Your Honor, Mr. Ackles has made a mockery out of these proceedings....
….and we can see he has perjured himself, as his testimony in Chicago clearly shows he knows good goddamned well what a cup is, where it is located and how to check for proper application technique:
The prosecution rests, and you know what? Furthermore, and stuff? The defense can suck it. Well, shit, that was a really poor choice of…. I mean, I meant it, but not…. what I was trying to…. it’s…. it’s… sweet lord, it’s hypnotic.
When the two of you approached the booth, a sign that read Ring Toss! started flashing in bright red. Looking down at the game itself, you saw that it was pretty simple- all you had to do was get a ring around a bottleneck to win the grand prize.
A/N: This idea came to me after a friend of mine wore a tie to school. And guess who has a tie? That’s right– everyone’s favorite baby angel. First time writing smut. This is basically just a really long one-shot(?). Lol ignore grammatical mistakes because it’s 2:30 AM. I’ll tag a few blogs I follow down at the bottom– they might be interested in this?
Summary: When the reader is injured on a hunt, an MIA Castiel returns to save her life.
Warnings: injury, gore, blood, broken bones, fluffy fluff, smutty smut. (If there’s anything else that should be tagged, let me know. I’m new at this.)
Words: 5141 (I know it’s kinda long. Sorry… )
Pain. Pain– excruciating pain. That was what [y/n] registered as the Impala bumped hastily down the road. Dean himself grunted in discomfort as the car shifted and jerked with each pothole, swung around each curve. More often than not, he was wiping the blood out of his eyes; the case had been long, exhausting, and when it came to the fist-a-cuff, it turned down-right ugly. No matter how many times a Hunter repeated the same steps for the same monster, there was always a different element to each case, a new and higher risk, a strange twist that had been absent from the case previous. This case, a nasty horde of demons on the outskirts of a drug town in the Northeast, had been especially taxing on the all three of the Hunters assembled.
Dean Winchester had broken all the fingers in his left hand– one finger curved downward so sharply that the bones prodded at the underside of his skin. The cut running from his brow to his temple had coated the entire side of his face in dark crimson and the tumble through the window had left him with glass splinters prickling out of his left forearm. Sam had managed to scrape away with the least of their injuries, only sustaining a broken nose, busted lip and, perhaps, a sprained ankle. [Y/n] had taken the more grievous of injuries, by far, and she sprawled across the back bench of the Impala, slicking the leather in blood and sweat, bile and tears. Her right femur poked nauseatingly through the soft flesh on the inside of her thigh, her ribs burned with each breath, with the telltale signs of broken bones, and a few of her teeth were missing. The blood running down her throat only furthered the sickness churning in her– now empty– belly. She hadn’t known how she’d come across the situation in which she could sustain such serious injuries, not really. She only remembered the moments when they happened. Remembered them with an agonizing clarity.
She could recall the moment the demon’s foot came down on her thigh, she could hear the echoing snap of her bone in her own ears, she could feel the scream as it rattled out of her lungs and tore through her throat like acid. She could hear the crunch of her ribs as the top of his boot slammed into her, over and over, and he insisted she be quiet: the Winchesters were coming– wouldn’t want to hear her scream. After that, after the demon smashed her face against the floor, she didn’t remember much else with any sort of definite clarity. Only bits and pieces. Incantations, holy water, gun shots and growls and curses and exclamations. She remembered Sam skimming his hands over her, the soft “Oh, God,” as his fingers brushed the sharp length of bone that had ripped through her skin and jeans. She remembered Dean mentioning Castiel, the Bunker, a hospital. She remembered making them swear not to take her there. Cas would heal her. She would be okay. And then, as if she had drifted off to sleep– and perhaps she had, she did not know– she could not remember anything else. Nothing else except for awaking, staring at the ceiling of the Impala, hissing as a bump made her jolt and slam back down again.
Finally got the four ridiculously shiny mugs I bought off Gorlassar on society6 and aren’t they beautiful OuO did I buy a mug to go with my pretty hoodie? shh of course I didn’t what are you talking about They’re pretty and clear, only issue I had being these little sticky bits on their bottoms but after a quick wash that was fixed :3 I’m gonna be drinking a lot of tea from these QuQ
(for the 5 sentence fic thing) Sam looked down at the tiny, wriggling bundle of fur in his arms.
kitten, still wet from the pouring rain, was almost entirely white but for a soft smear of gray fur over
its nose that expanded into a spot that ringed around both eyes and
one ear, a grayish shape on its belly that reminded Sam of a goblet if he squinted at it from the right angle, and two patches of gray behind its back legs.
was muttering about dirt in the bunker and allergies and about how
silly it would be to keep it and how this thing’s gonna be an
outside cat if it’s anything at all, you hear? but
the kitten, oblivious, huddled the crook of Sam’s arm,
snuffled against his skin, and began to vibrate with happy purrs.
Before Sam could really think about it, he said, “Galahad.”
“Uhhhh… I was thinkin’ maybe, I dunno, Spot, or
Cyclops, or maybe anything but that,
because… well, don’t you think he’s a bit wimpy for a Galahad?”
okay,” Sam said, and scratched the tiny kitten’s head, “he’ll
grow into it.”