Author: laurengilbert573ukyedu

wifihunters:

And I’m caught in the crossfire of my own thoughts
The color of my blood is all I see on the rocks
As you sail from me

Alarms will ring for eternity
The waves will break every chain on me
My bones will bleach
My flesh will flee
So help my lifeless frame to breathe

And God knows I’m not dying but I bleed now,
And God knows it’s the only way to heal now [x]

fangasmspn:

Robbie Thompson on the Samulet, which was in Sam’s keepsake box all that time:

R: It was.

R: I put in the script,
‘And is the Samulet in there?’ And Bob and Jeremy rightly said, and I’m glad
they did because it would’ve been totally different – they said if we’re gonna
show that, it feels like it deserves a bigger moment,
it probably should be a whole episode.

R: I can’t remember if it was Bob or Jeremy, but one of them said, how about if we put in the Samulet from the 200th episode? And I
was like oh, it’s perfect. So that one’s in there, but in my mind that was my
head canon [for the real one]. The notion that Sam
carried it around for 800 episodes doesn’t make any practical sense. But I
think he kept it, and that’s why I wanted to establish that he had this
keepsake box. I think we all have a sort of keepsake box, with like ticket
stubs from your first date and so on, and I think each one of the boys has one and I think the
Samulet was something Sam kept in
there. But once Sam started thinking that God was talking to him, he pulled out
the amulet just to have it on his person.

Read more: https://fangasmthebook.wordpress.com/2017/09/04/behind-the-scenes-of-supernatural-with-robbie-thompson/

A Hiatus (SPN genfic, 1777 words, G)

themegalosaurus:

I wrote this for @quickreaver for Summergen 2017. She had some super creative prompts but I chose this one: ‘downtime’.

LJ || AO3

Dean doesn’t notice Sam’s beard growing in until he looks up one morning and double-takes at the mountain man entering the kitchen.

“Dude,” he says, and Sam, soft in long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, blinks at him through a halo of tousled hair. Come to think of it, that’s longer than normal too, curling at the nape of his neck where it’s usually disciplined into something at least approximating order just under his ears.

“You going for some kind of Chewbacca deal?” Dean asks, and Sam rubs a hand over his jaw, back up through his hair which ends up sticking up worse than ever.

“Just don’t see the need to cut it right now,” he says. “I only do it for the Fed outfits, anyway, and we haven’t had a proper case in forever.” Then he shuffles over to the coffee machine and makes himself a fancy latte with one of the bottles of syrup that have appeared on the counter in the last few weeks.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been a good few inches off an FBI regulation cut for the past five years,” says Dean. Sam shrugs broad shoulders and Dean looks down at his black coffee, sniffing enviously and surreptitiously at the caramel-vanilla scent that wafts in his direction from Sam’s girly turquoise eco-mug. It’s true that they haven’t caught a hunt in a little while. It might be something to do with the Brits; they got so used to being drip-fed leads via text message that he and Sam have gotten lazy on their usual routine of scouring the web for whatever weird stuff might be happening in their line. Add to that, it’s summer, and things always just seem to die down a little this time of year. It’s like payback for the enormous shit-show that kicks off every spring.

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