And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break. We had to break the first seal before any others, only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line. When we win, when we bring on the Apocalypse and burn this earth down, we owe it all to you, Dean Winchester.
So here’s the plan, we give all the angels Redbull
Dean is so done with Cas’ shit that he has to invade his gif
YEAH, THAT’S COMPLETELY HETEROSEXUAL
#my ship doesn’t even need manips
It was almost not completely gay, if it weren’t for that swallow.
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
MY SHIP DOESN’T NEED MANIPS
let
me
just
add
a
few
more
because
just
look
at
them
Y’all are forgetting
one of the most important
ACTUAL BONERS ON THE SHOW
FROM LOOKING AT CAS
WAS NOT A MANIP
CAN I GET A HALLE-DESTIEL-LUJAH?
LETS NOT
FORGET
THESE
ONES
SERIOUSLY
THOUGH
SEASON
8
IS
ONE
BIG
FANFICTION
THIS IS MY FAVOURITE POST. OH MY GOD.
The day the angels fell.
asked by anon.
this is the best post ever okay
oh shit this is brilliant
prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:
AsylumWaiting Room of the Big Three.it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.
Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.
Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.
A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”
“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.
“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”
Supernatural gurgled something quietly.
“No, I won’t forget the pie.”
I SWEAR TO GOD TUMBLR NEVER FUCKING CHANGE
