It pleases me SO MUCH more than it should that Jensen’s twitter is basically Jared centric so far and that he hasn’t even acknowledged Misha’s presence on Twitter not even once. God, I love you, Jensen. You’re my hero.
compilation of phrases I most commonly use whilst working at mcdicks:
- can i get fired for this
- sorry but I’m not lovin it
- snack size that’s some pussy nerd shit
- those fries were salted with my tears
- shit sorry
- yeah i bet you want fries with this shake
- damn son that boy is mcgorgeous
- is writing your phone number in big mac sauce romantic
- I’m quitting
- I’m quitting and becoming a rapper
- wait is the porn industry hard to get into
- what she order
- fish fillet
- did the manager hear me say that
- the five second rule is legit right
- who decides the soundtrack for the bathrooms
- i mcfucked up
Just look at all of their faces individually
J2 is one of the cutest things in existence, you cannot tell me otherwise.
Cas traces absently, fingers darting across Sam’s skin, smooth and tan except for where it’s not, except for where life has interrupted the skin of Sam Winchester with silvery, raised skin.
Sam doesn’t seem to observe a difference in the touch, between scar and unmarred skin, but Cas knows when his fingers cross over a new mark, even without looking.
Bullet wound. Claw. Tooth. Knife. Knife. Knife. Archaic weapon from an ancient god.
Cas doesn’t know them all but he knows a lot of them, closes his eyes and sees their stories.
"Stop," Sam says quietly, drowsily, and Cas’ hand stills. Sam is apparently more aware than he lets on. "I can practically hear you thinking. Don’t worry about them."
Cas studies Sam unhappily, and Sam looks back at him.
"Unless they…do they bother you?" Sam asks, hesitant.
"Not like you are thinking," Cas says. "They don’t make you less attractive, to me, as if anything could. But I hate that you have been harmed so much."
"It’s the job," Sam says. "Comes with the territory."
Cas unhappily has to concede that point, and as he can’t see a near future where Sam switches to being a full-time librarian and worries about little more than paper cuts on the injury front, he supposes that he will just have to accept it.
Sam catches Cas’ hand, still resting on Sam’s chest, and brings it to his lips, tenderly kissing the palm.
"Don’t worry," Sam repeats, his breath fanning across Cas’ skin. "Sleep?"
"Sleep," Cas agrees, and goes back to tracing Sam’s skin, hands moving absently and soothingly, lulling Sam to sleep.