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@walkingtheinferno
"And this is why I say I don’t swing for anything that’s supposed to be six feet under."
"Ooooh! Did Dean give you the old wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am? Poor angel. Life must be so hard for little ol' you, huh?"
"Heehee~! That’s impossible, they’re all the way back in Ikebukuro. They’d have to come all the way here for such a thing to logically happen. But honestly, it is cool that he has a job like that! But not all monsters are monsters. Humans could be called monsters too, after all. But not all of us are as bad as others might be, although my brother would probably disagree. He’s stupid, don’t listen to him!"
"He'd find a way. He and his brother travel across America just killing all sorts of things. If they ever run out, I have no doubt the first place they'd go is Japan." Meg shrugs her shoulders. "Dean seems like the type to ride a motorcycle anyway. Blasting down the highway in his leather jacket and assless chaps. I'm sure he wouldn't mind ganking one of those things."
Feminine features skewed into a look of disgust. “It’s not like I was implying anything. But likewise, I only swing for anything that’s not supposed to be buried six feet under.”
"Didn't Dean already die once before you did the horizontal monster mash with him? Not sure what that makes him. Zombie? Undead? Either way, he was six feet under before."
"You didn’t seem to think that way when you hit it off with Castiel."
"What can I say? I have a thing for bad boys. And I do mean bad boys. I may swing that way occasionally, but the swing only swings so high, and lady angels are where I draw the line."
"Oh, you mean like the Headless Rider! They’re something called a dullahan, it’s some Irish ghost thing. They’re actually really nice too! They saved me once from a biker gang. I don’t know why anyone would kill them for simply being a supernatural thing! That seems pretty rude."
Apparently this girl knows about Supernatural things. Someone's not as dumb as she seemed.
"Well, yeah. And Sammy's job is to kill those sons of bitches. One by one. He probably has a plan all laid out for that Duran Duran or whatever ghost thing you got."
"Yeah, not really buying the whole pray for forgiveness to get into Heaven speech when it’s coming from a demon, Meg. I’ve seen what Heaven’s like, and it’s far nicer than Lucifer’s cage.”
"Never said pray for forgiveness. I'm pretty much saying it's hopeless. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. But hey, it's not all bad. You'll have one Hell of a family reunion down there."
"Must you always be so annoying and unnecessary?"
"Must you be so high and mighty? With that stick up your ass so far I can see it in your mouth?"
"Get your facts straight. It was a Djinn. And only one here going back to Hell is you, Meg, if you don’t shut up."
"A Djinn. Sure it was, Dean. And I'm a freaking vampire. You just don't wanna admit perfect little Sammy screwed up again. What's this, the fifth time?"
"Murdering kids!? Why would he do that? Is he insane? Is he like one of those guys who commit a bunch of murders because they hear things?"
"He's definitely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. He's convinced all sorts of Supernatural things exist. Ghosts, vampires... even demons. How stupid could you get?"
"So get this."
"Sammy murders kids but he isn't going to Hell. Ha, yeah okay."
"I’m not going to Hell, Meg." Not again, anyway. "I would, however, if I was talking about sex with high schoolers.” Looking at you, Dean.
"If you say so, Count Chocula. I'm just saying you've done a lot of crappy stuff to a lot of people. 'Course, if you end up going to Heaven it ain't gonna be a walk through the park either."
If you wanted to touch my ass all you had to do was ask, Dean.
"Don’t we all have more important things to talk about?”
"More important than sex?"
"Come on, Sammy. We both know you're going to Hell anyway. Why not have some fun on the trip?"
p a r a m e t e r s || open
Misdemeanor Vandalism.
That was what his brother used to call it because, technically, that’s what it was in the eyes of the law and society. He used to snort at the term, think it was ridiculous; where was the artistic freedom anymore? He was a street artist, not street scum. He shook his head lightly and where it used to be a motion of contempt for being berated by his cop brother, all of the bitterness was gone now. He would have given anything for Reggie to be there yelling at him.
Now, armed with a can of spray paint, a sketchpad and pencils by his feet (all scavenged from the odd art room), he wondered if he should leave his mark. A good ol’ tag to let people know he was there. It wasn’t like he usually gave a damn about rules of any kind, but this was kind of a new place— a school with killings. And he didn’t exactly have his abilities here. Not to sound weak or scared, but he didn’t really feel like dying anytime soon.
Hesitating, he shook the can in his hand, listened to it rattle, and surveyed the wall in front of him.
“Not like rules have ever stopped me before, but… Gotta wonder if somethin’ like ‘destruction’ of school property is enough to get you killed in a school run by a murderous bear.”
This place is getting a little boring. Sure, people are dying, and that's a thrill, but it's nothing compared to her old life. Fighting for her life, slashing up demons and angels and leviathans. Kicking ass and taking names. This 'killing school' is a walk in frou-frou park compared to her old life. She needs some excitement. Something fun, that'll send shivers down her meatsuit's body and jolts of electricity through her tainted soul.
Murder? No, she's gotta be a good girl for now. Sure, it would be fun—a real hoot, actually—but the almost certain execution that follows certainly won't be. And the trial would probably be a snoozefest. So no, she had to be a little more creative than that.
And when she heard the familiar rattle of a spray paint can, she had a genius idea. She walks up slowly, her heels clicking against the pavement as she moves closer. She watches the other, his 'rebellious' ensemble almost laughable, as he debates whether to vandalize the school. The school controlled and protected by an apparently cruel and unreasonable teddy bear. "Hey there, hot stuff. What'cha doin'?"
She gives the other a playful, flirty glance. Her eyes dart to the can in his hand, then back to his face, and a small smirk stretches at the corner of her lip. "Plan on leaving your John Hancock?"
I bet you’d look beautiful, covered in blood
At my feet
Begging me to let you live
➵ burnin' for you // open { revival 2.0 }
Though once-vivid childhood memories had long since faded with the passing of time, Dean Winchester could still remember quite clearly fragments of his youth. He could remember, in particular, the day his normal life went up in a blazing inferno— the heat of his burning house hot on his back as he carried little Sammy out the front door. That day, the life of Mary Winchester had been consumed by flames, burned alive on the ceiling of his brother’s nursery. The first of the Winchester clan to fall— and until now, the only one whose existence had been robbed by a literal fire. Sam had come close, of course, and all three of the Winchester men: John, Dean and Sam alike, had all experienced the horror called the pits of Hell.
Playing with fire, it seemed, never yielded good outcome for their family.
A violent death came hand-in-hand with a violent awakening. He died in between a maze of food stands, lean frame eaten away by Belphegor’s magic until there was nothing left, merely a charred, unrecognizable corpse. But he woke with a start in the infirmary, the breath returning to his lungs with a wide, hungry inhale. It simply wouldn’t do for a player in this game of mutual killing to be cast from the fun permanently— but while Dean’s body had been renewed and kept mostly intact, that did not mean the experience of returning to life was any more pleasant than the previous time. In fact the searing pain across his chest, where the flames had first made contact with his skin, made it incomparable to his first resurrection. Where Dean had once stumbled to his feet within minutes, this time he lie paralyzed within the cot, widened eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing forced and ragged.
His first coherent thought was simple, once his breath finally steadied and he adjusted to the lingering aches and stabbing pains: God, the Hell’d I do this time?
Closing his eyes, the Winchester would’ve been more than content to rest for a long, long while. But as fate would have it, the click of the door and a sudden flood of sunlight into the room signalled the presence of another. Whether they’d come to see him on purpose, or had merely accidentally stumbled upon a man burned alive and returned to the living, was unclear. Dean’s brow furrowed, and through closed eyes, he called out hoarsely, “…I sure hope you’re here bearing 'get well soon' gifts.”
It's absolutely hilarious how perfect this whole situation is. Meg watched, ecstatic, as the hunter is burnt to a crisp by some nobody in the carnival. Hope that stupid little gnome was worth it, Dean, cuz there ain't no going back now. And as his charred body lie there motionless in the middle of the screen, Meg can't help letting out a little chuckle.
The demon girl had a basic grasp about how things work around here. A few weeks of asking around, casual torture, flirting, and such gave her plenty of intel. What the rules are, who to cross, who to avoid. What happens when you die. And also where you go when you do happen to kick that old, rusty bucket.
And so Meg decides to pay the eldest Winchester thorn-in-her-side a little visit. A friendly gesture, cuz hey, she's not that bad. She makes her way to the infirmary with a bouquet of dead, wilted flowers in one hand, and a card in the other. Just a few get-well presents to help the whole death thing pass. Not that Dean would need it. This is probably his 5th time dying. Son of a bitch needs to make up his mind whether to stay in the land of the living or that of the lost souls.
She doesn't bother knocking. No need to announce her presence. The open door and snarky comments will take care of that for her.
"Well, what do we have here? Poor widdle Dean sitting uselessly in his hospital bed. Maybe next time you won't be as stupid as you usually are and not get yourself killed." She throws the envelope to the other. Inside is a card that reads "Get well soon" on the front. Inside reads "Cuz your momma kinda sucks at the whole 'surviving fires' thing." The flowers are dropped haphazardly on the table beside the bed. "So tell me, Dean-o. How's it feel to be flambéed?"