#happy pride month to ME i made those bitches scissor

[disgustinggf]

happy pride month to all the girlies who used to make their barbies scissor

[insane-control-room]

The Concept, Chapter One

The First Thoughts

How Johan Ramirez became Joey Drew.

This is the first part of Johan’s canon. This is not a happy story. This is not a fun story. There will be warnings at every turn.

Read at your own risk of deletion.

Chapter Two

Joey opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling of his “home”.

An abandoned apartment building, half rotted and falling apart.

Despite the quality, it was much better than the Ramirez Estate.

So much better.

He was alone and it felt both terrible and wonderful. The terrible all encompassing loneliness contrasted by the wonderful, exalting, beautiful, freedom. Freedom after being trapped for so long.

Terribly poor quality of living, merely an illusion of it, but at the same time, pure, glorious freedom to be who he was, who he wanted.

Was that not the definition of life? To be free and living, to breathe without fear, to love without being hit?

Or were those basic human rights…?

He shivered, tightening his tattered shirt around himself. He was hungry. Food sounded disgusting. He hated being so indecisive. He hated everything about himself. He was wide awake and exhausted, he was too feminine, he was too tall, he was too dark, he was too jittery, too hideous and malformed, too stupid, he was gay (that in and of itself was a curse), and this blasted headache and chill!

Joey groaned, tilting his head back.

Part of him said he never should have left home.

That part of him was wrong.

He got up, prying himself off musty floorboards, dusting himself off. He went to the unfinished bathroom, smiling at himself in the mirror.

Freak.

He looked horrible, tired, gaunt, like a half starved mongrel. He scrubbed at his face in the cloudy mirror, trying to fix his lengthy hair, pushed back his short - but getting long - beard. His hair fell back over his eyes. The dark blue black seemed to swallow him up, kept people looking away from him. Kept him safe and alone. It reminded him of ink.

His father, his real father, not his step father, said it was wonderful.

His stepfather said it was abominable.

So he grew it long.

Little rebellions.

He was never going back, no matter how much he loved Night Vale.

The world outside of his little town was so confusing and convoluted, but he changed, he adapted.

Brooklyn, huh.

New York.

Swell place.

Great state.

Noisy as hell in the city.

He hated it, the sounds scared him.

Made him feel like there would never be anyone’s voice masking it, no one’s touch protecting him from it. No one’s caress gently pushing it out of sight and mind.

So he hid away from it all.

Slipping down the creaky stairs of the empty should have been home, he exited out into the cold air outside, shuddering with the blast. He rubbed his head, walking briskly to the city, entering the post office and pulling open his box, not expecting anything within, simply going for the sake of the normality of it.

A dark letter was inside, unmarked.

He stared at it, taking it out with trembling fingers.

He glanced around, and upon seeing no one, he ripped it open.

Johan, come home for dinner at least. Mommy misses you.

Liar.

She hated him, otherwise she never would have removed him from the will.

She never would have conspired against his father.

And she would have never, ever, married the man she did.

He threw away the letter on his way out, going off to work.

It was freezing in the open air. Johan had nothing to shield himself, and so he gripped his pride pin.

And he walked to work.

The cold nipped at him and the wind snapped at his nose, and he tucked his chin in against the icy January air.

He briskly got to work as fast as he could, trying to get out of the freeze.

He slammed shut the door of the newspaper building, clocking in and heading down to the lower levels of the place, sighing with relief as warm air heated his neck and hands, spreading to the whole of his body. He flicked on the lights, the fluorescent painful at first, but he quickly adapted. He always adapted. He had no other choice but to change and flow with the world.

The ones and zeroes always were in the corner of his vision, but he always ignored them, not knowing what they meant, and they had not caused him any harm yet.

The warmth of the building made his eyelids droop as he worked, stocking the papers and editorials and dating each item properly. He could hardly read them at this poin….

“RAMIREZ!”

Joey snapped awake.

Shit shit shit shit!

He was at work!

His head ached and then pounded more with the smack it received.

“There are white people who can do your job, you know!” his boss roared. “Snap to it!”

“Yes sir,” he gulped, rushing to the papers, resetting the machine he hated so much. Goddamned printing press. The amount of ink used for the thing was ridiculous. Another hit made him work faster. Insults were thrown at him. He kept his cool in check. He made sure each edition of book or editorial came out correctly, adding new paper, making adjustments and the such. His head hurt today, and the rumbling of the machine kept making it worse and worse. He put all his focus onto the work, ignoring the pain in his stomach and head. A tap on the shoulder made him spin around with a flinch. One of the other workers looked at him with worry. “Can I help you?”

“It’s your lunch break, Joey.”

“What?”

“It is. Time. For you. To take. A. Break.”

“Oh,” the Chicano flushed, swallowing down the lump in his throat, the words ‘I need help.’ The statement ‘Can I have something to eat?’ ripped at his stomach. He said a quiet, “Okay.”

He grabbed a paper and a pencil, going out to a secluded corner. He drew. He drew the character that helped him through so many different situations and different problems.

A little demon smiled at him.

The little demon was everything he was not.

He was soft and round, fluid and bouncy, such a charming and charismatic character. Lovable.

He stared at it, folding the paper over and making a motion. Another paper was added. More and more. The motion became fluid, and soon he added a background.

An animation. So smooth and lovely.

“Ramirez! Back to work!”

He was about to get back to the monotonous machinery, but he looked back at the flipbook in his hand.

“Joey! Get your ass moving!”

It was something he could do that took his skill, not his lack of it.

“No.”

Everyone in the workshop looked up. Even the machines’ hum became quiet.

“What was that?” His manager’s voice was shook and angered. “No? How dare you?”

“No, I refuse,” Joey stood up, rising to his full height, towering over everyone. “I hate this job.”

A hand whistled through the air to smack him.

It never managed, and the boss stared in shock at Johan’s hand holding back his wrist from his face, gently, delicately, like a thorny rose.

He put no effort into it.

He tilted his head, clearing having a massive headache.

He yawned, still holding him back.

“I quit. This clearly is not something that I should be doing. I should be doing art, animation, nothing of this sort,” he rolled his head. “Please give me my final paycheck and I will be taking my leave of this facility.”

An hour. It took an hour.

“Good fuckin’ luck,” his boss bid him. He shrugged in a reply. “You’ll never get a job in this economy. We’ll be waitin’ for you to come crawling back.”

He snatched a pair of scissors before leaving.

He stood in front of the mirror.

Snip snip, bitch. His hair fluttered to the floor.

His head felt so much lighter.

His hair was still a mess, but so much neater.

He trimmed his beard as well, leaving it short.

Johan ran a hand over it, walking out of could have been bathroom. One grabbed his suitcase, flipping it open, rummaging through the few things he had.

Something black caught his eye.

He carefully pulled it out.

Oh.

He did not mean to take that.

One of Rico’s suit jackets, and it felt so weighty in his thin hands.

The black glared at him.

He stared at it for a long moment before un pinning his pride button, pulling the fancy, the too fancy for him, to regal, jacket on.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The jacket made him look bigger, more confident… better.

He swallowed roughly.

Ricardo Josef Drew.

He flinched.

He looked nothing like his step brother, but he knew - he knew - that Ricky would be a much better match for this suit.

It was too big on him by the chest, too short by the sleeves, but it was unnoticeable unless one would stare at it trying to see what was off.

He looked respectable.

He went off and saw to his bank account, buying a small studio for himself, and a mattress! An actual bed!

Joey Drew Studios.

(No one knew him. No one knew Johan Ramirez. Joey Drew sounded white. Johan Ramirez was clearly a colored person.)

That was the first day the facade existed.

The day he woke up with a headache in an empty abandoned building, snapping out of the grip of overuse, and then he became Joey Drew.

Joey Drew felt like a layer of skin not sitting quite right with the rest.

That was what he called the place, despite the crawling feeling of wrongness.

Joey Drew Studios.

For many months, he was the only person working there, in the small little place, him and a light table, his piano and guitar, his highly dangerous second hand projector, a pencil and a dream.

People loved Bendy.

(He bought a goddamn refrigerator.)

Those who saw him, at least.

(A new pair of glasses, rose pink, helping him see colors despite his color deficiency.)

Ratings were high for the amount that did.

(Ignoring his scars was so much easier now that he had something to push for.)

He was minorly successful, making enough to live off of.

(Eating when he wanted and able to actually purchase food and not swipe it felt so good!)

It filled him with happiness.

(He was finally at an uneasy contentedness.)

Henry Stein came into his life, an animator after his own heart, who wanted to see the man behind the Bendy cartoon.

A knock on the studio door.

Joey swiped a hand over his head, yawning and going to receive the visitor.

“Hello?” he greeted, rubbing his eyes. He froze as he saw his guest.

Blonde hair streaked with strawberry pink.

Flashing, bright, icy, spellbinding blue eyes.

Short, with the most beautiful curves.

Radiating confidence and the knowledge that he was just as good or better than you.

Pale smirking lips and twinkling pink cheeks, and such a dazzling smile.

Johan snapped back to reality from the smile growing wider. He stuttered, flushed, holding open his door for the man to come in. “My name is Johan. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of such a marvelous being as yourself?”

“I’m just Henry Stein,” the man, Henry, coolly replied, entering into the little studio. He rose an eyebrow at the bed and fridge, making Joey blush even more. “You live here?”

“Well, I ca-”

“I like it.”

“Excuse me?” Joey breathed, his eyes wide. “You… like the fact I live in my studio?”

“Of course,” Henry snorted, and Joey fell so hard for that little laugh, his breath hitching. He swallowed roughly, trying to keep in mind his age. He was so young. Henry had to be much older than him. “Shows your work ethic. You probably work on those toons every second you can, huh?”

“Yeah,” Joey confessed, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m not one to be afraid of commitment.”

“I like that in a man,” Henry hummed, flipping through one of Joey’s latest animations. Joey melted in his skin, for once in his life grateful for his dark color. Henry turned back to him with that alluring smirk. “Are you hiring? I’ve got two things going for me, medical school and my daughter, and a bit of extra cash would help.”

“I… I can’t pay that much,” Joey mumbled, looking off to the side. He has a daughter. Oh, Aramis…. “And I’ll have to purchase a second light table, so that may take some time. “Though I would be honored to have you working with me.”

“We can talk legalities later, eh Johan? Now, tell me…” Henry pondered for a moment. “How does one month sound? I’ll come back then if that’s how long it will take.”

“No no,” Joey shook his head, not wanting him to leave. “It’ll take me about a week to prepare. Can you come back in… let’s say five days? So we can discuss pay and the such.”

“Sounds great.”

He and Henry not only became employer-employee, but fast friends, and then business partners, and the studio was successful just between the two of them. While Henry drew Joey composed, and while Joey drew, Henry manned the projector. They made Boris together in that time. It was such a great year, 1925.

Joey was already like a second father to Linda.

Diane kept drawing Henry away from work, Henry often leaving Linda with Joey or her grandmother to be with his girlfriend.

It was a good time, more or less.

Years went by.

(Joey fell in more and more love, painful, aching, love.)

Linda called Joey Papa.

(He cried.)

Henry and Diane got “closer”, but Joey could tell she never loved him.

(He wished he warned Henry.)

The company grew into something stable, just them, but firm in the television industry.

(Joey would always freshen up the studio with various wildflowers he found as spring wore on, hoping and fearing Henry would know their symbolism.)

They were moderately successful, both comfortable in their living, both enjoying the other’s company, sharing the warmth.

(They woke up tangled together one hot day in the summer after passing out while drawing, and they laughed about it, neither uncomfortable with the situation.)

Joey, despite the weather getting colder, never felt warmer.

(Henry looked gorgeous in the crisp autumn air, his cheeks and lips an ensnaring bright red and his eyes flashing and smiling.)

Then the stock market failure.

(Good thing he did not release stock of his own.)

So many people who needed jobs.

(His old boss had asked if he could spare any money. He gave him fifty dollars.)

Not he.

(Their animations became more popular as people turned to them to assuage their pain.)

There were those in need though, and so….

(He knew what it was like to be hungry.)

He wrote out an advertisement.

(He froze at the name, again.)

Artists of all kinds, projectionists, musicians, and animators alike, apply to

Joey Drew Studios.

[stanford-sam]

Things that Shine

~ 1700 words

for my darling Ash ( @theboykingsam ); you make my life shine. i wrote two but decided to be kind to you on this special day and chose the happier one;)

They’re stumbling back into their motel room, exhausted and hurting after a hunt-almost-gone-wrong, fumbling for a light switch and for the first aid kit in Sam’s bag.  Dean’s got a cut on his arm that needs stitching—not life threatening yet, but it’s got a steady flow of blood from it a half hour on.

They’re stumbling back into their motel room, exhausted and hurting after a hunt-almost-gone-wrong, fumbling for a light switch and for the first aid kit in Sam’s bag.  Dean’s got a cut on his arm that needs stitching—not life threatening yet, but it’s got a steady flow of blood from it a half hour on.

Sam’s good; he’s got a few scrapes and burns and bruises, but that’s to be expected when you torch a Wendigo in its home territory. Nothing that screams for immediate attention.

He’s got a nasty cut somewhere on his scalp that stings like a bitch. He’ll get Dean to look at it after Sam’s done with his arm.

Dean swears as he takes off his shirt, keeping his injured arm as still as possible. Sam gets the sewing kit from the first aid box, lights a match for sterilization before threading it. He sits cross legged on the bed next to Dean and instructs his brother not to move.

Sam can feel hot blood trickling down his neck, soaking his hair and drip drip dripping down onto the bed. He suppresses a shiver and forces certain memories from his mind. Focuses on the task in front of him. Ignores the sidelong glance Dean gives him.

He takes a deep breath and cuts the thread, trying not to wince at the sound the blades of the scissors make rubbing together.

Dean flexes his muscle, grimaces, and stands. “What about you?” he asks.

“Scalp. Here.” Sam gestures vaguely to the side of his head. “Bit of a mess, sorry.”

“Jesus, Sammy… ‘Bit of a mess?’ Really?”

Sam shrugs. “Yours was worse. Objectively, it was. Mine looks worse than it is.”

“Fine, but you’ve ruined your shirt, and—oh, shit—the bed too? Sam…” Dean sighs and gently tugs at Sam’s hair, sending a small shiver down Sam’s spine. “I really think you should consider giving yourself a trim. It’s gotten long, even for your standards. At least let me do it.”

“No.” He hasn’t cut it since he got out of the pit. He won’t start now.

“Sam, I watched you on this hunt. It gets in the way. Hell, it was the reason you got this cut. It had you by your hair—”

“You made it in time.”

“It was a goddamn inch from slicing your throat wide open! If I hadn’t lit it up when I did—”

“But you did! That’s the point, you did!”

“No! That’s not the point! That’s not good enough! Come on, just to your shoulders?”

“I’m not cutting it, Dean!” shouts Sam.

“Why not?” Dean demands.

“I…” Sam trails off, looks around the room for help. Finding none, he squares his shoulders and faces Dean. “I don’t want blades anywhere near my head—my face—again. Not if I can help it.”

“I…what…?” Sam can see the moment the realization hits his brother. Dean straightens and says, “Alright, Sammy. No haircuts. I’ll drop it.”

And he does.

Dean cleans and stitches Sam’s head without another word. Sam throws out the bloody shirt and washes the bedspread to the best of his ability.

They carefully avoid each other on the long road back to Lebanon, Kansas.

It’s a few weeks later. Sam’s sitting on the floor in their library, absentmindedly flitting through book after book. He recognizes Dean’s footfalls from the hallway and glances up to see Dean drag a chair over to Sam’s corner.

“What’s up?” Sam asks.

“I wanna try something. Sit?”

Sam heaves himself up and sits upright in the chair. “What’re you doing?”

“Just trust me. How’s your cut?”

“Fine. It healed well, thanks to some good stitching.”

“Mmm. Mine too.” Sam turns and cranes his neck to get a view of Dean’s upper arm; he’d taken the stitches out a few days ago, and it looks good.

“Where is it?” asks Dean, and in response to Sam’s confused glance, adds: “Your cut?”

“Oh. Here.” Sam traces it with his pointer finger.

“Can I…?” Sam nods, and shivers when Dean’s hands run along his scalp, firm, yet somehow unmistakably gentle. Almost tender. “Here?”

“Yeah.” Sam tries not to wince when Dean’s fingers brush the scab. “Dean, what’re you—”

“I’ve been thinking about your hair and—hear me out, Sam,” Dean says when Sam takes a breath to interrupt. “I’ve been thinking, and I was on a beer run a few days ago and I picked up some of these.” He holds up a sleeve of elastic hair ties.

Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, uh…” Dean clears his throat. “I’ve been teaching myself… well, can I try something?”

Sam glances up at him suspiciously.

Dean hold up his hand. “No blades, I promise.”

Sam nods. “Okay.”

“Face forward, close your eyes.” Sam obeys, nerves tingling. He feels Dean’s fingers card through his hair, then something else against his scalp—a hairbrush.

Sam almost tells him to be careful of his wound but bites his tongue when he realizes that that’s what Dean’s doing—brushing carefully around the cut, working gently through the tangles of Sam’s hair.

Sam brushes his hair every morning, except those rare few days when he ignores it and it turns into a nest of tangles and clumps. On this particular morning, Sam had tied his hair into a knot—a literal knot—and gone jogging. He untied it when he got back and hadn’t thought of it again.

But he’s never spent more than a minute brushing his hair. Thirty seconds at most. He just sort of rips through it and he’s done.

But Dean… Dean spends ten minutes working his way through Sam’s tangles. Carefully unraveling the mess of Sam’s hair, never pulling too hard, just gentle tugging and an occasional “Sorry, Sam.”

And Sam revels in the feeling of it. He closes his eyes, leans back into it. He can’t remember the last time he let anyone besides himself come close to his hair—he supposes, years and years ago, it would have been Dean cutting it, grooming it. Dad would have never. But for as long as he can remember, it’s been Sam cutting and caring for his own hair, even in college. He’d forgotten how good it felt for his scalp to be gently touched by another human being.

After an eternity that definitely wasn’t long enough, Dean sets the brush on a nearby bookshelf.

“Thank you,” Sam whispers. He touches his cheeks and it surprised to find that they’re wet.

He hopes Dean didn’t notice.

“Not done yet,” Dean answers. “I haven’t even got to the hard part.”

“What?”

“Shh. Relax.” Dean’s quiet and still for a few minutes. Sam wants to check if he’s still there or not, but he doesn’t.

Dean tentatively picks up a few pieces of Sam’s hair. Sam feels gentle tugging, slowly making its way down his scalp. Occasionally the tugging will pause briefly, while Dean murmurs words to himself that Sam can’t make out, but Sam thinks he knows what’s going on and suddenly it’s all he can do to hold back tears.

The tugging stops, and Dean is quiet for a couple minutes. Sam swallows and asks, “Well?”

“Well, it’s not as good as I wanted, but not bad for a first time,” comes Dean’s reply.

“Can I see?”

“Yeah, give me a sec.” There’s some faint rustling from behind him, and then a distinct click! that tells Sam that Dean just took a photo.

“Here.” Dean hands his phone to Sam. Sam inspects the picture, smile creeping up onto his face like the dawn of a new day. It’s just a braid. Why does Sam feel like this?

Sam stands, freshly braided hair swinging over his right shoulder. Dean stands in front of him, eyes shining with pride and something else, something Sam can’t quite identify. Without saying anything, Sam wraps him in a hug. He hopes Dean understands. The way Dean holds him back makes Sam think he does.

Over the next few weeks, Sam lets Dean practice on him while researching, eating, reading, doing anything that’s not active. Dean becomes proficient at the French braid, the Dutch braid, and even experiments with a fishtail (although it didn’t turn out to Dean’s satisfaction. Sam thought it looked fine).

They take it for a spin for the first time with a werewolf hunt, and it works like a charm. Sam can see for the duration of the hunt and Dean doesn’t yell at him.

The weeks stretch into months. Before hunts, Sam sits in a chair, or on the bed, or, when the situation gets desperate, kneels, and Dean braids his hair. He can do it in a matter of seconds now. He’s tried to teach Sam on a number of occasions, but Sam’s fingers, so nimble when handling ancient books or laptop keys or guns, turn fumbling and slow. Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

Months become years. Sam finally plucks up the courage to chop off his hair late one night in Austin, Texas. It has reached down to the base of his spine, and it’s becoming too much for him to handle. He gives Dean careful instructions before getting blackout drunk and wakes with his hair cut to his shoulders. It’s a tremendous weight off his shoulders, literally and figuratively.

It’s around that same time when Sam notices something: he’s tired. He talks to Dean—they’ve learned how to talk, how to really talk—and together, they decide that it’s time for the Winchesters to take a break, a long one.

They sell some shit from the Bunker and buy a small cottage on Lake Michigan. They leave the doors to the Bunker unlocked, should any hunter in need of a respite stumble across it. They give their address and new numbers to a select few friends: Jody, Garth, Eileen. They drop off the grid.

They’re not quite happy, but watching the water shine off the waves of their lake, they are content. And as far as Sam and Dean are aware, that’s as close to happiness as they’re going to get.