If you stay with me forever...

Meme time (almost)!

cowboyguy — Fri, 17 Mar 2017 02:05:07 GMT

Hey, everybody! There's a new meme starting soon at OhSam! It should be lots of fun - it's going to be cross-platform between tumblr and LJ, so there'll be a huge variety of new fics and other types of fanworks celebrating Sam Winchester.

Click the banner for more info:

Fic: Blizzard

cowboyguy — Tue, 14 Mar 2017 19:22:49 GMT

Title: Blizzard
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Summary: Dean's stuck in bed with a miserable cold in the middle of a Minnesota blizzard.

Happy snow day! Crossposted to AO3.

Sam rushes back into the hotel room with a gust of wind and a flurry of snow at his heels.

Outside, the blizzard rages on, as if it’s determined to prove the weathermen wrong and leave more than the promised two feet of snow on the ground. And at the rate it had been falling when they stopped for the night in this sleepy Minnesota town, Dean’s pretty sure the snow’s gonna win.

Through the cocoon of blankets Dean has wrapped himself up in, he listens to the rustle of plastic bags as his brother sets them down on the counter in the kitchenette, digging through them and pulling out supplies one by one.

Dean smothers a cough into the blankets, hauling himself up until he’s mostly upright and leaning against the headboard.

Glancing over at Dean from across the room, Sam pauses with a microwaveable can of soup in his hand, asking, “How’re you feeling?”

Dean sniffs experimentally, but all it does is send a jolt of pain through his sinuses and he grimaces, answering in a raspy, congested voice, “Biserable. Didd’t thigk it was bossible to feel worse, but guess whadt? This cold is kickig by ass…” Dean raises a blanket covered hand in a gesture that’s half shrug, half resignation, and sighs.

“Man, ‘m sorry, Dean.” Sam makes a sympathetic face. “I got you some major decongestants, though. Maybe those’ll help. And I think I practically bought out Rite Aid’s supply of tissues. People were more desperate for the ice melt and the booze.”

Pulling the blankets down to his chest, Dean turns and catches a glimpse through the curtains. Outside, the snow is falling so fast and hard that the visibility it down to almost nothing. It’s like being stuck inside a giant snow globe, and he shivers a little at the mere thought of how cold it is outside. Minnesota in the middle of January can always be a little iffy, but he thinks this might actually be a record. “How bad are the… the… --huh’CHSHHHUH!-- …the roads?” He pitches forward with the force of the sneeze, barely bringing a hand up in time to catch the spray. “Ugh…”

Across the room, Sam rips open the top of one of the tissue boxes and makes his way over to his brother, pulling a couple of tissues out and handing them over. “Starting to get pretty bad. There are tons of plows out, but the snow’s coming down faster than they can keep up with, and all the radio stations are telling people to stay inside.” He takes a seat on the end of Dean’s bed, tossing the tissue box further up so it lands in the tangle of blankets near Dean’s elbow. “Lucky for you, that means we’re definitely in no hurry to get anywhere. I already talked to Bobby, asked him to get somebody else to check out that case in Akron.”

Dean nods, but his response is cut short by the sudden intense urge to sneeze, the sensation making him draw in a quick, gasping breath. “That’s—heh! Uhh-IIIHSHHHH!” He scrambles for the tissues, grabbing a handful and burying his nose in them. “HRRCHSHHHH! huh’MMPFSHHHH! Uh-hhh-hhh—hah’TDSHHHH! …ohbygod…” Snagging another couple of tissues from the box, he blows his nose into them, wincing at the shifting pressure in his head.

Once he can sort of breathe normally again, he lets his head thump back against the cheap headboard, eyelids fluttering shut. He lets out a congested sigh. “Saaaaab…” he whines. “This is the worsdt birthday presedt you’ve ever given be…”

Even with his eyes still closed, he can practically hear the guilty, apologetic look on his brother’s face as Sam responds, “I know, dude, I’m so sorry. If it helps at all, the worst part will be over in a couple of days.”

Dean opens his eyes and raises an eyebrow. “Id a couble of days? Dot helping, Sab.
huh’ETSCHSHHHuh! HH’NNNSHHH!”

Sam holds out another couple of tissues as a peace offering and Dean gratefully takes them, even as he glares in his brother’s direction. He directs a wet, gurgling blow into the tissues and then swipes carefully at his irritated nose, tossing the soggy tissues in the general direction of the trashcan once he’s finished.

“Anything I can do?” Sam offers as the wind picks up outside, howling through the trees at the edge of the parking lot.

“How aboudt those de… hhuh… decod—huh’RRSCHHH! – decodgestadts?” Dean suggests, massaging the bridge of his nose as he sucks in a congested-sounding breath through his mouth.

“On it,” Sam answers, jumping up from the bed to dig through the grocery bags still sitting on the counter.

From the bed, Dean breathes out a quiet, “Thagks,” before the itchy feeling takes up residence in his nose again and he succumbs to a helpless bout of sneezing, pulling one tissue after another out of the box as he tries to regain control of his nose. “hh’ITSHCHH! MPFSHHH! ht’CHSKSHHH! Uh… hh’aaah’AETSCHHH! HH’ETTTCHHHHHUH! ---god, I--- HESHCHHH! – hadte this—ehhhh’HHTCHHHH! – sdupid cold --- hh’PTSCHHH!” Breathless by the end of it, Dean reaches for another tissue to scrub desperately at his sore, runny nose, trying to alleviate some of the feeling of discomfort. He’s dreading the next couple of days, if they’re going to be as bad as this, but there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

“…Dean?” Sam’s quiet, hesitant voice breaks through his inner self-pity monologue.

“Whadt?” Dean mumbles, not looking up as he blows into another tissue with a loud, wet honk. It doesn’t help much, but then, he doesn’t think there’s a whole lot that would make him feel better at this point.

“Happy birthday?” Sam says, and the way he says it forces Dean to shift his gaze upward, making eye contact with his brother who’s standing at the foot of the bed, a pill bottle in one hand and a small plastic box in the other. Sam holds the box out, and Dean catches sight of a perfect slice of cherry pie through the clear plastic. “I mean… if you’re up to eating anything, I thought you might like…”

Dean grins up at him. “Id’s perfect. Thagks, Sabby. …uh’HKTSHHH!”

Fic: Fever to the Form

cowboyguy — Wed, 01 Mar 2017 04:45:59 GMT

Fever to the Form
Fandom: Star Wars – Rogue One
Rating: G
Characters: Cassian Andor, Bodhi Rook
Notes: An (almost) everyone lives AU.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these amazing characters, I just play with them. Credit for the title goes to one of my new favorite songs, Fever to the Form by Nick Mulvey.
Summary: Days after the battle on Scarif, exhaustion has finally caught up with Bodhi Rook.

Link to fic on AO3.

Fic: Criminal Mastermind

cowboyguy — Tue, 31 Jan 2017 00:23:35 GMT

Fic: Criminal Mastermind
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Summary: Dean's made himself a promise to always make sure Sam has enough to eat. Keeping that promise isn't always as easy as he'd like it to be.

Crossposted to Dreamwidth and AO3.

It’s not enough.

It’s never enough. Dean looks down at the crumpled five dollar bill in his hand, all that’s left of the cash John gave him for the week. They still have three days left. He didn’t plan well enough.

Shit.

He knows what he has to do, and hates himself for knowing exactly how to do it.

He makes sure Sam is set up with the TV and the last of the cereal, and orders him to stay put.

“I mean it, Sammy. Don’t move a muscle until I get back. I’m going to buy groceries,” he lies, pulling on his jacket and heading out the motel room door, locking it behind him.

It’s cold outside, the winter wind piercing through the thin material of his jacket. He turns his collar up and jams his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the numbness that slowly creeps across his skin. As long as he keeps moving, it’s easier to ignore the cold than it is to ignore the hunger, the emptiness in his stomach. He really hopes this works, for his own sake as much as for Sam’s. Last night’s dinner of half a peanut butter sandwich is quickly becoming a distant memory.

He walks down the busy road to the nearest shopping center, and once he arrives, surveys the layout with a grin. He lucked out with this place. The hill at the edge of the parking lot is a great vantage point, not too close to be noticed, but not too far away to pull this off, either.

He sits down in the grass with his back pressed against a tree, and subtly watches people entering and exiting the Wal-Mart at the edge of the strip mall, keeping his posture casual like he’s just another bored teenager with no better place to be. He needs a good target, and so he waits and watches, scanning the rows of cars until his eyes land on a woman walking towards the store, only halfway paying attention to where she’s going as she digs through her huge purse for something.

Perfect.

He gets up, chilly breeze ruffling his hair, and walks down the hill until he’s between a couple of parked cars. With no one looking, he takes off running towards the entrance of the store, weaving in and out through lanes of cars so that he’s headed on a collision course with the woman. As she nears the front of the parking lot, still distracted with her purse, he dashes out from between two cars and crashes right into her, making her yelp and drop her purse in surprise. Sure enough, everything goes flying, tumbling out of the unsecured opening of the bag and rolling out onto the pavement.

“Oh my God, ma’am, I’m so sorry!” he blurts out quickly, his hands on her coat as he keeps her from falling. “I’m so sorry!”

She pulls away from his grip, answering sharply, “What’s wrong with you, kid? Your mom never taught you to watch where you’re going?” She glares at him and crouches down to begin picking up the contents of her bag.

Now’s his chance.

Dean gets down on the ground next to her, positioning himself in the middle of the chaos so he’s blocking her view of some of the things that had tumbled out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he repeats his apology, picking up a rumpled pile of junk mail and handing it to her. “I was racing with my friend and I just didn’t see you…”

“You shouldn’t be running in a parking lot, anyway,” she admonishes him, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder as she turns away to retrieve a makeup bag, frowning at the scratches that the pavement has left in the shiny patterned vinyl.

“I know, you’re right,” he agrees, making sure her back is still turned as he grabs a handful of cash from her wallet, a big pink thing that had come unclasped during its fall from her purse. He stuffs the bills up the sleeve of his jacket and gathers up some things from the ground, turning back to hand her the wallet, a packet of tissues, and a tube of lipstick. “Here you go,” he says in his best helpful voice, looking sheepishly apologetic. “I’m really sorry, ma’am.”

She still looks annoyed and angry as she takes the things back from him, shoving them into her purse before hoisting the straps up onto her shoulder and tucking it under her arm. He gives her his best puppy dog eyes and stands back up, reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. She accepts, and he pulls her upright with another string of apologies, which she waves off in haughty annoyance, turning to walk away without another glance back at him.

Dean darts back between the cars, putting a couple of lanes of distance between the two of them before he slows his pace and saunters away from the parking lot, casual as can be. He pulls his hand up into his sleeve, fingers brushing against the bills tucked against the fabric.

Twelve years old and he’s already a great pickpocket.

His stomach grumbles again as he walks down the street, reminding him of his purpose. With one last backwards glance at the shopping center to make sure no one is coming after him, he pulls the money out of his sleeve and quickly counts it.

Twenty-eight bucks. He can absolutely work with that.

He keeps an eye out for the grocery store on the way back to the motel, relieved that he’s going to be able to eat today, after all.

Fic: Giving In

cowboyguy — Tue, 17 May 2016 13:13:52 GMT

Fic: Giving In
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Dean's been fighting his allergies all day. He doesn't want to fight anymore.

Dean couldn’t take it anymore.

The sneezes burst out of him, one following another so fast he didn’t have time to catch his breath as he stumbled forward towards the motel bed. He just shoved his face in the direction of his shoulder as his eyes fluttered shut, finally giving in.

“hshhh! ihhshhh! kt’chshshhh! Hh—hhh---heh’IHHTCHHH! ehh’ATCHHIH!”

Something was pressed into his hand and he fumbled for it without opening his eyes, feeling the familiar softness of tissues. Dean quickly raised them to his itchy nose, burying another few breathless sneezes in the crumpled material before the fit backed off for a second.

“Thagks…” he gasped in Sam’s direction, blinking his eyes open to see his brother standing in front of him with a concerned look on his face, eyebrows drawn together in that sad puppy dog look he was so good at. Dean dropped heavily onto the bed, springs creaking under him, but remained sitting upright, the itch in his nose making it very clear that it wasn’t finished with him yet.

“You alright?” Sam asked, offering a quiet ‘bless you’ as Dean pitched forward with another couple of sneezes.

“hh—hih’IHSHHH! Hk’KSHSHHH!” Dean snuffled into the tissues and nodded. “Better now,” he answered, voice muffled by the hand he still held to his face. “Couldn’t hold it ba-aah—back¬¬-- ehh--- any--any... more… ahhhh… hhhh…. YETCHSHHH! AHH’ETCHHuh!”

“Dude,” Sam said, sounding sympathetic and slightly exasperated. “Next time just don’t fight it so hard.”

“Got a ca—hh’etchh!—case to work, Sammy,” Dean answered, lowering the tissues in search of a fresh batch.

Sam dug a rumpled white handkerchief out of his suit pants and handed it over.

“Yeah, but I can handle the case if you’re this miserable. You know if it was me in this situation, you’d be ordering my ass back to bed at the slightest mention of a high pollen count on the news.”

“Damn right I would,” Dean confirmed. “HHH---EH’KTCHHH!” He pressed his nose into the handkerchief and blew, still tormented by the itch that hadn’t quite let go.

Sam sat across from him, grabbing the box of tissues from the nightstand and holding it at the ready in case Dean needed it. “So, let me be the big brother for once, Dean. Just admit that you feel like crap and let me help. Let me work the case,” he said as Dean’s eyelids fluttered shut once more, mouth hanging open in anticipation of another impending round of sneezes.

“Only i¬-hhh… if… y-you—ehhh…HTCHHH! If you pro—ehh’TCHHH! – promise not to… hh---hh---heh’AHHETCHHUH! ¬–do anything stupid,” Dean finally managed to gasp in between desperate sneezes. “huh’CHSHHHuh! YIIHHTCHHH! EHH’hehETCHAHHH!”

Sam chuckled, barely audible over the sound of his brother’s allergic misery, and ripped a couple of tissues out of the box, handing them across the space between the two beds. “Don’t worry. I can’t possibly be as stupid as you.”

Dean had just enough time to glare at him before he scrambled forward for the tissues.

New meme over at ohsam!

cowboyguy — Mon, 02 May 2016 04:17:09 GMT

There's a new meme that just started over at ohsam for Sammy's birthday. Come on over and check it out!

Fic: (home)Sick

cowboyguy — Fri, 22 Apr 2016 16:08:49 GMT

Fic: (home)Sick
Fandom: Star Wars
Rating: G
Summary: Written for tarotgal's fic meme here, under the original title "Coruscanti Flu." The prompt was "It's a big galaxy. There are a lot of different germs out there. Sure, he's been inoculated against all of the widespread illnesses. But this is a virus Poe's never caught before."

Link to fic on AO3.

Fic: Pieces

cowboyguy — Thu, 03 Mar 2016 03:38:56 GMT

Fic: Pieces
Fandom: Supernatural
Written for the prompt "feeling broken" at the ohsam "You Only Hurt the One You Love" fic meme.
(Set in a potential aphasia!Sam 'verse.)

The mug flies across the room, crashes into the wall and shatters into a thousand jagged pieces, coffee dregs dripping sluggishly down the vintage tile.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean cries, turning on his brother with an expression that screams surprise, anger, confusion.

Sam huffs out a frustrated breath through his nose, lets out an incoherent sound and then snaps his mouth shut again, storming away from the table.

Dean grabs his brother by the shoulder, hauling him back and forcing Sam to face him.

“No, don’t just walk away again, dammit!” Dean demands. “What the hell was that for?” He stabs a finger over at the fractured remains of the coffee mug, ceramic dust spread over the floor like grains of sand.

Sam shoves Dean back, but doesn’t leave the room, eyes shining with fury and frustration. He draws in one shaky breath after another, searching for a word, a sound, anything.

There’s nothing there.

He can’t make the words.

He’s too broken.

White ceramic shards glint in the harsh kitchen light, specks of white glimmering on the dark concrete floor.

Sam slaps a hand against his own chest, dull thump of skin against fabric, indicating himself. Feels his heart beating fast, adrenaline pumping, words circling around and around through his bloodstream, trapped.

He touches a hand to his lips, his throat, scowling at their uselessness, shakes his head.

“Yeah, you can’t talk. I know!” Dean says, trying to interpret. But he’s not getting it.

Sam shakes his head again, touching a hand to his temple and then thrusting it out towards the broken mug. It’s the same thing. Both broken, neither of them doing what they’re meant to do anymore. Neither one can be put back together.

He wants to make Dean see.

He just doesn’t know how.

Fic: Still

cowboyguy — Thu, 03 Mar 2016 03:35:52 GMT

Fic: Still
Fandom: Supernatural
Written for the prompt "aphasia" at the ohsam "You Only Hurt the One You Love" fic meme.

He’d been an early talker, pointing at the landscape outside the car windows and naming everything they passed on countless cross-country trips, nestled comfortably in his car seat beside Dean.

Trees!

Cow!

Sky!

Dean, airplane! Look! Airplane!

As he’d grown up, the words changed but the habit didn’t. Even at the height of his surly teenage years, they’d always talked in the car. Just him and Dean and Dad, together.

Now, the conversation has been replaced by silence. At first, Dean had tried to fill the void with music, jokes, endless chatter about nothing in particular. But eventually they got used to it, and the silence became comfortable, too.

He gazes over at Dean in the driver’s seat, then past him to where the sun is low in the western sky, saturating the clouds in deep shades of pink and orange.

“D-de--…” he stammers, voice catching at the end. There are some sounds he still can’t quite manage.

Dean glances over, waiting patiently.

They’ve been driving all day, and Sam is tired, has a headache that is slowly sapping his remaining energy.

He opens his mouth, takes a breath, pauses. Endless cycle of speak, falter, repeat, one frustrating word at a time.

“…Bed,” he finally manages, the single syllable escaping his lips with a breathless sigh that’s part relief, part triumph.

Dean needs no further explanation. He just nods and answers, “Yeah, it’s been a long day. I’ll keep an eye out for motel signs.”

Sam’s not so good with reading these days, either.

He nods in appreciation as Dean navigates the two-lane blacktop and settles back against the passenger seat, watching as the first stars blink into view over the darkening horizon.

Fic: Hey, Dean

cowboyguy — Thu, 03 Mar 2016 03:32:46 GMT

Fic: Hey, Dean
Fandom: Supernatural
Written for the prompt "holiday" at the ohsam "You Only Hurt the One You Love" fic meme.
(And for ~~mostly me~~ anyone who's keeping track, this totally counts for my "write and post a fic each month" goal because I wrote it in February... and then I forgot how short February was and never posted it to my journal.)

Dean, it’s Earth Day. Not like you care. And don’t call me a hippie because I give a damn about the environment.

…

…

…

…

Dean, it’s the Fourth of July. Remember that field with the fireworks when I was thirteen?

…

…

…

Dean, it’s Halloween. Had a close call hunting a family of shapeshifters. They’re harder to track when everyone is wearing costumes.

…

…

Dean, it’s Christmas. It turns out that restaurants are really depressing when you’re eating alone and everyone else is home with their families.

…

Hey, Dean, it’s your birthday. …I really miss you, man. Wish you were still here. Happy birthday, brother.

New meme!

cowboyguy — Sat, 13 Feb 2016 02:39:09 GMT

Hey, everybody, come check out the new meme over at ohsam!

It's a Sam-centric h/c drabble meme, just in time for Valentine's Day (although the fics/art don't necessarily have to be love-related). Join us, have some fun, write some fics!

Fic: Snowed In

cowboyguy — Mon, 01 Feb 2016 00:50:51 GMT

Title: Snowed In
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Summary: They've never dealt with anything like this before.

“Uh… Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“We might have a slight problem.”

“What?” Dean closed his laptop, looking up at his brother who was standing on the balcony near the front door of the bunker.

Sam motioned with his hand, signaling Dean to join him, and Dean pushed his chair back from the war room table and ambled up the stairs. “What’s wrong?” he asked, following Sam down the short hallway to the front door.

Instead of replying, Sam turned the series of locks on the front door and pushed it open. But instead of the usual creaking of metal as the door swung open to the outer staircase, it moved six inches or so and stopped. A bright stream of sunlight shone through the opening and Dean squinted at the sudden change in brightness. But as Sam stepped back, he realized why the door wasn’t opening.

Outside, instead of concrete steps, all Dean could see was a deep drift of snow, the stairs and the gravel driveway covered in white.

“We, uh… seem to be snowed in,” Sam said.

Dean nodded in open-mouthed amazement. “Uh-huh,” he echoed, stepping towards the door and peering out before trying to move it further. It budged a couple of inches and then stopped, three feet of heavy snow pressing against it. “Well, crap.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, hissing through his teeth, guilty expression on his face, like he thought the snow was his fault or something.

“You check the garage yet?” Dean asked, heading back down the stairs, thinking of the two wide doors in the underground garage, and the dimly lit tunnel up to the surface.

“Why? The driveway outside is still a quarter of a mile long. We’re kinda stuck, Dean,” Sam answered, following him.

Dean turned back to face his brother at the bottom of the stairs. “Get your snow pants on, Sasquatch. Dig us out,” he ordered, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“What? No!” Sam scoffed. “If I’m going out there, you’re going, too!”

“Fine. We both dig out the driveway, see how far we can get, loser makes dinner. Deal?”

Which was how both Winchesters found themselves bundled up in several more layers of clothing than usual, grave-digging shovels in hand, at the top of the snow-covered driveway.

“Happy snow day,” Dean grumbled, watching Sam dig out a section of driveway three feet ahead of him. Still, even if he had to make dinner, maybe he could make a pie to go with it.

Fic: The Wizarding World of Sam Winchester

cowboyguy — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 04:01:57 GMT

Title: The Wizarding World of Sam Winchester
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Summary: Sam and Dean go on a vacation.

Okay, this is super short, and I feel a little bad about that. But I have less than an hour left to post a fic for the month of December, and I'd already written this one. I hope that in 2016 I will be much better about planning, so I can continue with my "post a fic a month" goal.

Enjoy!

“It’s— it’s— what is this?” Dean says, dumbfounded, holding up the blue sugary thing on a stick.

“It’s a sugar quill,” Sam explains. “Or, well, the mass market, commercialized, Muggle form of a sugar quill.” He ambles along next to Dean, adjusting the Ravenclaw scarf around his neck even though it’s sunny and 75 degrees outside. At Dean’s ridiculously confused expression, he adds, “It’s a lollipop, Dean.”

Dean stares up at him, eyebrows arched in skepticism. Around them, hundreds of people pass by, the crowd moving forward along the intricately detailed streets of Diagon Alley. Kids beg their parents for brooms, adult fans gather together in shops or wait in line for rides, all decked out in Harry Potter memorabilia.

“You’re such a freak,” Dean responds, rolling his eyes, but he unwraps the feather-shaped lollipop and sticks it in his mouth, quickly turning his lips and tongue blue.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam replies. “But if there was a Star Trek theme park, don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t be all over that place faster than you can say ‘Enterprise.’” Sam takes a bite out of a chocolate frog and points over at Ollivander’s Wand Shop, where there’s a line of people waiting to get in.

Dean doesn’t say a word, refusing to acknowledge his inner geek.

“C’mon,” Sam says, slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Let’s go buy you a wand.”

Fic: Hiss

cowboyguy — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 01:09:18 GMT

Title: Hiss
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Written for the Triple Play fic meme at OhSam. The general idea of the meme is to write fics involving hurt or sick Sam, and the prompts are all in the format of “location, other character, situation.” This prompt was for the woods, Dean, bitten by a snake.
Art: gorgeous banner and artwork done by chomaisky

Fourteen miles in the woods in the middle of the night is no small feat, and Dean’s already tired from having walked that same distance in the first place. Beside him, Sam is stumbling along quietly, looking a little drained after that last trial. But Bobby’s safely up in heaven, they’ve got two out of three done, so they’re both counting it as a win.

In hindsight, Dean really wishes he had brought something - anything - with him. He’s getting thirsty, and he can’t remember when he last ate, thinks it was probably that McDonald’s drive-through, burger-in-the-car meal he’d eaten while speeding down the highway towards central Maine. Of course, it’s been even longer for Sam, who just spent the last twenty-four hours journeying through places that no human being should have to go.

So it’s not like either of them is on their guard. All Dean is thinking about is how to get back to the car, and how much sleep he’ll get when they finally arrive. It’s probably not much, considering he’ll still have to drive them back to Kansas, and it’s not exactly a small country. Still, maybe he’ll get a couple of hours stretched out in the front seat before they head out.

He casts a weary glance over at Sam, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket again. Thank God for Google Maps, even with crappy reception. At least they’re still pointing in the right direction, and it shouldn’t be too long before they get back onto a real path again. But he’s gotta start conserving his battery. His phone is halfway drained, and so he puts it back into his pocket, making a mental note not to check it again for a while.

As he pulls his hand out of his pocket, there’s a soft rustling in the leaves at their feet, barely audible over the night sounds of insects buzzing.

“Ow!” Sam yelps, lurching to the left and bumping into Dean.

Dean grips his brother’s jacket, keeping them both balanced, and responds, “What? What happened?”

Sam grimaces and looks down at his feet. “I don’t know. I think something bit me.” He twists his leg, trying to get a good look at it, though it’s nearly impossible in the dim moonlight coming through the trees.

“Lemme see,” Dean says, releasing his brother. He clicks on his flashlight -- at least he remembered to bring that -- and crouches down, lifting up the ankle of Sam’s jeans. Shining the light on his brother’s skin, he doesn’t see anything for a moment, until he pushes the top of Sam’s sock down.

There are two side-by-side puncture wounds, slowly dripping blood.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, and gingerly pulls Sam’s sock back up. Even that small movement, though, makes his brother hiss in pain. He looks up at Sam, who has been craning his neck, trying to see what Dean’s seeing. “I think you got bit by a snake,” he tells him.

Sam’s eyes widen, and if it wasn’t so dark, Dean thinks he probably would have been able to see his skin pale by a couple of shades. “What... what do I do?” Sam asks immediately, his breath quickening.

Dean stands up again and puts his hands squarely on his brother’s shoulders. “First, don’t panic,” he says, all business and trying to keep Sam from freaking out. “Second, I call 911. Third, we get the hell out of here. Don’t worry, Sammy, you’ll be fine.” He tries to put up a brave front for Sam’s sake, but the truth is, Dean has no idea what to expect. He doesn’t know if the snake was venomous or not, doesn’t even have the slightest clue what symptoms to look for. He vaguely remembers their Dad drilling them on this kind of stuff years ago, survival training and all that, but it’s been so long.

Sam, to his credit, nods along with Dean like he thinks Dean’s got it all under control. “How far is it back to the car?” he asks, clearing his throat to hide the way his voice shakes slightly.

“Couple of miles,” Dean answers. “Don’t put any weight on it, though, okay?” He pulls his phone back out of his pocket, and at the same time, drags one of Sam’s arms over his shoulders so that he’s supporting Sam’s weight, keeping the pressure off of his injured leg. Dean dials 911, hoping his cell signal holds out.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they’re still hobbling their way towards civilization. Dean’s carrying most of Sam’s weight by this point, with Sam doing his best to limp along beside him.

The emergency dispatcher had promised help was on the way, but Dean’s cell signal kept dropping out, cutting off the woman’s voice on the other end. He’d managed to give her their location, and she’d promised they would send a team out to keep them as quickly as possible. In a forest this dense, though, there was no way to get to them quickly. No roads, nowhere for a helicopter to land. So Dean’s best bet is to stay on the path and keep his brother moving.

“How’re you doing, Sammy?” he asks, panting with the exertion of moving both of them along the uneven ground.

“Mmmmnot so good,” Sam groans. “Leg hurts. ...Little bit nauseous.” He’d begun breathing heavily, and Dean can feel Sam trembling against him.

“Just hang in there, buddy,” Dean encourages him. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Maneuvering them down a dip in the path, Dean tries to keep Sam steady. Without a good source of light, though, neither of them can see very well where they’re going, and Sam stumbles over an exposed tree root, tripping forward and landing heavily on his injured leg. He cries out at the sudden pain. “Dean!”

“Whoa, whoa, I gotcha, it’s okay,” Dean reacts, not quick enough, but manages to catch Sam before he falls over.

But even that movement is too much, the sensation too overwhelming. “Nnngh, De--” Sam manages to gasp before he’s doubled over and retching, vomit splattering against the leaves and dusty dirt path.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Dean reassures him, patting Sam’s back as he coughs roughly.

Sam takes a couple of wheezy breaths and spits on ground, trying to rid his mouth of the awful sensation. “Mmokay,” he pants. “Let’s... less’keep goin’...” His breathing is getting worse, Dean notices, but he can’t do anything but haul Sam upright again, and together they start hobbling down the path.

* * *

Sam is barely conscious now, being dragged along by Dean and just barely managing to stay upright. Dean isn’t sure how much longer they can do this.

His own legs are aching, every step feeling heavier and slower than the last.

Just when he’s ready to give up and stop, over the hill in front of him appear several bright flashlight beams, light sweeping in broad arcs through the trees.

“Hey!” he shouts, voice hoarse and dry. “Here! Over here!”

After that, there’s a flurry of action. The paramedics race down the hill towards them, shouting questions that Dean tries his best to answer. Before he can really process what’s going on, he feels Sam being lifted away from him, and watches as his brother is carefully laid onto a stretcher. After making sure Sam’s secure, two men lift the stretcher, carrying Sam through the darkness and to safety.

In front of Dean, a third paramedic is talking to him, her face illuminated by the bright lantern she held. Saying something about a hospital, what kind of snake was it, running out of time…

“Dean...” Sam moans in confusion and pain, one hand reaching back towards his brother, and that’s all Dean needs to push past her and rush back to his brother’s side. He holds onto Sam’s hand in the darkness, hurrying alongside the stretcher to keep up with the paramedics.

“It’s okay, Sam, it’s gonna be okay. I’m here.”

* * *

When Sam wakes, it’s not dark anymore. The ceiling — inside, he thinks groggily — is bright white, and he blinks while his eyes adjust to the light. He squints, looking around the room. All hospitals look basically the same, and he wonders for a moment why he’s here. He looks down, and sees Dean, bent over in a chair with his head resting on Sam’s bed, fast asleep. He’s got one hand resting on the mattress, near Sam’s right hand, and Sam reaches out and pats it affectionately.

There’s a cannula under his nose, feeding him a steady stream of oxygen. It tickles. And his leg is throbbing, but in that dull, disconnected way that means they’ve got him on all the good painkillers.

Oh. Snake. His thoughts come to him slowly, drifting through the haze. Ouch.

Dean’s hand moves under his, and he watches as his brother jolts awake, head snapping up as he regains consciousness. When he sees that Sam is awake, a relieved smile spreads over his face. “Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs. “How you doing?”

One side of Dean’s hair is pressed flat, the other sticking up at a weird angle. Sam giggles.

“So, high as a kite, then,” Dean says, answering his own question.

“And nnnn… not dead,” Sam adds helpfully.

Dean shakes his head. “Nope. Not dead.”

“Thanks for… savin’ mmme.” Sam’s eyes close wearily. “I’mma… take a nap.”

“You do that, buddy,” Dean responds. “I’ll be right here.”

* * *

END

Fic: Unsettled

cowboyguy — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 01:02:25 GMT

Title: Unsettled
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Written for the Triple Play fic meme at OhSam. The general idea of the meme is to write fics involving hurt or sick Sam, and the prompts are all in the format of “location, other character, situation.” This prompt was for the bunker in the middle of the night, Dean, and stomach flu.

Fic on AO3.

Fic: Trapped

cowboyguy — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 00:52:55 GMT

Title: Trapped
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Written for the Triple Play fic meme at OhSam. The general idea of the meme is to write fics involving hurt or sick Sam, and the prompts are all in the format of “location, other character, situation.” This prompt was for tunnels, Dean, and mutism/voice loss.

Sam wakes with a groan, disoriented and numb. He opens his eyes, and it doesn’t make a difference. It’s pitch black all around him. For a few horrifying moments, he thinks he’s gone blind, and then he remembers the sensation of being dragged, hauled down rocky tunnels by his wrists, deeper and deeper into the mountain.

He tries to move, tries to get a sense of where he is, and there’s a sudden pain like lightning surging through his arms and shoulders. He gasps, trying to curl in on himself, and there’s the sound of metal on metal as his arms are pulled back. He’s chained to the wall, immobilized, and there’s no way to get to a weapon, no way to contact Dean.

He is so screwed.

* * *

He falls in and out of consciousness, feeling lightheaded and dizzy every time he wakes up. No amount of wriggling will get his hands free, and every attempt sends shooting pains through his shoulders.

“Hmmmm…” he groans, deep in his chest, and closes his eyes, not that it makes much of a difference.

The only advantage he has going for him right now is that the thing that took him hasn’t come back yet. He’s not even sure what it was, just has a memory of clammy gray skin and wild red eyes, a feral snarl and sharp claws when he’d tried to struggle out of its grasp.

The numbness is starting to spread, inching its way down his body.

He can’t help the whimper that escapes him. It’s never been this bad before. There’s always Dad or Dean there with him, someone to be his backup. Half the time they won’t even let him go on hunts, tell him it’s too dangerous, that he’ll get hurt. And now, who knows what will happen. The creature will come back and he’ll be eaten slowly, or it’ll forget about him and he’ll starve in here, or maybe he’ll just pass out and that’ll be it, or—

“Sam!” The sound is far off and faint, but it’s there. He knows that voice.

Dean.

His head drops back and he lets out a little happy sound of relief. Dean is here.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice calls again, echoing off the rock walls of the tunnels, and suddenly Sam realizes his problem. Dean is somewhere inside the abandoned mine, but Sam has no way to reach out, no way to bring him closer. It’ll take hours for Dean to find him, and by then it might be too late. By then, the monster might be back.

Tears spring to his eyes, and he curses his stupid brain, his stupid muscles, his own inability to speak. “Ee-ah,” he manages, approximating his brother’s name, but he’s never been very good with shouting, can’t control his own voice, much less the volume of it. Dean’s never going to hear him.

But Sam can’t just give up. He can’t be this close to being rescued, only to be lost forever.

He feels around with his feet in the dark, and lands on a pile of rocks, the jagged edges pressing against his foot through his shoes. With all the strength he can muster, he kicks out, sending the rocks flying, the sound echoing off the cave walls as they tumble over each other. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and if he can hear Dean, maybe Dean heard that. He leans back against the wall, and the chains clink together above him. He instinctively looks up, even though there’s nothing to see in the midnight black room. He swings his arms forward, then back, trying to make as much noise as possible with the chains. Each movement is agony, but he tries to ride through the pain, panting and groaning with each jolt through his body. It has to work. There’s no other option.

“Sam!” Dean calls again, and there’s something different about his voice. Something sure, something closer. Sam thinks he can hear footsteps.

He keeps going, writhing against the pull of the iron manacles, kicking his feet against pebbles and dirt and the cold cave floor.

“Nnnnn!” he cries, getting desperate. Come on, Dean, come on.

And all of a sudden, there’s a light, the faint glimmer of it illuminating the cave wall. It’s further down and still far off, and Sam realizes that he’s at the top of a hill. He kicks out again, makes contact with something that might have been a skull, and it skitters away from him, bouncing down the slope and pulling more tiny pebbles along with it. It sounds like a rain stick, tiny particles making contact with each other in a miniature avalanche.

The flashlight beam moves, gets closer, and then there is a shadowy figure at the bottom of the slope.

“Sammy!” Dean cries, shining the flashlight up.

The sudden light is blinding, and Sam turns his head away with a sharp cry. But inside, he is flooded with relief. Dean is here. Dean is here.

There’s the sound of falling rocks again, louder this time, as Dean scrambles up the incline towards him.

“Hang on, buddy, I’m coming,” he calls.

“Aaah… Eee-ah…” Sam can’t control his own mouth, the sounds tumbling out of him as he watches his brother get closer. He’s breathing in great gasps, the pain momentarily forgotten over the joy of being rescued.

And then Dean is right next to him, the flashlight beam illuminating his dirty face and dusty jacket and Sam has never been happier to see his brother.

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean breathes, and reaches up, feeling his brother’s face, wiping away the tears tracking down Sam’s cheeks. “You okay? You hurt?”

Sam shakes his head and then groans, because yes, actually. Yes, he is hurt. But all he really wants Dean to do is get him out of there.

Dean looks up, examining the chains, and then directs his gaze toward Sam. “I’m gonna lift you up, okay?” he says, and Sam nods through the tingling in his neck and shoulders. “One, two… three!” Dean grunts as he lifts his younger brother’s weight, and Sam does all he can to push his arms forward as the chain goes slack. His arms flop down onto Dean’s shoulders with a nauseating thump, and Sam can’t help but cry out softly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean eases him to the floor, arranging Sam’s still chained arms in his lap. The sudden rush of blood through his veins sends his nerves into overdrive, and his fingers twitch as he tries to wake up the dead limbs. He feels useless without his hands, unable to sign anything, to ask how Dean had found him, where Dad is, whether they’d killed the creature that took him. But none of that really matters right now, because he and Dean have the same priority — getting the hell out. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s get out of here,” Dean says, and helps Sam stumble to his feet.

They start shuffling forward, the beam of Dean’s flashlight bouncing across the uneven ground. Dean’s got an arm wrapped around Sam, one hand gripping him tight to keep him steady, and he’s too preoccupied to notice the movement at the bottom of the tunnel. But Sam sees it, and it’s not Dad, not human.

“Mmmah—!” He manages to say, nudging Dean to get him to look up.

It all happens in a flash after that.

There’s an unearthly howl as the creature sees its captive has gotten loose, and the dark silhouette lumbers toward them.

“Shit!” Dean swears, and Sam is quickly deposited against the wall of the tunnel, lurching into the rock with enough force to bruise. Dean pulls his gun out, and there’s a bright flash and a double burst of gunfire that leaves Sam’s ears ringing. In the flashlight beam arcing across the tunnel, Sam can just make out the slumped form of the emaciated creature at the bottom of the slope. Sam stares at it, dazed, until Dean moves next to him again and he sees more than hears Dean saying, “Are you okay?”

He nods slowly, and feels himself being pulled back up as they make their way carefully down the tunnel and towards daylight.

By the time they get back to the Impala, the feeling is returning to Sam’s arms, and he knows for a fact that it’s going to hurt like hell for a few days. He winces as Dean eases him into the passenger seat, and then holds out his hands as Dean digs the bolt cutters out of the trunk. The chains and cuffs slide off easily after that, and Dean carefully wraps Sam’s hands in a couple of Ace bandages, stabilizing his wrists. After Dean finishes up and climbs behind the wheel, Sam signs a clumsy thank you to his brother, a soft noise of appreciation escaping his lips.

“You’re welcome,” Dean says, ruffling Sam’s hair and eliciting a scowl from his brother. “Betcha Dad’s never gonna let you out of his sight again, though.”

Sam rolls his eyes and slaps the dashboard, commanding Dean to get moving.

Fic: Shaken

cowboyguy — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 00:46:58 GMT

Title: Shaken
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Written for the Triple Play fic meme at OhSam. The general idea of the meme is to write fics involving hurt or sick Sam, and the prompts are all in the format of “location, other character, situation.” This prompt was for a fic set in a laundromat, with Dean, healing from a bad fight while trying to wash blood out of their clothes.

Sam’s head throbs in time with the sound of quarters dropping into a coin slot, and he braces himself against the scuffed laminate countertop, one hand reaching up to rub at his forehead. He grimaces and swallows, staring down at the floor. There’s a fluorescent light above him that’s buzzing incessantly, the harsh light making him squint. Nothing should be this bright at 2:30 in the morning. It’s just unnatural.

Beside him, Dean limps from the row of washing machines to the dryers against the wall, transferring a load of dark pants into the drum and shutting the door with a bang that reverberates between Sam’s ears. He groans involuntarily, and hears Dean say in a gruff voice, “You just gonna stare at that all day, or what?”

Sam blinks, and realizes he’s still holding a bottle of dish soap in one hand, his bloodstained white dress shirt in the other. “Um…” he says dumbly, forgetting what he was supposed to be doing. He might have a concussion. Or a hangover. Maybe both.

Dean rolls his eyes and plucks the shirt and soap out of Sam’s hands, leaning against the counter to take the weight off his twisted ankle, and begins scrubbing at the shirt, trying to get rid of the stain before it sets in completely. They’re both down to their last clean — well, not anymore — dress shirts, and they’re supposed to interview more people tomorrow, try to figure out exactly what they’re hunting. Hence the laundromat trip in the middle of the night, when all Dean would really like to do is sleep off the massive amounts of liquor he just put into his system.

“Can’t believe you got into a bar fight,” he mutters. He looks up at Sam, one eyebrow arched. “You know that’s usually my kind of gig, right?”

“Can’t believe you fell down the stairs trying to rescue me,” Sam retorts. His head is still throbbing, and he’s not even sure how many black eyes he has —can’t be more than two, genius — but he can still bicker with his brother. Yay for him.

“Ah, shut up,” Dean grouses, still scrubbing vigorously at the cotton. “Just wait until we show up in the papers. ‘Federal agents involved in Omaha bar brawl.’ Won’t that be great.”

Dean’s still talking, his voice a low background rumble to the cacophony of sounds in Sam’s head. His ears are ringing, or maybe it’s that damned light, and he’s pretty sure he can actually hear his own blood pumping through his veins. He turns his head to look at Dean and the world closes in for a second, the edges of Sam’s vision going purple-gray and hazy.

“Dean, I— I gotta…” He sinks to the ground, back against the washing machine, and his skin goes cold and prickly. The room is spinning dangerously, the speckled concrete floor under him shifting in front of his eyes.

“Whoa, Sammy. Easy, easy,” he hears Dean say, and there’s movement, Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, pushing his head down. His hand feels good on Sam’s clammy skin. “You’re okay, take it easy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, bruised ribs making it hurt more than it should. “Dizzy,” he whispers, voice shaky.

“I know, I know,” Dean coaxes. “Just breathe through it. You’re okay.”

Dean shifts, and Sam feels it more than sees it, the warm weight of Dean’s hands and the soft groan as he eases himself down to sit next to Sam. Sam closes his eyes, blindly reaching out a hand and latching onto Dean’s jacket. He tries to concentrate on his breathing, keeping it slow and even until it feels less like he’s going to pass out or throw up.

“You alright?” Dean asks softly.

Sam doesn’t nod, because moving his head would be bad, but he breathes out a quiet, “Yeah…” He takes a second to steady himself, the dizziness fading, and then mumbles. “How is it that even when we’re not fighting scary monsters, I end up with the head trauma?”

Dean chuckles and gently pats his shoulder. “Maybe we need to get you a helmet.”

Fic: Countdown

cowboyguy — Sat, 31 Oct 2015 20:27:10 GMT

Title: Countdown
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Someone's trying NaNoWriMo for the first time.

“So, tell me again why you’re doing this crazy thing?”

“Because it sounds like fun!”

“Uh-huh.” There’s definite skepticism in that response. “Besides all of the papers you already have to write for your classes, you want to add another 50,000 words on top of that?”

“The point is to be creative, dummy.”

“But you’re an English major. You’re already creative.” He shakes his head, as if baffled by the concept of someone actually wanting to try to write a novel in a month. “How did you hear about this, again?”

She lets him wrap a long arm around her shoulders, snuggles closer to him even though it’s not that cold outside. It’s never really cold here.

“Some guys in San Francisco started it about five or six years ago,” she explains. “It was a small thing at first, I guess, just a challenge among a group of friends. But then more people found out about it, and it’s really taken off in the past couple of years. Thousands of people are doing this. So, I’m not the only crazy one, okay?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, laughing. A lifetime of dealing with strong personalities has taught him when to back off. “Okay. My mistake.” He tries to backtrack a little, because as crazy as it sounds, he has to admit that it’s an interesting concept. “So it starts tomorrow?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yup. 12:01 AM, if you’re gonna be really hardcore about it.”

“Which I’m guessing you will be,” he smiles down at her.

She shrugs with a smile. “It’s all part of the experience.”

“Hey! Jess!” someone shouts from across the quad.

She turns, shrugging out from under Sam’s arm around her shoulders. Waving at her classmate, she turns back to Sam. She stretches to give him a quick kiss and says, “Alright, last class of the day.” Pulling away, she walks backwards for a couple of steps, grinning at him. “You ready for tonight?” she asks.

Sam rolls his eyes and sighs. “Jess…”

“I keep telling you, it’s going to be fun.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go,” he agrees reluctantly. It’s not that he doesn’t like parties – he does – but this one in particular just rubs him the wrong way. People have no idea what’s really out there, and every time he sees someone dressed as a ghoul or a werewolf, he can’t help but cringe. If they’d had to hunt these things before, had to patch up their families after hunts gone wrong, they wouldn’t take it so lightly.

But Jess wants to go, so he guesses he’s going, too. The good news is they don’t even have to stay until midnight, if she’s really being serious about this NaNoWriMo thing.

“Good,” she responds, a grin of satisfaction spreading across her face. “I gotta get to class.”

“Me too,” Sam answers, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. “Even Halloween won’t stop my World History professor from giving an exam.”

“Good luck,” Jess says, and then points a finger at him, giving him the look that says she means business. “And you’d better be ready for that Halloween party tonight when I get home.”

Fic: The Next Day

cowboyguy — Thu, 01 Oct 2015 03:43:50 GMT

Title: The Next Day
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Summary: "This second trial hit you a lot harder than the first one. I don't know whether it was just more intense or what." -- "Felt the same. Till the next day."

“It’s done,” Sam gasped breathlessly, kneeling on the ground amidst pine needles and dead leaves. “It’s done.” He clutched the paper with the trials incantation tightly in a hand that, moments ago, had been glowing from the inside.

Dean could feel his brother shaking under the firm hand he had on Sam’s shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

Still catching his breath, Sam nodded, then pushed himself up and staggered to his feet. “I’m good.”

Dean wasn’t convinced. Sam’s shoulders were still heaving with every breath, just like during his childhood asthma attacks, when Dean had guided him through the not-so-simple process of moving air through his lungs.

This time, though, there was no safe hotel room. No medicine to make it all better. Just a four hour hike through the woods back to the Impala.

“Come on,” he said, keeping an arm wrapped around his brother’s shoulders and letting Sam set the pace through the moonlit forest.

* * *

Dean drove as far as he could, waiting until he was nearly falling asleep at the wheel, to get off the highway and find a motel. They had a long way to go to get back to Kansas, and Dean wanted to get Sam back to the safety and comfort of the bunker as soon as possible.

In the passenger seat, Sam was already fast asleep, having conked out almost as soon as Dean had started driving. Fighting through Purgatory to get to Hell and back wasn’t exactly a stroll through the park, and Dean knew these trials were taking a toll on his little brother.

He almost hated to wake him, but any motel bed was better than waking up with a sore neck and your face glued to the car window.

Dean opened the passenger door and shook Sam’s shoulder gently, watching as his brother woke up with a jolt. Sam stretched and winced, blinking up at Dean through sleepy eyes.

“Come on, kiddo,” Dean said. “I can’t carry you into the room like I could when you were four.” He looked to the right, towards the waiting motel room, and Sam followed his gaze, staring at the closed door for a moment before climbing stiffly out of the car and stumbling after his brother towards a bed and another few solid hours of rest.

* * *

In the darkness of the motel room, Dean lay awake in his bed, listening to the soft sounds of Sam tossing and turning in the bed next to him, the raspy catch of his breath on each inhale.

Every so often, a round of painful-sounding coughs would rip through Sam, startling him awake momentarily before he collapsed back onto the bed and into unconsciousness while Dean looked on, helpless and silent.

* * *

After two days of driving, they were finally cruising up the gravel driveway towards the entrance of the bunker. Dean had never been so happy to see the place.

“Home sweet home,” he said, turning to his brother in the passenger seat.

Sam still looked tired, his skin pale except for the dark circles under his eyes. He was huddled into his jacket like he was cold, despite the warm spring sunlight that had been beaming through the windshield all morning.

“Yeah,” he murmured, then coughed roughly into a closed fist, turning away from Dean like he was trying to hide it. Like it wasn’t already painfully obvious that this trial had taken a lot more out of Sam than the first one had.

“Go, get inside,” Dean insisted, practically pushing his brother out of the car. “I’ll get our stuff.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam answered, getting to his feet on legs that were unsteady after several hours in the car. “I’m gonna, uh…” He trailed off, waving a vague hand towards the fortified door and the warm safety of the bunker behind it.

“There’s clean clothes in the laundry. Go get changed and get some rest, okay?” Dean said. Neither of them mentioned the fact that Sam had already gotten a couple of days of rest and yet only seemed to be getting worse. Dean just followed after his brother, making sure the door was secure behind them, and watched as Sam headed off to his bedroom before settling down in front of his laptop to try to find a way to help his brother.

He couldn't help but feel like they were running out of time.

Fic: The Answer Lies With You

cowboyguy — Mon, 31 Aug 2015 04:34:03 GMT

Fic: The Answer Lies With You
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: A hunt gone wrong, and something's not right.
Posted as a fill for tarotgal's commentfic meme. (It really didn't turn out to be much like the prompt at all, but I hope you still like it!)

This fic can now be found on AO3.

Fic: Priorities

cowboyguy — Sun, 26 Jul 2015 03:29:56 GMT

Title: Priorities
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: 1808
Prompt: Written as a fill for a prompt at tarotgal’s commentfic meme: I adore the sneezefic staple where one character is obviously coming down with something but keeps denying it until it bites him in the ass. I want to see the opposite, which is less used in sneezefics. A character is obviously coming down with something and the OTHER character keeps trying to convince him it's nothing.

“hhESSHHCHHuh!” Sam sneezes as he comes out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam wafting into the motel room after him. The hot shower really hadn’t helped. He feels just as congested as he did when he woke up, only now it’s worse because all of the steam is making his nose tickle.

“Y’okay?” Dean asks distractedly, putting a pile of papers down on the table where the rest of their research material is scattered. He heads over to his duffle bag to dig out a change of clothes, not waiting for Sam’s answer.

Sam shrugs, sniffs, and hunts through his own duffle for a shirt, his arms feeling weirdly heavy and achy. He pulls a clean t-shirt out of his bag and is midway through pulling it over his head when the tickle returns with a vengeance. He freezes, sleeves halfway pulled over his arms, and shakes his head slowly, trying to ease the sneezes out. “hh… hehh… ha’ISSHHHH! hn’MPFSHHH!”

“Allergies, huh?” Dean assumes, brushing past him on the way to the bathroom. “Soon as I’m ready, we’ll head over to the library, check out the local papers for any more info. I wanna figure out what we’re dealing with here. Can you be ready in ten?”

“Actually, I—“ Sam starts, but the door is already closed, and a moment later there is the sound of running water as Dean gets into the shower. Sam sits down on his bed, running his hands through his damp hair, and seriously contemplates just curling back up under the covers and trying to sleep. Maybe if he makes it obvious how miserable he is, Dean will back off.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they’re in the Impala, headed across town to the library. Dean’s driving, focused on street signs and navigating around slow drivers, and is not paying any attention at all to Sam in the passenger seat.

Sam’s got his laptop open, reading over the article they’d found about a series of “wild animal attacks” on the edge of town. The longer they drive, the more difficult he’s finding it to concentrate on the words in front of him. The steady motion of the Impala, coupled with the warm spring sun shining through the windshield, is threatening to make him fall asleep right here in the car.

“heh’nghk!” He quickly stifles another sneeze into his shoulder, and the laptop nearly slides right off his lap. He flails a hand forward, catching it just before it falls, and snaps the lid shut, giving up on reading. He sniffs and clears his throat, grimly noticing the way the back of his throat is starting to feel sore in a way that it hadn’t an hour ago.

“Hey, uh,” he starts in a voice that’s just a little deeper and rougher than normal. “You remember when we were interviewing teachers at that elementary school last week?”

“The haunted auditorium thing? Uh-huh,” Dean answers, changing lanes around a bus that’s slowing down in front of them.

“I think maybe I caught something,” Sam says, sniffling again. “Been feeling weird all morning.”

Instead of sounding concerned or asking Sam any questions, Dean says, “Maybe it’s just allergies or something. You don’t really get sick a lot, y’know? And I heard the pollen count has been pretty high in the area lately.”

“Yeah, that you heard,” Sam mumbles under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sam gives up, shoving his laptop back into his bag as they pull into the library parking lot. Dean’s not listening, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to keep trying.

* * *

Once they’re in the library, they split up to work. Sam camps out at a study table with his laptop and a handful of tissues from the nice librarian who took pity on him, while Dean stays on the other side of the building, practically glued to the microfiche machine as he searches through old newspapers.

Sam tries to work, he really does, but the air is so warm and stagnant, and the congestion just keeps building in his sinuses until the only thing he’s really concentrating on is trying not to sneeze too much or too loudly. After a while, the fatigue finally takes over. One minute he’s scrolling through a website on North American legendary creatures, and the next he feels a firm hand shaking him awake.

“Sammy, what the hell, man?” comes Dean’s voice, and Sam jolts upright, blinking up at his brother who is staring at him with a disappointed look on his face. “Sleeping on the job…” He rolls his eyes and then slaps a neat pile of papers down on the table next to Sam’s laptop. “I think I figured it out,” he says.

“Good for you,” Sam retorts, because he’s tired and cranky and his head hurts.

“Turns out it’s not a creature at all. I’m pretty sure it’s the ghost of this crazy survivalist dude who used to live in the woods outside of town…”

Dean keeps talking, describing the information he uncovered, and Sam nods along like he’s listening until Dean tells him to pack up his stuff and they’re on their way out of the library.

* * *

It’s getting dark by the time they leave, and Sam doesn’t notice at first that they’re driving in the wrong direction until the streetlights start to thin out and suburban neighborhoods start being replaced by gently rolling hills and farmland.

He pushes himself up in his seat, glancing over at Dean in the driver’s seat. “Wait, where are you going?” he asks. “The motel’s back in town.”

“What do you mean, where? I told you, I got the address of this guy’s house. People say he was buried somewhere on his property when he died. Gotta find the grave and dig up the body,” Dean responds, like he’s talking to a three-year-old. “Dude, get your head in the game.”

Sam sighs congestedly and coughs into his sleeve, slouching against the passenger door and watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing past the window. It’s too late to turn back and Sam knows that nothing he can say will make Dean back down from a hunt if it means more people might get killed.

By the time they pull off the highway and reach the abandoned shack at the end of a gravel road through the woods, it’s completely dark.

Dean parks the Impala and shuts off the engine, reaching into the backseat for a flashlight. As he clicks it on, he says, “Should only be a mile or so, up past the house. C’mon.” He climbs out and moves around to the trunk to get the necessary supplies.

Sam opens his own door with a quiet groan and follows his brother, standing up on shaky legs. But once he’s out of the car, the earthy smell of the woods surrounding them invades his nose, sending him into a desperate sneezing fit. “htch’CHSHSHHH! HSHHH! hah’ISHHH! hh…hh…hah…hah’TCHCHH! NGXSHHSHH—ihh—CHHH! Ugh…” He coughs roughly into his fist, stumbling over to Dean and pleads, “Deand, I cad’t do this.” He looks at his brother, wide eyes silently begging for help.

“Come on, Sammy, don’t be a baby,” Dean says, shoving a canister of rock salt into a backpack. “Since when have you let allergies slow you down?”

“It’s dot allergies!” Sam insists, getting angry. “I’b freakig biserable, dude.” As if to illustrate the point, he sneezes twice more into the sleeve of his jacket – “hh’KTCHSHH! ISSHHuh!” – followed by a round of congested, wet coughs.

“You’re sick?” Dean asks, finally getting it.

“Yes!” Sam wheezes in exasperation.

“Why didn’t you say something before?”

“I’ve beed tryig to tell you all day!” Sam cries, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for his last crumpled-up tissue. “hh’NKXSHH-SHHH!” He blows his nose quickly and sniffles, continuing, “But you didnd’t wadt to listend! Udless it’s about the hundt, you dod’t wanna hear it.”

Dean bites his lip, looking guilty. “…Sam, I’m sorry.”

“Save it, Dean,” Sam growls back at him. He starts down the path that’s just barely visible through the trees. “Let’s jusdt do the job, okay?”

The flashlight beam bounces behind him as Dean jogs to catch up, and then he feels a hand nudge his arm. Dean silently holds out another flashlight, which Sam wordlessly grabs and turns on, falling back a pace or two and letting his brother take the lead.

They hike through the quiet, dark woods, listening to the snap of twigs under their boots and the rhythmic chorus of cicadas in the trees. The moon overhead casts long strips of dim light in between the shadows of the trees, crisscrossing with the arcing beams of their flashlights across the ground. When they finally reach the gravesite, Dean motions for Sam to sit on a nearby fallen log, unshoulders his shovel, and begins to dig. Something has clicked, and though neither of them are really talking, Sam realizes that his brother is sorry for the way he acted.

When the job is done, and they’re leaving the pit of burning bones behind them, Dean refuses to let Sam carry any of their gear. Sam offers to help, but is secretly grateful when Dean insists on carrying everything, because his joints are achy and his coordination is definitely not what it usually is. It’s enough of a challenge just focusing on not tripping over a tree root on their way back to the car.

* * *

As soon as they get back, Dean immediately ushers Sam to bed, pulling off his jacket and bending down to help Sam take off his boots. It’s late, and Sam is so tired that he just lets his brother help, following Dean’s gentle push to sit down on the mattress and crawl under the covers.

As soon as Dean is sure Sam is settled, he says quietly, “I’m gonna run to the Rite Aid down the block, okay? Get you some meds and stuff.”

“Mmmkay,” Sam replies, and then his breath hitches as the congestion in his head shifts. “heh… Deand… deed a ti—hh… tiss—“

A wad of tissues is pressed into his hand, and he sneezes breathlessly into them. “hh’htchCHHSH! HHTCHCHHuh! …uhh… hk’TCHSHHH! ISHHH!” He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath, head throbbing. “…Thagks,” he whispers.

He feels Dean’s fingers run briefly through his hair, and then Dean says, “Box of tissues is next to your elbow. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Sam nods, head against his pillow. “Dean?” he murmurs sleepily.

“Hmm?”

“Um… Can you…?”

Dean waits for an end to the sentence, but it doesn’t come. When he looks up, Sam is curled around the box of tissues, eyes closed and breathing slowly. Dean smiles, reaches over, and quietly turns off the lamp between their beds.

Fic: Shhh!

cowboyguy — Sun, 28 Jun 2015 14:50:16 GMT

Title: Shhh!
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: 872
Prompt: Originally posted as a fill to a prompt on tarotgal's commentfic meme -- His sneezes are always kind of loud... which is even more obvious in a library, where it's supposed to be quiet.

Dean had long ago stopped counting the number of libraries he’d visited in his life. Just like he’d stopped counting the number of schools, the number of motels, the number of fake IDs stashed in the Impala’s glove compartment.

Out of all the uncountable libraries, though, he had to admit that this one was pretty nice. It was a big university library, so it had plenty of space, several floors of books and study areas ringed around an open atrium. The sun streamed down through the skylights in the roof, providing plenty of light. It was a hell of a lot nicer than some of the dinky little small-town libraries he and Sam had visited over the years. For one thing, it had a nicely-sized section dedicated to local legends and folklore, which was helping him narrow down exactly what they might be hunting. There were no rowdy toddlers running around without their moms, no teenagers making out in the corners where they thought no one could see them. At his table near the railing, where he could gaze out at the atrium and the people down in the lobby, Dean had a pretty good quiet spot to spend the afternoon researching.

Except for the sneezes.

He didn’t notice them at first, because they were so infrequent, but over the past thirty minutes or so they’d started to disturb his concentration. They came from somewhere on the floor below him, the sound carrying up through the open part of the building, and in an otherwise quiet space, they were becoming much more noticeable than they normally would have been.

Dean tried to go back to his book, reading through a legend of a ghost that haunted a patch of farmland outside of town.

“HA-iSHHH!” came another sneeze. Dean automatically looked up, but the sound came from too far away, and there was nobody around him. Leaning forward over the table, he tried to focus on the book again, but only another few minutes went by before another sneeze broke his concentration.

“HHH’ESSCHHHHH!”

Sighing, Dean closed his book and gathered up his stuff. There was just no way he was going to be able to read if he kept getting distracted like this. He headed for the stairs, taking them down to the first floor. He continued through the periodicals section, walking through aisles of carefully organized newspapers and magazines.

And there he was.

Seated at a table, surrounded by what had to be the last five years’ worth of the local paper, was Sam. Sniffling softly, and clutching a travel pack of tissues that was looking dangerously low, he was so focused on the paper in front of him that he didn’t even notice his brother’s presence until Dean spoke up.

“Cold’s getting worse, huh?” he said.

Sam’s head snapped up, startled. He quickly shoved the pack of tissues into his pocket, hiding the evidence. “What? No,” he responded, entirely unconvincingly.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes. “And you haven’t been sneezing every couple of minutes for the past half hour either, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Sam insisted, but the guilty look in his eyes said otherwise.

“Dude, I’m your brother. I know what your sneezes sound like. And the sneezes I was hearing from upstairs sounded like—“

“heh! HA’ESHHHHHuh!”

“—like that.”

Sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket, Sam glared up at his brother with a muffled, “Shuddup.”

Dean moved forward, taking the newspaper that Sam had been looking at and carefully folding it back up.

“Hey, what—“

“Come on, I think you’re done, Sam. Have you actually found anything yet, or have you been busy trying not to sneeze too much?” Dean laid the paper on top of the neat stack to Sam’s left and gestured for his brother to get up.

“I found… stuff,” Sam answered pathetically. “There’s no clear pattern yet, but I was figuring it out.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean deadpanned. “As far as I’m concerned, the only thing you need to figure out is what kind of tissues you want when we stop at Wal-Mart on the way back to the motel.”

Sam sighed, but finally acquiesced, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Fine,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets and following Dean toward the exit.

They’d almost made it to the door when Sam let out another strong, “HEH’ISHHH!” and stumbled forward with the force of the sneeze. Dean reached out a hand to keep Sam balanced, at the same time shielding him from the annoyed glance of the librarian at the front desk.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean said softly, guiding his brother out the front door.

“Dean,” Sam grumbled as they walked down the front steps of the library and started across campus to the parking garage. “Stop it. It’s just a cold, and I’m not a baby.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean responded, instinctively reaching out again to steady his brother when Sam tried and failed to stifle another loud “Heh’NGSHHH!” into his sleeve.

“Dude. Get off.”

“You’re sick,” Dean responded. “Humor me, okay?”
Sam still looked mildly annoyed when he came up for air, but answered with a shrug
and a nod and a quiet, “Mmkay.”

“Thank you.”

Fic: Give You Everything I've Got

cowboyguy — Mon, 01 Jun 2015 12:07:01 GMT

Title: Give You Everything I’ve Got
Summary: Things don’t always go smoothly.
Verse: Supernatural
Fandom: Frayed 'verse. Other fics are here.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and Hell trauma
Wordcount: 4155
Thank you to my awesome beta tarotgal for reading through this and offering wise words of wisdom.

Dean misses being Hector Aframian.

Kris Warren, D. Mahogov, Siegfried Houdini, all the others. He misses the money that came with that endless string of identities, the cards that paid for one motel room after another and cheap diner food in sleepy towns.

Now all he’s got is a couple of very legitimate credit cards with the name Dean Winchester printed across the front, and he’s coming dangerously close to maxing out all of them. The rent’s due in a week, and Dean’s already asked Bobby for help more than he’d care to admit. So he’s just going to be eating ramen for a while, hoping Sam won’t notice. If it’s a choice between taking care of Sam or taking care of himself… well, it’s not a choice.

Besides, Sam’s not likely to notice much of anything. He’d been sick for the past three days, and colds are rough on Sam even under the best possible conditions. But this one just has him completely worn out.

“No, I don’t want it,” Sam grumbles, pressing his face into the couch cushions.

Worn out and cranky, to be exact.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean pleads. “It’s supposed to make you feel better.” He holds out the little medicine cup, bright orange DayQuil filled nearly to the brim.

Sam shakes his head, dark hair obscuring his face. “Nooo…. Makes me feel… itchy.”

Huh. That’s a new one. Dean wonders if it’s possible to be allergic to DayQuil. “Itchy how?”

“Inside me, everything shaking,” Sam mumbles, voice thick with congestion. “Like… like my skin wants to come off.” He scratches roughly at his arms for a moment before settling back down, long legs stretched out so they’re almost hanging off the couch.

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. “Okay. No DayQuil, then,” Dean acquiesces and sets the cup down on the end table, as Sam coughs painfully into his pillow, body spasming with the effort. “If you won’t try the medicine, how about some veggie broth, huh? Nice and warm, maybe it’ll help that cough?” He sits carefully on the edge of the couch, near Sam’s legs, and reaches out to rub his brother’s back.

Sam, who normally takes comfort in Dean’s touch, squirms away, whining, “Your hand’s too cold.”

“Sorry.” Dean pulls his hand back and stands up. “I’m gonna go heat up some of that broth, see if you like that.” He rubs a hand over his mouth in frustration, watching Sam for a moment as he fidgets restlessly on the couch, before he heads back into the kitchen.

“hh’NXSHHH!” He hears Sam sneeze behind him, followed by the sound of Sam’s feet kicking on the couch cushions in agitation, trying in vain to make his broken body feel better.

It’s all Dean wants, too.

* * *

Sam doesn’t want the broth.

Or the toast Dean fixes for him, because it’s too crunchy.

Or his favorite patchwork quilt, because he can feel all of the stitches scratching against his skin.

Dean can actually feel himself losing patience with Sam with each new complaint. His muscles get just a little more tense, his tone of voice a little more clipped and harsh.

“What about tea? You like tea.”

“Mmmngh,” Sam mumbles before sneezing harshly into his pillow again. “heh’ENXHSSHH! huh’ETTTCH!”

“Sam. Tea or not?” Dean demands, standing on the edge of the living room with his arms folded across his chest. The quilt is lying in a heap on the floor, and the coffee table and end tables are becoming increasingly littered with all the things Sam didn’t want, things that are costing Dean precious dollars though he’ll never tell his brother that.

Sam is quiet for several agonizing moments, twisting his hair between his fingers and staring at the floor. Dean is about to just forget about the damn tea, retreat to his own room, and leave his brother to fend for himself, when Sam finally answers, voice tight, “Tea …and honey?”

“You got it,” Dean answers, trying to make himself not sound too annoyed, and returns to the kitchen again.

In the living room, Sam sneezes and coughs and whispers apologies to people who don’t exist.

* * *

“Goddammit, Sam! I don’t know what you want me to do!” Dean shouts, storming out of the room, Sam’s mug of tea spilled all down the front of his shirt. He angrily tugs it over his head as he stomps across the apartment, back to his own fucking room to get another fucking shirt.

“I am done, okay?!” he shouts. “I’m fucking done! I’m sick of this bullshit!”

He slams a hand against his half-open bedroom door so it swings open and ricochets off the wall, and throws his shirt to the ground with an angry growl.

“Give me one goddamn day… just one…”

All he wants is one day where it isn’t so obvious that they’re just barely hanging on. Where his brother isn’t dependent on him for every single thing. Where having enough money to pay the rent doesn’t conflict with having enough money to stock the fridge. Where he can just go and be the same Dean Winchester he’d always pretended he was – cocky swagger and devilish grin and enough charm to make the prettiest girl in the room instantly fall for him. But he isn’t that Dean now.

Now, he’s just angry and tired and poor, and he wants this day to be over so they can deal with the next.

He tugs open the middle drawer of his dresser to get a new shirt, and the cheap plastic handle comes off in his hand. Stifling a very unmanly scream of pure frustration, he pries the drawer the rest of the way open, and congratulates himself when he doesn’t tear it out and throw it across the room. With his luck, he’d only end up breaking something else, and then he’d have that to look forward to fixing tomorrow, too.

He pulls on a clean t-shirt and thumps his head against the wall, letting out an exhausted sigh. This day really can’t get any worse.

From the other end of the hallway comes the sound of a door slamming, and it only takes Dean a second to realize that the sound is too heavy to be anything but the front door.

“Shit!”

Dean scrambles out of his bedroom and down the hall, nearly careening into furniture as he races to the door. By the time he rips it open and rushes into the outer hallway, it’s quiet.

Sam is gone.

* * *

The sky is big and dark, and the wind tugs at his clothes, but he has to keep running. Has to get out. Dean is not Dean. It’s all a lie. He should never have believed it.

Deep, deep inside he knows. Even if he runs, he won’t get out. Won’t escape forever. But he’s human, and he tries.

Stupid boy, you will never understand, will you? You’re here, with us. You made your choice.

He runs down quiet streets, away from lights, away from people. Needs to get away.

There’s a pounding pain in his head every time his feet hit the ground. Lucifer driving stakes through his skull, just to see what will happen.

“What do you think, Michael? Is there a brain in there at all?”

Michael took pity on him, swept him up and whisked him away, said soft words to make him calm, pulled the metal pieces out one by one by one.

Sam stops running, leaning against a brick wall – rough, too rough, and hurts his hand – to cough, gasping after all the running. Everything hurts, and he feels achy and full, like his head has been held underwater for too long. But this place is quiet, walls and no bright lights and just him by himself.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?”

Someone’s here.

Dean calls him “buddy,” but Dean’s not here. Dean is a lie. Dean didn’t fall with him, has never been here.

Only… only Michael is safe. Sometimes. Lucifer is cruel, and Adam is hurt, but sometimes Michael helps.

“You need some help?”

Sam coughs again, head snapping up to look. Everything goes blurry for a second and he shakes his head to make it right. There are two people, dressed in black and blue, heavy boots stomping on the ground towards him, lights flashing in a dizzying rhythm behind them. He wants to run, but he already knows he can’t get away. Nowhere to go. He drags a hand through his hair, pulling, and makes a noise, low in his throat.

Shhh, Sammy, don’t talk.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

One of the men is moving towards him, and he backs into the wall, rough bricks and sharp metal fence trapping him.

“No, I… ‘m not s’posed to…” he whispers, trying not to look at them, trying to find a way out.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Can you tell me your name? Huh?”

The voice is soft, and that’s wrong. Supposed to be angry. Supposed to hurt. Maybe… maybe this isn’t…

“Sam,” he makes his mouth say, but no noise comes out.

“What was that?” the man repeats, shining a light up at him.

No, too bright!

He puts up his hands, blocking his face, pressing his body into the wall. “I don’t know… I don’t know…” A tear slips down his cheek, wet and salty and itching, and he tugs the neck of his t-shirt up to scrub it away.

“Hudson, check the missing persons report, will ya?” The man turns, looking at the other. Sam wants to hide, wants to curl up and be small, but the ground is cold and hurts and he can’t make it better. Already his bare feet on the ground hurt, tiny pebbles making holes in his skin, burrowing in like a thousand tiny bugs. “You live around here? Hey, buddy, you hearing me? Do you live around here?”

Pay attention, Sam. If you don’t listen, if you don’t behave, you will be hurt. He knows it will happen, has happened before.

He pulls at the hem of his shirt, twisting it in his hands, trying to make everything real. See that, Sammy? Feel that? It’s okay, you’re here I promise you’re safe-- no you idiot child you will never understand!

Someone makes a noise, sounds like crying. It might be him. “…My… my brother…” he whispers. He needs help, it’s too hard by himself. There’s too much he doesn’t know.

“You looking for your brother?” the man says. “What’s his name?”

I asked you a question, Sam. Fire or knives? You decide. I’m feeling generous.

“…M-Michael…” He needs Michael, needs to be safe. He’ll never be safe, but maybe… maybe just for a little while.

But then he remembers. When Michael got bored, he drove the stakes into Adam instead, made Sam watch and listen and learn the consequences of what happened when he begged for an end to the pain. Sam can still hear Lucifer laughing while Adam screams.

Michael isn’t safe, either.

* * *

“Sammy!” Dean shouts, looking frantically down empty streets for any sign of his brother. This is not good. This is really not good.

He’s already run down their street, with no sign of Sam anywhere. And it’s just a random Tuesday night, already dark, and there’s nobody outside. Nobody to tell him whether his brother had raced by, panicked and frightened and sick.

Oh god, oh god.

Dean thinks back to that horrible week, years ago, when Sam had disappeared for a week before ending up in Wisconsin, possessed by Meg. He feels the same fear, the same panic bubbling up inside him now, only this time it’s a thousand times worse.

“Come on, kiddo, where would you be?” he whispers to himself, stopping at the corner of the street. He looks left, then right, but there’s nothing except for one car driving further down the road before it turns and is out of sight.

Still no Sam.

He tries to think of where Sam would go, where he’d seek comfort. Sometimes, on good days, they go for walks. But it’s not exactly a small town, and they don’t always take the same route.

Dean sighs, running a hand distractedly through his hair, and takes a fifty-fifty chance. He heads left, in the direction of the grocery store. To the right are more houses, and a path that goes through the park and the woods nearby, but the woods are dark and creepy at night, and Sam’s gotta be looking for safety.

He wants to call someone, ask for help, but he can’t think of where to start. Bobby wouldn’t be any help - he’s hundreds of miles away. Cas hasn’t answered in a long time, had said something about a civil war going on in Heaven last time they saw each other.

Dean is on his own.

He shivers as a cool breeze blows past him. It had been a warm day, but with the sun down, the temperature is starting to drop. Sam had only been wearing sweats and a t-shirt when he ran out of the house. Dean curses himself for not thinking to bring a hoodie, or a blanket, or something. But then, there are a lot of things he should have thought of.

He continues down the street, scanning to the left and right down every driveway, side yard, and alley on the block. Nothing. Not a damn sign of his brother anywhere.

“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, racking his brain for ideas.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He reaches into his pocket to call 911, and only comes up with a couple of quarters and a balled-up receipt.

Shit. His phone is in his jacket pocket, hanging so conveniently on the back of a chair in the dining room, doing him absolutely no good.

The only thing he can do is keep running. For twenty minutes, he runs down every street, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Every second he doesn’t find Sam feels like another second closer to losing him completely, and he can’t do that again.

He’s starting to think he’s made a mistake coming this way and should double back and head the other way. But then he reaches the end of a block, and further down the road he sees a parked cop car, blue and white lights flashing slowly. He turns the corner and heads in that direction. No way Sam would go near those obnoxiously flashing lights, especially with how overwhelmed he must be, but at least the cops might be able to help him search for his brother.

As he jogs closer to the car, slowing down to catch his breath, he sees an officer standing near the car, radio in his hand. “Hey! Excuse me!” Dean calls, waving to get his attention.

The cop turns his head, looks over at him, and Dean is about to speak when he hears a familiar panicked whine. He peers past the car, down the alley it’s parked in front of, and feels a sudden wave of relief through his body.

There he is. God, there he is.

“Sammy!” he shouts, moving to get closer. “Are you okay?”

“Sir? Do you know him?” the officer next to the car asks, taking a step in front of Dean to block his way.

Dean stops, tries to catch his breath. “He’s my— he’s my brother. Is he okay?”

But even at this distance, he can see that Sam is, very clearly, not okay. He’s got his hands up by his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, shiny tracks on his face illuminated in the flashing lights.

“Are you Michael?” one of the cops asks.

Dean stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

“He said he was looking for his brother, Michael.”

Not good. So not good. “Shit,” Dean swears under his breath. “No. No, I’m Dean. His—his other brother. Let me see him.” The cops back away, and Dean carefully steps toward Sam. He reaches out a hand to touch him, and Sam jerks back with a sharp cry, the back of his head thumping against the brick wall.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay,” Dean tries, hands held up in front of his chest. “Sammy, it’s me. I’m here.”

“No,” Sam begs. “No, please, don’t—“

Dean’s gotta get a handle on the situation, and fast. Especially with the two cops standing right there, in much closer proximity than he’d like. He turns back to them for just a second, not wanting to take his eyes off his brother. “Could you shut the lights off? You’re scaring him,” he asks, and he must sound desperate, because one immediately turns and heads back towards the car, while the other cop stands there, watching him.

Dean ignores him, turning back to Sam.

“Buddy, can you hear me?” he says softly. “It’s me. It’s Dean. I’m here.”

The lights from the car shut off, and the alleyway gets a little darker, illuminated only by the lights out in the street.

Sam coughs roughly, rocking a little on his feet, fingers still twisting through his hair as he tries to soothe himself. “Dean…” he whispers.

“Yeah, Sammy, it’s okay.” Dean takes a step closer, movements slow and fluid like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “I’m here,” he repeats.

“Dean,” Sam repeats around a raspy breath. “I know Dean…”

He takes a step closer, waits for a reaction. Sam doesn’t move, still breathing heavily and fidgeting where he stands. Dean tries again, reaches out a hand, and when it makes contact with Sam’s shoulder, Sam flinches but doesn’t retreat. “That’s good, Sammy. Hey, you’re doing so good.” He pulls Sam closer, so their foreheads are touching and continues to whisper quiet, soothing words.

“I was… I couldn’t find…” Sam mumbles, shaking his head. “You were… I don’t know… sometimes, sometimes Michael helps, and I…”

Dean reaches a hand up to the back of Sam’s neck, fingers working in little circles against Sam’s skin. The kid is radiating heat, even more than he had been a couple of hours ago. “Shhh. Sammy, Michael’s not here,” he says softly, so the cops can’t hear him. “Neither of them are here.”

Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s for a fraction of a second, hopeful, before he looks away. “Adam?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, Adam’s not here.”

“Because I couldn’t—“

Dean cuts him off. “Hey, it’s not your fault, Sam. You did everything you could.” Sam talks about Adam all the time, but bringing him up when he’s this agitated is not going to end well. He tries to redirect his brother’s attention. If he wants to get Sam home, he needs him focused. “Just you and me here, okay? Can I take you back home?”

Sam looks unsure, backing away a little. “I don’t know…” he murmurs. “I… I’m supposed to stay. Don’t go looking for me.”

“You got out, Sam. You’re home,” Dean tries to reassure him. “You’re real. I’m real. Look.” Dean holds out his hand for Sam to inspect, to give him something to focus on. Sam presses his fingers against Dean’s, turns his brother’s hand over in his, inspecting the lines of his palm, the freckles just visible on his skin in the dull light. “We’re both here, right?”

Sam blinks and nods, sniffling softly. “Think so…”

“Good,” Dean answers. He wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders, guiding him slowly out of the corner and towards the street. “Hey, did you know there are asteroids named after The Beatles?” Dean says with a smile, trying to keep him grounded.

“John, Paul, George, and Ringo,” Sam whispers, before instinctively turning to the side, burying a sneeze into his shoulder. “hh’NTCHSHH!”

Dean digs around in the pockets of his jeans, comes up with a wrinkled hankie, and hands it to his brother. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go home, okay?”

As they make their way out of the alley, Dean sees the two cops still standing there on the street. They look a little apprehensive, like they’re trying to figure out exactly what Sam’s problem is, probably trying to remember some disability sensitivity video they watched in a stuffy police training room.

“It’s okay, I got him,” Dean assures them, keeping an arm around Sam, both to reassure him and to keep him from running off. He reaches into his back pocket, digs out his wallet and shows the cops his license and Sam’s ID, side by side in their little plastic windows. “See? He’s my brother, he lives with me. Just got a little freaked out and ran out of the house, but he’ll be okay.”

The older of the two leans forward to take a look, flashlight playing across the glossy plastic. Beside Dean, Sam scrunches his eyes closed and shakes his head, startled by the sudden light. He’s still twitchy, probably from a combination of his cold and being so overstimulated, and Dean makes a mental note to make the apartment as dark and calm as possible as soon as they get back.

After scrutinizing the IDs to make sure Dean’s really telling the truth – because who else would willingly take a panicked, sniffly, clearly not-all-there, six-foot-four guy home? – the cop nods and takes a step back. “You need a ride?” he offers.

Dean briefly considers it, taking in Sam’s still bare feet and the way his brother is shivering a little in his arms, despite the fever. But that’s just too much unfamiliarity to have Sam deal with, especially when he’s finally starting to calm down.

“Nah, we’re good. Thanks, though,” he refuses politely, giving a nod to the two men before steering Sam out of the alley.

He takes Sam down the sidewalk, back in the direction of their building, but stops after a minute when he notices that Sam is wincing with every step. “Hang on, hang on,” he says quietly, pulling Sam gently to a stop. Dean reaches down and undoes his own shoelaces, pulling the boots off his feet, followed by his socks. “Lemme see your feet, Sammy,” he says, bending down to slide his socks onto Sam’s feet, brushing pebbles and debris off the soles of his feet before he does. His shoes aren’t going to fit on Sam’s ginormous feet, he already knows that, but at least this will help a little. “That feel better?” he asks.

Sam takes a couple of experimental steps and then nods, staring at his toes as he wiggles them inside the socks. “Mmhmm,” he murmurs.

“Good.” Dean slides his feet back into his boots, ignoring the roughness of the leather against his bare skin, and motions for Sam to keep walking.

They continue down the sidewalk in silence for a few minutes, Sam muffling an occasional sneeze into the hankie he’s still clutching, until he asks in a hesitant, unsure voice, “You’re… you’re really Dean?”

“I’m really Dean,” Dean confirms, looking over at his brother. “Did I scare you, back at home?”

Sam doesn’t answer, but when Dean looks over, he can see the tension in Sam’s jaw, the unshed tears in his eyes. God, Dean hopes he hasn’t screwed this up too badly to fix.

“Sammy?” he says softly.

Sam sniffs and rubs at his nose, fingertips wiping away the tears still in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Dean tries to choose his words carefully, tries to make it come out right. He takes a deep breath and continues. “You gotta understand something, okay? I’m not a saint. Far from it. But… I’m trying my best, okay? I’m trying. And I’m not… I’m not always gonna be perfect. I’m not always gonna get it on the first try.”

“I know,” Sam answers. “I just… I get confused. And I…” He shrugs, unable to find the words. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“It wasn’t you, man,” Dean says immediately, stopping and turning to face his brother. “Sammy, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t think that for a second, okay?” Dean runs a hand over his face, takes a breath, before he looks back up into Sam’s apprehensive eyes. “Sam. I’ve been looking after you my whole life. ‘S my job, right? Trying to take care of you. And this is just… this is the one thing I can’t fix. And I wish I could.”

Sam stares at him, gives him that familiar puppy dog look, and for a second he’s exactly like the old Sam again. “But you try, though,” he says earnestly.

He’s still the same Sam.

“Yeah, I try.”

Dean turns and starts walking again, waiting for a second until Sam is walking alongside him.

“…We’re gonna be okay, right?” Dean asks, and he’s not just talking about tonight.

But Sam understands. Sam knows more than he thinks he does. “Yeah,” he answers. “We will.”

Fic: Inevitable

cowboyguy — Fri, 15 May 2015 20:57:17 GMT

Inevitable
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for some swearing
Prompt: Originally written as a fill for a prompt at tarotgal's meme -- "He can't let himself sneeze. He absolutely can't. That would be the worst thing, the very worst. Because if he starts sneezing he's pretty sure he won't be able to stop."

There is no way this is going to end well.

Dean looks around in the dim light, surveying his surroundings, but “stuck in a closet” doesn’t leave a lot of options in terms of formulating a plan. All he has with him is a knife, and his phone must have slipped out of his pocket in the Impala, because his pockets are empty. So texting Sam for a rescue isn’t really an option, either.

In hindsight, breaking into a victim’s home – alone – to look for clues, without a plan or backup of any kind might have been a bad idea. But it had been going okay, until he heard the front door open downstairs. He’d quickly taken refuge in the closet in the spare bedroom, since he couldn’t very well get back downstairs.

But beyond that, Dean hadn’t been thinking much farther ahead.

So now here he is, trapped in this tiny space, surrounded by clothes on hangers, trying not to trip over the jumbled mess of shoes and boxes on the floor. It’s dark, the only light creeping through the tiny gaps in the door frame. And he’s finding it difficult to breathe. The air smells like mothballs and decaying paper, and everything has what is quite possibly ten years’ worth of dust layered on top of it. Every time he shifts positions and jostles a piece of clothing, he can practically feel the dust cloud swirling around him before it settles back down onto his clothes, into his lungs, and up his nose.

Don’t inhale, Dean, he tells himself. But that’s so much easier said than done.

He turns his head, turning towards the door instead of having his face pressed right into the line of musty clothes. But it’s already too late.

There’s this tiny little tickle in his sinuses.

Oh shit.

He knows from experience that he absolutely, no matter what, cannot let himself sneeze.

He freezes, listening to the creaking of floorboards from downstairs. Someone is still in the house.

And if he sneezes, it’s not going to be just once.

If he sneezes, it’s not gonna stop anytime soon. The person’s going to find him. He’s going to get killed by some supernatural baddie, or arrested and thrown into jail, without his brother to back him up this time.

This is not good.

The tickle intensifies, and Dean silently reaches one hand up to press a fist against the bridge of his nose, hoping the pressure will make it go away. If he survives this, he’s really going to be better about the whole planning thing during the next hunt.

He waits, and listens, and tries to figure out what to do. Nothing’s coming to mind. And really, all he wants to do is sneeze. Very carefully, trying to make absolutely no noise, he inhales. His nose is starting to run.

“…hh…”

A tiny, hitching breath escapes, and he presses the sleeve of his jacket against his face, trying to muffle the sound. But he’d forgotten that his clothes are just as dusty as everything around him, and it only pushes more dust into his mouth and nose. And that’s all it takes.

The itch in his nose is suddenly unbearable, and his next breath hitches wildly. “H-h-hhuh…! ht’mphfshh!” He tries to stifle the sneeze as much as possible into his sleeve, but he can’t control it. He frantically claps one hand over his mouth and nose, eyes wide in the dark. But the damage is done. The allergic itch has taken over, and he’s completely powerless to stop it.

“hh’NGXT! hh’mph! …h-hh… hmph’ngk!”

That’s it. He’s screwed.

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, but the sneezes are too strong, and he can’t focus on anything else except trying to keep them at bay.

“hh-hh-hh-- ….hhuh…”

He crushes the back of his hand against his nose. Please stop, Dean, please stop.

“ngxt’kshh! Uhh… ht’mpfhh!”

He can’t stop. Goddammit, he can’t stop. There’s just too much dust.

“hhh’KSHHH! hht’ngkxsh!”

There are sounds outside the room. Fuck, he’s gonna die. Killed by a sneezing fit. It’s pointless to try to hide now.

“hh’ETCHH! Huh’YISSHuh!”

Suddenly, there are loud noises on the other side of the door. Something crashes to the floor and shatters. There’s a loud thump against the wall to his left, and then it’s silent. Even his sneezes are momentarily stunned into silence.

The door is ripped open, and Dean instinctively raises the knife in his hand, ready to fight even if he can barely see through the allergic tears stinging his eyes.

But it’s Sam.

Sam is standing there, breathing heavily, silver blade in his hand dripping blood. On the floor next to the closet is a body that looks surprisingly like the victim who was supposed to be dead.

Huh. Shifter, Dean has enough time to think before the sneezes take over again.

“hh’KSHHHHuh! Huh’ETCHSHHAH! … Sammy, I— hh’NGSHHH!”

“Jeez, Dean, you’re a mess,” Sam says, reaching out to haul him out of the closet.

The fresh air in the room fills Dean’s lungs, making him cough, but the urge to sneeze hasn’t gone away yet. “Sabby, cad we—KSHHH! Ngx’SHHHH!” Dean motions helplessly towards the door, and all of a sudden he feels himself being guided down the stairs, out the front door.

The sun is bright, too bright, and it makes him sneeze again. By the time they reach the Impala parked down the block, he’s breathless, just trying to get some air in between the never-ending sneezes. He hears the door open with a familiar squeak, and Sam pushes him down into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind him.

Dean thumps his head against the window, panting in exhaustion.

As Sam settles into the driver’s seat beside him, Dean feels something being pressed into his hand. He cracks one eye open and looks down, sees the clean white hanky, and immediately presses it to his nose, sighing with relief.

“Dean, for being one of the smartest hunters I know, you can be a real moron sometimes,” Sam says, chuckling softly.

Dean glances sideways at him, stifling one more sneeze into the blessedly dust-free handkerchief. “hmph’ngkshh! …Just shut up and drive.”

Fic: Sam and Dean's Beary Weird Day

cowboyguy — Fri, 03 Apr 2015 18:03:37 GMT

Fic: Sam and Dean's Beary Weird Day
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: So I found this bear, whose name is Sam, and told tarotgal about my crazy idea to turn Sam into a teddy bear. So of course, we both had to write fics for it. :D
tg's is here.

There was one thing that Dean Winchester hated more than witches.

There was a brilliant flash of light and he sailed backwards, thrown against the wall with enough force to take his breath away.

Twin witches.

Son of a bitch.

Staggering to his feet, he blinked until the purple spots in his vision cleared, and yelled over to Sam, “Get her!”

He flung a hand in the direction of the teen witch, who had taken off down the alleyway, long black hair flying behind her.

In front of him was the brother, standing there with a malicious expression on his face, ready to kick Dean’s ass without lifting so much as a finger.

Friggin’ witches.

* * *

An hour later, Dean stumbled back to the motel room in defeat. The boy had gotten away after he’d managed to knock Dean unconscious, and when he’d woken up, there were no witches, and no Sam, either. Hopefully his brother had had better luck, because all Dean had was a couple of broken ribs. His whole body felt like it would be one giant bruise in the morning.

He pulled his keys out of his pocket and fumbled for the room key, trying to distinguish it from the others in the glow from the streetlight on the other side of the parking lot. In the gloom, he almost didn’t notice the little form huddled next to the door frame.

As he finally managed to get the door open, light spilled out of the motel room, illuminating the teddy bear slumped on the ground. Probably belonged to a kid in another room. Hopefully housekeeping would pick it up in the morning, Dean thought as he gazed down at the bear.

The teddy bear turned its head and looked back up at him.

“Holy shit!” Dean yelped, taking a step backwards.

The teddy bear reached out its arms, showing little paws, and Dean instantly thought of every creepy toy horror movie he’d ever seen.

But as he kept his eyes fixed on the thing, something about it seemed… familiar. It was wearing a tiny little blue plaid shirt, baggy jeans, and brown boots. On top of that it had a button-down brown jacket that looked a lot like—

“Sam?” Dean whispered at the teddy bear, hoping he was still unconscious and this was all some kind of freaky dream.

The bear nodded, lowering its arms.

Dean blinked back at his two foot tall brother. “Uh, okay,” he stammered. “So, so—you’re a bear. I mean… what the hell, Sam?”

Limited by a single facial expression, the Sam bear flung out his little arms as if to say, “How the hell should I know?”

“Did the witch do this?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded again, then looked around and took a step backwards into the motel room.

“Yeah, good idea,” Dean said, following him inside. “Before somebody calls the cops on the psycho talking to a teddy bear in the parking lot.”

As Dean shut the door behind them, Sam scurried over to the table in the kitchenette, pulling himself up onto one of the chairs. Dean watched with amusement as Sam used one paw to pull a mostly blank pad of paper and a pen closer to him. He tried to pick up the pen but, without opposable thumbs, had to resort to holding it between both paws, the paper sliding under it as he wrote.

Dean hurried over to steady the paper, and watched as Sam wrote in big, wobbly letters:

HELP

Dean looked down at his brother, feeling a little helpless. This was unlike anything either of them had ever encountered before. “Yeah, but… how? I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in Dad’s journal on what to do if your little brother gets himself turned into a teddy bear.”

Sam put his hands on his hips, staring up at Dean, who had to contain his laughter at the sheer amount of attitude coming off his pint-sized brother. He almost wished Sam could talk, just so he could hear the words Sam was probably thinking coming out of that tiny teddy bear mouth.

“You know, for a stuffed animal, you’re not very cuddly, Sammy,” Dean continued, even as Sam ignored him, swiping a paw across the tablet in frustration to get another blank piece of paper.

CALL BOBBY.

“Yeah, I can try, maybe he’ll have an idea,” Dean agreed, pulling out his phone. “Hey, does this make you a cursed object?”

Sam slammed his paw against the table in frustration, but without any muscle behind it, there was just a soft little thump.

Dean snorted. “Okay, okay, don’t lose your stuffing. Calm down. We’ll figure this out.” Dialing Bobby’s number, he started pacing slowly around the room, waiting for the older hunter to pick up.

Sam, meanwhile, flopped back down into the chair in frustration, looking like a sad, discarded toy.

“Hey, Bobby? …Yeah, it’s Dean. Listen, uh, we got a problem.”

* * *

“Bobby’s got nothing.” Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and looked over at Sam, who was still curled up in the dining chair. “Basically, he thinks our best shot is to find this girl, figure out how she cursed you to begin with, and get her to reverse it. Killing her might just, uh, make it permanent. So, easy, right?”

Sam gave the teddy bear approximation of a shrug.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll get you back into your annoying gigantor body before you know it. I figure these kids think they won, they’re not gonna skip town overnight. I say we get some sleep, track ‘em down in the morning. Oh, but first…” Dean reached for his phone again and directed the camera at his brother, grinning. “Kodak moment, y’know?”

* * *

Sam couldn’t sleep.

It turned out that teddy bears – or humans in the bodies of teddy bears – could still get tired, but Sam wasn’t any closer to falling asleep than he had been when he’d nestled in amongst the pillows of his too-big bed to begin with.

He was just lonely, and everything seemed very big and far away. He turned his stuffed head to the side to look over at Dean, who was peacefully asleep in his own bed.

In the dim light coming through the threadbare curtains, Sam silently crawled to the edge of the bed and let himself drop to the floor, pushing himself to his feet again once he landed. He padded across the scratchy carpet and dragged himself up onto Dean’s bed, wobbling over to land next to his brother.

Dean startled awake, thankfully not going for the knife that he usually kept under his pillow, which could have ended very badly for Sam. “What the—“ Dean pushed himself up on one elbow and reached over to snap the bedside lamp on, blinking down in surprise at the teddy bear currently occupying his bed. “Sam? What’s wrong?”

Sam looked over at his own empty bed, and then back up at Dean. Hesitantly, he scooted closer to his brother until he was settled in the crook of Dean’s arm.

“Awww, widdle teddy needs a hug?” Dean joked, and was rewarded with a surprising but ineffectual headbutt to the chest. “Okay. Sorry.”

Sam flopped back down onto the bed and nodded dejectedly.

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes, and leaned back to make a space for Sam. “When you’re human again, not a word, okay?”

Sam swiped a paw across his mouth in a “my lips are sealed” gesture.

“I swear to god, Sam. I’ll bring you right back here and let that witch do whatever she wants to you.”

But Sam had already crawled forward and was curled up in his brother’s arms, head buried in Dean’s t-shirt.

“G’night, you weirdo,” Dean said, and clicked the light off.

Within ten minutes, Dean was sound asleep again, instinctively hugging Sam close. It was weird as hell, but given that he was a little short on options at the moment, Sam shifted a little and was soon resting comfortably himself, even if he couldn’t actually close his eyes.

* * *

True to his word, when Sam got his own body back, he never said a word about that strange (even for them) night.

It was two weeks later, on April Fool’s Day, that they were working a standard salt-and-burn four states over. Dean trudged back to the motel room after a long day of interviewing clueless locals, expecting to find Sam back from the library. Instead, the motel room was empty, but sitting motionless on Dean’s bed was a little teddy bear with a note tied around its neck.

WENT TO GET FOOD. BACK IN A LITTLE WHILE.

(IN CASE YOU GET LONELY.)

-SAM