Happy Birthday Jensen Ackles - March 1, 1978

WDYM WE GOT BI BUCK CANON WITH A GAY KISS

Some Dean Winchester tap dancing because I miss tap dancing classes.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN WINCHESTER!!! 

I saw Jensen’s Instagram post after finished by diploma and I was just really excited... 

Happy Birthday Dean Winchester ☼ January 24th, 1979

I laughed so hard at this! ;-; 

they’re destieling buck and eddie so hard it’s actually impressive

Just finished Good Omens Season 2

What the fuck was that tv adaptation fan fiction fever dream! I don't know what to think or say! I finished it less than 4 minutes ago and I honestly never post on here but I'm broken now...

AHHHHHHH!!! (for some reason all I could think about was the fact that in the Destiel Scene, we get an "I love you" and no kiss, and with Ineffable Husbands it's a near gut-wrenching half-sided kiss where they both so longingly want to say "I love you", but the idea of confessing it now when Aziraphale's already made a decision and Crowley feels helpless to do anything!)

HE'S 46 DUDE.

Swinging on here because ao3 is down….

ohhh the queer is baiting i fear

Key upcoming dates for the insane:

Moriartypocalypse: 25 July

Jackles apocalypse 2021: 31 July

Mishapocalypse: 20 August

The tags to be used are the names listed beside the dates above

Photos to be used:

Please share this so others can have all the information they need to cause chaos <3

Thank you to the main organisers of these events (if your name isn’t on here and it should be, send me a message and I’ll add you): @rogue-cas-whore @fandomgirl667 @casmick-consequences

It is that time of the year again😂

Wise words to live by !

Right? @jenabean75 @thatsnotwhoifuckingam @bamcrux @mcinspires @magnificent-winged-beast @silvie111 @malevolent-dean

Happy Pi Day

From Misha

Credit:

Ima go cry now…

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?”

And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs.

“You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen.

“You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient, You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way.

“You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rose Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it.

“You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again.

“You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.”

On and on Willem talks, chanting him back to himself, and in the daytime - sometimes days later - he remembers pieces of what Willem has said and holds them close to him, as much as for what he said as for what he didn’t, for how he hadn’t defined him.

But in the nighttime he is too terrified he is too lost to recognize this. His panic is too real, too consuming. “And who are you?” he asks, looking at the man who is holding him, who is describing someone he doesn’t recognize, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person,. “Who are you?”

The man has an answer to this question as well. “I’m Willem Ragnarsson,” he says. “And I will never let you go.”