#weight management idaho falls

[agentnico]

The Whale (2022) Review

So I recently rewatched Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. And now that I’ve seen it I can’t unsee it - the mayor in that movie, once he gains all that weight from eating all that junk food that’s falling from the sky, looks exactly like Brendan Fraser in The Whale. I don’t just mean the weight, though that too. I mean, the hairstyle, the eyes and everything. It’s uncanny.

Plot: In a town in Idaho, Charlie, a reclusive and unhealthy English teacher, hides out in his flat and eats his way to death. He is desperate to reconnect with his teenage daughter for a last chance at redemption.

You always get that one movie every year where all the critics are raving about this one great performance from an actor that is a shoehorn in for an Oscars win, and then you yourself go see the film and you realise it’s overrated. The Whale is not that. Brendan Fraser needs that Oscar. Let alone the guy has been crapped on by Hollywood and this is one hell of a comeback, but also his performance in this movie is unlike anything you have seen from him before, nor is it something every actor can pull off. There is so much emotion that Fraser delivers in his expressions and within his eyes, so much so that every time the camera is on him you can tell exactly what he is thinking, you sympathise and feel sorrow for him, and overall he is incredible in this movie. If there is ever a movie to watch just for an actor’s performance, The Whale is that. Also, for those worrying that The Whale will just make you depressed for 2 hours....I mean, yah, that is what it does, however it does it in style! No? Not good enough for ya? Okay, go watch Puss in Boots instead ya losers!! That being said, Puss in Boots: The Last Wish is a surprisingly awesome animated sequel so if you choose to see that instead I can’t really judge. 

The Whale comes to us from director Darren Aronofsky, and that is both a pro a kind of a detriment to the movie. The positive is that he’s able to get the best performances out of his actors, and he manages to get a few interesting shots whilst only using one location, since the movie plays out more like an on-stage play, with all the events transpiring in Charlie’s flat, or the balcony out the front door. However the downside is that this is typical Aronofsky in that the movie can be very grotesque, so much so that it may overshadow the main message of the movie. From the very first moment when we’re introduced to Fraser’s Charlie, we find him all sweaty whilst masturbating profusely, followed by a heart attack after he climaxes. It’s as if Aronofsky wants you to think how disgusting this guy is. However then Fraser straight away portrays the character with such tenderness and empathy, that it seems like the director and the actor both have different motivations. Aronofsky, evidently is more focused on the journey of transforming an ugly individual into something beautiful at the end, whilst Fraser from the beginning sets out to show that this guy Charlie has something good and earnest in him right away. Personally I prefer Brendan Fraser’s approach, as we don’t need to see Charlie be shown so negatively. The enjoyment comes from seeing him in his happy moments and fix things he might have broken previously, however he’s already at his lowest. We don’t want to see him suffer anymore, we just want to see him actually succeed in something or at the very least find a glimmer of light in the midst of all the darkness. And also all the backstory of Charlie’s actions are discussed amongst the characters’ dialogues, so there’s no reason to make him now physically repulsive too. Especially since the movie’s main intention is to show that overweight people have more to them than just their physical layers. Anyway, my point is that Aronofsky’s fondness for the grotesque sometimes downplayed the film’s overall narrative message. Again though, Fraser manages to make Charlie so damn likeable that no matter how much greasy chicken he stuffs in his mouth, he’s still super adorable.

Besides Brendan the other cast members are all on form here. Hong Chau plays Charlie’s nurse and best friend, and seemingly the only truly honest character who doesn’t have a single bad thought, and she was really good. It was nice seeing someone good in Charlie’s life, who otherwise is only surrounded by constant negativity. Sadie Sink off Stranger Things fame does well in her part as Charlie’s daughter, and again as a child actor shows humongous talent, however he character does come off a bit over the top. She’s the typical moody teen who feels abandoned by her parent, however this character is so unpleasant and Aronofsky goes out of his way to show her as this despicable entity, that it makes it really hard to believe Charlie whenever he showers her with compliments about how brilliant and amazing she is. Samantha Morton also shows up in quick cameo appearance and manages to nearly steal the entire show from everyone. 

Being that this movie is set in only one location, a lot of the emotion comes from the musical score that is used to amplify the more dramatical moments. And the music is fine. Rob Simonsen embraces empathy in his notes well, however I was very much reminded a lot of film composer Johann Johannsson who passed away a few years back, as I feel like he would have really done justice to this movie and would have wrote a musical accompaniment that really stuck out.

The Whale is the type of movie that truly rests on it’s main actor’s shoulders. But my gosh is that central performance so good, and I really hope it brings Brendan Fraser properly back to our screens, as he has now shown that he has grown more and is able to provide such nuanced and heavyweight acting roles. Let the Brenaissance commence! And give that man an Oscar already! 

Overall score: 8/10

[trailersservices]

Utility Trailers - Types to Consider Before Buying

A utility trailer is utilized to move various materials. Since a utility trailer doesn't have motors, they are simply being pulled by a vehicle, truck, vehicle or a farm hauler. Utility trailers are very important particularly for the individuals who need to have a weighty burden that should be moved to another area. There are those individuals who made trailers as their homes while others make it a piece of their business. In the event that you are anticipating buying a utility trailer, you should think first what trailer will you really want most or what trailer is accessible in your space Haulit Trailers.

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 Something else to ask is the things that you are probably going to pull. Could it be said that you will move weighty or lightweight materials? For lightweight materials, you can utilize the single pivot model. In the event that the things that you intend to ship are weighty, you will likely need a couple hub trailer. The single hub model utilize one focal weight bearing pivot, while the couple hub trailer has two bearing axles. The upside of the pair hub trailer is the presence of breaks single hub model doesn't have one.

 There are various kinds of trailers, and some of them incorporates the encased or open-utility trailers, collapsing, little and game trailers. A collapsing trailer is minimized and has a separable haggles track. A collapsing trailer accompanies a removable back end, bed liner and an unloading highlight. Little trailer is famous to little finance managers and family to move little merchandise and garbage for property holders. A donning trailer is usually used to pull speedboats, or some other hardware and apparatus. It depends assuming that it is planned for the people who love to go to the ocean side on setting up camp or some other game related exercises.

 The last thing to recall while purchasing a utility trailer is your spending plan. On the off chance that you are a modest business person and you will ship your merchandise starting with one spot then onto the next, a little utility trailer is sufficient. Try not to choose a bigger utility trailer in the event that the asset that you have doesn't allow you. Assuming you are into sports or huge organization who necessities to move weighty burdens or merchandise, you want to consider additionally the solidness of the trailer that you will purchase to make that it will endure. It isn't useful for you to have a ceaseless fix in light of the fact that the trailer that you purchased isn't quite so sturdy as you require.

[nugnthopkns]

eyes full of stars

word count: 3.1k

warnings: insinuated!fem reader, cursing, alcohol consumption, slight sexual innuendo (kind sorta maybe, minors please be aware)

recommended listening: cowboy like me | taylor swift

a/n: it’s cold and snowy. to combat the winter blues i wrote about a sunny minnesota summer with brock :))

You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen Brock this carefree. 

The season was hard on him. There were large periods where he didn’t put up any points, and trade rumors started to circulate. Halfway through, before the playoff push even started, the negative social media comments came rolling in. You frequently saw fans request a trade or say that the organization should regret drafting him. Brock did his best to brush everything off, but it was beginning to waer on his mental health. You’re devastated when they fail to make it to the postseason, but you know it’s for the best. The injured team will spend the offseason recuperating and be ready for the next one. Besides, it means you and Brock will get to spend more time on the lake. 

So here you are, packing the car for the twenty-seven hour drive to Minnesota. Brock insists on driving, says it’s relaxing, but you aren’t sure you agree. Prone to car-sickness so fierce you can barely look out the window, you’d much rather fly. Everything is exasperated by the fact you’re a nervous traveller to begin with, afraid of taking a wrong turn or missing an exit. You’re a terrible road trip partner but at least Brock could talk to the dogs. Coolie and Milo loved car rides, and you can typically hear your boyfriend having full on conversations with them as you fade in and out of consciousness. 

“Ready to go babe?” Brock asks as he closes the trunk. The question is delivered with a bright grin, and despite your anxiety you return it with ease. 

“I don’t really have much of a choice do I?”

He shakes his head, chuckling as he moves towards you. Sliding his hands into the back pockets of your jeans he kisses you lazily. It’s comforting and all-consuming at the same time; doing a great job of occupying your mind with thoughts of him instead of the journey ahead. “I suppose not,” he says, planting a final kiss on your forehead. “It’ll be fine. You can take a Gravol right before we cross the border and you’ll be asleep before we hit Seattle.”

It’s the best plan of attack, so you agree immediately. After taking one last run into your shared apartment to use the bathroom and make sure everything is in order, you make yourself comfortable in the passenger seat of Brock’s jeep. Music filters through the speakers at a low volume, and you focus on the retreating skyline of Vancouver. You’re excited to get back to Minnesota, to relax and see your boyfriend in his natural habitat. Countless days are about to be spent lounging lakeside enjoying each other’s company. It will also be nice to spend time with Brock’s family: they’ve been incredibly welcoming over the years and you can’t wait to catch up with them. You know Brock’s itching to spend time with his nephew, and just to be at home. 

Just as Brock said, you’re asleep before Bellingham. It’s fitful, and you’re frequently woken up by the dogs barking a little too excitedly in response to something Brock said. However, it does a good job of keeping you from emptying the contents of your stomach onto the floor. Somewhere in Idaho, a good seven hours after you left Canada, you awake for the final time. 

“Look boys, Mom’s finally awake!”

You laugh at the comment and lean over the center console to ruffle his hair. It’s still long from the season, and curls slightly around your fingertips. 

“You’re hilarious.”

Brock takes his right hand off the steering wheel, unravelling yours from its resting place and entwining your fingers together. He places a kiss to the back of your palm. “You know I’m just teasing,” he whispers. “I know these drives are hard on you. Thank you for doing it twice a year.”

Instead of answering verbally, you squeeze his hand tighter. Though it’s true you hate driving through five states, you’d do it twice a week if it would make Brock happy. It seems a bit much to convey with a single gesture, but you can tell from the smile that graces his features that Brock understands. The two of you sit in silence, enjoying the scenery and trying to scout for a rest stop. Coolie and Milo are getting antsy and you’re also due to stretch your legs. 

After letting the dogs run around to release some energy and using the bathroom, you start the final leg of the day. Missoula, Montana, is the destination. Not quite the halfway point, but close enough that you could tackle the rest of the miles tomorrow, the city has a wide variety of pet-friendly lodging. You insist you drive the rest of the way, giving Brock a well deserved rest. Looking at the interstate for hours can cause serious highway hypnosis. Not even twenty minutes after getting back on the road he’s asleep, snoring softly as he rests his head on the window. 

You take a moment to admire your boyfriend. He looks so relaxed and peaceful, and the forehead creases that are starting to develop from over analyzing hours of tape disappear. Brock looks years younger, and you know the youthfulness will creep back into him the longer you’re in Minnesota. You can’t wait to see him without any cares again. 

Less than two hours later, the hotel creeps up on your left. Pulling into the first available parking space, you turn the car off before waking Brock. 

“Brock, we’re at the hotel,” you say softly, jostling his shoulder. “Let’s get checked in and then we shower.”

The mention of washing off a day’s worth of travel has him letting the door fly open. You had made sure to pack your overnight bags in an easily accessible spot, and work at getting them out while Brock wrangles the dogs. For being cooped up all day, they’re extremely well behaved. Once cleaned up you imagine you’ll take them on a long walk and grab some food. 

“Hey, give that back. Milo!” you hear Brock yelp, and peek around to see what’s happening. The younger pup has Brock’s bucket hat between his teeth and is in the process of tearing across the parking lot. 

With a giggle you call him back. “Milo, come here baby,” you say. Without a second thought, the dog bolts towards you, knocking against your shins when he fails to stop in time. You lean down to scratch Milo’s ear, and as soon as you ask him to drop the object he places it in your open palm. “Good boy,” you coo, letting him lick the side of your face. 

“He’s your dog alright,” Brock huffs from where he’s standing, Coolie running circles around his ankles. 

You toss the hat over the roof of the car as you laugh at him. “You’re just jealous he listens to me.”

“I sure fucking am. He’d be an absolute nuisance if it wasn’t for you.”

The rest of the night is spent unwinding from the long day. Dinner consists of the greasiest burgers you can find, and you roam around the city hand in hand, the dogs leading you. By the time you get back to the hotel you’re spent. Sleep takes over rather quickly, and you’re dozing off before Brock gets back from brushing his teeth. Once ready for bed, he slides his body against yours. The pair of you fit together like a puzzle, and after a quick kiss you let sleep consume you. 

The second day of travel is much the same, except you do a better job of staying awake. You take a different anti-nausea medication and frequently switch with Brock. Conversation flows easily, ideas for summer excursions and repairs that need to be done around the house. The Boeser’s are kind enough to lend you their lake house during the off season, but the property can be a lot to manage. Brock takes it all in stride, and somehow actually enjoys spending hours mowing the grass. He says it’s relaxing, mind numbing work, so you let him handle it. Country music flows from the car speakers, and eventually talking turns into a full on concert. Milo and Coolie do their best to harmonize with Brock, and it’s too cute not to post somewhere. You sneak your phone from your pocket and manage to catch some of it on video, posting to Instagram immediately. Those from the Canucks organization you have on social media will love it; Brock’s teammates will most definitely chirp him for being tone deaf. 

It’s late by the time you pull into the driveway of your temporary home, almost eleven. Grabbing only the essentials and leaving the rest to be unpacked tomorrow, you unlock the door before flopping on the couch. The dogs follow suit, laying on top of you. When Brock walks in he shakes his head, but still leans over to kiss you. 

“Make sure you text your mom and let her know we made it,” you call to his retreating figure. “And let her know we’ll be over in the afternoon once we get situated.”

You swear he flips you off, no doubt poking fun at your maternal instincts. “Yes ma’am,” he replies. 

“Ma’am?” you shriek. “I am not fifty. You’re so gonna get it Boeser.”

After gently nudging the dogs off your legs you’re chasing after him, laughing all the way. Brock’s a lot faster than you, being the athlete he is, but you don’t give up hope. In a last ditch attempt to get him back, you launch yourself forward, square into the middle of his back. The change in weight distribution has him falling to the floor, sprawling the width of the hallway. Both of you are giggling messes, delirious from lack of sleep and the knowledge you get to spend four months of uninterrupted time together. 

“I love you, you know that right,” Brock murmurs into the crook of your neck. He dots chaste pecks along the skin and you sigh at the feeling. 

Pulling him closer, you make sure to properly enunciate your words as you respond. “Yes sir.”

Brock eyes darken visibly, and he shifts his body so he’s resting on top of you. “You’re in for it now,” he groans, dragging himself to his feet. You quickly follow, meeting his lips in an eager kiss. The pair of you stumble the rest of the way to the bedroom, bodies intertwining like ivy vines, and Brock makes sure to kick the door shut to ensure your pets don’t interrupt the salacious activities he has planned. 

☼☼☼☼

You settle into a routine fairly quickly. Mornings are spent alone while Brock works out, and afternoons are for lounging in the sun. The hours after the sun fades away are spent huddling around a bonfire with friends, and midnights are for just the two of you. Sometimes Brock lets himself rest and spends the day in the middle of the lake doing his best to fish, leaving you to spend time with his mom and sister. They’re lovely; warm and welcoming, making sure you’re never too lonely or bored. You and Brock also spend a lot of time with his nephew, doting over the toddler. Seeing your boyfriend with him makes you want kids, but that’s a conversation that is yet to be had in any serious light. 

Sometimes you join Brock when he does typical professional hockey player in the summer things. It turns out you're quite the golfer, and have put him to shame many times. Countless days are spent helping him fix the roof of the lake house because he insists on doing it himself even though he knows nothing about roofing. At least seven phone calls to his father and a desperate run to the hardware store later, it’s completed; sealed and free of cracks. Though you’re a terrible fisher, Brock tries his best to teach you. Truth be told, you don’t have any interest in the sport, but his tongue pokes out slightly when he’s thinking about how to explain a concept and you think it’s adorable. 

Coolie and Milo are loving being able to roam free, and you both spend a lot of time outside with them. You’re only ever really in the house at night, reading or playing games on the patio furniture Brock’s mom picked out. It’s peaceful; existing like this. You swear you could do it forever. 

Being home allows an invisible weight to be lifted off Brock’s shoulders. There’s a pep in his step, and he’s always smiling. Even the intense at-home workouts can’t seem to bring him down. You’re delighted, how could you not be? It’s as if the only things that matter to him are enjoying a few beers lakeside and coaxing you out of shorts in the dark. You suppose that’s the truth. 

☼☼☼☼

It’s incredibly warm out. The sun beats down on your back as you turn the pages of your novel, half listening to the conversation Brock is having with his friends. A group of you are on the boat, enjoying one of the last full days of summer. Later in the week you and Brock will pack up the car again, making the long trek back to Vancouver. You’re sad time has passed so fast, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited to be back in the city. It’s your home, and the boys seem to be really fired up for the new season. You have a feeling some really good hockey is going to come out of Rogers Arena. 

“Yo Y/N, who’s the better driver. Me or Boes?” 

The question pulls you from the fantasy taking place on the pages, and you look to see who’s speaking to you. It’s Brock’s dearest childhood friend, someone you consider family at this point. “It’s absolutely not Brock,” you shrug. The comment earns a loud laugh from everyone and you find yourself joining in. 

“Ouch babe, that hurts,” Brock says as he slides into the free space next to you. Casually wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder, he leans down to whisper into your ear. “Looks like you need to be taught a lesson.”

His words have a vaguely sexual connotation, and you look around nervously. Your swimsuit won’t cover the flush that will be sure to rise on your skin if Brock tries anything. Everyone seems to be engaged in their own conversations, but you still feel queasy about getting caught. Though Brock’s friends are the type to laugh it off, you’d be absolutely mortified. 

Before your brain can overthink anything else, you’re being lifted from your seat. It only takes two seconds for Brock to hoist you over the side of the boat and throw you into the cool water. You land with a glorious splash, but take your time coming to the surface. Partly to bring your temperature down, partly to make your lover squirm. 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you yell to him from below, but the bright smile you flash him lets Brock know you don’t mean it. 

He sets his hat on top of your book before climbing over the edge. “Shut up,” he fires back, diving gracefully to join you in the water. 

A small splashing match breaks out, and soon everyone else is in the water, picking sides. You swim until your skin is wrinkled beyond recognition, pruned and puckered something akin to a raisin. Only once the sky begins to redden do you head for home. Brock keeps the boat at cruising speed, and you sit comfortably in his lap. Once back on land, dinner is quickly thrown together. A mish-mash of what’s left in your fridge and what others have brought, but it works. The boys huddle around the grill and everyone else swoons over the dogs, who are on their best behaviour. 

Later in the night, once the dishes are cleaned up and some guests with day jobs have left, you settle into Brock’s side at the fire. Not caring if you get chirped for the PDA, you hold his face in both your hands and rest your forehead against his. The scruff that’s grown in since the last time Brock shaved tickles slightly, but you’re too in love with him to care. It’s been so refreshing to see him relaxed, acting without a care in the world. Hopefully the attitude he currently has will stick and not disappear once you hit the Vancouver city limits. 

Brock takes a sip of his beer before offering the bottle to you. You gingerly place it to your lips, making a face at the taste. He laughs at your reaction, pushing a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. 

“Still tastes disgusting,” you mutter, reaching for your own drink to wash away the taste. 

The fire crackles gently behind you but you barely register the sound, in your own little world where everything is perfect. It’s you, Brock, and the dogs living in a house similar to the one you’re currently residing in, living life to the fullest. 

“You gonna come back to me, space cadet?” Brock chuckles, tracing the outline of your nose. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” you apologize. “Was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Us. The future. Living in a lake house just like this one and spending all our time being so in love with each other that our friends constantly make fun of us. Maybe having kids in a couple of years. How I love seeing you like this; so at peace and full of life.”

In lieu of a response, Brock kisses you passionately. It’s a soft kind of passion: one that holds you tenderly and whispers sweet nothings in your ear. He tastes like the Coors Light he’s been drinking, but somehow the idea of beer is much more appealing when mixed with Brock. You lose yourself in him for a while, relishing in the gentleness of his hands resting on your waist. Eventually you return some of your attention to the others, but even then you can’t find it in yourself to focus. Your mind is filled with nothing but love for Brock. 

It’s seems that he’s feeling the same way, because he continually leaves kisses across your shoulder blade. “I really, really love you,” Brock confesses, and you feel him smile through the thin material of your worn hoodie. 

You intertwine your pinky with his and let them sit comfortably in your lap. “I love too. So much that it’s all consuming.”

Brock often leaves you breathless in more ways than one, but sweet sentiments like this will always take the cake. Especially when they happen on summer nights where he’s free to be his authentic self.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @jamiedrysdales​ @kiedhara​ @tortito​ if you want to be added shoot me an ask :)

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

On Me...or on You?

destiel au

rated t

~2.2k

“Dean! Table six has been waiting for almost ten minutes. And I can’t see that guy’s face, but his posture is very tense.”

“You know I suck at this, Charlie.” Dean checks all his pockets for his pen, comes up empty, then sighs thankfully when Charlie hands him one from behind the bar.

Nodding, Charlie says, “You really do. But you’re stuck. We all are, really. So go take care of the guys at table six and then go see if the rowdies in the corner need refills.”

Dean grimaces. “Do I have to?”

Charlie grins. “They’ll probably be obnoxious, but they’ll be good tippers. Trust me.”

“I can’t believe I’m working for tips,” he grumbles, pulling out his notebook.

“Just show ‘em that smile, Dean. You can’t lose!” she teases.

Dean wishes it worked that way. He really is terrible at this job. Sam–his brother–is lucky they’re close, and he doesn’t hold all those childhood pranks against him. If he was one to hold a grudge about the shaving cream in his shoes, or the saran wrap on the toilet (although really Dean feels like he deserved that one, since it was April Fool’s Day and he wasn’t smart enough to look) he’d be out of here in a heartbeat. But he loves his brother, dorky guy that he is. Despite his fascination with computers and his propensity to spend most of his free time with his nose in a book, he’s a fantastic chef, and he’s worked hard to build this place into what it is.

It’s not Sam’s fault he has one waitress out on maternity leave and had another ask for sudden time off to visit her sick mom in Idaho. It is Sam’s fault he’s got irresistible puppy dog eyes, but that’s really Dean’s problem, not Sam’s.

Two men sit at table six, and Charlie’s right, the dark haired one looks...tense. The other one, smaller, with longish, light brown hair, seems in a fine mood, though. Actually, he looks like not much could get him down. He’s–Dean blinks, then looks again. Yeah, he’d seen right the first time. The guy is sucking on a bright red lollipop.

Huh. Something new every day, right?

Dean pastes a smile onto his face and steps up to the table. “Hi, welcome to The Bunker. I’m Dean, I’ll be your server tonight. Can…”

And then his thoughts fall out of his head, because the dark haired guy looks up at him, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s glaring. He’s the most beautiful man Dean’s ever seen. Sexy hair, right on the line between black and brown, standing out in all directions like someone’s been running her–his?–fingers through it. Piercing blue eyes. And he’s not smiling now, but somehow Dean can tell he’s got a showstopper. There are faint lines at the corners of his eyes that show that they’ll just crinkle up when he smiles.

Dean wants to feel the weight of that smile.

“Do you think we could possibly have something to drink? We’ve been waiting for awhile,” the man says, and Dean’s nearly struck dumb again by his voice, low and rough and mesmerizing, even when it’s speaking somewhat angrily at him.

Unfortunately, Dean’s mouth chooses this moment to speak without permission from his brain.

“Oh, you can have whatever you’d like, darlin’.” The words pop out, dripping with innuendo, followed by that smile Charlie’d mentioned.

And then his ears hear what he’d said, and he feels the blush taking over his face.

“I mean–uh–oh fuck,” Dean says, and then he realizes he probably shouldn’t swear in front of customers either. Sam’s going to murder him.

The light haired man slurps his lollipop and then cackles. “I like this one, Cassie. You should keep him.”

“Gabriel. I did not ask for your opinion. And I didn’t even want to come here with you. If you can’t keep your...your comments...to yourself, I’m leaving now. And you can find your own way home.”

“I’ll be good,” Gabriel says, and he looks almost chastised. “You have to stay, Castiel. Trust me, the food here is excellent. And the desserts..” He looks up at Dean. “Is Eileen here tonight?”

Dean, surprised, just nods.

“I don’t know where she was trained, but Eileen makes the best desserts around.”

Finally finding his voice again, Dean says, “She got her start in New York City. She worked in some pretty high class places there, actually.”

The dark haired man–Cassie? Castiel?–tilts his head and asks, “What’s she doing in Kansas?”

Dean smiles at this, a secret kind of smile. “She fell in love.”

Neither of them has a response to this, and an awkward silence falls over the table. Finally Dean remembers that, oh yeah, he’s supposed to be working here, and he manages to take their drink orders without incident. He brings them to Charlie, slumping down on one of the barstools and repeatedly hitting his forehead on the worn wood of the bar.

Charlie, her usual buoyant self, snatches his notepad from his hand and goes about mixing the drinks. After about a minute he sits up and looks at her, and she grins. “Well, that seems promising.”

“Were you watching some alternate version of Dean Winchester? One who didn’t act like an idiot in front of a customer–twice–and ruin any chance he could possibly have with the most attractive guy he’s ever seen?”

Shrugging, Charlie says, “He didn’t slap you. And he didn’t leave. And his brother seems to like you.”

“I guess he–wait, his brother? Charlie, do you know more than you’re saying here?”

Charlie doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, but of course she doesn’t really have an embarrassed face. “Maybe,” she says, smiling sweetly. “But it’s nothing nefarious. Just a little harmless...hope.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, and there’s warning in his voice.

“Gabriel comes in here a lot, okay? He loves Eileen’s desserts, I’m pretty sure he’s had all of them at least twice, and he’s pretty fond of Sam’s cooking too. He saw you one day, and we got to chatting, and he mentioned his brother, and…” She shrugs. Then she leans across the bar, grinning. “He’s dreamy, right? Just your type. And did you see his arms? I mean, he’s certainly not my type, but those are nice arms. I’m pretty sure about that.”

“Yeah, they really–” Dean starts, then he glares at her. “Charlie! You know how I feel about being set up. Not like it matters, since I already blew it.”

Waving her hand dismissively, Charlie says, “Oh, you did not. Here. Take them their drinks and tell them–while you look at Cas–that they’re on you. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

“Cas,” he says. He likes the way the name feels in his mouth. Charlie grins.

Dean takes the tray of drinks uncertainly, but as he’s walking to the table his confidence grows. Sure, it means buying drinks for the two men, but it’ll be worth it means he’s still got a shot with Cas.

“Hey,” he says as he walks up to the table. “Sorry about earlier. I’m not–well, anyway. Let me make it up to you. Drinks are on me, okay?”

Gabriel’s smiling, and Cas seems to be softening, but then something goes horribly wrong. Just as Dean says “okay” his foot finds a spot in the carpet or a chair leg that shouldn’t be there or something; whatever it is, it causes Dean to stumble forward, and the drinks slide off the end of the tray and right into Cas’s face. He looks up at Dean, hair plastered to his head, the skewer of pineapple and cherries from Gabriel’s drink sticking out of his collar. He looks less than pleased.

“Oh,” Dean says, a horrified tone in his voice. “Oh fuck. Oh dammit I said fuck again. Oh...Ah, I’m so, so sorry. Can I...can I help?”

Cas’s gaze is almost painful. “I’m fairly certain you’ve helped enough, Dean.”

The words sting. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Look, I’ll send Charlie over to help you clean up, she’ll take care of you. I’m really–” But he looks at Cas, and his heart breaks a little at a connection missed, or lost, and he doesn’t apologize again. Once was enough. Instead he says, “I hope you’ll come back again. Sam’s cooking, Eileen’s baking, even Charlie’s drinks. They’re all worth it. The Bunker is a good place.”

He nods his head a little, waves Charlie over and goes to check on the booth in the corner. He smiles his charming smile, brings the rowdy, celebrating girls all the drinks and desserts they want, and by the time he’s finished taking care of them, Cas and Gabriel are gone.

Charlie’s right though. The girls are great tippers.

*

Dean’s warming up the next night when there’s a knock on his door. He looks up from his bench to see Charlie leaning against the doorframe, an odd smile on her face.

“There’s someone here to see you, Dean,” she says. He can’t quite get a read on her voice. She sounds like she’s hiding something, but he can’t figure out what.

He glances at the clock on the wall. “I’ll be out in ten minutes, same as always.

“You can’t come out now?”

He’s annoyed, but only slightly. “I never come out early, Charlie. It breaks the routine. Ten minutes.” He looks at the clock again. “Actually, nine now. Now get out of here so I can get ready.”

“But Dean–”

“Out, Charlie.”

She leaves.

Dean spends a moment or two thinking about the oddness of the encounter; Charlie knows his routines, and knows not to disrupt them. But then he gets back to getting into the mindset he needs, pushing Charlie from his thoughts. He’ll figure her out later.

*

When Dean steps out onto the small stage wedged into the corner of the dining room there’s a smattering of applause. He smiles and waves then sits down at the baby grand piano that fills the stage. “Hey Baby,” he murmurs, running a hand along the smooth wood. The piano’s been his as long as he can remember; he started taking lessons when he was five and he’s been enchanted by her ever since. He started singing along when he was seven, and started writing his own songs when he was ten. When Sam bought the space for The Bunker he made sure there was a place big enough for Dean to play–because that was what they did. Sam played with food and Dean played with music. This was a way for them to work together.

There are lights in his eyes, so Dean can’t really see into the dining room unless he squints, and it’s usually not all that important to him. He just lives with the music, sometimes doing covers, sometimes doing his own stuff. And everyone seems to like what he does, so he just keeps on doing it his way.

He can’t really see, so he’s surprised when just before he starts the first song, he hears a voice say, “Dean?” It’s a voice he recognizes, a voice that sends a spark down his spine.

His hands slip onto the keys, discordant notes ringing out through the dining room. “Sorry,” he says, flashing his charming grin at the room. “Just a little startled. Can you all give me just a moment?” He keeps up the smile, then steps to the edge of the stage.

“Cas?” And there he is, dark hair disheveled, blue eyes confused, sitting alone at the table nearest the stage.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “I thought you…”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, an embarrassed grin on his face. “Nah, I was just helping out last night. Trust me, I’m not meant to be a server. I’m the talent. I also happen to be the owner’s brother, which is how I got wrangled into helping when two of his waitresses were out. Trust me, he doesn’t ask me often, I’m horrible at the job.”

“I noticed,” Cas says dryly.

Dean only laughs.

Cas looks at the piano on the stage, then back at Dean. “So you...play?”

“And sing. Which I should be doing now. Stick around until my break?” He doesn’t know why, he has no right to even hope, but he thinks Cas might agree.

He does.

*

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Thanks everyone, you’ve been great,” Dean says, stepping off the stage and meandering through the dining room towards the bar. He accepts compliments from several diners, offering smiles and the occasional handshake. He’s at ease among the crowd, but he’s got a destination in mind, and it’s not until he climbs onto a barstool that he feels truly happy.

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, turning to smile at him.

Dean had been right. That smile, it knocks him out every time.

He slips an arm around Cas’s waist and drops a kiss on his shoulder. “Hey Cas. Missed you.”

“You saw me two hours ago,” Cas says.

“It was a long and difficult two hours,” Dean pouts.

Cas huffs a laugh. “You were at a piano, Dean. You probably didn’t even notice time passing.”

Dean smiles into Cas’s shoulder. “Alright, it felt like a few minutes. But I still missed you.” He looks up into Cas’s eyes, says, “I’m on my break. Let me buy you a drink?”

Cas’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Nah,” he says, waving Charlie over. “That’s dangerous. This time the drinks are on me.”

[ananapanini]

Sicknesses, Disasters, and Weather

Trigger Warning! descriptions of injuries and death! For example: mention of blood, burning, drowning, freezing, heatstroke, etc.

Side note before hand because it's technically relevant

A state that's down south and almost always has hot weather would feel warmer to others and be affected by the cold easier, while a state up north with colder weather would feel colder to others and be affected by heat easier.

Fighting over thermostats and cuddles ensue

(Most people go to Alaska when they have a fever, and to Georgia when they're going through a cold front (they'd go to Florida but he's chaos and Texas is,, Texas. Besides, Geo has blankets))

Wisconsin: *opening all the house's doors and windows to enjoy the nice warm 60 degree weather*

Texas: *on the couch in a bundle of 5 blankets* how the fuck are you not dead

Florida: *next to Texas, trying to steal some blankets* Sconnie, I love ya dude but I will not hesitate to set this house on fire to warm up

Colds/Flus

The states can get sick two ways, outbreaks or just catching it.

Outbreaks

If there are a ton of outbreaks of something, for example: flu season, in their state there's a 50/50 chance they develop symptoms for however long the illness would last for someone who actually caught it. Though they'd suffer through the symptoms, they wouldn't actually have it and wouldn't be contagious or anything. But! Just because they're not contagious doesn't mean the other states wouldn't back up when they hear the news, being coughed on is still gross even if it doesn't endanger your health.

According to last year's report Louisiana had the most influenza outbreaks, followed by Arizona, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Indiana, Kentucky, Mississippi, Nevada, Tennessee and Texas. So for that years flu season Louisiana would be sick and at least half of the others listed would also be sick.

Catching it

Now, they probably have really strong immune systems.

Or at least, they should but things can happen in the state that compromises that.

If there's a natural disaster, somethings changing in the state's government (new governor, new law, system change, etc), or there's riots impeding/distracting the state government their immune systems would be weak for however long it takes to readjust or fix the problem. During this time they can actually get sick, symptoms and all.

If this happened then the state would be contagious to the other states, immune system be damned. It'd be like when another person is sick, you have a chance of catching it.

On the rare occasion there'll be a state with a naturally horrible immune system (his name's Washington, someone please get him a cough drop and some water)

DC

He doesn't have people or land for outbreaks to affect him, only the government buildings.

Instead of having outbreaks he has government workers, if a handful of them or just the president gets sick he'll have the 50/50 chance of having symptoms.

Now, if the government is going through big changes or something is happening then DC will have a weaker immune system and would be able to get sick from the states. They honestly don't know if he could get them sick because he always self isolates and denies help when he is.

If there's some serious chaos going on with changes in government then he'll just straight up get sick. No catching it from anyone, nothing giving him a bug, he just develops symptoms of a really bad cold.

Recap:

Humans can't get states sick unless the state isn't at 100%, unless it's just an outbreak states can get other states sick no matter what, states can't get DC sick unless he's not at 100% leaving him as the designated caretaker when no one else wants to help (he would help regardless even if he could get sick, tis his job as parent friend)

Hurricanes + Tropical Storms

The way they affect the state depends how much damage was done and how their population reacts to it.

For example, a tropical storm or low level hurricane would maybe give Florida a bit of head rush or he'll get a little dizzy but nothing he can't ignore with a white claw. His people are used to them and honestly Don't Give A Fuck, if the house is fine and the car's still there we move on with our lives.

Then you have states that rarely get hurricanes and would panic when one hits, even if it's just a weak one. They'd have a headache, feel dizzy and sore.

Then there's higher level hurricanes, for those bruises will appear along with a migraine. Everything hurts and they're coughing up water, it's hard to breathe, and cuts from debris being thrown around by the winds are appearing everywhere.

In the end though, regardless of what scale it was, they're always left soaking wet and cold.

Earthquakes

First there's the feeling of a sea sick like nausea, that's the only warning they feel and only a few states (Literally just California and Alaska, someone please help them, the poor fault line babes) know how to recognize it instantly.

If they're outside of their own state then they'll get dizzy, balance is Gone and they fall over. If they're lucky enough to not hit their head or crash into something when they fall over then depending on the magnitude they could black out any number of times. I say black out and not pass out because while usually mixed up, blacking out doesn't always mean you loose consciousness.

Their vision goes completely, their eyes are open but all they can see is a dull black with staticky darker specks causing, well, static. They can't see if they try and if it's one of their first earthquakes they do try but it hurts to keep their eyes open, only worsening the feeling that their head is splitting open.

Sometimes their skin cracks. Sometimes if a highly urbanized area was hit and buildings go crashing they feel an invisible weight building up on their chest, it can lead to trouble breathing, or a broken rib, maybe multiple broken ribs.

Fires

There's two kinds of fires, fire season which is mostly for the western states and Florida who have the normal yearly stuff that the ecosystems need in order to function, and then there's when fires get out of hand and turn into disasters.

Fire Season:

Fevers that can range from low to high depending on how much land is burning, overheating when things, tiredness, dry skin, but overall manageable symptoms. Occasionally there are bad days but it's usually chill. It's not particularly nice, it sucks actually, but it's a yearly thing and they're used to it.

During the worse parts of fire season, for states with a ton of land on fire, smoke will come off them. They can suppress it but it takes a lot of energy. Statehouse living situation isn't the easiest because now it'd really suck to smoke out the house, others could get hurt, so they get good at minimizing it. (This mostly applies to California)

Irregular, Out of hand, or Man-Made:

A really high fever and burns slowly appearing everywhere. Smoke is harder to control and fills their lungs, making it hard to breathe. Sometimes they'll straight up faint, staying conscious while you're literally burning up isn't easy.

Death

They're immortal for as long as whatever they're a personification of exists. They can die just like any of person and it'll be painful but they always just,,, wake up. In the exact same spot they died except healed. If whatever killed them is still there then they'll die until it's over or someone saves them. If they die multiple times within a short period of time then every time they come back they'll have healed less and less.

Leftover Stuff

Floods = Initial flooding has them throwing up water and sometimes they can't breathe but afterwards it's more of just a cold, murky feeling in their chest (since these usually happen during big hurricanes just slap this on top)

Droughts = dehydration (dry skin, thirsty, insert symptoms of dehydration here)

Heatwaves = just, hot. For no reason. Air conditioning? Ice pack? Fan? Doesn't matter, they're hot.

Cold fronts = same story, different day. Blankets, jackets, and heaters don't matter or help much, they are cold. Depending how cold it gets and taking into comparison the usual temperature for their state they can develop hypothermia.

Tornadoes = Dizzy and disorientation. Bruises if they hit populated areas and destroyed stuff.

Dust Storms = trouble breathing, irritated eyes, more trouble breathing. Afterwards there's that feeling of when you went to the beach yesterday and suddenly there's the crunch of sand in your mouth.

Power Outage = they can't turn on or operate electric things, even living in the statehouse. For example, with the situation in Texas he wouldn't be able to turn on the lights, flipping the switch wouldn't do anything, but another state could do it for him (if they choose to help)

[astraeagreengrass]

exile [the woods part 1]

When you wake up in the floor of your apartment, you have no idea of how much the world has changed

Word Count: 2.708

Warnings: angst, mentions of death and death-related themes, PTSD, brief allusion to a panic attack.

A/N: A month ago, Taylor Swift released her eight studio album folklore and, unsurprisingly, it took over my life. The stories Taylor beautifully narrates in her songs inspired me to write something of my own: the woods is a four-part, post-Endgame story, with some slight changes to the canon, featuring Steve Rogers. Updates will be every Friday. Thank you to @xbuchananbarnes for proof-reading this and @thegetawaywriter for encouraging me to write. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway. Here is exile. I hope you like it ♡

i think i've seen this film before and i didn't like the ending you're not my homeland anymore so what am i defending now? you were my town, now i'm in exile, seein' you out i think i've seen this film before so i'm leavin' out the side door

Being pieced back together was like a hangover.

Like drinking too much wine one evening and then waking up on a foreign bed, not knowing how you got there. It was a pounding headache, a churning stomach, a dry throat. The back of your teeth were sensitive and the sound of sirens rung too loudly on your ears.

In the aftermath of your intoxication, the city is deafening.

You groaned at the light - you must’ve been so wasted if you’d forgotten the blinds. Every breath took a toll of your lungs, stretching your muscles beyond their strength, creaking your joints as you exhaled.

Someone gasped, startling you.

The familiar floorboards of your apartment greeted you when your eyes opened. Timeworn almond timber, the New York staple. Craning your neck, you saw a foot. Shit. You weren't one to bring one night stands home, or actually have them in the first place. Little ol' you was a little too square, a little too cautious, struggling to keep her trust issues from spilling out of her hands. Definitely not the best candidate for loose-stringed affairs, but your grandma always told you there was a first time for everything.

The foot’s owner nudged you, and you groaned again.

“Miss?” they said. “Are you alive?”

I don’t know.

Your gaze focused and you noticed the person was a boy of eleven or twelve, with a beautiful dark mop of curls and soft brown eyes. What the...

“Who are you?” you managed to croak. There was an ashy taste in your mouth, as if you’d swallowed dust.

The boy looked up and across, and you noticed that, on your left side, his father was crouching beside your body. He looked just like the kid, except a couple of decades older, so you assumed he was the father.

“My name is Cal,” the man said, spacely, as if he’d might frighten you if he spoke normally. “This is my son Daniel. We’re not going to hurt you.”

"Nice to know the invaders won't hurt me," you tried to say, but it came out a jumbled, messy current of words, like a baby first learning to communicate.

"Invaders?" the boy exclaimed, insulted. "We live here!"

"Daniel!" his father chided. "Miss, what is the last thing you remember?"

You pressed a palm to the ground, trying to lay your weight on it so you could stand up. You weren't about to answer an unknown man's questions while laying face-down on your own apartment floor. You might be hungover, but you had more dignity than that. When your body crumpled like a twig under a boot, Cal held you up, helping you to a seating position facing the window.

Craning your neck to shield your eyes from the sun, you noticed it.

Golden brown leaves.

Golden brown leaves that shouldn't exist in May.

You clearly remember opening the windows yesterday to green, lively foliage. New York was many things - loud, chaotic, more often than not dangerous - but it’s seasons were consistent, enduring. Through the tempests and disturbances, nature persevered in her year-long cycle, living and dying and living again.

These particular leaves belonged to October, perhaps even early November, never May.

Something was terribly wrong.

“What day is it?” you whispered, wide eyes going from the window to the man aiding you.

Cal grimaced. His boy was suddenly very quiet.

When you were a child, you used to have nightmares: a ghost in the attic, a wolf haunting the woods outside your house, an IED blowing up your father's convoy in Iraq. They'd trap your consciousness, suffocating your mind with fear and panic, and no night light or teddy bear could stifle the onslaught of relentless screams that rattled the walls and hallways of your childhood home, until your frantic grandmother shook you awake. The reality that greeted you on the floor of your apartment was that Twilight Zone all over again.

“Please,” you pleaded, perhaps to the man, perhaps to yourself.

Cal sighed.

“Today is October 17th, 2023,” he said and you learned that the only thing scarier than a nightmare is life itself. “You’ve been dead for the past five years.”

“We could go to the house in the woods,” you mumbled to the warmth of Steve’s chest.

He tightened his hold around your body, pressing a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “You’ve got me for the weekend.”

“The whole weekend?” you smiled at him, finding the reassurance you needed in his indigo gaze.

Steve kissed you again, a fierce press of lips this time. Mouths and tongues and teeth intertwined, your hand finding hip, his hand finding you thigh.

“The whole weekend,” he breathed in the shell of your ear, right before the two of you became nothing more than a mess of pillows and sheets, drowning in love and want and lust. “And then forever.”

When the world ended, several hospital units closed down due to lack of patients.

When the Avengers managed to reverse the effects of the Snap - no one knew how they did it, but everyone knew it was them because of course it was - the mayor of New York declared the interruption of all kinds of activities in the city in order to help those returning. It was in a campaign hospital in Bryant Park that Steve Rogers found you, sitting up cross-legged and wrapped up in a grey blanket, having your temperature checked by one of the volunteers.

Wearing dark clothes and a cap, Steve was nothing more than a shadow behind the woman's shoulder. A lesser-trained gaze would glide past his figure in a quarter of a second, but not you. Never you. You'd recognize him in a sea of people, as if the blood that sustained you and the bones that built you knew exactly where to find him.

Steve had the decency to wait until the woman was done to approach you. With slow, clearly measured steps, he came closer, taking a seat at the foot of your stretcher. If he reached out his arm, he'd touch you, but he refrained and you were glad he did. In your mind, you saw him days ago, but reality told you differently. The calendar at the nurse's station, the newspaper you got a hold on, the constant broadcast of news: all of them mocked you, tormented you. Five years had gone by - more time than you’d ever had with the man across from you. And if there was ever any lingering doubt in your mind that this was some elaborate trick to fool you, they faded when you noticed the modest signs of aging that nothing but time and grief could inflict on a Super Soldier.

Again, a lesser-trained gaze probably wouldn’t catch them, but that would never be you when it came to Steve Rogers.

The two of you stayed in silence for minutes, watching a CNN report of a family reuniting in Idaho. The mother snapped right after the birth of her daughter - now a little girl with ginger pigtails, hugging her legs and kissing her hands. Everyday since you woke up on the floor of your apartment, there'd been thousands of stories such as this: parents finding children, husbands finding wives. The fallen - that's what the press called people like you, the dead that weren't really dead - all had the same lost look in their eyes. You supposed that's what happened when your clock was five years too late.

“What happened?” you finally asked when the broadcast changed to twin brothers reconvening in Hawaii. “What went wrong?”

Steve didn’t look at you, instead he kept pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.

“He was too strong,” he sighed. “And I thought I could fight him without Tony, but…”

You nodded.

“One of the nurses said he was badly wounded in the battle upstate,” you mentioned.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “But he’ll recover. Banner is looking after him. He’s got a kid now, you know? Tony. Her name’s Morgan.”

“Wow,” you smiled genuinely. “That sounds unbelievable and incredible at the same time.

“She’s a good girl,” Steve said. “Keeps Tony on his toes.”

On the TV, the two brothers embraced with a beautiful sunset as background.

“What about Sam and Nat?” you wondered.

Steve's fidgety hands stilled. With the left one he rubbed his mouth and chin until his skin was reddish.

"Sam was like you," he muttered and the implicit words hurt more in his voice than anyone else's. "Natasha… She didn't make it."

She didn't make it.

Natasha Romanoff. Natalia. Your mentor, your friend. The strongest woman you'd ever met. She didn't make it.

"What?" you gasped. "What do you mean 'she didn't make it'? Didn't she come back?"

Like Sam and the mother in Idaho and the twins in Hawaii. Like you.

Steve shook his head.

"It wasn't like that," he said. "She survived the Snap. Spent years trying to find something, anything, even the smallest possibility of getting everyone back and when we finally did… She sacrificed herself so we could have the Soul Stone."

"Sacrificed herself? For a stone?" you were extremely agitated now, the grey blanked falling from your shoulders as you looked at Steve searching for any sign of emotion. "Steven, look at me!"

 His eyes were glazed, a big blue sea threatening to spill over in waves of sadness.

"It wasn't a simple stone, Y/N. I'd rather not explain to you here, people can't know about this," he whispered, looking over his shoulder for anyone that could be listening.

"You mean they can't know why they disappeared and were brought back together like broken toys?" you exclaimed. "Toys that the Avengers can grab and then toss aside however they please? I'm not your toy, Steve!"

You knew you could be cruel. Ruthless. A child yelling ferociously at the top of her lungs until she got what she wanted. An angry teenager. An intelligence officer with obscure morals. But even when he left you without a goodbye, you'd always kept your forked tongue away from Steve Rogers.

Until now.

"Please," Steve pleaded. "Let's go home. I'll explain everything to you when we get there."

"I have no home," you spat. "I had a home three days ago when you came in saying something bad would happen, only to leave me again. Now I have nothing!”

Your tears were hot when they streamed down your face.

“I don't even know myself anymore,” you admitted and somehow that was worse than knowing you were alone in a world you didn't recognize. "All I know is dust. My bones were dust and now they're not. My heart was dust and now it's not. Everyone keeps telling me that I'm safe and that 'it's all over', but what is?"

You gasped, trying to breathe in some tranquility and breathe out some of the agony twisting your insides, but all that came out was a distressing wheeze.

"How do I know that I will not disappear again?" you cried and there was no more Steve, just a curtain of water contorting his figure, like one of those paintings he loved and you never understood the meaning.

The stretcher creaked when Steve pulled you to him, rubbing your arms back as he whispered your name.

"Breathe, Y/N. Breathe."

But you were so scared of breathing. So scared that you'd taste ash again and your lungs would collapse in dust, leaving not a shred of the person you were for people to remember you by. So scared of losing a game you didn't even know you were playing.

"Steve..." You weeped, gripping his shirt tightly.

"I'm here, my love. Just breathe."

You weren't expecting him.

After two years, the hope that kept you up at night waiting for him grew tired, dwindling until it was mere utopia. So you shut the windows, changed the locks and turned off the bedside lamp. Perhaps that's what brought him to your door, you thought. Maybe, wherever he was in the world, he felt your devotion waning, so he returned to haunt you.

You had to admit, though, that of all the ways you imagined Steve Rogers coming back to you, him ringing your doorbell at midnight wasn't one of them.

He looked handsome, with shaggy blonde hair curling at his ears and a beard, and it hurt like a punch to the stomach.

It's hard when the one that hurts the most you looks so unfazed, meanwhile you're just a shell of what you used to be.

"You've lost weight," was the first thing he said, as if he'd left to grab groceries instead of becoming an international criminal.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, ignoring his greeting. If that could even be a greeting.

He sighed, mentioning with his head to the hallway behind you.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside, letting him walk through. You didn’t bother turning the key because if anyone really wanted to get to him they wouldn’t be worried about leaving your door in one piece. Steve stood in the middle of the living room, his hands on his waist. An onlooker would never guess that he once belonged there.

“Did you hear about Tony?” He asked when you sat down at the armchair next to the window. The one you bought together in Ikea and Steve insisted he could assemble on his own.

“Yes,” you said. Tony Stark went missing after an alien ship appeared in Midtown. It was exactly the kind of disaster that would bring Steve Rogers to New York. “Have you found him?”

“No,” he replied. “But the same aliens that took Tony attacked Vision in Edinburgh. We managed to stop them from killing him, but he’s badly wounded. When he heard about Tony we flew to the Compound.”

You nodded. It was strange how you could feel so detached from these people- Vision, Wanda, even Tony in a way. They were once your friends, your colleagues. Now they just felt like characters in Steve’s tale - no longer part of your life, only his.

“And why are you here?” you asked.

Why did you come to the home we used to share? you meant to say. Did you miss it? Did you miss me?

He shrugged.

“I thought maybe you could’ve found something on Tony and…”

“If you went to the compound it means you saw Rhodey and Rhodey has most definitely told you that I quit my job when the Avengers split,” you interrupted him. “I have no tech, no machinery, no means whatsoever to find Tony here, nothing that Rhodey has at his disposal Upstate. So why are you really here?”

He was a stranger. Cold and detached, like the house that once trapped him. There was no tenderness in the blue of his eyes.

“Something bad is coming, Y/N,” he said. “I’m not sure what it is yet, but I… I wanted to see you. I wanted to know that you were safe.”

You thought Steve Rogers was done breaking your heart. You thought that when you stopped expecting his return you’d go back to who you were before him, even if you couldn’t find that girl amongst the mess he made of you. You thought you’d be safe from love, and trust and kind soldiers with blue eyes, but you’d never be safe from him - your fellow and your foe.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” you croaked, holding back the tears swimming in your throat with a cough.

Steve fisted his hands, and for a moment you swore that he was stopping himself from holding you. But he just hung his head, tearing his gaze from where you were sitting by the window.

“Just stay home, ok?” he stated. “Try not to leave the house until this situation is resolved.”

Then he turned around and left again.

[dothwrites]

15.06 coda--ocean of silence

There is an ocean of silence between us. And I am drowning in it.--Ranata Suzuki

---

“And check your damn messages.” 

The words stick in Dean’s throat, vicious and painful. They manage to worm their way through, but there’s so many other words that want to claw their way out--What the fuck are you doing in fucking Idaho, why the fuck didn’t you listen to your messages, come back, God’s back and we need you, come back, God’s been writing our story all this time and I have no idea which way is up and which way is right, come back, we need you, I need you, I need you--

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say any of it. Instead, he says “Check your damn messages,” and punches the end call button before he can say any of the words begging to escape. 

---

Castiel waits until he’s sitting in his cabin before he checks his phone. 

For weeks now he’s been watching the messages pile on top of each other, not bothering to check them. He didn’t want to feel that pang in his chest when he realized that none of them were from Dean. 

He feels it now, scrolling through the messages--Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam...Something, foreign and hot, clogs in his throat. If Dean had cared, just enough to send one single message, just some hint that he cared, even a little...

He listens to Sam’s voicemail from one week ago. He can hear the barely restrained emotion in Sam’s voice, present in the tiny wobbles and the small hitches of his breath. Sam says that Chuck, that God is back. That he never really left. That Lilith is back. That everything--Jack, Rowena--was all for nothing. 

That he lost everything. For nothing. 

Again.

If I stay, nothing changes, he’d said, but if he goes back, then nothing changes. From whichever way he looks at it--nothing changes. In the end, God will still be there, Jack will still be gone, and Dean...Well. Nothing will change. 

Just hearing Dean’s voice on the other end of the line, hearing the particular way that Dean’s voice shaped his name--Cas. Until Dean Winchester, he had always been Castiel. There had never been any other option. Then he met Dean, talked to Dean, and immediately, Dean began chipping away at him, starting with his name. It wasn’t until years later that Castiel looked at the shape of himself and didn’t recognize what he saw. It wasn’t until years later that he realized that Dean Winchester had molded him, with the care and precision of a master sculptor, into whatever Dean had wanted to see. And Castiel, whoever that angel had been, was lost forever. 

---

He drives back to the bunker. In the end, he doesn’t know what else to do. Get back in the game, he’d said, arrogant in the moment, still riding high on the release of his rage. He forgot that he’d closed that door behind him and thrown away the key. Not literally--the key to the bunker still sits in the pocket of his coat but. 

When he drove away, he’d honestly never expected to see the bunker again. And now...the gravel road is still the same, winding down to the forgotten entrance. Out here, there’s no light pollution, and Castiel’s headlights cut through the darkness to land on the figure of a woman. 

Something hot and unpleasant clenches in Castiel’s chest. Ridiculous, given their circumstances, but...The woman turns around, suspicion narrowing her eyes as her hand goes to her waist. Castiel catches a glimpse of a gun tucked into her waistband. Not a civilian then. 

He gets out of the truck, but leaves the headlights on her so that she has to squint to see him. It gives him the advantage, however brief. He just hopes that she’ll think before shooting him. His grace...well. He might not recover so easily from a gunshot as he once did. 

“Hello?” The woman doesn’t answer his call. A vague rush of foreboding prickles through Castiel’s body. His blade rests in his coat sleeve, heavy with intent. “Hello?” he calls again, louder. 

“Hello?” answers him. There’s a thickness to the voice, a slurring of the syllables that means--

Castiel shifts so that the light illuminates his body instead of silhouetting him. “Hello?” he asks again, making sure to face the woman directly so that she can see the movement of his lips. 

“Who are you?” she asks, never moving her hand away from the gun. 

“Castiel,” he answers. 

The tension in her posture relaxes and her hand falls away from the gun. “Oh.” Her eyes fall on him again, with a different kind of consideration. “You’re Castiel.” Her mouth twists as she takes him in--the holes in his shirt where the bullets tore through, the blood spattered on his shirt and neck. He can feel it on his face, pulling unpleasantly at his skin whenever he moves. He’d done his best to try and clean himself before he left, but it had been a quick job. As for his clothes--he didn’t have the infinistirmal amount of grace that it would take to clean his suit. He’s been carefully ignoring that fact, and he continues to do so with a neat little mental sidestep. 

“You’re an angel?” the woman asks. Skeptisicm is in her tone, and Castiel doesn’t blame her. He’s a skeptic as well. 

“A poor excuse for one,” he answers. He doesn’t realize, until he sees the quick flash of pity in the woman’s eyes, how pathetic that sounds. “And you are?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject. “I thought I knew all the other hunters but I don’t--”

“Eileen.” She extends her hand and Castiel takes it. Her shake is firm and strong, her skin warm. “Eileen Leahy.” 

The name sparks the faintest recollection of a memory and though Castiel doesn’t pull away, his hand jerks in her grasp. Eileen’s eyes sparkle at him, mirth dancing in their depths at his reaction. “You were dead,” Castiel says, because he remembers now. Eileen, who was killed by the British Men of Letters. Eileen, who Sam always spoke of with fondness and regret. Eileen, who stands in front of him now, whole and vibrant and alive, while so many others are dead and scattered into dust. 

“Weren’t you?” she asks. 

Despite everything, a smile breaks across Castiel’s face. “I suppose so,” he answers. “It seems to be a recurring theme for...” He stops himself before the words tumble out of his mouth. A recurring theme for residents of this place. 

He can’t say that. He’s not a resident here anymore, if he ever was. “For hunters,” he finishes lamely. Eileen’s expression tells him that he’s not really fooling her, but she doesn’t press. Once again, Castiel is grateful for the strange generosity of humans, the way that even though they can be harsh and cruel, petty and thoughtless, they’re also so gentle and careful with veritable strangers. 

“So why are you out here? I thought that this was normally the time that humans spent sleeping.” 

Eileen shrugs, glancing up at the stars. “Being dead for a few years--Sleep is kind of overrated at this point?” Her fingers flex in the fabric of her jacket as she turns in a slow circle. “Plus, i just like it out here. In there, it’s...”

“It can be stifling,” Castiel answers. The underground nature of the bunker, the way that two human men can take up so much space. The way that a single human can force his presence on an angel until they crumple underneath the weight of it. 

Eileen nods. A faint smile crosses her face as she looks around the bleak landscape surrounding the bunker. “You miss this,” she says, more to herself than Castiel. “The breeze, the smell. The feel of it.” She looks at him, a little shyly. “Do you want to go in?” she asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. 

“No,” Castiel answers, settling down on the steps. 

“I’m fine staying out here for a while.” 

---

After an hour passes, Sam comes outside to find them.

He’s obviously not expecting any company, dressed only in a thin shirt and pajama pants. He didn’t even bother to put shoes on before he came outside, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. His hair is tousled and sticking up in the back. Castiel wonders what’s between him and Eileen, that he would leave his bed and sleep to search for her. 

“Hey, I woke up and saw that you--” Sam pauses, his eyes lighting on Castiel’s form. He blinks away the slumber as his posture straightens and awareness filters back into his expression. “Cas.” His tone is carefully neutral. “I didn’t know that you were here.” 

“I just got here a few hours ago.” Eileen’s eyes flick back and forth between Sam’s face and his. Even though she can’t hear the obvious tension in their words, she can pick it up through the blatant discomfort in their body language. 

“I’m going to go back inside,” she says, and before either of them can say goodbye, Eileen bolts back inside. Castiel is left with Sam who has a strange mixture of longing, worry, and irritation on his face. 

“Did you get my messages?” he finally asks, leaning against the wall. Castiel wonders if he should stand, but nixes the idea. Even the thought takes too much effort. 

“I listened to them earlier.” 

“And why...” Sam is losing the fight against his irritation. He blows out a short breath and folds his arms against his chest. He seems incapable of looking at Castiel for longer than a stretch of thirty seconds. “Why didn’t you answer? Where were you?”

Irritation bristles its ugly head. Castiel grits his jaw to keep all of his roiling, seething anger inside. Sam Winchester doesn’t get to question him like this, doesn’t get to make demands of him; it’s not like he’s...

“I needed to be away. From here.” Castiel bites out the words. 

Sam finally looks at him, bleak frustration in his eyes. “Because of Jack? Cas, we all miss him. But it’s complicated and...”

Castiel’s anger and grief explode outward, a volcano finally reaching its critical state. He stands up, coat swirling around him as he stalks to Sam. He forgets his lingering weakness, the jelly state of his graceless body as he stands within an inch of Sam. 

“Complicated? You miss him? You and your brother were the ones who tried to lock him away from the world for all eternity, and when that didn’t work, you were the ones who put a gun to his head. And now you have the...” Castiel’s mouth works for a second as he tries to find the correct word, “the arrogance, to come to me and tell me that you miss him? That you’re sad that Chuck finished the job instead of you?” 

“Cas, that’s not fair,” Sam tries, but Castiel can tell by the fraying sound of his voice that he’s on the end of his tether as well. “You don’t understand--Jack killed Mom and--”

“No, I understand very well the Winchester definition of family,” Castiel spits out, then stops, chest heaving. He feels raw on the inside, like something came through and scraped its claws through every part of him. 

He never should have come back. He sees that now. 

If Castiel had actually reached out and slapped him, Sam could not look more confused or hurt. His mouth hangs open and his eyes reflect a sort of helpless pain that Castiel can identify with all too well. He knows what it feels like to have the people you took for granted in your life suddenly shift and change until you no longer know how to navigate through the new sharp edges. He knows what it feels like to get cut to ribbons on someone. 

“What...what the hell happened?” Sam finally asks, rubbing his jaw. “Cas, what...why did you leave?” 

And there it is. The question that he should have been asking all along, now delivered, too late to help anyone. 

Castiel doesn’t want to punish Sam. That’s never what this was about, but he can’t, he can’t...He can’t sit here and pour out the ugly remains of his life, his hopes, he can’t sit there and be a willing participant in his own humiliation. 

“Ask your brother,” Castiel says instead, petty and cruel. He heads towards the door of the bunker, hating the claustrophobic nature of the place but needing to escape this conversation. His hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back at Sam. “I’m here to help with God because it’s my fight too. I can’t sit on the sidelines and watch because I have a responsibility. But after...However this ends, I’m leaving after.”

He goes into the bowels of the bunker, leaving Sam alone outside.

---

Dean is caught in the middle of a dream. 

Ever since they got the news that Chuck was back, he’s been dreaming more than usual. Normally his dreams are just strange, fever-pitch things. They’re enough to leave him gasping in a cold sweat, but not enough to linger over his day. These dreams though...these dreams wrap around him like a cold, forbidding blanket, and shadow every action that he makes until finally, he falls back asleep, only to dream again. 

Tonight, it’s more of the same. He’s racing through a forest that happens to look a hell of a lot like Purgatory. He’s hunting something. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that he wants to find it and destroy. He wants to dig his fingernails into this thing and shred it apart, until nothing’s left but the blood and gore on his hands. His blood thrills with the chase and all that he hears is just the sound of his feet racing through the undergrowth and the ragged sounds of his breath ripping through the air. 

Ahead of him, a rustle. Dean pours on the speed, his gun a promising weight in his hand. The tension of his finger as he squeezes the trigger, the recoil traveling up his arm, the satisfaction of hearing the bullet hit and watching the blood spray--Dean races ahead, hunting the creature that no longer bothers to be subtle. Now it’s running, straight in front of him, in a futile attempt to escape. 

There is no escape. Not here, not from him. 

Dean launches himself into the air, arms reaching out to grab the fabric of the thing’s coat. He brings it to the ground and they roll, scratching and clawing at each other, but there was only one way that this story was ever going to end. Dean springs to his feet, his quarry still on the ground, and if he were able, he’d throw his head back and howl his triumph to the night sky. 

He shoves his toe under the body and rolls them over. There is nothing but triumph as he looks into Castiel’s eyes. 

“Dean,” he tries, hands held up in surrender, “Dean, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to--”

Dean holds the gun up. He looks down at it, heavy in his hands. The Equalizer. Cas’ eyes flick to the gun, but then he keeps them on Dean’s face, open and earnest. Pleading. 

“Dean, this isn’t...This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, this isn’t you--” 

Cas’ voice tapers off to nothing as Dean places the gun against the skin of his forehead. His heart is pounding hard in his chest--excitement, horror--Whatever it is, Dean’s drunk on it, on the power to be found in the simple act of stroking his finger over the trigger. 

“Dean. Please.” Cas never takes his eyes off Dean’s face, and that trust, that faith, after everything that--

Dean squeezes the trigger, watches the blood and gore explode from Cas’ head, watches those bright blue eyes film over, watches the body slump--

---

He wakes, gasping, terrified, sick. He retches but nothing comes up, only the sick taste of his own horror. Just a dream, but the words sound empty both in his head and in the quiet air of his bedroom. Just a dream. It was just a dream. 

He didn’t kill Cas. He would never. 

But the dream was so real, with Cas kneeling, pleading...And the smooth feel of the gun jumping in his hands, the way that it was so easy to squeeze, the satisfaction of watching Cas’ body jerk, watching the quick spray of blood--

“Fucking christ,” Dean mutters. With quick, convulsive movements, he jerks his robe on and ties a sloppy knot. Obviously he’s not going to get any more sleep so he might as well...Do something. That has his feet and hands moving. 

Sam would suggest that he should exercise, but Sam is an asshole who eats granola and gets to have the person he loves in the same zipcode with him, so what the fuck does he know? 

Dean walks out of his room and closes the door quietly, just in case Eileen or Sam are sleeping lightly. He starts down the hallway, lost in the memories and the might-have beens, and he doesn’t see the other person in the hallway until he bounces off of them. 

He staggers back, an apology already on his lips, when he looks and--

“Cas?” he croaks, his heart thundering in his chest. 

He blinks to clear the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and then he looks-- “Why are you--” There’s blood, too much of it, it’s on Cas’ shirt and his coat, and his face, and there’s, oh god are those bullet holes in his shirt, and that’s too much blood, bullets in Cas and it’s too much blood--

“Dean, it’s fine. It’s not mine. I’m fine.” 

Dean realizes that he’d been speaking aloud, his hands clutching at the lapels of Cas’ coat in some desperate attempt to assure himself that this isn’t his dream, that Cas is still...That he’s...

“It’s not my blood. I’m fine. Look.” Cas takes his hand, in those sure, capable fingers, the ones that have put Dean back together more times than he can count, and guides it to his chest. Dean’s fingers catch on the ragged edge of Cas’ shirt, where the bullets went in before finding smooth, unblemished skin. Whole. Intact. 

Cas’ skin is warm to the touch and Dean drinks in the sensation before the full weight of reality hits and he realizes--This isn’t for him anymore. Touching Cas, getting to check him for injury--That isn’t for either of them. They both made sure of that. 

“You’re back,” Dean says, unnecessarily, but needing the moment to gather his defenses around him. He clutches his robe tight to his body like that’ll make a damn bit of difference, but it’s just one more layer between him and the rest of the world. 

Cas takes a step back. It’s hardly anything, but it feels like everything, in the deliberate distance that he puts between them. “Yes,” he says, his voice stiff in a way that it hasn’t been in years. “Considering the circumstances...I didn’t think that there was another option.” 

Dean jerks his head once, bitterly. “Right. The circumstances.” Because why else would Cas come back? Cas leaves because he wants to, because it’s time for him to move on, and comes back because of the circumstances. Because at the heart of it, Cas is still the duty-bound angel. “Well. We’ll try not keep you too long.” 

What have you been doing to get yourself shot, are you ok, where have you been, why couldn’t you have at least texted Sam to let him know that you were fine, why couldn’t you text me and let me know you were fine, why couldn’t you stay, why couldn’t you understand that I still wanted you around, why couldn’t you just wait, just for a little bit until I was fine again--

“I know that you’ve got stuff to get back to,” Dean says instead, like he’s possessed, like someone else is in his chest, saying these things that will make Cas flinch. 

He does. Cas still flinches, which means that Cas still cares, no matter how much he tries to pretend that he doesn’t. And if Cas still cares, that means that...Dean doesn’t know what that means. 

“I’ll try not to overstay my welcome.” Why did he ever teach Cas the nuances of sarcasm, the way that the English language can be manipulated to wound? 

Cas turns away from him, like he did that one night, like he does in some of Dean’s nightmares, the ones where he’s begging Cas to stay and Cas looks at him, coolly pitying, and says, I think it’s time for me to move on, and then he leaves, like all of this was never more than a pit stop for him along the way to bigger and better things. 

Something in Dean’s chest breaks. It shatters into a thousand pieces and then he’s lurching forward, hands reaching for Cas. He manages to grab a piece of his coat, but the tug of fabric is enough to stop Cas. “What Dean?” Dean didn’t know that angels could sound exhausted, but Cas does, Cas sounds like he has the weight of centuries and the weight of Dean pushing him down to the ground. 

“I...I don’t know,” Dean says, and there’s something liberating about the acknowledgement that he’s been floundering for these past three weeks. “I don’t...I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says. There’s more, but it’s all too raw, too painful, too true to say. If he says that, if he apologizes and confesses, and all the rest of it, then Cas will know, and then...Then, when Cas leaves after that, Dean will know that it was always him, that Cas was always leaving him, and Dean doesn’t think that he’ll survive that. 

Cas says nothing; he doesn’t even bother to turn around. Dean inches closer and Cas could leave if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. Infinitesimally, Dean moves forward until his forehead is resting on Cas’ shoulder. Cas stiffens underneath him, but he doesn’t move to shake Dean off. Dean stays there and breathes in the scent of Cas’ coat, which smells like something damp and wild, and then the scent of Cas, which smells like something fierce and unforgiving. 

The moment is fragile, so achingly vulnerable, that it’s no surprise when Dean ruins it. “It’s good that you’re back,” he says, and he means it in the way that he can’t sleep well when he doesn’t know where Cas is, in the way that he thought that he was never going to see Cas again, in the way that his heart lifted to hear Cas’ voice, even in those bitten off, reluctant syllables, in the way that this feels like a second chance, and then he says, “We really need you”, and everything shatters. 

Cas pulls away and leaves Dean cold and bereft. Now, when he turns around, his face is that angelic mask that Dean hates so much, the one that Cas hides behind when he’s feeling too much, when he becomes too human for comfort. 

“That always seems to be the case,” Cas bites out, short and bitter, and how did this go so bad so quick? Where were the warnings? “I’m here to help, because this is my fight too Dean. I was here when it started and i don’t get to sit on the sidelines and watch. But after...” Castiel shakes his head. “If I stay, nothing changes.” 

He walks away, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the hallway. For the second time, Dean watches him go and doesn’t say anything. For the second time, Cas never pauses or invites Dean to change his mind. 

Dean stands in the hallway until Castiel disappears, until he confirms that Cas isn’t coming back. Then he slinks back to his room, despair and defeat dogging his steps like two faithful hounds. He closes the door and wishes that the noise of the latch clicking didn’t sound so final. 

He curls up on the bed and starts scrolling through his phone. He needs a hunt, something that will consume his mind, something that will take him away from the bunker, away from Cas, away from the ruins of his failure. 

“Huh,” he says, as he lands on something that looks promising. 

---

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.--Anais Nin

[rene-writes-or-tries-to-write]

How to Break John Winchester’s Nose: A fangirl’s guide

This was on my main, but I’m moving it here. 

                           - 7:36 PM, May 14, 2020, Pocatello, Idaho -

The road was empty. Nothing moved. Not even a breeze stirred the trees. As she watched, a speck rounded the corner. She narrowed her eyes. That was her mark. Time to go.

 The girl was tired, angry, and cold. She had been walking for hours, headed north toward Chubbuck. She had no true destination, just the need to get away. “Go for a walk,” they said. She’d been on more walks in the past couple of months than she had for the past year. She was bored of walks, and just wanted to go home. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t have a home, not really. She was so lost in thought that she did not notice the wind pick up. Dead leaves, grass, and dandelion fluff whipped around her. It was only when a stick hit her arm that she looked up to see the vortex forming around her.

 “What the fu-” her words were cut off by a high pitched noise. A second later she was gone, and there was no trace that she had ever been there.

                             - 9:52 PM, June 3, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

John Winchester was headed out of town, eager to return to Sioux Falls to retrieve his boys. The day had been a long one, and he hadn’t had much incentive to sticking around town. The dark of the night settled around his truck, and he relaxed slightly in the driver’s seat. Plenty of open road awaited him, and the drive would take a couple of days, allowing him a couple of stops at bars, and the possibility of some company for a night. He put on some music and allowed his mind to wander.

 A half hour or so later, the ferocity of the wind brought him back. The wind was going crazy, seemingly forming a vortex. Immediately, all traces of relaxation disappeared from John Winchester. He slammed the brakes to avoid the funnel, grabbed his gun, and reached for the door.

 The wind stopped. Leaves and sticks fell to the ground. In the center of it all stood a girl, looking to be somewhere around the age of fifteen. She was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and a t-shirt and scarf. She spun on her heel, absorbing her surroundings. She stopped when her eyes landed on the truck. John took this as his cue to exit said truck, gun hidden beneath his jacket.

 “Hey there,” he said, not wanting to startle her.

 “Hel-” she froze, getting her first good look at him. She sucked a breath in. John hesitated, weighing his next move. Before he came to a decision, a fist connected with his nose. He reeled back, cursing, and pressed a hand to his bleeding nose. Barely giving him a second to process the fact that the punch had been thrown with good technique and with a surprising amount of power, she followed it up with a sidekick. John dodged out of the way and fumbled for his gun. He had barely managed to pull it free when the side of the girl’s foot connected with it, sending the gun flying toward the side of the road. Her foot finished its arc, landing behind her in a fighting stance, only to spring off immediately to round kick him in the head. He blocked it and returned fire with a right hook, which she blocked. He followed the right hook with an uppercut, which she didn’t block. A rush of air left her. John didn’t give her time to recover, using the precious few seconds he had to grab the silver knife from his jacket and slash at her face. She responded quickly, but not quick enough, allowing the knife to slash across her arm. She grimaced at the cut, but didn’t display a worse reaction, which threw John for a loop. Given her mysterious appearance in the middle of the road, the way she had seemed to recognize him, and the immediate, well-coordinated attack, he had expected her to be, well, not human. Still, silver didn’t rule everything out.

 The girl, meanwhile, had retreated to John’s truck and was clutching her injured arm, hissing. She looked up at John warily, evidently expecting an attack. His next actions surprised both him and her. He strode over and held out his hand.

 “The name’s John Winchester. Can I get the name of the chick that just broke my nose?”

 The girl hesitated. She didn’t particularly trust John, but the mere fact that he existed… what harm could telling him her name do anyway?

 “Clara. I’d apologize for the broken nose but it’d be a lie.”

 “OK, Clara, you wanna let me take a look at that arm?”

 “You’re the one who cut it, why should I let you anywhere near it?”

 “I’ve got a med kit?”

 “….Fine.”

 John went around the truck to grab the med kit from the trunk, and also to avoid having the kid see the weapons in the back. A few minutes saw the kid’s arm cleaned and bandaged.

 “Well, I can’t leave you out here. Get in, I’ll take you home.”

 She snorted. “Home? Yeah, good luck with that.”

 “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “Best to just show you,” she said, climbing into the truck, leaving John to get to the driver’s seat.

 “Where to?”

 “Hmmm? Oh, right,” she paused. “Pocatello, Idaho.”

 John simply nodded and drove, leaving the questioning for later.

                            - 11:38 PM, June 3, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

Clara had spent the last hour or so having her entire world turned on its head. She had been kidnapped by a cyclone (of all the clichés!), found by John Winchester, cut by John Winchester, treated by John Winchester, and driven by John Winchester. She’d broken his (John Winchester’s!) nose. She couldn’t stop running his name through her head on repeat, a fair reaction given that an hour ago the man had been a fictional character. She had no regrets about her initial reaction, as she felt wholeheartedly that the man deserved a broken nose, hell, she thought he deserved worse. He was a shitty father, not that great of a husband, and a terrible person in general. She did have some lingering doubts about letting him drive her anywhere. In the end, she figured, she could explain some of the truth, seeing as she likely didn’t legally exist in this universe yet.

She played with the ends of her scarf, nervous about his reaction. A sudden thought hit her, and she immediately zipped up her jacket to hide the Supernatural t-shirt she had on underneath, and tried to subtly rearrange her scarf to hide the slightly modified anti-possession symbols on the ends and the large, all caps “WINCHESTER BROTHERS” on it. John took notice and cranked the heat up.

“Cold?”

“Not anymore. Could we get some tunes?”

John reached behind them and grabbed a cassette tape at random, sliding it in. Zep’s Immigrant Song hit them at full volume, and Clara smirked, thinking of Thor: Ragnorak. The smirk disappeared a second later, when she realized that the MCU had yet to be introduced, much less developed to the point of Ragnorak. She felt slightly faint.

“You okay there?” 

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Perfectly fine. A bit thirsty.”

John took the opportunity to hand her the holy water, a move she had anticipated. She took a sip.

“Tastes a bit odd. Is it from some well in the middle of nowhere?” She drank some more. 

John had been watching her reaction closely, and was a tad bit startled.

“N-No, just a motel.”

He handed her a generously salted sandwich. 

“Here, you must be hungry.”

She took a large bite of it, then paused.

“Thoo much thalt,” she stated, mouth full. Swallowing the mouthful, she continued, “not enough meat.”

 “You’re human,” John blurted, surprised.

 “Well yeah, what’d you expect, three rats in a trench?”

 John forced a laugh.

 “You never know. So, mind telling me why you broke my nose before you even finished sayin’ hello?”

 “Oh, that’s easy. I find myself on a lonely stretch of road in the dark, alone but for a large black truck and a big guy, who judging by his stance, is ex-military, Marine if I had to guess, who is tense, likely trigger happy, and armed, going off of the glint of metal from his belt and the lump in his jacket, so logically, I get him before he can get me. You wouldn’t have been the first guy to jump me, and I learned my lesson pretty quickly after the first two times.”

 John’s mouth was hanging open, something Clara found quite amusing. Her explanation, of course, wasn’t the truth. Well, not the whole truth anyhow. She had been jumped before, and it was distinctly not pleasant. She knew he was an ex-Marine, not from his stance, but from knowledge brought from a totally different universe, from what she could guess.

 “I-I wasn’t going to attack you!” he said defensively.

 “Sure. Better safe than sorry though.”

 As she said that, the black truck rumbled to a stop in front of a no-tell motel. John got out, then turned around and asked, “ya comin’ or what, kid?”

 Clara slid out of the truck, dropping to the ground.

 “Why, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the actual fuck is this thing so high up?”

 “To make you complain. Hurry up, it actually is cold out here.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched into the lobby.

 The poor kid at the desk was awoken by John Winchester’s fist pounding the desk. They got one room, two queens.

 The moment Clara’s head hit the pillows she was out. Or so John assumed. She watched through mostly shut eyes as he methodically checked and cleaned his gun, then salted above the door and the windows. He finally crashed an hour after she’d “gone to sleep”. She waited another half hour, then allowed the darkness to drag her away from the land of the living.

                            - 6:43 AM, June 4, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

John Winchester awoke to the smell of coffee and bagels, and the sounds of an unfamiliar person moving about his room. Keeping his eyes shut, he inched his hand under his pillow, reaching for the familiar weight of his gun.

 And found nothing.

 A voice cut through the slight panic in his mind.

 “Looking for this?”

 John opened his eyes to see a fifteen year old girl standing above him, holding his gun. The events of the previous night came rushing back. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and sat up, reaching out a hand to take the gun back. She set it in his palm, reached behind herself, and presented a cup of coffee.

“No idea how you take it, but I figured you might need some if we were gonna get an early start.”

 “Two things: I take it with two creams, no sugar, and how’d you pay for this?”

 “Noted, and I borrowed some money from your wallet. Drink up, I got you a bagel, you can eat it on the way.”

 “…On the way to what exactly?”

 “To show you that I don’t exist yet, genius.”

 John had yet to drink the coffee, and thus did not really process her words or the fact that he was being bossed around by a teenaged girl.

 Twenty minutes saw John caffeinated, fed, and in the truck on the way to Clara’s high school to get at the student records. It was at this point that he remembered her nonsensical statement.

 “What the hell do you mean you don’t exist yet?”

 “Oh. Um. Right. So while I was out this morning, I grabbed the paper. The date’s the 4th of June, 1996.”

 “Yeah, and?”

 She sucked in a breath. “And I was born February 3, 2005.”

 Silence.

 “Come again?”

 “I was born Feb-”

 “No, I heard you. I just don’t see how that’s possible.”

 “Hey, I assume you saw that cyclone. It pulled me out of May 2020, on the road out of Pocatello.”

 “And you aren’t freaking out why, exactly?”

 “I watch a very weird tv show.”

 “So we’re going to your high school why?”

 “To show you I’m not on the records. But you’ll likely find Daddy Dearest on there.” The way she said “Daddy Dearest” was full of bitterness and loathing. John stored that away for later.

 “Right.”

 They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Upon arriving at the school, both of them slipped seamlessly into their roles. John, a tired single father, and Clara, his smart but shy daughter. The principal let them into her office, asking them a multitude of questions regarding their supposed move, Clara’s previous education, John’s job, their home situation, Clara’s fictional deceased mother. Fortunately for them, they both had plenty of experience lying on their toes. The moment the principal left to deal with a fight that Clara had set up on her way in by stealing one kid’s lunch and putting it in another kid’s bag, they were out of their seats, searching for the records. Clara started rifling through the drawers, while John seated himself in front of the computer. Four minutes later, John was clicking through student records and Clara was standing behind him.

 “No Claras in here.”

 “Probably because that’s a fake name. Try Rachel Fusson.”

 “No Rachels, but there are a whole slew of Fussons. Currently enrolled are Owen and Daniel.”

 “Owen’s the old man.”

 Footsteps told of the principal’s approach. John quickly exited the file and shut the computer down, while Clara scrambled to close all the cabinets. They both slid into their seats a moment before she opened the door and attempted to look innocent. The principal apologized for the interruption and continued her interrogation. It took them half an hour to escape her clutches.

                             - 8:36 AM, June 4, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –

Clara had woken that morning drenched in a cold sweat. Upon realizing that there was no immediate danger, she had relaxed and turned to the clock. 4:22 AM. The fuck was she supposed to do at 4 AM? She glanced to her right and saw another occupied bed. John Winchester. Right. She was no longer in the middle of a global pandemic, nor was she anywhere close to her home universe. She wasn’t terribly upset about being pulled out of a world where she couldn’t hug her friends, or even really see them. She also wasn’t terribly upset about being yanked away from her relatives, seeing as they were fairly dedicated to beating her down in every way possible. They had belittled her, toyed with her emotions, and, depending on the “transgression”, beat her. She did, however, miss her friends, her pets, and her girlfriend. Fuck. What would they think had happened? A snore jolted her out of her thoughts.

 “Focus,” she hissed to herself.

 First order of business: coffee and food. She got up, putting 15 years of sneaking into use to grab John’s wallet, his gun, and her shoes. She slipped out the front door and went in search of a coffee shop. Half an hour of wandering brought her to a hole-in-the-wall run by a guy wearing more layers than a Winchester and sporting a mustache the size of Texas. She bought two cups of coffee, two bagels, and the paper. She grabbed a couple of cups cream and some sugar for John, and headed back to the motel. She’d downed half her coffee and most of her bagel (and made her bed) when he started inching his hand toward his pillow in search of his gun. She made her way over to him.

 Second order of business: get some food and coffee into John Winchester and then get him to the high school to show him the records and prove her case about being from 2020. She grinned at the panicked expression on the hunter’s face at finding no gun, holding up said gun and asking him if he was looking for it. Another half hour saw them safely arrived at the school, with John informed of her current predicament. Knowing they’d need a distraction, she put the shipper eyes to work, immediately spotting two boys with so much unresolved sexual tension between them that it’d turned to animosity from what she could see. She nabbed the taller one’s lunchbox, slipping it into the other one’s backpack. She hoped they’d get their heads out of their asses soon, but not soon enough to unravel her plan (everyone who said shipping was a waste of time and energy could suck it).

 After the principal left, Clara sprung for the drawers, having no idea how to work the old computer (John really wasn’t much better). She scanned through the files, seeing detention slips, complaints, and write-ups, but no records.

 “Hey.” John had found the records.

 Forty-five minutes later, they were back at the motel.

 “Okay, so lemme get this straight-” started John.

 Clara snorted. “Good luck with that.”

 John squinted, not getting it. He continued, “you were born in 2005, you came from the year 2020, and you can fight better than a lot of the “professionals” I know. Who the fuck are you, Clara? Or should I call you Rachel?”

 “Let’s stick with Clara. I’m just a kid from Pocatello. I can fight, because, like I said, I’ve been jumped before. Once was enough, so I learned to fight so next time I wouldn’t be helpless. Why are you taking the time travel thing so well? You didn’t freak out, just questioned the hows and whys.”

 “I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit, kid.” With that, he stood up and started packing the few things he’d unpacked the night before.

 Clara sat and watched him, having nothing of her own to pack.

 “Let’s go,” said John, moving out the door.

Chapter two here: X

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 36/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774 

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

Syed felt like the situation was getting out of control, an idea that she hated. The morning came and went with no sign of the Millennium Falcon. She worried that the car escaped at dawn, before the barricades were put up.

She searched the town with Saul, who decided to join her after their call that morning.

According to Saul, Kylo took off the other night without answering his phone. He never came back to the hotel and his pickup was found vandalized in the parking lot of the venue. He was relieved to find that Syed was still there, with Skylar in tow. Saul wanted to know if Kylo was safe—given the nature of the mission, he’d suspected that Earth Soldiers had somehow managed to abduct their leader.

Syed acted surprised, saying that she and Skylar had no idea because they decided to spend the night together at a local motel, just like old times. Saul better come and help them look for Kylo.

Saul showed up immediately. The three of them set off, Saul and Skylar piling into the SUV while Syed took Saul’s grey Ford for a change.

Luckily for Syed, Saul asked few questions and believed everything they told him. He also hadn’t talked to Kylo himself recently. The last update he remembered was that Rey was an Earth Soldiers activist that Syed had been assigned to track.

These days it was more accurate to say that Rey was nothing but a blundering tourist and Kylo was the fraud that Snoke wanted Syed and Skylar to hunt down.

But maybe Kylo had gotten to the others first? He was certainly spending a lot of time with the girl these days but he could have still called them...

Stricken with doubt, Syed turned to look at Saul, who was sitting in the passenger seat. Perhaps not unlike his biblical namesake, Saul had strong brows and a slightly aquiline nose, with a matte olive complexion and sharp eyes. She would have found him attractive under different circumstances.

But right now she had to be cautious.

He didn’t look nervous to be there, if he was anxious it was probably his eagerness to find Kylo Ren. Saul had left him countless unanswered voice messages, finally taking to the streets when all else failed. Did he really think he would just randomly run into Kylo at a Starbucks, sipping on a double shot cold brew like always?

Syed was sure Kylo out there in the Millennium Falcon, and that they were already losing time...but she didn’t have the energy to fight anyone this morning. She knew she would have to come up with one hell of an excuse to get Saul to mangle Kylo instead.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful?” She hummed dryly, “Call up all the campsites around Bozeman and ask them if they’ve had any guests driving a maroon Oldsmobile Cruiser.”

Saul complied wordlessly, googling a series of numbers to call. At least he wasn’t dead weight anymore.

Running out of ideas, she drove back into town, half-hoping she would get a lucky call from the police. Circling back to the parking lot, she somehow ran into Shakti, who was busy having Kylo’s pickup hauled away with a tow truck.  

“Hux’s orders,” Shakti explained.

"Where’s Kylo?” Syed asked, trying her best to sound natural.

“No clue, it’s not like I’m his babysitter. Maybe he’s still hunting that Earth Soldiers agent from a few days ago.”

They smiled sweetly at one another, neither woman falling for the lies of the other, neither one able to determine how much Saul really knew. Once again Syed found herself forced to keep up pretenses, lest she be outnumbered and unprepared.

As she drove off, she realized that Shakti’s SUV was nowhere in sight. Did Kylo take it? If so, he could be anywhere by now, they would have to expand their search.

It was high time to call Skylar, but Syed’s attempts went straight to voicemail. Strange. He knew he was supposed to stay close at a time like this, so what the hell was the idiot playing at?  

“I got a hit,” Skylar announced triumphantly. “Canyon Campground. They saw the car yesterday afternoon but she left before dawn.”

“Oh, fucking hell.” Syed swore, “she must have left before they put up the barricades—Let’s go!”

Rubber screeched against concrete as the SUV sped up, making its way to Highway 89 without heeding the speed limit.

“Either she left Bozeman entirely before the cops and we’re fucked, or she’s trapped somewhere between here and the next barricade. Keep an eye out!”

Saul shrugged silently. He turned to the window again, concentrating on the road. He jerked when Syed made a sharp right, driving onto a winding side road.

“What’re you doing?”

“Looking. She must have hidden the car. She can’t have made it to the border, she can’t be at any of the checkpoints because the authorities would know. We need to search the woods, but not the mountains, her car can’t off-road.”

The descent along East River Road was slow and full of bends and curves, but Syed had regained some determination. She was tired of  the aimless wandering, now she was finally back into action  

Suddenly, she slowed down, stopping the car. A dozen paces behind her, was the tell-tale gleam of something metallic, glistening in the sunlight through the trees. It could have been a divider, or a random pile of garbage. But she was transfixed.

She walked back along the path, looking for a way in, groping blindly against the trees, until—

Oh fuck. She took out her gun. There it was, she’d found the Millennium Falcon.

It was a good hiding place, under the pine canopy, out of sight and out of mind. But Syed had been smarter. She advanced carefully, reaching the front of the car before pulling her weapon on the girl inside.

“Get out, Rey Jakku!”

The door opened to reveal a blonde woman wrapped in a tattered shawl. She took a drag from a lit cigarette. Syed paled.

“Kelsi! What the fuck are you doing in—where’s the girl?!”

It dawned on Rey that she had been awake since 4 AM this morning, since the minute she had caught Ben Solo red handed. She had changed cars around 7 AM and had passed the barricaded checkpoint an hour and a half later. After a quick breakfast she was back on the road again. The new car afforded her an unusual amount of comfort: the seat was somehow firm and soft at the same time, and the GPS and cruise control let her body take a break. She had her phone plugged into one of the USB ports, and she was  blasting her music on high, listening to the same three KYLO & THE KNIGHTS OF REN albums for a week now.

Despite the comfort, she was tired. She had managed to stay awake all night in Ben’s loving embrace, stealing long sleepy kisses and chewing on his earlobe as he ran his fingers along her breast. That was just one of seemingly thousands of little sensual ways he had kept her awake after making love to her earlier. She’d lost track of time.

Then came the brutal awakening at dawn, followed by an emotional rollercoaster that left her unwilling to go back to sleep. But now, in the snug warmth of the car, watching the open road stretch forever, it occurred to Rey that driving twelve hours straight was maybe a little too ambitious.

She didn’t want to end up strangled by Syed...but it was hard to stay awake behind the wheel. BB8 was adorable, chewing quietly on her toys, but being a dog, she was a terrible conversationalist.

Speeding along Highway 20 on her way to Idaho Falls, Rey tried to focus on her surroundings. Cows grazing along hidden pastures, lots of little calves, a cowboy riding a horse along the edge of the road, waving a red flag. Rey contemplated pulling over. He was obviously trying to warn her, but why? As she reached the next turn in the road, she understood. A very large herd of cattle shuffled onto the road, led by another handful of cowboys with lassos. They were moving pastures.

Truthfully, Rey hadn’t been able to see all the things she’d wanted on this trip, but this was a sight to behold. This wasn’t a tourist trap or a carefully staged rodeo show, what she was witnessing was a real slice of American life in the mountains. It was more authentic than anything she could have hoped for. These were real cattle herders who lived off of the land.

It was fascinating to watch, though it slowed her down quite a bit. She consulted the time on her dashboard. How much time did she have? How long before Syed saw through the ruse and began following her in earnest? There was only one way to California from here: she would have to follow the path of the Rocky Mountain valleys to Nevada, and then take the Interstate 80 to Reno. Anxiety gripped her by the throat. With every turn she made sure to check for the foreboding grey SUV in her rear view mirror.

As the car crept forward, she texted Ben.

Any news of Syed? Did she find the Falcon?

His response didn’t take long.

I’m watching her, she’s still searching Bozeman for you. The Millenium Falcon is safe. Good luck.

Rey calmed somewhat, focusing on the road ahead. She would stop at noon and not a moment before.

The landscape became drier and flatter over time. The Rockies turned into desert plains. Rey took it all in, there was no way she would see a desert in England. Of course there were the moors, in Scotland or Dartmoor, but nothing as immense as this.

Despite her fatigue and her stress, she marveled at every detail: Fort Hall Indian Reservation, oversized billboards declaring the glory of the Bible, a pickup truck pulling an RV pulling a trailer home attached to a buggy advertising “free coffee at Casino, next exit”. There was so much here that didn’t exist in England, or even in Europe. She couldn’t take pictures, or share her thoughts with anyone, so she tried to engrave every detail in her brain and tell Jess, Poe and Finn everything when she came home.

At half past noon, she stopped at Ashton, Idaho. It was a place to let BB8 stretch her legs, and it was about time both of them had some food. She fed BB water and treats, deciding to find a sandwich for herself.

Eventually, Rey found a locally-owned diner that was very popular with truckers. The tables were covered in red and white gingham tablecloths and the menu was painted under the front counter in large white letters. Hamburgers, cheeseburgers, fried chicken...she would have sold her soul for a  leafy green salad. She ordered a fried chicken sandwich plate, minus the coleslaw on the side.

After lunch, she played fetch with BB8 for a while, gave her some water, took her on a potty break, and settled her back into the car. It was an hour past noon and Rey was drained. Maybe she could take a little nap? A short, twenty minute nap out here was better than falling asleep at the wheel. If she accidentally killed herself out there because of fatigue, she would please no one but Syed.

Leaning her seat back as much as possible, she put on her surpasses and closed her eyes.

Twenty minutes, maximum.

The sound of her phone vibrating woke her up.

Rey jumped, needing a few seconds to Denver where she was. In the Lincoln, somewhere in Idaho. Where Syed was still trying to find her.

What time was it?

Shit, 3 PM. She had been asleep for two hours.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered as she let BB8 out for one final potty break.

“Hurry up, BB! We need to get out of here soon!”

She was glad that she had woken up somehow, but how? Her phone. She checked her phone, the message on the creek causing her blood pressure to skyrocket.

Syed found the Falcon, FORCE has been informed. She knows you changed cars and she’s looking for you. I hope you’re far away. I’m out on the road too. Be careful - Ben

“Oh, fuck.”

The nightmares were coming true, Syed was getting closer and Rey had wasted precious time napping like a sitting duck. How did secret agents have this much stamina? James Bond never fell asleep in the car.

"They probably snort coke", her brain whispered, "meanwhile you’re an idiot who thinks she’s Emma Peel."

[meditationsfromthethirdrail]

Credentials and Credibility

I’ve written about polarization and about empathy, rights and responsibilities in the last couple of blog posts.  I have a long list of interrelated topics to cover before the November elections and I plan to keep plowing through them.  But I’m well aware that my voice is a candle in the wind, to borrow the phrase used by T.H. White in the title of his tale about King Arthur’s dream of a more egalitarian and peaceful society.  The number of readers of my blog thus far may barely run into double digits and that may never change.  We are all drowning in information (and misinformation) unless we are either so socioeconomically disadvantaged as to be denied access or are actively disengaged from media.  People in either category aren’t reading this.

With all the competition for the attention of readers and listeners, if someone wants to be heard above the din, he or she either has to have a forceful personality and a good platform, or actually have something important to say.  I may not have either of those.  Readers will judge for themselves.  But it occurred to me that I ought to at least provide a little background about myself, which may or may not compel you to hear me.  So here it is.

My story is not one of hard knocks and resentment - it’s a success story.  There are a lot of ways to define success but I feel like I’ve grabbed a nice assortment of brass rings during my almost-seven decades on the planet.  I’ve had a long and happy marriage to an incredible woman; I’ve traveled extensively (six continents and all fifty states) and lived for substantial periods in many states; I have three degrees from a major college; I attained a modestly high position in a large, global professional services firm and was financially well rewarded for my efforts; and I have many hobbies and interests that make it easy for me to stay fully occupied in retirement.  Most importantly, I’m happy and at peace with myself and others.  One could argue that these successes may have caused me to be out of touch with those who’ve enjoyed fewer of them, but I don’t think that’s entirely true, and I’ll try to suggest why.

My parents were the son and daughter of a sharecropper and a truck farmer/itinerant salesman, respectively, in rural Mississippi.  They grew up during the Great Depression. They were married and gave life to my older brother when they were still in their teens.  My dad dropped out of high school to sign up for the Army and served in the European theater in WWII.  After the war he got a G.E.D. and served as a tractor mechanic for a while.  Around the time I was born he was hired by a prominent agricultural implement manufacturing company, which led to him being transferred from Mississippi to Maryland to Ohio to Idaho to Oregon and to Iowa in order to earn promotions, and with family in tow.  Later he also transferred to Texas, Missouri and Georgia, after I was left behind to attend college in Iowa.  In those days it was possible to rise pretty high in the ranks of a business like my dad’s, without a glittery collegiate resume, if you worked hard and were willing to uproot yourself and your family whenever it was called for.  So my dad eventually did rise fairly high in the ranks, and in the meantime my mom scrambled her way to a B.A., then taught high school English for a short time.

All’s well that ends well, as Shakespeare once said.  My parents came a long way from the dusty fields where they picked cotton for 50 cents a day.  My own road to success was much easier than theirs.  During most of my childhood our family was financially situated about in the dead center of what was then considered middle class.  My parents were not rich, although they accumulated modest wealth later in life, and they were always frugal, so I grew up with very few toys and a mostly empty closet.  My parents were not the type to devote much time attending to my personal pursuits, other than to quietly demand that I get good grades in school.  So I wouldn’t say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I understand that’s a relative thing.  I certainly wasn't lavished with material things as a child, but I never went hungry or worried about having a roof over my head.

Aside from a base level of financial and emotional support and protection, the best thing my parents gave me was a solid education in a robust public school system.  This was a pre Betty Devos era.  Fortunately I had just enough innate ambition (or willingness to succumb to my parents’ expectations) and intelligence to perform in the upper tier, academically.  I could have done better but I often didn’t “apply myself,” as they say.  In retrospect I realize I had ADHD but few people understood or cared about that back then.

My college record was spotty at first, but ultimately pretty good.  I had almost no grasp of what I wanted to do with my life.   As a result, I had an abnormally extended adolescence, to roughly age 27.  Maybe I was a trendsetter; I see a lot more of that happening with young people today.  In any case I considered, at various times and among other things, becoming a Baptist minister (I was licensed and briefly attended seminary), an English professor (I have an M.A. in English and instructed freshman writing courses for three years), a novelist and poet (insufficient talent and discipline derailed that plan), and a hotel manager (nah).   A happy accident of my wandering and indecision was that I acquired a lot of knowledge that later paid off in surprising ways I’ll come back to later.  I was financially very poor the entire time, which gave me considerable perspective on what it means to be concerned about affording basics such as food and transportation.

I vividly remember the catalysts for my decision to enter the social mainstream. One was the fallout from a poker game I got into with some friends.  One of my “friends” was a notoriously unethical character who, one late evening when I was especially unlucky and perhaps too full of beer, lured me into some bad bets that resulted in a $700 debt to him.  At that time, when I was working several crummy part-time jobs to afford food and my $50 share of the rent on a slum-quality house we shared with two other guys, $700 dollars seemed like a million dollars.  I didn't realize and no one told me that on the very next evening the same group of friends gathered for another poker game as I was licking my wounds and trying to form a plan.  I was not present to witness the scene in which the guy whom I was newly indebted to suffered an equally humiliating loss - a loss that was forgiven by the victor on the condition that the loser would also forgive my loss.  My friends assumed that Bart (not his real name, or is it?) would inform me that I was off the hook.  He did not.

For the first time in my life, I devised a budget in order to determine how I could repay Bart the debt that didn’t actually exist, because that’s the kind of guy I am.  I believed, and I still do, that a person is morally and ethically responsible for meeting whatever commitments he or she enters into.  So  I scrambled for more hours working as a church janitor, a tutor and a library assistant; I ate Kraft macaroni and cheese almost every day (30 cents a box, if I recall); I stayed in my room as if I had contracted the then-undreamt-of coronavirus; and I turned over every penny that didn’t go for rent and minimal food to Bart in three monthly installments until I was finally clear.  I was six feet tall but my weight fell to about 140 pounds.  On the day I forked over the last $200, Bart skipped town, just as the news finally arrived that I wasn’t supposed to have owed that debt.

That sordid chapter concluded with me taking a job, out of sheer desperation, in a factory where I was paid a below-minimum wage to operate a machine which applied mailing labels to printed advertisements.  It was mind-numbing.  There were perhaps another 100 workers in that factory doing the same thing I was doing.  The output of each worker was measured daily by the factory management.  By the end of the first week I was the most productive mailing label attacher in the factory.  To keep myself from going insane, I approached my task as if it were a game and challenged myself each shift to beat my previous day’s output, which I always did.  During my brief lunch breaks I used to surreptitiously glance around at the other workers and I understood exactly what Thoreau meant when he opined that the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.  I don’t know if he was right about “the mass of men,” but he certainly could have been describing that crew at the factory.

In my second week at the factory I met another newly-hired college guy whose wife and he were trying to save enough money to move to Los Angeles so he could take a shot at professional acting - this was his second job.  Chatting with him during lunch breaks, i was inspired by his desire to fulfill a dream and the difficult steps he was taking to do it.  I listened to him, I looked around at the hollow-eyed, middle-aged folks who had worked for years operating labeling machines, and I squirmed as I considered what a sap I was for racking up a poker debt and falling victim to a con man.  i abruptly abandoned the factory but I felt so discombobulated that I enlisted my good buddy John to drive out to Idaho with me so I could visit my brother and try to get my shit together.  By the end of that brief sojourn out west, the best job offer I could manage was from Roto-Rooter . . . to work in the field, as it were.  Wake up call!

If you’ve read this far you must be wondering how any of this supports the notion that I’m qualified to write about sociopolitical matters.  It doesn’t, except to demonstrate that I have at least a small measure of “street cred.”  But the best is yet to come.  When I returned to Iowa I found a better job in a hotel.   Initially I was a night auditor, which is a position that involves being a desk clerk part of the time and an accountant the rest of the time.  Only a small step forward, financially, but it gave me a taste for something I had never previously thought about doing for even one minute.  Accounting, I quickly learned, was something I had a natural aptitude for, and in some quirky way I found it interesting.  Once again I viewed my duties as a sort of game, but this was a game that lit up my brain much more brightly than did operating a machine to perform an exceptionally repetitive task.  

My whole life is a series of lucky breaks at critical junctures.  In this instance the break was that I met a co-worker - a guy who shared the hotel night auditor position with me - who had previously worked for a large CPA firm.  He had taken the part-time hotel job because he was trying to become a full-time stock trader and that’s what he was doing during the day.  From him I learned what it is that CPAs in a big firm actually do.  Let me assure you I’m not going to get into that subject, in case you were already feeling the dread.  (Thank God for actuaries - the only people who make accountants seem slightly interesting.)  Suffice it to say that I figured out how I could minimize the additional schooling I would need to become qualified to be a CPA and I decided to take a stab at it.

I kept the hotel job but started carrying a heavy load of college classes - accounting, math, economics, law, etc.  It so happened that I met my future wife, who was just finishing her Interior Design degree at the same college, about the same time I took the first tentative steps down my new career path.  That was even more fortuitous - I give her lots of credit for helping me stay the course.  The two years in which I went to college in the day, worked at the hotel at night, and struggled to get our new romance off the ground, was “character-building,” to say the least.  I can barely remember anything about that period, it was such a blur.  To give you an idea of how much of a blur it was, the major highlight I remember was driving with my new spouse to Des Moines to dine at Spaghetti Works.  $5 for beer-and-cheese spaghetti, all-you-can-eat salad bar and a glass of swill.  Heaven!

When the two hellish years finally ended and I received my B.S. in Accounting, I had already lined up a job in Des Moines as an auditor with one of the Big 8 (at that time) accounting firms.  Not long afterward, I passed the CPA exam and my wife landed a spot with a local design firm, and we were on our way.

Ok, at last I’m where I possibly should have started. In the ensuring three decades I continued to work as a CPA, becoming a partner along the way (meaning that I became one of the owners), and developing a specialization working with clients in the financial services industry - investment management companies and banking and finance companies, primarily.  This is the good part, folks.  My career soon took me from Iowa to New York City, where my background in English earned me the privilege of being a key designer and the principal author of new practice guidance for our international firm, which was just merging with another large international firm.  That put me in the spotlight for a time and gave me a leg up for promotion.  After the merger we relocated to Los Angeles, where I worked with some of the most prominent investment management companies in the world, and numerous banks, mortgage banks and other financial institutions.  Finally we moved to southeast Pennsylvania and I split time engaged with clients there and in California, and with our national financial services practice in New York.

Late, late nights on Wall Street helping to prepare financial offerings with hundreds of millions of dollars on the line.  Late, late nights at client offices in L.A., San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, New York and Philadelphia, managing teams of young accountants to deal with complex accounting problems under tremendous pressure.  Board meetings, fee negotiations, staff meltdowns, discoveries of fraud and malfeasance, financial crises in which I was an inside observer.  A 60-hour work week felt almost like a vacation compared to many weeks with even longer hours.  It was enough to give me PTSD.  I don’t want to overstate it - it wasn’t like actual life or death combat PTSD - but I still have nightmares ten years and more after the fact.

That’s a very quick summary of the 30+ years in which I obtained hard-won knowledge about global finance and economics - a period in which I also had a lot of experiences with politics, charitable organizations and other components of society I didn’t have time to get into today.  I still spend a lot of time staying informed about subjects ranging from psychology and mythology to current events and hard science.  There’s a ton I still don’t know.  But as my all-time favorite singer Joni Mitchell famously said, I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now.

[lucy-sky]

Thanks for this opportunity Lucy! Congrats on your anniversary!! 🎉 If you have time and if you think its interesting to do it; my request is Jason Dixon prompt 5 (you decide who’s sentiment it is ☺️), the rest is up to you! Thank you!! 🌸😘

Okay, so I actually planned to write another request first, but… This one corresponds more with my mood today. Plus I rewatched Three Billboards recently and have a lot of Dixon feels. So, here we go…

Jason Dixon + prompt 5. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

1553 words; no warnings except mentions of blood and violence. Slightly angsty but I believe in happy endings :) Gif by me.

Coffee. The only thing that helped you going through the night shifts nowadays.

- What’s wrong? - You frowned, walking past the receptionist with a hot papercup in your hand. She was talking by the phone and looked quite annoyed.

- Some hysterical lady is calling, says something’s wrong with her son and she wants you to come…

- Me?.. - You raised your eyebrows. - What’s her name?

- Mrs. Dixon.

- Oh. That’s right, her son was my patient. What exactly happened to him? - You tried to remain calm, but already felt slightly worried.

- Hard to tell… As far as I understood he got beaten… This woman is really hysterical, you know…

- Yeah, I know. I know Mrs. Dixon better than I wish to… - You muttered. In fact, when Jason Dixon got to the hospital with burn wounds, you were the only person who managed to calm his mother down. She rushed to the hospital like crazy when she learnt about that fire, but you somehow convinced her that her son was in good professional hands, that he’d be fine and his life was not in danger.

But now it was not about Mrs. Dixon. It was about Jason. What’s he gotten himself into? He left the hospital not so long ago… It made you feel anxious.

- Y/n, what should I tell her?

- Tell her I’m on my way.

Coffee could wait.

***

That would be a lie if you didn’t admit that during his stay in the hospital Jason Dixon has become more than just a patient for you. He seemed to be intimidated by his impulsive mother and mostly was really quiet, polite and slightly sad. He didn’t talk much during the day, being mostly deep in his thoughts. You knew he’s been through some uneasy stuff, so you didn’t persuade him into conversations, but one day it just happened. It was your night shift and Jason couldn’t sleep. He found you in the rec room and you just started talking. He probably didn’t expect it himself, but the conversation suddenly turned out really sincere. You talked about each other’s childhood, and he told you about his father who he’d lost when he was just a teenager. He also told you Chief Willoughby reminded him of his father in a way. From this conversation you understood how much the Chief meant for Jason and how hard it was for him to accept his death. Of course he knew Willoughby was dying, but he just denied thinking of it. And then it crushed on him like that. You felt deep compassion towards him, despite people talked a lot, and not everything they told about Officer Dixon was nice. You preferred to believe yourself and your own feelings and impressions though.

Your night conversations became a tradition. You kept telling him he should sleep but he assured he got plenty of time to sleep during the day. And to be completely honest, you enjoyed these conversations and were looking forward to them.

- So, it’s your day off tomorrow… Are you planning to go out or something? - He asked you once.

- Going out? Oh no, I’m mostly a couch potato during my days off, - you laughed. - Don’t even remember when I’ve been to the bar with friends last time, or had a date…

- I’d ask you out, - Jason blurted out, blushing instantly. - If I wasn’t in the hospital and didn’t look that ugly, of course, - he added quickly, lowering his gaze.

- That’s really sweet of you, - you replied with a warm smile. - And trust me or not, I really don’t think you look ugly.

Jason gave you a slightly awkward chuckle and hastened to change the topic.

After he left you caught yourself on a thought you missed him badly during night shifts. You haven’t heard from him for a while and decided he’s just moving on, sorting his life out. But… Here we go again.

***

- Jason, it’s y/n, - you called out, knocking on the bathroom door. - Can you please open?

You heard his grunts and some rustle behind the door and then it finally opened. Jason looked at you helplessly and collapsed on the floor, leaning against the toilet. Mrs. Dixon gasped loudly at the sight. He was covered with blood and dirt, bruises on his face, his body trembling slightly. The way he looked made your heart shrink, but you took a deep breath and turned to the terrified woman.

- Don’t worry, Mrs. Dixon. I got everything under control. He’ll be fine, trust me.

She nodded, still staring at her son in shock.

- Just leave us for a while, okay? I’ll check him and provide first aid. He’ll be fine, - you repeated in a soothing tone.

- I… I’ll go put on a kettle, - she murmured, leaving.

You entered the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

- Gosh, Jason… What happened to you?… You whispered, kneeling in front of him and touching his chin gently to make him look at you.

- My momma… She shouldn’t have called you… I’m okay… - Jason mumbled thickly. His nose was bloody, but didn’t seem broken. The area around his left eye started turning blue.

- All is fine, Jason, this is my job…

- Hey… Could you please put it… there… - Dixon pointed at the shelf and handed you a small glass tube with a number and a word “IDAHO” scribbled on it. - Carefully…

- Sure… What’s that? - You frowned.

- Evidence.

- Evidence?

- I… I think I found the… Angela Hayes’ mur… murderer… - he stumbled, his voice weak and hoarse.

- What? But… How do you know that?..

- Don’t know yet. There was a guy in the bar and he was talking to his pal about raping a girl… and setting her on fire… And other nasty shit.

You felt a cold shiver running down your back.

- I wrote down his car number, but I needed to collect… the evidence… So I had to provoke him…

- Oh, Jason… - You couldn’t find the right words to say.

- Just wanted to do the right thing, you know… For once… - he looked at you, his eyes sore and miserable, yet you could see a sparkle of hope inside.

- I know, Jason, - you said softly, reaching out to stroke his shoulder. - And you did. Chief Willoughby would be so proud of you.

- He’d probably call me a dipshit… Because I risked like that, - he chuckled bitterly.

- Yeah, probably.

You stood up and put the tube on the shelf as Dixon told. Then you sat down next to him and opened your first aid kit.

- I need to check you up. Do you think you can stand up?

- I’m really not sure, - he confessed. - But I don’t think any bones are broken…

- Let’s see. I’m going to take care of you, okay? - You gently stroked his bruised cheek. He nodded. - Let’s wash the blood away from your face first.

You got on your feet again, took a towel, damped it and started to carefully wipe blood and dirt from Dixon’s face. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

- I sometimes think that the more I work, the less I understand people, - you said thoughtfully, mostly to yourself than to him. - People are so violent and life is so short and fragile… Why wasting it on anger and hurting each other?.. Sorry, it was a rhetorical question.

- Right… - he sounded quiet, nearly a whisper.

- Y/n?

- Yeah.

- Sorry I’m being such an ugly mess in front of you… again…

- You’re never ugly, Jason. And don’t even try to argue with the doctor.

- Okay… - His lips curled into a weak smile. You felt your heart aching.

***

A couple of days later when you were about to go to bed, your phone rang.

- Hello? - You heard noises and scratches. - Who’s that?

- It’s me, Jason. Jason Dixon.

- Jason? I can’t hear you well… Where are you?

- I’m on a pay phone… At a gas station somewhere near Idaho. I just… I wanted to ask you… - he paused. You heard him sighing deeply. - If you’re free tomorrow night, will you go out with me?

That totally wasn’t something you expected to hear, so you had to pause as well.

- Y/n? Can you hear me?

- Yeah… Yes. I… I’m free tomorrow night, - you replied, but then realization suddenly hit you like a cold shower. - Wait a minute, Jason… You said you’re in Idaho?.. Does it mean that you… Did you…

- No. No I didn’t. Listen, I… I just remembered. Life’s too short to waste it on anger. Right?..

You felt like an enormous weight falling down from your shoulders. You thought you’ve never ever been that relieved.

- Right, - you replied, smiling through sudden tears. - Absolutely right.

***

Hope you liked it :)

[impala-dreamer]

The Chosen: Turning Point

~After Kelly pushed her away, Beka was adrift, working and living alone until she met the men who would change her life forever.~

Beka, Nicholas (OMC), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Benny,

3,692 Words

Warnings: Action! Adventure! Blood! Death! Angst! Show level everything.

A/N: This is a flashback chapter that may be read at any time after Rebekah’s Story. Chapter written by @impala-dreamer

The Chosen Series Masterlist ~  Feedback is Gold ~ Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon

Leaving Kelly was the hardest thing Beka had ever done.

Sure, there were harder things to do physically- she’d once hiked up a mountain with one hand and a machete in the other, but mentally, Beka wasn’t sure she’d ever pull up from the loss.

Kelly had been a constant in her life for so long, and romantic love aside, Beka’s feelings went deep. Kelly was her best friend, her sister, her everything. With her gone, there was just a hole.

Anger came and went, the disappointment and heartache from Kelly’s violent rejections stung, but Beka existed mostly in a state of stoic panic. Her loneliness was crippling, and panic seeped through every crack in her psyche until some nights she could do little more than sit and stare at the motel walls as her leg bounced uncontrollably.  

She kept working, not knowing what else to do, but stuck to smaller cases. A few hauntings in the Northwest, a cursed object up near Vancouver, little things that could be sorted quickly and alone.

Keeping busy was essential. If she stopped for too long, found herself idle in between cases, Kelly’s voice in her head became too loud to bear.

“You should have been there!”

Guilt is powerful, heavy. It sits on your chest like a lead apron, slowly crushing into your ribs until it’s almost a comforting weight. It hurt, but Beka would feel lost without the pressure.

Luckily, Kelly was always there to remind her.

“You should have come with us!”

She kept tabs on her as best she could. With her ear to the ground, she heard of the little blonde hunter with the knives who was making a mess of the Southwest. But that’s as far as Beka went. If Kelly wanted her, she would have gone in a second, but there was no way she’d open the door first.

Some months later, Beka ran into a hunter named Nicholas. He was older, more experienced, with gray flecks in his beard and white at his temples. He had tiny brown eyes and a hooked nose, and his voice was thin and wispy.

Nicholas had been working a case in Portland when he’d caught wind of a small Salt and Burn possibility a few towns over. While traipsing through a muddy cemetery, he and Beka had, quite literally, bumped into each other.

He would joke later on to anyone who’d listen that Beka had been so taken with him the first time they met, that he his charm had “knocked her right on her ass”. Beka would always joke later, with an epic eye roll, that she should have stayed down in the mud.

Nicholas had lost his wife and daughter a few years prior, and with Beka newly abandoned herself, it seemed only fitting that the two should quell their loneliness together. Strictly friends, they roamed the countryside together, taking the backroads in Nicholas’s beat up blue Ford Pickup, chopping down whatever monster crossed their path.

They made a good team. Neither had anything to lose but each other, and it worked out well. Beka could have done without Nicholas’s terrible anecdotes and predilection for Hank Williams, but other than that, things were going rather well.  

In early June, the duo were passing through the very tip of Idaho, when they stumbled upon some local reports of exsanguinated bodies.

Nicholas perked up at the idea, but Beka, who hadn’t been close to a vampire in almost a year, hesitated.

“It’s not really our thing,” she mumbled with a shrug.

Nicholas tipped his head in her direction but kept his eyes on the highway. “It’ll be a quick in and out. Come on, Bek.”

She chewed her lip as panic began to rise. “I don’t know. I’m not really prepared for that. And we just finished up in Waterton. Can’t we have a little break?”

“It’ll be fun, trust me,” he urged, cracking a charming smile. “We’ll just go check it out, and if you still don’t feel right about it, we’ll move on.”

Beka toyed with her seatbelt, running her thumb in the fabric’s groove. “You promise?”

He looked over then, dark eyes honest and caring. “I promise. You get a queasy feeling and we bounce.”

A deep breath calmed her slightly, and Beka nodded in agreement. “OK.”

“OK!” Nicholas slapped the wheel and sat up straight, looking for the next exit. “This’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Come on, we’re gonna get our hands dirty for a bit, knock some heads off; it’ll be great.” He took a deep breath and rolled down his window to let the breeze carry him away. “Besides, what could go wrong?”

Beka didn’t like to say “I told you so”, but she was right so often that it was hard not to. It was almost as if she had some kind of ESP, but in the end, she was pretty sure it was just extreme paranoia and a lucky streak.

“Everything is wrong!” she screamed, heavy rain pelting her face as they ran from the ranch house. Mud was everywhere, and as the rain continued, the pastures flooded, the ground unable to keep up with the deluge.

“You don’t have to keep telling me,” Nicholas barked back. “I know!” He clutched his shoulder, dislocated and hanging funny to the side.

The ranch had been packed full with more vampires than either had ever seen in one place. Beka counted thirteen bloodsuckers before they were discovered and attacked. They hadn’t stood a chance.

Nicholas managed to take down two by himself before being flung into a wall, and Beka had one down at her feet when she was grabbed from behind and bitten at the nape of her neck. When the room began to spin, monster hands were ripped from her body and she spun to see a tall man with green eyes take down her attacker.

“Run,” he told her, his voice deep and firm. “Go!”

Beka had but a moment to register what was happening. She could feel the blood trickling down her spine, the panic rising in her chest, but she couldn’t move. Her feet were planted, stuck.

A vamp came at her, and Beka snapped back to life, swinging her blade as hard as she could, and getting it stuck halfway between the monster’s neck and victory. He raged, shrieking and clawing at her as she tried to free her machete, but she wasn’t strong enough.

“Fucking fuck!”

Green eyes came to her aid once again, and Beka’s brain sparked with recognition. “Hey- do I know-”

“What part of run was unclear?” he snapped. “Go! We got this!”

“We?” Beka looked over his shoulder to see two men hacking away at vampires. One was extremely tall and the other wore a cute black hat. “Where did you guys come from?”

Green eyes dodged a fist and chopped off a head. “Lady, I don’t have time for a meet and greet,” he said. “Either run or start swinging.”

So she swung.

Thirteen turned into twenty, and they just kept coming. It was like a vamp convention, nothing any of them had seen before.

Beka managed to take down five before being jumped again, this time taking a set of fangs to the forearm. Her scream rang through the house, and the tallest man came to her rescue.

“You OK?” he asked, dipping his head to catch her gaze.

Beka wobbled a bit on her feet, dizziness taking over for a moment. “Yeah.”

Hazel eyes were kind when she looked up and the man smiled. “Good. What’s your name?”

Lightning lit the windows and the rain began to fall, smacking into the glass with heavy fists.

“Beka,” she answered quickly. “Who are you guys?”

“My name’s Sam Winchester,” he said with a smile. “That’s my brot- Shit!”

Thunder rolled over the roof as Sam was sent rolling across the floor. A team of bloodsuckers lunged for Beka, but she was pulled away at the last second by a warm, familiar hand.

“We need to go.”

Nicholas’ voice was strong in her ear, and she nodded silently, her eyes locked to the man in the hat who was throwing punches all around him. He looked towards her for a second and Beka could see a row of fangs hidden behind red lips.

“Vamps fighting vamps,” she muttered in a stunned whisper. “Now I’ve seen it all.”

She yelped as Nicholas tugged on her wounded arm, and her feet moved again.

They ran from the house, rain pulling away some of the blood and muck from their faces. The storm was loud, the sky aglow with electricity and moonlight.

She felt like a coward for leaving, but Nicholas was hurt, she was losing blood by the second, and they were tremendously outnumbered. It had all been a mistake, a huge fuck up, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

“Who were those guys?” Nicholas yelled over the thunder.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” she called back, jumping through the mud. “But we just got our asses saved by the fucking Winchesters.”

Nicholas skidded to a halt, his eyes wide with amazement. “Are you serious-” His word ended with a scream as a hand clawed through his already wounded shoulder. Nicholas turned but too late, as a husky vamp took hold and ripped clean through his jugular.

Beka froze with panic, her heart stopping as she watched her companion crumble. Nicholas struggled for a few precious seconds before going still, his arms dropping, knees giving up. When the vampire had quenched his thirst, he let the corpse go, and Nicholas landed in the mud, just as Beka had when they first met.

His brown eyes were wide and the rain came down in sheets upon him. He moved no more.

“You’re next, sweetpea.”

The vampire stepped clean over Nicholas’ body, his massive hands stretched out to reach for Beka. She turned and pushed off her right foot, breaking into a run. The ground was too soft, too wet, and she stumbled badly, only making it a few yards before the monster had her by the collar.

“Nice try,” he growled, breath hot on her cheek, stinking of copper.

When her skin broke, it was with a tiny pinch, almost no worse than getting a flu shot. The vampire was tender in a way, he could have ripped her throat open as he did with Nicholas, but he took his time, savoring her taste, letting his hands wander greedily down her heaving chest.

Beka struggled at first, but the rain was soothing and her head soon began to swim. All in all, not a terrible way to die. She’d gone out with a fight, a badass with a blade, a warrior. Well, a close copy of one anyway. Besides, what did she have left to live for. Nicholas was gone, Kelly hated her… No, letting go wouldn’t be too bad right about now.

She couldn’t be sure what had happened, but she ended up face down in the mud, her ankle badly twisted and one arm surely broken, locked awkwardly behind her back. Gentle hands picked her up, and the rain was blocked as Sam looked down into her face, brushing back the rain soaked hair from her muddy cheek.

“Hey, hey, Beka,” he called to her, patting her face, but she couldn’t focus. Her eyes rolled wildly as Heaven called to her. “Hey, no no. Stay with me.”

“Sam.” Dean dropped a hand to his brother’s shoulder and sighed. “She’s gone.”

“No. Not yet.” Sam pressed his big hand to Beka’s throat, stopping the thin trickle of blood, but it wasn’t enough. He could feel her pulse weakening with each struggling heartbeat. “We have to save her.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s gone, man. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.”

Sam looked up frantically and grit his teeth. “We have to help her!”

“Why? You don’t even know her!” Dean spun away, his hands up and useless. Ever since Sam had started the Trials, he’d been acting insane, and this was just another side effect, Dean was sure.  

Benny placed a calming hand on Dean’s arm and stepped forward. “Maybe I can help,” he said slowly, turning Sam’s eyes to him.

“What? How?”

Carefully, Benny knelt down beside Beka’s head and pulled the sleeve of his shirt back, exposing his wrist. He lifted his arm to his lips, but paused as Sam shouted.

“No! You can’t do that,” he said harshly. “She’ll turn!”

“She’ll also be healed,” Benny countered. “And alive.”

Sam shook his head and tried to pull Beka away, shielding her from Benny. She whimpered in her limbo state, lips turning a pale shade of pink as the last dregs of life ran through Sam’s fingers. “She’ll be a monster.”

Benny struggled to ignore Sam’s disrespect, clenching his jaw and huffing slightly. “Yes, well, then you can use your fancy cure on her, and all will be well.”

“It doesn’t always work!”

“Then she dies. Or she dies now. Your choice, Cher.”

The rain had subsided a bit by the time they reached the motel.

Much to Dean’s annoyance, Sam refused to leave Beka’s side, carrying her alone into the room and then arranging her on the farthest bed. She was out cold, thankfully, but her body was convulsing, twisting painfully as the change began to take hold. She cried out in torment a few times and Sam’s brow was knit with concern. He placed a soothing hand on her forehead each time and she settled, magically lulled by his touch.

“Why are you so obsessed with this chick?” Dean asked as he mashed the cure ingredients together. He wasn’t upset or judgemental anymore, simply curious.

Sam shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just know we need to help her.”

“This something to do with the… purifying your soul crap?” He asked, waving the pestle around.

“Maybe?”

Another cry from the bed turned Sam back to his charge, and Beka’s eyes flew open as a torrent of pain twisted her gut. She sat up with a scream and doubled over, Sam moving to sit on the bed next to her, rubbing her back as she cringed.

“It’s OK,” he whispered, long fingers curling around her shoulder.

“What the fuck!” Beka pushed him off and scampered back against the headboard, brown eyes huge and crazed. “Where the fuck am I?” Her frame shook and her words were wavy.

Sam stood up and held up his hands in surrender. “It’s OK. I’m- we met back at the ranch. Remember? I’m Sam, that’s my brother Dean-”

Beka’s eyes narrowed as she looked from brother to brother, squinting in the dim light. Her glasses were filthy and her vision blurred. “Dean...Winchester?”

Dean’s head popped up at the curious tone. “Have we met?”

“You-you were at the- school and- fuck!” A lightning bolt of pain flashed down her spine, arching her back and sending her head into the wall behind her. “What did you do to me!”

“You were turned,” Dean said loudly and matter of factly as he finished up the spell.

Beka’s jaw dropped and she exhaled slowly, the shock washing over her. “Turned?”

Sam took a step back towards her. “We didn’t have a choice, you were dying. Our friend-”

“You...turned me into a vampire!” Beka shot up from the bed, ready to throw punches, but she fell forward into Sam’s arms, tripping as her head began to pound. “What is that?” A terrible thud rang in her ears and Beka pushed Sam away to clamp her hands aside her head. “What is that!”

Sam looked at her hopelessly. “What is what?”

“That pounding!” Beka screamed over the noise in her head, but the brothers couldn’t hear a thing.

Dean nodded in understanding, having been there before. He poured his concoction into a glass and brought it over to Beka.

“Your senses are heightened. You’re probably hearing a clock, a car on the highway, a woodpecker two miles away. This is what happens.” Dean tapped her shoulder and nodded towards the bed, urging her to sit. “You keep squinting. Vision all blurry?”

Beka sat slowly, lowering her hands but keeping a suspicious eye on Dean. “Yeah?”

“Probably because you don’t need your glasses anymore.”

“That’s…” She hesitated and then pulled the frames down to sit on the tip of her nose. Once the glass was gone, she blinked and everything came into focus. “Fuck. I’m a vampire. Fuck!”

She went to stand, started to freak out, panic crawling through her chest, but Dean grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. He took a seat on the opposite bed and set his elbows on his knees, looking her in the eye.

“I need you to calm down,” he said simply.

“Calm down! How can I- what the fuck good- I can’t calm down! You…” Beka looked from Dean up to Sam, her eyes turning from fear to resignation. “You have to kill me,” she breathed out. “Just make it quick, please.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, nodding to herself. “Do it.”

Sam shook his head. “Beka, no.”

“What? Why not?” She peeked an eye open and Dean held the cup of sludge out to her.

“You’re gonna drink this.”

“No I’m not.”

Sam held a smirk but Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, you are. It’s an old family cure. It’s gonna hurt like hell. You’re gonna feel like you’re dying, and then you’re gonna puke your brains out for a good forty minutes, but then you’ll be fine.”

Beka laughed. “There’s no cure for vampirism.”

“There is,” Sam told her. “It works...most of the time.”

“Most of the time!” She tried to stand again, but Dean shoved the glass against her chest.

“Drink it.”

She took the glass and sniffed it, but realized it was a bad idea and turned away.

Dean growled in annoyance, done with the entire ordeal. “Drink it now or I’ll pour it down your throat.”

“Dean!” Sam scowled at his brother.

Beka took a breath and then looked between the guys, realizing this was her only choice. “Well, if I don’t, I’m dead anyway, right?”

Dean frowned. “Pretty much.”

Another moment of hesitation and then Beka lifted the putrid muck to her lips. She shivered in revulsion and then pinched her nose shut before diving in.

“Bottoms up.”

She slept for seven hours and would have kept going had Dean not whacked her foot several times, alerting her to the arrival of food.

Everything hurt. The balls of her feet straight up to the top of her head stung with microscopic needles of pain as she sat up and walked to the table. But pain was good. Pain meant she was still alive.

They ate burgers and fries from the diner down the street, and chatted a bit about their lives. Beka told them about Nicholas and how she’d been hunting for years, that her talents lay mostly in the books. She spoke in a low voice, her throat ripped apart by hours of vomiting, but her stories were laced with passion, and the boys listened with interest. She told them a little about her family, and where she grew up, told them everything of importance. Everything but Kelly.

The sun felt amazing on her face, and Beka took a moment to breathe the fresh air, before saying her goodbyes.

“So, I guess I should thank you for saving my life... twice,” she said, smiling up at Sam.

He was haloed by the early afternoon sun, his chestnut hair aflame with golden light. His face was in shadow, but Beka could see the deep dimples erupt as he smiled. “Three times, actually,” he said with a laugh and shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking awkwardly on his heels.

“Three times,” she repeated. “OK then.” She chewed at the corner of her lip and shrugged. “Thank you.”

The motel room door slammed behind Dean as he came out with the last bag. “We good?” he asked, rounding the Impala.

Sam cleared his throat and looked away from Beka. “Uh, yeah.”

“Want a ride back to your truck?”

Beka turned to see Dean leaning on the roof of the car, his hands crossed, keys dangling. “Oh, yeah. I guess so. Shit.” She hadn’t had time to think about Nicholas or the fact that her only friend in the world was dead and gone. Alone again.

Sam broke her lamenting moment. “So, where will you go?”

“I… don’t know,” she said honestly. “I've kinda been bouncing around on my own for a while now. Nicholas was the first person I trusted in about a year.” She shrugged. “Bad luck for him, I guess.”

Sam shot Dean a look that was met with half a shrug. He turned back to Beka nervously. “Come stay with us for a while,” he said. “We have... plenty of room.”

Beka laughed politely and bowed out. “Thanks, Sam but...I can't do that. I'm...pretty cursed. People get close and bad things happen.”

“Well,” Dean spoke up, “lucky for us, we are curse proof. And as he said...Bunker’s big. Plenty of room not to get too close.” He ended on a wink and stepped back to open the door.

“And there's a library…” Sam added.

Beka puckered her lips in thought and cracked a smile. So, it was a little weird, and she didn’t know these guys beyond their street reps, but they had saved her life, when they could have left her back in the mud. Besides, it would be good to get off the road for a while, to know someone was around if she needed, someone to keep her mind occupied in the quiet moments.

“Well?” Sam prodded with a grin.

“Not to be a nerd right now after being such a badass all night, but… Sam Winchester,” Beka said with a flourish, “take me to your lore.”

2019 Forever Tags:

@akshi8278 @amanda-teaches @arses21434 @because-imma-lady-assface @burningcoffeetimetravel @colagirl5 @cosicas-cuquis @courtney-elizabeth-winchester @covered-byroses @crashdevlin @dean-winchesters-bacon @deansenwackles @deansgirl215 @deanwinchesterwitch @dubuforeveralone @ellen-reincarnated1967 @emilyshurley @emptywithout @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008 @eternal-elir @feelmyroarrrr @flamencodiva @focusonspn @gayspacenerd @hazeleyesstolemyheart @hawaiianohana15 @herbologystudent252 @hobby27 @ilsawasanacrobat @jayankles @justcallmeasmodeus​ @katymacsupernatural @lastactiontricia @maddiepants @mariekoukie6661 @meganwinchester1999 @missjenniferb @mjdoc90 @mrswhozeewhatsis @our-jensen-ackles-love  @peridot-rose @pisces-cutie @risingphoenix761 @roonyxx @roxyspearing @sandlee44 @sculptorofbeginnings @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @supernaturaldean67 @supernatural-took-me-over @tabrown2021 @thehardcoveraddict @tmiships4life @vampiratehuntressthings @wegoddessofhell @winchesterprincessbride @winchesterxfamilybusiness

The Chosen: @shamelesslydean  

[easternidspine]

Add a few more things to your salad in order to stay full longer! #idahofalls #rexburg #idahome #nutrition #HealthyLiving #diet #healthydiet https://t.co/vem38bGiCd

Add a few more things to your salad in order to stay full longer!#idahofalls #rexburg #idahome #nutrition #HealthyLiving #diet #healthydiet pic.twitter.com/vem38bGiCd

— Eastern Idaho Spine, Sports and Rehab Center (@eastidspine) April 18, 2019

from Twitter https://twitter.com/eastidspine

[magzoso-tech]

New Post has been published on https://magzoso.com/tech/diet-autopilot-thistle-raises-5m-for-health-food-subscriptions/

Diet autopilot Thistle raises $5M for health food subscriptions

What if it was easier to eat salad than junk food? Most diet routines take a ton of time, whether you’re cooking from scratch, making a meal kit, or seeking out a nutritious restaurant. But on-demand prepared food delivery companies like Sprig that tried to eliminate that work have gone bankrupt from poor unit economics.

Thistle is a different type of food startup. It delivers thrice-weekly cooler bags customized with meat-optional, plant-based breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, sides, and juices. By batching deliveries in the less-congested early morning hours and optimizing routes to its subscribers, or by mailing weekly boxes beyond its own geographies, Thistle makes sure you already have your food the moment you’re hungry. Whether you heat them up or eat them straight out of the fridge, you’re actually dining faster than you could even place an Uber Eats order.

The food on Thistle’s constantly rotating men is downright tasty. You might get a sunrise chia parfait for breakfast, a chicken tropical mango salad for lunch, a microwaveable bulgogi noodle bowl for dinner, with beet hummus and kale-cucumber juice for snacks. Thistle’s not cheap, with meals averaging about $14 each. But compared to competitors’ on-demand delivery markups and service fees, wasting ingredients from the grocer, and the hours of cooking for yourself, it can be a good deal for busy people.

“We see Thistle as part of a movement to make health convenient rather than a high will power chore” CEO Ashwin Cheriyan tells me. What Peloton did to shave time off getting a great workout, Thistle does for eating a nourishing meal. It makes the right choice the easiest choice.

Thistle COO Shiri Avneri and CEO Ashwin Cheriyan with their daughter

The idea of button you can push to make you healthier has attracted a new $5.65 million Series A round for Thistle led by its first institutional investor, PowerPlant Ventures. Bringing the startup to $15 million in funding, the cash will expand Thistle’s delivery domain. Dan Gluck of PowerPlant, which has also funded food break-outs like Beyond Meat, Thrive Market, and Rebbl, will join the board.

Currently Thistle delivers in-person to the Bay Area, LA metro, San Diego, and Sacramento while shipping to most of Washington, Oregon, Utah, Idaho, Nevada, and Arizona. Thistle actually held off on raising more since launching in 2013 to make sure it hammered out unit economics to prevent an implosion. It’s also planning broader meal options, additional product lines, and fresh distribution strategies like getting stocked in office smart kitchens or subsidized by wellness plans.

“The reasons that so many food delivery companies have failed likely fall into two buckets: one, a lack of focus on margins and unit economics, and two, premature geographic expansion before proving out the business model” says Cheriyan. “Thistle makes money similar to how a well run restaurant would make money – by having strong gross margins, efficient customer acquisition costs, and solid customer retention / lifetime metrics. We currently deliver tens of thousands of meals on a weekly basis to customers on the West Coast and our annual average growth rate since launch has been 100%+.”

It’s nice that Thistle hasn’t gone out of business because I’ve been eating its salads 6X a week for three years. It’s been the most efficient way for me to get healthier and lose weight after a half-decade of ordering takeout sandwiches and then feeling sluggish all day. I legitimately look forward to each one since they often have 20+ ingredients and only repeat every few months so they’re never boring.

It’s helped me keep my work-from-home lunches to about 20 minutes so I have more time for writing. Thistle is one of the few startups I consistently recommend to people. When asked how I lost 25lbs before my wedding, I point to Peloton cycling, Future remote personal training, and Thistle salads — none of which require me to leave the house.

Cheriyan tells me “We wanted the better-for-you and better-for-planet choice to be the default choice.”

Growing Out Of On-Demand

Thistle has already pivoted past the business model burning tons of cash across the startup world. The company started as an on-demand cold pressed juice delivery service, sending hipster glass bottles of watermelon and charcoal extract to doors around San Francisco. It was 2013, yoga was booming, and people were paying crazily high prices for liquified lemongrass. Health made simple seemed like a sure bet to the founding team of Alap Shah, Naman Shah, Sheel Mohnot, and Johnny Hwin, some of whom run Studio Management, a family office and startup incubator. [Disclosure: Hwin and Shah are friends of mine but didn’t pitch or discuss this article with me.]

Thistle eventually straightened things out with a shift to subscriptions and batched delivery under the leadership of the hired executives, Cheriyan and his wife and COO Shiri Avnery. “I came from a family of physicians – both my parents, brother, and enough aunts, uncles, and cousins are doctors that they could start a small hospital” Cheriyan, a former corporate attorney in M&A tells me. “A common point of frustration was about patients suffering from diet related illnesses who were unable to make a lifestyle change because it was too hard.”

Avenery, a PhD in air pollution and climate change’s impact on agriculture, had become exasperated with the slow pace of policy change and the inaction of governments and corporations. The two quit their jobs, moved to San Francisco, and searched for a point of leverage for positively influencing people diets and interaction with the environment. They teamed up with the founders and launched Thistle v1.

A lack of experience in logistics led to the initial detour into on-demand. But rather than trying to fix the problem with VC money, Thistle stayed lean and discovered the opportunity nestled between UberEats and BlueApron: sending people food they don’t have to eat now, but that takes low or no time to prepare when they’re peckish. Through its app, users can customize their meal plans, ban their allergens, pause deliveries, and see what they’ll eat next.

A sample of Thistle 8 meal plans

“The unit economics problem most heavily plagued the early on-demand food companies. Food / labor waste and inefficient deliveries were likely the biggest reasons why the economics were unsustainable without venture life support. We know this personally as Thistle started our delivery service as an on-demand company before quickly realizing that the unit economics couldn’t sustain a healthy business” Cheriyan explains, regarding companies like Sprig, DoorDash, and Grubhub. Beyond unsold food, “the margins very likely did not support ordering a $12-$15 single meal for immediate delivery when average hourly driver wages reached $18-20.”

Meal kits were supposed to make dining healtheir and cheaper, but they proved too much of a chore and led customers to boxes of ingredients piling up unused. Munchery and Nomiku went out of business while giants like Blue Apron have incinerated hundreds of millions of dollars and seen their share prices sink.

“The meal kit companies fared a little better from a gross margin perspective (due to preorders and more efficient deliveries) but suffer most from an easy-to-copy business model. This led to a rise in copycats, and, as a result, heavily rising customer acquisition costs, low switching costs and poor retention” Cheriyan tells me. “Fundamentally the meal kit companies face another challenge, which is that people have less and less time to cook and are increasingly looking for ready-to-eat options.”

Push-Button Health

A slower, steadier approach with less overhead, more convenience, and fewer direct competitors has helped Thistle grow to 400 employees from culinary to engineering to logistics.

Still, it’s vulnerable. It may still be too expensive for some markets and demographics. Logistics experts like Amazon and Whole Foods could try to barge into the market. Cloud kitchens without dining rooms are making restaurant food more affordable for delivery. And another startup could always take the gamble on raising a ton of cash and subsidizing prices to steal market share, especially where Thistle doesn’t operate yet.

Thistle could counter these threats would be further eliminating delivery costs by selling through partners like office smart fridges where employees pay on the spot, or equipping gym lobbies with more than just Muscle Milk.

“One opportunity we’re excited to test is attended and unattended retail – it would be great to be able to pick up Thistle products at your local grocery store, gym, or coffee shop” Cheriyan says. As for offices, “Today’s corporate lunchtime solutions often require a tradeoff between health and convenience: either wait in line for 30+ minutes at your favorite salad spot for a healthy option, or opt into catered restaurant meals that leave you feeling sluggish and unproductive.” Thistle could help employers prevent the 3pm energy lull.

The startup’s focus on plant-forward meals also centers it in the path of another megatrend: the shift to environmentally-conscious diets. Almost 60% of of Americans are trying to eat less meat and 50% are eating meat-alternatives like Impossible Burgers. That stems both from interest in the humane treatment of animals and how 15% of green house emissions come from livestock. But 45% of Americans say they hate to cook. That’s why Thistle makes pre-made meals where meat and egg are optional, but the food is healthy and delicious without them.

In the age of Uber, we’ve acclimated to an effortless life. The new wave of ‘push-button health’ startups like Thistle could finally take the hassle out of aligning your actions in the gym or kitchen with you intentions.

[easternidspine]

Patient education is so important! That's why we have books in our waiting room for patients to check out. Next time you come in, check one out and start learning more about your health! #idahofalls #rexburg #idahome #HealthyLiving #team #livelifetothemax https://t.co/B0uAFEB1QY

Patient education is so important! That's why we have books in our waiting room for patients to check out. Next time you come in, check one out and start learning more about your health!#idahofalls #rexburg #idahome #HealthyLiving #team #livelifetothemax pic.twitter.com/B0uAFEB1QY

— Eastern Idaho Spine, Sports and Rehab Center (@eastidspine) April 16, 2019

from Twitter https://twitter.com/eastidspine