#moving from California to Nebraska

[ernestshipscar]

Moving from California to Nebraska: Safe and Affordable Vehicle Shipping

Relocating a vehicle across states, such as when moving from California to Nebraska, requires a dependable provider that prioritizes safety and affordability. Rapid Auto Shipping excels in delivering efficient auto transport services, offering instant quotes through a user-friendly platform, transparent pricing, reliable transport, and customizable options. Whether transporting a family SUV or a vintage car over the approximately 1,500-mile journey, their expertise ensures a seamless experience for a seamless experience. This guide explores the advantages of choosing Rapid Auto Shipping for moving from California to Nebraska, outlines the shipping process, and costs, and provides practical tips for a hassle-free transport, tailored for individuals and businesses as of June 20, 2025.

Benefits of Choosing Rapid Auto Shipping for Vehicle Transport

Choosing the right company for moving from California to Nebraska can transform a complex logistics challenge into a smooth process. Rapid Auto Shipping stands out by integrating advanced tools with a customer-focused approach, making them a top choice for this cross-country route.

Why Rapid Auto Shipping is a Preferred Provider

Rapid Auto Shipping’s commitment to reliable transport distinguishes them in moving from California to Nebraska. Their user-friendly online calculator enables customers to obtain instant quotes, providing a clear cost estimate without hidden fees, thanks to their transparent pricing model. This tool offers customizable options, allowing you to select the best transport method for your vehicle, whether it’s a daily commuter or a high-value collector’s car. Their experience managing cross-state routes ensures your vehicle is transported efficiently across the 1,500-mile journey from cities like San Francisco to Omaha. Positive reviews on platforms like Google and the Better Business Bureau highlight their punctuality and care, underscoring their dedication to customer satisfaction. Licensed by the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration (FMCSA) with a valid USDOT number, Rapid Auto Shipping provides comprehensive insurance coverage, ensuring peace of mind throughout the transport process.

Customized Solutions for California to Nebraska Moves

Rapid Auto Shipping understands the specific needs of moving from California to Nebraska, offering tailored solutions for diverse requirements. Their customizable options include door-to-door delivery, enabling your vehicle to be picked up and dropped off at your chosen locations for maximum convenience. Open transport provides an affordable solution for standard vehicles, while enclosed transport offers enhanced protection for luxury or classic cars against weather and road debris. The user-friendly platform allows you to explore these options and receive instant quotes, facilitating effective budgeting with transparent pricing. With dedicated support providing real-time updates, Rapid Auto Shipping ensures reliable transport, making them a trusted partner for interstate vehicle shipping.

Navigating the Shipping Process with Rapid Auto Shipping

Understanding the process of moving from California to Nebraska with Rapid Auto Shipping helps you plan effectively. From securing a quote to preparing your vehicle and tracking its journey, their approach is designed for simplicity and efficiency.

How the Shipping Process Operates

To start moving from California to Nebraska with Rapid Auto Shipping, visit their user-friendly online calculator to generate instant quotes. Enter your pick-up location (e.g., Los Angeles, California) and drop-off location (e.g., Lincoln, Nebraska), along with your vehicle’s make, model, and size for accurate pricing. Choose between open transport for affordability or enclosed transport for added protection, and select standard or expedited delivery to align with your schedule. The tool delivers transparent pricing instantly, allowing you to budget effectively with customizable options. After booking, Rapid Auto Shipping coordinates logistics, assigning a driver for pick-up. On the scheduled date, the driver inspects your vehicle and completes a Bill of Lading, which you verify. Your vehicle is then shipped via the chosen carrier across the 1,500-mile route, with tracking available for updates. Upon arrival, you inspect your vehicle against the Bill of Lading, ensuring reliable transport throughout.

Factors Influencing Shipping Costs

The cost of moving from California to Nebraska depends on several factors, which Rapid Auto Shipping’s calculator clearly outlines. The 1,500-mile distance impacts pricing due to fuel and time requirements. Larger vehicles, like SUVs or trucks, cost more than compact cars because of their space and weight demands. Open transport is the most economical option for standard vehicles, while enclosed transport, suitable for high-value cars, increases costs due to enhanced protection. Seasonal demand, such as summer peaks or winter weather challenges, may raise rates, and expedited delivery adds a premium for faster service. Door-to-door delivery, a customizable option, is pricier than terminal-to-terminal but saves time. Rapid Auto Shipping’s pricing typically ranges from $700-$1,100 for open transport of a sedan and $1,100-$1,600 for enclosed transport of a luxury vehicle, reflecting transparent pricing for reliable transport.

Preparing Your Vehicle for Transport

To ensure a safe experience when moving from California to Nebraska with Rapid Auto Shipping, prepare your vehicle with these steps:

Clean Your Vehicle: Wash your car to inspect for damage, documenting its condition with photos.

Remove Personal Items: Empty your vehicle, as regulations prohibit transporting belongings, and items left inside are not insured.

Check Mechanical Condition: Ensure a working battery, inflated tires, and no fluid leaks, topping off fluids.

Disable Alarms and Accessories: Turn off alarms and remove accessories like spoilers to prevent damage.

Maintain Minimal Fuel: Keep your gas tank at 1/4 full to reduce costs while ensuring enough fuel for loading.

These steps align with Rapid Auto Shipping’s guidelines for secure transport.

Tips for a Successful Car Shipping Experience

To optimize your experience when moving from California to Nebraska, consider these tips:

Verify Credentials: Confirm the provider’s FMCSA licensing and USDOT number.

Compare Quotes: Use Rapid Auto Shipping’s user-friendly calculator for instant quotes.

Review Feedback: Check customer reviews for reliable transport assurance.

Choose Convenient Options: Select door-to-door delivery for ease.

Book Early: Schedule 2-3 weeks ahead for better rates and availability.

These strategies enhance your experience with Rapid Auto Shipping’s reliable transport services.

Conclusion: Trust Rapid Auto Shipping for California to Nebraska Transport

Rapid Auto Shipping delivers safe and affordable solutions for moving from California to Nebraska through their user-friendly calculator, instant quotes, and transparent pricing. Their reliable transport and customizable options, like door-to-door delivery, make them a leader in auto transport services. Contact Rapid Auto Shipping today, June 20, 2025, to get your quote and enjoy a hassle-free vehicle shipping experience from California to Nebraska.

[ckret2]

So y'all know the Gravity Falls production bible that leaked three weeks ago. Someone in one of my discord servers pointed this out:

And, naturally, that spawned an entire AU.

AU Concept: Ford was kicked out instead of Stan and takes a job as a trucker to makes ends meet since he couldn't go to college, while still studying the weird and anomalous however he can.

Ford driving around from quirky small town to quirky small town, drifting through the liminal spaces of truck stops, meeting odd people in isolated diners, seeing strange things out on the road—a deer with too many eyes bounding across a two-lane highway, a flirty woman at a rest stop who doesn't blink or breathe, mysterious lights in the sky at night, inhuman growls on the CB or 50-year-old broadcasts on the radio—and taking notes when he stops for gas or food.

Aside from having gotten kicked out before graduating high school, Ford's the same person he is in canon.

He's still an ambitious guy, and here "ambitious" means working hard and saving as much money as he can—so, a long haul owner-operator who spends weeks at a time on the road. (He goes through a LOT of educational audiobooks.) Plus, this is the easiest way for him to get to travel the country; and since it looks like his "travel the world" dreams with Stan are dead, he'll take what he can get.

Since he's never in the same spot long and carries his life in a truck, almost all of Ford's research is in his journal. His bag of investigation supplies has an instant camera, a portable tape recorder, a thermometer, a flashlight, rubber gloves, and a few zip lock bags—and that's about it. It has to share space with all his clothes, toiletries, and nonperishable food when he's on the road. He doesn't have much opportunity to closely examine anything odd he finds, unless he's lucky enough to run into something when he can stop for the night. He has to cram his paranormal research around the side of his full-time job.

He doesn't live in Gravity Falls, but he knows it exists. Every time he moves—to Chicago, to Nebraska, to California—he seems to inch closer. He currently lives in Portland and usually hauls loads between the Pacific Northwest and Chicago or New York. He stops at the truck stop outside Gravity Falls when he can and has gone fishing in town a few times. He doesn't have the benefit of extensive research to know that this is the weirdest town in the world; but it seems pretty weird to him, there are local rumors about the town, and he's had some weird experiences in the area.

Plus, he can't explain it, but it's like the town's calling to him. He wants to move there, but it'd put him over an hour outside of Portland where the nearest jobs are. Maybe if somebody chucked him like $100k to build a cabin in the woods; but what are the odds of that?

He does know Fiddleford. Truck broke down somewhere and Fiddleford kindly pulled over to fix it on the fly. They looked at each other, had mutual knee-jerk "dumb trucker/hillbilly" reactions, and within ten minutes both went "oh wait you're the most brilliant genius i've ever met." Fiddleford's living the same life he was in canon before Ford called him to Gravity Falls—with his family in California, trying to start a computer company out of his garage—but they make friends and keep in contact.

One time Ford stops at a kitschy roadside knickknack store that also sells new agey magic things—crystals, tarot cards, incense, etc. He bought a "lucky" rearview mirror ornament that looks like an Eye of Providence in a top hat and hung it from his cab fan, and ever since then he's had weird dreams whenever he sleeps in his truck.

Things I don't know yet: what Stan's up to; or why Ford's the one who got kicked out. I tend to believe that in canon Stan wasn't just kicked out because he ruined Ford's college prospects, but rather because the family thought he deliberately sabotaged Ford; so in this AU, Ford would've been kicked out over a proportionate crime.

[reidology13]

A House In Nebraska

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

cw: angst, references to sex, very mild and metaphorical cannibalism, depression, no happy ending wc: 1.4k a/n: wrote this in like two days after having literally no motivation for monthsss and I'm actually so proud of it. a little different to my usual stuff, but probably one of my favourite pieces that i've ever written!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

As the sun set below the horizon, memories slipped in alongside the shadows, filling the cracks in the foundation of your mind. Most nights you still thought about him, the soft and sweet boy from your reckless youth.

It was a sweltering summer the year you moved to California for university, made worse by the fast shift from East to West Coast. Friends hadn’t been high on your list of priorities, and by the end of your first semester, the window had passed, your peers dividing easily into their social groups. You existed comfortably on the edge, too overwhelmed by schoolwork for the ever-present loneliness to take hold, merely a vague sensation contributing to your exponentially pessimistic worldview. It haunted your empty dorm that first year, that room you never let become a home, caught up in all the wrong things and refusing to admit that you were stuck. 

And then you saw him, a scrawny little thing lingering around one of your professors during the first days of your second year. Her TA, he said, and you pulled him aside after the lecture to interrogate him, chest tightening when he laughed at your reaction to his age. The same age as you, starting his third doctorate, you thought he was the most amazing person you’d ever met. You told him as much, revelling in the gentle flush that spread across his cheeks, that you had brought out of him.

His eyes found yours during every class, his hand found yours in the courtyard afterwards, fingers intertwined over lunch. 

The night you snuck him into an old abandoned building on the outskirts of the campus, dragging him behind you through the gap in the chicken wire fence. He complained, droning on about the legal repercussions, although he never once tried to stop you. That seemed to be how he coped, if he spoke through every possible scenario, he would be prepared for the absolute worst. The way your first kiss had been preceded by what seemed to start as a question, unravelling into a tangent about consent. You’d ended up kissing him, partially to shut him up, mostly because rambling looked far too good on him.

You kissed him again that night, in that old house while he tried to explain the potential health and safety risks—from unsound infrastructure to rot and germs—until he lost the ability to talk at all. He didn’t seem to care much about any hazards after that, in that quiet room of easy movements and confessions.

As the chill of fall grew, the draughty old remains were nothing against even the mildest of winds, and you were pushed out of your makeshift home. You found small cafes with cozy corners where you could pretend there was no one else. And when the sign flipped to ‘closed’ you trudged through the yellowing leaves or rain to your dorm, thankful for the single-room setup that had caused you such isolation that first year.

It took you three months to find the right birthday present for him, a skinny purple scarf whose thread seemed to be woven from his essence. You wrapped it around his neck and told him that the colour brought out the green flecks in his eyes while he tried to kiss you in thanks. You let him, and you let him promise that he would never get rid of it, that he would wear it until it fell apart, and you promised that if that day ever came, you would find him an even better one.

You split the Halloween celebrations, the evening reserved for a costumed horror reading at a local library, followed by a Halloween party in a warehouse. He made it five steps inside before the loud music and pathogen-infested landscape had you taking him back to your dorm for a Halloween movie marathon and caramel corn under warm blankets that you both agreed was far better.

Then there was the first Christmas, gifts traded between soft kisses and whispers of a future you were so sure was yours to keep.

Winter gave way to spring, flowers sprouting on the lawn, handcrafted for him to weave through the strands of your hair and tuck behind your ear. You migrated back to your vacant house that was quickly filled with life—memories, moments, experiences, two heartbeats bound by one rhythm—and nothing more.

When you were evicted from your dorm that summer, he offered up his university-funded, off-campus apartment. There was little about him that managed to surprise you by then, but you did find yourself disconcerted by the realisation that in a year of knowing each other, you’d never seen where he lived. Not that it mattered for long, toothbrushes resting side by side in his bathroom, reminiscent of two figures curled up on the couch and tangled in pristine sheets that smelled like him.

He’d finished his doctorate in engineering halfway through the year, you’d ordered chicken tandoori from his favourite Indian place down the street and watched Doctor Who reruns in celebration.

In the midwinter chill, you snuck back under the chicken wire fence, his old jacket wrapped around you where you stood on the edge of the world you’d built. There was no complaining voice in your ear, no spindly hand in yours, no soft breath on the back of your neck, only icy wind brushing through your hair. The silence was eerie, no long-winded rambles that should have been boring, would have been, if they’d come from anyone else’s lips. 

Sat on the frigid concrete floor until your legs went numb—whether from the cold or the lack of movement, you didn’t know—and only then did you move to that dirty mattress in the middle of the floor. You lay on his side, and you swore you could feel the outline of his body under you, the impression he had left sticking to your skin. Tears fell, spreading as they hit the fabric, forming dark circles to match those that stained the skin under your eyes. You pulled his jacket tighter around you, breathed in the smell of him that was fading all too quickly.

You’d moved back home after finishing your Master’s four years ago, found a scrawny little studio apartment in D.C. that you could barely afford the rent for, but at least you could say you were independent. That seemed to be your measure of success these days—how little you needed anyone else. 

Over the years, you’d spent too much of your time thinking about him, where he was, what happened after he was taken away. Him and his stupid layers in the West Coast heat, you doubted he would survive the winters in the East. He’d probably ended up as a researcher, one day his name would show up in some important paper alongside a possible cure for schizophrenia, he’d always wanted to find one.

Sometimes, you’d open up the box under your bed, empty it piece by piece, and pack it away again. There was no logical reason for it, it was a ritual of what had to be self-harm, reliving every moment and contemplating how you lost it. It was less common now, but you still pulled the jacket on over your pyjamas when the winters grew especially cold. Flicked through the polaroids of you he’d been obsessed with taking that first spring, the pictures of him few and far between. A camera shoved in his face while he complained that he never looked good in them, the rare candid shots that he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

It felt like a dream, a year and a half of peace jutting out awkwardly from everything that came before and afterwards. An anomaly only proven real by the visual documentation of those photographs. Maybe he had taken them for the sole purpose of never letting you forget, and maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe you didn’t want to use a flimsy glue stick of amnesia to fruitlessly seal the cracks in your heart that he’d left you with. 

Maybe you wanted to carefully split it into each little segment with delicate fingers, laugh on a picnic blanket as you fed it to him piece by piece until you were a part of him he wouldn’t be able to leave behind.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast - Comment to be added <3

[bullet-prooflove]

The Cult of Wellness: Colter Shaw x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @inlovewithcharmers @mckinleysbones @lou-bubbles @gatefleet

Companion piece to:

Stay (NSFW) - Colter can never ask for you to stay.

The Maybe Girl (NSFW) - Colter makes a mistake by revealing his feelings for you.

Snow - Colter makes a realisation when you end up staying the night in Nebraska.

The Restless One - Colter never sticks around in one place until now.

For six weeks Colter Shaw drops off the face of the earth. The only time anyone hears from him is the weekly call he has set up with Velma so she doesn’t get concerned and send someone looking for him. Even she doesn’t know what he’s up to, just that all jobs are suspended until further notice.

He spends that time outdoors with you, living off the land, bathing in the waterfalls and making love to the sound of the rain as it bounces off the roof of the airstream. This is the kind of future he has always envisioned for the two of you, but right now it’s one that he knows can never last.

You still haven’t told him what drove you here. He picks up hints, enough to conduct his own research and what he finds, it turns his stomach. There’s a wellness centre back in California that’s being investigated by the FBI, it’s had been run by influencer and sociopath Laura Delmore, who preaches that her remedies can cure the illnesses that modern medicine can’t.

The cult of wellness you’d called it, one night when you were cuddled up by the campfire underneath the blanket his mother had lovingly weaved.

The two of you aren’t adverse to natural remedies, you both grew up learning how to utilise the wilderness to cure one’s ailments. It’s the other stuff you’re opposed to, people who are losing their homes, cashing in their belongings for a placebo that is never going to work. Laura Delmore was building her fortune on pain and desperation and Colter thinks you tried to stop it.

He asks Bobby to dig into the files, send him a copy of everything he finds. It takes a couple of hours but he gets the notification on his phone in the late afternoon. You’re out on a trip to town, grabbing a few necessities, coffee, steaks and a couple of books from the local library, so he boots up his computer and starts to go through them.

There’s one name that sticks out and Colter realises why you fell off his radar six months ago. It had nothing to do with your commitment issues. It was because Delmore had killed your sister, the one you escaped the cult with.

Alongside peddling her placebos Delmore, treated mental health issues with ayahuasca, psilocybin and peyote, charging her clients a hefty fee for her tea ceremonies. Your sister Skye had always struggled in the aftermath of the cult and she thought this might be a way to ease her suffering. The ayahuasca ceremony was heralded as a cure for PTSD on social media, a way to escape your demons.

The thing about ayahuasca? It doesn’t react well with anti-depressants, especially not in large doses. It had caused a seizure and instead of calling an ambulance, they’d simply moved Skye to one of the meditations rooms so it wouldn’t upset the other guests at the retreat. When they’d returned hours later they found her cold and unresponsive.

Skye’s death, it broke you.

You’d decided to start your own investigation and that woman, she had seen you coming a mile away. She’d had her lawyers had put together a dossier of relatives in case of an impending lawsuit, she knew exactly who you were and what you did, and of course, she wanted to find out what you knew.

The dosing starts when she offers you a cup of tea in her office. He knows this because Denmore records the interaction, the same way she does with her tea ceremonies and her one to one sessions. Clients are encouraged to purge not only their bodies but their secrets and one can make a lot of money if you know the right buttons to push.

There are three recordings in total, one for each of the days they keep you there and every single one of them is fucking harrowing. The fact that someone has done this to you makes Colter want to commit a murder, an impulse he’s never felt throughout through the duration of his years on this earth.

The only reason they stop is because they accidently overdose you, seeing them carry your limp, unresponsive body out of that room, it devastates him because in that moment he knows just how close he came to losing you.

He manages to piece together the next couple of days from police and hospital reports. You were found in a dumpster by a homeless man, ten miles away from the centre, tossed away like trash. It’s clear to him that they had thought you were dead when they disposed of you. You were just a messy loose end that needed cleaning up.

When you wake up, the first thing you do is call a friend in the FBI and after that all manner of hell rains down on Laura Denmore and her ‘wellness retreat’. He has to stop reading then because he hears your car pulling up outside the Airstream.

He’s quiet as he helps you unpack the groceries, lost in his own thoughts. It’s a miracle to him that you’re even functioning right now, a testament to your strength, your resilience.

It’s after he gets out of the shower that you climb into his lap, you’re wearing that threadbare grey t-shirt of his, the one he keeps especially for you. His arms wrap around you, cradling you close as he buries his face in the curve of your throat.

“You know don’t you?” You whisper, your lips featherlight against his temple. “You know what they did to me.”

His grip on you tightens and you sigh sadly because the bubble you’ve been living in for the past six weeks is broken and it’s time to face reality again.

“They broke me Colter.” You confess into the air between you. “Every single horrible thing that has ever happened to me came flooding back and I don’t know how to heal from that. I can’t seem to figure out how to put myself back together.”

“I’ll help you.” He tells you resolutely, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “You’re not alone, I’m right here with you.”

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[doctorbitchcrxft]

No Exit | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ? )

Warnings: Jo and reader are dicks to each other, canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 5754

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You and the Winchester boys had been hunkered down in the rooms Ellen told you about the first time she met you for a few days now. You were grateful for her generosity while you and the brothers tried to pin down your next move with the demon or another hunt, but you were going stir crazy. You sat on the hood of the Impala under the shade of a tree pouring through newspapers. Sam and Dean approached you after a few hours of you researching.

“What are you doing to my baby?” Dean asked you.

“Dee, she’s fine, we’re bonding,” you said, tapping the spot next to you on the hood. “Nothing’s dented or broken; promise.”

He gave you a skeptical look but said nothing else.

“ ‘Sides, I was getting ready to come get you anyway,” you said, hopping down. “I think I got something. Los Angeles, California.”

“What’s in L.A.?” Sam asked.

“Young girl's been kidnapped by an evil cult,” you smirked.

“Yeah? Girl got a name?” 

“Katie Holmes.”

Dean chuckled, and a grin spread across your face. 

“Seriously, though, it’s like all things supernatural disappeared off the face of the earth,” you continued.

Dean turned his head toward the Roadhouse at the sound of a glass breaking. “Ooh, catfight.”

You grimaced and followed the boys into the bar cautiously. Ellen and Jo were arguing loudly about Jo wanting to go off and Ellen wanting her to stay at the Roadhouse or go back to school. She stopped shouting when she noticed you. “Guys, bad time.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sam said. The three of you turned to leave.

Dean got one more quip in, saying, “Yeah, we rarely drink before ten anyway.”

“Funny, let’s go,” you deadpanned, grabbing his jacket lightly and pulling him to the door.

“Wait. I wanna know what they think about this,” Jo said.

At the sound of the creaking front door, you turned to see a family with two kids under three walking in wearing bright yellow “Nebraska is for Lovers” t-shirts.

Ellen continued to yell despite the customers that had entered. “I don't care what they think!”

The father of the two young kids cut Ellen off. “Are you guys open?”

Jo yelled, “No!” and her mother yelled, “Yes!”

The dad grimaced and shrank away. “We’ll just… check out the Arby’s down the road.”

The phone rang as the family left, and Ellen went to answer it. Jo turned to you and the brothers; her gaze mostly focused on Dean, per usual. 

“Three weeks ago, a young girl disappears from a Philadelphia apartment.” She shoved a file at Dean. Dean looked down at it strangely.  “Take it, it won't bite,” she said.

“No, but your mom might,” he responded.

Jo’s lips pinched, still holding out the folder. He took it reluctantly as Jo continued explaining. “And this girl wasn't the first. Over the past eighty years six women have vanished. All from the same building, all young blondes. Only happens every decade or two so cops never eyeball the pattern. So we're either dealing with one very old serial killer, or—”

Dean flipped through it and cut her off. “Who put this together? Ash?"

Jo smiled proudly. “I did it myself.”

Dean hummed, impressed, and you took the folder from him. You flipped through it, secretly hoping to find holes in it somewhere, but you couldn’t at first glance. You were impressed, too, much to your chagrin.

“I gotta admit. We hit the road for a lot less,” Sam added.

“Good. You like the case so much, you take it,” Ellen stated.

“Mom!”

“Joanna Beth, this family has lost enough. And I won't lose you too. I just won't.”

Your gaze softened as you took in Ellen’s grief-stricken features. You could completely empathize with how that felt. And so, you and the brothers set off. 

***

“I feel kind of bad, snaking Jo's case,” Sam said as the three of you stalked around the deceased’s apartment.

“I don’t,” you said. “Her mom’s only trying to protect her.”

“Exactly. Maybe she put together a good file,” Dean added, “but could you see her out here working one of these things? I don't think so.”

You pulled out your EMF meter and continued walking around the very nice apartment. “What I wouldn’t give to have one of these,” you muttered. “You getting anything?”

“No, not yet,” replied Sam. Just as he spoke, you heard his meter beeping. He leaned over to something in front of him, and you walked over.

“What's that?” you asked.

“What?” Dean came up behind you as Sam reached down to the lightswitch and lightly touched it.

“Holy crap,” the younger Winchester said.

Dean reached forward, too. “That's ectoplasm. Well, Sam, I think I know what we're dealing with here. It's the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.”

You snickered. “Can we get through one hunt without a Ghostbusters reference, please?”

“Never.”

“Guys, focus, please,” Sam deadpanned. “I've only seen this stuff, like, twice. I mean, to make this stuff you have to be one majorly pissed off spirit.”

“Alright, let's find this badass before he snags any more girls,” Dean said. You followed him out of the apartment and immediately had to cling to a wall to avoid being seen by the approaching voices. Your face fell when you realized one of the voices was Jo’s.

“It is so spacious.” Her voice was getting closer. “You know, my friend told me I absolutely have to come check it out, and I have to admit, she was right. You did a really good job with this place.”

Dean stepped out suddenly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“There you are, honey,” Jo grinned, wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist. You could’ve killed her.  “This is my boyfriend Dean, and his buddies, Sam and (Y/N).”

“Good to meetcha,” the landlord said. “Quite a gal you've got here.”

Dean smacked her ass roughly, trying to convey his frustration to her. “Oh yeah, she's a pistol.”

“So, did you already check out that apartment? The one for rent,” Jo asked Dean.

“Yeah. Yes. Loved it. Heh. Great flow.”

“How'd you get in?” the landlord asked.

Dean swallowed harshly. “It was open.”

“Now, Ed, um, when did the last tenant move out?” Jo grinned back at the landlord.

“Oh, about a month ago. Cut and run, too. Stuck me for the rent.”

“Well. Her loss, our gain! 'Cause if Dean-o loves it, it's good enough for me.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Dean gritted through his teeth, smacking her again.

Jo pulled out a wad of cash. “We’ll take it.”

The landlord’s eyes widened, and he immediately brought you back to the front office to get a key.

***

You paced around the lovely apartment furiously at Jo re-hijacking the hunt you’d hijacked from her. 

“I’ll flip you for the sofa,” she said to you.

“Does your mom even know you’re here?” you asked.

“Told her I was going to Vegas.”

You scoffed. “She’s not stupid, She’s not gonna buy that.”

“I'm not an idiot,” Jo challenged. “I got Ash to lay a credit card trail all the way to the casinos.”

Dean took your humorless laugh as an opportunity to jump in before you got any uglier. “You know, you shouldn't lie to your mom. Shouldn't be here, either.”

“Well, I am,” she said. “So untwist your boxers and deal with it.”

“Where'd you get all that money from, anyways?” Sam questioned.

She gave a prideful smile. “Working. At the Roadhouse.”

“Hunters don’t tip that well,” Dean replied.

“Well, they aren't that good at poker, either,” she smirked.

‘Take away her immaturity, inexperience, rashness, and massive crush on Dean, I probably could be friends with her,’ you thought.

Dean’s cell phone rang. “Yeah?” He answered, still glaring at Jo. “Oh, hi, Ellen.” Dean and Jo had a furious muttered argument before he said, “I haven’t seen her” back into the phone. “Yeah, I'm sure… Absolutely.” Dean hung up, and Jo grinned cheerfully.

“Why didn’t you tell her?” you hissed at Dean. “Ellen’s gonna murder us.”

“Seriously?” Jo folded her arms at you. “You’re scared of my mom?”

“No,” you spat back. “I just don’t wanna babysit the whole time I’m trying to hunt.”

“(Y/N), stop it,” Sam warned.

“Me? This chick has a death wish, and I need to ‘stop it’?” you snarked. “I’m going to get some air.” You stomped out of the room, Dean trailing behind you.

“(Y/N), where are you going?” he asked.

“Away,” you snorted. “She’s pissing me off. I’m not hunting with her.”

He grabbed your arm. “I’m not happy, either, but what’s this really about?”

You felt caught. “What?”

“You heard me. What’s goin’ on? You’re normally the one who has to talk me off the ledge. Not the other way around,” he said.

You lowered your voice. “I don’t trust her,” you began. “I don’t trust her to have any of our backs. All she’s tried to do thus far is get in your pants and act like an immature brat.

"She has potential, sure, and she’s smart, but she’s not one of us. And I have no idea what her skillset is. She pointed a rifle at you one time; we’ve never seen her use one. She could be an awful shot. And she has no idea how to actually kill anything. She’s, what, twenty-one, twenty-two? She didn’t grow up hunting. She has no experience.

"She doesn’t belong here. And you not telling Ellen she’s here was a huge mistake. Because now, she’s our responsibility. And like I said, I’m not babysitting. If it’s between you or Sam, and her, I’m saving you and Sam every time.”

Dean smirked down at you.

“What?” you hissed.

“You’re jealous,” he said simply.

“Seriously? Did you hear anything else I said?” You crossed your arms and quirked a brow.

He chuckled. “Yeah, I did, and I agree. I’ll watch her if you’ll watch Sam, okay? No blood on your hands if something happens to her,” he replied.

You shook your head. “No, Dean, I don’t like that, either—”

Dean smirked down at you. “What, don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, I do,” you replied. “I don’t trust her.”

He chuckled. “I think you said that already.”

“Just—” you huffed. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Dean snorted. “C’mon, it’s me we’re talking about. I’ll be fine. Will you come back and be civil now?” he asked.

“No promises.”

“Okay, I guess we’re doing this, then.” He raised his pinky at you, and you rolled your eyes.

“I can’t make a pinky promise I can’t keep,” you replied.

“That’s the point. You have to, so I know you’ll be civil.” Dean looked down at you, a challenge in his eyes and a smile plastered on his face.

“But—” you tried.

“No.”

“Dean,” you groaned but locked pinkies with him nonetheless.

“See, was that so hard?” he smirked down at you.

“You can’t use my own thing against me,” you said as you headed back to the apartment. “That’s against the rules of pinky promises.”

“Oh, there’s rules now?” Dean questioned playfully.

“There are when I say there are,” you responded flippantly, opening the door to the apartment.

Jo and Sam turned to face you, and you suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Look, Jo—” you started.

“Save it. It’s fine,” she replied.

“Well, okay, then,” you mumbled, softly enough that only Dean could hear you mocking her. 

Dean gave you a warning look. “(Y/N).”

“I know, I know.”

***

You sat at the table with your laptop next to Sam as Dean paced around the room. Jo had been flipping her little knife around for the last thirty minutes while she looked over the blueprints for the apartment.

“This place was built in 1924. It was originally a warehouse, converted into apartments a few months ago,” she explained.

“Yeah? What was here before 1924?” Dean questioned.

“Nothing. Empty field.”

“So, most likely scenario, someone died bloody in the building, and now he's back and raising hell,” Sam added.

Jo shook her head. “I already checked. In the past eighty-two years, zero violent deaths. Unless you count a janitor who slipped on a wet floor.” She looked up to Dean. “Would you sit down, please?”

Dean sat hesitantly at the head of the table, eyeing Jo guardedly. “So, have you checked police reports, county death records—”

“Obituaries, mortuary reports and seven other sources. I know what I'm doing,” she said.

“Jury’s still out on that one,” Dean replied. “Could you put the knife down?”

She complied, eyeing him angrily. He glared back.

Sam huffed. “Okay! So, uh, it's something else, then. Maybe some kind of cursed object that brought a spirit with it.”

“Meh, unless somebody’s got a relic from an Egyptian tomb, I’m not sure a cursed object has the kind of spirit power necessary to make ectoplasm,” you said. 

Jo completely ignored you. “Well, we've got to scan the whole building. Everywhere we can get to, right?”

“Right. So. You and me, we'll take the top two floors,” Dean said firmly. “Sam and (Y/N)’ll take the bottom two.”

“We'd move faster if we split up,” the blonde tried.

“Oh, this isn't negotiable,” Dean responded. 

***

You and Sam returned to the room way sooner than Dean and Jo did. The two of you found nothing of particular interest, unfortunately, and opted to just sprawl out on the couch and floor watching a rerun of Seinfeld. 

“I just wanted to tell you,” Sam began, “I don’t think you’re wrong about Jo. Just… tone it down a bit. My brother’s dickish enough to her.”

You sighed. “Dean made me pinky promise I would be civil, so you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

He scoffed. “My brother made you pinky promise?”

You giggled. “I introduced him to the concept.”

“What have you done to him?” Sam chuckled sarcastically. 

You shook your head. “I have no idea. I don’t know what he’s doing to me, either.”

Sam paused. “Have you… talked about it at all?”

You nodded your head from side to side as if to say, “sorta.” “I just don’t think now’s the right time. I mean, after your dad, I don’t wanna take advantage of that or him to use me as a distraction.”

He nodded in understanding. “I get it. But… I also don’t think Dean would use you.”

You shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.” You paused. “How are you holding up, by the way? We haven’t had much of an opportunity to hang out one-on-one recently.”

“Honestly? Not great,” he sighed. “I’m scared, man. I don’t know what’s happening or how to stop it. And I think my dad died thinking I hate him.” Tears began to well in his eyes. “I never should’ve said those things to him.”

You got up from the floor and went to sit next to him. You reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing firmly. “If it helps at all, I think my dad died thinking the same. And that feeling goes away after a while. I think both our dads knew that despite our many, many, many issues with each other, the bottom line is, we loved each other a lot.”

He squeezed your hand back and looked at you with sad, puppy-dog eyes. “I hope you’re right.”

The door opened to reveal Dean and Jo bickering and Dean’s fist clenched around a clump of blonde hair with skin attached to it. 

You giggled. “What, you hate each other that much that you ripped a piece of Jo’s hair out?”

Dean deadpanned, “No, smartass. We found this in a vent.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh. Gross.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Dean grumbled. He opened the trash can in the room and dumped it inside.

“Alright, it’s getting late,” Jo stated. “Who’s sleeping where? There’s four of us, two beds, and a couch.”

“(Y/N) and I’ll take a bed,” Dean said casually almost immediately. “Sam’ll take the other. Jo, you got the couch.”

The three of you were stunned at Dean and his adamancy. 

Oh-kay,” Jo said, still shocked. 

“C’mon,” Dean said, jerking his head toward one of the rooms. He picked up your duffel bags and headed off.

You followed behind, saying “Goodnight, guys,” and shut the door behind you. You tapped the sides of your thighs with your palms as you stayed firmly planted by the door.

Dean seemed to feel a little awkward, too, and blew out a breath. “Was this… uh, okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah! Yeah. Sure. Why not? We’re adults. We’re friends. We can share a bed. No big.”

He chuckled. “You sure? You ramble when you’re nervous.”

“Nervous?” you laughed awkwardly. “Why would I be nervous?” He raised a brow at you, and you took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’ve just… I’ve never… Hunting’s lonely. Even when I did hook up, I’d leave before I fell asleep.”

Dean seemed stunned. “Really? Why?”

“I don’t know, it just… felt too intimate, I guess? And I’ve never had anybody I seriously cared about that I’d want to experience that with,” you explained, sitting on the foot of the bed and kicking off your shoes.

His voice quieted considerably. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

You nodded. He seemed to understand what that meant, though both of you refused to talk about it. 

Dean showered, as did you, and then you climbed into bed next to one another. The two of you seemed to have scooted to the far edges of the bed, facing away from each other. After several minutes in silence, Dean spoke up.

“(Y/N)?” he murmured.

“Yeah?” 

“C’mere.” 

You could feel yourself getting flustered as you shuffled over to Dean, who now laid in the center of the bed. He opened his arms and wrapped them around you, allowing you to lay on his chest. You rested your hand on his stomach, and he took in a sharp breath.

“Should’ve cleaned the pipes,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “Perv,” and moved your arm across his stomach completely. You settled into him and drifted off to the most peaceful sleep you’d had in a while.

***

The next time you awoke, you felt arms around you, and you tensed. It took you a second to remember Dean was sleeping soundly next to you. His arms held tighter when he felt you shift, and you turned your face toward his. You smiled sadly at his beautiful, peaceful face, knowing this hunt would be the only time for quite a while that you’d get to wake up to him. You closed your eyes and nuzzled back into him, only to feel him groan above you; beginning to awaken.

“Morning,” he said. His sleepy voice was incredibly attractive. His arms didn’t move from around you.

A smile spread across your face. “G’morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Great, actually,” he admitted. He almost looked sad and regretful as he looked down at you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“You’re confusing me again,” Dean said.

You looked away from him, understanding. Your face fell, too. “You’re confusing me, too.”

“I want to… be more to you so bad,” he began, “but I can’t. I’m tired, (Y/N). I’m so fucking tired. I’m tired of this job, I’m tired of dealing with my dad, I’m tired of… all of it.”

“I know,” you said. “So, what do you want us to do? Do you— Do you want me to leave?”

“No, god, no,” he said quickly. “I don’t know what I want.”

You snorted. “Well, what is it you don’t want? Why don’t we start there?”

He considered for a moment. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t,” you immediately said.

“Will you let me finish?”

“Sorry.”

He sighed. “I don’t wanna name and claim anything right now. I don’t wanna be just your best friend, but I also— I don’t think I can—” Dean paused and took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t be able to give you what I want to give you right now. I can’t be what you deserve.”

“Dean,” you said. “This is a very low-pressure situation. I know you and I can’t go there right now. I know that. And… I want to, too. I care about you more than I’ve ever cared about… anybody else.” You swallowed tensely, not sure if you’d said too much. “I— I want you to heal. And I know you’re tired. And I know it’s awful. And I hope that one day, I can make things better for you. But I also know that you have to fix you first. But until then, we can just be us. I won’t initiate anything. I need you to come to me when you’re ready. And until then, we’ll just be you and me.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

You smiled softly. “Always.”

***

After you and Dean talked things over a bit, you learned from Sam that another girl had died. Dean was off to investigate the room while you, Sam, and Jo researched. Jo wouldn’t look at you with anything but disgust after you spent the night with Dean. Her schoolgirl-ish crush was beginning to really just annoy you more than make you jealous.

Dean burst through the door. “Teresa Ellis, Apartment 2F. Boyfriend reported her missing around dawn.”

“And her apartment?” Jo questioned.

“Cracks all over the plaster, walls, ceiling. There was ectoplasm, too.”

“Well, between that and that tuft of hair, I'd say this sucker's coming from the walls,” Sam added.

“But who is it? Building's history is totally clean,” Dean reminded you.

There were various pictures and blueprints from Jo’s file spread across the table between you, Sam, and Jo. You picked up a picture of the field where the apartments now stood. Next to it was a building with bars on its windows. “Check this out. We’re next door to a prison.” 

“Nice going, (Y/N),” Sam grinned. 

Jo pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Ash—”

“No,” you shook your head, standing. “Let me figure this one out. Something about this is sounding really familiar to me, and it’s gonna bother me if I’m not the one to nail it down.”

“And what a shame that would be,” Jo snarked.

You glared at her as you continued to pace around the room. “Blonde hair, in the walls, prison, field, Philadelphia…” you murmured to yourself. You repeated it over and over to yourself until something struck you. “H. H. Holmes,” you breathed. “Holy shit.”

“What? What about him?” Sam questioned, straightening in his seat.

“That was his whole thing! He was really, and I mean, really into blondes— though, he’d kill just about anybody— had his whole ‘murder castle’ thing in Chicago, and the feds tracked him all the way to Boston. They brought him back to Philly, and he was hanged. Hence, field. Fields next to old prisons were almost always used for hangings,” you explained.

“What do you mean, ‘murder castle’?” Jo questioned. “And how do you know all this?”

“I like true crime,” you shrugged. “He built all these fake walls, fake hallways; his place was a fucking maze. Acid vats, trap doors, quicklime pits all up in his basement— although most of that was probably sensationalized— but anyway, this guy was a complete freak. ‘Multi-murderer’ was first used to describe him before they knew what serial killers were. He confessed to twenty-seven murders, but he probably killed over a hundred. He, uh, he used chloroform to kill his victims.”

Dean nodded, “Which is what I smelled in the hallway last night.”

“At his place,” you continued, “cops found human remains, bone fragments, and long locks of bloody blonde hair.”

Dean snickered at Jo. “Boy, you sure know how to pick 'em.”

“Well, we just find the bones, salt 'em and burn 'em, right?” she said, anxiously.

“Nope. His body’s in town encased in a couple tons of concrete,” you responded.

“What, why?” she asked.

“Didn’t want anybody fuckin’ with his corpse. ‘Cause, y’know, that’s what he did,” you cringed. 

“Wait, (Y/N), that means Teresa could still be alive. Inside the walls,” Sam added.

You nodded. “Yeah. Poor girl.”

“We need sledgehammers, crowbars. We've got to smash these walls; anywhere thick enough to hide a girl,” Dean barked out, hurriedly moving around the apartment.

***

You went with Sam, and Dean went with Jo as he promised you he would. Sam couldn’t get too far into the crawl-spaces of the walls, and you insisted on pressing forward. If you could get through, then the space was big enough to hide a girl. 

“(Y/N), holler if you need, okay?” Sam called to you.

“I’m good, dude, I promise. But you do the same.” You continued to wriggle through winding, claustrophobia-inducing corridors till you came face to face with the man himself; H. H. Holmes. Although, this version of the famed serial killer was a lot more gray, decayed, and gaunt than the one you’d seen in pictures. You screamed, “Sam!” before the world went dark.

***

You next awoke in a box that eerily mirrored a coffin; it was made of wood and just big enough for you to lay down in. You pointed your flashlight up at the ceiling to see long, deep, bloodied gashes in the wood; presumably nail marks. You huffed out a shaky breath, collecting yourself, when you noticed a slit in the wood to your right. A noise startled your already shaken mind, and you heard Jo say, “Hello?” You refused to talk, worried that it would upset Holmes even more.

You heard another woman’s voice coming from a different part of the room. “Is- Is anybody there?”

Jo continued talking. “Your name's Teresa? This won't make you feel better, but I'm here to rescue you.”

“Oh, god. He's out there; he's gonna kill us!” Teresa cried.

“No, he won't. We're getting out,” Jo insisted. “My friends are looking for us; they'll find us.”

Footsteps fell eerily nearby, and you could vaguely make out something approaching you.

“Oh, god, he's here!” Teresa sobbed.

“Shh! Just be quiet!” Jo scolded.

‘So much for being quiet, Jo,’ you thought. The next thing you heard was Jo screaming in pain, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from calling out to her.

You took a knife out of your belt and began hacking at the wall. You kicked with all your might until you finally started to break through a little. Suddenly, a man’s mouth appeared at the opening you were making in the wood. 

“You're so pretty. So beautiful,” the spirit cooed, reaching in your cell to stroke your cheek. You cringed and turned away, groaning in disgust. You turned back and stabbed it with your knife, the spirit crying out before disappearing again. You went back to kicking and hacking at the door with even more force than before. At long last, the paneling came loose, and you laughed in relief. You pried the rest of the paneling away from the wall and rolled out onto the floor, catching yourself before you toppled over completely. When you stood and dusted off your hands, Holmes appeared behind you and clasped a hand over your mouth. You kicked and struggled against him, screaming behind his hand muffling you. You wrestled with him a bit more before the spirit suddenly let you go. He disappeared completely when you heard a gunshot go off.

“(Y/N)!” Dean ran into the room, holding a shotgun.

You breathed out a sigh of relief. “Holy shit, I’m so happy to see you.” You ran to him and wrapped your arms around him.

“Um, little help, here!” Jo said from her box. 

You ran to the wall next to her and picked up a crowbar lying nearby. You began prying the cell open, groaning strenuously as you did so. When it finally released, you helped Jo down. “You okay?” you asked her.

“Been better. Let's get the hell out of here before he comes back,” she answered.

“I’m not leaving here just yet,” you said.

“(Y/N), no—” Dean protested firmly. He seemed to understand what you were doing.

“What other plan do you have, Dean?” “Wait, what’s going on here?” Jo questioned.

“(Y/N)’s gonna use herself as bait,” he explained. 

“What, would you rather Jo be bait? I don’t think so,” you said flippantly. “Now, get them out of here.” You gestured to Sam to help a frightened Teresa and Jo out of the room. 

***

You sat in the center of the room completely unmoving. You sat cross-legged, breathing evenly. You’d learned long ago how to steel yourself to these situations. You grinned slightly when Holmes began to approach you. When he got very close, Dean yelled, “Now!” and Sam and Dean began shooting the bags of salt you’d strung up to the ceiling to create a perfect circle of salt around the spirit. You ran out of the circle, leaving Holmes trapped inside. He wailed and growled at you, running around the salt circle pathetically.

“Scream all you want, you dick, but there's no way you're stepping over that salt!” you laughed coldly.

You and the brothers climbed back up out of the sewer and closed the grate, fully silencing Holmes’ howls.

***

“So? This job as glamorous as you thought it would be?” Sam asked Jo as the three of you stood over the top of the closed sewer..

“Well, except for all the pee-your-pants terror, yeah. Sure. But that Teresa girl's gonna live a life because of us. It's worth it, isn't it?” Jo replied.

You nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

“Hey, what if somebody finds that sewer down there, or a storm washes the salt away?” she questioned.

Sam chuckled. “Both very fine points. Which is why we're waiting here.”

“For what?”

As if on cue, you heard the beeping of a large truck backing up. You grinned over your shoulder at Dean backing up the cement truck he’d stolen, and motioned for him to stop when the spout lined up over the sewer’s entrance.

Dean got out of the cab and came to stand next to you.

“You ripped off a cement truck?” Jo scoffed.

“We’ll give it back,” you shrugged. You turned a lever on the side of the truck and watched the cement pour down into the entrance. 

“Well, that oughta keep him down there till hell freezes over,” Dean grinned.

***

As you and the brothers were heading out with Jo in tow, Ellen appeared at the entrance of the apartments, intense anger bubbling just under the surface. You and the boys cringed at the sight of her.

“Mom—” Jo began.

“Not now.”

She forced the five of you to ride back to the Roadhouse in complete silence. Ellen sat in the front seat, staring blankly ahead, and you were sandwiched between Jo and Sam in the back.

Dean chuckled awkwardly. “Boy, you– you really weren't kidding about flying out, were you?”

“You told her?!” you couldn’t help but blurt out.

Ellen scowled at you in the rearview mirror. You shrunk under her gaze. 

“How about we listen to some music?” Dean flicked the radio on. Ellen immediately reached forward and flicked the radio off.

You looked up to Dean, who looked back to you.

“This is gonna be a long drive,” he muttered.

***

Ellen dragged her daughter into the Roadhouse by her elbow, and you and the brothers followed closely.

“Ellen? This is my fault. Okay?” Dean tried. “I lied to you and I'm sorry. But Jo did good out there. I think her dad would be proud.”

Ellen whipped around, angrily commanding, “Don't you dare say that. Not you. I need a moment with my daughter. Alone.”

The three of you left and loitered around in silence for the next few minutes. Jo stormed out of the Roadhouse soon after, tossing a glance to Dean to incentivize him to follow her.

“That bad, huh?” he asked as he walked after her.

“Not right now.”

“What happened? Hey, talk to me.” He grabbed her arm and spun her around.

Jo immediately jerked her arm out of Dean's grasp. “Get off me!”

“Sorry. See you around,” he said, turning back to you and Sam.

“Dean,” Jo’s broken voice called.

He turned back to the blonde.

“It turns out my dad had a partner on his last hunt. Funny, he usually worked alone; this guy did too, but,” she swallowed her forming tears, “I guess my father figured he could trust him. Mistake. Guy screwed up, got my dad killed.”

The older brother’s face scrunched up. “What does this have to do with—”

“It was your father, Dean.”

Dean scoffed. “What?”

“Why do you think John never came back? Never told you about us? Because he couldn't look my mom in the eye after that, that's why,” Jo spat.

“Jo—” Dean tried.

“Just... just get out of here. Please, just leave.”

The three of you did as Jo asked. You headed back to Bobby’s to regroup and find yourselves another hunt. Dean was silent on the multi-hour-long drive back. When you stopped at Bobby’s house, Sam went inside. Dean stayed seated in his car, and you stayed with him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

He scoffed. “ ‘What’s wrong’? Did you hear anything Jo said?”

“I did, I just wanted to see what’s goin’ on in your head,” you replied, unfazed by his attitude.

He shook his head and sighed. “If Ellen hated my dad so much and didn’t trust us at all, then why the fuck would she have called my dad in the first place?”

You nodded, getting out of the car; followed by Dean. “Yeah, I don’t get it,” you agreed. “She wants to get involved with your personal family shit and the demon and let us bunk at her place, and then bring up old crap you and Sam weren’t even a part of? I mean, I get that John did something that got ‘im killed, but I really don’t see how that’s your fault.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled. “At least we don’t have to babysit anymore.”

You snorted. “That’s one way to look at it, I guess. But you don’t have to pretend you’re not bothered by it. I know you are.”

He scoffed.

“Dean. I know you are. And I also know that I trust you with my life. And you know I don’t trust easily. You are not your father.” You walked up the steps into Bobby’s house, leaving Dean in the junkyard to mull over your words.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[thelittleslowmoon]

Kennedy moves from one room to another, then sits for a moment in the hall as people stream back and forth past him. He is deeply worn, but nearly a month of intensive campaigning still lies ahead — Nebraska next week, then Oregon, then South Dakota and California. He rubs his face. He has pushed himself to the limit, but he does not mention his weariness. His face is gaunt, weathered; his eyes are sunken and red. He rubs his hand over his face again, as if to tear away the exhaustion. It is not something he has sympathy with, his hand is not consoling as it drags across his face—he is simply trying to get rid of an encumbrance. He responds to questions from a reporter slowly, haltingly, trying to think; the questions seem to goad him painfully to one more effort. In the wake of his success, he admits there are great areas of loss — primarily for his family, and in his privacy. ‘I think... I think... I would make this one effort... and if it fails I would go back to my children... If you bring children into the world, you should stay with them, see them through...’ He had once thought of teaching, or of starting a new kind of project in the Mississippi Delta, or of working with the Indians, but now he doesn’t know. ‘I think about it,’ he says slowly. ‘I think about it... I’m not sure.’ The hand drags across the face again, his eyes closed. He mentions privacy. ‘It would be nice taking a walk sometime without someone taking a picture of you taking a walk...’ More people come through the door. Kennedy looks up, gets quickly to his feet, and greets them, alert again, moving.

─ Jim Stevenson

[tenthsfreezeout]

which “tracks 2” album are you most excited for?

1. LA Garage Sessions ‘83: The symbiotic writing and home-recording process Springsteen employed on Nebraska that would extend and grow with his temporary relocation to Southern California in late 1982.

2. Streets of Philadelphia Sessions: from 1994 and expands on the more synth and electronic-heavy style Springsteen was recording in making the song Streets of Philadelphia. Explores an interest in the rhythms of mid-1990s contemporary music, and particularly West Coast hip-hop. Single: Blind Spot

3. Faithless: A moving meditation on purpose, belief, and acceptance. Recorded from 2005-2006: music made for a “spiritual Western” film that, unlike Philadelphia, never got made, leaving the material for years until now. Bruce’s sons, Evan and Sam, are credited as contributors. Single: Faithless

4. Somewhere North of Nashville: a previously-unheard collection inspired by the sounds of honky tonk, rockabilly and uptempo country. Recorded simultaneously with The Ghost of Tom Joad in the summer of 1995 and features much of the core band at the heart of those sessions. Single: Repo Man

5. Inyo: Inspired during a series of motorcycle trips across the Southwest. Thematically, several songs on the record examine the Mexican diaspora. Written during Bruce’s time living in California and also revolve around the history of the region. Single: Adelita

6. Twilight Hours: promises an intriguing mixture of noir and orchestral arrangements. Written in tandem with 2019’s “Western Stars,” over the course of a decade, it’s a collection that Springsteen describes as “romantic, lost-in-the-city songs” — ruminating on what becomes of the brokenhearted. Single: Sunday Love

7. Perfect World: eyes up a large, arena-rock-sounding E Street Band effort that was assembled purposefully for the release of this box set. “That’s the one thing on this that wasn’t initially conceived as an album, but it was something I put together.” Single: Rain in the River

[transbookoftheday]

In Case You Read This by Edward Underhill

From acclaimed author Edward Underhill comes a trans rom-com about serendipity, chance encounter, and the ultimate missed connection. This joyful celebration of queer love and found family is perfect for fans of Becky Albertalli, Emery Lee, and Julian Winters.

Arden isn’t excited about moving. Los Angeles was an easy place to fit in and find a supportive queer community. But Winifred, Michigan? That sounds like a much more difficult place to exist.

Pasadena, California, is the perfect city for Gabe’s reinvention. Everyone knew everything about him in small-town Shelby, Illinois. Gabe, who wants to be out and proud, can’t wait to relocate.

When Arden and Gabe randomly meet in the lobby of a motel in Nebraska, it feels like fate. Both are trans, but more importantly, both are huge fans of the band Damaged Pixie Dream Boi. Clearly, the universe is trying to tell them something. Right?

But after an incredible evening of hanging out, the pair part ways only knowing the other’s first name. And as both boys struggle to adjust to their new homes, their thoughts keep being drawn back to their time together. Is one perfect night enough to bring Arden and Gabe back to each other, or will the boys need some help to find each other again? 

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Teen and Up Rated Fics Masterlist (92)

Part 1- Part 85 / Part 86 / Part 87 / Part 88 / Part 89 / Part 90 / Part 91 /

Created: May 29th, 2025

Last Checked:—-

Argonauts And Allies-MTK4FUN (ao3) Summary: AU California Gold Rush - Join the Everdeens, Hawthornes, and Mellarks as they search for gold in a mining camp. "The only way my mother would agree to let us spend any time together is if you asked permission to court me," Katniss joked. "It could work," Peeta said. "It might even stop some of the stories going around." A Softer Place to Land-SoThere (ao3) Summary: After giving Katniss some surprising news, Prim disappears from her sister's life. While trying to move on, Katniss receives a phone call that will challenge everything she knows about life and love. A Song of Found Souls-Mollywog (ao3) Summary: He’d been 5 the first time he’d heard it. It wasn’t the usual chirps and chittering but high and clear notes intoning an unmistakable melody. The next bird that passed echoed the song but in a slight variation, taking up the harmony. His father’s grip tightened as he inhaled sharply. His brothers stopped their tussling and craned their necks to see the source of the sound. Even his mother, though her mouth pinched in a frown, stared up at the sky. Peeta scanned the faces of the crowd: Everyone frozen as if under a trance, the entire yard falling silent as the flock of mockingjays passed. The mountains reverberated a final somber echo and the spell was broken. Bonfire on the Bayou -titania522 (ao3) Summary: Written for Yuletide in Panem Christmas Drabble Challenge, Day 1 Finnick and Annie join Katniss and Peeta for a Southern tradition. However, Annie's got a little surprise for Finnick. Boundless As The Plains-MTK4FUN (ao3) Summary: AU 1860 - Nebraska Territory - Peeta Mellark is a goner when Katniss Everdeen gets off the stagecoach at the trading post he and his brother Rye operate. But Katniss leaves before he can say much to her. Will they ever see each other again? A Pioneer!Everlark tale set against the backdrop of the Pony Express. Brighter Than Angels-sohypothetically (ao3) Summary: Katniss Everdeen has a quiet life as a Phys. Ed. teacher. She volunteers to chaperone Fairfield Junior High's ninth grade trip to Washington D.C. and ends up finding an unexpected ally in Home Ec. teacher Peeta Mellark. Will sparks fly between the pair? An Everlark A/U Building the Dream-sohypothetically (ff) Summary: Dr. Aurelius treats Peeta and brings him back to himself at the end of Mockingjay. How does that happen? What role does President Paylor have in making sure Peeta can become whole without Plutarch using him as a piece in a new game? Rated T due to descriptions of Peeta's treatment by the Capitol post Quarter Quell. Burning-swishywillow (ao3) Summary: He doesn't know how it happened, but suddenly it's the night before the Games start and he's restless in his bed, thinking of her. - Alternate Games. but sir, that's my emotional support ghost-songbirdheart (ao3) Summary: this is a collection of drabbles based on a silly little (and yet I hope well executed) concept I'm fond of wherein the ghost of Lucy Gray appears to Peeta during his Capitol captivity and provides him with some psychological shielding and comfort, mostly because I want an excuse to write songs for her to sing, Peeta needs a big sister figure (to be clear, their relationship is exceedingly platonic; her pet names are because she's southern, not because she has a thing for him), and the ghosts of District 12 are my fav; they're in chronological order for now, but as it's a drabble collection, they may not stay that way - enjoy! By Any Other Name-mrsbonniemellark (ao3) Summary: Katniss and Peeta bond over their unique names at Starbucks. Inspired by my own Starbucks adventures with my name.

[transgenderer]

Ranch dressing was invented in the early 1950s by Steven Henson (1918–2007), a Thayer, Nebraska native working as a plumbing contractor in the Anchorage, Alaska area, while cooking to feed his work crews. Henson retired from plumbing at age 35 and moved with his wife Gayle to Santa Barbara County, California, where in 1956 he purchased a guest ranch in San Marcos Pass and renamed it Hidden Valley Ranch.[5][6][7][8]

Henson served the salad dressing he had created at his Hidden Valley Ranch steakhouse, which became popular, and guests bought jars to take home.[6] The first commercial customer for ranch dressing was Henson's friend, Audrey Ovington, who was the owner of Cold Spring Tavern.[7] By 1957, Henson began selling packages of dressing mix in stores.[7][8]

Henson began selling the dry ingredients in packages by mail for 75 cents a piece, and eventually devoted every room in his house to the operation.[7] By the mid-1960s, the guest ranch had closed, but Henson's "ranch dressing" mail-order business was thriving.[7][8]

[cherrycrushes]

a little help - chapter 1

a vox x actress!reader story.

a/n: okay so i caved and decided to make this an actual story wml

it was the 50’s. the golden age of hollywood. here you were, sister to a famous actor and daughter of a famous actress. always looking up to them in your childhood, you also wished to have fame.

your family traveled often. you and your brother were born in nebraska, grew up in california, and moved to manhattan by the time you graduated from college. you and your mom were the only ones who stayed in manhattan, with your brother and father leaving to illinois. the state where you are expected to go now.

“y/n, honey, i’m just scared for you to travel alone! you know in this day and age it is very dangerous to do for a pretty young woman such as yourself!” your mother pestered you as you packed your luggage.

you planned to go on a train to illinois. just to get more job opportunities as an actress. sure, new york had a handful of stars but you were always hired just to be in commercials! it was time for a change and fast. you were in your 20’s afterall! stardom could not come quicker if you stayed in manhattan.

“i get it, ma, but I need to leave! you know it’s just 20 short hours on a train and i will be reunited with marlon and daddy,” you responded with a slight sigh.

your mom picked up one of the discarded dresses on your bed and folded it. she neatly put it in the messy pile you made in your luggage. it was the last one. you and your mother closed the briefcase, with one hand on either side. you locked it.

“i guess so, huh? but you better take care of this gordy luggage of yours! gosh you’ve had this since we first moved to cali,” ma rolled her eyes as you walked out of your room and down the stairs.

“i get it, ma,” you hissed. you put the briefcase down as you put on a coat over your travel dress. ma pointed and shook her finger at you. you opened the door and was about halfway out when she shouted.

“and i better not see any ankle-biters running around when you get back! i love you baby!”

“i love ya too, ma.”

and you were on your way to 42nd street. ecstatic as ever, you reread the brochure you got when you first bought your ticket. a discount given graciously after the vendor recognized you from a couple commercials you’ve filmed. the train was a diesel one- only just have made the switch about five years ago. people even called it the world’s greatest train, with the amount of luxuries it provided.

you walked up the carpeted stairs. being on the poorer side of passengers, your seat was all the way back. finding it, you went face to face with your seat. it looked a bit small and uncomfortable but you could make it work. you stepped backwards, your head colliding into someone’s shoulder. the briefcase in your hands springing open.

“im so sorry oh my christ im so sorry…” you rambled to the stranger.

“no no, don’t worry about it dear,” he chuckled in response. “mistakes happen here and there.”

“please accept my apologies. my name is y/n brando,” you stretched you hand in front of him for a handshake. he took it and pressed your skin to his lips.

“call me vox.”

[lboogie1906]

Steven Henson (February 14, 1918 – February 23, 2007) was a Thayer, Nebraska native working as a plumbing contractor in the Anchorage while cooking to feed his work crews. He retired from plumbing and moved with his wife to Santa Barbara County, California, where he purchased a guest ranch in San Marcos Pass and renamed it Hidden Valley Ranch.

He served the salad dressing he had created in the early 1950s at the ranch's steakhouse and guests bought jars to take home. He began selling packages of dressing mix in stores, by mail and devoted every room in his house to the operation. The guest ranch had closed, but his "ranch dressing" mail-order business was thriving.

They incorporated Hidden Valley Ranch Food Products, Inc. and opened a factory to manufacture ranch dressing, which they first distributed to supermarkets nationwide.

In October 1972, the Hidden Valley Ranch brand was bought by Clorox for $8 million and he retired.

Kraft Foods and General Foods introduced similar dry seasoning packets labeled as "ranch style". Clorox reformulated the Hidden Valley Ranch dressing several times to make it more convenient for consumers, including adding buttermilk flavoring to the seasoning, allowing the dressing to be made using much less expensive regular milk. Clorox developed a non-refrigerated bottled formulation.

Ranch became a common snack food flavor, starting with Cool Ranch Doritos. Hidden Valley Ranch Wavy Lay's potato chips were introduced.

Ranch surpassed Italian dressing to become the best-selling salad dressing in the US. Hidden Valley had three child-oriented variations of ranch dressing: pizza, nacho cheese, and taco flavors. Domino’s first started offering ranch sauce as a condiment with its chicken wings and pizzas, a combination that became popular with customers. Clorox subsidiary Hidden Valley Manufacturing Company was producing ranch packets and bottled dressings at two large factories, in Reno and Wheeling, Illinois.

In 2017, Hidden Valley Ranch Products turned over $450 million. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[breakerwhiskey]

FROM KENTUCKY (LISTENER MESSAGE)

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit atypicalartists.co/support.

If you'd like to send Whiskey a message, click here.

Transcript under the cut. For more episodes, click here.

Hey there, Whiskey. Oh, a while ago my partner sent you a message that said, I still don't know where Kentucky is, and, well, you'll be glad to know, but we finally found it. It's beside Delaware. Let me start over. I've been driving these roads since before I was even tall enough to reach the pedals on my dad's big rig, so I knew where Kentucky was supposed to be. I knew where all the states were supposed to be. That they just aren't there anymore. I mean, they're still there, as in they still exist, but they're not where they're supposed to be. It's like... Someone picked up the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and shoved them all back in different spots.

Kentucky was the first one we noticed. I was driving south out of Ohio, and as soon as we crossed the border, What should have been the border between Ohio and Kentucky. We found ourselves instead in Tennessee. Now, I chalked it up to a particularly dramatic case of highway hypnosis, or Up to the fact that the drive through Kentucky is just that unmemorable. But then it kept happening. I'd be going north out of Missouri and find myself in South Dakota. I'd head east out of Utah. And end up in Oregon. South from Michigan? I ended up in Maine. Making a map of the changes was pretty much useless, since the landscape seemed to keep shifting. Now, some things stayed consistent. Oklahoma stayed attached to Kansas, although maybe a little too attached. Took two weeks of driving in every direction before we finally got out.

California's still along the coast, and I guess the locals won't give up the beach for anything. I admit in half of Michigan never seems to move, but the Upper Peninsula wanders from time to time. Last month I found it in the middle of Montana. Don't. Asked me how I could tell the difference. And Nebraska? Well, I don't think anybody would notice if Nebraska moved anyway. So we're left to just wander the country, I guess. Kinda like you. Try to keep to a route and track where things are moving. See if there's any pattern. My better half is a knack for these kinds of things, but so far even they're stumped. So we just have to celebrate the small victories, I guess. This is a pretty good one. This morning, we finally found Kentucky. Like I said, it's beside Delaware. Problem is that now we have no idea where the fuck Delaware is.

[sapphicideas]

Hey I need some dating advice, I moved from southern California to Nebraska about 2 years ago and since then I haven't been on a date, I've been on dating apps and trying to go out but I'm starting to give up on it, maybe I should just stay home till I turn 21 (in like 6 months) so I can go to clubs and meet people..... I just wanna be held and aggressively and passionately fucked into my pillow but I'm starting to think it's just not worth trying anymore and I just need to figure out how to be alone. To get back to needing advice, do you know how to meet people or flirt (I'm really bad at that cause I always feel like I'm being rude) or something? Or should I just stay home? ~a very anxious puppy of a lesbian🐾

your first mistake was moving to nebraska, like WHAT (kidding, i get it). dating apps are kinda dumb imo, at least the way people usually do it (with ghosting and stuff) i've just never been a fan. waiting till you turn 21 is a wonderful idea, even if it's not someone you can date, you'll make tons of friends <3

nuh uh, staying home is never an option princess! put on a cute outfit, some pretty makeup and just dance. i promise girls literally just approach you if you dance and look at them. i used to do that all the time and i always had some cute thing trying to talk to me haha

good luck puppy! <3

[kaurwreck]

Can I ask why you hate Steinbeck? I didn't really like his work either, but it also didn't really inspire any strong emotion in me, so I'm curious about the loathing. Love your analyses and have a nice day!

This was a very lovely message. I'm glad you enjoy my analyses and thank you for the kind words. I'm heinously sleep deprived, but I can't settle because I'm frothing at the mouth over Steinbeck and the Dust Bowl, so maybe providing some context will mollify my seven demons enough to let me rest.

But, I'm drained, so rather than provide any meaningful analysis, I'm going to offer a very brief, broadstrokes, abridged timeline of the Dust Bowl, with emphasis on its historical context, most of which will be haphazardly plucked from myriad sources, which I'll link.

It doesn't capture all, if much of any, of my feelings on the matter, but certainly, it's a snapshot of the bitterest bits.

In 1540, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado of Spain became the first European to venture into the Great Plains. He and his expedition were searching for the mythical golden city of Quivira. Instead, they found Kansas.

From 1804-1806, Lewis and Clarke go on an 8,000-mile hike to the Pacific Northwest, harbingering calamity.

The United States of America, drunk on white supremacy, gold in California, religious fervor, and the glut of the Louisiana Purchase, decided it had a divine right to expand westward across North America. In manifesting its destiny, the US leveraged unconscionabile treaties and laws like the Indian Appropriations Act of 1851 (along with guns, starvation, and illness) to force many Native Americans to reservations in the West.

From the mid 1850s to the mid 1860s, the West and Plains were struck by a severe drought. This really fucked up the bison, who died in vast numbers.

The Homestead Act of 1862 accelerated the settlement of the western territory by granting land claims in thirty states for a dirt cheap filing fee, five years of sustained residency (after which they could file to recieve proof of ownership), and on the condition that settlers "improve their plot by cultivating the land." These areas were the traditional or treaty lands of many Native American tribes.

Most of those who purchased land under the first Homestead Act were not farmers or laborers and came from areas nearby (Iowans moved to Nebraska, Minnesotans to South Dakota, etc). The act was framed so ambiguously that it seemed to invite fraud, and early modifications by Congress only compounded the problem. Most of the land went to speculators, cattle owners, miners, loggers, and railroads.

Many homesteaders believed that all native peoples were nomads and that only those who owned land would use it efficiently. Few native tribes were truly nomadic. Most nomadic tribes had certain locations they would travel to throughout the year. Other tribes had permanent villages and raised crops. As more settlers arrived, Native Americans were driven farther from their homelands or crowded onto reservations.

Influxes of settlers brought marked changes to the region: bison numbers decreased, fences were erected, domesticated animals increased, water was redirected, non-native crops were planted, unsustainable farming methods increased, and native plants diversity dwindled.

[In 1866, by the way, Congress enacted the Southern Homestead Act to allow poor tenant farmers and sharecroppers in the South to become landowners during Reconstruction. Poor farmers and sharecroppers made up the majority of the Southern population, so the act sold land at a lowered price to decrease poverty among the working class. It was not successful; even the lowered prices and fees were often too expensive. Also, the land made available was mostly undeveloped forestry.]

The late 1870s brought more drought in the Plains. Locusts, which were common to the Plains prior to their sudden extinction, thrived in the drought, ate everything in their path, and ruined crops. The 1875 swarm is estimated to have involved 3.5 trillion insects and covered an area of the West equivalent to the entire area of the mid-Atlantic states and New England. These were the worst swarms during the period of European settlement.

In 1875, Congress passed the Indian Homestead Act to give Native family heads the opportunity to purchase homesteads from unclaimed public lands. This was under the condition that the family head relinquished their tribal identity and relations and, again, "improved" the land. The US government did not issue fee waivers, so many poor non-reservation Natives were unable to pay filing fees to claim homesteads. Those who could pay had difficulty accessing the land because of border disputes due to distance and discord between the US Land Office and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. This made white settlements easier to finalize into land ownership.

For the most part, the 1870s drought was followed by a period of wetter than usual conditions that encouraged widespread belief that 'rain follows the plow'. As in, settlers convinced themselves and each other that by cultivating the land using dryfarming crops that needed more water than the Plains could sustainably provide, they could alter its climate, and rains would come.

In 1886, a severe winter killed vast numbers of cattle. This was shortly followed by another severe drought that went on until 1896.

In 1887, Senator Henry Dawes of Massachusetts decided that Native Americans would prosper if they owned family farms, and his Dawes Act carved reservations into 160-acre allotments. This allowed the federal government to break up tribal lands further. Only those families who accepted an allotment of land could become US citizens. Much of the land subject to the Dawes Act was unsuitable for farming, and large tracts of the allotments were leased to non-Native farmers and ranchers.

After Native American families claimed their allotments, the remaining tribal lands were declared “surplus.” The remaining land was given to non-Native Americans. Land runs allowed the land to be opened to homesteaders on a first-arrival basis.

Unable to catch a hint, the 1880s was a feverish period of settler migration to the West, boosted by both the railroad companies and state and federal governments promising land to those who'd settle it, seemingly without regard for the land's actual carrying capacity.

By the late 1880s, the bison population was thoroughly decimated, meaning the threat of starvation for Native Americans was constant, forcing dependence on the US government and its paltry settlements. Railways, rifles, and an international market for bison hides led to “the Great Slaughter” from about 1820 to 1880, and the bison population plummeted from 30-60 million (estimates vary) to fewer than 1,000 animals. Other factors that contributed to the near-end of the bison: the US military’s directive to destroy bison as a way to control the Native Americans, the introduction of diseases from cattle, drought, and competition from domestic livestock (horses, cattle, sheep).

By the 1890s, drought made clear that the methods of 'dryfarming' used for non-irrigated cultivation of crops, never based on sound science, were wholly inadequate for settling the arid regions of the West. The drought also ended the idea that sturdy settlers, working alone, could manage; the amount of land needed to support even a family was much larger than specified in the Homestead Act but, more crticially, also larger than a family working alone could irrigate. Notably, the 1890s drought was not very dusty, as the Plains were still grassy.

The 1890s drought is partly responsible for the beginning of federally-driven irrigated agriculture with the Reclamation Act of 1902. The act provided for irrigation projects known "reclamation" projects — because irrigation would "reclaim" arid lands for human use. (Unrelatedly, evidence suggests that Native Americans and their precursors may have been in the Plains for at least 38,000 years.)

Theoretically, under the Reclamation Act, the federal government would provide inexpensive water for which farmers would pay, and such payments would then finance the construction of the water projects. The projects' immense construction costs soon proved the premise unrealistic. For example, earlier self-supporting projects created by local initiatives had cost less than twenty dollars an acre. The federal reclamation projects, by contrast, cost an average of eighty-five dollars an acre. Thus, the farmers' share of the federal expenses proved too great a sum for their repayment.

The farmers couldn't pay for their self-sustaining irrigation projects, but Congress extended the repayment periods and continued its irrigation projects. (When repayments still weren't coming in by 1910, Congress advanced $20 million from general treasury funds).

By 1909, most of the prime land in the valleys along the West's rivers had been homesteaded, so to allow dryfarming, which again, the last drought made clear was ill-suited for the arid climate, Congress increased the number of acres for homesteads willing to cultivate lands which could not be easily irrigated. There was a wet period, so the soil was fertile, and settlers, who were still immigrating to the Plains in droves, understood that to mean they were right, rain followed the plow, so they plowed the shit out of it.

In the 1910s, the price of wheat rose, and then, with the onset of the Great War, so did demand for wheat in Europe. So, the settlers plowed up millions of acres of native grassland to plant wheat, corn, and other row crops—still on marginal lands that could not be easily irrigated, even with Congress's pretty dams in every river.

In the 1920s, the war had ended, so the demand for American wheat dropped, and the post-Great War recession sank prices. But, it was also the dawn of tractors and farming mechanization, so settlers went in together on machines they couldn't afford to produce wheat fewer people wanted on land too submarginal to sustain it, and tore that grass up with the wild abandon (like, literally, they abandoned soil conservation practices) of transplants who didn't know anything about the grasslands they were ecologically devastating.

Grasslands, by the way, are fertile because when grasses die, their roots die too, and then their roots decay and fertilize the topsoil into rich earth, which nourishes the other grasses—a self sustaining cycle of life and death. Grasses also have extensive root systems that bind soil particles together, improving soil structure and preventing erosion. Soil erosion occurs when soil is exposed to the impact of wind and water, detaching and transporting soil particles, eventually deteriorating the soil's fertility. Soil erosion can also become dangerous when soil is swept downstream and becomes heavy layers of sediment that disrupt water flow and suffocate aquatic flora or when tossed by the wind so that suspended particles cloud the air, eyes, and lungs.

The Great Plains is the windiest region in North America, namedly because of the airstreams coming down from the Rockies to the West, the shifting pattern of the jet stream in upper levels of the atmosphere, and the fronts of warmer, moist air masses moving in from the Gulf of Mexico to the southeast entangling with the cooler, drier air moving southward from Canada and the Arctic.

Between 1925 and 1930, settlers plowed more than 5 million acres of previously unfarmed land, stripping the soil of its native grasses to expand their fields.

In 1929, overspeculation, excessive bank loans, agricultural overproduction, and panic selling (among other things) caused the US stock market to have a kitten hissy fit, kickstarting the Great Depression.

In 1930, the first of four major drought episodes began in the Plains.

In 1931, despite the lower demand, the settlers leveraged mechanized farming to produce a record crop. This flooded the market with wheat that no one could afford to buy. So, settlers couldn't make back their production costs, so they expanded their fields to try and produce more to make a profit, planting wheat or leaving unused soil bare.

The unanchored soil that was once rich, biological earth became friable, and was swept by high winds into apocalyptic dust storms.

In 1932, the US authorized federal aid to the drought-affected states, and the first funds marked specifically for drought relief were released in the fall of 1933.

[In 1933, Congress created the Tennessee River Valley (TVA). The TVA, under the banner of a sweeping mandate from Congress to promote the "economic and social wellbeing" of the people living in the river basin, decided that too many Southerners were living on the land. From 1933 to 1945, TVA sought to solve the South's economic problems by seizing 1.3 million acres from Southerners and displacing an estimated 82,000 people, many of them illiterate and impoverished, from their homes in order to build 16 hydroelectric dams. They flooded valleys where people once lived.]

[In 1938, President Roosevelt addressed the Conference on the Economic Conditions of the South: "No purpose is closer to my heart at this moment than that which caused me to call you to Washington. That purpose is to obtain a statement—or, perhaps, I should say a re-statement as of today—of the economic conditions of the South, a picture of the South in relation to the rest of the country, in order that we may do something about it: in order that we may not only carry forward the work that has been begun toward the rehabilitation of the South, but that the program of such work may be expanded in the directions that this new presentation will indicate."]

By 1940, 2.5 million people had moved out of the Plains states; of those, 200,000 moved to California. They were not met warmly, and their lives in California were as difficult as the ones they'd left in the Plains, with approximately 40% of migrant farmers winding up in San Joaquin Valley, picking grapes and cotten.

[The Dust Bowl migrant farmers took up the work of Mexican migrant workers, 120,000 of whom were deported from San Jaoquin Valley during the Mexican Repatriation — which refers to the repatriation, deportation, and expulsion of Mexicans and Mexican Americans from the United States during the Great Depression between 1929 and 1939. Estimates of how many were repatriated, deported, or expelled range from 300,000 to 2 million (of which 40–60% were citizens of the United States, overwhelmingly children).]

John Steinbeck published The Grapes of Wrath in 1939, in which he invokes the harshness of the Great Depression and arouses sympathy for the struggles of [some] migrant farm workers. He's praised as having "masterfully depicted the struggle to retain dignity and to preserve the family in the face of disaster, adversity, and vast, impersonal commercial influences." He based the novel on his visits to the migrant camps and tent cities of the workers, seeing firsthand the horrible living conditions of migrant families—

[—and, quite possibly, Sanora Babb's Whose Names Are Unknown, which was written in the 1930s but not published until 2004, since Random House cancelled its publication after The Grapes of Wrath was released in 1939. Babb had moved to California in 1929 to take a job at the Los Angeles Times. When she arrived, the stock market had crashed, the Great Depression had begun, and the promised job dried up. A migrant without a home, she slept in a city park before leaving for Oklahoma in the mid-1930s, where she witnessed the terrible poverty gripping her native state. Eventually, she returned to California to work for the FSA, serving migrant families stranded without a home or a job, just as she had been years earlier. In contrast, John Steinbeck gained much of his understanding of Great Depression conditions in Oklahoma second hand, through reading reports by federal aid workers like Babb and Collins and from his experience delivering food and aid to California migrants from the Southern Plains. The two novels share strikingly similar imagery, so if you enjoyed The Grapes of Wrath, you'll likely also enjoy Whose Names Are Unknown.]

The Grapes of Wrath won the National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize for fiction, and it was cited prominently when Steinbeck was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1962.

[Steinbeck scholar David M. Wrobel wrote that "the John Steinbeck/Sanora Babb story sounds like a classic smash-and-grab: celebrated California author steals the material of unknown Oklahoma writer, resulting in his financial success and her failure to get her work published...Steinbeck absorbed field information from many sources, primarily Tom Collins and Eric H. Thomsen, regional director of the federal migrant camp program in California, who accompanied Steinbeck on missions of mercy...if Steinbeck read Babb’s extensive notes as carefully as he did the reports of Collins, he would certainly have found them useful. His interaction with Collins and Thomsen — and their influence on the writing of The Grapes of Wrath — is documented because Steinbeck acknowledged both. Sanora Babb went unmentioned."]

Writer Timothy Egan calls the Dust Bowl, "a classic tale of human beings pushing too hard against nature, and nature pushing back."

[To justify itself to Congress and the American public, TVA painted a dim picture of the farms it was going to flood and residents of the South. In films, books, and speeches, TVA pointed to poor farming practices and erosion as the chief culprits in the region’s poverty. Poverty and environmental problems in the South had more to do with lumber and mining industries, which extracted natural resources before abandoning the mountains. But TVA depicted the valleys as “wasted land, wasted people,” as if Southern farmers themselves were to blame.]

When Eleanor Roosevelt visited California in 1940 and saw squatter camps and the model government camps and was asked by a reporter if The Grapes of Wrath was exaggerated, she answered unequivocally, “I never have thought The Grapes of Wrath was exaggerated.” Steinbeck wrote to thank her for remarks: “I have been called a liar so constantly that sometimes I wonder whether I may not have dreamed the things I saw and heard in the period of my research.”

[With a budget in the tens of millions of dollars, TVA devoted just $8,000 and 13 staffers to resettlement efforts. Almost as many tenants as landowners were evicted by TVA, and for this class of “adversely affected” farmers, the agency assumed even less obligation. “It is the very necessity of the tenants having to go which will make them find their own solution to their difficulties,” wrote one TVA staff member.]

Anyway, no, I don't like Steinbeck, and I don't enjoy reading about the Dust Bowl.

[Damning the Valley by Wayne Moore, America's Forgotten History Of Mexican-American 'Repatriation' an interview with Francisco Balderrama]

[khande11]

Millie Winchester- Season 2

No Exit- 1

In Philadelphia, a young, blonde woman, Katie Burns, was talking on the phone while pacing her apartment as the lights flickered.

"I checked the fuses. They're fine. It's the wiring. Look, you promised the place would be ready when I moved in. No. You come up now! Please. Thank you." Katie hung up the phone, annoyed at whoever she had been talking to. She spotted something on the table and grimaced, reaching out a finger and dabbing it. It was a thick, black goo. "Gross."

More of the goo began dripping onto her shoulder. She looked up at the ceiling nervously. Creaking and banging sounds could be heard in the walls. She went over to the light switch, which began oozing the same black goo.

"What the hell?" Katie questioned. She looked deeper into light switch, trying to find the problem, when, suddenly, bloodshot eyes appeared, causing Katie to scream in terror.

***************

Outside of the Roadhouse, the Winchesters were getting out of the Impala as they discussed their next hunt.

"Los Angeles, California." Dean said.

"What's in L.A.?" Millie asked.

"Young girl's been kidnapped by an evil cult."

"Yeah? Girl got a name?" Sam asked.

"Katie Holmes." Dean said, revealing the punchline. Sam and Millie chuckled.

"That's funny. And for you, so bitchy." Sam smirked. A crash from inside the Roadhouse, along with some yelling, caused the siblings to look at the building, curiously.

"Whereas on the other hand- catfight." Dean gestured for his siblings to follow.

"I am your mother. I don't have to be reasonable!" Ellen yelled at Jo.

"You can't keep me here!" Jo yelled back.

"Oh, don't you bet on that, sweetie."

"What are you going to do, are you going to chain me up in the basement?"

"You know what, you've had worse ideas than that recently. Hey, you don't want to stay, don't stay. Go back to school."

"I didn't belong there. I was a freak with a knife collection."

"Yeah, and getting yourself killed on some dusty back road, that's where you belong?!" Ellen finally noticed the Winchesters stood nearby. "Guys, bad time."

"Yes, ma'am." Sam nodded.

"Yeah, we rarely drink before 10 anyway." Dean winked.

"I told them not to come in." Millie said, acting innocent.

"Wait. I want to know what they think about this." Jo said, as a family with 'Nebraska is for Lovers' t-shirts on enter the bar.

"I don't care what they think!"

"Are you guys open?" The dad asked.

"No!" "Yes!" Jo and Ellen yelled at the same time.

"We'll just... check out the Arby's down the road." The dad said, sensing the tension, as he and his family left.

"Take me with you." Millie pleaded, though it fell on deaf ears. 

The phone began ringing, and the two Harvelle women had a stare down, before Ellen reluctantly answered it.

"Harvelle's. Yeah, Preacher."

While Ellen talked to the Preacher, Jo turned to the Winchesters, showing her research.

"Three weeks ago, a young girl disappears from a Philadelphia apartment." Dean stared at Jo, frozen. She shoved a file at Dean. "Take it, it won't bite."

"No, but your mom might." Dean countered. Jo continued staring, until Dean reluctantly took the folder.

"And this girl wasn't the first. Over the past 80 years, 6 women have vanished. All from the same building, all young blondes. Only happens every decade or two so cops never eyeball the pattern. So we're either dealing with one very old serial killer-"

"Who put this together? Ash?" Dean interrupted.

"I did it myself." Jo revealed. Dean hummed, impressed.

"I got to admit, we hit the road for a lot less." Sam said.

"I'm intrigued." Millie agreed.

"Good. You like the case so much, you take it." Ellen told them.

"Mom!" Jo objected.

"Joanna Beth, this family has lost enough. And I won't lose you, too. I just won't."

***************

The Impala arrived at Philadelphia. The siblings parked in front of the apartment building from Jo's case file and made their way to the apartment.

"I feel kind of bad, snaking Jo's case." Sam said.

"Yeah, maybe she put together a good file. But could you see her out here working one of these things? I don't think so." Dean told them. Millie looked at him, with an eyebrow raised.

"Are you saying that because she's a woman? Because I can recall a fair few times I have had to save your ass. Plus, if I recall, when we first met Jo, she was a few seconds away from knocking you out." Millie countered. Dean looked at her, not wanting to argue after seeing the look on her face (and not having a comeback, but she didn't need to know that) and decided to throw his hands up in surrender. They all took out their EMF readers.

"You getting anything?" Dean asked.

"No, not yet." "Nothing." Sam and Millie said, scanning the room. Millie ran the reader over a light switch, and it began whirring.

"What's that?" Millie asked, looking at the light switch.

"What?" Dean asked, as he and Sam moved closer to the object. 

Sam touched the substance and looked at what was on his finger. "Holy crap."

Dean reached out to touch the goo as well. "That's ectoplasm. Well, Sam, Millie, I think I know what we're dealing with here. It's the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man." Sam rolled his eyes and Millie smirked.

"Guys, I've only seen this stuff, like, twice. I mean, to make this stuff you have to be one majorly pissed off spirit." Millie told them.

"All right, let's find this badass before he snags any more girls." Dean said.

They exited the apartment, but quickly hid around a corner as they heard voices.

"It's so convenient." A woman said.

"Yeah, it's a great building. Fixed it up real nice. All the apartments come furnished, too." A man agreed.

"It is so spacious." The woman continued. Dean frowned, recognising the voice. "You know, my friend told me I absolutely have to come check it out, and I have to admit, she was right. You did a really good job with this place."

The three stepped out of their hiding place, seeing Jo walking towards them with the landlord.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked.

"There you are, honey." Jo smiled, grabbing Dean around his waist. "This is my boyfriend, Dean, my sister, Millie and his buddy, Sam."

"Good to meet you." The landlord smiled, shaking their hands. "Quite a gal you've got here."

"Oh, yeah, she's a pistol." Dean smiled, smacking Jo's ass.

"So, did you already check out that apartment? The one for rent." Jo asked.

"Yeah. Yes. Loved it. Heh. Great flow."

"How'd you get in?" The landlord asked.

"It was open."

"Now, Ed, um, when did the last tenant move out?" Jo asked.

"Oh, about a month ago. Cut and run, too. Stiffed me for the rent."

"Well, her loss, our gain. 'Cause if Dean-o loves it, it's good enough for me." Jo smiled, sweetly.

"Oh, sweetie." Dean smacked her ass again.

Jo handed a wad of cash over to the landlord. "We'll take it."

***************

"I'll flip you for the sofa." Jo said to Dean, who was cocking his gun, while they set up in the apartment.

"Does your mother even know you're here?" Dean asked.

"Told her I was going to Vegas."

"You think she's going to buy that?"

"I'm not an idiot. I got Ash to lay a credit card trail all the way to the casinos."

"Nice." Millie complimented.

"You know, you shouldn't lie to your mom." Dean scolded.

"Oh, yeah. That's what I meant." Millie corrected herself. Dean gave her an annoyed look, while Sam and Jo smirked.

"Shouldn't be here either." Dean continued.

"Well, I am. So untwist your boxers and deal with it." Jo fired back.

"Where'd you get all that money from, anyways?" Sam asked.

"Working, at the Roadhouse."

"Hunters don't tip that well." Dean said, confused.

"Well, they aren't that good at poker, either." Jo revealed. Millie offered a small round of applause, finding Jo more likeable the more she found out about her. Dean's phone rang before he could reprimand Millie for encouraging Jo.

"Yeah."

"Is she with you?" Ellen asked.

"Oh, hi, Ellen."

"She left a note she's in Vegas. I don't believe it for a second."

"Don't you tell her." Jo whispered to Dean.

"I'm telling her." Dean whispered back. The two began a very quite, heated argument.

"Dean?" Ellen called out.

"I haven't seen her." Dean lied, as Jo looked relieved, while Millie silently cheered in the background.

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, please. If she shows up, you'll drag her butt right back here, won't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Thanks, honey." Dean hung up, while Jo cheered, victoriously.

A while later, Jo was sat at the table with the blueprints of the building laid out, while Dean paced around.

"This place was built in 1924. It was originally a warehouse, converted into apartments a few months ago."

"Yeah? What was here before 1924?" Dean asked.

"Nothing. Empty field."

"So, most likely scenario, someone died bloody in the building, and now he's back and raising hell." Sam suggested.

"Already checked. In the past 82 years, zero violent deaths. Unless you count a janitor who slipped on a wet floor." Jo told them. She heard Dean scoff behind her. "Would you sit down, please?"

"So, have you checked police reports, county death records-"

"Obituaries, mortuary reports and seven other sources." Jo interrupted. "I know what I'm doing."

"I think the jury's still out on that one." Dean snarked, causing Millie to kick him under the table. "Could you put the knife down?"

"Okay, so, uh, it's something else then." Millie cut in, sensing the tension. "Maybe some kind of cursed object that brought a spirit with it."

"Well, we've got to scan the whole building, everywhere we can get to, right?" Jo asked.

"Right. So, you and me will take the top two floors." Dean smiled at Jo.

"We'd move faster if we split up. Besides, you're letting Millie go on her own." Jo argued.

"Oh, this isn't negotiable."

***************

"So you going to buy me dinner?" Jo asked, as she and Dean walked down the hallway with EMF readers.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's just if you're going to ride me this close, it's only decent you buy me dinner."

"Oh, that's hilarious. You know, it's bad enough I lied to your mom, but if you think I'm letting you out of my sight... I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kind of the spirit's type."

"Exactly."

"You want to be bait?"

"Quickest way to draw it out and you know it."

"Oh." Dean scoffed.

"What?"

"I'm so regretting this."

"You know, I've had it up to here with your crap." Jo snapped.

"Excuse me?"

"Your chauvinist crap. You think women can't do the job."

"Sweetheart, this ain't Gender Studies. Women can do the job fine. Hell, I'd trust Millie with my life. Amateurs can't. You have no experience. What you do have is a bunch of half-baked romantic notions that some barflies put in your head."

"Now you sound like my mother."

"Oh, and that's a bad thing? Because let me tell you..."

"What?"

Dean sighed. "Forget it."

"No, you started this."

"Jo, you've got options. No one in their right mind chooses this life. My dad started me in this when I was so young... I wish I could do something else."

"You love the job." Jo countered.

"Yeah, but I'm a little twisted."

"You don't think I'm a little twisted, too?"

"Jo, you've got a mother that worries about you. Who wants something more for you. Those are good things. You don't throw things like that away. Might be hard to find later."

Dean carried on down the hallway with his EMF reader, with Jo trailing behind. As they rounded the corner, Jo stopped in front of a grating. She didn't notice a hand reaching out for her through the holes. Suddenly, Jo spun around with a gasp, but there was nothing there.

"What?" Dean asked.

"I'm not sure."

Dean sniffed at the air. "You smell that?"

Jo sniffed, too. "What is that, a gas leak?"

"No. Something else. I know it. I just can't put my finger on it."

Jo trusted her gut and crouched down by the grating. The EMF reader began whirring in her hand.

"Mazel Tov. You just found your first spirit." Dean congratulated.

"It's inside the vent."

Dean shone his flashlight in the vent, but couldn't see anything. He passed it to Jo and began unscrewing the grating.

"There's something in there. Here." Dean said, reaching his hand inside. He pulled out a clump of blonde hair with skin still attached. It looked like someone had been scalped. "Someone's keeping souvenirs."