Dean's Ragingly Hetero Obsession With Chapped Lips
flutiebear:


Cap from 1x05, “Bloody Mary”

Watch.  Watch me. Watch the shadows on my face, my nose, my cheeks. Go on. Give them your full attention. Are you watching me closely? Carefully? Good. Because you won’t want to miss this. For now I will perform a miracle: I will make myself disappear.
Forget about where the light hits. There’s nothing going on there anyway. My eyes? They were always bleeding. It’s stage make-up. Look, you’re not watching. Watch. Watch the shadows. Watch the places you can’t see. Give in to the illusion, the prestige. I worked so hard on this, after all. You’ll want to see how it ends.
I learned this trick a long time ago, from a grouchy old drunk in Kansas. He swore and he spat and he taught me how to shoot a gun. You know, all the important things in life. And he was the one who taught me that you could use shadows as weapons, or as armor. Whatever you needed. Use ‘em right, son, he said, and they’ll all be dead before they even figured you was there.  
A master prestidigitator, that one. My own whiskey-swilling  Ben Kenobi. He knew how to wrap the night around his body, to swaddle himself up in it like a coat so thick you couldn’t feel the man underneath. Full of secrets, that one. Of course, he didn’t have half as many secrets as he pretended to, and even fewer that fooled me. I could see right through him. I always could. I never knew, though, if it was because I was good, or because he went ahead and let me. Maybe a man like that, he gets lonely, and he just wants someone around who understands.
He was a bastard, really. A mean old bastard who held onto his own emptiness like a treasure. He had half as many secrets as he thought, and twice as many as he deserved. I have secrets too, you know. Maybe not magic powers, or a second family, but my secrets could still kill a man, if my father only knew.
He could drink, though. Man, could he drink. And throw a mean right hook, the kind that would flatten you for an hour without breaking your nose, the kind that didn’t even leave a bruise. He was smart, that one. So smart. But I was smarter. Because, you see, I managed to improve on old Ben Kenobi’s trick. You watching? Good. Keep your eyes on me. You won’t want to miss this.
The secret here is that a good illusion isn’t about what’s kept in the shadows. It’s about what you leave in the light. The words you speak, not the spaces in between. And I tell you, that old bastard never figured it out. Til his dying day, and beyond, the thought never crossed his mind. Cause, well, what does a man obsessed with empty spaces know anything about the full ones?
And: Voila!
Are you impressed?
Hah.  Nice try. But a magician never gives away his secrets.

I wrote something for fun for the first time in weeks! :)

flutiebear:

Cap from 1x05, “Bloody Mary”

Watch.  Watch me. Watch the shadows on my face, my nose, my cheeks. Go on. Give them your full attention. Are you watching me closely? Carefully? Good. Because you won’t want to miss this. For now I will perform a miracle: I will make myself disappear.

Forget about where the light hits. There’s nothing going on there anyway. My eyes? They were always bleeding. It’s stage make-up. Look, you’re not watching. Watch. Watch the shadows. Watch the places you can’t see. Give in to the illusion, the prestige. I worked so hard on this, after all. You’ll want to see how it ends.

I learned this trick a long time ago, from a grouchy old drunk in Kansas. He swore and he spat and he taught me how to shoot a gun. You know, all the important things in life. And he was the one who taught me that you could use shadows as weapons, or as armor. Whatever you needed. Use ‘em right, son, he said, and they’ll all be dead before they even figured you was there. 

A master prestidigitator, that one. My own whiskey-swilling  Ben Kenobi. He knew how to wrap the night around his body, to swaddle himself up in it like a coat so thick you couldn’t feel the man underneath. Full of secrets, that one. Of course, he didn’t have half as many secrets as he pretended to, and even fewer that fooled me. I could see right through him. I always could. I never knew, though, if it was because I was good, or because he went ahead and let me. Maybe a man like that, he gets lonely, and he just wants someone around who understands.

He was a bastard, really. A mean old bastard who held onto his own emptiness like a treasure. He had half as many secrets as he thought, and twice as many as he deserved. I have secrets too, you know. Maybe not magic powers, or a second family, but my secrets could still kill a man, if my father only knew.

He could drink, though. Man, could he drink. And throw a mean right hook, the kind that would flatten you for an hour without breaking your nose, the kind that didn’t even leave a bruise. He was smart, that one. So smart. But I was smarter. Because, you see, I managed to improve on old Ben Kenobi’s trick. You watching? Good. Keep your eyes on me. You won’t want to miss this.

The secret here is that a good illusion isn’t about what’s kept in the shadows. It’s about what you leave in the light. The words you speak, not the spaces in between. And I tell you, that old bastard never figured it out. Til his dying day, and beyond, the thought never crossed his mind. Cause, well, what does a man obsessed with empty spaces know anything about the full ones?

And: Voila!

Are you impressed?

Hah.  Nice try. But a magician never gives away his secrets.

I wrote something for fun for the first time in weeks! :)

flutiebear:

Falling is instinct. Any fool chickadee knows how to surrender to gravity. It’s not some triumph. Even your planet falls  endlessly toward its sun.  Nothing to admire here, or lament. Just the way it is.  Empires. Angels. Who cares?  The earth still tugs our bones  homeward, arrogance eroded by mud and man and bumblebee jazz.  That we remain aloft as long as we do— well. Don’t be stupid. It’s not a parable. Just fools like us denying better natures for the transient thrill of wind ruffling our feathers.

flutiebear:

Falling is instinct. Any fool chickadee
knows how to surrender
to gravity. It’s not some triumph.
Even your planet falls
endlessly toward its sun.
Nothing to admire here, or lament.
Just the way it is.
Empires. Angels. Who cares?
The earth still tugs our bones
homeward, arrogance eroded
by mud and man and bumblebee jazz.
That we remain aloft as long as we do—
well. Don’t be stupid. It’s not a parable.
Just fools like us denying better natures
for the transient thrill of wind
ruffling our feathers.

torzorz:

cryingvagina:

i am byesexual

everyone i love leaves me

#dean winchester get off tumblr

Ugly laughter

flutiebear:

evilclownapocalypse:

I have an inherent issue with the trend of this gag in SPN. Because WHAT. GIRL. Has a one-night stand, and manages to remember everything BUT her bra?!Those things are expensive! And it’s not easy to find good ones. Not to mention how completely awkward and uncomfortable it is it be in public without one (for most girls.) I mean, I can understand if she forgot her jacket, or her phone, or her panties even - since they might presumably be….less than ship-shape. BUT WHAT GIRL LEAVES HER BRA BEHIND?! (Also, apparently sexy girls only wear pink and black bras?)

Actually, I think it’s a very subtle and very clever illumination of Dean’s character — because you’re right, it isn’t funny. And it’s not supposed to be. Only Dean thinks it’s funny; the rest of us, including Sammy, think it’s obnoxious and actually kind of sad.
Particularly in the first five seasons, Dean is obsessed with proving how manly he is — which, due to how his father raised him, he associates with displays of machismo and hyper-masculinity. He derides any conversation that’s too emotional as “chick flick moments”, he obsesses over classic rock and fast cars (classic symbols of masculinity), and, most importantly, he chases lady-tail like it’s his job. It only makes sense that Dean would keep “mementos” of his one-night stands. They’re like trophies: tangible proof that he can point to and remind himself of just how masculine he really is. 
All of this behavior conceals that Dean, as a character, actually follows a fairly feminine literary archetype, that of the Nurturer. His entire goal in life has always been to protect Sammy; he sublimates his own needs to help Sam become the man that Sam wants to be. (This culminates in “Swan Song”, when Dean was willing to sacrifice his own life just so Sammy wouldn’t have to “die alone”.) And unlike his brother, Dean is quick to cry, quick to anger, quick to reassure — always quick to display an emotional response rather than a rational one. For all his poor attempts at machismo, Dean actually displays many stereotypically feminine behaviors. 
Why he does comes back, of course, as all things do, to John Winchester. On the one hand, John — a former marine forever stuck in 1979 — raised Dean in the hyper-machismic world of Hunting, and taught his son that a man never expressed his emotions or cared too deeply about anything. But on the other hand, John continuously reinforced Dean’s love for his brother and his nurturing characteristics until they became like instincts. In attempting to make himself a soldier, John actually inadvertently made Dean a mother figure too. 
Thus, Dean is a man at war with himself, unable to reconcile what he’s always been told a man should be with what comes naturally to him. When you add his feelings for Castiel into the mix (which, no matter how you slice them, would be something John Winchester would definitely disapprove of), you get Dean’s major conflict of Supernatural’s later seasons: What exactly does it mean to be a man? (And as much as I love Sam Winchester, I find this conflict far more interesting and relevant than Sam’s, which is: What exactly does it mean to become a hero?)
When it comes down to it, Team Free Will is more than just a theological exercise. It’s Sam and Dean (and Cas, too) shrugging off of all the things they were taught, and learning that a man is not his past but his choices. That’s why Dean gives up John’s coat at the end of Season 5; why he forgives his own father and in turn becomes a father himself. It’s because Dean learns that a man is not who he is told to be, but who he decides to become.

flutiebear:

evilclownapocalypse:

I have an inherent issue with the trend of this gag in SPN. Because WHAT. GIRL. Has a one-night stand, and manages to remember everything BUT her bra?!
Those things are expensive! And it’s not easy to find good ones. Not to mention how completely awkward and uncomfortable it is it be in public without one (for most girls.) I mean, I can understand if she forgot her jacket, or her phone, or her panties even - since they might presumably be….less than ship-shape.
BUT WHAT GIRL LEAVES HER BRA BEHIND?!
(Also, apparently sexy girls only wear pink and black bras?)

Actually, I think it’s a very subtle and very clever illumination of Dean’s character — because you’re right, it isn’t funny. And it’s not supposed to be. Only Dean thinks it’s funny; the rest of us, including Sammy, think it’s obnoxious and actually kind of sad.

Particularly in the first five seasons, Dean is obsessed with proving how manly he is — which, due to how his father raised him, he associates with displays of machismo and hyper-masculinity. He derides any conversation that’s too emotional as “chick flick moments”, he obsesses over classic rock and fast cars (classic symbols of masculinity), and, most importantly, he chases lady-tail like it’s his job. It only makes sense that Dean would keep “mementos” of his one-night stands. They’re like trophies: tangible proof that he can point to and remind himself of just how masculine he really is. 

All of this behavior conceals that Dean, as a character, actually follows a fairly feminine literary archetype, that of the Nurturer. His entire goal in life has always been to protect Sammy; he sublimates his own needs to help Sam become the man that Sam wants to be. (This culminates in “Swan Song”, when Dean was willing to sacrifice his own life just so Sammy wouldn’t have to “die alone”.) And unlike his brother, Dean is quick to cry, quick to anger, quick to reassure — always quick to display an emotional response rather than a rational one. For all his poor attempts at machismo, Dean actually displays many stereotypically feminine behaviors. 

Why he does comes back, of course, as all things do, to John Winchester. On the one hand, John — a former marine forever stuck in 1979 — raised Dean in the hyper-machismic world of Hunting, and taught his son that a man never expressed his emotions or cared too deeply about anything. But on the other hand, John continuously reinforced Dean’s love for his brother and his nurturing characteristics until they became like instincts. In attempting to make himself a soldier, John actually inadvertently made Dean a mother figure too. 

Thus, Dean is a man at war with himself, unable to reconcile what he’s always been told a man should be with what comes naturally to him. When you add his feelings for Castiel into the mix (which, no matter how you slice them, would be something John Winchester would definitely disapprove of), you get Dean’s major conflict of Supernatural’s later seasons: What exactly does it mean to be a man? (And as much as I love Sam Winchester, I find this conflict far more interesting and relevant than Sam’s, which is: What exactly does it mean to become a hero?)

When it comes down to it, Team Free Will is more than just a theological exercise. It’s Sam and Dean (and Cas, too) shrugging off of all the things they were taught, and learning that a man is not his past but his choices. That’s why Dean gives up John’s coat at the end of Season 5; why he forgives his own father and in turn becomes a father himself. It’s because Dean learns that a man is not who he is told to be, but who he decides to become.

flutiebear:

Keep it together, man.

Keep your mysterious ways.
I’m not superstitious. I know basic physics:
entropy, forces, the states of matter.
The universe craves its own destruction;
we all fall apart

no matter how we fight it.
In the end, our atoms release one another
and become something, someone else
until there’s no one left to become.

So why not reform as lightning?
Why fight the phase transition
when I had it in me all along?

For there’s only so long you can pick and pick and pick at a scab
until the pink skin peeks back at you
like an abyss.

Today I release these old hurts,
let them float away
in a broke-down EM field—
or not—I don’t care—
for I have become what matter always was meant to.

I lied. I do care. And
you can make whatever promises you like
but I remember basic physics and
heat death is just scientist-speak for
peace everlasting.

spn-angstwhore:

Dean mistaking Cas’ lips for eyes 

flutiebear:

(thanks to mishasminions for the gif! go check ‘em out!)

***

When you
crush my mouth close
I hear
the river sing
siren
whispers I should

                block my ears

rejoice,
it commands, but
the song
is only blood
drowning
from inside out

                i’m going under

this breath—
my first, my last—
is shared
your palm on lung,
willing
out an exhale

                i can’t—no—won’t 

give in
just tread water
falling
feels like floating
if you
can’t see the sun

               i slip underneath

and you
flare so proudly
my own
armageddon
so hot
and so bright on

               these incoming tides

flutiebear:

Dean, what are you doing here?

Some loves were never meant to be
taken off the wall, the canvas inspected
for discolorations and lumps—
the sins of the painter
hastily covered up
with valiant tans and blues.

you were always my favorite first draft
if it’s any consolation; I must have painted over you
a thousand times.
eventually I got it right
eventually

though first I had to peel back all the layers
covering you up. so I
scoured you head to toe with sandpaper;
washed your hair with turpentine;
melted away your clothes
with a hairdryer as hot as hellfire
until all that was left
was your bold mouth, and
charcoal curves
so primal and ferocious.

the original of Lisa
wasn’t as clear as I’d remembered
its anatomy all wrong, like a dream interrupted—
how I ended up so far afield from the concept
I’m still not sure

so forgive me, goddess
for doing your beauty such injustice;
forgive me, goddess
I should have sculpted you instead.
my hands then could have translated
what the mind could not
and I could fix you and fix you and fix you
until I finally got it right

but of course we both know
some things are
better left
untouched.

flutiebear:

holiness is swift:in the space between wing beats it slices you open,spills your entrails like a fortunetellerat the bones;and on every downbeatwe cry the refrain:hallelujah—for why elsewould an angel wear a watchexcept for war?

flutiebear:

holiness is swift:
in the space between wing beats
it slices you open,
spills your entrails
like a fortuneteller
at the bones;
and on every downbeat
we cry the refrain:
hallelujah
—for why else
would an angel
wear a watch
except for war?

flutiebear:

I went to church and listened for the sound of angels: I heard life instead. Tambourines sang of  grace and praise and hellfire as sweat slid down my temple. Fine silks and poplin rustled, metronomes for my hitching breath. I clapped, palms cupping empty air, and  uttered a low and choked amen,  no louder than the whisper of feathers.
I went to a hospital and listened for the sound of angels: I heard life instead. Beeping and whirring and chirping— such a jolly psalm for hearts dismantled; and in between a susurrated prayer against cracked lips, the twitch of green, bloated fingers against over-starched linens, the laugh of a dying woman as she dreamt. I did not add my voice to hers. Some songs are meant to be solos.
I went to a graveyard and listened for the sound of angels: I heard life instead.  Frogs and crickets chirruped a zydeco as the wet and hungry earth  slurped at my shoes. Creaking branches gossiped about this new arrival, how handsome he was, how strong and eager, even if he was just passing through. I stayed for hours. But no heavenly chorus, no revelation was here to be found.
I looked in the mirror and listened to my own heartbeat: violent, ferocious a cataclysm that shuddered my whole body with each strike. Andfinally I heard the flapping of wings.

flutiebear:

I went to church
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Tambourines sang of
grace and praise and hellfire
as sweat slid down my temple.
Fine silks and poplin rustled,
metronomes for my hitching breath.
I clapped, palms cupping empty air, and
uttered a low and choked amen,
no louder than the whisper of feathers.

I went to a hospital
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Beeping and whirring and chirping—
such a jolly psalm for hearts dismantled;
and in between
a susurrated prayer
against cracked lips, the twitch
of green, bloated fingers against over-starched linens,
the laugh of a dying woman as she dreamt.
I did not add my voice to hers. Some songs
are meant to be solos.

I went to a graveyard
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Frogs and crickets chirruped a zydeco
as the wet and hungry earth
slurped at my shoes. Creaking branches
gossiped about this new arrival,
how handsome he was, how strong
and eager, even if
he was just passing through.
I stayed for hours. But no heavenly chorus,
no revelation was here to be found.

I looked in the mirror
and listened to my own heartbeat:
violent, ferocious
a cataclysm that shuddered my whole body
with each strike. And
finally I heard
the flapping of wings.