#long-haul trucker life

[farcillesbian]

well my 1 week road trip is over and I had sooooo much fun... I spent time with some of my best friends and made lovely memories and silly jokes, I got to see so many beautiful and interesting things in the united states, and honestly I'm pretty impressed with my road trip planning abilities (managed to hit 13 states in 7 days as the sole driver, very fulfilling)

[ckret2]

So y'all know the Gravity Falls production bible that leaked three weeks ago. Someone in one of my discord servers pointed this out:

And, naturally, that spawned an entire AU.

AU Concept: Ford was kicked out instead of Stan and takes a job as a trucker to makes ends meet since he couldn't go to college, while still studying the weird and anomalous however he can.

Ford driving around from quirky small town to quirky small town, drifting through the liminal spaces of truck stops, meeting odd people in isolated diners, seeing strange things out on the road—a deer with too many eyes bounding across a two-lane highway, a flirty woman at a rest stop who doesn't blink or breathe, mysterious lights in the sky at night, inhuman growls on the CB or 50-year-old broadcasts on the radio—and taking notes when he stops for gas or food.

Aside from having gotten kicked out before graduating high school, Ford's the same person he is in canon.

He's still an ambitious guy, and here "ambitious" means working hard and saving as much money as he can—so, a long haul owner-operator who spends weeks at a time on the road. (He goes through a LOT of educational audiobooks.) Plus, this is the easiest way for him to get to travel the country; and since it looks like his "travel the world" dreams with Stan are dead, he'll take what he can get.

Since he's never in the same spot long and carries his life in a truck, almost all of Ford's research is in his journal. His bag of investigation supplies has an instant camera, a portable tape recorder, a thermometer, a flashlight, rubber gloves, and a few zip lock bags—and that's about it. It has to share space with all his clothes, toiletries, and nonperishable food when he's on the road. He doesn't have much opportunity to closely examine anything odd he finds, unless he's lucky enough to run into something when he can stop for the night. He has to cram his paranormal research around the side of his full-time job.

He doesn't live in Gravity Falls, but he knows it exists. Every time he moves—to Chicago, to Nebraska, to California—he seems to inch closer. He currently lives in Portland and usually hauls loads between the Pacific Northwest and Chicago or New York. He stops at the truck stop outside Gravity Falls when he can and has gone fishing in town a few times. He doesn't have the benefit of extensive research to know that this is the weirdest town in the world; but it seems pretty weird to him, there are local rumors about the town, and he's had some weird experiences in the area.

Plus, he can't explain it, but it's like the town's calling to him. He wants to move there, but it'd put him over an hour outside of Portland where the nearest jobs are. Maybe if somebody chucked him like $100k to build a cabin in the woods; but what are the odds of that?

He does know Fiddleford. Truck broke down somewhere and Fiddleford kindly pulled over to fix it on the fly. They looked at each other, had mutual knee-jerk "dumb trucker/hillbilly" reactions, and within ten minutes both went "oh wait you're the most brilliant genius i've ever met." Fiddleford's living the same life he was in canon before Ford called him to Gravity Falls—with his family in California, trying to start a computer company out of his garage—but they make friends and keep in contact.

One time Ford stops at a kitschy roadside knickknack store that also sells new agey magic things—crystals, tarot cards, incense, etc. He bought a "lucky" rearview mirror ornament that looks like an Eye of Providence in a top hat and hung it from his cab fan, and ever since then he's had weird dreams whenever he sleeps in his truck.

Things I don't know yet: what Stan's up to; or why Ford's the one who got kicked out. I tend to believe that in canon Stan wasn't just kicked out because he ruined Ford's college prospects, but rather because the family thought he deliberately sabotaged Ford; so in this AU, Ford would've been kicked out over a proportionate crime.

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part One MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: alcohol/drugs mentioned, though reader doesn't partake. up to you if that's for sobriety purposes or not, though most of this chapter takes place in a bar. public nudity. brief, non descriptive mention of animal harm. Let me know if I missed anything!

Like most terrible things in your life, it starts off with a dare. You're on the I-40 somewhere around Seligmen when Ash's fingers drum on the steering wheel of her busted old beater and you know she's got an evil little scheme brewing by the erratic, staccato beat. She turns to you and grins, hair whipping about her in the wind tunnel created by the open windows. "I dare you," she drawls in the same conversational tone she'd used a few states back to initiate a game of I Spy, back when there were colors other than tan and brown, and the occasional smudge of green shrubbery, to spy. "To flash this trucker when we pass him."

Like most terrible things in your life, it starts off with a dare.

You're on the I-40 somewhere around Seligmen when Ash's fingers drum on the steering wheel of her busted old beater and you know she's got an evil little scheme brewing by the erratic, staccato beat. She turns to you and grins, hair whipping about her in the wind tunnel created by the open windows. "I dare you," she drawls in the same conversational tone she'd used a few states back to initiate a game of I Spy, back when there were colors other than tan and brown, and the occasional smudge of green shrubbery, to spy. "To flash this trucker when we pass him."

Bored off your ass after days in the car with not much to do other than reconnect with your old friend and listen to the same band over and over (Ash was… over excited to be on the way to see them), you briefly consider it before taking in the tacky mud flaps - sexy lady silhouette that's been a staple of trashy truckers since before you were born, here X-rayed so you could see her sexy little skeleton as well. 

"No way," you scoff.

"Oh, c'mon," she nods at the same decals you'd already noticed. "Bet he'd enjoy the show."

"Yeah, bet he'd enjoy turning me into a skeleton, too."

"Well, he'd have to catch you first, and I'm an excellent, speedy little driver."

She was, that being the only reason you'd agreed to her hairbrained idea to drive half across the US. When she'd asked if you'd wanted to join her in seeing your favorite band from high school play their farewell tour out in California, you'd envisioned long nights, heart to hearts, deep conversation under starry desert skies, and a great pay off at the end in the form of one last, cathartic hurrah before a quiet, tired drive home. But you hadn't calculated on Ash still being in her party girl phase.

Perhaps you should have known. One of the main reasons you'd fallen off with her post-graduation was because the crowd she'd been migrating towards was only escalating. You were by no means a square, but between landing a nine-to-five and having bills to pay, your rough edges had slowly been whittling away over the years while, it seemed, Ash had remained the exact same Ash she'd always been. You didn't begrudge her that, but neither did you relish pit stops at dive bars every night, nor juvenile dares in broad daylight. Mind, when you were supposed to be sleeping because you'd driven all night after a stop in west Texas had left Ash incapacitated no less. 

Still, the boredom of not having much to talk about with your only companion, and the monotony of the same albums you've been listening to since middle school being played over and over was wearing on you, and despite your exhaustion, a sense of restlessness had crept in somewhere around Flagstaff and wasn't leaving you be. 

"Fine, but you're buying me a drink tonight."

"Are you drinking!?" she hoots, somewhere between excited you're no longer being 'a stick in the mud,' and apprehensive that she wouldn't have a driver lined up at closing time.

"No, but when I inevitably offer to buy someone else one, you're covering it."

Ash scoffs loudly enough to be heard over both the music and the wind, an impressive feat. "Deal, but once he gets a load of them titties, I'm fairly sure Mr. Kenworth here is gonna be dominating your time tonight."

"That's why you're driving quick enough he can't catch us, remember?" you laugh, already reaching up under your shirt to remove your bra.

The car accelerates, the long black trailer stretching past your passenger window as Ash pulls up alongside it. She whoops happily when you unbuckle your belt, blaring the music and hollering along to get your nerves up. There's a pit in your belly, the kind that forms right at the top of a rollercoaster. Your nerves alight, as if in preparation for a fight, skin drawing tight and pebbling into goosebumps. You spare a thought for how hard your nipples are gonna be and laugh perhaps a bit maniacally. Ash turns your nerves to excitement with a rousing set of slaps to your thick thighs. You take a deep breath, release it with a high, distressed whine. Still, you get a leg under you and contort yourself half out the port, Ash's excited shrieking following you out, though soon ripped away by the rushing of the wind around you. Your shirt whips up. Instinctively, you try to shove it down and then nearly roll your eyes at yourself when you realize what you're about to do. The white nose of the truck looms closer, side view mirror reflecting nothing back at you but a darkened cab. It strikes you as odd, what with the sun beating down on you both, hot and undisturbed by cloud nor foliage. It's blazing on your skin despite the wind, scent of the baked tarmac below heavy in your sinuses. Sand pecks against your flesh, abrasive. You hope a big beetle doesn't come smashing into your teeth before all this is done.

You don't have much time to think about it. Ash swats you on your ass and you pull your shirt up, screaming all the while as the tension in your body boils over like a tea kettle. Eyes squeezed shut, you don't notice at first how the truck carries on straight as an arrow. Unaffected. You expect an air horn or something, get none. When you peek, the tint of the truck's window glares apathetically back at you, a dark shroud through which you have no ability to gauge the driver's reaction.

It's Ash who honks first, the tired sounding beeps jolting you back to reality. You feel let down, disappointed. Self-conscious, stupidly. You shrink back on yourself a bit, shirt hiding the bottom half of your face as you slump back toward your seat. Your chest is still exposed, something you only register when - finally - the airhorn knocks you fully on your ass, hand scrambling to cover yourself in front of your friend. 

Completely ignorant of your emotional turmoil, Ash slaps the steering wheel animatedly, cackling and whooping like she's driving a getaway car after a successful heist. The airhorn sounds again and you glance up at the blank window, embarrassment and shame creeping up your throat. You've no clue why it's worse that you can't see the driver; even less of an idea as to why you were kind of hoping for their approval. Especially considering you have it, you think, another short blast of the horn attesting to the driver's pleasure. You force a grin, give a stupid little wave that you instantly regret. You roll up the window despite Ash's old beater having no AC, desperate for some kind of space between you and the truck. 

Brain skipping, trying to keep busy so you don't have to assess the weird pit of disappointment you'd felt, you reach into the footwell in search of your bra, but stop short when you see it dangling from a strap off Ash's finger. "Thanks," you mumble, and then glare daggers at her when she yanks it away quicker than you can grab. She's got that face on again, the mischief making one.

"Don't you dare," you hiss, but she just cackles and sends it flying out the open sunroof. "Ash!" you cry, twisting in your seat so see the lacy little number get caught up in the slipstream of the semi behind you, skirting up over the hood and plastering itself to the window where, quick as a flash, a thick, tattooed arm reaches out the driver's side window to slap the wiper down over it, snaring it against the glass.

The stone in your stomach hardens, sinks lower. Where before you'd felt oddly bereft without the driver's approval, this feels far too intimate, and you urge Ash quicker, turning back forward to watch the miles of open road pass, checking at each mile marker to see how the space between your car and his has grown. His grill glints chrome under the blaring sun, visible for miles. Combined with the tinted windshield, they turn the white cab into a skull, teeth bared and all.

***

The bar Ash chooses sits back from the road down a small slope, as if nestled by the dusty landscape - a hidden chest of glittering incandescent and neon bulbs, oil slick from the assembled nearby trucks painting what remains of the crumbling tarmac aurora. They line the lot on either side, backed up until their trailers overhang the paved lot itself, carving footprints into the hard earth. Between the two lines, the valley of the lot funnels you toward the boisterous building, music and laughter spilling out its seams. 

You'd rolled up the windows when the sun set so you're not quite prepared for the chill that greets you as you step out of the car. Still braless, you check to be sure the dark material of your shirt covers your nipples, but hug your flannel closer to yourself anyway, making a slow turn as you assess the assembled cars. You've been to enough dive bars to know the real warning signs; the get-the-fuck-out-of-dodge-before-you-decide-to-tryand-fight-a-blooded-Nazi kind of signs. Thankfully you don't see much here beyond the standard watch-your-drink-and-don't-let-your-bare-ass-touch-the-toilet-seat kind of vibes so you resign yourself to a night of babysitting, coming around the nose of the car as you bring a cigarette to your lips. 

Ash is giddy with excitement, dragging you along with her hands tucked through your elbow as she whispers excitedly about all the possibilities a dive bar off a forgotten county road in nowhere Arizona might offer. She'd said just a few drinks when she'd suggested going out again tonight, but you already know how that's going to shake out.

"Yeah? You gonna do some blow off the shuffleboard table by the end of the night?" You joke.

"And get sand in my nose? Please," Ash scoffs. "I'll do it off the sink like a normal person." 

You grin, holding the door open for her. "Go ahead and find us a spot, I'm gonna do my dirty deed," you wag the cigarette at her illustratively. 

"Yeah, yeah. Don't take too long or else all the lonely rednecks'll think I'm looking for company." 

You don't remind her she doesn't need to be here if she doesn't want to be. "If you ask pretty they'll take you to the bathroom," you wink instead, flicking your nose. Ash just laughs as she steps through the door. You let it drop behind her, fishing your lighter from your pocket as you step toward the edge of the porch. There's a loud group on your left, smoking more than just tobacco by the smell of it. You don't mind, but neither do you want to partake, so you stay a good distance away, listening in as the loudest of the group tells an animated story about the time he hit a deer and it ran off with his headlight cover. He's not a great story teller, but the assembled group laughs loud enough to drown him out half the time so maybe your perception is skewed.

Beyond them, inside, you can hear the clatter of billiards, and the general din of loosened lips, but outside, it is a cool and still night. You've never been to this part of the country, and you can't help but reflect on how nice it is in these quiet moments without Ash's chatter, or her constant performative nature. It's not that you dislike her, but days of such close proximity after years of barely any contact had certainly been a decision, and you're really started to regret it. Still, it's good to travel, and it's been so long since you've bothered with a bar that you nearly forget how to react when a man sidles up beside you and asks for a light. 

Stocky, handsome, you stammer over some words and extend your lighter, cursing when you realize you should have held the open flame out for him to light his cigarette over. He gives you a grin like he knows what you're thinking, and then exhales his smoke right into your face, destroying any attraction you'd felt for him before he'd even said a word.

You spare him a tight grin and hold your hand out for your lighter back. He holds it out, but gives it a playful little tug when you try to take it from him. "Alright," you gripe at the same moment he relinquishes his grasp, sending your hand dropping aggressively down with the slight force you'd been using. You nod while he just keeps grinning at you and snub out what remains of your cigarette. "Have a good one," you mumble, sliding past him and into the bar.

Ash perches at a small two-top, long neck dangling from her fingers prettily. You slide in across from her and she offers you the second bottle she'd snagged, though accepts easily enough when you shake your head. She's angled toward the room, that demure, but still inviting pose she'd perfected long ago on full display. As predicted, a string of men approach her, though she shoots them all down, giving you commentary on what she's thought of them all when she sends them packing. 

"Too scrawny."

"Smelled like Funyuns."

"I've seen more hair in my shower drain."

You giggle, content to watch her pick on sleazy men all night. Unfortunately her tune changes when return from the restroom a while later to find her flirting with a tall, broad man in a gaiter. She notices you as you draw close and beams at you, waving you closer in a way that suggests 'check this one out'. 

"Who's your friend?" you ask hesitantly, eyeing the big guy all over. He's dressed nice enough for a place like this, work boots and well-fitting jeans that hug his hammies sinfully. He's got on a canvas jacket over a tight thermal, some ink on his left hand you can't quite catch the shape of. The gaiter rubs you wrong, despite its innocuous dark material. Just this side of too sketchy in a place already bordering on it, you imagine there's no good reason a man would hide the bottom half of his face when he's presumably there to imbibe alcohol with his mouth all night. 

"Simon," the man rumbles, voice dark and accented. He extends his right hand to you and you take it, fingers engulfed by his broad, rough palm. In his left he holds a brown bottle, label obscured by his wide grip.

"Simon, this is my friend, Betty," Ash introduces you before you even have a chance. You shoot her a look, obvious enough that even the newcomer catches it.

"Betty?" he asks, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Not my name," you assert, but Ash speaks over you.

"Because she's so delightfully pretty, but so devastatingly boring," she pouts at you. To Simon she says, "Go on, ask her if she wants a drink."

"Can I get you a -?"

"No."

"See? Boring."

You roll your eyes, but don't offer any sort of retaliation besides. You're used to this, and generally unbothered by it. That doesn't mean it's not a pleasant surprise when Simon comes to your defense. "Nothing wrong with being responsible." His eyes are heavy on you, trailing in a way you're not necessarily comfortable with. That doesn't stop you from thanking him.

"Responsible," Ash scoffs. "One beer is still totally legal to drive."

"Quit complaining. Just means you get to have all the fun," you remind her.

"Mm, true," Ash sings. She tilts her bottle against Simon's, but you can't help noticing he gets distracted before the bottle makes it to his lips.

"You guys from around here?"

"Is anyone from here?" you quip, eyeing the assembled lot. They match their trucks outside: heavy, built for long hauls and quick stops at watering holes. 

"Suppose not," Simon admits, his own accent played up for effect. "Where you lot headed, then?"

"L.A.," Ash gushes.

When she doesn't elaborate, you tack on, "Ash's got a modeling gig."

"Really?" Ash smacks Simon playfully on the arm over his offended tone. 

"No," she laughs, "seeing a show. You ever been to L.A.?"

"Been everywhere," Simon shrugs, cryptic.

"You a trucker too, I take it?"

"Don't I look like one?" His accent thickens with every word until even your unlearned ear believes you could pinpoint his exact birthplace - distinctly un-American.

"You ever consider a mullet?" Ash giggles.

Simon looks about to snark something back when the lighter-less man from outside stumbles into his space.

"Hi," he tells the group in general, eyes unfocused before they slide to you. "Wanted to apologize. Think we got off on the wrong foot out there."

You can practically feel Ash brimming with excitement, the fact that both of you are now talking to men not going unnoticed by either of you. Not wanting to find yourself in some cheap motel Fargo sex with her, you make your lack of attraction obvious immediately, voice stern. "All good, man."

"Right," he balks. "Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?"

"Nope."

"Oh. Uh… you driving tonight or something?"

"Just not thirsty."

Across from you, Ash mouths the word 'Betty' at a stone faced Simon.

"Then why are you in a bar?" Lighter-less demands, belligerent. 

"Good question," you turn on Ash, but before she can answer, Simon speaks up.

"Piss off, mate."

"Fuck you," the guy snaps, turning to face the other man. You realize he must not have gotten a good look at him before approaching the group because you see his eyes go wide when he takes in Simon's sheer size.

"Nah, fuck you actually. Piss off."

He doesn't need telling a third time. Lighter-less gives you and Ash a nod and scurries off while Ash rounds on you. 

"And what was wrong with him?"

"Fuckin' rude."

"Are we ever gonna get you laid?"

You've only been on the road with her for two days and have not been actively looking, but you don't bother telling her that. "Only when you finally give in, baby," you croon instead and Ash snorts, already moving on.

"Simon, you any good at darts?"

"No."

"Great! Go bully us into a board using that broad frame of yours and let me win, would ya?"

Something dark passes over Simon's eyes, so quickly you think you might have imagined it when he immediately changes gears, giving Ash a brief nod before skulking away.

"Isn't he fuckin' cute?" Ash hisses at you after he's gone.

"Wouldn't know," you deadpan, covering the bottom half of your face with your hand.

She swats at you. "Oh, come off it. I'm gonna climb him like a tree by the end of the night." You curse to yourself when she sways her hips after him because the worst part is, you don't doubt her.

Simon's at least considerate enough to scrounge up a table by the boards for you, so you have front row seats to the flirt fest the other two partake in. True to his word, Simon lets Ash win three games in a row, each time being rewarded with a slightly more intoxicated girl hanging from his neck. Ash gets touchier the more she drinks, and Simon doesn't seem to mind. Though you find it odd how he rarely reciprocates, content just to let her feel up his considerable pecs and grin down at her like she's being silly. You briefly wonder if he's even into her, until you catch him giving her a congratulatory smack on the ass a little too enthusiastically after her fourth win. He says he's going out for a smoke after that and you leap at the opportunity, grabbing your jacket from the booth and following him out.

"Guess I'll keep our booth occupied," Ash pouts.

"Better, had to scare off a racoon for that thing," you hear Simon rumbling as you lead the way back out onto the porch.

The night's only gotten colder since you've been inside and you're reminded yet again that you're not wearing a bra when you feel the cotton of your shirt chafe against your tight skin. You duck your head in embarrassment as you pull your flannel tighter around yourself, too distracted to notice Simon offering you a cigarette from his pack as you try to remember if you'd been egregiously nipple flaunting back inside. 

"You okay?" Simon grunts as he lights his own smoke and you jolt back to reality, find him with his mask lowered.

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Just chillier than I expected." 

When he pockets his lighter, Simon keeps his cigarette tucked between his lips. Hands freed, he pulls his jacket off and offers it to you before you can get a protest out. His voice is gravelly when he insists you take it and you do, reveling in the body heat still trapped within. It smells vaguely musty, almost like a garage, but you figure that tracks and it's not unpleasant. 

You eye him over as you light your cigarette, not bothering to be all that subtle when you find him watching you just as closely. He's handsome, though you wonder if he keeps his face covered because of the cleft lip or the thick scar that crosses the bridge of his nose, a missing notch giving the slope of it a double ridge. Beneath his coat, he's just as muscled as you'd imagined, heavy texture of his thermal falling into the valley of his pecs nicely. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing more of the ink you'd spotted on his hand - a detailed skull crowned in heavy black swirls which follow the musculature of his forearm nicely. 

"None too pretty, eh?"

You let your eyes slide back up to his face, willfully overlook the ruin of his nose. "Wouldn't say that."

He narrows his eyes at you, as if searching for a lie. You know he won't find one, though, and weather it unflinchingly. Eventually he grunts in acceptance, or maybe approval. He doesn't say much after that, though you're content to enjoy the relative silence. The rowdy group from earlier have moved along, and the only other company you have out here is a couple quietly bickering down in the parking lot. Combined with the volume of the bar, it's level of noise you would have found annoying even just two days ago, but after so many hours stuck in the car with Ash's constant chatter, you revel in the lack of conversation, enjoy the minute twinge you get when you stretch your knees damn near hyperextension.

"Your friend's a bit more talkative than you," Simon eventually observes, voice neutral as to whether or not he likes that about you.

"My friend is quite social," you hedge, and laugh when Simon looks like he has something to say about that.

"Your friend has an agenda."

"That obvious?"

"Less obvious: is it a good idea?"

"Well why would you ask me that, when I have a vested interest in keeping the two of you apart tonight so I don't have to stand around awkwardly while the cab is a'rocking, you know what I mean?"

Simon smiles, first time all night. It does nothing to reduce his severity. "Well, you're welcome to join instead."

You can't help but scoff at him, though your laugh turns more nervous when he gives no indication of joking. "About the only thing worse than listening to Ash scream like a banshee from outside the truck, would be listening to her scream like a banshee from inside the truck. Thanks though."

He returns your grin, but it seems a bit tight. You squint at him, trying to get a feel for how insulted he actually is, but he's unflinching, unbothered. Simon's silence unnerves you, and you work to fill the void despite your earlier easiness within it. "Which, uh… Which one's yours?" You nod at the line of trucks on your left and his dark eyes follow the movement. 

Shaking his head, Simon steps into your space and angles you toward the other side of the lot. Leaning across your back, his big hand floats into your peripheral where he points at a bland, gleaming shape parked within the shadow of the building. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the low lot light in the corner, more a single porch light than anything. For a moment, it looks like any other of the million big white cabs you've seen crawling all over god's green earth, but then Simon clicks his fob behind you, and the lights flash, the dome light within turning on just long enough for you to catch a lacey little number hanging from his rear-view through the dark tinted glass, and then you notice the distinctly teeth-shaped grill you'd memorized in your passenger mirror earlier today. Your blood runs cold despite the heat of Simon behind you, you're tense, ready to flee even without your friend in tow. Your muscles don't listen, however, locked in place like a spring trap with no quarry. And then the crack of a breakshot from within the bar racks your nerves, has you spinning around to find Simon staring back down at you intensely, eyes dark enough to rival his truck's.

"You want that back? Kinda cold out here." His eyes dart down to your chest, as if he can see through the layers you've covered yourself with.

Part of you wants to yell at him, demand answers. A younger, squirrelier version of you probably would've slapped him. Instead, you slip past him wordlessly and make a beeline for your friend. "Ash," you hiss when you spot her, still at the booth where you left her. "Ash, we have to go -."

"Is that Simon's jacket?" She looks offended. You would roll your eyes at her if you had time to argue.

"Yes. Not important. Look," you take the jacket in question off, spare a brief thought for the base instinct telling you to rifle through his pockets. "Simon is the trucker I flashed. I think he followed us here."

"Oh, Jesus, Betty. That guy's probably already forgotten about you. You know how many people flash truckers every day?"

"In what world -? Is this National Lampoon's?" You huff, calm yourself. "Ash, I saw his truck, it's him, and I wanna go."

"You saw a white truck with a black cab, you mean? Spooky," she deadpans.

"He had my fucking bra hanging from his rearview -."

"You went in his cab?"

"No, fucking -."

"Did she go in your cab?"

You still, drawing yourself back to your full height from where you'd wound up leaning over your friend. Behind you, Simon steps close enough you can feel his heat again, smell that stale garage scent. "No," he shrugs and Ash eyes you both suspiciously.

"Here." You shove Simon's coat back into his chest, disappointed when you don't manage to move him an inch. Turning back to your friend, you dangle Ash's keys in her face. "I'm leaving. I encourage you to join."

"I can't even finish my beer?"

You don't bother to answer, storming back toward the door with enough confidence to have her scrambling after you.

"Jesus, what is your problem?" She hisses once the bar door slams shut after her. 

You point at Simon's truck, distinct chrome grill giving Ash pause for all of two seconds. "Could be anyone's."

"He asked me if I wanted my bra back, Ash."

Behind her, the bar door opens again. Simon's wide frame fills it for a moment, before stepping out onto the porch, casual as can be. He lights up another cigarette, eyes heavy on you all the while. He doesn't seem to notice when Ash waves at him. This time when you walk away, the crunching of gravel under foot is the only indication you get that your friend is following. She's silent for once as she climbs into the passenger's seat. You don't bother adjusting anything, tearing out of the driveway with a spray of dirt and debris that would probably ruin some paint jobs. Behind you, a truck follows you out of the lot, but the twenty foot shipping container it has loaded reassures you that it isn't Simon on your tail.

Ash remains silent for a long while, though you can tell she hasn't fallen asleep yet by the quality of her breathing. When she does speak, her voice is thin and reedy. "I didn't think he'd follow us."

"I know." For your part, you wish you could muster much beyond a general grumble of annoyance. She was just being silly when she made her little dare; it's not her fault the guy had been a creep. Thankfully, it seems he'd been content to just scare you a bit, the rearview faithfully returning only one set of headlights in your wake every time you check. 

"Go to bed, Ash. If he keeps following I'll wake you."

To your immense relief, she listens, her soft breaths relaxing the tension in your shoulders. After another glance in the side view to reassure yourself you're still safe, you take some soothing breaths of your own and run through what remains of your trip's itinerary, taking comfort in how little actually remained. Nearly half way over, and after tonight you don't think it'll be too hard to talk Ash out of any more unplanned stops at local dives just to check out the native wildlife. You're pretty sure you've both seen enough, the dejected way she'd looked after Simon's ulterior motive had been revealed playing again in your mind. Poor Ash, honestly, but you suppose it works out in your favor if it means getting home sooner and with fewer scrapes.

Feeling better, you turn the radio on, low enough it won't disturb your passenger. It takes some scanning through static to find anything, and when you do you're a bit annoyed that it's country gold of all things, but you can't deny how well it fits the landscape through which you drive, the low horizon backlit by the sunset's distant memory. It's nice, for a time. Nice enough you aren't really paying attention when DJ starts spouting local headlines, the news of a young woman's body being found recently only about an hour's ride north of here going in one ear and right out the other.

next>>

[morbidology]

This photograph depicts the last moments of 14-year-old Regina Walters, before she was killed by serial killer, Robert Ben Rhoades, who preyed on young women in America in the late 1980s and early 1990s.

Regina Walters was a teenager from Pasadena, Texas, who disappeared in February 1990. She had run away from home with her boyfriend, Ricky Lee Jones, hoping for a new life away from the challenges of adolescence. The two embarked on what they likely thought would be an adventure, hitchhiking their way across the country. Tragically, their journey was cut short when they encountered Robert Ben Rhoades, a long-haul trucker with a penchant for violence and cruelty.

Rhoades, who would later be dubbed "The Truck Stop Killer," was a predator who used his job as a truck driver to hunt for victims along the highways of the United States. He had outfitted his truck with a "torture chamber" in the sleeper cab, where he would imprison and torture his victims before ultimately murdering them. Regina and Ricky Lee Jones became two of the many victims in his gruesome spree.

Rhoades abducted the young couple in Texas, killing Ricky almost immediately and disposing of his body, which was later discovered in Mississippi. Regina, however, was not granted a quick death. Instead, she was subjected to Rhoades' depraved cruelty, held captive in his truck for an extended period.

The photograph of Regina Walters, taken by Rhoades, serves as a grim document of her final days. In it, her fear is palpable, and the bleak surroundings underscore the hopelessness of her situation. Rhoades had forced her into the black dress and heels, mocking her helplessness as he snapped the photo in an abandoned barn in Illinois, where he would eventually end her life.

Regina’s body was discovered in September 1990, months after her disappearance, near a desolate rural road in Illinois. Her remains were so decomposed that identification was initially difficult. However, the discovery of the photograph in Rhoades' possession, along with other evidence, eventually led to the confirmation of her identity.

Rhoades' capture in April 1990 came about by chance when an Arizona state trooper pulled him over for a routine traffic stop. The officer discovered a terrified and chained woman in the back of Rhoades' truck, leading to his arrest. Further investigation revealed the true extent of his crimes, and authorities linked him to multiple murders across several states.

Rhoades was eventually convicted of three murders, including that of Regina Walters, but it is widely believed that he was responsible for many more deaths. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

[fastcardotmp3]

future!steddie; long haul trucker Eddie; firefighter Steve ~1k words

It makes sense to Eddie, an obvious out when his world's gone to shit and he has to get away, that his escape route from Indiana is the same job his uncle left to settle down there and raise a kid with nowhere else to go.

Driving long haul means there's no one looking that close at a face that made it to the national news during his week on the run. It means living on the move, never stopping long enough to get stuck anywhere.

It means freedom.

It means loneliness.

He calls Wayne twice a week, coins in pay phones at rest stops while he's waiting for his hair to dry post-public shower, and that's enough for him.

Wayne has always been enough for him, and it would be hurtful to suggest otherwise; it would be disrespectful to the life Wayne helped him build, keeps helping him build with all that faith that had him never doubting an innocence questioned by everyone else in that God-forsaken town.

Twice a week. It's the only phone number he knows by heart.

Twice a week for weeks and then months and then years, driving cross-country and back again, it's freedom. He keeps telling himself it's freedom, that it's good, that he doesn't need anything more than that.

But driving long haul means there's a lot of time for thinking.

It means a lot of time for collecting thoughts up together and creating new meaning entirely.

It means that by the time he's twenty-one and twenty-five and thirty that he has tape after tape after tape where he's collected those thoughts aloud in the rumbling loud silence of an overnight drive.

Thoughts like who would I be if I'd stuck around? and thoughts like will they understand that this time running saved my life? and thoughts like I miss them, am I allowed to miss them, am I allowed to love them without ever really knowing them?

It means that when he stops for all but the first time in ten years, coming home to Wayne to find that Forest Hills is home to a couple more familiar faces than he expected, there's space for his words. His endless, looping thoughts.

Steve's got his own trailer these days, brings in Wayne's mail for him on the mornings he comes home from the night shift at the fire station and stays for coffee.

Steve's there across the way when Eddie drives up in a new-used flatbed truck he'd bought with his final paycheck on the day he hung up his hat and decided he'd been gone long enough.

Steve's there in stories Wayne only begins telling now that Eddie is home, endless retellings of a brand-new man who became a friend during a time when the name Munson was still a dangerous thing to carry.

Steve's there when Eddie starts transcribing all his dictated notes into something resembling narrative and character and prose and Eddie doesn't know the guy who jumped headfirst into another dimension, hasn't spoken to him since that week that forced Eddie to flee in the first place, but maybe he doesn't need to have those years under his belt.

Maybe it doesn't matter if Eddie knows a nineteen-year-old Steve Harrington, because he knows the twenty-nine-year-old one starting a matter of hours after he comes crawling back home, knows this grown and steady one who looked after Wayne when Eddie had to leave.

This Steve isn't stuck despite still living in the town that tried to kill him. He doesn't seem lost or without purpose.

He lives a simple life, working at the Hawkins FD and feeding stray dogs with the bowls he leaves out beside his porch. Robin comes and goes, seemingly dating her way through the Midwest's entire sapphic population and sleeping on Steve's couch in between live-in girlfriends.

There are old friends on the phone at near constant intervals in Steve's home, and there's that phone being pressed to Eddie's ear without giving him the chance to be terrified about what Erica or Dustin or Max might say to the guy who hasn't allowed anyone but Wayne access to him for a decade, what he might say back after so many years without proper human socialization.

Eddie has been moving for so long, stayed moving through the bulk of his acceptance of everything that happened to him, but there's a different sort of quiet here than what he found on the road, stillness, amongst the casual chaos.

There's similarities to life on his rig, sure, a certain routine to the comings and goings, only Eddie isn't hiding anymore and he's not thumbing through the same staticky stations anymore and he's not lonely anymore.

He doesn't know how to sit still yet, not really, but he stays up all night handwriting poetry on paper he once spoke onto tape on the porch of his uncle's trailer and sometimes when Steve gets home after dark, he'll sit with him.

He'll eat his dinner still in uniform and listen to the scratch of Eddie's pen and Eddie doesn't know him, Steve Harrington, but he's getting to know his neighbor Steve.

Ten years down the line and he's becoming solid right there in front of Eddie's eyes, becoming real, becoming something that can't possibly fit onto the tapes filled with nonsense and insights alike.

"You're never what I think you're going to be," Eddie admits to him one morning over coffee before Wayne or Robin have risen, before the phone has begun to ring, before the world wakes up and brings Eddie's life along with it, ready or not.

Steve smiles at him, amused and curious and cocky in the way he responds, "you're exactly who Wayne said you are."

It's an admission all its own, that Steve has thought about Eddie, spoken about him, in the time they've spent apart, even if it was only because he'd dared to keep Wayne Munson's company.

It's still an admission though, that in his absence, in his loneliness out on the road, Eddie wasn't forgotten by the watercolor skies over Hawkins, Indiana.

"Yeah?" Eddie breathes in those very skies, "and what did Wayne say I'd be?"

Ten years down the line and suddenly it makes sense to Eddie.

It makes sense in the morning dew on the lawn; it makes sense in the too-strong Harrington-brewed coffee; it makes sense in the wheels of his truck on a road that does end, eventually, and it makes sense in the collected thoughts and feelings, fears and dreams that he had to go away to decipher.

The freedom was in leaving, sure, but this? The coming home to Wayne and this porch and the man who lives across the way?

"Stick around, Munson," Steve Harrington dares on a morning like any other, "and maybe I'll just tell you."

Well. As it turns out, this might be the thing that saves him.

[piratefishmama]

Fake it 'till you make it | Part 5

Eddie was almost half certain that he was either hallucinating, or still asleep and dreaming the whole thing. But Steve Harrington was in his living room, perusing the mug collection as if it were fine art or some shit, and he wasn’t there to buy drugs. The van had gotten uncomfortable pretty quickly after Eddie’s tragic realisation, and while his Uncle was definitely there, and giving Eddie a very obvious what the fuck Ed’s ‘look’ while he made them both coffee, Steve seemed pretty at ease in the place.

He didn’t look like he belonged in any way shape or form, with his mega-bucks hairstyle, the polo that probably cost more than Eddie was making per day on those dates, and the jeans that probably—okay he needed to stop pricing up what Steve was wearing.

Needed to stop making assumptions about him.

“You take sugar, kid?”

“Uh—yes! Yeah, uh, cream two sugars, please. Thank you.” If Steve noticed the surprise on Wayne’s face at the presence of manners well… he didn’t seem offended by it. in fact he was still pretty amazed by the mug collection. “Where’d you get all these?”

“Spent a few years’a my life as a long haul trucker before Ed’s landed on my doorstep back in the day, the road ain’t no place for a kid so I packed it in, but there’s always lil knick knacks in pit stops along the way, had people say they’d probably be worth somethin someday, bit‘a history an all that, but… that ain’t why I have em. Each one has a memory attached to it, makes somethin as mundane as a mug, precious.” Memories, the walls were littered with memories.

Such a small space packed with so much. So many little bits and bobs, clutter that told stories, personalities told by clutter.

Steve loved it. He found it… comforting.

Eddie couldn’t stop the foot he so ungracefully stuck into his mouth however with the quip “must seem messy to you, huh?” That wiped the smile right from Steve’s perfect face. Replaced it with a little frown of confusion.

“Hm? No… no, not at all, what? What makes you think that?”

“Well, I’ve seen your house dude, it’s looks straight out of a showroom or somethin.” Couldn’t take the foot out of the mouth now, best just chew on it until his uncle whacked him round the back of the head with a newspaper, hissing,

“Manners don’t cost nothin boy, I raised you better than to be a little shit to guests. The hell’s your problem?”

“I honestly have no idea.” Eddie didn’t even complain about the whack, it didn’t hurt, but it did dislodge the foot from his mouth, allowing him to level Steve and his confused face an apology “sorry man, I’m just…”

“Defensive?”

“Mmhm”

“S’fine, I get it.” And wasn’t that just fucking heartbreaking. Especially since he smiled so sweetly when Wayne gave him his own little steaming mug, it had mickey mouse on it. “For the record though, I like it. The collection I mean… I think I’d like something like this in my own house someday, just… memories everywhere… neither of my parents are big on collections, I think the only ones they have are my mom’s vinyl’s and my dad’s wine.”

“Your mom has vinyl’s?” The wine collection was predictable but vinyl’s?

“Mm, up in the attic, I’ll show you sometime.” He had a player in the sun room, could probably bring a few boxes down and let Eddie rifle through them someday, maybe even convince his mom to bring some of them with them to the chalet, Eddie might get a kick out of at least a few of the records in there. “If you still wanna be seen with me after all this” an if she wouldn’t take them, best get the idea that they could still be friends after it all out in the open!

Eddie wasn’t bad, and Dustin adored him, constantly trying to get him to give Eddie a chance, sneaky little shit setting this up, probably had ulterior motives, so… why not?

Eddie didn’t get a chance to answer though, although his mouth was open ready to speak, Wayne beat him to it. “Now, it’s none’a my business but… what do you mean by all this?” Leaving Steve awkwardly sipping his coffee, looking at Eddie over the rim of his cup in question. Was it okay? Would it be okay to talk about it?

“As much as I’d love to say, ‘Steve’s invited me somewhere for a week!’ and have that be totally believable and not cause you a stress aneurysm… Wayne’s cool, Steve, you good with me talking about it?” There was obvious hesitation, more strangers who knew the riskier it could be for him, but— he nodded. He’d trust Wayne, as insane as that was, he didn’t even know Wayne, but… the man gave off a weird kind of trustworthy energy. And Eddie vouched for him so, “You know how I do that whole… date thing to freak parents out for girls? Stevie here needs my services.”

“You aint plannin on doin what I think you’re doin, are you boy? Are you out of your damn mind? Do you know how danger—”

“It’s okay!” Steve blurted cutting off the expected worry rant “it’s safe, I promise, my parents are… well… they might seem really detached from reality but—you don’t know them. I recently realised that neither do I… he’s not… gonna be freaking them out either, he’s just… playing a part to get them off my back for a while… I’m uh… I’m—” he looked at Eddie, briefly but long enough to catch the little nod of encouragement. It was okay. It was safe. So far things had been fine for him coming out, so far he’d been okay, there’d been no danger, and maybe doing it so many times had made it easier or something because it just… came out “I’m bisexual, they know, and have been throwing both women, and men at me trying to get me to finally settle down with someone and… while I agree, that’d be nice… I would love to do that, i’m not jazzed about the quality of the people they’re throwing at me.”

“…Your parents. The Harringtons, rich folk. Those folks… they’re safe?”

“Apparently, my dad’s even restructuring his company values to include people like me, trying to make it a safer place for us, and this was before I told them.” Something he’d had no idea about, something that he couldn’t believe, hence why he kept bringing it up, it was insane to him, how little he actually knew his parents, how wrong he’d been about them.

How wrong everyone had been about them.

“His parents are takin him to this chalet in Canada next week, Steve thinks they’re gonna ambush him with some random person that he’ll have to spend a whole week avoiding, so… he’s hiring me to act as his boyfriend. That cool with you, Wayne?” He didn’t have to ask. Eddie was a grown adult, he could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, but… Wayne deserved to know.

“… Can I meet em before you go?”

“Of course!”

“Not a chance.”

The worst part was, they both spoke at once. And Steve’s very positive answer, happened to be louder.

Part 7

[slowdivinqs]

Something Like This

Chapter 1 : the long haul

Series Summary:

Two guarded individuals trying to navigate a goodness within them they see unfitting.

Or, Joel takes you in as stray under the guise of a ranch hand after you run away from home.

Chapter Warnings : none besides mental turmoil and smoking. reader can be seen as an OFC but isn’t written that way. no use of y/n. Can be pedro or game joel

W/C: 2K

A/N: first time trying to write a series. these two own my heart.

series masterlist

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No one is going to find you.

The words have started to sound fake with the number of times you’ve repeated them in your head - just like when one thinks about the word ‘the’ too hard and starts to doubt its security. There’s a fine line where reassurance turns into doubt, and your little mantra is beginning to teeter.

But if you’re being entirely too self-aware like you usually are, you know that the reality of your statement is that no one is going to look for you - you know that you don’t like the pinching sadness it leaves in your stomach, so you rather make it seem like some great escape. Like you’ve done something bad and not that something bad has been done to you.

In something not quite like hindsight, you contemplate whether your actions are dramatic. At the same time, you think it’s nice someone of your calculating nature is doing something spontaneous. You’d like to think it’s a choice and not a reaction to the whirlwind following you down this empty road since you left, like a storm chasing you instead of how it’s supposed to go. Maybe the storm’s in the car already. Regardless, it’s there and it’s approaching languidly.

If anyone were to peek into the leather bag stationed on the passenger seat of your shitty car, it would appear to be nothing more than an artsy college student’s day-to-day needs. If they were to check your outfit, maybe you’re going to a formal meeting at a gallery - brown trenchcoat, work shirt, and stetson flared jeans.

If they were to check your glove box, maybe you’re running away from something real bad.

Life in a town from buttfuck nowhere in the middle of a state that consists of mainly empty land can only be labeled as boring. Knowing everyone by name but not truly knowing anyone at all. Not knowing anyone except for every inch of the consciousness currently thinking in your skull.

Your hands tighten around the leather wheel. Stomach churning in a way that’s almost painful.

Not realizing you had already eaten the leftover snacks you had in your briefcase in a haze of however much time has passed, you soon look out for somewhere to stop. You need gas, sleep, and food. Then you need to just keep moving.

You’re keenly aware of the fact that you’re deflecting. That you’re running and limiting your mind to fowardness so that storm doesn’t come breaking through your windshield. You can’t think about it. Not yet, but later.

But there’s that daunting feeling - that fear, the storm - that’s telling you there’s no hiding from something like this.

Stupidly, when you walk into the gas station, which is rather nicely attached to the 70s-style open diner, you look at the chunky TV in the corner like you’re in some action movie. Like James Bond, Rambo or maybe even the Termimator is chasing you down. You approach a sticky booth, watching the grey sky.

Luckily, Arnold Swartzenegger isn’t approaching - the impending doom of your psyche is a different story.

The air was thick with the scent of coffee, bacon grease, and a hint of something fried to death hours ago.

You scanned the room, eyes flitting over the few patrons: a pair of truckers nursing black coffees, a tired waitress with a notepad tucked into her apron, and then—a man, broad-shouldered and hunched, studying the contents of a glass fridge filled with beer.

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than intended. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in a while. There was a ruggedness about him, something in the way his worn jacket fell over his frame and how he stood as if carrying an invisible weight. His gaze lifted suddenly, meeting yours. You quickly looked down, heat creeping up your neck as you focused on the sticky menu.

“‘S gon’ rain soon.” The older woman says as she comes by. Auburn hair that’s clearly had a roller ripped out of it, flushed cheeks and drawn-in eyebrows.

“Hope not.” You murmur, quickly flipping through the options before choosing something that will hopefully settle your stomach.

A big breakfast near evening time, the best time to eat breakfast food. Pancakes, waffles, toast, sausage, eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms. Black coffee served from a pot.

You can tell your mountain of food amuses the woman, but you pay her no mind, digging into the pancake like it will be your salvation.

Glancing at the TV again, you wonder if anyone back home has noticed something is amiss. For your sake, you hope not. You wonder if any of that really matters anymore.

You can feel him looking at you when you approach the cashier. He’s big, older than you by far. Worn, his broad shoulders slump and curve like they’ve been beaten there. Kind eyes that seem to be dulled by sadness. Maybe he’s a lumberjack or a cowboy. Whatever he is, he looks like a typical, gruff, middle-aged man.

“Marlboro reds please, and the breakfast.” You say softly, despite feeling queasy after eating instead of the comfort you’d hoped for, the teenager languidly grabs what you’ve asked for, and the beer-eyeing man is now standing next to you near the till. Clearly trying to assess you in the most respectful way possible.

His presence was heavy, an unspoken tension filling the room as he stood just a step away. You could feel him, a shadow at your periphery, glancing your way as you reached for your wallet. The cashier, a gangly teenager, moved at the speed of molasses as he rang up your bill. The man shifted his weight, the rustle of him cutting through the low hum of a radio in the background.

You look at him directly, and he turns sheepish now that you’ve made eye contact with him. He’s handsome. Very handsome. dark eyes, a scruffy face. A manly face. A scarred nose and a corduroy jacket. He looks like he’s probably not used to seeing new people around here - assuming he lives here instead of passing through. He looks like he’s not used to seeing people at all.

“‘Scuse me,” he said, voice deep and rough around the edges, sounding like he doesn’t use it much at all. Your eyes catching the flicker of hesitation in his. He shifted the six-pack in his hand, the grip tightening like it was an anchor. He seems startled that you looked at him, as if he expected you to ignore him entirely. Like he’s been living his life as a ghost for longer than he can remember. “You, uh, you got somethin’—” He gestured vaguely at his own head. “Egg. Right there.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could rein it in.

“Well, I’m sure this looks super appealing, thanks for saving me.” You say with a deflected smirk that always seems to grace your features you said, brushing your fingers through your hair until they found the sticky culprit. His gaze darted away, the faintest hint of a smile, of boyish sheepishness, cracking the hard lines of his face before it vanished just as quickly

You’re not happy that someone has noticed you, and you realize you’re sticking out like a sore thumb when you should be blending in, passing by unnoticed. The teenager hands over the pack of Malboros. You turn back to the kid who is probably only a few years younger than you. “Could I get a room at the motel, please?”

“Sorry miss, the motel hasn’t been open in a long time, it’s all..well…shitty.” He mumbles, glancing over at corduroy jacket standing on your left. The weight of your exhaustion pressed down hard, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach. You shifted your gaze back to the stranger, finding him watching you again, jaw working like he was chewing over a thought.

“You know any places nearby?” You ask him, and he almost seems overwhelmed by the 2 comments you’ve thrown his way. Blinking slightly and adjusting the six-pack in his hands. Nothing about talking is natural for him. It almost seems like existing isn’t natural either.

“I got a farm, thirty minutes from here.” He murmurs. Seeing you raise your eyebrow, he sighs and looks to the side, the demeanor of a kicked dog. “I got a maid quarter and no maid, so…”

He shuffles slightly, glancing at the teenage boy with a defeated look like maybe the ginger can save him from his own mouth.

“I ain’t-, I uh- never mind.”

“Mr.Miller has lived here for years, and helped to build the new schoolhouse.” The cashier supplies, and you grin at the resume you’ve been given on Mr. Hair inspector.

A room sounds nice. This man, Mr.Miller, seems safe enough.

“A maid quarters with no maid sounds great.”

His name is Joel. He looks like a Joel, you think. Reminds you of your earlier musings about a lumberjack or cowboy. There’s a ruggedness to him, an air that suggests he’s spent more time outdoors than in, weathered by sun and wind.

You follow his red pickup to his farm from your sputtering, shitty little car, bouncing along the bumpy gravel surrounded by thick trees that thin out near the road. The sun slowly shines through the trees, making that pretty pattern on the ground you love so much. You glance in the mirror one more time, making sure there’s no more egg in your hair, how it got in there, you’ll never know.

When the trees part, his farm comes into view. It’s beautiful: a two-story house clad in natural wood, a wrap-around porch lined with flowerbeds bursting with late summer blooms. The sight stirs something inside you, a feeling you can’t quite name.

He shows you the maid quarters, a modest little cabin on the outside. Furnished with wooden furniture, quilts, and a toilet he says he has to inspect before you use it. It’s warm and homey. Much like everything of his seems to be. There’s a guarded expression in his gaze, as if weighing each thought carefully.

“I don’t have much to pay you with.” You state as he’s about to leave you be and retreat to the main house. He turns and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“If I was expectin’ you t’pay me, I woulda told you that from the start.” He says in that rough voice of his, each word thought out and calculated.

“You’re just gonna let me stay here for a week, for free? You a fairy godmother or something? ” You ask incredulously, taking an unsure, subtle, step back. You’ve heard horror stories of men expecting more than just money.

Joel doesn’t miss your movement or your tone and takes a weighted step back himself. Eyes narrowing slightly.

“‘F you wanna be a temporary ranch hand that’s fine by me. You do your shit and I do mine.”

“You’ll hire me?” You try not to sound so hopeful, but hiding away as a ranch hand in a quiet town like this for a few weeks to observe how things go sounds like a dream

“Sure.”

As the wooden door to the shed creaks shut behind him, his expression hardens, shifting into something distant and pained. He is the most foolish man in the world. Why he did this? He doesn’t know. He’s been alone for years, kicked anyone who tried to come near out with a snarl. Now there’s some girl on his farm that’s going to stay, indefinitely. Sweet Jesus, he’s a fool. He should kick her out in the morning, tell her he was drunk- or high, she won’t believe it but he shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t.

Lumbering up to his house, he curses himself, watching the lights dim out in the shed that’s remained dark for years, ever since it stopped being her play house.

He grimaces, takes a large swig of the whiskey on his dresser, feeling it burn down his throat. The bed groans as he collapses onto it, eyes squeezed shut. He knows the real reason he offered her the space so quickly: the look in her eyes—haunted, desperate—a look he recognizes all too well.

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if you enjoyed please make sure to reblog and comment! Thanks for reading ◡̈

don’t repost or reuse my work anywhere, thanks.

[exhuastedpigeon]

My great aunt died today and I'm so sad about it. She was so fucking cool and kind and interesting and complicated and lived a life to match that.

She got married and had two kids while she was working towards her PhD. She left her abusive husband in the 1970s with her two kids (both under five) on a Greyhound. She finished her dissertation while going through a divorce and raising two kids on her own. She met the guy who would be the great love of her life while she was waiting tables in the middle of nowhere USA and he was a long haul trucker.

She got her PhD and got a job at a professor. She worked at that same university for almost 40 years and when she retired she was running the department. She took her kids on sabbatical with her and they lived in England for a year. She bought a house all by herself in the early 1980s.

She was a staunch defender of women's rights and gay rights and one of the last things she did was help her grandson realize he was worth more than how his shitty boyfriend treated him.

I'll always remember how smart she made me feel. She always wanted to know what I was reading and she helped me understand literary analysis in a way no other teacher ever did.

When my grandma told me she died she said "I don't remember a world without her. She was my best friend from the moment she was born."

She lived 81 years but somehow that doesn't seem like enough.

[eyeofnewtblog]

Things that happen at work:

So, the only female driver in the company comes in and actually has time to chat. (She’s absolutely gorgeous and fantastic btw) and we get to chatting about embarrassing bodily functions while on the road or on the job.

I honestly don’t even remember how the topic came up, I was just all of a sudden talking about the time I worked at a call center for a week when I was 18 and peed myself while on an hour long survey literally five minutes before it ended.

She then proceeded to top me with the top three times she didn’t make it to a gas station or was too young and new to know her tummy well enough. As a long haul driver.

Long story short, don’t ever pick up clothes you find on the side of the road because I 100% guarantee a trucker shit their pants and stripped on the side of the road with zero fucks to give and absolutely crying. Also always go on long road trips with a shovel and toilet paper. Maybe a tent. Cactus and bush work fine though.

Wipes are an absolute necessity though. Baby, window, Clorox. WIPES.

Also crying because you pooed or peed your pants as an adult? Not that big a deal. You personally are horrified and traumatized and humiliated, but every single person around you is just sort of like…ok, here is what I can give you to solve this problem, good luck, and honestly I’m just glad to not be you right now.

People aren’t judging you, they’re too busy being glad they AREN’T YOU. So just. Change, clean up, cry for about 20 minutes. Then move on with your life.

[multiplicationdivision]

Company Policy

Milo was stuck on the worst run he’d ever taken. Cargo needed in 2 days and just under that time to get there in his truck if he drove without sleeping. It would have been near torture and even if the payout was better than amazing, it wasn’t something he would’ve taken a week ago.

Milo had a trick these days.

He’d picked up a hitchhiker. A backpacking twenty something, dumb and rugged. A golden retriever of a man that was handsome in a sense, but not in any way Milo was interested in. Too sweet and trusting for him. Men didn’t last long around him like that.

Especially now.

He’d been sweaty when Milo had picked him up, his shirt wet with the hot sun and turned to mud from the dust. That’s what you ask for travelling around the middle of the southern nowhere. Barely a thing worth shit on the endless roads between truck stops and motels. Maybe a rattlesnake or two.

It had been easy to get the happy fool to wear one of his backup Tees. He kept his spare uniforms in the back, enough to last him the long trips. Gray polyester that was boringly company policy to wear no matter what. Like Milo was employed under Amazon or FedEx instead the knock off generic delivery company that was obsessed with him maintaining their nonexistent brand.

Company policy was absolute. Not the soft idea of absolute, Milo receiving consequences for not following the rules or maybe even getting fired. Nothing weak and mundane like that.

Company policy like this was some mind-bending shit. It wasn’t something that could be broken, not by Milo who’d already signed his employment contract. He was bound by it’s rules and it would be a claustrophobic feeling had he not gotten such a good contract. Great pay, great time off and an understanding boss. He could deal with the strange aspects of that contract for the benefits. Even manipulate them sometimes.

Only employees can wear their uniform. The contract states that on page 2 in full bold letters. Followed by a bunch of stipulations about assignment of uniform sizes and assorted accommodations.

The hitchhiker wore one of his shirts now. His ragged sweaty one was somewhere on the floor, balled up under the passenger seat. The man had said it was surprisingly comfortable for a uniform. Said he’d worked as a cashier for some fast-food joint and that theirs were scratchy. He’d said he was surprised Milo’s shirt fit him so well.

Company policy demands that only the employee who owns the uniform wears the uniform. Milo wondered if the hitchhiker noticed how baggy the shirt was on him minutes ago. How it sagged around his shoulders, the man smaller than him by far. Now it fit perfectly, tight against his skin.

Milo asks if the man knows about his favorite TV show. Some niche drama going back to the 90s, echoing the same plots over and over and over. The hitchhiker squints his darkening eyebrows, recognition blooming in real time. The man just remembering something he’d surely never watched.

He’d been clean shaven, but now the guy’s face was covered in a shadow that Milo recognized. He’d discuss his travels as he gazed outside. Not noticing the moment when the tales of a hitchhiker faded into recollections of hauls gone hilariously wrong.

Milo watched the changes out the corner of his eye, relaxing as the awkward conversation became easy. Their language becoming more and more alike by the second, the nervous dog of a man becoming loud like Milo. Discussing their nearly identical plan of scaling the Devil’s Tower and free climbing whatever parts of the Grand Canyon they could get to. Bragging about how little they needed to workout with so much time to spend climbing.

The other made sounds of discomfort every now and then. Milo wondered if it hurt to have a life scooped out and filled in again. It was likely just disorienting, the hitchhiker seeming to try to recount his college years only to remember that he’d been a cross country trucker for the last six years. He’d laughed about how nice it was that truckers could rely on each other when they needed help. Milo joked that it was hard not to pick him up when he was so handsome. They laughed because they looked remarkably similar.

At some point, Milo realized that he had ended up in the passenger seat. As if he’d slowly bled into existence without the awareness to realize it. Feeling a slight desynchrony from the still sweaty cargo shorts and trainers he’d been left with. The other Milo laughed at him when he complained. They both knew he had brought an extra pair of sneakers for this exact situation.

They were mirror images now, matching short beards and curly hair. A situation they were both used to by now. Three times policy had assured that the person wearing his uniform was Milo, no matter how it broke the rules of reality to do so. They were short staffed so his boss had told him to keep it coming.

Milo would always have a buddy for the road, someone to trade shifts with as the other slept. Another Milo keeping him company in every state, at every stop. It only cost a few nobodies and a shirt or pants.

It was a good trick.

[kerryweaverlesbian]

I think. My Destiel happy ending endgame. Dean runs a bar and Cas becomes a long haul trucker and (from trial and error and a lot of arguments and cold shoulders) Cas calls Dean every night and often they'll call multiple times a day just to chat and some week days when it's slow Dean will ditch the bar and drive up to wherever Cas is in Baby and they'll check out whatever small town Cas is in.

And Jack is on a long term road trip with Amara, both of them trying to experience earth to the fullest after both being stuck for so long and Jack also calls all his dads frequently. So sometimes they meet up all together, and definitely if they're all around Kansas where Sam is working out of the Bunker with a big team of hunters which has an anarchist non hierarchy structure (which took a long time for Sam to get used to, from his big history with needing to seize control/sneak around to prevent his life being controlled for him, but he's happy to have a valued seat at their round table).

[from-memphis-with-love]

Phantom Frequency

🚛 "Phantom Frequency" - A Halloween Short Story

On a rain-slicked highway in 1969, lonely trucker Elvis Presley nearly dies in a collision with a mysterious red car. Seeking refuge at a remote truck stop diner, he meets Grace—a hauntingly beautiful waitress with a gap-toothed smile and eyes like sea glass. Their connection is instant, electric, and impossible... because Grace died exactly one year ago, killed by a driver who never stopped.

CW: car accidents, death, supernatural themes

Later—much later—Elvis would remember that night and think: That's when everything went to hell. That's when I learned some roads don't wanna let you go.

But on that Halloween night in 1969, he was just trying to keep his rig between the lines while Merle Haggard fought with static on the radio. The windshield wipers beat a rhythm that reminded him of his mother's old metronome: you're-gonna-die, you're-gonna-die, you're-gonna-die.

(He was right about that, of course. Everyone dies eventually. But some folks—like the pretty waitress he was about to meet—were already well ahead of him.)

His hands gripped the big wheel of the Peterbilt, those same hands that had once strummed a Gibson guitar in Beale Street dive bars, back when he still believed he might be the next Johnny Cash. Now they just guided eighteen wheels through the dark, counting off the miles between nowhere and nothing much.

The cab of the truck smelled like every long-haul ride since the dawn of diesel: cigarette smoke, coffee gone cold in a plastic thermos, and that peculiar mixture of loneliness and diesel fuel that seems to seep into a trucker's bones after enough years on the road. Elvis had been driving for Yankee-Lines Transport for going on ten years now, and he figured he'd probably die behind this wheel.

(He didn't know how close he'd come to being right about that, too.)

The radio crackled, and through the static came Hank Williams singing "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." Elvis reached for the dial, but something made him hesitate. Later, he'd wonder if that hesitation saved his life. Or maybe it had already been too late by then. Maybe it had been too late the moment he'd pointed his truck down Highway 61 on Halloween night.

That's when he saw the headlights in his mirror.

The red Chevrolet came out of nowhere, moving like a bullet with Satan's name on it. Elvis had just enough time to think Jesus Christ on a bicycle before everything went sideways. Literally.

The truck slid like it was auditioning for the Ice Capades, trailer swinging wide in a move that would've scored a perfect ten from the Russian judges. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Elvis had a crazy thought about that old Roy Orbison song—pretty woman, walking down the street—before physics finally called it a night and let everything settle into silence.

When his heart stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest like something from an Alien movie (not that those existed yet in 1969, but Elvis would think of that comparison later), he keyed the CB radio with shaking fingers.

"Breaker one-nine, this is Hound Dog," he said, and wasn't that a laugh? He'd picked that handle years ago, back when he still thought he might make it as a singer. Now it just felt like God's own cosmic joke. "Nearly got sent to the big truck stop in the sky by some maniac in a red Chevy. Anyone copy?"

The radio crackled—everything seemed to crackle that night, like the whole world was sitting on a bed of breaking bones—and a woman's voice came through: "Hound Dog, this is Grizzly Bear. Get yourself to Bud's Chalet at exit 117. Ain't safe out there tonight."

(Ain't safe. No ma'am, it surely wasn't. Ask Grace Maxwell about that. Oh wait, you can't. She's been dead a year. But don't worry, you'll meet her anyway.)

Elvis found the exit and pulled into what had to be the saddest excuse for a truck stop this side of the Mason-Dixon. Bud's Chalet looked like something that had fallen off the back of a Swiss tourist's postcard and landed in Arkansas by mistake. The kind of place where the coffee's always burnt and the pie's always old and the waitress is always named Flo.

Except the waitress wasn't named Flo.

She was standing behind the counter when he walked in, and for a moment Elvis forgot how to breathe. She was beautiful in that small-town way that breaks hearts and pens a thousand country songs. Strawberry blonde hair piled up in a beehive that would've made the B-52s proud (another reference that wouldn't make sense until years later), eyes green as summer lawn grass, and a gap between her front teeth that would've made Madonna jealous (there he went again, getting ahead of himself).

Her name tag said GRACE.

(And that's when the cosmic joke really got rolling. Because Grace had been dead exactly one year, killed by a red Chevy that didn't bother to stop after it sent her on her way to the ultimate coffee break. But Elvis didn't know that yet. He was still living in the world where pretty waitresses were alive and coffee got cold and clocks actually moved forward.)

"What'll it be?" she asked, and her voice was like warm honey over cornbread.

Elvis ordered coffee, black as midnight in a mine shaft. She poured it and steam rose from the cup like spirits escaping purgatory. He couldn't help noticing that she moved without making a sound, that the fluorescent lights dimmed when she passed under them, that her touch when she handed him the cup was cold as November rain.

They talked. Lord, how they talked. About roads and dreams and loneliness. About his failed music career and her daddy's trucking days. The coffee never got cold. The clock on the wall never moved. And outside, in the Arkansas night, something that drove a red Chevrolet waited patiently for its next victim.

When Elvis came back a year later—because of course he did, that's how these things work—the truth hit him like a load of concrete blocks. The photo on the wall. The brass plaque. Grace Maxwell, dead one year before he'd met her, killed by a hit-and-run driver in a red Chevy.

The same red Chevy that had almost sent him to join her.

Elvis ran out of that diner like his ass was on fire and his hair was catching. But as he reached his truck, the radio came to life all on its own. Through the static came "Peace in the Valley," and the smell of apple pie drifted on the wind.

He never drove that stretch of Highway 61 again. Some roads, he learned, have their own stories. Some roads keep their dead. And sometimes, if you're lucky (or maybe if you're not), those dead reach out to save the living from joining their lonely highway vigil.

But on quiet nights, when the moon is full and the radio won't quite tune in, Elvis thinks about Grace. He wonders if she's still there at Bud's Chalet, serving coffee that never gets cold to truckers who don't know they're being saved.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he finds himself humming "Peace in the Valley" and thinking about a pretty waitress with a gap-toothed smile who died on Halloween night but stuck around just long enough to keep him from joining her on the other side of the veil.

(Ain't that always the way? The dead looking out for the living, keeping us from stumbling too soon into their dark territory. And if you don't believe it, just take a drive down Highway 61 on Halloween night. Stop in at Bud's Chalet. Order some coffee and apple pie. But whatever you do, watch out for that red Chevy. It's still out there, waiting. Always waiting.)

THE END

[scoops-aboy86]

Not Dating, part 3

part 1, part 2, parts 4 & 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 - also on ao3

Eddie needs better self esteem. In the meantime, he's wallowing and indulging in that Triple Decker Eggo Extravaganza that El told him about. (The great thing is, it's only 8000 calories.)

The first thing Eddie does upon getting home is slam the door of the brand new double-wide that still doesn’t feel quite like home. New walls and new furniture and Wayne had to start a whole new mug and hat collection, which sucks because most of it had been from his long haul trucker days and everything had had a story behind it. Now the stories are mostly, ‘look what I found in a bin at the thrift shop.’

His uncle looks up from the newspaper he’s reading in his (new, not quite broken in yet) recliner and mildly raises an eyebrow. 

The second thing Eddie does is stomp over to the phone and grab the jack that connects it to the wall. “We don’t need this for a few days, right?” he snarls, keeping his voice and expression hard because as soon as he lets up on that facade, the second it cracks, he’s going to fall apart. He hadn’t realized how much Steve had been holding him together lately, but now that’s been yanked out by the roots and he feels dangerously unstable. 

Wayne considers for a moment, then shrugs. “Nah, guess not.”

“Good.” Eddie yanks it and continues to his room without another glance. He slams that door behind him too, digs through the detritus on top of his (new) desk to find the radio Dustin had given him, and turns the knob to off with a vicious twist. 

Then he burrows into his (new) bed and screams into his (new) pillow and wishes that none of it had never happened, that he was still in their old place in its old spot where everything was familiar and he didn’t have scars and he’d never spoken more than a few words to Steve fucking Harrington in his entire, goddamn, shitty little life. 

Over the next few days, Eddie chain smokes through both his cigarettes and his pot stash. Maybe he’ll still leave town, but once the initial angry energy drained away he hasn’t felt like doing anything, so it can wait. The only times he crawls out of bed to use the bathroom or get something to eat. And eat. And eat. 

Yes he’s aware that he’s self-soothing with food, and no he doesn’t give a flying fuck. It feels like a black hole has opened up inside him and what it’s demanding is Eggo waffles with every single little square full up with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and M&Ms. (Eleven had mentioned it in an offhand comment once as her go-to Bad Mood Food, and by god that girl is onto something; it’s bready, creamy, and crunchy combined in every bite.)

But it’s not booze, so Wayne hasn’t commented on these additions to the grocery list. And thank fucking god for that because Eddie doesn’t think he’d be able to talk about much of anything without suffering a complete breakdown—just getting out of bed is hard enough. 

The phone stays unplugged, so if anyone (if Steve) tries to call, Eddie remains blissfully unaware. Max broke in on day two to check for proof of life, turned the radio back on and changed it to an obscure channel, and warned him that if he turned it off again she and the rest of the Party would not be held responsible for Dustin’s actions. So, fine, when Dustin radios to check in Eddie responds, but it’s all brief and monosyllabic, literally just a proof you’re not dead’ call. 

And Eddie is left alone. It’s the way he wants it. 

It’s agony. 

After four days of wallowing in exactly what he deserves for falling for a straight boy, Eddie rolls sluggishly over in bed towards the tap of thrown pebbles on his window. He glares at the offending thing, which he can’t even see through the thick blackout curtain. 

“Fuck off,” he yells, and his voice is hoarse but carries well enough. He slumps back down and starts to pull the blanket back over his head, when the tapping comes again. “What about fuck off did you not—”

“It’s Steve.”

Eddie freezes, then shudders and turns to whine into his pillow, the only word going through his mind a frantic litany of no no no NO. He can’t let Steve see him like this, can’t let the object of his hopeless affection know how much this is hurting him for fear that Steve might try to be nice about it, and that would just blur the lines even more and make things worse. And Eddie hasn’t showered, combed his hair, or brushed his teeth in days, there’s probably chocolate on his face, and the way he can’t even pull his shirt down over his belly is just—no. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he snarls.

“Eds, please, I made a mistake. I fucked up, I know that, but please let me at least try to fix this.”

And oh, Eddie already knows what mistake Steve made. It’s one thing to be friends with the local gay metalhead and social pariah, but to fuck him? Can’t have that, no fucking sir. 

Instead of answering, he buries himself in his blankets and under his pillow and goes back to wallowing in high gear because it’s all he’s good for right now. A few more days in this cocoon and he’ll come out harder, steeled against Steve’s sweet, prettyboy charms that he must not even realize how thick he lays on all the time, and everything will be fine. Just… just a few more days to forget how cared for Steve had sometimes managed to make him feel while fucking him. 

But he’s forgotten that Steve knows where the spare key is—not that the lock on a trailer door is all that robust, but Wayne has insisted lately after the whole ‘hunt the freak’ debacle, and that’s fair enough. 

“Eddie.” Spoken in a shaky but determined voice right outside his bedroom door. “You don’t have to let me in, just… Hear me out, okay?”

Oh, now you want to talk, Eddie grumbles internally. But not out loud, oh no; his plan is to ignore Steve until he goes away. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything. 

It sounds like Steve is sitting down out there, thumping against the door or maybe one of the walls and sliding all the way down. Four days apart and part of Eddie still aches to see him, pictures against his will how Steve might look right now. His imagination wants to paint shadows underneath Steve’s eyes, wants to think that he’s at least lost some sleep over this even if it’s a long shot, lips bitten red and begging for a kiss, their first—

Eddie loathes himself. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your question,” Steve is saying, and he does sound tired, at least. That’s something. “It’s not that I didn’t want to, I just had… too many thoughts, it was like a traffic jam in my head. But I don’t want you to think I don’t want this, you. Because I like you, Eddie.” 

I like you.

Like you.

Because I like you, Eddie. 

Eddie has gone so still that he’s not even breathing, and Steve keeps talking. 

“I really do. As more than just a friend, okay? So I don’t… Don’t not come to movie nights, please. If it’s the kids too or just us, I don’t care; I want you to be there. I always want you to be there.”

His first instinct is to be angry. If that’s how Steve really feels, why had he let Eddie leave? Had he even tried to call? Why did it take days for him to show up? 

Then Eddie thinks, Well why wouldn’t it take the better part of a week to come to terms with liking someone like me, and the anger sputters out. 

Because it’s not like he’s a catch or anything. A three-time senior who never managed to graduate (never mind that he’d gotten his GED with flying colors on the first try), known around town for selling drugs and being briefly arrested for triple homicide… Son of a criminal and a drug addict. Raised in a trailer park, a far cry from the big houses in Loch Nora, unless his dad dragged him out that way to case the neighborhood or something. 

And even before the scars, he’d never really thought of himself as attractive. Okay at best. He’s proud of his long hair and his tats—or he had been, before patches of them had gone the same way as one of his fucking nipples. Besides all that, there’s…

Deep in his burrow of blankets, Eddie feels along the lower curve of his belly and wonders if Steve would’ve turned up on day two or three instead of four if he hadn’t gained so much weight lately. Despite how all this had started. Despite the belly rubs and how those kind touches had become something heated, almost reverent. Despite how Steve had always brought him more to eat and drink, sometimes before Eddie even had to ask, like he just knew—  

“... Eddie? Are you still in there, man?”

He can’t contain his loud, scoffing snort, because there are only two ways out of his room and it’s not like he can just shimmy out a window these days. Which hasn’t been a problem until now, when the man of his dreams is blocking the door to offer… what, some sort of pity relationship? For Eddie to be his gay experiment? To be called man during emotional moments like they’re bros or something?

“Okay,” Steve sighs, and Eddie would bet real money that he was running a hand through his hair as he said it. “Guess I deserved that. Sorry.”

And he really does sound sorry, but honestly? That’s not the only thing that has Eddie crawling desperately out of bed. It’s that he needs to see Steve’s face when he sees what Eddie has devolved into over the past few days. Greasy, unwashed, heavier, with traces of his go-to depression meal around his mouth, wearing only an ill-fitting shirt and ratty boxers. Because that’s when he’ll know, right? However Steve reacts when he opens that door, that’s how Eddie will know. 

So he gets up, itching from new stretch marks and stumbling a little with the long put-off need to stretch his legs. Shuffles over and grabs the doorknob so tight his knuckles go an even paler shade than the rest of him, and jerks it open. 

Too quick for Steve to react. And he had been sitting dejectedly against the door, because when it opens in and he ends up flat on his back with his head on Eddie’s one-socked-one-not feet. Staring up at the underside of Eddie’s gut, which, goddammit, means Eddie can’t see his face. 

“Shit,” Steve breathes. And then he’s scrambling up to where Eddie can see he’s flushed all the way down to his chest, courtesy of a butter-yellow Henley open at the collar by a few buttons. 

That’s when Eddie notices the bouquet of flowers clutched in Steve’s hand, maybe a little worse for wear from falling but the bottoms of the stems wrapped carefully in wet paper towel, plastic sandwich bag, and a rubber band. It’s a home job, not from some shop. They’re wildflowers. 

“What,” Eddie croaks. His voice gives out on the rest, which should have been, the hell do you want, Harrington? But Steve… Steve brought him fucking flowers that he’d bothered to pick himself. 

Steve isn’t wrinkling his nose in disgust at Eddie’s unkempt appearance, and he’s not looking away. Instead, he wets his lips nervously and can’t seem to look anywhere else. “Eds, I…” He runs his free hand through his hair, then shakes his head. “Damn, I had it all worked out with Robin and now I can’t remember any of it.”

“You told Robin,” Eddie says slowly. Not even a question, because it makes perfect sense that Steve would tell his best friend everything—and yet it doesn’t, because straight boys never tell anyone. Straight boys usually threaten him with violence to keep him from telling anyone. “About… us.”

“Yeah,” Steve admits. “I needed a sounding board… Sorry, if that’s, uh. If you didn’t want me too. She won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

And why does it sound like Steve is the one reassuring him about that? Steve is a catch. Steve is handsome, could probably have any girl in town if he really put the effort in. Eddie would shout from the rooftops that he bagged Steve Harrington if it wouldn’t probably get him killed—again.  

When Eddie doesn’t respond, just stares at him blankly, Steve thrusts out the bouquet. “Anyway. These are for you. Peace offering? I just want to talk.”

Eddie is so confused. He feels grimy and gross and slow, and he doesn’t know if he still wants to be angry or if there’s still some other feeling buried under the rubble of his composure. So he blinks, opens his mouth, blinks again, says, “Can you put them in a mug or something? I need to take a shower first.”

He doesn’t know how to feel right now, so buying himself some time will have to do.

Parts 4 & 5, part 6, part 7, part 8

Permanent tag list: @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @tangerinesteve

Tag list (comment to be added or move to the perma list): @westifer-dead @eyehartart @sofadofax

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places. 

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not. 

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars. 

Anyway, Rule #3. 

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, “Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?” 

“I’ll take some water.” 

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?” 

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.” 

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?” 

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it. 

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets. 

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you. 

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips. 

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile. 

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.” 

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?” 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.” 

“And how long you been doin’ this?” 

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?” 

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth. 

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.” 

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?” 

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.” 

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?” 

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative. 

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself. 

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush. 

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back. 

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar. 

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.” 

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.” 

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?” 

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take. 

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?” 

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.” 

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?” 

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area. 

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway. 

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga. 

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker. 

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?” 

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?” 

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.” 

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy. 

“I’ll take it.” 

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust  DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties  Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown  Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8. 

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack. 

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well. 

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border. 

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?” 

The dog tilts his head in response. 

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat. 

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles. 

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?” 

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both. 

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment. 

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag. 

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?” 

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.” 

“Need anything else before ya go?” 

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.   

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?” 

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee. 

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges. 

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.” 

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?” 

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.” 

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.” 

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.” 

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out. 

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.” 

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile. 

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life. 

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.” 

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens. 

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?” 

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.” 

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests. 

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion. 

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?” 

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.” 

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault. 

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave. 

He waves back. 

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves. 

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?” 

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step. 

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.” 

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance. 

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. 

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement. 

Not just your boots. 

His, too. 

They get closer with every beat. 

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there. 

That moment is enough to blind you. 

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid. 

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist. 

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!” 

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders. 

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward. 

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl. 

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate. 

[ Next Chapter ]

[davycoquette]

the summer of our discontent

June, 1996

Ruck took the stairs slowly with his cigarette clenched between his teeth. At the bottom, he shifted his gig bag and backpack on his shoulder and stared into the wet morning fog. 

His life unfurled ahead of him; a flat, unbending, and featureless road.

There was no sidewalk, so he walked in the overgrown bluegrass. He headed west, toward the Styx River, because why the fuck not? It felt as if he had been borne into this world just then, disconnected from the brief and meaningless past before Decatur. He had nothing now but his baggage, which guided him like a migratory instinct toward one of the last places he had been besides home.

The fog simmered away in the heat and he sat on the curb at Crossroads eating a cold gas station breakfast pizza between sips of Grapico. The sun tanned the back of his neck and drops of sweat fell from his jaw onto the sandy asphalt.

At the intersection a man in a sweat-yellowed undershirt that clung to his ribs stopped him to ask for something. His voice was a copperhead hiss and Ruck eyed the calluses on his upturned palms.

“I cain’t understand you,” he said, and left the man mumbling where the four paths met.

In Hurricane he reached the edge of the earth and the air was heavy with salt and damp. He watched the Spanish moss on the cypress trees swing over the Tensaw River then on impulse thumbed his way into the back of a pickup that came shuddering down Bayou Road.

The driver was an old man with eyes as yellow as his few teeth, and his wife, aged indeterminably between forty and seventy, asked Ruck if he didn’t want out before they merged onto 65. He addressed her through the open back glass, and told her no, he’d better sit tight.

At sunset he tilted his head back to gaze up at the weathering steel arches of the Dolly Parton Bridge, then closed his eyes and breathed in the cloying wetland stench.

It was dark when they let him off at the edge of Creola, and he walked south to the La Quinta to book a room with his lawn-keeping money.

His clothes peeled audibly off his skin and he scrubbed them with a bar of handsoap in the bathroom sink after a long shower. He draped them over the rusted balcony railing and smoked a cigarette while he watched one treefrog fuck another one on the fake stucco wall. Voices carried down from the balcony above his, and Ruck left the sliding door open when he went in to drop his towel and fall into bed.

Close to nine in the morning he woke, removed a treefrog from the curtain, fetched his clothes from the balcony, and crushed Adderall on the little table next to the TV set. He got dressed and headed down to the lobby, where he fixed himself coffee and a waffle while his teeth chattered and the blood threatened to burst out of his veins.

Inspired, he walked down to the truck stop after breakfast with the previous day’s clothes souring in his backpack. He wandered the lot in the heatwaves and an old trucker leaned his head out his cab window and said, “You’re ‘bout the meanest lookin’ lizard I ever seen.”

Ruck hauled himself up on the passenger side step to goad the man into a fight, but the Yorkshire terrier in the seat jumped up and bit him the moment his fingers hooked over the edge of the window and the fire was doused from his blood. He dropped a few coins in the payphone outside and summoned a cab while sucking the joint of his finger.

Mobile was a short ride south of the truck stop, but the fare was twenty bucks he couldn’t afford to spend. Outside a musty music store at the fringe of the business district, he set up in the shadow of a live oak growing from the sidewalk and earned a couple bucks playing some Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. A kid from the University wanted Freebird and Ruck played and sang a while, but the young man rode off on his bike half the song in and the street cleared out.Ruck picked up a late lunch from a mom and pop oyster bar, and sat reading the free classifieds he picked up from a stand outside. There wasn’t much of anything — except that the Greater Gulf State Fair was hiring. On closer inspection, they wanted interns from the college — but he couldn’t see the harm in paying a visit, anyway. Surely the damn fair didn’t intend to run a background check, and anyway, his attention had been good and grabbed by the logo of the cowboy astride a bronc printed in the ad.

[ananke-xiii]

Maybe if you could feel

All the heartaches I conceal

What does Sam want?

This is a long meta about "Breakdown" s13e11. You've been warned.

Sam Winchester upon hearing that his heart is worth 500k. If you don't find room in your heart to love him now you probably never will.

As I’ve said before, I honestly don’t know how to answer this question. Or maybe I do. We'll see how this post ends. What I do know is that the writers are sure that the heart of the matter for Sam is to be or not to be a hunter.

SPN finale seems to tell us that Sam wants out but does he really? The show makes a big deal out of this hunter vs “normal” life but is this the right question? If I think about it, the hunters’ world is very diverse: Bobby had a house and a yard and he had a very specific way of doing his “business”; Ellen run a bar; Jody and Donna live “normal” lives and have an actual job; those hunters from “Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox” formed a sort of community; Wally from “Stuck in the Middle (With You)" seemed to be a pretty well-adjusted guy; Garth studied to become a dentist and lived his life as a hunter on his own terms. Sure, most of these people have ended up dead or turned monsters so I’m not saying that the hunters’ life is an easy and cushy life. No, it’s high-risk and extremely dangerous (like a lot of “normal” jobs but let’s not go there).

What I am trying to say is that Sam and Dean are more of an exception than the rule. There are, factually, different ways to be hunters that Sam and Dean don’t even consider. Ah, yes. You will say now “yeah, duh, because nobody is as codependent (ugh) as them, that’s what the show is about etc”. Weeeeeeeeeell, the thing is that I don’t think so. I think that their “problem” is being unable to break free from the "John Winchester’s Way of Seeing the World". For John hunting was his new "home" and it was made of motel rooms and diners and bars and so it must be for Sam and Dean. Except, it must not. Even the bunker indirectly comes from him. Because they’re legacy. I mean, by the end of the show I don’t know if Sam considered the bunker his “home” or not but what I’m trying to say is that they took what they were given and never really questioned it. Or, maybe, what I'm really trying to say is that there are infinite ways to build a "home".

In s11 Sam must have been thinking about other ways because we know he was thinking about “settling down” with someone who knew the life. That was good, that was growth. That was imagination. But then Mary happened and then Jack happened and now, all of a sudden, it’s not the two of them anymore: whether they like it or not, they’re building a bigger family, they're creating a "home" together with new people in their lives (with great, oh god, greaaaat difficulty).

In “Breakdown” Wendy is family to Donna, therefore she is family to Sam and Dean too because, according to family’s transitivity, the family of my family is my family.

Growing up, gas stations and nomadic lifestyles.

What I like about Davy Perez’s writing style is that it’s very cinematographic. His ability in visual storytelling surely helps the episodes' directors because they are always shot very beautifully. Now I haven’t watched the movie so I don’t know if the vibes match but “Breakdown” is the title of a movie with Kurt Russel (somebody’s crush is showing hehe) and it’s, like, a thriller with truck drivers or something so he definitely took some inspiration from that movie, I guess. Of course, the title also refers to Sam’s depression. So let’s see what this is about.

Wendy is on a gap year trip (and she hasn’t been ho-) and her abandoned car has been found at the side of a road mainly used by long-haul truckers. She took some time-off before college to go on an adventure (s9 teaches us that usually women on adventures end bad in SPN but let’s move on). We don’t know her motivations but her name is Wendy so I must assume that Perez is telling us that she doesn’t want to grow up or maybe she’s not ready to go to college and wants some time, who knows? What’s important here is that the “Kids Who Don’t Want to Grow Up” theme is established. Since Sam will literally take Wendy’s seat in the torture chamber I must ask: is Sam a Wendy or a Peter Pan? In other words: will he leave Neverland/Hunting and go live a “normal” life or will he stay in “Neverland” and only occasionally visit the “normal” world? Will his children go to Neverland one day? We know Sam must be asking himself these questions because Dean has made them see “Lost Boys” 36 times. So, you know.

If the “Kids Who Don’t Want to Grow Up” theme was not clear Dean refers to Wendy as “Alice in Wonderland”. So this is NOT just about growing up, this is also about the loss of innocence. How does our Wendy lose her innocence? By entering “Mann(y)’ Truck Stop Café”. Oh gosh, this will be about SA. Oh my god, Sam, poor Sam (edit: and poor Wendy, the ep doesn't do her justice and neither did I by not mentioning her here).

What’s interesting about this episode is that we have seen these places countless times in the series: diners, café, bars, gas stations etc. They’re familiar to us. And yet, it suffices that a young girl enters one of these spaces during the evening that all of a sudden we realize how unsettling they can be. Wendy enters the café and it’s full of scary creeps: the cashier, the man sitting at the table, the truck-driver at the counter, the dude at the gas pump. To be honest I can’t possibly recall all of SPN episodes but it’s worth noticing that this shift in perception mainly happens when the protagonist of the episode is a woman. In “Ladies Drink Free” we are told that Claire can “deal” with creepy dudes and in “Alex Annie Alexis Ann” Alex is literally used as bait in bars. The first thing Sam asks Donna when they meet and she tells them about Wendy is “What was she doing out here?”.  What I gather from this question and from what the show is telling me is that “out here” is not a place for young girls and boys. In fact, Luis Fernando is met with the same fate as Wendy. Nosy cashier tells girls to “smile more”. Slimy Pastor Hankey is a fucking predator who flashes girls and kidnaps boys. The truckers on the radio make lewd comments at Dean’s request about Wendy. “Out here” is total shit, men are total shit.

And yet. And yet.

This is Sam and Dean’s world. This is where they grew up: between a motel and a bar. This is “John Winchester’s Way of Seeing the World”. Or was he really seeing? Was he paying attention? Evidently not, otherwise he wouldn’t have left his children leave in such danger. All of a sudden monsters don’t seem so bad. Or.

Or are we obsessing a little bit too much over normalcy and monstrosity? Are we losing our focus?

You see, and don’t quote me on that, but I think “Breakdown” is, again perhaps, the only episode where the show examines how they’re portraying a specific lifestyle, the “out here” lifestyle, the John Winchester’s lifestyle. Let me explain.

Post- November 2nd, John’s way of life is nomadic. He changes towns like he changes his clothes, he moves a lot, he’s always in a car, driving. As I’ve established, this doesn’t have to be a hunter’s life, but it’s John’s. He's found his meaning in it. And it’s Sam’s and Dean’s too. The opposite of a white-picket fence lifestyle is not a hunter’s life but it’s a nomadic one.

Now what is this episode telling us about various nomads? Well, to be honest, very bad things.

The serial killer, The Butterfly, is called this way because of his migration pattern: he seems to move from north to south and vice-versa. Like butterflies (by the way, you know Sam is depressed because a. he would’ve totally known Agent Clegg was full of crap, Sam Winchester knows his serial killers and b. Clegg’s pattern description wasn’t solid. I can’t really tell why but years of listening to true crime podcasts tell me so. The Sam I know and love would’ve called bull on the spot).

Wendy was on her gap year, travelling the country and look where she is now.

People who travel alone are targets.

People who won’t be missed are targets.

All the truckers in this episode are creepy.

The itinerant pastor is a sexual predator.

People who move as a lifestyle or because of their job are not portrayed very well in this episode, are they? They live liminal spaces and liminal spaces are always perceived as monstrous.

But then, a light: Liz. Liz is the truck driver that didn’t stop when Wendy waved for help from the side of the road. She didn’t do it because she was behind schedule. Boom.

All of a sudden we are reminded that these are real people with real jobs, they’re not the actual monsters we’re so quick to compare them with. But also, yeah, some of them act preeeeeeeetty bad.

Guess who is the actual monster? Your regular neighbor. The cashier at the café. And guess who ALSO acts bad: The FBI agent. Sometimes even good people can act badly if they’re desperate or if they have the power to do so. Or if it’s both. Donna, for instance, is a police officer who threatens the slimy pastor by telling him that he will get SAed in the cell. Or people don't help other people because they're on a schedule and if they don't make it on time they might get fired. In other words, the world cannot be contained and divided into perfect categories.

“Out here” there’s violence wherever you are on the spectrum between monsters who must be killed and people who must be saved (the show’s favorite false dichotomy).

So I ask: why, again, is the “white-picket fence” lifestyle treated as a standard for normalcy in this show? Why do nomadic lifestyles feel so threatening? What are they threatening exactly? “John Winchester’s Way of Seeing the World” wasn’t bad per se because he made Sam and Dean move a lot. It was bad because he neglected them, he kept them isolated. Because he treated them as adults and they were not.

The hunter's lifestyle is not about the monsters either. You can hunt monsters and have a house and a mortgage and do your job like Donna. But this doesn’t mean necessarily that you’re in the life. As a matter of fact, everybody is in the life. The only ones who are not in the life are the ones who don't know about the life. When they know about the life, they can pretend they’re not in the life but they are. Doug, for example, decides to pretend he hasn’t seen the truth. I don’t judge him for that, he saw a young man getting his arms severed on a webcam and he was turned into a vampire (another parallel to “Ladies Drink Free”). I can understand why he wants to pretend and go back to his old life. Truth is he never will. He will forever know that monsters are real and that knowing it doesn’t change anything: your neighbor can be a vampire and your colleague can be a serial killer.

The line between what’s the meaning of being human vs being a monster has never been thinner than in this episode. The atmosphere is rather bleak. The episode is not a positive one and it ends on a very negative note.

Wicked hearts, everybody needs food, the dark place.

'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'

Perez couldn’t find a better Psalm than this for Sam. It contains Sam in a nutshell. This is a psalm about sin and about prayers which are rather fitting themes for Sam. The Lord won’t hear your prayers if you don’t repent and move away from your sins. One has to be righteous, pure of heart and clean in order to be listened by the Lord. Sam struggles a lot against the concepts of purity and cleanliness. He is, after all, “unclean in the biblical sense”. One of the ways it can be interpreted is that Sam, by drinking demon blood, has violated the biblical law against blood consumption which has made him an abomination and has set him apart from humankind because blood is associated with life and therefore with God. Drinking blood is a sin that has contaminated him and he is, now, contaminated food in return. The "you are what you eat" hypothesis.

But blood represents family, too. A family that, no matter what, Sam seems to be unable to keep. And it’s not just family: everyone they know ends up bad (“I mean, when has knowing us ever worked out for anyone?”). Sam prays but nobody listens because (he thinks) his heart is wicked, dirty, impure. He feels unconnected, detached, separated. In a word, lonely.

While Donna is depressed because of her niece’s disappearance, Sam is facing the fact that Jack’s gone and, with him, his last hope to find his mother. He doesn’t want to help with Donna’s case because he doesn’t want to see. He wants to keep pretending but the wall is already crumbling: he’s not hungry, he doesn’t sleep, he stays in bed, he doesn’t want to “work”. He’s paralleled with Donna because of the huge loss and emptiness inside of his heart but he’s way more similar to Doug. Maybe Donna can live "the life" because she’s a hero but him? He just wants to go home. Neverland is not for him (“I… No. Maybe you all can live this life, but I can’t. I just wanna go home”). The things are two: 1. Doug, darling, there is no life you can get back to. You can pretend but that doesn't make it not-real anymore. 2. There is no “home” for Sam. And I’m not talking about a literal place to go back to, I’m talking about a feeling of “being home”. The dark place is, according to Sam, their lives. A life he has tried to pretend that it didn’t have to be this dark, he has tried to pretend that they could have a “home” but, no matter what, they can’t (although, Sam, heart, you really need to know that Dean actually can have a home and, in fact, has already been building one for years. The good news is that you totally can too, everybody can).

Sam’s heart is so devoid of warmth and nice feelings that’s not the place where the soul lives anymore, it’s just a piece of meat that can be sold on the dark web. How much is Sam Winchester’s heart worth? 500k US dollars. There’s a PRICE for his heart and its price is very high because “Folks, there are many pieces to Sam Winchester… but only one heart”.

I find this scene absolutely brilliant because it’s a very warped form of psychostasia, or the weighing of the soul. First of all, Sam’s not dead but he’s already being judged. Secondly, his heart, the seat of the “ka” (life) has not been weighed on a scale against a feather but it’s been put on auction to the best bidder: in this scenario it doesn’t matter if his heart is pure or wicked, what matters is who wants to pay more for it. In Sam’s world you’re either the food or the eater and Sam’s heart is the main course in this episode. This fits nicely with the myth of ancient Egypt where the soul would get eaten by a deity if the heart is heavier than a feather. I like how Egyptian myths keep popping up this season and how they’re super fitting. In this case, for example, the weighing of the heart is also closely associated with St. Michael who holds a sword and a scale. It’s cool, right? I mean, it’s totally not cool for my poor Sam, but it’s cool how symbols keep symbolling (lol) once you start poking them.

So Sam. Sam’s being sold as food. He’s food just like the people who won’t be missed are food, according to Clegg. Sam’s complicated relationship with food now takes a new, darker turn. When Sam, Dean, Doug and Donna watch poor Luis Fernando getting chopped by Clegg, Sam winces and stops the video. The cashier/vampire laughs at him and mockingly asks him if he’s vegan. I don't think he's vegan but he sure is red meat this episode.

Another thing that I like about this episode is Clegg’s little monologue:

Sam: Why are you doing this? Clegg: Well, ‘cause somebody has to. How many monsters do you think are out there, Sam? You know, if you – you had to guess. Sam: Hundreds. Thousands. Clegg: Add a zero. Actually, add two. See, those freaks that you and your brother chase, those are just the ones that can’t pass. Either because they’re too mean or they’re too stupid, or both. But most monsters… hell, they could be your next-door neighbor. They work a regular job, mow the lawns on a Saturday. And they need to eat, which is where I come in. Sam: So you sell them people. Clegg: I sell them people other people won’t miss. And because I do that, I save lives. If my customers didn’t have me… then all those hungry, hungry hippos would be out there huntin’ and killin’. And you couldn’t stop ‘em. No one could. You should be thanking me.

If we can set aside Clegg’s sadism and capitalistic acumen for a moment we would see that the man does have a point. Let me explain.

It’s worth noticing that Clegg’s pulse on the monsters' world is paradoxically more realistic than Sam’s: there are thousands upon thousands of monsters. As a matter of fact, Sam and Dean only catch the ones that “can’t pass” (another whole essay could be written on this sentence alone), but here, in the real world, a monster can be anybody. And all these monsters need to eat, just like people.

First of all, hold on because this is mind-blowing: what Clegg is telling us is that Dean and Sam’s reality is not the totality of reality, it’s just what THEY experience. In truth, things are waaaaay much different. Once again in the episode I notice a subtle criticism at the brothers myopic, limited view of the world. They’re wasting their hearts away and for what? For nothing. The battle against monsters is a losing battle. The "out of the life" dream is just a dream when you know that monsters buy human meat on the market and it's, like, a totally normal thing that all monsters living "normal" lives know about. Meanwhile Crazy Clegg "out here" is "saving people" because he feeds people to monsters! The paradox is so incredible it’s almost ridiculous. But he’s got a bit of an ego here because the ones whom we should really “thank” are… the people who won’t be missed (sorry for being me for a minute but these are the poor animals of the world that humans horribly torture and happily buy to eat).

Do you understand that this whole Clegg economy is based on the murder of people on the fringe, people who inhabit liminality? People who are lonely? People who have no ties? People without family? And instead of metaphorically feed these people with care and love, they become prey and food so that the world can continue on its pretense that everything is fucking normal. It’s not just Sam who was pretending, it’s not Doug who has just now started pretending. Everything is a big pretense. The truth? Life is a dark place.

Dean: Hey, look, I know you’re in some sort of a— Sam: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, don’t – don’t… You keep saying I’m in a dark place, but I’m not, Dean. Everything I’m saying is the truth. It’s our lives. And I tried to pretend it didn’t have to be. I tried to pretend we could have Mom back and Cas and – and help Jack. But we can’t. This ends one way for us, Dean. It ends bloody. It ends bad.

This is the moment where I should say some inspirational stuff but no, as far as Sam Winchester is concerned, that is the truth. He has started off the season with what we now understand was fake optimism, he failed, okay, but he did try in his own way to support Dean in his grief while he was dealing with his own shit. He saw his brother die and then had to carry the faith for him too (all the while having nobody with whom he could talk about what he was going through). But he carried the weight and things got better cause Cas got back and Dean resurrected with him and then they lost Jack and now Sam has lost his hope to ever see his mother again (his mother who’s in an alternate world with his abuser, the angel that broke.him.down).

What’s more, by the end of the season Sam will indeed end bloody and his personal abuser will stick with him only to make sure to resurrect him and to remind him that their wicked more profound bond will be forever. A banner year for Sam.

So what does Sam want? What everyone wants. Love, people. It’s always about love. And some rest, everybody needs rest to love and be loved.

PS: I cannot know for sure but I know it in my heart that “Under Pressure” was some sort of inspiration for this episode. Its lyrics are literally this episode. And this is how the song ends (I don’t want to end on a sad note):

Can't we give ourselves one more chance?

Why can't we give love that one more chance?

Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love

Give love, give love, give love, give love?

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word

And love dares you to care for

The people on the edge of the night

And love dares you to change our way of

Caring about ourselves

This is our last dance

This is our last dance

This is ourselves

Under pressure

Under pressure

Pressure.