If You're Struggling With Your Writing Right Now, I Just Want To Say, Now More Than Ever, It's Needed,

if you're struggling with your writing right now, I just want to say, now more than ever, it's needed, and I mean it.

It doesn't have to be a big think piece novel, an elaborate examination of a certain subject or opinion, your poetry doesn't have to have an obvious political angle, but yes, it also absolutely can.

It doesn't have to be light hearted escapism to heal our collective wounds for a while, but it can.

It doesn't have to be anything other than authentic to you.

We're nearing, or already in, an era where everything feels like it is becoming less and less authentic, further and further detached from people's true experiences, genuine voices, algorithms feeding us the most shallow, trend-following, manufactured by big-bucks, AI spouted, sterile material and no matter what you're writing, be it a mind-blowing, life-shattering profound novel, or a casual piece of fun entertainment (maybe both!) so long as you're writing and creating from the heart, out of passion for writing it, it's needed out here right now 💗

WIP…Friday?

@paranoidxbastard tagged me for WIP Wednesday but I’m slow so here we are on Friday instead.

This is a bit of something that is inspired by things @future-dregs implanted in my mind, resulting in instant brain rot and one full breakdown in his DMs. Next day I went…well. Maybe that can be a fic.

Basic idea is that Sam and Dean cut their initials into the same spot on each other’s bodies over and over throughout their lives as a means of bonding and claiming and everything else that is twisted up and weird between them. Fic to span the series but this bit is from S4, immediately after Sam’s activities with Ruby are discovered and things are Real Bad™️ between them.

Excuse the roughness, it is a very preliminary draft at this point. 🙃😅

__________

By the time they get back to the motel room, Sam can already feel the oncoming change. Like something has broken right at their foundation and he’s afraid to see what rises up from beneath. All the things they’ve buried, all the feelings locked away, finally breathing free air.

Dean’s name is a half aborted plea when his brother shoves him hard up against the wall, the syllables rising from softness to anger in an instant. So many of their conversations seem to go that way now, laced in resentment that neither can quite put away.

A flash of silver draws Sam’s attention further down and he watches as Dean flips his favorite switchblade open. The same one that marked him all those years ago. It’s twisted but for a moment, the sight of it comforts Sam. Dean hasn’t held a knife, not for this, since he got back and some part of Sam’s brain had trembled at the thought that maybe he never would again.

“Dean.” This time when he says his brother’s name, it’s soft all the way through. “Let me just -“

But Dean is quicker, reaching between them to yank the waistband of Sam’s jeans down. The denim scratches rough over his skin and he grunts, pushing up into Dean’s space only to be shoved back again, hard. Held in place by the steel band of Dean’s arm across his chest, Sam looks down at the exposed skin of his hip.

DW. Etched into his skin on a thousand different nights, in a thousand different moments. It’s paler than it has ever been, having gone uncut, left to heal for so long. He’s put his mark back on Dean more than once since his brother crawled back out of the grave but it never felt right to do his own, not with Dean right there beside him. Not if Dean hadn’t yet done it himself. Still, the sight of those thin white lines fill him with such warmth that Sam feels his knees bend slightly under the weight.

Dean scoffs and the disgust in that single sound snap Sam’s eyes back up to his brother’s face. There is only anger there, fury like he has never seen and it’s all the warning Sam gets before Dean is finally slashing out with his knife, opening a clear line through the letters on Sam’s hip. The strike comes so hard and fast that beads of blood wick off the blade and form tiny spots of crimson on the dirty wallpaper beside them. DW like a firebrand on Sam’s skin.

“There.” Dean spits the word, finally stepping away from Sam. He drops the knife between them and his voice, when he spoke again, sounds like crushed glass. Like he has been screaming for forty years and might never stop.

“That’s one less lie between us.”

when the fic starts talking abt dean’s Abs or dean’s Flat Stomach and my pepis makes a sad trombone noise

So I just finished watching all 8 seasons of Supernatural for the first time (in like a week and a half), and  HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS. I’m sleep deprived but I’m in love with the show, the characters, the relationships, the demons, the angels… Everything! I’m actually re-watching it again right now so, yeah. Also, I finally understand all the stuff I had seen on Tumblr before!! But for now here is my therapy for all the feels this freaking show gave me ;) I call it emo bitch and angsty jerk 

First Sleepover- 🐥&🐣

Guess who got back into spn…

ANYWAYS!!

Hc that sam had his first sleepover at 12 (after john rented out an actual home for 6+ months). 17 yr old dean got him ready and everything and walked him to the house. Sam called first thing the next morning to get picked up. He wont admit it but he had a nightmare and hated sleeping so far away from his brother :(