not winchester.

❝we may be blood - but we are not family.❞ ex·pend·a·ble ;adjective 1. Designed to be used only once and then abandoned or destroyed. 2. Not worth salvaging or reusing. 3. Open to sacrifice in the interests of gaining an objective.

[itsmilliganarchive]

marked by lightning.

going to be here for most of today!! 

[traumeriinarchive]

Sweet dreams are made of this,

☁ itsmilligan

who am I to disagree? 

     ☁ To take a break from painting Rosemary took a trip to the beach. It was far too cold to be swimming but she liked how the sand felt against her toes. Normally it was impossible to walk without sandals but now the feeling was somewhat numbing. After putting down her things she sat down and began to trace with her fingers. It seemed that no matter where she was the artist was unable to escape her work. Before she knew it she had done a contour of a pigeon. “I think I’m going to give him shoes.” She said(mostly to herself) before giving the bird little boots.

[itsmilliganarchive]

He's walking by himself, trying to gather his thoughts and -- mostly -- failing. The voice comes at a surprise. He's so deep in his own head it makes him jump, turn to where the sound is coming from. 

"The homeless man? I think he'd like that." 

[itsmilliganarchive]

Kicked under the dining room table and splattered with some of Sam's blood -- sits a journal. Adam's journal, to be more precise. It's the only journal he's had his entire life and sometimes -- he went months without writing in it. Years, almost. It was gifted to him by his mom when he was eleven and they were short on money. It was one of two birthday gifts he got that year, but one of his most cherished. His mother had a gift for writing poetry and she wanted him to try the whole thing out: but after a few failed attempts, he started to chronicle his daily life. It was fun, he decided at eleven, because his journal thought he was hilarious and what could be better than that?

The journal is one of those cheap faux leather things from the supermarket, and he's had it so long, the spine is all flimsy. Some of his earlier pages have even fallen out. 

As it were, the first entry in the journal is the account of Adam first meeting John -- the year of writing that happened beforehand was in a folder in his room, pages frayed and glue still sticking to the side where it was attached to his journal.                                                                                                         November 12th, 2002

I met John for the first time today. Mom says he was supposed to be here on my birthday but he was busy with work. Whatever. He was on edge the first forty minutes of dinner and then he kinda relaxed. He almost called me a name that started with 's' and it just felt all wrong. Like he was replacing me with someone. Like I was a fresh start for him? Something. I don't know how to word it. Mom's too nice to ask where he's been and why he never sent child support or even called once and awhile and I wanted to ask. But mom sent me a look every time I so much as glanced at John wrong. She really wants me to be happy and get to know this guy. And just forget about the hell he put her through. 

Well I won't. I hate him. And I always will. 

[nshki-deactivated20150615]

| text:sent — adam | I think you’re going to have to be a little more descriptive.

[itsmilliganarchive]

[ txt msg: kevin ] it keeps beeping and none of the buttons are working right 

[nshki-deactivated20150615]

| text:sent — adam | they left on a case. give them a few days.

[itsmilliganarchive]

[ txt msg: kevin ] they did? i wasn't listening when they left

[nshki-deactivated20150615]

     ”They’re in a language only I—” he stopped, before glancing back up to Adam, “Oh — nevermind,” he said before standing up from the chair where he had been sitting.

[itsmilliganarchive]

"Sounds like a lot of work." He says it flippantly -- walking further into the room after Kevin hadn't acknowledged his few steps forward. "Are you hungry? I am." Adam can just see this conversation spiraling into boring small-talk real fast -- he coughs awkwardly, rubbing at his neck again. 

[itsmilliganarchive]

one away from my next hundred. how. 

[itsmilliganarchive]

Send ✉ for an 2 AM text

Send ✘ for an unsent text

Send ☠ for a threatening message

Send ❤ for a lusty/loving/affectionate message

Send ♣ for a drunk message

[scarredswordarchive-deactivated]

00:00:00

In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they'll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.

                   Fifteen minutes.

                   He was 29 years old, and his wrist said he had fifteen minutes left. There was a bit of panic that seemed to shoot through Dean at the idea that in less than half an hour, he’d be meeting his soul mate— in all honesty, Dean hadn’t thought he’d lived to see the day. Sam had met his soul mate when he turned 18— he’d ran off and left Dean behind. Anyone Dean had met had already met their soul mate. He’d felt alone for so long, and now, that loneliness was ending.

                   He was in a coffee shop— how poetic. Was he meant to stay there? Was he meant to spill his coffee and meet the love of his life, bonding over a spilled drink? Dean didn’t know how these things were meant to work, and soon, he found himself panicking once more; Dean took his order and trudged out of the place, towards his car, grumbling lowly to himself. There was obvious discomfort with the situation as Dean. Was he ready for this? He wasn’t exactly a catch; he was mangled and broken and cruel and narcissistic. What if his soul mate ended up hating him?

                                     —— and then it happened.

                   Dean wasn’t paying attention as he crossed the road. Only the honking of a car horn brought him back to reality; he seemed to lose his breath as he found himself directly in the path of the vehicle with no time to move. The coffee he’d been holding was lost in the fight, and Dean found it lucky that he was able to move before he was hit. Brakes screeched, and when he looked back, he locked eyes with the driver, and Dean knew.

                   But he didn’t want this. He was too scared.

                                ❝You… you….❞ the Winchester breathed, shaking his head. He glanced down, and it only confirmed the feeling in his heart. 00:00:00. 

[itsmilliganarchive]

I'M TWELVE AWAY FROM MY NEXT HUNDRED WHAT NO. 

[itsmilliganarchive]

VERY SNEAKY SELF-PROMO.

[jensenacklezs]

[nshki-deactivated20150615]

       Oh yeah — right. He probably doesn’t know what any of them are. “There’s a Demon tablet for every kind of creature, it gives you… information. Like how to kill it, how to summon it, stuff like that,” he said, glancing down at the angel tablet, “So far we have the angel tablet and the angel tablet.”

[itsmilliganarchive]

"Not really following you but -- I get the feeling I'm not gonna, no matter how much you explain it." He takes a few steps forward, then stops awkwardly, rubbing the tiny hairs at the base of his neck. He didn't exactly ask to come in and who knew how touchy Kevin was on the subject.

[nshki-deactivated20150615]

| text:sent — adam | Yeah. Why?

[itsmilliganarchive]

[ txt msg: kevin ] i think there might be a virus on the cell dean gave me 

[freakisms]

O P E N ;

[freakisms]

    ❝It’s not like I’m going to murder you,❞ it was a sore attempt at reasoning on her part, definitely. ❝Look, I don’t usually ask, and I wouldn’t if I wasn’t desperate; but please? One ride, that’s all.❞

[itsmilliganarchive]

"Great way to convince me. By bringing up murder." She leans away from the girl, distrust visible on her face. "Why don't you catch the bus. Hail a taxi. Teleport."

[itsmilliganarchive]

touches face no but ilu a lot

[itsmilliganarchive]

your reputation is being a big butt

What's my reputation? What do you think when you see my URL?