#Grangeville

[eopederson]

Walker's Jewelry - Photos - Music, Grangeville, Idaho, 2022.

[pink-sparkly-witch]

Tequila

Summary: Tequila has a lot to answer for when Y/N wakes up naked in Dean’s bed, but once the shock wears off, she realises that maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Rating: Teen

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mentions of smut, angst, fluff, feelings, friends to lovers

Word Count: 1k

A/N: Another December Drabble for you all to enjoy!

My Masterlist     AO3    Ko-Fi

Consider reblogging to spread this far and wide around this Hellsite, or leaving a comment. It really does fuel a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or too cool for people to know you read fanfic and you don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

The sun streams through the motel’s threadbare curtains, rudely awakening you from a deep, drunken sleep. Your head is pounding, and there’s a ringing in your ears that comes with the vague memory of the loud music playing at the bar last night.

It’d been a hard hunt to stomach: Lamia, a child-eating demon, had decided to take up residence in Grangeville, Idaho, and once you’d blasted her ass back to hell, you and Dean really, really needed to let off a lot of steam.

Luckily, there was a dive bar next door to the motel, so neither of you had to stay sober enough to drive home, and you’d both been well and truly shit-faced. You’d hustled a small fortune playing pool; he’d sung karaoke, and there were tequila shots… lots and lots of tequila shots.

A snore from behind you made you freeze. It sounded like Dean, but that couldn’t be right. Why would you and Dean be in the same bed? Whoever it was rolled over and slid their arm over your waist, pulling you into their body. You could feel something hard poke the back of your thigh… at least he’s packing, you thought before the mystery man spoke.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Suddenly, the whole night’s events come flooding back to you at once.

One tequila shot turned into two. Two turned to four. Four turned to six, and before you knew it, you were stumbling through the door to Dean’s room, lips attached to his, nails raking through his hair and over his scalp and neck, tongues dancing a passionate tango while your clothes flew in every direction.

Dean made love to you so deliciously good. He was sweet and gentle at times. Rough and hard when you needed it. In all the years you’d known him, this was the first time you’d ended up in his bed, yet he knew your body better than you did. 

The green-eyed hunter had known how to pleasure you better than anyone had before him. Touching places no one had ever touched before. Taking you higher than you’d ever been, making you scream his name so loud the occupant next door had banged the wall.

It’s overwhelming, and you can feel last night’s alcohol swirl dangerously in your stomach, threatening to make an appearance. You lifted the covers and glanced down. Yep, definitely naked.

Pulling the sheet tighter to your body, you cautiously turn around, your worst fear confirmed as Dean’s twinkling green orbs and cocky smirk greet you.

“Well, this changes things!” he grins, and you can’t decide if you want to punch his painfully beautiful face or kiss him.

“Oh, God!” you gasp, covering your face with your hands. “This can’t be happening.”

“Y/N?” Dean asks, concern evident in his voice. “You okay?”

“I can’t believe I did you—I mean that. I can’t believe I did that,” you mumble.

“Come on, don’t be like that! We had a great time. I got you off six times, sweetheart! That’s a personal record for me!”

Dean’s words are meant to be comforting, but they do the opposite and only embarrass you more. The urge to kiss him is gone, leaving you wanting to punch his painfully beautiful, smug face.

“Seriously, Y/N, are you okay? Did I hurt you in any way? Did you not want that to happen? Because I gotta say, you were all over me at the bar, and I get that we had a lot of tequila and were drunk, but I thought you wanted me, too?”

Now that Dean had put his cocky persona aside and the real Dean was in the room, you’d changed your mind again and wanted to kiss him.

“No, Dean. I wanted it to happen. I have for an embarrassingly long time. What I don’t want is to be just another notch on your bedpost. It’s why I’ve never given in to your very persuasive charms over the years. Because I want to be more than just one night to you. And I know that’s not what you want—”

“Woah, Y/N, slow down!” Dean shot up on the bed and turned you to face him. “Did you not hear me when I said this changes things? Do you honestly think I’d risk what we have for one night? I’ve wanted you since the day we met, and last night was the first time since we met that you’ve shown any interest in me. And sweetheart, I haven’t been shy in pulling out my best moves for you.” His words and body language are so expressive and genuine, and you know he’s not feeding you a line. He likes you and he’s wanted you for a long time. All of his flirting and come-ons were real.

“And I thought ‘this is it. I finally get to call her my girl’. Maybe I shouldn’t have followed through with it when we were drunk, but I don’t regret taking my chance with you. Please tell me you don’t regret what happened.” Dean cups your cheeks to keep your gaze on his. The pain crossing his features breaks your heart. You want to tell him you feel the same way, but it’s risky.

“Honestly, I don’t remember much from last night, just bits and pieces, but I know enough to know that if that happened, I wanted it to happen,” you say, trying to ignore the look of Dean’s disappointment at your lack of memory from the night before.

“Do you really want me?” you ask, terrified this was a tequila-induced dream.

“Since the day I met you. And if you’re interested, I’d like to see where we’d go. Together. As a couple.” For once, Dean looks incredibly shy and vulnerable, making your heart swell.

“I’d like that too, De,” you smile, giggling when he grins boyishly.

“Yeah?” he checks, and you nod.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“Then, I think you should lay back and let me refresh your memory of last night,” Dean grins as he gently pushes you back down on the mattress and pulls your legs apart.

Tags: @acitygrownwillow @akshi8278 @ashbatz @candy-coated-misery0731 @chriszgirl92 @deans-baby-momma @deans-spinster-witch @deansbbyx @deanwanddamons @duncanhillscoffeecups @foxyjwls007 @giggles1026 @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @hoboal87 @impala67rollingthroughtown @iprobablyshipit91 @jackles010378 @jamerlynn @jc-winchester @k-slla @kazsrm67 @kmc1989 @lacilou @ladysparkles78 @leigh70 @lyarr24 @michecolegate @mrsjenniferwinchester @nancymcl @negans-lucille-tblr @nelachu2423 @octoberclidan @perpetualabsurdity @roseblue373 @sandlee44 @sexyvixen7 @snackles87 @spnbaby-67 @spnwoman @stixnstripesworld @stoneyggirl2 @suckitands33 @synmorite @tristanrosspada-ackles @twinkleinadiamondsky @waters-2567 @winchestergirl1720

[paintedbirdriver-blog]

TLLH OC: Oskar Meyer Koster!

I THOUGHT I POSTED THIS ?????????? XD

Oskar it´s a German second generation in France, his parents went to grangeville for a temporary job when they were young but decided to stay there. The Meyer family specializes in sheep wool so they have LOTS AND LOTS of sheeps. He likes taking care of them and, even if he is not the older brother, he has the highest probability of inherit the family business. His family is totally not hiding french resistance members.

Chill guy.

His mother last name is Koster(?

[zmediaoutlet]

soon or never

for @wincestwednesdays - choices

A hand on Sam's shoulder. Hard at first, making him jerk like waking up from a coma, and then softer. "Hey, hey." He blinks, sniffs, wipes his own hand hard over his face. Takes a few seconds to see: the sun sliding toward setting, over a long low motel, with a nearly-empty lot, in which the Impala's parked in front of room number eleven, the engine off and Sam pulled out of a dead sleep with Dean, yes, still holding his shoulder. Warm through his spare jacket.

"Where," he says. Croaks. Jeez.

"Boise," Dean says, and Sam frowns. That's—three hours from Grangeville, the way Dean drives. He thought they'd be a lot closer to home before they stopped for the night. He squints over the seat and Dean's mouth goes thin, and then he shrugs, and takes his hand off Sam's shoulder. "You were moaning in your sleep. Not the fun kind."

Room eleven is blue carpet, blue thick curtains, blue blankets on the two queen beds. Two. Sam's still kind of dizzy. Not enough sleep and too much bloodloss. Dean brings in all the bags himself, moving around where Sam's pinned in the entryway, and then he says, "You planning on taking up work as the human statue?" and so Sam moves—to the table, with its blue-upholstered chair. He tries not to flinch when he sits but that's a lost cause. He keeps holding the bandage on his side. Even with all the stitches it feels like his guts might just spill out, everywhere. Ruin all this blue.

"Dude, you are out of it," Dean says. A thin kind of jocular. Somehow when Sam wasn't paying attention he lost his jacket, his boots. Rolling up his bright-red sleeves. "You getting your weird antibiotic thing again?"

Could be. A little dizzy, a little off. His stomach warm, partway to queasy. There's a hole in it, so. Queasy isn't so bad, as these things go. "Guess that means you're not gonna want the hot & sour I just ordered, huh," Dean says. Sam wrinkles his nose and Dean huffs. "You're gonna have to use your words at some point, buddy-boy."

"I'm not your buddy, pal," Sam says. Throat crackly again but he tries to smile.

"I'm not your pal, champ," Dean says, eyes crinkling at the corners, but he's hardly smiling at all.

Dean brings Sam a glass of cool water from the tap. Sam sips, careful. He's watched for a second, for what Sam doesn't know—in case the glass explodes and cuts him to ribbons, in case he chokes on water and suffocates on dry land—but then Dean seems satisfied that he won't immediately expire and goes to dig in his bag, set on the bed closer to the door. The room full of light, suffusing gold against the sea of blue, and it's good just to sit and look at his brother. The tips of his hair backlit amber. That red shirt, which somehow escaped the day without bloodstains. His square capable hands, tugging out pajama pants, and his forearms ringed in bruises, and his face the familiar set of—just getting to the next thing, and the next thing after that. Like if he sits down he won't ever get up.

"Why am I always the one getting hurt?" Sam says. Dean jerks. "Hole in my gut, last night. My arm, last year. Basically in a coma the year before that. When's it your turn?"

Dean leans one thigh against the bed, pajama pants held up against his stomach. After a second just looking at his bag, he says: "Broke my leg, back when that Levi nearly caught us at Bobby's."

"That when I went into a coma the first time?" Sam says, bright, and Dean snorts and says, "Don't think that was the first time, Sammy," but he says it a little more relaxed.

The water did help, and the sitting up in the light, and just—Dean. Here, and not somewhere with a monster where Sam didn't know what he was doing. If he was okay. Sam takes another moment to drink him in, until Dean finally looks up from his bag and meets his eyes, and Sam smiles again and Dean—Sam doesn't know what that expression is, but Dean's here instead of in some black pit in his head and so that's good enough for Sam.

It's hard to take his jacket off sitting down, strains his gut. "Don't pull your stitches," Dean says. "Hey, don't roll your eyes. That's some high quality fake insurance paying for those stitches."

"Doctor would've done it for free," Sam says. A grunt. He gets free of the second sleeve and drops it on the table. Boots then, but—

"Oh, this is pathetic," Dean says, but soft, and Sam stops toeing at the heel when Dean's suddenly there, on his knees on the blue carpet. His hand sure, dragging down the back of Sam's calf, and Sam picks his foot up obediently when Dean taps the heel and lets Dean tug it off. He makes a face and—yeah, that's not great. He sets the one boot down, though, and Sam gives him the other foot and Dean pulls him clear, and then just—holds Sam's foot, braced against his thigh. Fine with Sam, who wiggles his toes inside his socks. "Don't try to fumigate the room, man," Dean says, nose wrinkled. "Swear, you could've just waved these things at the werewolves and they woulda gone down, quick."

"You love it," Sam says. Dean licks his lips, and presses them together. His eyes some other place.

Dean's fingers flex around his ankle. Sam presses down with his toes, rocks a little, and when Dean looks up Sam raises his eyebrows. Dean shakes his head, but he slides his hands up Sam's shin, and then go around the back of his knee, up the back of his thigh. Squeeze there, hard. Hard enough it hurts, but then the muscle shocks into softness, and Sam sighs, and so then back down to his calf, Dean's fingers moving in hard firm circles. To the tendons in his ankle, squeezing, so that Sam scoots down further into the chair, his body turning slowly to jelly. "Oh, yeah?" Dean says, quiet, and picks up Sam's other foot to set on his other thigh, and repeats the whole process—not making it sleazy, or like he's trying to get Sam going, but just—making all the parts of Sam that are sore as hell after nearly two days in the dark hunted woods back into something that feels like his again. Or like Dean's again. Hard to tell anymore where the line between those lies. These days Sam isn't looking that hard.

When Dean's finished with the left leg he slides his hand back up Sam's calf, hooking there behind his knee. Quiet on his knees, and quiet in the room, too. Not even the sound of traffic outside. Just the two of them breathing, in all this blue. Dean's bruised forearms, and his throat ringed in murky purple, too, and dark under his eyes. The doctor, after stitching up the bullet hole but before she gave Sam the bottle of antibiotics, telling him to look out for his brother.

He lets his feet slide off to the outside of Dean's thighs, and reaches out a hand. Dean ignores it but lifts up on his knees, between Sam's legs, and Sam touches the corner of his scabbed eye and his jaw with too-thick stubble and drags a thumb down the column of his throat. Feels how it bobs. Waits, then, relaxed in the chair, while Dean unbuttons his flannel shirt, and lifts his undershirt, and touches the bandage. Running his fingers along the tape.

"Gonna rip some hair out when we gotta change that," Dean says. His eyes tight at the corners. "Free wax day at the spa."

"Lucky me," Sam says, dry, and watches the air go out of Dean.

He could ask. Right now, he could ask and he'd get the truth. Only—what's the point of asking a question you already know the answer to?

"Hey, Dean," he says, soft. Dean's eyes meet his. Everything in them, unsaid. Sam smiles, small. "When we get home, am I getting another massage?"

Dean scoffs. Stands up using Sam's thighs to brace—"Oof," Sam says, gamely—and Dean says, "You're gonna be lucky to get any at all, if you don't shower off all that werewolf stank." Sam smiles bigger and Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah, you're adorable."

A knock on the motel room door, then—the Chinese delivery—and before Dean goes Sam catches his forearm, squeezes. Dean takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says, quiet.

Sam watches him take the delivery, tip the kid in cash. The room filling immediately with the smell of fried wontons because Dean always asks for a triple serving. "You eating, or what?" Dean says, dumping the bags on the table, and Sam sits up straight, ignoring the strain on his gut. "I'm eating," he says, and Dean sets the carton of soup firmly in front of him, and Sam thinks—if he hadn't made it back in time—

But he did, and Dean's alive and sitting here, bitching about how they put in way more broccoli than beef, so there's no more call to think about it. He eats his soup, and steals Dean's wontons.

[tommy-gunn-4077-13]

The Long Long October Chalenge

Part 3

Day 7-9 Season

Wasn't sure what was meant by "Season(s)" but I thought I would draw the first winter that Ernest, Collette and Muddy spent in Grangeville since in the show they breezed past their experience in winter (which I mean I get because they have to focus on the main story at hand).

Don't know what was harder, coloring Ernest's hair or drawing/coloring the club house.

Hope you guys like it, more to come!

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

Something Stupid

Just a one shot coda to Red Meat (11x17) that I'm not sure how to tag. It's not explicitly wincest but it's also not not wincest, you know? Weirdly close, boundaries what boundaries sort of thing.

Sam/Dean, but also maybe more Sam&Dean, idek, they do kiss but it's not that kind of kiss, except maybe it kinda is??? Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.

words: 2765

read it on AO3

~~~

It was a nineteen hour drive back to the Bunker, they did it in seventeen. Dean insisted on driving the whole way, with only the fewest necessary pit stops to piss and refuel. And even with long hours of sleep to the soothing rumble of the Impala, better than any skeezy Magic Fingers bed as far as Sam was concerned, he gave a groaning sigh of relief when he unfolded himself from the passenger seat and stood, carefully stretching, in the Men of Letters garage. 

“How’s the side?” Dean asked, eyes on Sam’s stomach, where he’d had to dig a bullet out of him less than two days ago, as he opened the trunk and grabbed out their duffles.

“Sore, but, uh, the meds are still doing their thing, so, not too bad.”

Dean quietly grunted and gave a nod. 

Sam knew, before he offered, that Dean wouldn’t let him carry his own bag, so he wasn’t surprised by the gruff, “I got it,” as his brother shut the trunk and started around towards him and the stairs down into the rest of the Bunker.

He still didn’t know what Dean had done while they’d been separated back in Grangeville, but he knew him and couldn’t help but see the extra weight he was carrying that was affecting him way more than a couple of duffle bags. He turned and fell into step beside him.

“You okay?” he asked.

A rapid flash of emotion played over Dean’s face before it settled into a weary smile. 

Huh, his faking it smile used to be so much brighter, and the thought rolled over Sam in a wave of loss.

“We’re home, I’m good.” Dean said through the smile that was still miles away from his eyes. The emphasis on the first word wasn’t lost on Sam.

They both took the stairs a little slow, stiff and sore. Dean’s left knee audibly crunching as he bent it, something that had started up a couple of years ago. He insisted it didn’t hurt, that it sounded worse than it felt, but on days like today Sam silently doubted him.

Dean set both bags down on the map table and rested his hands on them for a moment. Normally, when they returned from a hunt, they’d both sort their stuff, throw a load of the grossest clothes into the washing machine, and put their gear away before crashing. Sometimes though, the crashing came first and Sam definitely felt like this was one of those times. He started to move off towards the hallway that led to his room.

“You hungry?” Dean asked suddenly, pulling Sam up short. “We’ve barely eaten in days. Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Sam wasn’t hungry, not even remotely, and he was fairly certain that Dean wasn’t either.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good,” he said anyway.

Dean tilted his head towards the doorway that led to the kitchen and started to walk the long way around the map table ensuring that Sam would be ahead of him, where he could see him. Something clicked, even when his eyes had been on the road, driving back to the bunker, Dean hadn’t really looked away from Sam, always keeping him in his periphery, his gaze flicking over to verify that his brother was actually there and still breathing. And he was still doing it, still keeping Sam where he could see him, like he was afraid that if he took his eyes off of him for more than a moment, Sam would somehow vanish.

They’d both had so many (too many) close calls, brushes with death, some of which were painted in fast, broad, vague strokes, an impression of the end. While some were full, layered, oil paintings with photo-realistic detailing, way too real to just shrug off. Sam got it, he understood the struggle to settle and accept that they’d managed to slip past Death one more time, that they were both still here, still together.

So he wandered into the kitchen, Dean right on his heels. And as Dean busied himself throwing together a couple of sandwiches, Sam pulled two beers from the fridge, because even though he had no idea what time it actually was, they’d been up for so long, so fucking long, and the beer would help wash down the sandwiches. Sam ate his without tasting anything, mechanically, methodically consuming it simply to make Dean happy. They ate in companionable silence.

Still, the worry about what Dean may have done (definitely did) was beginning to loom up around them again, awkward and ominous. He found he didn’t have the energy to deal with it right then. He cleared his throat.

“Iron Maiden’s playing in Chicago next week, think we could still get tickets?”

Dean nodded, thinking about that, “Yeah, worth a try, and, uh, Scorpions is gonna be in St. Louis in May. 50th anniversary tour. That’d be cool to see.”

It was Sam’s turn to nod. “Wow, fifty years. That’s, that’s a long run.”

Dean lifted his beer, “To old guys who still rock.”

Sam huffed out a laugh and clicked his bottle against Dean’s, but as he drained the rest of his beer, his thoughts were on how impossibly exhausting forty more years of their own brand of rocking felt.

When they were done and had cleaned up, Dean looked at him. “How’re you doing?”

“Tired.”

“Yeah, me too. Come on, off to bed with you.”

Sam wandered towards his room, Dean right beside him still. When they got to the point where they’d have to separate to go to their rooms, Dean asked, “You good to get that bandage changed before you crash?”

“I, uh, I forgot to grab the kit, would you mind...”

“Yep. Get changed, I’ll be right back.”

In his room, Sam stripped out of his jeans and underwear, replacing them with a clean pair of shorts and sweatpants. Dean strolled in as Sam was pulling his tee shirt over his head, packs of gauze pads, medical tape, and a tube of antibiotic ointment in hand.

“Whoa, look at you. You’re basically one big bruise.”

Sam grimaces as he lowers his left arm back down. “Yep. That’ll happen when you get thrown through a table by a werewolf and then shot.”

Dean began carefully peeling off the old gauze. “Yeah, but then you took down three of them after being mostly dead all night.” 

Sam sucked a sharp breath through his teeth as the part of the bandage that was stuck to the scabbed over wound pulled free. “After I killed that first one.”

Dean dabs at Sam’s stitched up bullet wound with the ointment and then peels open a fresh, sterile gauze pad

“So that’s four for me and…”

Dean places the gauze against Sam’s side, grabs his left hand and places it over the gauze, holding it in place while he rips a piece of tape.

“... and, uh, one for you.”

Instead of getting annoyed at Sam’s competitive tone, Dean just grins proudly up at him. “Yeah, you did good, Sammy.”

He finished taping the gauze and then tidied up as Sam tugged a clean shirt over his head.

“Think fast.”

Despite feeling like he’d been thrown through a table, shot, and then came dangerously close to bleeding out, Sam managed to catch the pill bottle that Dean had tossed at him. He sat down on the side of his bed and twisted off the cap. Dean got him a glass of water from the sink and he washed down a pill and handed the glass back to Dean, who sat it back by the sink and then turned and leaned back against the porcelain.

Sam pulled the covers down and carefully laid down on his right side, which put his back towards Dean. The fact that Dean hadn’t excused himself from the room, Sam could tell he was still leaning against the sink, confirmed Sam’s suspicions from earlier that his brother wasn’t ready to be alone. 

“Quite lurking by the door.” He patted the mattress. 

Dean didn’t move.

“Dean?”

“Hmm.”

“Just sit down and talk to me for a bit.”

“What do you want me to talk about?” he asked, but he walked around the bed and sat down against the headboard. He still had his boots on, so he kept his right foot on the floor and bent his left leg so that his foot hung off the side of the bed, he crossed his arms across his chest.

“Anything. Uh, you still want to go see Batman vs. Superman?”

“Pfft! Yeah.”

“Even with Affleck as Batman?”

Sam didn’t care about the movie, but he knew that Dean had thoughts about it so that was all it took to get his brother talking. Sam just mmhmm’ed and uh-huh’ed along until Dean lapsed back into silence. Sam would have been asleep by then, but there was that worrying little thought he still couldn’t quite shake.

“What did you do? Seriously, I know you. You know I know you. And I know that had to be… I know what it feels like, Dean.” He waited, this was the moment, Dean was either going to leave or he’d start talking.

Finally, his brother nodded his head, just a little, and started picking at a hangnail.

“Nothing good. It’s never anything good. It’s like I… I can’t… like all the good choices are just gone and only the stupid ones are left.”

When it became clear that Dean wasn’t going to say anything more, Sam gently asked, “You gonna tell me about it?”

“No. No, I don’t think I am. I just, you’re all I’ve… ”

Sam waited again to see if he’d finish. After a few long moments he sighed and softly said, “I know. You too, you know? For me. Things are, uh, they’re harder when you’re… when you’re gone. They, uh, they get…”

“Bleak.” 

“Yeah,” Sam sighed and pushed his hand a little closer to Dean, stopping an inch or two from his leg, just letting his hand rest on top of the covers.

“So what do we do?”

Dean cut his eyes to the side and looked at Sam. “About what?”

“Well, we, uh, we either need to stop dying, which…”

Dean scoffed, “What’re the odds of that happening?”

“Right? Or… or we need to figure out how to make better choices when… when things get bleak.”

“Sam, I… I can’t.” There was a finality to his voice that broke something in Sam, another crack in his foundation that caused him to cant a little bit more towards his brother. Some days it felt like all he was was sloppily patched and cobbled together frame-work that should, by all rights, have collapsed by now. 

“Dear boy, you're all duct tape and safety pins inside. How are you alive?” 

He had lost count of all the times Vesta’s words had echoed through his thoughts over the years. But the fact of the matter was that he was still alive because Dean was alive, because his brother wouldn’t, couldn’t let him be dead.

The silence stretched on. He knew that the way things were going, the way their lives went, one or both of them was bound to get killed again, and there was never a guarantee of another resurrection, or of getting yet another do-over. At some point their story would end and the thought that he was going to lose his brother made it hard to breathe.

Dean shifted and for a moment Sam thought he was going to get up and go. But instead, Dean relaxed his arms so that his left hand came to rest beside his leg, his pinky brushing feather-light against the tips of Sam’s fingers.

“I should let you get some rest.”

Before he’d even finished talking, Sam had curled his fingers around Dean’s. 

“Stay.” His heart lurched and he softly added. “I don’t want to be alone.” And he meant there in the room and right then and there, he did, but he was also speaking to his fears for the future. But he wasn’t ready to talk about that, didn’t know if he ever would be.

A tremor ran through his brother’s hand before he gave Sam’s fingers a squeeze. And Sam didn’t think he’d imagined the catch in Dean’s voice as he said, “Yeah, okay. Until you fall asleep.” So maybe Dean had heard the deeper meaning anyway.

Exhaustion took him almost immediately and for the first time in a long, long time he slept soundly, unbothered by dreams or nightmares.

When he woke up, he was still on his side, he hadn’t moved at all, which confirmed how soundly he’d slept. Usually, he tossed and turned, waking up enough to note the passing time every two hours or so. 

He moved his hand to wipe the drool from the side of his mouth and found that his fingers were still entwined with Dean’s. He blinked his eyes open and was met with his brother’s eyes, already open and looking at him from where he was curled up under the covers on the other side of the bed.

“Please tell me you haven’t just been laying there watching me sleep.” He joked as his eyes shut and he yawned.

“I can’t lose you.” Dean’s voice was quiet and low, rough with too much emotion and Sam was surprised to see tears welling up when he opened his eyes again. 

Before he could react though, Dean reached up and wiped the corner of Sam’s mouth, catching the remnants of drool with his thumb and giving a small fond smile that broke through the sadness like the sun shining through gaps in a cloud filled sky. His eyes flicked down to watch as he rubbed his fingertips together. When they were dry he looked back at Sam, his eyes tracing along the features of his face, and he brushed Sam’s hair back, his fingers curling around the back of his head. Dean pulled Sam forward as he leaned in and placed a kiss on his forehead. It was a slow press that lingered for a long moment. Sam’s heart caught in his throat. When Dean pulled back, it was only far enough to tip his own head down until their foreheads and noses were touching and they were breathing each other’s air. 

Dean’s thumb rubbed gently, back and forth, against Sam’s cheek. His eyes were moving, too close to focus but like he was trying to take in every detail anyway. He smoothed Sam’s hair back from his face again and then started to pull him even closer.

“What? What’re you…” Sam started.

“Something stupid.” Dean whispered as he let his eyes fall shut and pressed their lips together.

Sam’s heart was pounding, his mind reeling. 

He knew that Dean must have kissed him at some point when they were kids. Kisses goodnight, that was a thing that little kids did, right? So surely it must have happened. But he couldn’t remember a single occurrence, not once in his memory. And now, in the span of just a moment, his brother had kissed him twice. He was kissing him. Right then, Dean was kissing him. It was a simple, closed mouth kiss, that may have been chaste and innocent if, you know, they were the type of family that kissed, at all. But even then, Dean was shaking. He was shaking and he hitched a breath in as he parted his lips just as he started to pull away.

“I’m sorry.” Dean said as the shaking increased, a clear note of panic creeping into his voice.

All at once, the shock that had frozen Sam in place was gone and he grabbed Dean’s head with both hands, holding him in place.

“Don’t be sorry. Please don’t be sorry.” He said as he pulled him back into another kiss. It wasn’t open mouthed or anything but there was an undeniable desperation to it, a fevered pitch of longing and need that Sam wasn’t even trying to wrap his head around. And when he broke away he didn’t pull away. Instead he burrowed down and tucked himself under Dean’s chin and held him even tighter. “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re both still here, okay?”

Dean choked out a laugh. “We are so fucked up.” But he wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him closer.

There was bound to be at least a moment of awkwardness when they untangled, Sam decided he wasn’t going to worry about that, not yet.

[peaceloveandhistory]

Today in 1914, four-year-old Charlotte May Pierstorff is mailed by train from Grangeville, Idaho to her grandparents' house 73 miles away. In the early days of the postal service, there were no clear regulations of what could, or could not be mailed. On January 1, 1913 post offices began accepting parcels over four pounds, and people immediately began testing the limits. There were about seven instances between 1913 and 1915 of people sending their children in the mail. After all, it was cheaper to pay for stamps, rather than a ticket aboard a passenger train. After the Pierstorff incident, where the mailman was a relative, Postmaster General Albert S. Burleson officially banned accepting humans as mail. However, the new regulation did not stop people, and about a year later a woman mailed her six-year-old daughter from Florida to her father's home in Virginia. That was a 720-mile trip, which cost 15¢ in stamps. The popular photos of mailmen carrying babies are staged.

[guerrerense]

June 1991, Grangeville turn descending the amazing Half Moon Trestle, largest wooden bridge on the railroad, on a 3% downgrade with 14 degree curve. por blair kooistra

[20th-century-railroading]

Spalding ID Saturday April 13th 1991 1200PDT by bill hooper Via Flickr: The local from Grangeville pulls onto the Kooskia to Lewiston 2nd Subdivision at Spalding in the Nez Perce National Historic Park

[stumbleimg]

Grangeville, Idaho [OC] [3959x2776]

[the-moose-says-jerk]

Fanfic Recs - Sastiel - Non AU

To Err is Human by Love_all_the_fandoms

Castiel is now a human and has been thrown out of the bunker by Dean for reasons he can’t understand. Unbeknownst to his brother Sam leaves the bunker to find Cas and teach him how to be a human; important lessons such as how to love and when to hate, and how to tie his shoelaces.

touch by indefinissable

Castiel sees what happened to Sam in Grangeville. He doesn’t react well.

Sam’s Ribs by rosworms

Just a random PWP taking place some night during "Free To Be You and Me" (5x03).

Sub Drop by multishippinglover

Prompt: Sastiel with top!Cas and bottom!Sam that's really heavy and rough. Sam has sub-drop and Cas takes really good care of him.

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 83: Friday March 24, 2023 - “Detours and Scenic Routes”

A few hours after finishing a totally unnecessary, peaceful and enjoyable out and back to Coeur D’Alene, for the simple fact of connecting some scribbles on a map and running new track under Idaho sunset, I was back in the drivers seat, in the cold, snow, and ice (I literally fell on my ass in the parking lot to start the day, before having to scrape my windows of the ice and snow that had fallen over night) of a 5am 2 lane highway to start working my way back to Boise. Only thing I have to do today, is “go home” - and I relished the idea that the way would be unwritten - all new scenes and stories, towns and roads, to find.

Hit Lewiston, Idaho about the time it started to get light, and the tempreature rose to 32 degrees as I crossed the Snake River.  Settled into a podcast, enjoyed the view of the snow covered pines on both sides of the road, losing track of the miles when I came up on a police car blocking the highway.  He explained I was being detoured, said something about following Cottonwood Creek, and how the highway would be closed for a couple of hours due to an accident.  I would find out later that about a half hour before there had been a fatal accident.  I turned around and started working on a 3 hour adventure of my own to find my way through bad service, no map or knowledge of the roads, and a rental car that lacked the proper equipment and clearance to take on what I was going to throw at it getting through Nez Perce territory.

Wasn’t quite the shenanigans that Lewis & Clark would’ve had coming through here, and I was inspired to find that I had unknowingly dropped my self onto their trail as I drove along the Clearwater River and Idaho 12 through towns like Peck and Orofino, looking to figure out my way back to the 95 and down to Boise.  My navigation kept wanting to route me up and over old stage coach dirt roads that showed promise early, but found snow and ice covered only a few miles up.  At one point I slowly backed my rental backwards for 3 miles down the winding road, figuring that was safer than attempting to turn it around.  One thing I learned in Bellingham, snow and ice, grades and ditches dont all mix well.   And the last thing I needed was to get myself stranded out here with no service where literally no one, including myself, knows where I am, and Luke isn’t in this time zone to come rescue me.  Itd be a story, Id really rather not have to tell.

Eventually I got routed up onto the right road that got me up out of the river canyon and onto the prairie above Stites.   I followed the long dirt paths of open field, open sky, for several miles, just enjoying the view and the opportunity to soak in this landscape I would have otherwise missed without the detour.  The clouds started to break and I got a little bit of blue sky.  I turned up the radio, put the window down to that 38 degree breeze and texted Audrie that I had finally made it out of the woods.   I came out over White Bird Canyon, and was met with such an eye popping view of the rolling hills that I had to stop the car and take a picture.  Its part of the Nez Perce National Historic Park, and a marker identified the battle that took place here between the US Army and Chief Joseph’s Indians. The Indians won and I was happy for that.  As I often do when I find these places on the road, I’ll stop and learn and read what I can.  Looking it up, and making a mental note of why the land here is significant. Felt sad that not far up the road we were celebrating the arrival of the White man in Lewis & Clark and how the Nez Perce had helped them; I can not imagine they’d approve of how it evolved to June 1877.  

From there I would send periodic updates as I meandered (literally) my way through little small towns that slowed the parade down to 25 mph every 20-30 minutes; Grangeville, New Meadows, McCall, Cascade, Donnelly. Putting down some new track through places that seemed to have 15 feet of snow on their roofs.  It will be a long wet spring here, eventually.   From Smith’s Ferry to Horseshoe Bend I wound through constant curves of one lane single file traffic, and places advertising for river rafting on the Payette River and other adventures.  This is the backcountry playground of Boisians, for sure.  Beautiful country and I felt blessed, despite the traffic, to take it in and see it for myself.  Someday I’ll run into someone from Banks Idaho, and I’ll know exactly what I’ll tell about the day I first drove through here.   And eventually the highway would go from 2 to 4 lanes, then 6 before dropping me back down suddenly right into Boise where I would turn in my steed and start the air travel portion of my trek home where nothing would be near as memorable or noteworthy as my excursion through the snowy hills of Idaho.  Id stop for a few minutes and retrace my route, literally figuring out where the hell Id been, updating my scribble map after some good hard earned beautiful miles in God’s country.

Song: Tyler Childers - Shake The Frost

Quote: 

There's this flash I get often, a fever dream or a vision of sorts Most times late at night And I haven't found out why, but I know exactly why I'm on this road and I hear gravel underneath me, and I feel it too And I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where I am It's dark, It's really dark And the car is warm, but somehow I can feel how cold the night is I don't know where the road leads, but I know exactly where it ends You see, I keep driving And all I see for the longest while is my headlights, for an eternity it seems And everything is desolate and empty and nothing and hopeless I'm lost, but I know where I'm going I'm safe, I'm warm, I'm driving And I see this small light A dim one, growing brighter and bigger and closer and stronger And the closer I get, the more I see I make out a house with light strewn across it, a porch, and cars Some frosted windshields that haven't been touched for hours I hear a song, and it's faint, I can't make out the name but I know every word I feel my feet first And it's cold, and they're crunching, and it's the sound of driveways And the wind takes my breath with it And then I walk up to this door, and I knock even though I feel like I don't have to And I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where I am And this crack of light widens on this porch underneath me as this door opens And this brown haired girl with the brightest smile I don't know who she is, but I know her so well And behind her, the warmest home I'd ever seen It's orange and comfortable, there's fire and it's bulb lit She says "Where have you been? I've been waiting for you all night, we've missed you" She says to the kindest smirk I'd seen in so long Then she tapers off the sentence with the, with peaceful sound that a lady makes She grabs me on the forearms, pulls softly into the dining room And there's people, and they're happy, and they're content for one I don't know who they are, but I know exactly who they are And we're all standing, and I'm laughing at a joke I'll never hear again I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where I am And then she tucks her head between my collar as a friend Between my collar and my jaw, and there's no weight at all And I don't know where I am, but there's no weight at all It's laughter and grins and no tomorrow to win And I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where I am I don't know where I am, but I know exactly where I am

~Zach Bryan, This Road I Know

[usaccidents]

HANFORD, CA (October 28, 2024) — Parth Pate died in a 2-car accident at Grangeville Boulevard and University Avenue on Tuesday.

[northstarautodetailing]

Grangeville, ID: An Idaho Treasure for Nature Lovers and History Enthusiasts

Tucked away in the scenic heart of Idaho County, Grangeville is a small town with enormous appeal. From stunning landscapes and outdoor adventures to a rich historical background and a tight-knit community, this Idaho gem offers something for everyone. Whether you’re looking for an adventurous weekend getaway or a peaceful retreat, Grangeville promises to deliver memorable experiences. In this article, we’ll explore the top attractions and highlights that make Grangeville a must-visit destination in Idaho.

The Natural Wonders of Grangeville

Surrounded by rolling hills, rivers, and forests, Grangeville is a haven for those who love the great outdoors. The town sits near the edge of the Nez Perce-Clearwater National Forest, making it an ideal base for hiking, camping, and exploring nature. The nearby Salmon River is renowned for white-water rafting and excellent fishing opportunities, while the Camas Prairie offers breathtaking views of wildflower-filled meadows. In the winter, snowmobiling, skiing, and snowshoeing are popular activities. No matter the season, Grangeville’s stunning landscapes offer endless outdoor adventures for nature enthusiasts.

A Rich Historical Tapestry

Grangeville is steeped in history, from its Native American heritage to its pioneering and mining past. History buffs will enjoy visiting the Nez Perce National Historical Park to learn about the Nez Perce tribe’s deep cultural connection to the region. The Idaho County Historical Museum and the historic Idaho County Courthouse offer additional insights into the town’s development during the late 1800s gold rush. Don't miss Grangeville’s Border Days, a landmark annual rodeo celebration that has delighted visitors since 1912 with rodeo competitions, parades, and fireworks.

Community Spirit and Local Events

Grangeville thrives on its strong sense of community, with residents and visitors coming together for various local events and festivals throughout the year. The town’s Main Street is lined with locally owned businesses, where you’ll find everything from unique shops to cozy diners. Grangeville’s farmers’ market is a popular gathering spot where you can purchase fresh local produce handmade goods, and enjoy live music. The town’s commitment to fostering a welcoming, vibrant atmosphere ensures every visitor feels at home.

Grangeville, ID, may be small, but it offers many experiences for those exploring Idaho’s natural beauty and historical roots. Whether you’re seeking outdoor adventures, a glimpse into the past, or simply a friendly community, Grangeville is a destination that won’t disappoint. Plan your trip today and discover why this hidden gem is one of Idaho’s best-kept secrets!