My old boss told me this story and I thought it would fit in here.
We both work in the automotive aftermarket world, manufacturing and sell parts to “fix up” or restore a classic car. At the time my boss worked for a company that made those big tubular push bumpers and side steps for trucks and Jeeps and such.
It’s not uncommon in our industry for companies to splash* each other’s parts. Splashing is when somebody copies an exact copy of your part. We try to avoid it happening, but that doesn’t always work.
One day somebody calls him and starts lots of questions about the bumpers. Things like which other models do they fit, what’s the return policy, etc. He quickly figured out that this was a competitor that’s going to splash his parts then return them for a refund.
So instead of NOT selling him the parts he sells him a whole pallet full of parts. The revenge part here is that they build these parts specifically for this company. They moved brackets and bent things wrong so that visually everything looked correct, but it would never in a million years bolt up to the truck and work.
Sure enough 60 days later the parts come back, they issue the refund, and then trash that lot of parts. Fast forward a few months and that competitor goes out of business. Pretty hard to sell junk parts that don’t fit!
I don’t know what’s in the air but I have had a lot of people express to me recently that they are interested in getting a dog breed that -in my opinion- isn’t an appropriate choice for them. I came up with a metaphor to explain dog breeds to people and thought I would share it here too.
Like most people I know, I have a car. I like my car. I use it to get from point A to point B and it works perfectly for me. I very much appreciate the role that my car plays in my day to day life. However, I am not the kind of person that wants to spend hours in my garage working on a car. I can change my oil and fill up my tire when it is low on air but I have no interest in tinkering with the engine or rebuilding parts of it. That’s not a reflection on me or on people who do enjoy fixing up and restoring their cars, it’s just not how I choose to spend my time. What it does mean though is that when I went to buy a car I didn’t buy a ‘69 Mustang even though I love how they look. I bought a car that would be lower maintenance and would fit in with my lifestyle better than a vintage muscle car. I love riding in my friends’ beautiful vintage cars but I also recognize the work they have to put into their cars to keep them that way is not something I am passionate about and would be impractical and difficult for me to maintain longterm.
It would be ridiculous for me to buy a '69 Mustang and treat it like a new Subaru. The car would break down and I would be frustrated and I would end up investing a lot of time and money into fixing it when I could have been going fun places and doing other things I enjoy more if I had just gotten the Subaru. It would also be silly of me to just get the Mustang anyways and just hope that I happened to get one that wouldn’t need a high level or maintenance and upkeep.
A high drive, high intensity breed or a working line dog is a vintage muscle car. It would be ridiculous for me to buy a working line border collie and expect it to act like a pet line labrador. I could get a border collie anyways and hope I end up with the outlier, but just like it would be irresponsible for me to buy a vintage car and just hope that it never needed tinkering it would be silly for me to get a breed of dog that is very predictably not going to be suitable for my needs.
For me personally, dogs are not only pets - they are my hobby. So like it makes sense for a car hobbyist to get that Mustang it made sense for me to get a dog that would likely be high energy and work-intensive. For me, spending a few hours a day working with my dogs doesn’t feel like a chore, but not everybody feels this way! Admitting that you need or want a dog with less intensive needs doesn’t mean you’re a bad dog owner or that you couldn’t handle a high energy breed if you really had to - it’s just like me picking a more practical car over something flashier. I’m sure I could figure out how to rebuild an engine on YouTube and car forums, but I realistically there are things I would rather be doing with my time so I factored that into my decision when I bought my car.
There’s no shame in picking a dog that works for you, and there’s no shame in being honest about what you need and want in a dog! There’s a buddy out there for everyone that needs you exactly as you are. :)
Summary: Dean x Reader: Dean finds comfort in the reader’s arms after a hard day.
Word Count: 1962
Triggers: Not really, a bit of fluffy angst, or flangst if you will.
Y/N = Your name
Note: I’m actually pretty proud of this one so I hope you like it! Please let me know what you think!!
Dean was tired, not only
physically, but mentally. You could see it easily in those green eyes whose
light was a little duller than normal. Somehow you could always tell which days
it was harder for the hunter to keep up appearances. He called it your special
little gift, you just called it love.
like that one you knew he needed to just be held, be loved, feel safe. Out
there, in the real world, he had to stay the soldier, the hunter, the big
brother. But in the room he shared with you, he was just a broken man. And he
needed your help to pick up the pieces.
exhausted, and so you’d made up some lame excuse to return to your room earlier
than normal to Sammy and pulled Dean along. Seeing the signs of exhaustion
easily on his face the minute you shut the bedroom door behind him. His smile
falling away and the armour he’d so carefully crafted through jokes and
physical strength crashing to the floor the minute you were alone.
the bed you sat up with your back against the wall and stretched your arms out.
An open invitation for him to hide in your embrace and just let go of all his
worries for the night. No words were spoken as he climbed onto the bed and into
your arms. Staying low, he buried his head in the crook of your neck, arms
around your waist as if you were the life raft keeping him afloat in stormy
Ferrari 365 GT4 BB, 1975. One of only 58 Pininfarina-designed 1st generation ‘Berlinetta Boxer’ Ferraris is being sold by Hexagon Classics. The car has been restored to original condition and has traveled only 43,570 miles since new.
You spend the next week at the bunker, giving Sam time to recover. You ask why don’t ask Castiel to come heal them. Sam shrugs it off, joking that it’s only a flesh wound. Dean tells you that they only call Cas when shit gets really bad.
Dean called Cas for you when you needed to be healed. You knew you had been in rough shape but it must have been far worse than you realized.
While the physical scars are gone, you find that you are on edge mentally. Since being tortured and then almost killed again, you’ve been a bit skittish. Sudden sounds set your heart racing. More than once you’ve woken up in the middle of the night, sheets twisted around your body, heart pounding.
Dean provides much-needed distraction and you spend your days helping Dean restore his car. It’s the most amazing thing, to watch him loving repair the car, bit by bit. He knows where every piece goes. He knows how to coax the metal just so. He knows this car down to every nut and bolt.
He teaches you as he works, he enjoys it, sharing his love of this car with you. He’s naturally patient and encouraging. You can’t help but feel a twinge of pride when he praises you. You also can’t help but shiver when his hand covers yours, helping you twist the bolts tighter.
It seems so intimate, Dean letting you see this side of him. He lets you see it because he trusts you.
It feels like a very special and important thing to have Dean Winchester’s trust. You sense that his trust isn’t tossed about freely, it’s earned and valued. You feel a fierce tug of emotion, it’s almost protective in nature. More than anything, you want to be worthy of his trust.
I had given my car to a mechanic to be restored. But the cars here are tiny so you straddle them (like super wide ATVs). And the mechanic liked my car so much he wanted to keep it. I wouldn’t let him so as a show of dominance and ownership he drove my car without any pants on.
Prompt: @imamotherfuckingstar-lord‘s song challenge - my song was ‘Here Comes Your Man’ by the Pixies. My character was Jim Kirk. I had SO much fun writing this. And listening to the Pixies. Word Count: 2111 Author’s Note: Oh Jim. You do make a girl’s heart go pitty-pat. I used the song lyrics as the section dividers - I think it kind of works thematically. You’ll have to believe me that I let the song lead the fic ;)
Outside there’s a box car waiting, Outside the family stew
The wind rushed through your ears as you flew down the highway on the old PX70, headed away toward the shipyard. You were determined to make the shuttle leaving for the academy, hell or high water. You smoothed down your hair as you dismounted from the bike, and stowed your keys in your pocket. The security guy at the perimeter raised an eyebrow at you.
“Last person came gunning in here like that left me his keys,” he winked. You rolled your eyes.
“That’s an antique. Probably worth more than the shuttle. I’m not giving it to you. My dad’ll be by to pick it up this afternoon,” you shot back, skipping a stair as you bounded onto the shuttle. Once you were buckled in, you closed your eyes and relaxed.
Out by the fire breathing, Outside we wait ‘til face turns blue
Jim Kirk. You remembered him, vaguely, from high school. He was that misunderstood genius delinquent that all the girls loved to get caught under the bleachers with. You’d fancied yourself interested at one point, but you’d never once caught his eye, and finally gave up, moving on to non-genius delinquents who were probably not as fun, but easily as much trouble. And really, two genius delinquents in one relationship was probably one too many anyhow.
After high school, you’d headed to university for engineering, and discovered your aptitude for mechanics. It had led to your hire at a shop that restored and updated old cars and motorcycles. When Christopher Pike had brought in an old motorcycle for a retrofit, he’d seen the way you worked and started the recruitment speech. He even went as far as to look you up, and throw your aptitude scoring back at you.
Which was how you wound up sitting behind Jim Kirk in a lecture of xenoanthropology in a command track class. All those repressed feelings from high school bubbled to the surface when you saw the line of his jaw, flexed with concentration. When the prof called on you to answer a complicated question about the Prime Directive, he turned and you saw a flash of recognition in those blue eyes. You smirked, somewhat lopsidedly, and winked at him before he turned back to his seat. You weren’t sure, but you thought his ears might be a bit redder.