Hey!! So my friend Syd and I have been working together for almost a year now on developing a neat little comic called On the Cliff! We’ve put a lot of love into all of the characters and everything about the universe that it’s based in, and we’re finally ready to start putting it out to the public! There’s a couple posts up already, but we’ll be updating it on Fridays. If you’re interested in stupid jokes and dumb faces all the way to some pretty real moments, give it a look!
Dean may have missed out on the fight, but he still feels like drinking when he finally gets back home. Ketch’s expensive bottle of bribery is still sitting on the war room table and his glass is still in his favorite spot, right where he left it.
“Oh, hello, sweetness. Daddy’s here,” Dean coos at it. He hums as he picks up the bottle - still heavy even after a couple of drinks. “Shhh. It’s just you and me now.”
Sam scoffs. “Really, Dean? You’re that easy?”
Dean rolls his eyes over his shoulder. “So?”
Sam doesn’t really want to start anything, he’s feeling too good. He lets Dean smuggle his booze away to his room like always and revels in the still-fresh feeling of adrenaline-fueled ass-kicking. Changing the world. Power in the palms of his hands. He’ll try not to let it go to his head, but he deserves to celebrate the win at least.
Dean, meanwhile, falls like a heavy weight against the back of his bedroom door.
I watch the older butches. They have perfectly shined shoes and crisply ironed dress shirts; ties that point politely down, slung around necks I want to carefully touch; thick belts and square edges and hair that looks like it’s been freshly cut at all times; change in a loose jangle at the bottom of pockets calling out an insistent rattle as they walk by; neatly clipped nails on hands that are forever ready to hold open the door. Their postures are straight and stiff, except for the ones who stoop their shoulders to hide their softness.
The butches are always quietly determined to get the drinks. I watch their calm circle to the bar and back, nobly presenting cocktails to femmes who take them like prizes. At the end of the night, I see them hold up coats with outstretched arms for their tired femmes, hail cabs with one authoritative arm reaching for the stars, the other wrapped lightly around their girl’s waist. They make everything look charmed and easy–rolling coins across the table with a silver flash; arm-wrestling with their sleeves rolled up as my eyes hungrily lock on their tensed forearms; swinging Zippo lighters open before I’ve even contemplated having a cigarette. I crave their softness, how gentle they can me in touch and gesture; I love their hardness, all of the sharp lines and angles I want to feel the pinch of and press myself against. They wear their difference out there every day in a mostly hostile world. They take refuge in approving nods of other butches, in welcoming smiles of the femmes at the bar. When they are here, they are home. When they are here, there is nowhere else.