#m0tel

Her name is Chicken Nugget (Nugget for short) and she is a 12+ year old rescue budgie who loves spinach and is scared of baths. She is also camera shy so this is the best I’ve got. I don’t know her real age but she was at least 3 when I got her ages ago.

Not pictured: getting her beak reshaped/taken care of 30 seconds later, biting the hell out of me

@m0tel in response to dinosaur pet

                            JACK SQUEALS IN DELIGHT, SO AT LEAST SOMEONE FINDS THIS SITUATION FUNNY. Though Castiel suspects the young Nephilim likes being carried like a handbag more than the triceratops — he cannot see the mini dinosaur, only the floor around Dean's feet. His little legs kick and wriggle as he giggles happily. 

trash can went flying with a violent, metallic crash. skidding across the floor ; soaked napkins and mouldy coffee filters spilling everywhere ─ beyoncé stops. knife-sharp eyes lift, pins, and penetrates straight through the manchild that he was.

this wasn't their kitchen anymore. this was a crime scene.

' dean, what is this behaviour ? ' she asks, lethally. sorry, i kicked it by mistake. he retorts back. unwise choice. beyoncé tilts her head just slightly, just enough. eyes glittering.

" time to pack it up? " is almost a rhetorical question, a mantra, by now. nondescript green, well-weathered, the drab, crosshatched canvas waits with its zipper half-yawned on his bunk. dean's palm snatches up a pair of jeans by the loop & he begins to roll it down to stuff in to fill the edges the rest of the way.

too long in the same place, a little spider-legs scrabble starts under his skin.

( he doesn't bother considering whether it's the too long in one place that makes the unease start scraping against his animal brain or if it's simply a learned behavior, that the next adrenaline thrill is calling because they're looking to go out & meet it )

@m0tel ;; setting prompts (still accepting) 064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea . ( sam again ! )

                            "OKAY, LET ME WALK YOU THROUGH A PLOT." He wraps one arm around Sam's enormous shoulders (wow!!! So firm!!!) and gestures toward the sharp cliffs beneath them. Crooked stairs have been drilled into the hard rock; they lead down to a narrow beach, currently swallowed by waves about 8 feet high. "A shipwreck! Drama! Fighting for your life! Then the guy gets washed up on the shore here. The lady lighthouse keeper—"

they've always been on borrowed time. years ago, it'd been stolen kisses, shared minutes, motel rooms with late checkout. trying to figure out the finite; trying to avoid the inevitable. in some way, she thinks they both knew that. running stop signs and red lights, fighting against the sway of the wind just to find one another in the middle. wanting what-could be, knowing what-wasn't. those days, he was all crooked grin and leather jacket and a spare wink before he'd let her go— but these days, he's nowhere. nothing. a spare piece of history in her phone, haunting her silhouette in the rearview mirror.

such is life. dean winchester was never the type of man to stay, mari dai was never the girl who'd ask him not to go. or, at least, she wasn't— but times change, so does she, and three a.m feels like a secret both of them can keep. or, maybe, a time that doesn't need to be a secret at all.

the phone sits against the hollow of her cheek, a spare hand cradling a drink that's more than halfway gone. her eyes are shut, drunken and tired and spattered with images that could feel like yesterday, if she tries. the click of the receiver halts the ringing, and mari's mouth opens before she can think.