#eideticminded

[waywardhearted-blog]

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. SECOND NIGHT IN A ROW I’VE LOST RP TIME.

YESTERDAY BECAUSE I FELL ASLEEP EARLY AND TODAY BECAUSE MY LAPTOP GLITCHED LIKE FUCK. I’M SO ANGRY. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

-CLINGS TO MONTY.- FUCK.

[waywardhearted-blog]

"I still have some last minute shopping to do."

Dean groaned thickly as he wound his arms more securely around his lover, seeking to keep his husband’s nude body pressed against him. Their lovemaking for that morning was fresh in his mind, and the very idea of releasing him for anything, even Christmas presents, was torture.

He buried his face into his lover’s neck, kissing the flesh there and remaining in place afterward as his arms tightened around his waist, “You can give me you for Christmas.” Frankly, it was the best gift his lover could give–especially considering how desperately he wanted to keep him in bed.

[waywardhearted-blog]

"The dog ate the mince pies."

A low chuckle rumbled from the base of his chest–of course they did. He wasn’t mad, not in the slightest, even if he had been looking forward to those pies, “Call it an early Christmas present for them.” A hand extended, resting against the back of his neck so that he could guide his head in to rest his forehead against his own, “Let’s say it’s their treat for the day.”

[waywardhearted-blog]

Love Lost

The room was beginning to spin in ways it had no business spinning, and Dean was finally just numb enough from the booze that he could suppress that constant swell in his chest--like an anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him every moment that he wasn’t waist deep in a bottle of whiskey. He took another swig of the amber fluid, the shit he both loved and hated at the same time. It was his lifeline, he needed it if he were to even make it through the next five minutes knowing that the world he lived in now was one that didn’t have Will Winchester in it.

A thick groan rumbled from the base of his chest as he leaned forward in his chair enough that he could extract the handgun from the waistband of his jeans, allowing that hand to fall to his knee. He stared at it a little too long, looked a little too determined. It would have been so easy--pull the trigger and find his husband. He might have done it before now if not for his vendetta.

The very inkling of it sent another surge of rage through his body, and he diverted his gaze to the chart posted on the nearby wall. It was a tangled mess of colored thread and pictures, scribbled notes. Some of them were legible, some of them were clearly written in the midst of a drunken stupor, but they all said, essentially, the same thing. He was on the hunt, and he was going to make good on a promise he’d made so many years ago.

A hand slid beneath his shirt, fingers gliding over the exterior of a bloodstained bandage that he probably should have changed by now. It’d have to wait until the morning. His face was mostly bruised, the scar on his cheek that he’d gotten saving his lover once before now joined by a second above one of his eyes--to say nothing of the injuries that littered the rest of his body. He didn’t seem to care--and he didn’t. There was no such thing as recovery time as far as he was concerned, he hadn’t even bothered to wash off the blood of his last encounter.

Even if he didn’t say it, even if he didn’t admit it to himself, he knew what he wanted. He wanted his hunt to kill him. Unfortunately, he happened to be a damn good hunter.

[waywardhearted-blog]

Dean’s Journal

Wood chipper trumps everything. So does grizzly bear.

[waywardhearted-blog]

❝ hush, my sweet. these tornadoes are for you. ❞ a meme you didn't reblog but you're getting anyway. killer!au? :^)

The blood stains and fading warmth of bodies were practically infrared through the shield of black eyes that now consumed the green they once were. The way the corpses were displayed, it was almost artistic. Perhaps all of those cases his lover worked did more to influence him than he’d initially realized, and maybe he was vaguely jealous at the notion that Hannibal might have played a part in it as well.

He didn’t hate the cannibal on principle–in fact, Dean might have admired his work if not for his obvious infatuation with Will, with his lover. As it were, that fact served to make mortal enemies of the two of them.

Blood coated his hands just from the turn of a doorknob, but he disregarded it entirely as he tangled his fingers into the white button down his husband wore, effectively staining it as he sought to tug him closer against his body, “You shouldn’t have.” His palm moved to his cheek, staining his flesh in much the same way that he did his shirt as he leaned in for a slow, lingering kiss.“I love you, William Winchester.”

[cruentusreus-blog]

@eideticminded ( @waywardhearted )

The class is quick to disband once the lecture is over, and on any other day, Stiles would have joined the exodus. But when the famous (or infamous, depending on who you ask) Will Graham asks you to stay after class, then you’d better take your sweet ass time picking up your books, and wait until everyone’s gone.

“Mr. Graham? Sorry—Winchester, sorry. I uh...am I in trouble?”