#fish fear him and wo(men) want him guys

[kibutsulove]

A Zhao. Before I’m taken back to Saturn by the intergalactic police

[angelsandacceptance]

Yellow Fever

The coroner opens a body bag.

“Agents, meet Frank O’Brien,” The coroner said.

“He died of a heart attack, right?” Chase asked.

“Three days ago.”

“But O'Brien was 44 years old and, according to this,­ a marathon runner.” Sam added.

“Everybody drops dead sooner or later. It's why I got job security.”

“Yeah, but Frank kicked it here. Now, just yesterday, two perfectly healthy men bit it in Maumee. All heart attacks, you don't think that's strange?” Dean asks.

“Sounds like Maumee's problem to me. Why's the FBI give a damn, anyway?”

“Look, we just want to see the autopsy results,” Harley says with a fake smile.

“What autopsy?”

“The one you are going to do.”

***

The coroner cuts open Frank O’Brien’s body, ��First dead body?”

“Far from it,” Dean says.

“My mum, she used to make us watch autopsies during dinner when we were little.” Harley says smiling fondly down at the dead body, “For a while I actually wanted to be a coroner.”

“Fascinating,” The coroner says, slight hesitation in his voice, “Hand me the rib cutters, would you?”

“Sure,” Harley says, handing him the tool.

Sam looks uncomfortable, shifting on the heels of his feet, glancing at the others. Chase notices, but simply ignores his discomfort.

“Is that from a wedding ring? I didn't think Frank was married,” Chase says pointing at Frank’s left hand.

“Ain’t my department,” The coroner responds.

“Any idea how he got these?” Sam asks, picking up Frank’s left arm. 

It was covered in red scratches.

“You know what? When you drop dead, you actually tend to drop. Body probably got scraped up when it hit the ground.” He pauses, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Huh.”

“What?” Chase asks, looking closer at what he’s looking at.

“I-I can't find any blockages in any of the major arteries,” The coroner says, taking the heart out of the body. 

Dean gags, looking ready to vomit, noticed easily by Harley, who rolls her eyes.

“Heart looks pretty damn healthy,” The coroner says, handing the heart to Dean, “Hold that a second, would you?”

Sam smirks. Chase has to stifle a laugh, pretending to clear her throat.

The coroner cuts the spleen and it splashes all over Sam’s face causing Dean to smirk, and earning a small smile from Harley.

“Oh, sorry. Spleen juice,” The coroner says.

***

Sam, Dean, Chase, and Harley all sit waiting outside of the Sheriff’s office. The deputy smiles at Dean and the Sheriff opens his door.

“Hell's bells, Linus, have you seen my.... Who are they?” The Sheriff asks upon seeing the Winchesters plus one.

The group stands finally done waiting.

“Federal agents. I, uh....” Linus, the deputy, trails off.

“And you kept them waiting?” The Sheriff asks.

“You, you said not to disturb.”

“Come on back,” The Sheriff says, directed towards the fake feds.

The gang began to head to the door, but were stopped at it.

“Shoes off,” The Sheriff directed.

The hunters complied, but not before Harley rolled her eyes, and entered the office.

Chase shoots a confused look to Harley, slipping her boots off carefully, so that her knife isn’t seen. 

Motioning them into the office, the Sheriff gestures to a few seats. “Al Britton,” he introduces himself. “Nice to meet you all.”

“You too,” Chase says. 

Al shakes each of their hands before sitting down. He grabs hand sanitizer and begins to rub a lot onto his hands. Chase recoils at the strong smell, as does Harley. 

“Okay, so, what can I do for Uncle Sam?” the Sheriff asks. 

Ironically, Sam is the one to answer. “Well, we’re looking into the death of Frank O’Brien. We understand some of your men found his body.”

“They did. Me and Frank, we were friends. Hell, we were gamecocks.”

Dean laughs the tiniest bit under his breath, but silences himself with an elbow from both Chase and Harley, who sit on either side of him, and a stern look from the Sheriff. 

“That's our softball team's name,” The Sheriff explains, “They're majestic animals. I knew Frank since high school. To be honest, I just this morning got up the strength to go see him. Frank was...He was a good man.”

“Yeah, big heart,” Dean comments.

Harley has to stifle a laugh receiving another look from the Sheriff and one from her best friend.

“Before he died, did you notice Frank acting strange? Maybe scared of something?” Chase asks.

“Oh hell, yeah. Real jumpy.” The Sheriff says.

“You know what scared him?” Sam asks.

“No. Wouldn't answer his phone. Finally, I sent some of my boys over to check on him, and well, you know the rest,” The Sheriff pours copious amounts of hand sanitizer into his hand and rubs it in.

The Winchesters all look at each other while Harley facepalms.

“So, why the Feds give a crap? You don't really think there's a case here?” The Sheriff asks.

“No, no. It's probably nothing. Just a heart attack,” Dean answers.

***

“No way that was a heart attack,” Dean says as the group walks to the cars.

“No way in hell, three guys going from freaked to terrified to dead with the same red scratches. Too improbable,” Harley says.

“Something scared them to death?”

“Okay, what can do that?” Chase asks.

“What can't? Ghosts, vampires, chupacabra? It could be a hundred things.”

“Yeah. So, we make a list and start crossing things off,” Sam suggests.

“Alright, who's the last person to see Frank O'Brien alive?” Harley asks.

“Uh, his neighbour, Mark Hutchins.”

Dean was looking ahead at teenagers by the cars, “Hang on, hang on.”

“What?”

“I don't like the looks of those teenagers down there.”

“Dean, we fight monsters. I think we can handle a few teenagers,” Harley laughs.

Still Dean crosses the street and everyone else followed, “Let's walk this way.”

Chase and Harley shoot each other a look.

***

“Tyler, Perry, Kramer, and Crespo. Just like Aerosmith,” Frank’s neighbor, Mark, noted.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking around the room, “Small world. So, the last time you saw Frank O’Brien.”

Dean backs away quickly from a large lizard staring at him through a glass case, bumping into Harley. 

Chase raises a brow at him, but turns back to Mark Hutchins.

“Monday, he was watching me from his window. I waved at him, but he just closed the curtains.”

“Did you talk to him recently?” Chase asks. “Did he seem different? Uh, scared?”

“Oh, totally. He was freaking out.”

Chase notices that Dean looks a little freaked and has since earlier that day. She frowns. 

“Do you know what he was scared of perchance?” Harley asks.

“Well, yeah, witches.”

The gang all exchange glances.

“Witches?” Sam asks, “Like...?”

“Well, "Wizard of Oz" was on tv the other night, right? And he said that green bitch was totally out to get him.”

“Did anything else spook him?” Harley inquires.

“Everything else scared him. Al-Qaeda, ferrets, artificial sweetener. Those pez dispensers with their dead little eyes. Lots of stuff.”

Dean casts another glance towards the fish tank. 

“So, tell me. What was Frank like?” Sam asks. 

“I mean, he’s dead, you know? I don’t wanna hammer him, but he got better,” Hutchins says hesitantly. 

“Got better how?” Chase asks.

“Well, in high school, he was a. Well, he was a dick.”

“A dick?” Harley asks. 

“Like a bully,” he explains. “I mean, he probably taped half the town’s butt cheeks together.”

Chase wrinkles her nose at the thought. Dean snickers.

Hutchins continues, “Including mine.”

At this Dean stops, looking abashed, while Chase’s eyebrows shoot up in second hand embarrassment. 

“So he pissed off a lot of people,” Dean says. “You think anyone might want to get revenge?”

Hutchins looks at them all, confused. “Well, I- Frank had a heart attack, right?”

“Just answer the question, sir,” Harley says. 

“No, I don't think so. Like I said, he got better. And after what happened to his wife.”

Dean perks up a bit at the last statement, “His wife? So he was married.”

“She died about 20 years ago. Frank was really broken up about it.”

Harley notices Dean eyeing the snake around Mark’s neck and shoots him a confused look. Apparently Hutchins noticed too.

“Don't be scared of Donny. He's a sweetheart. It's Marie you got to look out for,” he says nodding to the couch the four were sat on, “She smells fear.”

An albino burmese python began to crawl up from behind the couch as if on cue. Harley pet it’s head. Dean gasps and stays uncomfortably still as Marie crawls across his lap. Chase smiles in delight, reaching out to run a hand down the length of her scales.

***

The girls were in the Lincoln ahead of the Impala headed to the motel, Sam and Dean on speakerphone.

“Frank's wife, Jessie, was a manic-depressive. She went off her meds back in '88 and vanished. They found her two weeks later, three towns over. Strung up in her motel room, suicide,” Dean says.

“Any chance Frank helped her along?” Harley asks.

“No, Frank was working the swing shift when she disappeared. Airtight alibi.”

“How was Frank’s pad?” Dean asks.

Sam’s voice comes through the speaker clearly, “Clean. Searched it top to bottom. No EMF, no hex bags, no sulfur.”

“So probably no ghosts,” Chase says.

“No witches,” Harley continues.

“And no demons,” Chase finishes, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. 

“3 down and 97 to go,” Harley laughs. 

“Dude, you’re going twenty,” Sam says.

“And?” Dean asks, his voice irritated, obvious despite the phone static. Chase raises a brow.

“That’s the speed limit,” Harley notes as they turn onto a different road. “We’re way past you guys. Almost back at the motel.” 

“What? So safety’s a crime now?”

“Dude,” Sam exclaims, causing both girls to wince and cast a wary glance towards the phone. “What’re you doing? That was our motel!”

“Sam, I’m not going to make a left turn into oncoming traffic. I’m not suicidal.”

Harley and Chase simultaneously scoff at this. 

“Did I just say that?” Dean asks. 

“You did, indeedy,” Chase says. 

“That was weird,” Harley says as Chase parks near their room. 

An odd high pitched whine comes through the phone. 

“What’s that guys?” Chase asks. 

“Is that the EMF meter?”

The other line stays silent, before Dean suddenly exclaims, “Am I haunted? Am I haunted?”

The line goes dead, Chase and Harley shooting each other worried looks. 

“What the fuck?” Chase asks.

***

Sam is on the phone talking to Bobby, while the girls read from various books of ghost lore. Music suddenly starts and the three look over and head over to see Dean lying in the Impala playing the air drums. Eye of the Tiger blasts from the radio and Chase and Harley smile. 

Dean sits up, noticing the three. “Guys, look at this!” He pulls his sleeve back enough to show red scratches on his forearms. Chase and Harley frown and look to each other, worried. Sam nods. 

“I just got done talking to Bobby,” Sam says. 

“And?” Harley asks.

“Um, well y’all aren’t gonna like it.”

“What?” Dean asks.

“It’s ghost sickness.”

“Ghost sickness?”

Chase scoffs. “Sounds 100% made up.”

“It’s not. And Dean has it,” Sam says, shooting Chase a look. 

“God, no,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. 

“I don’t even know what that is,” Dean says, his eyes widening in panic. Chase snorts out a laugh, shaking her head at the absurdity of the situation. 

“Okay. Some cultures believe that certain spirits can infect the living with a disease, which is why they stopped displaying bodies in houses and started taking them off to funeral homes.”

“Lovely,” Harley comments, “So how’s it work?”

“Symptoms are you get anxious,” Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms.

“Then scared, then really scared, then your heart gives out. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, but, we haven't seen a ghost in weeks,” Dean counters.

“Pretty sure we were around a body that had it though,” Harley points out.

“Right. Now, Frank O'Brien was the first to die, which means he was probably the first infected. Patient zero,” Sams explains.

“Our very own outbreak monkey,” Chase says. 

“Right. Get this. Frank was in Maumee over the weekend. Softball tournament. Which is where he must have infected the other two victims.”

“Were they gamecocks?” Dean asks, making fun of the name.

Sam gives him a stern look. “Cornjerkers.”

“So, ghosts infected Frank and he gave it to the other guys and I got it from his corpse?”

“Right.”

“So now what, I have forty eight hours before I go insane and my heart stops?” Dean demands.

“More like 24,” Harley points out.

Dean looks at her blankly. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she replies cheerily.

He rolls his eyes. “So why only me? Why not you guys? Sam, you’re the one that got hit with spleen juice.”

Sam looks uncomfortable for a mere second. “Yeah, um, you see Bobby and I have a theory about that too. Turns out all three victims shared a certain, uh, personality type. Frank was a bully. The other two victims, one was a vice principal, the other was a bouncer.”

“Okay.”

“Basically, they were all dicks.”

Chase winces. “Wow, straight for the kill, man.”

“So you’re saying I’m a dick?” Dean asks. 

“It’s okay, Dean, you’re my favourite dick...That sounded better in my head,” Harley says, trying to cheer Dean up.

“No, thanks, really. That helped bucketloads,” Dean says sarcastically.

Chase is fighting a smile, but gestures for Sam to continue.

“Well, it’s not just that. All three victims used fear as a weapon, and now this disease is just returning the favor.”

“I don’t scare people,” Dean says.

“Uh, I hate to break it to you man, but all we do with our lives is scare people,” Chase points out. 

“Okay, well then you’re dicks too.”

“Apparently not,” Sam says. 

“I don’t know. Harley can be a dick sometimes,” Chase teases, elbowing her friend.

“This is true,” Harley agrees.

“Whatever,” Dean says with an eye roll. “How do we stop it?”

“We gank the ghost that started all this. We do that, the disease should clear up.”

“I’ve always hated the word should,” Chase sighs.

“Are we thinking Frank’s wife?”

“We never did learn why she killed herself.”

“Hey,” Sam says frowning, “What’re you doing out here waiting anyway?”

“Our room’s on the fourth floor,” Dean says hesitantly. 

Chase fights another laugh. Sam sighs. 

“It’s high,” Dean adds. 

“I'll see if I can move us down to the first.” Sam says.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

***

Sam, Chase, and Harley entered the boys’ room to see a broken clock on the floor and Dean on the couch, a beer in hand.

“Uh, is everything okay?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, just peachy.”

“What did it do to you?” Chase asks, gesturing to the clock.

“Made me angry.”

Raising her eyebrows, Chase nods slowly. “Uh huh, okay.”

“Find anything?”

“Yeah, Jessie O'Brien's body was cremated, so I'm pretty sure she is not our ghost,” Sam says.

“Quit picking at that. How are you feeling?” Harley asks.

“Awesome. It’s nice to have my head on the chopping block. I almost forgot what it feels like.”

“Yeah,” Harley sighs.

“It’s freaking delightful.”

“We’ll keep looking,” Chase promises.

Dean starts coughing violently.

“You okay? Hey!” Sam asks, worried, “Dean.”

He starts to choke and rushes to the sink gagging until he spits a wood chip out.

“We've been completely ignoring the biggest clue we have, you.” Sam says.

“I don’t want to be a clue,” Dean complains.

“The abrasions, this disease, it’s trying to tell us something,” Sam points out. 

“Tell us what?” Dean demands. “Wood chips?”

“Exactly.”

***

The group arrives at a nearby lumber mill. Exiting their cars, they look around at each other in hesitance. The mill is large, broken down, with ‘keep out’ signs on the front. 

Dean looks at the mill, and shakes his head, “I'm not going in there.”

“You’re going in, Dean,” Sam says.

“C’mon scaredy cat, you got this. Bravery isn’t not being scared, it’s running towards what scares you,” Harley says, encouraging him.

Dean takes a large gulp of whiskey from a flask, “Let's do this. It is a little spooky, isn't it?”

“Yes Dean, it’s very spooky,” Chase sighs as Sam hands Dean his gun.

“Oh, I'm not carrying that. It could go off. I'll man the flashlight,” Dean says refusing the gun causing Harley to roll her eyes. He grabs the flashlight tightly with an anxious smile on his face.

“You do that,” Sam says.

***

The EMF meter goes off in Sam’s pocket, causing them all to jump and look towards him in surprise.

“EMF's not gonna work with me around, is it?” Dean asks.

“You don’t say,” Chase says sarcastically. “Come on,” Sam replies before crouching down in front of what looks like a dirty tissue, “Wait,” He pulls a golden wedding band out from underneath it.

Dean crouches down with the flashlight so Sam could read the engraving on it.

“‘To Frank, Love, Jessie’ Frank O’Brien’s ring,” Sam says, getting up.

“So Frank was definitely here.” Harley says.

“But what the hell was he doing here?” Dean asks.

Chase shrugs. “Who knows. Let’s just find this ghost.”

They continue on into another room, dust lining everything, from the small tables in the corner to the lockers lining the far wall. Cobwebs hang in every corner, causing Chase to stand in the very middle of the room while Sam and Dean go over to the lockers. 

Sam opens a locker slowly, just for a cat to jump out. Dean, startled, shrieks loudly, jumping about wildly, flailing his arms. This action causes Chase to also scream out in surprise. She immediately notices the cat, however, and calms herself down, turning a glare to her older brother.

“That was scary,” Dean says matter-of-factly. Sam rolls his eyes and starts to walk away. “Wait!”

Ignoring the three others for a second, Chase runs after the cat, managing to catch it. She cradles it and walks back over to the group. Harley raises an eyebrow at her.

‘What?’ Chase mouths. 

Harley shrugs, and reaches a hand out to stroke the cat’s head, then sneezes. Dean jumps slightly, whirling around to cast a cautious glance at Harley, then notices the cat in Chase’s arms. He backs away a step. Once Dean turns around Harley sneaks up behind him and digs her fingers into his sides causing Dean to scream and shoot her a nasty glare while Chase and Harley laugh their asses off. 

Sam reaches down and picks a card off the table, only to pass it to Dean, saying, “Luther Garland.”

Dean, now backed away to the other table, points to a drawing. “Hey, this is uh. This is Frank’s wife.”

Chase lets out a low whistle. “The plot thickens.”

“Yeah, but into what?” Sam asks.

Dean suddenly bolts past the three, out of the mill. Chase starts to run after him. “Dean!”

Harley whirls around and notices a ghost behind Sam. “Sam, get down!” 

Sam turns and ducks quickly as Harley shoots the ghost, causing it to vanish. 

Sam turns to Harley and nods a thanks as they both head out to the Impala. Chase is gently placing the brown cat in the back of the Lincoln. Dean is drinking a copious amount of alcohol. 

“Guess we got the right place,” Sam states. 

***

“Dean, it’s just a small cat. You’re not even allergic!” Chase reprimands, holding the cat against her chest. It meows indignantly at Dean, who frowns at it.

“I might develop an allergy though!”

“Dean, I’m allergic, and even I know it’s fine to be around the cat, much less be around Chase just because she’s held one recently.”

Chase points at Harley, a look on her face screaming, ‘Exactly!’

Dean shakes his head, taking a stubbornly defiant step back. Sam sighs, rubbing his forehead, and exasperated look on his face. 

“Guys, you’ve both held the cat. And since Dean,” Sam gives an annoyed look to Dean upon saying his name - Dean looks at him in indignation and scoffs, “And that means you guys aren’t much help right now. Just go to the motel and figure out a shelter nearby to get rid of it, take a shower, and join us later. Okay?”

Chase rolls her eyes, scoffing, in sync with Dean. They both sigh and nod. Harley laughs at the two. 

“Yeah, Sam, that works,” Harley says. 

Chase grumbles but agrees nonetheless.

Back in the motel room, Harley and Chase sit on the floor, the cat between them, trying to come up with ways to get the cat to a safe place.

“We could give him to Cas?” Harley suggests.

“I mean, I guess.” Chase frowns, jerking her hand away from the cat’s claws. His now clean fur bristles as he - Chase had drawn the short straw and washed him, and checked - turned away from her, wandering straight to Harley, whom he seemed to favor despite her allergies. “Cas is a no show recently, though, so I don’t really think he’d come down for this.”

“Yeah, but there aren’t any shelters nearby. So what else can we do?”

“Nothing else, I guess. I definitely don’t want to just put him back in that mill. Do you think he’d answer if you or I prayed to him?”

“I think it’s worth a shot.”

“Okay, do you want me to or do you want the honors?” Chase pauses. “We could say we found a seal?”

“Or we could just say it’s of dire importance, I mean we don’t have to lie to the guy. Just not tell him everything.”

Chase looks down at the cat, who stares at her from between Harley’s crossed legs. She sighs dramatically and leans back against the bed. “Fine, I’ll do it. But only for you,” Chase says, pointing at the cat. She then frowns. “You-you- cat. We need to name him first. Then I’ll do it.”

“Catiel.”

Chase gives Harley a side look. “How long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Since I thought about looping Cas in.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t be Harley if you didn’t make some form of pun or bad joke. Not that it’s bad. The cat fits the name. Doesn’t like me much, that is.” Chase scoffs to herself, before sighing. “I guess I’ll pray now.” Chase ignores Harley, who begins to just laugh about the name “Catiel”, while playing with the cat himself. She sighs again. 

“Oh, uh, Cas. Hi, me. Chase Winchester. Look, Harley and I need you down here for something…” No response. Chase glances around the room, and frowns. “Please, Cas it’s really important to me and we kinda need your help. It’s an emergency.”

“What’s wrong?” A male voice suddenly asks. The girls jump and turn to Castiel, who looks at them with narrowed eyes.

Catiel, who’d somehow immediately jumped to be by Castiel’s side, rubbing along his legs, somehow unnoticed by Cas, meows up at him. Castiel slowly looks down, only to freeze, look up at the girls, then back down.

“What is this?”

“A cat. His name is Catiel,” Harley says proudly.

Castiel sighs. “Well, yes I know it is a cat but- Wait. You have named him Catiel? Like…”

“Like after you, yeah,” Harley says, with a tone of ‘duh’ in her voice.

“Why am I here?” Castiel asks, his eyes going to Chase. She blinks at the sudden attention and stutters when trying to answer.

“We need help with Catiel. He needs to be brought to a shelter, but there aren’t any near here. And you can just poof everywhere.”

Cas looks as though he wants to comment on several parts of that statement, but resigns himself to ignoring both the cat’s name and the ‘poofing’ comment once more. “I am a heavenly soldier of the Lord and you think I’m available to you as your errand boy?” he asks in a commanding tone.

Chase raises a brow at this. “Wow, but when you needed something done, you had no problem coming to us and asking us to help you. And Harley even named the poor thing after you, how horrible of you.”

Cas’ eyes narrow further. “You said it was an emergency.”

“This is an emergency!”

“I thought you might’ve been hurt. Or there was a seal. Or something actually worth my time.”

“Castiel, take this cat to a shelter or else,” Chase demands. She looks at Cas, all five feet four inches, sitting criss-crossed on the floor, a stuffed animal discarded to her right, glaring up at an angel, demandingly. He blinks.

“Fine.” His voice is gruff and he seems hesitant, but doesn’t argue any further.

“Thanks, Cas,” Harley says grinning, “Now we can get to the list.” “List?”

Chase smiles. “Yes. List. Now, Catiel has to go to a no-kill shelter. Can not be vegan run. Preferably not an SPCA organization, since those usually pool money for themselves. Maybe one with no adoption fees, maybe vaccinations included. Spaying is probably important. Harley, am I missing anything?”

“Purina food. Only the best for our little Catiel,” Harley adds.

Castiel gives Harley a blank stare. “Of course. Is there anything else?”

“Yeah.”

Cas looks to Chase again, the look on his face quickly becoming devoid of any patience. “What?”

“You have to pick him up,” Chase smiles.

“What?”

“You have to pick him up to poof him around, Cas,” Harley repeats. 

“Please, Castiel,” Chase says, bringing out the puppy eyes, a trait she shares with her younger brother, Sam. “This is really important to me. I’d keep Catiel if I could, so would Harley. We just want to make sure he stays safe.”

Castiel’s face softens reluctantly as he groans, his head tilting back as his eyes flick to the ceiling for a moment, as though praying. “Alright. Alright. Catiel will be fine,” Cas says, hesitating at the name, but seeming to warm up to the idea, if only slightly. He bends over to pick up Catiel, and lifts him awkwardly into the air, holding him away from his body, as though Catiel could cause some kind of damage. 

“I mean, that isn’t how you hold a cat, but, it’s better than nothing,” Chase sighs. 

“I’ll miss you, Catiel.” Harley says oh so dramatically.

***

Sam calls Chase and she puts him on speakerphone. “Dean’s gone,” Sam says through the speaker.

“What?” Chase and Harley question at the same time.

“Dean’s gone. He ran off and I can’t find him.”

“We’ll find him, Sammy, don’t worry,” Chase says, reassuring her brother.

“Did he say anything before he left?” Harley asked.

“He thinks we’re crazy, that he’s done with hunting.” Sam says.

“Dean Winchester done with hunting? Never thought I’d hear that in my lifetime.” Harley says, “If he’s done hunting he’s probably heading back to the motel or to a bar.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely not like him,” Chase adds. “Sammy, what made him leave? Did he say anything before he left?”

“Just that he was done with hunting. I think he was having a hallucination, but whatever it is, it scared the hell out of him.”

***

Harley was waiting in the boys’ room for Dean to come back while Chase and Sam are out looking for him. Dean enters the room out of breath and terrified. 

“Dean! You can’t just disappear like that. Do you have any idea how worried we were? You’re not exactly in the best state of mind right now,” Harley goes off.

“I know, I know,” Dean says. “I just. I’m done with all of this.”

Once she calms down she texts Sam and Chase letting them know Dean was back at the motel.

“You might be done for now, but will you be when we cure you? Because honestly I doubt you will.”

“I don’t know, okay?” Dean exclaims. “How are you so sure you’ll cure me, huh? Cause it doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen!”

“Because I’m not letting you die of some stupid ghost sickness and neither are Chase and Sam. We care too much about you and we will find a way. We have to.”

Dean sighs, sitting himself down on the bed. “Okay.”

“Well that was easier than usual. This ghost sickness must really be getting to ya,” Harley jokes nudging Dean in the side.

Dean laughs slightly, but jumps at the sudden opening of the door. Harley and Dean turn to see Sam and Chase looking at them.

“What the Hell, Dean?” Chase demands, stomping over to him. He flinches slightly, and she softens her movements, but not her expression. “We looked everywhere for you! I was worried sick, Dean.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How did you get here?” Sam asks, worry lacing his tone.

“I ran,” Dean shrugs. “So, what do we do now? I’ve got less than four hours on the clock. I’m gonna die, Sammy.”

“No, Dean. We aren’t going to let that happen.”

“Back?” Dean asks, suddenly looking confused. The three others share a glance.

“Dean, are you okay?” Chase asks, stepping closer.

“No! Stay away from me!” Chase puts her hands up and takes a large step back. 

“Dean, it’s okay.”

Harley, still next to Dean on the bed, puts a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinches away and lets out a yell, scrambling back. 

“You get out of her! You get out of all of them!”

“Dean, what’s going on, what’re you talking about?” Chase asks, rushing back over to him. Sam and Harley do the same.

Sam shakes Dean by the shoulders, trying to capture his attention. “Dean! Hey, hey, hey. Dean. Dean, c’mon, Dean!”

Dean comes to, it seems, as he takes a few shuddering deep breaths, looking at the three in panic. Harley, Sam, and Chase all exchange worried glances before their attention lands on Dean again. 

***

Sam and Chase lean against the Impala as Bobby’s car drives up.

“Howdy, Sam, Chase.” Bobby says as he exits his vehicle.

“Hey, Bobby. Thanks for coming so quick.” Sam says.

“Where's Dean and Harley?”

“Harley’s babysitting Dean,” Chase says.

“So, have his hallucinations started yet then?”

Chase nods. “Few hours ago.”

“How we doing on time?” Bobby asks.

Sam sighs. “We saw the coroner about eight AM, Monday morning, so, uh.”

“Just under two hours,” Chase sighs. “What about you? Find anything?”

“This, uh, encyclopedia of spirits dates back to the Edo period.” Bobby hands Sam a text in Japanese.

“You can read Japanese?” Sam asks, an eyebrow raised in question. 

“Kimi ga umareru zutto mae kara dayo,” Bobby answers.

“Guess so, show off,” Sam mutters.

“Samu, kuso. Kono atari de osharena hon o manade iru no wa anata dakede wa arimasen.”

Sam turns to Chase in shock. “Bobby, I can understand. You?”

Chase scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I know five languages Sam. Grow up. Is it really that surprising?”

Sam shrugs. “A little, yeah.”

“Anyway,” Bobby interrupts, “this book lists a kind of ghost that could be our guy. It, uh, infects people with fear. It’s called the Buru Buru.”

“Well, does this say how to kill it?” Sam asks. 

“Same as usual, burn the remains.”

“So, uh, is there a plan B?” Chase asks, her eyes scanning the text.

“Well, the Buru Buru is a creature of fear. Hell, it is fear. So, the lore says you can kill it with fear.”

“We’re scaring a ghost to death?” Chase asks, her eyebrows raising in question. 

“Pretty much.”

“How the hell are we gonna do that?” Sam asks.

***

Dean and Harley are sitting on the bed, watching Gumby on TV. Pokey is lassoed and dragged by a car while Dean scratches his arm. 

“Oh, this isn't helping,” Dean quickly switches it off. 

“Stop it,” Harley says, referring to his arm.

“Stop what?” 

“Scratching.” Harley says as her phone rings, “It’s Sam.” She answers the phone, “Hey, what’s up?”

“We got a plan,” Sam says.

“What is it?”

“Just a really good plan.”

“Sam.”

“We're going to scare the ghost to death.”

“Should I come with y’all?”

“No, someone needs to watch Dean.”

“Got it,” Harley says hanging up.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks.

“They got a plan.”

“What is it?”

“Just a good plan.”

“Are you going with them?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re never alone as long as I’m around….Besides you’ve got Sam and Chase. You don’t even really need me.”

“I’ll always need you, sweetheart.” Dean almost whispers.

“I’ll always need you too.” She says resting her head on his shoulder.

***

Chase, Sam, and Bobby arrived at the lumber mill.

“This is a terrible plan,” Bobby mentions.

“Well it’s the only plan we got,” Chase says.

“I know I said, scare the ghost to death but this?” Bobby says, cocking a shotgun.

“Hey, you got a better idea, I'm listening,” Sam says before he and Chase enter the mill.

“Any luck?” Bobby asks over the walkie talkie.

“I don't know what's wrong, Bobby. Last time he came right at us. It's almost like he's, uh...like he's scared.”

Chase continues forward down the hall, met with no ghosts, resistance, or danger of any kind. She turns back to Sam, confused. “Where the hell is he?”

“So now what?” Bobby’s voice asks.

“I guess we got to make him angry.” Sam says. He walks towards a table covered with Luther’s drawings, and begins to rip them up. The machinery of the mill starts up. “Come on, Luther! Where the hell are you? What are you waiting for?”

“Sam!” Chase shouts, pointing behind Sam. “He’s there!”

***

Dean and Harley hear a bang come from the motel room door. A dog barks and the door comes off its hinges revealing the Sheriff with a gun in hand.

“Sheriff?” Dean says unsure of what’s happening. 

“What ‘cha doing?” Harley asks, weary of getting shot.

“Why are you looking into Luther Garland's death?” The Sheriff asks.

Harley and Dean notice the blood now visible on his forearm.

“Hey, hey, you're - you're sick. You're sick. You're sick, all right? Just -- just like me, okay? You got to relax.” Dean says. 

The Sheriff ignores Dean and punches him in the face. Harley is quick to get between the two men.

“Frank O'Brien was my friend. So he made a mistake. So I didn't bust him. So what? And you're gonna bring me down over that?! No, sir.” The Sheriff attempts to point the gun at Dean, but Harley swats it out of his hand.

A fight breaks out between the Sheriff and Harley while Dean watches too afraid to help. The Sheriff ends the fight, staring into the distance petrified. He starts hyperventilating and slowly backs away.

“Get away from me!” The Sheriff shouts before collapsing. 

“Well that was eventful. You know you could have helped Dean.” Harley says tuning around to face the hunter in question. He’s scratching his arm again. “Will you quit it. You’re only gonna make your arm worse.”

A few minutes pass and the damn dog starts barking again. Dean leans down to pick up nothing. That was Harley’s first clue something was wrong. The second was when Dean jumped slightly. 

“You – you are not real!” Dean shouts at the air to his right. He clutches his chest in fear. “You are not real.”

“Dean? You okay?” Harley asks, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Why me? Why'd I get infected?” He asks.

Harley walks over to him and shakes him slightly trying to break his trance.

“Whu...?” Dean asks, scooting away from whatever he saw until he was on the floor freaking out. 

Harley didn’t know what to do so she took a page out of her previous dog’s book and layed on Dean’s chest attempting to slow down his heart rate. Eventually he’s pulled out of his trance.

“Why are you on my chest?” Dean asks, having no clue what’s going on.

“My dog used to lay on people’s chests to get their heart rates to slow down. I hoped the same principle would apply to humans.”

***

Chase shoots at Luther, but misses, her shots not as precise out of fear of shooting Sam, who is in a close range fight with the ghost. 

“Chase!” Sam shouts, “Grab the chains!”

Chase remembers the chains and sees them on the ground near Sam, having been dropped when Chase grabbed her gun. She’d been in charge of keeping track of them.

Chase rushes over, grabbing the spelled chains off the ground. She gets Sam away from the ghost and the two take off, Luther in hot pursuit of them. 

Once outside, close enough to Baby for her comfort, she turns suddenly, wrapping the chains around Luther’s neck. Luther struggles, but is unable to do anything at that moment about them. Chase, still holding onto them, gets into the Impala quickly.

“Step on it, Bobby!” Sam shouts. 

Bobby slams on the gas pedal and the three watch as Luther is dragged behind the car by the chains. Luther gradually begins to disappear, until he is completely gone. Bobby slows down, pulling off to the side of the road so that Chase can pull in the chain, each of them allowing their breathing to go back to normal. 

***

“So you guys road-hauled a ghost with a chain?” Dean asks skeptically.

“Iron chain,” Sam says.

“Probably helped that it was etched with spellwork,” Chase adds.

“Probably,” Harley laughs.

Chase cracks a smile. “Probably.”

“Hmm, that’s a new one,” Dean hums. 

“It’s what he was most afraid of,” Sam says. “Pretty brutal, though.”

“On the upside, I’m still alive,” Dean laughs, “So, uh, go team!”

“Yeah. How are you feeling?” Chase asks.

“Fine.”

“You sure, Dean? 'Cause this line of work can get awful scary,” Bobby says.

“I'm fine. You want to go hunting? I'll hunt. I'll kill anything.”

“Awwww, he's adorable. I got to get out of here. You guys drive safe,” Bobby says getting in his car.

“You too, Bobby. Hey, thanks,” Sam says as Bobby drives off, “So uh...so, what did you see? Near the end, I mean.”

“Oh, besides a cop beating Harley’s ass?” Dean says.

“I was winning,” Harley says, swatting Dean on the arm.

“Seriously, Dean, what did you see?” Chase asks.

“Howler monkeys. Whole roomful of them. Those things creep the hell out of me.” Dean answers.

“Right.”

“No, just the usual stuff. Nothing I can’t handle.”

[redfreesias03]

If it's not too much to ask, what's your Kami7 of best/worst songs and lines?

I’m guessing by Kami7 you mean out of 48G?

I’m sure I’ve blocked some of them out, but my Kami7 worst in terms of lyrics would be:

7. Yuuwaku no Garter: “Even if you accuse them of being unfaithful, women are honest in feeling a whirlpool of desire” Cheating is such an ew taboo personally and ymmv regarding that but I feel like Yuuwaku no Garter tries to make degradation sexy and it’s just...not? Again, ymmv.

6. Shimai Donburi: The title itself and the overall concept–not sure if there’s an English translation out there, but basically it’s two sisters making peace with dating the same guy (the lyrics are relatively tame, but the phrase shimaidon heavily implies nsfw activities with both) and the laissez-faire attitude of both siblings (“I intended to view him as a big bro I got to see often, but by the time I realized it I was already kissing him”)  (“oh well my little sister apologized so I can’t be mad”) is just...really male gaze-y.

5. Joshikousei wa Yamerarenai: “We're not adults and we're not kids–we're chameleons just this side of legal age. Teenage, teenage, teenage–our calves are tantalizing!” (Saying “it’s a seller’s market!” when talking about high schoolers’ bodies and stating men–not boys–go gaga over them is also pretty iffy.)

4. Teacher Teacher: “Well, it’s alright, you’re still younger than my dad–you’re slightly sexy.”

3. Hoshokushatachi yo: “C'mon, predators: silently come closer and devour this young fish” Like, this would normally be yet another Seifuku ga Jama wo Suru/Inochi wo Tsukaimichi-type song if it weren’t for the fact that the song is LITERALLY a call to predators (real subtle there AkiP) and that predators literally use this type of thing as a defense

2. Einstein yori Dianna Agron: “Until I become a mom, it’s okay to be a child” or “No matter how hard you study, it’s meaningless if no one loves you”, pick either

1. Dear My Teacher: I mentioned it before, but “in this world, there’s only men, women, and gays” is probably my most-hated idol lyric for a variety of reasons, but “this kind of thing is easily forgotten, it happens all over!” also deserves credit for being a really awful line

My 48G taste skews to golden-era, so I’m sure there’s recent gems I’ve missed, but my Kami7 favorite:

7. Okidoki: “If your heart is on the verge of caving in to the sadness, try and take a look around you. Even if there aren’t any amazing people, even the careless people show tender care. Even the unreliable people have an earnest serious side. Look—the world isn’t all bad,  there are good stories there too. (Don’t cry).”

6. Beginner: “Do we dream? Do we believe in the future? Knowing no fear, knowing no limitation, still as reckless as before? Right now, do we dream, with the newness of a child...? Let's tear off the chains that have controlled us! Change your mind—it's okay not to know anything, beginner.”

5. Himawari: “The sunflower swaying in the wind blooms with its face towards the sun; it stretches its hands up towards that endless blue sky. Even if it gets struck by rain, it doesn’t wipe away the rolling tears—it keeps believing in the future beyond the sadness.”

4. RIVER: “In your mind too, there’s a river flowing—a river of hard trials. Even if it doesn't go well, even if you drown in it at times, try it again, don't give up. The riverbank is there—you'll reach it at last someday.” Like, I usually translate kokoro as heart, but there’s something really great about reading this as mind and how well it (likely inadvertently) addresses mental health

3. Max Toki 315gou (Mahohon/Rittan/Renapon live performance): My favorite lyrics are a three-way tie between “‘Love’ means being able to shed tears for others, doesn’t it?”, “Even thick snow melts at long last, new buds sprout out from the ground–pain and sorrow too will change into joy and turn into smiles. Tomorrow will always come.”, and the bittersweet “the future is always kinder than we think.”

2. Kaze wa Fuiteiru: “Despite it all, love continues into the future—people are looking for it, in one another. Despite it all, I will take a step forward. Why don’t we pick up the hope left forgotten here and begin?”

1. Yuuhi wo Miteiruka?: “You don’t want to worry your family, your friends, and everyone around you, so you force a smile and lie a little.  Stop shouldering it all alone!  Feeling the direction that the season’s wind is blowing, noticing the flowers at your feet—if we can be grateful for small encounters that way, we can be happy.”

And JK, this is a Kami8, so

0. First Rabbit: “I’m not afraid of getting hurt. No matter what happens, I won’t be daunted—I’ll go and search for my dream even if something tries to block my path! We grow up each time we get hurt: my tears will flow, my chest will hurt. But even so, I won’t give up my dream—I will become the first rabbit.”

[drrobw]

Consider the Ram: A Letter on Not Sacrificing One Another on the Altar of Self-Righteousness

(A Brief Explanation)

Open letters delivered over the internet are typically one of the least interesting and most easily dismissed mediums for getting your point across, especially to people who will probably disagree with you. This is because open letters are straw men (or straw women, or straw people, I’m not sure what we’re doing with gender neutrality and scarecrows) stuffed up with the worst components of our opponents’ position, and then precisely eviscerated as a way of rallying our base to their battle stations.

So you should believe me when I remind you that, as someone who could probably be considered an “expert” in writing things for free on the internet that end up having all sorts of negative professional implications, I don’t relish the penning of something like this. It’s just that I feel the need to leave some kind of public record for the authorities who will later fish our bloated and waterlogged religion out of the river, and will have nothing to go on but dental records.

Consider this letter my back molar.

_____________________________________

Dear Fellow Christian Who Will Never Read This Open Letter Because I Am Your Mortal Political Opponent, And You Stopped Following Me on Facebook Because I Shared “Something Political” and You Quietly Told Your Phone I Was A Liberal,  

First of all, how are you?

I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving, or church, or second-period algebra, or that evangelical youth camp where we spent a summer together, I sure hope you’re well! I must say, I’ve been reading and hearing about your support of our president’s increasingly dangerous “policy” positions…

(From racism parading as “law and order,” to colluding with the bad guys from Rocky 3, to tax cuts supporting only the wealthiest citizens of our country, to edging towards apocalypse — via Jerusalem or Pyongyang, whichever fuse lights first — and now to grandstanding support of an accused child sex offender for the Senate.)

…and I have become concerned about your “theology.”

It seems your faith has become incredibly political these days, and that you’ve forgotten “the gospel of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,” trading it for “the praise of (wo)men” in large houses in Washington, with large Twitter followings, and large platforms provided by for-profit Christian schools and nonprofit shoeboxes.

I remember one time you helpfully reminded me that in my strident support of African Americans mobilizing in large numbers to protest being gunned down in their neighborhoods by police officers in tanks that I was, as a pastor, no longer “sticking to the gospel of Jesus Christ and his saving death on the cross.” According to your reminder, my public (read: tepid internet) support of the Black Lives Matter movement was actually “harming my witness” to people “across the political spectrum.” You told me I needed to get ���back to the gospel” ASAP, otherwise it might be time to find another pulpit (read: “youth event” because I’m only allowed to work with adolescents in churches) or career.

I remember you had a similar reminder when I marched alongside people of many faiths and orientations in protest to a twice-rejected law banning Muslim families from our country.

I remember you had a similar reminder when I gave a sermon about nonviolence, the dangers of unending militarism, and the impact of PTSD on soldiers reintegrating into families, communities, and the American workforce following their bloody service to our country.

I remember you had a similar reminder when I publicly questioned the motivations behind barring LGBTQ individuals from full inclusion in the life and ministry of God’s family on earth.

I even remember you had a similar reminder when I began asking questions about why no one in our community takes the teachings of Jesus and the book of Acts literally (especially the light socialism), but everyone in our community takes a few passages from Leviticus literally. (And no, not the ones about showing your boils to the priest!)

Each time, you gently, or not so gently (BREATHLESSLY IN ALL CAPS WITH NO BREAKS FOR PUNCTUATION) invited me to reflect on what these issues “had to do with the gospel of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,” and whether I might be attempting to cram “my agenda” into the mouth of Jesus and his saving work on the cross.

Because, in your words, “my politics” had (or has) replaced or superseded or undermined “my theology.”

I totally get that.

In some ways you might have been (or are currently) right. One of my issues is that I desperately want people to think I’m smart, and bookish, and cool, and aloof in a James Dean-with-bad-skin-and-a-masters-in-divinity-sort-of-way. I do love John Oliver and John Stewart and Stephen Colbert and Sam Bee and Larry Wilmore, but not because I’m a coastal-liberal-elite subsisting solely on the tears of regular readers of the Drudge Report (I went to a state school, live in East Tennessee, and make less than you do), but because they are (for me) some sort of ubermensch cooked up in a lab by Aaron Sorkin inspiring me to believe that people rail against something for reasons other than ratings (even if they don’t).

Sheepishly, I often wish more people read my stuff, and when they don’t, I’m tempted to rattle my own saber as a way of igniting my base or offending “yours.” And you’re probably right, I often chase the “praise of men (and women and everyone in between),” and am quite often wrong about a majority of things, most of which involve my love of righteous (although action less) indignation. I’m more of a hashtagger and sermonizer (when I get the chance), than self-disinterested marcher for justice. I have my own baggage, and most of it involves using religion, politics, and, in a pinch, even “you” to satisfy the dissonance I so often feel because my actions fall far short of my words and stinging rhetoric.

You could say I’m a bit of a clanging symbol, or a whitewashed tomb, or a bad karaoke rendition of a breathtaking Jon Stewart rant from the good ole days.

I hope that you’re still reading, because this isn’t some sort of apology that I hope will inspire you to apologize for what’s *cough* REALLY THE PROBLEM HERE *cough* — but that in baring my own scars (kind of like Jesus following his crucifixion) and wounds and fears and baggage, you might feel safe enough to unlock the door to the baggage keeping you and your own tribe cut off “from the authorities.” We won’t get anywhere together if we keep letting corporations and their preferred politicians and news personalities set the ground rules for who we listen to, or how we can or can’t speak with one another.

The more we lock the doors to people who disagree with us, the more we willingly elect pedophiles to the Senate, abusers to the House, deranged Tweeters to the White House, and megalomaniacal victimizers to the Academy. 

I’m rather tired of having to cut through an atmosphere of skepticism and cynicism and tribalism (some of the fumes from which I take full responsibility) whenever I want to talk to you about how I don’t think cutting taxes to people living in the stratosphere of our economic food chain will change the lived experience of people in abject poverty, or people in middle-class poverty, or people in upper-middle-class poverty. I also don’t find it terribly helpful that I have to hear that, because I’m interested in a larger federal government (resulting in me voting for Democrats from time to time — although that’s probably going to change) that somehow makes me “not a Christian” or someone who no longer “believes in the gospel.”

I will allow your self-constructed narrative of a political Christianity almost solely concerned with limiting (and eliminating) abortions, the rights of LGBTQ persons, and the absence of federal help to people in poverty, if you’ll allow me to continue to consider myself a “follower of Jesus” when I include marginalized people at the statehouse and at my communion table (which, SPOILERS, because our democracy is no longer interested in being anything more than a feudal patronage system, is ALL OF US NOT NEEDING THAT PRIVATE PLANE TAX WRITE-OFF).

However, I should state that I will always believe that your support of Donald Trump, Roy Moore, and the other court evangelicals who — so desperate for some White House correspondence stock — willingly sold you (and our Lord and Savior) out for at least 30 pieces of silver was where your movement jumped the shark.

I appreciate your interests in protecting the rights of the unborn at all costs, I just wish the rights of the rest of us already born didn’t have to be trampled underfoot in the process.

One more thing you were probably right about is that your religion (and mine) is under attack, but not from liberal arts professors at Vassar, or the Hollywood establishment, or the work of Robert Jeffress and James Dobson. Our respective Christianities are being laid waste by special interests, namely ours, and the ways we have sought to weaponize our fidelity.

Because I’m a (sometimes) pastor, I’ll close by saying that toward the end of Genesis, Abraham believes he hears the voice of God inviting him to take his long-promised heir, Isaac, to the top of nearby Mt. Moriah in order to sacrifice the person for whom he had most longed, as bloodily concrete evidence of Abraham’s fidelity to his God. However, upon reaching the peak, binding Isaac to a nearby altar, and raising the knife heavenward, God (at the last minute) invites Abraham to consider a ram caught in a nearby thicket as a suitable sacrifice (rather than his son).

Depending upon your tradition, this story can be read as one elucidating Abraham’s great, unwavering faith. A faith willing to go to the ends of the earth (or his own family tree) in search of ways to prove itself. This story can also be read as one that results only in questions about what kind of tyrannical, aloof, backwards God asks for this kind of faith, asks for this kind of sacrifice? One of my favorite interpretations invites us to consider that God is explicitly engaging a tradition (child sacrifice) that Abraham (a religious man in the wilderness of pre-history) would have been intimately familiar with, as a way of bringing him (almost satirically) to the edge of reason, as a way of prophetically calling into question an entire religious system that would require shedding the blood of other living, breathing human beings.

Consider the ram, Abraham. 

Against better judgment, we’ve dragged our faith to the top of the mountain, we’ve bound it to an altar built in the name of nationalism, democracy, and power, and now have the knife raised heavenward once again as a way of proving how serious we are about our commitment to religion. We’ve promoted abusers, we’ve covered up treason, we’ve cheered at the rejection and damnation and condemnation of our brothers and sisters, and we’ve spilt blood in service to our country and our religion (again and again and again).

What if instead of cheering us on from the skybox, God has been pleading with us to consider the ram the whole time?

What if our acts of fidelity to the tribe our back bumper testifies to have actually been the thing God was satirically calling into question from the beginning?

What if this whole thing is about the divine putting on display how far we’re willing to let our misguided faith in a structure, or a system, or a party, or a religion, or a country take us?

Consider the ram, Abraham.  

I’ve been willing to sacrifice so many of you, living, breathing, gifts on the altar of my faith-based righteous indignation and fear of the news cycle.

I’m sorry, truly.

I hope that we can share a coffee, or a beer, or, as the earliest followers of Jesus did on the evening before his death, a shalomim (or fellowship) meal of bread and wine and reconciliation. If Jesus could break bread with the man who nailed him to a cross for 30 pieces of silver, then I dare say I could probably survive a meal with someone who thinks Sean Hannity has good ideas.

But no promises, reconciliation is a process.

Your (maybe) friend, Eric

Consider the Ram: A Letter on Not Sacrificing One Another on the Altar of Self-Righteousness was originally published on Dr. Robin Weinstein