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What…!? It’s not like I felt you up, you perv. It was just a slap. There was a little grey thing. I was proving a point.
Also… if you see a little grey thing, don’t fuck with it. They can be really nasty.
How am I the perv when it was your wiggly fingers inappropriately close to my ballsack?
And gray things?....These gray things tell you to touch my butt often?
Back to Sioux Falls || Sam and Dean
Staying below the speed limit took some serious effort. One year, with only the sporadic phone call or text to let him know that Sam was still alive and at least well enough to manage a phone.
It had been a ridiculously bad idea to let him go in the first place. Sam had been - possibly still was - anything but well and Dean should've put his foot down, when Sam announced he wanted to go look for a cure for himself, and said no...or at least demanded to be allowed to come with. Weren't there were laws to prevent mentally unstable people from going off on missions that could harm them? Dean wouldn't have dragged his brother to court over it but he felt it would have given his very eloquent argument ("Fat chance, Lance!") some extra weight if he'd had the law on his side. But Sam, the slick bastard, had - as he always did - found a way to get Dean to cave and agree to his terms. Unfortunately, instead of working to his disadvantage, the vulnerabilty of his illness only served to add yet another freakin' layer to the puppy dog look, which had Dean's resolve instantly crumbling.
He'd let his brother go off searching for the thing to put him back together and it had taken every bit of Dean's determination not to hunt after him. The calls and the texts had been vague to say the least and had raised more questions that soothing answers. He could understand the logic behind Sam wanting to stay below the radar as much as possible but that did very little to make the irrationally protective part of Dean calm down. An "I'm fine" is the form of a text message every couple of months did not count as an update, as far as Dean was concerned.
The text he had on the screen of his cell phone now was possibly the most words words Sam had strung together for him in at least six months.
Not crazy, back in the game, apocacrap mark 2 might be stirring, could use a hand. SF, usual system, 6B
Dean must have read it about a hundred times since he'd recieved it, two days earlier. It was like he expected furhter information to reveal itself if he read it enough times. So far, no luck with that.
At least Sam was well, if the 'back in the game' was anything to go by. Although if that had any connection to the impending Apocalypse part II Dean wasn't sure what the hell his brother had done to cure himself. The phone calls for more details had gone straight to voicemail and Dean wanted to punch the unphased voice of his brother's answering machine everytime it told him to leave a message after the beep.
But two days on the road had at least taken him a few states closer to getting some answers. Two days in a stolen rust bucket no less. Since the theft of his precious car - Dean was not over it and if he ever found the ones responsible there would a future of pain, and peeing sitting down, in store for them - one year earlier, Dean had not been able to bring himself to get a new car. It felt too much like cheating and giving up the hope of ever finding her again. Instead he'd gotten by with rentals and the occasional car theft. And it sucked! He wanted his own damn car back!
The sorry excuse for a car he was currently driving coughed, as if feeling his dislike and Dean threatened to set it on fire if it broke down now. An effective threat apparently because it was still behaving and running as he rolled into Sioux Falls towards the motel Sam had, equally vaguely as the rest of it, hinted he was staying at.
Picking up his phone, glancing between the road and the screen, he quickly typed:
Pants on and wash your hands! Be there in five.
Secrets Secrets Are No Fun... // Dean and Sam
Dean finally decided that tonight was the night that he needed to tell Sam everything. Point blank. Everything.
He knew that Sam couldn't trust him unless he confessed everything he'd been needing to tell him. And Sam told him all about himself and his situation. Dean didn't know how much longer he had with his brother until the wall came crashing down.
He called Sam and asked him to come back to the motel, since his brother took the Impala and went to a local library. He tried to prepare himself by making a quick list of everything he needed to get off his chest.
The only thing he could think of was their father, but he was sure more would come. He sat down on one of the beds and awaited his brother's return.
Forged Sanctum || Sam and Elizabeth
Piles of books kept her from view--volume upon volume of lore and myth and legend regarding death. Well, death, its retirement options, and its residents. Heaven. Hell. Purgatory. Angels and demons and nameless creatures the likes of which few voluntarily imagined. This was the easy kind of research--sorting truth from abstract imaginings and letting her eyes get blurry from reading too-dark ink on a yellowed page in too-small print. This was all calligraphy and depictions and runes. This was the perfect mix of mindless reading and painstaking carefulness that cleared Elizabeth's mind. {Smooth waters, unmarred by wickedly sharp tones and heavy silences. Here, she could just be. No struggling, no scarring, no wishing.}
Fingers posed under each word as she translated, Elizabeth read the Sanskrit text. Most of it was wrong--or at least, unsupported by the other research she'd done--but she still pushed through. Sometimes the most helpful of information could be buried in a giant pile of bullshit. The diamond in the rough and all that.
But even nose-deep in translations, the blonde was a Hunter--even in sanctuary, she was alert--and a familiar voice drew her from the alcove of words.
{It was faint, possibly her imagination, but...
No.
He hadn't spent enough time talking for her mind to recall that clearly, let alone drape him in sorrow and guilt and a mangled emotion she didn't have a word for.}
And it was him, asking something brief of the librarian, distinct if only in contrast to the man she knew him to be before.
Instinctively, she pushed up from her chair, foreign lore and cipher forgotten as she moved carefully toward him. "Sam?"
~Prank~
Prank: I’ll write our characters pulling pranks on each other.
“Jo, don’t!” Dean laughed, reaching out to grab her arm and knocking over an empty bottle of whiskey in the process. The Winchester boys had stopped by the Roadhouse to talk to Ash again but “Doctor Badass” had reminded them that genius couldn’t be rushed; they were stuck waiting until he had something for them. “Sam won’t think it’s funny.”
“Then your brother needs to work on his sense of humor!” Jo replied sassily, tossing her golden curls over her shoulder with a wicked grin. Somehow between their eighth and ninth shots of whiskey Jo had decided it would be hilarious to swap the bowl of pretzels Sam was snacking on with a bowl of leftover hot wings covered in sticky barbecue sauce, little bits of torn up napkin, and a few other odds and ends that were left on one of the tables.
Sam was so busy watching Ash’s every keystroke that he didn’t notice her slide up next to him and swap the bowls until his hand was covered in the sticky mess. Her laughter rang through the bar as he gave both her and Dean his classic “bitchface”. Snatching the towel from the apron Jo still wore, Sam wiped his hand before chucking it at his brother, who had joined in on the laughter. “Was this your idea?” he demanded.
“Nope, that’s all Jo. I told her not to do it,” Dean replied, catching the towel despite his inebriated state.
Sam looked down at Jo, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. An overly innocent smirk quirked her lips and she giggled again, causing him to shake his head. “Fine. It’s on, Harvelle. I hope you’re ready.”
***
“SAM WINCHESTER GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!” Jo roared, storming in from the small living quarters she shared with her mother behind the bar. Hot pink hair tumbled around her shoulders and stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin; a bottle of shampoo clutched angrily in her fist. Dean choked on his beer, covering his mouth to hide his laughter but not able to avoid her hot glare. “You put DYE in my SHAMPOO?! Do you have any idea how long it will take to come out!?”
Sam couldn’t answer her, he was laughing to hard. From one of his coat pockets he pulled out his cell phone, snapping a picture of her angry face before tossing her a t-shirt baring an 80’s cartoon character famous for her own pink hair - Jem. “Your mom mentioned you wanted to be her when you were really little… I just wanted to help.”
“Very funny,” Jo snapped, pulling a baseball cap from behind the bar and shoving her hair into it. “You are so going to pay for this.”
***
“What did you do to my phone?” Sam asked through clenched teeth. Jo widened her chocolate brown eyes, giving him an innocent, “who me?” expression. She was favored with his bitchface again before he shoved the blackberry toward her and demanded, “Fix it. Now.”
“What seems to be the problem, Sam?”
“The problem is that I don’t speak Russian!“
“Didn’t they offer that at Stanford?” Jo asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Just fix it, Jo.”
***
“Can we get some straws, miss?”
“Of course,” Jo replied, reaching into her apron pocket before grimacing, her hand coming out coated in thick white foam. She turned on her heel, following the sound of Sam’s boisterous laughter. “Shaving cream? Really?!”
***
“You’re out of your league, Jo,” Dean insisted with a chuckle as she carefully balanced a bucket of water on the edge of the partially open door. “You don’t have siblings, you’re just out matched in a prank war.”
“Shut up,” Jo snapped, stepping carefully off the chair she’d been standing on and surveying her handiwork. Her hair was still faintly pink and the prank war had been going on for nearly a week now. She’d tricked Sam into shaking a bottle of ketchup that she’d mixed baking soda into, causing it to explode all over him, he’d gotten her back by setting cups filled with flour on each of the blades of the ceiling fan so that when she turned it on, the roadhouse was covered in the fine, white powder. And it only escalated from there. He was better at this than she was, but she refused to admit it.
“Shh, he’s coming!” Jo whispered, hurrying over to the bar next to Dean. The elder Winchester only shook his head, taking a sip of his beer. Honestly he was pleased to see Sam and Jo goofing around; his brother needed reasons to smile and laugh. Hell, they all did.
Sam pushed open the door, the bucket of water doing just as Jo intended and upending over his head, soaking him through. She clapped her hands like a small child and laughed at his shocked expression. In two long strides he’d crossed the room, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist and rubbing his wet hair all over her face and neck. Her shrieks of protesting laughter echoed around the room as she tried to shove him away, but it was no use - by the time he let go she was as wet as he was.
“Truce?” he asked, grinning down at her.
“Fine…truce,” Jo answered with a grudging smile.
Ellen just shook her head at Dean. “This is why I only had one kid.”
White: 3 facts about my personality
I think I accumulated most of it from Dean
Some from Sam and John
But, I can't see myself being anything, or anyone, else but the get 'er done, stubborn, laid back person that I am.
1. What is more difficult for you, looking into someones eyes when you are telling someone how you feel, or looking into someones eyes when they are telling you how they feel?
Definitely looking into their eyes while I tell them how I feel. I don't do well talking about my own feelings...in fact, I tend to prefer to just not talk about them. However, if I'm forced to do so, I tend to fidget and look at my hands, the wall, my feet, etc.
Falling Up || Sam and Lisa
It wasn’t a good idea. The fact of the matter was, Lisa knew that—felt it in her bones and nerves and lungs—but didn’t really care. If what she’d heard about Sam was right, she could be putting herself in a tight spot. (Hesitation pulled her taught in the parking lot, thoughts of Ben grappling at her heel like chains, pulling her back to the car. John’s voicing ringing in her ears /[family]/ was the only thing that kept her going.) One look at the names on the list and it was obvious—Luke Solo. A couple of tens and a wink at the manager and she slid out, back into the lot and cold air. She would be probably one of the last people Sam would expect. Hell, he was one of the last people she’d expected to drive four and a half hours straight for, but Hunting did weird things to a person. Feet stuck to the road, icy air nipping at her hands, Lisa looked at the hotel room and considered the things she’d heard. /Bat-shit crazy. Tortured. Violent. Lost./ Nothing she’d heard had been positive, nothing to give her comfort as she stood five feet from his door with no reason to be looking for him besides a feeling. (Doubts kept her frozen. /You don’t even know him; what can you do? How can you help if Dean couldn’t? What kind of pretentious bitch thinks she can fix someone this broken?/) Just a feeling that maybe, somehow, she could do something. Maybe not fix him exactly, but help? Give something new. Really, she had no idea. But she was there and couldn’t turn back, so instead, she charged forward and knocked—the contact searing through her bones like white-hot panic. And then she waited, breath baited and heart nearly dead in her chest. It reared back to life with a surprising kick when the door opened, slowly and squeaking just barely. "Hi. Sam."
