winchester logic

33,279 notes

micdotcom:

Powerful photos capture the student protests in Mexico barely anyone is talking about 

While the world has focused its attention on the pro-democracy protests in Hong Kong, there’s another student movement gaining steam on the other side of the world.

The unfolding protests gripping Mexico began in the small town of Iguala, in the southwest region of Guerrero state, where the disappearance of 43 student teachers on the night of Sept. 26 has sparked outrage amid allegations of collaboration between local police and organized crime.

(via lenmccoy)

9,223 notes

The Incas, the Aztecs, the Mayans, all dark-skinned Indian people, had a highly developed culture here in America, in what is now Mexico and northern South America. These people had mastered agriculture at the time when European white people were still living in mud huts and eating weeds. But white children, or black children, or grown-ups here today in America don’t get to read this in the average books they are exposed to.
Malcolm X (via american-radical)

(via lenmccoy)

157 notes

apocalypse-patisserie:

deanhugchester:

So I see this, and of course I think of Pie Without Plot. I can’t help but wonder, 972 what? 972 parts? Too much to hope for. 972 kisses? Well, of course. But then I finally figure it out. 972 pieces of rosemary in the fuckin’ foccacia. Of course.

The answer is actually 972 miles.
That’s how far the food truck got on their first trip out, on their way to Greenville, SC.
They followed Dean in the Impala down I-40, east. On long stretches they could hear him crank the stereo and AC/DC whipped past them in the wind. Cas was still pretty new to long-distance driving, in a hulking truck no less, and Sam was taking a turn so he could rest.
Cas dozed in the passenger seat, head lolling.
Exit 54 was just coming up and Cas shook himself, roused as if sensing they were about to stop for gas or something, but he said, calmly, almost as if commenting on the scenery, “We just blew a tire.”
Sam snorted. “You were dreaming, dude, we didn—”
A wobble underneath him, a flapping, slapping sound, and the muscles in Sam’s body tensed the way they would to take a kick to the chest as the truck started grinding.
"Shit," Sam eased her off to the shoulder at the right, of all absurd things, muttering "sorry, sorry" at the honks from behind and around him.
The exit sign so close when he turned the truck off.It mocked him.
Dean noticed the shift in his rear-view soon enough and parked at the side of the road, threw on the hazards, and jogged back a quarter mile.
He didn’t let Sam hear the end of it, of course. Sam knew that would happen. He’s not a bad driver. Bad shit just happens when he’s the one driving. It’s incredibly terrible luck.
Cas had felt the shift in the wheel well underneath him. Front passenger-side.
They had no spares.
He spent a good long while stroking the metal sides of the truck as if tending to a wounded bird while the Winchesters strategized. They didn’t notice him on the phone between coos or else they would have expected the AAA truck that pulled up behind them. He handed over a goddamn Gold Card membership and they simply drove into Asheville in the Impala while the whole thing was handled.
"Triple A," Dean kept repeating, shaking his head. Cas only blinked, as if it were obvious.
(It was, really. Cas was slightly more protective of the truck than they knew, already.)
They had lunch and Sam wanted to visit the Biltmore Estate. Dean and Cas made out down a dormant, snow-dusted garden path and Sam abandoned them to go to the Red Wine & Chocolate seminar.
972 miles. 973 to the proper exit. Late November, North Carolina.

apocalypse-patisserie:

deanhugchester:

So I see this, and of course I think of Pie Without Plot. I can’t help but wonder, 972 what? 972 parts? Too much to hope for. 972 kisses? Well, of course. But then I finally figure it out. 972 pieces of rosemary in the fuckin’ foccacia. Of course.

The answer is actually 972 miles.

That’s how far the food truck got on their first trip out, on their way to Greenville, SC.

They followed Dean in the Impala down I-40, east. On long stretches they could hear him crank the stereo and AC/DC whipped past them in the wind. Cas was still pretty new to long-distance driving, in a hulking truck no less, and Sam was taking a turn so he could rest.

Cas dozed in the passenger seat, head lolling.

Exit 54 was just coming up and Cas shook himself, roused as if sensing they were about to stop for gas or something, but he said, calmly, almost as if commenting on the scenery, “We just blew a tire.”

Sam snorted. “You were dreaming, dude, we didn—”

A wobble underneath him, a flapping, slapping sound, and the muscles in Sam’s body tensed the way they would to take a kick to the chest as the truck started grinding.

"Shit," Sam eased her off to the shoulder at the right, of all absurd things, muttering "sorry, sorry" at the honks from behind and around him.

The exit sign so close when he turned the truck off.
It mocked him.

Dean noticed the shift in his rear-view soon enough and parked at the side of the road, threw on the hazards, and jogged back a quarter mile.

He didn’t let Sam hear the end of it, of course. Sam knew that would happen. He’s not a bad driver. Bad shit just happens when he’s the one driving. It’s incredibly terrible luck.

Cas had felt the shift in the wheel well underneath him. Front passenger-side.

They had no spares.

He spent a good long while stroking the metal sides of the truck as if tending to a wounded bird while the Winchesters strategized. They didn’t notice him on the phone between coos or else they would have expected the AAA truck that pulled up behind them. He handed over a goddamn Gold Card membership and they simply drove into Asheville in the Impala while the whole thing was handled.

"Triple A," Dean kept repeating, shaking his head. Cas only blinked, as if it were obvious.

(It was, really. Cas was slightly more protective of the truck than they knew, already.)

They had lunch and Sam wanted to visit the Biltmore Estate. Dean and Cas made out down a dormant, snow-dusted garden path and Sam abandoned them to go to the Red Wine & Chocolate seminar.

972 miles. 973 to the proper exit. Late November, North Carolina.

(via robotmango)