wheres this going

2

It’s very [moist in Vancouver] and so my hair gets very frizzy and so it takes forever, and between every single take they’d, we’d have to stand there and blow dry my hair again and things take a long time
And I got pissed at that?
Well, I think it added to the tension of the fact that I took so fucking long to, you know, is that anything to do with it?
Well, kind of makes me sound like an asshole

Drink up, buttercup. You’re about to get all the Mr. Wednesday you can handle. 

crimes

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, nine, nine, nine…

By the time the Impala’s carved a path out of New York, the sun’s setting. Dean’s not really leaning on the accelerator. There are problems up ahead, yeah, and they’re big ones—but everything urgent in him sits in the sleeping hulk of his brother, silent and slumped on the other side of the bench. Everything else just pales in comparison.

Pennsylvania’s blurring into Ohio and Ezekiel hasn’t said a word, not since they got into the car. Sam just looks like he’s sleeping, curled up with his forehead against the window, and he’s never going to be small again but sometimes he fakes it pretty well. Dean keeps glancing over. Feels like he’s looking at Sam more than at the road, and hell. Who can blame him. He’d be touching Sam, too, if he thought he could get away with it, but he doesn’t want to wake Sammy up. Or—or Ezekiel, maybe. Whichever. He doesn’t have the radio on, or a tape, and he’s coasting along I-90 at an easy seventy-five, nothing but the sound of the engine and the highway wind. It’d be peaceful, if he weren’t sick to his stomach.

His face still hurts, a little, under the new whole skin. Ezekiel healed him, the tiniest glow of white-fire magic so that Sam wouldn’t suspect anything. Dean wasn’t hurt in the church, after all. Not like Sam was. Dean tightens his hands on the steering wheel. Wouldn’t do to have Sam suspect, Ezekiel had said, and Dean had gone along because—because, Christ, what the hell else can he do.

He’s going to have nightmares about that church. About Sam’s too-skinny face, the hollows under his shocked-open eyes. The blood slipping dark to the rotting sacred floorboards and Sam empty-handed, looking at Dean like—isn’t it obvious? Glowing on the inside while he peeled himself open, bloody wet and mutilated, gleaming white-gold lighting up the tears streaking down. And then—even after, after Dean kissed him careful, wrapped up his split palm and brought him in close. After the fall, after he dragged a half-comatose Crowley out and shoved him into the damn trunk. That drive, with Sam shuddering fly-stung in pain, moaning, collapsed over and into himself like just being alive hurt, and nothing Dean could do—that was a nightmare, all on its own. He tried holding onto Sam’s hand, just so Sammy could maybe ground himself, but Sam flinched, said stop, stop it hurts with his voice cracked right down the middle. Nothing for it but to put the pedal to the floorboard and drive with the sour taste of Sam’s looming death lingering at the back of his tongue, ignoring the horrific lightshow all around and hoping a hospital could provide some kind of miracle, if heaven couldn’t.

A semi passes by and he glances down. Accidentally let the speed drop to sixty. If Sam were awake he’d be getting no end of crap for it. He drags a hand down his face and tries to focus. The sun’s really down, now, and they’ll be coming up on Cleveland soon. They’re headed back west, back toward the bunker, but he’s not really driving with anywhere in mind. He tries to think when he slept last and it’s kind of a blur, but he doesn’t want to stop. Can’t imagine sleeping before Sam wakes up. Can’t chance that this, Sam up and living, could be a dream.

All he wants is Sam. He chances a look over and Sam’s still sleeping, his face healed-up and soft in the passing headlights, even if he still looks wrung-out. Nearly hurts, to look at him, and Dean refocuses on the road, dashed yellow line skimming past and disappearing under the dark hulk of the car. So familiar, and not enough to distract him. He just doesn’t—he doesn’t understand how it got so wrong. The year’s been rough, no doubt about it. He knows that some things got said that maybe shouldn’t’ve, and that’s on him. It was just… hard, when he got back. Hard to talk, hard even to touch without flinching, and there were all those nights of not sleeping, of turning to fighting because it was easier, and it turns out it was doing something to Sam.

He forgot. For all Sam surges ahead, does whatever he wants, for all that Dean’s been on his back for the kid for over fifteen years now, for what feels like his whole life, sometimes Sammy’s nothing more than his little brother. Picks up shit Dean never meant to say and holds it close, tucked under his big heart, long past when Dean’s forgotten whatever fight they had that prompted it. Stores up words and uses them like knives, to cut himself to ribbons. Like it’s ever been what Dean says that matters.

He remembers, though. He made Sam a promise, in the church, but Sam made him a promise, too. All the way back, months ago. That first trial. Sam promised that they’d make it to the end, together, and Dean—well, he bought in. Deep down inside, he believed Sam. Believed that no matter what kind of day it came to when they finally had to cash in their chips, they’d be doing it together. It’s been hard, these last months, no doubt about it. Hard on Sam, and hard on Dean, too, but—he remembers that night, in the girl’s room at that stupid ranch. No matter how freaked and worried he’d been, there was Sam’s big hand wrapped around the back of his neck, conviction lighting him up, his thumb dragging over Dean’s jaw, making Dean meet his eyes. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, he’d said, half a smile on his face, a dimple curving into his cheek. Dean can remember it like it was yesterday, and he’d believed it. If only he’d been able to convince Sam that his belief was true.

Sign says Cleveland’s coming up in forty miles and he shifts in his seat, dry-eyed and aching. He’s still nauseous over the choice he made. About the light that’s lurking, wrapped around his little brother’s soul. He’s going to have to lie to Sam, for who knows how long, and that guilt’s already sitting heavy in his chest. Well, it can take a number. They made each other promises. To be together. Hell came long ago and Dean feels like he’s about to drown in the high water, but that doesn’t matter. No matter what, he’s going to look after Sam. Going to do his damn job. Keep his promise. Maybe the light at the end of the tunnel’s going to turn out to be hellfire, but they’re still going to get there, side by side. One way or another.

(read on AO3)

“Oh.” Carver thought that over. “Well, at least no one can claim they’re surprised – about Varric, not Cassandra. You’ve been mooning over him for years.”

“I have not!” said Hawke, outraged by such a bald lie. “Take that back. I’ve never mooned over anyone in my life.”

“Please.” Carver put on a ridiculous voice pitched far too high to be hers. “‘Oh, Varric, tell me another story about how charming and strong and beautiful I am. Oh, Varric, your chest hair is so manly. Oh, Varric, I’m going to ignore the ten other people trying to lure me into bed so I can spend all evening playing cards with you and hoping you notice my flirting – ’”

Hawke, unable to stand his slander any longer, put her brother in a headlock. Carver tried to retaliate but was laughing too hard to squirm free. She was still teetering precariously on the edge of the fountain, her arm still locked around Carver’s neck, when Varric and Cassandra emerged from the crowd, announced by what to Hawke’s ear was affectionate squabbling.

“I’m not going to tell you, Seeker, so give it up.”

“All I want is an explanation for this… this secrecy. You owe me an answer.”

“And I’m telling you – you’ll have to wait for the panel along with everyone else. There they are.”

Unfortunately, at that moment Carver managed to slip free and give Hawke a good shove in the process. She was only saved from a damp and humiliating fate because Varric reached out and snagged her by the front of her shirt. He gave her a tug, and Hawke teetered in the other direction instead – but this time she fell without struggle and ended up collapsed happily over Varric’s shoulders.

“Hello, Varric,” she said, with all the considerable dignity she could muster.

“Hawke,” said Varric. “Junior.”

“Champion,” said Cassandra. “And Warden. A pleasure.”

Carver gurgled.

“So that’s still going on, eh?” Varric said into Hawke’s ear.

“Oh yes,” said Hawke.

nemhaine42  asked:

wintershieldshock - the boys keep tripping over Darcy's short-person-stool in the kitchen? (it's not like this is a personal one or anything, as if my mother has one of those and fears she will hear a hulk-like roar and the smash of glass as my brother or I hurl it out the window in frustration, nooo)

HAHAHAHAHAHA!  As a short person who has lived her entire life with not short people, this is something I am totally familiar with.  (Ask me to show you a picture of my pantry some day.  I have to climb into it.) But yeah, I feel this prompt on a personal level too.  ;D

I made some more edits of this a soft pastel Ryuu lol but yeah it looks a tiny bit weird but I lowkey like it and he’s still adorable

you guys wanna see tae’s profile on the AU I thought of ? :-) I think he looks rly cool

people hate having the habit of coming on this site but every time i login i feel like i just showed up at the bar i always go to and the bartender just slides me the usual. he doesnt ask many questions but he just listens once i get about two old fashions in my system. every once in a while there’s someone else at the bar who’s just as drunk who starts a v depressing conversation with you about all of the sad shit you both relate to. the waitress sometimes tells us to get over ourselves and that it’ll get better soon but you know that shit aint true so you throw back another old fashion and stumble home. you wake up with a hangover but youre sure youre gonna do it all again that night.

9

Like a damn WEEK AGO I got tagged by @monsieurlapin to make a moodboard using only photos from my phone. 

I call this moodboard: Hockey Has Ruined My Life

And I want you all to know I was listening to “Don’t Fear The Reaper” while I fucking made this. And you know what? I do. I do fear the reaper. 

I tag: @tarmac-like-arteries, @sidcrosbybro, @ferretfied, @kasperi-kapanen, @bitchymarner, and @nosleeptilstanley

And honestly whoever else DO ITTTTT.