My mother's writing group is in the other room and LOUD. I'm listening to the most inane poetry. I hate poetry. I'm just not smart or creative enough for it. But I really hate poetry like that. I don't even know how to describe it. Emo fifteen-year-olds write better even when they're mindlessly aping William Blake and Edgar Allen Poe at the same time.
Also, memphis86 and I were talking about how if Dean were having a really bad day, Sam would be so good to him, and now I really want one. A Sam, not a bad day. Also a smoothie.
I think if the Winchester brothers were real, more than anything else, I'd want to cuddle with them. Possibly force Sam to wear spandex riding pants and leather hessians and tromp around.