#Dean Meets Data

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Hook Man | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, mentions of religious trauma/parental abuse

Word Count: 4869

A/N: Guys. We hit a bit of a milestone earlier in the week. Just wanted to say in celebration that I am so beyond grateful for all of your love and support. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it! Giving big big kisses to all of you!!! Taglist is open!!

Edit: Hey.... I suck I forgot to add the taglist when I published. So sorry!!! fixed now!!!!

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You and Dean were sat at an outdoor cafe; coffee cups in hand. He was clacking away at his laptop while you wrote in your journal. You wrote your excerpt on the shapeshifter next to a drawing of Dean’s necklace. 

“Is that…?” Dean asked, pointing to your journal.

You nodded. 

“I didn’t know you could draw,” he said.

“No offense, lovebug, but you don’t know much of anything about me,” you retorted.

He scoffed. “Will you take the compliment and be quiet?”

“I didn’t hear a compliment,” you giggled. “Well, maybe in ‘Dean Winchester Land’ it was a compliment.”

“Oh, shut up,” he responded playfully. 

Sam hung up the payphone he was standing in and came back over to your table.

“Your, uh, half-caf, double vanilla latte is gettin’ cold over here, Francis,” Dean jabbed at his brother.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” you told him.

“So, anything?” Dean asked Sam.

Sam huffed. “I had ‘em check the FBI’s Missing Persons Data Bank. No John Does fitting Dad’s description. I even ran his plates for traffic violations.”

“Sam, I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t think Dad wants to be found.”

Sam looked disappointed.

“Check this out.” Dean turned his laptop around to you and Sam. “It’s a news item out of Planes Courier. Ankeny, Iowa. It’s only about a hundred miles from here.”

“Thank god, a short trip,” you sighed. 

“ ‘The mutilated body was found near the victim’s car, parked on 9 Mile Road,’ “ Sam read from the article.

“Keep reading.” Dean nodded at his laptop.

“ ‘Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer. The sole eyewitness, whose name has been withheld, is quoted as saying the attacker was invisible.’ “

That last line caught your attention. “Could be something interesting.”

“Or it could be nothing at all,” Sam protested. “One freaked out witness who didn’t see anything? Doesn’t mean it’s the Invisible Man.”

“But what if it is? Dad would check it out,” Dean responded.

***

The one hundred mile drive concluded with the boys dropping you off at a sorority house. 

“Remind me why I have to play barbies for the week again?” you asked.

“Because this is Lori Sorensen’s sorority house; the witness from the killing,” Sam replied.

“Great,” you mumbled.

“Have fun making s’mores and singing campfire songs,” Dean remarked.

“Bite me,” you snarked. “You’re going to a frat, though, Steve McQueen, so I wouldn’t be so cocky.” 

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” he grumbled. 

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” you said and shouldered your duffel bag. You bid them goodbye and reluctantly marched up to the door of the sorority house.

A girl with long, dark curls opened the door. “Hi,” she said. “Can I… help you?”

“Yeah, I’m (Y/N),” you explained. “I’m your sorority sister from Ohio State. Do you guys have an extra bed I could sleep in? I just transferred here.”

“Sure,” she grinned. “I’m Taylor, by the way.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

She led you inside and introduced you to Lori Sorensen. She was a sweet girl; very naive and a little stuck-up. Taylor seemed a little more like a party girl, but still relatively tame. You decided you could gel with these girls for the time being. 

They told you they were headed to Sunday service at Lori’s father’s church and invited you to go with them. You obliged.

In the middle of the introductory rites, you heard the heavy church door slam shut. Your head swiveled to find Sam and Dean frozen and looking guilty. You scoffed amusedly and rolled your eyes, turning your attention forward for the rest of the service. 

Taylor invited you and Lori out to a party after the service, but Lori said she couldn’t. Her father had dinner with her every Sunday since her mother passed away. She and Taylor hugged and Taylor bid you goodbye before heading off.

Sam and Dean came over to you and Lori.

“Guys!” you said excitedly. “Sam, Dean, this is Lori.” You introduced her to them. “They’re my friends from Ohio. They transferred with me.” 

“I saw you inside,” she told them.

“We don’t wanna bother you. We just heard about what happened and…”

Dean cut his brother off. “We wanted to say how sorry we were.”

You knew where this was going; he was cruising for another hookup.

“I kind of know what you’re going through,” Sam broke back in. “I-I saw someone..get hurt once. It’s something you don’t forget.”

Lori nodded slightly. Just then, her father came up to your group.

“Dad, um, this is Sam, Dean, and (Y/N). They’re new students.”

Dean shook the reverend’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I must say, that was an inspiring sermon.”

“Thank you very much,” he smiled. “It’s so nice to find young people who are open to the Lord’s message.” 

“Yes, sir,” you replied and began leading him away from Sam and Lori. “Actually, we’re looking for a new church group…”

***

Later that day, you and the boys were sitting together in the local library. Sam relayed to you what Lori had told him about the passing of the guy she was with.

“So, you believe her?” Dean asked him.

“I do,” he nodded.

“Yeah, I think she’s hot, too.” Dean smirked at him. 

“You think almost everything with a vagina and legs is hot, Dean,” you remarked.

“Not you,” he jabbed back, still smirking.

You clutched a hand to your chest. “I’m hurt, you dick.”

He rolled his eyes at you.

“Can we focus, please?” Sam broke in. “There’s something in her eyes. And listen to this: she heard scratching on the roof. Found the bloody body suspended upside down over the car.”

“Wait, the body suspended? That sounds like the—”

 Sam cut you off. “Yeah, I know, the Hook Man legend.” 

“That’s one of the most famous urban legends ever,” Dean added. “You don’t think that we��re dealing with the Hook Man.”

“Every urban legend has a source. A place where it all began,” said Sam.

“Yeah, but what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer?”

“Well, maybe the Hook Man isn’t a man at all. What if it’s some kind of spirit?” 

You had the librarian bring over boxes of arrest records. The three of you poured through pages upon pages for hours. 

“Hey, check this out. 1862,” Sam said finally. “A preacher named Jacob Karns was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red light district in town that one night he killed 13 prostitutes. Uh, right here, ‘some of the deceased were found in their bed, sheets soaked with blood. Others suspended upside down from the limbs of trees as a warning against sins of the flesh.’ “

“Get this, the murder weapon?” Dean was looking at another page. “Looks like the preacher lost his hand in an accident. Had it replaced with a silver hook.” 

You pointed to a page in Sam’s book. “Look where all this happened. Nine Mile Road.”

“Same place where the frat boy was killed,” Sam chimed in. 

“Nice job, Dr. Venkamen and Annie Potts. Let’s check it out,” the older brother quipped.

The three of you headed to Nine Mile Road. Dean parked off the road in a clearing in the woods. He popped the trunk and handed Sam a shotgun. “Here you go.”

“If it is a spirit, buckshot won’t do much good,” Sam said.

“Yeah, rock salt. It won’t kill ‘em. But it’ll slow ‘em down.” Dean led the three of you through the clearing. 

“That’s pretty good. You and Dad think of this?” 

“I told you. You don’t have to be a college graduate to be a genius.”

“Cool it, Winchester. You and your daddy aren’t the first people to think of rock salt bullets.” You loaded your own gun with shells of your own.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“They’re a bitch to roll,” you said.

“Oh, one hundred percent,” he remarked. 

You suddenly heard rustling in the bushes.

“Over there,” you whispered to Sam. The two of you aimed your guns and cocked it. 

The “ghost” came out from behind the trees. A sheriff. 

‘Dammit.’

“Put the gun down now!” he yelled. “Now! Put your hands behind your head.”

“Wait, wait, okay!” Dean told him. 

You immediately dropped your gun and put your hands up.

“Now get down on your knees. Come on, do it! On your knees!”

You three obeyed.

“Now get down on your bellies,” he commanded. “Come on, do it!”

“Are you just on a power trip or something? ‘Cause— ah!” you were cut off by a sharp kick to the shin from Sam. 

The sheriff brought the three of you into the station. It was early the next morning by the time you were able to leave.

“Saved your asses!” Dean jeered. “Talked the sheriff down to a fine. I am Matlock.”

“How was it that you were left in charge of talking him down?” You raised a brow at him. “And how in the fuck did you do it?”

“Sweetheart, this may surprise you, but I’m good at my job. And I told him Sam was a dumbass pledge, you were his girlfriend we’d dragged along, and we were hazing you.”

You and Sam both recoiled at the idea of dating each other.

“First of all, ew,” you started, “No offense, Sam.”

“None taken.”

“But what about the shotguns?”

“I said that you were hunting ghosts and the spirits were repelled by rock salt. You know, typical Hell Week prank.”

“And he believed you?” you asked incredulously.

“Well, Sam looks like a dumbass pledge.”

“Can’t argue with that.” You stuck your tongue out at Sam.

Moments later, several officers ran out of the building to their cruisers. Barely needing to share a look with the boys, you hurried into the car and sped away to follow them.

You could see Lori wrapped in a disposable blanket in front of the sorority house you were staying in. You weren’t exactly sure what was going on, but you had no doubt that it was another murder. The stretcher carrying a body bag rolling out of the front door affirmed that thought seconds later.

Dean parked the Impala around the back of the house. 

“Why would the Hook Man come here?” Sam asked as the three of you crept around the building. “This is a long way from Nine Mile Road.”

“Maybe he’s not haunting the scene of his crime. Maybe it’s about something else,” Dean suggested. 

You pulled his arm back seconds later to avoid being seen by your “sorority sisters.” You used the fact that you had now pretty much pulled yourself in front of him to allow you to lead the way up to the second floor. 

While Dean made a stupid joke about a naked pillow fight, Sam was busy giving you a boost before climbing up himself. You looked back down at the ground to see Dean struggling to find his footing.

“Need help?” you smirked.

“No,” he grumbled.

“I think you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

You waited patiently, leaning your head in your hands on the railing of the balcony and smiling down at him. He struggled for a few more moments before he conceded. All he did was open and close his hand he was extending upwards, similar to a toddler asking to be picked up.

“What’s the magic word?” you sing-songed.

“Come on!” he hissed. “Please?”

“There we go,” you smiled. You dug your heels into the ground and pulled him up.

You then realized the window you were entering was the one in Lori and Taylor’s closet. You hoped to god in that moment that Taylor wasn’t the one dead.

Your fears were realized, however, when you entered Lori and Taylor’s room to find the words “Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?” crudely etched into the wall above Taylor’s blood soaked bed. You didn’t exactly get attached to people on hunts, but seeing good people die was never easy for you. It didn’t get easier. Your dad would call you soft, but you always liked to look at your compassion as a strength.

“ ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?’ That’s right out of the legend,” Sam whispered.

“Yeah, that’s classic Hook Man all right.” Dean tapped his nose as he spoke. “It’s definitely a spirit.”

“Yeah, I’ve never smelled ozone this strong before,” Sam muttered.

“(Y/N), you okay?” Dean asked you. 

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah. Fine. It’s just… look at this symbol.” You were referencing the one beneath the writing. “Does that look familiar to you?”

Your head jerked toward the sound of footsteps approaching. You quickly shooed Sam and Dean back into the closet and out of the house. Thankfully, you made it back to the car without being seen. You pulled the copy you’d made at the library of one of the pages on Jacob Karns out of the backseat. That was where you had seen the cross symbol; on Karns’s hook. 

You showed it to the boys. “Told ya.”

“Alright, let’s find the dude’s grave, salt and burn the bones, and put him down,” Dean said.

Sam took the page from your hand. “ ‘After execution, Jacob Karns was laid to rest in an Old North Cemetery. In an unmarked grave.’ “ He flicked the page with his finger, looking aggravated; as were you and Dean.

“Super,” the older brother muttered.

“Ok. So we know it’s Jacob Karns. But we still don’t know where he’ll manifest next. Or why,” Sam pointed out.

“I could just be spitballing here, but Lori definitely has something to do with it,” you said, looking up at the sorority house.

***

You managed to get into a party at the fraternity house Sam and Dean were staying in later that night. Dean had been busy mingling with thin college girls dressed in mini skirts while Sam stuck to the outside wall. You bounced around from talking to Sam and hustling some of the drunk frat guys in multiple rounds of pool.

The three of you reunited around the pool table you’d been dominating that night.

“Man, you’ve been holding out on me,” Dean told Sam. “This college thing is awesome!” He smiled and winked at a passing girl.

Sam looked intensely uncomfortable. “This wasn’t really my experience.”

“Let me guess. Libraries, studying, straight A’s?”

Sam nodded. You chortled.

“What a geek. Alright, you do your homework?” 

“Yeah. It was bugging me, right? So how is the Hook Man tied up with Lori? So I think I came up with something.” Sam unfolded a piece of paper. 

“1932. Clergyman arrested for murder. 1967. Seminarian held in hippie rampage,” Dean read.

Your eyebrows knitted together.

“There’s a pattern here,” Sam explained. “In both cases, the suspect was a man of religion who openly preached against immorality. And then found himself wanted for killings he claimed were the work of an invisible force. Killings carried out— get this— with a sharp instrument.”

“What’s the connection to Lori?” Dean asked.

“Her dad. Man of religion who openly preaches against immorality,” you pointed out. “Maybe this time, though, instead of saving the whole town, he’s just trying to save his kid.”

“Reverend Sorensen,” Dean tsked. “You think he’s summoning the spirit?”

“Maybe it’s like when a poltergeist can haunt a person instead of a place,” you suggested.

“Yeah, the spirit latches onto the reverend’s repressed emotions, feeds off them, yeah, okay.”

“Without the reverend ever even knowing it,” Sam chimed in.

“Either way, you should keep an eye on Lori tonight,” Dean told his brother.

“What about you?” 

Dean looked over to the opposite side of the pool table where the blonde you’d been playing with smiled at him. He reluctantly said, “(Y/N) and I are gonna go see if we can find that unmarked grave.” 

“We are? I wanted to play more eight-ball,” you told him. 

He looked back over at the blonde, back at you, and shook his head in disappointment. “C’mon. I’m not happy about it either.”

***

“Are you sure you don’t wanna go back?” you asked Dean as the two of you trudged through the Old North Cemetery. You were holding shovels and flashlights searching for the grave of Jacob Karns.

He shot you a look.

“I know, I know, I’m kidding,” you laughed. “But seriously. Now that we’re… acquaintances, we should go out to a bar sometime. Preferably one with a pool table.”

“That’d be cool, actually,” he said, smirking at you. “You’re pretty good.”

“What, at pool?”

He nodded. “I could probably still kick your ass, though.”

“You’re on, pretty boy.”

He stopped and turned to you. “Don’t objectify me.”

“What?” you asked, stopping next to him. “You know you’re gorgeous. You frequently use it to your advantage.” You marched on.

You smiled when you heard him mutter, “You are so confusing, woman.”

You walked for a few more minutes before your flashlight landed on a grave marked with that cross symbol from Taylor’s room. “Jackpot.”

You and Dean set to work exhuming Jacob’s corpse. Your back and shoulders ached more and more the deeper you dug. “How fucking far down is six feet?” you remarked breathlessly. 

“I don’t know, but next time, I get to watch the cute girl’s house,” he replied.

“Aw, you don’t wanna spend quality time with this cute girl?” you asked playfully. 

He eyed you strangely with a lopsided smile. 

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing. You’re just funny,” he told you.

You smiled back and got back to digging. Your shovel finally hit the wooden box lying below. You broke through it to reveal his corpse. Or at least, what remained of it. 

“Hello, preacher,” Dean said. He threw his shovel aside and helped you out of the hole you had dug. After he had climbed out, you poured salt and lighter fluid all over the bones. 

“Goodbye, preacher.” Dean threw a match down into the grave.

Your nose twisted up in disgust. “I will never get used to that smell.”

“What, burnt, hundred-year-old preacher? Me neither.”

You and Dean packed up and headed back to the car that was parked in the cemetery’s parking lot. Your body was exhausted. 

“Um, weird question,” you started. 

He turned to you and threw his shovel and duffel bag in the trunk. 

“You think we could sleep in your car for a bit? I’m running on two days of no sleep.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It should all be over now and Sam should be layin’ it down with Lori.”

And so, you did. You stretched out over the backseat, and Dean laid down on the front. A few moments of silence passed between the two of you, and strangely, you no longer felt tired. You supposed it was the strangeness of the situation. You were now sharing a somewhat intimate moment with a man you despised just weeks prior. You weren’t quite sure where your relationship with Dean was heading, and that bothered you a bit.

“Dean?”

“Hm.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

***

Four hours of shut-eye later, you felt recharged. You awoke to the sound of Dean’s phone vibrating over which Sam told you to meet him at a hospital.

“Hospital? Why? Is he okay?” you asked Dean, climbing over the front seat to sit shotgun. 

“I think so, but he said the reverend’s hurt.”

About fifteen minutes later, you were walking down a long corridor only to be stopped by two cops in wide-brimmed hats. 

The sheriffs put a hand to Dean’s chest to stop him.

“No, it’s alright, we’re with him. He’s my brother,” he explained. “Hey! Brother!” he called, waving dorkishly at Sam.  

“Let them through.”

“Thanks.” 

You and Dean began walking toward Sam, who met you in the middle.

“You okay?” Dean asked. 

“Yeah,” sighed Sam.

“What the hell happened?” 

“Hook Man.”

You looked incredulous. “You saw him?”

“Damn right. Why didn’t you torch the bones?” Sam responded.

“We did,” you rebutted, confused. “You sure it’s the spirit of Jacob Karns?”

“It sure as hell looked like him,” Sam returned. “And that’s not all. I don’t think the spirit is latching on to the reverend.”

“Well, duh, he wouldn’t send Hook Man after himself,” you remarked.

“I think it’s latching onto Lori. Last night she found out her father is having an affair with a married woman.” He whispered that last part.

“Damn.” You gritted your teeth. “I could see how that could upset her.”

Sam nodded. “She told me she was raised to believe that if you do something wrong, you get punished.”

“Ok, so she’s conflicted,” Dean chimed in. “And the spirit of Preacher Karns is latching on to repress the emotions and maybe he’s doing the punishing for her, huh?”

“Right,” the younger brother nodded. “Rich comes on too strong, Taylor tries to make her into a party girl, Dad has an affair.”

“Remind me not to piss this girl off,” Dean muttered. “But we burned those bones, buried them in salt, why didn’t that stop him?”

“We must’ve missed something,” you said. 

“No, we burned everything in that coffin.”

“Did you get the hook?” Sam asked the two of you.

Realization struck you. “Fuck,” you grumbled. “No.”

“Why does that matter?” Dean asked.

“Well, it was the murder weapon, and in a way, it was part of him,” Sam told him.

“So, like the bones, the hook is a source of his power.”

“So if we find the hook—”

The three of you finished Sam’s sentence in unison, grinning. “We stop the Hook Man.”

“Well, back to the drawing board,” you said as the three of you began walking away from the reverend’s hospital room.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“Do you know where the hook is?” you raised your eyebrows at him. 

He said nothing.

“Exactly,” you giggled.

***

Your next stop was the library for the second time this hunt. As much as you liked to read, obnoxious amounts of research was not your thing. Finally, you thought you’d found something. “Log book, Iowa State Penitentiary. ‘Karns, Jacob. Personal effects: disposition thereof.’ “

“Does it mention the hook?” Sam asked you.

“I don’t know. ‘Upon execution, all earthly items shall be remanded to the prisoner’s house of worship, St. Barnabas Church,’ “ you read aloud. “That’s where Lori’s dad preaches.”

“Where Lori lives, too?” Sam asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

“Maybe that’s why the Hook Man has been haunting reverends and reverends’ daughters for the past two hundred years,” Dean added.

“Yeah, but I think someone would’ve noticed a blood-stained, silver-handled hook hangin’ around the church or Lori’s house.”

Dean pulled out another book and slapped it down in front of you. “Check the church records.”

Sam pulled the book to sit between the two of you. You and he flipped through pages upon pages of records before he found something. “ ‘St. Barnabas donations, 1862. Received silver-handled hook from state penitentiary. Reforged.’ “ He sighed. “They melted it down. Made it into something else.”

“Goddammit,” you grumbled. 

Later that night, you and the boys returned to St. Barnabas Church. Dean shouldered a duffel bag and began leading you to the church. Sam followed close behind.

“Alright, we can’t take any chances,” the older brother began. “Anything silver goes in the fire.”

“I agree. So, Lori’s still at the hospital. We’ll have to break in,” Sam added.

“Okay, take your pick,” you told him.

“I’ll take the house,” Sam responded.

“Dean and I will take the church, then.”

“We will?” the older brother asked.

“Yup.”

You led Dean up to the church. He called back to his brother. “Hey. Stay out of her underwear drawer.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice and giggled.

You took the top floor of the church while Dean scoured the basement. The two of you, along with Sam, met up in the furnace room. 

“I got everything that even looked silver,” Sam told you.

“Better safe than sorry,” Dean said. 

Your head turned upward at the sound of footsteps. You could hear Dean taking his gun from his jacket as you grabbed yours.

“Move, move,” Dean told you quietly.

You crept up the stairs as quietly as possible. When you got back to the ground floor, you could see Lori hunched over, her shoulders shaking. You lowered your gun and lightly pushed Sam forward. He shot you a look, but headed over to Lori anyway. You and Dean went back downstairs to continue melting the silver. 

“I feel for her,” you said quietly. “I know how much religion can fuck you up.” Silver clanked against the coals in the furnace as you spoke.

Dean turned his head to you. “You do?”

You nodded. “I’ve watched so many people go through crisis after crisis when their loved ones end up dead.”

“Me too,” he said earnestly. “Probably why I don’t pray.”

“Well, it’s a little difficult to believe in a higher power when all day, everyday is blood, guts, and monsters,” you remarked.

He chuckled. “Yeah. I don’t know if I’ve met one religious hunter.”

“I have,” you said. “My mom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She was somehow still convinced of ‘God’s plan.’ “

“Catholic?”

“Oh, very.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied playfully.

“Yeah, me too,” you smiled. “My dad wasn’t, but, uh, he had his… other issues.”

Before he could ask further questions, you heard commotion upstairs. It sounded like running heading toward the opposite side of the basement.

“C’mon,” Dean urged, sprinting out of the furnace room with his gun in hand. You followed closely behind. You could hear the breaking of boards and slamming of what you assumed were bodies that practically shook the walls that got louder as you got closer. Sam was maneuvering himself behind the Hook Man’s clunkily-moving apparition. 

Dean gruffly called to his brother, “Sam, drop!”

His brother obeyed and Dean shot the Hook Man, who disappeared.

“I thought we got all the silver,” you said.

“So did I,” the older brother answered.

“Then why is he still here?” Sam’s voice was frantic.

“Well, maybe we missed something!”

You looked around and noticed Lori’s cross necklace. “Lori, where did you get that chain?”

“My father gave it to me,” she responded nervously.

“Where’d your dad get it?” Sam asked.

“He said it was a church heirloom,” she answered quickly. “He gave it to me when I started school.”

“Is it silver?!”

“Yes!”

Sam ripped the chain off her and threw it to you. You caught it with ease and went to start running back down the hall when the invisible Hook Man started dragging his hook along the wall.  

You threw Sam your gun and started running down another corridor you hoped would bring you to the same destination. You could vaguely hear Dean say to his brother, “I’ll cover (Y/N), shoot anything that moves!” before you heard approaching quick footsteps behind you.

You sprinted down winding hallways and thankfully quickly made it to the furnace room. You threw the necklace into the fire and watched as it slowly began to melt. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered anxiously. It took longer than you would’ve liked, but the cross broke off the necklace and burned into ash. As soon as it did, you and Dean ran back to the latter’s brother to make sure the ghost was gone. Thankfully, he had, but Sam seemed injured. He was clutching his left shoulder and wincing. 

You called the police to the scene and urged them to send an ambulance. They arrived in no time, and Sam was able to get his injury patched up. 

“And you saw him, too?” A sheriff was asking you and writing in a notepad. “The man with the hook?”

“Yeah, we all saw him,” you responded. “We fought him off and then he ran.”

“And that’s all?” The sheriff was skeptical.

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen. You and those two boys—”

Dean came up behind you and answered for you. “Oh, don’t worry, we’re leaving town.”

You laughed at his response. Sam and Lori talking near the ambulance caught your eye. You continued watching them in the rearview mirror once you’d gotten in the backseat of the car. Sam soon left Lori, who looked after him sadly, and stooped down into the car. 

“We could stay,” Dean suggested. 

You could tell Sam wanted to, but he shook his head. A deflated air had settled over the car, but you knew the younger Winchester wasn’t ready for anything yet. He’d been dating Jessica for a year and a half and had just lost her less than four months ago. You knew he needed more time. The best way you knew to comfort him was to wrap your hands around his shoulders gently, minding his injury, from your place in the backseat. He tensed for a moment, but allowed you to hug him nonetheless. He responded by holding your arm with his good hand. And for a moment, if you closed your eyes, it was almost like hugging Steven again. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee

[profoundbondfanfic]

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Something Wicked This Way Comes by aileenrose Rating: Mature Word count: 9.5k

Just like every summer, Dean and Sam are tracking tornadoes. Surprisingly, it's the nerdy computer scientist that sweeps Dean off his feet.

Every June, Dean and Sam make good on an old tradition and an easy way to make money, for them anyway—storm chasing across the plains, capturing footage other chasers wouldn’t dare dream of, at the risk of their own safety. But Sam is graduating college soon with his girlfriend Jess, and Dean knows that one day, they won’t get this chance again.

But in a twist of fate, the two of them encounter an old rival, Crowley, in a bar in Tulsa. And, incidentally, a data analyst from the Storm Prediction Center named Cas Novak, dressed like he’s completely out of his element in a bar full of tornado tourists, but wherever Dean turns in town, Castiel is there—and, Castiel comes to his rescue as well, right when the world figuratively and literally crashes down around him.

Growing up, I wanted to become either a storm chaser or a meteorologist, neither of which came to fruition. This fic, though, has always reignited a spark for me, and the author shows off every bit of research they did just to make it feel true-to-life. It also calls back to the original canon with plenty of lines, and a climactic scene that changes both of their lives in any story, in a barn, albeit this time with potentially more hazardous consequences.

The writing draws you in from the first scene and takes you through a few days in the life of a storm chaser, on the backroads of Oklahoma, hunting down one of nature’s deadliest forces—and as well, Dean meeting the love of his life by pure happenstance, with the two embarking on a new life together as the credits roll. It’s a fic I’ve come back to time and time again, and definitely one that stands out as unique!

[deancaspinefest]

Significant severe

Author: Tossukka | Artist: girlinthemirrorbluenight

Posting on Monday March 25

A TV meteorologist Castiel Novak believes storm chasers who livestream their adventures online must only be looking for adrenaline rushes from dangerous situations. When an attractive storm chaser Dean Winchester and Castiel meet at their shared alma mater’s alumni event, they end up arguing over the issue. To show Castiel the realities of his work, Dean invites Castiel to join him on a chase for a few weeks. Castiel is intrigued, and unexpectedly, his employer agrees to let him count it as field work. After their disastrous first meeting, Castiel expects to share a civil but distant working relationship with Dean. And yet, in the volatile atmosphere of the tornado season, both the storms and Castiel’s attraction to Dean grow more intense day by day.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

“Now, now, storm chasers are an important part of the weather industry. You know that as well as I do, Castiel,” a man said speaking in a British accent. “Personally I just don’t think the people who voluntarily drive themselves in the middle of what is often hell on Earth can be in their right minds. They end up blocking the roads and making an already dangerous situation even more so,” the one who had been called Castiel said. Dean frowned. “But they do good too. Collect data, confirm warnings, save lives.” “I’m only saying I believe they must have some self-destructive tendencies, that is all.” Dean couldn’t listen more without interrupting. “Excuse me?” he said and pushed his way to the two men. “Sorry for pushing my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I couldn’t help overhearing the discussion.” The dark-haired man’s bright blue eyes widened a little as he saw Dean. There was a hint of recognition in them, and Dean suspected the man already knew who he was. “Heh, my name is Dean Winchester. Well, I work as a storm chaser among other things. Your discussion sounded interesting,” Dean introduced himself. “Oh-ho! There we go, Cassie. You can talk to a professional about your suspicions,” the British guy said. “Call me Balthazar, Dean. Nice to meet you.” Even in the middle of his annoyance, Dean couldn’t help noticing Castiel was just his type. Except that he was clearly an asshole. Well no, that also had been very much Dean’s type over the years. Shit. “So Cas, you think I like risking my life for cheap thrills then?” Dean asked, not bothering to beat around the bush. Castiel frowned. “Don’t you?” “Oh dude, it’s so much more than that. I can admit there’s an element of thrill being so close to the greatest forces of nature, but just so you know, storm chasers take a lot of cautionary measures to keep themselves safe during chasing,” Dean said. “It’s not just aimlessly driving around like maniacs and blocking roads from other citizens. There’s a lot of science connected to it, and a bit of experience needed to keep yourself and others out of trouble.” “I don’t doubt that, Dean,” Castiel said. “I’m sure you are very good at what you do. But you are putting yourself needlessly in danger.” “I’m not,” Dean said. “Listen, have you ever been storm chasing?” “No.” “Okay then,” Dean said. “How about this? Do you want to join me for the peak of the Southern Plains tornado season? Let’s say May? Two weeks, full month, whatever works for you. Get a taste of the cheap thrills.” “I…” Cas hesitated. “I don’t think I can take that much time off work.” “I’ll give you some time to consider,” Dean said and pulled out his business card. Charlie had designed them, and they had a little drawn picture of his beloved Impala driving towards a looming comic book version of a tornado next to his name. “Call me if you want to try it.”

(continue reading on Ao3 on Monday March 25)

[academicfever]

79/100 days of productivity!

Hello! sweet people! Hope ur day is going well with bubbles of joy and peace... My presentation went ok...for some reason I started to stutter :( but its just practice before I have to meet the Deputy Dean. Scary stuff!!

25/30 days of digital declutter!

Log: 12 Nov24

Read 1 hour

Breakfast + lunch + meds + shower

Go on a long walk

laundry+ go to Bank

mental health check+journal

research work_3p

EV studies_2p

Data Analysis notes review

talk to family

F1 review

[ellieexoxo]

WORLD UNDERNEATH 1 SUMMARY

WARNING: Spoilers ahead for Zayne's story. Anecdote 2 (Never-Ending Winter) must be read prior to this one for better understanding.

Long story short:

World Underneath 1  is set shortly after the events of Mt. Eternal. It takes a look at Zayne’s time in medical school, where he researched Protocore Energy in interventional cardiology procedures. A character named Carter is briefly introduced as Zayne’s senior and labmate. Zayne is in a rush to proceed to clinical rotations, revealing that he was in medicine in part because of his doctor parents, and also not to be incapable of doing anything and being a threat to “her.” This is implied to be MC. However, he destroys his part of the experimental data in order to cover up the existence of a black crystal covering a heart.   Dr. Noah thinks that Zayne walks on a path alone, and hopes that someone can let him rest. 

This is set in 2043, shortly after the event at Mt. Eternal.

William’s girlfriend, Sienna, pays Zayne a visit. She gives him a martyr badge.

The three of them—Dr. Noah, William, and Zayne—visit the medical university together every year during first-year admissions. She asks Zayne to give Dr. Noah his regards.

Dr. Noah is going to retire soon. He and Zayne meet up.

A character Carter is mentioned, but is dismissed shortafter.

They are attending the 47th First-Year Medical Oath Ceremony. Students take the oath with determination. Dr. Noah reminisces about the time when Zayne took the oath. He was younger than everyone else and had a presence that made him stand out.

They head to the cafeteria. Dr. Noah says that William and Carter used to be like the first-years too. However, he discontinues the topic again.

He brings up a rumor about The Ghost in the office.

Zayne dismisses it with exasperation as an unscientific rumor.

Flashback to 2040, in the university.

The dean of the medical school saw Zayne’s report. A theoretical model exploring the use of Protocores in . Other students tried to do it as well, but their ideas were limited by their methods. He thought Zayne’s approach was worth trying.

A security guard tells them a story of how he heard sounds in the research lab, but when he checked, there was no one there. They disperse upon hearing superstitions.

Zayne says that they can proceed with the next experiment tomorrow. He is noted to not slack off even for a second and was very thorough with the data. He is in a rush to move onto clinical rotations.

It turns out that Zayne is the one staying behind in the research labs.

It is also revealed that his parents were doctors. He chose the medical field to follow in their footsteps. Even as a child, he would read medical textbooks to kill time.

When Dr. Noah asks if there was another reason, he is shut down with a “No” too quickly. The doctor says that the obsession makes it seem like there isn’t only one reason.

Zayne shares that there is someone, and he doesn’t want to become incapable of doing anything again when he becomes a threat to her. The girl is implied to be MC.

Screenshot links here.

A few days later, Dr. Noah finds out Zayne destroyed his part of the experimental data. They know it wasn’t an accident.

Carter, his senior and labmate, tried to speak up, but was quickly dismissed by Dr. Noah, saying he’ll handle it.

Later, Zayne thanks the doctor. He also wants to leave the group.

Zayne shares that the project is about the application of Protocore Energy in interventional cardiology procedures, but something happened during the experiment. He shows an image that contains a heart covered in black crystals. Precisely, a human heart beating and growing out of black crystals.

Screenshot links here.

Flash forward to the autumn of 2047.

Dr. Noah asks Zayne if he has visited her yet. He has not. The girl is implied to be MC.

The doctor thinks that Zayne always feels surreal. Despite being in the crowd, he would never be a part of it. Perhaps Zayne is destined to walk alone. Dr. Noah hopes that one day, something can offer him tranquil respite.

Screenshot links here.

[mychemstat]

just text me- ray toro

summary- you don't expect your tutor to be remotely attractive. you certainly don't expect him to care about anything other than his transcript. but seeing the recipient of the president's scholarship and the name on top of the dean's list shredding electric guitar on stage with his tattooed and pierced band members has you reevaluating your life; did you want to fuck your tutor? author's note and warnings- ray/ftm!reader, cunnilingus, sexual tension, nerd ray, suspicious gerard, pete wentz mention if you squint (comment if you find him), trans allegory, smut. enjoy :)

you stare blankly at the loading webpage, gut coiling at the speed of the buffering dots in the middle of the screen. rubbed, red eyes and undone hair bathing in the fluorescent light of the screen, instant noodles steaming near your keyboard in a cheap plastic cup, you lean back in your chair, the plasticky armrests pricking your skin. the only light source in your room is the laptop you were given last year, especially because the main white tubelight in your ceiling makes you depressed, something about the emptiness it casts over your room, reminding you of hospital lights; the feeling of being on display bothers you deeply. 

the digital clock on your nightstand reads 3:03 am; near the giant text is a small symbol reading the time you set for your alarm, 8:00 am. most days you would get less than four hours of sleep, so this was not surprising for you at all. you toggle your index finger on the mouse, scrolling down to the end of the page, clicking on “see available tutors.” incisors sinking into the plush flesh of your bottom lip, you skim through the math tutors listed on the pdf. 

most tutors were listed under first-year math courses, resulting in an immediate elimination from your shortlist. you word-search “fourth-year data statistics,” meeting with only one result. you pout at the lack of options but click on his profile anyway; not like you have a choice. 

there is no profile picture on his listing, just the words “raymond toro: fourth year, dean’s list.” your eyes flicker to his tutoring times and contact information, fingers reaching for the nearest pen and pad to jot down the information. you have definitely heard his name before in classwide emails about how he received the president’s scholarship. but, fucking hell, you never expected him to tutor people; you figured he was just too busy studying to do anything for others. 

shutting your laptop, you kick away from your study desk, looking over your roommate’s bed behind you to make sure she doesn’t wake up. she stirs slightly and goes back to softly snoring, making you sigh in relief. tiptoeing to your bed, you lift the covers as quietly as possible and climb in, switching your phone on and going over to instagram.

you ignore your inbox and any notifications that pop down from the top of your screen and focus on typing the tutor’s name into the search bar. you click the top result, the one with the most mutual friends. that has to be him you think, hoping his profile was public.

it was, but it didn’t help; his profile picture was an electric guitar, and he had not posted. furrowing your brows, you bite the inside of your lip, pressing on the tagged pictures. 

bingo.

the only picture he was tagged in was posted by the username “gwayyy.” your thumb is quick to scroll through the post,  barely paying attention to the owner of the account, tapping on each slide to see if any of the tagged people in the pictures is this “raymond toro.”

you end up in the last slide, meeting the back profile of a man with shoulder-length curly hair, a broad back, and a slimmer waist than you would expect. 

you pictured a gallon of hair gel slicking his hair to the side and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses; you know, someone who would get a hard-on from every a-plus they get in their classes. 

you switch your phone off, place it on the nightstand and shut your eyes, trying to fall asleep, even though you know you stay up past four in the morning every day. 

your eyes shoot open to stare at your wall, the queen poster staring back at you. the aircon sends a chill down your spine, triggering a pang of anxiety and turning your legs into jelly. you cannot afford to lose your scholarship, and your declining grades only add pressure to every fiber in your body.

you miss the first-year of your undergraduate degree, when you could pass exams without studying too much, get high every few days, and waste time with your friends. it definitely does not help that your family wants you to get a well-paying job right out of college, and you are already in your fourth-year, no clue what you want to do with your life. you barely meet with your friends now, forget about getting high for no reason and spending time at some rando’s dorm party getting tipsy, trying to flirt with the nearest warm body you find. 

the focused, determined student you once aspired to be had died, leaving but a husk of weak motivation. one part of you wants to graduate and leave this place, the other part does not want to enter the workforce that would put you in a cubicle with other mindless drones feeding capitalism’s drooling gluttonous gut. 

or something like that.

plugging in your headphones, you lie on your back, eyelids drooping down. the lulling melody submerging you under a thin layer of unconsciousness. 

you dream about a budding flower that night, a dahlia, it seems. it looks fake, though, almost like it is made of plastic. it grows thorns, roots growing deeper and stronger into the soil. dew drops slide into the center of the flower, swirling into a hurricane-like pattern, revealing a red rose. 

the enticing nature of the flower, the way it swings against the wind like its first breath of fresh air. the flower stands tall, taller than it did when it was a fake, plastic dahlia. rose petals glow against the moonlight, almost smiling. your chest feels warm, you feel your body rise to the air, disintegrate into rose petals. you are happy.

the deafening ringing of your alarm wakes you up, fluorescent rings of pink and yellow emerging from the darkness under your squinted eyes. 

“turn it off, bitch!” you hear your roommate muffle through her pillow, your fingers reaching for the top of the alarm to slam it off. your roommate was never a morning person, exactly like you, so you don’t mind her cussing you out even though she was basically a twenty something year old mother teresa if she were a stoner reincarnated any other time of day.

your phone in one hand and toothbrush in the other, you email the tutor, not putting too much thought into the message before sending it and shoving your phone into your hoodie’s pocket. dark circles curve under your eyes- remnants of last night’s anxiety keeping you up. splashing ice-cold water helps them depuff, you heard.

*

the library is colder than usual, making you bring the cup of coffee to your eyes and warming them one at a time as you walk toward one of the study rooms. the email he almost immediately replied back with, said he would be in room 102, followed by five exclamations. 

way too enthusiastic for a tutoring session. and nine in the morning. and data statistics.

the gray carpet in the building makes you sleepier for some reason, sipping on your drink and knocking on the door labeled ‘102.’ the liquid warms you, soothing your organs as the door creaks open and your head cranes up. 

“hey! nice to see you! i’m ray,” the boy flashes you a toothy smile, curly brown hair like you saw in “gwayyy’s” instagram post. you marvel at how tall he is, almost reaching the doorframe. you don’t know whether to feel inferior or attracted to his height, but you nod, reaching your hand out. 

his hand engulfs yours easily, fingertips clearly calloused by the way they feel against the back of your palm. your cold hands that were once rigid, are now warm and protected, almost making you gasp at the reintroduction of the aircon to your skin when he pulls back. 

he walks in, making way for you as you assess the room. pale eggshell-white walls, destroyed on the edges with water stains, envelop the two of you. it smells like old books and mothballs at first as you drop your back near the foot of the chair nearest to you, and take a seat, adjusting your clothes. 

“thanks for replying so fast, by the way. i kind of needed help with this class.” you state, bending down to fish your notebook out as you feel his footsteps near your chair. 

his backpack was perched on top of the other side of the table, near the whiteboard, so you knew he was coming near you. 

“of course! yeah," raymond speaks. his voice is higher than you expect, masked by a husky filter and you look up at the direction of his voice, surprised by how close he was. 

it isn’t weird, he is there to tutor you after all. all he does is pull out a chair near yours, and place his hand on the table, fingers sprawled across the wooden top. you take a millisecond to see how his hand was basically the size of your notebook before meeting his face, closer to getting a better view.

“you know, i don’t get many students hitting me up to tutor them, so this is refreshing. i was totally just going to rot in my bed all day.” he comments, rolling his eyes playfully, trying to make you warm up to him. you smile, looking down at your notebook and grabbing your pen. your go-to move with anyone, platonic or romantic, is avoiding direct eye-contact for as long as possible. you straighten your back, swearing you watched his eyes flicked to your chest before switching to the whiteboard across the room. 

“so, what do you need help with?” he asks, pushing his chair back against the rough carpet and walking to the other side, watching his tight black shirt bundle up near his waist. your gaze scans his figure, noticing how the flimsy black fabric hugs his back and trails down to the waistband of his jeans that hug his hips tight. you make a mental note to stop staring but where else are you going to look? you’re there to watch him teach. 

nope, you are there to learn, so you don’t fail your classes and lose your scholarship. 

that reminder makes you snap out of the staring contest you had with the small of his back and look back up at him, ready with an answer, “uhh. confidence intervals.” 

it comes out more like a question, spoiling how clueless you are with the subject and you see him smile and nod at your tone before grabbing a dry-erase marker. five pens lie on the thin metal tray across the underside of the white board, and of course, ray doesn’t grab the one that works well the first time. or the fourth time. 

you watch him struggle and cuss through the process, biting back a smile at the way his curls shake at every sigh of disappointment. 

“there we go!” he exclaims, writing down the concept name on the white board, involuntarily flexing the muscles bulging near the ends of his short-sleeves. you see the hint of a tiny tattoo under the sleeve but you decide to save that for later amusement and focus on his words. 

“so, it’s super simple,” he begins, rambling about the definition, something about how it is the range in which you expect your test value to follow, and you soon realize that it, in fact, was not super simple. 

you nod, wanting to let him know that you were listening and alert. your eyes widen, and an unknowing smile spreads on your lips. he talked with his hands. a lot. the more animated he was, the more his hair moved around his face, and the more distracted you were. 

“so basically that is how you end up with the test value, do you know how to figure out if it is a right or left-tailed test?”

fuck, what the hell was that? you look away from him, pretending to think, knowing full well you have no fucking clue what it is. you press your lips together and squint your eyes, “...no.”

“no worries, that’s what i’m here for,” he smiles this time, a toothy grin, almost unexpected from someone of his stature, flashing before he turns around to draw yet another bell-curve on the white board. you watch his shoulder blades move with every letter he writes, how the small of his back stands prominent with the tightness of his shirt. 

he looks back a few times to confirm your attention, his lips pursing before turning back to the board and continuing teaching. he likes to ramble a lot, you notice, but it isn’t unnecessary by any means. if anything, it helps you retain information. 

you ask him questions, pen gliding against the thin notebook paper as you write down what is on the board. he folds his hands, one arm propping up on the other and reaching for his chin like he’s thinking of the answers. 

as more time passes, his shoulders relax, the back and forth between the two of you reaching a comfortable rhythm. you ask a question, he goes on a tangent and you fill out another page with ease, all the pieces of puzzle from different lectures falling into place. 

you let out a couple astonished “ohhhhh”s, like you finally understood the meaning of life and your tutor just smiles at your surprise each time. you bite down on your lip and knit your brows as he asks you if you understand him or not. 

“holy shit, this makes so much sense now.” you drop your head in relief and look back at him screwing the lid of the marker back on. he walks to the chair near you as you pen down the last of the diagram he drew before shutting your notebook close. 

“i wish you taught this class instead of higgins,” you comment, stuffing your belongings in your back, “i swear he hates his students.”

“higgins can be a toughie, but he’s just old, you know? and maybe slightly senile.” 

you chuckle, “thank you, raymond, seriously,” you rise to your feet strapping your bag on and looking down at where he sits. 

“oh, you can just call me ray, raymond is more for the official student records.”

oh, ray toro. has a nice ring to it. 

“okay, cool. do you teach anything else, ray?” you don’t expect your words to come out as flirtatiously as they do, but you can’t swallow them so you go with it, flashing a smile to coat them as platonically as possible. 

“uh… not officially. but if you ever need me to look over essays, or whatever, i’ll do it, i don’t get much traffic nowadays anyway so i’ll probably be free unless i’m at a gig.” 

so that electric guitar in his profile picture wasn’t for show. 

“oh, you perform?” you ask, feeling like a stalker. 

“yeah, i play guitar in this band, you probably haven’t heard of us.” he waves it off, clearly not one to boast about his personal life. 

“i’d love to catch a show,” you blurt out, not expecting your statement to sound as intense as it does. 

he cocks an eyebrow, “oh, for real? let me give you my number then, we have this show tomorrow night.”

already exchanging numbers? you giggle internally, watching his fingers tap the screen before giving you his phone. 

“i’ll just text you the time and address, gerard's still working out the logistics.” ray explains, erasing the whiteboard and pushing all the chairs into place.

you tilt your head in confusion, “gerard…?”

“oh, he’s our lead singer. you’ll see him tomorrow. hard to miss him.”

*

ray is right, of course. the next night, after hours of stewing in excitement to see ray perform, you watch this “gerard” dance and sing around the stage, flicking his tongue at the crowd, glistening in sweat from the stage lights beating down on the band. they are good. 

you aren’t at the very front though, that space was occupied by people who look like they have been waiting all their lives to see ray’s band perform so you sit right off the pit, pulling your jacket taut into yourself. you squint, trying to gauge a feel for each member. there is one on the left, banging his head, his lips spread apart like he’s mid orgasm at any given moment, tattoos spreading up his arms all the way to his neck. there’s one on the bass, seemingly timid, a beanie pulled over his straightened hair swooped to the side, the only one with glasses on and the tightest shirt on the planet. 

then there’s ray whose gaze is fixated down at his guitar, his tongue sticking out like there is nothing more important in the world. his guitar is crystal clear even when the expressive, red-haired frontman screams into the microphone. you feel your heart race at the sight of him shredding on the instrument, bouncing curls and flexing forearms prominent under the yellow lights. 

the overpriced drink in your hand that is seventy percent tequila and ten percent juice has you nodding along to the song, even though rock was never in your top genres on spotify. it may be the alcohol or their talent in general, because they sound good. like, scream your heart out to their songs and want to be their groupie good.

okay, maybe the latter is the alcohol talking. 

mostly girls around you fawn over the band’s frontman, or the one playing the bass, mikey, you gather from their screams. as their set comes to an end, he girls beeline from the pit to the backstage, excited giggles erupting one after the other. you feel like shit. 

ray is probably straight. he probably fucks girls left and right, he’s in a rock band after all. 

the defeatist in you, however, soon fails as you find your fingers fighting the cold and typing out a message to ray. 

-hey, i watched your set. you were great!

a sense of superiority dawns over you. do the others have his number? fuck no, they don’t.

your eyes follow ray as he walks out the stage with his guitar in one hand and the amplifier in the other. fuck, he’s strong. 

the tequila has hit you, you realize, as you rake your eyes over his body from the crowd, a strange sense of jealousy over someone you met only yesterday pricking at your chest. your phone vibrates against your palm in your coat pocket, and you see a text from ray.

-super! you wanna come backstage?” 

bing-fuckin-o.

you send a thumbs up and begin your trail around the venue, budding anxiety popping like bubbles. your eyes scour for the backstage, or any group of girls bunched together. where there’s smoke there’s fire, after all. 

you hear your name through the commotion of screams and giggles and whip your head in the direction, spotting him. he waves from inside a shed, the door open for anyone who wants to meet the band. you flash a smile, feeling giddy that he has the same interest in you as you do after only a few days of meeting him. 

he’s just being nice, you tell yourself.

he wants to fuck you, you argue, immediately knowing which part of you is the drunk one. 

you fight the wind, running toward the shed that has a string of fairy lights wrapped around the inside of the room. the room isn’t huge; enough for about twenty people to stand around and mingle. a sudden warmth embraces you as you blow a tired breath out and approach ray who’s nursing a beer, his eyebrows shooting up.

“you made it! how’d you like us?” ray raises his voice over the slightly loud music playing over somebody’s bluetooth speaker. you look over at the noise and look up at him through your eyelashes, feeling smaller than him. 

it turns you on. 

“you were awesome! the way you shred, it was so fucking cool.” ray hears you curse for the first time and giggles, the same toothy grin flashing across his face. he takes a swig of his beer, bringing the mouth of the glass bottle to his- wow his lips were plump.

the shed is barely lit, a lavender-colored sunset light on the right corner of the floor was the only light source. a strong scent of cigarettes and weed lingers in the air and occasionally clears out as the door opens when someone has to go out to piss, you assume. people huddle in groups, some way larger than the others. but ray stood alone when you walked in.  

he leans down to you, and your heart stops momentarily. his breath fans the shell of your ear. his face was fucking near yours. 

“i didn’t think you would make it.” he says, this time at a regular volume now that his lips were right near your ears. you shiver when his breath hits your skin, failing to compute what he says for a second.

you lean toward his ear, pulling him in by his arms on reflex because he seems too far to your tipsy ass brain, “of course i did. i need to get my grades up!” you joke, hoping to god he sees the humor lacing your voice. 

he chuckles, oh how sweet his voice is, you think, relief fighting the cortisol in your brain. 

“ray! what are you doing all the way over-” you hear his name being called, a blur of red hair knifing through the little crowd around him. you could see girls’ hands drag across his chest and even grab his shirt and he flashes them an obligatory get-the-fuck-off-me smile before catching up to the man in front of you. 

it is gerard, his red hair dripping in sweat making him the most easy to recognize. you watch the shorter guy turn his head towards you, “who’s this, ray?”

ray introduces you, “i tutored him yesterday.”

gerard’s eyes scan you from head to toe, a polite smile appearing, “good to know you’re not trying to rip ray’s clothes off like that crowd back there.”

if only he knew. you chuckle at his comment, looking at ray nervously before turning toward gerard, “you guys were super great, by the way.”

“you’re sweet, aren’t you.” gerard tilts his head, his fingers massaging ray’s biceps. you believe gerard notices the way your eye twitches at his move on ray and the corner of his mouth perks up, “huh, maybe not.” 

the crowd filters out of the shed, leaving the band and a couple of their friends, you assume, to let their hair down and get a couple of drinks in. 

“how long do these,” you look around at people rolling joints and pout, impressed, “...afterparties go on for?” 

ray looks up, trying to come up with an answer, “uh, like a few hours, no one knows really. i live on campus so i leave whenever i want to, sometimes g and frank stay back. sometimes we see mikey come to practice the next day with the same clothes on,” he shrugs, “it’s different every time.”

you aren’t sober by any means, but you aren’t piss-drunk either when you meet frank and mikey, the shorter one with a scorpion tattoo on his neck, with closer inspection, betraying his onstage persona. mikey, who you’re told is gerard’s younger brother, is as quiet as he seems when he plays on stage. you smile at him and make small talk, compliment his neon genesis evangelion shirt and he grins in surprise, revealing his pointy canines. 

ray is across the room, mingling with some people who you assume are from other bands who performed before them. a man with a shorter stature and a fuckton of eyeliner, wearing a zip-up hoodie that barely hid his torso, a tattoo around his collarbone with nothing underneath, sips on a cigarette and talks to ray, looking up at him like you did yesterday.

you don’t realize how long you’re staring until ray finds your stare, downing the beer he holds so casually between his index and middle finger. your gut flips. heat spreads from your chest to your stomach, making you crush your paper cup and throw it away in dismissal. 

you dream of the same flower you did yesterday. an odd sense of belonging tags along the haze you’re merged in. this time with another rose beside it. the roots of the other, pinker rose intertwined with yours, the ends connecting and becoming one. 

you wake up the next morning with a headache you haven’t had in months. you’ve heard of hangover remedies like swallowing a raw egg yolk. but you would never do that, even if it meant you were throwing up in the paper bag near your nightstand. which you do. 

admittedly, throwing up makes you feel better before you realize what you have to do today. 

the stack of papers on your table resembles mount everest as you contemplate the quantity of it all. not only had you forgotten about the project, but it is also due tomorrow night.

grabbing a coffee and a breakfast sandwich from the cafeteria, you sprint back to your dorm, trying not to wake your roommate up who had worked late last night and met you on the way to your shared room after the afterparty with ray’s band. 

ray was offering and insisting that he drop you off since he invited you there, but you politely declined, horny and exhausted out of your mind. 

the way he looked at you last night. his gaze clinging to every inch of you before looking away, had not only given you some interesting dreams that may have involved getting fucked in the lecture hall, but also left a lasting feeling that there was a ball of fire in your ribcage. 

you consider asking ray for help on your project. 

no, you can’t. he has better things to do. 

scanning through the question on the paper only makes you lean into the idea. suddenly forgetting everything ray taught you the day before. time blurs for you, and you don’t realize you have already texted ray and asked him if he can help you, fixing your hair and second-guessing your outfit.

wait, why did you care?

your phone dings. 

-all of the study rooms are booked :( 

you throw your phone on the bed, the pile of papers making your stomach sink lower into your body. fuck, you’re going to fail the class. you’re going to fail all because you went to the show yesterday to look at this fucking boy, who caught your fucking eye, and you wanted to fuc-

-unless you’re okay with me coming over.

you would be lying if you said your heart didn’t pound so hard against your rib cage that your ears started ringing. you send the same thumbs up emoji, pretending to be casual, regular; anything synonymous with normalcy. the coffee in your system kicks into overdrive; you straighten out your room, tell your roommate to get the fuck out once she gets up and receive a bunch of sex jokes in exchange, all of which you blush at. 

“have fun blowing that dude,” she yells, probably loud enough for your neighbors to hear. she closes the door on the way out, missing the paper ball you threw at her. 

*

“oh wow, your room is way cleaner than mine.” ray appears at your dorm in another tight black shirt, this time with the iron maiden logo that has clearly fought the washer and lost the fight multiple times. 

you see him duck through the door frame, fixing his hair back into position, and you try not to feel your heart wrench at the sight of him being adorable. you bring the papers down to the floor, a signal for ray to mirror you. he sits next to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wooden leg. his hands wrap around his knee, neck craning near yours to get a better look at the questions laid out on the fluffy grayish white carpet. 

you don’t realize that the shorts you’re wearing ride up your thighs, almost presenting themselves to the taller figure in the room. your legs lay on top of each other, almost parallel to the direction ray faces. you prop yourself up on the ball of your left palm, the arm that is stretched behind you, leaning into ray. ray begins helping you, talking about the different mistakes you make as you go through the process of solving the questions. his voice rings near your face, and you find yourself adjusting your seat on the carpet, moving the hem of the shorts closer to your pelvis. 

ray begins stuttering, and for a while you wonder what that is about. he strokes his chin like he’s thinking hard but it is clear that he is pretending to do so. the room gets hotter and you turn your head to check the thermostat. 

it’s the same. 

maybe it is the way you meet ray’s eyes, his plump, berry lips curving into a smirk at every joke you crack, or the way he, at least you think, gets distracted by your legs on display. he bends down to the papers, the fabric of the shirt stretching over his back, and you can’t help but think about leaving scratches on his back and trailing your fingers down his spine. 

ray smells like soap and the kind of cologne that a college kid can afford, not too charming, not too repellant. his hair is nearer to you than his face, and you can smell his shampoo that’s kind of coconut-y and beachy, and you try your best not to audibly inhale. 

you go through the papers at the speed of lightning with ray there to coach you through it. you chew and bite your lip, working through the problems with utter concentration. sometimes you don’t realize that ray is talking, and you end up ignoring him and apologizing for spacing out at the project. 

“holy shit, you were focused huh? like shiva at his penance,” ray comments, and you don’t understand. and he figures.

“shiva is a hindu deity. he’s known to be the sage of all sages, nobody would disturb his penance on top of this mountain in india,” he says, like he's almost embarrassed about knowing trivia. 

“wow…” you trail off, “and you just know all this?”

he chuckles, ducking his head and looking back up, “i used to google things a lot as a kid…” you cock an eyebrow, not believing him.

“...and maybe i still do.” he admits, palming his face, hiding that smile of his you love to see. 

“i admire that actually. i used to be obsessed with dinosaurs, google was like my life for a good few years” you comment, not expecting his countenance to be that of enthrallment; almost childlike joy. 

“you’re kidding, right? i did too! if you ever come over, you’ll see dinosaur stickers on my laptop and some of my drawers.” and you try not to think too much about the implication of the statement. 

you sort through the papers to make sure you don’t miss a single page and then turn toward ray, who was closer than before. you see specks of gray and black in his eyes, the way his nose bumps up slightly, freckles adorning his olive-toned skin. you notice he has dimples, appearing with each smile. his toothy grin melts you, and you feel that similar warmth you felt last night blossoming in your ribs. 

your breath hitches in your throat before you realize you’re staring like a madman into his eyes. 

“good job today,” ray says, his hand shaking your shoulder, jolts of electricity branching up the point of contact. you look away, a tight-lipped smile masking the sudden pulse his compliment sent straight between your legs. 

“oh, thanks. i really couldn’t have done this without you.” 

ray waves you off, leaning away, upsetting you slightly, “of course you could have. i just pointed you in the direction, you were the one on the journey.”

“any chance you play dnd?” you question, almost teasing his attempt at being poetic.

“it’s that obvious, huh?”

you both laugh, voices ringing out. you don’t remember laughing like this in a while, especially with someone you admired this much. the laughs settle into a comfortable silence as the two of you look out at the plane passing through the window. 

“you know, you’re super talented.” you say, out of the blue, and immediately regret it, thinking you were giving away too much. he turns to you, you observe through your peripheral vision, almost like he knows you have more to say. 

“i mean. the way you just performed like it was breathing to you, it really is rare to see talent like that, especially in this dump of a town.” you finish, clearing your throat in the end, waiting for him to say something. 

“i don’t know what to say,”

“for starters, a thank you would suffice,” you quip, a humorous tone tagging along. 

he starts to rise from his seat, “thanks, i do appreciate it. it’s difficult for me to take compliments, though, if you haven’t figured it out yet.”

you ignore him, “oh yeah, you probably have to leave, sorry to keep yo-”

“no no! i love helping other students, you weren’t keeping me from anything else. i just have band practice in a few, so i have to get going,” 

you swear you hear regret in his voice but maybe you liked to lie to yourself. 

as you watch him see himself out, you wait for him to turn around, say something. 

come on, don’t leave without giving me something. 

“oh by the way,” ray turns around. you hope he doesn’t notice your eyes gleam at the sudden lightbulb moment of his. 

“there’s a mixer on sunday. the band’s gonna be there. you should come, if you’re not busy.”

you nod, and he leaves with a promise that he’ll text you the address. 

he does, followed by a text that says, “hope 2 c u :)”, and you receive a side eye from your roommate who watches you bury your face in your pillow and kick your feet. something about the way ray had to peel his eyes off your legs subconsciously makes you pick something that shows them off, ending up with fishnets and a short skirt you bought on a whim months ago that collected dust in the back of your closet. 

at this point, you know one thing. ray isn’t straight. you very well know you can imagine and exaggerate situations to fit your narrative, and that very well may be the case, but you don’t care. 

it’s your last year. it doesn’t matter if you’re rejected or if you really are imagining things. senioritis in university makes you hit a special low where you could care less what happened. you borrow a jacket from your roommate, ignoring the comment on how she would be really mad if you got ray’s jizz on it. 

*

sunday rolls in and your stomach does not stop jumping. you had somehow completed all your work ahead of time without having to ask ray for help. anxiety was nowhere to be found, just excitement and a little bit of nervousness to see him after days of texting him. 

he had sent you a picture of the dinosaur sticker on his drawer unprompted, and your heart skipped a beat at the notification before you began having conversations that extended late into the night. 

late night conversations turn into exchanging music recommendations and funny videos you find. he sends you videos of his band playing, and he’s the only one you watch, but of course you say, “you guys are going to make it big someday.”

saturday night before turning in, you text him.

-good luck. can’t wait to see you guys perform.

-you’re sweet.

you keep going back to the text, giggling at it throughout the day, even as you get dressed for the mixer. you keep telling yourself he’s being nice but you are at the event, looking around for ray or gerard, or anyone you know. a rotating light hung low in the middle of the floor, a small podium for people to perform at the mixer. people hover around the bar, clearly no age check involved in the process as they swipe drinks and trail off with a huge smile on their faces. 

you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you swear your heart jumps into your throat. 

“ray! i’ve been trying to find you forever.” you look up at him, a sliver of purple and pink lights from the disco ball light streaks across his face like an illuminated scar. 

“so have i, come on back, this place is just for the general public,” he nods his head toward the other direction, fingers grabbing your wrist and nudging you toward him.

“ooo, i feel like a groupie,” you comment, and you hear him giggle, thanking god he doesn’t take you seriously no matter how much you want your words to be true. 

gerard sips a cigarette indoors, frank tunes his guitar with an ear down to the strings, and mikey is nowhere to be found. gerard looks amused at you as he blows smoke out. ray steps out to grab drinks, and you feel vulnerable. exposed. 

“so…” gerard begins, and you know he’s not about to make small talk, “ray has told me a lot about you.”

“all of us actually,” frank interjects, and you look at both of them, bewildered. 

“oh,” he talks about you? “all good things, i hope.”

“oh yes, overwhelmingly.” gerard ashes the stick between his fingers on the crystal tray near him. you sense mischief in his voice as he gives you the same head-to-toe scan that he did the first time you met him. 

“ray isn’t the outgoing type,” mikey walks in. you turn around in surprise to see him without his beanie and glasses for the first time. you can see how similar his features are to gerard’s. 

“yet, here you are, after what?” gerard tilts his head, “a week of meeting him?”

his tone isn’t malicious, nothing he says could sound malicious because he knew how to talk to people, how to handle them. that’s what made him a good frontman. 

“would you be surprised if i say i don’t gel well with strangers either?” you shrug and straighten your back, trying not to seem so timid around them.

they chuckle with you at the irony of the statement, gerard simply says, “i like you,”

you tilt your head slightly, not sure what to say and gerard offers you his cigarette, “ray doesn’t trust people often. and when he does he’s rarely wrong.”

you wave his offer with a small “no, thanks,” and he continues, “i hope he isn’t wrong.”

*

“are you okay?” ray asks you after the show, a beer in his right hand as he leans back into the wall of the green room. 

“yeah, i’m fine, i think i was just too close to the speakers so my head hurts a bit,” 

you aren’t fine. you’re thinking about what gerard said to you, and you barely paid attention to the performance and focused on distracting yourself with a shot of tequila that burned deliciously down your throat. 

you make eye contact with gerard across the room who is sitting on frank’s lap for some reason, his stare less threatening at this point because ray is there. he can’t be obvious. 

gut slowly burning and the alcohol in your system climbing up to your head, you ask ray if he wants shots and before you know it you’re carrying a small tray of salt and slices of lime with two little vials of tequila. 

“do you know how to do this?” you ask, not knowing what you got yourself into. 

“yeah it's super simple,” you hear, trying your best not to giggle at his go-to phrase, “lick, shoot, and suck.”

you dip the back of your hand in the hill of salt, where the index finger and the thumb meet, you glance at ray once before nodding, and lick up a stripe of your hand. ray does the same and you try not to think about the fact that that is how he would look between your legs. you throw your head back in unison with ray, squinted eyes and sour face, sucking at the bright green slice of fruit before smacking your lips. 

ray sits beside you, thighs pressed up against yours, leaning into you, giggling. a rosy blush rises to his cheeks, and his eyelids lie lower than before. your body is on fire. tipsy words making you stutter and laugh for no reason, forgetting about what gerard said for a while. 

ray walks you to your dorm that night, stumbling on the street and giggling at nothing in particular. you clutch his shirt for support as you burst into a fit of laughter at a joke he makes, not caring if you’re loud. 

the lingering breeze in the air makes your skin feel less hot even though being near ray was enough to make you sweat through a leather jacket. the streetlights shine down on the two of you, slowing down in your path and strolling, kicking pebbles and making a game out of them.

you ask him how he got into playing guitar, he tells you a story about how he got ripped off buying his first guitar that broke in the first fifteen minutes of playing it. you tell him about your university experience, your plans for your career. 

he beams at you with genuine admiration in his eyes, eyes softening. the spirit had weakened its effects on your body; you walked with a straighter back and a higher chin than before. almost like a gateway opening for your anxiety. 

“so, gerard told me something,” you begin, not sure what you want to know from striking this topic up.

“hm? what’d he say?” he asks, kicking the poor pebble on the pavement. 

“he said you don’t make friends that easily.” it sounds bad out loud, but you know that he knows what you mean. 

he chortles, “yeah? what else did he say?”

you raise an eyebrow, as if checking with him if you should continue, “he just… he said he hopes you’re not wrong with me.”

the two of you enter your dorm, shuffling through pockets and keycards. ray stays quiet. you noticed he does that when he isn’t ready to talk just yet because he’s thinking of the most logical and rational answer possible.

“why did he-” he begins, and you listen, ignoring the fact that ray follows you to your actual room, trying to justify his friend’s words. 

“he said something about how you can’t stop talking about me and thinking about me,” you flash a shit-eating grin, his eyes widening immediately. 

“that fucker…” he trails off, his head dropping down in defeat. 

“so it’s true?” you ask, leaning your back against the main door, a foot propped up on the surface. your back is straight, if not arched. you feel the after effects of downing two shots of fireball take over, the haze of the liquor blurs the line between “study buddies.”

he steps closer to you. there’s barely anyone outside in the hallways, they are either out partying or fast asleep. his hand trails up the doorframe, palm against the bumped surface. he’s so big that he casts a shadow over you from the main light. you notice his eyes trace your figure, backed up against a door, at his mercy. 

his left arm trails up your waist and stays there, “do you want it to be?” 

*

your bodies move in the dark, an orchestra of heavy breaths and moans bouncing off your dorm’s walls. the posters in your room are but flies on the wall as ray carries you to your bed, your legs wrapped tight around his waist. you lick into his mouth, his warm and soft lips slick with your saliva engulfing yours. 

you breathe in, the scent of his sweat driving your senses into a frenzy and your grip on his hair tenses up. he pulls away to look at your face under the moonlight beaming through your frosted window. ray tastes like the tequila you downed with him, deliciously bitter and intoxicating, his shiny lips sending waves of lightning to your clit. 

neither of you have spoken a word, fingers and lips grabbing and groping each other like hormonal teenagers away from their families at summer camp. ray places you on your bed, your sheets suddenly feeling foreign to you with him hovering above you, his fingers nosing toward the curve of your ass. 

involuntary whimpers escape your throat as his fingers stroke down the back of your thighs; he hooks one of them to the fishnets and rips them in one go, handling your thighs like he starves for something more than open mouthed kisses over his lips that make his cock stir in his tight jeans. the gasp you let out is more out of pleasure and surprise, and less of you mourning the loss of your clothing. 

“all this time, toro, yo- ah, fuck you- you liked me?” you kiss his neck as he works on peeling the fishnets off your legs, throwing your legs over his shoulders, elbows digging into your mattress, leaving kisses up your inner thighs. your arousal was obvious, ray- even you- could smell it through your underwear. 

ray stops and climbs up to face you, his fingers stroking your happy trail and you buck your hips for more just at his touch at your sensitive waist. he asks you if you’re okay and if you want to stop, you need to tell him. 

you grab him by his collar and pull him in, teeth clashing, skin feeling like a burning matchstick, flame eating away at its wooden body. you blabber nonsense, not able to get enough of his full lips around yours; hands lacing around his waist pulling him so close that if he didn’t pull away you would be crushed by his body weight. he kisses down your stomach, his calloused fingers soothing under your hoodie and to your breasts, tracing under the mounds of flesh before his hands flew to your thighs. 

soft trailing kisses become warm, careful presses down your stomach. you breathe like you don’t want him to hear how bad you need him, but your efforts are soon wasted as he presses his nose against your clit. 

inner thighs pressing into his ears, hips bucking up to the warmth of his mouth over the damp cotton underwear, you look down at him, locks of curls falling beautifully over his eyes. his tongue licks a stripe up through the fabric, the frills of your skirt resembling one of those bell-curves ray drew on the whiteboard the first time you met him, with him underneath it.

skilled tongue that circles on your clit before curling his digits under the hem of your panties, yanking the fabric off your skin, a sudden chill making you feel exposed. ray doesn’t let you feel that way any longer; his tongue licks up the folds of your pussy, tasting you whole and you almost pass out from the sheer euphoria locking down the ends of your spine on your bed, the arch in your back pushing your clit further against his nose. 

you beg and beg and beg him to do something. he simply chuckles and swipes the pad of his thumb on your slit before dipping his middle finger into you, a guttural groan emanating from your throat. your feet move against his crotch and you feel his dick strain against his tight jeans, his tongue replacing his finger and tugging you into his face, delving into you. 

hands thread through his curls, clutching and pulling at him needing to feel a release expeditiously. the hotness of his mouth against your pulsing core has you palming your tits hoodie, playing and pinching at your nipples. 

teeth pulling at the skin on your thighs, making you moan helplessly has him circling your clit with his thumb, wanting to hear more of your voice. you chant his name like a prayer, like he would somehow lift your soul up to the heavens with his tongue. 

his stubble adds delectable friction to your cunt and you gasp like your life depends on him; you forget everything. every word, every person in the world, every fucking thing is wiped clean like patterns in the sand under the foamy waves of the ocean. 

your thighs clench around his head, the honestly fucking corrupt noises of him devouring your pussy muffling under the flesh of your tastefully bruised thighs. he hums lowly, gulping and licking and gorging, the vibrations of his voice (that you didn’t know could get that fuckin low) driving you closer to the white light of orgasm that seems so close. 

his moans crescendo as the heels of your feet grind into his cock, his lips pressing and sucking harder at your clit, his fingers that once moved carefully in your slick walls, now quickening and curling up into you. 

you plead, you beg, you pray to him, hips jerking againsts mouth as his teeth lightly graze over the swollen lips of your cunt, your nails scratch his scalp perfectly, the tip of his tongue licks up your clit perfectly and his fingers, oh his fingers, scratch an itch seated so deep inside you that you swear you see stars before tipping over the edge, bottom lips falling open in a silent plea.

you ride his nose, his tongue, you push his head down, fist his hair, do whatever it takes, to make your orgasm last as long as possible, ankles meeting at the back of his neck. the way your legs shake at his last lap on your swollen clit, moonlight reflecting off of his beautiful brown eyes and your arousal dripping down his chin makes you go dizzier- if it was even fucking possible- and you feel like you’re high on the world’s most euphoric drug. 

you smile down at him, fingers holding his cheeks gently, nudging him up to meet your face; his palms digging into your ruined sheets on either side of you, lowering his wet lips onto yours, wanting you to taste yourself against his tongue. you breathe into his kiss, his hair falling on your face, you feel him smile against your mouth and you suddenly remember. 

“ray, do you want me to-” you start, eyebrows twisting up in concern and he cuts you off with another sweet kiss to your lips.

“you expect me to not cream my pants when you’re splayed out like this in front of me, in this little fucking thing around your waist?” his words sound harsh, but admiration fills his eyes, and you know it’s just an amalgamation of what the both of you have been feeling for the past few days. 

“you fucking-” you sputter, still recovering from incredible high- the type of orgasm that the little toy in your nighstand or your fingers could never give you, “-you fucker.”

he sits back on the bed, pulling down your skirt and helping you up to sit, his hands sturdy as a brick wall holding you up while your legs still solidify. as viciously as he ate you out mere minutes ago, he was back to being himself, sweet, nerdy, kind ray. helpful as ever. 

“can i take you out tomorrow?” he asks, his thumb stroking yours, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. 

you kiss his neck and then his jaw, smiling up at him, “just text me the address.”

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Aaron Sibarium

Published: May 23, 2024

Up to half of UCLA medical students now fail basic tests of medical competence. Whistleblowers say affirmative action, illegal in California since 1996, is to blame.

Long considered one of the best medical schools in the world, the University of California, Los Angeles's David Geffen School of Medicine receives as many as 14,000 applications a year. Of those, it accepted just 173 students in the 2023 admissions cycle, a record-low acceptance rate of 1.3 percent. The median matriculant took difficult science courses in college, earned a 3.8 GPA, and scored in the 88th percentile on the Medical College Admissions Test (MCAT).

Without those stellar stats, some doctors at the school say, students can struggle to keep pace with the demanding curriculum.

So when it came time for the admissions committee to consider one such student in November 2021—a black applicant with grades and test scores far below the UCLA average—some members of the committee felt that this particular candidate, based on the available evidence, was not the best fit for the top-tier medical school, according to two people present for the committee's meeting.

Their reservations were not well-received.

When an admissions officer voiced concern about the candidate, the two people said, the dean of admissions, Jennifer Lucero, exploded in anger.

"Did you not know African-American women are dying at a higher rate than everybody else?" Lucero asked the admissions officer, these people said. The candidate's scores shouldn't matter, she continued,  because "we need people like this in the medical school."

Even before the Supreme Court's landmark affirmative action ban last year, public schools in California were barred by state law from considering race in admissions. The outburst from Lucero, who discussed race explicitly despite that ban, unsettled some admissions officers, one of whom reached out to other committee members in the wake of the incident. "We are not consistent in the way we apply the metrics to these applicants," the official wrote in an email obtained by the Washington Free Beacon. "This is troubling."

"I wondered," the official added, "if this applicant had been [a] white male, or [an] Asian female for that matter, [whether] we would have had that much discussion."

Since Lucero took over medical school admissions in June 2020, several of her colleagues have asked the same question. In interviews with the Free Beacon and complaints to UCLA officials, including investigators in the university's Discrimination Prevention Office, faculty members with firsthand knowledge of the admissions process say it has prioritized diversity over merit, resulting in progressively less qualified classes that are now struggling to succeed.

Race-based admissions have turned UCLA into a "failed medical school," said one former member of the admissions staff. "We want racial diversity so badly, we're willing to cut corners to get it."

This story is based on written correspondence between UCLA officials, internal data on student performance, and interviews with eight professors at the medical school—six of whom have worked with or under Lucero on medical student and residency admissions.

Together, they provide an unprecedented account of how racial preferences, outlawed in California since 1996, have nonetheless continued, upending academic standards at one of the top medical schools in the country. The school has consequently taken a hit in the rankings and seen a sharp rise in the number of students failing basic standardized tests, raising concerns about their clinical competence.

"I have students on their rotation who don't know anything," a member of the admissions committee told the Free Beacon. "People get in and they struggle."

It is almost unheard of for admissions officials to go public, even anonymously, and provide a window into confidential deliberations, much less to accuse their colleagues of breaking the law or lowering standards. They've agreed to come forward anyway, several officials told the Free Beacon, because the results of Lucero's push for diversity have been so alarming.

"I wouldn't normally talk to a reporter," a UCLA faculty member said. "But there's no way to stop this without embarrassing the medical school."

Within three years of Lucero's hiring in 2020, UCLA dropped from 6th to 18th place in U.S. News & World Report's rankings for medical research. And in some of the cohorts she admitted, more than 50 percent of students failed standardized tests on emergency medicine, family medicine, internal medicine, and pediatrics.

Those tests, known as shelf exams, which are typically taken at the end of each clinical rotation, measure basic medical knowledge and play a pivotal role in residency applications. Though only 5 percent of students fail each test nationally, the rates are much higher at UCLA, having increased tenfold in some subjects since 2020, according to internal data obtained by the Free Beacon.

That uptick coincided with a steep drop in the number of Asian matriculants and tracks the subjective impressions of faculty who say that students have never been more poorly prepared.

One professor said that a student in the operating room could not identify a major artery when asked, then berated the professor for putting her on the spot. Another said that students at the end of their clinical rotations don't know basic lab tests and, in some cases, are unable to present patients.

"I don't know how some of these students are going to be junior doctors," the professor said. "Faculty are seeing a shocking decline in knowledge of medical students."

And for those who've seen the competency crisis up close, double standards in admissions are a big part of the problem. "All the normal criteria for getting into medical school only apply to people of certain races," an admissions officer said. "For other people, those criteria are completely disregarded."

Led by Lucero, who also serves as the vice chair for equity, diversity, and inclusion of UCLA's anesthesiology department, the admissions committee routinely gives black and Latino applicants a pass for subpar metrics, four people who served on it said, while whites and Asians need near perfect scores to even be considered.

The bar for underrepresented minorities is "as low as you could possibly imagine," one committee member told the Free Beacon. "It completely disregards grades and achievements."

Lucero did not respond to a request for comment.

Several officials said that they support holistic admissions and don't believe test scores should be judged in isolation. The problem, as they see it, is that the committee is not just weighing academic merit against community service or considering how much time a given student had to study for the MCAT. For certain applicants, they say, hardship and community service seem to be the only things that matter to the majority of the committee's 20-30 members, many of whom were handpicked by Lucero, according to people familiar with the selection process.

"We were always outnumbered," an admissions officer told the Free Beacon, referring to committee members who expressed concern about low grades. "Other people would get upset when we brought up GPA."

Lucero hasn't been kind to dissenters. Speaking on the condition of anonymity, six people who've worked with her described a pattern of racially charged incidents that has dispirited officials and pushed some of them to resign from the committee.

She has lashed out at officials who question the qualifications of minority candidates, five sources said, suggesting naysayers are "privileged," implying that they are racist, and subjecting them to diversity training sessions.

After a Native American applicant was rejected in 2021, for example, Lucero chewed out the committee and made members sit through a two-hour lecture on Native history delivered by her own sister, according to three people familiar with the incident. No applications were reviewed that day, an official present for the lecture said.

In the anesthesiology department, where Lucero helps rank applicants to the department's residency program, she has rebuffed calls to blind the race of candidates, telling colleagues in a January 2023 email that, despite California's ban on racial preferences, "we are not required to blind any information."

That alone could get UCLA in legal trouble, according to Adam Mortara, the lead trial lawyer for the plaintiffs in Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard, the Supreme Court case that outlawed affirmative action nationwide.

Asking for information about an applicant's race when "no lawful use can be made of it" is "presumptively illegal," Mortara said. "You can't have evidence of overt discrimination like this and not have someone come forward" as a plaintiff.

Lucero has even advocated moving candidates up or down the residency rank list based on race. At a meeting in February 2022, according to two people present, Lucero demanded that a highly qualified white male be knocked down several spots because, as she put it, "we have too many of his kind" already. She also told doctors who voiced concern that they had no right to an opinion because they were "not BIPOC," sources said, and insisted that a Hispanic applicant who had performed poorly on her anesthesiology rotation in medical school should be bumped up. Neither candidate was ultimately moved.

Lucero's comments from the meeting were flagged in an email to UCLA's Discrimination Prevention Office, which has received several complaints about her since 2023, emails show. The office has declined to act on those complaints on the grounds that they aren't "serious enough" to merit an investigation, according to a source with direct knowledge of the situation. The Discrimination Prevention Office did not respond to a request for comment.

The focus on racial diversity has coincided with a dramatic shift in the racial and ethnic composition of the medical school, where the number of Asian matriculants fell by almost a third between 2019 and 2022, according to publicly available data. No other elite medical school in California saw a similar decline.

As the demographics of UCLA have changed, the number of students failing their shelf exams has soared, trends professors at the medical school say are connected.

Between 2020, the year Lucero assumed her post, and 2023, when the first classes she admitted were taking their shelf exams, the failure rate rose dramatically across all subjects, in some cases increasing tenfold relative to the 2020 baseline, per internal data obtained by the Free Beacon.

"UCLA still produces some very good graduates," one professor said. "But a third to a half of the medical school is incredibly unqualified."

The collapse in qualifications has been compounded by UCLA's decision, in 2020, to condense its preclinical curriculum from two years to one in order to add more time for research and community service. That means students arrive at their clinical rotations with just a year of courses under their belt—some of which focus less on science than social justice.

First-year students spend three to four hours every other week in "Structural Racism and Health Equity," a required class that covers topics like "fatphobia," has featured anti-Semitic speakers, and is now the subject of an internal review. They spend an additional seven hours a week in "Foundations of Practice," which includes units on "interpersonal communication skills" and, according to one medical student, basically "tells us how to be a good person." The two courses eat up time that could be spent on physiology or anatomy, professors say, and leave struggling students with fewer hours to learn the basics.

"This has been a colossal failure," one professor posted in April on a forum for medical school applicants. "The new curriculum is not working and the students are grossly unprepared for clinical rotations."

Nearly a fourth of UCLA medical students in the class of 2025 have failed three or more shelf exams, data from the school show, forcing some students to repeat classes and persuading others to postpone a different test, the Step 2 licensing exam, that is typically taken in the third year of medical school and is a prerequisite for most residency programs.

Around 20 percent of UCLA students have not taken Step 2 by January of their fourth year, according to the data. Ten percent have not even taken the more basic Step 1—an "extremely high number," one professor said, that will force many students to extend medical school.

"It's a combination of a bad curriculum and bad selection," another professor said, referring to the admissions process. Some students are accepted with GPAs so low "they shouldn't even be applying."

UCLA did not respond to a request for comment.

As medical schools around the country adjust to the Supreme Court's affirmative action ban, the experience of UCLA offers a preview of how administrators may skirt the law and devise public-spirited excuses for violating it.

Lucero has told the admissions committee that each class should "represent" the "diversity" of California, including its remote and rural areas, so that graduating students will return to their hometowns and beef up the medical infrastructure there, officials say.

Race is rarely mentioned outright, and unlike the committee for anesthesiology residents, the committee for students does not see the race or ethnicity of applicants.

Instead, officials say, Lucero uses proxies like zip codes and euphemisms like "disadvantaged" to shut down criticism of unqualified candidates, citing a finding from the Association of American Medical Colleges that, technically, most students with below-average MCATs make it to their second year of medical school. How well they do after that point goes undiscussed and undisclosed.

"We have asked for metrics on how these folks actually do," one committee member said. "None of that is ever divulged to us."

==

Hope your next doctor isn't from UCLA.

Wokeness has a body count.

[cassierobinsons]

to the anon from a few days ago: sorry i'm only just getting back to you on the sam + classism discussion. putting this under a cut because it's rambly

To me the whole Sam classism thing is very much like coming from an immigrant family the people you will meet who complain about "illegals" because they didn't do it "the right way". Like generally, these are not people who hate immigrants or approve of ICE or anything like that, but they still feel a certain moral superiority in having improved their situation "the correct way". I don't think Sam thinks homeless people should all be sent to prison or anything, but I think he still looks at himself as having done something morally correct in getting out of his situation (even though he really didnt in the long run excluding the finale). You see this attitude with other things like when he asks Max why didn't you just leave. I don't think he has no empathy for these situations, but there's like a mental block of not understanding the barriers that other people might face that he didnt.

Oh i extremely know what you mean as a fellow child of immigrants. my mum will make a snide comment while watching the news and i’ll be like 🤨 oh so now we’re pretending that your friend [DATA EXPUNGED] is here totally legally huh. it comes from a small-c conservative belief that there exists a group of people who are less "deserving" than them.

“Morally correct” also happens to be how the fandom sees sam's escape from the family, when it’s just Morally neutral? Like it’s a good thing. But says nothing about sam’s moral fibre because it was for self-preservation reasons. that's not a bad thing either! and i obviously don't think fandom is bad for thinking of sam's hard work as an admirable trait but there needs to be some acknowledgement of his perspective is a little skewed.

Max is a great example to use because sam isn’t being spiteful, but he is being thoughtless and most of it is due to him literally being a man in his early 20s but like, it’s also because of how he grew up and how he got out.

sam’s judgy moments are at their most interesting in s1 because there’s so many of them and because they’re so intentional. Like, intentional on the part of the writers, not sam. his response to max is a reflection of how idk, myopic? sam’s read of dean and their family situation is. It’s an in-universe character flaw he has to work on in order to repair the bond between them, just as dean’s seething resentment over sam’s departure is something he needs to work on too. s1 is about both of them learning to see other as their dad's victim.

I think in general in the fandom you get these sort of knee jerk reactions like "no they can't be racist/sexist/homophobic/classist/etc, they don't hate xyz people" but really no one is saying they do. Like no one is saying Sam spits on poor people. No one is saying Dean thinks women are beneath him. But they both clearly have some ingrained beliefs that are ultimately prejudiced! These aren't immutable characteristics. In fact, I think for the most part if someone had an actual deep discussion with them about it they'd probably come around fairly easily, but that doesn't mean Sam scoffing at Dean hustling pool or Dean saying "sweetheart this ain't gender studies" aren't bad things to do. Like they're often understandable character flaws based on the characters backgrounds, but they're still there.

Honestly, i’d argue that plenty of people ARE saying that dean sees women as beneath him or that sam despises the poor or vice-versa etc. but like. Hmm. this is a tv show for a narrow group of people written by an even narrower group of people and thus the show reflects the views & prejudices of the people writing them. There are moments in which we’re supposed to approve of dean’s sexism but there are also moments where we’re supposed to disapprove while simultaneously approve of or at least be okay with sam’s sexism. There are moments where we’re supposed to think sam’s being a judgy snob, but there are still others where we’re supposed to wrinkle our noses at how uncouth and lumpenprole dean is in comparison to college boy sam. And that goes for the many other -isms in the show. characters are often used as vectors for the beliefs of the writers, good or bad. It’s up to the individual how they choose to make peace with that, but the problem with this fandom is that discussions about isms get heavily wrapped up with stan wars. 

Lemme give an example. It’s incredibly common in samgirl spaces to paint dean as a homophobic neanderthal. they usually do this by taking a shitty comment from season 3 and extrapolating it until they’re talking about s15 dean as if he can’t so much as look at a gay person without threatening to kill them in that sense they’re no different to the desticule circa 2020-2023 WHOA WHO SAID THAT anyway they pretend it’s just a heehee haha jokeyjoke but like. it is 2024 and they STILL can’t engage with conversations about queer dean without talking about deangirls as if they are personally endorsing homophobia! As a result if someone points out that sam makes just as many homophobic jokes as dean does and he’s just slyer about it they flip the fuck out because they’re lowkey projecting and think you’re judging them as hard as they judge you. This is why the mildest criticisms of sam prompt an insane amount of backlash. 

(i talk a little more about this phenomenon here)

and so we come to discussions about sam and classism that feel like people trying to defend him at every turn because they sincerely think we're trying to cancel him and it's pissing me off because if we can't even suggest fictional character sam winchester is maybe a little classist how the hell are we going to address the DERANGED lvls of classism throughout this fandom. i've never been in a fandom where so many people think going to college makes a str8 person better equipped to talk about queerness than actual queer people until i joined spn fandom.

(discussions about racism/racialised misogyny get a lot more complicated and a lot more depressing than anything mentioned above so i'm not approaching that topic for now. "but-" don't care didn't ask plus i probably have more melanin than you. i don't wanna talk about it!!!)

anyway. idk what i'm saying. i think i get where the defensiveness is coming from but it's annoying. what if we just mutually agreed that we're not to blame for spn's bigotry but we also have a responsibility not to reproduce that same bigotry? what if???

EDIT: coming back a day later to say that I do agree with your assertion that a deep conversation could be enough to change them! I just think that a certain part of fandom is allergic to acknowledging ANY flaw at all and that's the biggest hurdle in these discussions.

[ladylilithprime]

Day 14: Favorite Episode

AT ANY GIVEN time during the work day, if you were looking for Sam Wesson, he could most often be found sitting at his desk down in Tech Support with his headset on. He even ate his lunch at his desk, and unless he had been called out to do in-person support or data recovery for one of the many technological luddites employed by Sandover Bridge and Iron, he didn't actually go anywhere from the moment he clocked in to the moment he clocked back out again at the end of the day. His productivity on the job was also the best in the department despite one sour manager complaining about the monster movie figurines on top of his computer and the fact that Wesson could occasionally be seen handling a tech support call while knitting. His attitude on call was still completely professional regardless of what his hands were doing, and the manager had been reprimanded by HR for attempting to incite unnecessary workplace drama and discrimination.

Dean Smith, Vice President of Sales and Marketing, was completely smitten. He had been granted the honor of having Wesson come up to his office once to sort out a problem with his computer that had turned out to be a badly frayed cable hidden among the nest of cables connecting his computer tower to the network router, secondary hard drive, and three separate monitors. Dean had tried to tell himself that his blush was from missing such an obvious problem and not from the sight of a perfectly sculpted ass in tight khaki slacks waving up at him as the younger man had crawled around under his desk, because that was a stern warning from HR about sexual harrassment waiting to happen. Wesson had assured him that it was an easy thing to miss if you were focused on the connection points rather than the cables themselves, even though it had only taken him five minutes of being on his knees sorting through the connections to find it, and if he had noticed Dean's preoccupation with the shape of his lips more than the words they were saying, he hadn't given any indication.

Dean Smith was also, at least according to his long-suffering secretary, a goddamn coward.

"How difficult is it for you to just talk to the man?" Nancy groaned from where she sat on the edge of Dean's desk, ostensibly going over his schedule for the next week.

"Considering he hardly leaves his floor and I always seem to be stuck in meetings?" Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Very. Short of staking out the elevators for when he clocks out and hoping I get on the same one he does, I'm almost tempted to go looking for a suspicious email to open just for an excuse to ask him up here!"

"That would be highly unprofessional and a misuse of company time and resources," Nancy sniffed at him in that tone she had when she was making fun of him and knew he couldn't call her on it. She studied his schedule for a moment, then made a few notes and copied it over to his screen. "There. I've blocked out an hour in your schedule for today around when he's supposed to take his lunch break. Go invite him to lunch, tell him you heard he could recommend a good kosher deli."

"When did I hear that?" Dean blinked at her, startled.

"Just now. I'm telling you," Nancy sighed with a forgiving pat on his shoulder as she got off his desk to head back to her own. "If Adler comes looking for you, I'll tell him you had a very important lunch meeting."

"You're a treasure, Miss Mulligan, and I don't know what I'd do without you!" he called after her.

"Burn out like the overworked star you are!"

CLEARING HIS SCHEDULE for lunch to give him the time to try and get down to Wesson's floor turned out to be the easiest part of it. He ended up having to dart into an elevator going up in order to avoid being seen by Adler, and then he had to ride back down an elevator that seemed to want to stop on every single floor between the top and the Tech Support level. When he finally made it to the correct floor and stepped off the elevator trying not to look too horribly out of place in his buttondown, tie and suspensers surrounded by yellow company polo shirts, he almost chickened out at the sound of raised and exasperated voices. One of the voices was Wesson's, however, and so Dean found himself drifting closer.

"--can't exactly stake out the elevators hoping to catch him between meetings when my ticket list is chocked full all the time," Wesson was saying. Dean rounded the corner of the cubicle farm and caught sight of Wesson's long form leaned back in his spindley chair.

"You could always try hacking his computer to break something so he'd be the one calling in a ticket for you to fix," another of the Tech Support guys suggested from where he was draped half over the top of the cubicle. The skinny man caught sight of Dean and his eyes went wide in panic, but Wesson didn't even notice.

"That would be a completely unprofessional misuse of company time and resources," he said, unconsciously sounding exactly like Nancy had, if slightly more sarcastic. "Remember the elevator incident? I thought he looked familiar and he said--"

"'Save it for the health club'," the other guy chorused with him, making Dean wince. That hadn't been his finest moment, but they'd been in the elevator with Thaddeus Blade from Legal and Hester Wingfield from Accounting and he'd panicked. The guy was starting to look a bit thoughtful now, which was making Dean nervous again. "You know, he might be just as likely to find some excuse to come down here to Morlocktown looking for you..."

"Sure, Ian, because a rising company star like Dean Smith would even have an opening in his schedule to come looking for a nobody tech support monkey on his own time," Wesson scoffed, finally looking up at his coworker, who was still looking directly at Dean. Wesson froze. "....He's behind me, isn't he."

"Good luck, man!" Ian gave a sloppy salute and disappeared behind his cubicle barrier. Wesson closed his eyes and took a deep breath before slowly sitting up and spinning around in his chair to look at Dean.

"So, uh... I probably don't want to know how much of that you heard," he said, looking up with some incredibly effective puppy eyes that Dean suspected he didn't even realize had been deployed.

"If it helps at all, I was contemplating going looking for a deliberately suspicious email to open before my secretary talked me down," Dean offered, his face heating when Wesson looked incredulously up at him. "Nancy's also the one who cleared my lunch break and suggested I come ask you about kosher deli recommendations instead."

"Uh," Wesson blinked, then blinked again and seemed to shake himself. "Yeah, I know a couple places. Vegetarian, too, or is meat okay?"

"I'm good with meat," Dean said quickly, wincing when Wesson coughed and blushed. "Um, I mean... I'm not vegetarian, so I'm good with wherever you wanna lead me." He coughed again, trying to regain a little of his equilibrium. "That is, if you can spare the time for a lunch meeting, Mr Wesson?"

"Not if you're gonna call me Mr Wesson the whole time," his prospective lunch date said dryly as he stood up. Dean tried not to swallow obviously at the way the man being tall enough for him to have to look up was doing things for him. "Call me Sam, Mr Smith."

"Only if you'll call me Dean," he returned, and had the pleasure of seeing Sam Wesson's dimpled smile aimed at him. "Shall we?"

"Yeah, okay."

[episodicnostalgia]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, 123 (May 2, 1988) - “We'll Always Have Paris”

Written by: Deborah Dean Davis & Hanna Louise Shearer Directed by: Robert Becker

The Breakdown

The Enterprise crew are prepping for shore leave (gotta boost crew morale after Tasha’s death, y’know), when a bunch of time-travel-ish space-whimsy plagues the ship by causing people to slightly rewind-and-replay a few seconds of their current conversations/tasks.  It’s a fairly minor inconvenience as far as Galaxy class shenanigans go, but it’s enough for Picard to postpone shore leave for at least 45 minutes (plus commercials). And wouldn’t you just know it, shortly thereafter a distress signal comes in from one Paul Manheim, a renowned scientist whose whole deal involves professionally mucking around with time, so naturally Picard puts two-and-two together.  However, the mere mention of Manheim (a man Picard admits to knowing only by reputation) causes the otherwise stoic Captain to become so tense that even Data starts taking notice.

So what gives?

It just so happens that Paul Manheim is married to a woman (Janice) who used to be Picard’s flame back in the day.  Essentially, our dear Captain ghosted her on the same day he'd agreed to meet with her, to say goodbye before he shipped off to pursue his Starfleet career. You see, he was “afraid he would lose his resolve to leave," since he loved her so much. So, he did a really unkind (one might even say, casually cruel) thing and left without saying anything to, y'know spare HIMSELF the pain. Anyways, breezing-right-past-unpacking-any-of-that, they would tragically never speak again until this episode. But it all works out very amicably, which is nice I guess, and they finally say a farewell the way the way he ought to have the first fucking time. so it all works out*.

*[If I'm being honest though, Janice is a way better sport about the whole thing than I would have been.  Like, she pretty much just lets him off the hook; to my knowledge that’s the last we'll ever hear of it.]

While Picard’s drama plays out on the side, the rest of the episode deals with the weird time-loop phenomenon that Manheim caused via (surprise surprise) a radical experiment gone wrong.  Long-story-short, Manheim created a temporal rift-or-whatever that causes moments in time to replay in inconsistent ways [sometimes you redo a moment in time, and other times you end up running into an earlier version of yourself; basically whatever helps move the plot along].  Apparently Manheim was working on the theory that there are actually infinite dimensions, and that our perception of time is… yada yada yada.  Honestly, I can't remember the explanation, but I promise you it doesn't matter. All we need to know is that somehow Manheim has untethered his consciousness so that he can perceive multiple dimensions (presumably of the “multi-verse” variety) at once, and it’s driving him crazy.  Not only that, but somehow the affect of Manheim’s temporal rift also has cascading universe-ending consequences if left un-mended.

During one of his more lucid moments, Manheim gives the Enterprise gang the necessary codes to bypass his lab's security protocols, and Data beams down to do some obligatory emergency-space-science; in this instance, placing a canister of anti-matter into a time-rift-fixing machine (no time-lab should be without one).  There’s a brief complication where Data has to coordinate the application the anti-matter to a precise countdown (for unspecified plot reasons), but then he splits into three versions of himself (for unspecified temporal reasons) with no way to tell which one of him should insert the antimatter at the end of the countdown (why not all three, you ask? Also unspecified).  Anyways, the middle Data figures out he’s the right one (with no further explanation as to how he came to that conclusion), and he's correct, which is pretty handy.

With the rift patched up, Manheim’s mind is also conveniently restored, and spared from any residual side affects that one might expect from having one’s consciousness volleyed between dimensions.  Thankfully he’s learned his lesson and vows that things will be different between him and Janice, who he has apparently been neglecting (that woman sure can pick ‘em), and this time he’s going to… keep doing his experiments?  But… *checks notes* uh, yeah no, that’s somehow correct. He’s just going to be more careful, moving forward, and apparently that’s good enough for Janice! So the universe can rest easy knowing that Manheim’s work will continue to go unchecked, except he promises to avoid any more catastrophic mistakes!

I certainly wouldn’t have any concerns.

The Verdict

God, this was dull.  I actually had to watch the episode twice, because I was so bored the first time that I zoned out, and forgot what happened. A little digging on memory-alpha reveals production was temporarily halted by the writers strike of ’88, because the script hadn’t been completed, which honestly explains a lot. On the one hand we have Picard grappling with regret and doubt over a lost love from his past, and on the other hand you have Paul Manheim trying to control the flow of time while ignoring his present relationship with the same woman Picard has longed for. I’m not saying it would win awards, but I shouldn’t have to point out the obvious thematic potential between those two threads any more than I already have. But the end result ends up being… just nothing really.

For starters, the relationship between Janice and Picard was just so underwhelmingly civil.  Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate it when adult characters behave like adults, but the point of this story was to address a regrettable choice from Picard’s past. And yet, when the two literally-star-crossed lovers finally meet for the first time in decades, the conflict between them amounts to little more than a quaint conversation, and an acknowledgment that mistakes were made. Janice offers almost immediate forgiveness, while barely (if all all) holding Picard accountable for his actions, or even addressing the longstanding emotional grief. 

Apparently the writers (Shearer and Davis) did want Picard and Janice to do the nasty, but that was kiboshed by the various powers-that-be. Now, I’m not saying that would have necessarily been the right way to go, but it certainly would have been more interesting than what we got.  Even a passionate kiss (or something to that effect) would have gone a long way to selling me on the idea that these two people had longed for each other, not to mention addressing Janice’s strained marriage to Manheim, and the internal conflict she ostensibly is meant to feel.  It’s not like the writers were being at all discreet about ripping off Casablanca, so why remove the one thing from that story to help make this narrative slog halfway interesting?

As for the time-dilation subplot, it just felt thematically disjointed, and ends up becoming kind of an afterthought.  Manheim also has virtually nothing in the way of a character arc.  You’re telling me he was SO obsessed with his work that he became an absent husband with a singular obsession, and in the end he’s still going to keep being obsessed, but he’s also somehow learned his lesson?  The script seems to genuinely back the idea that Manheim’s quest to control time shouldn’t be reevaluated at all (outside of avoiding of repeat the specific errors from his previous attempt), and that he and Janice will somehow be much happier (and safer) this time.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was some behind the scenes editorializing/censorship at work here.

But then again, who cares?

1 star (out of 5)

Additional Observations

You know, for a shining utopia that has rid itself of capitalism’s shackles, there’s still quite an emphasis on concepts like ‘careers’, and officers struggling to maintain steady relationships due to the demands of the job.  Kirk was an absentee father who never had time find a steady relationship, Spock’s betrothed dumped him via gladiatorial combat, Riker and Troi’s on-again-off-again romance was mainly off-again until the movies finally let them settle down, and Worf- …well Worf’s wives just get murdered, but that’s basically the Klingon equivalent of getting dumped. Now we have Picard, who evidently ran like a coward from the love of his life because of his crippling commitment issues. Speaking of the dear Captain…

Picard really IS an asshole: This episode establishes Picard as something of a heartbreaker, but the writing is so nonchalant about it, you almost wouldn’t notice.  This highlights one of the issues I’ve had with this season, generally speaking.  Apparently there was an intentional aversion to addressing character flaws/interpersonal conflicts amongst the crew, even when the story required it (because humanity had advanced beyond conflict and selfishness, you see), yet, Picard has spent much of the first season as a cranky, ill humoured, fuddy duddy (excuse my language). The thing is, I actually kind like how he starts off as cold and over-serious, and then begins to warm as the show progresses, but I have my doubts that the shift was executed with much thought or planning (maybe I’ll change my mind as I watch more episodes). Here especially, there was an opportunity to actually address some of his emotional short-comings, which is sadly overlooked.

Troi-SPIRACY: I have nothing concrete here, but this episode features a pretty classic example of Troi’s “I have abilities and can sense something is wrong with you” nonsense, when she approaches Picard about his emotional bagage. Like, oh really Deanna? Could you “sense” Picard was feeling “strong emotions”?  Surely it wasn’t the fact that he went as rigid as a lamp post at the mention of some random dude’s name, or the fact that he aggressively striking the palm of his hand with a tightly folded towel, did you?  No, I’m positive it must have been your magical powers picking up on the same thing the entire crew was also noticing. I’m telling you, Troi is a fraud who is so good at her job that she’s convinced everyone she has powers.

Holo-Horrors: So Picard loads up a holosuite program of some 24th century Paris Café, which comes fully staffed, and filled with customers (all holograms). Each of these holo-folk seem to have complex internal lives, with access to the full spectrum of human emotion, and relationships with histories. One of them (who is talking to a friend about her relationship woes) reminds Picard of Janice, even though she is otherwise entirely unique. So does that mean the ship computer is generating fully realized sentient background "programs" just for the sake of realism? I dunno man, the holosuite tech really does seem a lot more dystopian than I remember it being, growing up.

[hosseinis]

realizing how many of my ao3 fics i have just simply not linked here lmaogjksdg anyway i already hit 100k+ words this year so here's the february/march roundup to celebrate

saw: chainshipping: you're here and you're now: T, lawrence visits adam in the hospital. part of the son of rage and love series. promises, promises: E, adam rides lawrence and promises to fuck him with a strap-on in the future

true love's sacrifice: T, lawrence passes out before he can escape the bathroom. adam makes a deal with john.

the hint of the century: T, lawrence goes to a gay bar and meets the most beautiful, rugged boy he's ever seen in his damn life. He Has A Crisis. written for turnipoddity.

hoffstrahm: the right to remain silent: M, strahm loses his voice permanently after the tracheotomy. hoffman is a bit of a freak about it. written for jennilah.

your best kept secret and your biggest mistake: eventual E, hoffman and strahm go on a fraught roadtrip where they fall in love entirely by accident. updates semi-biweekly, part of the son of rage and love series.

other: sun in an empty room: T, amanda and logan meet in the abandoned warehouse where john died. they go from there.

no dawn, no day: T, adam gets himself out of the bathroom. part of the son of rage and love series.

by daybreak, we'll be gone: T, john muses on his relationships with his four apprentices.

other fandoms: supernatural: a happy ending: T, destiel. dean gives castiel a massage. it's a little horny. written for paleromantic.

star trek: lean on me: gen, will gets sick and data provides some comfort.

justified: where the sun comes up: T, raylan can't imagine a life without a gun in his hand. tim agrees.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Dr. Fauci ADMITS Social Distancing Was NOT Based on Science, 'Sort Of Just Appeared'

Dr. Fauci ADMITS Social Distancing Was NOT Based on Science, ‘Sort Of Just Appeared’

Another day, another ‘conspiracy theory’ proved correct.

During a closed-door meeting with the Committee on Coronavirus Pandemic.

Dr. Fauci admitted that social distancing had no backing in science; instead, it “sort of just appeared.”

Dr. Anthony Fauci, the public face of the U.S. coronavirus pandemic response, told lawmakers this week that the social distancing recommendations forced on Americans “sort of just appeared” and were likely not based on scientific data.

Fauci, 83, made the startling revelation in a closed-door interview with the House Select Committee on Coronavirus Pandemic. He also testified that the lab leak hypothesis — which was often suppressed — was not a conspiracy theory and that the policies and mandates he promoted may increase vaccine hesitancy in the future, Committee Chair Brad Wenstrup, R-Ohio, wrote in a statement Wednesday.

Wenstrup’s committee has been investigating whether government officials at the time, including Fauci, worked to suppress questions about whether the pandemic was the result of a lab leak in Wuhan, China.

Republicans have accused those officials of pushing the natural origin theory in a bid to protect China.

“It never struck me that six feet was particularly sensical in the context of mitigation,” Dr. Ashish Jha, the dean of the Brown University School of Public Health who served as President Biden’s COVID response coordinator for 15 months, told the New York Times in March 2021.

“I wish the CDC would just come out and say this is not a major issue.”

The New York Post shares more:

Asked about a study in Massachusetts schools that found just three feet of distance between students resulted in “similar” COVID case rates, Fauci said the same month the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was “very carefully” reviewing the data and would “likely” update them.

If they were lying about the social distancing stuff, what else are they lying about?

When are they going to admit that the vaccine was NOT safe?

The evidence is clear, but they need to come clean." https://wltreport.com/2024/01/11/dr-fauci-admits-social-distancing-was-not-based/#:~:text=ADVERTISE%20WITH%20US,to%20come%20clean.

How about if Fauci just sort of DISAPPEARED

[viviseawrites]

Steddie Twister AU

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 — Fujiwhara Effect | Part 4 |

the introduction of the party and one Eddie Munson

During Steve’s grad school years, the group known as The Party take it upon themselves to pop into his office hours at all times to talk shit; they demand his help on homework and chases; fuck, he even gives them dating advice.

They’re good kids. The best, maybe. And they’re damn good at what they do. Mike Wheeler follows in his sister’s footsteps, just as brave and determined as she is, because he also once nearly lost a friend to a storm, and he refuses to repeat that.

Lucas Sinclair keeps the coolest head. While the others overlook crucial data in their excitement, he stays logical and forms the plans, corrals them into order. Steve also once witnessed his little sister Erica cow a dean into expanding the department’s budget somehow. 

Jane “Eleven” Hopper can transcribe data into a spookily accurate map of any storm’s trajectory in what seems like the blink of an eye. “Mad Max” Mayfield drives like a bat out of hell, a daredevil with an iron will behind the wheel. 

And Will Byers, once a near victim of a storm himself, is one of the most observant chasers Steve’s ever met. His ability to understand how a storm will move before it does so seems goddamn supernatural at times. 

Then there’s Dustin. Henderson haunts Steve like a shadow. The kid’s been in some state of hero worship since the D’art ordeal, but he has no trouble calling Steve out for his bullshit or challenging his theories or dragging him along on a chase. 

In time, Steve and Robin and Nancy just become part of the Party itself. They work together and play to each other’s strengths and make a name for themselves among the university and the NSSL itself. 

Only, the kids have another idol in the meteorology program too, and Steve hates it. Because of course they’re attached to Eddie Munson. They play some nerdy game with him, apparently, but Dustin and Mike especially extoll his virtues.

Steve admits he might be jealous. Eddie Munson is his polar opposite. Loud, brash, obnoxious, focused, unapologetic. He plays guitar in a metal band; he DMs for the kids; professors both hate his attitude and love his brain.

Because Eddie Munson is fucking brilliant. He’s wild, but his ideas twist and turn like a mesocyclone, and he comes at problems in ways no one else even imagines. Steve rarely interacts with the guy, but he knows his work.

They circle each other like two hurricanes spinning in the same direction, coming ever so close in their constant dance, before they finally meet and merge. 

Steve thinks he should have seen it coming when he winds up with a broken bottle pressed to his trachea. 

[187days]

Day Eight

I ran my first PLC meeting this morning. I didn't have a ton of stuff on the agenda: some updates from the leadership team, a few reminders (ie- don't forget to submit emergency sub plans to the substitute coordinator), and a request that all 10-12 teachers give the US citizenship test (which is now a state graduation requirement: all students have to pass with a 70% or better) before the end of the month so we can get some initial data. I was planning to let everyone do subject-specific planning after that, but we got to talking about the test, working on special ed. modifications, etc... and then Dean 1 walked in and joined the conversation.

So, hey, that's cool.

I'm getting the hang of this department head thing. Slowly but surely.

I'm getting the hang of teaching half block classes, too. Global Studies was pretty perfect today: ten minutes of vocab practice, followed by a slideshow on world geography (visuals for the information they read about last class, some surprising maps, some data about global poverty and conflict) to get some big ideas in students' heads. We discussed- and in some sections that went better than others- right up to the bell, so that was awesome.

Oh, but there was a solid ten minute distraction in my third section. A wasp got into the classroom, and I tried unsuccessfully to either shoo it out the window or kill it with my broom. There was shrieking, there was laughter. Then one of the boys whacked it with a book.

So... that happened.

Moving on.

My APGOV students read and discussed HB10- the "parental bill of rights," which was tabled last spring. We went on several tangents during that discussion about how laws are enforced, and what happens when enforcement mechanisms are unclear, etc, etc.. Then they read the amendment to RSA189:11 that made the US citizenship test a graduation requirement. Their first attempt at it is tomorrow, so we took a look at the questions, played a Kahoot, and then I asked them what they thought. Views in the room were mixed: some students thought the information on the test was trivial, some thought it was important, some thought that if immigrants need to know it than so should natural born citizens. We got into a discussion about what other information they thought should be on the test (for immigrants and for students like them) instead of or in addition to what's actually there. That was really interesting.

I stayed fairly late- till 4:30ish- because I had to finish the answer key for the test, and I had some classwork from Global Studies to grade. The downside of half blocks: twice as many students as I used to have, so grading takes longer. It's all good, though. I could've left it for the morning, I chose not to. And now it's done!

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Man’s Best Friend with Benefits: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

!! Warnings: stillborn, baby in dies in womb, trauma associated with that, explicit (minor) talk of baby dying, heartbreak, really heavy angst, canon angst and violence !!

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

He heads back to the police station to further question Ed since he seemed very suspicious last time. At the end of the hallway Garth is in is a door, and when it opens, both Ed and Josh exit out of it. Josh is holding a thick file in his left hand, and Garth can't help but think it's for the case he's trying to get information on.

"Gentlemen," Garth greets them.

"Still investigating this shitty little case? I'm awed the Bureau has so much time on its hands," Ed comments.

"Right, well, we have some individual discretion to pursue cases."

Garth glosses over the file in Josh's hands and sees James' name on it. That's the file he needs, but it looks like they won't give it up so easily.

"I'll catch up later, Ed," Josh says and walks away, taking the file with him.

"At some point, cases like this go cold, as I'm sure you're aware. Just not enough to keep them floating."

"No new leads, then?"

"No, and it's drifting towards the back burner, really. We just don't have the manpower."

"Then it must have been tough to lose a valuable resource like Lieutenant Frampton. See, he and I caught a case together a while back."

"Well, he's not lost to me. He's on leave," Ed stutters.

"I remember he said he was the youngest guy here to ever make lieutenant. Must have been something special."

"No, this place is run like a dogsled--no stars, just grunts. One mutt goes lame, another one pops up and slogs through the slush. Agent."

Ed leaves before Garth can ask him any more questions. Something is definitely wrong here, and Ed is hiding something. Ed and Josh walked into a room not far from where Garth is, and when he tries to open the door, it's locked. Maybe Sam will have better luck with Portia.

After Sam had calmed down, he and Portia drove to a large garage that seemed abandoned. They were secretly meeting with another one from her world about this since the people in the club were of no use to them.

"So, this warlock we're meeting with is a snitch?" Sam asks once he parks.

"Cops have snitches all over town. James uses Drexyl when he suspects someone in the community."

An orange gremlin with one brown stripe down each side drives through the open garage door and stops just feet from where Sam and Portia are parked. They both get out to greet Drexyl who calmly gets out and walks over to them.

"Drexyl, this is Sam."

"A wiccan from Detroit. I heard. So, here's the deal, there is absolutely no word on the street about any witch-hexing another one."

"Are you sure there's not any kind of spell?"

"Look, Detroit, I pride myself on reliable sourcing. There is, however, a lot of chatter about our James," Drexyl says.

"What kind of chatter?"

"That he's gone ripper. Someone's circulating the rumor that he's set at full kill."

"One of us?" Portia gasps.

"If the cops get wind of it, arrest James, and find out what he really is, that exposes the rest of us. You know that can't happen."

"What does that mean?" Sam wonders, getting a bit confused.

"They're gonna give James two choices: leave or get killed. Witches appreciate a grand gesture."

"I won't let him do that."

"Well, the community might do it for him."

Drexyl has no other information, so he leaves the two of them and backs away from the abandoned garage. Sam and Portia have no other option but to return back to James' house. Garth is waiting for them when they return since James is still chained to his bed.

"Hey, I've been going over Bobby's data. Portia might not be wrong. Turns out there is a spell for implanting images into another person's brain."

"Really?" Sam asks.

"Yeah."

"So, James could be convinced he killed those other people without ever touching them. Maybe it is somebody else," Sam says hopefully.

"Yeah, who's going to a hell of a lot of trouble to make it look like James. According to Ed Stoltz, they don;t have anything, but I know they got something. I saw the  tech guy who's working the case, and he had a huge file folder marked 'James Frampton'," Garth reveals.

"Ed didn't mention that before."

"No, he didn't."

Garth, Portia, and Sam walk into the back bedroom where James is lying there calmly.

"Portia tells me my friends in the community want me burned at the stake," he tries to joke.

"It's not looking good right now. The cops may have more on the case than they're saying, including a big file on you. I get the feeling whatever they have is under lock and key at the precinct in room C-110," Garth says.

"We need to break in."

"Yeah, of course. We'll just break into a police station into a locked office that is crawling with officers. Why didn't I think of that?" Sam says sarcastically.

"Sam, a witch can go to a place without having to go to a place. It's called astral projection. I can project my awareness anywhere from the comfort of right here. These have got to go," James says, motioning to his iron chains. "Irons on, no magic. No magic, no break-in."

"Okay, but only if we can go with you," Sam says.

James has no choice but to agree to them. Sam removes the shackles from his wrist, and he and Garth take a seat on either side of him. James grabs both Sam and Garth's hand while Portia stands in front of them.

"James, are you sure you're still even able to do this?" Portia asks worriedly.

"Just close your eyes," James says, ignoring Portia's question. "Whatever I see, I'll pass on to you, too."

James chants something in Latin, and suddenly, Sam and Garth are taken on an astral plane ride. It's like their souls are lifted from their bodies and being transported through the air all the way to the police station. It's as if they have a third-person view of themselves and the world around them.

They're brought to the police station and to the locked door that Garth saw Ed and Josh go into. Once inside, they see files on files about James. There are pictures and case files on the walls, and Ed is inside watching Phillppe sign a witness statement. Philippe is Spencer's familiar, one of the people that Sam and Portia talked to at the club.

Suddenly, the vision ends, and everyone is brought back into their own bodies. Sam and Garth take a second to get themselves situated, but James is pissed.

"Stoltz is building a case against me."

"What?!" Portia growls angrily.

"Ed has always wanted a breakthrough case. Nailing a renegade cop would qualify. In my first case, they dropped him as the lead detective, and they went with me."

"Do you think this is payback for that?"

"He can't just arrest you. He needs evidence. He needs proof," Portia panics.

"He's got it! He's got everything!" James yells.

"From who?"

"Phil, the cat," Sam pants.

"Philippe," Portia growls.

James gets so angry that his powers go haywire. Sam tries to calm him down, and he can't help but think that if you were here, you'd be able to help James in more ways than Sam or Garth could. You'd be able to use your powers to help James calm down, and help him catch whoever is doing this.

Instead, you're about to receive the worst news you might ever get in your life.

Dean finally managed to get to your room after calming down himself. Joanna is still with the social worker because he does not want her seeing you after you get the news you will never hold your son. You're just waking up from surgery and notice Dean closes the door right behind him.

"Hey, what happened?" you panic slightly.

"How are you feeling?"

Dean tried so hard to get the swelling around his eyes to go down since he was crying so much, but he doesn't think you notice because you're worried about other things right now.

"Tired, but okay. What happened?"

"You fell and hit your head on the side of the laundry machine. Sweetheart, you had a brain bleed. You were taken into surgery, but you're going to be just fine. Your magic healed you of the injury, and they expect you to go home in a few days."

As he is explaining, you're looking around the room in confusion. Your hand immediately goes to your stomach, and you gasp when you don't feel your children inside.

"Where's our kids? Joanna?"

"Joanna is with a social service worker. She is just fine. Maryann--"

"Please tell me our baby girl's okay," you whimper.

"She is in the NICU right now, and they're going to keep her here for two months. They want to monitor her progress, but the doctor says that she's very healthy for her age. She's going to be okay."

"And our son?" A fresh wave of tears comes for Dean, and the second you see the water in his eyes, you shake your head in denial. "No. Do not tell me anything but he's okay. Please, Dean, tell me our son is okay."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

His words flow out of his mouth, but you're not really hearing what he has to say. You're drowning in your own fears and heartache. After letting it sink in that you're never going to hold him and make memories with him, you tip your head back and just sob. Dean scoots closer to your bed and grabs your hand, leaning in to hold you close.

Dean will show you his foot and hand prints, the bracelet, and the lock of his hair once you've calmed down, but you realize you'll never be able to come back for this. You've provided him with a home for seven months, and now he's never going to see his new one with the rest of his family.

Sam must know by now, and you can't imagine what he is thinking.

Sam and Garth were no match for James once it sunk in that his coworkers and his friends betrayed him. Even Portia was no match for him and his powers. He basically shunned her away while Sam and Garth got the brutal end of his wrath. James needed to get the two men out of the way, and he'd be able to handle things his way.

As soon as Sam and Garth came to, they rushed over to the club since they had a feeling James was going to go there and confront Spencer. SAm sneaks in through the back and overhears James and Spencer's conversation. He peeks over the side and sees Philippe lying on one of the tables with Spencer behind him.

Spencer reaches down to Philippe and snaps his neck as if he meant nothing to him.

"He was always spineless. Now literally."

"It was you. You were behind all this?"

"I humbly accept credit."

"You made me think I was a killer. Ed Stoltz put you up to it. He found out you were a witch and tried to blackmail you," James accuses him.

"You're not using your thinking cap, Jimmy. It was actually crucial that he didn't believe in the occult. I'd say he's built quite a solid case, don't you?"

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Neither of you ever considered my feelings," Spencer scoffs.

"Portia? This is about her?"

"Can you imagine the insult when she chose you? I wanted her as my soulmate the moment I saw her."

"She was meant to be my familiar."

"Oh, she's way more than familiar, isn't she? When she picked you as master, I endured it. When you two went all Bella and Edward, broke the code, and put your passions before the community rules, well, the entitlement was too much. Your total ruination seemed appropriate." Sam has had enough of this and knows he needs to step in. Him and Garth enter the room, making themselves known. "The wiccan from Detroit."

Before Sam has a chance to say anything, Spencer tosses both Garth and Sam into the wall behind them with his powers. James throws a bolt of magic at Spencer, and the older man chuckles.

"Seriously, you want to take me on?"

Spencer sends his own energy beam at James, causing him to stiffen up. Spencer raises James into the air, and he cries out in pain at what Spencer is doing to him. Sam and Garth get up, and Sam takes out the bottle they were going to use on James. Instead, they're going to use it on Spencer.

"Hurry," Garth urges.

While still holding James in the air, Spencer puts a hand up towards the two hunters and sends a beam into both Sam and Garth. They both freeze in place as their eyes turn the same color as Spencer's magic.

"It's not only James' head I can get inside."

Whatever Spencer is doing, it's causing Sam to relive all of the bad things that's ever happened to him. Him taking demon blood, fighting with his dad, falling into Hell with Michael and Lucifer, when his soul was burning in Hell, and every bad thing he's ever done while being soulless. Garth is experiencing his own pain as well, and neither of them can do anything but stand there and take it.

Portia, in her dog form, comes running into the room and jumps on Spencer, quickly trying to take him out. When Spencer hits the ground, his hold releases on everyone. James falls back onto the ground, and Sam and Garth are able to move again. Sam quickly takes out the bottle while Garth takes out his match. Portia and Spencer still continue to fight, but it gives Sam the time he needs to do the spell.

With a few words in Latin, he throws the concoction onto Spencer once he throws Portia off him. A swirl of smoke engulfs Spencer as he turns into blood and ash. Portia, now in her human form, rushes over to James who meets her in the middle. With Spencer out of the picture, James' life should go back to normal. There is still the issue with Ed and the case he is building against him, but James and Portia can handle that on their own.

Sam would really love to stay and help James with his problem, but his nephew just died and he really needs to get back to Kansas. It was a long and tiring drive, but Sam and Garth made it back just in time for you to have calmed down. You were given the chance to see Robert in the same way Dean did, and you two grieved together inside the tiny OR room. He will be cremated so you can take him home, but you have someone else to see right now.

"Hey, I got here as quickly as we could," Sam says.

"You're here now," you cry. "That's all that matters."

"I am so sorry."

Both Sam and Garth each give you a hug, but they're not the ones you want to see right now. With your doctor's permission, you have a nurse wheel you to the NICU so you can see your baby girl. She is inside one of the incubators to help her grow stronger, but you're allowed to stick your hand inside and touch her so she knows her mom is by her side.

"Hi, my angel," you whisper and stick your hand inside. You run the back of your finger down her rosy cheeks, letting the tears fall freely. You move your finger to her hand, and she grips your finger tightly. She knows you're here. "I can't wait to take you home. You get better, okay? Mommy and Daddy are waiting for you to come home. You have a family and a big sister, and your brother loves you so very much even though he can't be here with us."

Sam and Garth stay off to the side while you and Dean talk to your little girl. You have two kids now, and you will do everything in your power to give them the life they deserve--a life full of happiness, love, and adventure.

x

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[zerogate]

The mathematical discipline that specializes in the evaluation of experimental data is statistics. Professor Jessica Utts is chair of the statistics department at the University of California at Irvine. In 2016, she was also president of the American Statistical Association (ASA), the world’s largest community of professional statisticians.

In her presidential address to the ASA, speaking at a meeting attended by six thousand statisticians from sixty-two countries around the world, Utts said something that undoubtedly surprised many of the attendees. I quote a segment of her talk at length because it’s directly relevant to understanding the evidence for psi. She said the following:

For many years I have worked with researchers doing very careful work in [parapsychology], including a year that I spent full-time working on a classified project for the United States government, to see if we could use these abilities for intelligence gathering during the Cold War….

At the end of that project I wrote a report for Congress, stating what I still think is true. The data in support of precognition and possibly other related phenomena are quite strong statistically, and would be widely accepted if it pertained to something more mundane. Yet, most scientists reject the possible reality of these abilities without ever looking at data! And on the other extreme, there are true believers who base their beliefs solely on anecdotes and personal experience. I have asked the debunkers if there is any amount of data that would convince them, and they generally have responded by saying, “probably not.” I ask them what original research they have read, and they mostly admit that they haven’t read any. Now there is a definition of pseudo-science—basing conclusions on belief, rather than data!

-- Dean Radin, Real Magic