Bah Humbug

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I’ve always loved Christmas. Decorating the tree, wandering through the stores to find the perfect presents for family and friends, attempting to wrap said presents … and then looking at the distorted blob that is supposed to hold joy and happiness, and deciding that my mother would do a much better job of wrapping them, and passing the buck to her … really, I love Christmas. I loved pretending to be sleeping soundly on the couch, so that I could listen to my mother and sister tinkering around the house, preparing it for Christmas morning.
Which brings me to another point: yes, I do believe in Santa. I don’t believe that Santa is a fat man in a red suit, full of magic and candy, who commands a sleigh of flying reindeer … no. If I believed that some magical stranger came into my house once a year while I was sleeping, I would be a neurotic mess. Santa Claus - to me - isn’t some mystical being … Santa Claus is my mom, who goes out of her way every single year to make Christmas happen, and be wonderful for the kids. Santa Claus is my mom, who always buys an extra present for everyone who will be in the house Christmas morning - whether they live there or not - and writes “From Santa” on the gift tag. Santa is the person who loves you enough to make Christmas magical, even for an anger-ridden Atheist who’s not exactly a joy to be around at family gatherings.
So, now that we’ve gotten the “Santa” thing out of the way, let’s get back to it: I really do love Christmas. In theory. Unfortunately, packing so much joy and fricken happiness into 1-3 days of cleaning, cooking, unwrapping of presents, playing with presents, reminiscing over dinner, cleaning - AGAIN - and finally saying farewell, is just beyond frustrating. Take today, for example: I picked everything up off the floor, vacuumed, scrubbed and double-scrubbed the floors. And then what happened? I spilled my pop, and the kids peed on the floor. Both of them. I’m still on the fence over whether it was intentional or not.
So, after all the cleaning, planning, shopping, wrapping, and preparing … comes the waiting. Sure, Christmas Eve is - as I’m typing this - 57 minutes away. But, with only half the family coming at 7:00 AM (assuming they’re not late) Christmas morning, and the other half coming Boxing Day, the wait continues.
And with the wait, comes short tempers. Like the peeing on the floor, and the vanishing gift tags - so that more had to be downloaded and printed off - and the Christmas presents that still need to be BUILT!, and other Christmas presents that are still “in-transit”, and baking that doesn’t work because the yeast is no good, and children who don’t listen, and puppies who act as though they’ve just scarfed down a stash of Ritalin …
But, that’s just the last 10 hours of stress.
The biggest one for me, right now, is not being able to buy presents for my niece and nephew. Why? Because it would be impolite to other family members, who maybe can’t afford to buy everyone presents. And since I’m not the “Grandma”, I don’t have that right … yeah, that bugs me more than a little.
Yes, in a perfect world, Christmas isn’t about presents. But, when I only get to see them every few months, if I'm lucky, then I kinda want to get them something to commemorate the event. I’m sure that they will grow sick of the presents eventually, but hey, that’s what donations are for. Personally, I still have all of my Christmas presents. I’m materialistic … sue me. I like receiving and giving presents … sue me. I’m a fairly easy person to shop for: buy me a $5.00 movie out of the 2 for 10 bin at Walmart, or a nice, big Word-Search book, and I’m happy. Am I going to spend $50.00 on every present for every single person in my family? No. But once upon a time, everyone got, or even MADE, something for everyone in their family - who was coming for Christmas. Some people can’t afford to do that … fine. They don’t have to. I simply don’t agree with not buying something for someone, just because someone else can’t.
But, whatever … Christmas is a happy time.
So, moving on from that … it’s now 45 minutes from Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting here imagining all the things that will go wrong tomorrow: Josh’s mouth, of course, and possibly some lewd behavior; kids having temper tantrums because they can’t open the obscene amount of presents that their bio-parents sent them; not having the right ingredients for Christmas dinner(s), and having to find a store that still has those ingredients; and/or, as happened last year: Josh opening all of his presents early, because he wanted to make sure that he got more cool stuff that his siblings. Oh, joy.
Then, Christmas morning? Well, I’ll say one good thing: I won’t have to deal with my eldest brother’s morning bitchiness at being woken up at the time that he was told we were getting up, seeing as he won’t be here Christmas Eve … he’ll finally get the chance to wake everyone else up, assuming he actually gets here on time. That’s debatable. But, whatever … I could rant for hours about the many things that certain people do that annoy me, but people tend to get finicky over what is said over the internet. Go figure. ‘Cause you know how the entire world is reading this blog, and knows personally myself, and everyone in my family, and will surely spread that gossip with every single person that they meet, so that when they see said family member on the street, they’ll point and scream: “oh my god, you did this and that! What a terrible person!” … Yeah, that’s gonna happen.
I have a pretty simple philosophy when it comes to rants: If you don’t like it, don’t read it.
I seem to be getting off-track. Though, really, it was related - this stress came from mine and my mother’s birthday, which is less than a week before Christmas … it relates. Apparently our birthdays shouldn’t have been about US, but rather accommodating everyone else. Who knew?
What was that about Christmas being a happy time for families to come together, and enjoy the pleasure of each other's - excuse me, I just threw up in my mouth.
Anywhoo … Christmas: not something that should be shoved into one big family reunion. Space it out. Make it a longer break, so that families can actually be together, without the stress of clumping it into a few hours in a day. ‘Cause you know what happens then? People get bitchy, other people get accusatory, and then the people who’ve been slaving to make everything perfect - or just HAPPEN - get pissed off that their efforts are not being recognized.
I have no trouble understanding why suicide rates, accidents, and domestic disturbance calls drastically increase during Christmas. Happy time of year, my ass.
Call me selfish if you will, but a happy Christmas, for me, is waking everyone up, passing out presents, watching everyone see what I bought them, seeing what everyone bought me, helping my dog open his Christmas present - and counting how long it takes him to devour it - checking out the goodies in my stocking, taking pictures, and then playing with/watching/reading my presents while we make breakfast. After that, everything else pretty much sucks.

Sue Me For Speaking Proper English ...

I am beyond tired of getting crapped on for taking pride in the fact that I use proper English when I speak - WHEREVER I am using it. When I text, I use proper English. When I write a letter, I use proper English. When I type online, I use proper English. When I am bitching people out for some wrong that they have committed, I USE PROPER ENGLISH. I do not see “Facebook chat” as an excuse for lazy spelling and grammar.
Is everyone like this? No. I realize that. But, I am not the only person on the face of the planet who is. This is not a recent occurrence, as some people may believe. A friend of mine can show you “high school notes”, from over 5 years ago, where I was still using proper spelling and grammar. Correcting people for their terrible spelling and grammar - which I don’t do nearly as often as I could - is not some new phase.
When you send me a message online, assailing me for something you believe I am, or have done, I expect you to have the courtesy to use spell-check. Then, when you don’t, feel free not to get your panties in a bunch when I correct your defiling of the English Language.
When I have to take time away from writing a final exam, because the instructor who wrote the final couldn’t spell “families” properly, I am annoyed. When people use “your” when they should be saying “you’re”, I am annoyed. When people don’t capitalize the letter “I”, I am annoyed. The list could go on for days.
So, when I am sneered at for speaking proper English, what does that say about you? When I am told that I am “sensitive” for demanding a modicum of respect for the English language, what does that say about you? When you roll your eyes at me, for correcting your typos, what does that say about you?
When you post something online, it’s there forever. Even if you delete it, people have seen it. Do you realize that you when you post your typos online, we sit around in our COMM class, and laugh mercilessly at you?
I’m not the one who needs to grow up, here. I am plenty mature for my age, and I have no interest in your definition of mature. It is sad that you are so mistaken, but one day, MAYBE, you’ll find it in you to take the time to press that spell-check button.

Don't It Always Seem To Go

This is an old Smallville fic I wrote over two years ago ... definitely more than a little sappy/mushy, but most romance fics are. Enjoy! (hopefully).

...

It hurt her to say these words to him, she cared about him more than she thought she could after what happened with Clark, and even though there were things that she could never tell him - as much as I wish I could - he had to hear these words: "But I can't go back."
Lana waited for his reaction. She didn't know what she was expecting. Hurt, anger, maybe some yelling or some pleading ... or worse, disappointment. Whatever she thought he might say or do, what happened next didn't even make the list.
"Lana, I didn't come here to bring you back. I came here to be with you," he told her, his gaze soft and unwavering.
For a second her breath caught in her throat, sure that she must have misheard him. The next second, she couldn't believe that he had indeed said it. After a few more seconds, her heart lifted back up from her stomach. Her ears were singing, but it was deaf to her because all she could focus on was the way he was looking at her.
A smile graced her lips, and that was all the assurance that Jason needed. He leaned closer to her, closing the distance between them, and brushed his lips against hers.
Lana knew that they would have a lot to work out. What he would do, if he was staying in college, if she should move closer to his college, considering he had come halfway around the world for her. She was so caught up in her own joy that Clark's name never even crossed her mind. She knew that they should probably stop to discuss what all this meant, but right now, Lana didn't care about anything other than the fact that her heart was racing in her chest, and Jason was trailing his fingers along the small of her back.
Where her tattoo was.
She broke the kiss and pulled away hesitantly, looking down at her feet.
"What's wrong?" he asked her.
She forced herself to meet his eyes, and she saw only love looking down at her.
This isn't going to be like before. I won't do what Clark did; I won't keep secrets from Jason. If he cares for me as much as I do for him, then he won't freak out, or take off.She sighed deeply and turned, lifting up the back of her shirt slowly for him to see.
He tipped his head slightly, admiring the view for a second before he realized he was looking at a tattoo.
"Hey, how come I've never seen that?" he asked her, moving closer. "When did you get it?"
Lana kept her eyes closed. "Pretty recently."
He fingered the skin on her back lightly, tracing circles on the black mark. "Really? It doesn't look too fresh."
Lana muffled the hiss that came out of her mouth as best as she could, but she knew that Jason heard it, and she knew what it was from. All thoughts of the mystery surrounding her new marking left her mind as Jason stepped even closer to her, wrapping one hand around her middle to caress her firm stomach as he continued to brush his fingers almost lazily across her back, moving higher only to dip tantalizingly lower, causing her to shiver.
Alarm bells were going off in Lana's head, but she wasn't sure if it was because she wasn't ready for this, or if it was just because they were out in the open.
"Jason?" she whispered huskily.
He leaned his head forward, resting his chin on her shoulder as he wrapped his arms fully around her.
"Yeah?"
She smiled as his warm breath washed over her.
"I think I can save the rest of the box hurtling for later," she told him. "Will you take me upstairs?"
She could feel him tense at her words, and for a second she regretted them, thinking the worst, but then he was even closer to her, their bodies practically melted together as he whispered back, "Are you sure?"
She looked timid, but also strong in her words. "I think so. I'm willing to try, if you are."
Jason smiled, and in the next instant he had swooped her up into his arms. "Lana, you do not have to ask me twice."
She giggled as he carried her up the stairs and into the cluttered room.
It took him a few seconds to rid the bed of its obstacles, but then he was picking her up again only to lay her down onto the bed.
He moved towards her, and she could feel her temperature increasing, but then he stopped, and looked away from her.
"What is it?" she asked, sitting up.
He sighed. "Well, there's kinda something I want to tell you."
"Okay," she said slowly. "You know you can tell me anything." She hoped one day he could say the same about her, and that was when the true extent of her feelings for him hit her. The rest of her life seemed like a blur to her, because he hadn't been part of it. And for the life of her, Lana could not imagine a life where Jason wasn't in it.
She cupped a hand to his face and kissed him lightly, hoping to encourage him to say whatever was on his mind.
He looked up at her, and she saw fear in his eyes, and before she could speak, he said, "I love you."
Lana's hand was still on his cheek, but it froze. Her entire body stiffened. The world stopped moving.
They had talked about being 'in love' before, but they'd never actually said those words to each other.
Lana was still soaring high on cloud nine when Jason started to move away from her.
"Oh," she said suddenly, pulling him back to her. "I love you, too."
And then she was kissing him, and he was kissing her. And the entire night was filled with kisses and happiness, and laughter, and more pleasure than she had ever dreamed possible.

Who I Am: Can You Handle It?

I have never been a particularly shy person ... anyone who knew me as a child can attest to that. So, I'll do a little reflecting on what I was like as a child:
Loud, Aggressive, Violent, Extremely Excitable, Fierce, Trusting, Active, Impulsive, Defensive, Reactive, Uncoordinated, Curious, Giddy, Mad, Angry, and Sad. I was often called "Spaz, Brat, Trouble-Maker, Wild-Child, Psycho, Bitch", etc.
How has that changed since then? Well, I've found better methods of channeling my anger and aggression: writing. I am far less violent, unless it's in defense of someone I care deeply about. The only other difference is that I am now far less trusting - and quite honestly, certain family members are responsible for that, though several "friends" also carry some responsibility there.
So, now that I am still most of these things as an adult, people still seem to find labels for me. When I am outspoken about what bothers me, I am told that I take things too seriously. When I defend myself and others, I am called childish. A twenty-year old college student, who spends her days looking after and educating young children, who cares about others more than herself, is childish? Someone who advocates for equality; stands up against homophobia, animal cruelty, and sexism, is immature?
Well, if we're going to list my flaws, lets get them out of the way right here and now:
- Envy: Well, I guess if I were envious of anything, it would be the simplicity of living a dog's life. I truly wish I were an animal. I am quite honestly disgusted with the human race as a whole, and would much sooner be an animal than a member of the Homo sapiens.
- Gluttony: I definitely over-eat. I enjoy foods that I like, and I enjoy them often. Until this makes me morbidly obese, this probably won't change.
- Greed: Well, I guess this could relate to the one material item I hold most dearly: movies. If I had it my way, I would own every single movie ever made: with copies on both VHS and DVD.
- Lust: I guess this could relate to movies as well ... most of my fanfics are romance fics. But really, that's all the romance I need. I'm not a very lustful person, I don't need a sexual partner to make my life complete ...
- Pride: As the root of all sin, I suppose I definitely am a very proud person. I am proud of my accomplishments, I take pride in my work - mainly my written work.
- Sloth: I do love mess. Not sure what to do with my room now that it's clean.
- Wrath: Oh, yes ... this is by far my biggest sin/flaw. I am, and always have been, a very wrathful person. When something or someone stirs up my anger, I am very vocal about it. I am not afraid to show my anger, which society deems is unladylike, and thus I am seen as "Spaz, Brat, Trouble-Maker, Wild-Child, Psycho, and Bitch".
Now that we've gotten the seven deadly sins out of the way, let's take a look at some of my other "flaws", as other people see them:
- Loud: people do not like anyone - boy or girl - who is louder than they are. I have a loud voice, and I use it. People don't like this. I stopped caring a long time ago.
- Outspoken: people don't like it when I inform them of their prejudice. People don't like it when I use my loud voice - or rapid-fire typing - to tell them exactly why what they're saying is wrong.
- Obstinate: (stubborn, refusal to change, difficult to control). I am stubborn, I refuse to change who I am, and I will not be controlled. When I believe in something, I am deadly passionate about that belief. Nothing someone "says" will change that.
- Opinionated: people don't like it when someone disagrees with them. I have an opinion on just about everything, and I am not shy about putting my two cents in. As most people know, I don't just stop at two cents ...
- Perfectionist: my books and movies are alphabetized - many people give me the oddest look when they discover this. I am very "alphabetical", and this goes hand-in-hand with grammatical. I value proper spelling and grammar, whether I'm handing in a to-be-graded essay, or "chatting" on Facebook. I don't believe that online communication should differ in any way when it comes to spelling and grammar. People don't like when I correct their spelling - which I certainly don't do as often as I could. :)
- Impulsive: I have as many movies as I do, because pretty much any time I have money, a good portion of it gets spent on movies. This isn't a problem now, because I don't have to support myself. Certainly, when I move out on my own, this would pose a problem.
- Excitable: When I'm giddy, I'm like a speeding comet traveling across space - there's no stopping me. "Demure" people really don't like this. You can't even imagine how many times I've been told - not asked - to tone it down.
- ADHD: this goes along with many of my other "flaws", but this is a pretty big one, as I was medicated for it for eleven years of my life. Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder: I switch topics faster than you can spell "topic", and I am spontaneously hyper. People have difficulty following my "train of thought", and often assume that I don't really have one. Many people see this as a disorder, as something that should be cured at all costs ... I believe that they are wrong. Perhaps that's another one of my flaws.
- Other: feel free to add any more flaws that I have missed. I am more than willing to discuss them.

Now, since I'm all about balance as well, we might as well list some of my good qualities, as I view them:
- Loud: I have always been the loudest person in the room. I don't have to tax my voice to belt out a good scream, and it doesn't take much for me to gain people's attention. I use my loud voice to my advantage, and I would not "tone it down" for those who would call that a flaw.
- Outspoken: When I see an injustice, or a prejudice, I address it. "Word after word after word is power": a quote from Youthwrite that I will always treasure. We can't expect the world to change when we are silent. I don't, and I'm not. When others can't/don't/won't speak for themselves, I can/do/will.
- Obstinate: I will defend my beliefs and views until I am blue in the face. I do not falter when I declare my belief, and I do not back off just because I've been indelicate.
- Opinionated: Everyone has an opinion about everything, I am just vocal about my opinions. That does not mean that I demand compliance, that I expect everyone to agree with my opinion, and dismiss their own. I welcome debate, and I enjoy it.
- Perfectionist: I like things the way that I like them, and that is everyone's right. I alphabetize, I use proper spelling and grammar, I go back and fix my mistakes. If something is out of place, I correct the error. It's who I am, and it doesn't bother me. As this doesn't do damage to others, I do not see it as a flaw.
- Impulsive: I do not believe in living with regrets. If I want something, and I have the means to get it, then I get it. This is why I have 1137 movies, and 291 TV series. Can I take them with me when I die? No. But I can pass them on, which is what I intend to do.
- Excitable: When I'm happy, I am a blazing ball of sunshine. When something makes me happy, I'm not afraid to express it. Every emotion that I feel, I express without fear of what others might think.
- ADHD: It takes a lot to hold my attention. My longest stretch of consistent fanfics for one fandom was two months. I move on to a new subject very quickly. People have difficulty following my "train of thought", and often assume that I don't really have one - because they don't understand it. If I verbalized every single thought that entered my brain, as soon as I thought it, I would never stop talking. I have many internal conversations, because I know that people get annoyed with chatter. For those who would say I talk too much, I invite you to chance a look into my mind, and see if you come out sane. My ADHD is not a disorder, it is a tool that makes me a fun, lively, energetic person. Kids love playing games with me, because I don't need to fixate on one aspect: I can go from playing trucks, to launching into outer space, to making star shapes, to running around the room like a maniac ... and never tire.
- Strong: I have never been a weak person. Even when I was a tiny, little twig of a girl, I was a strong person. I was never bullied physically, because any time that someone tried, they dealt with my fists. People didn't like it when their intended victim stood up for themselves. Emotionally, though? Many of my supposed friends have emotionally bullied me. They have done their damndest to make me out to be inferior to them, they have gone behind my back and told stories about me, and they have lied to my face when actually confronted with their psychological warfare. It never broke me though, because I am a strong, resilient - which I will explain further - person, who doesn't let what other people think of me matter. Could you believe that I was often talked down to because I didn't know what it felt like to be a victim? I was treated with condescension and derision, because I was strong-willed and defiant enough to not submit to those who would try to bully me ... how much sense does that make?
- Resilient: I was once friends with a person who loved that I loved him, but wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with me. Whenever I became interested in someone else, he would treat me like a leper - as though I had done some unspeakable thing to him. When he decided that he was better than me, he would push me away, and call me a stalker for taking an interest in him. When I ignored him, the entire school wondered if something was wrong with me, because we were so close: they accepted his mistreatment of me, but were shocked when I took a stand and separated myself from him. Nice double-standard, huh? So, how has this made me resilient? I no longer allow people in my life who would only use me. I have no interest in maintaining two-faced friendships. I simply have no desire to live a life of high school drama. Relating this to what others have said about me, how does this make me childish? Please, explain? Those who would claim that I am immature, step up and defend that claim, because I will defend my maturity, and my resiliency, and my strength of character until I am blue in the face. I will not bow down to those who would try to talk down to me.
- Passionate: A friend once confessed in a game of Truth or Dare - four or five years ago - that out of our friends, he would want to have a sexual relationship with me, because I was so passionate, so therefore I must be good in bed. ... I don't make a habit of sleeping with my friends. I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying or binge drinking, I don't drink at all, or take drugs stronger than Advil - were these positive choices ever acknowledged? No. Of course not. That doesn't change the fact that I choose not to do these things. I can and do have natural highs. Ringette, one of my greatest passions, made me happier than just about any kind of physical activity. I am a Child Care Provider, I spend my days looking after children, some of which are mentally handicapped in some way. I enjoy the work that I do, because I am passionate about it. I am passionate about writing, about movies, about books, and about bringing happiness and love to children. Explain, please, how I am childish?

I see myself as an intelligent individual. Not only because I know how to use proper spelling and grammar, not only because I have an amazing visual memory, but because I am constantly taking steps to further my education. This is not exclusive to college; I do so much research online and through books, either because it's something I need for a novel that I am writing, or because I am simply curious and want to know more. I am intelligent because I make myself informed. Does this mean I know everything? No. That is impossible - and from someone who immerses herself in a world of fantasy on a daily basis with her writings, impossible is not a word I often use. I don't know everything and I've never claimed to know everything, but I learn something new every single day, and I enjoy learning. I plan on being in school for many years, probably many decades.
Others see me as childish and immature, because I stand up for what I believe in, and demand respect, along with a modicum of respect for the English language.

See me as you will, my opinion of myself will never change based on outside criticism.

Female Bullying

This was an essay that I did for a school project. After I got my marks back, I decided to post it on my blog, because I feel it carries a very important message. The referencing used is the latest APA style, that RDC uses.

Odd Girl Out: The Hidden Culture of Aggression in Girls
Written by: Rachel Simmons

Summary:
Basically, this book states that because of the cultural norms, rules, and expectations of our society - as a whole - girls don’t express their aggression through physical acts. They are forced to put on a “nice girl” exterior to fit in with society as a group, and as such, they turn to more sneaky and diabolical means of dealing with their natural, biological aggression.
“Our culture has girls playing a perverse game of Twister, pushing and tangling themselves into increasingly strained, unnatural positions.” (Simmons, 2002). This book talks about the lasting effects and repercussions of the psychological warfare that happens in schools, where females are the perpetrators. It alludes that the psychological torture that happens there is much more lasting than any scars from a physical attack.
Whereas boys are more like to bully casual acquaintances or strangers, girls turn their aggressive behaviors on those closest to them, their own friends. The most common weapon in these girls’ arsenal is the threat of removing friendship. Most girls that were interviewed in this story, commented that the worst feeling was the complete and utter loneliness. They felt like they would die without some form of human contact/connection. It is for this reason why many girls stay in relationships/friendships with their abusers.
Many girls who were once bullied often become bullies themselves. In the section “the bully in the mirror”, the author herself admits that she once excluded a girl because another popular girl was doing so. Despite the fact that she was once a victim of the same kind of bullying, she found herself doing the same thing. In relation to this, girls who were bullied in high school push their daughters to show their own aggression physically, not wanting their own children to become victims of bullying. The section “when cultures collide” talks about African-American girls whose parents encourage them to beat up children who are hitting them. One parent told her child, “If you don’t hurt him, I’m gonna hit you.” (Simmons, 2002).
The cycle of bullying is repetitive, and seemingly never-ending. Though the author offers strategies to help parents, teachers, and victims cope with / prevent bullying, it is difficult to see an end in sight.

Five Main Points:
There are three different types of alternative aggressions, as described in this book. Relational, Indirect, and Social. Relational Aggression “includes acts that harm others through damage, or the threat of damage, to relationships or feelings of acceptance, friendship, or group exclusion.” (Simmons, 2002). An example of this would be excluding someone from social situations to get revenge on them for some conceived “wrong-doing” that they have previously done. Indirect Aggression is “covert behavior in which the perpetrator makes it seem as though there has been no intent to hurt at all.” (Simmons, 2002). An example of this would be getting another person to spread rumors about someone else, and then claiming to have nothing to do with it. Social Aggression is “intended to damage self-esteem or social status within a group.” (Simmons, 2002). An example of this, like Relational Aggression, is social exclusion.
I have definitely seen these types of aggressions in schools that I’ve attended in the past. Girls are very sneaky and diabolical, and know just how to project that “nice girl” image, to make teachers and parents think that they couldn’t possibly be doing anything wrong. I was never bullied in school, but I watched other girls suffer through these abuses, and it is something that needs to be called upon and stopped.
Girls often hate in others what they feel they are lacking in themselves. In the section called “she’s all that”, the author talks about girls who see a girl who is confident in herself as a person, who dresses nice, is physically appealing, smart and funny - they take this girl, and decide that she doesn’t deserve to have this confidence. Most of these occurrences were when a new girl arrived at a school, and the girls there thought that she should act shy and demure, as opposed to confident and at-ease. When the author asked a group of young women if girls want other girls to be confident in general, they replied with a declarative “no”. When she asked why, one girl replied, “Girls don’t because they’re threatened by what they are.” (Simmons, 2002).
I found this to be incredibly unfair, but I also acknowledge that it does happen. I have no trouble believing that girls are like this, but it’s really just cruel to take a beautiful and confident young woman, and make her feel terrible because these girls don’t like some parts of themselves.
Girls thrive on power. The bullies that were interviewed in this book talked about the power that they held over the other girls; how easy it was to manipulate them, with only the simple threat of removing the friendship.
I completely agree with this point. If you look at popular cliques in high schools, there’s always the ringleader, who relishes in her ability to “lord over” the other girls, with a simple double-meaning smile, or a “come hither” crook of her finger. Girls desperately want to be accepted, and the ringleader uses this to her advantage, to increase her power. It’s something that needs to be addressed, and prevented.
Teachers often ignore the type of female aggression that happens in school, or worse, the see it as a natural stage of girl development. Most teachers ignore, or don’t analyze the nonverbal ways in which girls bully each other. If a boy hits another boy, it is stopped immediately, because it is seen as direct physical violence. Whereas, if a girl is throwing dirty looks at another girl, or passing notes with disparaging remarks on it about another girl, they simply see it as normal girl behavior, and since it’s not “hurting” anyone, they don’t press the issue. “If we don’t make alternative aggressions a clear responsibility of school officials, children will continue to be vulnerable to bullying and abuse.” (Simmons, 2002).
YES, they will! I completely agree with that statement, and I know from personal experience that teachers focus more on direct, physical violence, than they do on the female bullying that happens in high school. In a perfect world, teachers would be able to spot all the signs of bullying, put a stop to them immediately, and take time out of their day to talk to these girls about what’s going on, and why it’s wrong. Unfortunately, that world doesn’t exist.
Finally, the last main point that I will acknowledge is this: No one wants to admit that they’re a bully. When trying to get people to open up about their own experiences as bullies, no one wanted to come forward. One girl went so far as to block her from ever contacting her again. The author discovered that instead of getting them to directly talk about their experiences, she could get them to role-play similar situations. In her words, “As long as they didn’t have to personally identify as mean, they had plenty to say.”
I was not at all surprised by this. These girls know that what they are doing is wrong, they know that it is mean and cruel. But because they have to project that “nice girl” image that society cares so much about, they are virtually unwilling to admit that they could be so cruel and vicious. The world would be a much better place if these individuals would admit to what they’ve done, and make a real effort to change.

Quotable Quote:
One thing that I will remember from this book was the quote: “There is a hidden culture of girls’ aggression in which bullying is epidemic, distinctive, and destructive. It is not marked by the direct physical and verbal behavior that is primarily the province of boys. Our culture refuses girls access to open conflict, and it forced their aggression into nonphysical, indirect, and covert forms.” (Simmons, 2002). This pretty much sums up the entire book, and I agree with it completely. I think that if more people were aware of these kinds of behaviors, and what causes them, there would be a lot less bullying in schools.

I Agree:
Odd Girl Out refers to a study done, which confirmed that “the guilt girls experience during aggressive acts decreases significantly when responsibility can be shared with other people.” (Simmons, 2002).
I absolutely agree with this … if you think of it like people being executed by a firing squad: one or more of the guns is loaded with blanks, so that when the person being executed is dead, the shooters don’t have to deal with the absolute guilt that they killed someone. Maybe their gun was the one with blanks. In a social situation where group bullying is involved, it is easy for people to say and think, “I wasn’t the only one doing it. Perhaps someone else’s comment made them depressed.” If the person they are tormenting commits suicide, I have no doubt that this method is how bullies would convince themselves that they were not to blame.

Going Deeper:
One thing that I would like to explore further is looking at girls who are able to withstand bullying. One girl in the books tells her story, where she was ridiculed for her clothing and jewelry and hair, basically her general appearance, but she refused to let it bother her. She dressed how she wanted to, and didn’t let people’s negative comments change her view of herself, or bring her down to “their level”. She befriended a girl who others saw as an outcast, and is still friends with her today. “For some girls, being an cast out is a blessing in disguise, as many are guided into a more centered, authentic self-awareness.” ( Simmons, 2002). I vehemently agree with this statement. Because I was never bullied, I can’t understand how a victim truly feels in that circumstance. All I can do is say that I wish more girls could have the strength that this particular girl did, to stop caring about what people think of them, and just be the person that they are.

Meaningful Information:
I found this book to be thought provoking, meaningful and useful. Thought provoking, because most people don’t really see the kind of psychological warfare that happens in high school. A glare might simply be a glare of annoyance, or it could be a “I’m gonna get you after school” glare, or a “if you tell anyone, I’ll destroy you” kind of glare. It is interesting to me to delve into this from a psychological aspect. I found this book to be meaningful, because the information was sound, and gave a lot of personal experiences, from both the victims, as well as the bullies. It wasn’t just one person making assumptions about something, or inferring a bunch of theories behind what could have caused it - it was a realistic approach to the subject, with real, tangible evidence. I found this book to be useful, because I believe that if more people were aware of this book, they would see bullying in a whole new light. Some people think that victims of bullying are weak, that they just need to stand up for themselves more. The reality is that, in most cases, when a girl stands up for herself, the abuse only gets worse. This information was useful, because it offers strategies - not solutions - to helping people deal with bullying.
I would definitely recommend that this book be placed on a high school reading list, to help enlighten young people about the realities of female aggression.

References:
Simmons, R. (2002). Odd girl out: the hidden culture of aggression in girls. Orlando, FL: Harcourt Trade Publishing.

Sexy vs. Slutty: A Woman's World

I was having this debate with a couple of friends of mine, but I think there was starting to be some confusion over what exactly was being debated, so I thought I’d make a separate rant here.
It all started with a casual discussion about the Spice Girls, which moved onto fashion, which then delved into how girls are treated like sluts because of what they wear.
Without going into the particulars of the conversation, I’ll just go into how I view this subject.
When we were young girls, our moms would dress us up in pretty dresses, take us to tea parties with our other girl friends, tie pretty ribbons in our hair, give us shiny black dress shoes, and teach us how to polish our pretty black dress shoes, so that they wouldn’t lose their shine. We were given Barbie dolls and make-up stands, pink outfits and pink walls and pink toys … It was very clear when we were young, what girls were expected to be.
We grew up watching singers like Shania Twain, Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera strut their stuff on stage, wearing gradually less and less clothing. They would gyrate their hips and dance dirty with boys, and people seemed to love them for it. Shania Twain made guy shirts sexy, only to strip down into more revealing attire in her video, “Man, I Feel Like a Woman”. Britney Spears gave pedophiles something to grin about when she donned pigtails and “sports” bras for her video “Baby One More Time”. Christina Aguilera gave ass-less chaps - oops, “riding pants” - a whole new light in her video “Dirty”, never mind the degrading meaning behind the lyrics. The list goes on. And these were the idols that we grew up watching on TV, idolizing and imitating. These artists whose voices carried such powerful meanings for us, and who we viewed as “sexy”. Every young woman, no matter who she is or where she comes from, wants to feel sexy. How do most people do this? They dress how they feel “sexy” is. Maybe that’s a tight dress, maybe that’s a t-shirt and jeans, maybe that’s a short skirt and tube-top … sexy is such a versatile description now.
“Slutty”, however, is not. How many girls and women have been called sluts, by males or females, friends or foes, or even just some stranger on the street? For what? For dressing sexy? We are being punished for mimicking the idols that the world told us were sexy …they were popular, and loved, and respected … why should we not want to be like them?
There are women out there who must button their shirts up to the highest button, must cover up their bodies, for fear that their husbands or fathers will view their attire as “promiscuous”, and punish them with a beating. There are women in the world who must hide their very faces from the world, because their culture and society says that’s the way it must be. Now we come over to North America, a world that seems separate from the rest of the world. Girls can walk around in short-shorts and halter tops, and do it proudly. Women are getting breast implants and liposuction, dieting until they are blue in the face. Society puts so much pressure on women to look a certain way, and these women do their damndest to try and conform to that pressure. But what happens when they do? What happens when a girl walks around in a shirt that reveals her cleavage and midriff? What happens when a girl wears a short skirt, and absentmindedly bends over to pick something up? They are hooted at, sneered at, suffered with catcalls and derogatory names. Sure, there are a number of girls who enjoy this treatment, who dress this way because they want people to notice their bodies in such a way … but so what if they do? It’s their body, and therefore their choice. Sadly, the girls who dress how they want because THEY want to feel sexy, THEY want to feel empowered, are treated with the same reactions. And what’s worse? You then have other girls going behind their backs and calling them sluts to their friends. Some have the “steel ovaries” to actually go up to someone and say it to their face - and what happens then? The girl defends her body, her choices, and she’s the one who is punished.
You don’t need to dress in sexy outfits and wear revealing clothing to be a slut … clothing does not make a person a whore. But because society has identified “whores” in a certain way, anyone who dares to accentuate their body with “promiscuous” attire is seen as a whore. Skanks, sluts, whores, etc … a whole new vocabulary exists inside the walls of a high school.
But let’s go beyond high school. Another comment that I read recently, was a man stating that if women want men to look at their faces and not their chest, they shouldn’t wear low-cut blouses and “shiny” necklaces. Sexist? Oh, yes. A grown woman, who has survived the traumas of high school, and has risen through the ranks of the corporate world, is then degraded and insulted by her peers when they would rather stare at her chest, than listen to what she has to say. This is despicable. Why should a woman have to don masculine attire just to be granted a modicum of respect? Why should a woman have to hide away her breasts, just to save men from their inability to keep their wandering eyes on topic? What’s next? Shall we wrap our breasts with tensor bandages, plaster them against our chest, and slide on a man’s dress shirt and tie?
We are supposed to be living in a world of equality - emphasis on “supposed”. Women are supposed to be equal members of society … but then we hear them referred to as sluts because their skirts are “too short” by someone else’s standards. Clearly, we are not as evolved as some people seem to think that we are.
A woman’s body is her body, no one else’s. No one else should be able to dictate the clothes that she wears, or how she wears them …

Abortion Is Murder

Let me make this very clear at the beginning of this rant: I am AGAINST abortion. It is murder, plain and simple. It is disgusting that it is a legal “process”.
Beyond that, what disgusts me is how the abortion “process” is worded. This is a living human being that is being murdered, but if people actually worded it like that, they would have to account for their actions. Instead of saying the unborn child is killed, they say “the pregnancy is removed”. Then, the dead child being forced out of the uterus by it’s killer is referred to “expelling the tissue”.
If you decide within the first trimester that your child doesn‘t deserve to live, the child is SUCTIONED out of the uterus. If you decide in the second trimester that your child should die, the uterus is dilated and expanded - ‘cause the unborn child has grown a little bit in the last 26 weeks or so - and then once again SUCTIONED out. Do you think it’s pleasant for, say, a spider to get sucked up into a vacuum machine? I don’t.
I am aware that there are instances where a woman’s health is at risk if she continues with a pregnancy, and in that instance, if you believe that your life is more important than your child’s? Then fine … abort away.
There are also instances where the child has a terrible disease, which would cause their life to be unbearably pain-ridden … that’s a mercy killing. Mercy … but still killing.
The majority of abortions are not done for these reasons, however. Young girls who couldn’t be bothered to ensure that their boyfriends use a condom; or the geniuses who think that because they’re on the pill, that they couldn’t possibly become pregnant. The term “unplanned pregnancy” makes no sense to me. Every time that you have sex, there is a chance that you will get pregnant. Ergo, if you don’t WANT to get pregnant, the solution is pretty obvious: don’t have sex. Your desire to not be a mother should overpower your desire to copulate. That’s what masturbation is for …
Rape victims: … Yes, these women have gone through a traumatic experience, and then to have a pregnancy result from that experience is like salt in a wound. But - and this is a very big but - that child did not rape them. That child did not take away their dignity. That child does not deserve to be murdered because its life was forced upon them. Adoption exists for a reason. Yes, having to carry that child for 8-10 months can be an emotional train wreck, and a massive upheaval on their lives, but in the end, something beautiful will come out of that catastrophe. A living, breathing human who only wants someone to love them. To shelter them and take care of them. For the months of that pregnancy, that is your only job. After that, after the child is born, there are plenty of families out there who would be more than willing to take the baby into their homes, and love he or she like they deserve to be loved. Abortion is murder, adoption is hope.
I do not see a child as being alive at the “moment of conception”, which from my research indicates is ten days later. The second that you have sex - the moment that a man deposits his sperm into your body, that child is the potential for life. And potential is not un-living. It is not a dead thing that just doesn’t exist. Taking a “morning after” pill because YOU have made a mistake, is murder. Booking an appointment for abortion and then following through is premeditated murder. A girl who gets a friend to pulverize her stomach with a baseball bat - because she can’t bring herself to confess to her parents that she was idiotic enough to have sex before she was ready to be a parent - is a homicidal psychopath.
The idea that it’s a “woman’s body”, and therefore her choice, has one major flaw in it. When a woman becomes pregnant, it is not just her body anymore. That body is carrying a living being that was created through the act of intercourse. The woman’s body is now only half hers. With the exception of rape, this woman/girl willingly allowed even the smallest traces of ejaculate - or pre-ejaculate - to come into contact with her vagina. Therefore, she willingly accepted that there was a chance that her actions would bring about the arrival of a pregnancy. By making the choice to continue having sex, she made a commitment to her unborn child. To renege on that commitment is abhorring.
I am Pro-Life. Children are precious, innocent creatures, and their life does not begin when they are born. It begins the moment that two people come together and create life.

The Trevor Project

I came across the Trevor Project while cross-referencing "Purple Against Homophobia" with one of my favorite actors. The Trevor Project is an American non-profit organization that operates the only nationwide, around-the-clock crisis and suicide prevention helpline for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and questioning youth, also known as "LGBTQ".
It was founded by the creators of the 1994 Academy Award-Winning short film, "Trevor", which was about a 13-year old, homosexual boy who tried to take his own life after being rejected by his friends, solely because of his sexual orientation. The Trevor Project came into life when the creators of this film discovered there was no other support line for individuals encountering the same problems as Trevor.
If all this note does is make people aware of the Trevor Project, then it will have done its job, but the teeny tiny optimist in me hopes that it will do more than that. I could say it until I'm blue in the face - and have done - but homophobia is wrong. It is no different than racism, sexism, ageism, or any other kind of prejudism out there.
You simply can not help who you love. You don't get to decide that your body, mind, and soul is attracted to men or women - or both.
I have grown up around homophobia my entire life, with a Christian-homophobe for a brother, and a mother who might be diplomatic about it, but is still obviously disgusted by the idea of two people of the same gender being in love. Luckily for me, I have always been a very vocal person when it comes to my values and beliefs, and so I never had to succumb to their views.
Unfortunately, there are people out there who don't/can't/won't speak up for themselves. In 2009 alone, suicide was one of the top-three killers of young people, and people who were homosexual were four times more likely to kill themselves than their heterosexual peers. This is unacceptable.
People say that the world is changing. One of the main slogans for the Trevor Project is "It Gets Better". Well, I say the world is not changing nearly fast enough. If everyone in the world stopped hating people for being gay in just one week from now, it would still be too late, because hundreds of innocent victims of bullying and hate-crimes alike would have died in that short time.
I was never bullied in school, so I can't say that I know what these individuals are feeling. Not even my extremely overactive imagination could describe the sheer terror, abandonment, separation, fear, and animosity that these young people must be feeling.
I wish that I could take away all the pain and sadness and frustration that these people are so completely bogged down with. I wish that they didn't have to suffer at the hands of ignorant, self-righteous fools. I wish that I could just shake the whole world, and make people realize that it's not a crime to be gay.
We've stood up for women's rights, we've stood up for animal's rights, we've stood up for equality ... why should sexual orientation be any different?
If you are at all disgusted by homophobia, and feel remorse and sadness for the poor souls who could do nothing but take their own lives to escape their tormentors, then please, I implore you, SPEAK UP. Make some noise. Tell the world that you know it's okay for people to love freely, and that you are tired of small-minded people torturing others for not conforming to their beliefs.

Tiny Lashes

I was recently told that I have tiny eyelashes. … So, my first response to that was, “What? Okay, then … Weirdo.” My second response, shortly following that was, “So what? They’re my eyelashes. Why does size matter with EYELASHES!!?”

After some consideration, I realized that the point the was trying to make was that I didn’t do anything to try and extend my eyelashes. No mascara to make them stand out, no creepy stick-on things to make them look abnormally long. They just kind of sit there on my face, minding their own business.

And really, that’s me in a nutshell. I don’t put a whole lot of effort into making myself look different. I am not a beautiful person, I know this, I accept this. I don’t lament this fact, this is just who I am. There are many other ways to describe a person than how they look. I am loud, I am outspoken, I can be angry and hostile, I can be completely and utterly ridiculous. I can flare my nostrils, and I snort when I laugh. I very rarely paint my fingernails, and when I do, I usually end up with wearing off polish that stays like that for about a month. I don’t care a whole lot about my appearance. Not to say that I’m filthy … I am clean. I bathe myself on a regular basis, and contrary to some people’s opinions, I do wash my face. But I don’t spend hundreds upon hundreds of dollars trying to rid myself of my acne. It’s just there. I’m used to it. I don’t slap on perfume - ‘cause I’m allergic to it - and I only wear body spray if I like the smell. I only put on things that I like, because I don’t care about what other people like.

Such as mascara. I don’t like mascara. It makes my eyelashes feel wet, and then I get black marks on my eyelids when I open my eyes too wide. It’s far too much of a hassle.

So, yes … I have tiny eyelashes. If that bothers you, then I guess stop looking at my eyes.

Angel's Watching Over You

Another Supernatural fic. This one takes place after the "My Bloody Valentine" episode of Season 5. Just a small moment that I would have liked to have seen in the episode.


Sam had been detoxing from the demon blood in Bobby's panic room for just over two days, and it had taken its toll on all of them. Bobby was passed out in his room, a trail of beer cans around his bed. Dean had yet to let himself sleep, not wanting anything to happen while he was recharging his batteries. All the times that Sam had snuck out while he was sleeping had made him wary ... or was it paranoid?

Dean splashed water on his face at the kitchen sink, trying to blink the tired out of his eyes.

"You need to rest," Castiel commented, standing behind him.

Resting his weight on his splayed-out hands on the counter, Dean hung his head, sighing deeply. "I'm fine."

He felt the angel sidle up beside him before he heard him speak. "You are of no use to your brother if you are so exhausted that you're unable to even lie convincingly."

Dean rolled his yes, turning his lolling head towards the angel. "Name one lie that I've ever told you, that you actually believed."

Castiel regarded him before speaking evenly, "When you told me that you swore your allegiance to god, and his angels. By refusing Michael and evading Zachariah, you proved the statement to be a lie."

Dean turned, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his hips against the counter. "Actually, that part wasn't the lie."

Castiel frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Dean sighed, looking down at the floor before answering in a deep voice. "I meant what I said in the moment, but I wasn't swearing to "god", or any of the angels ... I was only making that promise to one angel. I swore to follow you, Cas."

The angel stared into the green eyes darkened by sadness and grief … and the poor kitchen lighting. "I understand."

Dean chuckled. "Well, it'd be great if you could let me in on that little epiphany, 'cause I'm so exhausted, not a word out of my mouth is making sense to me."

Castiel stepped forward, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Another time. For now, your body requires sleep."

Dean broke his gaze from Castiel's, looking down in near-shame. "I'm ..." He couldn't get the words past his chapped lips.

Castiel nodded. "Afraid," he finished, as though it were the most simplistic thing in the world.

Dean nodded his heavy head. "I just don't want anything to happen while I'm out. I need to be here - and aware - in case something happens with Sam, or -"

Castiel tightened his grip tenderly, stopping Dean before his rant could begin. "I will be here, Dean. I will ensure that nothing happens to Sam, Bobby, or you."

Dean lifted his head back up, gazing into the crystal-blue eyes looking steadily back at him. "Promise?"

Castiel nodded, not a trace of doubt in his eyes. "I will watch over you."

Dean let his sleep-deprived body give in, making his way to the living-room couch. It wasn't until his head had hit the cushion and he'd succumbed to unconsciousness that he thought of his mother's soft, bedtime words: “Angels are watching over you …” . At that particular moment in time, they were true ... except there was only one angel watching over Dean that night.

In his dream, Dean could feel calm fingers burning a soothing path across his scalp ... almost as though the angel were running a comforting hand through his short, soft hair.

Twelve hours later and well-rested, Dean imagined he could still feel that graceful pressure in every part of his body, whenever the angel glanced his way.

Come What May

Another one of my Supernatural fics. This one takes place in the first season, and is one of my few Supernatural fics that isn't a romance fic. Just brotherly angst.


Sam's voice rang through his ears, and he had to remind himself that it wasn't really Sam speaking; that Ellicott had done some creepy mojo on him.

"Why are we even here? Because you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? 'Cause you always do what he says without question?" the voice of his brother questioned. "Are you that desperate for his approval?"

Dean fought against the pain in his upper body. Lying on the hard floor wasn’t helping matters, either. "This isn't you talking, Sam."

"That's the difference between you and me," Sam stated. "I have a mind of my own. I'm not pathetic like you."

Dean was growing more and more annoyed at the situation. "So what are you gonna do, huh? You gonna kill me?" He figured it was his turn to get under Sam's skin; his turn to push his buttons.

His brother's rage-filled voice replied, "You know what? I am sick of doing what you tell me to do. We're no closer to finding Dad today than we were six months ago."

And suddenly the conversation was getting more and more familiar. Maybe it wasn't all Sam behind these words, but there was no denying that Sam had these thoughts most of the time. He was desperate to find Dad ... even more than Dean, because of what had happened to Jessica. And now, it seemed as though he was blaming Dean for them not being able to find the old man.

"Well then, here. Let me make it easier for you." He fished the gun out of his pocket, holding it out for Sam to take. His hand wanted to shake, but he remained as still as he could, glaring up into his brother's cold eyes. "Go on, take it. Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock-salt." He waited for his brother to take the gun, and for his part, the younger Winchester looked surprised at what Dean was telling him to do. "Take it!" Dean commanded.

Sam took the smaller gun from Dean's hand, dropping his own shotgun on the floor. After a moment, he pointed the gun at Dean, moving closer.

Dean sighed, his heart fluttering. "You hate me that much?" he asked, not sure if he even wanted an answer. He knew that he shouldn't take anything that Sam said right now for the truth, but a part of him knew that deep inside, Sam had some of these feelings, these thoughts. "You think you could kill your own brother? Then go ahead," he dared. "Pull the trigger."

There was a long pause, and for a moment he thought maybe he'd gotten through to him. Maybe he'd shocked the rage out of him.

"Do it!" Dean yelled, continuing with his plan, as it seemed to be working.

Then Sam pulled the trigger. He actually wanted to shoot him. Nothing happened. Sam pulled the trigger again and again, but the gun didn't fire. It wouldn't.

While he was distracted by the misfire, Dean grabbed the gun and back-handed his little brother across the face, knocking him to the ground. Rolling over and grunting at the pain in his chest, he slowly stood, looking at the younger man.

"Man, I'm not gonna give you a loaded pistol," he informed him, giving his brother one last looking before knocking him out. It was for his own good. Dean sighed again. "Sorry, Sammy." He continued through the asylum, needing to find Ellicott’s body.


………………………………................................................................................................

He hadn't wanted to talk to his brother about what had happened in the nut-house, but it was all he could think about while they drove back to their motel. He loved his brother ... there was nothing he wouldn't do for him. He would kill for him, he would die for him. But, the guy had issues. Dean knew that for a fact. Whether it was because of their messed up childhood, or because of what had happened to his girlfriend ... Sam had a lot of stuff that he needed to work out.

They got back to the motel late, and by the time Dean got out of the shower, Sam was already asleep on his bed. He glanced at his unconscious brother, wondering what was in store for them.

He hoped they would find their father soon ... if nothing else, for Sam's well-being. He still had nightmares almost every night, and now with the weird, ESP-thing he had going on, Dean didn't know what to do. He hoped their Dad would ... he usually had all the answers. They just had to find him.

After a slight pause, Dean pulled the blanket over Sammy's sleeping body, stepping back before his younger brother could wake up and witness Dean tucking him in.

Changing into a fresh set of clothes, he lay back on his own bed, crossing his hands behind his head and sighing deeply.

If that gun had been loaded ... Sam would have shot me.

He tried to push the thought out of his mind, reminding himself that they were brothers, and nothing could come between that.

Letting his eyes drift close, Dean decided to push away his worries and let the new day bring what it may. Even if that meant getting another round of rock-salt to his chest.

Officer Down

One of my longer Rookie Blue fics. This one was actually requested of me by another author on the fanfic site. The blocks of italics are flashbacks.


She couldn't believe this was happening. Realistically, she shouldn't be so surprised ... it's a hazard of the job, something that you anticipate every time you slide on that flak jacket. Bad guys like to shoot cops, that's just how it is. They also loved using armor piercing rounds … ‘cop-killers’, as the bullets had been named on the street.

Even though she should have been completely prepared for this, she wasn't. She was prepared for being in that situation herself. She was prepared to be staring down the barrel of someone else's gun, and she was prepared to either talk her way out of it, or shoot before she got shot. She was ready for that. But how could she be prepared for having to sit idly by, while the man she loved was so close to death? His fate was completely out of her hands, all she could do was hope and pray that he made it through.

~ "We move in on my mark," he told everyone through the COMMs. "Three, two, one, MARK," he announced, and then the door was forced open by the battering ram.


They had finally done it. Emily had - in fact - made two copies of the information she'd stolen from Anton Hill, and once she was sure she was safe, she'd sent it back to Sam. It held everything that they needed to take down Anton Hill, now all they had to do was apprehend him.


Everything was falling into place. ~

Andy buried her head in her hands, wondering how they could have been so naive. Well, maybe it wasn't naivety. They were decked out in protective gear because they knew that Anton would have armed guards, and wouldn't go down without a fight. Maybe she'd been the naive one, to think that they would emerge victorious, without any casualties.

"He's not a casualty," she told herself quietly, but forcefully. It became her inner mantra, all that she could hold onto. That, and the watch that the paramedics had pulled off of his arm while working on him in the ambulance. She gripped it tight in her hands while she hoped and prayed, feeling Traci's hand rubbing her back, trying to comfort her.

~ “Sam, he's heading down to the basement!" Andy relayed, spotting Anton Hill trying to escape in the mayhem. Perhaps he had an exit down there that they didn't know about. "I'm going after him!"


"Not by yourself!" Sam shouted back, laying some cover fire as he crossed the room to the basement door.


They made their way down the stairs, slow and sure, their guns pointed ahead of them. Andy had descended before him, and so she was the first to get a clear view of the basement. She scanned the area as she made her way down the steps.


"I don't see him," she told Sam, her gun following the movement of her eyes.


"He couldn't have just vanished," Sam told her, following behind her.


Andy opened her mouth to respond, when she felt a hand grab her ankle, jarring her from the steps. ~

"He's gonna be fine," Traci told her, her hand continuing with soothing circles on her back. "Just breathe."

Andy shook her head, trying to hold back her tears. Unsuccessfully. "I can't lose him, Trace ... I just can't."

Traci grabbed one of Andy's hands with her free one, holding it tightly. "It's gonna be okay."

Andy wanted to believe her. She really wanted to.

...

The doctors managed to stabilize him but he was still in the ICU. They wouldn't let anyone see him, as he still wasn‘t out of the woods. She had almost been comforted when they told them that he had pulled through the surgery, but once Andy found out that he was still in danger of more internal bleeding, as well as an infection that could make the injury worse, the tears returned.

She wanted to be with him, to tell him that she was there for him, and that she wasn't going anywhere. She just wanted him to know that someone was there, even if he wasn't awake, and couldn't talk to her.

Andy paced around the waiting room, the other officers giving her a wide berth.

~ When she felt her body begin to fall through the air, she wanted to scream, but the impact of her body against the floor drew it from her.


"Andy!" Sam shouted, rushing down the stairs to make sure she was okay. "Andy, are you alright?"


"Not so fast, Swarek," a man said from behind him, and he turned to see Anton Hill emerge from below the staircase.


Anton pointed his gun straight at Sam's chest, walking forwards.


Sam's right hand twitched, about to raise his own gun back up.


"Uh-uh," Anton told him. "Drop it."


Andy struggled to regain her breath, the wind knocked out of her from the fall. "Sam ..." she began, but couldn't find any other words. It was too hard to speak.


"It's okay," Sam told her, purposefully placing himself between her and Anton Hill.


Anton shook his head. "You ruined me, Swarek. Say goodbye."


Sam began to lift his gun, but he was too late. The first shot hit him in the right shoulder, the second straight in the chest.


"NO!" Andy screamed, seeing him begin to fall. Before Anton could turn his gun on him, Andy raised her gun, shooting until Anton hit down ground. she pushed herself off of the ground, crawling over to Sam. ~

Chris and Gail had just come back from a coffee run, passing out the cups to room full of officers. Andy downed hers quickly, needing something to focus on. She needed something to keep her mind alert, so that she wouldn’t fall asleep … she couldn’t let herself be sleeping if Sam’s condition proved fatal.

She brought her hand up to her face, chewing nervously on her nails. "It's all my fault," she breathed out in a near-silent whisper. If Sam hadn't been worried about her, then he wouldn't have been distracted. He wouldn't have fallen for Anton's trap.

She shook her head, staring down at her feet, her eyes red and puffy.

Boyko made his way back to the waiting room, having gone to talk to the doctor about Sam's condition. "Alright, guys, it looks like they're going to keep him sedated overnight. They'll inform us if his condition changes, so until then, I want you all to go home and get some rest. You're all expected to show up for your shifts tomorrow."

Some of the cops left right away, a few needed more convincing, until finally it was just Andy, Traci, Jerry and Boyko. Traci stayed long enough to tell Andy to call her if she needed anything, and ask Jerry to drive her home. Her mom was watching Leo, and she wanted to get home so her mother could get back to her own place.

Jerry patted Andy's back before he left, telling her to call him if anything happened.

Andy nodded, promising that she would.

Boyko and Andy stood together in the waiting room, staring straight at one another. "McNally, he's not going to be able to see anyone at least until tomorrow. Go home, get some sleep."

Andy shook her head. "Sorry, sir, but I'm not going anywhere."

Boyko waited, staring her down, until he finally relented. "Okay ... I'll rearrange some things on the schedule, give you tomorrow off." He moved to retrieve his own coffee, but stopped before he passed her, regarding her thoughtfully. "This wasn't your fault."

Andy looked away, continuing her pacing.

~ Sam, stay still, okay? Don't move," she urged, pressing down on the more severe wound of the two, trying to stop the bleeding. "Officer down!" she shouted up the stairs to the basement. She grabbed her radio, pressing the talk button. "Officer down! Send a bus to the location of the takedown!" she relayed to the officers upstairs, as well as the dispatcher.


The gunfire had finally ceased upstairs, and a couple more officers made their way down the steps.


"Get help!" she pleaded, not taking her hands off his wound. Chris ran back up the steps to make sure that the paramedics were on the way, while Oliver stayed with Andy and Sam.


"Come on, Sam," Andy spoke in a shaky voice, feeling a few tears leak down her face as she maintained eye contact with him. "Stay with me." ~

...

Andy moved from spot to spot in the waiting room, downing cup after cup of coffee. She ran over the events of the night in her mind, over and over, trying to understand it all. She told herself that she could have done something - anything - to stop him from being shot. She should have cleared under the stairs ... they were open at the back, she should have expected that he'd hide there.

Sam had gotten shot because of her - for her. She didn't think she could live with that, if anything happened to him.

~ The paramedics brought him up out of the basement, wheeling him towards the ambulance.


"I'm coming with him," Andy stated, moving with the gurney.


"Only family comes in the bus, Ma'am," the paramedic told her, as he and the other collapsed the wheels and lifted Sam into the ambulance.


Andy scoffed, jumping up into the ambulance. "I'm his fiancée."


They accepted her into the van, closing the doors and heading for the nearest hospital. They cleared away the rest of his clothing to get at his wounds, removing his watch when they attached an IV.


Andy took it from them, her hands shaking as she stared down at Sam. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his eyes trying to focus on her whenever he could. "It's ok, Sam. You're gonna be fine, okay? You're gonna be fine. Just stay with me, Sam."


When his eyes closed after that, they didn't open again. ~

Boyko had to leave around 6 in the morning to get home, shower, and take his kids to school, telling Andy to call him if she got any news about his condition.

Andy assured him that she would, standing up from her chair to get an update and refill her coffee cup.

She didn't hear anything until after 9 o'clock in the morning. A nurse made her way to the waiting room, singling Andy out. "You're Mr. Swarek's fiancée?"

Andy nodded, standing up. She fought the head rush that hit her when she stood up, blinking her eyes to fight the weariness that she felt. "What is it?"

"The doctor says you can go in and visit Mr. Swarek," she told Andy. "He's still unconscious, but the risk of infection is gone. You can stay in there with him as long as he's stable."

Andy nodded her thanks, following the nurse to his room. She clutched his watch in her hand, using it like an anchor. It was all that was keeping her grounded, all that was keeping her steady. Keeping her from drifting away and letting herself fall into the shell of emptiness that threatened to overtake her. She needed Sam to be okay.

Once the nurse brought her to the room, she gave her some privacy, telling her to let him get as much rest as possible.

Andy shifted in the middle of the room for a few moments, before she unsteadily took the seat next to his bed. She stared down at his face, taking in his closed eyes, and completely expressionless face. She took comfort in the fact that he didn't have a tube down his throat - he was breathing on his own.

She wanted to touch him - his hand, his forehead, his lips - but she didn't want to do something that might worsen his condition. She needed to be close to him, so she slid his watch onto her thin wrist, and then dug around in one of her pockets. With a shaky hand, she pulled out her engagement ring, holding back a whimper. She slid it onto its proper finger, feeling a momentary shiver rush through her body, before she lost the ability to compose herself. Andy dropped her head into her hands once more, the tears flowing freely from her eyes. Her body wracked with sobs, trying not to think about how she would go on without him.

"It's all my fault," she moaned out, crying into her hands. "All my fault."

After almost an hour, her exhausted body finally gave way to the pull of sleep, letting her drift into a deep state of unconsciousness, the pain in her heart filling her subconscious mind with dreadful imaginings.

...

Andy awoke to the sounds of a nurse shuffling around the room, checking his monitor and adjusting his IV. She sat up quickly in her seat, wiping her cheeks absently. "What's wrong?" she wondered, blinking her eyes quickly.

"Nothing's wrong, Ma'am," the nurse told her. "I'm just running a routine check."

"Has there been any change?" Andy wondered, hating herself for falling asleep.

The nurse shook her head. "Not really. His stats have remained mostly stable, so things are looking okay for now. But if you have any other questions, I can call his doctor for you."

Andy nodded her head, letting her know that she would find her if she needed anything. Her own head was throbbing, and after checking on Sam herself, she went to find a bathroom. Andy was still decked out in her gear from the previous night, having refused to go home and change.

After relieving her aching bladder, Andy moved to the sink to wash up. She took in her appearance with a wince, noticing her puffy eyes and disheveled hair. Sighing, she splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would wake her up a bit.

The ring on her finger caught her eye, and Andy was brought back to the night he'd proposed.

~ "What are we doing here?" Andy wondered as they made their way down an alleyway.


"You don't recognize this place?" Sam asked her. "But it holds such fond memories."


Andy glanced around, her mind searching for something familiar. "Wait, is this ...?"


"The very same alley where you tackled me, tried to kiss me?" he asked her with a grin. "Yep."


Andy rolled her eyes, grinning back. "Oh, please, I did not try to kiss you,” she reminded him through her grin. She couldn’t help but think back to that day with a smile on her face. “Wow ... that feels like ages ago." She glanced around, noticing that they were standing in about the same place where she'd knocked him to the ground. She fondly remembered searching him for weapons and drugs, her hands sliding over his buttocks as she checked his back pockets. Her smile widened at the memory. "So, why did you bring me back here?" She was almost dying with curiosity.


"Well ... I had a question I wanted to ask you," he told her, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he moved in a circle around her. "I tried thinking of the perfect place, and after a while, I realized that the place where we first met ... that would be pretty fitting. Shamelessly romantic, in a way," he added.


Andy narrowed her eyes at him, trying to figure out where he was going with this.


"So, here we are ... back where it all started. A lot has changed since then, yeah?" he asked her.


Andy nodded her head. "I'll say."


"I wouldn't change any of it," he told her. "Not a thing. I think everything worked out pretty damn perfectly."


Andy tilted her head at him, smiling and frowning at the same time. "What are you getting at here, Sam?"


He seemed to take a deep breath, and then pulled something out of his pocket. His hand hid most of it from her, and he kept it pressed against his pant leg. "I love you, Andy McNally. You know that, right?"


Andy smiled as she nodded her head. "Yeah, Sam. I love you, too."


A wide smile graced his features, and then he slowly slid to the ground, balancing on one knee.


"Oh, my god," Andy whispered, understanding the significance of the movement.


Sam took another deep breath, and then opened his mouth to speak. "I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone but you, McNally," he told her, smiling fondly. "I love you. Will you marry me?" Sam lifted the top of the box open, revealing a beautiful diamond ring.


Andy couldn't speak for a moment, her breath was completely taken away. Once she regained herself, she nodded her head swiftly, tears brimming in her eyes. "Yes! Of course I'll marry you!"


He stood quickly from the ground, pulling her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. Once he pulled away, he took the ring out of the box, sliding in onto her waiting hand.


Andy closed her eyes for a moment, basking in the sensations filling and surrounding her. When she opened them again, he was smiling down at her. She couldn't imagine ever being happier than she was at that very moment. ~

Andy opened her eyes once more, staring into her reflection in the mirror. She would give anything to feel that way again. She dried her hands and face, exiting the bathroom and then heading to the nearest vending machine. She got a bottle of water this time, trying to get some of the caffeine out of her system. She was shaky enough as it was.

...

Andy was vigilant at Sam's side, waiting patiently for him to wake up. Doctors and nurses came and went, checking his stats, changing his IV, and sometimes making small-talk with Andy. Sometimes they tried to tell her that she should go home, take a shower, try and get some rest, but she told them no every time. She wasn't leaving him ... she didn't want him to wake up, and not see her there beside him.

Around four o'clock that afternoon, she witnessed his eyelids move around a bit.

Andy sat up straight in her seat, her hand reaching out to grip the bed. "Sam?" she spoke, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

After almost another minute, the movement happened again, and this time she noticed the numbers on the monitor going up. She thought that meant his pulse and blood pressure were rising, but she wasn't entirely sure.

"Sam?" she asked again, this time a bit louder.

His eyes blinked a couple times, but then shut against the bright lights. His tongue poked out to wet his lips. "Andy?" he rasped, his throat dry and sore.

She let out a choked-off breath of relief, leaning forward in her seat, her hand coming up to rest on his arm. "I'm here," she told him.

Sam tried to speak again, but his throat was sore. "Water?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

Andy nodded her head, walking around the bed to fill up a cup with a pitcher of water the nurses had left there. She angled the straw so that he could drink it easier, her hand coming out to brush against his forehead while he drank.

After he finished half the cup, Sam pulled away from the straw. "Thanks," he told her in a slightly healthier-sounding voice.

Andy nodded, standing beside him. Her hand continued to caress his hairline, thanking her lucky stars that he'd finally woken up.

Sam worked harder to open his eyes, seeing her standing above him. He took in her outfit, his eyebrows furrowing. "What time is it?"

Andy glanced at his watch on her hand. "Quarter after four," she told him. "You've been unconscious for over a day."

"You haven't been home yet?" he asked.

Andy shook her head, her fingers moving through his hair. "Couldn't."

Sam sighed, enjoying the feeling of her hand in his hair. Really, he was happy to be feeling anything at that moment. "Well, I'm glad you're okay," he told her.

Andy pursed her lips at that, trying not to start crying again.

"What?" he asked her. "What's wrong."

She shook her head, pulling her hand away from his hair. "It's my fault you're in here," she told him. "If I'd checked the stairs first, he never would have ... I'm so sorry, Sam."

Sam clenched his jaw, staring up at her. When she tried to move away from the bed, his left arm came up to grab her wrist. "Don't," he told her forcefully. "This was not your fault. This was Anton Hill's fault. He's the one who shot me, not you. If I'd gone down first, I wouldn't have checked the stairs either."

Andy looked down at his hand on her wrist, not believing him at first.

"Don't blame yourself for what you can't control," he said. "What happened, happened. What matters is, we're here now. And I don't like it when you cry."

She looked up, meeting his eyes. She was shocked to find a tear falling onto his own cheek. Andy walked back to him, leaning down and kissing his lips.

He responded quickly, feeling both sorrow and elation in her kiss.

They pulled apart when a nurse came into the room. She paged the doctor when she saw that Sam was awake, and Andy stood back to let them do their jobs, checking on her husband-to-be.

Andy ran a hand through her hair, ever-thankful that he was going to be okay. She hoped that one day she would be able to stop thinking that she was to blame for him being shot. Even if she couldn't, she would spend every day loving him, and making sure that it didn't happen again.

...

Sam was released from the hospital almost two weeks later. He spent a couple months in rehab, getting his strength back and building his endurance back up. He went back to work two months before the wedding.

Andy smiled brightly as her father walked her down the aisle, barely believing that the day had finally come. They'd made it through everything so far, and they were still together. She saw him up at the altar, waiting for her with a broad smile on his own face. You wouldn't know by looking at him that only a few months ago, he'd been lying in a hospital bed, very near death. To see him so full of life now made Andy's heart skip a beat, feeling a rush of excitement.

She used to think that they had to live moment-to-moment ... just get through the night, get through the recovery, get through the rehab, get through the day without something bad happening. She didn't think that anymore. She would take whatever life gave her ... because at that moment, it gave her the most beautiful wedding ceremony, surrounded by her friends and family, about to marry the love of her life. She didn't want to get through life; she wanted to enjoy it.

Andy knew that with Sam by her side, she would.

Growing Old

Growing old? Not really looking forward to it. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t wait to be a little old lady, shuffling around with my walker, and whacking ‘those damn punks’ with my cane for walking around with their pants around their knees. There are certain things about growing old that I’m sure will be fun.

But there’s quite a few things that I enjoy about being young. To start with, there’s my eyesight: perfect vision in one eye, beyond perfect vision in the other eye. Not sure how that happens, but it’s pretty awesome. I’ve been told by family members that my eyes will probably get worse as I get older, as every member of my immediate family wears glasses. As it is right now, I stare at a computer and television screen virtually all day long, I read and write in the dark, and I don’t really exercise my eyes at all. So for now, I’m twenty years old, and I have perfect/beyond perfect eyesight. It would really suck to grow out of that.

Another thing that I love about being young, is my ability to stay up until 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning, wake up at 7 in the morning, and not be completely bogged all day. I was just discussing this with my mother, who went to bed at 8:30 pm, and she asked me how I do it. How I stay up all night and all day, and am not tired throughout the day. The obvious answer was that I’m thirty years younger than her. I’m a pretty big night owl, it is rare for me to go to bed before midnight. I love that. Wish I could do it for the rest of my life.

The ability to blare my music in my headphones: yes, this will probably result in some hearing loss when I’m older, but I absolutely hate quiet music. I don’t like straining my ears to hear something, I enjoy being surrounded by the sound. So, I blare my music. I love it. It sounds good to me. But, I’m sure that when I get older, I’ll be telling those young punks to turn down their ‘noise’. Sigh …

Writing: With all the writing, typing and cracking of my knuckles that I do, I just know that I'm going to get arthritis when I'm older. Not looking forward to that. I love typing fast. It's fun. I especially love the look on my brother's face when I stare at him while typing, 'cause he can't figure out how I can do it so fast without looking. Typing is fun. Yeah ... arthritis is gonna suck.

The list could go on forever … my endless supply of energy when playing with kids, my ability to down a case of pop in two days without intestinal complaint, etc. I enjoy being young. It’s fun.

I’m sure that when I’m all white-haired and wrinkled, and looking back on this, I’ll have a good chuckle. Maybe even a snort. I really hope that I still snort when I laugh when I’m old …

I Don't Date Cops

One of my sillier Rookie Blue fics. I usually don't write things from first-person narrative, but I couldn't resist for this one.



Here's the thing, I don't date cops. It's an actual rule that I have.

My mother married a cop, and while I wouldn't have been born otherwise, I saw how that relationship turned out … not good. I've also seen what happens to cops when they can't be cops anymore. I don't want that to be a part of my life.

So, I don't date cops. Now, it's not as though I've had the best track record with men in general, but there are moments of weakness, and then there are bad decisions. Moments of weakness I can deal with ... I have dealt with it. Life goes on.

Where was I? Oh, right ... I don't date cops.

This thing with Sam? It's not dating. It's just - it's two coworkers going out for drinks every other night. If we sometimes make a full meal out of it, that's just 'cause we're hungry. People gotta eat, right? We're not dating. I don't know why Traci thinks we are. We're not. Cops are supposed to get to know each other outside of work ... it helps build trust, and respect, and companionship ... all that. That's what we're doing. Trust, respect, companionship ... okay, maybe this isn't the right way to be explaining this.

See, Sam and me, we have an understanding. Okay, so neither one of us is dating anyone else, and we spend almost all of our time together. He's my training officer, and I respect him. I value his opinion. He's one of the strongest people that I know - that's why I asked him to help me move. 'Cause he's got good, strong muscles. Is it my fault that he decided to parade around without a shirt the whole day? Okay, well, yeah ... the sun was pretty hot. I stripped down a few layers myself.

But it wasn't a problem. Since we're not dating, we can be around each other half-naked without jumping each other's bones. Not that we would want to ... I mean, okay, so sometimes we have these inside jokes, and they verge on the border of inappropriate. So we make innuendos and such ... it's just joking. Nothing serious about it. Lots of partners do stuff like that to pass the time.

I mean, we do other stuff to pass the time as well. We talk about our families, and growing up, and our parents. We've played "what's your favorite", "would you rather", and "I never", and all those things. Sometimes we even have thumb wars. Maybe those games are a bit childish, but when you're stuck on surveillance duty, or waiting in traffic, there's not much else to do. And, yeah ... so the last time we had a thumb war, are thumbs weren't exactly going after each other ... but sometimes you get distracted, you know? We were not holding hands ... we were just ... resting.

You know, this job takes a lot out of you. You don't always have time to make plans, and get all gussied up. You don't always have time to set up dates, and keep them. That's what's great about Sam ... I don't have to slather my face with makeup and find the perfect outfit to hang out with him. Usually we just go straight from the division to wherever it is that we're going. ... Not that he takes me out, or anything. I mean, yeah, he does the driving, but that's just because I don't have a car.

I mean, if I ever were going to date a cop, Sam would probably be at the top of the list. Not that I'm saying I am dating him ... I'm not. I don't date cops ... haven't we gone over this? But, from a logical standpoint, Sam would be a good boyfriend. He's caring, respectful, funny, intelligent, brave, strong ... where were we?

Oh, right ... okay, I'm done explaining this. You can believe me, or not. But I know the truth. Sam and me, not a couple. We're a partnership. That's all. Seriously.

I don't date cops!

She's My Purpose

One of my Rookie Blue fics, written last month. Tweaked a little bit, but didn't change too much.

There wasn't a single day that went by, that Sam didn't think about his big sister. She was - after all - the reason he'd become a cop.

He had struggled with what had happened to her for most of his adult life. He often wondered if there had been something he could have done to stop it from happening. He'd been so young then ... there wasn't really anything he could have done. Maybe if he’d been just a little bit older. He hadn't even really understood what it meant then. To him, it just meant that his sister was sad all the time, and he didn't know how to make it better.

But, he'd figured it out eventually. For the longest time, he'd wanted nothing more than to beat the living hell out of every single one of the guys who'd done such things to her.

After he left the angst and anger of his teenage life behind, he'd been faced with a choice. The only thing he'd ever wanted to do was stop those horrible things from ever happening to his sister, or other girls like her. For the briefest of moments, he'd considered becoming a vigilante, and dealing out his own justice to the vermin that roamed the streets. But, eventually, his sister had changed his mind. She'd made him realize that what he really wanted - the only thing that kept him going - was just to protect her.

So, he became a cop. He became a protector of all the young women on the streets of the dangerous city, pledging to himself that he would do whatever it took to make the world a safer place for them.

He'd often wished that he'd been the older one. He wished that he'd been bigger and stronger, and could have done something to save her that night. He wished that their roles could have been reversed, because if they had, she never would have been walking home alone, and he never would have let those scumbags near her.

Some days were easier than others, some were harder. He smiled when he talked to her on the phone, and she told him something good that she'd done that day. Those days made him happy. But he also cried when he had to hang up the phone, because she was too distraught to talk to her little brother.

She used to be so full of life, she used to be such a happy child. Now, she was barely a shell of the carefree girl he used to know. He wanted her back ... he'd been wanting her back for most of his life.

He knew that he couldn't fix her with a snap of his fingers, he knew that he couldn't take away the scars and pain from that dreadful night so long ago. So, he did the only thing he could do. He put on that badge, he holstered that gun, and he roamed those streets every day, constantly praying that another innocent girl didn't get traumatized on his watch.

He was a cop, through and through. It was his life ... but more than that, it was his mission. His purpose. It was the only thing that he knew made a different in people's lives. It was who he was.

Lessons In Hugging

This is one of my old Supernatural fanfics, previously posted on fanfiction.net. It's been tweaked a bit, after I decided to post it here.

When Sam Winchester walked into the small motel room, and saw his big brother’s arms around the slightly-shorter angel’s body, he didn’t know what to think. Many scenarios ran through his reeling mind. The foremost, of course, being that Dean and Castiel had a relationship that not even Sam understood. They seemed to get each other on a level that no one else did, and often had entire conversations without speaking a word. Sam thought about all the too-long looks that the two shared, and all the times that Castiel invaded Dean’s personal space. He thought back to when they’d first become aware of the angel, and how he would only appear when Sam wasn’t around; would only communicate with Dean.

Sam thought about the other angels sending Castiel back to heaven to “re-indoctrinate” him, because of his growing affection for Dean. He thought about Castiel telling Dean in the hospital that he had killed two of his ‘brothers’, rebelled from heaven … all for him.

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, watching Castiel slowly raise his hands up to hold onto Dean’s back, and his mind went over all the more-intimate interaction the two had shared - the ones that he was aware of.

Really, he supposed, I shouldn’t be that surprised. After all the people who assumed Dean and I were gay … and how I mentioned that they probably thought he was overcompensating for something? Maybe he was. I hope he’s not worried about me freaking out about it. I wasn’t supposed to be back for another fifteen minutes, anyway. Oh, man, he probably thinks he has to hide it from me. Dammit, we’re brothers … he should know he can tell me anything, and I would accept him just the way he was. And falling for an angel? A completely holy, and pure being …? I mean, it gives a whole new meaning to opposites attract. But Cas would be good for him … bring him back from everything that happened to him in hell.

Sam sighed internally, looking at the two with fond eyes. They really did look good together. He opened his mouth to speak, to let them know that he was there, and that they didn’t have to stop on his account. He could watch TV, or listen to some music … maybe even leave the room for a bit, if they wanted some alone time. Before he got the chance, however, the two broke apart, and Dean spoke.

“Okay, so that’s a hug,” he told the angel. “Simple, short … you don’t have to do it to everyone you meet. But, it’s a little more personal than a handshake. Does that help you understand it more?”

Castiel nodded, dropping his own hands away from the hunter, and taking a half-step backwards. “Yes, it does. Thank you for assisting me with that. I was merely curious.”

Dean shrugged, turning back to his forgotten sandwich as he flopped down on the bed again. “No sweat.”

Sam blinked, surprise settling within him as he gained a new perspective of the scene before him.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean greeted, when he noticed his little brother. “Did you get the pie?”

Sam held up the bag after a moment, speechless. Well … okay then. So, I may have misjudged that a little bit.