anonymous asked:

Maybe the reason you're seeing a rise in these "attacks" is because people are waking up to the notion that the reason these stereotypes pervade is because they might actually be true.

anti-semites are cowards who hide behind anon and further prove my point


So, I just watched this video on Youtube called How Hamilton Works: Eliza’s Chord Progression by Howard Ho. Basically, it’s a wonderful synthesis and explanation of the musical themes that pervade the show and combine to create Eliza’s own musical theme. This is particularly present in the songs “Burn” and “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?”

At many points in Hamilton, the “Alexander Hamilton” chord progression is played. (The chords that open the show) This chord progression is always accompanied by Aaron Burr asking a question. i.e. “How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore…etc, etc” In essence, these chords represent the narrative drive. They further the story. Except, there is one instance (the last instance, in fact) where the chord progression appears without a question. Without Aaron Burr at all, in fact. This is in “Burn”. Most people recognize the Satisfied-sounding chords played by the right hand on piano, but the left hand is the hand that plays a slight variant of the “Alexander Hamilton” chord progression. This is important, because these chords further the narrative. Yet, in this case, the narrative is being destroyed. On the other hand (quite literally, in this sense) the “Satisfied” chords represent family obligation. Combine these two, a variant of the “Alexander Hamilton” chord progression, and a variant of the “Satisfied” chord progression, and we see something special.

In the words of Howard Ho, “So, why would Lin-Manuel Miranda combine these two themes together? He’s trying to tell us something musically. In a song where Eliza sings “I’m erasing myself from the narrative”, it’s even more heartbreaking that she uses the Alexander Hamilton chord progression, which symbolizes forward narrative motion in order to sing about stopping the narrative. No longer a narrative device, the Alexander Hamilton chord progression becomes here a commentary on narrative devices. And it’s combined with the Satisfied run which represents family duty because Eliza is burning the letters to protect her family. But, the Satisfied run has been altered, turned into the minor mode with a more angular presence. This is the dark side of family duty. That, sometimes in order to preserve your family’s history, you have to destroy it.”

However, when we enter the final song, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?” Eliza has finally put her self back in the narrative. She has forgiven Hamilton for all his wrongs, and is telling his story, yet in her own way. She tells it in a less villainous way than many would. She emphasizes all the great things his ambition provided. Here, we see the same chords of the “Alexander Hamilton” chord progression, the representation of the narrative and of ambition alike, but we see these chords rearranged to something much sweeter. These are Eliza’s chords now. 

it is good to be critical of fanfiction and fanart

fiction, whether fanwritten or “professionally” written, is one way stereotypes pervade modern culture

mandingo, hot latin lover, greedy jew, evil bisexual, weak white woman who needs rescue, strong black woman who don’t need no man, promiscuous gay (who then gets AIDS and “learns their lesson”)

whether you believe it or not, these are harmful to the people that are stereotyped this way in the “real” world

words have meaning and being told your words mean bad things is not an “attack”, it’s the opportunity to grow and i’m frankly tired of seeing all of this “don’t like, don’t read” shit used to defend racism, fucking goddamn nazis, sexism, brutal sexual assault, goddamn motherfucking pedophiles and other actually harmful shit

it’s okay to write to examine certain topics, but when you glorify it in your fiction piece and make it seem okay, you truly are part of the problem

fanfiction/fanart is media to be consumed by whatever masses exist and, as such, we should all remain critical when certain themes begin to appear because this is how fucked up shit is normalized: through uncritical media consumption

funnily enough there is a huge correlation between gay peoples general dissatisfaction with life (due to homophobia, mental illness, economic troubles, past abuse / trauma, etc) and their only respite being their partners. and to act like the prevalence of “codependence” in gay communities has no connection with structural issues that pervade gay peoples lives is fucked up to say the least ! you can criticize “ill die without you” rhetoric without ignoring the 1. reciprocity of those feelings and 2. very reasonable and systemic influences on those feelings

E quando torni a casa e ti stendi sul tuo letto.
Ti giri di lato.
Affondi il tuo volto nei tuoi capelli.
Senti il suo profumo.
Ti pervade l'anima.
I pensieri.
E sorridi.
E lo stomaco ti si stringe.
E pensi a lui.
E continui a sorridere.
Di più.
E il tuo cuore ti martella forte in petto.
E immagini che lui ti abbracci forte.
E ti senti protetta.
Al sicuro.
E non riesci a smettere di sorridere.


—  Scritta da me

Anon: Hi! Erm I was wondering if you could do a sister Winchester story were one of her brothers accidentally knocks her out during training and while she’s out she has a like a weird dream (completely up to you) and when she wakes up she’s face to face with her brothers and is slightly freaked out//just starts laughing but soon complains about the pain?¿? Sorry it’s long lol I love your writing!!

Nonnie, this was tons of fun to write! Thank you for the idea! As always, feel free to comment with your thoughts. I could really use some constructive criticism.

Summary: Sam Winchester, your brother, accidentally knocks you out during a sparring session. While unconscious, you take a very interesting trip to dreamland…

Warnings: None

Tags: @the-third-winchester-warrior @winchesters-favorite-girl @lil-sister-winchester @jensen-jarpad @sister-winchester-imagines

The air is pervaded with the lovely stench of sweat. BO wafts through the air of the simple training room Dean had set up. A mat lies in the center of the room serving as a safe sparring area. And on that mat, circling each other, are you and your brother, Sam Winchester, both of you holding taped fists in front of your faces. You are locked in yet another combat training session that had lasted for longer than you wanted. Covered in sweat and some new bruises, you’re ready to end this fight.

“C’mon, Sam. You’re not scared to hit a girl, are you?” you taunt.

“I’m not the one who’s been circling for the past few minutes,” Sam retorts back.

You grin peevishly. “Sorry, what was that? Can’t hear you from down here. Your head’s too far up in the clouds! Watch out for any passing planes, Godzilla!”

“Look who’s talking, shrimpy.”

“Hey, Being fun-sized has its advantages. For instance, I can do this!” You dive between Sam’s legs, spring up behind him, and wrap your arms and legs tightly around his torso before he can react. You tighten your grip on his neck. “What’cha gonna do about that, huh?”

Sam’s voice comes out a little strangled. “Just this.” He rolls on the ground so suddenly, you release your grip in shock. Sam stands back up, placing a foot on your chest. “Take that, squirt.”

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that one, moose man.” You drive your hands into Sam’s ankle, twist, and throw him all in one motion. Sam loses balance and falls to the ground while you get to your own feet. You raise your fists again.

“Bring it on, Goliath.”

Sam does something completely unexpected. He launches himself up, throwing his whole body into a punch aimed for your face. You side step and respond with a pleasant right hook to his face. Sam staggers backward a little.

“How’s that for a taste of your own-”

Your cocky remark is cut off by Sam’s fist slamming into the side of your left temple: a perfect knockout punch. You feel weightless as you slam to the mat on the floor, watching everything go dark.

You start swimming up through bright green water. You see a bright sun just up above your head. Instinct tells you to start going in that direction. You break through the surface of the water, only you’re not up anymore. Rather, the water is the sky and the clouds and light are the ground. You drop down into a fluffy bed of a pink cotton cloud. You shred a piece and pop it in your mouth. Cotton candy. Yum. You look around to get an idea of your surroundings. Even in your dream life, your hunting skills kick in. Usually, your dreams were filled with faces of past hunts, nightmares of monsters, the normal PTSD-esque effects of being a hunter. The last time dreamland was like this, you were around 7 years old.

“BLAAAAARGH!!” You turn around suddenly, prepping your dream self to be chased by whatever fictional beast was after you. Right on schedule. But what you saw was surprising even for your mind. Up, towering above you, was a giant version of your brother, Sam, his long hair even longer than usual and moose antlers sticking out from the top of his head. Great big moose legs erupted from beneath his torso, like a Greek satyr. Only with moose legs.

Just when you think it couldn’t get any stranger, out on the shoulder of Moose-Man popped a mini version of Dean. Before you can even comprehend the obscurity of this new development, he starts chittering rather than talking. And a squirrel tail pops out behind him.

“Ooookayyyy…..this one is new.” You reach into your back pocket, expecting to find your normal dream weaponry. A knife, a gun, an angel blade, sword, you have a bit of a versatile inventory normally.

You got an ostrich.

But, hey. Whatever works. You chuck it at Moose-Man and Squirrel-Boy. It kind of explodes in a fury of feathers. You think. You heard some very indignant squawking followed by the sound of soft flapping, similar to when Cas appears. You turn and start running. Well, jumping from cloud to cloud, but same thing. You sort of lunar landing jump from blue cotton candy cloud to pink cotton candy cloud, hearing angry squirrel chittering and mad moose bellowing. You don’t dare look back, lest you start dying of laughter. Or getting squashed by Sam the Moose-Man’s giant hooves. Or dying of laughter while getting squished by Sam the Moose-Man’s giant hooves.

Either option doesn’t sound too good to dream you.

The heavy thudding of Moose-Man’s footsteps is louder than Kansas tornadoes.You keep running, fearing the prospect of falling behind. But it feels like you’re stuck in slow motion. Legs like jello, you try and try and try to move. Sprint. Crawl. Fly. Anything to get you away. More angry squirrel chatters tell you the mutant version of Dean is closing in on you. You turn your head an impossibly 180 degrees to see what-in-the-name-of-Chuck is going on.

As if it couldn’t get any weirder. Squirrel-Boy now has Wolverine claws erupting from his adorable little furry front paws. He raises one hand up, ready to shred you like a cheese grater. So, you react normally: talking your way out of it. You raise your hands in front of your body, saying the first thing on your dream-addled mind.


Furry Dean chitters at you confused. The razor sharp blades from his paws shethe themselves. “CRCRCRCKRRK RKERKRRKCRKCEKR?”

“No hablo Squirrel-o,” you respond, a little desperately.

“KRCERCKEKRK.” Dean scurries up a newly appearing tree with…pie leaves? The towering plant has a trunk of stacked aluminum pie tins, sort of like a palm tree, and up at the top, spreading out from everything, sat steaming, fresh-baked pies of every kind. Squirrel-Boy curls up to where the ‘leaves’ meet together. He snatches the nearest pecan pie and starts munching on it happily.

You brush off cotton candy from your pants. “Well, that takes of Dean. So, what about-” A giant roar interrupts the rest of your sentence, but, hey, you get your answer. “There’s Sam…”

You look up. Sure enough, there’s the demented, furry version of your older brother. You do not hesitate to even try and throw a weapon at him this time. You just turn tail and RUN.

Dreamland really sucks. In the midst of your running, an orange, black winged, guinea pig with Cas’s face pops up in the middle of your path. Being the subconscious dream klutz you are, of course you trip on it. You twist your body and fall straight on your back. The guinea pig of Cas uses his miniature black wings to fly away from you.

Just as you turn your head to watch the fuzzy guinea pig leave, another noise snaps your head back to where it was.

“RAAAAAAARRRRGH!!!” Moose-Man Sam raises one of his giant moose hooves and slams it down on your face-

You sit up, cold sweat dripping off your face. You pretty much immediately regret it though. The pain on the left side of your head hurts to high heaven. You unintentionally gasp out, raising one hand to feel the damage.

“Y/N?” You’re pulled into a great big hug from a brother you hadn’t noticed sat beside you. You recognize who it is immediately.


You notice you’re in your bedroom in the Bunker, soft blankets pressing against the bottom of your arms. Sam sits on the side of your bed.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to go full force on you.”

“Damn right you didn’t. I’m refereeing all your sparring matches from now on.” You hear the gruff, but caring tone of your other brother from elsewhere in the room.

“When you went down, I panicked. We couldn’t wake you up, so we brought you to your room. Dean and I were about ready to take you - what are you laughing about?”

You start laughing hard and loud. Your dream had been so crazy that to actually hear Sam and Dean sends you into a fit of laughter. You couldn’t have been laughing harder if you were sprayed with the Joker’s laughing gas.

“Y/N? What is it??” Dean sounds so confused in the corner of your room. You remember how he was up the pie tree. His voice only stirs you into a deeper laughing spree.

“What?! What’d I say??” Dean shrugs at Sam, both brothers past confusion.

“No hablo Squirrel-o!” you giggle out, quoting your dream self.

“That’s it. Sammy, we’re getting her to a hospital now.”

“Heheheheheh-owowowowowow.” Your laughing turns to painful wincing at the pain in your head. You rub your severely bruised head. “I’m fine, guys.”

Dean looks at you with more incredulity than a teacher who hears the ‘my-dog-ate-my-homework’ excuse. “Uh-huh. Sam, pick her up. I’ll warm up the car. We’re getting your head checked.”

“Ah, Dean. C’mon, man. It was one punch! I’m fine!” you protest. You start to get out of bed, but you immediately trip. Sam catches you before you faceplant on the floor.

“Woah! Yep. We’re taking you to the doctor. C’mon.” Sam hauls you up off the ground and wraps your arm around his shoulder. “Can you walk at all?”

You experimentally place one foot on the ground. “Maybe…” You slip again. “Nope.”

“All right.” Sam scoops your legs up. “What the heck was that about?” he asks you as he carries you up to the door outside.

Your head is lolling around a bit more than you’d like it to, still hurting bad. “I had the weirdest dream, man…” You half giggle when you remember bits and pieces. “I threw an ostrich at your Moose face.”

“Aaaand you’re done.”

In an era of gimmicks, The Graham Norton Show keeps the conversation going

Norton has honed his formula over the years. His first talk show, So Graham Norton, ran from 1998 to 2002. His attempt in 2004 to recreate his success at an American network, Comedy Central, was packed with gimmicks and flopped. These days, Norton has no lengthy monologue; he gets straight into the chatter. A 2012 profile of Norton noted that he’s both “easy to talk to” and “he actively listens.” That attentiveness pervades his entire operation. His primary recurring bit isn’t an attempt to show off his singing or dancing. Instead, it speaks to his love of a good, well-constructed story. In the “red chair” segment that closes each episode, an intrepid person will take a seat in—you guessed it—a red chair, and try to weave a tale that impresses the host and whoever else happens to be on. If Norton and the day’s posse dislike what’s unfolding, someone will pull a lever and the seat will tip over, sending the brave soul backward.

You can find hints of Norton’s strategy in the U.S. On Watch What Happens Live, Andy Cohen shares Norton’s love for getting stars a little tipsy. But Cohen is primarily invested in getting dirt out of his visitors with segments like “Plead The Fifth.” The gossip comes more naturally on The Graham Norton Show. (Enjoying Watch What Happens Live also requires a passing interest in Cohen’s Real Housewives franchise, which not everyone possesses.) James Corden, meanwhile, copied Norton by having all of his guests on at once. It doesn’t work as well, though, because too often Corden makes the conversation all about himself. Norton is comfortable with letting others do the work, and is keenly interested in reaction and perception. “Harrison Ford and Robert De Niro will never represent their country in the Chatting Olympics, but our challenge is to put them on the couch with people they will enjoy so that they reveal themselves not through their own stories, but in how they react to the anecdotes of others,” he wrote in his book The Life And Loves Of A He Devil. On Graham the taciturn De Niro only has to respond briefly when Norton asks him about whether he enjoys people’s impressions of him. Then Norton can turn to Tom Hiddleston, who will start rattling off a series of imitations, culminating in a lengthy and extremely nerdy recreation of De Niro’s and Al Pacino’s face-off in Heat. Hiddleston is good, but De Niro’s face is better. He thoroughly enjoys Hiddleston’s Pacino, but is actually touched by the younger actor’s homage to him. “That was my favorite scene in the movie,” he says almost tenderly.

Check out the full article over on A.V. Club’s website or by clicking here. 

There are no individual statements, there never are. Every statement is the product of a machinic assemblage, in other words, of collective agents of enunciation (take “collective agents” to mean not peoples or societies but multiplicities). The proper name (nom propre) does not designate an individual: it is on the contrary when the individual opens up to the multiplicities pervading him or her, at the outcome of the most severe operation of depersonalization, that he or she acquires his or her true proper name. The proper name is the instantaneous apprehension of a multiplicity. The proper name is the subject of a pure infinitive comprehended as such in a field of intensity.
—  Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia  
Resta viva.
Non accontentarti.
Porta i tuoi occhi a fare una passeggiata, appena puoi.
Non rinunciare ai tramonti, alla speranza.
Accetta la sofferenza. Accetta la felicità. Accetta la forza che a volte ti pervade.
Non lasciarti schiacciare da quello che è stato, da quello che non hai. Non farti portar via la gentilezza, la curiosità, la fantasia.
Continua a saltare nelle pozzanghere, se ti va.
Cambia pettinatura, cambia pelle. Cambia modo di vestirti e di truccarti, cambia abitudini, amicizie, luoghi e sogni.
Cambia spesso, ma lotta fino alla fine per non perderti.
Abbi cura di te,soprattutto quando tornerai ad amare. Abbi cura del modo in cui guardi gli altri.
Abbi cura del tuo amore, soprattutto adesso. Soprattutto quando non saprai a chi donarlo. Non gettarlo. Non sprecarlo. Tienilo da parte, ti servirà.
Piangi pure; piangi quando vuoi. Ricordati di farlo ogni tanto.
Ricorda che la cura, se davvero ne esiste una, sono le persone.
Non dimenticarti di loro. Delle loro mani. Dei loro guai. Delle loro storie piccole ma grandiose.
Non precluderti niente solo perché potrebbe distruggerti. Non sparire.
Resta, goditi lo spettacolo.
Resta coraggiosa.
Resta dolce.
Testa alta,
cuore in mano.
—  Susanna Casciani, “Meglio soffrire che mettere in un ripostiglio il cuore”

Dopo di me non sarà più la stessa cosa, fidati. Non ho nessuna pretesa. Non ho nessuna particolarità. Gli occhi sono marroni, non ho mai la risposta giusta al momento giusto, i miei capelli sono insignificanti. Dopo di me, però, non sarà più la stessa cosa per te. Come faccio ad esserne certa? Ti sei guardato in giro? Di persone che amano come me ce ne sono rimaste poche, e di questo sono sicura. Non mi innamoro allo scoccare di ogni mezzanotte di sabati sera alcolici. Non mi innamoro mai, tranne una volta. Ti parlo, ti parlo tanto. Ti ascolto, ti ascolto tanto. Faccio l'amore piangendo e ridendo insieme. Forte, fortissimo. Lecco le tue dita e arrossisco. Penso a una serata tutta per noi e mi pervade quel senso di felicità che non mi apparteneva da molti anni, da quando ero piccola e mio padre e mia madre si baciavano davanti a me. Mi sforzo di capirti. Sono la tua amica con la gonna troppo corta per non provare un brivido. Ti faccio impazzire. Forse non mi ami ma io so di averti fatto impazzire. Con tutti i miei capricci, i miei sensi di colpa, le mie voglie, le mie perversioni, i miei occhi simili a tanti altri occhi ma così spesso languidi da volerci nuotare dentro. Tu sei pazzo di me. Adesso puoi anche andartene, e lo farai, eccome se lo farai, perché lo so che quelle come me fanno paura, eccome se ne fanno. Vattene, tanto mi sognerai per sempre. Tra vent'anni, una sera, ti ecciterai ancora pensando alla mia schiena nuda. Per te non sarà più la stessa cosa, dopo di me. Magari non mi ami, ma questo non vuol dire niente. Trovami una che ti guarda negli occhi come ti ci guardo io. E se la trovi mandala via, perché non sono io. Pentiti tra qualche mese e sappi che quelle come me amano così tanto da non essere capaci di perdonare.

-Susanna Casciani

“Your real nature is one perfect, free, and actionless consciousness, the all-pervading, unattached to anything, desireless, at peace. It appears through illusion as the world. Knowing that all this is an illusion, one becomes free from desire, pure receptivity and at peace, as if nothing existed.” ~Ashtavakra Gita ..*


(n) the strange wistfulness of used bookshops.

Contains: fluff

Words: 2.4K

Summary: In the midst of yellowed books and wooden shelves, Seokjin found love in the form of a very special custumer.

Originally posted by kths

A/N: I was planning for this to have a heartbreaking ending, but changed my mind because I couldn’t bring myself to do it lmao Anyways, hope you guys like it! I’m pretty proud of the way this one turned out. You can also see how I’m a hoe for pretty words as titles. 

There were many reasons for Kim Seokjin to leave his work in that little old bookstore. The smell of mold that pervaded his nostrils; the eternal layer of dust that seemed to accumulate daily on the wooden shelves (even being cleaned religiously almost every morning); the dusty windows that hardly ever opened; the monotony of endless days; rude customers; and, finally, the anguish of always being surrounded by works, but lacking any desire to read any of them. 

But of course, not everything was bad, and the boy noticed it the first time you showed up. 

Keep reading


Castiel x Reader

Word Count: 1,583

A/N: “L/N” = Last Name

There was a breeze; soft, gentle, almost quiet. Nothing above a whisper as it wafted through the curtains of your apartment. Sunshine glistened upon the table in your dining room. The wood a firm oak but appeared a soft caramel in the light of the sun. Bird songs pervaded the air; music notes high and mighty across the bluest skies a Spring season had ever had.

All of these things seemed to remind you of him – Castiel. He was gentle, soft, beautiful, and not at all harsh. His skin was pleasing to the touch, his lips that exposed kind words and readied statements. Hair that always seemed unkempt if you were not there to clean him up, and baby blue eyes that seemed to come from the very depths of the ocean. A shy man, he was. Timid in a majority of his actions unless it faltered along the lines of assisting those in dire need. He was the embodiment of soft, warm – home. Castiel was the most divine being you had ever come across and everyday seemed more and more like a fairytale being with him.

“There you are,” Castiel called rather groggily from behind you, “I should’ve known I’d find you by the window so early.”

As you turned, you stifled a giggle. As previously stated, Castiel was very bad at keeping his hair right. Though you often considered leaving his bed head for the rest of the world to see, because you thought it cute. Even when he was still stuck in his pajamas without a care to change, you still thought he was cute.

Cute and shy.

He yawned, sauntering toward you, “What?”

As genuinely confused as he was pretty much half the time about most things, you still found it rather amusing that he got so defensive when it came to things he didn’t know – especially when he was around you.

“You’re just very cute, is all.” You smiled warmly at him.

His face lit up as soon as he heard those words leave your lips. He was very infatuated with your praise toward him; he could listen to you compliment him all day long, even if he didn’t believe in most of the things you said, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that someone in the world believed that he was everything they said.

He had somebody to belong to.

He mattered.

He was there and it was all real.

Without a word for a moment, Castiel met you by the window. Wrapping his arms around your waist with a bright smile on his face, he brought you into him. Instinctually, you laid your head on his bare chest and exhaled the softest breath when his fingertips played at the hemming of your shirt and snaked their way underneath. Gently and without reason, Castiel slid his fingers against your skin; cool, calloused palms colliding with your back. You felt goosebumps rise and every hair on your body stand on end. He was your serenity and you could only hope you were the same to him.


As the afternoon rolled by, you realized that the morning was just too good to be true. No matter how comforting, how safe you felt in Castiel’s arms, it’d never replace the fact that you were indeed a hunter and you were a dire tool in Sam and Dean’s lives. They needed you now, to clean out a nest of Vampires. More than anything, you wished to decline, but your heart burned as you considered the alternative.

“This is the last thing I want to be doing right now, Cas, but I have to.” You pled, your brows furrowed in sorrow, your lips dragged into a frown. 

“You don’t,” Castiel shook his head, “You can stay here. You can stay here with me. I can keep you safe, Y/N.” 

Spontaneously, a feeling of immense pride struck you. But why? Were you proud of Castiel? Yes, of course you were proud of Castiel. You’d always be proud of him, but there was something different–something… New

Castiel’s certainty.

A timid man, confused and lost in a modern society where he knew little to nothing about the main principles of being a human. A man that lost himself even before the angel’s fell. 

This man…

This man was guaranteeing your protection because he believed he could

You sighed, stepped forward onto your tiptoes, kissed the top of his head and rubbed his arm ever so slightly, “I’ll be back,” You assured, “I’m a/an L/N. This is what I do.” 

Before he could protest, you pivoted away from him and walked right out the door. You needed him to know that you were going to be okay and if proving it to him in this way was how you were going to, then so be it. Cas needed to know that you could protect yourself, too. No matter how much you wish you could’ve just given up for once.


“Okay, that took ya long enough.” Dean sighed as you jumped out of your car and jogged to their Impala. He was pacing back and forth and Sam looked like he’d been trying to tell Dean for the passed hour – repetitively – that you’d be there.

“I’m…” You sighed and cleared your throat, shaking your head, “Let’s go. I don’t want to be out here any longer than I already have to be.” 

“You think we wanted t–” 

“Dean.” Sam interjected.

Dean groaned and threw his hands up in the air, “Fine. Let’s go.” 

Nodding, you followed suit behind Sam and Dean. A machete strapped to your belt clinked against the metal buckle. Previously you hadn’t even noticed it until the three of you reached a rather silent passing and Dean had to turn around and point at it to tell you to make it stop. You’d mouthed a quick ‘sorry’ and continued on your way. It took the three of you a few minutes to actually reach the house; it’d been shoved all the way in the back of a massive clearing where nothing else existed but trees and fields. 

Once arrived, Sam and Dean walked to the front door. Without hesitation, Dean grabbed the doorknob and swung it open, holding his weapon firmly in front of his face, ready to swing if anything came at him. Yourself and Sam included did the same and trailed behind Dean, checking corners of the house and different rooms.

“It looks empty,” You whispered, keeping yourself quiet just in case you were wrong, “Do you think there’s a basement here? There’s always a basement. Maybe they’re using that.” 

“You just answered your own question,” Sam chuckled softly, “You do that a lot.” 

You gave him a small nudge and rolled your eyes.

This was a life or death situation and Sam Winchester was laughing at how you answered your own questions.


Many moments passed as the three of you descended the stairs of a basement you were actually surprised existed. Once at the bottom, Sam, Dean, and yourself readied for a fight.

And fight as you may, it had come

A vampire jumped out of the shadows, straight at you. Your immediate instinct was to flail your weapon of choice right at the creature, and – out of luck – you managed to slice its head clean off. You had no time to react to your pretty marvelous accuracy as two more vampires lurched at Sam and Dean and another lurched at you. Blood splattered all over the walls and heads fell to the wooden floors as the three of you took out the nest. 

Adrenaline coursing through your veins, you felt like you could take on anything. In the midst of a quarrel, you grabbed one of the vamp’s that had been attacking Dean and went to chop its head right off, but your cocky attitude led on too much, and instead the vamp grabbed your arm and dragged its razor sharp teeth across your wrist. Blood poured and you feared that the vamp was about the suck you dry before Sam appeared behind and beheaded it. 

For a moment, the room was quiet and as the boys sighed, dropping their blades, you knew it was over. 

Though you had no time to relish in victory.




Eyes fluttered open.

Mind pulsed with pain.

Hands shook in thin air.

Lights too bright.

Body scuffling toward you.



“Y/N, are you okay?” 

A voice.

“Baby, please tell me you can understand me.” 

His voice.

Your vision was blurred for those few moments, but you could easily make out Castiel standing before you in his trench coat and formal attire. 

But your vision did redeem itself.

His hair was unkempt. His face was not as smooth as it had been before. Eyes red, bloodshot. Hands shaking as they cupped your face and he brought you into him; a hug he attempted to make light but he couldn’t–he just couldn’t.

As he pulled away, you let out a small cough, closing your eyes as you sat backward in your own bed and you listened to Castiel take a seat beside you.

“You’re all messy, Cas,” You said quietly with a smile, “I guess I’m going to have to fix you up–” You opened one eye, looking at him, “–hm?” You hummed.

He looked at the ground, trying to refrain from smiling. 

You giggled, “Still so shy.”

Shout out to Tumblr Dad for trying to kill me. He left the stove top burning on low when he left this morning so I had no idea it was lit until the flame went out and the smell of gas began to pervade through the kitchen.

Don’t worry about that almond taste in your birthday cake, it’s just cyanide 👌👌👌