Trivia Junkie

bakasara:

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I’ll never recover from this

(Source: theconsultingbiscuit, via lexpurple)

(Source: paralysedbeaver, via lexpurple)

swoz:

trekgate:

Star Trek Parallels

I’ll post this again.

(via keikogoblyn)

proxydialogue:

I’ve said it elsewhere before: how it’s the nature of stories to never turn out the way you want them to, how it’s the prerogative of heroes to defy you at every turn; but this is still the one that I can’t let go. I’m a slave to these characters, and however they carry on, pinwheels of disaster and destruction, all I want for them is a Happily Ever After.

I did plan one for them, you know. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before: I had it molded in silver and warm mud, cradled for years in the palm of my right hand. I wrote their names down in The Book, side by side with a curving little ampersand between them. Elegant and beautiful, in blood red ink.

                                             Dean Winchester & Castiel

And that was supposed to be the epilogue.

But every time I bring them back together they pull themselves apart again. I cannot understand it. I know exactly what they want, I wrote them to want it. I tore them, atom by atom, from the dirt and the starlight to be perfectly in relief with each other. And yet they will not stay. 

I am nearly desperate with heartache. It’s a bullshit job, being a writer. It’s bullshit.

And now, of course, I might be dead. It’s difficult to tell, being who and what I am, but Castiel is perfectly right in saying it’s possible.

Don’t think that stops me, though. I keep screaming at them from behind these unpublished pages. If I am dead, I must be one of the louder ghosts. Of the sort that makes the sea winds howl, and shrieks through trees and shattered windows. 

“It’s meant to be!” That’s all I need them to know. If only I’d had the balls to tell them while I was still in the story. If only I’d known how little all these stupid rules about plot and exigency matter. But I fucked it up. First, I wanted the story to sell, and then I just wanted it to be believable.

But all that’s crap. Rising action is crap. And believability is crap. Truth is the only thing a writer needs to worry about.

And the truth is they were fucking meant to be. 

 

 

They were in the basement of a library waiting for Sam to finish interrogating the reference librarian. He’d dragged the poor, blubbering woman up the stairs to the circulation desk some minutes ago, and now it was just Dean and Cas standing quietly among shelves of decrepit magazines and microfilm, trying to look like they weren’t looking at each other. There was a shaft of dirty sunlight, beamed down from a small window above their heads, that broke through the dry air between them. One elongated corner of it, bronze and gold, fell on the toe of Cas’ shoe.

The floor tiles were the color of teeth and the walls smelled like newspaper.

Dean said:

“I still don’t get it.”

“I know,” Cas answered without looking up.

Dean said, “I tortured people in Hell.”

“I know,” Cas answered.

Dean said, “Sam started the apocalypse.”

“I know,” Cas answered.

“So we should all be in Purgatory.”

“No.” Now Cas looked up. It was hard for Dean to see him. Looking through that sunlight was like looking through bad glasses. Cas’ face appeared to him like a distortion of his own reflection, frowning and tired, with lost conversations under his eyes.

“Why not?” 

“Because you and Sam are not monsters.” Cas had been leaning against a table, but now he pushed off it and crossed his arms across his chest. Dean frowned at him and uncrossed his own, hanging his hands empty at his sides.

“Why not?”

“Because you and Sam are human.”

“Cas,” Dean’s voice broke. “You’re not—,”

“Dean. Stop.” It was the tone as much as the words that shut Dean up. “What you and Sam did, and what I did, do not even compare. There is no forgiveness for what I did.”

“I forgive you,” Dean said immediately and felt the familiar urge to punch something when Cas only looked at him sadly. 

“I know.”

“Would you stop saying that! Just—“ Dean threw up his hands and turned around as if he would stomp up the stairs, but he spun back around instead, “Cas, you don’t deserve that place. I don’t care what the fuck you think you know, I know that God didn’t make that disgusting place for you.”

Cas shook his head and didn’t say anything. He looked around, spotted a chair in the corner, and went to sit in it, leaving Dean beside his sunlight. 

“What about this,” Dean said after a long moment of staring at the floor. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “I know you love me.” He was still studying the square cracks of the tiles so he didn’t catch Cas’ expression, but it didn’t feel like anyone in the room was surprised. “I know you do,” Dean continued. “The shit you’ve done for me…The way you always come back. I’m not saying I expect anything from you or anything, I just know—I have known it. And if you knew I needed you, and I did, why would you still choose to stay in Purgatory?”

“You and Sam managed to save the world for a long time without me,” said Cas. He shugged. “You’ll do it again. You don’t need me.”

Dean rubbed his face with the heels of his hands because it would be absolutely ridiculous of him to cry right now; in the periodicals sections of a library with a Banshee loose in town.

“Oh yeah?” he asked. He meant for it to sound bitchy. He meant to be pissed. But the words were hardly there at all.

“It wasn’t my place to decide,” said Cas. “Whatever you expect or don’t expect from me, I would do it, Dean. I would do all of it.” The thing about Cas was that he didn’t know what shit was okay to say out loud and what shit he was supposed to shut up about. “But I couldn’t decide, for your sake alone, to cheat the world of my damnation.” Cas cleared his throat. “It wasn’t my place,” he repeated.

Someone was pacing upstairs.

“Okay, but what if we just say ‘fuck that’ for once?” Dean asked. “Because I should be pissed as hell at you for so many things. I should be doubting you, and questioning you, and not trusting you, but I’m not. And even when you were flying around blowing up the planet, and I was trying really hard to be pissed at you, I wasn’t. Even when I was, I wasn’t.”

“Dean—”

“So what if, fuck the bigger picture? Fuck ‘the point.’ Forget all of that shit, Cas, and just stick around.”

Cas’ blue eyes were raindrops. He swallowed. After a short silence he stood up and walked back across the room, back to Dean, and stood self-consciously in that dirty piece of sun. 

“I can’t promise you anything,” he said.

“I know,” said Dean.

“It’s not, “ Cas groped at the floating dust with his hands, looking for the right phrase, “meant to be.”

“I know,” said Dean.

A chair scraped against the floor above them. 

Cas reached out and knotted his hand in the back of Dean’s hair, pulling their mouths together.

“I really would do whatever you asked,” Cas gasped against Dean’s lips. He was almost grinning. Almost crying.

Dean almost laughed. “I know.”

The door at the top of the stairs swung open to admit Sam’s huge footsteps. Cas and Dean were still standing with their faces close together, caught between a kiss and a whisper. Cas was lit up and bright with afternoon light, and Dean was shaded in pencil gray.

 

 

They couldn’t see themselves, naturally, but when I first cut them out of their blank pages, that is exactly how their silhouettes appeared. 

(via destielcuddles)

drawingwerewolves:

snufflechops-plastic:

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i-learned-it-from-the-pizzaman:

danyulsflameprincess:

reblogallthenerdythings:

itseasytoremember:

fandomwarrior:

dontevergrowupinneverland:

a-time-lord-wallflower:

hungerybunny:

tardisbluecommunity:

theelbowpatch:

loganhasseenthelight:

teapots-and-traditions:

bewareofabbeyroad:

sherlockshiverandshake:

consulting-meerkat:

gracefulrainyautumn:

emptytrolls:

gallifrey-feels:

“Proof” updated version.

STOP IT I’M FREAKING OUT

I am both scared and excited

LET’S NOT FORGET THE FUCKING DALEK EYESTALK THAT WASHED UP IN FLORIDA

Or the Utah Cave Painting resembling the TARDIS~

let me repost this again

Not to mention the fact Mars is full of water.

Ladies and gentlemen, Gallifrey

Remember those things the Master had? So:

Crack in time?

HE LIVES.

So now I’m just gonna sit down and wait.

i just nearly fell down the stairs running to tell my dad that the doctor is real and that the internet has proof… 

let’s not forget about this painting that has been made in 1959.It looks like Amy and Rory who actually lived somewhere around that time

This is my favorite post ever

Everytime I see this post again, it has been updated with lots more information that seriously make me if all is real.

Found this in a subway station,

and that’s an ancient Scottish symbol 

does anybody remember this or

OH SNAP

IT GOT BETTER

Whovians, prepare for battle. The battle for Earth.

Speaking of the Dalek eyestalk they dismissed it as a swordfish eye.

That is not a swordfish eye. Swordfish eyes do not look like that, they are a single color (usually dark dark blue), not light blue then dark blue. Also this ‘eye’ has depth unlike a normal swordfish eye. It’s basically a white sphere with a dent in the middle that’s walls are colored light bluish with a dark blue sphere. Unlike swordfish eyes.

this is a swordfish eye:

See the difference? 

OH FUCK YES. DOCTOR, TAKE ME TO SEE THE STARS

(via trekchik)