#and the planting season is way longer in texas

[pianokantzart]

Woooo here we go!

[bumblebeeappletree]

Every once in a while I’ll see some posts about everyone should become vegan in order to help the environment. And that… sounds kinda rude. I’m sure they don’t mean to come off that way but like, humans are omnivores. Yes there are people who won’t have any animal products be it meat or otherwise either due to personal beliefs or because their body physically cannot handle it, and that’s okay! You don’t have to change your diet to include those products if you don’t want to or you physically can’t.

But there’s indigenous communities that hunt and farm animals sustainably and have been doing so for generations. And these animals are a primary source of food for them. Look to the bison of North America. The settlers nearly caused an extinction as a part of a genocide. Because once the Bison were gone it caused an even sharper decline of the indigenous population. Now thankfully Bison did not go extinct and are actively being shared with other groups across America.

Now if we look outside of indigenous communities we have people who are doing sustainable farming as well as hunting. We have hunting seasons for a reason, mostly because we killed a lot of the predators. As any hunter and they will tell you how bad the deer population can get. (Also America has this whole thing about bird feathers and bird hunting, like it was bad until they laid down some laws. People went absolutely nuts on having feathers be a part of fashion like holy cow.)

We’re slowly getting better with having gardens and vertical farms within cities, and there’s some laws on being able to have a chicken or two at your house or what-have-you in the city for some eggs. (Or maybe some quails since they’re smaller than chickens it’s something that you’d might have to check in your area.) Maybe you would be able to raise some honey bees or rent them out because each honey tastes different from different plants. But ultimately when it comes to meat or cheese? Go to your local farmers. Go to farmers markets, meet with the people there, become friends, go actively check out their farm. See how the animal lives are and if the farmer is willing, talk to them about sustainable agriculture. See what they can change if they’re willing. Support indigenous communities and buy their food and products, especially if you’re close enough that the food won’t spoil on its way to you. (Like imagine living in Texas and you want whale meat from Alaska and you buy it from an indigenous community. I would imagine that would be pretty hard to get.)

Either way everything dies in the end. Do we shame scavengers for eating corpses they found before it could rot and spread disease? Do we shame the animals that hunt other animals to survive? Yes factory farming should no longer exist. So let’s give the animals the best life we can give them. If there’s babies born that the farmer doesn’t want, give them away to someone who wants them as a pet. Or someone who wants to raise them for something else. Not everyone can raise animals for their meat. I know I can’t I would get to emotionally attached. I’d only be able to raise them for their eggs and milk.

Yeah this was pretty much thrown together, and I just wanted to say my thoughts and throw them into the void. If you have some examples of sustainable farming/agriculture, please share them because while I got some stuff I posted from YouTube, I’m still interested to see what stuff I might’ve missed!

[wildemaven]

meant to be | javier peña

-> pairing: javier peña x f!reader

-> wc: 1645

-> content warnings: 18+ blog; domestic javi, established relationship, unprotected p in v, fluff, talks of starting a family, reader has zero descriptive features

-> a/n: this was posted on my other account and i am moving it here now. it is also a rewrite of an older fic i did with frankie.

masterlist

Fall is settling in nicely in Texas. The days are still warm, but the weekends no longer hold as much daylight as they did weeks ago. 

Everything transitioning into its autumnal journey, your yard drenched in rustic hues and sunshine. 

You and Javier both loved taking advantage of the nicer weather, wanting to soak up as much of it as possible before the shift into a colder season, deciding to spend your evenings on the patio as the days wound down and the sun set behind the pasture on the west side of the ranch.  

Chores were the first thing that needed to be tackled. Divide and conquer seemed to work well for you both. You took on the inside duties of laundry, dusting, and food prep, while Javier managed the outside— mowing, tree trimming, truck washing. 

Bed made with clean sheets, a load of dirty clothes placed into the washer– the previous load hung in the backyard on the clothesline, dinner prepared and waiting– your list of to-do’s dwindling as the day went on. Now you find yourself planted at the sink of dirty dishes, your kitchen window a front row seat to the old barn, your eyes glued on your husband as he washes his truck. 

His striped sky blue shirt encapsulates every detail of his back, sleeves tight around the bulk of his arms, muscles flexing as he scrubs the soapy sponge back and forth across the metal surface– and you thank whoever designed his well-fitted jeans.  A week's worth of dirt slowly slid off the sides of the old ranch truck, a prized possession that had been passed down from Chucho when Javier had decided to take on more responsibilities around the ranch. 

It has been two years since moving into the home Javier grew up in, wanting something big with the hopes of starting a family in the future. Chucho insisted you both move in, stating the house was far too big for just him— he moved into the ranch’s guest house down the dirt road. Memories tucked to every corner of the house, old family photos still hanging in the very spot his Mama placed them.

Javier must sense he’s being watched when he turns towards the kitchen window, catching your eyes on him. His gaze lingers a bit, soap and water dripping from the sponge in his large hand. He shoots you a wink with a smile that makes you instantly weak. 

“Shit!” The mug you had been washing slips from your soapy hands into the water below, water splashing back at you, soaking the thin material of your dress, your attention drawn back to the sink and the remaining dishes. Somehow Javier still makes you flustered after all these years with just a simple look thrown your way. 

Glancing back out the window again to find Javier is no longer there, the suds freely dripping off the truck door and sponge discarded on the ground. The creak of the screen door lets you know exactly where your husband is as you proceed to dry the drinking glasses and place them in the cupboard. His shuffling around in the living room does little to help you know what he’s up to. 

“Javi?” You call out to him as you finish putting away the last of the plates and bowls, wiping the counter off before you go in search of your husband. 

The slight crackle of a record starting makes you aware of his location– the living room. His old collection of records and record player had been boxed away in the attic after he moved away. Last Spring, while you were putting away the winter blankets, you stumbled upon his music collection– something from nearly every genre. You pulled everything down one weekend while he was busy in town with Chucho, having everything set up on the bookcase and a record going when he got home. It became a habit that one of you would slip on a new record, windows open allowing the breeze to carry the songs throughout the house. 

A familiar tune begins, it instantly brings a smile to your face.

“Wise men say...”

The low timber of his voice sends a tingle down your spine any time he sings your wedding song. For such a reserved man, who refuses to indulge in karaoke, he jumps at any chance to serenade you within the walls of your home— one of the many things you love about him.

A set of arms wrap around you, welcoming you back from your walk down memory lane, pulling you against his chest as he begins to move about the kitchen with you. Your bodies swaying together as the music continues, his face nuzzled in close to your cheek as he hums along with the song.

“Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be…”

Your body leans into him, the rest of the chores fully abandoned as you both waver about the kitchen, savoring how easy it is to create new memories in your home.

“You sure know how to get out of chores Peña.” You tell him just as he spins you around so you’re facing him, looping your arms around his neck while his hands settle on your back— Javier singing along completely ignoring your comment. 

“If I’m not mistaken Querida, I’m pretty sure you were hardly putting an effort into yours.” He teases you before grabbing your hand to send you twirling around. You can’t contain your laughter, living for these spontaneous moments of ease with the man you’re so completely head over heels for. Your body is pulled back into his, resuming the energetic flow between the two of you. A sweet rhythm of bliss now strumming through your body as you melt into his arms. 

“Hmm, I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Hiding your smirk into his warm neck, knowing full well what he’s referring to. 

“That wasn’t you gawking at me through the window—“

“I was not gawking, Javi!” As you playfully pat his chest. “I was just admiring the view.” 

“You were in fact gawking. I think I clocked you at 10 minutes from the first moment I noticed you hadn’t moved.”

“You are so exaggerating!” He’s definitely not wrong though, it’s hard to pull your eyes away from such a thing of beauty. 

“How about we take this to the bedroom, Querida– and I’ll show you exaggeration!” He taunts into your ear. 

 “Javier! Your truck is half washed in the driveway— and I know you’re going to be pissed about the soap drying on it right now. Plus, I already made the bed.” 

He’s dragging you back towards the stairs that lead to the bedroom, his infectious smirk displayed across his stupid handsome face, your body doing little to stop itself from his magnetic pull. 

“I’ll just wash it again. I’ll even set a chair up for you to admire up close. Get you one of those ice cold beers too.” He says as he falls back into the bed, pulling your body on top of his. 

“And I’m pretty sure this won’t be the last time we dirty these sheets this weekend…” His voice muffled against your neck, his lips planting kiss after kiss as he pleads his case– you easily succumb to his antics.

His hands work at the line of buttons that trail down the front of your dress, your own undoing his buckle before working at the button and zipper of his jeans– he hisses as your hands hastily move over bugle straining behind his jeans. 

Your dress is open and hanging off your shoulders as you slowly sink down on Javier’s cock, the stretch of him a welcomed adjustment, his length hitting something delicious as you settle at the base of him. 

“Fuck, Javi!!” Hands splayed over Javier’s firm chest for support, your head thrown back as a rapturous whine pours out into the room, a slight bounce to your breasts as you move— the cups of your bra pulled down, the cool air has your nipples pebbled and tight. Javier is taken by your angelic state— you're a sight to be seen. 

Javier’s fingers are digging into the meat of your thighs, the slow stuttering roll of your hips as you move over his cock has him worked up faster than he has anticipated. 

“Querida— Shit! Baby, I’m not gonna last— you look so good riding my cock like that!” His hips bucking up at the feeling of your cunt clenching around him. 

“I’m right there with you, Amor!” 

A few swipes over your throbbing clit and a string of quick thrusts, both of you cresting the euphoric peak in unison. 

You collapse on top of Javier, a strong arm wraps around your waist, a hand cupping your neck, Javier determined to keep you as close as possible— you fully melting into his touch. 

Breathing ragged and hearts racing— bodies perfectly satiated and filled with an intense love for each other. 

“I should probably get up and get dinner started. That should be plenty of time for you to rewash the truck.” You don’t show any signs of actually doing so, too relaxed to care about finishing the rest of your chores. 

“Or— we can just lay here a little longer. Save the food and truck washing for tomorrow. We can go into town later and get dinner instead.”

“A man after my heart. I’d marry you if I wasn’t already.” He rolls you off him onto your back, hands roaming over your dewy skin as he kisses you slowly. 

The lull of the record player echoes through the house as the music fades out, clothes and sheets are thrown about the bedroom, the day’s plans forgotten as you both seek out a more exhilarating afternoon. 

[thepastisalreadywritten]

NEW YORK (AP) — Leap year. It’s a delight for the calendar and math nerds among us.

So how did it all begin and why?

Have a look at some of the numbers, history and lore behind the (not quite) every four year phenom that adds a 29th day to February.

BY THE NUMBERS

The math is mind-boggling in a layperson sort of way and down to fractions of days and minutes.

There’s even a leap second occasionally, but there’s no hullabaloo when that happens.

The thing to know is that leap year exists, in large part, to keep the months in sync with annual events, including equinoxes and solstices, according to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory at the California Institute of Technology.

It’s a correction to counter the fact that Earth’s orbit isn’t precisely 365 days a year.

The trip takes about six hours longer than that, NASA says.

Contrary to what some might believe, however, not every four years is a leaper.

Adding a leap day every four years would make the calendar longer by more than 44 minutes, according to the National Air & Space Museum.

Later, on a calendar yet to come (we’ll get to it), it was decreed that years divisible by 100 not follow the four-year leap day rule unless they are also divisible by 400, the JPL notes.

In the past 500 years, there was no leap day in 1700, 1800 and 1900, but 2000 had one.

In the next 500 years, if the practice is followed, there will be no leap day in 2100, 2200, 2300 and 2500.

The next leap years are 2028, 2032, and 2036.

WHAT WOULD HAPPEN WITHOUT A LEAP DAY?

Eventually, nothing good in terms of when major events fall, when farmers plant and how seasons align with the sun and the moon.

“Without the leap years, after a few hundred years we will have summer in November,” said Younas Khan, a physics instructor at the University of Alabama at Birmingham.

“Christmas will be in summer. There will be no snow. There will be no feeling of Christmas.”

WHO CAME UP WITH LEAP YEAR?

The short answer: It evolved.

Ancient civilizations used the cosmos to plan their lives, and there are calendars dating back to the Bronze Age.

They were based on either the phases of the moon or the sun, as various calendars are today. Usually they were “lunisolar,” using both.

Now hop on over to the Roman Empire and Julius Caesar.

He was dealing with major seasonal drift on calendars used in his neck of the woods. They dealt badly with drift by adding months.

He was also navigating a vast array of calendars starting in a vast array of ways in the vast Roman Empire.

He introduced his Julian calendar in 46 BCE.

It was purely solar and counted a year at 365.25 days, so once every four years an extra day was added.

Before that, the Romans counted a year at 355 days, at least for a time.

But still, under Julius, there was drift. There were too many leap years.

"The solar year isn’t precisely 365.25 days. It’s 365.242 days," said Nick Eakes, an astronomy educator at the Morehead Planetarium and Science Center at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.

Thomas Palaima, a classics professor at the University of Texas at Austin, said adding periods of time to a year to reflect variations in the lunar and solar cycles was done by the ancients.

The Athenian calendar, he said, was used in the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries with 12 lunar months.

That didn’t work for seasonal religious rites. The drift problem led to “intercalating” an extra month periodically to realign with lunar and solar cycles, Palaima said.

The Julian calendar was 0.0078 days (11 minutes and 14 seconds) longer than the tropical year, so errors in timekeeping still gradually accumulated, according to NASA. But stability increased, Palaima said.

The Julian calendar was the model used by the Western world for hundreds of years.

Enter Pope Gregory XIII, who calibrated further. His Gregorian calendar took effect in the late 16th century.

It remains in use today and, clearly, isn’t perfect or there would be no need for leap year. But it was a big improvement, reducing drift to mere seconds.

Why did he step in? Well, Easter.

It was coming later in the year over time, and he fretted that events related to Easter like the Pentecost might bump up against pagan festivals.

The pope wanted Easter to remain in the spring.

He eliminated some extra days accumulated on the Julian calendar and tweaked the rules on leap day.

It’s Pope Gregory and his advisers who came up with the really gnarly math on when there should or shouldn’t be a leap year.

“If the solar year was a perfect 365.25 then we wouldn’t have to worry about the tricky math involved,” Eakes said.

WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH LEAP YEAR AND MARRIAGE?

Bizarrely, leap day comes with lore about women popping the marriage question to men.

It was mostly benign fun, but it came with a bite that reinforced gender roles.

There’s distant European folklore.

"One story places the idea of women proposing in fifth-century Ireland, with St. Bridget appealing to St. Patrick to offer women the chance to ask men to marry them," according to historian Katherine Parkin in a 2012 paper in the Journal of Family History.

Nobody really knows where it all began.

In 1904, syndicated columnist Elizabeth Meriwether Gilmer, aka Dorothy Dix, summed up the tradition this way:

“Of course people will say ... that a woman’s leap year prerogative, like most of her liberties, is merely a glittering mockery.”

The pre-Sadie Hawkins tradition, however serious or tongue-in-cheek, could have empowered women but merely perpetuated stereotypes.

The proposals were to happen via postcard, but many such cards turned the tables and poked fun at women instead.

Advertising perpetuated the leap year marriage game. A 1916 ad by the American Industrial Bank and Trust Co. read thusly:

“This being Leap Year day, we suggest to every girl that she propose to her father to open a savings account in her name in our own bank.”

There was no breath of independence for women due to leap day.

SHOULD WE PITY THE LEAPLINGS?

Being born in a leap year on a leap day certainly is a talking point. But it can be kind of a pain from a paperwork perspective.

Some governments and others requiring forms to be filled out and birthdays to be stated stepped in to declare what date was used by leaplings for such things as drivers licenses, whether February 28 or March 1.

Technology has made it far easier for leap babies to jot down their February 29 milestones, though there can be glitches in terms of health systems, insurance policies, and with other businesses and organization that don’t have that date built in.

There are about 5 million people worldwide who share the leap birthday out of about 8 billion people on the planet.

Shelley Dean, 23, in Seattle, Washington, chooses a rosy attitude about being a leapling.

Growing up, she had normal birthday parties each year, but an extra special one when leap years rolled around.

Since, as an adult, she marks that non-leap period between February 28 and March 1 with a low-key “whew.”

This year is different.

“It will be the first birthday that I’m going to celebrate with my family in eight years, which is super exciting, because the last leap day I was on the other side of the country in New York for college,” she said. “It’s a very big year.”

[chappythegardener]

Onion Seeds

Onion Seeds

From the sweet and succulent Vidalia onion, to the pungent and spicy Texas sweet onion, our collection includes a variety of unique and flavorful onions to suit any taste preference. Each onion is carefully packed and delivered to your doorstep, ready to be planted and cultivated into a bountiful harvest of delicious and nutritious produce. Transform your garden and culinary experiences with our exceptional collection of organic onions today!

Organic Onions FAQ

What is the best time to plant onion bulbs? Planting onion bulbs is a great way to ensure a plentiful harvest and provide fresh onions for cooking all season long. But to ensure that your crop succeeds, it’s important to know the best time of year to plant onion bulbs. There are several factors that should be taken into consideration when planting onions, but knowing when to plant them is the first step in ensuring their successful growth. When selecting the best time for planting onion bulbs, consider your local climate and weather patterns. Varieties such as yellow storage onions do well in cool climates with shorter days and longer nights, while intermediate day length varieties like sweet Spanish types do better in warmer climates. In most cases, soil temperatures should be at least 45 degrees Fahrenheit before planting begins. Early spring or fall are usually ideal times for beginning an onion crop as both seasons have cooler temperatures and more consistent rainfall than summer months. How deep should I plant onion bulbs? Onion bulbs are a staple in many home gardens, and planting them correctly is essential for producing a healthy harvest. Knowing the right depth to plant onion bulbs can be tricky – too shallow and they might not form properly, while too deep can cause them to rot. Home gardeners should consider several factors when determining how deep to plant onion bulbs. The size of the onion bulb is a major factor: larger bulbs will require more soil coverage than smaller ones. Generally speaking, small onions should be planted about one inch below the surface of the soil, while large varieties should be inserted two inches deep or more. Additionally, sandy soils may require deeper planting for better stability and drainage, as these soils tend to dry out faster than other types of soil. How do I care for onion bulbs? Onions are an essential kitchen staple, adding flavor to all kinds of dishes. As a result, it’s important to know how to care for your onion bulbs properly. The most important step in caring for onion bulbs is proper storage. Onions should be stored in cool, dark, and dry locations with good air circulation. If possible, aim for 55-60 degrees Fahrenheit with 65-70 percent humidity levels. It’s best to store your onions away from other fruits or vegetables because moisture and ethylene gas will cause them to rot quickly. Additionally, make sure that the bulb remains intact and free from bruises or damage when being handled as this can also cause rapid spoilage. Can I use onion bulbs from store-bought onions to grow new onions? Onion bulbs are the underground storage organs of onions, and they can be used to grow new onions. But not all onion bulbs are created equal – those bought from a grocery store may not have the same results as those harvested from a garden. When purchasing an onion bulb in-store, it’s important to make sure that they are still intact and haven’t started sprouting yet. A sprouted bulb is unlikely to produce more than one onion due to its growth being stunted by the lack of nutrients available in a store-bought environment. Additionally, some store-bought onions may have been treated with chemicals that prevent them from growing successfully when replanted. Is it better to start onions from bulbs or transplants? Onions are an essential vegetable for many dishes and growing them at home is a great way to get fresh produce all season long. But when it comes to deciding whether it’s better to start onions from bulbs or transplants, there are some things to consider. One of the main benefits of starting onions from bulbs is that they require minimal maintenance. The bulbs can be planted simply in the soil and will begin to grow without much effort or watering required on the gardener’s part. However, depending on the variety you choose, bulb-started onions may need extra protection from cooler weather as they are not as hardy as other vegetables like tomatoes or peppers. Transplanting onions is also a viable option for gardeners who want a quicker harvest time with less work upfront. How do I harvest and store onion ? Harvesting and storing onions is an important skill for any home gardener. Onions are easy to grow, but require special care when it comes to harvesting and storage. The best time to harvest onions is once the tops have fallen over naturally, signaling that the bulb has matured. Carefully dig around the base of each plant with a garden fork or trowel to loosen the soil before gently lifting out each bulb. To prevent damage, be sure to handle them carefully when removing them from the ground. Once harvested, leave them in a warm location for several days until their skin turns papery and dry.

Click To Grow

Tomato

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[sciencespies]

Itchy eyes and a runny nose? It could be climate change

https://sciencespies.com/environment/itchy-eyes-and-a-runny-nose-it-could-be-climate-change/

Itchy eyes and a runny nose? It could be climate change

Researchers with the Rutgers Environmental and Occupational Health Sciences Institute have simulated how climate change will affect the distribution of two leading allergens — oak and ragweed pollens — across the contiguous United States. The results, published in the journal Frontiers in Allergy, may make your eyes water.

Using computer models, the team, led by Panos Georgopoulos, a professor of Environmental and Occupational Health and Justice at the Rutgers School of Public Health, found that by 2050 climate change significantly will increase airborne pollen loads, with some of the largest surges occurring in areas where pollen is historically uncommon.

“Pollen is an excellent sentinel for the impacts of climate change because shifts in variables like carbon dioxide and temperature affect the way plants behave,” said Georgopoulos, who also is director of the Computational Chemodynamics Laboratory at Rutgers and faculty at Robert Wood Johnson Medical School. “At the same time, the production of pollen and pollen’s influence on allergic disease has been increasing due to climate change, and this is one of few studies to forecast this trend into the future.”

Previous efforts to connect pollen indices with climate change have been limited by a scarcity of data. For instance, there are about 80 pollen sampling stations in the U.S., operated by a variety of private and public agencies using different sampling methods.

To overcome this challenge, the researchers adapted the Community Multiscale Air Quality modeling system, an open-source tool managed by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to simulate distributions of allergenic oak and ragweed pollen for historical (2004) and future (2047) conditions.

Results showed that even under moderate warming conditions, pollen season will start earlier and last longer throughout the U.S., with increasing average pollen concentrations in most parts of the nation. Mean concentrations of oak pollen could climb by more than 40 percent in the Northeast and Southwest and mean concentrations of ragweed could jump by more than 20 percent in these areas.

Regional pollen shifts were observed, too. In parts of Nevada and northern Texas, oak pollen levels could double by mid-century, while Massachusetts and Virginia could see an 80 percent increase in ragweed pollen by 2050.

The pollen research was part of an ongoing project by the Rutgers Ozone Research Center, which is funded by the EPA and New Jersey to study how climate change will influence air quality in the state. The bulk of that work examines the state’s struggles with ground level ozone, a byproduct of fossil fuel combustion that can damage the lungs.

“New Jersey’s air quality is going to be adversely impacted by climate change, both in terms of anthropogenic pollution and increased levels of pollen,” Georgopoulos said. “For people with asthma, exposure to pollen and irritants like ozone increases the odds of respiratory illness. To protect the most vulnerable, we need to understand how these irritants will behave in a warming world.”

Story Source:

Materials provided by Rutgers University. Original written by Greg Bruno. Note: Content may be edited for style and length.

#Environment

[aakarshita04]

Farmers Insurance Open Wednesday Starts Phil Mickelson, Billy Horschel and Jon Rahm

Whether you are a fan of the PGA Tour or not, the Farmers  Insurance Open is always a good way to get out and see some great golf. This year's event takes place at Torrey Pines in San Diego and features players such as Bryson DeChambeau, Billy Horschel, and Jon Rahm. These are a few of the best names in the game and if you haven't yet seen them play, now is your chance!

Phil Mickelson

PGA Tour veteran Phil Mickelson, who missed the Masters last month, has ended his hiatus from competitive golf. He is set to start the Farmers insurance open Wednesday.

Mickelson will tee off at 9:30 a.m. on the South course. The field is loaded with PGA Tour veterans, including Dustin Johnson, Xander Schauffele and Rickie Fowler.

The Farmers insurance open is the first PGA Tour tournament to finish on Saturday in almost four years. The schedule moves to avoid conflict with the NFL's conference championship games.

The Farmers insurance open will start Wednesday and run through Saturday. The event will be televised on CBS and The Golf Channel. During the week, the event will raise millions of dollars for charities that support low-income military families.

The Farmers insurance open is the only tournament this year to start on a Wednesday and finish on a Saturday. That's because the NFL moved its season-ending games to a Sunday.

Mickelson is making his return to the competitive scene after a three-month hiatus. He is considered the favorite. But he's missed the last five cuts in his last 12 starts.

Phil Mickelson is one of the most popular players in his generation. He has won six major championships and has been a fixture on the PGA Tour for over two decades. He is a native of Murrieta, California, and he attended San Diego State University. He has a number of sponsors, including Amstel Light, KPMG and Workday.

Mickelson was also one of the most productive players on the PGA TOUR Champions circuit last year. He has three wins out of four events. He's also one of the top five players in the Official World Golf Rankings.

Bryson DeChambeau

PGA Tour star Bryson DeChambeau made his long-awaited return to the golf circuit today, teeing off at the Farmers Insurance Open in La Jolla, California. The 25-year-old hasn't played in a regular PGA Tour event since February and has struggled with injuries this season. Earlier this month, he pulled out of the Sony Open in Hawaii.

After a pedestrian opening round, DeChambeau struggled in the second round of the Farmers Insurance Open. He played a pedestrian 70, missing the cut by one shot. The former San Diego native dealt with a hip injury and separate health problems during the second round.

DeChambeau was a top-five finisher in two other events this season, including the Sony Open in Hawaii. He has been a fixture on the West Coast putter circuit, which he's won four times. He's also had success on courses like Riviera Country Club in California, where he finished fifth last year.

DeChambeau was ranked second in the field with 325.4 yards. He was one of six golfers to break 325 yards, and he hit seven drives longer than that.

DeChambeau had a rough stretch on the back nine. He hit into greenside bunkers on the 11th and 12th holes, and he bogeyed both. He also stumbled on the 13th, driving into an ice plant on the edge of the canyon. He chipped in for a birdie on the 14th, but missed an eagle attempt on the 15th. He made three birdies on the last four holes to move to 2 under. His final round of 76-80 put him in a tie for 80th at 2 over.

After the Farmers Insurance Open, DeChambeau plans to play the Valero Texas Open ahead of the Masters. He'll also be playing in the PLDA World Championships in Jupiter, Florida.

Jon Rahm

Besides the usual suspects, one notable player to watch is Patrick Reed. He's got ten wins on the PGA Tour and hasn't missed a cut in his last two seasons. He's also on the radar of the likes of Dustin Johnson, Graeme McDowell and Jason Day. In short, the man is a dynamo.

The Farmers Insurance Open is not a fortnight affair. It's scheduled for January 26-29, 2022 and will be held at the Torrey Pines Golf Course in La Jolla, California. The tournament is a three-day, six-hole, par-3 competition that features the largest prize pool in Tour history. Its most famous alumni include Jason Day and Patrick Reed. The course is also home to a host of celebrities. In fact, the course has enough rooms to host a handful of PGA Tour players at once.

It's not a surprise the Farmers Insurance Open lands on the list of notable golf tournaments in the coming year. In short, the PGA Tour has a big year in store and fans should expect a slew of star-studded performances. While the course doesn't exactly scream PGA Tour, it's certainly no doubt the place to be during the first week of the year. The venue also gives fans a taste of what's to come in 2023, when Reed is back in the mix. Hopefully, Reed can take home the top prize, which is a coveted honor that has been snubbed by a number of notable names.

The best part is that the event is not a complete blackout. There are two courses in La Jolla that are available for play during the week of the tourney. The first two rounds will be played on the North Course, while the final round will be held on the South Course.

Billy Horschel

Several years back, the Farmers Insurance Open was pushed to an extra day. This year's event will be played over the course of four days, which will be a nice change of pace.

The Farmers Insurance Open is the annual pro tournament held at Torrey Pines Golf Course in La Jolla, California. It's considered to be the premier event on the early PGA Tour schedule. In fact, the event has a pretty sizable prize pool, with $8.4 million in prize money distributed, including the $8.4 million in first place prize money.

The Farmers Insurance Open is usually played over the course of four days, but the good news is that there's not an upcoming NFL conference championship game that will interfere with the golf tournament. This will allow for a bit of clearer air in which to play the game. The Farmers Insurance Open is also a good way to clear the calendar for the NFL's two championship games, the AFC and NFC.

The Farmers Insurance Open is the oldest PGA Tour tournament, having been played on the same course since 1916. It's also the most prestigious PGA Tour event, with six of the top 10 players in the world in the field.

The Farmers Insurance Open is the hottest event on the PGA Tour this year, so expect to see some of the world's best golfers in action. The event is a great opportunity for fans to witness their favorites up close and personal. With the PGA Tour's annual showcase, a number of players will be looking to make the cut and advance to the majors.

The Farmers Insurance Open is the first major televised golf tournament of the year, and will also be the first event to be shown on CBS. While the CBS broadcast will cover the main events on Friday and Saturday, the main attractions are scheduled for the first two days of the competition.

Torrey Pines

PGA Tour players will be teeing off at the Farmers Insurance Open in Torrey Pines this week. The event is the premier event on the early PGA Tour schedule. The tournament has attracted some of the top players in the world, including Dustin Johnson, Bryson DeChambeau and Jason Day.

The tournament will be played on the South Course and North Course at Torrey Pines Golf Course in La Jolla. The tournament will be broadcast on CBS and ESPN+.

The Farmers Insurance Open has been played at Torrey Pines Golf Course since 1968. This year's tournament is scheduled to start on Wednesday and finish on Saturday. It will be the first PGA Tour tournament to finish on a Saturday since 1996.

The Farmers Insurance Open has moved to a Wednesday start to avoid conflict with NFL conference championship games. The schedule also avoids the traditional Thursday-Sunday schedule that normally begins the PGA Tour season.

Jon Rahm is the defending champion of the Farmers Insurance Open, and he has won the tournament in each of the last two years. He is the world's number one ranked men's golfer. He has six PGA Tour wins to his name.

Dustin Johnson, who is making his first start on the PGA Tour since October, is playing in the event. He is joined by Dustin Reed and Marc Leishman.

The Farmers Insurance Open is a charity golf tournament that generates millions of dollars for charities, including Champions for Youth. It is also San Diego's premiere social and golf event. Unlike other PGA Tour tournaments, the Farmers Insurance Open will require a quick turnaround. This is due to the deal between PGA Tour and CBS.

[joeldeservedbetter]

The Girl Next Door - Chapter 3

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!OC

Summary: (No Outbreak-AU). The house across from Joel’s was recently bought. He figured a middle-class couple with a kid or two would be the ones who were moving in. Joel quickly realized that wasn’t the case. Instead it was a young woman and her little brother. This series will follow Joel and Violet as they navigate through life’s struggles all while growing closer without noticing till they’re both in too deep.

WC: 1.8k

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, death, and bees…?

A/N: Thanks for all the support! I’m happy people are enjoying the story so far. Should my chapters be longer? 

The next few weeks went by quickly. Violet and Graham were able to sort the house without killing each other. Violet cleared the backyard and started her garden. She was excited for strawberry season as it was her favorite fruit. She even made time to plant a new blueberry bush. Graham was doing well at his new school, making a few new friends. A spunky brunette named Ellie and a sweet boy named Jesse. Life was finally getting back to normal, which Violet was thankful for. Joel was busy as usual, working on some new building being constructed in downtown Austin. This took up his days while his nights were taken up by researching how to start his own construction company. Tommy and Joel have been wanting to start their own company for a long time. After dealing with asshole foremen for some time, being his own boss sounded nice. This meant that Joel hadn’t had much time for Sarah, nevertheless Violet and Graham, only giving them a passing wave on his way to work or when he came home. Not that Violet minded, her anxious side was actually thankful, but she also wanted to befriend the man. Something about his quiet nature differed from her rambunctious friends and drew her in.

Luckily, just before the heat of late Texas Spring hit, Violet finally had freed up some time to work on the front yard. She went to the nursery early in the morning to buy herself a few flowers. Today was going to be all about self care for her. Graham was spending the night at Jesse’s and she had the whole house to herself. Once she pulled up to the nursery her eyes lit up in excitement. There were rows of, Lavender, Lantanas, Zinnias, and even vegetables. Monarch butterflies float from flower to flower, chasing honey bees across the bright petals. She hurried through each row, gathering any plant that would compliment her new home. Once her wallet was empty she happily drove home with her new friends. As the sun rose just above the horizon her small sedan pulled up in the driveway. Violet went inside to make herself some coffee after she unloaded all of the flowers. It was going to be a long day, but she knew it would be worth it in the end. 

Joel slept in for the first time in what felt like months. His back ached and his knees cracked as he sat up on his bed. It seemed that no matter how long he slept for he was always tired. Coffee, he needed coffee. He went downstairs to brew him a cup. Sarah wasn’t downstairs so he figured she was outside playing. He peeked outside and saw her skateboarding in the driveway. His eyes drifted down the driveway and across the street. He saw Violet hanging a potted marigold on a hook drilled into the ceiling of her porch. Joel smirked as he watched her tip toe to reach the hook. Even though she was on a step stool Violet still wasn’t tall enough. Seeing that Sarah was fine and that Violet would be there if anything happened, he sat down on the couch and flicked on the tv. 

Graham had left a little after Violet started gardening, Connor offered to drive him so she accepted. After hanging a few potted pansies on the porch she moved down to the mailbox. Violet had dug around the painted iron pole and prepared a few zinnias to be planted. They were one of her favorites as they reminded her of fluffy pom-poms. She noticed Sarah skating nearby, so Violet kept an eye on her just in case. As she plopped one orange flower into the ground Violet heard a yelp and a thud. Violet gasped as she knew what probably happened. She turned to see Sarah had fallen and skinned her forearm pretty bad. Violet rushed over to help the little girl up. “Hey sweetie, you okay?” Sarah wiped the gravel off of her knees and looked up at Violet with a smile. “Yeah, just a bit banged up.” Violet smiled back as she gestured to her porch. “Let me get some Band-Aids and stuff. I can clean that up for ya.” Sarah followed her up to her newly decorated porch, leaving her skateboard by the blue sedan. 

Violet disappeared into the house, but quickly came back out with her hands full of medical supplies. “Alright, lets clean you up!” She dipped a rag into soapy water and began to clean out Sarah’s scratches. “You’re pretty brave skateboarding. I’ve always wanted to learn, but I’m scared of busting my butt.” Sarah hissed when the alcohol wiped that was dabbed on her forearm. “Oh I’ve done that many times. Dad would fuss at me when he caught me falling down.” Violet giggled as she pictured the seemingly tough guy becoming a mother hen. After drying Sarah’s arm Violet put some Neosporin on a few Hello Kitty Band-Aids. “I bought these for Graham to embarrass him when he gets hurt, but I kinda think he likes them.” Violet smirked as Sarah laughed. Once she was patched up Sarah stood up and looked around. “What are you up to today?” The young blonde asked. Violet dusted herself off as she stood up. “Well Graham is gone for a few days so I decided to get some gardening done.” Sarah furrowed her brows. “So you’re all alone?” 

Sarah would never tell her dad how much she hated it when he left her at the house alone. She was always painfully lonely when no one was home. Sarah couldn’t imagine Violet liking it much either. “Yeah, but it’s not so bad. Kinda nice in some ways.” Sarah didn’t buy it though, but then she had an idea. “Hey! Since you helped me why don’t I teach you how to skateboard?” Violet bit her lip nervously. “Oh, I don’t know.” She turned and gestured to the few flowers she had left to plant. “I still gotta finish up here…” Sarah picked up a small plastic shovel. “Well I guess we better get goin’!” The little girl’s smile broke down any anxiety Violet had left, causing her to agree. "These are a lot of flowers. You must really like ‘em.” Sarah peaked over at Violet who was pulling a soft blush-colored zinnia out of its pot. “Yeah, you can say that. They remind me of my mama.” Sarah looked down at her feet, a wave of sadness flashing in her eyes. “Oh. I-I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that. My mom left me and dad when I was about a year old.” Sarah always wore her heart on her sleeve and since the topic of her mother was off limits at home, she was dying to get all of her jumbled thoughts and feelings out. 

Violet listened as Sarah told her about how she felt abandoned and not wanted by her mom. She felt like she didn’t fit in with other girls sometimes because she never really had a female presence in her life. “I don’t know, I just feel like I’m missing somethin’.” Sarah sniffled. Violet listened carefully, not interrupting once. When Sarah finished Violet brought her into a gentle hug. “I’m sorry you’re goin’ through all that. You should never feel abandoned or not worthy of love.” Violet pulled away and wiped the little girl’s tears away. “I understand a little of what you’re goin’ through. You know, I was a little younger than you when my mama passed. She uh, got into a fatal car accident. Left me and Graham all alone.” She patted some soil down around the last flower. “What about your daddy? Wasn’t he there?” Violet nodded. “Well, kinda. He usually worked from dawn to dusk, but after mama… I don’t know, he just stayed at work even longer. Practically raised Graham myself since he was about 2 years old.” Sarah could hear the heartbreak in Violet’s voice, causing her to lean against the older woman. “I’m sorry Violet. I can see why you and your brother are so close now.” “Yeah, even if he’s a dork. Now-” Violet stood up and dusted herself off. “I was promised skateboarding lessons.”

The news cycle was quiet and early morning television was nothing that could hold his attention. Just as Joel was beginning to doze of he heard a scream followed by laughter. “What the hell..?” He grumbled, getting up from the couch. He grabbed his coffee before stepping out onto the porch. The last thing he expected to see was the wholesome and adorable moment that was playing out in front of him. It immediately drew a small smile to his lips. Sarah had a shaking and clearly nervous Violet on her skateboard, moving at a snails pace. She had Violet’s hands in hers as she slowly pulled her across the street. “Okay, I’m gonna let go-” “N-no! Don’t let go!” Violet squeaked as she gripped onto Sarah’s hands tighter, making her laugh. “I got to! Now, stand straight and down fall over!” Sarah let go and Violet immediately began swaying. She squatted down on the board gripping it’s sides as she inched across the pavement. “I can’t!” She laughed. “Stop torturin’ the poor girl Sarah!” Joel chuckled. 

Violet looked over and blushed upon seeing Joel smirking at her. “Oh come on daddy! She wanted to learn. Besides, I helped her garden so she could play with me!” Joel sat his cup down and walked over to meet them. “Is that so?” Joel glanced at the flowers that heavily peppered Violet’s property. “It’s very pretty.” She smiled bashfully, joining Sarah’s side. “Th-thanks! Had some free time so…” After a few moments of awkward silence Sarah had an idea. “Can Violet come over for dinner daddy? She’s goin’ to be lonely for a few days.” Violet’s cheeks turned a dull peach color as she tried to deny the claim. “I never said that, I just said graham was goin’ to be gone for a few days.”   “Same thing.” Sarah looked up at Joel, waiting for an answer. It had been a long time since he had anyone but Tommy or Eugene over, nevertheless a woman. He almost didn’t know what to say. “I- um, if Violet wants to she can come over.” He stuttered. Sarah flashed Violet a pair of adorable puppy-dog eyes which melted her heart. 

Oh this girl knows exactly what she was doing.

“I don’t think I can say no to that face…” Violet sighed playfully. Joel smirked, knowing exactly what face she was talking about. “Sounds good! See ya around 6!” Sarah beamed as she gathered her skateboard, determined to not fall again. “I guess I should get cleaned up. Last thing I want to do is lure bees to your house.” Joel laughed softly, his eyes crinkling in the cutest way. “Yeah, bees don’t like me one bit. Come on Sarah, this was your idea. You’re helpin’ me straighten up.” Sarah groaned loudly, but followed her dad inside nonetheless. 

Holy shit.

Violet couldn’t believe she’d be having dinner with Joel and Sarah. Alone. How the hell was this going to play out?

[piratewithvigor]

Farm Fresh Produce: A Hartbreak Fic

On a little ranch in the heart of Texas, two old men are getting their happily ever after...

(Mini ficlet based off an AU I’ve been working on with @prettyboymichaels​)

There’d been a time, not too many seasons ago, that the heirloom tomatoes looked more like cherries and the heads of lettuce were harvested looking like cooked spinach. It’d been nowhere near enough to survive on, but as experience grew and the garden alongside it, there was no way just the two of them could handle what was harvested. Waking up at dawn to begin the harvest meant it took almost until the sun was fully up to finish each day, but that was the way he liked it. Hauling up the bushells from the patches to the house was the only part he felt he could do without. They’d been lighter years ago when he still had some youth left in his bones. Now, he could feel each one as he carried it up from the patch to the truck. Each one ate into his back a little more and made him all the more grateful that trucks came with seat warmers now.

“I could give you a hand with those if you want,” Shawn would offer each morning, and just as regularly, Bret would give him a soft, dismissive kiss. Shawn didn’t accept help when he was carrying jars of preserves or pots of assorted sauces, jams and jellies, so he didn’t need help with the produce that went into making them. He appreciated the offer anyway.

They had their system; their collection of agreements. Bret worked outside, in the fields of the ranch (or so Shawn called it; really just an older farmhouse with enough land to work without it being overwhelming). He tended to the crops and the bees and Sally Mae, the old goat. Shawn woodworked and took care of the preserving. His back was bothering him more and more these days, and the nightly massages only did so much, but he’d accepted it. There was nothing left to prove anymore, no show of strength he had to make. He knew his limitations and he tried not to push them and injure himself for the sake of his own pride. 

When Bret had carted up the final crate of produce and lifted the tailgate, he signaled to Shawn that he was ready to head out. Their daily tradition, as it had been since Bret had made the move down to Texas more or less full-time and started the garden as something to do in retirement. They couldn’t eat everything he grew, so they did two things with what he picked. Firstly, the farmers’ market. They had a long-standing table and reputations that the folks in town knew. Not as wrestlers; the town was too small to really pay attention to something like that. Now, they were more known as the kindly older men who fed the community. Secondly, the food bank. They traded everything that had gone unsold for anything the food bank had on the verge of spoiling that could be made into sauces or jams. 

It was a good routine. Bordering on monotonous some days, but that was what they needed sometimes. Monotony close to home instead of an endless travel schedule cramped into planes and cars and locker rooms. This could be a routine of their own devising and if something needed to be changed, it could. There just wasn’t anything either of them wanted to change.

Shawn drove, so Bret could recline with the seat warmer on and nurse his back for the drive into town. It pained him a little bit a lot of the time, but the heat helped. The drive with Shawn was almost therapeutic. He’d mention how the plants were doing and which ones needed some extra care and he’d watch his husband of these many years. He’d chuckle a little at Shawn’s cowboy hat, recalling his distaste for them in his youth as opposed to his near-constant wearing of one outside the house now. Watch the corners of his mouth for a crooked smile. Revel in the sleepy grogginess that made his voice endearingly croaky. All the little things he loved.

Shawn did the same once they’d set up their table at the market. Bret would either no longer be in pain, or disguising it well as they sat down at their folding chairs. The first few times they’d come, they’d joked about the chairs. Miming hitting each other with them or reminiscing about shots they’d taken. The jokes tapered off as it became more apparent that the damage Shawn had taken to the eye from a chair was not going away. He could still see fine and he used their daily hours at the market either to work on the little yarn projects Bret had encouraged him to try out or to watch Bret himself.

The streaks of gray that Bret had originally tried to cover up had slowly overtaken his hair, making it a brilliant silver. He kept it pulled back into a messy low ponytail, which was more than fine by Shawn. It let him see his face better. Let him see the way his eyes lit up when patrons asked him questions about the produce and his garden. He’d told every detail of his techniques enough times for Shawn to practically know the spiel by heart, but it never failed to make him excited. Genuine joy had been a rarity on Bret’s face when they were young men together, but it was almost commonplace now. No matter how badly he was hurting, speaking of his passions took all the pain away. So Shawn would watch, and he’d listen and he’d fall a little bit more in love. 

When they drove home, they’d hold hands. Their hands were still hard and calloused from tightly gripping tools, but softer towards each other now. The time for fighting was behind them. Long gone were the days of violence and chair shots and pushing each other too far in promos that cut a little too deep. There’d been enough of that. They’d lived through their wars; it was time for the happily ever after.

[gardenwitch13]

Egg Shell Powder - Nature’s Fertilizer

I’ve been putting egg shells in my compost for years and it takes years for it to break down. 

I recently came across the idea of turning whole egg shell into powder and adding that to plants. The idea is that by grinding it into powder, you speed the process of composition and allowing the nutrients of the egg shell to be absorbed faster into the soil. The calcium carbonate in egg shell is important for the building of strong roots of plants and it’s a favorite nutrient of tomatoes. If you use crushed shells instead of powder, it’s a good way to keep the soil aeriated and not get compacted as well.

Since our family goes through a dozen eggs a week, I make this powder on a monthly basis. There’s always someone eating at least one egg a day, and for that I keep an egg shell container on the counter at all times. 

Here’s my process for egg shell powder, there are many variants to try, and this is what works for me:

Clean the egg shells right after breaking them. I just rinse them in cold water and then I store them in a container. When the container gets full, I bake them. I spread them in a cake pan - make sure to separate the shells in the pan as they like to overlap in storage and bake for one hour at 250 degrees. You don’t want to bake them to “cook” them, it’s more about drying them out. Once I remove the pan from the oven, I let it sit until cold. Next I add the shells to a blender. While the shells, when whole, take up a lot of room, the powder takes up a lot less space. So I’ve found that the smoothie cup of our Bullet works best for this. I do have to break up the egg shells in the cup so that I can add the whole pan to it. I blend it until I like the texture - so you can make it more course like salt or go for the fine powder. I personally like the fine powder as it’s easier to work into the soil - especially for my potted plants. I store the powder in an air tight container in a cool dark space. (Like my pantry). 

Make sure to clean the blender tools thoroughly when done. 

I add the powder to my established potted plants every six months, to my garden at the end of harvest and then again to the holes if I’m transplanting at the beginning of the season - since I live in Texas - I have two growing seasons. I have a container for my lettuce and every time I take out anything that bolted and get ready to start over with new lettuce plants, I add the powder at least a week before planting, I’ll hand till the soil and water during this waiting period. When I transplant new plants to pots, pot up, or add soil to pots due to soil depletion, I will add the powder to the potting mix.

As you can see, I use it a lot because calcium is a universal nutrient that plants need and it’s dry, so it’s easy to mix with soil, potting mix, or adding to potted plants. I honestly no longer add egg shells to my compost, but I will add crushed shells or powder to my compost mix when I add it to the gardens.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to�� You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

*

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

*

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

[ediblegardenspointloma]

How to Harvest and Dry Onions

My father farmed onions for a season in Bakersfield, California to help his uncle. It was a good experience for them since the Texas crop failed and their onions brought a premium price. With his share of the profit my parents built their first home in Laguna Beach in 1948.

My father’s mother assisted the same farmer in his Oregon onion fields other years, pulling weeds when she wasn’t caring for an elderly friend. My sister lives near the property in Sherwood and the onion drying barn was still standing the last time I was there.

So there are onions in my lineage. But I must admit to being a lazy onion grower. I don’t usually start them from seed, choosing the easy way with onion sets. I especially like red onions so I buy a pound of the sets and push them into the prepared soil, usually next to the carrots. I also interplant them with brassica crops for an early green onion harvest.

The onion sets go in the ground in the fall about two inches apart. I pull them as needed at “scallion size.” Growth slows over the winter and with longer days I have “spring onions.” Then as days lengthen, the bulbs grow in size. I pull them for kitchen uses but they’re often growing too close together for proper bulb formation.

I was particularly neglectful this spring. The onions produced blooms earlier than usual and I didn’t deal with them. Most experts I read suggest harvesting the onions when the blooms appear. I didn’t.

I thought the onion flowers would work well—like white fireworks—in a Fourth of July bouquet. Good for the bouquet but not for the bulb onions.

Finally, this week I pulled the onions for drying as I needed the space for other crops. The bulbs were not large or particularly well-formed. Likely, they will not store well. They were not my father’s onions.

Avoid my mistakes and read two excellent short articles on growing, harvesting and drying onions. I should have been reading them earlier in the season.

How to Plant, Grow and Harvest Onions How to Harvest and Store Onions

[dharc16]

10 WAYS TO CELEBRATE THE AUTUMN EQUINOX

The Autumnal Equinox is the time of year when daylight and nighttime are equal. After the Autumnal Equinox, the darkness will begin to win the battle, gaining an extra minute or so every day as we progress towards winter. Now is the time when nature begins to slow and the harvests become less plentiful. Though the autumn equinox can arrive as early as September 20th or 21st depending on solar patterns, this year it falls on September 22nd. So get ready to celebrate!

Like most Sabbats that are celebrated later in the year, the autumn equinox is about reflection and letting go of that which does not serve us any longer. It's a chance to slough off the old and prepare for rest. We clean out that which piled up during the business of summer and store up that which we will need for our winter rest. The colors of the Autumn Equinox are just as rich and warming as the colors of autumn—deep crimson, vibrant orange, lustrous gold, and earthy brown. If you're planning a feast, make sure to include all the fall bounties as well as late summer fruits and vegetables. Pumpkin, squash, berries, nuts, and corn are all fantastic inclusions. Looking for specific ideas on how to celebrate the Autumn Equinox without costing a mint? You've come to the right place! Here are 10 wonderful ways to celebrate for free or for little cost!

MAKE POPCORN

What's more cozy than snuggling under a blanket with a big bowl of buttered popcorn? Of course, you could always watch a movie, but why not take your treat outside to watch nature instead? Inhale that fragrant autumn air. Really take a few moments to appreciate the breathtaking hues of the trees. Watch the birds and squirrels as they prepare for winter. Simply take in the magnificence of the season. And if you're in a generous mood, leave a few un-buttered pieces of popcorn for the critters.

BALANCE YOUR CHAKRAS 

The Autumn Equinox is a time to find balance in your life. But while we tend to immediately think of time constraints as a place to find balance (work versus family time, family time versus self-care), when was the last time you balanced your spiritual centers?If you're not familiar, chakras are points of energy on the body that have spiritual as well as physical impact. When they are balanced, life is good. When they are imbalanced, we have unwanted manifestations, such as illness and financial troubles. The good news is balancing them is as simple as taking a few minutes for visualization! Like any visualization, chakra balancing gets easier with practice, so don't feel discouraged if you have trouble focusing during your first go around or two. A nice, simple chakra meditation can be found on YouTube. Get a blanket, find a quiet spot under a tree, and take some time to balance your chakras this Mabon! You'll be glad you did. Bonus points if you plant your feet in the soil and get your earthing on!

HAVE A PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE

Admittedly, this suggestion is a little self-benefiting. But what's autumn without a warm drink laced with cinnamon and nutmeg? You can certainly buy one at your favorite coffee shop, but why not make one? I'm betting you already have the ingredients on hand. Take the time to really savor the process. Inhale the nutty aroma of the coffee before you brew it. Watch as the creamer turns your drink into a rich caramel color. Savor the first sip without scarfing down the entire drink. Life is a lot more pleasurable when we take time to relish the things we enjoy. Sit outside with your homemade brew, breathe deep inhalations of that luscious autumn air, and simply BE.

FOCUS ON GRATITUDE AND THANKSGIVING

With Autumn Equinox being a time of reflection and balance, what better way to celebrate than to make a list for all that you are thankful for? Take a notebook to the park and make a list of everything you appreciate—from big things, like your family or health, to small things, like hot cocoa and fuzzy slipper socks. Feeling crafty? Make a gratitude tree! Simply find a funky fallen twig that has lots of little branchy offshoots to hold your leaves. Place the twig (or twigs) in a pot of stones so it's standing upright, like a miniature dead tree. Collect fallen leaves or cut your own from construction paper. Write something you're grateful for on each leaf. Tape on a loop of string or thread, and hang the leaves from your twig! Beauty and function— my favorite!And remember, crafts don't need to be limited to children. Our children are grown and gone, yet we make a gratitude tree every year for Thanksgiving by adding one leaf a day for each day in November leading up to the big feast! Festiveness isn't just reserved for those too young to drive. Embrace life! Live it with all you've got! And don't forget to be grateful!

BRING IN SOME NATURE 

If you're anything like me, you're just itching to get something decorative in your home this fall. We don't really get in to decorating for Halloween with ghosts and goblins because we don't celebrate the way that most people in America do. We celebrate it the Christian way, not the pagan way. Why not take a nature walk and collect whatever beautiful, natural treasures you stumble upon? Colored leaves. Acorns. Gnarled twigs. Pine cones. Cool rocks. Bring a bag and collect whatever catches your eye. Arrange it on a table or counter top when you get home, throw in a candle or two (maybe gold and red) and you've got yourself an instant natural Mabon altar! You can even leave your natural masterpiece up for a few weeks as a spectacular (and FREE!) fall decoration!

WELCOME IN THE DARKNESS 

As the sun sets on the Autumn Equinox, we welcome in the darkness of the coming season. Grab a blanket, some lawn chairs, and allow yourself to be fully in the moment as the sun sets this equinox. Once the orange globe has dipped below the horizon, breathe in the darkness of fall and honor the tranquil introspection this season inspires. With tea, of course!

BRING ON THE COZY 

Having spent most of my life in Texas, what I miss most about autumn is the coziness. Soft sweaters. Knitted throws. Hot drinks. Crisp morning air. Chilly noses on rainy days. Envelop yourself in the coziness of autumn, even if, like here in Texas, you are still running the air conditioner and suffering in 90 degree weather. Whether that means decorating your home in autumnal flare, lighting a pumpkin-spice candle, or baking a cinnamon-scented apple pie, do something special that puts you in that autumn state of mind.

TAKE IT IN

The best part of autumn is undoubtedly the simplicity. Life seems to slow down just a little, following the graceful dance of nature herself. Take the time to slowdown alongside her. Treat yourself to a pumpkin latte, head over to your favorite park or even your own backyard, and just exist. Watch the passersby as you sip your drink. Observe the colors of autumn, the slight crisp that's beginning to blossom in the air, the chatter of birds as they prepare for winter. Breathe deep. Slow your mind. Just exist. It's something we don't do often enough, but fall is most definitely the time for it!

FIND BALANCE

 Whether autumnal or vernal, equinoxes are the perfect opportunity to find balance, just like nature! If you've been doing a little too much of anything—eating, working, worrying, whatever!—now is the time to take a step back and evaluate how to change your behavior in favor of a more healthy approach. Remember, anything in excess is damaging. Even drinking too much water will kill you.I know! Crazy, right?!If you find it difficult to disconnect from work. If your vice is copious amounts of sugar. If exercise has become obsessive. If spending has exceeded income, take the time to make positive changes. NOT to belittle and berate yourself. NOT to feel guilty and swim among the self-loathing waters. Objectively look at the situation, find a reasonable solution, and make changes. Shame doesn't fix the problem. It's a warning bell that alerts us to the need for change. Nothing more. Take a deep breath of that fresh autumn air and start again. You've got this!

CINNAMON FLAMES

Autumn seems to bring out the craving for bonfires and campfires. If you're lighting one up this Autumn Equinox, toss in a couple of cinnamon sticks for good luck in the coming season. Plus your backyard will smell heavenly!

Whether you use this time to reflect or to indulge, I hope you have a spectacular Autumn Equinox celebration filled with love, coziness, and an extra dash of magic! BLESSED BE!

[raysofcrosby]

LITTLE DO YOU KNOW PT. 12

"𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺." ━ 𝐉.𝐑.𝐑. 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐧, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

gif credit (x)

series masterlist

requested: yes | no

warnings: nope.

word count: 6,844 [once again, unedited lol]

authors note: THIS IS IT!! the finale of my tyler seguin series– ‘little do you know!’ this series honestly started out as a little fic idea i wrote down in my notes app on a road trip this time last year. i didn’t think much would come of it and when i decided to post it on here, i figured it’d flame away. but yall literally took it to a whole ‘nother level and i love yall for that so so much. you’ve sent messages, reblogged, liked and it’s still mind-blowing to me. i’m so happy that you guys enjoyed this series as much as i’ve loved writing it– and while it saddens me that it’s over, i can’t wait to bring you guys more material. okok enough of my rambling, here’s the finale!

Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip

That was all that echoed through your mind the moment your name was called for you to receive your diploma. You hadn't even thought about that being a possibility until last night, at yours and Kennedy's joint graduation dinner, when your brothers brought up how funny it would be if the two of you face-planted in front of the huge crowd.

And when you crossed the stage with grace, taking in the cheers that followed your name as you stood beside the University President with your diploma in hand– you swore that this was the happiest moment of your life. When you got back to your seat and the rest of the names continued to get called, you couldn't help but spend that time, looking at your folder and thinking back on your last few months.

You rang in the new year at a team party hosted by the Stars organization that was attended by the team, the staff, and their friends and family. It was nice, coming off of an amazing Christmas spent with your family and being down in Dallas. You had left the city, days earlier in the worst amount of pain and dreaded having to come back to it once school started again. Yet being there, waiting for the ball to drop, surrounded by your parents, your friends and the Dallas Stars, was enough to make you forget all about that pain. And with Tyler on your arm, kissing you into the new year, you truly couldn't wait to see just what 2020 could bring into your life.

And if the Stars 4-2 Winter Classic win over Nashville wasn't a sign of the good that the Universe planned to come your way– well, you didn't want to think about that. You didn't believe it when everyone said that the months would fly by as soon as the spring semester started– but they truly had. Your classes had kept you busy during the day while working the Stars games kept you busy at night. You had kept true to your word, and both you and Kennedy had befriended Paisley– the three of you becoming close in just a short amount of time. When the All-Star break came and your many, many votes for Jamie to be one of the 'last men in' were ignored, Tyler offered you a spot on the trip.

It was one thing, knowing that he'd rather have spent that entire week with you somewhere, doing anything and everything but thinking about hockey. And being in St. Louis in the middle of winter didn't really scream 'yes, please!' But taking the weekend off away from school and supporting him and watching him do what he loves while inspiring all of hockey's next generation of players...was enough to make you want to go.

As the weeks went on, Dave and Craig let you take on more and more responsibility as you could, and ones that didn't require you needing the board certification that you were already planning to take. They gave you advice on applying to Masters programs and Craig, sometimes even let you take his place on the bench during games. It wasn't a frequent thing, maybe once or twice every two to three weeks– but it was still cool as hell.

When spring break rolled around, you and Kennedy rubbed it into the faces of your Stars friends, when you announced your spring break plans with Paisley. While most of them had been to Cabo once or twice before, it was a getaway most of them desired for since the toll of the season was starting to weigh them down. Before you knew it, finals week was here and then boom...graduation.

In the last five months, your entire senior year flashed right before your eyes– and the moments that stood out the most always had the most important people in your life.

Your friends.

Your brothers and er- adopted brothers.

And Tyler...and the puppers.

The sound of cheering knocked you out of your thoughts and you saw all of your classmates standing up around you. You followed suit, holding onto the diploma tightly as you looked around you. You couldn't wrap your mind around how four years had come to an end so quickly. All of the weekends, the study nights, the parties off campus– everything, your entire college experience had wrapped up in four hours. As the crowd began to disperse and everyone went in search of their families, you looked around for Kennedy and Paisley, heading towards the meeting spot that the three of you had designated beforehand.

The Texas heat practically slapped you in the face as you used your diploma as a way to block the sun. Leaning out by a pillar just outside the auditorium, your two friends swarmed you from either side, the three of you hugging and trying not to cry. Even though Paisley had come into your friend group so late, it was like she was a missing piece of your friendship puzzle that well, you never knew you needed. When the three of you pulled away from one another, it only took one passing look before you burst into laughter.

"Ugh, why are we like this?" Kennedy laughed, sniffling and wiping her cheeks.

"I'm just happy that I'm no longer in that arena. You'd think with as expensive as the tuition is, they'd have decent air conditioning." Paisley added on, taking off her cap and wiping at her forehead. She turned off to the side and nodded her head. "I see my family, but we're all still on for lunch, right?"

Kennedy and you nodded as she waved and walked off, disappearing into the crowd. You relaxed more against the pillar, looking at your surroundings once more. "I can't believe it's over."

"Oh God, don't you start that," Kennedy came up next to you and plopped back against the pillar. "Get out of your emotions, Y/N. This isn't the time, especially today!"

And she was right, today was not the best day to get all in your feelings and be sad about your college experience coming to an end. Today...or rather, tonight, was so much more important.

"THERE'S MY FAVORITE GRADUATE!"

You and Kennedy looked up to see Big Rig towering over the crowd of people as his frame practically parted the crowd. Kennedy's parents were drifting behind him, all smiles as Big Rig carried flowers in his hands. "Hi, favorite boyfriend."

You rolled your eyes as he picked her up and spun her around carefully, kissing her before placing her back down onto the ground. "Favorite boyfriend? Are you telling me you have more than one?"

"Eh, I forgot about what's his name for the weekends," she joked, standing on her tippy toes and kissing him again. "You're my number one, though."

He smiled and handed her his flowers before turning to you, "ah, my second favorite graduate and first favorite Benn!" He wrapped you up in a hug and lifted you off the ground. "Don't worry, I got you flowers as well." He put you back down and handed you the other bouquet he was carrying.

"Hey, the only one who brings her flowers is me!" You turned to see Tyler standing there all dressed up with a smile on his face. When you looked past him, you saw the rest of your group stopped and talking to Kennedy's parents.

"Hey now, I'm more than okay with receiving gifts," you smiled, as Tyler made his way over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. "But your flowers are my favorite."

He leaned in and kissed you, pulling away and tapping your graduation cap before bringing the bouquet in between the two of you. "There's a little gift in there too, from the puppers and I."

You looked down in the bouquet to see a black box with a small, red bow sitting in the middle of it. You picked it up and then looked back at Tyler with a raised eyebrow. "But Tyler, I just graduated college...I'm too young to get married."

The way his eyes bulged out of his head was enough to make you want to double over in laughter. When he registered the sarcasm in his voice, he rolled his eyes and nodded. "Haha, very funny, Y/N," he tucked the bouquet in the crook of his arm and nodded down at the box. "But just so you know, my proposal would be 100x better than this."

Your heart fluttered at the thought of Tyler proposing to you. Sure, you were nowhere near ready for marriage and neither was Tyler. And when you said it, it was a total joke. But the thought of it...was still a nice one. You looked back down at the box and lifted up the lid, revealing a stunning gold, heart-shaped locket. "Oh, Tyler..."

"Go ahead, open it." He smiled, nodding his head down at the locket before looking back at you. You pulled the necklace out of the box and opened the locket, revealing two pictures tucked on the inside. "Cassidy and Candace helped me cut out the pictures, I guess my first-grade arts and crafts projects proved that scissors and I don't go together well."

You smiled down at the locket, taking in the pictures Tyler had chosen. On the left, was a picture of the three goodest Seguin boys sitting at attention, all smiles and tongues. On the right, was probably your favorite picture you and Tyler had ever taken. It was at the family skate for the winter classic, the two of you had been skating around and having fun, and after beating Tyler in the first of many races, he had wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into him– preventing you from skating away. You were laughing, trying to wrestle out of his grip as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, blowing raspberries and only making you squirm more. Kennedy had snapped the candid, right at the moment, you had turned to look at him with a smile on his face and seconds before he leaned in to kiss you.

Literally a picture-perfect moment.

"I got it engraved on the back too," he reached out and flipped the locket over, revealing the small engraving on the backside. "They're coordinates."

"Coordinates? But to where?" you smiled, running your finger over the numbers.

"Dallas," he nodded, pointing at the engraving just below that.

My favorite memories and more. I love you.

You looked down at the locket, continuously running your thumb over the small engraving as you tried to hold back the tears. It was incredibly sweet of him to do this. At most, you expected flowers– but not something as sentimental as this. Yet as always, Tyler was always giving you more than you expected or felt like you deserved.

"I love you." You smiled, finally looking up at him before handing him the necklace and turning around, holding your hair up. "Can you?"

He handed the flowers off to Big Rig before placing the locket around your neck. The moment he clasped it off and you felt the weight of the necklace rest right at your chest, you turned around and wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him. "I'm proud of you and I love you, Y/N. I hope you know that."

You nudged his nose with your own and smiled, "I know."

He hugged you closer to him, kissing you again until someone cleared their throat, interrupting the moment. "This is nice and all, but let me hug my sister, Seggy."

Tyler stepped away, taking the flowers back from Big Rig as Jamie, Jordie, and Jenn huddled behind him. Tyler and Jamie were back to normal, what happened over Christmas playing a huge part in it. Jamie, of course, had a few understandable ground rules: no extensive PDA in front of him and no discussing bedroom activities in the locker room, both of which you understood completely.

You were swarmed by your three older siblings, all three wrapping you up into a big hug and refusing to give you any air to breathe– but you were okay with it. You experienced a time where you knew that one of them had wanted nothing to do with you at one point, and you never wanted to experience that again. So this, lung crushing hug– was perfect.

"Okay, okay, give her some air you three," your mom said, swatting them away as yours and Kennedy's families group together. "Gosh, look at the two of you...college graduates."

"Yeah, honestly we never thought you'd make it here– OW!" Jordie said, glaring at your mom. "What? It's the truth? Don't you remember how homesick they were freshman year?"

"Oh yeah!" Jamie laughed, pointing at you and Kennedy. "Family weekend, you guys had an intervention with the two of them, telling them that they couldn't camp out in Kennedy's living room anymore on the weekends."

"And look how much gas money we saved on that," Kennedy's dad chimed in, wrapping his arm around her mom. "You girls sure have grown up these last few years...it makes us proud."

"Now about this Hawaii trip..." you smiled, looking at your two older brothers.

Jamie and Jordie looked at one another and Jamie shook his head. "I told you it wouldn't take her long to bring it up."

"Well, you're the one who ruined the surprise."

"Okay, but how was I supposed to know–"

"Boys, boys, boys," Kennedy said, walking over to the two older Benn boys. "Why argue, when you can give us the details on our extravagant, Hawaiian vacation?"

"Girls, we'll discuss it over lunch when we're with Paisley too, can the two of you wait that long?" Your mom asked, shaking her head.

"The lunch that four said big hockey players won't be at because they have to take a pre-game nap?" You smiled, standing up straighter. "Sounds great to me."

"Speaking of the game tonight, we're excited to see you guys play!" Kennedy's mom said, nodding at Big Rig. "Finally get to see the four boys we've heard so much about, in action."

"Please Mrs. Stewart, don't boost their egos any more than they already are." You teased, bumping into Tyler.

"Okay, okay enough talk! If we want to make our reservations we'll need to get some pictures done! Boys– er, boyfriends, you guys with the two girls first." Your dad directed, ushering the conversation forward.

Everyone cleared out in the circle as Big Rig and Tyler came to take a picture with Kennedy and you. Tyler stood on your right as Big Rig stood in between you and Kennedy, all four of you standing close and looking at the cameras, ready for the picture. "I'm kind of jealous of their hats," Tyler said, smiling through his words.

"I know, it's kind of depressing to know that our girlfriends are hotter and smarter than us, now."

"And you better not forget it," You added in, scrunching your nose as Tyler.

"Yeah, but after tonight, we'll be able to say that our boyfriends are the 2020 Western Conference Champions, so which is better?"

Tyler and Big Rig looked at each other and nodded their heads. "Hot girlfriends."

You and Kennedy nudged them both in the ribs before your parents made you take another picture.

❒❒❒❒

Your post-grad lunch surrounded by family and friends was exactly what you needed to take your mind off of the end of your undergrad years and especially, tonight. Jamie, Big Rig, Jordie, and Tyler weren't originally supposed to tag along, but never like to be left out, they opted to join your already huge lunch party. More than once, you often caught yourself slipping out of conversations and just looking around at the table, wondering just how you ended up in your current spot. You had two amazing girlfriends, their families, your own family, your siblings and of course, Tyler.

After the lunch had ended, your four hockey boys went their separate ways to prepare themselves for tonight's game. Jamie had offered up his place for everyone to relax before the game with the one rule that nobody bothered him the moment he went upstairs to take his nap. It was comical, watching him try to lecture the three pairs of parents on how important a pre-game nap was. So, all three families went to Jamie's place and settled down in the living room, mingling and talking about how excited they were to watch the game from the suite that Jamie, Tyler and Big Rig had gotten for the big group. You had chosen to let Tyler have his rest back at his place, deciding to tag along with your parents back to Jamie's house.

And that's when it happened. No sooner than you guys stepped foot into his front door, your mom practically spazzed out, "Oh shoot, I almost forgot!" She rushed into the kitchen, bringing back two envelopes for you. "These came in for you just before we left home. I meant to give them to you at lunch, but I forgot them here this morning."

"What are they?"

"Ooh, maybe it's cash. A million dollars perhaps, Mrs. B?" Kennedy joked, plopping down next to Katie on Jamie's couch.

"Oh no, that'd be a gift from her two loving brothers," your mom laughed, handing over the envelopes to you. "Go ahead, open them."

You took the envelopes from her and flipped them over, seeing two familiar emblems and names written in the top left corner of each. You looked at your parents with wide eyes and they both just smiled. "Do you think...?"

"Only one way to find out."

You took a deep, calming breath before opening the first envelope. You closed your eyes, unfolding the letter before opening it again and letting your eyes dwindle down the paper. "Oh my God...I got in," you let the letter fall from your face as you looked at your parents. "I got in!!"

"Where, where? Which one?" Kennedy cheered, springing off the couch as everyone maneuvered into the living room.

"Houston," you shook your head in shock. "I got into their Masters Athletic Training program."

"Oh God, please stop getting degrees," Jamie groaned, coming in from the kitchen with a water bottle. "It's bad enough you've already got a jump on us, but one more?"

"You can go to school too, Jamie," Katie replied, rolling her eyes. "Open the second one!"

"I bet you got into there too," Jennie smiled, taking a seat on the couch armrest.

"I doubt it," you sighed, looking at the second envelope. "It's USF. They're one of the top programs in the country."

"Well, you'll never know if you don't open it," Jamie replied, coming up by your mom. "And please do it soon, I need my nap."

You stared at the USF logo in the left corner, trying to feel the envelope as if you'd be able to tell it was a rejection letter without opening it. You had only applied to two programs– U of Houston and USF, with USF being your number one choice. Turning the envelope over, you ripped the seal and pulled the folded letter out. You stared at the back of the paper, trying to build the nerve to unfold the letter when you looked up and immediately made eye contact with Jamie.

He sighed and came over, holding out his hand for you to hand the letter over. You placed it in his hand and without hesitation, he unfolded it and brought it up to his face. You watched as his eyes skimmed over the letter, his face showing no sign of emotion. "Well shit," he sighed, sounding defeated.

"No? It's no isn't it?"

"No, it looks like I'll be seeing you in Tampa instead of Houston," he turned the paper around and smiled. "You got in."

Your eyes widened as you read the first word of the letter over and over again. 'Congratulations!' You looked up at Jamie and jumped into his arms. "I got in!"

He hugged you tight and spun you around a little as the rest of the group was all smiles and cheers. "I'm proud of you, kid. I know you've worked hard for this," he put you back onto the ground and handed over your letter. "And you've earned every bit of it."

You were in disbelief, you had actually gotten into both Masters programs. As you stared at your two letters, you couldn't help but feel incredibly proud of the work you'd put in your last four years of undergrad. And as soon as the cheers and voices of everyone around you faded out, the thought that had been lingering in the back of your mind since you applied for the programs, came forward.

If you went to USF...then what about Tyler?

❒❒❒❒

The atmosphere in the arena was insane, and why wouldn't it be? Tonight was the potential final game of the Western Conference Championship. Both of your brothers were playing tonight and the Stars were leading the series 3-0.

Needless to say, tonight was a very, very important night.

So important, that you hadn't even thought to tell anyone besides those who were at the house when you found out about your acceptance into the two masters programs. You figured that after the game was the best time to tell Big Rig and Tyler, not before they had one of the biggest games of their career. That, and it gave you a little more time to really consider what to do about choosing a program. USF was your number one choice and you only applied to U of Houston as a backup. But now that you've gotten into both, what the hell were you supposed to do?

You spent all of that quality pre-game relaxation time asking Kennedy and Paisley what they thought you should do. You and Tyler had just started officially dating only months ago and now there was a huge potential that you would be moving 15 hours away? How the hell would that affect your relationship? You didn't even want to think about that, because you had already almost lost Tyler once...you didn't want to risk it again.

But you wanted to go to USF, so badly. It was as if your brain and your heart were tugging you in two different directions. One being, that if you choose to go to USF for the next two years, your relationship with Tyler would be up in the air and fall apart as quickly as it had come together the first time. The other being, that you couldn't let a relationship dictate over what would be the best for you and your education. The battle inside of you was at such a high, but the moment that you walked into the training room and heard the chatter and laughter of the boys waiting to be helped, it was as if that was washed away and the real worry at hand took over.

As serious of a game, this was going to be, you'd never know it by the way the boys were in the training room or even down the corridors doing their pre-game stuff. You were immediately greeted with cheers and congratulations, followed by the 'smarty-pants' and 'nerd' chirps. But you loved every moment of it because it was coming from them and you knew that they meant it in a heartfelt way.

You were already finished with helping Big Rig and his stretches when Tyler had come in and requested you to tape his ankles, of course. You were already done with one when the door opened and Dave walked in with Craig behind him, both coming back from helping some of the guys out in the hallway.

"Y/N! We just heard!" Craig smiled, walking past as Jamie followed in behind home.

"You got into USF? Great job, kid! Their program is one of the best in the country," Dave added, coming to a stop by you and patting you on the shoulder. "And as a graduation present from Craig and I, you get to be with us on the bench today. Get a taste of the real playoff run stuff." He walked by and went to his desk, plopping down into his chair. "Also, if you have to do some more internship stuff down there, Tom Mulligan is a good friend of mine. I can see if I can get you one there if you'd like?"

"That'd be cool, thanks, Dave." You smiled, turning your attention back to Tyler's ankle as the guys around you cheered even more for you.

"What? You got into USF? That's awesome!" Tyler asked, bending his foot to get you to look up at him. "Wait, what's that? I've never heard of that school here..."

"That's because it's not in Texas," you took a deep breath, looking back down at his foot and mentally cursing Jamie for telling Dave and Craig. This is not how you wanted Tyler to find out, ideally...he'd find out eh...weeks from now. "It's in Tampa."

"But–"

"You're all done." Before he could say anything else, you finish wrapping his ankle and tap the tape, signaling that he's done. You went to stand up when Pavs called you over, asking if you could tape him too.

Tyler sat there on the table for a moment, watching you and still looking confused before finally hopping off, returning his heating pad and walking out of the training room. You could still feel the tension in your shoulders as you went on and helped Pavs and then a few more of the guys, and though Tyler wasn't in the room with you, it was as if you could still feel his gaze on you. When the training room cleared out the closer it got to warm-ups, you leaned back against a table and took a deep breath, letting it out seconds later and feeling yourself relax.

You weren't even playing in the game tonight and you were nervous. It felt a little weird, having both brothers having to play each other. Sure, they'd done it before during the regular season...but this was different. This was to get to the Stanley Cup Finals– and one brother would go, while the other one wouldn't. It made you anxious. You check your watch to see you have some time to grab a water bottle from the lounge before the game started and you left the training room.

No sooner than you stepped out of the room and started to make your way down to the lounge, were you then pulled away by your wrist and cornered by Tyler. "Jesus, Tyler," you sighed. "You scared me."

"Sorry, I just wanted to talk," he said, an arm extended out towards the wall and holding himself up. "So what's up? I can tell something's up with you."

"Really? Oh no, uh," you coughed, shaking your head. "It must be the nerves of being on the bench tonight."

He rolled his eyes, "nice try, but you've been on the bench before." He let his arm down and rested his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "Care to try again?"

"So, like...I applied to two schools, one here in Houston and the other...USF." You sighed, your shoulders collapsing as you caught sight of the locket resting just below the open collar of your polo. "USF is one of the top programs in the country and U of Houston was my backup...and I– I'm just trying to figure out where to go."

"Do you want to go to USF?" Tyler asked nonchalantly.

"Eh."

"Eh?" He laughed, standing up straight. "You just said it was your top choice, so obviously you want to go there. Why aren't you more excited?"

You huffed and crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek before looking at him. "Because it's in Florida, it's a two-year program, we just started dating and I–"

He tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow again. "And you?"

Defeated, you slumped back against the wall, staring back down at your shoes. "I don't want to leave us...you. I just–" you turned to him, uncrossing your arms and raising them halfway, only to let them drop back down at your sides. "This is new and I don't want to ruin it."

He opened his mouth to say something when Jamie's voice erupted from the hall. "Seggy come on, let's go!"

"Hey, Y/N, can you help me unpack this tape really quick?" Craig called out, moments later.

You sighed, looking back down at the floor when Tyler reached for your hand and squeezed it, causing you to look up at him. "We'll have to talk about this after the game, okay?" You nodded and he leaned in, kissed your cheek, whispered "congratulations," and then disappeared down the hall with your brother.

Okay, okay that didn't go as bad as you thought it would. Now it's just time to survive the game and maybe you'd end up surviving the 'talk' you and Tyler were going to have afterward....maybe.

❒❒❒❒

Never has there been a time where you wanted to throw a water bottle as a ref or a linesman's face, yet in this game, it was a constant need almost ever five minutes. You were agitated for both sides, really. Calls were being missed, penalties being blatantly ignored– God, it led you wondering how people even managed to survive playoff hockey. Even though you could feel your blood pressure rise with every play, there was no better feeling than being there on the bench and watching it all unfold in front of you.

Yeah, this is definitely what you wanted to do for the rest of your life.

You've been around hockey your entire life. Whether it was watching your older brothers play or even taking a shot at it yourself– hockey was a constant thing in your family. You've watched enough games in your 22 years of life that could fill an average person's full desire for hockey. But this, being there on the bench, knowing that you're the person that helps the players keep up with their performance and take care of their bodies– was a whole ‘nother thing.

It was a never-ending rush of adrenaline and you had Dave and Craig to thank for this entire experience. Why Craig decided to hang back in the training room and let you take his place on the bench, you had absolutely no idea. But you weren't going to complain, one bit.

Your eyes drifted up towards the jumbotron and saw the time remaining in the second period. there was only a minute left and the Stars still had a 2-1 lead. Dobby was a brick wall, you hadn't seen him play like this and his regular season stats were already fire. As time dwindled down and the shifts were changing you heard a whistle blow and play stopped. Dave looked at you and nodded his head. "You go to Jamie, and I'll go help, Klinger."

"Me?!" You squealed, holding onto the fanny pack rested around your waist.

"Yes, you– it's okay. Jamie's tough, probably nothing too serious." He replied, stepping out onto the ice as Rads helped him over.

You felt your heart begin to race as Bishop opened the door for you and you stepped out onto the ice. Big Rig was right there to help you over to Jamie and Tyler skated over soon after, making it a faster trip over to your brother. The adrenaline was surely pumping through you now as you quickly looked out into the crowd and saw the thousands of people surrounding you. "Oh wow," you gulped, holding onto the towel in your hand.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Big Rig laughed as they brought you to a stop in front of Jamie, who was pushing himself up onto his knees.

"What's up big boy?" You asked, looking down at your brother before crouching down on to the ice. He was bleeding on his forehead, just beneath his helmet. "Holy fuck you're bleeding!"

"Well yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what the red stuff is, Y/N." Big Rig chuckled, resting against his stick.

"I think the fucking puck nailed Klinger and ricocheted and hit me," he sucked in air through his teeth as he checked in on Klinger. When his eyes settled back on you he chuckled. "Wow, I guess they just send anyone out on the ice these days, huh?"

"Dave said it wasn't this serious, though!" You panicked slightly, bending down more to get a glimpse at his cut as you reached for the helmet. "This is why mom got the two of you visors for Christmas, you bonehead."

You examined the cut to make sure his helmet hadn't chipped and gone into the wound. You pressed the towel against his head as he laughed. "Shut up or I'll ask Craig to let me stitch you up too– that should be fun."

His eyes went wide at your suggestion, just as Jordie came to a stop by your group. "How's he doing doc? Is he going to lose a few brain cells?"

Oh, how the announcers for the game must be losing their minds– three Benn's on the ice in a Western Conference Championship game. Talk about social media gold.

"It wouldn't matter if he did," you said, nodding back down at Jamie. "I'd still be the smartest in the family."

Jamie groaned and started to stand up without you, but you kept the pressure on his forehead until he was fully standing and took over the pressure on his own. "Yeah, yeah, shut up the both of you."

You walked alongside him as Tyler and Big Rig followed you back, Jordie trailing not too far behind. When you reached the bench, Jamie walked back to the training room and you stepped back into the bench. "Looking good out here, Y/N. I guess the degree hasn't gone to waste, huh?" Jordie joked.

"Oh yeah," you laughed, tugging on our fanny pack and motioning towards the tunnel. "Putting good use to it all seven hours I've had it."

Jordie just winked as he skated off back towards his own bench, just as Dave and Klinger came off of the ice. Klinger looked fine, but since the period was ending soon, he was probably going back to get ahead of the crowd and get checked on. "Everything okay?" Dave asked, nodding his head down the tunnel.

"Oh yeah, just a cut. It doesn't need any stitches or anything, it can just be cleaned, if at most glued. But don't tell Jamie I said that, I already said Craig would let me stitch him up."

Dave threw his head back and laughed as the two of you turned towards the ice as play resumed. He crossed his arms, staring out at the ice before nodding ahead. "I meant what I said, Y/N. I can give you a recommendation to Tom. You've got the heart for this, the skills and you're a hard worker."

You bit the inside of your cheek, still unsure if you were even going to be in that area, though the offer was nice. "Can I get back to you on that?"

Dave nodded as the period came to an end and the players made their way down the tunnel. "Sure thing, kid. But I can tell you one thing, even just based on seeing you in the training room and then just now, you're a natural for this."

You stood there for a few moments longer, taking in the empty ice and the full arena. You took a deep breath and sighed as his words replayed in your mind.

'You're a natural.'

'You've got the heart for this.’

'The skills...'

You tapped your hand against the wall and smiled, before turning away from the ice and walking back down the tunnel.

❒❒❒❒

This couldn't be real.

You had to be fucking dreaming right now.

The Stars were headed to the Stanley Cup Finals and Tyler had scored the game-winning goal in the last shootout round, to send them there. The moment that the puck flew past Markstrom and the team erupted on of the bench, you felt like running onto the ice with them. Instead, you were attacked with a hug from Big Rig before he followed his teammates off of the bench and on to the ice. It was surreal, hearing the cheers erupt all around you.

It was almost deafening.

You couldn't stop shaking even as you watched the ceremony of the boys receiving their hats from the NHL and then the Clarence S. Campbell Bowl from the NHL commissioner. You wanted to cry when you saw Jamie lead the team over to get their picture behind it. Even by the time that everything had calmed down and the families were allowed to come on to the ice to congratulate their players, it still felt like it was a dream.

When you finally got onto the ice with your family, the whole thing was a big blur. It was like you hopped from picture to picture, congratulations leaving your lips time after time as your heart swelled with pride at what your team had accomplished. You were standing back, watching your parents snap pictures of your brother and Katie and relaxing, taking in the scene of the fans still cheering on the boys.

"Y/N! Y/N!" You looked to your left to see Candace and Cassidy both headed your way with big smiles on their faces. The three of you hugged as you looked around for Tyler, knowing that he was probably done taking pictures with his family.

"Can you believe it?" Cassidy smiled, holding onto your arm. "They're going to the Stanley Cup finals!"

"Who would've thought that our average player of a brother would be the won to score the game-winning goal that sends them to the finals, huh?" Candace joked, her eyebrows raising as she looked past you.

You turned to see Tyler making his way over to you and you felt your cheeks redden and your heart race. "I think that's our cue to leave, but come find us afterward! We want pictures." Cassidy smiled, squeezing your arm before pulling Candace away.

You laughed as they walked away just as Tyler had reached you. He was hearing his hat proudly on his head and had the grin you loved so much plastered on his face. "Well hey, there champio–"

Before you could even say anything, he sweeps you up into his arms and kisses you. You wrap your arms around his neck, pouring every bit of love you had for him into the kiss before he pulled away, still holding you in his arms. "I want you to go," he huffed, out of breath.

"Huh?" You asked, tilting your head to the side.

"To USF. I want you to go."

"But–"

"No, no buts." He placed you back down onto the ice and kept his arms around your waist, looking down at you. "This is your dream. That's the best program in the country and don't try to tell me different because I even heard Dave say it."

Your jaw dropped, still stunned at what he was saying. "But–" He looked at you with a raised eyebrow and you sighed. "But I don't want to leave you..."

"We can hang out when we come to play Tampa. I can visit, you can visit and we have our summers." He took the hat off of his head and placed it down onto yours, adjusting it with a smile. "Besides, I'd be able to brag about how my smoking hot, and genius girlfriend got into one of the top athletic training programs in the country."

You felt your eyes brim with tears once again before you brought him back down and kissed him again. When you pulled away, you kept your eyes closed and your forehead pressed to his. "I love you."

"And I love you," he replied, kissing your forehead before pulling away from you and intertwining his fingers with yours. "Now come on, I need a picture with my lucky charm of a girlfriend and the Clarence S. Campbell bowl so I can post it on Instagram and brag about the both of you."

You threw your head back and laughed, as you tucked yourself further into his side, not even caring that you guys were surrounded by the press and the fans. "You're such a dweeb."

"Yeah, but I'm your–"

"Don't even say it, Seguin," you chuckled, looking up at him. He just tapped the brim of the hat on your head, knocking it partially over your eyes before giving you a wink and that childlike grin that was enough to bring the butterflies in your stomach alive.

[fatehbaz]

Do you have any good posts about gardening?

Hey. Sorry, in advance, since this post is a bit long. Looks like this will be a “regional ecology and geography of food plants, gardening, and folk knowledge” and “the role of gardens in ecological imperialism” masterpost resource.

I know very little about the actual practice of gardening. I’m horrible source of info on gardening. I also know little about chemistry, soil science, and the more “technical” aspects of plant life. I’m more into historical ecology, the history of human/cultural relationships with plants, and the geography and distribution of plants, animals, and ecoregions. But I know there are some good people on this site with great knowledge about gardening, foodsheds, and native plants. I am very impressed and humbled by these people, and I would recommend people like caecilian-caesura (soil, gardening, growing things); cedar-glade (restoration, prairie, oak savanna, the Ohio River Valley/Great Lakes); spatheandspadix (great knowledge of plant life, regional and technical ecology, Great Lakes, Appalachia); radicalgardener (food, gardening, Alaska); pacificnorthwestdoodles (gardening and food in the Pacific Northwest). And there are several more people on this site who I could recommend for info on Texas and Florida. (You know who you are, I think (?). Hope you know I respect you). Send another anon or message if you want their names. (And I’m sorry if any of you are uncomfortable with me publicizing or mentioning you here. Please let me know and I’ll remove your name, no problem at all.)

I know this is almost completely unrelated to what you asked, and this isn’t what you were looking for, but I hope it might be interesting for some people? For sheer fun and convenience, I figured I’d compile a list of posts about (1) regional ecology involving gardening, food, and traditional environmental knowledge of plants/food. And (2) the use of gardens, botany, and plants generally in imperialism.

(One of my interests is in regional geography/ecology, especially involving temperate rainforest; prairies and oak savannas; the Pacific Northwest; so-called Canada; the Rockies; the northern Great Plains; and the Great Lakes. And another of my interests is the historical ecology of empires and colonization, and the role of plants and soil in imperialism. So, I’ve separated the list into those 2 categories. The reason I chose to include ecological imperialism here is because Euro-American gardens and farms have played such a central role in extinction, dispossession, initial waves of European colonization, and continued degradation now, as with non-native earthworms.)

Regional ecology and geography involving gardening, food, folk knowledge, and traditional ecological knowledge of plants and plant harvest for food:

- Masterpost about Palouse prairie native grassland: Native and endemic plants. Indigenous history of ecoregion and traditional plant use. The giant native earthworm. Some maps. (Very unique and endangered prairie ecoregion in the inland Pacific Northwest, one of the only sizable grasslands west of the Rockies. Ecologists estimate that only 0.1% of native prairie remains in the Palouse, the rest lost to agriculture over the past 120 years.)

- Masterpost of worm invasion in the Great Lakes region, Canada, and the Midwest: Lots of info about non-native earthworms in hardwoods forests; the transition zone between Great Plains and eastern deciduous forests; Ojibwe/Anishinaabe land; and the boreal-temperate transition zone of the Great Lakes. Info on how worms threaten mycorrhizal fungal networks; understory plants; soil integrity; sugar maples; and traditional maple harvest.

- “Sometimes ... plants that are aesthetically pleasing ... are worse.” Karuk prescribed burning. Traditional food harvest. Agroforestry in Klamath Mountains. Geography of oak woodlands in the PNW. And how California’s settler institutions messed up soil and forest health with bad management by prioritizing pretty conifers instead of cultivating oak woodlands.

- “Coyote’s biota”: Comcaac (Seri) and O’Odaham food, plant knowledge, and the ascribing of special names to native plants and Euro-American plants to distinguish between types of food.

- Gardens, plant-human relationships, and the sophisticated seasonal planting schedules of Makushi people (northern Amazonia).

- Horticulture, deliberate promotion of fungus-plant symbiosis, gardening of Matsigenka people (Madre de Dios watershed, Amazonia).

- Easy-to-access compilation of audio recordings and oral histories of bioregional foodsheds, from 13 Native food autonomy advocates. (New England maple syrup. New Mexico. Louisiana’s Gulf Coast. Abalone/acorns in California. Salmon in PNW, etc.)

- Swamp rattlesnakes, bogs, endangered flooded prairie of Ontario, Great Lakes, Midwest. Geography of massassauga distribution and disappearance of flooded remnant prairie. (Love that pygmy rattlesnakes live on the boreal fringe on Manitoulin Island, the shores of Georgian Bay, and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.)

- Endangered endemic frogs and oak woodlands/prairies of the Pacific Northwest: Maps and info on the Oregon spotted frog and disappearance of dryland oak woodland/savanna/prairie in the coastal PNW. (Most of the dryland prairie of the PNW, and the frog habitat specifically, has been lost to agriculture and/or urban development.)

- Respecting plants, wetlands, native foods, and Indigenous history of Chicago area

- Recognizing the centuries/millennia of Native role in cultivating grasslands and resilient foodsheds of coastal California (specifically, Quiroste and Amah Mutsun environmental management techniques in the Bay Area). Also includes info on how California institutions are incorporating Native leadership/management in formal policy.

- Potentially the worst and most annoying post I’ve ever made. A post about snakes, remnant prairies, and forests in the northern Great Plains. Pothole prairies, riparian cottonwood corridors, aspen parkland, and a special snake species in the northern Great Plains. Short and incomplete version: [X]. Longer and more annoying version with answers, more maps, discussion of prairie, Black Hills, Colorado aspen, forest types in the Midwest: [X].

- Indigenous agroforestry in Amazonia, underappreciated designing and planning of forest structure.

- “Forage wars” between Native food harvesters and California legal institutions: Abalone, native foodsheds, and food harvesting in Pomo, Yurok, Coast Yuki, and other Klamath Mountains and coastal Northern California communities.

- Settler agriculture in Canadian prairies and the normalization of standards of agriculture and meteorology in late 19th and early 20th centuries. (Some discussion of effects of unsustainable agriculture on local soil/plant death.)

- New worms in Alaska: Recent news of the discovery (2018 - 2020) of Alaska’s first known native earthworm, near Fairbanks, around the same time that ecologists announce escalation in non-native earthworm invasion of Alaskan and boreal forest environments for the first time. (The non-native earthworms threatening Alaskan/boreal environments were apparently introduced in gardens and at fishing sites.)

- Worm invasion in Alaska: Presentation on where non-native earthworms have expanded their range in Alaska, and how they alter the soil. (From 2019.)

- Worm Disk Horse, responses to worm questions. (Some references to gardening and native/regional foodsheds.)

- Oak savanna, endemic reptiles, sudden oak death outbreak in Oregon and Northern California. Contains a bunch of maps.

- Biodiversity, key species, native plants in native prairie and shortgrass prairies of northern Great Plains

- Endangered and endemic butterflies of oak woodlands/prairies of the Pacific Northwest.

- Uncanny legless lizard creature, landscapes recovering from non-native plant agriculture, and remnant prairie of the Midwest and Great Lakes.

- Palouse prairie and recent news of the survival of the giant Palouse earthworm: Potentially temperate North America’s largest native earthworm, which relies on native prairie.

--------------------------------------------

Role of gardens, botany, plants, and Euro-American gardening in ecological imperialism:

- The grand tale of breadfruit domestication, the mutiny on the Bounty, and plantation owners plotting with Kew Gardens to domesticate crops to undermine slave gardens in the Caribbean. (Also includes comments on the under-reported central role of media/PR manipulation and slavery in the “mutiny on the Bounty” story.)

- Wild rice (the imperial plot to domesticate wild rice), “cottage colonialism” in Canada, imaginative control, the power of names and naming plants. (Covers 1880s to Present.)

- How the gardens, horticulture, and food markets of slaves and the poor/dispossessed in the Caribbean allowed autonomous food networks to exist and undermine plantation owners and imperial interests. (Late 1700s, early 1800s.)

- Anna Boswell’s discussion of endemic longfin eels of Aotearoa as example of the problem with making “land-water” distinctions in Euro-American agriculture and land management

- Grasses, seed merchants, and “the Empire’s dairy farm” in Aotearoa. (European agriculture in late 19th and early 20th centuries.)

- The role of grasslands, deforestation, and English grasses in ecological imperialism in Aotearoa, early 20th century.

- European botanic gardens in 18th-/19th-century Mexico and Central America as a tool of imperialism and knowledge systematization. (“Botany began as atechnoscope – a way to visualize at-a-distance – but, at the end of the eighteenth century, it was already a  teletechnique – a way to act at-a-distance.”)

- Pineapple, breadfruit, and plantations “doing the work of Empire” in Hawaii.

- Carl Linnaeus, botanists’ racism against India and Latin America, and the use of botanic gardens to acquire knowledge as an exercise of “soft empire.”

- Kew Gardens plotting to take Native strains of wild rice and domesticate them for cheap and profitable consumption in other imperial British colonies.

- Calcutta Botanic Gardens abduction and use of Chinese slaves; Kew Gardens (successfully) plotting to steal cinchona from people of Bolivia to service their staff in India; botanic gardens’ role in large-scale dispossession to create plantations in Assam and Ooty (1790s - 1870s).

- Dandelions, other non-native plants, and settler gardens changing soil of the Canadian Arctic. (Late 1800s and early 1900s.)

-  Mapuche cultural legacy, Valdivian temperate rainforest, and European plots to dismantle the rainforest to create “Swiss or German pastoral   farm landscape” in Chile.

---

Sorry. In retrospect, it looks like worms and amphibians are a little over-represented here.

[barunderthestairs]

Bourbon Basics; How to read a bottle and generally understand what you are ordering or buying.

How did Bourbon get it's name?

Much like Cognac, Champagne, and Tequila, Bourbon's name originated from the area it was originally made. Bourbon is a county in the state of Kentucky. Why does is sound French? Because it was named after the royal French Family, the Bourbon's, who aided that area of the United States during the revolution for independence from Great Britain. Like many parts of Kentucky, it was named to honor the French who helped them gain freedom from the big bad Brits.

Can Bourbon be made outside of Kentucky?

Yes, but it cannot legally be made outside of the United States. Just like Tequila is to Mexico, Bourbon is to the United States. Of course there are distilleries that try to imitate Bourbon in other countries, but it cannot be sold as "Bourbon". Why not? The same reason why Tequila can only legally come from 5 states in Mexico--quality control. It wouldn't be regulated by the same government imposed laws and practices that Bourbon is regulated by in the US and the quality and reputation of Bourbon would be inconsistent and degraded.

What are the laws and practices that regulate Bourbon?

There are 6 rules that make Bourbon, Bourbon. They are defined by title 27 of the Code of Federal Regulations and are acknowledged by Congress. The first came about on May 4th in 1964 and states that Bourbon is a "distinctive product of the US". Bourbon MUST be produced in the US. It's mash bill must be made from at least 51% corn. It must be distilled at 160 proof or below. It has to be put into a new charred oak "container" (this does not specifically mean a barrel). It is put into a container at 125 proof or below. Last, but very importantly, Bourbon shall contain no added substances other than water.

As you see there was no requirement of age for Bourbon. Some Bourbons are bottled and sold at less than a year of age. Often times new distilleries source Bourbon from more established distilleries and create a Bourbon that tastes how they are expecting their aging Bourbon to taste. This is important for new distilleries income and longevity as a company. I personally have enjoyed many different young and sourced Bourbons. It's a testament to a distiller's skill and creativity to nose, taste, and craft a good tasting Bourbon when they only have these sourced and young Bourbons to work with.

Why are some Bourbon's labeled "Straight Bourbon"?

This means the Bourbon was aged a minimum of 2 years. It also has a sub requirement that if the Straight Bourbon was aged less that 4 years the bottle must be labeled with an age statement. If a bottle says "Kentucky Straight Bourbon" or "Kentucky Bourbon" then that Bourbon was produced AND aged for at least 1 year in Kentucky. That is why a Bourbon bottled in Texas can be labeled as Kentucky Bourbon.

What does it mean when a label states a Bourbon is Bottled in Bond?

Due to poor tasting and dangerously low quality alcohols labeled as "Bourbon" being sold around the United States in the 1800s, real Bourbon distillers approached the US government with outrage for the tarnished name of their product. President Grover Cleveland signed the Bottled in Bond Act in 1897 making the government the guaranteer of distilled whiskey. There are 4 rules that allow a product to meet the requirements of a "Bonded" Whiskey. To guarantee that the distillery that sold the product actually made it, the whiskey was made at 1 distillery. To guarantee that the whiskey in the bottle is all the same age, the whiskey was made in 1 season. To prevent excessive watering down of the whiskey, it was bottled at 100 proof. Lastly, the whiskey was aged for at least 4 years in a government bonded warehouse. In today's world, a Bottle in Bond seal will guarantee the Bourbon was made at 1 distillery, bottled at 100 proof, and that it aged for at least 4 years. It no longer guarantees that the Bourbon was made in 1 season.

If a bottle has an age statement, does that mean the Bourbon is all from the same season?

Nope. The age on the bottle refers to the youngest Bourbon that was added to create that batch of bottled product.

What about Bourbon that was aged in a second barrel type?

When Bourbon enters a used barrel or a barrel that not a charred oak barrel, it looses it's status as a Bourbon. If the second barrel the Bourbon was aged in was a charred oak barrel, it is still Bourbon. Legally, a bourbon that has gone through a second barrel aging must have that stated on the label. It really is up to consumers sometimes to keep distilleries honest. The TTB (Alcohol, Tobacco tax, and Trade Bureau) isn't the best at this.

Other common things you will find on the labels of Bourbon bottles that are not required to be stated by law but hint to the Bourbon's beginnings:

A small batch Bourbon just indicates that the bottle is made up by a number barrels of Bourbon. If the bottle claims it's a single barrel, that bottle is made up of Bourbon from 1 barrel (it better be!). A barrel strength bourbon (most of my favorites fall in this category) indicate that no water was added to proof down the Bourbon after it was taken out of the Barrel. Sour mash on a label refers to the mash bill being made up with a percentage of leftover water and grain solids from the previous mash cook. This practice creates consistency to the pH balance of the water and adds important nutrients to the fermentation process. It is a very common practice to use sour mash and it usually isn't stated on bottle labels. A lot of statements on label's we are used to seeing today were created out of competitive marketing.

Why would someone refer to a Bourbon as wheated or high-rye?

Why not? Just kidding. Although the legal requirement of Bourbon states that 51% of the mash bill (grain recipe) must be corn it usually is more 60-75% corn. Malted barley usually makes up anywhere from 5-15% of the mash bill. The last varying percentage of the grains used add distinct tastes to the Bourbon. If most of the remaining mash bill was rye, it would have a little more spiciness to its taste (hints* high-rye Bourbon). If wheat made up the majority of the last 35-10% of the Bourbons mash bill, it would have a sweeter taste as a finished product (hints* wheated Bourbon).

What other things affect the taste of a Bourbon?

The barrel will most likely determine 60-70% of the Bourbons flavor. The level of the toast on the barrel (cooked portion of wood), the char level (burnt oak inside the barrel), and the size of the barrel all effect the flavors of the Bourbon. The amount of time that the Bourbon ages in the barrel and the environment the barrel is in while its aging will affect the end taste. By environment I'm referring to the temperature, humidity, & seasonal changes of where the barrel is aging.

Is there any particular reason why Bourbon is mostly made in Kentucky?

When settlers made their way to Kentucky, they planted a f* ton of corn & other grains and had more than they could consume or brew perishable beer with. So they ended up preserving a lot of their corn & grains by making Bourbon. There is no real answer for why Bourbon began being aged in charred barrels, other than stories of aging houses catching on fire and other silly stories like that. Who knows, maybe that's true. Kentucky also sits on a bed of limestone which provides natural purified water that contributes to the quality of Kentucky Bourbon. Kentucky also experiences 4 seasons which balances the aging process and it has an abundance of oak trees for cooperages to make barrels from. Personally, I believe the rich history and knowledge that the distilleries in Kentucky have make up a lot of reasoning for why Kentucky Bourbon is so varied, interesting to explore, and well respected. The demand for good Kentucky made Bourbon is continually rising.

There are a lot of distilleries outside of Kentucky that are making really interesting Bourbon products that I respect. I have been extremely blessed to have been able to grow in the presently exploding time of great quality Bourbons and will always feel homey with a pour of my favorite spirit. Give it to me straight, bonded, high-rye, barrel proof, I don't care as long as you give it to me. There is a plethora of great Bourbons out there to adventure through, but I do have the strongest sentiment for Kentucky Bourbon. If I was away from Kentucky long enough I would need some Kentucky made Bourbon to ward off my homesickness as I imagine someone who grew up in Jalisco, Mexico would need some Tequila to ward of their homesickness. In my opinion Kentucky Bourbon is the crowning glory of spirits in the United States. You're free to try and prove me wrong.

I plan on diving further into specific distilleries, Bourbons, and tasting comparison recommendations in posts down the road. I also plan on showcasing some tours I have done and plan on doing in the future. If you are new to the Bourbon world, I hope that this post helped impart you with some basic knowledge to delve deeper into tastings and sparked an interest in you to dive into the history of Bourbon distilleries.

Keep your mind open to all the lovely Bourbon opportunities and don't be an asshole. Bourbon is for everyone (except children).

Thanks for reading,

Sammy