long weave

i found this post in my drafts and have ZERO memory of writing it (thank u alcohol) so im gonna put it in my queue lol
  • ok but imagine 
  • Bitty comes out to his parents but he doesn’t tell them about Jack, thinks it’s for the best, maybe to ease his parents into things or maybe to keep the pool of People Who Know as small as possible 
  • and like yeah Ransom and Holster are super oblivious but Suzanne Bittle is not, not when it comes to her son, because she is a certified Nosy Southern Mother and she can see he’s been acting differently, happier but quieter, always on his phone and blushing when she asks about boys
  • and he talks about the team a LOT 
  • Jack’s one of his best friends and he’s just started his NHL career, so of course Bitty’s never gonna shut up about Jack
  • (Same goes for Shitty and law school. And eventually Ransom and med school. Dicky is proud of his friends and wants everyone to know. He gets that trait from Suzanne, she understands)
  • but he keeps talking about this one Boy, how sweet he is and how his smile is like a sack of puppies and how bitty’s always making this boy do things with him like baking and getting froyo and going shopping and Suzanne is like. Yes. This must be Dicky’s secret boyfriend. 
  •  the next family weekend or whatever, Suzanne demands to meet this Chowder boy who’s stolen Bitty’s heart
  • Bitty is both confused and mortified

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If you have trust issues with girls because of makeup, fake nails, false eyelashes, weaves/extensions, implants, push-up bras or filters, you really need to reevaluate your life and get over yourself.
The laborer who for 12 hours long, weaves, spins, bores, turns, builds, shovels, breaks stone, carries hods, and so on – is this 12 hours’ weaving, spinning, boring, turning, building, shovelling, stone-breaking, regarded by him as a manifestation of life, as life? Quite the contrary. Life for him begins where this activity ceases, at the table, at the tavern, in bed. The 12 hours’ work, on the other hand, has no meaning for him as weaving, spinning, boring, and so on, but only as earnings, which enable him to sit down at a table, to take his seat in the tavern, and to lie down in a bed.
—  Karl Marx, Wage Labor and Capital 
2

It’s been years. Long, full years that have passed since the Winchesters took their last breaths. It was a frosty night, filled with blood, sweat and tears as Sam held his bigger brother’s hand just before his own world went black.

All he hoped for as his last wish was that wherever he was went, Dean would be waiting for him. It didn’t matter if it were heaven or hell, it just mattered to him if they were together because even in death he just couldn’t imagine being without Dean.

At this point in time, the Impala still stood where Dean had driven it last. It was untouched. Except for the bubbles of rust on her once pristine, shiny, black body and the long grass weaving its way inside the place that once used to be home.

It was still home.

Their souls tied to the car, like she was stitched into their very being. The only other constant in their lives except for each other. Things are simpler now, both of them existing between worlds. Made of smoke and stories. Most nights they just sit on the hood of the car, watching the stars in complete silence just like they did in life. It was weird the way they just needed each other to be okay.

Then one day, Sam watched a boy walk up to the car, his fingertips trailing over the roof. The same admiration and glee he often noticed in Dean’s eyes when he saw cars, sparkling in the eyes of someone that reminded Sam of who he used to be.

Before he knew it, Baby was hurtling down highways again, carrying two men that reminded Sam of his own life. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. Dean would often mess with the stereo, the soundtracks to their lives blaring through the speakers as the legos rattled. It reminded the new hunters of the history they were apart of and the history they were going to make.

Sprawled out in the backseat, Sam’s head on Dean’s lap as they listened to the young hunters in the front, who were completely oblivious to their presence.

“You know who’s car this was? It belong to Sam and Dean. The Winchesters. The goddamn Winchesters.”

“No way. No frikkin’ way. There’s no way they would have left this beauty.”

“I heard they died.”

Sam tilted his head upwards to look at Dean. There’s a smile on Dean’s face that made his heart warm.

They never die. Not really. At least not forever.