#like. there is so much to unpack there lol it is all tied to race it cannot be separated

[theghostofashton]

.

[hannah-and-the-jets]

I have been reflecting on the fact that cursed child was terrible, so, with that, I have taken it upon myself to rewrite it lol. Here’s a little snippet of the beginning and I hope to start posting on AO3 soon!

Before the Daily Prophet was delivered that morning, Harry knew that it was going to be a bad day. Sometimes he thought Ron was not joking when he called Harry a Seer, as there were times that he just knew it was going to be a terrible day. 

If his tea was delivered by his assistant, Ms. Biggs, and it was cold, Harry knew that he would be swamped with paperwork. If there was too much milk, Auror Richards would be stopping him at least twice that day. Not enough sugar meant he would be in the tabloids again. And if his partner stopped and picked up breakfast, well, then he would be expecting a new one soon. 

 However, Harry felt it deep in his gut that morning when he woke up, Ginny draped over his chest still and loose limbed. His heart was racing from a lingering nightmare; his skin felt too tight over his muscles and the back of his neck was drenched in sweat. The nightmare was not a new one. Harry would find himself back at Hogwarts, wandering the sewer pipes under the school. The sound of scales sliding against the stone walls, the whispers from the basilisk calling out to him, and his own childish screams rang through his ears. The creature never caught up to him, but Harry would wander the familiar pipes searching for Ginny. In all of the years that the same nightmare plagued him, he never found her. 

But waking up to her leg thrown over his hips, her hair tickling his face, and her breath against his neck was usually enough to ground him back to reality. That morning it wasn’t enough. The fear and panic clawed at his chest and lungs, begging to be released. Harry did not move a muscle out of fear of waking Ginny. The small puffs of air escaping from her mouth indicated that she did not wake when Harry jolted to a start, and Harry was thankful as he turned his head to look at the clock on his nightstand. 

Harry had to squint to make out the numbers 4:53am glaring at him in bright red from the small alarm clock. He sighed and wondered if he could even fall back asleep for the next thirty minutes before the alarm would sound. With a shaking breath, the fear still lingered deep in him. A piercing cry came from the baby monitor on the dresser across from the bed. Harry could feel the moment Ginny woke, as she tensed for just a second above him. 

“I’ll get him,” Harry whispered into her hair, “Go back to sleep.” 

“Thank you,” Ginny murmured, not quite awake but not quite asleep. Al’s wails bounced around the room as they untangled themselves from one another. Harry found his glasses on the nightstand, and his pajama pants on the floor where he had left them only hours beforehand. With a flick of his hand, the baby monitor went silent, and Harry slipped out of the bedroom. 

In the hallway, Harry could hear Al from the room on the right, but went left first to the third bedroom of the house. Harry carefully opened the door, and panic in his chest quieted for a second as he watched his first born, James, snoring lightly. His wild hair that matched Harry’s was thrown in every direction on the pillow, and his covers had been completely discarded to the floor at some point in the night. At three years old, James Sirius Potter was a little terror, and slept like one too. Harry grinned fondly at the sight as James let out a shockingly loud snort for a three year old; however, Al then let out a particularly loud cry. Harry closed the door, and made his way down to the almost toddler’s room. 

At one years old, Al slept most nights pretty comfortably, but lately he had been waking them up again. Harry made his way into the bedroom, where Albus sat in bed, wailing while holding his plush dragon. “Oh, buddy,” Harry grabbed him and held him close, “What’s going on?” 

Al just blubbered his response and dug his face into Harry’s shirt. His little fist had a death grip on his dragon, as Harry moved them to sit in the rocking chair in the corner of the room. The chair faced the window that led to the view of the street below them. They lived in a town near the Burrow. It was easy to be connected to the Weasley’s for if they needed help, or just wanted someone else nearby. 

Harry had sold Grimmauld Place back to Narcissa Malfoy two years after the war. He had cleared out Sirius’ stuff with Ginny one Saturday afternoon, and it was the last time he had set foot in the house. Then there was the apartment he shared with Ron for Auror training, then Ron had moved out to live with Hermione after he dropped out. Then came this home, and it was truly a home. Bright yellow exterior paint, a big backyard, rooms for the children, and a large kitchen as the heart of the home. They could not have raised the kids in Grimmauld, no matter how much Harry missed it. 

With the panic in his chest starting to subsided, Harry focused his attention on Al completely. He patted his bottom to see if he was wet, rested his hand on his head to see if he was too hot, but it came down simply because he just wanted to be comforted. Harry kissed his jet black curls and murmured to him slowly, “It’s okay, Buddy. Did you have a bad dream? I got you. It’s okay now.” 

They stayed in that position, slowly rocking, until the sun started to peak over the houses across the street. Albus had fallen back asleep at some point, but Harry couldn’t. He felt it. It was going to be a bad day, but he would enjoy this moment rocking his youngest child back to sleep. 

The morning preparations went by in a blur. Eventually, Ginny came to take Albus down to breakfast while Harry got ready to go to work. He got ready quickly and efficiently, the same way that he had since he had completed his training seven years beforehand. He paused only briefly to kiss the boys and Ginny goodbye before leaving. The tightness of his skin never went away. 

When he had arrived at the Ministry, it seemed to be a normal day. Witches and wizards buzzed all around him, finding their way to their offices and cubicles. Harry navigated his way with ease, and rode the elevator down to the Auror floor. Like every morning, he was greeted by various members before he reached his office. While not Head Auror, yet, he was a Senior Auror, and it meant a shared office with a partner and an assistant to support. However, his last partner, Auror Eickles, had brought two cups of coffee with him last week, and was still in Saint Mungos as of this morning.

Ms Briggs sat behind her desk, happily clicking away at the keys on her computer. She was an older woman who insisted on wearing a muggle skirt suit set everyday in bright colors. Her lipstick was always a bold pink, and every gray curl of hair was never out of place. Ms Briggs enjoyed her work, Harry thought. At least she was always happy to see him. 

“Good morning, Auror Potter,” She said without looking up, “I’ll bring a cuppa and the Prophet in just a second. All messages are on your desk, and Auror Richards has requested a meeting at 9am.” 

“I have that meeting with the Bulgarian Senior Aurors at 8. Tell Richards to reschedule.” 

“No can do,” Ms. Briggs looked up from her computer screen as Harry passed, “He gave your meeting to Auror Spencer. He said it’s urgent, and Kinglsey is also supposed to be there.” 

There was that feeling, that bad feeling. After the war had ended, Harry tried to live his life without assumptions; however, an urgently scheduled meeting with the Head Auror and Minister of Magic was never a way to start the day. Harry nodded to Ms. Biggs, and made his way to his empty office. 

Half of the room housed Harry’s things. Pictures of family and friends, random nicknacks, and lots of paperwork. The whole thing was in disarray, at least Hermione thought so when she would stop by, but Harry just thought it was organized chaos. The other half of the room just sat empty. Auror Eickles had unpacked his stuff when he was assigned to be Harry’s partner, but his wife had come by to collect the few items that he had in the room. Harry thought about maybe sending a letter today, seeing how she’s doing. 

Harry was catching himself up on memos and notes from the weekend, when Ms. Briggs entered the room. She set his tea and the Daily Prophet on the corner of his desk, with a disapproving click of her tongue. 

“It’s bad enough what those families did to us, but now they want to come crawling back begging for work.” She shook her head as she read the top headline. Harry thought she didn't even know she was speaking out loud, “I bet they dried out all their little trust funds and family vaults.” 

Harry snatched the paper as she left the room. They had a longstanding thing were Harry would insist that the Prophet was garbage, but Ms. Briggs still brought it anyway. 

Ministry Approves Purebloods With Deatheater Ties May Work In Government Again! How This Affects You. Harry gravitated towards the corresponding picture. There were three individuals, two men and one woman. The men were young, possibly fresh out of Hogwarts, but the woman is what made Harry stop completely. She was not as tall as the others, and was a slender build. Her features were dark, with strong eyebrows, intense eyes, and a perfectly cut nose. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight that it made Harry’s head hurt. But there, on his morning newspaper, was Astoria Malfoy signing her Auror training papers. 

[spookygondolier]

Well I sure took a deep dive into gifted kid discourse tags at 1-2am. I have a lot of feelings about being labeled a “gifted kid” and the way it affected how adults perceived/reacted to me and also the way I thought about myself, but we don’t have time to unpack all that at 2:30am so instead here is a collection of my scattered reflections after going way the hell back in some tags:

- I absolutely believe that there’s race/class factors that influence which kids get identified for gifted programs, I just haven’t actually observed it in my personal life because my elementary and middle schools were very racially and economically homogeneous, and then when I was working in schools in more diverse areas they were charter schools that didn’t have gifted programs

- I feel like gifted programs themselves actually played a relatively minor role in my school experience? Apparently some ppl had separate gifted classes but in my elementary school we just had like an after-school program where they gave us projects or puzzles or something. Middle school had some “advanced” classes I guess but it was pretty much the same curriculum as the other classes, just taught at a faster pace or with extra work. My high school didn’t have any sort of program, it barely had one AP class lol (this was also the least painful part of my school experience because it was a very small school with an unusual structure that worked well for me)

- my lack of involvement with gifted programs is also possibly because i wasn’t actually in the gifted program for a whole lot of my early school experience. I didn’t test into the program when they first tested kids in third grade because the test was entirely visual pattern recognition and spatial reasoning and apparently I didn’t score high enough. When I skipped a grade they gave me a different test and I qualified at that point so I got to be in the program for the remaining 2/3 of my 5th grade year

- on that note I’m not convinced that gifted programs actually do anything meaningful for most of the kids in them. Like I guess they tried to give us “extra challenges” or “enrichment” but they sure as hell didn’t help me in any real way with my actual academic needs, I ended up just switching schools to help with that. It’s not like I really made friends with the other kids in the program either, I was more interested in books than people and being around other “smart” kids didn’t change that

- most of my gifted kid baggage in fact came from my parents and grandma getting really into researching stuff like “how to raise gifted kids” and then me doing my own research and basically constructing my entire teen identity around being The Smart One and being like ~a quirky misunderstood genius~ (and also from being consistently praised by all the adults for doing well in school and not really complimented on anything else)

- i never really had the full gifted kid burnout experience because I just kind of kept being good at school all the way through college (because I managed to teach myself study skills at some point and also I was motivated like 90% by anxiety and 10% by stubborn determination to finish things regardless of the personal cost, fueled by a side helping of continuing to feel that my self worth was tied to my grades). I am just good at doing things in the way that academic settings like for them to be done, which does not in any way translate to having skills that help me in life outside of school

- in conclusion, I think that if schools intend to have gifted programs they should not just treat them as extra bonus fun classes for the special smart kids, they should include opportunities to modify the standard curriculum in meaningful ways based on individual kids’ skills/interests (not just by giving extra work), possibly in a way similar to an iep where stuff gets tailored to kids based on their individual abilities

And also don’t just tell kids they’re gifted and then expect them to excel at everything all the time, like there should be some acknowledgment that a lot of the kids you’re labeling as “gifted” are probably neurodivergent (just in a way that at the moment makes them appear to excel in certain school settings, like being an advanced reader or knowing a lot about a specific subject). Also, no kid is perfect all the time and you should never expect them to be, regardless of how “smart” they are!

[tazrider]

Allez, pour ta peine : nombres pairs ! Tous.

Ah la vache... Ca fait beaucoup T_T Here we go!

2. How old are you? Between 20 and 40 but not halfway. Might be a multiple of 7. Or not...

4. What is your zodiac sign? Taurus. Been told it’s very fitting...

6. What’s your lucky number? Don’t have a lucky number but I like 3 (dates back to when I first read The Black Stallion when I was a kid and Alec and Black had the number 3 during their first race XD).

8. Where are you from? France, from where France fists Belgium XD (yep that’s a saying here).

10. What shoe size are you? Fucking way too small for my liking, it’s hell to find shoes my style... (37 or 6.5).

12. What was your last dream about? Something super weird (I always have super fucking weird dreams) but I don’t really remember this one. I don’t keep a log on dreams, seems too much work because it always swings between super weird and nightmares so not like it matters much...

14. Are you psychic in any way? Huh nope and don’t believe in these things.

16. Favorite movie? The Fifth Element, it’s not a great movie but it’s like a Madeleine de Proust and takes me back to simpler times. Also fucking funny, sci-fi and awesome music, what’s not to like?

18. Do you want children? Man, kids make me uncomfortable as hell. I prefer horses XD.

20. Are you religious? Absolutely not. I only believe in science and there’s no room in there for an hypothetical superior force, that’s supposed to be all love and shit and yet lets the world in that state.

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? Ah, unless you count speeding tickets as getting in trouble with the law...

24. Baths or showers? Showers.

26. Have you ever been famous? LOL nope and don’t wanna be.

28. What type of music do you like? Ooh tricky question, I have rather eclectic tastes in music. Ranges from ancient music and baroque (I love harpsichord, learned to play the piano when I was younger) to post-hardcore / “hard” music and pretty much everything in between. Discovered lately I don’t mind some bluegrass even. What I don’t like would be a way shorter list... XD I’m less a type of music kind of person and more a how that music makes me feel person, regardless of the type of music and the person/band. That said, I abhor bal musette and mostly of what we call ‘nouvelle chanson française’... In general, I like it dark and tortured.

30. How many pillows do you sleep with? 2 and a small one.

32. How big is your house? Tis an appartment and with the new job last year I was able to afford more than just a rabbit hutch! (65m2 yus!).

34. Have you ever fired a gun? Only airsoft and paintball guns, was fun.

36. Favorite clean word? Lately I’ve been saying ‘grave’ a lot, I manage to annoy even myself when I do...

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? I think it was 3 days or perhaps 4 and not even due to insomnia.

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? Eh not that I know of lol Pretty sure I’m not the type of person that gets secret admirers.

42. Are you a good judge of character? I think I am most of the time. As an introvert I spend much of my time on the sidelines of social interactions so I watch and analyze people a lot but I’ve been wrong a couple of times (especially if it’s a pretty girl -_-) and that fucking sucked each time...

44. Do you have a strong accent? In French? Nope, I made sure to erase it because I’m a snob like that. In English? Obviously I have a French one (been told it’s cute... -_-).

46. What is your personality type? INTJ, introvert all the way (is that what it’s referring to?) Because if not, I’ve been told by a psychologist I saw as part of something for my job who said I should get diagnosed for ADHD and autism, so...

48. Can you curl your tongue? Yep. Can make a tube with it, can also turn it over but only from one direction.

50. Left or right handed? Right but training the left to not be useless since childhood (you need to have a good feeling of both your hands if you want to be a good horseback rider).

52. Favorite food? Pasta all the way!

54. Are you a clean or messy person? Both. A clean mess XD Seriously, there are still some boxes I haven’t unpacked from moving in last year... My desk at work is a fucking clutter because I manage like 15 projects at the same time and sometimes the files all end up there... But I always end up fed up of the mess and clean everything like a tornado. Especially when I decide I have enough, I can’t do anything else until I cleaned everything.

56. Most used word? Fuck or ‘putain’ and it’s variation ‘putain de merde fait chier’ in French.

58. Do you have much of an ego? I do, it’s big and sometimes misplaced. I try to not let it get in the way though.

60. Do you talk to yourself? Oh yeah, especially when I fucked something up.

62. Are you a good singer? Nope, doesn’t mean I don’t like to sing very off-key when I’m alone...

64. Are you a gossip? No, not really.

66. Do you like long or short hair? In general? Long hair but I don’t care long or short as long as they’re comfortable with it and it suits them.

68. Favorite school subject? Hands down History and geology (wanted to be an archaeologist before I chose geology).

70. Have you ever been scuba diving? I’m a scuba diver (have my first degree, can dive down to 20m). I fucking love it but life happened and I haven’t been able to keep it up :(

72. Are you scared of the dark? No, I kinda like it. Although I don’t need the room to be pitch black to sleep.

74. Are you ticklish? Yeah and since I don’t always control my strength, it can lead to some kind of injuries to the tickler...

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? I guess? I taught at the engineering school in geology during my PhD, does that count?

78. Have you ever done drugs? Only weed a couple times. I try to stay clear from anything remotely addictive because I have an obsessive personality.

80. How many piercings do you have? None and not planning on getting some.

82. How fast can you type? Average fast I guess?

84. What color is your hair? Very light brown, bordering on blond (I’ve been told I’m blond and it gets even lighter in the sun...).

86. What are you allergic to? Dust and mold which is just awesome for a horse owner, everyday your nose in hay...

88. What do your parents do? Teachers both. My mother’s a History and Geography teacher which means a childhood spent visiting historical sites during any vacation.

90. What makes you angry? Stupidity, incompetence, injustice to name a few. Currently my neighbors letting the front door bang at any hour when there’s a note asking not to (my bedroom’s right next to that fucking front door)...

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? Nope nope but I thought about names for my future horse(s) XD

94. What are you strengths? Loyal to a fault, up front, smart, persevering. I’m fucking funny too.

96. How did you get your name? My father always wanted to name his daughter that way. I always thought it doesn’t suit me though.

98. Do you have any scars? Oh yeah... Left shoulder, both knees, right ankle, shins, nose, chin, hands (not counting the tip of one finger I nearly lost 2 years ago), right shoulder blade.

100. Color of your room? Plain white, I rent the flat so not redecorating.

[artificialqueens]

just let me adore you (branjie) - holtzmanns

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 4136

AN: Haven’t written a boy fic like this one in a while, too caught up in all the lesbian aus. Thank you writ and barbie for helping me with this and making me laugh my head off while writing it. Hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think if you want to! Title from ‘Adore You’ by Harry Styles. Thank you writ for betaing <3

Brock’s new LA apartment, despite being half the size of his Nashville place, feels bigger. Emptier.

Maybe it’s all the boxes he hasn’t gotten around to unpacking. Maybe it’s the way his cats are still nestled in their kennels despite the opened doors, too afraid to leave the fleece blankets and explore their new home. Or maybe it’s the fact that even though he’s spent a lot of time in LA, he’s always had somewhere else to go back to. Somewhere else that’s considered ‘home’.

Except now, LA is his home. Or it will be, eventually, once he gets used to it.

The move makes sense, career wise, because being anchored to Nashville when he’s outgrown it isn’t logical anymore. It’s a city of too many bachelorette parties at his home bar and way too much country songs playing on the radio, and the subtle southern twang in everyone’s voice that he’s been afraid of accidentally adopting himself, these last few years.

LA is where his booking manager is based out of. LA is where he can make stronger connections that’ll help catapult his career in the direction that it deserves to be in. LA is warm - as warm as Nashville, yes, but now he’ll have regular access to the beach, a chance to let his curls get wilder than usual in the ocean air, and to let his skin get a sunkissed glow, provided that he won’t burn to a crisp first.

Brock doesn’t have any connections left in Nashville anymore, either. Most of his friends have moved on to bigger things, left the city that had kept them in touch in the past. His family isn’t in Nashville, and neither is his work. But LA has many fellow queens and some friends, too, and even some distant cousins and-

Jose.

Brock hasn’t told Jose about the move. They haven’t really been talking much, and it makes sense that they’re growing apart, no longer tied down by NDAs and keeping up a storyline or by having to share a tour bus. It’s given them space to breathe, yes, but it also feels strange, no matter how freeing it is.

Brock doesn’t get a morning text when he wakes up anymore, texts that used to be filled with so many nonsensical emojis that he would have no idea where Jose even found them. But then again, Brock doesn’t send any himself, either. He and Jose don’t have their late night phone calls or facetimes that they used to when they’d miss each other just a little bit too much, and it’s not out of the ordinary, the fact that they’ve drifted. Because it’s been awhile, and the rubber band that had tied them together has snapped. They’re free floating, and apparently the paths drawn by their newfound ability to move aren’t meant to cross with one another.

Why would they? When they both travel, they both are free to involve themselves with other people, and they used to be based in different cities. Except that they’re not anymore.

They have the same home base now, because Jose lives in LA too.

Brock thinks back to a year and a half ago, when they were sprawled on Jose’s couch in his apartment and Jose had been poking his shoulder, trying to convince him to move to LA. Saying that it would be a good career move, and why was he still in Nashville, anyway?

Back then, things had been so fresh and new. They’d finished filming Drag Race, and their season wouldn’t air until the next year. Being able to wrap his arms around Jose, hold him close without any cameramen trying to capture the moment had been thrilling, almost freeing, even. But it had felt too soon. Too soon to leave Nashville because it still had been his home.

But now? It’s not Brock’s home anymore. Not when being able to perform, to do what he loves to do and dance every night gives him that same feeling of comfort, of security, that his bed in Nashville used to provide. The fact that he’s in control, the fact that he doesn’t have to be tied down to a certain place, but rather just needs that feeling of satisfaction in his heart to feel like he’s complete.

Brock wonders what the Jose from a year and a half ago would think. He wonders what Jose will think now.

He debates on whether he should tell Jose. Let him know. Do exes do that? Let each other know that they’ll be in the neighbourhood for the foreseeable future? A warning of sorts, or maybe a homecoming?

Brock’s not sure which one it’ll be, which one he even wants it to be.

The clock on his oven is reading 11:00 pm and he’s tired, way too tired to unpack much more than some of the clothes and toiletries and silverware and plates he’d gotten to taking out earlier, stuff he’ll need sooner than later. Everything else can wait for the morning daybreak, when the flashing lights of the cars outside are replaced with the LA sun that burns just a little too bright for his night loving eyes.

It would be too late to bother Jose, anyway, if they were in any other profession. Except all of their work is done in the evenings and nights, when the lighting is just a little bit more forgiving on their harsh makeup and the loud beats of the music are socially acceptable. Still, texting Jose to say that he’s in town feels a little bit strange, a little bit presumptuous.

He’s going to pull a Gatsby instead. Hope that Jose gets the message.

Instagram story posted by @bhytes. A panning shot of an empty apartment, stacked high with boxes against the walls and two kennels with open doors, one which has a grey tail sticking out of it. Location: Los Angeles.

It doesn’t take long until Brock’s phone lights up with an Instagram direct message notification. He’d fiddled with his settings to have most notifications turned off, his account too bustling to handle the onslaught of fan comments and messages and likes. Most of them, that is, except for his close friends, his family members, and Jose.

He’d never gotten around to turning Jose’s notifications off after they’d broken up, not when he dives for his phone the same way that he used to, back then.

vanessavanjie: LA huh

vanessavanjie: ur ass finally listened to me

vanessavanjie: all those boxes, ur ass just get here or what

bhytes: something like that

bhytes: drove over yesterday with everything, finally free of the u-haul

vanessavanjie: damn i thought it was only lesbians who u-hauled lol

bhytes: you around LA these days?

vanessavanjie: i see u watching my stories bitch u already know

bhytes: fair

vanessavanjie: u tired of unpacking everything or what

bhytes: a little, honestly

vanessavanjie: come out

vanessavanjie: can’t be a hermit already before ur even properly moved in

Brock doesn’t know why he says yes. Maybe, just maybe, in the back of his mind he does, because the lack of inhibitions from some alcohol and loud music creates the perfect setting in which to see Jose in again, after months and months of only seeing his face behind an Instagram profile. A club setting means no need for the awkward small talk, no conversations about the weather that always happen with people that feel too far away, unreachable, when they used to be close enough to touch.

Jose’s not hard to find. Not by the way he’s yelling up a storm in the corner of the club with a drink in each hand, surrounded by fellow queens and dancers and spinning in place as if no one’s watching him. And it’s true, no one really is, too busy wrapped up in their own conversations and dance moves.

Except for Brock, because Jose’s like a magnet, one that grabs his sight from far away and refuses to let him go and be free from his pull. Brock can’t tell if his heart is beating faster and faster because of the deep bass of the music, or because of Jose’s smile that lights up his whole face, one that Brock used to see all the time. He fiddles with his baseball cap as he walks over, because his curls had been too hopeless to be tamed by any amount of pomade.

Not that Jose really cares. He never did, not when Brock used to wear the same sweater for days in a row because he didn’t feel like rifling through his closet, not when Brock couldn’t tell apart Jose’s various outfits even if he tried. Brock’s energy for styling himself is just enough to get himself looking decent in drag. Out of drag? It doesn’t matter much to him.

Doesn’t matter, until Jose spots him and drops his drinks into the hands of those beside him, walking over with a glint in his eyes and a onceover that’s enough to make Brock pull in a breath.

It’s irrelevant that they’re not together, that they’re better off not as a unit. Because there’s something about Jose that’s magnetic and always manages to pull Brock in, makes him want to sidle up to him, close enough that the familiar scent of Jose’s cologne washes over him from head to toe and makes him close his eyes.

“Sleeping already? You on LA time now.” Jose brushes his fingers along Brock’s wrist and it feels like an electric current, one that travels straight to his heart.

“Moving is tiring.” Brock’s a bit distracted as he answers because Jose’s features are still so stunning, so precisely cut, balanced with the delicate flutter of his eyelashes, the soft curve of his mouth.

Jose looks the same as he always does, still as if it’s two in the afternoon and he’s fresh after a nap, rather than taking on the weariness that adorns the features of their colleagues from all of the travelling that comes with the job.

“Ain’t thought about asking me for help? We in the same neighbourhood now.” Jose raises one perfect eyebrow and Brock has to resist the urge to reach out, smooth it over, the way that he always used to.

“Didn’t think your small frame would be able to handle the giant boxes.” Brock grins and the light dig is worth it, because Jose lets out a little yell, swats at his arm, the ice shattering as it always does if they spend more than thirty seconds with each other.

“Forgot what a shady ass bitch you were.” But Jose’s smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes, and Brock knows that he’s not really mad.

Brock catches at Jose’s hand before he lets it drop, turning it over. “Damn. So the tattoo is real, huh?”

He’d had his doubts, because the ink had looked extensive. But Jose’s impulsive, guided by his heart and rash decisions and so it makes sense. The lines are deep within Jose’s skin, pretty patterns along the top of his hand and his wrist and Brock would be mesmerized by it, he would, were it not for the flashing lights of the club making it difficult to clearly see.

“You think I’d play with some Sharpie just for fun?” Jose lets out a scoff as he wiggles his fingers, letting Brooke get a view from all angles.

“I distinctly remember the time on the season eleven tour when you drew a mustache on Silky while she was sleeping, so yes. You’d play with some Sharpie.”

The memory makes Brock grin, remembering the cramped tour bus and the things that the queens would get up to in order to pass the time. It feels like a lifetime ago, one that’s been marred by tours that followed and geographical distance and other flings in between.

“Don’t know if you’d be able to scribble so nicely, though.” Brock flips Jose’s hand over again and Jose pulls it back with a huff, a little pout on his lips.

“I’m a modern day Mother Teresa and invite you out and this is how you treat me. Hateful, truly hateful.” Jose crosses his arms, taps one of his feet and Brock snorts, because it feels like old times. How they always used to act.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

Also how they used to act.

Maybe it’s a good thing that the dance floor is so crowded, that the WeHo gays have come out in full force on a Sunday night. It lets Brock pull Jose flush against him, a hand on the small of his back, without worrying about cameras or anyone else’s opinions. Because right now, the way Jose is looking up at him is all that matters.

Rihanna herself, Jose’s patron saint of music is blaring over the speakers and maybe that’s why Jose’s keening into his touch, losing himself in the music. The heat is radiating off of Jose’s body like a fire, and Brock’s not scared of getting burned anymore because he wants it, nights like this. Because he’s here in LA, and Jose’s here in LA, and there’s no rule that says that it’s bad to hook up with an ex after months and months and months, even though his sober mind likes to pretend that there should be.

Jose’s lips form the familiar pout that Brock knows so well, knows how to answer to. It’s as easy as breathing, kissing Jose. So familiar and right and yet somehow it still makes Brock’s blood pump just a little bit faster, makes his heart skip a beat when Jose whines into his mouth.

Brock ruts his hips forward slightly into Jose as he nips at his lower lip and it makes Jose gasp, open his mouth more as he deepens the kiss. Sure, they’re doing things on the dance floor that would make any good Christian woman weep but Brock doesn’t care, not when Jose’s in his grasp and so pliant and so willing to be there, wanting more and more.

Sue him, he’s missed this. Missed the way he can undo Jose so easily, pulling him apart with a strong touch and lips upon his skin. Not discounting how Brock can feel himself unravelling too, his brain only focusing on Jose and his cologne and his hands tugging on Brock’s belt loops and the way his stubble is gently scratching at his skin.

It’s inevitable, really, when Brock palms at Jose’s crotch, feeling the way he’s already halfway hard in the damn club, not unlike himself. Brock nips at Jose’s jaw before whispering right by his ear, close enough to be heard over the music.

“I’d invite you to mine but my mattress is sitting on the floor. No sheets, either.” Moving is hard, after all. Making a bed takes effort.

“Now ain’t you living like a prince? Mine, then. Reacquaint yourself with that headboard you chose.”

Brock tugs on Jose’s arm in lieu of an answer, already typing in Jose’s address for a Lyft because he still has it memorized, of course he does.

“When did you get that new mirror?”

“That really what you focusing on right now?” Jose tugs Brock’s head back down towards him, his kiss biting, taking, and Brock gives into it, lets himself get reacquainted with Jose’s breathing, his smooth skin along his hipbones when Brock pushes the edges of his shirt up.

“You redecorated, that’s all.” Brock lets Jose push him up against the wall beside the entrance closet, because he gets the feeling that Jose needs this just as much. This bit of release that no one else can even come close to providing, an itch that only the two of them can scratch for each other. The quickies in bathrooms and the rare nights in hotel rooms on tour that were so cathartic, so draining in the best way.

Brock needs it again now; they both do.

He pulls Jose close with fingers in his belt loops, catching the little hitch in Jose’s breath that matches the way his pupils are blown, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You missed me, huh?” Brock bends down, kissing along Jose’s neck and oh, it’s already starting to bloom in maroons from Brock’s lips at the club. He knows Jose’s going to be pissed later, but he doesn’t care, not really, not when it’s so satisfying to see them there.

“Don’t get cute.” It comes out in a groan, an arch of Jose’s back, a flutter of his eyelids.

But then Jose regains his breathing as his eyes clear, and he’s pushing on Brock’s shoulders until he’s against the wall, like he has an agenda, like he wants to see it through. Jose’s on his tiptoes in his sneakers but Brock’s not going to make it any easier for him by bending down, because he likes it, seeing how bad Jose wants it, needs it, and is willing to make it happen. Except that he nearly does when Jose’s unbuttoning his pants and tugging on his zipper, dropping onto his knees, and it’s a miracle that Brock is able to keep himself up when he’s missed this sight more than he wants to admit.

Jose wastes no time in wrapping his hand around the base of Brock’s dick, swirling his tongue around the tip when a bead of precum leaks out and Brock has to squeeze his eyes shut, pull in a sharp breath because Jose’s too good at it, so close to making him come undone before they’ve even done anything. When he opens his eyes Jose’s looking up at him, keeping eye contact as he twists his hand, coordinating it with the movements of his mouth and Brock has to reach down, tug on Jose’s elbow roughly to pull him back up because he doesn’t want to come so fast, not like this.

Jose’s lips are swollen and his eyes wild and he looks satisfied already, and Brock kisses him partly to wipe that expression off of his face, and partly because he loves the low groan that leaves the back of Jose’s throat when he does.

Jose’s bedroom is the same when he tugs Brock down onto the mattress. There’s an unfamiliar scent of cologne coming from the pillow on what used to be Brock’s side, once upon a time. But Brock ignores it, pushes it away, preferring to focus his attention on Jose and on tugging his shirt off before pulling off his own so that they’re finally, finally pressed up against each other. Jose’s all taut underneath him, his skin hot like coals and it burns Brock in the best way, the heat warming his chest in a way that nothing else can.

“Hurry up.” Jose’s voice is gruff, his head lifting from his pillow to try and capture Brock’s lips but Brock pulls back, kissing down Jose’s chest and ribs and right above his hip bone. The broken noise that Jose lets out as Brock tugs on his shorts and underwear is worth it, a sound that Brock wants to be able to hear over and over again.

“Still kept in here?” Brock opens the first drawer on Jose’s bedside table and the lube and condoms are still there, like Brock remembers.

It’s a weird sense of deja vu - they’ve fucked all over the world, on tour and in between gigs but somehow being back in Jose’s apartment brings a feeling of familiarity, from when they were just beginning, when everything was still fresh and new. Kissing along Jose’s skin, the salty tang of sweat a taste that he remembers from their very first time, one that hasn’t changed.

Brock holds the condom packet up in question, and Jose shoots him a look. “What, you want me to do it for you, or something?”

“So impatient.”

“Shut up.” But Jose’s words are cut off in a groan when Brock pushes his legs open, teases his lubed up fingers by his entrance while he presses kisses along Jose’s hipbone, the crook of his thigh.

He loves seeing Jose come undone like this, so not in control of himself when he’s arching up from the bed, curses falling from his mouth already as Brock curves his fingers, along his prostate. Brock’s close enough himself, already on the edge because his own dick is leaking and he has to focus on the motions of his own fingers to distract himself, to keep going.

Brock pulls his fingers back when Jose whines, tugs on his arm until he crawls back up and captures his lips again. He lets Jose control the pace of the kiss, lets him deepen it but then hooks an arm under the small of Jose’s back, flips him over so he’s on his stomach, gasping and squirming underneath him.

He pushes Jose’s legs apart again after he rolls on the condom, kisses up Jose’s spine and by his shoulder until he’s right by his ear. “This okay?”

“Why you taking forever, bitch-”

Brock pushes into him suddenly, drawing in a breath because fuck , it doesn’t matter who else he sleeps with, who else he has close like this, because it’s different with Jose. Everything he feels so much stronger with Jose, and it makes his own body feel so much more electrified, so much closer to being bowled over. He tugs on Jose’s hips until he’s off the bed slightly, as close as possible so that he can drive himself deeper, faster. Jose is a mess of moans and swear words that blend into one another as his shaky hands fist in the sheets, his face burying in his own elbow.

“Fuck B, fuck-”

Brock makes up for lost time, the distance that’s been between them over the past few months, burying his face in juncture of Jose’s neck and gripping at his skin hard enough to leave bruises. Jose’s letting out broken noises beneath him that make Brock squeeze his eyes shut, push faster, harder, until the headboard is bumping up against the wall. Brock knows Jose’s close, he just needs a little bit more-

Brock lifts Jose’s hips up a little bit more so he can grab his dick, pump it while twisting his hand just the way Jose likes it, not letting up the motions of his hips. And then Jose’s whines become higher in his throat, until he’s coming all over the sheets and on his own thighs. Brock pulls his hand back, grabs at Jose’s hip again and speeds up until he’s gone too, shaking and trembling and trying to catch his breath, his lungs empty and gasping for air.

He turns Jose over, licks the come off his skin and crawls up until he’s at Jose’s lips, kissing him again and it’s less desperate from both of them now, slower. Calmer. Brock rolls off of Jose, rests on his side, and Jose’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, all breathless and fucked out but with eyes that are sparkling, warm.

Brock’s never going to tire of the sight.

“I just washed these sheets this morning, you ho. Gonna have to wash ‘em again now.” Jose’s voice is gravelly, a smile playing on his lips as he trails his fingers mindlessly along the veins of Brock’s forearm.

“I’ll help you in the morning.” The words roll off of Brock’s tongue without effort, as if it’s a given that he’s staying over, that trekking back to his own apartment as if this is a one night stand doesn’t make any sense. As if this is a normal occurrence for the two of them.

And maybe, just maybe, Jose’s on the same wavelength too, because he smiles, drops his head on his arm on the mattress. “You better.”

Brock should be worried, freaking out like he normally does, because this isn’t a random city on tour or an unknown dressing room backstage somewhere. It’s Jose’s room, Jose’s bed, somewhere dizzyingly familiar but Brock’s mind is clear, free of the buzzing thoughts that normally turn his brain into a highway of sorts.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, not yet, nor does it ever have to. Maybe it’ll just lead to their paths intersecting more often, crossing with one another more frequently because now they’ll have the chance to, living in the same city. They’re not tied down, nor do they have to be. But the way Jose’s already starting to drift off curled into Brock’s side, an arm over his waist, doesn’t feel restricting, not like it should. Not like it used to. It feels more like a homecoming, because Brock can already feel roots burrowing down into the LA soil and taking hold, anchoring him here, making it his home.

[casijaz]

Xenophobia is not racism part 24,450 - Electric Boogaloo

@angelina-galkina you have so much to say so I’ll just put your argument right here and comment on it.

I am putting this under a read more tag for all my followers. If you’re interested, please read.

Angelina, your English seems to be well enough for you to understand my original posts, so I figure you will be able to understand me now. I am also not a native English speaker, so if there is miscommunication between us do tell me.

angelina-galkinaheeft gereageerd op je bericht “On Xenophobia and Racism”

Actually, the reason Europeans hate Slavs is because they think Slavs are Asians or all mixed with Asians. Slavs were seen as low as blacks people on the Nazi “racial hierarchy” scale. It was because Slavs were not considered white, (which was decided by those white European men you mentioned earlier who classified race.) They think Slavs are “secretly asian” or something like that. To be specific, manyyyyy Russian Slavs are mixed with central asian/ middle eastern at this point.

In Poland and Ukraine, the white nationalists there (like you said, there are a lot) dont consider Russian Slavs white (I am a Siberian Yup’ik, so don’t think I’m getting defensive, I’m not white lol) Russian Slavs experience xenophobia, and that xenophobia is rooted in racism in Europe. In America, the hate of Russians is rooted in dumb political reasons.

When I say that the xenophobia against Slavs in Europe is rooted in racism, I mean to say that they hate Slavs because Slavs aren’t white to them. Again, many Slavs are only partially white (so I guess they are only partly Slav?) This is sort of confusing, apologies.

Also, when you say that the hate of Slavs is geographically based, that is partially true. Because Slavs are so Eastward, they have mixed many times with Central and west Asians. So it is rooted in racism, but the insult is that they are part non-white so it’s not directly racism. I just don’t like misinformation being spread.

Note: {I am from Russia, (English isn’t my first language, sorry) and I know primarily about Russian Slavs, so I am only speaking about them.} Russia is both a multi-racial/multi-ethnic country. 

angelina-galkina heeft gereageerd op je bericht “Okay non-European tumblr”

They were talking about their own issues within Europe. It had nothing to do with people of other races. They were talking about how white people hate other white people, BASED ON racism against other races. It isn’t white racist people hating other white people, it is white racist people hating on other white people who “aren’t white to them” They never said anything bad.

Let’s unpack all of this for a second.

First off all. Who do you refer to when you say Europeans? People of Slavic descent are European. If by European you mean north/west ones I can tell you as one from that area that they are definitely European. These white people do not think they are Asian. Racial discrimination against Asians is something that is experienced by a lot in my country, but not by eastern European immigrants.

“Slavs were seen as low as blacks people on the Nazi “racial hierarchy” scale. ” In my original post I said whiteness was a social construct subject to change. While Nazis have had a hand or two in defining races, the construct of race was not created by them. It was European men in the 1600s. What you are also implying is that Slavic people only experience racism by being related or in proximity to ACTUAL non-whiteness. This is a tactic that has been used a lot in the defining of racism. But let me tell you. The people they’re compared to are always off worse. Also. Don’t ever say blacks again. It’s a racist term.

I have no insight in the genetic background of all Slavic ethnic groups in Russia. However from what I could find from these studies: http://www.khazaria.com/genetics/russians.html and https://bmcgenet.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12863-017-0578-3 is that there’s virtually little to no Asian heritage among Russian and eastern European Slavic peoples. There was almost no middle eastern genetic heritage found among these groups either. This was a study done with a group of 1000 people. You could make an argument that they misrepresented the population, but I actually have a problem with people claiming non-white heritage just for an excuse to absolve themselves of white privilege.

Xenophobia is a complex issue that IS tied to racism but is not racism. Please re-read the post I made. In Europe, xenophobia can be strengthened by racism. For example, in a lot of northern countries the south of Europe is seen as more ‘exotic.’ This is because they are in proximity to non-white countries. In the United States of America, xenophobia is not just all about ‘dumb political reasons.’ The United States of America is a former colony placed on stolen indigenous land by white Europeans from all over the place. They brought their values and systems regarding race along with them. This means Europe and the U.S. have similar systems, simply because it’s the same people who made them.

I think you’re onto something when you say ‘not white to them,’ but you need to realise that they still are white. I don’t know what your experience with racism is if you’re part of a non-white ethnic group in Russia. I can tell you my experience as mixed black person who is not white passing and lives in Europe. Whatever Slavic immigrants face for discrimination, and what I face, are completely different. Their discrimination is not nor ever based on their race. They are white. They don’t get blackface thrown in their faces. They don’t get called racial slurs. They don’t get their bodies or cultural aspects dubbed dirty or inferior on basis of their race. If they do experience discrimination it is based on the geographical history we’ve had in Europe.

What I can definitely agree on with you is that southern and eastern Europeans experience xenophobia on basis of their relation to non-whiteness on a geographical and historical basis. Many countries were colonised by the Ottoman Empire once. In the 1900s they were described as being ‘too close to the east.’ However note that I say ‘too close,’ but not ‘IN’ the east. In the 1800s while northwest European men were defining races they deemed a lot of races not quite white by relating them to races they had definitively deemed not-white. But we no longer live within the racial confines of neither the 1800s nor Nazi Germany. The racial hierarchy scale however is here to stay. It is subject to change, has been, and always will be, but there are certain groups of people whose claim to whiteness can never happen. Among them are black people.

Now to the reaction I made to the non-European Tumblr post going around! I am European! I was talking about my own issues too! These are my issues! White people hate white people because of geographical and cultural differences. They are both white. So they can’t be racist against each other. Both are at the top of the racial hierarchy. They did say something bad. When us ACTUAL non-white Europeans try talking about racism they try and hijack the conversation by stating they can’t possibly be racist because it works differently in Europe. It doesn’t. The U.S. and Europe have the same racial systems. The U.S. even has some of the same xenophobic basis for discriminating groups of people as Europe because the white population of the U.S. consists out of solely (people descended from) European immigrants.

Don’t ever tell a European of colour to not talk about their own issues. These are my issues and I will only stop talking about them when racism and xenophobia cease to exist.

[shirtlesssammy]

14x17: Game Night

Then:

Parenting is hard

Now:

We open with Donatello making cookies and bopping to BJ Thomas in his head. He’s just living his best soulless life, folks. 

Well, until his doorbell rings and he answers it. He’s soon trussed up and injected with an unknown substance.

Meanwhile at the bunker, it’s family game night! Dean’s made a head start on the festivities by setting up Mouse Trap by himself (poorly), Jack’s old enough to pop popcorn over an open flame, and Mary’s got a big bowl of carrots for Sam.

Mary checks in on Jack, and 10% souled up Jack tells her that her concern is annoying. XD He knows she’s just being a concerned mom though (and Mary’s just trying with this kid like she never had the chance with her own kids.) 

Just before Sam comes back with pizza, Dean checks his voicemail to find a message from Donatello. He needs their help. Dean instantly calls Sam, but can’t reach him. Mary and him take off right away. Jack stays behind to fill Sam in on what’s happening.

At Cindy’s Wafflette, Cas and Anael meet up. Anael is less than impressed with the diner vibe. I, on the other hand, am COMPLETELY SMITTEN with the whole thing. The waffle wallpaper! The tunes on the jukebox, the Formica tables, Cas’s order of waffles, the sun on the menu, the lady holding a giant waffle on the menu, the shots from the outside where we see the driving snow and the cozy tableau on the inside (more bars and wall separation imagery!).

Cas has something for her. 16th century Burmese blood rubies (lightly cursed), to be exact. He also needs her help with contacting God. She was Joshua’s right hand man, and God spoke to Joshua. Cas wants to find God to help Jack’s soul. Only God can restore a soul. “The Winchesters, they don’t know you’re here, do they?” LISTEN, Anael, stop judging our overprotective to his own detriment angel. She doesn’t want to help him, so Cas starts to take the earrings back. She has an idea though. Joshua tried reaching God after the Fall, and God answered. She wasn’t there when it happened, but she can take him to who was.

Sam and Jack are busy at the bunker trying to translate the bit of ancient Hebrew Donatello muttered at the end of his message. Mary and Dean have a moment in the Impala. Mary laments not being around enough for her children. And I’m like, NOPE. Stop with this nonsense. Too much pain foreshadowing.

And I don’t have enough time to unpack this:

Mary: But I know how I am. I can be closed off, hard.

Dean: Yeah, well, that’s where I get it from.

A thousand LOLs. (muttering to self: Dean, stop lying about yourself to relate to others) I will take their mutual smile at the end represents that they both know that’s a big lie.

At the bunker, Sam cracks the message. It’s Peter 5:8. “Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”

At Donatello’s, Dean and Mary don’t find Donatello, but they do find the devil Nick. Nick admits to injecting Donatello with thallium to get the WInchester’s attention.

Cas and Anael arrive at Orlando’s Emporium. They find Methuselah inside.

He doesn’t want to play ball, but Cas pops out his smitey blue eyes and Methuselah admits that the thing that Joshua used to call God is somewhere in his warehouse.

Dean and Mary bring Nick back to the bunker. Sam Fucking Winchester almost takes him out the second he sees him. I’m so here for completely done Sam.

Later, Sam is trying to parse why Nick was just waiting for Dean and Mary. It makes no sense. Mary notes that they have to save Donatello. Sam’s already on top of the antidote and he’s semi-confident that he can hack the feed to find him. Dean goes to talk with Nick.

Sam and Mary have a moment. STOP. I’m firmly in the Please don’t kill Mary camp (but see the writing on the wall.)

Cas and Anael continue their search for the Ark of the Covenant conduit to God.

Anael and Cas have an existential conversation about Heaven, God, and humanity. Anael doesn’t agree with God’s whole not meddling thing. Anael doesn’t need Heaven and she doesn’t need God, and she is ...happy. (Keep that word away from Cas!) Cas thinks she sounds lonely, and she counters that we are all alone. Cas has family though. And Cas knows that God meddles.

Dean’s busy beating up Nick in the bunker’s dungeon. Nick is busy mentally messing with Dean about Michael. Nick also asks to see his “son.” URGH.

Mary remains the best and most skeptical mom/hunter in the world, because she advises strongly against letting Nick see “his son.” Sam’s on board though. Weighed down by guilt, he thinks it may be their best shot to get Nick to reveal Donatello’s location. Jack insists on helping Donatello anyway, because he’s his friend. WWWD!

Nick immediately manages to get a rise from Jack. Lucifer was a monster and Jack’s “three dads” have killed tons - soulless Jack has terrible role models. (Which is certainly true.) Nick has learned Lucifer’s art of hurting with half-truths. Nick headbutts Jack as soon as he gets close and smashes his nose, getting blood everywhere. Jack heals himself and then gets Nick to promise to show them where to find Donatello.

At Methuselah’s, Anael has reached the creepy doll stage of their investigation and decides that she is 100% done. She confronts Cas and tells him that he’s jumping through these hopeless, miracle-seeking truths because he’s too afraid to tell Sam and Dean the truth about Jack. “Jack’s soul is gone, Castiel. And there’s nothing you can do about it. I don’t wanna say all that and hurt your feelings, so…” (LOL, I love Anael.) The truth bomb hits Cas hard. Cas and Anael are about to leave when Cas spots an amulet hanging in the jewelry display that looks an awful lot like Dean’s old God-necklace. It’s a Casulet!

Casulet recipe:

1 holy amulet 1 Tbsp faith 2 tsp self-doubt 5 cups of existential angst

Methuselah congratulates Cas on finding Joshua’s amulet. Yay, Cas! You passed his worthiness test (see our Last Crusade post for context). Time to make a long distance call. Cas immediately prays to God and invokes Sam and Dean’s name in his plea for help. (Aw, Cas bby.) It’s decidedly unexciting and Methuselah drily comments that it never worked for Joshua either.

Sam, Dean, and Nick drive out to find Donatello, arriving at a set of warehouses set in a snowy landscape. Dean heads in to find Donatello and leaves Sam to watch Nick. Best friends forever, amirite?

Outside of Methuselah’s Emporium, Cas says he’s finally going to head home to tell Sam and Dean the truth. He bids Anael farewell. But before she goes, he tells her that even if God left them, they’re not alone. Best friends forever, amirite?!! Anael treats this sentiment with all the respect someone might treat an after-school special, but Cas insists that they all have each other. Aw, Cas <3

Back at the bunker, Mary digs through a box of things they’d recovered from Donatello’s and Jack recognizes the silver grace-extracting syringe as once containing grace. They realize that Donatello was injected with grace and maybe not poisoned after all. Ruh roh. She calls Sam, who is currently trapped in the Impala with the meat suit version of Hallucifer. (Meaning, Nick starts to sing. Badly.) Extra annoyed, Sam steps out of the car, leaving Nick to get up to No Good.

Dean finds Donatello tied up in the warehouse. Sam pulls Nick out of the car - Nick, who just pulled a tiny blade from his wrist so he can pick the lock on his cuffs. Sam, BBY, you do know that guns can be used just as well when you’re out of arms reach of the enemy, right?

Nick reveals his dastardly plan. He injected Donatello with grace so he could communicate with Lucifer, who’s been kicking around the Empty doing his best interpretation of the Terminator. Lucifer told him about a ritual he could use to bring him back. All he needed was a little bit of Jack’s blood, which Nick got from Jack’s bloody nose. Oof. Nick’s been working with demons, who want Lucifer back.

Dean gets attacked by demons in the warehouse and Sam and Nick start a fistfight up by the car. Sam gets beaned on the head by a huge rock. UGH, Sam. Your poor cabeza! While Sam fights with another head injury, Dean almost gets killed by demons.

Dean races out to the Impala to help Sam, who’s been honking the horn full blast after locking himself in the car to save himself from Nick. Sam’s doing…really, really badly. He’s incoherent and has trouble breathing and…Sam might not make it? Dean calls Mary and fills her in on Nick’s plan. He tells her that he can’t go after Nick because he has to stay with Sam and wait for an ambulance to arrive.

Nick steals a car and makes his way to an abandoned cabin to start the ritual to bring back Lucifer. As it begins, Jack buckles in pain. Mary puts all the pieces together, realizing that Nick was after Jack all along. She tells Jack to take them to Nick and gives him permission to use his powers.

Nick’s ritual starts to work and the Empty goo folds out into reality. Lucifer approaches like a mess of sludge and glowing eyes, ready to jump back into Nick.

Jack flaps in just in time. He uses his powers to zap Lucifer back to the Empty and then slowly tortures Nick, breaking his bones and burning him alive. Mary begs Jack to stop his slow torture but Jack’s too far into it.

Back with Sam, Dean begs him to cling to consciousness. But as he desperately tries to get Sam to engage, Sam sputters in some final goodbyes about how Dean’s always put him first and it’s FINE we don’t have feelings about this at all. Sam’s eyes slip closed and…I was not expecting this.

The editing cuts expertly from Sam’s maybe-dead face to Nick’s, then pans out to see Mary’s look of horror as she gazes at Jack. “I had to,” Jack whispers and…like…maybe? But the torture is not on-brand for you. Something is wrong with Jack ™

Mary sends Jack to go help Sam. Jack arrives in a flurry of wings and races immediately for Sam. He heals Sam, who takes a giant breath and returns to life. Dean tries very hard not to freak the fuck out at seeing his brother come back to life.

(Side note: I realize that we’ve learned this episode that Jack is soulless and this is a Problem ™ but he did race immediately to heal Sam. So some of his instincts are good. I retain hope that his “dark arc” will be nuanced. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.)

Mary gathers her thoughts at the cabin and when Jack flaps back, super proud of himself for healing Sam.

Mary tells him that he’s not fine. We’ve seen lots of beloved characters slipping into the ol’ torture role on this show, so Jack’s mode of hurting Nick certainly feels on brand for the WWWD movement. But I think the best point that Mary makes is that it’s not him. Mary tells him that he’s not okay. “It’s not your fault,” she goes on to say. “The Jack I know would never have done that.” At first I’m scared for her, like Jack will destroy her so she doesn’t reveal his secrets. But instead angel-speech-ringing breaks into Jack’s mind. He can’t hear her. Can’t see her. Mary hurries to him to try to help but there’s a rushing sound and then the screen goes black.

“Mary?” Jack asks in a small voice. OOOOH DANG

Boris: I believe that the last scene is complete misdirection for the audience. We’re supposed to have this fear of soulless Jack because he killed Felix. Mary is distressed that Jack killed Nick. She talks to Jack and he doesn’t want to listen to her until she says “If Sam and Dean saw what you did, they would be as worried as I am.” Jack looks at her and looks down, defeated, worried. He asks if she is going to tell them ---he needs their approval. He needs to know that what he’s doing is what Sam and Dean want. He now knows he messed up and is scared he won’t have their approval anymore. It’s the next part that I’m waffling about what happens. Mary says, “You need help, we’ll help you. We’re family.” Then Jack says, “You can’t. No, just leave me alone.” He starts to walk away AND puts his hands to his ears. THEN the angel radio buzz starts. Was Jack responding to Mary or did he hear the buzzing before we as the audience did? The subsequent “Leave me alone”-s aren’t meant for Mary. He’s talking to the voice(s) in his head. His glowing eyes are a reaction to the voices, not Mary. We’ll find out next week what really happens with Mary, but I’d like to exist in the world that Jack didn’t harm her for a week, knowing that the last time we saw Jack react to angel radio, he lashed out and knocked the sheriff unconscious after he was first born.

Natasha: This is pure speculation, but I think Jack accidentally sent Mary to the Empty, which is where he was trying to send Lucifer back to after he kept shouting in Jack’s ears. Anyway, stay tuned for my Mary vs. The Shadow full length screenplay.

WWWQ (What Would the Winchesters Quote):

Just a general reek of ill conceived lone wolf desperation…

I’m grateful - every day I get to spend with you and Sam.

The thingamajig he used - it’s around here somewhere.

Are you insane? This is Mulberry silk.

What’s it like not having a soul? Must be relaxing.

Come on, Sam. Nobody stays dead anymore. You know that.

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[thefloorisbalaclava]

Rancher!McCree AU - Chapter 1 - Jesse McCree x Fem!Reader

A/N: I received this request a while ago and it took me some time to get up the courage to write and post it. This became sort of self-indulgent. The reader is a woman of color (mixed race) but I still want everyone to be able to enjoy it. This is my first time trying something like this...

This first chapter is just an introduction to the characters and their personalities. I’m expecting this fic to be quite long with lots of pining, stolen glances, etc... Its set in the late 1800s, some time after the Civil War.

No title yet but maybe I’ll think of something or one of you will be able to help me lol.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Words: 2,702 Warnings: racist terms, mention of prostitution

Before your mother died, you had promised her that you would never let anyone own you. You told her that you would never be someone’s slave. She wanted you to be strong, but you could never be as strong as her.

Opportunities for a woman around here were few and far between, especially for a woman of your color. The worst part was, you were hardly accepted by the people you most resembled. See, you are what the people here consider a mulatto, a mutt, or what some people called a house negro. You didn’t ask to be born this way, you just were. You blamed the white man that had his way with your mother for all your hardships. You swore you would never work for a white man and you wouldn’t let one take advantage of you.

Yet, here you were, on the train making your way to some man’s ranch, ready to work. You were sure your mother would understand your predicament. Your only other option was to become a whore and there was no way you were going to let a bunch of filthy railroad men lay on top of you every night.

The train began to slow down and grabbed your one little bag, standing up nervously. People had been giving you looks the entire ride but there wasn’t much they could do now that you’ve reached your destination. Some people stared at you almost in disgust others, mostly men, leered at you, no doubt assuming that you were a new whore for the railroad men. You ignored the stares as people filed off the train into the dry heat of the west.

You stood out of the way, using your hand to shield the sun and immediately regret wearing the dress you chose. You had no idea who you were looking for. What exactly did a rancher dress like? A cowboy? The pictures you saw in the papers were all you had to go by, but there were so many men dressed the same, which one was this Mr. McCree you were looking for?

“I believe yer lookin’ for me,” someone drawls behind you. You turn quickly and come face to face with a horse. Its rider pats its neck and you look up at him. He certainly stood out with his red serape blowing in the wind. It was a bit dramatic to you, but what did you know. “This here’s Sunset and I’m McCree. Jesse McCree.” He looked at you strangely so you looked at him until he cleared his throat and looked away.

Your mama would have lost it if she saw how you had lost your manners. You correct yourself immediately and bow your head, “Mr. McCree.” You tell him your name and say hello to Sunset who nuzzles your hand.

“I got another horse for ya right over there.” He points over to a beautiful, white horse waiting patiently. “You can give me your stuff…”

“No, I can manage,” you say, “Thank you, sir.”

“All right, ma’am.” He watched you with interest as you skillfully tied your things onto the saddle and got yourself onto the horse without any problems although you were wearing a dress. You made yourself as comfortable as could be on a horse and looked at him.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“No, ma’am, not at all.” He gives you an awkward smile and maneuvers his horse around yours to lead the way. You make sure to stay to the side of him and a little further back. You weren’t sure what people would think if they saw you two riding together. “So, tell me ‘bout yourself,” he says turning his head slightly to talk to you.

“What would you like to know, sir?”

He stops his horse suddenly making you stop yours. “I’m gonna need you to stop callin’ me sir. I ain’t no sir.”

“Well, you’re a man, ain’t ya?”

“Well, yeah, but that don’t mean you gotta call me sir. I’m sure you’ve done enough of that in your life.” Your head drops and he quickly corrects himself, “I only meant that I ain’t your…master or nothin’. We’re equals.”

“There are plenty of people here that would hang you if they heard you say something like that. We ain’t equal, we never will be.” You look at him and he seems annoyed so you decide to lighten the mood. “What would you like to know about me, s- Mr. McCree?”

He clicks his tongue to get his horse moving again and you follow. “Where you from?” he asks.

“New Orleans, born and raised.” You weren’t sure if he wanted to hear more so you just waited for him to ask another question.

“Family? Mother? Father?” he asks and you sigh.

“I don’t got any family left. My mama took good care of me when she was here though. My father, well, he don’t care about me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead.” That was all you wanted to say on the subject but Mr. McCree had other plans.

“How do you know he don’t care ‘bout you?”

“No white man is gonna care about a baby he sired with a slave woman.” You could see McCree’s entire body tense up as the words left your mouth.

“I’m sorry I asked. I’m sorry that happened to your mother…and to you.” He was sincere. You couldn’t see his face, but the way he spoke said it all.

“No reason to be sorry, Mr. McCree.” You looked around and realized you were leaving town. Ahead, you only saw a few houses here and there, some appeared to be abandoned. “So, why did you decide to come out here instead of stayin’ in town? You could work for the railroad.”

“I have my reasons. Let’s just say I ain’t much of a people person.”

“No family? Wife and kids?” you ask.

“No. Just me, my horses and a few other animals, and my land…and now you.” Before you can ask him another question he calls back to you, “Almost there!”

You were relieved to hear that. Your legs were starting to hurt you and it wouldn’t feel good tomorrow. Straight ahead you saw a beautiful ranch house with a few horses grazing in a fenced area.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell McCree and he beams at you.

“Built it with my own two hands.” His smile fades for a moment then he looks ahead again. He stops his horse to jump down and help you off yours, only using his right arm. “Uh, lemme show you where you’ll be stayin’.” He towards the house and up the stairs but you stay where you are. He turns to make sure you’re following but you haven’t moved from your spot. “You comin’?”

You hold the handle of your bag with both hands in front of you nervously, “I’ll be staying in there? W-with you?”

He laughs, “Well, yeah, where else would you be stayin’? Out here in the pasture with the horses?”

“I just never…I usually didn’t stay in the same place as my…”

“I already told you I ain’t your master,” he says slightly annoyed, putting his hands on his hips. You’re both rooted to your spots and he lights a cigarillo while waiting for your response.

“Then what exactly are you, Mr. McCree?”

“I’m a rancher.”

“Yes, I know that. I mean…what are you to me?” You looked at him expectantly. He removed his hat and slapped it against his leg. Had you annoyed him that much already?

“I’m your boss but you are free to come and go as you please. I don’t own you. You are a free woman as far as I’m concerned.” He starts to walk into the house and you feel a little better following this time. “And I’ll be payin’ you fairly, don’t you worry.”

But that wasn’t what you were worried about. Your mother worked in her master’s house and…well, you were the result of what occurred there.

“Are you expecting me to lay ­with you, Mr. McCree?”

He sputters and chokes on some smoke from his cigarillo before looking at you in shock. He walks back down the stairs towards you making you back away a little, “I dunno what you think of me but I hired you to help me around the house, nothin’ more. And would you please stop callin’ me mister – it’s just McCree or Jesse.” He walks back up the stairs and waits for you, “You comin’?” You nod and follow.

You gasp audibly when you walk through the door. You could see why he needed you around here, the place was in a state. “Oh my,” you whisper.

“I know, it can use some work,” McCree admits. Work? This place needed an entire makeover. “All right, maybe a lil more than that.” He leads you further into the house and into a room at the end of the hall, “Here you are.” He opens the door for you and lets you walk into the room first. What a big difference between the cleanliness of this room compared to the rest of the house. It certainly looked as though someone had taken care of this room before.

“I never had my own room before!” you say excitedly and he smiles. “Thank you, Mister- I mean, McCree.”

“My pleasure.” He continues to look at you, his eyes trailing up and down making you feel slightly uncomfortable. “We gotta get you more suitable clothing for workin’ out here. Dresses ain’t gonna cut it.”

“I don’t have money for new clothes.” You look away sheepishly, “I spent the money I had to get here.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that.” He walks towards to the door then turns to you, “I’ll give you some time to settle in. I’m gonna go see to the horses and other animals.”

“Thank you again, McCree,” you say before he leaves. He places his hat on his head and tips it, closing the door behind him. You begin to unpack your meager belongings, the most important thing being a picture of your mother.

When you finish unpacking, you head to the front room again and try to decide where you should start. You would probably be using the kitchen the most so you start there. Grabbing a bucket, you head out the door to find the water pump.

“Mr. McCree!” you call since he was nowhere to be found. “McCree!” You walk around to the back of the house where you find him on his horse. You avert your eyes when you see that he was on wearing his serape. What happened to his shirt? He was speaking quietly to the horse when he spotted you and came over.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I, uh, yes sir. I was looking for the water pump.” You still couldn’t look at him directly so you kept your eyes on his hat.

“It’s right over there. What do you need water for?”

“I need to clean the kitchen,” you tell him and he shakes his head while jumping down from his horse. “Is there a problem?”

“You ain’t gonna be cleanin’ on your first day here.” He holds his right hand out for the bucket but you turn your body away so that he can’t get to it.

“The kitchen needs to be cleaned, McCree. I can’t do a thing in there the way it is now.” You start to walk past him and he looks at you in disbelief.

“Have you always been this stubborn?” He walks beside you but you keep your eyes straight ahead.

“Yes, sir. Gotta be.” You make it to the water pump without any more protesting from him.

He’s still standing in the same place when you finish, “You gonna at least let me carry the bucket for ya?” Reluctantly, you hand the bucket to him and let him carry it to the house for you. Immediately, you grab a rag and start scrubbing away at things.

“You gonna stand there and watch me?” you ask without looking at him. He chuckles and you smile to yourself.

“I got a few more things to do out here. Shouldn’t take long.”

“You ain’t gotta tell me that, Mr. McCree. You take care of your business and I’ll take care of mine.” You continue to clean, blowing a stray curl out of your face.

“Yes ma’am.” He laughs and shakes his head as he walks out the door.

McCree told you that he wouldn’t be long but by the time he came back into the house, it was dark out and most of the kitchen had been cleaned. You even had time to make supper.

“What is that smell?” McCree asks, bursting through the door like madman.

“You hungry?” you ask, pointing to the table and the plate you had waiting for him.

“Starvin’…but how?” He starts walking to the kitchen but you stop him and tell him to remove his boots. He wasn’t going to track dirt in here, not after you spent so long making it nearly spotless.

“Clean your hands, too,” you say before he takes another step. “You had some things in your larder that weren’t rotten surprisingly…so I made supper with what I had.” He sits down in front of his plate excitedly and is about to eat when he looks up at you then at the table.

“Where’s your plate?” he asks.

“I’ll eat when you’re done, sir. ‘Sides I got more cleanin’ to do.” You smile at him and luckily, he had put his shirt back on so it wasn’t so hard to look at him anymore.

“I can’t believe…” He stands up, grabs another plate and starts piling food onto it. You notice that he puts the plate down to spoon the food on with his right hand instead of holding it. He places the plate in front of the chair across from him. “Sit and eat,” he says but you hesitate, “Now.” You weren’t used to this, but you weren’t about to disobey him.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What did I tell you ‘bout that?” His words came out a little funny because of the food in his mouth.

“Thank you, McCree.” You begin to eat timidly, expecting him to jump up at any minute and tell you to get out.

“This is the most delicious dinner I’ve had in ages. Thank you,” he says sincerely. You nod at him since you were still chewing then you wipe your mouth.

“You’re quite welcome.” You look at him and he looks at you, a smile appearing. Looking away, you stand quickly and he stands right after, a sign of respect. A man had never done that for you before and you sure weren’t expecting it from him. “I-I’m done. How ‘bout you?” He nods and you take his plate, cleaning it off and avoiding his gaze.

“I’ll probably be up and out early tomorrow so don’t get too worried if you don’t see me,” he says, holding his hat against his thigh.

“I’ll try to get breakfast ready for ya.” You look at him quickly with a small smile.

“You ain’t gotta…”

“I want to,” you say and that stops him from saying any more on the matter.

“Guess I’ll say good night now.” He walks to the door of his room.

“Goodnight, Mr. McCree.”

He says goodnight again before entering his room and closing the door. You finish cleaning the plates and walk to your room. As you pass McCree’s room, you hear whistling and you stand there for a moment to listen. He finally settles in and the whistling stops so you continue to your room.

He had to be one of the strangest men you had ever met but…you liked him. You were sure you only thought he was strange because of the way he acted towards you. He treated you nicely and as his equal which wasn’t usual in this time and place.

You undress and get into your bed – your bed. You smile to yourself and roll over, closing your eyes and feeling safe for the first time in a very long time.

[karpedayam]

July 9: Day 49

Today was the most incredible day. It didn’t start so incredible as I slept through Dr. Rehka’s phone-calls telling me that we were leaving for Sargur early, but the medical students slept in too LOL. We got on the road around 9 which was good. The drive was so beautiful, I’m excited to be in a more rural place with fresh air and less noise. I was also feeling so excited and in disbelief that I’m lucky enough to have an opportunity to shadow Ayurvedic doctors. I still remember when Aunt Mary gave me the book about Ayurveda when I was like 12 years old, and now here I am almost 10 years later getting to fulfill this passion of mine it’s so humbling. I thought a lot today about the people who’ve supported me over the years, and my incredible professors at Mount Allison who have done the absolute most to help. I’m truly blessed. I have so much love for the Religious Studies department and everything this degree and my professors have given me. I’ve talked about coming to India and doing this kind of thing forever and I just can’t believe it’s really happening.

Anyway, we got to Sargur to our hostel and luckily my friend Laura from Iowa requested that I room with her and Kuann (they’re best friends with Anger so this works PERFECTLY). After resting and unpacking, Kuann and I went to lunch and then I met with Dr. Monhar who’s in charge of us and our academics to talk about what I wanted to do. I’ll mostly be shadowing Dr. Abhingya, an Ayurvedic doctor in patient consultations, procedures, and talking with her about specific questions and learning about the theory and history of Ayurveda. Dr. Monahar said I could also observe in the OB/GYN ward and maybe even some live births which would be AMAZING.

I met with Dr. Abhignya in the afternoon and we ended up having several hours of conversation; it was incredible. She asked me what I knew about Ayurveda and how I got interested in it, and then we talked about its history. Apparently Buddhism has a really violent history and tried to wipe out the traditional Vedic knowledge through burning libraries and things like that. Knowledge was stolen to China/Tibet which is why they’re so similar to Ayurveda (I’ve written about this in classes before but this violence was never emphasized. The narrative is very much “this knowledge traveled along the Silk Road” and I can’t believe I never questioned the passivity of that statement. It’s interesting because this same kind of non-violent narrative is what we see in museums/textbooks about colonial Canada when we know in reality it certainly wasn’t non-violent i.e. at the Museum of History in Ottawa there was this narrative of “Indigenous peoples faced issues such as smallpox” and it’s like ... yeah because it was intentionally and violently done to wipe them out!).

ANYWAY, I’ve read some scholarly debates about Ayurveda’s Vedic origins. Some scholars say it didn’t necessarily exist in Vedic times as we know it today: that reaching for roots in the Vedas (i.e. in the Rig Veda and Atharva Veda) isn’t necessarily accurate nor does it mean that Ayurveda as a practice is that old. Some scholars then claim that it was finessed much later as “Ayurveda” but claimed Vedic origins to validate itself and thus these were later Brahmanical additions. I think the latter is partially true but it goes a bit deeper in light of what Dr. Abhignya told me. If the tradition was being threatened people would necessarily try to preserve it through writing etc. This got us on the topic of different knowledge systems. We know lots of traditional indigenous cultures were oral-based, so why would you write something down if it’s not being threatened? Why would you try to categorize the practice Ayurveda if it’s just part of the natural harmonious way of life you live? So perhaps it was finessed and categorized as “Ayurveda” at the time when it was threatened by Buddhists etc. but that doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t Ayurveda before that, it was just different priorities in different knowledge systems. It would make sense that the tradition became more distinct and efforts would be made to connect it to its Vedic history if the tradition was being threatened in order to safeguard, validate, and preserve it. But just because these Vedic ties might be later additions doesn’t mean they’re false, it could just mean that in a non-threatened knowledge system validating the tradition might not have been a priority. Textual authority is always so necessary to validate things in our dominant knowledge system and it clashes so much with Indigenous knowledge systems.

This also relates to research Dr. Abhignya has been doing in tribal communities nearby at Kenchanahalli (the place with the Ayurvedic garden - they’ve been holding alcohol-abstinence camps for tribal members). They have implemented an integrated approach to healing alcohol addiction through Ayurvedic and allopathic therapies but she’s been frustrated as it’s hard to accurately represent the work being done through statistics. Statistics are about generalizations and they are part of the scientific Western knowledge system and therefore they won’t accurately represent a knowledge system which is founded on treating people as individuals and not making generalizations. The whole point of Ayurveda is that it doesn’t fit within this knowledge system. This reminded me a lot of efforts in Canada in Indigenous communities reviving spirituality and traditional medical practices to address these issues, so we talked about that for awhile. She was very interested in this and she really wants our experience this week to be about knowledge sharing which I think is really cool. She’s interested about not only Indigenous history and practices in Canada, but also about how the West perceives Ayurveda so I think it’ll be a really interesting week learning from each other. I also told her about the Ayurvedic cookbook I made for my Hinduism course this spring and she was really excited about it! She said it might be useful to her and her patients to provide more food suggestions.

Anyway, I went back to my room and Kuann, Laura and I had some interesting conversations as usual. We did this exercise where in a minute you complete the sentence “I am ___” with as many descriptors as you can think about yourself. It was an exercise that has shown the impact of identity in that most of the time, white/heterosexual/cisgender etc. people don’t write those labels, but if you’re from a community that has been disenfranchised/oppressed, you’re more likely to write those descriptors as your race/ethnicity/sexuality etc. has been called into question and made political more often. I thought this was really interesting. It has a lot to do with identity as well because this applies if you come from a distinct place, for example I put “Cape Bretoner” because that is a very distinct identity. Shavano also joined us so that was nice, we all talked for a long time about political stuff. Shavano and Kuann are from the Bahamas, Laura’s parents are Mexican immigrants, and my dad is an immigrant so it’s cool to be able to talk about this kind of stuff together since we all have such unique backgrounds.  

Really enjoying the food here, it’s more simple than in Mysore but really tasty.

[shirtlesssammy]

10x01: Black

Netflix won’t show me The Road So Far, so I have no clue what’s happening when a demon accuses Sam Winchester of being one of them --soul long gone. Sam’s got her tied up and he’s been torturing her, so maybe she’s delusional? 

J/K, Sam’s just being Sam Co-dependent Winchester and trying to find his brother, who’s been traipsing around all summer with his new BFF, Crowley. (Which, yay for Sam for finally taking action when his brother is in trouble, but like, whoa, buddy, take it down a couple hundred notches.)

Four Weeks Later

...and every lore book and connection he has, Sam is still at a loss as to where his brother and Crowley are. He wanders into Dean’s room and finds a note on his pillow, “Sammy Let Me Go.” Sam’s not about to let that happen, especially when he finds a news article about a slain man in Wisconsin. He calls Cas with his discovery.

For My God Why Don’t I Watch This Moment More Science:

Cas is….NOT DOING WELL. He’s sweaty and coughing and laid up in bed when Sam calls. Sam excitedly talks about the lead, but Cas coughs through the whole exchange. Sam stops, realizes Cas isn’t doing well, and tells him nevermind. They leave their conversation with the question, “Do you think there’s any chance…any chance at all that Dean is still even remotely Dean?”

Cut to Dean singing Karaoke at a bar. Uh, oh boy. I mean, the more we unpack Dean Winchester, yeah, this is totally Dean. I guess this new version of Dean is pure Id. He wouldn’t be singing “I’m Too Sexy” though. Lol, bby demon Dean.

While Dean does his thing (badly). Crowley talks with a couple of dudes --(The much speculated ⅔ of the triples Dean and Crowley did extraordinary things with.)

Cut to Dean and the waitress, Anne Marie, in bed. She’s late for her shift, and Dean makes it clear that she shouldn’t grow attached to him. She’s less than impressed with his tact. Crowley busts in and busts up the party.

Cut to Dean and Crowley now playing foosball with the ⅔ of the triplets. Crowley is showing his jealousy on his sleeve. Oh, Drowley! How people missed this blatant of a storyline is beyond me.

Dean notices a man grabbing Anne Marie and heads to investigate, and by investigate I mean beat the shit out of the dude. Even at his worst, Dean’s base motivation is pure; execution might be a bit off though.

Cas continues to waste away in some dank and dark motel bed (this show did him dirty for so long). There’s a knock at his door, and Hannah is there. Oh, Hannah, how I love you. There’s an awkward exchange when Cas inadvertently flashes her, but they quickly move on and Hannah asks for Cas’s help in finding a couple rogue angels.

Sam investigates the death in Wisconsin alone.

At night, Dean leaves the bar to find a demon he knows has been watching him. He’s ready to roll.

For Demon Science:

Sam watches the police surveillance footage of the death and finds Dean on the screen! As Sam watches the footage of Dean taking out the dude,  IRL Dean takes out the demon with the First Blade. At the end of the footage, Dean looks into the camera and his eyes flash black. We’ve all been there, right Sam?

This is all I have to say about the next scene of this episode:

(Ugh, ugh, ugh. This is why I don’t rewatch these episodes.) The tl;dr of it all: Cole is a gross vengeful asshole and he’s coming for Dean.

Meanwhile, Hannah and Cas are on their road trip. Hannah notes that Cas’s grace is failing. He’s dying. Cas ignores his imminent problems to focus on the bigger picture.

Sam’s on the trail for Dean and interviewing the Gas-n-Sip attendant who witnessed the entire assault. He doesn’t have much to add though, much to Sam’s exasperation. He does bury the lede a bit by giving Sam the dead demon’s phone. Sam looks through it to find the demon worked for Abaddon. Sam calls Crowley on the phone. Crowley assures Sam that the only demon inside Dean is Dean. And Crowley is so far gone on Dean it’s not funny. Lol. Sam makes it very clear that he will get his brother back, even if it kills him. Crowley taunts that he has to find them first. Smart Sammy was tracking the call though. (Natasha: I love that the Black Spur bar is on Knife River Road. Lovely.)

Cas and Hannah pull into the angels’ ultra warded camp in the middle of an idyllic forest-lined river. There are angel-shielding sigils painted all over trucks, rocks, the tent… There’s a fisherman peacefully casting into the water. It’s Daniel, one of the rogue angels.

They proceed to talk in metaphors. In this metaphor, the rogue angels are trout in the stream fighting to evade captors/fishermen. I approve of this symbolism even if it’s just been smashed in our faces like a fresh cream pie.

Hannah tells Daniel that they’ve an angelic duty to serve Heaven. Daniel counters that the Fall of angels was their liberation. “I have choices,” he tells them. “And with each choice, I begin to discover who I really am.” I’m just going to fake cough “CAS” at the TV for a while. Hannah draws her blade but Cas talks her down (while the second rogue angel lurks in the background. Dun dun DUN).

At the Knight-of-Hell bar, Dean and Crowley info dump on us that Dean needs to kill to sate the blade. If he doesn’t kill regularly, then he’ll turn into a demon. Crowley’s been gift-wrapping pissy demons to assuage the Mark. (So this is love...mmmmmMMMmmm...so THIS is loooooove…) Anyway, Crowley wants to talk about their future. Their “professional future” - he’s forced to clarify. I don’t ship Dean and Crowley but OH MY GOD this episode just dances along that edge so delicately well. Do I think this episode and select later interactions lay a strong groundwork for Dean/Crowley action? Abso-friggin-lutely, I do.

Crowley tries to urge Dean to begin ruling Hell by his side so that “all of this that’s bloomed between us never ends.” EYES EMOJI! Crowley drops the news that Sam’s on to their location and furthermore, that Crowley knew Sam was tracing the call. Demon Dean, eternal party boy, is too much for Crowley to handle. Sam’s impending arrival forces a choice: Sam and capture, or Crowley and Hell.

As Sam drives to the Dark Knight Bar on Pointy Things Road, his headlights go out and the car sputters to a halt. At first we’re led to suspect demons, however Cole pulls up and malevolently offers to help Sam fix his car. They open the hood to find a kill switch in Sam’s car, and Cole’s got the remote. Cole takes Sam out quickly, knocking him out - poor bby.

Back at the bar, Dean sings - I shit you not - “Imaginary lovers” by Atlanta Rhythm Section. I...just…

Dean gets generally trashed, sings terribly, and sleeps it off miserably. Anne Marie approaches as he wakes and offers him a glass of water. They discuss Dean’s sense of “honor” in beating the shit out of her ex. She tells him that his defense of her was out of control and had nothing to do with doing something good for another person. It was all about his own issues. In response Dean denigrates both her and himself, burning the brief flare of shared honesty to the ground. Well, good to see that demon Dean is just as self-destructive as regular human Dean. I guess.

Around a cheery campfire, Cas, Hannah, and Daniel chat. Daniel tells Cas that there is wisdom to be gained from the human world. Hannah’s entirely out of the conversational loop; she just doesn’t get it.

Hannah: If you are to be free, that is to be decided by all angels. Daniel: There's that angelic irony.

Adina shows up right when the conversation starts getting too philosophical. Heeeey buddy! Angel blades are drawn and the fight escalates quickly between Hannah and Adina while Daniel and Cas try to get them to chill the fuck out. Unfortunately, he can’t prevent them from trying to kill each other. Cas kills Daniel to save Hannah, suffering a grievous wound from Adina in the process. Adina races off into the night.

Cole continues to be the Ugh, Whatever plotline of this episode, hauling Sam into an abandoned building. He ties him up, interrogation style, and tells Sam that he’s after his brother Dean. See, when Cole was a kid, Dean broke into his house and killed his actually-a-monster father. Cole’s been on a revenge quest ever since.

Back with Cas and Hannah, they drive awkwardly away from the riverside camp. Cas mourns Daniel’s death.

Hannah ties rebellious angels to dangerously self-guided angels like Metatron and Naomi. Cas counters.

Cas: Perhaps I've been down here with them for too long. There's seemingly nothing but chaos. Not all bad comes from it. Art. Hope. Love. Dreams. Hannah: But those are human things. Cas: Yes.

Me: [Writes a two thousand word essay on this exchange, while crying.]

Dean does his own lonely night-time drive and fields a call from Sam.

Dean tells him that he’s ditched the bar and by extension, Sam (me: crying intensifies). Only, it’s Cole calling. Cole threatens Sam’s life unless Dean gives himself up. “You listen to me,” Dean says with quiet, chill calm. “There's no trade. There's no meet-up. There's no nothing except the hundred percent guarantee that somewhere down the road I will find you, and I will kill you.” Cole can kill Sam - or not - but Dean will still murder his ass. Probably. Dean drives mysteriously into the night, leading us all to wonder just how far gone he really is.

Let’s Howl at those Quotes:

I miss him.

Get a room, you two.

I’m sensing awkwardness.

Where’s the porn?

Problem is, we don't know if this guy's a hero or a psychopath.

Dean Winchester completes me.

If I have to spend one more night in this fetid petri dish of broken dreams and B.O., I will cut off my own face.

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!