#and then within the same week i finished moby dick so. you could say it vibed with me

[supercantaloupe]

kurt vonnegut wasnt even in the realm of fucking around

[samwinlover-blog]

Dusty Shelves

Pairing: Sam x librarian!reader  Characters: Sam, the reader Warnings: light swearing, light angst, not much else!  Summary: The reader is a librarian who spends most of her time curled up with a book in the back of the library. Sam’s on a case in her town (which also happens to be Bobby’s town), spending most of his time pouring over lore books in the very same section. Over time Sam comes back to visit his friend in Souix Falls more and more, and coincidentally starts going to the library during those visits. As he starts to notice her, hunched over a story in the way back, he finds himself more and more drawn to everything she does. Will fate tug them together, or is it just not in the cards for these two?  Tag List: @amanda-teaches@myplaceofthingsilove@evyiione@mogaruke@aliensdeservebetter@spnfanficpond​ @amanda-teaches@myplaceofthingsilove@evyiione@mogaruke@aliensdeservebetter@27bmm@craving-cas @spnfanficpond​ @amanda-teaches  @myplaceofthingsilove  @spectaculicious@bambinovak@bambinovak@writingthingsisdifficult@padackles2010@mamaredd123@milkymilky-cocopuff @iwantthedean@zeppo-in-a-trenchcoat@spntrista @d-s-winchester@just-another-busy-fangirl@winchesterprincessbride@waywardjoy@supernaturalyobsessed@whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname@sandlee44@fangirl1802@kittenofdoomage@evyiione@winchestersmut@purgatoan@mogaruke@therewillbeblood@megansescape@taste-of-dean@leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @scarlet-soldier-in-an-impala@deathtonormalcy56@wildfirewinchester@notnaturalanahi@jensen-jarpad@impalaimagining@fangirlextraordinaire@itseverythingilike@jesspfly@lovekittykat21@mysteriouslyme81@mrswhozeewhatsis@aiaranradnay@supernatural-jackles@girl-next-door-writes@spnsasha@27bmm@spnfanficpond @amanda-teaches@myplaceofthingsilove@spectaculicious@bambinovak@writingthingsisdifficult@spn-imagines-to-feel@spn-ficfanatic@cleverdame@saxxxology@jensen-jarpad @keepcalmandcarryondean dancingpanda137

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Cozy, familiar, if not a little boring- that’s what your job was as a local librarian. You really didn’t mind the work, even if it was sometimes pointless, as long as you got to actually read the books in addition to stacking them over and over. 

In truth, that was one of the only reasons you kept the job- for a small library in Sioux Falls, the selection was really amazing. And, being as you were an employee, you had first pick on the books you wanted. 

Most of your days were spent rushing through your actual tasks that were meant to eat up time. And then, when you’d sloppily finished, you’d pour through the catalogs or curl up by a window in the back to read something you’d selected. 

Currently you were obsessed with anything by Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist in particular. Even though you’d already read the text two or three times, that didn’t stop you from reading it a fourth. 

It was the perfect little spot, your seat by the window. Overlooking a crowded street in the town, it provided a wall from the outside world. With the stillness of the library muffling all sounds from below, and that thick glass separating you from the rest of the insanity, it was easy to get lost in a story. 

Because that was your favorite part about reading, the places you could go. When you found a book you truly liked, which was pretty much all of them, you’d get so wrapped up by the plot and characters that it felt like you were flying. 

Lovers die tragically? You’d feel that same pain crack something deep within your chest. Best friends reunite after years and years of solitude? Bubbly, unabridged joy ripples through you as it did them. 

It always fascinated you, even from a young age, how simple words on a page could evoke such emotion- such passion. It almost felt unfair, like something you should keep hidden so nobody could steal or take this amazing thing. 

So, there you sat, the book placed in your lap and you hunched over its pages. On a particularly sunny day, you’d chosen Jane Ere as something you wanted to read again- you’d always had a genuine love for the classics. 

But then he walked in. 

This man you’d never seen before, dressed in jeans and a worn out flannel, walked right into your own private haven. You were in such a remote section, hardly anyone ever came back there- save for couples looking for a new makeup spot or people who were legitimately lost.  

So when you saw this random guy, who had never been to the library before, sat right down and pull out a book on witchcraft, it raised a few red flags. 

Your shock must have been written all over your face, because before long he looked up from his book and smiled awkwardly, “Uh, it’s for a history paper.”

“Oh,” You replied- equally as uncomfortable, “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t mean to get in your business- read what you want.” 

“No! No, uh, it’s totally fine, sorry for disturbing you.” He craned his neck to read the title of your book, “Jane Eyre? That’s a really good one- get ready for a wild ending.” 

“Oh I’ve already read it,” You smiled and shifted your gaze to his face- he had such a kind face, “But yeah, the ending’s pretty good.” 

Something sparked in his hazel eyes, and they seemed to light up as he responded, “Not too many people are into the classics these days, huh?” 

“All I usually read,” You replied with a small chuckle. Jesus, not four words and you were already starting to open up to this guy- you didn’t even know his name! 

Days passed until you finally put a name to the face- Sam Winchester. He’d arrive around 9am and stay until 9pm, almost the exact time your shift started and ended. Conversations happened intermittently, between chapters you’d exchange a few words, or maybe even sneak a glance or two. But nothing more than that, the two of you merely read in the same, desolate section. 

Everyday he seemed to be reading a different book on witches, witchcraft, or witch trials. You wondered what type of paper he was writing that requires so much research, or what college he went to being as there weren’t that many in the area. 

One day you decided to ask him about it, “Must be some paper you’re writing.” You commented, barely looking up from your own page. 

“Yeah,” He replied with a laugh, “I took the class for the credits, I had no idea it was gonna be this much.” 

“Where do you go to college?” You asked again, this time folding the corner of your page and looking up at him. 

“Stanford,” He replied cooly, pointing to a logo on the sleeve of his shirt, “But I’m doing a year down at USF, it’s a little down the road.” 

“Oh cool, I’ve heard of it, why USF? It’s not exactly California.” 

“I don’t know, I needed something new, something a little different.” He leaned forward to rest his chin in his hand, “And I have relatives here so I thought I might as well be close to them for a bit.” 

“Oh, really? Anyone I would know- it’s a pretty small town.” 

“Uh, Bobby Singer? He’s my Uncle.” He replied, as if he knew what the name meant to nearly everyone in town. Bobby Singer, the town drunk. 

Honestly it was more of a joke than an actual nuisance at this point, the trouble he’d cause on drunken rampages. Sometimes he’d wander onto your college campus, one time he even walked right past your dorm, but he usually stayed on the other side of town. 

But more than that, you saw him around the library constantly. It was the strangest thing, but he always looked at the same types of books Sam was into- some genre he called “lore” and asked for repeatedly.

“Bobby Singer?” You repeated, trying to hide the amusement on your face, “I didn’t know he had a nephew.” 

Sam just chuckled and looked down at his page, “He has two- my brother and I. But Dean’s not really the reading type.” 

You were officially hooked on Sam Winchester- because he was definitely a drug. The more you talked to him, the more you wanted to know. The more you saw him, the more you got used to seeing him, and eventually looked forward to spending time with him. 

The conversations grew longer and your time spent actually reading grew shorter. He’d tell you stories about his insane childhood- moving around constantly with his brother due to his dad’s on-the-go job. And you’d do the same, although yours had been pretty cookie-cutter in comparison to his.  

He’d call you a “terrible influence,” and complain that he’d “never finish his paper with you distracting him like that,”. But when you asked how you were the one doing the distracting, being as he started 99% of the conversations, he’d just shrug and say, “I don’t know, (Y/N), there’s something about you.” 

But then one day he didn’t show up, and then the next and the next. Until weeks had passed and you were pretty sure he was gone for good. 

You even went as far as to “restock” the books in the surrounding sections- aka check to see if he’d moved. But, no, Sam was nowhere to be found. 

Another week went by and still nothing, so you just assumed he’d finished his paper, or gone back to Stanford. After that your life went back into it’s same, monotonous, pattern. Work, read, repeat. Work, read, repeat. You really did miss having someone so interesting to talk to, everything else seemed like a waste of time. 

5 days later you were curled up in that same section, hunched over Moby Dick this time. You’d long since finished Jane Eyre, Anne of Green Gables and a few more, so you decided to go in a different direction. 

You’d already read a thick chunk of the story, riding the waves with Ishmael and dreading the return of that infamous whale, when Sam walked into the room. 

At first you couldn’t believe your eyes, he’d been gone for 3 months. Months. But when he sat down at his usual table and pulled out an old book titled Ghouls, Goblins and Other Mythical Figures, you knew it was him. 

“(Y/N)?” He looked to your seat by the window before delving into his book, seemingly surprised. 

“Sam?” You echoed, “Where have you been?” 

A smile tugged on his face, and you realized what you’d said, “Oh, I, uh, I mean how’s the paper going?” 

You’d made it obvious, so god damn obvious what talking to him had meant to you. And for someone as educated as Sam, you knew he picked up on it in a heartbeat, “I finished the paper. And as much as I’d love to come here and talk to you everyday, I don’t think my professor would see it as a reasonable excuse to skip classes.” 

You were the one smiling now, “But isn’t talking to me just as educational as any college course?” 

“Hmm, definitely,” He agreed, nodding his head and putting his book down on the table, “But I don’t think she’d see it that way.” 

You laughed, content on ending the conversation there, but he kept it going, “Moby Dick?” 

“Yeah,” 

“Let me guess, it’s your sixth time reading it? Seventh?” He chuckled and nodded towards the book resting in your lap. 

“No, you ass!” You rolled your eyes, “First time actually.” 

“Oh, I see,” He grinned, “We’ve got a Moby Dick virgin over here! Looks like I’ve found the only book (Y/N) hasn’t read?” 

“Hah, hah, very funny.” You looked to the sky again, the perfect picture of pleasant annoyance, “Read your dusty old book so you don’t fail your paper, Winchester.”

“Let me ask you something,” 

“What is it now?” 

“Do you ever do any actual librarian work?” He asked, running a hand through his perfectly shaggy hair and giving you a wink. 

You felt your cheeks flush red and saw the devilish look on his face when he noticed your reaction, “Focus on your book!!” 

[readbookywooks]

A Runaway Reef

THE YEAR 1866 was marked by a bizarre development, an unexplained and downright inexplicable phenomenon that surely no one has forgotten. Without getting into those rumors that upset civilians in the seaports and deranged the public mind even far inland, it must be said that professional seamen were especially alarmed. Traders, shipowners, captains of vessels, skippers, and master mariners from Europe and America, naval officers from every country, and at their heels the various national governments on these two continents, were all extremely disturbed by the business. In essence, over a period of time several ships had encountered "an enormous thing" at sea, a long spindle-shaped object, sometimes giving off a phosphorescent glow, infinitely bigger and faster than any whale. The relevant data on this apparition, as recorded in various logbooks, agreed pretty closely as to the structure of the object or creature in question, its unprecedented speed of movement, its startling locomotive power, and the unique vitality with which it seemed to be gifted. If it was a cetacean, it exceeded in bulk any whale previously classified by science. No naturalist, neither Cuvier nor Lacepede, neither Professor Dumeril nor Professor de Quatrefages, would have accepted the existence of such a monster sight unseen-specifically, unseen by their own scientific eyes. Striking an average of observations taken at different times-rejecting those timid estimates that gave the object a length of 200 feet, and ignoring those exaggerated views that saw it as a mile wide and three long - you could still assert that this phenomenal creature greatly exceeded the dimensions of anything then known to ichthyologists, if it existed at all. Now then, it did exist, this was an undeniable fact; and since the human mind dotes on objects of wonder, you can understand the worldwide excitement caused by this unearthly apparition. As for relegating it to the realm of fiction, that charge had to be dropped. In essence, on July 20, 1866, the steamer Governor Higginson, from the Calcutta & Burnach Steam Navigation Co., encountered this moving mass five miles off the eastern shores of Australia. Captain Baker at first thought he was in the presence of an unknown reef; he was even about to fix its exact position when two waterspouts shot out of this inexplicable object and sprang hissing into the air some 150 feet. So, unless this reef was subject to the intermittent eruptions of a geyser, the Governor Higginson had fair and honest dealings with some aquatic mammal, until then unknown, that could spurt from its blowholes waterspouts mixed with air and steam. Similar events were likewise observed in Pacific seas, on July 23 of the same year, by the Christopher Columbus from the West India & Pacific Steam Navigation Co. Consequently, this extraordinary cetacean could transfer itself from one locality to another with startling swiftness, since within an interval of just three days, the Governor Higginson and the Christopher Columbus had observed it at two positions on the charts separated by a distance of more than 700 nautical leagues. Fifteen days later and 2,000 leagues farther, the Helvetia from the Compagnie Nationale and the Shannon from the Royal Mail line, running on opposite tacks in that part of the Atlantic lying between the United States and Europe, respectively signaled each other that the monster had been sighted in latitude 42 degrees 15' north and longitude 60 degrees 35' west of the meridian of Greenwich. From their simultaneous observations, they were able to estimate the mammal's minimum length at more than 350 English feet;* this was because both the Shannon and the Helvetia were of smaller dimensions, although each measured 100 meters stem to stern. Now then, the biggest whales, those rorqual whales that frequent the waterways of the Aleutian Islands, have never exceeded a length of 56 meters - if they reach even that. *Author's Note: About 106 meters. An English foot is only 30.4 centimeters. One after another, reports arrived that would profoundly affect public opinion: new observations taken by the transatlantic liner Pereire, the Inman line's Etna running afoul of the monster, an official report drawn up by officers on the French frigate Normandy, dead-earnest reckonings obtained by the general staff of Commodore Fitz-James aboard the Lord Clyde. In lighthearted countries, people joked about this phenomenon, but such serious, practical countries as England, America, and Germany were deeply concerned. In every big city the monster was the latest rage; they sang about it in the coffee houses, they ridiculed it in the newspapers, they dramatized it in the theaters. The tabloids found it a fine opportunity for hatching all sorts of hoaxes. In those newspapers short of copy, you saw the reappearance of every gigantic imaginary creature, from "Moby Dick," that dreadful white whale from the High Arctic regions, to the stupendous kraken whose tentacles could entwine a 500-ton craft and drag it into the ocean depths. They even reprinted reports from ancient times: the views of Aristotle and Pliny accepting the existence of such monsters, then the Norwegian stories of Bishop Pontoppidan, the narratives of Paul Egede, and finally the reports of Captain Harrington-whose good faith is above suspicion - in which he claims he saw, while aboard the Castilian in 1857, one of those enormous serpents that, until then, had frequented only the seas of France's old extremist newspaper, The Constitutionalist. An interminable debate then broke out between believers and skeptics in the scholarly societies and scientific journals. The "monster question" inflamed all minds. During this memorable campaign, journalists making a profession of science battled with those making a profession of wit, spilling waves of ink and some of them even two or three drops of blood, since they went from sea serpents to the most offensive personal remarks. For six months the war seesawed. With inexhaustible zest, the popular press took potshots at feature articles from the Geographic Institute of Brazil, the Royal Academy of Science in Berlin, the British Association, the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., at discussions in The Indian Archipelago, in Cosmos published by Father Moigno, in Petermann's Mittheilungen,* and at scientific chronicles in the great French and foreign newspapers. When the monster's detractors cited a saying by the botanist Linnaeus that "nature doesn't make leaps," witty writers in the popular periodicals parodied it, maintaining in essence that "nature doesn't make lunatics," and ordering their contemporaries never to give the lie to nature by believing in krakens, sea serpents, "Moby Dicks," and other all-out efforts from drunken seamen. Finally, in a much-feared satirical journal, an article by its most popular columnist finished off the monster for good, spurning it in the style of Hippolytus repulsing the amorous advances of his stepmother Phaedra, and giving the creature its quietus amid a universal burst of laughter. Wit had defeated science. *German: "Bulletin." Ed. During the first months of the year 1867, the question seemed to be buried, and it didn't seem due for resurrection, when new facts were brought to the public's attention. But now it was no longer an issue of a scientific problem to be solved, but a quite real and serious danger to be avoided. The question took an entirely new turn. The monster again became an islet, rock, or reef, but a runaway reef, unfixed and elusive. On March 5, 1867, the Moravian from the Montreal Ocean Co., lying during the night in latitude 27 degrees 30' and longitude 72 degrees 15', ran its starboard quarter afoul of a rock marked on no charts of these waterways. Under the combined efforts of wind and 400-horsepower steam, it was traveling at a speed of thirteen knots. Without the high quality of its hull, the Moravian would surely have split open from this collision and gone down together with those 237 passengers it was bringing back from Canada. This accident happened around five o'clock in the morning, just as day was beginning to break. The officers on watch rushed to the craft's stern. They examined the ocean with the most scrupulous care. They saw nothing except a strong eddy breaking three cable lengths out, as if those sheets of water had been violently churned. The site's exact bearings were taken, and the Moravian continued on course apparently undamaged. Had it run afoul of an underwater rock or the wreckage of some enormous derelict ship? They were unable to say. But when they examined its undersides in the service yard, they discovered that part of its keel had been smashed. This occurrence, extremely serious in itself, might perhaps have been forgotten like so many others, if three weeks later it hadn't been reenacted under identical conditions. Only, thanks to the nationality of the ship victimized by this new ramming, and thanks to the reputation of the company to which this ship belonged, the event caused an immense uproar. No one is unaware of the name of that famous English shipowner, Cunard. In 1840 this shrewd industrialist founded a postal service between Liverpool and Halifax, featuring three wooden ships with 400-horsepower paddle wheels and a burden of 1,162 metric tons. Eight years later, the company's assets were increased by four 650-horsepower ships at 1,820 metric tons, and in two more years, by two other vessels of still greater power and tonnage. In 1853 the Cunard Co., whose mail-carrying charter had just been renewed, successively added to its assets the Arabia, the Persia, the China, the Scotia, the Java, and the Russia, all ships of top speed and, after the Great Eastern, the biggest ever to plow the seas. So in 1867 this company owned twelve ships, eight with paddle wheels and four with propellers. If I give these highly condensed details, it is so everyone can fully understand the importance of this maritime transportation company, known the world over for its shrewd management. No transoceanic navigational undertaking has been conducted with more ability, no business dealings have been crowned with greater success. In twenty-six years Cunard ships have made 2,000 Atlantic crossings without so much as a voyage canceled, a delay recorded, a man, a craft, or even a letter lost. Accordingly, despite strong competition from France, passengers still choose the Cunard line in preference to all others, as can be seen in a recent survey of official documents. Given this, no one will be astonished at the uproar provoked by this accident involving one of its finest steamers. On April 13, 1867, with a smooth sea and a moderate breeze, the Scotia lay in longitude 15 degrees 12' and latitude 45 degrees 37'. It was traveling at a speed of 13.43 knots under the thrust of its 1,000-horsepower engines. Its paddle wheels were churning the sea with perfect steadiness. It was then drawing 6.7 meters of water and displacing 6,624 cubic meters. At 4:17 in the afternoon, during a high tea for passengers gathered in the main lounge, a collision occurred, scarcely noticeable on the whole, affecting the Scotia's hull in that quarter a little astern of its port paddle wheel. The Scotia hadn't run afoul of something, it had been fouled, and by a cutting or perforating instrument rather than a blunt one. This encounter seemed so minor that nobody on board would have been disturbed by it, had it not been for the shouts of crewmen in the hold, who climbed on deck yelling: "We're sinking! We're sinking!" At first the passengers were quite frightened, but Captain Anderson hastened to reassure them. In fact, there could be no immediate danger. Divided into seven compartments by watertight bulkheads, the Scotia could brave any leak with impunity. Captain Anderson immediately made his way into the hold. He discovered that the fifth compartment had been invaded by the sea, and the speed of this invasion proved that the leak was considerable. Fortunately this compartment didn't contain the boilers, because their furnaces would have been abruptly extinguished. Captain Anderson called an immediate halt, and one of his sailors dived down to assess the damage. Within moments they had located a hole two meters in width on the steamer's underside. Such a leak could not be patched, and with its paddle wheels half swamped, the Scotia had no choice but to continue its voyage. By then it lay 300 miles from Cape Clear, and after three days of delay that filled Liverpool with acute anxiety, it entered the company docks. The engineers then proceeded to inspect the Scotia, which had been put in dry dock. They couldn't believe their eyes. Two and a half meters below its waterline, there gaped a symmetrical gash in the shape of an isosceles triangle. This breach in the sheet iron was so perfectly formed, no punch could have done a cleaner job of it. Consequently, it must have been produced by a perforating tool of uncommon toughness-plus, after being launched with prodigious power and then piercing four centimeters of sheet iron, this tool had needed to withdraw itself by a backward motion truly inexplicable. This was the last straw, and it resulted in arousing public passions all over again. Indeed, from this moment on, any maritime casualty without an established cause was charged to the monster's account. This outrageous animal had to shoulder responsibility for all derelict vessels, whose numbers are unfortunately considerable, since out of those 3,000 ships whose losses are recorded annually at the marine insurance bureau, the figure for steam or sailing ships supposedly lost with all hands, in the absence of any news, amounts to at least 200! Now then, justly or unjustly, it was the "monster" who stood accused of their disappearance; and since, thanks to it, travel between the various continents had become more and more dangerous, the public spoke up and demanded straight out that, at all cost, the seas be purged of this fearsome cetacean.