Griffe Is An Art Lurker

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THISSSSSSS!!!!!!! curate your own internet experience. block them because they’re allergic to peanut butter, block them because they have what you don’t, block them because they dislike your favorite food, block them because you don’t like their layout, block them because you can.

blocking is NOT a personal attack against someone. it’s you curating your own internet experience and catering for your comfort, and you have every right to do that.

you, yes, you!!! you CANNOT tell other people to censor themselves for your own comfort and personal likings. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t post. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t write. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t draw. BUT you CAN block them for whatever reason.

The barn was silent but for the low creak of aging wood and the occasional rustle of wind slipping through the cracks in the siding. Dust hung in the still air, disturbed only by the hurried footsteps of an angel falling from the sky.

Castiel didn’t know how he found Dean. He had only felt it—something yanked deep in his grace, a magnetic pull of worry and pain that led him here, to the outskirts of nowhere, into this forgotten place.

And then he saw him.

Dean was unresponsive. Cas found him lying on his stomach, body limp and twisted in a pitiful position on the barn floor. The sight might have bordered on absurdity, had it not been for the overwhelming flood of fear that crashed through Castiel’s vessel like a broken dam.

He dropped to his knees in front of Dean’s head, the trench coat whipping violently around them as though it too felt the panic. His hand found Dean’s cheek, trembling slightly as he turned his face gently toward him.

“Dean,” he whispered, breath barely catching in his throat. “Dean, please.”

There was no answer. No flutter of an eyelash, no groan of protest, not even the ghost of a sarcastic comment. Just the unbearable stillness.

Cas swallowed hard. The grace within him stirred, ancient and burning, already readying itself. He hadn’t done this in years.

He looked down at Dean, this human, the man who had always dragged him back from the brink, time and time again.

Now it was his turn.

With a quiet, desperate breath, Castiel leaned in – and kissed him.

The moment their lips touched, Castiel let the floodgate open.

Grace poured from him in a searing wave, ancient and blue, slipping past the veil of mortality to wrap around Dean’s soul like fire meeting gasoline. The kiss deepened as Dean's chest jolted once, then again – his fingers twitching in the dirt, breath rasping in like it was the first he’d ever taken.

Cas cupped his face, kept kissing him, pouring everything he had into it.

And then Dean was kissing him back – clumsy and dazed, first. His hands reached up, weak but urgent, curling into the front of Castiel’s shirt like he was anchoring himself to the world again

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, Dean’s eyes fluttered open.

“You kissed me,” he breathed, voice rough and raw.

Castiel stilled. “I poured some of my grace into–”

Dean kissed him again.

💚💙💚

Here I go!

1. I misspelled 'depictions' as 'depections' twice. Autocorrect automatically changed it to 'depections' every time I spelled it correctly afterwards. I didn't catch it right away and later had months worth of work to backtrack and fix. I learned a lot of mistakes slip past when I'm proof-reading, so now I use a spell check program before posting my fanfics online. And I learned autocorrect isn't for me.

2. I used to take my time writing out my first draft, trying to make it look like the final draft by adding details, stopping to look up synonyms, and making sure conversations flowed nicely. But taking my time on the first draft sometimes meant the story I'm trying to write flies out of my head like a little birdie that never returns 🐦 I learned it's ok for the first draft to be sloppy, messy, and lack details, as long as the main idea is put out on paper, I can clean it up and add more details later, during the editing.

This is my first time starting a tag game, so hopefully I'm doing this right 🙂 Tag some artists and/or writers you know! (no pressure oc, and anyone can feel free to join, you don't need to be tagged! 😃):

Oh mistakes mistakes… where do I start hehe? Let’s see here…

Soooo let’s just say that I often get writers block. Like, REALLY often. I can remember kind of a specific time was when we moved and I kinda just felt stuck in a lot of aspects of life, feeling zero motivation to write even though I loved it so much. Also if something wasn’t perfect it bugged me immensely and I’d often stop writing and question my overall abilities. Eventually I learned that sometimes all I needed to do to get my inspiration back was to just START—even if it was struggling to grind out a singular paragraph. Most of the time all it took was just forcing myself to put something down and then creativity took over and I was able to write a lot more! Point is that you’ll never know unless you try. It might bad or it might be good once it exists, but it won’t be anything if it never exists. Besides you can always refine it later! Just keep writing, and it can be good later. This applies to a lot of things actually, how you will never be great at anything if you never practice and push through that awkward phase. I cringe at some of my old writings hehe, but without them I would’ve never gotten to where I am today <333

Making mistakes is normal, and I’ve definitely made a lot of them throughout my life when it comes to my writing.

I’d say my main mistake right now (though I prefer calling it an area for improvement) is that I sometimes rely too much on implication, when I know readers would sometimes like to have more details about what I’m telling them or how a certain situation came to happen. It fits my style a lot, but sometimes I overdo it (no solution other than being aware of our mistakes or the things we can improve on, and just keep writing and rewriting!)

my biggest Piece of Advice is Beware Rewrites.

i primarily do webcomics, fanfic is something I do on the side but I feel like this applies to both branches of creating.

your old writing/art is going to suck. thats just a fact, as you improve and hone your craft your old stuff is gonna start looking/feeling like crap. you are going to want to go back and fix that.

i'm not saying not to. especially if youre trying to get something printed please go reread everything and check for typos and stuff.

you may be tempted to redo everything from the beginning.

you may end up in an infinite loop of constantly restarting a project because "[you] can make it better". and you can!! I have no doubt that you can! but you must move forward as well.

i redid the first half of the first chapter of my webcomic bc it was bad and didnt set up the story well. I think the rest of the art is kinda janky and I know I can do better than what I did originally.

but i'm putting that knowledge and effort into moving forward with my story, because I've been stuck in reboot hell before and it sucks and the project never goes anywhere and its frustrating for everyone.

i'm not telling you not to rewrite stuff. i'm just warning you to not get caught up doing nothing *but* rewrites.

The spaces between hunts

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Dean Winchester never planned on becoming a father figure, especially not to a baby sister dropped into the middle of a hunter’s life filled with motel rooms, loaded guns, and things hiding in the dark. Told through tender snapshots across the years — first words, scraped knees, nightmares, late-night comforts, and quiet moments between hunts — this story follows the unbreakable bond between Dean and his little sister as they grow up together in a world that rarely lets people stay soft.

Warnings: warm nostalgia, aching hurt/comfort, and fierce sibling love, it’s the story of how Dean Winchester learned that family isn’t just something you protect — sometimes it’s the reason you survive.

A/N: Let me know what you think 🫶

Requests are open 💞

Dean Winchester never expected to become a brother again.

Not after the fire.

Not after the motel rooms and cheap diner coffee and the way life kept teaching him that loving people usually ended with burying them.

And then there was you.

Small enough to fit in the crook of his arm.

Too young to understand monsters.

Too young to know your family was already haunted before you could even speak.

But somehow, from the moment he saw you, Dean decided one thing:

Nothing in this world would ever hurt his baby sister if he could help it.

⸻

2007 — The First Time Dean Meets You

Dean is nineteen when Dad walks into Bobby’s house carrying a baby carrier.

Rainwater drips from John’s jacket. Bobby is yelling about something from the kitchen. Sam is frozen mid-step.

And Dean just stares.

Inside the carrier is the tiniest baby he’s ever seen.

Big eyes. Tiny hands. Wrapped in a faded yellow blanket.

“You’re kidding,” Dean blurts.

John rubs exhausted fingers over his face. “Your aunt died two weeks ago. No other family left.”

Dean looks back at you.

You blink at him slowly.

Then your little fist curls around his finger.

And that’s it.

That’s the exact second Dean Winchester loses every remaining ounce of emotional self-control he has left.

“She’s staying with us?” Sam asks quietly.

“For now.”

Dean crouches beside the carrier.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You make a tiny squeaking sound.

Dean immediately looks panicked.

“Why’d she make that noise?”

Bobby snorts from the kitchen. “Because she’s a baby, dumbass.”

But Dean barely hears him.

He’s already completely gone for you.

⸻

2008 — Your First Word

Dean spends weeks trying to make your first word be Dean.

“Say Dean,” he repeats while sitting cross-legged on the motel bed.

You blink at him.

“Deeean.”

You shove your toy directly into his mouth.

Sam laughs so hard he nearly falls off the chair.

Dean points accusingly. “You shut up, Sasquatch.”

Two days later, Dean is cleaning one of the guns while you sit in your highchair kicking your legs.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says distractedly. “Say Dean.”

You look up from your applesauce.

“…Dee.”

Dean freezes.

Sam looks over instantly.

You grin.

“Deanie.”

Silence.

Dean’s eyes go suspiciously glassy.

“Oh my God,” Sam whispers. “He’s crying.”

“I am not crying.”

“You literally are.”

Dean scoops you up so fast your spoon falls onto the floor.

“That’s right,” he says, voice thick. “That’s me. I’m Deanie.”

You pat his cheek with sticky hands.

“Deanie.”

Dean looks ready to fight God himself over it.

⸻

2009 — First Steps

The bunker doesn’t exist yet.

It’s a cramped motel room with flickering lights and a busted heater.

Dean kneels a few feet away from you with his arms open.

“You got this, sweetheart.”

You wobble uncertainly beside the bed.

Sam leans against the wall smiling softly.

“C’mon,” Dean encourages. “Walk to me.”

Your tiny brows furrow in concentration.

One step.

Then another.

Then another—

You fall directly into Dean’s chest.

Dean catches you instantly, laughing in disbelief.

“HOLY— Sammy, did you see that?!”

“She took three steps.”

“She walked to me!”

You squeal happily while Dean spins you around the room.

For one whole minute, there are no monsters.

No hunts.

No nightmares.

Just your laughter echoing through a cheap motel room.

⸻

2011 — Your First Nightmare

You’re four when Dean wakes to tiny sniffles coming from the other bed.

He sits up instantly.

“Sweetheart?”

You’re crying quietly into your blanket.

Dean crosses the room in seconds.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs gently, lifting you into his lap. “What happened?”

“There was a monster.”

Your voice shakes.

Dean presses a kiss into your hair automatically.

“It wasn’t real.”

“But what if it was?”

That question nearly destroys him.

Because one day it will be real.

One day you’ll see things no child should ever see.

Dean rocks you slowly.

“If anything ever comes near you,” he whispers, “I’ll kill it first.”

You nod sleepily against his chest.

Dean stays awake the rest of the night.

Just holding you.

⸻

2014 — Your First Injury

You’re seven when you scrape your knee badly outside Bobby’s salvage yard.

The second Dean hears you crying, he’s outside in a heartbeat.

“What happened?!”

Sam points toward you calmly. “She fell.”

Dean drops beside you like you’ve been mortally wounded.

“Oh sweetheart— okay, okay, let me see.”

“There’s blood,” you hiccup.

Dean looks genuinely furious at the existence of gravity itself.

“Yeah, alright, we’re gonna fix it.”

Back inside, he cleans the scrape with absurd concentration.

You hiss.

Dean winces harder than you do.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Sam watches from the doorway with crossed arms.

“You know she’s fine, right?”

Dean glares at him. “She lost skin, Sam.”

“It’s a scraped knee.”

“She’s traumatized.”

You sniffle dramatically. “Traumatized.”

Dean points at you immediately. “See?”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost impressive.

Dean finishes wrapping the bandaid carefully.

Then he kisses your forehead.

“All better.”

You smile instantly.

Dean looks relieved enough to collapse.

⸻

2017 — The First Hunt You Learn About

You’re ten when you finally find one of Dad’s journals.

Dean realizes too late.

You sit silently on his bed clutching the book in trembling hands.

“Monsters are real?”

Dean stops in the doorway.

His stomach drops.

You look terrified.

And suddenly Dean hates this life more than he ever has before.

He kneels in front of you slowly.

“I wanted more time before you knew.”

“So all the stories… all the times you left…”

Dean nods once.

You look down at the journal again.

“Are you gonna die?”

The question hits harder than any knife ever could.

Dean gently takes the journal from your hands.

“Not today.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Dean forces a small smile.

“Listen to me, okay? Me and Sammy? We always come home to you.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

Dean pulls you into his arms immediately.

And for the first time in years, Dean Winchester prays.

Not for himself.

For you.

⸻

2020 — You Patch Dean Up For The First Time

Dean sits shirtless at the bunker table, bleeding from a gash across his ribs.

You’re thirteen now.

Old enough to know exactly how dangerous hunting really is.

“You should’ve gone to a hospital,” you mutter while disinfecting the wound.

Dean hisses. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Runs in the family.”

You try not to smile.

Dean watches you carefully while you work.

Because somewhere along the way, the tiny little girl who used to hold his finger learned how to save him back.

“You know,” Dean says softly, “you don’t gotta take care of me all the time.”

You glance up.

“You always took care of me.”

Dean goes quiet after that.

Then gently reaches over and squeezes your hand.

The same way you once squeezed his.

⸻

2023 — Home

It’s late.

Rain taps softly against the bunker windows.

Dean finds you asleep on the library couch with your head resting against his shoulder while a movie plays quietly in the background.

For a moment, he just watches you.

Not a baby anymore.

Not the tiny little kid he carried through motel rooms.

But still his sister.

Still the person he’d burn the world down for.

Carefully, Dean pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders.

You stir slightly.

“…Dean?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

Half-asleep, you smile.

“Love you.”

Dean’s expression softens instantly.

“Love you too.”

And maybe the Winchester life is messy.

Maybe it’s painful and bloody and unfair.

But in every version of his life—

You were always the best thing Dean ever got to keep.

And they agree that yes, they do know how to eat, in theory. The problem is the watermelon. Surely, if they figured out where to start, they'd figure out how to do it, but they have no clue how to get started with it.

This goes back and forth. No, it's not an emotional issue, they're not afraid of the watermelon. They can eat any other fruit, other sweet things, and other watery things ("it's watery?" they ask you). Is it the colour? Do they have a problem eating things that are green on the outside and red on the inside?

"It's red on the inside?"

Wait, they've never seen the inside? At this point you have to ask them how, exactly, they eat the watermelon. So to demonstrate, they take a whole, round, uncut watermelon, and try to bite straight into it. Even if they could bite through the crust, there's no way to get human jaws around it.

"Oh, you're supposed to cut it first. You cut the crust open and only chew through the insides."

And they had no idea. All their life this person has had no idea how to eat a watermelon, despite of being told again and again and again that it's easy, it's ridiculous to struggle with something so simple, there's no way that someone just can't eat a watermelon, how can you even mange to be bad at something as fucking simple as eating watermelon.

https://drmaciver.substack.com/p/how-to-do-everything had a nice list of additional examples like this, with (non-)obvious major insights with regard to opening stitched bags, cleaning your bathroom floor, using a search engine, catching a ball, pinging somebody, proving a theorem, playing sudoku, passing as “normal”, improving your writing, generating novel ideas, and solving your problem.

If you’d asked me six months ago how to get better at something, I’d probably have pointed you to how to do hard things. I still think this is a good approach and you should do it, but I now think it’s the wrong starting point and I’ve been undervaluing small insights. [...]

Every time he tells me this story, his frustration by this point in the story, years later, is evident. He still sounds frustrated by it, despite all the time that passed. Teachers had been giving him crap for years because he hadn't been making much progress with the instrument.

When he got to the private instructor, she acknowledged his frustration, and asked him to try to play for her. He did, and she saw all he was doing. She then did something no one else had done before. She asked him to put his mouthpiece on a different clarinet and try to play the same notes. Like magic, it worked. She looked at the clarinet he had been using and found that the school's clarinet needed it's pads replaced.

He went from last chair to first chair nearly overnight, having been taught far more techniques than typically taught at that age just to overcome the broken instrument preventing him from making noise.

The Race by Posingasme

Since ancient times, the gods have enjoyed a spectacle put on just for them, a race pitting families of humans against one another for the ultimate prize: salvation.

The runners are ruthless, desperate to survive one another and the supernatural hazards of the Race.

Dean and Sam are the last chance the Campbells and the Winchesters have, and the souls of all who came before them rest on their shoulders. Freedom can only come at the finish line.

The pyramids were built by contemporary workers who received wages and were fed and taken care of during construction

The Dendera “lightbulb” is a representation of the creation myth and has nothing to do with electricity

We didn’t find “““copper wiring””” in the great pyramid either

Hatshepsut wasn’t transgender

The gods didn’t actually have animal heads

Hieroglyphs aren’t mysteriously magical; they’re just a language (seriously we have shopping lists and work rosters and even ancient erotica)

The ancient Egyptian ethnicity wasn’t homogeneous

While the Egyptians were fine-ass astronomers they didn’t align any of their enormous and/or important buildings to modern star constellations, because constellations look very different now than they did ~5000 years ago 

Speaking of that particular sphinx, the Napoleonic expedition is not responsible for its missing nose

Akhenaten was not a “heretic” by contemporary standards

Ramses II appropriated a lot of his predecessors’ buildings/reliefs and isn’t really deserving of the epithet “the Great”

It was not, in fact, practice to shave off eyebrows after cats died; Herodotus lied about that

Here are some vetted Egyptological books/sources (that are by and large appropriate for a lay-audience) you can find most, if not all of the above:

Lehner, M., The Complete Pyramids

Wilkinson, R. H., The Complete Temples of Ancient Egypt

Hornung, E., The One and the Many: Conceptions of God in Ancient Egypt

Dunand, F. & Zivie-Coche, C., Gods and Men in Egypt

Kemp, B., Ancient Egypt: Anatomy of a Civilization

Bard, K., An Introduction to the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt

Stevenson Smith, W., The Art and Architecture of Ancient Egypt

Kitchen, K. A., The Life and Times of Ramesses II, King of Egypt

Sweeney, D., Sex and Gender (in Ancient Egypt)

McDowell, A. G., Village Life in Ancient Egypt:  Laundry Lists and Love Songs

(a megriel/destiel neighbors fic in which Cas and Meg get in a feud that Cas is completely unaware of, Gabe thinks it’s hilarious, and Dean is a soft and protective husband)

Meg sighed and squeezed her steering wheel. It had been a long day. It hadn’t been a bad one necessarily, but between the spring breakers taking over the small coastal town and some chick deciding it was cool to walk into Meg’s store in a gigantic dragon costume with a tail that seemed intent on knocking everything off the shelves…Meg was just tired of dealing with idiots at this point. She just wanted to get home, pour a couple fingers of whiskey, and chill. She’d decide later whether that meant watching some netflix or murdering dudes in Fortnite.

Gabe had messaged her earlier that he was getting off work early and would be at the house making tacos by the time she got home.

She sighed almost happily. He’d call her soft for it, but an evening at home with him, eating tacos, and then cuddled on the couch laughing at dumb youtube videos (or whatever) sounded perfect and just what she needed.

She pulled into her driveway and immediately groaned.

Fucking hell…

The yard had been mowed, which wouldn’t be a big deal except that she knew it wasn’t Gabriel. He had shit allergies and hated yard work on principle - which was fine ‘cause Meg wouldn’t have asked him to do it anyway. Besides, she kind of enjoyed it. It was mindless and tedious and a good way to decompress, and then afterward she could feel good about the way things looked.

However, sometimes, she just didn’t feel like doing it after work, or maybe she would get home after dark, and there was no way she was going to wake up to mow at six a.m. So, sometimes, her yard would go a few weeks without being mowed.

And sometimes, when that happened, her neighbor would take it upon himself to mow it for her.

There were two guys living there, and she was pretty sure it was the dark-headed one. She’d never caught him mowing her yard specifically, but if he was outside mowing when she left for work, her yard would be mowed too when she got home that evening. He would never say anything, or really ever talk to her at all; so, something that could have been nice, that could have been interpreted as  “aw, I see my neighbor’s been busy and since I’m already out here mowing mine, I’ll just mow hers too” just ended up actually seeming passive aggressive and like, “why can’t my neighbor have it together enough to keep her yard from looking like crap?”

Point was: it pissed her off. It was meddling. He’d never asked her about doing it. In fact, for as long as they’d lived next to each other, he’d never even spoken or introduced himself…only randomly mowed her yard. What if she didn’t want a stranger hanging out in her yard? What if she actually liked it to look like a fucking jungle, huh? And if she hadn’t weedeated this month, then maybe that was her own damn business.

She slammed the door to her car and stormed through the front door of her house.

Gabriel peeked his head out from the kitchen. “Hey there, Grumpy!”

She didn’t respond. She stomped past him, grabbed a bag of plant food from under the sink, and went right back outside.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Gabriel chuckled as he quickly rinsed his hands and turned the stove down before following her out.

He watched Meg screw the attachment with the fertilizer in it onto the watering hose. “Whatcha doin’ there, Megster?”

“I’m gonna fucking show him is what I’m doing,” she  grumbled and marched into her neighbor’s yard. “Oh my god , Gabe,” she yelled back behind her, voice thick with mock concern. “Have you seen these plants? The poor things probably haven’t been watered in a week!”

Gabriel cackled from the porch as he watched her. “Oh, the horror!”

She held a hand to her chest. “These roses have aphids! Remind me to pick up some insecticide while we’re at the store later! We can’t let these beautiful rose bushes be anything less than pristine!”

“Gasp! Do they even care?!”

“I’m so glad that they have me living next to them to pick up the slack!”

“Surely, you are a wonder of a neighbor. Mr. Rogers would be so proud!”

“HE SURE FUCKING WOULD BE. I’M A GODDAMN BLESSING, AND RANDOMLY DOING WORK IN YOUR NEIGHBOR’S YARD ISN’T WEIRD AT ALL!”

When she had done all of the watering she could actually do without killing the things, she turned the hose off and marched back past Gabe into the house, not really feeling all that satisfied.

“You sure showed them,” Gabriel joked as she groused past him.

“Oh shut up.”

“Tacos are ready if it makes you feel better.”

It did. Well actually, his presence did; but she didn’t really feel like admitting that. She smirked up at Gabe and rolled her eyes as she grabbed a plate, hoping he’d understand what she meant.

*

so, in other words,

tags via @procrastinatorproject

So while it’s true that the Enterprise is not as big as people think, that goes double for the Falcon!

A good way of thinking about the relative size is by using a bridge comparison:

The Enterprise bridge has space for 11 people to work, as well as a significant amount of space between stations to move around comfortably:

[Bridge illustration by Tobias Weinmann via here]

And the whole thing fits in the nipple thing up on top of the saucer:

Meanwhile the Falcon (beloved weed bus) has a cockpit that seats 4, with only 2 main operational stations, and zero floor space:

And since Serenity was mentioned too…

Serenity has a bridge more comparable to La Sirena - with 2 stations at the front and quite a bit of floor space.

And for those interested in a visual comparison:

(Boeing 747 for scale as well as the Delta Flyer because Why Not)