Collected Works of Nothing of Value

Spn Gen: 50 Ways The Winchesters Did Not Die, No Pairings. R Rating

2008-04-14T09:55:49Z

Title: Fifty Ways The Winchesters Did Not Die or There's A Lot Of Things That Can Kill A Man
Summary: 50 ways the Winchester Boys did not and will not end.
Warnings No pairings, R for adult themes and some violence

I hope you enjoy, this was a writing exercise I wanted to try out. This is unbeta'd so if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes, please feel free to let me know, thank you. Now, please enjoy!

50 Ways The Winchesters Did Not Die

1. Rouge

The stray bullet caught Dean under the third rib; he never saw the shooter, and would never know that it was some kid that only wanted a wallet since the gas station till had no more than seventy bucks.

2. Legalizing

Sometimes, like right now, Sam wondered if America really should give guns to people, like him, because the times he’s ever used a gun has resulted in his family getting hurt; he waits until sundown and closes the bathroom door before pointing the gun to his temple.

3. Rejuvenate

The witch’s lip twitches as she curses the oldest sibling with youth; not knowing that she miscalculated his age, causing Dean to de-age past life.

4. Orchestrating

Hendrickson pulls some strings with some old army buddies to figure out some of the old haunts to these Winchester kids; One Robert Singer is a frequent stop on their maps, so Hendrickson sits and waits, sipping watered down beer, wondering why the old man would water it down.

5. Acclimatize

Dean fucking hates snow; nothing ever good came from something so cold; he falls and dyes it crimson.

6. Quell

She drinks their blood, wishing there were more.

7. Jack

Dean shoots an Agent Bauer square in the chest, after that same agent, without hesitation, shot his brother clean from temple to temple.

8. Stem

Cursed Roses should stay in Disney movies, Dean thinks, before closing his eyes one last time, red pedals crushed within his hand.

9. Dose

Angry jagged marks sprawl down Sam’s back, and all he can think is about the lucrative amount of Vicodin he can chew while Dean’s shaking his shoulder, telling him to stay awake.

10. Irritation

“I told you I’d get him first,” red eyes wink toward green, as she walks her puppet fingers across the stitches of the younger Winchester, vanishing before the nurse arrives.

11. Integer

Sam’s whole is not the sum of his parts, but the sum of him and his brother; together they move as a complete unit, and right now he’s counted up short.

12. Cinema

Dean’s in mid-explosion before he realizes his left arm is feeling odd, odd like not good; there’s too many people to get past, and Bruce Willis is enough of a bad ass to die watching that Dean smiles as the pain radiating from his chest suddenly stops.

13. Manager

He catches the flicker too late, telling himself he needs to step up his game, right before all the motel keys break away from the hooks on the walls like bullets which know exactly who their target is.

14. Harden

Sam slams the rusty old door hard enough to flake oxidation into the air;

“One order, sir, I’ll follow: I will never come back.”

15. Recall

He squints at the picture, etching the face into his memory, familiarity barely scratching the surface of thought.

“You know, I used to have this brother, Sammy, his name was. Good man. You should meet him, if he ever came to visit.”

Calm eyes stare back at the old man holding the photo,

“I know, Dean. I’m sure he’s here when he can.”

16. Representation

Looking up Sam spots Dean with a halo of fire, blood flowing from his eyes and all Sam can think of is how this is the son of Mary dying again.

17. Weekday

Bobby keeps a shotgun and a flask near the front and back doors of his house during the week because he knows no matter how tired and over worked the Winchester boys make themselves, they always somehow manage to rest on the Sabbath; Bobby rests then knowing they won’t be storming in asking for help or make a bloody mess on his book, but finds himself roused out of sleep by some barking, and prays to god it’s just them wanting to barbeque a few steaks, but knows they’d never show up on a Sunday unless something went south, possibly literally.

18. Call

“You need to save me, please, I ain’t asking for much; all I need is a little more time and I can do the rest on my own. Please.”

19. Archive

“Dean answer your phone. Anyway, I was wrong. The line of deaths go back seventy five years, not twenty, which means it’s an Achiyalatopa, you need to use iron rounds not the silver we thought. Get back to me, Dean.”

20. Sort

Dean hated knowing which plants were good for medicinal reasons and what were good for poison because he always found himself twitching whenever he was in some housewife’s living room staring at the plants and not the grieving widow or some such; it was down right distracting seeing pretty but deadly plants sitting next to his offered cup of coffee. He tries figuring the blooming season before sipping at his coffee. He’s off by two months.

21. Oppression

He feels the smile spread across the face, knowing instantly that Sam believes him; and he’s never more felt like screaming in his whole life, but can’t get out from under the building pressure surrounding him. He hears laughing before he’s blotted out like bad ink on a page, signature rewritten.

22. Lyric

Last thing Dean hears is Fogerty singing from the still working car radio about being ready to die, and he’s never more sure that he’s not.

23. Parallel

Dean wonders if he’ll ever manage to crawl is way out of hell, like dad.

24. Degradation

“Oh him? No, he’s just some crazy old bastard that really loves four shots of whiskey; you’ll never get him talkin’ though. I heard he ain’t got a tongue.”

25. Finish

Pull. Click. Pull. Click. Pull. Click. He dies with the first bullet never knowing the chambers spin twice more around before tense fingers realize there are no more bullets, just air.

26. Chunk

Sam misses having his side, and idly wonders if he really needs part of his liver to live past the night; it’s the lack of blood that does him in at the end.

27. Lost

He twirls in place a few times searching the tree tops, looking for something new, not the same old exact trees with smeared blood and ash on them; he needs to find his brother, but he can’t make the effort to call his name, only four letters long.

28. Mouth

He drops his gun, optioning to reason his way out from the radius of the shotgun blast, knowing full well Dean probably can’t hear him by the looks of the blank sheen filming his brother’s eyes; he tries anyway.

29. Left

If only they hadn’t smashed his shooting hand, Dean knew he would have managed to react quicker.

30. Literal

Who knew plagues actually happened.

31. Resolving

His hair is all gone, eye brows yearned for memories, and all he can think of is how much he wants a shot of Jagermeister; if he plays his cards right, he could score a shot or two before he goes through the third round.

32. Sine

The math teacher is hot; it’s just too bad she’s a demigod which eats children.

33. Calendar

Three hundred and sixty five point two four one days in a year; it takes point zero zero zero one percent of that accumulation to shatter Sam to the point he can’t stand, talk, or see; all because of a torn leather cord missing a pendant lying in the middle of a dusty road.

34. Chemist

Sam knew he should have waited; Dean was always better at making pipe bombs than he was.

35. Kit

Blood coats his hands, making the stitches clumsy parodies of themselves; they’re out of holy water; he pours a half drank water bottle into the wound, knowing Dean is in no position to know any difference; he doesn’t tell Dean about the small cut on his hand, hidden by Dean’s blood. They’ll know in four weeks time.

36. Crude

“Hey man, don’t you dare lay a hand on her; why don’t you try me on for size, buddy.”

37. Prospect

Just past the picket fence, right on across the grassy knoll is a handmade cross marking a space where a fire once was: Dean Winchester. Beloved Brother. Fighter. One Hell of a Fucking Father.

38. Objective

The file says he’s a serial killer; she doesn’t listen to him when he asks for her help, doesn’t listen to him plead with her to get the children out of the house, but certainly listens to the sound her freshly issued gun makes when she pulls the small trigger twice quickly.

39. Fraction

Dean lines up his site, keeping the safety on until the last moment when he’s sure: Sam does down quick, but the demon behind him stares Dean in the eyes from yards away and all Dean can think is Thank God.

40. Warping

Dean’s sure he’s been here before, crazy wall paper sure to make impressions that don’t end up taking; he stares up at the knick-knacks of the diner, syrup dripping onto his lap and realizes he’s in the diner Dad took a bullet for some waitress, and idly wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to impress a lady like that.

41. Breeze

Sam sits on his porch, eyeing the sunset like a weary old friend who has always been there, but has been not quite the best of companions, lifts his beer and feels the hair sweep off his neck in the breeze; never saying the hopes that it’s Dean, still watching his back.

42. Trouble

“We regret to inform you that your son, Sam Winchester, died in the field of battle…”

43. Long

He makes his last breath mean the most, letting it drag out across moments, sinking into his skin and pulling life from him and into the world; he’s given so much already, he might as well give his last breath back as well.

44. Exempt

“Sorry kid, we’re just tired of this whole debacle; I mean, you die, then you don’t, then you die, and then you don’t. Then you sell your soul, but get it back, die, but come back again? No, kid, were done. We ain’t ever coming for you.”

45. Obscurity

Dean props his feet up on to the yellow counter for folding clothes, and let the sound of dryers lull him to sleep, never feeling the playful swats of Sam to wake up turn into urgent hands on either shoulder.

46. Conduct

Hazel eyes clouded yellow stare back at John,

“Ain’t no way of getting out of this Johnny boy.” John watches as his boy snaps his fingers and along with it, John’s neck.

47. Wait

“They say that junk yard is haunted, the ghost just sits there in the passenger seat of one of them old cock rock cars; doesn’t do anything but sit there, looking, as if the driver’s missing.”

48. Jargon

Dean’s out of his league, he knows this as the men in suits are talking over his head, literally, about him without ever taking to him, as if what he’d say would damage the case; the only words he understands is “death penalty” so he beings talking, figuring it wouldn’t hurt.

49. News

“Today in Greenwich, Alabama there was a shootout between two as of yet unnamed gunmen and local authorities; reports say the two men held up within an old abandoned church and any attempts to gain access into the building resulted in gunfire.”

50. Examiner

“Cause of death: Severe contusions to the cardiac walls, whatever got through the chest plate somehow managed to squeeze the heart, but got interrupted; John Doe died bleeding out into his chest. Now onto the second John Doe found at the same site as the aforementioned body; judging by the facial bone structure the pair may be brothers, and certainly sustained similar injuries.”

Gen Fic: The Devil Mocks Their Every Step. Rated R for extreme Violence. No Paring

2008-04-09T03:22:15Z

Well Howdy folks, it's been a while. Hope you enjoy!

Title: The Devil Mocks Their Every Step
Summary: Twenty Years In Hell Can Do A Lot To A Man
Warnings: No pairings and this is extremely violent; completely an R Rating. Not For children.

A/N: Thanks to Led Zeppelin and The Doors for awesome quotes. The Title being a Led Zeppelin lyric from "No Quarter".

Thank you Juss for Beta'ing this for me.

The Devil Mocks Their Every Step

…

The last thing Dean sees before his eyes shut against his will is Sam covered in crimson. The comforting thought being none of it is Sam’s. The first thing Dean sees when his eyes are pried open with scorching fingers is a horizon of blue fire that does not have an end. He learns quickly he can never close his eyes, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how heavy the desire is to shut out the shadows playing, screaming in the fire.

Time does not exist in the pit. Dean stops trying to figure that out after the seventieth time he has his heart burned out of his chest. It’s better to lose count of the appendages he’s lost but hasn’t, than count. Other wise, he will lose his mind for good. He knows he needs that.

Sam keeps moving. He never stops.

Twenty years pass before Dean escapes to a church. The soles of his feet scream as he walks down the aisle toward the crucifix. The red carpet which hides spilt communion from Sunday Mass very well, burns under Dean’s feet, smoke wisps upward.

Multi colored glass of the gospel is illuminated dark, and a thought almost forgotten brushes Dean’s mind. It’s nighttime. He cocks his head to the side to study the massive cross of his Lord and Savior, smells sulfur, smiles and turns to greet his company with an almost cordial grace. Black eyes sizing Dean up; his own eyes intense green, illuminate the darkness around him.

“You shouldn’t be here, kid.”

Dean continues to smile, stock still.

“Well I’ll be damned. Didn’t take you long, did it, kid?”

Dean could almost swear he saw of glint of pride in the eyes of the demon before he tears it apart, black smoke dissipating into the pews. Almost, if he weren’t too busy watching the blood drip off his hands. Blood that isn’t his; it’s been too long.

He’s not naked; Dean realizes, when he goes to wipe the blood away, smearing blood on a black suit with a white collar. He finds water in the back of the church and when he goes to clean his hands in it, he feels the water begin to bubble and steam clouds his face. Dean grits his teeth, pulling his hands out from the damned water.

More nearly forgotten memory pushes Dean farther back into the church until he’s in new rooms, outside the main chapel of the church. He finds a wardrobe and a full length mirror in a dressing room, choir robes hung up in a neat little row. He discards the suit jacket he’s wearing and replaces it with another, very clean and crisp, from the wardrobe. Then he studies the suit in the mirror, twenty years without a body and now it’s not the one he remembers. This one’s younger than the one he lost, only by a few years though. He can feel his chest contract and expand, life. He remembers that. Air tickling his windpipe, moving past his nose and mouth; it’s not for him, but the host.

That’s when he hears it, the gentle hum of words, a mantra inside his head. The host knows what Dean is, fighting against his guest. Dean whispers back his own harsh words, shutting down the almost frantic repetition of His Holy Name. The voice, solid, but weak and shadowed by Dean’s own presence becomes an echo. He smoothes out the suit jacket across his body, turning to get a better view of his profile, it’s taller and more slender than he’s used to, and if the voice just outside Dean’s head is any indication, his voice will be miles deeper than his own used to be.

He feels them moving out, spiraling across the map in his head. Dean knows the sun is rising in a few hours, he needs to get moving.

…

He loves the taste of lungs. That’s what he took from the first hunter he finds.

The second one, he takes the heart.

Third, he takes the eyes, then the liver.

The seventh, he takes nothing, but decorates the hunter’s cabin with everything that was hidden by the flesh of his victim.

He paints designs of carnage with blood and bone.

…

Three weeks from the first headline in Washington about a horrid murder and a missing priest, Sam has the demon, wearing a priest, cornered; caught behind lines of salt the Priest paces as a wolf does when it’s making plans, Sam watches with cold eyes lit with fire. They’re in South Dakota.

“You’re the one aren’t you? It’s you. Ten hunters. Ten.” Is all Sam can say, not taking his eyes off the demon, his bright eyes shift from the old hunter to an even older hunter entering the room wearing a hunting vest and trucker hat.

“Eleven.” The demon smiles.

“You didn’t get Bobby here.”

“Anders was pregnant.”

Anders, Sophia Anders, hunter number nine in the line dead by this Demon’s hands.

“Fuck. You son of a –“

“Figured it’d be sweet, coulda’ killed her husband too, they’re a family of hunters, aren’t they? Naw, let him come, he’s a sweeter kill when he comes running for revenge.”

Bobby grunts but doesn’t say much as he opens a black leather bound book, rustling pages with gentle ease; the demon snarls.

“Before you go, tell us your name.” Sam says as Bobby comes toes up to the salt line between Sam and the demon.

“When you’re strange, no one remembers your name.”

Bobby starts the exorcism.

…

It takes four weeks and extreme patience for Dean to combat his way out of Hell. This time he finds himself wearing a housewife, she must have been in the middle of cooking breakfast. He smells bacon before he feels bits of jumping grease testing the nerves of his now smaller and slender hand.

“Mommy?”

He turns; finding a spatula in the same hand, puts it down and looks at a mop of blonde hair and blue eyes, sitting at a heavy oak table in the middle of the rather clean kitchen.

The kid stares, palms flat on the table, breathing shallowly, breathing quick.

“Mommy?”

Dean moves fast, this body leaner and more agile.

…

This time around, Dean leaves messages, notes. Taunting the other hunters who he knows are following his trail.

Missed me? He writes on the ceiling above a nineteen year old boy who only started hunting nine months before, since his sister nearly got taken down by a vengeful spirit.

Weak. He writes on what’s left of the chest of a forty year old medicine man that cleared a reservation of a wendigo.

He watches the little spiraling paths disappear on the map in his head. His shadow casting them into darkness; one dot, though, always brighter than the others, the one that sent him back. Dean follows that one close, leaving bodies once, couple of hookers he found not too far away from the motel the hunter stays at, on the doorstep; Dean waits to see the look on the hunter’s face in the morning.

He doubts the man would ever suspect the soccer mom van driving away, interior stained with whores’ blood.

…

Thirty five bodies later and Dean finds himself in an interesting position. Again.

“Who are you?” The hunter asks, same hunter from before.

Dean stares past the salt lines protecting the hunter from his wrath. Their both stepping in blood; Sam can’t help it, and Dean loves leaving little imprints in the floorboards with the last warm bits of the southern hunter he just claimed.

“Everybody I know seems to know me well, but they're never gonna know that I move like hell.”

Sam doesn’t need a book anymore, memorized the Latin lines that saved his ass more times than he could ever count, takes in a breath to begin the exorcism, but asks,

“Why? Why just hunters?”

“Better Prey.” A delicate smirk arises, “better pray.”

Sam doesn’t flinch.

“You’ll keep coming back.”

“The drums will shake the castle wall, the ring wraiths ride in black. Ride on.” He cracks his neck, “Got me a score of forty six, think I can beat that in the next round?”

Sam stares at the demon contorting the woman’s face, such a pure glee misplaced by the words spoken. Sam represses the bile rising in his throat, before turning his back to the demon and fishing through his weather worn duffel.

“You ever heard of a fellow named Samuel Colt?” He doesn’t turn around to see the demon’s smile falter. “As the story goes, this man went out of his way to make-

“Winchester…” Sam stops going through his duffel to eye the demon, “Sammy-boy Winchester. That’s you. Met your brother once, or twice down in the Pit. Been a while though, nice boy, he.” Sam’s jaw tightens, “Last family to posses the Colt. See, Winchester, I know you’ve got the gun, but you’re bluffing, you’ll shoot me, but you won’t shoot…” Dean lets go of his hold on the body, face slacking for only a moment before the woman beings weeping.

Sam watches as the woman tries to scamper across the salt line,

“Oh god, oh god, please…Please help me. He’s-oh god. Please, my baby. You have to see-oh my god-my son- please…”

“Ma’am…” Is all Sam can manage as she claws at the salt to let her free. Her eyes wide, breathe ragged. Then it stops. All of it, her body stills and her eyes red from tears hold none of the previous emotions; she’s motionless.

Sam knows he’s failed when he looks her in the eyes and sees them glow bright green.

“See, I got the husband. Anders? He came after me with this knife. Seemed he got it off of some demon, Ruby, I think her name was. Funny thing that.”

The crime scene photos littered Sam’s motel desk, pictures of a headless body in the middle of Wyoming forest.

Sam sighs and recites from memory the only option he has.

…

This time, Sam prepares, knowing he only has a matter of weeks to find a solution, hoping the demon doesn’t claw its way back up in less than four weeks.

Living with Bobby helps, makes research quite a bit easier, with all the books around, rather than going to the library.

Sam and Bobby work fast together, building a plan. It only takes them two and a half weeks to realize it.

They both agree it is the list topper on stupidest shit ever done. They go ahead with it anyway.

…

Dean’s so close; he can feel the planes begin to change, feel the fire and bone slip beneath him to the lightness above him. He’s so close before he finds himself blinking, heavy again.

He doesn’t remember breaking the surface; slow recognition of the curves of his heaviness nudges his mind. A body, whole and unmarred; his. Looking down at his hands, they are clean, fresh and soft, not tempered by the struggle out of the Pit. He blinks, and see; his eyes. Dean remembers this body, nothing to compare it to because it’s not a memory, not anymore. He stretches and catches from the corner of his eye the old hunter from before, and smiles.

“You put me home.” He cracks his fingers, feeling the sound pass through his wrists; he rolls those as well. Cold seeps into his toes and up his feet. Dean finds himself staring down at them, and then casually locks eyes with the old hunter.

Dean hears nothing swirling around his own thoughts, trying to break through. Only he, nothing else, is there, alone in thought. Even in the Pit there is so much noise, enough to drown in. It’s the first silence Dean knows, not remembering another one. The desire to close his eyes and sit in the dark silence is overrun by his desire to paint the walls red.

He doesn’t blink as he watches the old hunter hand falter around the gun he knows to be the Colt. There’s a look within the eyes of the man Dean doesn’t recognize, doesn’t know what to call it.

“Dean?”

What he does know though is that tonight he’s going to have a score of forty seven.

So Long, Lonesome: R, no pairing

2007-04-30T20:55:47Z

Title: So Long, Lonesome
Summary: A conversation and a telling of stories.
Warning/Pairing: This is rated R for violent images, language and sexual references. There are no pairings and there isn't anything in here that can spoil anyone for the show.
Author Notes: I wrote this as a freewrite and then realized that something actually formulated so I ran through it a few more times, edited, and had it beta'd by fae_calumnae and lostandalone22. Thank you very much both of you for doing that for me. If you catch any errors in this version, that's all on me.

I hope you enjoy!

I’ve got a false hip, means my right hip joint is made of metal. Aluminum and Titanium actually, I wish it were all Titanium since I wouldn’t worry every minute that the damn thing would give in, and I go toppling down those stairs over there. See them? Yeah, they ain’t pretty and I’ve got to walk up and down those damn things every day like twenty times. What is an old woman like me supposed to do?

Whatcha say? Where did I get the hip? Oh this old thing? Well, I got it from some fresh faced doctor at that hospital across town. What you should be asking me, honey, is where I lost my first hip, the flesh and cartilage that should be where the Titanium is now.

You’re cute. Anyone ever tell you that? Your smile melts hearts like fire in a freezer. Oh come on, that’s not a bad way of puttin’ it, don’t laugh. I ain’t my father, I never really could get my way with words. The man would have made a good car salesman attorney, you can be both, don’t give me lip, honey, you can be both. If you don’t make it as a lawyer you can sell cars, if you don’t make it as a car salesman you can sell souls. It’s a good way of looking at it. Anyway, you derailed my train of thought, ah, my father. He was good with words, was a Literature teacher up there at the university. Always told my mom and I that if there was ever a dispute that needed taking charge of, always use your words first, you can never run out of them. Resort to fists if the words ain’t catching. You can only throw a fists a few times before you run out of breath and the other guy beats you.

Right, you asked me about my hip.

No, I didn’t lose my hip. I know exactly where it is. It is on the coast of Vietnam.

I ain’t shitting you, honey, I fucked up my hip in Vietnam. Damn thing didn’t like all the work I put it through back in 65’. I was a nurse. No, honey, I didn’t fight. I’m a girl after all and they don’t let us fight back then. Course, they don’t let them fight now, just carry all that lovely ammunition into battle. Convoys they call them.

I was a nurse, did all this running between villages, and it caught up with me somewhere along the hundredth mile or something like that anyway.

Do you know what words do over there?

I met this guy, John, probably was named John. Hell, it’s a bad name, way too common for me. I know when I like a name. I never named my son that; he wouldn’t stand out from a crowd. Anyway, this kid, John, well he ain’t a kid now, don’t really know why I still call him a kid. He’s got to have his own now, maybe even some grandchildren if he’s lucky like me. So this John, if I remember correctly, he got hurt really bad. Took some damage to his face and throat, still would have scars from this now, that’s how bad it was. I was helping him, couldn’t leave because all I could give him was pressure. There was so much going on that day. Too much if you asked me, because normally I could make out who was who whenever we fought, but some of the village people were pretty split on who they wanted to fight for, some helped us, others didn’t. In the middle of that I stayed. Tried to fix what I could with him.

God, why can’t I remember his last name? That’s what they go by when they’re in the service.

There was so much going on I didn’t pay attention to any of it. I couldn’t or else I’d get boggled down by it all. I stayed right where I was, blood on my hands, gauze scrapping my fingertips. His neck was so warm compared to everything else. In all of this the kid tried to talk. Can you imagine that? In all of that he tried to tell me something.

My dad always told me that words were always more important than fists. If this kid wanted to speak, I damn well listen.

What? Oh, what did he say? Calm down, honey, I’m telling you a story. There’s this thing called a sequence of events. I got to get to it within the right order.

This is when I hurt my hip. As I leaned in to hear what he was trying to say, I ducked out of some bullets, which I didn’t even see coming, mind you. None of them hit their mark. That’s not what is important, what is, was their partners behind them. The bullets that followed were readjusted and they caught me in my hip a few times over. So now I was on top of the guy, bleeding all over him as he bled all over me. Thank God this was before Aids, right? I’m surprised the kid didn’t go deaf from my scream.

Anyone who tells you that a bullet don’t hurt is lying through their teeth. It hurts like a thousand white hot knives.

You know what that feels like? The bullets and the knives? What kind of business are you in, honey, that would have you know that type of pain?

Last time I checked, hunting didn’t involve getting shot by the prey.

Cheeky bastard, yeah I know guns. They need a partner to go off. Never on their own. That’s why I am not afraid of guns, but of the people behind them.

You aren’t going to tell me your story are you? I tell you one of mine, it’s customary to tell one of your own. Shame. I get the feeling you could scare the pants off of me. Not that I wouldn’t mind. If I was younger, and not married, of course.

Thirty two years next January to that man over other. Yeah, behind the bar. Ain’t he sweet? His daddy owned this place and Paul took over some time back. This is all his, and respectively mine.

Cherie, nice to meet ya Dean.

Oh no, I got a job at the hospital. Once a nurse, always a nurse. Been helping out at the hospice care over there. I figure if I can watch people die, I might as well use that gift. I know a lot of people that could handle what I do. It’s not easy. I don’t know how, but I was born to with that wonderful ability. Ain’t it grand?

Yeah, I don’t get it.

What? Oh the kid, John? Yeah, his last name? I said before it’s hard to recall. Your daddy fought there too?

Really, ya don’t say? Another John. You think the same one? Well, wouldn’t that be grand? What’s your name, honey?

Winchester? Never could escape them, could I? What? Oh Guns. Never could escape them. No his name wasn’t Winchester. I can’t remember what is was, but I do know what it ain’t. Sorry, honey, I can’t give you a grand ol’ story about your pops.

It’s near closing time and I’ve defiantly drank your skinny ass under the table. Don’t get all hot and bothered, I’ve been sitting in a bar longer than you’ve been able to drive your own stick shift.

What? Oh, the kid, yes, he did tell me something.

Looks like last call, honey, you better get going. Paul hates closing later than he should. We like our alone time here, if you catch my drift.

What did the kid say? You still care even if he’s not your John? You’re sweet. Keep that, honey, you’re going to need it later.

I sure am. No one’s ever going to write a book about me and my boring life but I like it. I’m proud, happy and very drunk and sure am glad to meet you Dean. I hope you remember this in the morning. You won’t, probably. I’ve drank service men under the table and into the bowels of hell. Some of them still have headaches even after thirty years.

What did he say? You keep asking me. Tell you what, honey, if you remember all this in the morning and you still care enough, come on over and I’ll tell you what that kid, John, who has grandchildren now, if he was lucky enough, told me all those years ago.

Goodnight, hon. Yeah, you too.

Spn Fic: A Man Has Got To Eat

2007-03-28T22:11:30Z

Title A Man Has Got To Eat (Or A Few Times Dean Winchester Had An Actual Job)
Rating/Warning/Pairing: PG-13, No spoilers and there are no pairings
Author's Notes Thank you fae_calumnae for the beating. I did chuck that last part. I'm just going to use it in another fic. I hope all of you enjoy this fic.
Summary The Title seems to explain it very well. This is a few times Dean has had an actual paying job and what he did.

Dean’s never mentioned the time in his life when he worked in a lab. He didn’t think Sam needed to know Dean used two pairs of latex gloves to make it easier to move from one task to another without having to worry about contamination. Or about the protective eyewear that was sometimes needed, and how Dean would Sharpie doodles on them whenever he was bored.

It was when Dean was low on income that he tried his hands at being a lab assistant. Dad wasn’t around for this one, off on some hunt on the other side of the states. It was easier to forge the resume than any of the credit cards.

The only evidence of this job was the rolled up lab coat in the trunk of the car.

The first time he walked into the building wasn’t too bad, though suits bothered him and he had to wear one now. After all, what kind of job was it when you were afraid to get your clothes dirty? He preferred his looser fitting jeans to the dress slacks, and the loafers felt like knives on his feet. Dean wondered if anyone would really notice if he came in the next day wearing construction boots; judging by the look of the hawk eyed secretary across the way from his desk, most definitely.

Monotonous: a word not often used by one Dean Winchester. But then again, it wasn’t often you’d find him counting numbers.

Dean knew the system, what numbers really mattered. Any John Doe could apply to a credit card with a different name, but it took real finesse to cheat the actual numbers. He, of course, didn’t tell them in his resume about his skills in system cheating. This was business, it was a given.

Dean was chasing tail again. She was such a tease, hiding behind the counter only to show just a little bit of skin, grinning up at him. He sighed as he approached quietly; this one was way too hard to catch. Golden hair streaked past him as she moved toward the door. Seamlessly, he altered his course, intercepting her before she could even smell the outside air. Dean stooped to place a calming caress down her back.

“Come on baby, don’t be like that.” She stuck her tongue out, planting herself firmly into the ground. It only took Dean a moment, tapping his foot impatiently, before he crouched low and pulled her up into his arms. He carried her across the room and plopped her down into a bath, soap suds settled from her prior escape attempts were agitated once again as Dean continued his work.

“What do they feed you, girl? Whole cows?” He asked as he popped his back after lifting her over the lip of the tub. “I’m strong, but God Damn…” Not waiting for an answer he continued to brush the soapy water through her golden hair, making sure to keep it from tangling.

“Ya know, your hair is pretty much dead on like Sammy’s. That’s my brother.” Dean spoke aloud, working in lather, “He’s off frolicking like a good pup.” She whimpers under his hands. “You have any pups?” He could tell she could have. Despite the watery circumstances she was in, her tail wagged. Dean smirked. “Yeah, then you’d know about how they like to teethe.” Dean was rinsing the last of the soap out now, getting ready to dry her off. “Get their paws and teeth into everything before they settle down.” Moving her head toward the towel, eyeing it, she whined. Dean nodded, “Almost done.”

Pulling the cover on the drain, he pulled himself up, bracing a hand on her back to keep her from jumping out, and reached for the dry towel on the rack to the right of the bath.

“It’s not that bad, honey, you just gotta know that it’s going to end.”

Dean had this certain look about him, nothing scary or treacherous, just voracious. It was in the way he watched crowds of people, calculating their movement and cutting through them with little effort. Mike always said it was as if Dean searched for a point in the storm and swam to it in a straight line.

Mike was the first guy to admit he couldn’t take Dean and was humble about it. The boy was sitting alone at a table in a bar, enjoying the silence around him, when some drunk started yelling something about the boy looking at him the wrong way. In a rage, the drunk took a swing, catching the boy in the chin hard. Everyone watched with wary eyes as the boy took down the drunk; Mike watched, seeing how the boy restrained himself. He knew the boy wasn’t going attack unless provoked.

It was a good trait for the industry. Most of the young men Mike came across in his business had something to prove. Every punch and every hit they threw had their whole weight behind it, but with this boy, it was like he was trying to catch a feather. He used no more force than needed.

Mike felt it prudent to give the boy his card, which was a fancy way of saying his name and phone number on the back of a bar napkin. Finishing off his drink, Mike wondered if this boy, Dean he said his name was, would ever call about the job. Most of them didn’t, figuring Mike’s a crazy loon who has had himself one too many. No one offers you that kind of gig in a bar.

Just a shade under two weeks later Mike gets a call around ten at night, interrupting his Cooper show, making him a bit tetchy, but he sobered up quick when he heard whose voice it was, and he’d be goddamned, it was the boy from the bar. He was a few states over, but he was looking to make some extra money. Mike could tell that Dean didn’t mind traveling, hell, even had his own transportation, which was always the biggest hurdle for the job.

Three days later, Mike’s newest security team member showed up with a blacked right eye and stitches peaking out from his hairline, just above his temple. Mike didn’t ask about where he landed the prizes, just if the trouble was going to follow him. The boy laughed as if a joke had been said,

“Nope, trouble doesn’t follow me.”

Mike wondered a lot about the boy over the next few months, as they worked together. Dean started off on crowd control, but as the band took a liking to him, he moved up on stage, protecting the band from crazies in the crowd. He was good; always acted before Mike called him on his earpiece.

About two months into Dean’s career on security detail for the band, a fire broke out on stage near Steve the drummer in the middle of a song, which forced him to abandon his set. The fire grew as the rest of the band was rushed backstage. Dean joined the stage crew to put out the fire.

The band wasn’t big and neither was the audience; Dean saw every single face in the crowd as he turned toward them. He wiped at his brow with one hand and lowered the fire extinguisher with the other as he counted the crowd, each one of them silent.

More than just Mike’s voice was on Dean’s earpiece, everyone talked over one another; the fire was out, so Dean paid no attention as headed toward where the band had congregated backstage and patted Steve on the back.

“Dude, when I said to kill out there, I wasn’t being literal.” The band laughed hesitantly and Dean knew in another minute, they would be making their own jokes. He head back to the stage to check the damage report. The techies gathered that the fire was electrical and unavoidable, with all the older equipment the band currently owned. The fried wires had melted together in a jumble of electronic chaos.

“It’s fried to shit, can’t make Dorothy run if she ain’t got her slippers.” A tech named Dan told Dean.

“Dan,” Dean sighed, “what the fuck does that mean?”

“Everything’s charred, D. We need a whole new system.”

Dean throws his gaze over toward the audience,

“They’re going to be angry with only half a show,” Dean turned his attention on the charred equipment, “lemme have a look.”

It did not take Dean long to calculate the situation as FUBAR’d before he headed off to find the band, but Mike intercepted him with,“As crazy as it sounds, they want to keep playing.”

Dean shook his head. “Equipment’s fried, Mike. There’s no way.”

“Shit. That’s about what I figured, but they ain’t havin’ it. I guess they figure these people got a right to a full show.”

“There’s no way unless we got ourselves a couple of acoustic guitars.”

“There are some in the truck, which is why I’m talkin’ to you. Go with the boys while they get their guitars.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Wait, they really are continuing the show? What are you going to do about the drums? And the keyboard?” Dean said tightly, “Even the mikes are fried. How is Max going to get his voice above the band if he doesn’t have the mike?”

Mike shook his head. “Hey man, this ain’t my idea, but,” he smiles, “I ain’t fried yet,” he walked away, leaving Dean to run a hand through his own hair as he searched his mind for a reason why the band doesn’t just leave. They are justified after all.

The crowd was more understanding than most, Dean noted, as he helped the band set up on stage. He was handy, they found out, with instruments. He told them all he used to work in a music store back in some Mississippi town a few years back, could not play for shit but sure has hell knew what all the parts are. The crowd watched as the guitars were tuned, the drum set pulled farther in stage, and the lead singer, Max, sat on the very edge of the stage, close enough to be heard from the first few rows.

It was not under the best circumstances that the band finished their concert, but they managed to pull off a few songs without some of the key instruments. The band used the stage and whatever was around them to complete their songs.

The morning after, the band woke up covered in fire blankets, courtesy of the security team. When the band asked about it, the security team told them they take their job seriously. No one explained how they got the blankets, but for a week the whole security team bought Dean beers. It has been said that the band still travels with fire blankets in case the drummer gets inspired.

Three weeks later Mike was home for once, on a much needed break. He’s hitting the road again early the next morning, and wanted to enjoy what little time he had left with his precious television. He was finishing up his favorite show when he got the call.

“You know that thing I said about trouble? Well, I lied.” It was the last time Mike ever heard from the kid.

So it happened totally on accident. Dean didn’t mean to, really, all he had wanted was to find a few bucks, but somehow he ended up with a nine to five job working construction. It suited him just fine, the work kept him in shape. The men kept his sense of humor running, and best of all: he got to make cat calls from scaffolding. The men he worked with said they never did such things; it was what they called a “stereotype”. Dean kept calling anyway, not like it mattered, the calls were muffled by machinery. He was good with that stuff, too good, some of the more self conscious men would say. He pulled his weight, drank his weight, and made damn sure that he got his weight in respect at the end of the day.

Ol’ Randy, they called him, he was the man everyone sucked up to or treated like God. He had been working sites since he was twelve, under his uncle’s watchful eye. In the first two weeks he worked, he lost the top of his right ring finger. He’s never told anyone where it went. He’s about fifty now, but nobody asks for exact numbers. Either way, he’s worked more in his life than any of the other boys. He’s earned his God Damn right to look mean and scary, it’s a privilege he doesn’t intentionally use. Most don’t know it, but Ol’ Randy is quite soft spoken, it’s just that everyone hears him when something goes wrong, so he’s always yelling to get out of the way, or to fix wait got broke. He never yelled at Dean. It took some time but Dean recognized in the man something akin to something he knew in the past.

One day, about two months into the job, one of the boys came late, carrying himself like he’d dropped a ton of the steel rebar on his foot. He was capable, everyone knew that.

“You should talk to Ol’ Randy.”

It is meant as a scare tactic. Those that come to work drunk or faking sick went to see Ol’ Randy and he’d help them along. Most quit two days after coming to work drunk. It is when you see Ol’ Randy with the God’s honest truth; he is as helpful as a tour guide in a dark labyrinth, who can see in the dark.

The man was named Josh, and well, he got sent to good Ol’ Randy, and that’s when Dean was called up to join in on the proceedings in that little mobile office. He came in with dust, dirt, and pain etched into his face. Things had gone wrong earlier and now he was fixing some of the boys’ mistakes. Ol’ Randy nodded at Dean when he came in, delegating his, and Dean’s, attention onto Josh.

“Josh here’s got a problem. Seems like he doesn’t quite know how the pipes in his walls manage to find their way out of his walls. At their own accord.” Randy motioned toward Josh’s now un-booted foot. The flesh was raw, red, and inflamed, clearly broken. Dean didn’t pay attention to that. “Josh, tell Dean what you told me.” Josh haggard out a breath.

“It’s not funny. Look I didn’t mean to soun-“

“Josh, just tell Dean,” Randy looked at Josh, “Please.”

Josh cast his eyes down on his foot. Dean wondered how much of a struggle there had been when he tried to get the sock over that angry skin.

“I was asleep. I sleep like the dead, when you wake me up, you gotta literally pull me out of bed before I can manage a coherent thought.” He sighed, “I woke up. Just like that, no nothin’ just up and attem’. It took a while for me to realize something did wake me. The floor boards were shaking, somethin’ was moving around in my living room, so I go out there, right?” He laughs helplessly, “My walls are destroying themselves, tearing themselves apart, wood, stucco, support beams, fuck, even the insulation was flying around like someone was having a teardown party.” Gesturing toward his foot, Josh continues, “that’s how I got this. Fucking beam from my ceiling came down, barely escaped it….Thank God I don’t got dogs.” He trails off, quieting down, figuring there wasn’t much more to tell. Dean remained silent, already processing what needed to be done. He hadn’t had a gig in a while, not since he’d been working. Sam always figured Dean never held jobs down. He did thought, every so often, when everything became just a bit too hectic, when everything felt like he couldn’t control it. He’d stop. Find some small place and just work. Dean worked as hard as he did with everything else.

He switched gears flawlessly, calculating. Randy cut the silence.

“You know why I called you in here, boy?” Dean only looked the man in the eye; Randy nodded wordlessly then raised his right hand, letting Dean and Josh see his missing finger, “I figure neither of you got the correct story about this yet. From what I hear, most of them have to do with rescuing a man from a saw.”

“The one I heard had something to do with rebar.” Chipped in Dean.

“Rebar, oh yeah, it was falling, right? And it caught my hand…I almost wish that were the case. Truth of the matter was, two weeks into working my first site things started going wrong. Men were getting killed, machinery was malfunctioning, and plans were all messed up. It went on like that for quite a bit until this man came through. Said he wasn’t looking for no work or nothin’, just came by the sites and scoped. Three days he did that, and on the last day he came bearing a loaded shotgun. This was at night. No one was supposed to be on site, but I had to finish up some grunt work before the new shift so I was privileged enough to see him. See, this man, he didn’t come by to find work because he already had a job. It was in his gun. This,” Randy shook his hand, “is the least of what I could have lost. Thanks to that man, I am walking around with a head on my shoulders.” He placed his hand back down on the wooden desk, shifting a few cover letters with it. “I’m not a self possessed man, but I like to think of myself as being keen on knowing a person. Dean, you strike me to be of the same mold as that man that saved my life once. Am I wrong to think you’d be able to save Josh’s?”

Dean didn’t smirk, only stared,

“I’m not sure if I’m the same mold, Randy, but I certainly know the brand.”

“So I was not wrong in assuming you’d help.”

“Helping is sorta my gig.”

Prayers for the Living, PG, Gen

2007-02-05T09:53:03Z

Title: Prayer For The Living
Rating/Warning: PG, no pairings, no warnings since there aren't any spoilers.
Summary: Prayers aren't reserved for only the living.

Thank you dear roomie for betaing this realllly quickly this morning. I wrote this all in a few hours one night. I hope you enjoy.

She’s always prayed, was going to raise her children to pray too. She wishes she had more time. It was important to know when to ask for help and sanctuary, while also knowing when to fight. Simply because she was in heaven didn’t mean she stopped praying. It just meant it was more direct.

She used to be the only one to pray for her family. There wasn’t much faith on her husband’s side of the family, and she doubted very much that anyone left on her side had much faith in John’s abilities. She might have heard one or two prayers for the kids, but she wasn’t sure.

It took her a bit to hear the other voice. Well, it wasn’t much of a voice, more of a whisper, a mantra broken by screams. Pain so strong she wondered why whoever was praying was praying for her sons and not for himself. It wasn’t until she stopped praying and listened that she understood the why.

She cries as she now prays for him to hear her as well, and although she knows her husband is devoid from the light, her faith is strong. Miracles happen; all she had to do was look at her two beautiful sons to know the impossible does happen. She wishes and prays for his suffering to end. Even damned he prays for others; it means something. It has to.

She prays for him to hear her, knowing it’s impossible, but she tries anyway. It’s what she’s always done. It’s what she’ll always do. She’s patient, had to be to marry a marine.

Gracious God, at times my life seems to be too much. Too full. Too demanding. Too consuming. Everything feels necessary, even important, but weariness creeps across my body and soul like storm clouds gathering in an open sky.

If there was one thing Mary never prayed for was to hear her son’s voice raise to her. His prayers were never in words, but in touches and actions. Never words.

As my body is depleted of energy, my mind loses interest in what normally enthuses me. My tired soul sags as if it were a balloon losing its air. Sometimes I feel so spent that even restorative sleep seems to elude me. Help me sort the truly important from what only seems important.

She prayed for his eyes to see, for his fingers to work, for his ears to listen, for his mouth to say what he needs. Most of the time, his prayers are answered in the form of his brother, the one that uses words. She’s watched his float up from his mouth towards the skies every night for so many years, catching them in the breeze; she feels them glide over her and through her until she’s consumed by the pleas for rest and shelter from worry.

Give me courage to say no to what drains rather than feeds me. Help me find brief moments to sit in perfect stillness while you massage my soul.

He prays enough for himself and his brother, the one with wordless prayers. So she’s never prayed to hear her eldest words. She hears her husband, a full time chorus to her song, always constant, always there, drifting out from the dark. At nights, just before her youngest closes his eyes to the world, he joins in, sweeter and softer. It doesn’t last long, it never does.

Early one morning she can’t help quell the surprise of hearing a quite prayer drift up, remembering his voice as a child when she would sit with him before tucking him in, teaching him which of the Saints would protect him that night, and how the Mother would always look out for all of her sons. How small he sounded, but yet, the hint of strength behind the words he repeated after her.

His voice is different now, not small and soft, but rough and deep, hoarse from yelling an exorcism over the chanting of a cult trying to counter his own words last night. The words were different from what she taught him, but then most of what she taught him wasn’t useful to him any longer. She marvels at his rhythm, the steadiness within the words. Though no longer the same voice, she still hears the hidden current of strength, and wonders if even in heaven she can win the lottery.

And, when I go to my nightly sleeping place, wrap your darkness around me like the softest cloak, so that I may sleep peacefully in your embrace. I ask this for the sake of your love. Amen.

She hears their prayers, waits for the day when all of them find the harmony and hear each other. It’s impossible, a miracle that will never come. She knows and prays anyway.

Spn Fic: The End of Survival and Destruction, PG-13

2007-01-01T01:43:32Z

Title The End of Survival and Destruction
Rating/Pairing PG-13 for violence, no pairing
Summary Who, but the Just, can save us.
Notes I wrote this with a crossover in mind, and I highly doubt anyone can guess it. It's really not important to know what it was, but if you really want to know, ask me. Thank you again notthequiettype for beta-ing and telling me what was confusing.

I hope you enjoy this, it was interesting to write. Certainly worlds away from talking dogs.

~*~

Both placed and planted seeds of their work throughout the garden. One placed weeds, while The Other selfishly tried to plant its own salvation in the form of itself.

One was first; something that was tired of life, reveled in the destruction of anything created by Him.

The Other came many generations later as the inhabitants of the garden slowly began feeling what was coming, and sought survival from it.

Each had the skill of prophecy. For the Once Divine creatures had still power brought to them by The Creator. The Other only wished for this power, though they never were to possess any of it. Perhaps a few were chosen, granted this wish, but it was never The Wishers that received what they wanted, only the Just, since it was out of selfish desires they asked from The Divine, power.

The Just existed as long as The Beginning, but never entered The Preparation until The Other’s craving for power became so strong, it began feeding off The Just.

Time went on and The Just was brought to their knees as The Other felt its seeds grow roots. Every so often, One would wonder if it should wait and watch as the inhabitants brought destruction upon themselves. It delighted in the mindless chaos created in the search for survival, but It felt more satisfaction in bringing The End. So everything continued.

Years of The Preparation began casting a toll on One and The Other, Time for One, and Power for The Other.

The desire of The Other for survival nullified the lives around it. They sought any and all means for continuance, and so the Prophetic son, once a tool for The Other, did turn and run from them. Using what he learnt to bring peace to all the Hurt.

One’s weeds grew over many years fulfilling their purpose quite well. Their seeds cast to the winds in search of new places to reap destruction. It is the wind in which the inhabitants take life; it sustains them. One never had to breathe and therefore overlooked this necessity. In the breath of life brought mothers bastard children of the One. Without intention, It brought more soldiers onto the field.

It was only a matter of knowing which side these soldiers were on.

When the unintended soldiers grew, learning about their birthrights, a side was rarely chosen. Stronger than the inhabitants though not quite of the Divine, the soldiers were of the Just, intuit sharp, knowing neither side was their fight.

Force was used by One and The Other as they reaped through generation after generation of soldiers. The destruction of what was dear pushed the soldiers to fight.

Some found ways of protecting their own children from the massacres.

Many generations passed before a single child was even strong enough, though farther from the Devine and therefore more human, to contend with the Will of either side. It was the One who reached him first, The Other never seeing him until the final days.

The reaping of this child began the destruction of The One. At the boy’s infancy, It took the mother away, unknowingly creating a Soldier and a Protector from the remaining family.

This Soldier, though not like that of his son, was strong and stubborn, and taught his two sons, the Soldier and the Protector, how to destroy. The father did everything within his power to keep them alive and reliant on one another.

His end was on the battle field, taking a hit for his eldest. It’s a fire that sets off an explosion later on, as all of the force the Protector has is focused on the Soldier.

It was by chance the Prophetic son, met the Solider and the Protector. Confused at first, they began to piece together what information they had, and moved toward the End, not for the inhabitants, but of One’s destruction and The Other’s survival.

The Prophetic son had lost many during his search for self and peace, making him battle weary, though less so than the Protector, as hope still survived within his heart, enough to stoke the fire within the Protector, without getting burned.

The Soldier slowly worked upon his skills, building his strength until he became satisfied with his progress, and began moving through the lands, marking soldiers ready for The End.

The Marked found their places amongst the drawn lines.

One waited patiently.

The Other watched the fronts for movement.

The Prophetic Son moved between the boundaries, in the hopes of saving what he could from the oncoming battle. The Soldier and the Protector had nothing but themselves to save. It was too late for them.

All three stood on the front and watched One collide with The Other.

As much preparation The Other went through, and with all the knowledge of what was coming, they fell quite quickly. One was older and had always been much stronger.

Though not one of The Other, the Prophetic Son felt pain for the loss of them. They had been selfish in their actions, but the Prophetic Son was unselfish in his feelings towards many who affiliated with them.

The Solider and the Protector didn’t wait long for the onslaught to find them. The Prophetic Son stood by their side.

The Protector fell first. Then the Prophetic son. Followed closely by the One. The Soldier fell last.

The fire stoked within the Protector brought great action forth against the great wretchedness of the One. A fire so bright, that it’s creator was even consumed.

The One was greatly wounded but not destroyed and in Its rage, it knocked the Prophetic Son to the Earth, and there he stayed.

Alone stood the Soldier, with only his growing rage. Loss of brother, his only companion, brought upon a rage so grand that neither his flesh, nor the Earth beneath his feet, was safe from the heat.

The Soldier rang the death knell for the One, and though greatly wounded from the End of Survival and Destruction, he refused to take his last breath until he knew the world would Live.

A world so long touched by weeds was gone, and left were the uprooted foundations. When the Soldier felt this, his last breath came.

In the ground lay a pair of brothers unknown, just in their actions, forgotten to memory.

In the ground do they lay together with their fallen beloved.

Hacker

2006-12-15T01:27:01Z

Title: Hacker
Rating: PG, no pairing
Summary: Sam hacks.
Sam, like all good students, knew where to go for information.
As many of you may know, UCLA was hacked into recently. If you don't, here is an article in the news about it
And here is another one. I hope you enjoy this. The style is a bit different in this story because I was fiddling around with it.
As always, the boys are not mine.

Sam, like all good students, knew where to go for information. He knew libraries like the inside of a 1967 Chevy Impala, and the Internet like the parts of a Model 94 Winchester Rifle. From a young age he was taught to always be prepared, so when his older brother, Dean, stumbled into Sam’s house at three thirty in the morning, Sam palmed Dean’s wallet during a little scuffle, and checked the few names on the false IDs in it.

A few days earlier, because he was bored, and mostly because he wanted to see if he still could do it, Sam hacked into three databases from his laptop while on campus. He’ll never tell anyone that he has always loved being able to get through the defenses of some of the most sophisticated companies of the world, and that he misses it. So when Dean came barreling in his life once again, Sam took it as an opportunity to search out the fraud checks on the names in Dean’s wallet, make sure Dean wasn’t being traced.

One name was of a graduate student at UCLA, Sam found his way to the university’s personal database. He was hunched over his computer, squinting at the screen, throwing his gaze around the room, making sure Jess had not come back and that Dean was still outside rummaging through the trunk of his car. There was a mistake in the code, the numbers were off; there was no way it could be that easy. For a few moments Sam only stared at the coding, until finally, with the stroke of a few well placed keys, Sam pulled up lists of names of every student, applicant, and faculty member who had been or was still going to UCLA. It did not take long to find the graduate student amongst the names. Sam would have laughed.

It was two weeks until he went back to the site. This time, instead of checking names, he was taking them. Dean felt it was completely acceptable using aliases of aging rock stars instead of his name while on the job, didn’t think it would get noticed, even though he had been caught in the lie many times. Telling a fifty year old man your name is Nick Mason isn’t a wise thing to do if he’s the one letting you into the morgue, and he’s a fan of psychedelic rock.

Each passing month Sam was on the road with Dean, he kept feeding his older brother more and more unknown names. Dean would roll his eyes at Sam but usually turned around and used them. It was only when he was teasing Sam he’d test the waters with a name like Syd Barrett, or even once using Jimmy Page when Sam was being really ornery.

Dean asked once where all the names were coming from, why there was a steady supply of them. It was not often they were gifted with an overabundance of social security numbers to throw around. Sam shrugged and turned the screen over toward his brother; he didn’t say a word. Dean whistled and said something about a school rivalry and that was the end of it.

Sam knows he should not keep revisiting the weakness in the code, knows that one day they are going to find him in the middle of the act, and he will eventually have to toss the computer away, get a new IP address. He’s always used fixed IP’s, which makes it harder to track movement since the address doesn’t rotate with the location. The bad thing about it, though, is they’ll know it is one computer doing all the work.

Sam stops visiting the database when his computer is shredded in a car crash about a year after Dean wrestled him for a beer at Stanford. He doesn’t call the crash an accident; Sam knows there are plans in store for his future.

At the hospital, before John stepped in, Sam almost listed Dean as Lemmy Kilmister. He doesn't know where John got his names; Sam is half certain that his dad makes them up.

One early December morning, Dean rouses Sam with a toss of a newspaper while chuckling, welcoming him to the realm of criminal masterminding. Now maybe he won’t be so sore about not being listed as an accomplice to Dean by the FBI.

Dean didn’t even get an article in every major newspaper throughout the United States.

Multiple Drabbles, SPN

2006-12-10T09:59:39Z

Hello everyone, long time no see. I've been busy with school, adjusting to it and whatnot. Anyway, to get juices flowing I did a few drabbles.
notthequiettype gave me the prompt words after I bugged her, so thank you dear.
I'm quite sure there will be more fic coming out in the next few weeks.

We all know the boys aren't mine.
No Pairing.
Rated PG for no language or explosions.
Enjoy, please!

Title: Worry Wart
Summary: Dean watches the darkness

He watches the darkness settle within the room without moving. There is never anything in the room; he knows if he doesn’t chill out soon he’s going to give himself a heart attack. He wonders if he learned this from his childhood or if he’s just naturally a bundle of worry.

What he doesn’t know is that it is genetic.

He can’t shake the idea that he could have done better.

What he doesn’t know is everyone he meets worries the same thing about themselves.

The only difference being that their worry doesn’t involve the actual darkness swallowing them whole.

Title: Wondering
Prompt: Fall (season), Purple, Dean
Summary: A fire destroys everything.

He doesn’t know how he ended up with the purple beanie.

Twelve hours and seven minutes ago their apartment burned down outside Huston.

At the Salvation Army for clothes, Dean wonders if Dad is angry about all the equipment they lost to the fire. Sammy is happy getting better shirts than he had before. Dean finds a Metallica shirt to replace its lost brother and wonders why he isn’t angrier that they have to start from scratch again.

It’s autumn, winter is coming soon. John finds jackets, gloves, boots, and beanies, for all three.

Dean wonders why Dad isn’t angry.

Title: Zeus' chat
Prompt: Thunder, Table, Dusk
Summary: John watches his boys.

The thing about Nebraska is John hates Nebraska. It’s like Kansas, and he only moved there because Mary wanted space to grow. There’s nothing but thunder and land.

He watches the boys play outside in the haze of the fading sun, from behind the diner window. Finishing his coffee he slams down the mug before leaving a lousy tip. He grunts his sons’ names as he heads to the Impala, knowing they follow closely.

The rolling boom of thunder shakes the sky, and John wishes he could outrun the storm. He doesn’t care much for what God has to say.

Title: Waiting
Prompt: Watch (clock), Cactus, Cold, and Sam
Summary: Little Sammy asks for something special.

When Sam was seven he asked for a cactus for Christmas, to set on his window sill. He told his dad every day for two weeks, even taking special care to spell cactus correct on his wish list for Santa, so there was no confusion.

Christmas Eve night Dean watched his determined little brother set up a little camp site in the middle of the living room, watching the small browning tree carrying more tinsel than pine needles.

Sam watched the wall clock until he woke up bundled up in his dad’s jacket, a baby cactus hidden under silver tinsel.

SPN:Bastards and Their Plans, PG

2006-09-29T07:25:56Z

Title: Bastards and Their Plans
Summary/Notes/Warnings: Season Two, Episode One Spoilers. No Pairings. Gen fic. PG for language
Reapers thinks and knows.
Thank you Ash for the quick beta. I wrote this in about 15 minutes after watching the Season Two opening episode tonight.

It wasn’t the natural order. He leaves, body dies, and it’s what is supposed to happen. They did warn her though, about how nothing ever seems to follow the natural path when it comes to that family.

She knew his fight and what he wanted to do and fought against the blackness. Even if he wanted to live, it wasn’t like this. Not by the hand that put him there in the first place.

The fucking bastard knew the rules. The dead stay dead.

One thing she couldn’t understand why keep alive one that he tried to kill. Irrationality was never a trait of a reaper so she couldn’t understand the importance of keeping Dean alive. She didn’t get it unless it was strategic.

As the violent black took over, she wished Dean would keep his memory. She lied about the body thing, there had been a time once where she let one go back. It hadn’t been a soldier, a mother, or a child but a murderer. One victim was alive, supposed to be alive. Not fated or ordained, just supposed to be, but was dying anyway. The murderer lived two minutes more than he should and she doesn’t regret her decision to give him that to fix the order. The other wasn’t supposed to die. Two minutes she gave him, one minute to be found by the police and one minute to get him to talk. When he saw her again, he didn’t remember meeting and fought just as hard.

She wished Dean would remember her because he might actually set things straight.

Fucking bastard knew the rules. You break them and you pay.

She wonders when he’ll realize he’s causing more damage.

SpnFic:But, If You Teach...[wee!chester gen, PG]

2006-09-05T10:32:36Z

Title: But, If You Teach...
Summary/Notes: Wee!chester fic, Gen, no pairing. Dean always cooks for Sam.
“Take your time, Sammy Boy!” Dean calls after him, “Dinner’s not gonna be ready for a few minutes.”
Rating: PG
Notes: I said prompt me and you did, so you know this is all your fault notthequiettype, but thank you for taking some responsability and betaing this.

Please enjoy!

Brown grocery bags in hand, filled with frozen vegetables, macaroni and cheese, Hamburger Helper, and ice cream bars, Dean makes his way into the rather large apartment, only to hear clattering followed by a thud from the kitchen. Needless to say, his pace quickens.

“Sam?”

“Knifes go to the right of forks, right?” A muffled answer comes from under the table, little red Chucks poking out past the table cloth.

“Whatchadoin?” Dean sets the two bags down onto the counter before lifting the cloth up to see his little brother picking up the last piece of silverware from the floor.

“You said you were makin’ dinner,” Sammy says as he crawls backwards into the light, “I just wanted to help,” gestures with the pair of forks and knives in his hands. Dean watches as Sam, sitting on his knees, begins to wipe at the utensils with his shirt, the shirt that was just sandwiched between little boy and floor.

“We don’t need the knives, Sammy.” Dean helps his brother up, taking the knives back.

“What did you get?” Inquisitive hands grab at the bags, tilting them down to see inside.

“Glover!” Sam jumps in the air and attaches himself to Dean’s leg, only he’s getting bigger now, so it’s more hip he’s grabbing than anything else. “Can we have Glover now, Dean? Please?”

Without looking away from the task of rinsing the knives, “Why do you think I got it, huh?” Bouncing back to the table, Sam places the forks on napkins then pulls two bowls from a cabinet and sets them up. Dean’s now working the stove, opening boxes, packets, and cabinets in a symphony of movement. The two move without saying anything until it’s just Dean moving and Sam is only watching from the kitchen table, legs swinging back and forth from the chair. This goes on silently for some time until leg swinging turns into body squirming, which turns into sliding down the chair and running for the bathroom faster than Dean could swear.

“Take your time, Sammy Boy!” Dean calls after him, “Dinner’s not gonna be ready for a few minutes.” Grinning down into the pot he’s stirring, he doesn’t notice the neighbor’s cat working its way through the kitchen window just above the sink. Dean leaves it open whenever he cooks, figuring it is best to leave soup making to the Campbells, not himself.

It moves slowly at first, meandering carefully past the dirty dishes, stopping every few paces to lick or gnaw at what smells like a good idea. Plump furry paws change directions, heading closer to the smell of new food rather than old. When Dean turns to get at a cabinet, facing away from the intruder, it takes its chance and darts toward the stove. An instinct of all animals is the avoidance of fire, at least the avoidance of being on fire. So it’s completely natural that the cat screeches to a halt before reaching the pot, but tile being the slick surface that it is and momentum being a the law of physics that it is, the cat keeps moving forward.

Salt and pepper in hand, Dean turns back to the Hamburger Helper in time to see a rather large ball of fur barrel into the cooking pot, and without hesitating, he drops the spice shakers to grab the cat from the fire, only to knock the pot over, exposing the flame enough to lick his arm.

“STUPID FURBALL!” Dean screams and yells as he wrestles the cat outside, slamming the door hoping to get its tail. Looking at the closed door, the cat licks its front paws before heading off home to watch Matlock with her owner, Peggy. Fragile skin blisters on the back of Dean’s right wrist, a few even making it onto the meat of the arm. He swears each time he prods the wound; no use calling it anything else, as he moves toward the sink, slamming closed the window with his left hand.

“Dean?” Dean didn’t turn toward Sam, who was returning to the kitchen. The mess of Hamburger Helper dripping off the stove and splattered on the floor stays untouched as Sam moves towards his brother. “What happened?” Dean turns, pulling his arm down to his side,

“Peggy’s cat, Douche, struck again.” He moves toward the towel drawer, opening it and grabbing towels with his left. “It’s nothing.” Dean turns his back onto Sam to start the clean up. Sam watches for a second before furrowing his little brows together,

“Did you hurt your hand?” Sam moves towards Dean, grabbing for his brother’s wounded hand. It takes three tries, alternating between approaches, before Sam finally sees the damaged hand and when he does, he takes the soiled towel from Dean and yanks his brother to the bathroom. Dean assures Sammy that it’s really nothing, honestly, the entire way, and little Sammy wonders what he’ll have to do to make Dean stay sitting on the tub so his little fingers can work to treat the wound, wrap gauze over ointment covered hand. Sam grimaces knowing Dean will flinch at his touch.

Sam’s seen burns before but not too many of them have been on Winchester men. The knowledge of what to do is there, much like he knows how to shoot, but just because he knows how to shoot a gun doesn’t mean he knows all guns. His hands don’t shake, but he’s sure that they should. Dean doesn’t fight him anymore.

Gauze in place, Sam turns away from Dean and begins to clean up the bathroom counter of supplies, tucking away bottles, containers, and bandages, his hands moving without much oversight from his eyes. Dean watches and picks at the white covering his hand.

“I’m sorry.” Dean looks up at Sammy,

“Why?” He asks of his little brother.

“If I hadn’t fed him that first time-“

“No Sammy…” Dean pushes himself up and looks at Sam, “The cat’s just stupid. Doesn’t know danger when it sees it.” Dean touches Sam’s lowered chin with his good hand, ever so slightly lifting it. “Next time it stops by for dinner, it will be the dinner.” Sam softly chuckles at the thought of Dean stuffing a struggling plump cat in boiling water and nods. Dean’s hand drops and Sam stands alone in the bathroom before following his brother.

At the sight of idle Hamburger Helper, Dean sighs and begins to move to the abandoned towel. Sam stops him by grabbing the towel and glaring at Dean. One hand goes up in mock surrender as Sam shoos Dean out of the kitchen and into the living room. He gives his big brother the option to sit watch TV or do something productive. The TV flares up and Sam cleans to the sound of commercials.

It takes a few minutes before Dean stays on a channel, becoming so engrossed he starts leaning closer. Running water and the click of the stove lighter snaps his attention back into the house minutes later and he gets up from his seat to see Sammy on the step stool checking the level of the flame.

“Sam?” Sam waves him off, turning the flame all the way up.

“Can’t burn water,” Sammy states with a grin. Dean just stares as Sam steps down, and drags the stool toward the grocery bags getting on again. Checking their contents, his head and hands disappear into one bag only to reappear holding two blue boxes.

“Sam…”

“I’ve seen you do it a gabillion times, Dean,” Sam shakes the boxes like maracas, “I can do this.” Dean turns into the living room,

“If I find that you were stingy on the cheese-“

“-I’m your punching bag. I know, I know.” Sam rolls his eyes, opening the two boxes, pouring them into the water.

“You wait ‘til the water is boiling, Sam!” Dean yells from the sofa.

“Like it matters!” Sam yells back, stirring the noodles. When he’s done with that he pulls milk out from the refrigerator and measures the milk he needs, spilling some on the counter. Sam wipes at it before Dean can wonder why the jug is sitting open on the counter, untouched, blocking the view of the spreading white being mopped up.

Recapped milk in the refrigerator, Sam moves to measuring the butter. He unwraps the cool stick, placing it on the cutting board and slowly judges the best placement for the cut from the knife. He avoids touching the yellow surface of the butter by moving the now diced butter with his knife into a bowl, placing it near the measuring cup of milk.

Dean, for the first few minutes watched Sam work, but now all he’s watching is reruns through his eyelids. That’s how Sam founds his brother when he comes out, tired of watching the noodles begin to boil. Sam pulls the remote from Dean’s grip, clicks a few channels left and waits without sitting down.

“Dean,” firmly coaxes Dean from his sleep, “food’s ready.” At that his eyes snap open.

“Didn’t burn down the place, did ya?”

“You still here, right?”

Dean rubs his eyes, nodding, then looks to the dining room to find the same place settings but now accompanied with a large silver pot. Dean yawns as he gets up and smells the cheese. Sam is already sitting at the table but waits for Dean to join him before grabbing the serving spoon. Dean takes a rather large mouthful of cheese covered noodles and grins into his bowl.

“Guess you’re not a total loser.” Sam huffs before stuffing his face with another spoonful and Dean just smiles. Placing his spoon down, Dean licks his thumb and rubs out the orange powder near Sam’s right temple, “doesn’t mean you don’t look like one.”

Disclaimer: Glover is a nickname for Hamburger Helper, specific to only Sam and Dean. (because my brain makes weird connections)

Spn Fic: A Few Things Not Found In Dean’s Wallet And Some That Are

2006-08-30T01:30:45Z

Title: A Few Things Not Found In Dean’s Wallet And Some That Are

Summary/Notes: The title explains it pretty much. What is in your wallet is very telling of you.
Rated: PG, Gen, no pairing

This came about because of another fic I'm working on that involves Dean's wallet. So expect another one that's more plotty.

Please enjoy!

A Few Things Not Found In Dean’s Wallet And Some That Are

Social Security Card, since it would be bad to have the cops find out that he’s a dead man, which would contradict everything in his wallet, let alone his existence in the handcuffs.
His wallet is scuffed, leather discolored and scraped from being tossed about. It’s just a few years younger than him, but made from good leather, else it wouldn’t have lasted this long. There are three things Dean owns that he has always known; his wallet, his car, and himself. All the same, he doesn’t have pictures in the worn leather folds.
Condoms, because he’s smarter than that and buys them fresh (plus his stash is rolled up with the socks in his duffle bag).
Dean deals with religion on a daily basis. He knows Latin, prayers and all the saints the Catholics decided were worthy (and some that weren’t ordained). Sometimes in the rush of things, he’d have prayer cards shoved loosely in his wallet. For the longest time a prayer card for Saint Alban resided within the confines of bills and cards, but never has the prayer card for Saint Maria Goretti, Patron Saint of Virgins, been near his wallet. Nor ever will.
Paperclips, something he needs to work on.
Dean doesn’t have a credit card in his wallet; he has seven. Once, he had about ten but had to burn them quick since he accidentally used a name of a known serial killer, and for a short time had the Feds following his trail instead of the murderer. Took him two months to shake them off his trail and another five to get back the kind of credit he was swimming in before the ordeal.

Nuzzled between the Lincolns and the Jacksons are an array of receipts, some from meals, others from gas. Every few nights Dean counts his earnings and losses in a small rectangular balance book. Pool games are always pluses, ammunition kills them though with silver being quite pricey. Strangely enough the largest minus to his balance is always salt. He goes through the math twice without a calculator then throws the white bits of paper in the trash; wallet free to accept new uncounted expenses.
Hidden behind his current ID lives a browning folded up piece of lined paper that hasn’t been touched in years. Between the fading blue lines are beautiful curves of letters spelling out feelings of love and a life that was. The letter was never addressed to him but he knows the hand that wrote it loved him too.
Under a few credit cards lies a single blue balloon. It had a partner that met a watery violent end.

Spn Fic: I'm provoked into sick confrontations, brutal: Sam Doesn't Appreciate All Forms of Music

2006-08-28T06:27:43Z

Title: I'm provoked into sick confrontations, brutal: Sam Doesn't Appreciate All Forms of Music
Summary/Notes: Five Bands Sam Hates. PG-13 for minor swearing. Gen, no pairing
I would like to thank Simon & Garfunkel for their inspriation. Thank you notthequiettype for the help.

Please enjoy.

1. Sam hates Simon & Garfunkel. They don’t sing badly and their music doesn’t grate his ears; he hates them for the simple reason they wrote “He Was My Brother”. Sam’s never been a background music person, like Dean, he listens to the lyrics instead of the beat. That’s what makes a song, beat is just the gravy (and it really doesn’t hurt to have a fantastic guitar riff). When Sam heard, “They shot my brother dead because he hated what was wrong. He was my brother. Tears can’t bring him back to me,” he was ten and even more diligent on the next hunt. At nineteen, he had a nervous tick involving him flipping open his phone in a rhythmic fashion.

2. Dashboard Confessional, as much as Dean says Sam is Emo, he fucking hates that crap. Nails on chalkboards would be better than anything made by them. The one fault Jess had (I’m sure she had more, but boys can be blinded by love) was her love for them. She’d fall asleep to them, sometimes putting a song on repeat, saying how beautiful it was to be able to share that kind of pain or emotion. Sam wondered if she’d be suspicious if she woke up to a stereo with a rather large knife through it.

3. Sam gets punk and knows that things don’t need to sound right, but for the life of him he could never get into Janis Joplin. He doesn’t want to hate her singing but he can’t help it. If ever one of her songs pops on, the channel doesn’t change immediately, not like it does with Dashboard, but eventually she fades with the turn of the dial. He doesn’t mind her lyrics though.

4. Britney Spears. Because Christina has the real ability and he’s never been one for stupid.

5. Pantera, because who needs to be that angry? His life, by no means, is full of mirth and sunshine, but he can’t bring himself to be that angry. At least, not at life or people (though they aren’t all good, lord knows). Pantera was Sam’s alarm clock growing up; Dean would use their portable tape deck, crank it to eleven, and place it on Sam’s pillow. Sam blames Pantera and Dean for the slight deafness in his right ear.

Spn Fic: Forget the Reckless Things We've Done

2006-08-22T07:08:46Z

Title: Forget the Reckless Things We've Done, part four to What are we going to say? Huh, don't quite know that one, and Normal Situations.
Summary/Author's notes/Rating: R for violence and language, major gore. Things in this series have changed a bit since the first part. I really don't know how this happened but it did and I'm rolling with it. Another part is in the works.

Dean and Sam run into trouble in the Mountains in Colorado

“Sam, you’re an idiot.”

“All I said-”

“Sam…” Dean glared towards the passenger seat, “if the situation called for you to do it, would you?” Sam stared at the road ahead, he only saw what the headlights touched. “It’s too damn late for this,” Dean rubbed at his eyes under the sunglasses then finally tore them off flinging them into the seat. “We should be sleeping.”

“I didn’t…”

“What you did or didn’t mean doesn’t matter.” Dean slammed on the breaks making Sam brace against the dash.

“Dean!”

They were traveling on mountain roads in Colorado. Dean’s attention was turned to the tree line outside his window.

“Dean…What?”

The road wasn’t used often; no cars would meet them here.

“Sam,” he didn’t take his eyes off the forest, “you said they didn’t find those hikers, right?”

Sam nodded,

“Nothing was found.”

Dean sighed,

“I found ‘em,” he checked his phone reception before getting out of the car. Sam exited too, but didn’t move more than a few feet away from the black vehicle, while Dean approached the trees on the side of the road.

“You don’t sound too happy.”

“They aren’t exactly signaling to be rescued, Sam.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean slammed the phone closed, “be glad you can’t see.”

Sam almost asked how bad it was but bit his tongue instead. Dean moved to disappear behind the darkness.

“Whoa, hey Dean-”

“Sam, stay here.” Dean didn’t wait to see if Sam complied and faded into the trees.

“Damn it.” He followed.

Sam couldn’t see for shit. Really, at this point it wouldn’t have mattered if he was blindfolded and spun around until his insides figured it would be necessary to exit his body at an alarming speed. At least then he’d see spots. Here, he couldn’t pick up his white shirt.

He pushed through the darkness, hitting trees and snagging on branches here and there. Sam understood he wasn’t smart in his decision to follow, but Dean should know by now not to go running off without thinking Sam would try to do the same. After a minute at his attempt Sam stopped his decent into the wilderness, leaned into a tree and scanned the area before him.

“Yep. I’m an idiot.” Instead of using his eyes, Sam listened.

Most days Dean can figure out what is going on with a simple glance around him. Everything moves because something else, pushing and pulling. He’s always been good at seeing the paths objects take, even people, which are much trickier. Emotions don’t have the same force with everyone, so people end up taking different paths, move at different.

His path is very different from others with similar experiences. He knows this, understands his position. So when he ends up in the middle of the forest, chasing his own scent while knowing full well that it isn’t. He gets a little perplexed.

In the middle of two trees Dean stops still as photo, eyes catching all and feels fear. It’s not his fear he feels but another’s. Whichever creepy this happens to be, it can feel the fear too. How Dean knows this, is a matter for a time when he isn’t hunting around in darkness, sensing fear and death.

What feeds on fear is hard to kill; you fight it and feed it at the same time.

Dean cocks his head, listening to Sam’s distant steps stop, and sighs. He’s too far away for Dean to deal with, but Dean’s eyes focus and finds his brother as he breaths it in the calm breeze moving through the darkened trees.

“Well shit, man.”

Abandoning the original path he took, Dean moves fluidly toward his brother while watching for movement that he knows is coming. Calling out would be foolish and he’s already dealt with enough of that today.

Sam’s too far away to know what’s after him. He never ever pays attention to the fact he’s a fucking beacon for the lightless. Dean stopped the car on the road and didn’t crash into the trees for a very good reason, one that can’t follow a friendly request.

It moves faster than Dean; it was made for the dark, Dean was just retrofitted.

Legs work harder once eyes see it attack its mark. Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t think any air is working its way in or out of him, yet he keeps speeding up.

That is until the dead get him. In which case, he falls flat on his face, crumbling hands scrapping at his back, pressing him down hard into the dirt on leaves. Large gnarly roots twist out from the trees, going deep into the ground only to come back up. His stomach scrapes along one as he fights what took him down. Silence follows Dean’s actions but not with the dead.

“Hold still, this would be a lot quicker and easier if you held still.” It forces Dean down again, after he had gotten up enough to kick out at the torn corpse.

For the record, Dean knows it’s not a zombie. That would involve certain forms of magic that the beast currently attacking his brother does not possess. No, the thing just uses the bodies as extensions of itself. It can’t do anything with the living.

Dean comes up with a right hook to the dead hiker’s face, feeling the skin peel off bone onto his hand.

Everything has a heart. Whether or not it’s the literally beating muscle that allows for blood to circulate doesn’t matter that much. There’s always a part that makes a thing whole, makes everything work. If there is one thing to learn and to keep with you is: if you want to make a clean kill find its brain or find its heart. This thing doesn’t have a brain.

As hard as Dean can, he kicks into the chest of the corpse and it only takes him a minute to disentangle his boot out of the cavity before he sprints towards Sam.

The hiker pulls himself up from the dirt but comes down hard, unbalanced. Even dead, he’s not used to his ribs being missing.

Sam’s quite sure that pain exists in every part of his body. Not just in the surface, his skin and layer of muscle over his bones, but everywhere he is. His eyelashes hurt.

Strike that. Hurt is a scraped knee. Pain? That’s just a cramp.

Agony. Oh, that is more like it.

Agony strangles his throat, keeping the screams inside his chest, fermenting. He knows the warmth spreading down his body is his blood, a blanket to his cooling self. Green eyes shift at each attack. It’s the only thing Sam can see in the dark and that’s only because they glow. It’s the only way he knows where to throw his punches. Those stopped happening after he felt most of his blood coat the dirt below him. Now it’s more like weak attempts at swatting, if even. Sam won’t stop though, just because he’s weak doesn’t mean he won’t try.

His eyes close, feeling another set of hands upon him, not as strong but have the same intent as the first pair. Long fleece sleeves brush against his shoulder. He tries to shake it off, instead it pins him, one hand on each shoulder. Sam bucks under the force and goes nowhere.

“Don’t fight.”

And Sam’s eyes fly open, grabbing at the hands holding him down and tries to break their grasp. He can’t see it even though the body that belongs to the hands is right there he can’t see their face. Sam knows there is a face. He’s lived long enough to know when something is a something and when it is a human.

His grasp slips right as he sees the green eyes slam into a tree then the hands holding him down disappear with a crash into the dirt next to him. The green eyes roar and attack into something Sam can’t see or hear.

Sam knows he can’t stay awake much longer; he fought the pull before, but now he knows he can trust himself to the dark. He just doesn’t know why.

Bone snaps between Dean’s hands and already dull eyes finally stop moving. A scream erupts from the green eyed creature as its pawn slips from deft hands. Dean growls, all focus on the blood covered creature. It backs away from his brother to come closer to him. Looking between Dean and the dead hiker, it swiftly calculates the odds of its survival, knowing that it is bigger than Dean but also understanding that this one was different than the man it attacked.

It knows its odds and is willing to play them so it leaps, matching Dean’s growl; quicker than before, Dean moves into the attack, pulling the creature on top of him as he falls before rolling until he’s the one on top. As all of this is happening, Dean’s changing, blending into the darkness. Finally his whole body matches his eyes. The darkness bleeds from his hands onto the struggling beast. With one last strangled yelp before it’s completely covered, the darkness slowly begins to slip back up Dean’s solid black arms, taking the beast with it. Fur and claws dissolved into Dean’s darkness, and he’s left kneeling on the ground wondering why he isn’t as freaked out as he should be about what he’s just done.

Dean doesn’t wait to check Sam’s injuries before he pulls him up and sprints to the car. For once in his life Dean is ecstatic he left the keys in the ignition; as carefully and quickly as possible, Dean places Sam on the back seat then leaps behind the steering wheel and floors the Chevy; it’s not long until he stops matching the car.

At the hospital, Dean almost forgets to put his glasses on. He tells the doctors it was a mountain lion attack. Perhaps he should have said bear but it was the first thing that came to mind and once the ground work to a lie has been set, it can’t be altered.

It takes eighteen and a half hours before Sam even glimpses at consciousness and another seven before he can open his eyes. What he sees is Dean sitting at the foot of the bed, wearing the same clothes as before.

“You need a bath,” croaks out Sam, wrinkling his nose. Dean sniffs himself and shrugs.

“Maybe I can get one of the nurses to do that for me.”

“One of the male nurses.”

“How’d you think you got clean?”

Sam shifts before responding and finds out what pain feels like through medications. Not that he didn’t already know but it had been quite a while since he’d been injured enough to qualify for a hospital stay. As much as he loved his dad or brother, doctors always had the better medications.

“Did we kill it?”

“There was no we,” seriousness invades Dean’s tone, “but yeah, it’s gone.”

“If I brought-”

“If you stayed on the road like I told you-”

“Dean-”

“Sam-”

“You know me-” Dean swore and shook his head.

“This is not going to be our first conversation…” Sam couldn’t really rebut since his eyes decided to close again. He forced them open again. “Where’s Eddy?”

Dean jumped, his head coming up to look at Sam, and then sighed.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Dude, you conked out for like two hours.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Dean checked the open door way of the room then got up and closed the door. Still standing by the door he took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes, sitting back down. He gestures to what’s behind the doors, “They think I’m hung over or something.” Sam stays silent, calculating how much medication he must be on to not feel the white gauze that covers most of his chest and the butterfly bandages on his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if they upped his dosage so he could sleep most of the healing time off.

“Where’s Eddy?” Sam asks again while picking at one of the bandages on his right arm. He wonders if it should be this hard to move.

“With all your talk of-”

“Suggesting,” he doesn’t bother to say more.

“Suggesting that we cut off his manhood scared him. It scares me. I’d run away if you tried that with me.”

Sam’s eyes flew towards Deans,

“So you haven’t seen him still?” Dean hasn’t left Sam’s side since they reached the hospital but he doesn’t feel like Sam should know that.

“No Sam,” Dean breaths,” don’t worry your pretty little face about it though, he’s smart, just rest and we’ll go get him and you will apologize.”

“It was a suggestion,” Sam forced out groggily, “not like I planned on doing it. I was giving him the option.”

“Hey hey hey, calm down. Don’t bust any stitches over it,” Dean joked, almost.

Sam nestled his head deeper into his pillow,

“What about you? You going to sleep?”

Dean smirked,

“I don’t sleep Sam.”

“Oh that’s right,” fading, “you’re the Terminator now,” his eyes flutter, “the leather jacket explains it all…” And Sam’s out again, Dean’s pretty sure it’s going to be a long while before Sam wakes up again so decides finally to go back to the motel, take that shower that he knew he needed, maybe even look for a runaway dog.

It’s in the shower that Dean realizes he needs a towel, only the washcloths are left. Sopping wet, he throws his shirt on inside out and backwards, grabbing the pants on the bed; he doesn’t bother to put on shoes for his trek to the main office. The blue of the shirt deepens a hue and the pants are sticking to him as he walks. At least he got the blood off himself before talking to the clerk.

“You part of the Freak Show?” The scrawny man asks, handing Dean two towels.

“What?”

“I just assumed since they left with him,” letting go from the soft fabric, he gestures toward Dean, “and your eyes.” Dean freezes, weaving a tapestry of obscenities within his head toward himself. “Where do you get contacts like that?”

Dean blinks,

“There’s this great site on the net. Cheap prices.” The man nods while Dean frowns, “Who’s him?”

“Your dog.”

“They left with Eddy?” The man nods again,

“That dog of yours got a mean bark on him.”

“Listen, a few of us had our destinations screwed up. You know where they were headed?” Brows furrow together as the clerk thinks.

“Said something about Utah…yep, Utah.” Dean shakes his head, makes a small smirk.

“Which town in Utah, we were still debating between two.” The man shrugs,

“Why don’t you just call your friends?”

“Yeah, of course, figured I didn’t want to bother them, but I guess I’ll have to.” Dean makes another smile, slaps the counter in a friendly manner and says, “Thanks for the towels and the heads up.” The man smiles back and doesn’t see Dean run the entire length of the parking lot to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Dean flings the towels down, grabbing his boots while palming his keys, and barely remembers to snatch his glasses off the nightstand; only because they’re next to his phone does he grab them. Nineteen seconds is roughly how long it takes for Dean to have the car roaring down the highway. He probably should have asked when they grabbed Eddy; they have a whole day on him. Going to Utah is out of the question without Sam. Dean punches the steering wheel.

“Mother Fucker.” He barely hears his phone ring.

“What?” Dean answers sharply.

“Mr. Townsend, I’m calling from the hospital where your brother is being treated.”

“What happened?”

“It would be best for you to come to the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“There was a complication…your brother initially lost a lot of blood, which increases the risks involved in a transfusion.”

“He had an embolism.” He could hear surprise coloring her response.

“He had some trouble breathing which we found out was due to pulmonary embolism, yes, but that’s not what is worrying us.” Dean heard the woman, who he assumed was a nurse, sigh. “We think he might be clotting in his leg.”

“Deep vein thrombosis.”

“It might be, yes. Are you medically trained?”

“Something like that,” and he hung up.

Going ninety, Dean jerked the car into a sharp a hundred and eighty degree turn.

Utah was out of the question without Sam.

Rules And Regulations Pertaining To An Angel And One Little Devil

2006-08-08T08:07:48Z

Title: Rules And Regulations Pertaining To An Angel And One Little Devil
Rating: G
Summary/Notes: This is a Wee!chester fic inspired by the comments of iamstealthyone.

Halloween comes and goes and so do the costumes, while the memories last forever.

“Quit moving, they’ll look wrong if you don’t stop moving.”

“It itches…”

“It’s the price we pay for perfection, dear Sammy.”

Dean fiddled around in Sam’s hair longer than little Sammy’s patience could handle; he was swaying from foot to foot, making Dean frown. Finally, after an attempt to move in time with the bundle of energy, that didn’t work, Dean stilled his movements by grabbing the boy’s shoulders and yelling ‘stop’ really loud.

This approached worked just long enough for Dean to get his hands in Sammy’s hair and make a few adjustments before Sammy felt he fulfilled his requirement for the command and bolted toward the front door, pillowcase dragging on the green shag carpet. Dean sighed as he saw the red tail safety pinned to the backside of his younger brother’s pants, which was also dragging on the floor. A small miscalculation in height on Dean’s part that would have the tail ending the night extremely dirty and tattered, yet it wasn’t like either of them were going to use it again next year.

One rule about Halloween: A Winchester never wears the same costume twice.

“I don’t want you guys to go too far, ok?” Dean turned toward his father, who was standing in the kitchenette of the motel cleaning the plates they had just eaten dinner on. “If you figure I can’t see you from the window then you’ve gone to far. Understand?” Dean answered as he bent down to tie his shoe,

“Can’t we go a little bit farther? I know there’s more houses on the other side of that block,” after which he straightened his robes and tweaked his halo, “they’re bigger too,” Dean grinned. “The bigger the house, the bigger the candy.” John looked down at his son.

“Where did you get the pipe cleaner?” He gestured toward Dean’s head, barely concealing a smirk, “and the sparkles?”

With hands on his hips Dean answered,
“There’s a dollar store by the Laundromat…and Sammy figured a halo is bright. Figured sparkles would do.”

John nods then goes back to cleaning the dishes,

“Just make sure you don’t take them to the cleaners,” and Dean’s out the door, his own pillowcase flying like a banner of victory.

John’s half sure that he wants to make a new rule for his boys about not making each other’s costumes, but then he’d never see his Sammy sporting flaming red horns and a pointed tail, with a goatee drawn on with black marker, and Dean in a surprisingly round halo made from sparkly pipe cleaner. Feet clad in Jesus sandals, with toga and a harp made from tin foil.

Sometimes John wonders if he should take pictures more often.

Spn Fic:There was a reason why Dean drove (gen)

2006-08-06T07:15:14Z

Title: There was a reason why Dean drove
Summary/notes: This is a Wee!chester fic. The road isn't always a friend of the Winchesters, sometimes lessons must be taught.
Rating: PG

There was a reason why Dean drove.

As a child, he always sat in the back seat with Sam. The kid had been a log, sleeping through anything; the road could have caved in and the boy wouldn’t have batted a lash of his eye. Dean, however, felt every turn and every curve of the road. It was unlike the occasional roller coaster Dad would take them on. He could deal with those, though they were not his favorite, but being a stubborn older brother he didn’t want to look weak as his little brother rode the big metal death trap, while he stayed safely on the ground, two feet planted.

As of now, Dean’s eyes were slammed shut, desperately trying to keep anything from entering his cornea. He’d go blind if he had to, watching always seemed to make it worse. Strong currents of cool air messed with Dean’s soft boyish hair. Dad had told him three times to close the window; Dean hadn’t listened. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he was willing to deal with his father than with is stomach. That thing was a monster, something that should be ripped out of him and stomped until it breathed no more.

Dean felt another strong curve.

Of all the routes to take, Dad took the one through the mountains. Dean glared at the back of the older Winchester’s head without opening his eyes. He heard Sam giggle; the glare was turned onto the little beast.

“Deany, you’re greeny.”

Dean felt it prudent to open his eyes so he could see the pain when he mutilated little Sammy.

“Shut up-”

“Dean, watch your language.” Called out from the front, without turning toward the boys. No eye watching, but ears certainly perking, waiting for any indication of subversive behavior.

“Yes, Sir.” Dean’s eyes were consumed by his lids again as another smooth turn made him lean into the door at his side.

“And close your window.” Dean understood which tone he had reached and did as he was told.

Sammy’s fingers found their way toward Dean’s unprotected stomach, knowing the defenses were down. A sadistic smile played across his face that Dean couldn’t see.

Regret followed immediately after his attack. He hadn‘t really thought it through. The reaction wasn’t anything he could have expected, hadn’t believed it was possible, though Dean had done it before, just not that often.

Dean taught Sam a lesson in never tickling a defenseless brother while on a curvy mountain road by throwing up on him.

The car swerved so sharply to the side of the road that Sammy felt the door handle enter his kidney. John pulled Dean out before Sam registered the smell exploding in the car. He stared out the open door at the retching back of Dean, whose hands and knees were planted firmly into the pavement, Dad by his side.

It took some time before Dean’s stomach ended its war against food. After a couple of false endings, John carefully helped Dean sit cross-legged, back leaning upon the Impala, eyes closed, before getting water for his son. Reaching into the front of the car, John caught sight of Sammy. The boy hadn’t moved since they had stopped.

“Sammy,” John called lightly, “Sammy boy,” he called again. His little boy’s eyes snapped to his. “Why don’t you get your shirt changed out.” Sammy looked down at himself and John nearly grabbed for him thinking he was going to have a repeat showing of a movie he did not want to see, but Sammy swallowed slowly then crawled out of the car door, peeling off his shirt, waiting by the trunk.

John pulled the key from the ignition before handing the water to Dean and only opened the trunk after he made sure the water stayed down.

Sammy watched from the safety of the trunk as Dean passed the uneventful minutes by carefully avoiding his mess upon the asphalt.

“Better?”

Through closed eyes, Dean nodded tightly at his Dad while wiping at his mouth with the whole length of his arm.

Sammy pulled out the plastic bag hidden on the far right of the trunk placing his dirty shirt with a few others in similar condition, mostly blood stained, from the last hunt. Some articles took more time and care than others.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly after finishing with the task of cleaning himself up. From the angle the boy was at, he could only see the legs of his brother, Dean’s torso and head was blocked by the Chevy.

“You do that again and I’ll make sure all of it hits you.”

Sam says nothing, but Dean’s quite sure he heard him squeak. After a few minutes of a scared Sammy fidgeting, almost cleaning the stuff within the trunk, John finally starts to ask Dean if he is ready to get up but Dean’s already pulling himself up, using the car as leverage, as John musters air for the question. Sam almost flinches.

Turning as he brushes off dirt from his pants, Dean finally catches Sammy’s eyes. It only took throwing up on his little brother, but at least Dean knows he won’t try what he did again.

Dean’s just not sure his Dad learned the lesson about mountain roads.

Spn Crack!Fic: The Worst Porn Ever Written By Man...

2006-07-23T12:07:20Z

Title: The Worst Porn Ever Written By Man
Genre: Crack!, Humor Fic, GIGANTIC PwP.
Rating: NC-17 (DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU WANT TO LAUGH AND MAKE SWEET LOVE TO BAD PORN!!)
Summary/Notes: The title explains it all. This was my attempt at the most cliché, worst porn you could think of. It's the first thing I've ever written with sex in it. Yes, my first sex scene and I decide to do a comedy.
Warnings: Swearing, Sex, Dean/OMC. May Imply wincest later on (I'm on crack, seriously, because if you know me, I don't do wincest)

notthequiettype, this is all your fault. All. Of. It. I blame you. (thanks for sticking with me that full night of giggles and vicodin. Remember, don't mix vicodin with beer, that is a big no-no)

When a man walks into a bar to get fucked, he does it with style, with a swing in the hips that leaves nothing to the imagination.

Dean knows what he wants, and it’s wearing the tightest jeans he’s ever seen or worn. It’s going to take a knife to get them off that ass.

Dean watches as the nice ass bends to make a shot on the pool table and almost comes inside his pants right there.

He needs to fuck that right now.

Moving like the hunter he is, he stalks his prey and comes down hard and fast. Hips swinging, leather jacket swaying as he approaches.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to take him to his lair.

The clothes don’t last long once the door is closed

"Fuck me so hard." Huh, didn’t know this one could swear. Surprisingly, Dean ain’t much for the dirty talkin’, but he’ll do it if the other party starts in on the fun.

Dean bites his ear, licks at the blood he’s drawn,

"I’ll make you scream," he whispers before taking the man before him in a wild fashion.

There’s a bunch of "Fucks" and "MotherFuckers" between the twisting and the groping. Dean doesn’t much pay attention to what's coming out of his mouth, just what’s going in.

Too much exploring and not enough action pushes Dean to take the lead. In one motion he rams hard and swift into this fuck buddy for the night, and does indeed make him scream. Lube is for pussies. A man takes it all raw without complaint, even asks for more.

Which is just what this one does.

"Please….Oh God…Deeper," Dean’s always been a giving man and helps his friend out; he thrusts harder. The man bucks into Dean, hoping, just hoping to take all of Dean and then some.

"Yeah, You’re my bitch," he thrusts even harder, lifting off the mattress with each push into the warmth. Quivering legs meet him every time.

Dean knows he’s moaning but he can’t hear it under his bitch’s whimpering and screaming. A smile spreads across his face with the knowledge of giving this man the best fuck he'll know.

His bitch is slick in his grip; with each rough thrust up he yanks hard with his fist. More whimpering meets his ears and he moans at the thought of what he’s doing.

Right before the man can finish Dean pulls out. The man underneath him grabs at his hips to force him down again, but Dean has other plans and breaks the hold then pushes his meaty cock into his bitch’s mouth.

He was always a fan of mouth fucking.

Dean’s impressed as a hand comes up without hesitating, and works his base while he swirls the long luxurious tongue around Dean, whose rhythm is so perfect you could set a watch to it. The guy adds licking to the mix and Dean almost collapses into himself, knees bent and straddling the man’s chest. He holds the headboard above their heads to keep from falling.

Eyes closed, he feels hands caressing his thighs, working their way to his posterior. One hand stays near his base, working as hard as a house elf, while the other snakes into him. First one finger then two.

Like a dying gold fish, Dean gasps for air. Fighting a losing battle, his hands lose their grip and he falls into the man underneath him.

"Holy…"Words escape him and he pulls the man closer to him, cradling his head to his crotch.

Surprise laces him as he finds that a fist can fit inside of him. All of one second is needed before his partner finds his prostate and begins to work Dean, whose rhythm breaks apart once he begins. Having already lost his grip on the bed, Dean slowly descends into little to no brain function, which is how he ends up on his stomach, fist replaced by cock.

He doesn't even notice himself being flipped, and is slightly alright with that. He’ll think more on it later. Right now he’s more worried about getting in a good fuck before Sam finds them messing up his bed. No way Dean’s going to sleep where he’s had sex; doubt Sam would too.

The thought of being walked in on makes Dean harder and he moans into the pillow, grabbing at the sheets.

"Oh Crap…" he moans louder and louder until he’s sure that he’s the bitch.

Before Dean can release, he feels the guy come inside him and Dean flips the guy onto his back, straddling him. Dean always finishes what he starts.

His hips set perfectly into the hips underneath him as he rocks and grinds. Dean’s pretty sure the guy is too far gone to go another round, he wants to ride for himself, but is surprised to feel him joining in.

It doesn’t take long for the man to be throb inside him again. Soft hands find their way onto Dean and work him as he moves, grinding in all directions on the man below him.

This time Dean screams.

"AVALANCHE!!!"

If Dean had brain function enough, fireworks would have been set off but things as they were, the sound of the motel door opening signaled the end of the sex.

Sam wasn’t quite sure what to make of the scene in front of him. Dean curled up on some man, both panting like they’ve never been introduced to air until now.

"Hey…you’re not his lover are you?"

Sam shakes his head numbly.

"Uh, no."

Dean lifts his head slightly to look at Sam, too tired to pull himself off the other man, not quite sure what to make of Sam’s look.

"Good, ‘cause lovers get jealous. Care to join us?"

Sam looks between the two men on his bed. Dean just looks.

The door closes.

Spn Fic: Normal Situations

2006-07-21T20:31:39Z

Title: Normal situations, third part of the talking dogs series
Fandom/Rating/pairings: Supernatural. This is rated R. No pairings whatsoever.
Genre:Best I can say i Gen/Crack humor/Horror. It mutated.
Summary/Notes: This is related to What are we going to say? and Huh, don't quite know that one. It would be best to read those before this one, just to know the small details but this overall plot doesn't need them. I pay notthequiettype in massive icon spams for betaing, thank you.
I really don't know what happend when I wrote this, it just became a monster rather than just cute crack about Dean bickering with a talking dog.

A hunt doesn't always go to plan; sometimes a handbasket is needed.

Sam snores. It’s not loud nor obnoxious but it’s there, creeping in every so often, more of a hitch than a jagged intake. As if his throat sticks just long enough to delay his breath.

It’s nothing really, but it scares the dog on occasion. Like now,

"Get on your side," Dean groggily shoves at the body next to him that had jumped closer.

"Can’t help it if your brother freaks me out," now Dean’s pushing on the lump with his foot.

"He freaks me out too but you don’t see me crying about it." There’s a struggle, "you’re hogging the sheets, give."

"Could you two shut up?" Floats over to the pair, "trying to sleep." Eddy snorts.

"Really? It sounds like you’re dying over there." No one sees the face Sam makes in the dark.

"Do you want the floor? Normally, you’d be on the floor." Eddy doesn’t exactly take that threat seriously, but he shifts slightly allowing Dean to stretch out again. "Go over to Sam. He should suffer since it’s his fault."

"Yes, throw me into the giant limbs. He’s huge. He’ll turn over and crush me and then what will you have?"

"Peace and quiet?" Eddy growls; Dean chuckles; Sam frowns.

"What’d I do?" Two barks of laughter come from the other bed, and Sam’s left without an answer.

"Go back to sleep." Sam already did.

The day had been long and full with running and dodging, much more defensive rather than offensive maneuvers than Dean liked. Their research had failed them, which they learned the very hard way, but learned none the less and dealt with it. At least a tight plan had been made, waiting to be implemented; even Sam didn’t see any holes in it and that boy was hard to please.

Throughout the night Eddy slides more and more into Dean’s space until his nose is pressed into Dean’s back, neither notice.

In little over a year Eddy had grown into a large frame. His mother was no small contender but his dad most definitely helped Eddy get his bulk. Like the boys, it wasn’t fat, he was mostly muscle. Eddy was the quickest way to a girls heart, Dean had found early on, something about mismatched eyes made the girls melt. Oh God, putting Sam and the dog together was a dangerous combination. Dean attributed it to the floppiness of Eddy’s ears and Sam’s hair.

Today Sam had gone through a wall, ok not so much through as more like dented severely. Foolishly they split up to cover more ground in the apartment building to find the creepy. It found Sam easily enough.

During hunts, Eddy usually kept pace with Sam. Dean joked that his brother was a magnet for trouble; it wasn’t all that funny when true. Eddy guarded Sam more, never deliberately doing so; it was a habit. One that saved Sam’s life today.

The boys woke up to barking. Sam immediately noticed the lack of light from the window; Dean noticed he was alone in the bed.

THUMP

More barking.

Dean pulled his knife out from under the pillow; both brothers got up in union from different beds. Eddy was a few feet away from the door; his barks turned into growls, teeth poked out from his mouth as his lips curled.

THUMP

"…the fuck?"

A bulge appeared momentarily where the force of the hit had been on the door and the wood around the latch creaked and splintered slightly.

"Guess he didn’t like our plan."

"Guess not, Dean." The shotguns were in the trunk; Sam had only a .45. It was already leveled at the door. "Ed, move."

Still growling, he slowly backed away from the door until he was by Dean’s side. A gun had already replaced the knife in Dean’s hand.

The third attack on the door did it in.

It didn’t wait for them to react, even if they were pulling triggers multiple times that it didn’t seem to feel. Dean certainly did feel the counter hitting his face as he was thrown back into the sink outside the bathroom.

In a situation where one is down, it's not polite to make a break for the door, but then in normal situations the effective guns would already be in the room rather than the trunk of the car; keys in hand, Sam scrambled through the thrashed door toward the nearby Impala.

The form absorbed the surrounding light, dimming the room. Shadows danced with the same fury as the creature when it leapt onto Dean, catching his skin with it’s claws. Dean fought; he always did. Black bled from it‘s claws into the wounds it made on Dean, leaving a trail on him.

Eddy leaped toward the black creature and Dean experienced the briefest moment of split reality. He was watching Alex fight. He was watching Eddy fight.

White hot pain tore through his chest shooting to his back, and he was done. In the darkness he was pushed into he could have sworn he heard shotgun blasts, muffled a bit but still a shotgun; he lost count of how many times it went off.

The Man of Black normally went after children. Hid underneath their beds, behind doors, in closets. It wasn’t often that it searched out it’s prey so large and willing to fight. Guess after taking little children for so long it finally felt like a challenge. Probably not the wisest of night creatures if it went for two random men it saw one night while contemplating a little girl in the motel room next door to them. Children are easy, give them a peak and their imagination does the rest. These boys? He smelled their deep imagination without even taking a breath. There wasn’t a need to play hide and go seek with them.

Too bad the two random guys he finally took a chance to go after, weren’t so random, and had been there for him knowing full well what he was.

It didn’t help that he had injured the younger one earlier in the day.

"Dean…"

Eyes fluttered. Nothing else followed.

"Dean." Stronger, firmer.

Sam held his brother as he checked the wounds underneath the shredded shirt. All of it was bleeding freely, being as loose with the meaning of ‘freely‘ as possible. What bothered him more than that was the black within the torn skin. He wasn’t sure, but some black had been absorbed by Dean. No good ever came from absorbing something from a creature.

"Dean. Wake up." Commanding.

They needed to get out of the room as gun shots and the screaming would have made people call cops, of course no one would want to check on the customers who were being murdered, that was what cops were for.

"Eddy." Sam turned toward the crouching mutt. "Watch Dean while I get everything together." Sam weakly smirked, "He’d kill me if I left his stuff behind." Eddy was already curling up next to Dean as Sam put a pillow underneath his brother’s head. Sam worked fast. Usual response to a 911 call was seven minutes but gunshots usually shaved a few minutes off that time frame.

Eddy licked Dean’s face.

"Knew you liked me…just didn’t know in that way…" Whispered out to the dog. "But then…you always choose to sleep with me." Eddy nudged at Dean’s chin with his nose.

"Dean." Across the room Sam hesitated, then began working more quickly. "Sam’s a little worried." Dean’s attempt at a chuckle earned him coughs instead. "We’re getting you to a hospital, and the-"

"I have a feeling that this," Dean weakly gestured toward his wounds, "isn’t covered." Eddy noticed there was less black within the wounds, but there was more blood.

"How do you feel?" Dean’s eyes fluttered again

"Strange…" He was out again. Eddy whimpered.

"Sam."

"I know…"

Sam managed to maneuver Dean into the back seat of the car. Eddy joined him, letting Dean’s head rest on his back. There wasn’t any music playing when Sam drove.

"You can’t take him to the hospital."

Sam looked at Eddy from the rear view mirror,

"I know." He hadn’t been heading in that direction.

"This is wrong," signaled the waking of Dean. Eddy was lucky he was a dog and didn’t have to strain his ears to hear; he doubted Sam even heard the man’s ragged breathing.

"We are getting you help."

"It should be you in Sam’s lap."

Eddy tilted his head,

"What?"

"When you were smaller. You’d sleep in Sam’s lap as we drove." Eddy didn’t like how Dean’s eyes looked. "Remember?" They had been driving in silence long enough for some of the shallowest injuries to crust up, stopping the bleeding. In the majority, Dean was a bloody mess. He’d scream at himself for ruining the seats if he could. "He’d pet you without even knowing…just kept going until he nodded off himself." The faintest hint of a smile caressed Dean’s face.

"Dean." His eyes were closed. "Dean."

"Hhm?"

"Can you please not go to sleep, it freaks me out." Eddy fixed him with a look, "don’t make me resort to biting you."

"I could take you."

"Like a flea could take an Elephant," Eddy turned to Sam, "Right, Sam?"

"He owns you, Dean." Dean shook his head faintly.

"You’re a dog. I own you." Eddy blinked.

"You didn’t."

"I think he did," supported Sam.

"Right, first thing after you get all healed I kick your ass. It wouldn’t be fair to fight a man when he’s down. That’s just wrong." Dean blinked in a quick succession, fighting, until they stayed closed. It was with the last blink Eddy became scared.

"His eyes are black."

Sam was silent while the car roared.

Eddy had asked where they were going enough times to know he wasn’t going to get an answer. Sam kept driving, but it was a driving that had purpose, not aimless. One single hour had passed since the motel and Dean had been unconscious for three quarters of it. Every so often Sam heard a whine from the dog, but not from pain. Perhaps a little of it was because of pain; he had fought off a vicious black creature. Sam felt it was safe to say every single one of them had been thrown into a wall within the last twenty four hours.

It had become so common an occurrence neither of the boys nor the dog thought much of it. At least the wall was there to keep them from going any further. Imagine that, getting tossed away from where you need to be.

The dog was whining.

"Eddy?" Exact words weren’t needed.

"I don’t like this. He doesn’t feel right."

"Feel?"

"He’s too cold." Blood loss will do that, "And Dark." Usually pale with blood loss.

"I’m doing what I can, Ed. Have to sit tight like the rest of us."

"Tell me where we are going." No more questions. Sam adjusted his grip on the wheel.

"There was a girl not far from here who survived an attack from this thing. I figure if she escaped it then, she can help us now."

"A little girl?"

"Well, she’s grown now, much older."

"She the old lady you interviewed?"

"Hit the nail."

"She didn’t seem to know anything."

"You were in the car listening to Creedence." Sam’s eyes flickered to the rear view mirror. "If she escaped it, she can help us."

"I wonder how she’s going to take us showing up at her door like this."

"Don’t give a damn," Sam sighed, "won’t be much longer."

At five in the morning, headlights illuminated the front window to Catherine O’Keen’s house, which was followed by urgent knocking then followed by even louder urgent barking, and poor Catherine was awakened. From her fluffy bed she hobbled to the window of her second story room and caught sight of the commotion on her porch. It didn’t take long for her to more than hobble down the stairs and swing open the door. In another life Sam could have been a fireman by the way he carried Dean.

Soft blue nightgown fluttered through the living room as Catherine flipped on every light she could.

"What happened?"

"It found us," Sam said as he laid Dean down on a floral patterned sofa. Ragged breathing escaped from the unconscious form.

"It did this?" Asked the small elderly woman as she came around to sofa. "Your faster than me. Upstairs bathroom, everything you’ll need is in there." Sam took the order without question bounding up the stairs. Catherine hadn’t closed the front door in the rush; Eddy had used it to his advantage to invite himself in.

Gingerly she kneeled near Dean’s head feeling his pulse, feeling his cold skin second. The boy was darkening, his light becoming dimmer. She heard the rush of Sam coming down the stairs.

"You need to clean these up before you do anything," Catherine said referring to the angry red torn flesh.

"Sam, the black’s all gone." Catherine turned to the dog.

"You," deep surprise coloring her voice, "did you just…"

"You survived an attack by the boogeyman and you stumble when you see a talking dog?" She stared. "You said the black’s all gone." The dog nodded. Catherine doesn’t think she’ll get used to this all that quickly. "Black…from the attack?"

"Wherever he has a scratch there was black." She paled.

"Oh God." She caressed the top of Dean’s head. Sam kneeled next to her and began cutting the t-shirt off of his brother.

"What?" He worked and worried together.

"I only got a cut on my hand, only a little got in…that was enough." The boy in front of her was thrashed. Many of her flowers in the upholstery would never be seen again.

"His eyes are black." She didn’t want to check to see if the dog was right. Catherine took one of the rags Sam had brought down and began cleaning alongside the boy.

"Clean and stitch the wounds, that I can do." She focused on the task at hand, "the rest I don’t know what to do with."

"You said you got some. What happened?"

"It goes after children. It always has. Every story is the same. He comes at night and takes them away." She continued to rub away flakes of blood away from torn flesh. "You know why he chooses night, right?"

"Cover." She shook her head.

"Imagination. Black is a blank canvas for what is out there. Children look at it and see different things." She sighed, "it’s a power we tend to loose as we grow older." She held up her hand, allowing Sam to see a slender scar across the meaty part of her palm. "He takes them, but the ones that escape become him."

"We aren’t children."

She laughed and motioned toward the dog,

"doesn’t mean you don’t see as one. Children are open in a way that you are too." She gestures to the scar, "this let’s me see that." Sam raised an eyebrow. "I don’t think I got enough of him to become what he was, just enough to…" She focuses back on Dean. "I don’t know what it means for him, if he was all covered."

"We don’t become what we hunt." Soon it would be time to stitch, they were beginning to see more flesh than blood. "Ed, get the bottle in the glove compartment." The dog flew through the open front door; they didn’t bother to close the Impala’s doors during the scramble to get inside the house.

"Holy water," answered Sam to Catherine’s questioning gaze, "before the stitches." All the dried blood was gone, now they were only dampening it’s flow. "It might cause more bleeding…"

"Am I to think that this is the reason why you didn’t take him to the hospital?" She sighed, "didn’t want to explain the weird substance?"

"I can explain that way, who gives a damn." Dean after nearly an hour of being outside the range of the living, decided to join them. Either that or finally something just forced him to the surface, pain probably. He didn’t come quietly.

Sam, already at his brother’s side, didn’t have to move much to get into his brother’s view.

"Dean…" The whole of the injured man’s eyes were so dark Sam couldn’t tell if Dean had his focus on him. The tilt of his head clued Sam in; he was looking at Catherine. "You remember Catherine," Sam felt Dean look back at him.

"…look…fferent…"

"Dean, we cleaned the marks. We are going to use some holy water now."

"…Brighter…"

"Understand?" Dean blinked.

"I see you." How he stressed the last word set off warning bells inside Sam’s head. Dean grabbed at the hand on his face, Sam’s hand. "Sam…you’re different."

Eddy trusted Sam and Dean, knew they would never do anything to harm him or anyone else, so it unnerved him when his back hairs stood up as he reentered the house. A small growl escaped when he gave Sam the bottle. The growl grew deeper when Eddy caught Dean’s.

"Sam…please." Eddy didn’t know what he wanted. "Move."

"Eddy…" Dean called softly; Eddy stopped himself from baring his teeth. Hesitating, Sam turned back to his brother.

"We are going to see if this helps," unscrewed the cap, "it might hurt." Dean grimaced,

"I know."

"Move please, Sam," pleaded Eddy. Sam shook his head.

"I can’t," he poured water on Dean’s torn chest. What followed wasn’t a scream, that would have been expected; not a sound was made by Dean. What did make a sound was Sam crashing through the coffee table. The bottle of holy water breaking on the hard wood floor joined in on the chorus.

Now Eddy was barking. He didn’t want to.

"It’s not going to work," stressed Dean as he slowly pulled himself up; Sam was now the unconscious brother. "We don’t like the light, but it doesn’t hurt us."

As Catherine moved to get away Dean threw her down near his brother, broken glass cutting her hands.

"You destroyed the other one but not me." Still more an injured man than anything else, he was breathing hard and fast, left arm cupping his side, feet steady in their approach of the fallen. Eddy’s presence got in the way.

"Dean," he growled, "Stop right now."

The injured man watched his companion before speaking.

"Ed, be a dear and get the fuck out of my way."

"Please Dean," Dean sighed deeply before stepping closer to the guardian of the fallen.

Eddy launched and Dean kicked out, stomachs were never made to have boots hit them. Dark fur skidded across the floor landing next to Catherine with a yelp. More agility presented in Dean’s movements as he followed the destruction, dark eyes focused.

"Dean, Please." Catherine cried as he reached her. "Don’t do this."

"Dean, Please," he mimicked, "what’s with all the pleases and the calling of my name?" He grabbed her up, "I’m right here, no need to address what’s in front of you." The force of his grab propelled her into him and he wrapped his other hand around her waist. "You’re the one who escaped." She fought against him, blood smearing on his chest with each weak hit. He squeezed her closer making it harder for her to move.s

"Stop this. We are trying to help you."

"I think he’d be angry having you slip through his fingers." His skin blackened where there was contact with woman in his arms. Hand prints smeared darkness across his chest, bleeding down into his arms. She kept fighting, only smearing more blood onto the darkness than getting away from it.

Strong hands tore her out of Dean’s grasp; Catherine was free to disappear behind Sam.

"This isn’t going to work," words stronger than he felt as he glimpsed what Dean was becoming.

Dean shook his head and smiled,

"Not at all, brother."

White gleamed out from Dean’s mouth, a harsh contrast to the rest of his body. He lashed out hitting Sam hard in the chest. Falling back, Sam rebalanced before kicking Dean’s feet from under him, who rolled out of way from Sam’s attempt to subdue, catching Sam with a left hook to the jaw.

Each hit brought them closer together and farther away from the old woman bleeding on the floor. At this point, that’s all Sam can hope for.

He’d sparred with his brother before, the only difference was now Dean wanted to harm.

Caught between guarding the innocent or helping Sam, Eddy watched on. Not knowing what to do, he didn’t move. When Sam ended up in a chokehold, lips turning blue, Eddy figured his place in the little dance and rushed forward biting at Dean’s arms.

Leaving one hand on his brother’s neck, Dean muzzled Eddy. His hand covering Eddy’s nose and closing his mouth. The dog joined Sam in not being able to breath.

Silence engulfed the room alongside the struggle.

Everything was soft in Sam’s focus and bright dots danced around, teasing him of their nimbleness. Slowly, he lost at his fight. He couldn’t hear Eddy next to him anymore, nor did he feel the hand on his throat.

"Oh God," left Dean’s lips.

Eyes squeezed closed, Sam swam in air.

"Get on your side," Dean groggily shoves at the form next to him.

"If you weren’t too busy rolling around, you’d know that I am," a leg kicks out catching Dean in the shin.

"Hey. I’m a sick man here," pulls the sheets closer, "who beats up a sick man?"

"You do."

"Ok, one thing? Those were special circumstances. It’s not going to happened again."

"Says you." Dean rubbed at his face, noticing he was still sore in his arms.

"Well, ya know, if you piss me off, maybe, but never again, no."

"Uh-huh."

"Who’s the one who decided to sleep in the same bed as the freak?"

"I’m a talking dog." Dean laughs.

"Every fucking time." He laughs harder, "never gets old. Never."

"You are one lucky bitch." An eyebrow goes up on that.

"I am not a bitch."

"Oh, you’re completely a bitch."

"Sam’s the bitch; I’m not." A shrug answers him back.

"After all we put this woman through, she makes us stay in her guest room." Eddy curls into Dean’s side. "If it were me, I’d kick us out…We meet the nicest people."

Dean furled his brows,

"Do you even have memory?" Dean felt Eddy yawn,

"So there’s a few bad plums. The ones that can keep their cool after having everything change around them are alright in my tale."

"Apples…bad apples."

"Whatever…She’s nice."

"Oh you think she’s being nice but this is just her bizarre tactic of torture," gestures at the wall, "three days of this flowery wallpaper and I’m sure my brain is being eaten away."

"You’re just jealous of her skills at decorating."

"No, but Sam is."

"Where is he?" Dean shrugged weakly sleep grabbing hold,

"Probably having tea with the lady of the house."

Sam was in town not a mile away in a gas station looking at sunglasses; better to have a spare pair than have Dean walk around with his eyes closed in case his first pair breaks.Thanks to Catherine, the only thing cured was Dean‘s bloodlust. Best they could figure, her blood calmed Dean when he had absorbed it like the black.

Whatever had happened, Sam didn’t think he could get rid of it. Catherine was evidence of that. When Dean and Sam first interviewed her, she had left things out of her story thinking they were only there for a thrill not to actually learn. She was a small girl when he came for her, young enough to handle change quite well. It was in her teen years she read up on what happened, tried hard to understand what she was. It dawned on her that it wasn‘t alright to know what a person‘s color was, if they were bright or darker than others. She found nothing but the legend and other variations across the world. Sam figured if she couldn’t find anything there wasn’t much else he could do.

Eddy said Dean felt different, smelled different, but assured Sam that it wasn’t bad, nothing like that night. This smell was something to get used to.

There is a pair similar to Dean’s own so Sam buys those; Dean’s never really been big on change.

Onto part four

Spn Fic:Huh, don’t quite know that one.

2006-07-15T01:37:39Z

Title: Huh, don’t quite know that one.
Rating: PG
Summary/Notes: Apparently I am amazingly adept in making crack fic, not to mention how fantastically fun it is to write it. I figure I’ll see where this takes me. Can you believe that I actually have and idea for a third part for this? No pairings. Gen Humor. Thanks again notthequiettype for betaing. You are awesome.

This is a related fic to What are we going to say?

So Sam’s sleeping with one eye open, scrunched up against the passenger side door, arms crossed. He sleeps without really being totally unconscious to Dean eyeing him. Yeah, he knows he’s about to be pranked on. He saw Dean palm the straws in the diner miles back.

Dean didn’t see Sam take the ketchup bottle, nor the squirt gun.

So yeah, Sam’s sleeping with one eye open and his arms a crossed for a reason. He just hopes that the gun doesn’t leak onto his shirt before he can get Dean, whose hand twitches at his side indecisive on when to act.

Seven miles pass before Dean’s hand moves more noticeably and out from his dark sleeve comes three straws. He only needs two so Sam worries at the third.

Dean’s cell phone rings and he casts a look over at Sam who is innocent eyes all the way, except that his eyes are closed and he’s keeping his shoulders from tensing. Squirt guns don’t kick back when shot, anticipating a recoil is force of habit. Dean knows what Sam’s hunter stance looks like.

Dean answers the phone and hides the straws.

"Hello?" Sam wants to frown because it must be an unknown number and that never bodes well for them.

"Who is this?" Pause, "Alex?"

Sam sits forward, hiding the squirt gun between the door and the seat. Dean casts a disbelieving look his way. He didn’t see the squirt gun though.

"What’s wrong?" Looking at Sam but asking the dog. "How do you know?" His eyes are on the road again, his foot slightly more heavy on the accelerator. "Thanks for the heads up." He chuckles, nodding, "no, he’s just waking up." Pause. "Oh, no, you didn’t wake him. It’s fine." Dean’s eyes flash back onto Sam then onto the road. "Hey, Alex…How did you get on the phone?" Sam can’t hear anything from the other end, just hears Dean "huh" then nod one final time before hanging up.

"Please tell me that wasn’t…"

"She walks on four legs and chases her own tail." Sam blinks at Dean.

"What did she want?" Sam freezes, "wait…how did she get our number?" Dean cocks his head before scratching it.

"Huh, don’t quite know that one."

"So you didn’t give it to her?"

"Yeah Sam, in between the time we had tea with the nice old lady and made sure the big guy wasn’t going to shoot us, I slipped our number into her paw."

"Phone book maybe."

"Unless it’s a magic phone book with unlisted numbers, then no."

Sam scoffed,

"Wouldn’t be surprised."

"Oh come on Sam," Dean breathed.

"What?"

Dean shook his head, and Sam asked again what she wanted.

"Not much in the department of want. She’s warning us about a disturbance."

"Ok, Luke." Dean’s jaw tightened. "So what’s going on?"

We are heading over to find out.

"We’re going back to the farm?" Dean nodded.

"Lucky us that we’re headed in the general direction." Sam shook his head.

"She’s two states below where we were headed," Sam Crosses his arms, "why couldn’t you find out over the phone?"

"Said we had to see it." Sam sighs as he rubs at his eyes. "Why don’t you get some sleep. It’s going to take a bit to get there."

"Yeah alright." He stretches out, slipping the gun back into his grip. "How did she make the call?" Dean chuckles.

"Used the operator."

And Sam’s back to sleeping with one eye open.

Sam scrambles out of the car and bolts for the gas station’s restrooms. Dean, slowed down by the seat belt, flies after his brother only to have the door slammed into his face. The click of the lock follows. Dean knows the door isn’t a match for his boots. However tempted he is to kick it down, he doesn’t want to explain to the owner that he destroyed property so that he could kill his brother.

Dean looks down at the ketchup stains covering his shirt. Oh Fuck, Sam got his jacket too. His fist slams the door.

"You better make that toilet your home." Dean swears he hears Sam mock his voice. Dean huffs before pacing back towards the car.

He rips off his jacket which lands on the car’s hood and opens the back right passenger door to rummage through a small pack containing his clothes.

"Your aim SUCKS!" He yells over his shoulder as he pulls off his shirt, throwing the ketchup riddled article into the back. It’s too far away for Sam to actually hear, even if he has his ear pressed up against the door, waiting. Dean shrugs on the shirt before heading into the station for snacks. His eyes can’t help wander over toward the outside restroom doors. Screw Sam, he can buy his own snacks.

It takes a whole lot of nothing for Sam to realize that having his ear pressed into the bathroom door is more dangerous than standing outside with Dean. There is a problem Sam overlooked, no matter what happens, he’s going back into the Chevy with Dean. He groans and hits his head into the door, very smart, man. Very smart.

Sam jerks away from the door upon remembering where he locked himself into. At least he should wash his hands.

Dings announce Dean’s exit of the station, a Ding-Dong is caught in his mouth since his hands are filled with two hot dogs with ketchup and onion, three bags of Funyuns, and a big gulp. Except this isn’t a 7-11 so it’s called something Dean doesn’t remember. Not like it matters much. The man was hungry; the road is long and his appetite is short.

Through the crack of the door, Sam sees Dean catch the falling half of the Ding-Dong by using the hotdogs then looks toward the bathroom, white cream on lips, and Sam slams the door closed.

Wiping the cream away, Dean wonders if Sam made a sound like a scared chihuahua, he shrugs and licks his fingers of the cream and heads towards the car, already happy that he had food and a clean shirt. Winchesters were good at revenge and Dean was a patient man. A very bad combination for Sam.

When Sam finally gets into the car, he’s more fidgety than a flea riddled dog. A collar might come in handy since it wouldn’t be fair to Alex if he did, in fact, have fleas; knowing that bathroom he probably did now.

The three bags of Funyuns lasted a whole wide state, and instead of ketchup adorning Dean’s shirt it was now yellow crumbs, which he easily brushed off in the dead of night as he stepped out of the car onto border of the farm. This time they headed off without shotguns.

"What’s this about?" Because Sam didn’t like not knowing what he was doing. Dean shrugs, of which Sam’s getting tired. They keep walking until they reach the barn and Sam feels the Déjà vu kicking in, his brother has a knack for ignoring his. Just outside the doors they stop, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Sam looks over at his brother again.

"Dean?"

Dean doesn’t turn,

"Alex?" Movement catches their eyes in the back corner of the barn. Too dark to tell, they know it’s too small to be Alex. Who trots into view from behind the right door.

"I think you got a rat problem." Dean points towards the back. She glances back, rolling her eyes.

"S’not a rat." She smiles, "you got here quick."

"You made it sound important. What is going on?"

She turns back around,

"Honey, you can come out." All sweet and soothing.

Out from the shadowy back comes a dark ball of fur with two different color eyes. He’s maybe about three months old, long enough to grow and have some heft to him but still be small enough to be lifted with one hand. He comes right along her right side and looks up towards the brothers. "This is Sam and Dean. They are the brothers I told you about."

"Hi." Sam blinks when the puppy lifts his paw slightly.

"So…it’s hereditary then," says Dean.

"Looks like it." She smiles when she looks down, "this is Edward," cocks her head, "Eddy."

"Hello Eddy," Dean greets with a warm smile.

"Frank’s low on cash…farming isn’t what it used to be." Dean bends down, takes a knee. "I had ten..." Eddy looks up at his mom. "I didn’t have a choice with any of them. He just…I can’t…" She sighs, turning into Dean’s gaze. "I’m giving my son a better life than what Frank will give him." Moments pass before what she says sinks in and Dean’s shaking his head.

"Alex, no, we can’t." It clicks for Sam a second later.

"Oh." Now Sam takes a knee. "Alex, we’re dangerous. It wouldn’t be better." She takes a step forward.

"My son is not going to grow up around people that treat dogs like nothing. That’s all there is around here. Maude would try to take care of all of them, but she can’t. No one else is like her. It’s either you or the wolves." Alex’s eyes narrow, "and I don’t trust them."

"This is the emergency you called us for." Sam’s not questioning, so no one answers. "We travel all the time, hunting vicious things."

"What do you think we are, Sam? We are dogs, dear, we live to hunt." Sam sighs, seeing the logic. Still though, it doesn’t feel right. "I’m not giving you an option, guys. You are taking Eddy before Frank wakes up and chases you off for trespassing, again, and you will take good care of him." She lowers herself to nuzzle her son, "I know you will."

"What?" Sam asks, "Why not go with him?"

"Mommy…" Eddy whines.

She shakes her head sadly,

"I can’t. I have to stay, plus I‘m getting too old to travel," she turns back to her son, "you have to go with them, honey." She whispers into his ear and he whines again. Dean turns to Sam, neither speak. They don’t need too.

She sniffles getting up, pressing her son forward with her nose. Dean hesitates, watching Alex, before finally picking up Eddy.

"Hey dude." he scratches behind the pup’s ear. Eddy chuckles softly into Dean’s arm.

"Frank’ll think he ran away and won’t look too hard for him." Dean returns to his full height. Sam already had. "I trust you to take care of my son," then with the scariest most ferocious stare the boys ever came across upon a dog, "if you don’t. I will find you." Sam’s surprised Dean doesn’t flinch but then again dealing with dad on a regular basis leads some to become jaded to scary; Sam didn’t flinch either, mostly because he understood her reasoning.

"We’ll be good." Sam says, and he knows they will.

Sam wonders what Alex saw to make her trust her son with two strangers she met only a year and a half ago. The son that is now licking away at ketchup stains on a tee-shirt in the backseat.

Dean wonders if Eddy likes Metallica, because if not, he now has two voices that’ll complain.

Onto part three.

Spn Fic: What Are We Going To Say?

2006-07-13T06:14:14Z

Title: What are we going to say?
Rating: PG-13, due to violence and language.
Summary/Author's notes: Gen Humor. No pairings. Thank you notthequiettype for going over this in such short notice.
Sam and Dean enter some interesting circumstances. Why are they on a farm in the dead of night carrying shotguns?

"What the hell?"

Funny how often that gets said around here. Sam wonders if Dean even watches what he says. After all, the man makes way too many puns and connections to not know what he’s talking about. But then again, he passes them off as a side thoughts. He speaks without thinking which is always followed by that funny look on his face once he realizes what he said. More often than not Sam finds himself muffling his giggles. Yes, he’d admit to himself that he giggles. Never out loud, no, god no, wouldn’t want to provoke the beast.

"Dean man, seriously, it’s just a black dog."

Yep, there goes the flail of the hand towards said dog. Dean was always one for dramatics.

"Does that look like just a dog to you?" And there’s the eyebrow. "It’s got a fuckin’ goat in it’s mouth."

"Sheep dog?"

"Sheep are not fuckin’ goats, dude." Sam decides to leave that sentence alone.

"So the dog killed the goat. Doesn’t mean it’s possessed."

"Sam…"

"Oh come on Dean, Look," now he gestures toward said dog," it’s not even trying to kill us…It just keeps standing there."

"He’s staring at us."

That is interesting. Sam does notice its eyes haven’t moved from them since it left the barn and trotted through the structure’s doors, one having a hatchet stuck through it, until it stopped upon seeing them. It’s eyes glinted from the far porch light of the farm some distance behind the boys.

"How long this stand-off been?"

"Four minutes, give or take a millisecond."

"You freak." Dean doesn’t look at his watch. When they were kids, Dean always kept track of the time they could play or escape training and come back right before dad blew a gasket. Sam called it the perfect second. However, just because he knows how much time passes doesn’t mean Dean has perfect timing.

"Shut up, I’m not the-"

"Not really a good time, Dean…" Dean grunts back a response; the dog still hadn’t moved, not even when Dean shifts his gun to this right hand.

"Freaky ass dog, why are you staring?"

"Maybe because I don’t see too many pretty boys all that often out here." Sam could do a lot of things. "And my ass, not freaky at all." Stop his giggling was not one of them. Dean’s face is fucking priceless.

Not even the limp body of the goat dropping to the ground as the dog frees it’s mouth to talk grosses him out enough to stop laughing. Though, the sound as it hits the ground, yeah, that was disgusting, but nothing he’s never heard before.

"And I am a girl."

"…the hell?" The dog looks down at the dead goat.

"This isn’t what it looks like." It sounds…bashful. "I found him like this. Frank and Maude would be so disappointed to see that they didn’t save Joe here. I was just hiding him."

"Hiding him?" Figures Dean would be the one to talk to the dog, if he talks to himself, why not talk to the dog?

The dog nods, actual conscious nodding. Sam might have imagined the tail joining in on the movement.

"They’re overly protective of their flock. It’s best if they didn’t see this."

"Yeah, talking dogs might freak some people out." Did the dog just scowl? Oh hell on a stick, the fucking dog just scowled at his brother.

"I’m not the one doing B&E with shotguns in hand."

"Hey hey hey, this is Trespassing, not even in the same ballpark as Breaking and Entering."

"Dean, you are arguing with a dog."

"The dog has a name, human." Now it was scowling at him.

"Um…what’s your name?"

"Maude named me Daisy, but I prefer Alex."

"Ale-"

Screams erupts from a field past the barn, interrupting Sam and the d-Alex takes off like a Banshee high on Pixi-Stics towards it. Dean wasn’t far behind.

"Holy Fuck…" Is all Dean says upon seeing the red eyed, mouth foaming beast of a dog. This one’s a golden color. Well, it would be if it wasn’t covered in blood.

Sam always thought his brother had a way with words.

Dean cocks the gun and shoots buck straight into it’s torso. The thing doesn’t even flinch.

"Well…shit…" Growling meets their ears. Panic isn’t the right word for what Sam knows he’s feeling. It’s more of an antsy feeling, like when a child wants to leave the room and be elsewhere. The grownups are yelling too much.

Dean cocks the gun again and aims.

"That’s not going to do a whole lot of good there, pup."

Alex leaps over the fence, separating the panicking flock and the boys, right on top of the should-be-dead-dog. She lasts fives seconds before she’s thrown off onto her side. There’s the growling again. Idly, they recognize the first growl was hers too. She’s up and snarling. It lunges for her neck and she dodges.

The boys don’t know what the hell is going on after the first lunge. Fur is fur, it blurs really well together.

Yelping.

"Sam, there was a hatchet in the barn door." Dean levels off the shotgun as his brother sprints back to the barn. Sam was always the better runner.

Pulling out the hatchet, once he reached the doors, Sam hears three shots in succession. Then cursing. Then yelling.

Sam wonders if the d-Alex curses. He runs faster on the way back.

"Throw it!" Sam doesn’t want to miss. "Throw the fucking hatchet, Sam!" It’s completely on top of Dean, his leather jacket barely helping. "SAM!"

THWACK

Hey, would you look at that. Dead on bulls eye. Someone give that man a cigar. What? Sam doesn’t smoke? Oh fine you little party pooper, it’s made of bubblegum.

Dean violently pushes the now-truly-and-utterly-dead dog off of him and makes a face.

"What?" Sam figures he has to ask.

"Bad breath." Dean gags.

"I’m fine. Thanks you guys." Breathlessly floats over towards the brothers. Dean’s up, with the help of Sam, and they turn together towards the voice. Dean looks down.

"I…uh…" He lifts his head again and looks straight into her eyes. "Thanks." No mistaking the smile on the dog’s face. She sighs, trying to get up, but only manages to whimper instead.

"What hurts?"

She chuckles sadly,

"Everything." Dean bends down, breaking out of Sam’s grasp, and checks for wounds. "Hey, watch the merchandise." Sam snorts.

"How can you talk?" Sam asks.

"By pushing air past my vocal cords." Dean didn’t just high five the dog, did he?

"You don’t have any broken skin." Dean informs her before gently lifting her into his arms and starts for the farm house.

"Whoa, hey, please put me down. I can walk."

"And I’m a border collie." Dean didn’t know he could read the emotions of a dog from facial expressions. Something new everyday, right? "Bet you have a nice fat, fluffy bed to sleep this workout on." Sam notices Dean limping; he’ll save his inquiries until they get to the car.

"The kids. I can’t leave them like that."

"The goats?" Sam asks.

"Yeah."

"You did all you can. They are fine."

"But Joe…oh God, now Will. He got them."

"You can’t do anything for them now." Alex shook her head, lightly tapping Dean’s arms.

"Maude shouldn’t find them like that." Sam caught Dean’s look.

"Does Maude know you talk?" She shook her head again.

"How?" There’s another whimper followed by droopy eyes. Dean’s taking the three steps to the porch in stride.

Sam swears he hears her say, "fucking Gypsies," before she passes out in Dean’s arms.

"Told you."

"Who are you talking to?"

"The dog, Sam." Dean doesn’t react to Sam’s questioning look, "Could you please ring the doorbell?" Sam stares.

"Why?"

Dean sighs,

"So she can sleep comfortable in a bed."

"She’s a dog."

"That talks."

"Just leave her on the porch." Sam doesn’t receive that particular glare from Dean all that often.

"Dude." Warning his younger, slightly taller brother. Sam pokes the ringer.

"What are we going to say?" Alex whimpers again as opens her eyes and blinks a few times until she focuses on Dean.

"What?"

"You need a bath."

Sam conceals his giggling because the front door opens with a pissed off bearded man and a strong as hell looking woman, who just lost two goats and almost their magical talking dog to a crazed-red-eyed-undead-dog, which is dead now. He shouldn’t be laughing. Right?

Huh, don't quite know that one. A related fic

SPN Fic: Part Four of the Related Series, Realization

2006-07-08T04:56:16Z

Realiztion, Part Four of the Related Series
Standard Dis
Rated PG-13 for language
Summary/notes: No Pairing. The Game, Related, Changes,
The game had been perfected to a point where entire nights had been passed in stillness, without the hint of dreams creeping in.

The trucks outside woke Sam without waking Dean; his eyes turning immediately toward the table and chairs near the foot of his bed, surprised to not see Dean.

Rustling came to him from the next bed. Sam watched his brother toss onto his side facing away from Sam. He’d been sure Dean would have stayed up, make sure he slept.

Sam rubbed at his eyes as he sat against the headboard, pulling the covers farther up on him, head tilting toward the next bed. Dean wasn’t much to move at night. He always found the most comfortable position before fully succumbing to sleep. Most people Sam knew got annoyed at the noisy sleepers, the ones that moved around so much that they twisted their sheets all around them. He was one of them; suffered the wrath of others for it, but those were the sleepers Sam didn’t mind. Not because they were like him, but because he didn’t need to check to make sure they were breathing. Dean slept still, with his face into the pillow most of the time. Maybe Sam was being paranoid with the thoughts of his brother suffocating, or that each night Dean would stay still.

Dean’s black shirt moved, making indistinguishable shadows with each breath taken.

He hadn’t meant to collapse, now he knows not sleeping is not an option. If he lived any other way, some quiet one where no one knew who he was and he didn’t matter, he could collapse until his heart was content. He can’t take the chance here where it could hurt Dean.

Going into the last gig Sam felt it. The sluggish pull of weight on his limbs, attaching to each joint as if it was demolition time and everyone was prepping to tear down. Winchester men were notorious for their power to ignore things. A gift bestowed to them from up on high that came in good and handy when they were kids. Sitting two boys down together in a small car caused all to learn to deal with flying toys or unknown brown liquids that wouldn’t be rubbed out of the carpet no matter the cleaning fluid used, but sit two grown men down in a bar with a laptop where one becomes so tired he can’t even type, the power to ignore becomes detrimental.

Not that Sam blames Dean for allowing him to collapse, not at all. Sam takes full responsibility for his actions, unless he’s possessed or brain fucked. Which, again, happens a lot, just not here though.

Dean doesn’t move once he’s picked a spot, so why did he roll?

It’s been a long couple of days for him, Sam, come on. It’s not like you wouldn’t be stressed if your baby brother drops in a middle of a hunt.

Sam wipes at his face. He didn’t think of that. Dean could have thought it was anything. They weren’t trained for normal. As normal as sleep deprivation was. Spell, curses, weird creepy charms that smell funky, yeah, they deal with, biological mechanisms, no, not so much.

“Jesus.” Sam didn’t even want to control the volume of his voice. Dean only grunted. “Crap.”

Dean grunted again almost as if agreeing.

SPN Fic: Related Series Part Three: Change

2006-07-07T20:37:31Z

Title: Change, Part Three of the Related Series
Summary/Notes: Sam and Dean deal with Dreams. This is related to The Game and Related. It would be best to read those before reading this. No pairings.
Rated: R for language and violent images.

Please enjoy.

Dean didn’t hate hospitals. He appreciated what they did; what they tried to do for everyone. You can’t hate something that tried to help. It just doesn’t mean that he liked being there. He hated being at the hospital, not the hospital itself. There’s a difference.

One good thing, he was scuffed up beyond looking good or smelling good, for that matter, yet no one seemed to care. No one stared. Their problems were more important than dirt.

Exhaustion.

That’s what the doctors said. He dropped, in the middle of a gig, from exhaustion. Dean was lucky he didn’t think when he fought, if he had he knew he would have hesitated getting to Sammy before the ugly.

"Jerk, you took me to a hospital."

Dean’s head snapped toward the doorway on his right. He was up without a passing blink.

You get back into that bed, or so help me God-"

"What are you going to do, Dean?"

Dean glared. Sam swayed. Dean poked Sam’s chest through the gown; the nurses had underestimated Sam’s body size, giving him a mini skirt instead of a calf length paper thin gown. Idly, Dean wondered if what Sam was wearing was for a girl and they ran out of GIANT gowns.

Dean herded Sam back to the bed, even tucked him in.

"You know full well these beds are way more comfortable than the motels and we are not passing up one free night in a comfy bed."

Sam snorted.

"Free?"

"Is either of us Thomas Quinn?" Sam shook his head. "Then it’s free to us." Dean didn’t idle long on the observation that Sam didn’t fight Dean’s hands away when he tucked him in. He wanted a fight.

Sam watched as long as his eyes allowed him before they drowned under eyelids. Dean sat down in a chair carved by the devil himself.

"Fuck."

Watch your tongue, boy.

"Oh, yeah. Like anyone’s going to hear me."

Talk to yourself like a crazy? Oh yes they will.

"They’ll just think I’m talking to him," he gestured toward his sleeping brother.

Maybe, but you’ve never risked it before.

"He’s never done this before."

No, but you have.

"That was before I knew better."

The Game.

"He was trying his own version."

Isn’t very good, though.

"Not at all."

Can I say I told you-

"Finish that sentence-"

And what?

"I’ll come over there."

Would you really? With him right there?

"You suck."

Tongue. Tongue.

Dean’s eyes rolled, then he ripped off his black leather bracelets.

"Try that." Silence met him. "Psychics." He shook his head and stuffed the bracelet into his jacket pocket.

Two days into the hospital and Sam fought Dean’s hands when he went to tuck him in.

No longer did the circles around his eyes look like black eyes, nor did his eyes fight his commands. He didn’t sway on his way to the bathroom. That was enough for Sam to want to clear himself from the hospital. Dean wasn’t sure if he should have fought it. Either way, it wasn’t going to be any good. If he went home, that’d mean Dean would have to talk to Sam. Family talks weren’t for public places. If Sam stayed in the hospital, it would imply he was worse off. Sam hated weakness just as much as Dean. His ideas of what were weaknesses were different, though they shared some ideas.

Sam signing himself out took the decision out of Dean’s hands.

Once at the motel, Dean forced Sam to take a bed and stay there.

"I’m not tired." At this point, Dean had been sitting, waiting, patiently for everything to begin. For the moment that everything would boil over. He knew Sam was the pot of water and he was the fire. He understood that.

"Bullshit." He didn’t hide anything in the word, nothing at all. Sam stared.

"I’m not."

"And I’m a Lady in White, Sam."

"I don’t want to sleep."

"There is a difference between wanting to sleep and needing it. You don’t have a choice."

"I never do." Sam mumbled. Dean heard it though and froze.

"Damn it Sam, you had a choice. Now you don’t. That’s your fault."

"I hate this."

"You think I’m loving this?" Dean’s voice raised slightly." We were in the middle of a fucking fight with a nasty looking sucker, and you collapse. I didn’t know what was going on." Dean rubbed his chest. "Jesus Sam, you can’t do that to me."

Sam was silent before he turned on his side and closed his eyes.

"I’m sorry." Sam whispered, groggy.

"Sorry implies you won’t do it again."

He didn’t get a response. He blamed it on sleep and sighed. Sam was running, but you couldn’t run away from dreams. Dean knew. Hazel eyes closed a moment.

"Do you remember that thing you were screaming for to save you? I said it was here." He breathed. "It just wasn’t doing anything."

Dean climbed onto the other bed, turned to make sure Sam was sleeping, and closed his eyes.

"Shit."

Dean slept and Sam didn’t have any nightmares that night.

Part Four

Spn Fic: Quick Studies Part Two

2006-06-22T06:10:44Z

How I am going to do this is by presenting a series of moments, whether or not they connect from scene to scene. I know this part is extrememly short, I'm sorry, but this his how it's going so let's see what happens.

Title: Quick Studies Part Two
Author: Me
Rating: G, because I'm weak like that. Don't worry, it'll get a stronger rating further down the line.
Summary: charmedXsupernatural. No pairing. Follows the lives of Chris Halliwell and Dean Winchester as they meet and live through dark times.Set in the future, the unchanged future. Part One is here.

They said during the end of the world it would rain fire. Dean was never one for a literal translation, but he saw the irony. Planes were dropping out of the sky like rain drops.

Chris always wondered why Dean would take the train everywhere. It took way to damn long to get anywhere. At least with the car he‘d look cool and he‘d be able to break whenever he wanted to. It was too much trouble for some stupid demon or ghost, that would end, more than likely, withstood much a of bang. Chris incessantly teased Dean about being a slow poke. Dean would laugh and say at least he wasn’t slow enough to catch a knife in the gut.

Chris hadn’t woken up when Dean’s phone went off at three in the morning, nor when Dean packed two bags. One for clothes. One for supplies. Chris woke up to a note on his bedroom door.

Shit happens, I got to take care of something. Will be back. Don’t eat too much of my food.

He threw the note into the bathroom trash can as he relieved his bladder. Idly he scratched at the white scar across his stomach, as he admired the dirt crusting the bath. No one was there to see his right eye twitch. Same damn routine.

(~()~)

Looking down at the white tile of the kitchen, Dean had the urge to take off his boots and leave them at the door. Something he hadn’t done in quite a bit.

“I was worried for my safety.”

Dean spun toward the kitchen entrance. The house may have been sparkling, but Chris was dulled by the presence of dust. “There were zombies in your frig.”

“There were not.”

“Well, that’s the only explanation I can find why the chicken was still growing and…moving…after being dead.” Dean pulled open the refrigerator.

“That wasn’t chicken.” Chris stilled his movements toward the blue topped table and cast an uneasy eye toward the man.

“Should I ask what it was?”

“Turkey.” Dean closed the door. “Is the rest of my house like this?” Gesturing around the perfect kitchen. Chris shook his head.

“I’m not touching that bathroom down in the basement.”

“I don’t either.”

“I know.” Dean opened the nearest cabinet.

“Holy Mother…” He faced the now sitting boy. “I leave for a good part of a day and you decide to clean my house? Organize my pantry?” Chris nodded. “Most boys would host a party, or watch some TV.”

“You know what a pantry is?” The boy smirked. Dean shot him a look, “and I did watch some TV. Nothing good on.” Dean set his bags on the table and head out toward the living room. He heard the chair scrap the floor as Chris followed. Dean moved to each room, marveling, with Chris following wordlessly. Few times, Dean found himself swearing under his breath; he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Did it go well?”

Dean nodded but said no more. He sniffed the air.

“Is that…ham?” Chris beamed as he moved back toward the kitchen; his head bobbing like an otter. “Where the hell did you get ham?”

“From the store.” Chris called over his shoulder. “You said over the phone that you were coming home today.”

“So you get a ham?” Chris tried to shrug while still handling the heavy chunk of meat. “How sweet of you.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking, with all the punishment you put me through with this house.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to clean it.”

“Can you honestly believe a person can live like that? Death was lurking from every corner. I might have tetanus from the washroom sink.”

Dean eyes rolled.

“I’m sure you’ll live.”

Dean set the table as Chris finished preparing the meal, cutting mostly, and heating up some vegetables.

“How was the train ride?”

“Fine.”

“I still don’t see why you don’t-”

“No. I’m not going to let you.” Chris slowed, nearly stopping, as he poured some mixed vegetables into a serving bowl. He didn’t turn around.

“I’m not weak.”

“I know.”

“Then why treat me like I am?”

Dean sighed.

“You’re fifteen.”

Chris scoffed and stared at Dean.

“Does that really matter?”

“Most defiantly.”

“Even with what’s going on out there?” Chris said as he gestured outside.

“Yep.”

“I can help.” Steam rose from the plates and bowls, swirling toward the ceiling as the two took their seats across from one another.

“You shouldn’t have to.” Dean tore a paper towel off the roll and handed it off to Chris, before tearing one off for himself.

Chris watched as Dean put meat on his plate.

“You’re stupid.”

“I know what you are but what am I?”

Chris shook his head and ate his broccoli.

Command-SPN Fic

2006-05-15T00:22:21Z

Title: Command
Rating: PG (See spnnewsletter! I'm getting better)
Summary: Ever wondered why John didn't come running when Dean was dying in Faith?
Notes: No pairings, flirting yes, but no real relationships. I read a fic with a similar premise, but it was set after DT, so don't kill me if you go "hey, I've seen this before".
This is set during the Episode Faith, yes there are spoilers. (for more than one show, but I'll let you guess which other one). Please enjoy!

Hey Dad, it’s Sam. You’re probably won‘t get this, but it’s Dean. He’s sick and the doctors say there’s nothing they can do. But they don’t know the things we know, right? So don’t worry ‘cause I’m gonna do whatever it takes to get him better. Alright. Just wanted you to know.

~()~

He had half a mind to pull the IV out of his hand and walk out the door, gown flapping in the wind. Give them all a good show, he didn’t care. The bed was too white, too fluffy, too clean. None of it yelled comfort and what did was states away, God knows where. He’d do it, leave, done it many times before, even pretended to be a doctor once to get out. Sometimes his clothes were so shredded after the nurses got their hands on them, he’d have to settle for scrubs. He was stunning looking doctor, could probably make his patients feel good by just walking into the room, had he chosen another profession.

Blue invaded his fingers and toes; they said it was not a good thing for them to be cool to the touch. From experience, he knew that also. Knew the medical names too.

He shook his head, definitely would have been a good doctor had things been different.

No way his blue tinged feet were going to get him out of here. He couldn’t feel them really, like they were asleep. No pins and needles, just nothing, all due to bad blood flow. That’s what happens when the heart conks out on you.

Maybe there was more to this, he mused, a reason why it was his heart that was failing him. Without a doubt it was the strongest muscle in the body, every minute, every second, every day it moved, pushing life through a person. It‘s the reason why there was breath, without the heart there is no need to breath. Everything was useless, empty without it, veins would disappear, cells die, function ceasing at every part.

His mission was of the heart. Everyday he pushed harder, making it do more than it should. It wasn’t following his orders anymore. Now it was telling him what to do.

He eyed the IV again with a ghost of a movement toward it, visualizing himself getting up and into his car. They were still out there, alone, hurt. He shouldn’t be here in this room, waiting for a damn pacemaker. If the heart went, the heart went, nothing he could do about it. How ironic a death it would be. Sam would get the joke, he usually did even if he didn’t laugh.

At least the toes moved. He couldn’t feel it but definitely saw it under the blanket.

“What did we tell you about cell phones?” Damn it to hell, he was getting slow in his old age, not hiding the phone under his pillow.

Smile old man, you still can act.

“Don’t worry, I’m just making sure you didn’t delete your number from it while I was out.” She giggled.

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you are hitting on me.” He smirked.

“If a man has your number in his phone, then he has a right to hit on you.”

“Still doesn’t give him the right to have the phone in the hospital.”

“How do you think I got the number in there in the first place?”

“Magic?”

“Cute.” He internally sighed. The blond doctor held out her hand, waiting. “Oh come on, I wasn’t using it.” He pulled it closer to his chest, face set. His heart needed him to stay here, but they needed him.

A grunt escaped as he sat up. Follow the damn order heart or so help--

“Hospital policy.” She moved closer. “Come on, if you need to make a call you can use the hospital phone. It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why take mine?”

She pointed toward his chest after a slight hesitation.

“Sensitive equipment.” Pacemaker, right. His grip tightened around the plastic casing of the phone, small creaking noises leaving his hand. She took the phone. “ It’s not worth dying over, Denny. You will get it back.” He didn’t answer her. She was a smart cookie and got the message and left.

Passing through the doorway was effortless to her. Taking the phone from him was simple and easy. He knew for a fact that he had a death grip on the phone, not even Dean could have gotten the object from him when he was like that.

It’s Dean. He’s sick and the doctors say there’s nothing they can do.

John needed to get to them.

His heart wouldn’t let him.

-------

I'd like to thank Grey's Anatomy for the wonder hours of laughter I have gotten, and Supernatural for doing the same. The first part of GA season finale is today, who's going to be watching? *Raises Hand* I know I will. If you like it, talk to be about it.

Related-SPN Fic

2006-05-13T18:31:58Z

Title: Related
Summary: This connected to another fic I did called The Game. Proabably a good thing to read that before this.
*Points* The next line is the grabber/summary thingy...

Always, always, it's a mysterious woman who tells you the truth, and why is it that we never get their names?

Notes: No real spoliers, but this is AU so...

Edit- Oh my god, I'm so sorry spnnewsletter I'll be a good little ficer and post my ratings from now on.
This is PG.

“You ignored it.” A pause, “You shut it down. They got tired of waiting for you, so they made him see.” She sighed, “Only, he wasn’t made to see. Ever wonder why he gets headaches, when they never happened to you?”

“He’s not use-”

“No, he isn’t. You were born with this. He wasn’t.”

She saw what her word were doing. It just had to be done. For the safety of both of them. “It’s hurting him.” The man’s head lowered, hiding his face from her.

“I said the same thing to him,” he whispered. Not too long ago either. Had to have been three months now. Sam had been right, things got better for a time, but a whole lot worse soon enough. Of all the ways for Sam to be right, it was this one.

Things were not alright, and they weren’t going to be.

“They could be.” Dean’s head snapped up, catching her eyes. He forgot what she could do. “You don’t have to be on guard every moment of your life, dear. He’s not going to go wander off and get mauled by a bear. Neither are you.”

“I’m not worried about bears.”

“No.” She nodded, “Things suck- I think those are your words too- but they can be fixed, if you let them.” Dean’s eyes closed, contemplating his future, Sam’s future. She cocked her head to the side listening to the unheard moments, frown capturing her face. That’s how he ignored. The why was there, and now she had the how. The poor boy didn’t sleep.

Visions acquainted slowly through dreams, allowing the receiver to understand how things worked, until there was no difference between wakefulness and sleep. She had been similar.

No acquaintance had been made between Dean the visions since he hesitated at the handshake. He sat in the living room while a visitor stood outside, ringing the doorbell. Both knew each party was there, with no contact made. A handshake could still happen between the two parties. It had been too many years, but still, she knew, the relationship would grow as fast as a weed. Not that it was as inheritably bad as a weed, just had the growing attribute.

“You need to let them in, meet them.” A ripple crossed Dean’s face, something she recognized. He didn’t respond; she heard him all the same. Which is why she used the necessary weapon against him. “It could help Sam.”

She might have smiled, wanting to not rub in her victory. With Sam, there lied a hope, a bribe really, in getting Dean to what needed to be done.

“You are sick, you know that?”

She shrugged.

“Some say grave digging and robbing is sick.”

She would have danced, he was a stubborn bastard, but he wasn’t saying no to her idea. Wasn’t saying yes either, but wasn’t saying no. There should have been cake.

“This is why I hate psychics.” Gesturing toward his head, “You play with things up here.”

“Well, guess what, darling, then you must really hate yourself.”

He stayed silent after that.

Part Three

Quick Studies (1/?), Gen-SPN fic

2006-05-12T05:50:28Z

Title: Quick Studies (1/?)
Author: Me!
Rating: Mild violence in the begining so PG?
Summary: CharmedxSupernatural crossover. Two of my favorite characters, Chris and Dean!
This opens up a series I am planning.
I wanted to write something between Chris and Dean, both are protectors who would do anything for their family. So I started wondering what they would be like if they met.

Perfect aim brought the knife toward the demon’s heart--if there was one--and flames illuminated the gloomy alleyway. In the brief moment before darkness sank back in, the hunter caught a hesitant movement.

“Thank you.”

The hunter shook his head guessing the voice could see him, even if he couldn’t.

“I saw the blood trail. How bad is it?”

The injured figure closed his eyes, muffling a groan. He didn’t see the hunter close in on him until he felt the knowing hands on the wound, who ignored the flinch from the boy not more than fourteen, as he checked the wound, hands becoming slick with warm blood.

“You need a hospital.”

“No hospital.” Said too fucking calm in man’s opinion. The man ignored the protest.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” A few steps were made before the man felt himself being brought down, his knees hit the hard floor jarring the bad right one. The boy barely heard the man grunt, his focus on the words.

“Had worse…” Eyes blinked slower, “Just need to-,” until they finally closed. The man didn’t check for a pulse already feeling the boys lungs move against his chest. It wasn’t too hard to figure how he was brought down, he’d felt it before; you never forget what the fucking Force felt like.

Carefully, he got up again, bad knees and broken bodies didn’t go well together, and made good time getting to his car. It being three in the morning didn’t stop him from pealing out toward the opposite direction of the hospital.

The boy would get treated, just not by white coats, though, the man had enough experience to be as good as them. He wondered if that was a good thing.

The boy was lucky he had been stabbed, a straight line was easier to stitch than a jagged one. Unfortunately, it also meant a deeper cut and there were two wounds marring the ashen chest. The man noted the boy’s skin had already been collecting scars, some thin and white, some pink and raised. He catalogued them as he worked, barely hesitating in his movements when his eyes caught another memory on the skin. The hunter sure as hell couldn’t forget the feeling of a needle and thread working between his fingers and his patient's skin. It was the worst when it was his own, he never could be still enough to allow for a straight stitch.

The kid was out, no fluttering of the eyes when the man kicked open the house door nor when he was set down on a soft bed. This way was best, to not be awake, both had learned from experience.

Unless infection set in, the kid would be alright.

He didn’t bother shutting the bedroom door gently, the kid would be out for awhile longer, a little bit of noise wasn’t going to do anything. When he did wake up, the man would make sure to push the boy full of painkillers and antibiotics. The stash hadn’t been broken in to lately. He definitely knew that was a good thing.

The trek from the refrigerator to the sofa in the living room was too long. First thing in the morning he’d move the frig to the side of the plushy lounger, take all the work out of living. His swollen knee cringed at the thought of the exertion. On second thought, perhaps as payment for housing he’d have the kid do it.

He didn’t bother taking off his shoes as he stretched out on the sofa, cool beer satisfied the tense throat. No sleep would be gotten before the kid woke.

~*~

“Mom?”

“You need to take these,” white pills and tap water, “you have a fever.” He didn’t know why he tried to reason, it hadn’t worked any time before. Heat bled onto the man’s hands as he held the boy’s head in his lap, coaxing. “You need to let me help you. Open your mouth.” He waited.

“No muck…tastes bad, mom.” As proof, the boy tightened his lips together. The man considered getting the crow bar from his trunk.

“There isn’t any taste, I promise.” He felt the boy’s head shake.

“That’s what you said last time.” The man shifted into a new position.

“Open your eyes.” Almost a command but not quite, and dark rimmed eyes opened, unveiling cloudy bloodshot orbs. “There was no last time. I’m not your mother.” The boy stared. “What’s your name?” He blinked up at the calm face, eyes sharpening up.

“Chris.” The man smiled.

“I’m Dean,” smirked out at the boy, “is your mom’s name Dean?” Chris shook his head. “Guess I’m not your mom then. Now, I promise you will taste nothing when you take these.” Chris eyed Dean’s hand. “I’m sure your mom wants to see you all healthy and back at home as soon as possible.”

“No home. Mom’s gone.” He took the pills.

Dean hoped the boy didn’t hear him swear.

~*~

Chris really hoped he didn’t wake up Dean, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall closest to the bed. He didn’t want to move either, the groans were too loud to muffle if he tried. It was either wake up Dean without feeling pain--more pain, really--or wake up Dean with a yelp.

“Dean?” The man’s eyes opened.

“Yea.” No evidence of sleep in Dean’s voice, which startled Chris into not answering. Dean was already moving, anticipating the next move. After all, he’d been in enough bars to know when someone was going to puke. Chris barely noticed the bin in front of him, only recognizing the fact that none of insides were hitting the bed and that his stomach felt like fire.

Chris lay panting for five minutes before the bucket was removed and cool water hovered into Chris’ vision.

“Good news is your fever broke after two days, bad news is you’re puking your guts out to get rid of toxins.” Warmth moved up and down Chris’ back lingering longer at tense areas, working the knots. “How long you been up?”

“You mumble in your sleep.” The warmth stopped not anywhere near a soreness. “Who’s Sam?” Dean’s hand stopped nowhere near a soreness, then he moved toward the side table. Chris watched the man count the pills out of bottles, he moved silently; there were only a few Chris knew who could do that.

“My brother,” he finally answered without turning around. “Who’s Wyatt?” Chris raised an eyebrow toward Dean. “You were running a fever for two days.” He said as a way of justification.

Chris leaned down into the pillow.

“My brother.” Pills appeared much like the water had, without him hearing its approach. “What are you?”

Dean smirked.

“Good.”

“No. Really.” Chris took the pills. “Not many can sneak up on me like what you just did.”

“The demon did.”

Chris shook his head.

“I knew it was there.”

Dean frowned,

“Then why--”

“Didn’t have my powers.”

“Powers. Plural?”

“Needed to get attacked to break the binding.”

“Who did this to you?”

“The demon, silly,” teasingly.

“You know what I meant.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” seriously, “what are you?”

Dean stared, figuring a bit of honestly would go a long way.

“Human.”

“Seriously?” Eyebrows pulled together. “Why do you do this?”

“What? Hunt?” The boy nodded; Dean shrugged, “I grew up with it.” Chris laughed.

“So did I.”

~*~

Chris got annoyed right quick with Dean fussing over him like an old woman. He prowled around the house like a caged animal waiting to be released. It had been a long time since anyone had paid much attention to him, made sure that he was alright, not just uninjured. He fought it, finding what lines to not cross and which ones he could leap over. Both were quick studies, two wonderful dance partners sidestepping in unison.

One thing he didn’t mind was the smell of bacon and French toast in the mornings; it was uncomfortable to eat in the bed though. It seemed silly but Dean insisted on him not leaving the bed, and by the way the man presented breakfast, Chris wasn‘t sure if he should have voiced his opinion on the whole situation. Fear of loosing the delicious cinnamon coated bread kept his mouth shut.

He never realized how closely they tasted like home.

Part Two