#Reminds me of destiel

[wordieworld-woo]

Destiel Playlist

In the name of love - Martin Garrix & BB-Rexa

Another Love - Tom Odell

Daylight - David Kushna

Trench coat Angel - Tyler Ward

Chasing shadows - Alex Warren

Forever ain't long - Radio Company (Jensen Ackles)

Give me suggestions!! :)

[blanketforcas]

🔥 jensen vs destiel: hot n cold ❄️

[youtube]

[destielmemenews]

James Fitzjames was First Officer of the HMS Erebus, one of two ships from Sir John Franklin's failed 1845 expedition of the Norwest Passage. According to markings on some of Fitzjames' remains, he was cannibalized. This has long been the suspected fate of the crew.

The first season of the AMC series The Terror depicts a fictionalized account the expedition.

source 1

source 2

source 3

[akamavarii]

PSEUDOANTHROMORPHISM, Chapter 6, John's dream sequence

drew this purely for shits and giggle but now I'm starting to regret it

@transvaginal-ultrasound come get ur food

yes it's based on this image

[wigglebox]

Destiel Pride - Day 19; Kiss me once, kiss me twice

[destielballsdeep]

the affliction - marie howe

[casdeans-pie]

The thing is that Cas bites. He's bitey. And Dean loves it.

[theclassicvinyldragon]

[silverdrws]

protective dark haired powerful beings

and their hot headed friend(?) who have mommy and daddy issues

[bloodydeanwinchester]

🩸Bloody Dean Every Episode🩸- 15x18 Despair

[cassiphoning]

the very touch of you corrupts but it goes both ways

[becauseofthebowties]

misha about why dean and cas had so many scenes of just staring at each other, "it's just because we couldn't remember our lines, and then they kept it in and constructed that whole romantic narrative around it"

[blanketforcas]

[watchandread02]

Inspired by this picture of Jensen and Misha

[sirlancenotalot]

And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.

is god the cat that chases you for fun, someone who pretends benevolence, flicking you away only to sink teeth into your neck while you hold out a begging hand? a cat with a mouse in its mouth. i see, i see, i see. 

in thine eyes i saw god and not as the reflection of myself but something i can touch, something that dies— someone i can kill. someone i could love. these knees have dropped, on cold dirt ground, on wooden floor: century-old, on marble floors that make them ache. in thine hands, i’ve left my life and my heart, my soul that was drug back from hell. hands, eyes, smile, light. your wings i crushed like a cruel boy with a dragonfly at the onset of spring. lavender-scent, the smell of my mother’s perfume and it all reeks of a prayer that never ends. i need you, like the steady weight of a gun in my unsteady hands. like the clean water that washes off this blood off my hands yet never fully cleans it. not enough for absolution or forgiveness. i need you like the cedar brown drink. no, i needed you like it. now, i need you like the smell of fresh air on a sober morning. a thumb caressing my own on a winter evening and everything in between. 

if god was a cat with a mouse that he chooses to kill then i’m a vine, hugging you close in devotion, in ruination. trying to touch everything you and yet never being able to reach all of you. too less, too little to know you truly but never quittin’ the attempts. so, i will pray to you. the only true sign that god exists. his cruelty is proof enough but your unsmiling lips and your smiling eyes are a better proof of the fact that he was capable of beauty and he poured it all into you. the hands that are gentler than the light of the early morning sun, the voice that could make hell tremble and yet softly call my name. my name feels less like a punishment and more like a poem in your mouth. 

i can’t ever be good because i’m always tryin’ to be perfect and my brother’s little head that reached my knee, hugging my leg so close, i have to look up to see his eyes now. little-brother, not so little. if this hand had a weapon—no, this hand is the weapon and that means a weapon raised him and yet, his voice has a softer edge to it and i can’t ever fathom that. i’m always looking down, at the ground, at the barrel of a gun, at the bottom of a drink. searching for things that even a halo can’t illuminate and yet, i have to look up to talk to him. to know his goodness means to believe in my own, to see your holiness is to grasp your hands in mine. i will let myself be good, try to be good because i can’t ever be perfect. knowing that your heavenstring-cut hands will cradle this imperfect hands in your own. 

let me be good for you. stay. 

[wigglebox]

Drowley’s Summer of Love TM