You know what pisses me off about this? Really, REALLY pisses me off? That’s George (H.W.) Bush holding that umbrella. He was president 1981-1989. Do you get that?
It means that the right have not budged an inch on their ridiculous pro-foetus, anti-actual-persons position in THIRTY GODDAMN YEARS. We should not still be having this argument! Thirty year old political cartoons should be bafflingly opaque, not crystal clear!
Oh wow, you guys are still trying desperately trying to paint Sanger as a racist huh? Okay, if you’re gonna flat out lie like this you can at least try not to be lazy about it.
You’ve given no context to this quote and conveniently left of the first half of it. The sentence in it’s entirety is “ “We do not want word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population.” I know you manipulated it that way because you wanted to make Sanger seem as evil as possible, and also because literally the only thing pro lifers know how to do is lie, but admittedly the full sentence by itself looks damning enough. I think you know this, which is why you provided no context. If you had, your entire argument would have fallen apart. Here are Sangers words with context;
“It seems to me from my experience where I have been in North Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee and Texas, that while the colored Negroes have great respect for white doctors they can get closer to their own members and more or less lay their cards on the table which means their ignorance, superstitions and doubts. They do not do this with the white people and if we can train the Negro doctor at the Clinic he can go among them with enthusiasm and with knowledge, which, I believe, will have far-reaching results among the colored people. His work in my opinion should be entirely with the Negro profession and the nurses, hospital, social workers, as well as the County’s white doctors. His success will depend upon his personality and his training by us.
The minister’s work is also important and also he should be trained, perhaps by the Federation as to our ideals and the goal that we hope to reach. We do not want word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population and the minister is the man who can straighten out that idea if it ever occurs to any of their more rebellious members.”
The article I linked goes into better detail about Sanger, the so called “Negro project”, and the lies spread about her by the pro life movement. I encourage you to read it the next time you feel like spreading lazy, manipulative propaganda bullshit like this.
TL;DR: The full quote states that Planned Parenthood wanted to hire Black doctors in order to make their Black patients feel safer and respected. It also states that Planned Parenthood wanted to work with Black ministers, and encourage the ministers to tell others that Planned Parenthood was a safe clinic for Black patients.
Reblogging not just to spread this out there but so that I have it on hand the next time someone tries to feed me this crap, I can provide them the facts.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the meeting between Trump and Obama at the White House, and here’s the thing.
Obama used to be a law professor. This is key.
Law school is so, so different from college.
In college, everyone expects there to be a “syllabus day,” kind of a grace period where they can show up and get the lay of the land, figure out the bare minimum that they can get away with, the TA gives everyone their office hours, there’s an introductory lecture, and everybody leaves a few minutes early to go take a nap or something. You do the bullshit assignments, you say something in class now and then to get your participation check mark, and figure out how badly you can do on the final and still pass.
But see, in law school, all the methodologies you’ve spent the last 17 years operating under go out the window. Day one of law school is you being thrown into the deep end of the pool—you’ve had a homework assignment for two weeks now, and it’s to read the first 200 pages of your casebook. And now it’s you and the teacher (who is usually as smug as Alex Trebek) gauging and assessing what you managed to absorb while you skimmed through all those pages of reading so you could hurry up and get to the other 150 pages of reading for your next period class, in front of 50 people who are all smarter than you. And if you fuck up, or you didn’t do the reading, you are at the mercies of not just the professor, but the silent satisfied judgment of your peers.
Law school is hard, and it will make you feel stupid and tongue-tied and like you don’t know anything and can’t form an argument—because you don’t, and you can’t. Everybody there has had a 4.0 since birth. Everybody there was the smartest kid in their class, and you’re all rabidly competing for a sliver of a chance at something down the road. It’s petty, and savage, fiercely entrenched in a culture of formalities and ceremony, and exactly like Washington DC.
Yesterday when I was driving home, the NPR reporter talking about the Oval Office meeting mentioned that Trump had thought it was going to be a “getting to know you” type meeting, but that he was surprised when Obama stretched their talk out to 90 minutes before sending him along to the Capitol building where he met with congressional leaders for more lengthy meetings and stuff he didn’t want to do.
And he hasn’t even gotten to the actual job yet.
So think about that as we go into this.
Trump walked into the Oval Office like a two-pump-chump freshman thinking it was syllabus day, and what he got was the first day of law school, and he hadn’t done the reading like everyone else had, and Professor Obama decided to put him in the hot seat.
This was Obama’s chance for the most perfect revenge that would never be picked up on as revenge at all. He was gracious, polite—everything he needed to be for a peaceful transition and a good review from the press. And that would continue when the doors were closed, because that’s the key. Not a Come to Jesus meeting, oh no. If Obama were smart—and he is very smart—he would have treated Trump like an equal, and brought the discussion to a level that assumes far more of Trump than anyone has so far. Assumes that he’s an adult who’s been paying attention. Statistics, esoteric minutiae about the executive branch procedure, economic growth numbers, labor figures, domestic policies, countries Trump has never even heard of, shit that would never in a million years have been in Trump’s campaign soundbites or digestible summaries.
No way to escape. No aides to remember any of it for him. Just the two of them.
Because that’s what would strike a precise chill into Trump. The thundering realization that he’s woefully unprepared for the hard, boring, thankless reality of this, and Obama’s version of a smooth transition won’t and shouldn’t include remedial civics.
That’s what I saw when they shook hands and Trump stared at the floor instead of looking back into Obama’s face. He’s just figured out how little he knows about any of this.
And that should give you a small glow of satisfaction, because after those meetings, Trump definitely has the 1L Terror Shits. In January, the night sweats and insomnia will show up, but for these first few weeks—nothing but diarrhea and self-doubt.
Synopsis: Dean’s in a foul mood and Reader is dealing with an old break-up.
A/N: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 written from the Reader’s perspective can be found here. Relatively new to this, please be nice! Thanks for reading!
Dean woke up pissed. Just pissed in general. It seemed like a day to slam things around. As he laid in bed rubbing his eyes to clear his head he recalled the dream he’d been having right before he jolted awake. Usually he didn’t dream. Last night he hadn’t been so lucky. Lisa had flooded his thoughts and his dream, Lisa and her son, Ben, who Dean was convinced was his kid. It had been years since he’d found out about Ben, and many more since that fateful passion-filled weekend with Lisa. He just didn’t buy the story he’d gotten from her about Ben’s real father. As Ben grew, he looked more and more like Dean and more strikingly, like Dean’s father, John.
He had been ready to let them go, to protect them by removing himself from their lives. But he’d run into them a while ago and the change in Ben was noticeable. Gone were the cute chubby cheeks and in their place a hint of Dean’s and his father’s jaw line. What had really cut him down, nearly gutted him with conviction that Ben was indeed his son, was the moment he’d said something dumb to the boy chasing a glimpse of his smile, and his father’s laugh had erupted from the scrawny teenager. Dean’s eyes must have betrayed his shock as they flitted to Lisa and she couldn’t quite meet his eye after that. She knew he knew, but no one was prepared to say anything. Less than an hour later after a bit of an awkward hug, a pat on his back, and a ruffle of his hair, Dean had to say goodbye to the boy he knew now was certainly his son. Lisa’s hug lingered a little longer and he could tell she was struggling with what to tell him and what not to, so he let her of the hook with a smile and wave. A silent promise not to interfere and to protect them by leaving. It broke his heart.
Dean’s dream had filled his mind with visions of his lost chances at a family with Ben and Lisa. It was almost too much to have seen exactly what he’d wanted and have it ripped away to wake in a dark, cold bunker bedroom alone. Always alone. He slammed his hand down on his alarm clock - the vile thing had brought him back to consciousness and away from what he really wanted. He looked over at it was glad he’d set the alarm later than he usually did. It was hard for him to get enough sleep when they were hunting, so it was nice to catch up a little when he could. The small clock still made him mad, though, for waking him up, so he whispered, “Fuck you” to it just so it knew how much he still hated it.
He decided against a shower. Days like this, days when Lisa was at the forefront of his mind were rough. And now that he really knew about Ben, it just made it worse and he just wanted to do something physical. This usually meant he sought out some local baddie he could hunt and kill quickly, but they’d agreed today would be a research day. So he’d have to turn to his backup plan - kick the crap out of everything he could in the training room. If he was lucky, his brother and their newer bunker resident, Y/N, would leave him in peace to work out this funk.
As he shuffled out to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee before he started hitting things, he noticed the Y/N in front of him walking down the hallway headed the same direction. And shit. She was wearing that awful flannel shirt she always busted out when she was missing what’s-his-name. That guy from like forever ago. He’d be a decent enough guy but she’d been gutted by him when he’d ended it and left Dean and Sam to pick up the pieces. She was a helpful addition to the team, especially in the research department. She was also superb at moving swiftly and silently adding a level of stealth that the Winchesters were just incapable of achieving.
But that damn shirt. It just made the anger in him boil more. It’d been what, 2 years? It wasn’t like it’d lasted that long as far as he could remember. But she hadn’t dated or seen anyone since him, as far as Dean knew. And that made him even angrier. She was a great girl. Hardworking, tough, smart enough to rival or even beat Sammy in that department, and always got up when you knocked her down - except for this. It still knocked her down every now and again. He could see the tension in her muscles even underneath the thick flannel. Whenever she got like this, she was just a bundle of nerves and tension.
He walked up behind her as she poured coffee for herself. She heard him and spun, always on alert. Once she realized who it was, she silently handed a mug to him. Her eyes flitted to his for just the briefest second and they were red and full of unreadable emotion. Dean took the mug from her without a word. It was bad when one of them was in a mood like this and so much worse when it was both. He followed her out to the living room and drank the coffee scalding hot, staring at the wall. He didn’t want to look over to the giant table where he knew Sammy would be sitting staring at them. Even that made him more angry and frustrated. Why did Sammy not have to deal with this crap? Sammy’s “might have been” could never come back, wasn’t out there taunting him. At least life with Jess wasn’t always teasing him, just out of reach. He had a final answer. It probably wasn’t fair to feel this way, but Dean was beyond thinking about fair.
Once the coffee was gone, he got up and noticed that she’d gone too. Probably out to run. That was her escape. For days, she’d disappear, coming back exhausted until she couldn’t run away anymore. He just liked to hit things. He’d promised Sam research help, but he was more useless than usual in this state. Sam would have to fend for himself, not that Dean really cared at this point. Sam was fine. Dean looked over briefly at the table, but Sammy was engrossed in some dusty giant book and wasn’t paying any attention. He wouldn’t want Dean around in the mood he was in anyway.
Dean went back to his room and changed quickly into gym shoes, shorts, and a ripped t-shirt - it had been one of his favorites until it had gotten ripped in a fight. He walked down the hallway until he could see the door to the training room. He could hear her before he even made the corner, the steady smack of her fists into a punching bag and the occasional grunts to go with it. He sighed. He’d wanted to the room to himself, but he could deal with sharing if he had to. He walked in and the sight of her surprised him. Her forehead was glowing with sweat and furrowed with concentration as she put all the power she had into each punch she delivered. She was going to be a great hunter one day. Fast and furious. Funk or no, he had to admire her determination to learn all the necessary skills.
He decided to help her out and hold the bag. It wasn’t much, but maybe she’d hold it for him when she was finished. It didn’t help when the damn thing moved on you when you were trying to just beat the ever-living tar out of it. Dean put a hand on either side and steadied it for her. She glanced up as she paused, evidently not realizing he’d come in the room. He nodded at her to continue.
Holding the bag for her gave him some time to think. The Lisa and Ben situation was frustrating and heartbreaking but it wasn’t right in his face all the time. But right here was Y/N in his training room as pissy and moody as he was. She’d changed into black tights but still had that stupid shirt on. It was a dumb thing to wear while training, but he knew once she had it on, she wouldn’t take it off that day. He’d known her for years and nothing else had ever gotten under her skin this much. He was pissed about it in the beginning because who got that upset over such a short relationship? Dean had thought at the time that it was a good relationship and she was the one who had blown it. A couple years later and he understood it wasn’t her and she was protecting her ex just as he was protecting Lisa. It wasn’t up to them to leave hunting, they knew too much. But the leaving still stung.
Soon enough it was his turn and they switched places. Finally, hitting things. Something he was sure of that didn’t involve him overthinking old relationships or women or the son he didn’t really know who had his father’s laugh and would soon be a man. He could just put it all in the bag. She held it steady too, which wasn’t easy with how he was going after it.
After a thorough beating, he finally dropped his hands as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his shirt was already almost soaked. She headed to the treadmills, a relatively recent addition to the training room. He hadn’t wanted to make a purchase that big, but they were pretty necessary for training on shitty weather days or days they needed to hide out. He decided a run would do him good as well, so he took the treadmill next to her.
It was comforting running beside her. She had that effect on him. Without saying a word, being able to soften his heart just a little and see that things weren’t so bad. Lisa hadn’t said he couldn’t occasionally see Ben. Eventually, he might be able to explain to the boy. Tell him about his grandfather, take him out for his first beer, love on him a little - let him know what it was like to have a dad. Their feet thudded together. Dean usually ran at a faster clip than she did, but today it was nice just to be in rhythm covering miles together until neither wanted to or could run any more.
They moved to weights next, in sync without discussing it. They both knew the other’s training routine. Dean spotted her on the bench presses and she spotted him. Silently, encouraging, but never really meeting each other’s eyes. Lost in their thoughts and pushing out all the emotion they could. Dean didn’t like to connect to people. He always had to leave them or they died. This girl. This infuriating girl who had showed up like a crying puppy in the night and never left. She’d weaved her way into the fabric of the Winchesters’ life and into his heart. He wasn’t even sure if it was intentional. But she had. And he was pretty sure she felt the same way about him and Sam as they did about her. They were a team now.
Hours had passed as they moved around the training room, working not only on stamina and strength but also practicing moves with various weapons. She was weak with a staff, but strong with a short knife. He’d mastered just about all the weapons since he was a child due to his dad’s training, but always wanted to keep his skills up just in case. Despite his own pain and frustration, Dean was realizing that since she had wormed her way into their team, he needed to support her like he did for Sammy. Even if he was struggling himself.
He watched her leave the training room. Muscles still somehow rigid even after so much work. The flannel shirt that he now decided he hated had to have been hot as hell to work in, but she never let on that it was even warm or bothering her. She headed to her room for a shower before finding something to eat and Dean headed to the kitchen to see what Sammy was doing.
He’d finished up whatever research he had been working on and was standing at the sink cleaning some chicken to make dinner. Dean would almost always prefer a burger over anything else, but Sam tended to insist that they eat better when they were all home at the bunker together. He sniffed at it a little and grabbed a beer out of the fridge.
“You smell, Dean,” was all Sammy said to him, not even looking up. Dean popped the top off the bottle and took a long drink.
“Shower beer, Sammy, don’t worry,” Dean replied. He realized that was the first thing he’d said all day. He leaned against the counter and watched Sam for a few minutes.
Sam side-eyed him and paused in his work. “Y/N’s not good today. Neither are you.” Dean just raised and lowered his eyebrows. He wasn’t going to get into it with Sam. Not now.
Sam sighed. “You know, I was thinking and she might give up that guy’s flannel if she had a little more of your support.” Dean immediately bristled.
“She has my damned support. I just trained with her for hours. She lives here. She hunts with us. What more could she want for support?” He nearly spit the words at Sam as the anger he thought had been beaten out of him started to rise again.
“You don’t remember, do you?” Sam asked calmly, “What you said to her the first night she was here? That she wasn’t good enough? I was thinking about it today and I wonder if that’s not why she trains so hard. She is trying to be good enough. Cause one of the people she cares about the most told her she wasn’t.”
Sam’s words hung there unpleasantly in the air between them. They angered Dean more than he thought words could. This wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. “I didn’t do this, Sam. I didn’t dump her and run. I was drunk. It was years ago.” His words trailed off as it sunk in some more. He took a swig of beer and faced the truth in what Sam had suggested. Damn him for being so insightful and right so much.
Dean decided it was time for a shower and left Sam in the kitchen, not in the mood for more self-reflection. He took a quick, hot shower and finished his cold beer while the hot water ran over him. It cleared his head even more. If Y/N thought she wasn’t good enough, or even if he had in the beginning, he needed to fix it. That he could do. He couldn’t get her ex back or even fix anything with Lisa. He couldn’t give Ben a dad who was around every day. But he could try to fix this.
He dressed hurriedly, thanking Y/N silently for always taking forever in the shower. He grabbed the flannel of his that he knew was her favorite on him and quickly wrote a note. He snuck in her room and left it on her bed for her to find. Hopefully she’d accept his olive branch. He went back to the training room to clean it up a little before dinner. He heard her walk by and glanced up, but missed her by just a half a second. After he was done cleaning the machines and putting stuff away, he went back through the kitchen and grabbed another beer. Sam warned him it was only 35 minutes until dinner.
He found her dozing off in the living room, heavy book in her lap, with his shirt wrapped around her. For the first time that day, he smiled. She looked peaceful, but cold. The fire was large, but the rooms were so cold and damp in the bunker. Dean grabbed a blanket from another chair and started to put it over her. She woke and moved so he could sit next to her. It was difficult for Dean, but he allowed himself to feel some of the affection that started to flood through him for her. This letting people in thing was not easy. He sipped his beer a few moments until she looked up at him again.
He motioned for her to lean up against him under his arm and put her head on his shoulder. She smelled so good from her shower. He straightened out some of her still-wet hair, sweeping it back from her face. Dean was quiet, trying to put into words what he thought she should hear. His voice tried to falter, but he managed to get the words out, “I’m sorry, Y/N. You’re a good hunter, a better friend, and any guy should count himself lucky to have you.”
She was so close and warm and he hadn’t realized how much she meant to him and to Sam until today. He leaned over and kissed the side of her forehead and then rested his cheek on the top of her damp head. “You don’t need that douchebag who was too stupid to see how great you are. He doesn’t deserve you or for you to still be hurt.”
He could feel her tense at his words, not sure how to take them. Dean Winchester didn’t talk about feelings and he certainly didn’t ever say nice things like this to her. Reflexively, Dean pulled her in closer, cuddling her up to the curve of his side where he found she fit perfectly. She relaxed as Dean did, both letting go of the last of the anger and resentment they’d been feeling.
Dean had started to drift off a bit when he heard her whisper, “Thanks, Dean.” He didn’t need anymore. For once in his life, he was able to fix something, repair some damage that he’d had a hand in making. And he was grateful.
Synopsis: Reader is missing an ex, Dean’s being a brat.
A/N: Part 1 of 2. Part 2 will be from Dean’s point of view. Relatively new to this, please be nice! Thanks for reading!
You both had those days. The days that you were just moody and quiet. Usually yours were triggered by a glimpse of an old photo or finding an old plaid shirt when you were digging through the trunk at the foot of your bed. Just that glimpse or soft fabric brushing your fingers was sometimes enough to send you pulling inward for a few days, thinking about what might have been, could have been, mourning another life you might have had if not for life getting in the way. When these funks grabbed a hold of you, you always tried to put your energy into not being a downer and training. You’d run for miles on the gravel roads around the bunker for days, until your legs were jelly and feet blistered and your mind finally cleared.
Dean had those days too. You never could tell what would bring on his, but he’d come out to the kitchen in the morning every so often, quiet and reserved, not speaking just shuffling over to the coffee pot. He’d fill his mug and sit down in the living room and almost just stare at the wall, eyes dull and uninterested. Almost catatonic with the exception of his arm lifting his coffee to his lips. Once the mug was empty, he'd disappear into the training room for hours, exhausting himself for days on end until the morning he came out of his room full of smiles like usual.
Thankfully these times didn’t come often for either of you, but unfortunately, this morning it seemed you both were in a mood. You’d woken up this morning and started looking for some forgotten knife that had markings on it Sammy wanted to look at. Digging through piles of crap that always seemed to build up in your trunk, you came across a small flat bundle wrapped in brown paper tied with a string. You knew exactly what it was. You’d put it there last time, hoping you’d have the courage to throw it out or that at least the brown paper would be some sort of barrier protecting you from the memories the items brought back. But it didn’t work. You moved off your knees to sit on the floor next to the trunk, the bundle in your lap. The paper crinkled as you ran your hands over it, smoothing the wrinkles and wondering if you should open it. Your hands made the decision for you and quickly the bow was undone allowing the paper to fall away.
Inside was the folded plaid flannel shirt that still faintly smelled of him when you held it to your face and breathed in deeply. It was like burying your head in his shoulder used to be. The shirt crinkled and you remembered that you had tucked the picture inside the folds of the shirt. Carefully you shook it out and picked it up off the floor. It was one of only a few photos that were ever taken of the two of you. It was taken hours before you were separated for good and the anguish of leaving each other was etched in both your eyes. His eyes seemed to ached as much as your heart still did. You ran your finger over his face in the photo and tried to hold back the rushing emotions. This was no good. It didn’t matter. He was gone. Long gone. Had been gone over two years - you hadn’t heard anything in at least a year. You'd had a text or two in the beginning, but nothing now. For so long.
You quickly forgot the search for the knife and pulled off the shirt you were wearing to switch to the soft flannel. You ran your hands over it one more time before standing up, placing the photograph carefully back in the trunk on top of the jumble of crap, and locked it shut. You decided no contacts today as you knew now it was going to be one of those days. Those days your heart ached all the way to your toes and tears would be close as long as you were awake. You found your glasses and perched them on your face before deciding you could handle the kitchen.
As you filled your mug with steaming coffee Sam had been kind enough (and awake enough) to make, you heard shuffling behind you, ever on alert thanks to living and working with hunters, you spun but saw it was just Dean. Dean in a mood. His mouth was drawn, lips thin and in a flat line. His eyes held no sparkle and just looked hard. You silently handed him a cup and headed to the living room. Sammy looked up with a smile, but when he caught sight of the two of you, it fell. He knew enough to allow you both to be in your quiet. If he didn’t, fights were bound to erupt. It was just supposed to be a quiet research day anyway, so it became a silent agreement that everyone would mind their business and leave the others alone.
You finished your coffee faster than usual, enjoying the burn across your tongue and down your throat. You went back to your room to change from shorts into black running tights and running shoes. Once you made your way up the stairs to the main door of the bunker, you pushed the heavy metal door open and were hit by a frozen blast of wind complete with sleet angled right at your eyes. No outdoor running for you today. You pulled the door closed and slammed the lock shut, frustrated. Your face turned hot and tears burned behind your eyes. All you wanted was a run. To feel pain that felt good instead of this painful ache you couldn’t fix. Hoping Dean wouldn’t be there yet, or had decided to do something else as a result of his bad attitude, you headed to the training room.
Finding the wrapping tape in the supply cupboard, you wrapped your hands to protect the knuckles from the punching bag and got ready to go to town. You were a few minutes in, just starting to sweat, when the bag stopped its swinging back and forth. You held your punches for a second to glance up. Dean stood there, one hand on each side of the bag, holding it steady for you. He’d changed into workout gear as well. His face was still hard, but he nodded to encourage you to continue. After you’d had your go, you traded places, you holding the bag steady as Dean punched the living crap out of the bag with precision you rarely saw. Once the bag was thoroughly beaten into submission by both of you and Dean dropped his hands out of his fighter’s stance, chest heaving for breath, you let go of the bag and moved silently over to one of the treadmills. These were one of the few additions Sam and Dean had made to the training room. They were essential for stamina training when it wasn’t safe outside or the weather was bad.
As you eased into your running rhythm, enjoying the pound of your feet, you saw Dean step up on the treadmill next to yours. He fell into a similar rhythm. Eyes forward, not looking at you, not talking, or otherwise bothering you. You just were together. As you ran, you tried to bring up the anger and run it out. You’d thought this guy was going to be it. The draw between the two of you had been intense. It smoldered under the surface and it seemed like you could read each other’s minds. It burned hot but fast. He wasn’t into hunting. He wanted more stability and you were looking for adventure. He turned you out one night with not much more of a “if life brings us together again, it will.” You wanted to fight for it to work, but he didn’t and just like that it was over. It hurt you both more than either would say, but that was that. You’d shown up after driving for over 15 hours at the bunker. You were hurting and looking for some sort of comfort from the only two other men in the world you trusted.
But when you’d walked in, Dean was already drunk. They’d had a hard but successful hunt and were celebrating. Dean had gotten slammed around and was nursing a few superficial wounds, which put him in a sour mood. It didn’t improve any with your late night arrival and your tear-stained cheeks. You’d called ahead and they knew to expect you but didn’t expect this. Sammy asked what was wrong and invited you to stay for a while. Once you started to get the story out, you started to feel better. The brothers understood having relationships fail and having to make hard decisions to leave loved ones behind. But Dean just got madder and madder. He’d met your now ex, and he couldn’t help but give you his input. He’d liked the guy – even respected him, which didn’t happen often.
After an hour or so, Dean’s irritation erupted. “You weren’t ever good enough for him, you know that right?” Dean practically spit at you, anger in his voice. “Not good enough. Why would he want to be with you. You really need to adjust your standards.” His words had stung like nothing you’d ever felt before. You’d been friends for years and thought Dean had your back. Evidently not as much as you had thought. Sam tried to interject, but Dean just stormed out of the room. Sammy gave you a quick hug and told you just to ignore him. You ended up spending the rest of the night playing some quiet games before passing out - Sam in his room and you in your new room.
That had been two years ago and those words still stung just as much as missing your ex. Dean had never mentioned it again and you were too afraid to bring it up. So you ran till your sides ached and your legs were numb, Dean matching you as you heaved for breath. Weights came after the treadmill. You spotted each other silently, the only sounds breaking the silence grunting from a particularly difficult lift. Hours later, you were both worn out. Dean grabbed himself a towel and threw one to you as well. You went your separate ways, headed back to your room to shower and change. It probably hadn’t been a great idea to work out in the hot flannel, but you loved how it felt and how it made you think your ex was right there with you.
You took it off, felt it one more time before shaking your head and throwing in the corner. You hopped in the shower, hot water soothing sore muscles and making you sigh. Steam soothed your hot skin and was comforting as you stood in the pelting water as your body cooled down from the intense work out. You’d been in there quite a while (Sam like to tease you that sometime your shower was going to completely run the bunker out of water). Towel wrapped around you, you stepped into your bedroom to grab some clean, non-sweaty clothes.
On top of your comforter was something folded with a piece of paper on it. You padded over to it, picked up the note, and read, “My flannel is better. Throw that tool’s old shirt away, Y/N. ~Dean.” You half smiled at Dean’s attempt to make you feel better despite his crappy mood. You grabbed a bra and threw on his shirt over it. If he was going to try to mend this wound, you could at least accept the gesture. You had to roll up the sleeves quite a few times and it looked like a bit of a dress on you, but you weren’t going to complain. It was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of Dean. Paired with leggings and boots, it actually wasn’t bad.
You dug around in the trunk a little more, finally finding the missing knife you’d been looking for this morning. You grabbed it and once you were ready, you headed out to the living room. You could see Sammy in the kitchen starting an early dinner - you and Dean must have been training for hours. Your stomach grumbled right then to confirm what you thought. You walked into the kitchen and showed Sam the knife.
“Here it is, Sam. I think the markings might be something worth looking up. Maybe it has some powers; I found it in that abandoned house I cleared a few weeks ago.” Your sentences were stinted, voice low, but it was something more than silence. Sam looked up at you and smiled a little.
“Thanks, Y/N. I’ll take a look at it, could be interesting or useful. Never know.” His gauged your mood for a few seconds, and then reached out with one arm. He half hugged you with the hand that wasn’t gross from cutting up chicken for dinner. “You know I love you, right?” Sam asked as he squeezed you in.
You smiled ruefully at him, “Yeah, Sammy, I know. Love you too.” You weren’t one for shows of affection, but it meant a lot for Sam to reach out to you this way during one of your funks.
“Dinner will be ready in about an hour. You had a long work out. Go hang out until it’s ready. I’ve got this,” Sam told you, directing you out the kitchen door toward the living room.
You grabbed one of the books that was inevitably around on research days, figuring you could pick up some useful bit of information for later, and settled in the loveseat near the fireplace. Sam had made sure it was roaring on this chilly crappy day. The bunker was anything but warm and cozy but Sam did a lot to make it more like a home when he could. He liked to take care of his people and you sure appreciated it on days like this.
Minutes passed and you dozed off and on, lazily turning pages, until you heard a noise that wasn’t the crackle of the fire. Dean was standing next to you, trying to quietly cover you with a blanket. You looked up and him and saw his eyes had warmed some. You moved your legs and motioned for him to sit down next to you. He fell into the seat beside you and covered you both with the blanket. You sat like that for a while, just being next to each other, Dean slouching into the seat, hair still wet and sipping on a beer while you absentmindedly flipped pages. You heard him shift and you looked up, his eyes catching yours. With the arm he had on the back of the love seat he motioned for you to move over closer to him. You hesitated and then figured it really couldn’t hurt anything. You slid over and as you got close enough, Dean pulled you into his side. You seemed to melt in together. He sighed and ran a hand across your wet hair, sweeping it back from your face. You laid there for a few moments just enjoying the comfort of Dean, though still a bit weary.
He was quiet. You almost missed his words. “I’m sorry, Y/N. You’re a good hunter, a better friend, and any guy should count himself lucky to have you.” He leaned over a bit farther and kissed the side of your forehead before he rested his cheek on the top of your head. “You don’t need that douchebag who was too stupid to see how great you are. He doesn’t deserve you or for you to still be hurt.” He pulled you closer and cuddled into you as the last of your anger and resentment melted away.
“Thanks, Dean.” You didn’t need to say more than that. He knew.
So I saw a post a while back about Harry with Lily’s hair instead of her eyes. I hadn’t realized how much I needed red headed Harry in my life until now. Ginny is a definite fan also.
imagine arthur just walking down the line kissing red heads and and just knowing that there was at least one head too many but also knowing molly would kill him if he asked how many kids they had again
Amy Schumer absolutely nailed what’s wrong with women’s health in America by literally putting Congressmen in charge of her body. But more than that she exposed the hypocrisy in how they treat her.
This is the most spot-on thing ever. I love that about Amy. She can be goofy but she takes no shit and is never afraid to comment on the truly absurd ways in which women are treated in the US. (The military rape sketch was also amazingly on-point.)
It splits a the democratic votes apart and that way, neither Dem candidate will get enough to win. If Bernie can’t even get the nom in the primary, why would he get enough write ins to stand a chance to win the Gen Election? Plus, there are some states where you can’t even write in. This is a Bad Idea. It’s unfortunate, but you can tell there’s a ton of Bernie supporters who are young/haven’t been taught enough about the full election process to make decisions accordingly.
ATTENTION! THIS IS A PSA! DO NOT WRITE BERNIE INTO THE BALLOT!
BERNIE DOES NOT WANT YOU TO WRITE HIM INTO THE BALLET! THAT’S WHY HE SAID HE’S NOT GOING TO RUN AS AN INDEPENDENT, BECAUSE HE “DOES NOT WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR ELECTING SOME RIGHT-WING REPUBLICAN TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.” HIS. EXACT. WORDS.
(if you don’t want to watch the full video, the quote is at 1:41).
Listen, the last time something like this happened, Ralph Nader run in the Green party and split the Democratic votes between Nader and Gore. Which allowed for George W. Bush to become president.
DO YOU WANT THE SAME THING TO HAPPEN TO TRUMP?
The two-party system sucks, but pretty much the way our system is set up, any vote that is not for the Democratic nominee will be for Trump. The only votes that count against Trump are for the Democratic nominee, whoever that may be.
So don’t write anybody in. It’s throwing away your vote. You might think it’s a political statement and in another election I might advocate for it, but THERE IS THE LEGITIMATE CHANCE THAT DONALD TRUMP COULD BE ELECTED INTO OFFICE. And nobody, particularly not Hillary Clinton, is a bad enough alternative that it is worth running the risk. Remember what it was like when Bush was in office? Trump will be that times 1000x, with extra blatant xenophobia, racism, homophobia, and misandry thrown on top.
I’m pro-Bernie, but I’m much more anti-Trump. Whoever runs against Trump in the Democratic party has my vote. I hope he or she has yours too.
I read day 2 in recovery is awful. I'm happy to report that it hasn't been too bad! Pain was up to a 3 this morning, but I woke up though the night to drink water and take my pain meds. Had a baby food pouch for breakfast and a popsicle. I am in love with my humidifier. My help left after 24 hrs so now I'm alone. We'll see how this goes by myself.
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