as the others but she’s always been supernaturally beautiful, and she’s got her own banshee tricks to help out in a fight. So he keeps it inside, bottles it up… and he starts to push himself. Stays after school lifting weights until his limbs are wrecked from it, goes out running until his legs are shaking under him. Thinking one more lift, one more mile, one step closer to belonging.
And it starts working, too. He’s able to keep up with the pack sometimes, on their more casual runs. He’s gaining muscle, losing any last hints of baby fat. But there are hollowed shadows under his eyes too and he’s not eating enough, probably, but that’s fine. It’s fine when he wrestles with Liam and ends up with a purpled bruise blooming out across his ribs from a too-hard tackle. It’s fine that he can’t really sleep anymore because his muscles are always burning. It’s fine because he’s started looking at pictures of the group after pack events and almost seeing a group of people who fit together, not a handful of perfect people around a lanky, awkward him. Who the hell wouldn’t sacrifice a little comfort and the ability to lift his arms above his head for that?
Derek’s the one who notices first, because of course he is. Drops in through the bedroom window one night like the supernatural stalking creeper he used to be, and finds Stiles collapsed to an exhausted heap against the side of his bed. Too tired and too sore to have stripped off his sweat-stained shirt or make it the extra step to lay down on it. He forces a smile when he spots Derek, but it’s more pained than it should be. Wavers at the edges. Derek ignores his opening jibe, doesn’t comment on the way Stiles tries to push himself up on unsteady palms and falters, a spasm of motion that starts and dies just as fast. Just moves silent, sits down next to him on the floor at the foot of the bed. There’s a world of words in his silence, a disapproving air Stiles can feel deep in his bones, and he finds himself saying “I’m fine,” low and head ducked, like it’s a lie.
It’s not a lie. But it’s not exactly true either, is it?
Derek’s eyes are on Stiles’ face now, flicking down his damp shirt, over his faintly trembling limbs, and it’s like he’s seeing too much suddenly, seeing through walls Stiles is too tired to pull up. People aren’t supposed to see him at this point in the day; they’re supposed to see him in the morning when he has the energy to grin and bounce and keep up with the rest of them like it’s effortless. They’re not supposed to see the tired bruises under his eyes or the way he shakes from hours of trying to hold himself at a werewolf’s level.
He wets his lips, a flash of frustration burning bitter through him.
“Look, I’m not strong like you guys.” It’s not news. It’s been a constant refrain for the past two years of his life, ever since Scott was bit and turned into a superhero sports star girl magnet and left Stiles standing awkwardly in his dust. Stiles couldn’t ask for the bite, Scott wouldn’t understand. And he doesn’t think he wants it either, not really. He doesn’t want the claws or the anchors or the pulls to the moon. He just wants to be able to keep up with them. Wants to not be the funny one in a group of supermodels. Doesn’t want to be the weak one in a group of heroes. Doesn’t want to be the one holding them back.
He bites over a frustrated sound, frowns at Derek’s faintly pinched brows, manages to lift one bone-dead arm and snaps out even more harshly: “I’m not… hot.”
It’s not the whole issue, it barely touches the issue, but it’s too much already and he scowls after he says it, daring Derek to snort or mock him or roll his eyes and agree, obviously, but that searching look only seems to sink deeper and Derek murmurs, “You’re wrong.”
Which is just… it’s worse than laughing. Because Stiles could handle people dismissing him, mocking him. He’s used to that. What he can’t take is Derek fucking Hale feeling so goddamned bad about his patheticness that he’s reduced to lying to try and comfort him.
“Oh, right, sure. I’m hot. You guys are all freaking Greek gods with all the muscle and the… faces.” He snorts, falling back against an overworked spine that protests the pressure. “You can’t even talk. You’ve always been the hottest person ever. You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be the one no one ever wants.”
Derek’s eyes flick down Stiles again, reassessing, and Stiles winces over the realization that Derek’s trying to find something, anything likable on his wiry frame.
“Don’t––” He starts, because he physically cannot handle that, but Derek’s saying “You’re wrong,” again, and it’s soft and warm in a way that doesn’t sound like pity.
But Stiles doesn’t let himself feel it. The “oh yeah?” he shoots back is sure and challenging, almost smug in its confidence because maybe he’s not beautiful beyond all reason like the man next to him, maybe he’s not strong and desirable and wanted but at least he’s smart enough to realize that.
Derek lets out a growl of frustration and turns where he’s sitting, crowds in close with palms pressed to either side of Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles is on the edge of rolling his eyes because does Derek seriously think he can intimidate Stiles into changing his mind about himself, but then “you’re wrong” falls out a third time, a too-warm growl of a whisper, and Derek closes the space between their lips.
Stiles loses his conviction in the contact.
Derek’s hands move over him while they kiss, dragging soothing tips and scolding pinches over his wrecked muscles in ways that leave him groaning, touches sinking you’re beautiful and you’re wanted under his skin in ways the best words probably never could. Hands trail down to play across Stiles’ fingers, silently praising the cleverness of them. Beard-rough lips drift up to kiss across his temple and a warmth of admiration seems to melt into him with each press. And Stiles can barely move, arms aching protest as he lifts them to thread into Derek’s hair, body quivering in ways that shift between exhaustion and want.
When Derek finally leans back Stiles whimpers, wanting more but too worn down to chase him. But Derek’s watching him from inches away in the dark room, and there’s no reflected flaws in those dark eyes now. Just you’re beautiful, you’re wanted. You’re important.
Stiles runs light thumbs down Derek’s beard, lets out a light laugh he barely recognizes.
“Guess I believe you,”
(And from now on, on nights when the pack goes out running, Stiles and Derek find a more interesting way to occupy themselves by the cars.)
Hey, can you write a Dean x Reader according to the sentence "This is my Baby!"
was cursed, that much was painfully obvious. The witch hurled some ugly pink
shit at him and all it took was one look at you and he was panting after you
like a puppy. 5 days later and Sam still hadn’t found a cure, profusely
apologizing to you every chance he got for how uncomfortable you were. You’d
been in love with Dean since you were a child, and Sam knew it. Sam also knew
you never acted on it because you didn’t want to pin Dean down and you didn’t
want one of you to be hurt when the other inevitably died, so he didn’t push
you go work on baby or something?” Sam said, standing in Bobby’s living room
and watching Dean kissing all over your neck. He saw the look of pure sadness
in your eyes and he tried to help, but it was no use.
is my Baby!” Dean exclaimed, going right back to attacking your neck. You didn’t
say a word, instead silently pleading with Sam for him to help you.
Y/N, will you go to the store for me?” Sam asked, tossing you the keys to the
Impala. You quickly jumped up and Dean tried to follow, only to be stopped by
Sam. Whatever Sam said to him gave you just enough time to get out of the house
and speed down the road away from everything. You rolled down the window and
let the wind flow through your hair, having no intentions of coming back until
you were sure Dean would be asleep.
snuck back into the house at 3am. You would’ve called Sam at least, to tell him
you were ok, but you’d left your phone in your haste to leave. You silently
made your way through the kitchen, spotting a bowl of charred herbs and spices.
“Another one of Sam’s failed attempts.” You sighed and kept going, sneaking
into your room and kicking off your boots and jeans, collapsing into your bed.
there long when your door opened and you sighed to yourself, knowing it was
Dean, just like every night. He crawled into your bed and draped an arm around
your waist, pulling you close. “Dean.” You rolled over to face him and almost
got lost in pools of green staring back at you. “We can’t do this. You’re
cursed. Go back to your room, please.”
reversed the curse.” Dean said. “He tried to call but you left your phone here…”
are you here?”
the shit I did, the shit I said under that curse. I wasn’t lyin’.” He admitted.
He pushed himself forward, connecting his lips with yours in a gentle kiss. You
smiled into it and he smiled back, biting your bottom lip. “You’re my baby.”
Now normally I don’t usually consider the same things as a No Homo that a lot of people seem to (because bisexual means he likes BOTH, yes good okay), buuuut I’m not going to deny that “HEY, REMINDER THAT DEAN LIKES WOMEN, YES?” isn’t something that happens, and that it doesn’t end up being fodder for the Dean-is-straight-and-you-are-dumb people.
So. That fucking said.
The moments in this ep where a No Homo would have been shoved in not only just didn’t exist, but were DELIBERATELY PASSED OVER. Let me explain. –No, it’ll take too long, let me sum up.
Dean walks into the bar, and sees the girl dancing on the table.
He looks, but he doesn’t get invested. No smirking, no once-over, none of the tell-tale “aw yeah” reactions we usually get from Dean. The one who gets his attention is Rio, who gets a friendly, nonsexual nod of solidarity.
Then there’s a girl laying down on a table with her mouth open and being fed alcohol all sexy-like. Dean not only doesn’t look interested, but he gets that “oh, well, all right” face that people tend to make when they’re watching something that isn’t quite their thing.
And then he sees Gunner and makes a goddamn beeline.
Here’s his face when Gunner knows his name without asking and hands him a shot.
This is not subtle. It’s not played off as so much of a joke that it’s an effective No Homo. If you made it through tonight’s episode without at least suspecting that Dean isn’t straight, those Hetero Lenses are welded to your damn face.
I’m already getting started on my Volume 5 wish list, and here’s what’s at the top:
I want Ruby and Oscar to be best pals.
Besides the fact that Ruby would be thrilled to find out Ozpin isn’t dead and the fact that they’re both precious cinnamon rolls, she and Oscar would be able to relate to each other so much! Mysterious destiny, unexpected mission, being a tool of authorities and supernatural powers beyond their very imaginings…
Just give me one scene where Oscar goes, “Yeah, I got stuck with this weird power I didn’t ask for, and now it’s my responsibility to right all the wrongs in the world. And whenever someone in power who I trust knows something that could help me, they withhold the information until the last second.”
A/N: I found a gif and I wanted my wifee @mrsgabrieltrickster to talk me out of it but then she made a great point and boop here you go DESTIEL WARNING
He was staring just a little too long, laughing just a little too hard.
And Castiel, though a patient man, is on the edge of losing his temper. Dean smiles – the smile that crinkles his eyes and tugs at his cheeks – at the woman in front of him, smoothing his hand down his suit jacket.
“I appreciate your time ma’am,” Dean says, cocking an eyebrow as she jots down a number on a piece of paper. “We do have a few more questions–”
“Just in case I forget,” she purrs, offering him the number. Castiel cocks an eyebrow, clearing his throat. “If you have any more questions,” she blurts. Sam shifts in his seat, frowning as the angel lets out a short breath.
“And we appreciate that ma’am,” Sam cuts in. Dean nods in agreement, clamping his mouth shut as Castiel shoots him a glare.
“Dean, a word,” he grunts, shooting Sam a look before heading down the hallway.
“U-uhm…we like to get a good feel for your home…so my colleagues are…gonna have a look,” Sam says, followed by an uncomfortable laugh.
Castiel walks into the first room he can find, dragging Dean along with him. The moment the door closes, he’s pushing Dean against a shelf of books, gripping both of his wrists.
“Is she your type?” Castiel growls, his voice a whisper. Dean shudders out a response, grunting as the other man forced his leg between his thighs. “I know when you’re flirting Dean, you aren’t subtle.”
“I wasn’t – fuck – you’re just –” He cuts himself off as Castiel’s grace wraps around his neck, a stifled moan escaping him. “This really isn’t the time Cas,” he chuckles, tilting his head as Castiel’s lips met his neck.
“Then stop looking at her.” His voice is muffled against the Winchester’s neck, but the assertion is clearly heard. “Stop laughing at her jokes.” He pauses, rolling his hips and gaining a light whimper from Dean. God, the sounds he makes can send Castiel’s head spinning in seconds.
“J-jealous fuck,” Dean breathes, his eyes widening as the tingle of Castiel’s grace teased down the length of his cock.
“You’re right, I am a ‘jealous fuck’, Dean.” Castiel pauses, letting out a long, hot breath against Dean’s neck. Dean shudders, his hands gripping into fists. “And I suppose you want me to stop?” he asks. He shakes his head, groaning as Castiel grinds against him. “Then what? I thought this wasn’t the time, Dean –”
“S-stop fucking around,” he whines.
“Oh, I will.” Castiel begins pulling away, chuckling as Dean lets out a desperate whine.
“Please?” he breathes, biting his cherry red lip between his teeth. Smiling, Castiel reclaims his place pressed up against his boyfriend, nuzzling against his sensitive skin.
Sam stares ahead with a tight-lipped smile, his eyes wide as moans echo down the hallway.
this day in 1855, heavy snowfall hit southern Devon in the United
Kingdom. The next morning locals awoke to find a mysterious set of
footprints in the snow. The footprints were in single file in the shape
of cloven hooves, and supposedly stretched for hundreds of miles, going
through walls, houses and over water and rooftops. The single file
footprints suggested a creature on two legs rather than four, and the
cloven shape fitted with contemporary imagery of the Devil. Satan is
traditionally pictured with cloven hooves, as its image was adapted from a
pagan deity, and the wings represent Lucifer’s nature as a fallen angel.
There have been numerous theories put forward beyond the
supernatural, from escaped kangaroos, a hot air balloon dangling a
rope, to roaming badgers. It is unlikely the footprints were faked,
though their appearance did certainly benefit the Devon clergy as the
churches were filled with people terrified by the Devil. The mystery
remains unsolved to this day, but modern thinkers tend to reject the
notion that the Devil traversed across nineteenth century Devon.