#st. louis police department

[foulfirerebel]

Skunk (weapon) - Wikipedia

Sourcing these claims does wonders instead of using Social Media as a source of information.

Not meaning to sound condescending on that one. The Twitter thread is accurate on what Skunk is as a crowd control weapon.

[woc-f4t]

Did the police cover up a murder?

2010 marked a time of great tragedy for one family. It was the year that Dominick Wilson, a young bi-racial man, was found hanging in a park, the tool used for this tragedy was his own jacket. At first glance, it could easily appear to have been a suicide. However, when looking deeper into the case, there are many red flags that still need to be answered. Who was Dominick Wilson? Dominick was a…

[is-the-thing-actually-jewish]

is Jewish Voice for Peace actually Jewish? I've heard a couple different things about that but no sources

@gryphistheantlerqueen also asked:

Whooo boy. So this has been sitting in the inbox for a few months, I wrote up a draft, and then it just sat... until this past week, when some new JVP BS hit the fan and gave me the kick to finish it.

Sooooo...

Verdict: Not Actually Jewish

(updated verdict after finding out about the “self-managed conversion” and “teacup mikvah”) Jewish, technically, and that "technically" is doing a lot of heavy lifting, and is actively debatable without access to a detailed breakdown of JVP’s actual membership rolls. 

In general summation, JVP is a far-left radical antizionist group that is headed by a few visibly antizionist Jews and whose membership rolls are either a strong minority or outright majority of non-Jews, based on variable statistics that they've released. Although they claim that the “majority of their members and staff are Jewish”, this seems to be both statistically unlikely and actively suspicious due to their noted tendency to instruct even non-Jewish members to speak #AsAJew on social media, and their instructions to do “self-managed conversions”.  However, due to their title, they are very popular with people who want a Jewish Stamp Of Approval for demonizing Israelis and Zionist Jews as a result. In effect, they are Jewish in the same way that people like Candace Owens and Hershel Walker are Black—as self-tokenizing minorities who throw the rest of their ethnic group under the bus in exchange for power and political access.

And despite the claims that they are “inspired by Jewish values and traditions” (as put on their website) and “oppose anti-Jewish hatred,” JVP routinely engages in antisemitic rhetoric, up to and including blood libel and antisemitic conspiracy theories, and acts as a shield against non-Jews who also engage in antisemitic rhetoric so long as the non-Jews in question remember to shout "For Palestine!" first. This is not an exaggeration. 

The primary example of their in-house antisemitic rhetoric is their "Deadly Exchange" program, where they explicitly and conspiratorially blame Israel as being responsible for American police brutality and militarization. However, for all of their fearmongering and blame-casting on the subject—as if American cops needed outside help in brutalizing minorities or gaining military-grade handmedowns from the Pentagon, both of which are explicit claims of the "Deadly Exchange" program—they have a hard time actually identifying specific deaths associated with the international training seminars they're holding up as responsible.

One of the the closest they've come to a specific allegation is claiming that "former St. Louis County police chief Timothy Fitch trained with the Israeli military three years before Michael Brown’s killing and the Ferguson uprising." (Note: this was in a video that appears to have since been made private.) But Darren Wilson worked for the Ferguson PD, not the St. Louis PD, and Fitch retired months before the killing. So he was in a completely different police department, and this is the closest JVP comes to pointing to specific deaths or acts of brutality that they blame on Israel. Everything else is literal fearmongering--up to and including the classic conspiratorial tropes of "secretive Jewish governmental influence".

JVP has also happily supported the words of white supremacists like Richard Spencer, taking his “You could say that I’m a white Zionist in the sense that I care about my people," statement at face value, using it as the basis for entire articles where they compared Zionism to White Supremacy as a deliberate misrepresentation of the ideology that is common on the extreme political Left (you can compare that treatment again with how Candace Owens treats the word "Woke" on the Right). Even when the Charlottesville "Unite the Right" march happened, JVP wasted no time in comparing Zionism with the very ideology fueling the people chanting "Jews Will Not Replace Us," saying that Zionism is "Jewish racial supremacy" and calling for a universal condemnation of the ideology as a form of White Supremacy... which was the exact sort of message that many of those same White Supremacists would have happily agreed with.  So JVP is essentially siding with literal White Supremacists,  even as they claim that "Jews are not the primary victims of White Supremacy."

JVP also engages in Holocaust revisionism, such as with this lovely quote from Cecilie Surasky, the deputy director of JVP, “I believe it is critical to situate the genocide of Jews in a broader context, and not as an exceptional, metaphysically unique event. Some 6 million Jews died, but another 5 million people were also targeted for annihilation.”

(another quote, from an article by Surasky, which compares Netanyahu to Hitler.)

This is just straight revisionism of the entire Holocaust and the unique fixation the Nazis had on the Jews. Literally, even when they were losing, they were diverting resources from the war just to kill more Jews. Quote Hitler himself, "Jews must be prevented from intruding themselves among all the other nations as elements of internal disruption, under the mask of honest world-citizens, and thus gaining power over these nations." The very basis of the Nazi ideology paints Jews as an existential threat to the human race's peace and security—a far cry from JVP's claim that the Jewish suffering in the Holocaust wasn't unique or exceptional.

Additionally, JVP ignores or re-envisions Mizrachi Jewish history. They call the very term Mizrachi “Zionist rhetoric,” and refer to Mizrachi “immigrants,” (“Deadly Exchange,” pg. 16-17), and claim “the Israeli government facilitated a mass immigration of Mizrahim” (“Our Approach to Zionism”) as though those weren’t the direct result of the mass expulsion of and violence against Jews in MENA countries. These weren’t immigrants, these were refugees. 

And as for the question of “Are they Jewish?”, well...

Statistically, they are not representative of the Jewish population as a whole, 90% of whom identify as some degree of Zionist in the sense of “Supporting Jewish self-determination.”  One does not need to be Jewish to join JVP, as they proudly state on their website. Their membership rolls are also extremely obfuscated, and the fact that they encourage their followers, whether Jewish or not, to post and speak “as Jews” on social media makes it even more difficult to figure out what percentage of their membership is actually Jewish.  Furthermore, they have instructions for their members to engage in “self-conversions” that are not acceptable to Jewish law or tradition, and misuse/appropriate other sacred Jewish traditions to the point that “blasphemy” is an accurate description, with their instructions on the mikvah (a sacred bath) being outright offensive.  

(note that one has to be completely nude and bare of any adornment or makeup to use the mikvah, which is a pure pool of collected rainwater to be immersed in, for context on the above... misuse.  Trying to claim this as being “in line with sacred Jewish tradition” is like trying to claim to be Catholic while also saying that the Pope is the Antichrist and that using beer and a doughnut for the Eucharist is acceptable. For more information on mikveh, see: The Jewish Virtual Library, Aish, myjewishlearning, or Chabad.

There's also no altar.

The irony of asking people not to appropriate while doing this is astonishing.)

It’s also telling that they straight up say they are “claiming” the practice as their own.

Furthermore, JVP has hosted panels on “antisemitism” in the past... headed by people who are not only not Jewish, but who have been credibly accused of antisemitism in the past.  

JVP has also endorsed The Mapping Project Boston, which was a Boycott, Divest, and Sanction (BDS) subsidiary, listing every “Zionist” organization in Boston, Mass. This included Jewish schools, elder homes, community centers, disability centers, and more; all of them painted with scary and misleading “links” to non-Jewish organizations to insinuate Jewish control of the state and city governments, invoking age-old antisemitic tropes of a conspiracy of Jews as they did so:

(first image is the Mapping Project, the second is a 1938 Nazi political cartoon)

The Mapping Project also, and this is my personal favorite, accused Harvard University of doing “racist science” for engaging in archeological and genetic studies of Jews and Jewish history.  Tellingly, BDS actually disavowed The Mapping Project (albeit for bad optics, not for the rank antisemitism they were promoting)... but JVP has not, even though the Mapping Project’s entry for the ADL reads as follows:

Masquerading as a “civil rights” group, the ADL is a counterinsurgency and espionage organization whose mission is to protect the mutual interests of the US and Israeli governments, and to eliminate solidarity among oppressed peoples, especially concerning Palestine. The ADL spies on and criminalizes activists (using its connections to governments, police, schools, and corporations) while undermining their work by pushing its own state-sanctioned, pro-“Israel” agenda. And while the ADL claims to represent Jews and to fight “antisemitism” on their behalf, the organization has supported anti-Jewish state violence and sanitized Nazis. The ADL cannot be reformed: it must be dismantled and whatever resources it has should go towards repairing the many harms it has done. (Emphasis added.)

Of course, JVP has also engaged in similar conspiracy-toned antisemitic dogwhistles, such as this fun bit from their first Deadly Exchange video:

So clearly (to me at least), they have no problems with The Mapping Project’s tone and presentation.  

And this isn’t even going into JVP’s routine promotion of blood libel, their egregious double standards, their approving of pogroms, their active support for Hamas terrorists and demonization of Hamas’ victims, their attempted revisionism of Jewish history, their abject rejection of Jewish culture, and their other actions that show not just bias, but outright hatred for 90% of the world’s Jews.  

As one commentator put it, JVP as an organization is very much like Autism Speaks is to Autistic people--a thinly disguised hate group that views the people they’re supposedly speaking for as the problem, and themselves as promoting the Solution.  To this moderator, they’re the equivalent of the Association of German National Jews, who were also known as the Jews for Hitler; they wanted to abandon Judaism and embrace Naziism... and they got sent to the gas chambers anyway.  

Mod Joseph

Sources:

www.adl.org/resources/backgrounder/jewish-voice-peace

www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/Mikveh-Guide-for-Jewish-Voice-for-Peace-Outlined.pdf

(and also just... a general experience/exposure to them on social media, where even the most progressive actions taken by Israel, such as the recent ruling regarding queer Palestinians being able to claim sanctuary in Israel, being labeled as “pinkwashing”)

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Crossroad Blues | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: canon gore, canon violence, imposter syndrome, discussing grief and parental death

Word Count: 4935

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You sighed heavily as you pulled up a photo of Dean’s mugshot from the St. Louis Police Department. “Well, you’ve got a warrant out in St. Louis, and now, you're officially in the feds’ database.”

Dean grinned at you across the diner table. “Dude, I'm like Dillinger or something.”

“Dean, it’s not funny,” you scolded. “We’re fucked if we’re not careful.”

“Well, what do they got on you two?” Dean looked between you and Sam.

Sam muttered, “I'm sure they just haven't posted it yet.”

“No accessory? Nothing?” Dean chuckled.

“Shut up,” Sam grumbled.

The older brother laughed. “You're jealous.”

“Why the fuck would he be jealous, Dean?” you hissed.

Dean seemed caught off-guard. “Whoa, sweetheart, relax—”

“No, this is serious, man,” you replied, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves. “Dee, I was completely off the grid before I met you. Now, we all got arrested— thankfully, Diana’s getting our mugshots and prints wiped from Baltimore— but I’m undocumented! My mom told me she gave birth to me in a motel room. This was after my parents had already been ‘missing’ for years. My brother and I have no birth certificates, I don’t have social security, I don’t have insurance, I don’t have a real driver’s license— they can book me for that reason alone. I’m fucked. You didn’t kill anyone. They actually have legitimate reason to book me.”

Dean’s plucky attitude dropped, and he turned around, slightly angry. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t exactly plan on getting arrested. And I’m sorry it screwed you over, okay? Chill out.”

You glared at him. “ ‘Chill out’?” You chuckled coldly. “ ‘Chill out,’ he says. I wouldn’t be as angry if you weren’t making stupid jokes.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop, okay? Jeez.”

Sam huffed. “Okay!” He slid papers between you and Dean who were scowling at each other. “Architect Sean Boyden plummeted to his death from the roof of his home, a condominium he designed.”

Dean looked away from you and down at the paper, but you kept your eyes trained on him. “Hmm. Build a high-rise and jump off the top of it. That's classy. When did he call animal control?” Dean questioned.

“Two days earlier,” answered Sam.

“Did he actually say Black Dog?”

“Yeah. A vicious, wild, black dog. The authorities couldn't find it, no one else saw it; in fact, the authorities are a little confused as to how a wild dog could get past the doorman, take the elevator up and start roaming the halls of the cushiest joint in town. After that, no more calls, he doesn't show up for work, two days later he takes a swan dive.”

“Do you think we're dealing with an actual Black Dog?” the older brother asked.

“Well, maybe,” Sam shrugged.

“What's the lore on it?”

The brunet slid another page over to Dean. “It's all pretty vague. I mean, there are spectral black dogs all over the world, but some say they're animal spirits, others say death omens. But anyways, whatever they are, they're big; nasty.”

“Yeah, I bet they could hump the crap outta your leg,; ook at that one, huh?” He held up a picture and smirked at his brother. 

Sam glared at him.

Dean’s smirk slipped. “What? They could.”

Sam got up from the table and began heading out of the door. You followed Sam quickly. Dean grabbed your arm and spun you back around.

“What, Dean?” you snapped.

He shrank under your glare. “Look, I— I’m sorry, okay?”

You dropped the tension in your shoulders. “Yeah, me, too. I just— I worry about you. And you guys completely turned my life upside-down when you walked into it. And everything’s changing so fast; it’s kinda scary.”

Dean nodded as he started walking. “I get it. If it makes you feel any better, you’re changing my life, too.”

You looked over at him and smiled softly. He couldn’t quite meet your eyes after that admission.

***

You and the brothers interviewed the deceased’s former business partner, and the man seemed a little bitter. Apparently, Sean Boyden was a terrible architect around ten years ago. Then, suddenly, he was in Architectural Digest. A piece of information he gave you, though, aside from his bitterness, was that Boyden used to bartend at Lloyd’s before his overnight success.

Then, you went to the animal protection agency to gather information on complaints or phone calls about a Black Dog. You were the one who went in to gather intel because you weren’t willing to take the chance of Dean being recognized from the St. Louis APB. You got back in the car and explained to the brothers what you’d found out. You held up the complaints list you’d gotten from the secretary. “Every complaint called in this week about anything big, black, and dog-like. There's nineteen calls; all from Dr. Sylvia Pearlman.”

You headed to the woman’s home to interrogate her, only to find that the woman had disappeared two days ago.

“Hi, we’re Animal Control,” you told the woman who opened the door. “We’re looking for Dr. Sylvia Pearlman?”

“The Doctor— well, she— I don't know exactly when she'll be back, she left two days ago,” she said.

“Okay, and you are…?” Sam asked.

“I'm Ms. Pearlman's maid,” she introduced. “I’m not sure where she went. She just packed and left; she didn't say where. That stray dog: did you find it finally?” 

“Oh, not yet. You know, you didn't ever happen to see the dog yourself, did you?” Sam questioned.

She shook her head. “Well, no. I never even heard it.”

There were pictures on the wall of a brunette woman appearing in all of the photographs who you deduced was Dr. Pearlman. A picture that caught your attention was the woman at a bar with two friends. You turned back to the maid. “Hey, you know I read she was chief surgeon at the hospital. She's gotta be what, forty-two, forty-three? That's pretty young for that job.”

“Youngest in the history of the place. She got the position... ten years ago?” the maid thought aloud.

“Huh, an overnight success. Ten years ago,” Sam nodded.

“Yeah, we know a guy like that.” Dean clicked his tongue.

“Oh, look at this,” you said. You flipped the photo from the wall over to show the writing on the back. “Lloyd’s bar.”

*** The bar was your next stop. It was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and you and the boys parked close to the gravel intersection.

Dean noticed something on the side of the road, and called to you and Sam, “Hey,” to get your attention.

“Yeah?” Sam questioned.

He nodded in the direction of yellow flowers growing around the edges of the crossroads. “That's weird. Think someone planted these?”

“Middle of all these weeds?” Sam questioned.

“These are, uh, what do you call 'em—” Dean snapped his fingers, trying to think.

“Yarrow flowers,” you noted.

“Yeah,” the older brother nodded. “Used for certain rituals, aren't they?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam commented. “Summoning rituals.”

You tsked. “So, two people become sudden successes about ten years ago. Right around the time they were hanging out here at Lloyd's. Where there just so happens to be a crossroads.”

“You think?” Sam turned to you.

“Let's find out,” Dean said and started toward the center of the road. He bent over and looked up at you. “This seem about the dead center to you?”

You looked around a few moments before looking back at him and nodding. 

Dean dug a few inches into the hard soil with his hands and hit something solid. 

“Yahtzee.” He found an old Altoid tin and opened it to reveal several occult objects and a picture of an older man you hadn’t seen thus far on this hunt. 

“Holy shit, that’s graveyard dirt and a black cat bone. That’s… crazy Hoodoo spellwork,” you breathed out. “Used to summon a demon.”

“Not just summon one. Crossroads are where pacts are made. These people are actually making deals with the damn thing. You know, 'cause that always ends good,” Dean deadpanned.

“They're seeing dogs, alright,” Sam added. “But not Black Dogs, they're seeing Hellhounds. Demonic pit bulls.”

“You guys ever come across this stuff before? I’ve only read about it,” you said, looking between the boys.

“No, never,” Dean replied. “Whoever this demon is, it's back, and it's collecting. And that doctor lady? Wherever she's running? She ain't running fast enough.”

“So, it's just like the Robert Johnson legend, right? I mean, selling your soul at the crossroads, kind of deal?” questioned Sam.

“Yeah, except that wasn't a legend. I mean, you know his music,” you nodded.

Sam shrugged.

Dean looked at his brother, stunned. “You don't know Robert Johnson's songs? Sam, there's- there's occult references all over his lyrics, I mean, 'Crossroad Blues'? 'Me and the Devil Blues'?”

“ 'Hellhound on My Trail'?” you added.

Sam frowned, and Dean rolled his eyes. “The story goes, he died choking on his own blood. He was hallucinating and muttering about big, evil dogs.”

“And now it's happening all over again,” Sam said. “We've gotta figure out if anyone else struck any bargains around here.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So we've gotta clean up these peoples' mess for 'em? I mean, they're not exactly squeaky clean. Nobody put a gun to their head and forced 'em to play ‘Let's Make A Deal’.”

“So, what, we should just leave them to die?” scoffed the younger brother.

“Somebody goes over Niagara in a barrel, you gonna jump in and try to save 'em?” the older one deadpanned.

“Dean,” you scolded gently.

“Fine,” he murmured. “Rituals like this, you've got to put your own photo into the mix, right? So this guy probably summoned this thing; let's go and see if anyone inside knows him. If he's still alive.”

***

The man’s name turned out to be George Darrow. He was the first person to summon the demon to Lloyd’s. Unfortunately for him, all he asked for was artistic talent; he had forgotten to ask for the recognition for it. His small studio apartment was littered with paintings; some half-finished and some completed. They were incredible. 

“Was it worth it?” you asked him.

“Hell no. I'm still broke and lonely. Just now I got this pile of paintings don't nobody want. But that wasn't the worst.”

Your heart broke a little for him. 

“Go on,” encouraged Sam.

“Demon didn't leave. I never counted on that,” he muttered. “After our deal was done, the damn thing stayed at Lloyd's for a week. Just chattin'. Makin' more deals. I tried to warn folks, but I mean, who's goin' to listen to an old drunk?”

“How many others are there?” questioned Sam.

“Uh, the architect, that doctor lady— I kept up with them, they've been in the papers. Least they got famous,” George scoffed. “One more. Uh, nice guy, too. Hudson. Evan, I think. I don't know what he asked for. Don't matter now. We done for.”

Sam shook his head. “No. No, there's gotta be a way.”

“You don't get it! I don't want a way!” George suddenly yelled. “I called that thing! I brought it on myself. I brought it on them. I'm going to hell, one way or another. All I want is to finish my last painting. Day or two, I'm done. I'm just trying to hold them off 'till then. Buy a little time." He sighed. "Okay, kids. Time you went, go help somebody that wants help.”

You and the brothers hesitated.

“Get out! I got work to do.”

“Mr. Darrow, could I—?” you started.

“What?! What do you want,” he spat.

“I just wanted to know if I could buy one of your paintings,” you said. “That little one over there.” You pointed to a small canvas, no bigger than a piece of printer paper. It was of a skull on a nun’s body with what looked like ectoplasm dripping from her eyes. The linework and blending of the oil paint was incredible. You were truly in love with it and had been eyeing it since you walked into the room.

“I don’t want your pity money, kid. But thanks,” he told you.

“I’m serious, I really do want it. I don’t wanna buy it off you out of pity,” you protested.

He considered, before nodding. “Just take it, kid.”

“Mr. Darrow—”

He couldn’t look at you as he spoke. “Take it. It’s payment enough that someone wants one of my paintings.”

Your heart broke for him even more, and you hugged the painting to your chest when he handed it to you. 

Sam paused before speaking again. “You don't really want to die.”

George turned back to you one last time. “I don't? I'm... I'm tired.”

You bit the inside of your lip to keep yourself from crying as you left the man painting in his room.

You stored the painting in your bag when you returned to the Impala, and you couldn’t bring yourself to talk as you drove to the Hudsons’ house to find the last crossroads victim.

***

You and the Winchesters rolled to a stop in front of a very nice house. You knocked on the door to reveal Evan Hudson moments later. “Yes?” he said, seeming shaken.

“You ever been to a bar called Lloyd's? Would have been about ten years ago.” Dean cut straight to the chase.

Evan startled and slammed the door in your faces. You heard the latch click in place.

“Come on, we're not demons!” Dean called.

“Any other bright ideas?” Sam deadpanned. 

Dean stepped back, set himself, then kicked the door in in one go. Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight, and you mentally scolded yourself. ‘You sick fuck, we’re on a case.’

You followed the brothers into the home and began searching through the rooms for Evan. You found a door closed at the end of the hallway, and Dean went to kick it in again. You stopped him by catching his leg. You turned the handle and pushed the door open gently. The room was completely silent as you entered. “Evan?” you called.

Evan jumped out from behind a bookcase, holding his hands up. “Please! Don't hurt me.”

Sam attempted to pacify him. “We're not going to hurt you, alright? We're here to help you.”

“We know all about the genius deal you made,” Dean gruffly said. 

Evan looked frantically between the three of you. “What? How?”

“Doesn't matter. All that matters is, we're trying to stop it,” Sam replied.

The man flicked his eyes between you and the brothers nervously. “How do I know you're not lying?”

Dean clicked his tongue. “Well, you don't, but you're kinda running low on options there, buddy-boy.”

Evan swallowed harshly and started pacing. “Can you stop it?”

“Don't know,” you said earnestly. “We'll try.”

“I don’t wanna die,” he muttered, beginning to well up with tears.

Dean’s tone was almost mocking. “Of course, you don't, not now.”

You gently grabbed Dean’s wrist. “Dean, stop.”

He continued, ignoring you. “What'd you ask for anyway, Evan? Huh? Never need Viagra? Bowl a perfect game? What?”

“My wife.”

The older brother laughed coldly. “Right. Gettin' the girl. Well, that's worth a trip to hell for.”

“Dean!” you and Sam chided, more firmly this time.

“No. He's right, I made the deal,” Evan sniffed. “Nobody twisted my arm, that… woman, or whatever she was, at the bar? She said I could have anything I wanted. I thought she was nuts at first, but— I don't know how to— I was desperate.”

“Desperate?” Sam questioned.

“Julie was dying,” he lamented.

Dean suddenly softened. “You did it to save her?”

Evan nodded. “She had cancer, they'd stopped treatment, they were moving her into hospice, they kept saying… a matter of days. So yeah, I made the deal. And I'd do it again. I'd have died for her on the spot.”

“Did you ever think about her in all this?” Dean questioned.

“I did this for her,” Evan protested.

Dean advanced on him, ripping his arm out of your hand. “You sure about that? I think you did it for yourself. So you wouldn't have to live without her. But guess what? She's going to have to live without you now. But what if she knew how much it cost? What if she knew it cost your soul? How do you think she'd feel?”

You put a hand on Dean’s chest and pushed him backward. “Knock it off,” you told him, giving him a sharp look.

Sam turned to Evan. “You just sit tight, alright? We're going to figure this out.”

You followed Dean out into the hallway. “What is your deal, man? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn't I be? Hey, I got an idea.” He pulled out the goofer dust you’d gotten from George Darrow. “You and Sam throw George's hoodoo at that Hellhound, keep it away from Evan as long as you can. I'm gonna go to the crossroads and summon the demon.”

“Wait, summon?! Are you nuts?!” you protested. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You can’t. I won’t let you, okay? I can’t handle this properly if I’m worried about you.”

You looked up at him with sad eyes.

He put his hands on either side of your shoulders. “(Y/N), I can trap it. I can exorcise it, and I can buy us time to figure out something more permanent.”

Sam walked up behind you. “Yeah, but how much time?”

“I don't know, a while. I mean, it's not easy for those suckers to claw their way back from hell and into the sunshine,” Dean chuckled.

“Dean, you can forget it, alright?” Sam argued. “I'm not letting you summon that demon.”

“Why not?” Dean grumbled.

“Because I don't like where your head is at right now, that's why not.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean scoffed.

“You know, you've been on edge ever since we found that crossroads, Dean, and I think I know why,” Sam noted.

Dean turned around. “We don't have time for this.” 

Sam was able to stop him with a single word. “Dad. You think maybe Dad made one of these deals, huh? Hell. I've been thinking it. I'm sure you've been thinking it, too.”

Dean didn’t turn back to face you and his brother, but quietly said, “It fits, doesn't it? I'm alive, Dad's dead. The yellow-eyed demon was involved. What if he did? What if he struck a deal? My life for his soul?”

Evan called back from inside the room behind you. “It’s outside!”

“Just keep him alive, okay?” Dean instructed. 

“Dean!” you called.

“Go!”

You steeled yourself and turned back to the office Evan was in. You took a bag of Goofer dust from Sam and began covering the window sills and doors. Sam made a circle around Evan while you worked.

“What is that stuff?” Evan asked.

“Goofer dust,” Sam replied.

“You serious?” he scoffed.

“Yeah. 'Fraid so. Look. Believe me, don't believe me, whatever you want. Just whatever you do, stay inside the circle, alright?”

You looked back to see Evan nodding. He began to hug himself, standing in the middle of the circle just as you and Sam finished coating the room.

Sam shook his bag out. “That’s the last of it.”

You paced around the room, Bowie knife in hand, as Sam tried to comfort Evan. All you could think about was Dean with the crossroads demon, and you prayed to a god you didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t make any stupid deals.

You knew how much his dad’s death was tearing him apart. You knew that even in that moment with him after he’d just woken up next to you in the apartment back in Philadelphia, his heart wasn’t fully there. You wished you could take away that pain for him. 

“(Y/N), are you trying to increase your step-count or something?” Sam asked you.

You barely registered his snarky question. “What?”

“You’re pacing. Like, a lot.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” you said.

“God, you and Dean were made for each other.” Sam shook his head, chuckling slightly.

You deadpanned at him. “Shut up.”

Evan whirled around at something you couldn’t hear or see.

“What?” Sam asked him.

“You hear that?” Evan asked. 

“Hear what?” you questioned. “Where is it?”

“Right outside the door,” Evan said quietly.

Suddenly, the doors began to rattle violently. Sam stepped inside the circle of goofer dust, but you stayed outside of it, gripping your bowie knife tightly.

“Just don't move, alright?” Sam told Evan. “Stay where you are.”

The rattling droned on for several minutes before it stopped suddenly.

“Do you still hear it?” Sam asked.

“No. Is it over?” Evan breathed out.

You whipped around to the sound of rumbling from a grate nailed to the wall. You stared it down until it burst off the wall, kicking dust from the vent into the room.

“It's here!” Evan exclaimed.

Deep claw marks gouged into the floor up to the circle, and they stopped just before the edge. The hellhounds had apparently completely ignored you, but you tempted fate by pissing them off. You dug your bowie knife into where you thought the back of one of the creatures was.

“(Y/N), what the fuck are you doing?!” Sam yelled. 

You cried out in pain as an invisible force slashed at your leg. Deep claw marks appeared on your thigh, ripping through your jeans. 

“(Y/N), no!” Sam screamed.

You slashed at your leg with your knife and hit something solid. 

“(Y/N), get inside the circle, you maniac!” Sam chided.

“Trying!” you replied, pulling the knife out of the solid thing you’d hit. Nothing seemed to work on the hellhounds, though, and your knife only stalled them momentarily. You crawled, scrambling over to the circle, careful not to disrupt it as the hounds got one last lash in at your leg. You sat back against Sam’s legs, holding your leg and breathing through your teeth.

“Jesus, (Y/N/N), are you okay?” Sam asked.

“Sammy, do I look okay?” you groaned, trying to keep still on the floor despite the pain in your right thigh and left calf.

He paused for a moment. “Fair point.”

The windows flew open, disrupting the Goofer dust that had been laid on the window sill and slowly beginning to blow the dust away from around you, Sam, and Evan.

“Circle's broken. Come on!” Sam pulled you and Evan.

“Sam, take him! Go!” You threw your knife at him and stayed in the slowly breaking circle, and Sam obliged. You stayed on the ground, praying that the hellhounds would leave you alone. Thankfully, they did, and you tried to recollect the dust and build the particles up around yourself. Sam had long since sprinted out of the room with Evan in tow, and the scratches on the floor led out of the room and down the hall. 

You sat like that for a while, crying and in pain. You knew you needed to stop the bleeding on your thigh as it was bleeding way more profusely than your calf. You took your button-down off and wrapped it around your leg tightly. You threw your head back, chest heaving, at the pressure around the wound. You pulled your sock up around your calf to try and collect the bleeding there.

You could hear rattling from down the hall, and wished you could do something more to help. Suddenly, the pounding stopped.

“Sam?!” you called.

“(Y/N)! You okay?”

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yeah!”

“Is it over?” 

You considered for a moment before calling back, “I don’t know! I fucking hope so!”

You could hear Sam laughing getting louder and the sound of a door creaking. You assumed he was hesitantly checking the hallway out to see if he could make it back to you. “I think we’re good,” he called.

“Thank god,” you breathed out. You tried to stand, only to fall back on the ground almost immediately. “Fuck.”

Sam entered the office. “Shit, you’re bleeding a lot… uh—” He pulled out his phone. “Dean, Dean, is it over?... Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. It’s (Y/N) I’m worried about… No, no, she’s okay— for now, at least.”

“Hey!” you called. “I’m fine, Sam, really.”

“Oh, yeah? Try standing up, then,” he deadpanned at you.

You went to move but reconsidered at the throbbing in your leg. 

“That’s what I thought.” He turned back to his phone. “She tried to take on a hellhound… Yeah, yeah, okay. Just… get here. As fast as you can. And bring her bag. I know she’s got the first aid stuff in there.”

Evan reentered the room as Sam hung up the phone. “Holy shit!” Evan cried worriedly. “Is she—? Does she need a doctor? Hold on, I’ll call 911—”

“Don’t you dare, Evan,” you protested firmly, glare pinning him to the spot. “I’ll be fine. I just need to stitch myself up, ‘s all.”

***

When Dean arrived about fifteen minutes later, he was furious. “(Y/N), what the hell were you thinking?” He stormed into the room with your duffel bag in his hand. 

“Dean, I’m fine. Gimme the damn bag—”

He slammed it roughly on the ground, sitting next to you. “Let me see.”

You hesitated but unwrapped your leg upon Dean giving you a harsh look. 

He cursed under his breath when he saw your leg. “Fuck, (Y/N)...”

“Just let me stitch it up, I’ll be fine—”

“No,” he gruffly stated. “I’ve got it.”

Sam looked between you and Dean before taking Evan out of the room to calm him down. 

Dean began threading the needle. You sucked in air through your teeth. “Tell me what happened. How’d you stop it?” You were asking him to distract you.

He looked up at you, still angry, but complied anyway. “I cornered the bitch and made her let him out of his deal.” 

You paused, waiting for more. “And?”

He said, “And nothing.” And began to work on your leg.

“Dean,” you pleaded, grabbing his wrist. “Talk to me, please. Talk me through this.”

He seemed to soften when he saw how much pain you were in. He took a deep breath as he tried his best to stitch you up gently. “She, um, she said my dad’s in hell. And… And he did make a deal. And she told me—” he paused, eyes welling with tears, “She told me she knows how torn up I am about it all. She told me she could bring him back, (Y/N/N).”

Your breath caught in your throat, no longer focused on the needle piercing your skin. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, don’t tell me—” Tears welled in your eyes. 

“No. But…” he paused, tying off one stitch before moving to start the other one. 

“But?” you pressed.

“I sure as hell thought about it.”

Your stomach dropped. “Don’t you fucking do that to me, Dean. Dee, look at me.” You grabbed his face and forced him to look at you. “You cannot fucking give up. I won’t let you.” 

He turned his attention back to your wounds, moving to the last claw mark on your thigh. 

“I know you’re hurting,” you sniffed. “I know his death is killing you. It kills me to see you like this. But I’m not— ah!” You cried out when one of his stitches accidentally went too deep into your thigh. He looked at you apologetically as you continued to talk. “I’m not gonna let you trade places with your dad. You’re here for a reason. Your dad loved you enough to keep you here. And what you told Evan earlier? Have you even considered how much it would kill me if you were gone?! And Sam? Both of us would be crushed. You matter, Dean. Sam needs you.”

“(Y/N)—” he tried to stop your admissions as he finished wrapping your leg.

“No, dude. You need to hear this. I need to tell you this. I need you here, Dean. You’re my best friend. How do you think I’d feel if you were gone?”

He faced you. “I can’t— I can’t keep living like this.”

“And you won’t,” you said. “I know it’s cheesy, but it gets better. You won’t always dread waking up every day. You won’t always blame yourself. That’s just today.”

He shook his head. “How do you know that?”

You sighed. “Listen, both of us blame ourselves as the reason our dads are dead. And no matter how much I tell you that’s wrong, you’ll never believe me. Same way I’ll never believe you. And it hurts. I won’t lie to you. It fucking hurts for a while. But then… it gets better. Time and… the people in your life… make it better.”

He stared at you with sad eyes, unsure of what to say.

“And I know you don’t believe me right now, but… please, please, just trust me,” you begged.

Dean continued to stare at you, not saying anything, before standing up from the floor next to you. “C’mon, we gotta get back on the road.”

You sighed, trying to stand from the floor.

“Oh, fuck, I forgot,” he chuckled awkwardly, making you giggle. He swept you up in his arms and looked down at you with a gaze you couldn’t quite read. Dean then stared out ahead as he effortlessly carried you the rest of the way to the car. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[tkachuktkaching]

Tkachuk has ‘really special’ day bringing Stanley Cup home to St. Louis

Panthers forward visits first responders, children’s hospital with famed trophy

ST. LOUIS -- Matthew Tkachuk remembers visiting family in Boston, the first stop usually being the North End fire department where his grandfather, John Tkachuk, was the chief.

“We’d ride the pole, try the hat on, sometimes we’d go for a ride even though I don’t know if that’s allowed,” the Florida Panthers forward said with a laugh on Thursday. “It was super cool and anytime I see firemen, on duty or off, I always make sure to go say ‘Hi’.”

And when Tkachuk had his day with the Stanley Cup on Thursday, the Brentwood Fire Department, located about 15 minutes west of his hometown of St. Louis in Brentwood, Missouri, was one of the stops he definitely had to make.

It was an enjoyable day for Tkachuk, who had 61 points (24 goals, 37 assists) in 71 regular-season games and 22 points (six goals, 16 assists) in 24 Stanley Cup Playoff games to help the Panthers win their first Cup championship last month.

His time with the Cup actually began Wednesday, when he took it to lunch at Grassi’s Ristorante in Frontenac, Missouri, about 15 minutes west of St. Louis.

On Thursday he brought the Cup to his elementary school, Villa Duchesne in St. Louis, the St. Louis Children’s Hospital and the Brentwood police and fire departments.

“It’s been amazing," he said. "I’m trying to have that little mix of fitting everything I want possible in, but also want to enjoy it with those who are close to me. It’s been awesome so far and I’m sure the day’s going to continue to be awesome.”

There was no riding on the pole at the fire department this time, but Tkachuk did try on a fireman’s hat, saying that “it was a little snug. I’ve got a big head, but it was good.” He also took photos with the firemen and their families, displaying the Cup in the department and outside in front of one of the fire trucks.

Brentwood assistant fire chief Ed Beirne said when he told his staff that Tkachuk would be coming by with the Cup, “I didn’t think their eyes and mouths could open any wider.

“It’s an honor for us to actually be considered,” said Beirne, whose grandson, Faris, was placed in the Cup for one of the photos.

“Although we know the Tkachuk family is part of Brentwood, growing up around here, this is a massive effort to win the Cup. For them to remember and humble us by sharing his day with the Cup, I know he gets it for a short amount of time, but to share that time with us and then bring a lot of joy to the staff and family we were able to assemble, that is what’s really special about public safety and the NHL in general. It’s a family sport. All of us have played it, it’s a family, and this is a testament to that.”

When Tkachuk brought the Cup to the police department, he was joined by his immediate family, including brother Brady, captain of the Ottawa Senators, and father Keith, the former NHL forward who had 1,065 points (538 goals, 527 assists) in 1,201 games with the Winnipeg Jets, Phoenix Coyotes, Atlanta Thrashers and St. Louis Blues.

Brady was catching up with Matthew after some early-morning training.

“I can’t just be riding his coattails. Have to prepare for next season,” Brady said with a laugh.

“This is our childhood dream, just to see it up close and personal, to see how happy and genuinely excited and fulfilled and satisfied Matthew is, it’s amazing to see. It’s been awesome to see, and it’s definitely created that burning desire for me to provide that for my family and friends, too.”

Matthew took photos with individual officers and staff members, who were hesitant as they approached the Cup.

“Anybody that knows anything about hockey knows the Cup is sacred, so we’re scared to touch it,” Brentwood police chief Joseph Spiess Jr. said.

“The Tkachuk family has a strong presence in Brentwood. Not only do we get to protect them, but we get to share in their celebration, so it’s cool for us. Most of the people in this building are huge fans, sports generally, but hockey in particular.”

When the Vegas Golden Knights won the Cup in 2023, it marked the first time that names were engraved on the Cup prior to players and staff getting their respective days with it. It was something Matthew appreciated.

“It’s really special for my family. Years and years and years of hockey in our blood and for grandparents and extended family that come to my house and see that Tkachuk name on the Cup there, it’s truly such a special thing,” Matthew said.

The family had its own time with the Cup by midday Thursday. After bringing home some barbecue, Brady and Keith, along with Matthew’s sister, Taryn, mom Chantal and his fiancée, Ellie Connell, took turns taking a sip of beer out of it.

Tkachuk had already spent some quality time with the Cup. He and a few Panthers teammates brought it to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on June 25, the day after they defeated the Edmonton Oilers 2-1 in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final. That day, they brought it to the Elbo Room, a bar near the beach, and Tkachuk carried the Cup into the Atlantic Ocean.

But there’s something special about bringing it back to your hometown.

“It hasn’t sunk in,” Keith said. “It’s been so much fun watching Matthew with the Cup with other people. That means more than winning, so it’s so cool. We’re pretty proud. He’s been around, grew up here, wants to be a part of it and he took it everywhere. Everybody’s loving it. We’re loving it.”

via nhl.com

Photos © Tracey Myers

[vague-humanoid]

he St. Louis County Police Department that killed Michael Brown and initially placed Ferguson on siege has trained with the Israeli military. Former County Police Chief Timothy Fitch was one of 15 American officials to participate in a weeklong training in Israel three years ago.

The April 2011 National Counter-Terrorism Seminar (NCTS) was sponsored by the Anti-Defamation League (ADL). It brought together leaders from the largest American police departments, the FBI and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) with members of the Israeli National Police, Israel Defense Forces and other intelligence organizations.

“NCTS enables Israel’s counterterrorism experts to share their knowledge and lessons learned, to help American law enforcement better protect America, and prevent us from having to learn the same lessons the hard way,” an ADL press release said.

A spokesperson for the police department was unable to provide information about the trip’s influence on subsequent operations in the county. The ADL was unavailable for immediate comment.

Over 9,000 American officials have trained with Israeli police and military units on responding to civilian protests and terrorism. These operations reflect failure to distinguish between the apparent duty of police to protect civilians and military responses to war. This fusion has had life-costing implications for Americans, specifically black, Muslim and Arab people.

In 2006, 92-year-old Kathryn Johnson was shot and killed by Atlanta police, who had participated in an exchange program with Israeli soldiers on counterterrorism and drug enforcement. The Oakland police who used tear gas and rubber bullets against Occupy Oakland protesters in 2010 were fresh off a joint training exercise with Israeli and Bahraini police forces.  An NYPD official reported that the department’s now-disbanded “Demographics Unit,” which spied on Muslim and Arab citizens, was modeled on Israel’s practices in the West Bank.

LAPD executives took a trip to Israel in 2013 to learn about drones and other surveillance mechanisms.

“We are much more alike than dis-alike,” said the LAPD’s head IT person during the trip. “As civilized nations, we are all confronted with, in many cases, the same enemy: The ever-growing threat of terrorism and other major criminal elements.”

August 19, 2014

[hanahaki-disease]

Waiting on some Holy Favor

Hell or High Water - Percy Jackson/SC cross over

Summary:

“Percy…Blew up…The St Louis arch?!

He’s not dead?!

Tim’s eyes were wide as they replayed the footage and enlarged the grainy picture showed off his best friend. What was Percy doing in Missouri? Who is that girl? What happened when he went to New York? Worry began to fill Tim’s stomach. He wondered if Percy was put up to this, threatened to do something for someone, because there was no way he was doing this of his own volition.”

Thank you to @keitria for beta reading!!!

*****************************

Tim locked the door behind him, wincing as his sore shoulder bumped the hard wood closed. Training was rough and he felt dead on his feet. But he chose this. He wanted—no, needed to become Robin. Dick didn’t want to take the mantle back, Jason was dead, and his best friend was missing. No one was here to reign in the Batman and Gotham was paying the price.

He hissed as he collapsed on the couch, an old towel separating him from the white material so that he didn’t stain it with his sweat or blood, groaning with relief when he could finally relax. His muscles burned. Legs weak, arms heavy, and head throbbing. Grapple training g was the worst but Robin needed to fly and so Tim will endure. Jason and Dick had, and he was sure Percy had too even if he wasn’t apart of the family business. If they survived, so could Tim.

With a groan he lifted his aching arms and grabbed the TV remote. He’ll turn it on to fill the silence, to make the empty halls not so empty anymore. Most of the time he didn’t really care what was playing. Sometime he flicked the channel button a certain number of times and leave it playing where it ends up, other times he’ll play friends or Sponge Bob, just something.

He flicked to the news. Alana Nazeer was Gotham’s beloved news reporter on channel eight, and Tim could see why. She was pretty, middle aged, and never shared her political opinions on city wide television. The best way to get on the masses’ good graces. She was reporting something serious, the laugh lines at the corner of her mouth pulled taught as she looked into the camera, hands clasped in front of her.

“Earlier today, down in St Louis, Missouri, a bomb detonated at the top of the St Louis arch,” She said reading the cue-cards. Tim was intrigued, he hadn’t heard about this yet. “There have been no causalities reported so far, however, eye witness accounts say that, just before the bomb went off and group of three young children rode to the top, and only two came down. No video evidence has been recovered yet but many suspect that these are the same children who caused a local greyhound buss to erupt at a gas station just outside Blüdhaven.

“St Louis Police department have recognized only of the three children involved with the Blüdhaven incident as young Annabeth Chase from Richmond, Virginia, the other two children are still unknown.” On the screen blurry surveillance camera footage showed Percy, the girl, and another kid their age jumping out the back of a bus before the screen cut off in the explosion. A few train station cameras also caught them before they disappeared in the southern city. “What their motives are is still unknown, but law enforcement is encouraging those with connections to either child to come forward and that we may apprehend them before any other tragedy occurs. This is Alana Nazeer with Gotham Today.”

Percy…Blew up…The St Louis arch?!

He’s not dead?!

Tim’s eyes were wide as they replayed the footage and enlarged the grainy picture showed off his best friend. What was Percy doing in Missouri? Who is that girl? What happened when he went to New York? Worry began to fill Tim’s stomach. He wondered if Percy was put up to this, threatened to do something for someone, because there was no way he was doing this of his own volition.

He should tell Bruce that Percy was alive. He needed to know, maybe—maybe that will help him get out if this funk he’s in. And perhaps Bruce will let him go down to Missouri to help Percy with whatever was going on with him, bring him back home to Gotham. Or even just supply him with the more discrete Batman tools and gadgets, give him another panic button just in case.

But as soon as those thoughts crossed his mind, he shoved them back where they came from. If he knew his best friend, and he does because they’ve known each other for years, Percy would not want Bruce’s help. Not after he was treated and ignored after Jason’s death. Percy would rant to him how Bruce would treat him as a burden, an unwanted mouth to feed because he wasn’t Jason. He wasn’t useful like Jason was, wasn’t as smart or as strong, and their near identical appearance was too much for the older man. Bruce couldn’t separate Percy from Jason and instead pushed him away.

And maybe that’s why Bruce didn’t notice till well after Percy went missing that he never came home. He didn’t fully recognize Percy as his son the way he had with Jason or Dick, even if Dick was his first. It took Alfred and Tim’s insistence for him to send Clark and J’onn to New York to find him, and by then it was too late. Percy had disappeared and it was days since the trip, and Tim had helped a few missing persons cases by then that anything after twenty-four hours was unlikely.

A part of Tim hated Bruce for being so ignorant and disrespectful towards Percy, for agreeing to take him in and care for him only to show favoritism towards his older brother. And he knew that a part of that ignorance was because of the grief over Jason, but it still wasn’t right. His there-but-not-there presence reminded Tim of his own parents and he doesn’t wish that upon anyone, much less his best friend.

But maybe now that Tim was Robin, or on his way to become Robin, he could help Percy somehow? But…How? Tim was stuck in Gotham and he was due to leave any day to Paris to complete his training—Dick! That’s right! Tim had almost forgotten about the oldest Wayne child. They hadn’t spoken since Tim asked if he could be Robin again for Bruce, but Dick told him to keep his number in case of emergencies. And this was an emergency if any.

“Hello?” Dick’s voice answered from the other side.

“Mr Grayson? Are you busy?” Tim asked.

“I can talk, Tim,” He said. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“You remember the gas station explosion a few days ago in Blüdhaven? The one with the bus and the missing kids?”

“Yeah, I went over there to investigate with the police department, but there wasn’t much evidence of how it happened,” He answered. “I know some of the passengers had said it was because of some kids, but we weren’t able to find them. Why’d you ask? Did you find something?”

“Ye-Yeah, um” He stuttered. He didn’t really think this conversation through, if he as honest. He thought it was just going to be easy. Ring up the young adult, tell him he saw his missing little brother on TV and that he was the reason for the domestic terrorist attacks across two different states, and then hang up and go about his night. It was a vague, unreliable plan because how exactly was he supposed to actually tell him that. He couldn’t just blurt it out right, Dick wouldn’t believe him. But this was important and he should know because it his little brother, Tim’s best friend! Who, apparently, is a wanted fugitive in two states. Wild. “I think Percy’s alive.”

Dick’s silence on the other side was concerning. “What?”

“I-I just saw the news,” He answered. “He was seen in St Louis and he-he’s a suspect in the arch explosion, but he disappeared after that.” Tim rewound the TV, letting the segment replay. “And there’s been surveillance recovered from the gas station, and Percy was spotted in the feed.

“I Just thought you should know,” Tim said. “I don’t know if B would have told you if he knew. I don’t know if he knows himself that Percy’s alive.”

“Did the news say why he was in St Louis?”

“No, just that he was spotted there and in Blüdhaven. They don’t know where he’s going from there of if he’s still there, not many witnesses saw him beside those that saw him at the top.”

“Okay. Okay.” Tim heard Dick sigh. “I’ll..I’ll look into it, try and see if I can find him or where he’s going next. Thank you , Tim. That means a lot.”

Dick hung up after that and Tim couldn’t help but feel a little giddy. First, his best friend as alive. (Already the best news in the world.) Second, he helped Nightwing with a missing person’s case indirectly. (His inner fanboy was screaming right now.) And thirdly, he was going to be Robin. Tim was going to be able to help the Batman and Nightwing and go on missions and help Gotham. The term ‘joy’ didn’t fully encapsulate what he was feeling.

He only wished Percy here to celebrate with him.

*****************************

I was originally going to post this on Sunday but I decided to be nice. I still might update on Sunday too, who knows 🤷‍♀️

Previous | Masterlist | Next

[truecrimecrystals]

May 15th, 2016 was supposed to be a fun day for 28-year-old Jerome Baker III and his six children. That day, Jerome planned to take his children to Six Flags in Eureka, Missouri. Before they could leave for their trip to the amusement park, Jerome seemingly vanished from his home in St. Louis. He was never seen alive by his loved ones again. 

According to reports, a woman that Jerome was dating planned to join him and his children on the trip to Six Flags. The couple spent the morning at Jerome's residence, preparing for their day at the park. Then, around 10:00 AM, the woman borrowed Jerome's car, bringing one of his kids with her, to go pick up her own children for the trip. 

After the woman left, Jerome called his best friend to ask if he could borrow his car to drive the rest of the children to Six Flags. His friend agreed, and subsequently drove over to Jerome's house so he could use the vehicle. When his friend arrived, approximately 11 minutes after their phone call ended, Jerome was nowhere to be found. 

Most of Jerome's personal items, including his wallet, jacket, and extra cash were left behind. The only item that vanished with him was his cell phone - but all calls and texts to the phone went unanswered. Jerome's mother was alerted about her son's sudden absence, and as such, she went to his house to investigate. Once there, Jerome's mother noticed that there were drag marks in the dirt in her son's backyard. 

Jerome was reported missing to the St. Louis Metropolitan Police. Unfortunately, the police's investigation did not yield any clues to Jerome's whereabouts. Months later, in October 2016, a utility worker found a human skull in a vacant dump site on Bircher Boulevard and Riverview Boulevard. The skull was later identified as that of Jerome Baker III. His remains were found an approximate 10-minutes' drive from his home. Jerome's death was classified as a homicide.

It's been reported that Jerome's mother has pleaded with police several times to take more action in her son's case. In fact, after Jerome vanished, his mother reportedly made "pleas to have her son’s phone pinged, with law enforcement initially giving her the runaround. When they finally acted, a chilling revelation emerged – a 911 call made on the day of Jerome’s disappearance captured him fighting for his life against multiple assailants."

Despite this information, there have been no arrests for Jerome's murder. No suspects or persons of interest have ever been publicly identified. The case remains unsolved, and Jerome's loved ones are left without answers. If you any information that could lead to the arrest of Jerome's killer(s), please contact St. Louis Police Department at (314) 444-5738.

[readingsquotes]

"Make no mistake: There is an ideological witch hunt happening on college campuses right now, the likes of which has not been seen since Senator Joseph McCarthy and the House Un- American Activities Committee tried to ruin people’s reputations in the middle of the last century. Students and professors are being targeted by university administrators, assaulted by police, and investigated for their politics by Congress.

And yet, it is only the second worst thing happening to college students and professors right now. ...

in their book Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of Mass Media, Noam Chomsky and Edward Herman described the kinds of things which have been happening to professors like me as the fourth filter of their “propaganda model,” where flak or enforcers beat people up in the town square (verbally, politically, or even physically). The point of these spectacular floggings? When academics or journalists are seen being punished publicly, others are meant to get the message that they should keep quiet—or else.

One of the most violent forms of university flak has been the withholding of degrees, when students have worked towards diplomas for many years and have them stolen for engaging in moral disobedience about genocide. As postcolonial scholar Priyamvada Gopal observed, when university trustees have done this, it is “immoral blackmail, as is overruling faculty on this matter.”

Jairo Fúnez-Flores, an Assistant Professor of Curriculum Studies and Teacher Education in the Department of Curriculum and Instruction at Texas Tech University, was suspended for 40 days for his outspoken Palestinian support before being reinstated. Sami Schalk, author of the book Black Disability Politics, was hospitalized after being brutally attacked by police at the University of Wisconsin-Madison while trying to protect her students. Cops even broke a hand and nine ribs of Southern University of Illinois Edwardsville professor Steve Tamari while he was peacefully protesting at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. And Mohamed Abdou, a visiting professor at Columbia University, was inhumanely alerted he was being fired when president Minouche Shafik threw him under the bus on live TV during a congressional hearing; he received no due process and is being forced to leave the United States.

And still, as horrible as this has been for all of us in America, what we are encountering is not the worst thing happening to professors right now.

Far from it. Our Palestinian colleagues have been experiencing far worse.

At least 95 university professors have been killed in Gaza since the genocide began, according to the United Nations.

The UN reports that “more than 80 percent of schools in Gaza” have been “damaged or destroyed,” while the ICJ bluntly says that “Israel has targeted everyone one of Gaza’s universities, “including the Islamic University of Gaza, the oldest higher education institution in the territory, which has trained generations of doctors and engineers, amongst others—destroying campuses for education of future generations of Palestinians in Gaza.”

The UN uses a single, powerful word to describe what is happening to educators and education institutions in Palestine: scholasticide, the willful destruction of a society’s ability to produce knowledge and educate its people. Preventing a population from being able to do research and to teach its citizens literacy, agriculture, medicine, science and culture is an aspect of genocide is to take away the very means of life.

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

CENTAUR IN CENTERVILLE

On May 18, 1963, in the tiny town of Centerville, Illinois, police were bombarded with over fifty phone calls from people who had seen a centaur. The mythical creature had first been seen in St. Louis, just across the Mississippi River. A group of school children said they had witnessed a "half man, half woman with a half bald head and a half head of hair" prowling around a housing project and vanishing into an old tunnel. A St. Louis Police Department patrolman declared that the children had definitely observed something and that the beast apparently tussled with a man near the school. The centaur was also seen by a shocked James McKinney, directly in front of his house. He said, "It looked like a half-man, half-horse." The creature appeared to be in the area for two weeks.

Greek poets tell of a race of beings having arms, chests, and heads of men, but bodies like those of horses. Living in Thessaly, this species was reputed to have groups that were kind and groups that were savage. In the mythology of the Iliad, the centaurs attended a wedding, but became drunk. They then attempted to make off with the bride and other women at the feast.

During the second century AD, Phlegon of Tralles wrote his infamous Book of Marvels. One of the book's many sensational stories tells of a hippocentaur, captured in Arabia and sent, as a gift, to Egypt. Unfortunately, it died and was then embalmed and offered to the emperor of Rome, who displayed it in his palace. The centaur had a fierce face, a tawny mane, hairy arms and fingers, and ribs joined to its front legs, which ended in hooves.

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009

[licially]

Mordelina: Serce nie kłamie.

// again another gift for @wpk12art, and her Mordecai x Halina ship. Honestly, I don't think I wouldn't be writing this much if I didn't meet her, so this serves as a thank you gift making me the (rather incompetent) writer that I am today <3

The wind’s howl subsided, the rainstorm yet again reminded the pair of the murder underneath a deafening crash. St. Louis streets’ many mysteries seemingly halted by the torrential downpour that washed through the city’s dirty secrets; the corruption between officials that ran amok amongst the decrepit apartments, crime scenes that plastered itself throughout the city’s underground, and speakeasies alike. For some, the rain offers the city something not even the police and justice department could fathom, and they took the silence as tranquil. For the others, they took more challenging approaches to the evening.

A flurry of bullets interrupted one such corner, nearer towards the Mississippi, as five gunmen dashed through the wet stone pavements which squeaked with every other step. Some of them carried a more famous weapon: a M1921 Thompson, two of which had drum mags whilst the other opted for a slimmer mag for a faster reload, and the other two with sawed off shotguns. To them, they had the firepower to easily overrun anything within the vicinity. However, as akin to cats, they are irritated and sought for bloodlust. They had a target intended, and one of them limped behind with a gunshot wound towards the back of their legs.

The alleyways twisted and turned as they continued on, shooting rampantly at any and all covers they deemed suitable enough for their targets to be hiding behind, before a frustrated grunt would follow up and complaints shouted in the heavy rain that masked their words. Unbeknownst to them, one of their crew seemingly vanished between the streets, but they never bore no mind to such. As they moved out of the back alleys and through the empty roads, the silence that filled the shadows of these buildings was interrupted by one quick slash of a hatchet, before the night’s activities stirred down again, none the wiser from those who feigned ignorance.

Before long, two separate footsteps trailed the group that had set out towards the streets, rather than catching up to them, they silently traced the steps the group had been through. The two cats’ calm demeanor almost made them blend into the pitter patter of the rain, and their secrecy is blessed, blissful for those spectating for a moment, as they soon watched the group traverse the streets from a distance. Distant conversations can only be heard through little pauses between the rain, as Mordecai Heller soon held his gun again, given his last kill had been with the help of that crimson hatchet, whose bloodied appearance appeared reflected on his expression and glasses.

His ears twitched slightly as a raindrop fell onto it, slightly ruining his concentration to the group at hand but nothing exactly occurred. From the shadows, he raised it up again, slowly zoning out of the rain dance and subsequently the conversation. The street itself, lit up briefly by the lights that surrounded it, soon blurred itself as his eyes concentrated through the iron sights of M1911, with the .45 ACP that could very well pierce through anything that was exposed, let alone for the FMJ rounds that he had prepared earlier. Although limited, he hadn’t used any of them so far, with the last kill given to the hatchet woman that leaned against the opposite wall, waiting for the shot that ruptured the silence, and the target, whomever it concerned. The clock, ticking away at his ear, started. 

First, second, third, fourth. Time stopped, the fifth and six riled up the seventh tick, the eighth ominously coincided with the squeezing of the trigger, before the ninth and tenth ticked by.

Then, the shot rang out. 

The bullet bounced itself through the light rain, and struck the target; one with the shotgun, through the cheekbone, almost instantly rendering him unconscious as he dropped the gun and collapsed, as the others turned around to face the killer responsible. He ducked out of the way towards the hatchetwoman, as shots riddled the wall where Mordecai once stood, this rain of bullets overcoming the rain itself. Only for a short while, as the shots slowly diminished with every passing second, seemingly having seen one of their colleagues being murdered in front of their eyes made them cower in an unforeseen fear.

Time continued, as the two gave pursuit back through another set of alleyways, and the rushed steps hushed themselves over a corner they had turned, before being cornered themselves. Before they did flee the opposite direction, they garnered a plan for the last ditch effort to flank the opposing two that straddled closer and closer towards their positions. Two of them hid themselves behind the darkness that accompanied the roundabout of a corner, whilst the last feigned an immediate surrender, and telltale of lies and trickery through a rough voice.

“Alright, alright! I lost.” He cried, trying to lure the duo through the corner turn.

However, instead of seeing the familiar figure that he had known about during his time in Marigold, a slimmer figure walked out, drenched in the rain. Obscured mostly by the shadows, the dragging of the hatchet proved difficult for the old timer to determine what she’d be like, the former associate to Maribel's booze and bootlegging business. As a result, he’d never really… seen, nor has he heard anything about Mordecai’s partner in crime. The figure finally spoke up, flicking her single streak of hair towards the side.

“You seem more lost than a blind rat, Mr Lerrain.” Her voice almost imitated Mordecai’s calmness, although it had a sting of anger into it. 

“I’m not familiar with you- you don’t appear to be the Mordecai Heller that I’ve always known about.” He cackled, at the annoyance of Halina. It was more apparent here, now that the rain had paused.

“This conversation has moved past him.” She spoke through the coarse laughter from the opposing party, which reminded her of the forced laughter that Mr Sweet had normally enforced on her and Mordecai. The man known as “Lerrain” finally calmed down, and shrugged.

“I’m never aware of anyone besides him, so having you here is a surprise. To think that a person like you would be taking his slot.” Before long, he whistled for the other two that watched from behind shadows to show themselves, guns tightly gripped and a more than determined face forced themselves on everyone’s face as they thought it’d be an easy kill. Her arms, and body, stayed unmoving as Lerrain moved closer and closer towards Halina, his eyes and expression noticeably similar to Asa’s as he continued with a pointless threat.

“This matter should have been dealt with by now, if he had been here.” He finally poked fun of Halina’s lack of killing intent, which soon turned out to be a mistake that he’d have the misfortune to relive through. 

Without hesitation, Halina lunged forward at the mockingbird, as the other two had no time to react to her sudden movement. Confused, they turned and shot at the two but the bullets ended up at Lerrain’s body and Halina having quickly turned back into the darkness that she was proficient under. Hesitation, and a bunch of confused looks, as Mordecai finally emerged from the corner, making quick work of the amateur gunmen by shooting at both of their shoulders, making them writhe in pain as they dropped their guns. The ‘Black Widow’ emerged once more, as Mordecai stood over the three of them, still expressionlessly as ever. The two had planned out this elaborate murder of an associate that was well known for embezzlement of Marigold, corruptly using that money to fund his own bootlegging business. Now, as he held his wounds that drove deep into his side, he coughed out the last words towards the duo of perpetrators.

“I won’t ever let you get away with this.” His voice masked by the light rain that started up again, as they stood in silence.

“Justice… justice will do way towards-” He coughed, as one nodded towards the other. Soon, a sharp clang chipped the stone pavement within the alleyways. From the dark, towards the light - a stark contrast - walked Halina Dabrowska. Her eyes, once muted by the dark skies, now bore a resemblance of her partner and long time triggerman. 

“JUSTICE WILL HAVE ITS WAY TOWARDS YOU, YOU…”

The words of anger, and pain, soon stopped by the same pain that got them here in the first place, as she kicked the blade into the air in a twirl. After the second word, she had a momentum that kicked her ax upwards and over their heads. Gravity acted upon the fourth, as the fifth and sixth words soon fell victim to a swoop of the crimson blade. A blood-curdling hack, and deep cut landed on his throat and tore deeper and deeper towards his torso. His last words, uttering mercy, were met with mercy.

The two stood still, finally having their jobs fulfilled. They remained silent, as Halina ripped the hatchet out of the body and wiped it on the clothes of the dead. 

“Łatwo przyszło, łatwo poszło.” 

She scoffed, turning back towards Mordecai, where he had been collecting the guns that were leftover from the littered corpses of this failed breakoff from Marigold. Curious, she held her hand out towards a nearby pistol that caught her attention. A Ceska Zbrojovka vz. 27, something never seen from any of the gangsters that held a gun that she encountered. A different model than expected of the M1911s that people carried around, and something that certainly was unique.

Still, she pocketed the poor thing before nudging the two gunmen that attempted to kill her before she had the chance to. One, with blood pooling around their legs, never reacted to the blade that poked their sides, whilst the other was still breathing, albeit quietly and only noticed by Mordecai as he walked over.

“It seems we have an alive one.” Mordecai said, finally breaking the ice.

“There can be no witnesses.” She said, picking up the nearby sawed off shotgun, before lodging it into the heavily injured cat’s forehead. His eyes widened, as Halina mercied the poor bastard with a shot that finalized the killings. Throwing the gun to the side, she held Mordecai’s hand. He had done the same, before taking him and her back through the streets from whence they came from.

For the streetlights lit a path for a pitter-patter, as the rain scattered through the empty streets that they  had the misfortune to walk under. One with an empty trigger, the other sported a tinted hatchet, both with a hush as the streets offered more a moment of peace from the night’s gaze. In reality, they’d both been after this particular group after a moment of back and forth from Mordecai and Asa, in which she could do nothing and stood back as Asa reprimanded him about him spending his time off, and that he had “no say in the matter regarding this company” before they were both dismissed.

Ever since that moment, they had to take part in something that felt more personally motivated than company related. Lerrain had been like one of Asa’s closest friends, and having this betrayal in something that was both unnoticeable and unheard of, as Mr Sweet never bore no mind to the profits and incentives at hand, just so long as he was the one at a net gain he was satisfied.

Annoyed, both by that and in part by their recent ventures out in the rain, Halina held close to Mordecai’s right arm, her entire body always leaning onto it for some warmth. Throughout the cold winds, and even through the rain, he’s been there thick and thin, time and time again. It’s only through him did she ever see a slight change in her expression.

As the night progressed, they took time to sit down near a closed up coffee shop with their umbrella that was outside, Mordecai took the time to wrangle out his jacket. As did Halina, who didn’t take much time to sit back down again, sitting on the ground as she sparked a conversation.

“It doesn’t seem usual for you to stop here.”

“It’s a necessity.” He remarked, still squeezing out some more of that rainwater. 

“Frankly, my dear, we could have made it back to the apartment.” 

Truthful, given they were both a ten minute walk away from it. It’s partially the reason why Asa chose the both of them for this job. In full honesty he couldn’t bear to pay up to some other people to take care of this, and it was the whole reason for their argument prior to this conversation. Mordecai had intentions to spend the rest of the night, tucked away within their residence and without the disturbance from the rain. 

Instead, all they got was a rejection, and a sour mood that washed over the both of them and reflected in the anger that they had, save for the misery from the other party. Their misguided eyes only watched on as the rain slowly picked up again, causing both of them to take residence under the umbrella, watching as the shade they sat under provided them much assurance and safety they needed. 

Mordecai hadn’t been the biggest fan of doing things at the dead of night, yet doing it with Halina sparked a certain degree of emotion. The downpour seemed endless, such as their time under the abandoned shop, as Halina started pondering about an old saying. Something her mother had taught her, and something she had on her mind through everything that occurred. 

Then, the winds began to blow, the weather having finally taken a turn for the worst, and proven even worse for the two - for a lack of a better term - wet cats that soon cuddled together for a chance for warmth. The midnight coldness overtook the two’s warmth from beneath the howling winds, with the overwhelming drumming of nature upon the cover and walls. Halina took this time to sit closer within the storefront, with a low and slow body temperature from overexposure to the rain. Her hair was sogged from the water, some strands were leaking water towards the pavement. 

Mordecai, however, was almost in the same conditions, and despite his best efforts to clean out the tiny glasses it wielded a more unsatisfying result. He sighed, fixing back his glasses towards his eyes a little more, as Halina slightly leaned over and onto his shoulders. She’d put down her axe towards the opposite side towards the open rain, and the rain had helped in cleaning some blood off of it, but nature does what it does best, and disrupted what was meant to be an uneventful night afterwards.

“...the rain came unannounced.” Mordecai remarked, annoyed at the state of the weather.

“The force of nature spares no one.”

She added, rebuttal from his point. Mordecai didn’t say much more, and looked back out into the streetside and its lampshade that appeared foggy, given his glasses. Mordecai sighed again, his ear flickered.

“Rather disappointed. But, it’s times like these I’d…”

His words faded out, maybe he just really wanted to stay here with her. Someone who’s worth more to him, and someone that could hold his trust accountable. As they sat there, a peace shared between the two, only held them closer with the pin-drop. The weather, the sky, and the night seemed to slow down, as the weather only got colder. It seems like they’ll be here for a long time, but eternity is more akin to what Halina had going, as she laid on Mordecai’s dominant arm.

As if the winds whispered something, as did she. Softly, slowly, carefully.

“I’d never want to leave you.”

[benandstevesposts]

‘Reckless Disregard’: Missouri Officer Facing Charges He Kidnapped, Assaulted Black Man He’d Detained and Left Bloodied on Side of Road Busted After Applying for New Cop Job In North Carolina

A former suburban St. Louis police officer has been arrested and charged with first-degree assault, armed criminal action, and the kidnapping of a Black man during this year’s celebration of the Fourth of July.

Samuel Davis was arrested on Monday, July 17, in Fayetteville, North Carolina, after authorities in St. Louis County, Missouri, issued a warrant for his arrest. He had left Missouri following his suspension from the Northwoods Police Department during an investigation into his conduct after arresting the man on Independence Day. The 26-year-old reportedly had tried to secure a police job while in North Carolina.

Authorities believe Davis assaulted a man he arrested at a Northwoods Walgreens during the holiday, brought him to a field in the primarily Black nearby town of Kinloch, and left him bloodied with a broken jaw.

A woman discovered Davis’ patrol vehicle parked in the field and sought to investigate what was happening. She found a man, the officer, and an unbelievable scandal.

While the victim remained beaten on the ground, she captured a photo of him lying bloodied. Later she uploaded the image on Facebook with a detailed description of seeing an officer standing over him.

St. Louis County Prosecuting Attorney Wesley Bell also released a statement, saying this behavior “will not be tolerated” on his watch.

Bell says -

“These actions put a black eye on all law enforcement officers who are doing their jobs the right way and tired of their profession being dragged through the mud because of the bad actions of a few.”

Davis is waiting to be extradited from Fayetteville to St. Louis. Once there, he will be held on a $750,000 bond.

Second Police Officer From Missouri Department Charged in Connection With Attack See More On This Report Here...

This report originally appeared on AtlantaBlackStar it can be viewed in its original publication by clicking here.

[feminist-space]

"A number of American cities have elected prosecutors who promised progressive law enforcement, focusing as much on police accountability as being tough on crime... But from San Francisco to Philadelphia, prosecutors like Gardner have faced pushback from the police and, in several cities, from their own courtroom assistants. Politicians and voters have tried to remove some of these prosecutors from office — and, in a number of cities, they have been successful."

"In a recent interview with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Murphey named three Black, female leaders — Gardner, Taylor and St. Louis Mayor Tishaura Jones — as the reason many officers had left the department. He called the women “catalysts that broke the system.”

Taylor, who is now the city’s deputy public safety director, said that during their time in the homicide unit, she had dealt with complaints about Murphey being insubordinate and combative with colleagues. “If fighting racism is me breaking the police department,” she said, “I hope more people do exactly what I did.”"

"During his holdout, Murphey agreed to testify in one case: the trial of Eric Lawson, who was accused of murdering his 10-month-old son, his ex-girlfriend and her mother in 2012. Murphey agreed to cooperate because Gardner's office recused itself due to a conflict of interest, leaving the prosecution with then-Attorney General Eric Schmitt, a vocal critic of Gardner.

Murphey also said he felt a special duty to one of the victims, the sister of a police officer. “The bias,” he explained, “is it’s a policeman’s family. And, you know, we’re all supportive for each other.”"

"Though Murphey didn’t testify at the assault trial, he did contribute to the evidence collection. He helped find clothes that Barnett allegedly discarded in a sewer after the attack and seized them as evidence.

Now, his testimony has become more valuable. One of the detectives who testified at Barnett’s first trial has since died, and the circuit attorney’s office is trying to line up its witnesses — including Murphey.

Kathy Schmeiderer, the victim’s mother, said she hopes Murphey will testify.

“We want justice for our son, to close the wound,” she said.

But Murphey said he won’t take the stand."

[doctorbitchcrxft]

The Usual Suspects | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? )

Warnings: creepy police officer (not that that differs from real life), canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 3242

A/N: Ooh damn, this one was interesting to write. I tried the best I could to make this as coherent as possible. Y’all enjoy! Also, this'll be another creature-double-feature Saturday to make up for the short chapter! Love you, my darlings!

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“I don’t wanna have to keep asking this, kid. Who are you?” the man who’d been interrogating you asked. He was a member of the Baltimore police department: Peter Sheridan. He’d been a complete dick to you thus far after arresting you in the boys’ motel room with Sam. 

“I told you, Ann Wilson,” you replied. 

He chuckled humorlessly. “Listen, dollface—” he leaned across the table creepily, and you fought the urge to recoil under his predatory gaze, “—I’m done playing with you. You were found with Sam and Dean Winchester; one of which was supposed to be dead. They’ve got some pretty serious charges stacked up against them, and you, by proxy. Credit card fraud, breaking and entering, and this one… puzzled me. Grave desecration.

"But still, these are a long way from murder. Then, we get a fax from St. Louis. Where Dean’s suspected of torturing and murdering a young woman.” He got up from his chair and began pacing. “However, no one could prove anything, of course, because supposedly he died there. So now we know Karen Giles wasn't the first person he murdered. And what about Sam? He was pre-law before dropping out after the death of his girlfriend. He’s twenty three years old, no job, no home address. His mother died when he was a baby; his father's whereabouts are unknown. And then there's you.”

“Can you cut the monologuing, man? It’s really starting to get on my nerves,” you replied. You had been sitting back in your chair with your arms and legs crossed confidently the whole time he spoke despite the anxiety you had given your situation.

He slammed his hands down on the table; you didn’t even flinch. “Who the hell are you? And how are you connected to the Winchester brothers?”

You sucked in air through your teeth and relaxed back in your chair. “Seems you got nothin’ on me. You can’t really hold me if you can’t even pin down who I am.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I do have you on one thing— over a dozen possible matches when we ran your prints.”

You tsked, cutting your eyes at him challengingly. “Possible. You can’t hold me on possible.”

“But I can hold you for forty-eight hours under suspicion of accomplice to murder,” he responded. “So you might as well start talking.”

You scoffed, sitting back in your chair.

“Sweetheart—” you nearly punched him when he called you that name, “—Dean’s life is over. Sam’s probably is, too. Yours doesn’t have to be. If you tell me who you are— maybe a bit about your place in all this— maybe I can get you a deal with the DA. We can look into your history, check your record; see how well you clean up. How does that sound?”

You considered for a moment before talking, repeating the story you and the brothers had discussed before your arrests in case you got caught. You had one of these stories for every case you’d ever worked on with them. “Sam and Dean’s dad knew Tony Giles. They were old friends; in the service together and everything. So we showed up as soon as we heard about his passing.”

Obviously, none of that was true. You and the brothers had found a story about a man’s throat that had been slit in the papers and headed up to investigate. 

You continued your story. “Woulda been kinda hard for Dean to kill Tony, considering we weren't in town at the time. Anyway, that’s when we went to see Karen. She was… she wasn’t doin’ well. We just wanted to be there for her.”

Karen was Anthony Giles’s wife, and you’d gone to see her to get information. She said he’d told her there was a woman standing at the foot of their bed the night before he passed away, and she'd been bleeding from the neck.

“And that was it. End of story,” you said.

“No, it’s not,” Sheridan pressed. “We have an eyewitness who said they saw two men and a woman fitting your description breaking into Giles’s office.”

“Karen just wanted us to get some old photos, okay? Police weren’t letting her in. I know it was wrong to break in, but she gave us the key,” you lied flawlessly.

In actuality, that was where you’d found a stack of papers littered with “danashulps” written over and over again on the tray of the man’s printer. The poor guy’s throat had been slit so deep, part of his spinal cord had been severed. Your working theory was that a Dana Shulps had died with her throat slit, and now she was back to wreak havoc. However, you found no evidence of any person by that name. So, you were back to square one. 

“Dean went back to Karen’s place to check on her and bring her those pictures and stuff,” you explained.

“Hm, and why didn’t you or Sam go with him?” Sheridan responded.

“We just went back to the motel,” you shrugged. “How’d you know we were there, by the way?”

“Why would I tell you?” he snapped.

“Whoa, pump the hate brakes, Biff,” you remarked, “I was just asking a question.”

“Don’t get cute with me, dollface. Now, you were with both brothers the whole time you were in Baltimore. Why separate now? Because Dean left you. To go murder Karen.”

You tried to seem unfazed, but your jaw clenched in anger. “He didn’t kill anyone.”

He slammed his fists on the table. “I heard the 9-1-1 call! Karen was terrified. She said someone was in the house.”

“Well, whoever it was, it wasn’t Dean,” you said. You stared him down. “Let me ask you something, babe. Do you have a murder weapon? Do you have a motive?” 

He seemed to have no response.

“That’s what I thought. Come back to me when you have something interesting to say.”

He angrily stormed out of the room, and your lips twisted up into a satisfied smirk.

***

You sat alone in your room, repeating “Dana Shulps” to yourself on a loop. You suddenly got an idea. ‘Maybe it’s not a name.’ You reached across the table and pulled a pen and paper pad toward you. You wrote several combinations of anagrams as to what it could possibly be. The only plausible thing you came up with was “ASHLAND SUP.” ‘But what would the S-U-P be? Ashland… a city? A town? …A street?’

***

You listened carefully to the commotion going on beyond the wall of your room. There was no two-way mirror, and from what you could tell, no camera nearby. You listened as footsteps hurriedly crossed in front of your room heading to the left and then growing quieter. You gathered your courage and took that opportunity to make your escape. Quickly, you opened the window and climbed out onto the outside of the building. Looking down below, it was almost a four-story drop. However, you knew you could make your way to the fire escape a few window sills over if you were careful enough. 

You clung to the wall, nervously, careful not to look down or move too quickly when the wind picked up. Thankfully, you made it to the fire escape safely and headed down as fast as you could. You weren’t sure if Sam or Dean had escaped, but you decided to try the trick they taught you to find each other: searching for Jim Rockford in the guest list of the first motel that appeared in the yellowpages. Thankfully, when you did, you found a Jim Rockford. You quickly made your way over to said motel and broke into the room. Sam had his gun drawn on you when you opened it.

“(Y/N)! Don’t scare me like that!” he huffed, putting the gun down.

You grinned and ran over to him. He scooped you up in a hug.

“I’m so glad to see you,” you told him. “What are we gonna do about Dean?”

He sighed. “I don't know, honestly. He’ll figure something out. For now, let’s focus on this ghost, huh?”

“I’m guessing you figured out it was an anagram, too, right?” you asked.

“Duh,” he grinned. 

“How’d Dean give you the cue to escape?” You sat down at the table across from him. 

“Got our lawyer to give me a note. Called me Hilts on it,” he smirked back.

You laughed. “The Great Escape? Nice.”

“I gotta say, man, I’m worried,” Sam told you. 

“Why?” 

“I’m guessing they read you the charges,” he replied. 

You nodded.

The brunet sighed and ran a hand down his face. “This is bad, (Y/N/N)."

“Yeah, I know.” You stared down at the table in front of you and bit the inside of your cheek nervously. 

Sam huffed and tried to remain cheerful, changing the subject. “So, what are we thinkin’? Ashland’s a street, but what’s S-U-P?”

You shook your head. “I’m not sure. Initials, maybe?”

“Sounds like a good enough place to start to me,” Sam grinned.

The two of you began pouring through online resources to see if anyone had died ugly on Ashland Street.

“Dude, how’d you get all these files, by the way?” you asked Sam, referencing the many manila folders and photos laid neatly on the table between yours and Sam’s laptops. 

Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door. You looked through the peephole to see a frightened woman in her mid-forties, and you opened it to her. 

“Wait, (Y/N)—” Sam stood upon seeing her, and you put two and two together that she was probably a cop at Sam's end of the case. The woman shrugged and entered the room. She showed Sam her wrists which were lined with a ring of bruises. She explained to you that she had seen the same ghost Karen described seeing and that she saw “DANASHULPS” appear on the mirror in the bathroom at the same time the lesions appeared around her wrists. 

“These showed up after you saw it?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” the woman responded. “You know, I must be losing my mind. You're a fugitive. So is she.” She gestured to you. “I should be arresting you.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” you questioned pointedly.

“Diana Ballard, Baltimore P.D.,” she said. “And… what was your name?”

You snickered. “You’re not getting that out of me that easily. Hey, do me a favor, look through these for us.”

“Why would I do that?” She suddenly seemed to register what she was looking at. “How'd you get those? Those are from crime scenes, and booking photos.”

Sam chuckled. “You have your job, we have ours. Tell me if you recognize anyone.”

She flipped through the stack and stopped on the photo of a drugged-out-looking blonde woman. She stopped on it and held it up. “This is her. I'm sure of it.”

“Claire Becker,” you nodded. “Twenty-eight; disappeared about nine months ago.”

“But I don't even know her. I mean, why would she come after me?” Diana asked.

“Well, before her death, she was arrested twice. For dealing heroin. You ever work narcotics?” Sam replied.

“Yeah, Pete and I did. Before homicide,” the detective answered.

“You ever bust her?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It says she was last seen entering 2911 Ashland Street. Police searched the place and didn’t find anything. Guess we gotta check it out ourselves,” you added.

“Why would we do that?” Diana asked.

“See if we can find her body,” Sam explained. “We gotta salt and burn her bones. It's the only way to put her spirit to rest.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

***

Turns out, poor Claire’s body had been hidden right where the moon shone through the window of 2911 Ashland Street labeled “Ashland Sup.”

Diana noticed the necklace on the corpse and touched it cautiously.

“That mean something to you?” Sam asked.

You could see she was beginning to get angry. “I've seen it before. It's rare. It was custom made over on Carson street.” She pulled out the necklace from her shirt and showed it to you and Sam. “I have one just like it. Pete gave it to me.”

“That son of a bitch,” you murmured. 

“Now it all makes perfect sense,” Sam began.

“I'm sorry?” Diana scoffed.

He nodded, explaining, “Yeah. You see, Claire is not a vengeful spirit, she's a death omen.”

“Claire's not killing anyone,” you chimed in. “She's trying to warn them. You see, sometimes spirits, they don't want vengeance, they want justice. Which is why she led us here in the first place. She wants us to know who her killer is.” You turned to Diana. “Detective, how much do you know about your partner?”

She thought for a moment before breathing out, “Oh my god. About a year ago, some heroin went missing from lockup. Obviously it was a cop. We never found out who did it. But whoever did it would need someone to fence their product.”

Sam huffed. “Someone like a heroin dealer. Somebody like Claire.”

“C’mon, we gotta find him before he kills somebody else,” you said.

*** Claire drove you and Sam on the route to the police station to confront Sheridan. She snapped her phone shut and huffed in annoyance.

“What?” you asked.

“Pete just left the precinct. With Dean,” she replied.

“What?!” you and Sam stiffened in your seats.

“He said the prisoner had to be transferred, and he just took him. Dispatch has been calling but he won't answer the radio,” she said.

“Radio? He took a county vehicle?” Sam questioned. 

She nodded. 

“Well, then they should have a lo-jack, you've just gotta get it turned on,” he noted. 

Somehow, Sam managed to track down the vehicle Sheridan had taken. You arrived just in time to see him aiming a gun at Dean who was kneeling on the ground behind the van.

“Wait! Wait,” Dean pleaded. “Let's, let's talk about this. I mean, you don't want to do something that you're gonna regret later.” His voice became louder as you got closer.

You drew Diana’s gun from her holster and aimed it at Sheridan. “Drop the gun!”

Sheridan turned his gun on you. “You!”

You cocked the gun. “Me,” you smirked.

Sheridan suddenly seemed to notice his partner. “Diana? How'd you find me?”

“I know about Claire,” she said evenly.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Put the fucking gun down!” you ordered.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Sheridan scowled. “You're fast. I'm pretty sure I'm faster.”

“Why are you doing this?” Diana interrogated.

“I didn't do anything, Diana,” he said. “It wasn't my fault. Claire was trying to turn me in, I had no choice.”

“And Tony? Karen?” Diana pressed.

“Same thing! Tony scrubbed the money, he got skittish, and then he wanted to come clean. I'm sure he told Karen everything. It was a mess; I had to clean it up. I just panicked.” Sheridan’s sorry attempt at emotionally relaying his story was enough to induce an eye roll from you.

“How many more people are gonna die over this, Pete?” Diana asked dejectedly. 

“There's a way out. This Dean kid's a friggin' gift. We could pin the whole thing on him. Right? No trial, nothing. Just one more dead scumbag,” Sheridan chuckled coldly.

“Hey!” you barked. 

“No one will question it. Diana, please. I still love you,” he told her, faltering slightly as he looked at his partner. Dean rolled out of the way, and you took the opportunity to fire and hit Sheridan in the stomach. 

Diana didn’t even flinch at you shooting Sheridan. “Then why don't you buy me another necklace, you ass?”

You kept the gun trained on Sheridan as you rushed to Dean’s side, crouching in front of his slumped-over form protectively. You tried to get a lock on Sheridan, but he and Diana were fighting too erratically for you to be able to get a clear shot. At some point, Sheridan lost his gun, and Sam went to go for it.

Pete grabbed it before Sam could, shouting, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it.” He rose from the ground and kept the gun trained on Sam as he backed away.

You stared past Sheridan to see Claire having appeared behind him, grinning ear to ear. You tossed Diana her gun as Sheridan turned around, and she shot her former partner in the back. He fell to the ground, much more permanently this time.

You turned your focus to Dean. You got the keys to his handcuffs from Diana and helped him out of them.

“Thanks,” Dean smiled.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” you asked, putting your hands on either side of his face and looking him over.

He grabbed your wrist gently. “Relax, sweetheart, I’m fine.”

You nodded before throwing yourself into his arms. He hesitated in what you assumed was surprise but hugged you back tightly. You let go of him as the morning sun began to hit your eyes. You looked over to Diana who was crouched over the body of her ex-partner.

“You doin' alright?” Sam asked her.

She shook her head. “Not really.” She swallowed, her breath coming out unevenly despite the fact that she tried to hold her composure. “The death omen, Claire— what happens to her now?”

The brunet shrugged. “Should be over. She should be at rest.”

Dean brushed his hands off on his jeans as he stood next to his brother. “So, uh. What now, officer?”

“Pete did confess to me. He screwed up both your cases royally. I'd say that there's a good chance that we could get your cases dismissed,” she replied.

“You’d take care of that for us?” Sam questioned.

“I hope so,” Diana said. “But the St. Louis murder charges? That's another story. I can't help you. Unless—” your and the boys’ heads perked up at her slight change in tone, “I just happened to turn my back, and you walked away. I could just tell them that the suspects escaped.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, are you sure?”

Dean pointedly looked at his brother. “Yeah, she's sure, Sam.”

Sam shook his head. “No, it's just, I mean, you could lose your job over something like that.”

“Look, I just want you guys out there doing what you do best. Trust me, I'll sleep better at night.” She turned to go. “Listen, you need to watch your back. They're gonna be looking for all of you right now. Get out of here. I gotta radio this in.”

“Hey, uh, you wouldn't happen to know where my car is, by chance?” Dean asked her.

“It's at the impound yard down on Robertson.” She noticed Dean’s calculating look. “Don't... even think about it.”

“It's okay, it's alright, don't worry,” Sam chuckled. “We'll, uh, we'll just improvise. I mean, we're pretty good at that.”

Diana nodded. “Yeah. I've noticed.”

You and the brothers began to walk down the road. 

“Nice lady,” Sam commented.

“Yeah, for a cop. Did she look familiar to you?” Dean turned to you.

“Yeah, actually. I don’t know where from, though,” you answered.

“Yeah, me neither. Anyway, you guys hungry?”

You nodded, but Sam shook his head.

“For some reason, I could really go for some pea soup,” Dean said.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[tkachuktkaching]

Matthew taking the Stanley Cup to his house, to bed, then on a tour of St Louis visiting the police department the fire department and meeting some special children at the children's hospital he really is a natural nhl ambassador and all round good boy.