#i love writing essays on tumblr actually because i get to be as batshit and descriptive as i want here

[the-writing-moon]

so i work in a well-known library, right, as a part-timer, and it's been great working with the books, they're real friendly and everything. but this is a very exclusive library, right, you have to send in an application and maybe get interviewed to get in because we're dealing with really old archival material here; i've had to dust crumbled paper off of desks and some of the spines of these hundreds-of-years-old books have been replaced with electric tape with their titles rewritten with wite-out from how much the spines have fallen out. i look up and see dead white men glaring down at me from murals and paintings and busts from the ceiling, probably aghast and wondering how a fucking little island girl is handing their precious books and poking at their dutch-painted glass windows with her grimy brown fingers. this is just set-dressing, so you really know where i'm coming from.

anyways, you know those memes that go around writing communities? doesn't matter if you write fics or manuscripts, we've all seen them, liked them, reblogged them.

"writing a slash fic instead of writing i've been googling what jewelry young german women wore in the 1700s"

"i'm pretty sure i'm on the fbi and interpol hitlists because of my search history"

"story prompt: overly helpful serial killer sweetheart x clueless crime fiction writer"

"when you don't know long division but you can talk about the taxation laws in victorian england because you needed to find out how taxes work to make your story believable"

they're memes that make you chuckle, guffaw, and nod because they're relatable! everyone hates the idea of being corrected by a random poindexter who can call you out on your bullshit on victorian tax laws, you uncultured fool, or who happens to know how blood sprays look if you shoot a person a certain way, you gormless coward, not because they were shooting the gun but they were part of the forensics team, pinky promise, i wasn't there on the 15th of november. and it's a bit absurd. like, who exactly knows - or cares - about victorian tax laws? does it really matter to write about reality in all its facets into fiction? majority of your readers probably aren't vampires or other extant immortals so does it really matter if you don't hold history up as accurately as possible in your 30k friends-to-enemies-to-lovers dark academia yuri slashfic? does historical accuracy matter when you're writing about samurais in the heian period in modern english with modern sensibilities? who would even know what stuff was really like back then? some things aren't googlable, and you can't always trust google anyways.

i don't know the answer to all these questions. but i know the answer to one.

so, back to the library.

one day, i'm shelving history books one after the other, listening to an audiobook from a public library using a library card of which i faked my address for me to use. reparations. and way more ethical than piracy in my eyes. support authors, patronize libraries, and all that. when i shelve books, i like to wonder about who reads them and why. what research they're doing. what they're doing here. whether they know how lucky they are. i envy this library where i work. i envy the people who live in this town. i envy the readers. they have all of this because someone recognized the value of hoarding, the value of taking and tabulating and preserving. one could argue it's the colonial way. but enough of that, i'm shelving books, books that i sometimes wonder at, because i never could have imagined so many books on so many topics, and sometimes they are topics that are so trivial and-

and i'm holding, in my hands, a book about the jewelry young german women wore in the 1700s.

being in a university town, you come to understand that academics have their pet projects; the drive to understand the minutiae of their field, of humanity, of nature. think of a topic and there's probably a dissertation for that. you also understand there is a lot of publishing politics, that researchers' papers are paywalled behind exorbitant fees for which they receive no royalties from. you also understand that academia can also be elitist, even when the people inside it call for open access.

to other people, i'm sure i sound incoherent and raving. but i'm sure that there are people out there who understood why i took several moments staring at this book, recalling all those fucking memes about historical accuracy, of people joking that they're looking for things even the internet has no answer for. because the answers do exist. someone's written about them. someone took the time to look at and tabulate and write about german jewelry. someone else, tax laws. some other person, blood sprays, either through study or applied experimentation. the knowledge is out there. they just aren't available to you.

[msviolacea]

ikesen: a very subjective suitor ranking

I almost made this post last month, and thought “wait, only like 2 people you know would even care about this.” But it’s Tumblr, and what is Tumblr for if not for making a bunch of people deal with your obsessions? And it’ll make me feel better today, so ... without further ado, I present My Incredibly Subjective Ranking of the Ikemen Sengoku Warlord Suitors.

Cut for length, and also large pretty pictures, because why the fuck not? Come click if you think watching me go certified batshit for extremely historically inaccurate Japanese warlords is an entertaining way to spend your time. Or if you just want to see some picture of pretty anime boys. That is also a valid life choice.

I just spent an hour on this post, because that’s where my life is at right now. Hooray for me?

1. Mitsuhide

Listen, I have A Type when it comes to romance, and that type is usually “morally questionable man who loves one (1) woman and will literally do anything for her.” And honestly, I think the IkeSen writing is at its best in this route, at least when it comes to characterization. Rereading it for the second ending was so satisfying, because I could see at every point early in the story exactly how everything he was doing was to assist the MC, even when he was being a deliberate asshole about it. And then they gave me a fake marriage roadtrip! And thus, “they should not have made a kitsune’s wife cry” has lived rent-free in my head for nearly a year. I could write a whole essay about how he wrote and performed a goddamned play just to get revenge on two men for making MC cry. I love him so much, you guys. SO MUCH.

2 (tie). Masamune

You never forget your first, and he was the perfect intro to the game. (If you decide to play, definitely pick up his route first.) His route is in many ways the polar opposite of Mitsuhide - less interpersonal drama, more action-adventure movie, and sometimes you need a guy who will jump off a cliff with you. Also, I like my romance sexy, and Masamune always delivers. You cannot not love a sexy action hero with an eyepatch who loves fighting, fucking, and cooking, not always in that order. Masamune’s romance is my comfort blanket.

2 (tie). Sasuke

The only man on this list I would legit date in real life. If Masamune is the perfect gateway drug, Sasuke is the best way to close out your run of historically inaccurate warlords, because a) not a warlord and b) the only man with any clue about 21st century relationships. Which, to be fair, is not a very BIG clue, because he’s a nerdy grad student who is also written as being at least a touch neurodivergent, but still. Sasuke drank his Respecting Women juice and we love him for it. His route is sweet and just super fun, with a surprising turn to super sexy towards the end, and honestly, the MC’s best chance for an actual Sengoku period happy ending is probably a life lived with a moderately awesome ninja by her side.

4. Shingen

And honestly, you can probably blame @the12thnightproject​ for his place this high on the list. (And thank her for the high-res CGs I’m putting into this post.) “Balancing your story” is the name of the game with his route.  Kidnapping your heroine is not exactly my favorite romance trope, but Shingen pulls it off by having a well-written route in which he deftly walks the line between seduction and respect for her boundaries. I also like the balance between sexy romantic encounters and the high hurt/comfort drama. Also, he feels more like an actual adult romance than almost anyone else in the game, which counts for a lot. Sometimes, you just want to read about a man who calls you “princess” and “angel” and feels like the otome equivalent of rich hot chocolate.

5. Ieyasu

I’ll be honest, I surprised myself when I wrote his name here. If I had to write a list of my favorite romance tropes, “tsundere boy” would not even appear, yet here we are with IkeSen’s favorite porcupine. I think he won me over purely on the strength of being a feral little asshole. Like, the trope of being very proper and standoffish, until he falls in love and falls on his love interest like a feral beast? Yeah, that. That’s good enough to make me deal with tsundere nonsense. I love his stupid little grumpy face now, and that’s my problem to deal with.

6. Nobunaga

Oh god. I could write an entire THESIS on the complicated feelings I have about Nobunaga’s romance. Like, there’s so much of it I love. I love how sexy his route is, I love the slow “oh no what are feelings please make them stop” progression he makes, and how well MC advocates for herself after a certain point in the story. But, on the other hand ... he comes with giant blinking light consent warnings. The coercion in this route makes me crazy, largely because the rest of it is so good, there were so many ways to get to where they were without the icky parts. There are so many ways to write that beginning that wouldn’t make me feel that weird, and honestly, if I ever get myself into IkeSen fic, it will probably be just to fix this route and make myself feel better. Because in the end, I love Nobunaga for being a giant big brother troll and gleeful sensualist, and I want to love the entirety of his route like that.

7. Motonari

It feels right to put him right behind Nobunaga, because it feels like his route was a direct result of the writing staff going “okay, we want to do a more potentially problematic romance, but we want to make it really hold together.” And it does! He definitely comes with some trigger warnings, because he’s a pirate who legit kidnaps MC for nefarious purposes, and says a lot of shitty things to her in the first half of the story. But they did a really good job of slowly revealing and dealing with his trauma, and a not terrible job portraying a character with OCD. His route was a great adventure and I enjoyed it immensely, but in the end, he’s not a love interest I think about often right now.

8. Mitsunari

The only actual cinnamon roll warlord in existence. We love us a pretty, very clearly neurodivergent boy who loves books and learning and has absolutely zero clue what to do with romantic feelings. His route is so sweet and lovely and a comfort to read, but if I’m being honest, I don’t remember most of it after I’m done. I just know I like to look at Mitsunari and sigh over how pretty he is.

9 (tie). Keiji

Oh Keiji. I wanted to love you SO MUCH. And maybe you’ll make your way higher on this list after I go back to do your dramatic route. The plus sides to his route are the dialogue, which is probably at its snappiest in this one, and the fact that Keiji gets to be a fairly functional love interest, in that he realizes his feelings and doesn’t do any romance hero nonsense to quash them or ignore them or something. But the plot of the story is middling, and “Nega-Keiji” really did not work for me. I get what they were going for, and I like the theme of having to pretend to be someone you’re not in order to please your family and/or get ahead in life, but they leaned a little too hard on insulting the MC to get his character across for my tastes.

9 (tie). Hideyoshi

There are some really nice moments in his route, and when he finally gets around to actually romancing the MC, he’s got some nicely sensual writing. But god, the “sister-zoned” thing drove me absolutely batshit after a while. I just didn’t buy his reason for avoiding romance well enough; they didn’t write it in a way that sold it for me. But in the end, and in his event stories, he’s a lovely over-the-top romantic boyfriend, which I do appreciate.

11. Yukimura

Poor Yuki gets the short end of the stick here, by being one of the first routes written, and by far the weakest of the initial routes. The actual interactions between MC and Yukimura are fantastic! I love the bickering frenemies-to-lovers thing, as well as how young and clueless he is. I just wish his route had been more of him, and less of the Azuchi crowd being assholes to MC. More bickering romance, less zany warlords making MC’s life harder. But Yuki’s event stories are way better, so I’m hoping his sequel gives me more of what I want from him. 

12. Kenshin

This is a very rare and controversial placement in larger IkeSen fandom, from what I’ve seen. But man, if tsundere is not my thing, yandere actively turns me off. Which isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy most of Kenshin’s route when I was reading it. He’s incredibly entertaining as a character. But hoo boy, the obsession and imprisonment and complete lack of understanding of anything that resembles rational behavior ... nope. Not for me. Kenshin is much better for me as a side character in other routes. I don’t have any real desire to reread his route to get the dramatic ending, to be honest.

Sir Not Appearing On This List - Kennyo.

I mean, he’s a great character, I feel for him, I like the progression from cartoon villain to tragic man with a conflicted soul, but every time I’m between routes I think to myself “maybe Kennyo this time?” and eventually go “... nahhhhhh.” Maybe I’ll read him someday. Or maybe I’ll just reread Nobunaga again and try to figure out exactly how I’d write the beginning to make it better.

[nessismore]

Book Rec Time

It’s ur girl V, back with another list because this is how I handle quarantines, I guess? Yelling (or politely typing) about my favorite things makes me happy sooo....

If you’re not into binge watching stuff and are looking for things to binge read, may I present (apparently in series length order)...

The Psy/Changeling Series by Nalini Singh - Paranormal Romance

The Psy/Changeling series is about a world where there are three dominant races: Humans, who are your everyday average joes and don’t have any fancy powers beyond...well, persistence and levelheadedness; Psy who have cool as shit mental powers that uh...may lead to some mental instability and like...murder, so they decided “fuck feelings” and instituted a thing called Silence where they feel nothing, and that leads to problems; and Changelings, who can shapeshift into animals and are very cool and ~primal and will possibly claw your face off if you break their rules and I love them a lot. So these three races kind of live in their silos, Psy feeling superior, Humans with a chip on their shoulders, and Changelings just wanting to left tf alone goddammit, and then things happen and it’s cool.

Nalini Singh is pretty much the queen when it comes to paranormal series, and if you’re into a big immersive world with A+ world building and political development intertwined with romance, this is the series for you. 18 (soon to be 19) novels and countless novellas/short stories strong, there’s plenty to dive into. Each novel is technically a standalone, but the deeper you get into the series, the more history you need to really know what’s happening. 

Each novel, minus one, focuses on a different couple, but you have plenty of interaction with past characters as the characters are all tightly intertwined. Seriously, this series is my fave and I re-read/listen to a selection of my faves at least once a year (usually when there’s a new one coming out). In a series this long, you’re bound to have some duds (and there are def some doozies, the couple in Kiss of Snow is super uncomfortable for me, but a lot of shit GOES DOWN) but they’re all worth reading because the political shit happening is super interesting and cool and I didn’t expect to write an essay on this, but here we are. I am down to talk Psy Changeling basically All. Day. Also, because it’s paranormal romance, there’s lotsa sex.

Series highlights (imho): Slave to Sensation (1), Caressed by Ice (3), Bonds of Justice (8), and also books 12, 13, and 14 basically I love all this shit and recommend it highly.

The Pride Series and associated spinoffs by Shelly Laurenston - Paranormal Romance

The Pride Series is another shapeshifter series, but instead of going the serious political route, she goes absolutely fucking BATSHIT INSANE. My introduction to this series was the 9th and last in the series proper, and in that one alone there are: jousting bears, shifters on roller skates, a cat/bear hybrid shifter who falls in love with a honey badger shifter who keeps burrowing into his house.

The series is irreverent and laugh out loud funny, and it also features a hella diverse cast of characters. Each novel is a standalone, but like in Nalini Singh’s series, the characters from different novels interact a lot and it’s nice to see a lot of your faves. Also, a small thing but I really enjoy the fact that while the characters from previous novels interact, they don’t always like each other? It adds a touch of realism (lol) to the relationships. There’s also a lot of fun female friendships, ridiculous shenanigans, and a surprising emotional core to each one. Prepare to think “WTF” the entire time in the best possible way.

Also, lotsa sex in these, too. Also also, gratuitous violence. 

Series Highlights: The Mane Squeeze, Wolf with Benefits, Bite Me

You may also like the books Laurenston writes under pseudonym G.A. Aiken, which is like the Pride series, but set in ~medieval-y times and with dragons. Also hilarious and batshit insane.

The Bridgerton Series by Julia Quinn - Historical Romance

Basically, everything Julia Quinn writes is frick fracking delightful, but the Bridgerton series in particular is near and dear to my heart. Each novel focuses on one the eight (8!) Bridgerton siblings, the oldest of whom is a Viscount and the move in high society in Regency Era England and blah blah blah. What I love about this series is that each sibling is very distinct with a very distinct love story. The family is lovely and heartwarming and the characters all have a lot of depth. There’s an element of ridiculousness to them (as there is in all Julia Quinn novels) and if you’re looking for some feel-good romance, this is the place to be.

Series Highlights: The Viscount Who Loved Me, Romancing Mr. Bridgerton

(also these descriptions are getting shorter as I am getting lazier)

The Innkeeper Chronicles by Ilona Andrews - Urban Fantasay/Paranormal Romance idk where they fall

It’s hard to choose an Ilona Andrews series, because this husband and wife writing duo is A++. The Kate Daniels series is amazing of course, but if you’re looking for a short and contained series that’s funny and packs an emotional punch all at the same time, look no further than the Innkeeper Chronicles. Dina Demille runs an Inn in a small town in Texas. But not your run-of-the-mill Inn. Nah, this one caters to aliens and interstellar travelers and no one else should even think about staying there. Also, the Inn is sentient. I don’t want to give too much away since it’s such a short series (the original trilogy and a spinoff book that was actually posted on the Ilona Andrews website in serial format) but this series is super great and you should check it out!

No series highlights since it’s like...4 books long. 

I’ve shown you mine, Tumblr. What are your binge reading recs?

[ifourmindbeso]

A very, very Merry Christmas

Anonymous asked: Dear Bering and Wellser, I am your secret Santa. What is your dearest wish for this lovely season? I can provide fic of a fluffy or angsty flavour, and will endeavour to write to any prompt you might like to give. Ho, ho, and additionally, ho. Santa ;)

Hey there, Santa — Every year I keep hoping I won’t need to say “please, no angst; the world’s angsty enough as it is”… but every year, here we are again, surrounded by upheaval and uncertainty. As for a prompt, then, what I’ll tell you is that the brilliant poet Mary Ruefle once titled an essay “Someone Reading a Book Is a Sign of Order in the World.” Interpret that idea, or whatever constellation of ideas it represents, as you prefer… or ignore it completely and go with mistletoe! Menorahs! Mangers! It doesn’t matter to me, as long as it’s Bering and Wells. And anyway, I’m already grateful to you, whichever nerdsbian you are, for being a part of this tenacious little fandom. This little fandom that is so big-hearted: it’s a gift in itself.

Merry Christmas, Bering and Wellsers, and to you, the lovely @apparitionism​. This piece starts with the prompt above, but quickly goes off in a direction of hopelessly ridiculous. I don’t know where the inspiration for this came from, but part of it was definitely an illustration from the lovely @foxfire141​ on tumblr. I asked if she would consider drawing something for this piece, and she provided the delightful illustration that, if I have done this right, should appear in the appropriate spot in the story. I have to thank her for her incredible work on this, and for her incredible talent. It has added to this piece in a way that I couldn't have imagined.

This is a sort-of sequel to my previous fic, ‘Aye, Zombie’. If you haven’t read it, you probably need to know that the Myka in this fic (and Claudia, Pete and Artie) grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Myka is somewhat foul-mouthed but has a good heart, despite her somewhat questionable past. Helena is the HG Wells, who came forward in time because Mrs Frederic told her that Christina would die if she didn’t. Christina consequently lived to old age. I think that’s all you need to know, but you could always go back and read Aye,Zombie, if you fancy some unintelligible Irish-isms and questionable humour.

Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race. HG Wells

“Now, you see, love. That’s what I don’t get. You wrote that thing about the bicycles, not Charlie, right?”

“Yes,” she said, patiently.

“So your great words to the world are that when you see someone on a bicycle, that gives you hope for the future of the human race? What about seeing someone with a book? Surely that is the thing that makes you think that, all right, maybe we aren’t going to explode in a nuclear apocalypse or die from extreme weather caused by global warming. Because people read, and they learn.”

“Well, I suppose I see what you mean,” she said, thoughtfully, looking far too fucking adorable in my opinion, “but a bicycle is a statement all of its own. It means that the person riding it prefers to travel under their own steam. Whether it’s for personal fitness, for the feel of the wind in their face, for the sake of the planet – it’s usually a good reason. A book – well, it can mean a multitude of things. If the book is the bible, well, I’m sorry to say it, but the person reading it could be wonderful, or they could be terrible. Christians come in all sorts of flavours. Evil being the one we’ve seen the most of throughout history. The book could be Mein Kampf. And again, the person reading it could be studying it, to learn about history so as not to repeat it, or they could be reading it to repeat history. Do you see what I mean?”

I looked at her, and I think my jaw fell open a little. After years of marriage – an idea I would have laughed about only a few years back – she still managed to surprise me.

“Do close your mouth dear, you look like a frog that someone’s trodden on,” she said, fondly.

I rolled my eyes. We might be in the 21st century, but my Helena was one of a kind. Victorian to the core. I expected her to say ‘spit spot’ and ‘chop chop’ at times, and then remembered that was just one of my fantasies. (I mean, Julie Andrews is hot, whether she’s in her twenties or her seventies.)

“Are you ready?” Helena asked, as we got onto the plane.

“I’m fine,” I said, scowling slightly. I hated travelling at the best of times, but flights like this – commercial flights – were the worst. You had no control, you were corralled like animals, you were shot if you moved an inch out of place… okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it certainly felt that way. I could feel the watchful eyes of the air marshal on me and the other passengers. Thank Christ we were in First Class. At least that gave me enough room to stretch out and the attendants tended to be a bit more polite. Mrs Frederic had agreed to ship me first class after the first flight when things had gone a bit… haywire because of PTSD. But sure I’m fine now. Honest.

I drained a glass of Bushmills before we even took off our coats.

The retrieval we were going on was a simple one. People in Flippin, Arkansas were turning into their favourite foods. Like walking, talking muppet puppets in the shape of fries or a bowl of their favourite soup or a walking burger. Pete and I had arm-wrestled for this retrieval. I won, but I promised I’d take lots of pictures.

Sometimes life in the Warehouse made sense. Sometimes it really didn’t, and you had to take advantage of those times, I thought, because otherwise you would take it all too seriously and go batshit crazy.

I drank a few more shots of Bushmills, studiously ignoring Helena dropping a sleeping pill into one of them. She seemed to think that the ‘B A Baracus’ approach was the best way to get me from A to B safely. She might have been right. I had dreams about dancing ice cream cones and that time we all burst into song because of an artefact. It was not pleasant, I can assure you. Helena Wells, despite her many fine qualities, is entirely tone deaf, and Pete sounds like a bullfrog when he tries to sing. Thankfully the rest of us managed to drown them out in the ensemble pieces, but their solo pieces were… ugh.

I woke to Helena gently shaking me awake, touching my left shoulder. We had come up with a code after a few too many attempted punches of her poor face. She had great reflexes, though, and I’d never actually landed a punch on her. Left shoulder meant everything’s fine. Right shoulder meant there was trouble and to grab weapons. Anywhere else on my body – that meant it wasn’t her, or anyone else I trusted.

I wiped my face with a wet wipe before retrieving my bag from the locker and I filed out dutifully with the rest of the cattle. Our Secret Service badges got us past the security on the other end quickly, a fact for which I was grateful. Who wants to be stuck in an airport a few days before Christmas with the entire human race crowded around you? Nobody, that’s who. The entire place smelled like feet.

“Shall we check in first before we go to find our walking foodstuffs, darling?” she asked, and I was once again struck by her other-ness. She was a part of this century now, but a walking anachronism at the same time. When I met her she did a great impersonation of a human from this century, but since we became a partnership, she didn’t seem to want to hide her true self as much. I liked that, a lot.

“We should check in,” I said, wearily. “I hate travelling love, why can’t you invent a transporter? You said you made a shrink ray, didn’t you?”

“I did, but making a teleportation device is somewhat of a challenge, even for someone with my intellect. If you do as they do in your Star Wars, you disperse someone’s molecules and send them somewhere else with the aid of some unknown force. But are those people still themselves when they come out the other end? One misplaced atom could turn you into a yeti, darling, and I really don’t think our wedding vows would cover that sort of mishap. I can handle a certain amount of body hair, but that’s just a little too much for my tastes.”

I made a harrumphing noise at her, and we made our way by cab to the hotel, which was the usual Warehouse style – small but clean, close to town but not in the centre. The check-in took approximately a week and a half, or so it seemed to my somewhat grumpy self, but as soon as we had keys, we dumped our bags off, showered quickly and changed, and went to find our victims. I brought my digital camera - for purely professional reasons.

“Agent Bering, Agent Wells. It’s a pleasure to have you here in our little corner of the world.” It was the Sheriff, the fella who’d called for help with this bizarre phenomenon. He got us, ‘Secret Service’ agents.

“I didn’t like that Flippin airport much,” I said, in my best vaguely-American accent. He laughed loudly.

“You got a great sense of humour, Agent,” he said, thumbs tucked into his belt-loops, his impressive belly jiggling as he laughed. He looked a bit like Santa Claus, but without the beard.

“So, this is the weirdest thing we’ve ever seen, even in a town with a name like Flippin,” he said, scratching his head under his Sheriff hat thingie. “The weirdest thing that’s happened here is when Jerry Dorsey married his future mother-in-law instead of his bride-to-be, and that was like, thirty years ago.

“When did it start, Sheriff?” Helena asked smoothly, not bothering to try to disguise her accent. Her American accent was terrible, so I was relieved.

“You aren’t from the States?” he asked, frowning. “I thought Secret Service had to be ‘Murican.”

“I’m a special liaison from Scotland Yard,” Helena said, lying through her teeth. “Emily Lake, at your service.”

He smiled at that, tipping his hat.

“A pleasure, Ma’am. We don’t get many of the President’s people down here, so I’ll admit to a little scepticism when I saw you were coming. As to when it started, well, Billy McIntyre turned into a doughnut about… 3 days ago. Every day since, we’ve had three or four people try to come into the station. As if we can help them. I mean, how am I supposed to turn a doughnut into a human?”

“They tried to get into the station?” I asked, intrigued.

“You ever seen a six-foot wide doughnut try to walk through an ordinary doorway? Funniest damn thing I ever saw,” he said, letting out a high-pitched giggle that startled me so much I almost shot him. As it was, I stared at him, trying to work out what the fuck the noise was.

“It does sound very amusing,” Helena said, in her rich voice, touching his arm to distract him from my confused, startled face. “Now, Sheriff… Adams, was it? Could you take us to the victims, please? And then we’ll visit the local eateries to see what each person ate in the days before their… um, metamorphosis.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling at her. She was always a charmer, my Helena. I don’t know how she did it, but she charmed the knickers off anyone who looked at her for more than a few minutes. The only person I’d ever met who was even a little bit immune was Mrs Frederic, and even she had a soft spot for Helena, though she wouldn’t admit it.

I had to seriously get a hold of myself when we stepped into the sheriff’s station. We stepped into a back room, where I assumed they did their morning briefings. There were a variety of people there, all looking like they were wearing costumes of their favourite foods. Unfortunately, those people were the costumes. There was a man in the corner who was the 6ft-wide doughnut, and a woman in front of me (I assumed, because the muppet was wearing lipstick) who was a box of fries from a burger restaurant. And a dude who was a large bowl of phō, which I found even more hilarious than the others, because every time he moved, he spilled the contents of the ‘bowl’ everywhere.

We had chicken and waffles, an egg salad sandwich (and Jesus, that fucker must have been the dullest) and a tall man who looked like chunks of tofu with sesame seeds on it. It seemed even the vegans weren’t immune to the effects.

I kept what I thought was an admirably straight face as we questioned the food-people. No-one had been to the same place – that would have been too easy – but they had all eaten at various restaurants and fast-food haunts during the past week, so we made a list and split up, checking each one with artefact spray to see if anything reacted. I got strange looks from people at the diner and the Vietnamese place, and I’m sure Helena did at the burger restaurant and the large dining section at the mall. But when we met later that afternoon, we had nothing. Nada. Niente. Bubkiss. Or as we say in Belfast, fuck all.

“For the love of Christ,” I sighed. “How long are we going to be doing this? I’m fucking starving, and I don’t want to eat anything in case I turn into a giant Chicken parm sub.”

Believe me, I have no desire to become a walking kale salad,” Helena said, sighing in that long-suffering way of hers. “But we have to get to the bottom of this. It hasn’t had any negative effects as such, or at least not yet, but it could. What if one of them gets too hungry and tries to eat another? What if they really taste of the food they’re… sporting?”

“That could get a bit… unfortunate,” I said, my mind drifting back to when Helena and I met, against the background of a civil war and a zombie invasion. Sure it sounds romantic now, but when you watch your neighbours eating each other’s children, it’s… not so much.

“To say the very least,” Helena said.

We went back to the sheriff’s station and talked to the people some more, jotting down dozens of different locations, places they’d visited, people they’d seen. It was a small place, Flippin, with less than 2000 residents, so those places overlapped. A lot.

“We should go to each location and rule them out one by one,” Helena said, studiously arranging them in geographical order.

“Should we split up, or go together?” I asked.

“Together is safer, but apart means we cover more ground. My thought is that we do it apart, because things aren’t exactly dangerous. Or at least not yet.”

I nodded. We took each other’s hands for a moment, squeezing, just for comfort, and then we split up.

I went to visit the local DMV office, the postal office, a home depot-type store, and a general store. There was no dice. Nothing unusual, other than that the town was still called Flippin. Oh, and they reckoned they were a city. There were 17 thousand people in the tiny section of Belfast that I lived in when I was younger. That was a real city, and not even a big one. Flippin was not a city. Americans, am I right?

I got back to the sheriff’s station and was informed that two more people had shown up. One was a man who had turned into a roast chicken. His face was on the breast side, startled eyes with giant muppet eyelashes fluttering in confusion. He must have been balding in his human guise, because there was a ratty crown of hair that went slightly more than halfway around the body of the chicken. I took down the details of where he’d been, doing my best not to laugh, and then interviewed the other person, a woman who had become a hamburger. It was hard as fuck not to laugh at that poor girl, because her top lip was a slice of cheese, and her bottom lip was a burger. Both of which had lipstick on them, in case we should accidentally mistake the walking burger for a male walking burger. She was trying not to panic, and every little breath made her cheese lip flutter in the wind, and made me have to fake a coughing fit because I was dying.

I took some photographs, for want of something better to do, and married up each food-person with their human photographs, sending it all back to Claudia. For professional reasons only, I assure you. And then I started to worry, because Helena had less ground to cover than I did, and she was nowhere to be seen.

I called her phone, but there was no answer. I did start to get a bit worried, then, so I called Claudia on my Farnsworth.

“Hey, Sir Mykes-a-lot. How’s it going there in crazytown?” It was nice to hear another Irish accent, I will admit. The Warehouse has four of us, but it’s rare to meet the Irish while out and about in the field. I mean, I’ve met those who claim to be Irish, but 23 generations back doesn’t count. Especially not if you can’t pronounce your own name. (I’m talking to you, Ni-am.)

“I’m grand, darling,” I said, rubbing the spot between my eyebrows. “My fair lady has disappeared though, and you know it’s not like her to not answer when I call.”

Claudia’s eyes narrowed. She did indeed know that Helena wouldn’t make me worry unnecessarily.

“Let me track her,” she said, already typing away furiously.

There was a silence, and I got a little alarmed, I will admit. But then she spoke, her forehead all crinkled up.

“She’s in town. Heading your way, actually. But the signal… it’s like it’s there, but it’s not? It’s almost transparent. There’s no setting in my system for something to show up transparent. I call magical hijinks, Mykster. She’s heading up main street now; should be with you in a minute.”

I nodded.

“Thanks, kiddo. See you soon,” I said. I made a mental note to buy her something tasteless before I left town. I was pretty sure somewhere like Flippin would have some really tasteless tourist shite. My favourite thing Claudka had bought me was a Hillary Clinton lighter, where Hill’s head flipped back and flames came out of her neck. I had managed to get her a Pope Pez dispenser in a little Catholic shop in a town near the border, and was still trying to top it.

I went to the door of the station, peering out into the dark. There was a figure approaching, but it didn’t look like Helena. It didn’t look human. I took a deep breath, my heart thundering in my ears. It stepped closer, and then into the light of a streetlamp. It was… a hot dog. A walking, presumably talking, hot dog. Another unfortunate victim, I assumed, looking around behind it for Helena.

As it put its weird muppet feet on the first step up to the station, I noticed that it was a girl. Due to the ketchup in the shape of a mouth. And the long hair that covered about a third of the length of the dog. The poor girl had huge brown eyes, and dark eyebrows drawn into a scowl, and then she stepped closer.

“I swear to all that’s holy, if you laugh at me, we are getting a divorce,” my wife said, muppet eyelashes fluttering in annoyance.

I am not proud to say that I immediately laughed.

I had to be lifted from the floor by two burly sheriff’s deputies, who kindly carried me to the bathroom. I was laughing so hard that I was close to losing control of my bladder. Even as I was sitting on the loo, I was still laughing so hard that I pulled two muscles, one on my back and the other on my abdomen. Tears streamed down my face and I howled with pain, but still I laughed. It took me forty-five minutes to stop myself from laughing, and even then, I started again each time I saw my own face in the mirror. Eventually I was calm enough to send a message to Claudia.

“SOS. Helena is hot-dog. Helena pretended her favourite food was kale salad. I may need an artefact to be sent that takes away my ability to laugh. Divorce proceedings imminent.”

I made my way out of the bathroom a little while later, finding the muppet version of my wife talking to Sheriff Adams. She was trying to coax him into doing something, I thought, because her stubby little muppet hand was on his arm and her giant muppet eyelashes were all a-flutter.

I beat a hasty retreat into a nearby office until I calmed my hysterics.

The second attempt was no more successful. I thought of the saddest things I’d ever seen, tried to turn myself into a PTSD-haunted robot by thinking about things I’d done in my past, but still… muppet Helena took me down effortlessly.

Eventually I was able to speak to her without laughing (much) and we determined that there were two places where she might have been caught up in the artefact’s effects. I continued to say ‘artefact’s effects’ after that because each time I said the words ‘food muppets’ she glared, and she looked even funnier than she already did.

Hot-dog Helena had onions and mustard down one side of the sausage. I don’t know why that made me laugh harder, but it did.

I fled the station, delighted beyond measure to be able to leave my wife’s side. I could not control myself, and I knew that I was skating close to the edge of divorce and/or death by muppet smothering. I kept breaking out in hysterical little bouts of giggling, and I knew I must have looked a sight, the tall Secret Service agent who occasionally starting cry-laughing over her muppet wife.

I visited the seedy side of Flippin, finding a small illegal casino-type operation that Helena had visited, and used the artefact spray to douse everything that didn’t move. And some that did. Nothing sparked. The next stop was the town hall, where a number of people on the list seemed to have been. I visited the mayor, a young attractive redhead, who urged me to leave a Christmas wish in the jar on her desk. Something tugged at me, then, because one thing I have learned as a Warehouse agent is that wishes have power. I sprayed the jar with the goo-spray, and it sparked. It sparked a lot. I grabbed the thing, relieved, and thanked the Mayor, who looked at me in confusion when I told her I needed to take it away, for National Security reasons. I swear, you could poke someone in the eye in this country and say it was for National Security, and they’d ask you to do it again.

I brought the jar back to the station, walking along absently, giggling occasionally to myself, when I suddenly realised that I was… different. My arms seemed shorter, and… yes. There was something dripping from behind me.

Now before you get all gross, there was a trail of marinara sauce behind me, mixed with cheese. Mozzarella, a little cheddar, and parmesan. When I tried to look down, I couldn’t. My eyes were widely spaced, I’d realised, and my mouth was way further from my eyes than it used to be.

So, I was a walking chicken parmigiana sub. Because unlike some alleged kale-lovers, I told the truth about my favourite food.

I sighed, trying to take my phone from my pocket, but my pocket was gone, under a pile of bread, I had to assume. I had an urge to try and pull some of the bread off and eat it, because I smelled really nice. But then I thought… there’s always a downside. And how do you explain that you’re missing a limb or a rib because you ate part of yourself when you were a sandwich?

I knocked on the door of the station, and a startled deputy let me in. He managed to keep his face straight, to his credit.

“Can you grab me my kit from the other room, son?” I asked him, vaguely aware that I had a bouncing crown of curls that had just drifted into my eyeline as I moved. I wondered exactly how ridiculous I looked, and stood there, waiting. The young man came back, his face purple, and I asked if he would take out the goo cannister.

Before I dunked the jar, I asked him to take a picture of me. I’d taken approximately 43 thousand of Helena, already, and turnabout was fair play. He did so, still managing not to laugh in my face, and then I dunked the thing. It hissed and it sparked, and still… marinara sauce dripped onto the floor.

“Shite.”

The fella ran off, howling, as the giant chicken sub swore. I didn’t blame him.

I went into the room where the rest of the food-afflicted were, finding Helena reading a book, holding the pages down with her muppet-fingers. I waved at her with my muppet fingers, and she laughed, and she laughed.

And she laughed.

It was possibly the stupidest thing that had ever happened in my life, and that included fighting with a group of inter-dimensional crime lords who started a zombie outbreak. It was hard to be professional about it, I had to be honest. I knew that, because there’s always a downside, it was potentially much more serious than it appeared – which was, of course, not remotely serious. I challenge you, however, to do any better, when faced with a roomful of muppet foodstuffs.

Having tried the obvious solution, to neutralise the artefact, I knew I had to contact the team. But my cellphone was somewhere in the in-between, I supposed, along with my Farnsworth. I grabbed Helena, and we made our way ponderously into the other part of the station, searching out the Sheriff. Sauce and cheese sloshed behind me as I walked.

Once Sheriff Adams stopped laughing, he set up a video conference with the Warehouse. I would have done it myself, but my arms were too short to go around my giant chicken sub body, and I couldn’t reach the keyboard.

Helena laughed about that until she wept ketchup.

We got no sense out of Claudia, none at all, and the poor girl’s mascara was everywhere, so I yelled for Arthur, and he, thankfully, just scowled at us.

“You both got whammied?”

I tried to shrug. It did not work, given that I appeared not to have shoulders.

“I found the artefact and neutralised it. I was wearing gloves, Arthur. But you know how these wishing artefacts are.”

He scowled harder, his eyebrows scrunching up like scary caterpillars, and he said nothing for a moment.

“Go sleep. Get some food. It can’t get much worse, I wouldn’t think. So eat something and sleep, and we’ll research tonight, and we’ll come back to it tomorrow.”

“All right then,” I said, rolling my eyes. Or trying to. I dread to think how it actually looked. Could my eyes even move? I wasn’t really sure; the perspective made everything look weird.

We went back to the room where the other foods were hiding out, and the Sheriff agreed that he’d get us some food, since we had neutralised the problem but were still stuck. It couldn’t hurt, right? We had pizza, all of us, and it was amusing to watch an eight-foot-wide pizza eating a pizza. The sheriff got us a load of yoga mats and big blankets, and we all settled down to sleep in our various food guises. When I lay down, my sauce stopped dripping everywhere, but the poor dude who turned into phō had to sit upright so he didn’t drown us all.

When I woke the next morning, I tried to jump up, and ended up just flailing like a turtle on its back. I had no idea where I was, I was trapped and I was ready for murder. Thankfully, I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was Helena’s muppet-self. That brought me from murderous to hysterical in seconds, and I lay there, helpless, legs and arms flapping as I tried to flip my sandwich-self up off the yoga mat.

“I’m normal again!” someone shouted, and I redoubled my efforts. One of the burgers helped me to my feet, and then I helped Helena, who was not exactly talking to me, to her feet. We turned and found that Steve, the giant pizza, was now just Steve again.

“We have to eat the food we’re craving!” Helena and I said in unison, and then we tried to high-five, missing spectacularly and ending up on the floor in a mess of mustard, onion and marinara sauce. It took the phō guy, Mr Egg Salad, and Doug the Cheeto to get us up off the floor, by which stage we were covered in various sauces, but triumphant.

The sheriff sent out a bunch of his deputies to fetch the requisite foodstuffs, and we took a sly picture of ourselves and the other victims to hang up at the Warehouse. One delicious sandwich (or hot dog, or potato snack, or burger) later, we all sat against the walls of the huge rooms, waiting for the magic to happen.

It took a few hours, and we were all terribly bored, but keeping ourselves going by chatting about Christmas and going home for the holidays, when there was a popping noise from Doug’s corner, and he turned from Cheeto to human. A few seconds later Phō turned to Phil, and I turned back into me. Helena, who’d eaten her hot dog slowly while pretending to hate it, was one of the last to turn back. Finally, there were a roomful of sheepish people staring at each other and wondering what to do next.

Helena, thankfully, got her human brain back quicker than I did. I was thinking about going to find another chicken parm sub, to be honest, because it had been delicious. But she stood, waved her badge around, told them all we’d been exposed to toxic gas that caused hallucinations, and one by one, our former foodstuffs made their way back to their families.

“All’s well that ends well, I suppose,” she said, sniffing, pointedly not looking at me.

“I suppose. It’s a terrible shame we have to get divorced, though. I was just getting used to being married to a Brit.”

“Hmmph,” was all she said, her arms folded, but I could see from the set of her shoulders that she was relaxing. I realised I might get out of this flippin’ town with my marriage intact, and I grinned.

We gave the Sheriff and his staff a non-disclosure agreement to sign, and gave them the usual rubbish about hallucinations and toxic gas, and they all nodded, shaking their heads. We went back to our hotel and tossed a coin for who got the shower first. Helena won, and I sat on the edge of the bed on top of a towel, so as to not get marinara sauce all over the bedding.

I sat there, glad to be human, flipping idly through channels on the television until she came out of the bathroom, naked in all her glory. I grinned at the sight, and she glared at me.

I wasn’t entirely forgiven, it appeared. I took myself into the bathroom, washed up, called the concierge to have our clothes cleaned, and then sat at the small desk to write my report on the incident. I studiously added all the pictures I’d taken, except the ones of Helena. I finished it up, scanning and sending it to the Warehouse, and then I packed up the wish jar - still inside the containment cannister – and the rest of my clothes. Then I gathered up my courage and asked my taciturn wife if she was hungry.

She glared at me as if I was taking the mickey, but I wasn’t, for a change, so she told me stiffly that she would like a salad. I am human, so I was tempted, but I ordered only a salad and did not at any point mention the words ‘hot dog’. I ordered myself a burger and fries and all the fixings, and when it arrived I scarfed it down. When dinner (which was technically lunch, given the time) was done I changed into my usual sleepwear, loose cotton tshirt and shorts, and got into bed. I pulled down the sheets on the other side in clear invitation, and Helena huffed at me, going to the bathroom again, where I heard her brush her teeth. She switched off the light and got into bed with me, and I could feel her begrudging it as she did so.

“There’s another bed, darling. If you’re really that mad,” I said, quietly.

“It’s fine,” she said, back stiff.

I ran my finger down her spine, just once. She made a huffing noise and then turned, putting her head under my chin, her arm around my waist. She was lying on my left arm, so I curled it a little, wrapping it around her body, and she sighed.

“You’re a complete arse, you know,” she said.

“I am,” I agreed. “But I’m your complete arse.”

“Hmm. What a catch.”

“Indeed I am. Catch of the century.”

“You’re a fucking pain, Myka Bering.”

“That’s Myka Bering-Wells, darling,” I said, lazily. “And I love you too.”

It was all right again after that, though she became somewhat frosty when she called the Warehouse the following morning and was greeted only by Claudia’s feet, Claudia herself having tipped her chair back so far that she’d fallen over. (I might have just sent our food-group selfie to her.)

On the flight back to South Dakota, she took my hand, both of us comforting each other as the plane took off.

“I love you, you complete arse,” she said, after a glass or two of red wine.

“I love you too, you gorgeous creature,” I said grandly, after three generous measures of Bushmills.

She sighed, took my hand, and fell asleep.

When we eventually got to the B&B after dropping off the artefact at the Warehouse, we were greeted at the door by Leena, dressed in her usual Mrs Santa costume. She looked spectacular, and Helena looked at me, amused, as I tried not to gawk. I mean, I’m married, not a nun.

Leena gestured at us both to leave our bags, handing us hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, sweet lady,” I said, with a sweeping bow.

“And you are a flirt, Mrs Bering-Wells,” Leena said, winking at Helena. We made our way to the living room, finding Claudia spread out on the sofa, her head in Steve’s lap, and Pete scarfing down a plate of Leena’s chocolate Christmas logs.

“Mykes!” Pete bellowed, jumping up and throwing himself at me. I hastily divested myself of my hot chocolate and accepted his sweaty embrace.

“Bout ye, Pete,” I said, grinning as he lifted me off my feet. He put me down, none too gently, and went to give Helena the same treatment. The look she gave him would have scoured the hide off a pig.

“Hello, Pete. If you put your sweaty hands on me, I will not be held responsible for my actions, do you understand?”

Pete backed away, mumbling about crazy Brits, and I hid my smile behind my hand.

“Hey, girls! We have some lovely pictures of you,” Claudia said, grinning up at us.

“Iks-nay on the ictures-pay,” I said, behind my hand.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. I did in fact grow a sense of humour about all this, eventually. As it turns out, this century has indeed influenced my Victorian sensibilities somewhat. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that, yes, hot dogs are my favourite food, much as I wish they weren’t. That does not mean I will be indulging in them, however. I will continue to eat a healthy balanced diet, unlike my unfairly slim wife, who seems to subsist on all manner of appalling foods,” Helena said, looking at me disapprovingly.

“They’re only appalling to you, darling. I enjoy them, and so does everyone else here. And you know that Leena makes sure we get a balanced diet. It’s just when we’re out in the field that I indulge.”

She shook her head, rolled her eyes – all the usual. I just ignored her and sat down with my hot chocolate. Leena appeared again a few minutes later with some churros which I happily dipped in my hot chocolate. I noticed that my lovely wife did the same, surreptitiously of course.

Claudia, Steve and Pete were talking quietly while a horrifically bad Christmas movie played on the television. I watched Helena quietly. She was beautiful, sitting there with the light of the fire flickering in her eyes. She took the occasional sip of hot chocolate but mostly she was sitting there, looking at the fire, her eyes far away. She was exceptionally beautiful, like a marble statue of a greek goddess.

I heard the piano start up from the other room. Arthur, despite his Jewish roots, has always loved Christmas music. Claudia jumped up. She has always had a passion for music, and this was part of Christmas for her. She wandered off to find him, Steve following close behind.

“Mykissimo,” Pete said, jumping to his feet. “You can’t miss out on the yearly sing-song.”

“I suppose not,” I said, polishing off my hot chocolate. “You coming, love?”

She looked up at me.

“Just a minute, darling. I’ll be right there.”

I smiled at her and left her to it. Christmas was a difficult time for her, I knew. Her little girl had always loved Christmas time. Sometimes she needed a minute, to think about her daughter and how she’d lived to be a grand old age. How she wouldn’t have done, if Helena had stayed in her own time.

Arthur was playing “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” and Steve was singing along in a pleasant baritone. He had a nice voice, and I loved listening to him. Claudia came to stand in front of me, pulling my arms around her neck, and I smiled down at her. She was like my wee sister.

When we were done with that song, Arthur started playing “O Holy Night.” It was my favourite Christmas song of all time, and I knew that he knew that. He turned and winked at me, and I smiled back. When I was at a Catholic school in Northern Ireland, there was a lot of emphasis on music, and the harmonies in this song and the way it all blended together had enthralled me then. It still does now.

Claudia started to sing, her sweet, light little voice singing the melody. When the chorus came along, we all started to sing our parts, Steve, Claudia, Artie and me – Pete can’t sing for toffee. The chorus swelled and then it pulled back before the next verse. Claudia’s sweet voice made me smile. We reached the second chorus and I realised that I had goosebumps. I turned, finding Helena leaning against the doorjamb, watching us all fondly. The thought of her in her Muppet body did cross my mind, and I smiled to myself. That image wouldn’t be leaving me anytime soon. But the way she looked standing there in her blue shirt and jeans and bare feet, her hair loose around her shoulders, it just made something in me still for a moment. The combination of the perfect music and the perfect woman in front of me made me feel calm and relaxed for once, and if I’d been the praying type, I might have said a thank you to the baby Jesus or whatever right then. As it was, I just thanked anyone who was listening for giving me these people and this place, and letting me live in endless wonder.

Merry Christmas, everyone !

[surflove808]

All things “queerbait”, “so gay”, cranky shippers, etc ad infinitum.  Here’s my long-ass essay on why I think it’s destructive to this show and fandom mentality in general.  Part 1 :D

This is going to be sooo long.  Because I am sooo fed up with the bullshit I keep seeing on here.  So, I am going to break this into 2 parts.  Part 1 deals with the show and its FICTIONAL characters.  Part 2 will deal with the actual actors involved in making this show.  I'm pissed because what could have just been supposition and discussion among fans took a wrong turn somewhere, and turned into a forum for bullying and scandalizing the actors/show.  And seeing that even when they try to have a sense of humor about it, or be ingratiating to the fans about it, it always backfires on them....and ultimately, something that should be harmless (a ship) has become a toxic force of nature.

I'm going to give my 2 cents on the most annoyingly common misconceptions that I've seen being used as more can(n)on fodder because if I post and get this reblogged enough, maybe, just maybe... more people can be exposed to a more balanced interpretation.  

My problem is not with the possibility of Dean being gay/bi. My problem is not with Dean and Cas possibly exploring a romantic relationship.  Not at all.   My problem is with the dedicated and rabid group of people that have gone over the top with their harassment on public forums regarding these characters sexuality, and linking it to the real, live human beings that portray them.  Both crossing and blurring lines in a very destructive way, on Tumblr, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, you name it... This show has so many incredible themes and messages regarding friendship, love, loyalty, trust, perseverance and family and THAT'S your takeaway?   An unhealthy obsession with Dean's sexual preference??

Dean, by virtue of his looks, charisma and personality, has chemistry with almost EVERYONE.  Have you noticed??  The character of Dean is written and portrayed as a naturally charismatic, flirtatious and sensual person.  He wholeheartedly dives into anything that he enjoys.  Eating, hunting, fucking, drinking.  He doesn't seem to really appreciate boundaries or restrictions.  So, what's stopping him from exploring his sexuality with men?  

As far as I can see, the character of Dean as originally conceptualized and executed brilliantly by his frigging creator, Eric Kripke, was then, as you see him now, many things.  But also hetero. He's also accepting, scarred, goofy, resilient, co-dependent, loving, protective, the list goes on and on.  

But what he is NOT and has NEVER been written as, is gay or bi.  And if you have a problem with that, that’s not a flaw in the program you’re watching.  That’s your problem.  If he undergoes character development that radically redefines not only how he sees himself, but how the viewer sees him, after 12 years?  That's a delicate task that I don't envy the writers having to undertake, considering, the only reason they would do that so late in the game, is because they caved to pressure from the "fandom".  And I use quotation marks there because, if you want an iconic character to represent your views?  Write them yourself.  Create them.  But don't try to bully your way into another persons creation.   Here's the kicker.  Out of 264 episodes that have aired so far, and countless canon instances of Dean being hetero.... here are the handful of examples that certain people have latched onto as gospel:

1. Dean and the Siren, season 4, episode 14, Sex and Violence:  I can't tell you how many times I've seen some Jr. detective go "A-HA!  Deans siren was a MAN!  Therefore, he is GAY!"  If you use just a smidge of deductive reasoning and pay attention to the season leading up to this episode, and the description of a siren that was helpfully included in the episode, you could easily and reasonably deduce that because a siren's powers of seduction come from the ability to be ANYTHING to ANYONE and be that persons greatest desire.... that it makes sense for the siren to take the form of a cool, non-judgemental, trustworthy younger brother-type who has the same taste in and love for music that Dean has.  Someone he can relate to.  A peer.

What do you get the man who can have almost any woman that he wants?  

Not a stripper, folks.  

And what does Dean really want?  At this point, he wants a brother who trusts his experience and instincts.  A  brother that he can trust.  A brother who doesn't feel like a complete stranger.  A friend, for fucks sake.  It's not implied.  It's not a theory.  It's literally written and discussed IN THE EPISODE, people.  Move on.

2.  Dean and Gunnar Lawless, season 11, episode 15, Beyond the Mat: If you know any guys who are into sports or bands, and have never seen them go batshit fanboy over one of their sports or music heroes...then you just haven't spent enough time with them on their turf.  

3.  Deans "gay thing", season 8, episode 13, Everybody Hates Hitler: If you've never been hit on when you weren't expecting it, especially by someone you weren't expecting it from, I could see why you couldn't comprehend his behavior.  If you HAVE, you were probably flustered by it. Probably didn't react as smoothly as you thought you would, amiright?  I know I haven’t.

It seemed he was flattered, but didn't know what to do with himself.  If he were bi/gay, and attracted to the possibility of a no-strings hookup with a willing and  anonymous stranger... a blow-and-go in the mens room, for example... I think Dean could/would have easily pursued it, based on his hit rate thus far.  The one area in which he has 100% confidence and zero shame, is sexual conquests. Sam wasn't around.  There was nothing holding him back.  So, aside from being uncertain of how to extricate himself from an awkward situation, and being flustered, I got nothin’.

4.  Dean and Dr.  Sexy, season 5, episode 8, Changing Channels:  Not much to say here.  Dean clearly had a man crush on Dr. Sexy.  Would he have boned him if given the chance?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Ask a guy friend who idolizes Aaron Rogers or Eddie Vedder (for example) if he'd let them stick it in his pooper based on principle alone.  Chances are, that guy friend would probably say "Hall pass!"  If the situation actually presented itself though?  He might just gush over the guy and call it a day.  Who knows?  WE don't.

5.  Dean and Crowley: Again, ask a guy friend if he would share a room and triplets with a buddy if there were no consequences (girlfriend, things getting "weird, etc), and see what he says.  The answer may surprise you.  Maybe I just know a lot of uninhibited, sexy bastards!

6.  Dean and Benny:  Brothers in arms who go through intense combat together can and more often than not, DO form close bonds.  There was nothing in this friendship that even intimated at these two having any sexual or romantic designs on each other, yet.... people still try to make it work.  Bless their hearts.

7.  The Big One:  Dean and Cas:  Dean has had countless opportunities over the years to make a move.  And I DO believe he loves Cas, very much.  Cas clearly loves and admires Dean.  They have been through some serious shit together since day one, that neither Sam nor anyone else can compete with. But some very good advice I heard once, applies here (and this is why the 10-year crush turning into romance in rom-coms is such bullshit):  If someone likes you - you WILL know.  They will make a move.  Or you will.  And neither of you will take 10 + years to do it if there are no barriers (significant other).  And if a move is made and not reciprocated?  It's not because they or you is holding something back.  That's just a lie we tell ourselves.  SOMEONE is just not interested.  

Though I love their dynamic, I'm not a Destiel shipper, but I'm willing to go either way with this one.  I will say, I don't by any stretch of the imagination think the writers, actors or directors are 'queerbaiting", though.  That's like accusing a crush of leading you on when it was really in your head the whole time. Their chemistry is incredible.  But from what I've seen with my eyes, in the actual episodes, his relationship with Cas does not say unrequited love, sexual attraction or romance.  However, if I went by the slowed-down, out-of-context gifs that are prevalent on Tumblr, I could see where people get the idea.  And because these are two men who love, admire and respect each other and sometimes bicker like an old married couple, I suppose that makes them different than us and our best friends, somehow?  This makes me sad, because this is a unique show, in that it deeply explores mens relationships with one another (because they're human beings too), and they just can't do that without a group of immature people giggling behind their backs in the hallways because intimacy is so intimidating that it must be mitigated by making fun of it or spreading nonsensical theories about it.  Right?

Small wonder that heteronormative men, as a general rule, have so much social conditioning and shame to wade through when it comes to expressing love and care for their same-sex friends and family.  (Yes, men have problems too.  Not as many as us, by a long shot.  But this is one of them) 

You see, menfolk are expected to behave in a manfolk way, and if their behavior isn’t within the traditional and narrowly defined parameters as “hetero male”, they face the perceived stigma that accompanies “coming out”, which involves the very real fears of supposition, persecution, politicizing, backlash, gossip, undermining. etc.

This show has taken many chances.  And they’re not afraid to write for and represent LGBTQ characters.  But Chuck forbid that emotionally resonant, well-written, vulnerable and emotional male characters exist AND allow them to be straight.  Unthinkable!  And that snarky, gossipy, “tee-hee” mentality is just what enforces rigid gender roles on men and women in the 1st place.  Every post I see that giggles about Cas and Dean being gay for each other because....gifs...just throws us back 50 years.  Your words do have meaning, people.

If you want to know what you can do to pave the way for LGBTQ representation in entertainment and the world at large?  Take the small step of acknowledging that same sex characters can feel the same range of emotions that you do for your same sex friends.  Can have sustained eye contact.  Can love one another, and can tenderly care for one another without you sexualizing it, fantasizing about it and policing it.  I’m asking you to think about this, because this way of thinking affects everyone.  Gay, straight, etc. 

Season 1 Sam and Dean:  Hetero.  Sam in an LTR at beginning, Dean with potential to re-enter his relationship with Cassie.  

This show was marketed towards males in the 18-24 demographic, but curiously, more women are interested in these boys and their story.  Because they’re allowed to care without judgement.  Ahem.

 *As seasons go by...*  Clearly, judging by the polls and hate mail...neither brother can ever have or sustain a romantic relationship with a woman.  EVER again!*  And it as been widely acknowledged by the cast and producers that the fans don’t want to see the Winchesters spend too much time with what they deem as a threatening female.

Why do you think Castiel was even allowed to make it this far?  Sure, he’s an amazing character.  But if it were Anna who dragged Dean from Hell and ultimately stuck around?  Yeah, no.  That was never gonna happen.  

Basically, these fuckers can’t win.  If they’re hetero and stay hetero, that’s a bad thing.  If their characters do a 180 to please the most vocal (unfortunately) fans - then they’re caving in to pressure.

Either way, I think it's safe to say, us fans are ultimately invested (I hope) in these characters achieving happiness, wherever they find it.  And personally, I'll be happy either way.  But seeing this hyperbolic, over the top bullshit online that this crew are queerbaiting, etc...and that "If Destiel isn't made canon, I'm gonna do X,Y,Z..." is disgusting to me.  

The musings, wishful thinking and conspiracy theories are one thing.  And that's perfectly fine.  I’ve got nothin but love for fanficiton writers!  But drawing parallels and conclusions from some of the flimsiest crumbs available, and using that limited intel to cajole, threaten, bash and attempt to shame the actors, the crew, and the producers who work their asses off to bring us this amazing show, is pretty fucking shitty in my opinion.

These aren't public servants, guys.  We're not paying them to make this show.  If you want to know how a show on the CW gets funded and made - google it.  If you want to know how much of a time crunch/pressure cooker situation the writers are working in, not to mention the entire team in order to produce 23 episodes per season....again, google it.   And then tell me how they're able to not only craft compelling episodes and cram so much storyline, exposition, dialogue, character development, arc support, scheduling, casting, art direction, stunt coordination, set design, etc ad infinitum into each and every week, and STILL have time to drop easter eggs, and "queerbait"....

Just.  To.  Fuck.  With.  You.  And undermine LGBTQ efforts at representation? They are very kind and loyal to their fans.  And we DON'T OWN THEM.  If you don't like what you're seeing, don't watch.  But for fucks sake - do the fandom and yourselves a favor and direct your crusade towards ACTUAL threats to LBGTQ freedoms and rights.

Here's a list of places to lend support (to name a few): Family Equality Council Human Rights Campaign GLAD PFLAG Transgender Law Center Your local congressman, FFS

Rant over.  If you made it this far, thank you.  I owe you a fruit basket!  And feel free to engage, put me on blast if you want.  Let's have a discussion.  But if you agree with me at all, please reblog this.... just to give some folks another point of view.  

Blanket statement for those who are offended and have already called me an “asshole”, etc on their own tags:

1.  This is NOT by any stretch of the imagination an anti-shipper or anti-Destiel post.  I clearly stated that I don't have a problem with either.  And if it happened organically in the show, as opposed to under pressure?  More power to them.  And I do adore Castiel.

2.  This is NOT an anti-LGBTQ post.  Again, clearly stated throughout the post.

3.  This is NOT and never was anti-headcanon post.  We all have headcanons to some degree.   And If anyone wants to step up and tell me not to support an organization that's doing good work, just because I sunk their battleship... they can suck it.  I also belong to some of these organizations, and I'm pretty sure they're not as invested in your headcanon as you are.  And thejabberwock, I still admire your insights and posts, but am bummed that you missed the damn point of mine entirely.  Per your request, I have removed your association from the original post.

4.  This IS an anti-harassment post, directed at individuals who have taken this ship so far, that they've tainted the word and the concept for almost everyone else with their shitty, pushy behavior.  If this describes you?   I'm happy to have offended you.

5.  This IS an anti-ignorance post, directed at individuals who are presented with facts and reliable data from the writers, the actors and the episodes themselves, yet refuse to acknowledge anything out of their own headcanon.  Who insist on "knowing the truth" and using that arrogance to try to *Out* the characters, *Out* the actors and use threats and insults towards anyone who disagrees.  If you thought I was talking to you directly, after reading that?  I probably was.

6.  This IS an anti-misinformation campaign post aimed at clearing up some common misconceptions.

Lastly, reading comprehension is really crucial here.  I know it was a lot to read, I apologize for that. But if you're skimming through and picking and choosing something to be offended over, and continuing to feel personally persecuted regardless of whether or not that's the reality... rather than reading and understanding the entire message?  Well, there's nothing more I can say or do.