#deanswingsbothways

[fireintheimpala]

BroHog Day

[campchitaquamemories]

So, that was fun, for my first cross-stitch project in twenty-odd years. Many thanks to deanswingsbothways and the rest of bookclub for giving me a push. It's been quite a lot of fun!

[thebloggerbloggerfun]

Item 61: IMAGE. Create a short "Supernatural"-related horror story out of the abbreviations of the elements of the Periodic Table. You may only use each letter from each abbreviation once (so you'd have roughly - 225 letters to use). The more coherent the story, the better. 

Horror story for some people amirite ladies?

[defilerwyrm]

you know what’s the cutest fkn thing

when someone’s so head over heels they maybe-subconsciously start dressing like they’re borrowing out of their crush’s/GF’s/BF’s closet

like if a dude who wears super dorky sweaters all the time starts turning up in leather jackets and surfer bracelets ‘cause that’s bae’s aesthetic

baesthetic

that’s so charming it makes me melt

[lunarriviera]

in the weeds

prompt [pairing: destiel, au: bartenders at local dive]

The Cash Inn Country’s more deafening than usual, even for a Friday night in downtown Phoenix; SCOTUS’s decision today tipped the crowd over from its typical Pride-week jubilation into an outrageous glittery hysteria. Dean’s been behind the stick since five without pausing for breath, and he can’t sling well drinks fast enough—no one wants pitchers tonight, they’re all going straight for the buzz. His soda gun’s slippery, he hasn’t had time to wipe down anything since a frantically kissing couple knocked over both of their Long Island iced teas, and all he wants is to sneak out back for a cigarette and a breath of quiet desert night air, away from the dance floor and its relentless raucous noise.

The sheer volume of electric slide plus human exuberance means he also can’t hear anything after “Behind!” that the new guy’s shouting as he slides past him, only feel his the vibration of his chest as it briefly presses against Dean’s back, the rumble of his baritone. He ignores the sensation of hips moving tightly against his, secretly admires the ambitious way Cas has at least two dozen still-wet margarita glasses slotted between his long deft fingers, can’t help but watch peripherally as he flips them into place dexterously, rimming them with salt almost faster than the eye can process, still mouthing something inaudible. Dean gives up. “What?” he hollers over his shoulder, simultaneously closing out tabs and opening new ones, rummaging in his apron pocket, already stuffed with everything from crumpled wet napkins to folded-up twenties to business cards with phone numbers to mysterious pills he’ll flush later, if he ever gets to take a piss again.

Cas’s totally wrecked head of dark hair appears over his left shoulder; Dean blinks and accepts the pen he’s holding out. “I said, isn’t this fabulous,” he yells up into Dean’s face, grinning like it’s his birthday, eyes crinkling and breath cool across Dean’s upper lip. Dean freezes, clutching receipts in both hands, and it’s abruptly as if he has managed to step outside; all the noise dies away as he stares at Cas. His black Western shirt is open a couple of snaps more than it had been at the beginning of the night, and Dean has been trying not to notice this for several hours, and suddenly he’s failing. Cas makes an exasperated sound. “You’re never going to do this, are you,” he breathes, and when he grips Dean’s face in both his hands and surges up to kiss him, Dean can hear the entire bar behind them erupt into shrieks of celebration. Cas tastes like sugar and citrus, like those garishly pretty bi pride shots he’d been floating earlier before everything got crazy. Dean’s distantly aware of receipts fluttering to the floor, but not much else as Cas presses him back against the speed rail to kiss him more thoroughly. “You just tripled our tips, which I assume means you’re taking me somewhere nice for breakfast,” Dean finally gets out, when they break for air; he can feel Cas smiling against the side of his neck, and another whoop goes up from the crowd as Cas’s arm shoots out and knocks all the plastic tip trays to the floor, the better to scoot Dean’s ass up onto the counter, until he has his bootheels wrapped around the backs of Cas’s thighs and they’re laughing into each other’s mouths; and Dean’s bad mood evaporates like that, everything inside his brain turning into helpless fucking rainbows.

[bi pride shots courtesy of deanswingsbothways]

[castieltyler-blog]

I swear my life is an actual bisexual telenovela.

[fireintheimpala]

On the Optimism of Sense8

One aspect of Sense8 which I find particularly inspiring (in addition to its diversity) is the way in which--on a fundamental level--it is a show built on optimism about human nature. Sense8 is unabashedly an exploration of the potential for human nature to achieve the best rather than the worst. 

And that feels deeply refreshing in a time when science fiction as a medium has mostly been redirected from visions of utopian progress to those of dystopian decay and self-destruction. A time when Star Trek has transformed from a progressive, philosophical franchise to a regressive, action-oriented one. When the top grossing sci fi movies are either apocalyptic, post-apocalyptic, or super hero flicks based on the premise that, hey, sure most humans suck or are feeble, but at least a few special, chosen ones are great!

Sense8 flies away from all of that dark cynicism and back to the land of idealism, to explore ideas like “I Am Also a We,” “Art is Like Religion,” and “We Will All Be Judged by the Courage of our Hearts.” It asks, “What is Human?” and answers not with greed, mortality, short-sightedness, weakness, bigotry, lust, or limitations, but with love.

Sense8′s central premise is that eight wildly diverse people suddenly find themselves to be part of a single, connected ‘cluster’ sharing each other’s reality. And like the best sci fi--this is allegorical. Despite their different lives, they find that they are one--on the literal level: one cluster, and on the allegorical level: instances of one common foundation--humanity.

Sure, the sensates may have been gifted with a few extra powers to aid them in their journey of empathy and understanding, but upon examination none of these skills differ drastically from what we, modern humans, already have the capacity for. We cannot yet teleport our badass kung fu skills to someone in need on another continent. But we can share our specialized skills faster and more widely than ever before. We can’t quite make out with a like-minded soul across the globe, but we can Skype in. We can project our minds, our voices, and our faces to almost every region on earth.

Thus the sensates, despite their fun extra powers, are embodying what we all could be--our potential--and their contrasts within the show (the “normal humans”) are displaying, not out fundamental limitations as human being, but merely...what too often we are. And what Sense8 sees as our potential is what it demonstrates through our onscreen cluster:

We can understand each other. We can help each other. We can love each other.

[witchoflight]

“not all men” you’re right. lito rodriguez would never do this.