martine nicole

All's fair in love, war, and Pokemon battles.

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I know I haven’t been on Tumblr lately, but I have no where else to go right now.

I don’t know if you’ve heard of the girl who died at the warped tour, but her name was Taylor Nesseth, and she used to be one of my best friends. I’ve known…knew…her for 11 years and she was the first friends I made in grade 2, when I moved to White Oaks. She was in all my classes up to grade 7, and was the only person at White Oaks with a good taste in music. We’d talk forever about music. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I went through my old school stuff and found so many pictures of her. Her visitation was today and I almost lost it when her grandma and dad hugged me. I couldn’t even look at her mom. I had to leave. I don’t know what to do and I can’t breathe. We haven’t been close since I moved to Beal and I feel so guilty that I didn’t put more effort into staying in touch. I’m just in this numb haze and all I can feel is guilt and regret. Not just about Taylor but about every friendship I let fall apart and about the one good relationship I had that I ended because I was scared. About all the time I wasted being sad and angry at the world when I could have been happy. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Her funeral is tomorrow morning. I won’t cry. I will not let myself cry in public. We used to hang out in the corner at the back of the school and she wore a different headband every day. She’s done that for as long as I can remember. She did that. I seem to be having difficulty switching tenses. They cremated her right away and I never got to say goodbye. It’s happening too fast. I’m not ready. I don’t know. My thoughts are fragmented and disjointed and blurry. I don’t fucking know.

Filed under taylor nesseth

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castianity:

Castiel stays locked in his room most days, hardly comes out except to grab something to eat, but then he retreats back to the small room and keeps the door closed. Sam always tries to urge Dean to go upstairs and speak to him, whenever Dean goes upstairs and stands in front of door, and with his hand raised just inches from the wood of the door, he turns on his heels and goes back down stairs. He can’t do it, and he doesn’t know why, but he just can’t. Maybe he’s scared that Castiel will turn on him, yell at him, grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against a wall, teeth bared and screaming into his face. This is your fault, this is all your fault. All you ever do is fuck stuff up, that’s all. Why can’t you just leave people be, Dean? I fell, and it was because of you, and now look at me.

Dean grabs a bottle of whiskey and sits at the kitchen table, pouring glass after glass, and drinking them until his head is swimming, his skin is warm and prickly, and he feels sick. He leaves the bottle and glass on the kitchen table when he stands and stumbles into the living room where he falls onto the couch and falls into a drunken slumber. He wakes, hours later, with the feeling of someone else in the room; Sam and Bobby are on a hunt, and the only other person in the house is Castiel, who definitely shouldn’t be downstairs, because that’s just not what he does. But when he opens his eyes, Castiel is sitting at the end of the couch near his feet, staring at the wall in front of him. His hands are in his lap, and he’s wearing one of Dean’s old shirts, one that riddled with holes in the front and in the collar, but it fits him; old and tattered, worn and comfortable. Castiel doesn’t move when Dean sits up with a groan, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead, he just continues to stare at the wall.

“Cas?”

Still no movement, and Dean reaches out, places his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel starts, pulls back from Dean, and turns his head to stare at him. He looks thin, too thin, and his skin is lighter than normal; there’s dark bruises beneath his eyes, and his hair is askew, unbrushed and unwashed. He lifts his chin, stares at Dean for a moment before turning away from him again, his attention drawn to the wall once more. This is one of the first times that Castiel’s ever come downstairs and has stayed down longer than just a few minutes, and it’s a little reeling to be seeing him after not seeing him in, well, days. Castiel breathes a sigh through his nose, his hands wringing in his lap, and Dean places his feet firmly on the ground, steadying himself and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He’s got a headache from hell, his body aches from sleeping on the cramped couch, and now Castiel’s here beside him, and he has no idea why.

“This isn’t your fault, Dean.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and he turns to look at Cas. Cas still isn’t look at him, his eyes have moved to one of the many bookshelves in the main room, and Dean sits up, rubs his palms along his jeans.

“I chose this myself. I was protecting you and Sam, and I knew the consequences. But..” Castiel pauses for a brief moment, his breathing coming out in small, shuddering gasps, and Dean places his hand on his shoulder again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just trying to cope..”

There’s nothing that Dean can do to understand what Castiel’s going through, because he knows that it will never compare to anything that’s happened in his life. Castiel was a being a light, of fire, something so powerful and large, and after just one incident, it was all ripped away from him. He was left powerless, weak, and human, and it may take him months, maybe even years to learn how to deal with it. But for however long it takes, Dean will always be there for him, helping him through it, because this man sitting beside him, Dean would give up everything for him.

(via hoechlickin)

2,526 notes

siterlas:

factionfighter:

infinitelylimited:

eastcollins:

I can’t believe that after all this time nobody has told Sam that’s not how you drink a can of coke

okay at first it was funny but now it’s just cruel

come on Dean or at least Bobby joke’s over now tell him

“I don’t get why so many people like coke. It just makes me cold and sticky.”

“DEAN? DEAN I CAN’T HEAR YOU. THE RECEPTION ON THIS CAN IS REALLY BAD.”

“THE CAN SAYS I’M ALMOST OUT OF MINUTES.”

(via littleapartmentbigcity)