I don’t really care for the color of his eyes. Not the color. Never the color. I care for the way his eyes speak. I care for the way they close when he’s asleep. I care for the way they crumple tightly and look up the ceiling when he’s angry. I care for the vitality that exist in them whenever he’s exercising things of his passion. I’ve always only cared for the life in his eyes. And only ever noticed their colors when the life was gone.

3:05 AM.

His eyes were green.

—  –n.t.
A person sleeps. Within those hours, there are five cycles. Each cycle is of a non rapid eye movement sleep and a rapid eye movement sleep. The earlier further subdivided into four light sleep stages before you are able to lucidly dream. Every single dentrite in the cerebral cortex dims itself slightly if not completely, like a city resting from its simplistically patterned trivialities. The body revitalizes itself, forms itself, heals itself in the period of time you let your mind siphon its consciousness away. And for few vivid minutes of dreaming, lives are lived inside resting heads. The next time you wake someone up for mundane purposes, think about how much good things are jerkily screeching down into a sudden halt. Step out, close the door. He can know you love him the next morning.
—  n.t.

idea by riley!

There is one word that could easily sum up Dean’s day so far, and that word is fuck.

His nails are bitten to the quick, his palms are so sweaty he’s surprised they aren’t dripping, and there’s a new silver ring burning a hole in his pocket right now. Unconsciously, Dean fingers the damn thing, pushing it as far into the lining as it’ll go without ripping. He kind of wishes he could throw it into the ocean. Or a volcano, Mount Doom style.

He’s probably Smeagol. No doubt that the red flush creeping up the back of his neck is that cursed mountain’s lava, swallowing him whole, melting the very flesh off his bones, and – wow, he’s so screwed.

Keep reading

team free will

  • cas gets scrubbed of his person over and over and over again and is hypermanipulated by naomi and metatron for their own personal gain
  • sam is unable to lead a path of life he wants for himself and is also down the road tricked into being a vessel for a rogue angel and is consequently denied of his right to die 
  • dean is desperately and unknowingly bound and chained to a misplaced, problematic sense of responsibility to his brother that was ingrained into him from the earliest days of his life that even he doesn’t realize how it’s damning him over and over again

petition to change team name to team not-so-free will

I love this man. I love this man. I love you, man. I love–I. I love every shitting inch of you. That fucking confused look. I love that too. This is the stupid man I love. I love you. .. Hey, buddy–

“Yes, Dean?”


A beat.

“Say hello to the missus for me.”

—  n.t.