We've Done It Again Folks

the fact that the usa can provide billions of dollars for israel and their military yet can’t give americans free healthcare is genuinely so fucking insane

I love when my relationships with my coworkers are totally normal.

GIFs by @bisexualfbiagents

Tattoos in the Dark

Dean wasn't one for taking breaks. John never let him, and he had no reason to let himself be any different, even though John was gone. but Sam was gone too. There was no one for him to take care of, at that moment, there were no cases, no things to hunt, no people to save, and for the first time in his life, Dean had no idea what to do.

There was nothing but him and the open road, a half-empty pack of cigarettes in one pocket, a lighter in the other. The thought of smoking used to scare him. It would be a bad example for Sam, but dean already knew that his life wasn't going to be a long one, so he may as well enjoy it while it lasted. It reminded him of his high school days, smoking behind the bleachers, hooking up with anyone who was willing, and pretending the smoke that saturated his jacket was someone else's. It still sent shivers down Dean's spine, thinking of what john's reaction would be if he knew, but right now, there was no way for him to find out, and nothing that could stop Dean.

He pulled up outside an empty corn field, wandering through the thin paths, jumping over the occasional fence, until he reached the other end. There was a platform there, easy enough to climb up, an empty billboard that could no longer see the road.

The sun was already starting to set, playing with the colours of the field below, painting the sky gold and red. Dean leaned against the back of the platform and lit up a cigarette, enjoying the smoke as it funneled into his lungs. It wasn't going to kill him any faster than the job, and at least this way it would be something he had control over, instead of being daddy's little soldier.

Dean sat there until it was dark and the butt of the cigarette no longer glowed. Walking through the uneven path without any sort of light probably wasn't the best idea, but Dean's mind was fuzzy, and nothing like that really seemed to matter. Maybe he would get a tattoo. His own one, not the stupid demon one that john had made him get the moment it was legal. He would've made his sons get it earlier had bobby not intervened.

"You can pick," said Dean a few hours later. He was at the front desk at a tattoo place. it smelt like ink and home, unfamiliar but comforting nonetheless. The guy behind the counter smirked and nodded, then grabbed a binder from under the counter and led Dean through to another room.

"Where do you want it?" asked the man in a smooth voice. It wrapped around dean, a shroud of comfort that he couldn't quite understand, and he thought for a moment. Where was the one place he couldn't hide it?

"Up here," he said, pointing to the patch of his neck that showed above his collar. If he let his hair grow out again, it would be hidden, but John had been pretty firm that if Dean was going to be a man, he better fucking look like it.

Getting the tattoo was strange. He was completely relaxed, even as the needle drove into the skin beneath his ear, unlike the last time, where every fiber of his being had been tensed beyond belief. Now he was calm, almost enjoying the experience. The cracked leather chair he sat in reminded him of his car, the smell, the feeling, everything, but the hands on his neck that deftly made permanent a piece of art he couldn't even see was even more comforting.

"All done," said the artist some hours later. The studio had closed hours ago, but Dean hadn't been told to leave, and the artist seemed content to work. "Do you wanna see?" Dean nodded, stomach churning with anticipation as he looked into the mirror the artist was holding.

A black scorpion curved around Dean's neck, pincers beneath his jaw, the tail curling under his ear, a sharp contrast to the slightly red skin around it.

"It's perfect," said Dean, inspecting it with pure glee. The artist smiled, clearly proud of his handy-work, before wrapping it and giving dean some basic care instructions.

"So, I gather you're not from 'round here," said the artist as he organised the payment. Dean shook his head, the tattoo twinging ever so slightly with the movement. "Didn't think so. So where're you staying?" Dean realised there wasn't enough on the stolen car to cover the tattoo and a motel for the night, but he didn't really care. He'd get a new one in the morning.

"My car, for tonight. Then I'll be heading off who-knows-where." Dean laughed without humour at the thought of it. Back on the road 'til John gave him a case, or he ran out of money and had to go back to Bobby's.

"Well, my place is free for the night. Just up stairs. Free of charge." Dean considered it briefly, studying the man in front of him. His pale skin was coated almost entirely by ink, piercings wherever almost everywhere, and a loose black shirt over ripped jeans. Not straight, definitely not, and it seemed unlikely that Dean would get any sleep. He said yes.

Dean hadn't hooked up with a guy in years, and when the morning came and the night's events came back to him, he couldn't imagine why.

The artist, whose name, Dean had learned some time during the night, was Jamie, was up long before Dean, and already opening the shop when Dean went downstairs.

"How's the tattoo holding up?" asked Jamie with a smirk.

"Better than expected," replied Dean, mirroring the expression. He booked another tattoo immediately, once again letting Jamie choose anything he wanted.

Dean stayed in the tattoo parlour for a week, each day with more ink, each night learning more about his partner. It was nothing official, of course. Dean wasn't going to let that happen. Not when his phone could ring at any moment, and he'd have to leave Jamie for ever. But he made ever second count. Lingered with every kiss, keeping the memory of Jamie's hands on him long after they'd left.

Then the call came. A case two states over. And Dean's break was over.

"Life catching up with you at last," joked Jamie, but there was no humour. All of a sudden, Dean's jacket felt far too heavy, almost oppressive. It wasn't really his jacket, was it. It was John's, a constant reminder that he'd never grow into John's clone, and that would always be his biggest downfall.

"Keep the jacket," said Dean, slipping it off and handing it to Jamie. Their fingers brushed, and Dean held the contact for as long as he could, before he turned on his heel and left.

The car felt a lot less like home as he slipped into the front seat, his inked up forearms no longer fitting in, his tattooed hands not gripping the wheel in the same way, but the cracked leather reminded him of the chair he'd spent so long in over the past week, and that was enough to make him drive.

Hours passed in the silence of the road, all music Dean once loved now a stark reminder of who he didn't want to be. Nothing felt as right as it once had, nothing felt as right as sitting in that tattoo chair, or lying beside Jamie in his bed. And nothing would for a long time.

Ever since I was a little girl I always wanted to get hit by a car in a way that would make me a lot of money

"Detained."

Look at this mofo's face.

Yes it's the Flynn Rider smoulder

Huh.....

…They did what… to you? No. I will make them pay. You’re fucking mine. And nobody, nobody, lays a goddamn finger on you.

i dont bite people anymore. but i did as a child cos i thought i was a werepuppy. also i was still mormon so i would go into the school bathroom at 11:11 everyday (not a mormon thing i was just obsessed with witches n pretended i was one in 5th grade) and pray that god would turn me into a little dog so i could stop going to school. and i was always like "if you don't turn me into a little dog i will STOP BELIEVING IN YOU" and he didn't so i did.