#week 77

[sipofsnips]

Week 77 Sips!

You can reblog this post and do em all now, save 'em and find 'em as you have the energy/time, or just use it as a heads up for what's comin'.

Up to you!

All I ask is that you use the #sipofsnips tag so people can find each other's snips and get excited about writing.

Have fun ^.-

[sorryiliketoscreenshot]

[thatsbelievable]

[belleil]

[coolnonsenseworld]

Realized I never published this piece for Cursed Love story. Lance is performing a protection spell 🕊️

Last day for 15-20% off prints

Linktr.ee/mezzy

[8-rae-rae-8]

Trans man Kerry Eurodyne is top tier. Johnny gave him his t shots. You cannot talk me out of this

[eridude]

day four of erisol week is a free day! so here's my humanstuck designs for them.

goofy...

[zmediaoutlet]

Dean in the hospital bed is white on white, where he’s not mottled bruises. Pale lips and puffy red eyes. Sam can see he’s been crying and doesn’t know what to do with that. Eyes smarting from an overload of pain, he knows, and they’ve socked each other and made each other mad and made each other laugh to distract from that kind of thing. Somehow a joke doesn’t seem like it’d cut it, this time. If he could think of anything.

“You want me to get something from the cafeteria?” Sam tries. “Gotta be something better than, whatever, Jello.”

A short head-shake. So he’s not being ignored, anyway. Nevertheless he feels like—he doesn’t know. Like he’s on the outs of something but he doesn’t know what. He should have been there when Dean finally woke up, after they took most of the tubes out and eased off on the anaesthetic. He should’ve tried to wrestle Castiel down to the linoleum and demanded that he do absolutely anything he could to make Dean better. He should’ve—should’ve. This whole last year has felt like should’ve.

TV’s on in the corner. One of the late-night shows, muted. Dean’s face is pointed that way and his eyes are seeing something entirely else. Sam can guess, maybe. He knows the overview but not the details. He wants them and doesn’t. When he pulled Dean out of that horrific place he saw the blood spilled and the holy water and the blades and it was all just—immaterial, because Dean was bleeding and Dean was barely breathing and all Sam had done wouldn’t have mattered at all if Dean’s heart weren’t beating, steady on that monitor, despite everything. But the blades were still there. Maybe here, still. Dean’s hand curled with bruised cut fingers around empty air and dark in the corners of the room.

The feeling of the blood’s long worn off. The feeling fresh off the kill’s gone, too. He’s tired, and everything is awful, and he wants to take Dean out of here and he wants a motel room and he wants—one bed, for once, and for Dean to lay back and welcome Sam open without that edge of misgiving in him, and without him asking questions Sam can’t answer, and where it’s just—them, in a room together with the night shut out past the heavy ugly curtains, like it hasn’t been since—god, how long has it been? Since before he went to college. Since that summer, in Indiana. Rainstorms and Dean whooping at the clap of thunder and their skin sticking together in the afternoon dim. He wants that back so bad.

“I killed Alastair,” Sam says.

Dean’s eyelids dip, close. He takes a deep breath and then turns his head on the pillow, and looks Sam’s direction.

“He’s gone. Dead, not just sent back. I—” Dean’s not changing expression. Weary and pained and not surprised. Like he’s head-to-toe a bruise and is just expecting another blow. Sam folds his hands together, realizes his shoulders are hunched uncomfortably like a kid waiting to be scolded. “Just wanted you to know, I guess.”

Dean licks his lips and leaves them still-dry. The ice chips Sam brought must’ve melted by now, unused. He waits for a frown or a question or—he doesn’t know what, really. What he gets is Dean looking at him straight-on, for the first time since he woke up this last time—Dean’s eyes on his, and then all over his face. Not mad or happy or anything. Like he’s looking for something, but Sam doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t get to know before Dean nods, and then says in that terrible cracked voice: “Thanks, Sammy.”

Tired. His eyes close and his battered hands lay weak on the white sheets. Like, that’s it. A spilled cup of coffee dealt with. Method or means not of interest and what will follow none of his business. And what did he expect? Not a parade and not a screaming match. Not nothing, either.

Sam sits back in the too-small visitor chair and wonders how much it will take to get back the brother he wants.

[sorryiliketoscreenshot]

[cleeeffa]

Officially working over the entirety of Christmas week but that's OK.... my january cheque is gonna b crazyyyy

[oysterie]

cat came into my room at 8 am meowing and getting me to come downstairs I get ready come down get him food and he doesn't even want any.

[moreaujeans]

i honestly think a good half of the reason i haven’t finished les mis yet is bc i am constantly having to google stuff in the middle of it to understand things and then i inevitably get distracted

[dxxtruction]

///

[golyadkin]

Heeeeeeeyy! Really love your art 🔥 How’s the new comic going? Can’t wait ;)

Hi! Thank you so much, i appreciate it. The comic is coming along but i havent been able to draw for a while due to work. Ive been working 55 hour weeks and will be until like mid-august and my days off have been pretty full too, unfortunately. Ill get the comic finished eventually, but it may be a while

[qrtem]

two of my closest irl friends don't listen to music... i am genuinely so baffled I HAD NO IDEA... 😧