counter violence

theotherarmorer  asked:

Let me get this straight. You don't see an issue in using violence to counter an opposing viewpoint. You advocate people concealing their identities during your protests. And it's all deemed acceptable because you name your opposition fascists.

The only sentence you got right was “let me get this straight.”  Oh, wait, you didn’t use a colon to end that sentence, so that one wasn’t right, either!

1) Advocating for and organizing for racist genocide isn’t an “opposing viewpoint.”  It’s not even a valid opinion.  It’s a historically & scientifically-discredited belief that is common to the beginning of every genocide in human history.  

2) We don’t advocate for people concealing their identities during protests.  We advocate for people to take reasonable precautions to protect themselves and their families, which for some people includes concealing their identities. This is because we’re countering fascists - people whose belief system tells them that violence is the preferred way to do politics.  Otherwise, we know fascists will dox, harass, threaten, and murder us.  Just today, a 16-year-old Girl Scout who stood with an anti-racist banner has had to seek police protection because of the death/rape threats she’s received from the fascists she stood up to.

We’d be willing to bet cash money that you have never, ever written to the KKK to criticize them on the same point.  You’ll give an actual terrorist group that’s murdered thousands a free pass for concealing their identity, yet you get all apoplectic when people opposing violent, racist scum conceal their identities.   

3)  Yeah, it’s acceptable to oppose and confront fascists and fascism by any means necessary, because that’s what it takes to keep our communities safe.  We’ve have nearly a century of evidence to show what happens when you don’t oppose fascists.   

You know, theotherarmorer, it’s fucking hilarious that you’re writing to us on Victory Day - the day we mark the military victory over fascism in WW2.  Maybe you’ve heard about that war?  The fascist war that claimed the lives of over 50 million people?  This is the day you decide to claim that using violence to stop fascism isn’t acceptable?  Were you trying to be ironic or did you just get lucky with the date today?

If you think that fascism = “an opposing viewpoint” and shouldn’t be met with violence, go pick on some WW2 vets. Or Holocaust survivors.

yamchef  asked:

I agree with your goals and message 100% but please stop saying "X" is violence. it weakens your argument because it is incorrect. almost every instance of it that you describe is oppression. oppression and violence are countered differently. the man nickel and dimeing disabled people at every corner is oppression and has to be fought legally and politically. clear concise, and accurate arguments resist the oppressor more effectively than anger because it equalizes the opposing people.

Oppression is violence, you absolute fuck.

Not sweet Enough

Here is a little something I wrote for Hiromi of @house-of-hiromi and his vampire Kanato! Hope you enjoy this!

Fandom: Diabolik Lovers (belongs to Rejet)
Characters: Kanato Sakamaki X Hiromi Itami (I ship sooooo much!!)
Word Count: 2373 (according to word counter)
Warning: Slight violence and blood drinking. 
Summary: My version of the first meeting between Kanato and Hiromi as well as the first time Kanato drank Hiromi’s blood and discovered the after effects of it. 

The boy wasn’t anything special to look at, but the energy coming off of him was a clear indication to Kanato’s instincts that there was nothing human about him. The almost complete lack of scent coming from him was unsettling and it made the vampire itch to see if his blood would be just as tasteless. He glared at the boy, still furious about him coming into their home and thinking he could kill them, well at the very least the boy looked cute.

His view of the blue haired male was suddenly blocked by the female non-human, who happened to be glaring daggers at him. Kanato glared right back at her, the two entering in a silenced glaring match. Who the hell did she think she was to get in the way like that?! She wasn’t as cute as the boy and her lack of smell was irritation him more than the other.

Annoyed at her stupid eyes, Kanato dropped his glance towards Teddy, deciding he was a much better thing to look at. In the corner of his eyes he got a glimpse of Laito giving the two non-humans a face that screamed ‘I’m horny’, disgusting. Why wasn’t stupid Reiji letting them get rid of those things already?! How long did he think, he was going to make them stay all in the same room much longer?!

The next time he looked back at the offending things in the other end of the room, his eyes twitched in disgust and annoyance. That damn pink haired girl was hugging the smaller male, extremely tightly to her own body, glaring at anyone who made the slightest movement.

The whole thing was annoying and all Kanato wanted to do was kill those things and move one with his day. This waiting around thing was really stupid. Reiji left them here so he could go make some call, leaving the remaining vampires to babysit. Subaru was in his corner glaring at the two, Ayato was saying stupid prideful things like usual and of course Shu was sleeping in the back not caring one bit. Laito was simply looking at the two things with that weird smile of his. 

Kanato was past his limit on the whole waiting thing and that boy had the audacity to look directly in Teddy’s direction and smiling a tiny bit. Granted when his mouth lifted into that tiny smile it made the boy look even cuter, but he still had no right to look towards Teddy or himself! Such a disrespectful person needs to be punished and taught a lesson.  

Setting Teddy nicely onto the nearest chair, Kanato made his way towards the blue haired boy, briefly spotting his companion laughing at whatever Laito had just said, who looked very much surprised at her reaction. Purple eyes moved back to the object of his irritation, only to be met with a nice mix of blue and grey eyes staring right back at him, like they knew what Kanato wanted to do and were challenging him to try and do so.

Unsure of how strong or agile his prey could be, Kanato had to make a quick decision on how to make sure the struggle would be to the minimum. Swiftly the vampire grabbed onto the other boy’s shoulder and quickly kicked his legs from under him, making the two of them fall to the ground with Kanato on top. He vaguely heard a name being shouted that wasn’t his, but the purple haired was too concentrated on his prey to pay much attention. Said prey was wiggling trying to break free from the vampire’s grasp, but before he could do much Kanato leaned in took a small sniff of his scent, before sinking his fangs deep into the boy’s pale neck.

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anonymous asked:

murasakibara, kasamatsu, akashi, hanamiya, imayoshi, and miyaji meeting their gf's abusive (mental or physical) ex and going into protective mode.

i’ve already tagged this appropriately, but please don’t read if you are triggered by relationship abuse.

KASAMATSU: This asshole had made you have trust issues, made it so hard for you to get close to anyone again. The fact that he thought he had any right to do that made Kasamatsu wanna wipe the floor with him right there. But then he realized as he squeezed your hand in assurance, that this wasn’t what you wanted. Kasamatsu wasn’t going to use violence to counter past violence. “Get out of our way.” He says coldly to your ex, and pushes past him.

IMAYOSHI: As he listens to your ex apologize profusely for his past sins, he can’t help but wanna end the douchebag’s miserable life. He glances down at you, wondering if you were gonna forgive him like the angel you were. Instead, he’s surprised to see you step forward with a look of fiery determination in your eyes. “I don’t forgive you.” You say. “I have someone now who’s taught me to be strong. I don’t need you anymore.” Imayoshi listens to this with a smirk on his face.

MIYAJI: He remembers already getting mad when he heard stories about your ex, but now he’s pulsating with anger. The man in front of him had done all those things to you, and was talking to you as if everything was normal again. “Get the hell away from us– from her!” Miyaji’s got ahold of the guy’s collar in a second, stepping dangerously into his space. He doesn’t need to do much more to get his message across, because your ex’s eyes are wide with fear.

MURASAKIBARA: When your ex sees you again and tries to approach, Mura immediately forms a barrier between you two. Your ex stares up at the huge man, feeling his palms get clammy at the sight. “____-chin, this is the guy who hurt you?” He asks so casually, as if asking about the weather. You nod slowly, unable to look your ex in the eyes. Mura wants to grab him by the throat and throw him, but he can’t be too hasty. “What do you want me to do to him?”

AKASHI: He knew all about your mental trauma at this man’s hands. The last thing you expected Akashi to do was to start laughing. Your ex is taken aback and gets into a defensive stance when Akashi comes towards him. But Akashi’s plan wasn’t anything physical; it’d be something much more torturous. “I know about your family, your job, everything.” He whispers ominously into his ear. “And if you come back for ____ ever again, I’ll destroy it all.”

HANAMIYA: In the past, when he wanted to find the fucker and ruin him, you had always stopped him. It seems like there was no need to find him now. His eyes are going deranged with fury. Hanamiya doesn’t waste any time and goes straight for a punch in the face. As the other man staggers back, Hanamiya doesn’t let up and continues with a barrage of attacks. You knew he was hurting your ex, but remembering how many scars he had given you, you can’t stop Hanamiya.

A New Storm Against Imperialism” by Chairman Mao Tse-tung (April 16, 1968)

Some days ago, Martin Luther King, the Afro-American clergyman, was suddenly assassinated by the U.S. imperialists. Martin Luther King was an exponent of nonviolence. Nevertheless, the U.S. imperialists did not on that account show any tolerance toward him, but used counter-revolutionary violence and killed him in cold blood. This has taught the broad masses of the Black people in the United States a profound lesson. It has touched off a new storm in their struggle against violent repression sweeping well over a hundred cities in the United States, a storm such as has never taken place before in the history of that country. It shows that an extremely powerful revolutionary force is latent in the more than twenty million Black Americans.

The storm of Afro-American struggle taking place within the United States is a striking manifestation of the comprehensive political and economic crisis now gripping U.S. imperialism. It is dealing a telling blow to U.S. imperialism, which is beset with difficulties at home and abroad.

The Afro-American struggle is not only a struggle waged by the exploited and oppressed Black people for freedom and emancipation, it is also a new clarion call to all the exploited and oppressed people of the United States to fight against the barbarous rule of the monopoly capitalist class. It is a tremendous aid and inspiration to the struggle of the people throughout the world against U.S. imperialism and to the struggle of the Vietnamese people against U.S. imperialism. On behalf of the Chinese people, I hereby express resolute support for the just struggle of the Black people in the United States.

Racial discrimination in the United States is a product of the colonialist and imperialist system. The contradiction between the Black masses in the United States and the U.S. ruling circles is a class contradiction. Only by overthrowing the reactionary rule of the U.S. monopoly capitalist class and destroying the colonialist and imperialist system can the Black people in the United States win complete emancipation. The Black masses and the masses of white working people in the United States have common interests and common objectives to struggle for. Therefore, the Afro-American struggle is winning sympathy and support from increasing numbers of white working people and progessives in the United States. The struggle of the Black people in the United States is bound to merge with the American workers’ movement, and this will eventually end the criminal rule of the U.S. monopoly capitalist class.

In 1963, in the “Statement Supporting the Afro-Americans in Their Just Struggle Against Racial Discrimination by U.S. Imperialism,” I said that the “the evil system of colonialism and imperialism arose and throve with the enslavement of Negroes and the trade in Negroes, and it will surely come to its end with the complete emancipation of the Black people.” I still maintain this view.

At present, the world revolution has entered a great new era. The struggle of the Black people in the United States for emancipation is a component part of the general struggle of al the people of the world against U.S. imperialism, a component part of the contemporary world revolution. I call on the workers, peasants, and revolutionary intellectuals of all countries and all who are willing to fight against U.S. imperialism to take action and extend strong support to the struggle of the Black people in the United States! People of the whole world, unite still more closely and launch a sustained and vigorous offensive against our common enemy, U.S. imperialism, and its accomplices! It can be said with certainty that the complete collapse of colonialism, imperialism, and all systems of exploitation, and the complete emancipation of all the oppressed peoples and nations of the world are not far off.

Faced with the violent denial of his humanity by the settler, the native’s violence began as a counter to violence. It even seemed more like the affirmation of the native’s humanity than the brutal extinction of life that it came to be. When the native killed the settler, it was violence by yesterday’s victims. More of a culmination of anticolonial resistance than a direct assault on life and freedom
—  Mahmood, Mamdani. “When Victims Become Killers : Colonialism, Nativism, and the Genocide in Rwanda.”

Sakurai Takahiro’s THE DARK ROAD – Teenage Sakurai Dark Stories

*Warning: Seiyuu are people. If you think that they are perfect even from the day they were born, you better don’t read this. Thank you*

———

When he was in grade school, he played with daytime firework (「昼花火」– hiru hanabi ) and – accidental or not we never know– burn down the field where he played. He fled because the fire spread, then pretended to be the first person that discover the fire. There was a fuss, but Sakurai acted so surprised and said “Its still noon, so its difficult to see the fire”

———

He burned the chemistry lab school desk with alcohol and then got kicked out from the Science club in Junior High school.

———

At his teens, Sakurai often went with his ‘not so good’ friend to camp deep inside Gifu’s mountain range by car, while bring the missile and rocket firework – they fired and shot the other camp nearby, also bombarded the person who go to toilet with missiles. 

———

Ran Away – Realizing that the fuel inside their car wasn’t enough to go home, he stole the gasoline from other car nearby and put it in their car. 

———

At Koganei City drug store, he purposely kicked the canned food display rack in the front store. He then proceed to hide at nearby building until the fuss gone. 

———

He stole vegetable from unguarded farm. Not specify how many times.

———

At his first part time job at izakaya (Japanese bar) he used the beer jug to hit one of the customer’s neck and got fired after that.

———

On his part time job as insect terminator, he was so disgusted by the sight of actual worms… and quit after one day (he ran away)

———

There was tenant who moved from his apartment building, Sakurai attempted to steal TV from the mover’s truck and got caught by the neighbor’s aunty. 

———

When he was a student, he threw his porn magazine out from train’s window. Panic occurred and the train was stopped after that. 

———

At Atami. He ordered chocolate ice cream while his companion wanted vanilla. The waitress then repeated the order, “So, its two vanilla right?” Sakurai straight away stormed out, glared at the waitress then kicked the front counter! Again and again…. thats the way he used to complain.

Funny story, now whenever Sakurai looks upset, his close friends will teased him with “Sakurai, please don’t kick the counter~”

———

Pyromania. Lying. Stealing. Violence. Attempted Crime. Irresponsible. And very very short temper….

All that he used to be, gone with time, grow up and became an amazing person that a lot of people love, respect and adore. 

13/06/14. Happy 40th Birthday, Sakurai san, all the best for you :)

youtube

Sara Flounders on the U.S. role in fascist violence against Venezuela

RT interviews Sara Flounders, co-director of the International Action Center.

She arrived in my life as a summer storm after sunset.  The electricity was beautiful and powerful; yet, the rain countered the violence with a soothing comfort and cooling effect.  When the clouds would clear, the air was clean and calm.  But, I would always look forward to the next day’s storm.  Although a calm and quiet night is good every once and a while, the volatility of a storm is welcome to appreciate its very nature.  She is my storm that I await to thunder over the horizon each day.

Members of the Red Warriors, an antifascist gang in France, 1985. Red Warriors used violent force to remove Neo Nazi gangs from France and provide safe spaces for immigrants during the rise of white nationalism and an outbreak of violent crime against people of colour. They formed a squat called “L.U.S.I.N.E” and were consideredthe most effective gang to counter nazi violence, working to instill fear in their opposition.

The Stonewall Riots

Here’s a belated piece for you: some history about the Stonewall Riots. 

There’s no queer history unit in the typical U.S. history class. Yet each June cities across the U.S. celebrate Pride and, perhaps unbeknownst to them, the anniversary of nearly a week’s worth of rioting in downtown Manhattan. 

Without our history to provide context for our movement, we have no way to understand how far we’ve come, how far we’ve yet to go, or why we’re wearing a rainbow cape and tiara in public. With that in mind, let’s explore the symbolic beginning of the struggle for queer rights in the United States. 

  • -The Stonewall uprising (or Stonewall riots) is considered the birth of the LGBT rights movement, but it wasn’t the first or only queer uprising in American history. Three years earlier in August 1966 queers in San Francisco rose up, fighting against police in an incident called the Compton’s Cafeteria riots. Susan Stryker has since made a film about the uprising, 2005’s “Screaming Queens.”

  • - The Stonewall Inn is a bar and club in New York City’s Greenwich village. In June of 1969 same-sex activity was still illegal in New York state, and the Stonewall was a notorious hangout for homeless queer youth, drag kings and queens, trans folks, gays, lesbians and queers of all stripes. 

  • - Police entered the bar on the night of June 27, trying to shut it down for serving alcohol without a license. Several other gay bars in the neighborhood were recently closed for similar reasons —  liquor licenses could be suspended for any illegal (read: queer) activity happening inside the bar.

  • - Authorities rounded up those without IDs, bar employees, and anyone whose gender marker on their ID didn’t match their gender presentation. A crowd of hundreds gathered outside the bar to heckle police as they loaded people into police vans. The Stonewall patrons resisted. Punching, kicking — some people escaped from the police van into the crowd. The crowd began joining in, throwing coins, bottles and trash at officers.

  • -Violence broke out. The police retreated inside Stonewall. The crowd began full-on rioting in the streets. A trashcan went through the front window of the Stonewall, shattering it. It was followed by lighter fluid and lit matches. One of the fires caught. A loose parking meter was torn from the ground as some rioters began using it as a battering ram against the now-barricaded door of the Stoneall Inn, trying to get to police. 

  • -Police called in a riot squad. Authorities chased the crowd;  the crowd chased back. A Rockette-style kick-line was formed by drag queens, singing and mocking the oncoming formation of riot police. This wasn’t an easily-scared group of queers succumbing to police brutality —that night and for the next five days, queers fought back. 

  • -Storme DeLarverie, who passed away this May, is the lesbian/drag king credited with throwing the first punch, and whose subsequent assault by police might’ve sparked the counter-violence from the crowd gathered outside the bar.

  • -Trans activist and co-founder of Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (STAR) Marsha P. Johnson is credited with throwing the first bottle at the raiding police officers. STAR was founded shortly after the Stonewall uprising, and Johnson and fellow trans activist Sylvia Rivera advocated for and provided shelter to homeless queer and gender non-conforming youth. The momentum groups like this created following Stonewall are what kept the LGBT rights movement thriving.

  • -The first Pride parade was held in New York City the following year in June of 1970, not as a pride parade but as an anniversary celebration of the Stonewall uprising. June has remained Pride month ever since. 

As both a citation for this piece and recommendation for further reading, see Martin Duberman’s “Stonewall.”

Sans Evidence Master Post

This is a huge master post containing tons of lines of dialogue and all the proof and my logical interpretations of Sans. Here is the TL;DR.
Sans is highly hinted at as being in a costume. He eats food that  he can drink through the immobile teeth in his mask,  eating more than monsters, he is always tired and sleepy, he can teleport, use magic, and has advanced powers, he may emit slime, he knows about humans, he once lived in a place different from the current surface world and gave up using the broken machine to go back, he is linked to science and some organization that monitors and protects timelines, he knows things only someone that has lived in human societies would know, he lacks any determination, he doesn’t have a visible human soul, he is trained to investigate and perceive timeline related changes and alternate universes despite not being able to save or reset or remember resets.  Sans also has a connection to Gaster, and knows about determination.

He isn’t a skeleton, he isn’t a normal monster, and he isn’t a normal human. 

want to know more or want evidence because youve got a bone to pick with my interpretations? read below!

Keep reading

7

Some of my favorite Ryan Ross Fever-era makeup looks, c. 2005-2006

The dogged effort to “denaturalize” gender in this text emerges, I think, from a strong desire both to counter the normative violence implied by ideal morphologies of sex and to uproot the pervasive assumptions about natural or presumptive heterosexuality that are informed by ordinary and academic discourses on sexuality. The writing of this denaturalization was not done simply out of a desire to play with language or prescribe theatrical antics in the place of “real” politics, as some critics have conjectured (as if theatre and politics are always distinct). It was done from a desire to live, to make life possible, and to rethink the possible as such.

Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity [emphasis mine]

I didn’t re-read Gender Trouble for this week because I’ve made a commitment to myself not to re-read Gender Trouble unless absolutely necessary, i.e. for work I’m being paid for, for the sake of my health. I do think Gender Trouble is relevant here, though, and that this passage is helpful in thinking about the theatrical aspect of Panic and the gender politics at play there. Like, this is a really misogynist band with a really gender-non-conforming live show. How do we reconcile that?

I’m not saying that Ryan Ross’s Fever-era makeup is, like, political, but it’s not not. One of the things that stood out to the casual observer/casual detractor about early Panic was the gender play at work, the pushing of the boundaries of sexuality (see: Ryden) and sex/gender itself. When asked, Panic (and Ryan especially, who made the artistic calls for the most part) were fairly nonchalant/defensive about their use of makeup, Spencer asking, “If you liked the album before we had makeup on, why would it suddenly become worse?”

Makeup isn’t neutral ground, though, and to my mind it actually complicates and enhances a (you guessed it) misogynist album. That’s not to say it makes Fever or Panic in general not sexist, just that it complicates it, a bit, asks us to look a bit more closely at what’s going on here, what kind of performance.


Gender is always performance, but theatre offers a space where the performative work of gender is more obviously performative, its rigid structures and directives thus easier to work around. As Butler reminds us, theatre and politics are not always distinct, and the practice of “theatrical antics,” (meaning, of course, any kind of pushing of gendered boundaries, any questioning of the presumed naturalism of gender) may be politics in and of itself. When Butler says gender is performative, she does not mean gender is a costume one may don at will–every action is gendered performance, everything we do continually constructs gender and reifies or questions gender as a system of being.

Gender is not a costume, but costume is always gender. Costuming imposes a gendered reading onto the wearer of the costume even when that costume is off. An un-made-up Ryan Ross still calls to mind a made-up one; Ryan Ross makeup tutorials are passed around Panic fandom to this day. It’s no accident that our lovely editor, a self-confessed non-Panic-fan chose an image of a made-up Panic to begin this week. (Thanks Hendrik.) The costuming becomes essential to the thing’s being.

Eventually, Ryan and the rest of the band stopped wearing makeup, and the stage shows took a turn for the floral idyllics of Pretty. Odd., but the image of an 18 year old Ryan painting a tree on his face sticks as an image-sign, recalling a particular way of doing gender that, while not unique to Panic, certainly they took farther than perhaps any other band in this scene. Notably, Jon, a former sound tech for The Academy Is… and member of 504 plan, initially refused to wear eyeliner when he joined the band after Brent’s exit.

But, well. We know how that went.

anonymous asked:

R u pro-sjw

ohhh buddy im not just pro-sjw, im far more sinister 

in between running this blog i spend my free time puppet mastering the gaming industry, oppressing the gamer by putting clothes on female characters and other such devious plots, as us SJWs are psychic vampires that feed on the pain of the innocent gamers and anti-sjs. on weekends me and my gay communist witch cult journey into the mountains and leave sacrifices for our Goddess, Mother Discourse, in whose name we fight,

Through An Iron Door

Sam imagine requested by anon! “i’d like to read a Sam imagine where he’s in demon blood detox and is a mess and keeps calling your name so Dean calls you (you’re away hunting or sth) and you come back and you being there with him calms him down and omfg the feels” This imagine has been edited for reposting to add detail. This is the first installment of a series you all seemed to enjoy, which will be continued at a later date. Hope you like it!

Your breath collected as particles on the dull, inky metal of your pistol, condensating to form a physical representation of the time you had spent nestled into your secluded corner, your body all but sheathed in shadow, moonlight illuminating the rain on the pavement. Your fingers, moving with a practiced and patient caution, inched towards the safety beside the trigger, moving next to pull the hammer into place. Your body jolted at the sound of the mechanical click, your fingertips electrified as adrenaline coursed warmly through your veins. A silver bullet was lodged within the barrel, itching to lodge in the still beating heart of the feral werewolf you had locked between your cross-hairs. Your sources had been right; this unassuming back alley, strewn with garbage cascading from overflowing dumpsters and stained with oily residue was a recurring hot-spot for your violent friend. You had been waiting for hours, researching for days, and hearing of the grisly murders for over a month. By the time your interest was spiked, the body count was well over five, all of them turning up within five miles of your current location, their chests open to the ever-present autumn rain, collecting gruesome puddles where their hearts should have been. The asphalt beneath your feet was newly laid and damn near glossy beneath the falling mist, water seeping through the leather of your shoes to sock into your socks, numbing your toes within an hour. You had been waiting three hours beneath the milky light of the full moon before your target bolted into the frame, teeth bared, hostile expression turned to face the moon. There was blood on her lips, staining her hand, streams forming as the thick liquid met the purity of the rainwater and ran freely down her neck. There was no mistaking her.

You exhaled slowly, silently, focusing your aim on the edge of her shoulder blade, beyond which laid her heart. The murky lamplight touched on her skin, setting her hair ablaze with dirty yellow light. You ignored her human features and adjusted your crouch, your finger ghosting to hover over the trigger, the wolf still blissfully oblivious to your presence, the timid wind blowing towards you to shield your scent. You took solace in the fact that she wouldn’t see the attack coming, and the town would be at peace with as little counter-violence as was possible. Your index finger began to squeeze, your eye squinting instinctively in preparation for the eager buck of your firearm as the silver bullet shot towards the werewolf’s heart, your own organ hammering against bone, pumping blood against your temples like a drum.

Of course, your flawless kill was ruined by the ringing of your cell phone, your eyes following the monster, wordless, as she fled from her feeding site. You stood, but didn’t even bother firing a shot. She was gone before you had time to react. You huffed in exasperation, your nerves alive with cautious fear, locking your weapon before tucking it into your jacket. Your eyes skimmed the buildings around you, watching for movement as you retrieved your phone from the pocket of your jeans, the water on your hands loosening the security of your grip. You could always gank her tomorrow night, you reminded yourself, it’d just be a whole Hell of a lot harder to shoot her in her human form without being crushed by guilt. You glanced quickly at the dewy surface of your screen, praying to every god you could think of that your target didn’t muster the nerve to return and go for your throat while you were distracted. Dean’s name glowed brightly through the night, casting blue-toned shadows against the brick you were leaning against. You rolled your eyes, swiping across the rain-slick screen, the drizzle growing heavier by the minute. You raised the phone to your ear, slipping back to the ground, your back pressed against decaying brick, your shoulder packed into the corner of a rusting dumpster.

“Dean, you know I’m on a hun-” you spat, your quiet voice stern even without the volume usually associated with your tone, your pulse blocking out nearly all other noise. Dean’s frantic, strained voice cut you off before you could complete your exasperated explanation, his urgency shocking you before his words could seep into your skin.

“I’m at Bobby’s. Get over here right now,” he commanded, his voice leaking panic faster than the faucet in your motel bathroom. Cries for help crackled in the background of his call, tugging your heart up from its protective cage and against the walls of your throat. You peered around the corner of the frigid metal trash receptacle, deciding yourself to be safe enough to reply. If she wasn’t back by now, she wasn’t planning on returning. She was likely half way to North Dakota by now. Nothing clears a room like a hunter.

“Dean, if this isn’t important, it has to wait. I’m a bit tied up at the moment. I’m hours outside of Sioux Falls-” you whispered, your volume growing as you shed the veil of caution.

“Y/n, you know I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent. It’s Sammy. We need you here right now, and I mean right now,” another cry pierced the receiver. Your cheeks burned warmly, your ears ringing mutely as you recognized just who was vocalizing such tangible agony. “God damn it, Y/n, I don’t care what you’re hunting. Let it walk and shag ass to Sioux Falls. Now.” The phone line went dead in your hands, your boyfriend’s name ringing in your ears like funeral bells. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, they tolled, singing a dirge to accompany his death. You threw stealth to the wind, scrambling on cold-numbed feet to bolt for your stolen clunker of a car, your blood running cold through your veins, you mind blank aside from the single thought of his name. You drove recklessly, uncaring and unattached, your spirit floating somewhere above your body, your knuckles white against the torn leather wrapped around your steering wheel.

You flung the door open rather unceremoniously, your keys still stuck in the lock, barging into Bobby Singer’s kitchen without introduction, finding both the homeowner and your boyfriend’s brother sat with their head in their hands, a toppled bottle that once held whiskey between them dripping it’s very last drops of golden liquid to the scuffed hardwood flooring. At your entrance, they animated, Dean’s hand stopping en route to his pistol, recognizing your face and the lack of a threat that accompanied you. He moved to stand, his hands in his front pockets, his eyes bruised beneath by dark bags, illustrating his sleepless nights. Bobby didn’t move, his focus returning to the bottle atop his table, his calloused fingers prodding the neck until the container spun. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but before he could begin to explain the circumstances that caused him to pardon a werewolf, a glass-shattering wail erupting from beneath you. Dean flinched visibly. Bobby’s head fell into his hands, his body hunched forward in painful defeat. You recognized the screams from Dean’s panicked call, which you had assumed were the cause of an attack, thinking Sam had been injured on a hunt… but he was nowhere in sight. His shouts were punctuated with the ringing flavour you knew too well, listening in shock to the sound of Sam’s screams reverberating off of the thick iron walls of the panic room. You heard banging, fists colliding fearlessly with the unforgiving metal walls, your name splitting the stagnant, heavy air every few seconds. Your breath rushed from your lungs, your body swaying with uncertain balance, your head swimming with heat and with water.

Dean’s eyes were glassy both from drink as well as from emotion, but Bobby’s eyes remained clear when he finally turned to face you, his experience with handling obscene amounts of liquor helping him maintain clarity. It was Bobby who addressed you, hauling your otherwise unresponsive mind from the depths you had retreated to to avoid acknowledging the tormented wails from beneath your feet.

“You know what this is about, girl?” he grumbled, his eyes peeling you apart, dissecting you, searching for an answer you didn’t know. Fatigue and emotional strain painted his otherwise otherwise steely expression, gouging his wrinkles deeper into his skin, etching his forehead with helpless worry. You shook your head quickly, your vision splotching from the sudden movement, blood racing to burn against your skin.

“Why is Sam in the panic room? What happened to him?” you breathed, panting from your mad dash to the doorway, your breath further crushed from your lungs by the endless string of agonized shrieks and warbled versions of your name, of Dean’s, of Bobby’s. Dean reached for his glass, knocking from the table in the process. He’d been drinking more than you realized… this was bad. He moved towards the study, motioning shakily for you to follow, gripping the woodwork for support. Bobby stood, stopping you from tagging behind the eldest Winchester, his steady hands planting firmly on both of your shoulders. His breath blew warmly over your face, his eyes demanding your attention.

“Sam needed to be locked somewhere he couldn’t hurt anybody. He’s been drinking… know what, that’s not important. He found a way to make his powers stronger. Poor kid pushed himself too far trying to help us. He’s down there goin’ through one Hell of a withdrawal. He’s gotta detox, alright?” You nodded numbly, barely grasping Bobby’s words, your mind racing to keep up with the insanity that spilled from his lips. “You hear me? He’s got to stay in that cage until he’s clean again. Don’t you go lettin’ him out, or I’ll build myself another bunker just for you, you understand? Don’t think I won’t just ‘cause you’re family. You’ll be right down there with him, and the two of you can scream and holler at each other through the walls.” He slapped your back as you darted around him, his touch lingering like the weight of a death sentence on your skin as you walked through the study and down the stairs after Dean. Sam’s voice bounced all around you, the weight of his body ramming against the vault door driving a stake into your heart. He was screaming for help, screaming for release, his voice hoarse and breaking, his shoulders slamming repeatedly into the solid iron door. Your feet squeaked down the stairs, catching his attention. Dean’s head tilted back, his eyes warning you, his peripheral enough to stop you on your step. Sam went silent, smacking solidly into the door once more, his voice muffled as if he had his lips pressed against the sliding window, which was currently closed.

“Dean? Dean, Dean, Dean. Please, let me out, I need to see her!” You thought yourself frozen before, but his words shot ice through your veins, casting frost against the interior of your lungs. Dean’s head dropped slightly, as if defeated, both of you unable to respond. Sam rammed into the door once more, the metallic clang that followed the duller thud likely the product of yet another punch to the center of the door. “Bobby, let me out! Don’t you do this to me. Don’t… don’t treat me like…” his voice trailed off, returning seconds later with a fury and an intensity that caused both you and Dean to jump, though your faces remained unmoved from their stoic masks. “Where is she? Where. Is. She?” He punctuated each word with a slam against the door. You could hear his clothing slide against the metal as he collapsed, his voice echoing now from a lower point, his tears potent in his voice. He was just as defeated as the rest of you, his tone polluted by an injury unseen, a fissure in his heart bleeding into his very soul. “C’mon, Bobby, just tell me where she is…” he mumbled, his volume decreasing to a whisper. He sniffled, his voice warbling as he fought the onslaught of unseen tears, his hand slapping weakly against the door once more. “I don’t even care about the blood anymore. It’s nothing, it’s nothing to me. I’m clean, Bobby, I promise. I made a mistake. Please, don’t keep her away from me.”

You slipped past Dean’s unmoving figure, proceeding to the entrance of the bunker, your hand held against the steely cold of the iron, your voice caught in your throat. You glanced back at the stairs, locking on Bobby’s sympathetic face, his lips pursed in apology.

“You may not wanna see this, kid,” he warned, nodding his head for you to continue if you wished. You turned back, facing the ebony of the sliding door, your quaking fingers opening the grate, three bars sealing even the smallest entrance. Sam did not stand to greet you. You swallowed the bile rising in your throat, praying you would be able to produce sound.

“… Sam?” you murmured, hearing him claw his way to the little window, his tear-streaked face appearing beyond the grate, his eyes red rimmed and swollen. His fingers reached between the bars, grasping for your face, your hand, his soft sobs filtering by the metal obstructions to reach your ears. You laced your fingers with his, his sigh of relief shaking his form. You smiled sadly at him, your thumb stroking over his palm. You heard Bobby ascend the stairs, trusting you enough not to release the convict and respecting you enough to grant you privacy. Your other hand reached through to touch Sam’s dampened cheek, his head leaning into your touch, his eyes closing, his face calmer than you had expected when he first heard your voice. You couldn’t fathom what he had looked like before he knew of your arrival. “Sam, what did you do?” At the sound of your breathy whisper, his eyes opened, guilt polluting glimmering hazel, his jaw clenching under the pads of your fingertips.

“Y/n…” he sighed, his eyes falling to the ground, his hand going stiff around yours. You waited impatiently, the anticipation gnawing at your insides. If Bobby and Dean had to keep him a prisoner in their own safe house, his infraction was damn near unforgivable. He opened his mouth to reply, but his body had other ideas, his fingers crushing yours before they knocked your hand against the door. He flung himself against the opposite wall, his muscles contracting unnaturally. You screamed in panic, ignoring the ache in your hand as Dean and Bobby thundered down the stairs, barging into the panic room to hold Sam steady as he shouted, his voice overwhelming and uninhibited. He screamed and screamed and screamed.

You’d seen demonic possession, you knew the workings of those Hellspawns like the backside of your injured hand… and the way Sam was reacting looked an awful lot like an exorcism.

There is a difference between rallying and rioting

Don’t use violence to counter a message of hate. By destroying property and looting stores and committing general acts of violence, you are perpetuating the conservative idea that we are immature and violent and should not be taken seriously and that we deserve to be dealt with using force.

Peaceful protests work just as well, if not even better, because they will give the media as well as conservatives no real merit to hate you. You are acting within your civic rights if you rally, not if you riot.

Most of all, everyone stay safe out there. While you may not be out to promote violence, there might be people out who are, so do your best to keep out of any potentially dangerous situations.

 Remember, Love Trumps Hate!