OhSam Triple Play 2015!
Nov. 2nd, 2015 12:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ohsamThe comm hosted this little event a couple of years ago, and as November 2 is an auspicious day for our darling Sam, today would be the perfect time to revisit this challenge. Welcome to the Triple Play 2015!
BOOST THE SIGNAL
And here's how we play!
Step One (mandatory): Write a three-part prompt.
1.) Pick a setting
2.) Pick an additional character or characters (Sam is assumed, naturally.)
3.) Pick an H/C scenario, with Sam as the focus. Other characters can share the misery, but Sam should get the brunt of it. That's how we roll. :D
You can make as many prompts as your little heart desires, one set per comment, but it would probably work best if kept simple. For instance: 1.) the Impala 2.) Dean 3.) a hangover, or 1.) autumn 2.) Rowena 3.) a curse.
Step Two (optional): Participants can choose to make visual art: create a drawing, painting, photomanip, or video based around an offered prompt set. All three points must be addressed. The art can be doodled or extravagantly detailed, artist’s choice. And, of course, Sam should be the primary focus of the h/c. Please reply with your art under the prompt you choose, and either put the art beneath a cut or supply a link to it, with appropriate header and warnings! (See "Posting Guidelines" in the left sidebar.) As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD.
Step Three (optional): Participants could also choose to write a ficlet, again with Sam as the primary victim of our dastardly h/c scenarios. (No minimum or maximum word count is required; just go where the muse takes you, as long or short as you'd like.) Again, please reply with your fic under the chosen prompt set, using the appropriate header and warnings. (See "Posting Guidelines" in the left sidebar.) As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD.
If more than one author or artist wants to work with the same prompt, have at it! The ideal goal is to make a Triple Play, where a prompt set gets both art and fic – the art potentially inspiring the fic or the fic inspiring the art. But no matter how it's sliced, we get lots of delicious Sammy h/c! Have all the fun … at Sam’s expense. ;)
The usual courtesies apply:
→ If you notice that your fic is not on the master list after a decent amount of time (say, three days), please poke us in a PM. We might have missed it.
→ Anon posting enabled.
→ NO SPOILERS FOR UNAIRED EPISODES.
→ Play nice - no flaming and no character bashing, period. Any comments that break this rule will be deleted without warning.
→ Feedback is catnip for writers. Leave some author-love!
→ No spam comments.
→ Contact one of the mods if you have a question.
→ Spread the Sam love - pimp this meme!
MASTERLIST
Sick City by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fireheart13
1.) Las Vegas
2.) Dean
3.) Gall stones
Better Than Trick or Treat byseptembers_coda
1. town of 200 people
2. john
3. parasite
What's in a Job bycherry916
1. the bunker
2. a service dog
3. PTSD
Hour of Darkness byamypond45
1. Squatting in an abandoned building.
2. Mary.
3. Fever dream.
Twist in the Wind bythursdaysisters
1.) the bottom of a ravine
2.) the ghost of Sarah Blake
3.) broken bones
Untitled bycaranfindel
1. The bunker (maybe a newly discovered part?)
2. Dean
3. Impaled
It's Gotta Be a Hex bytarotgal
1. Crappy motel room
2. Dean and John
3. Strep throat
We Shall Gather at the River bycrowroad3
1. Monument Valley
2. Dean
3. Staked out in the burning sun
Break No Bones bymilly_gal
a) Bobby's panic room
b) Bobby and/or Dean
c) broken leg
What You Don't Know (Can Kill You) bycenter_galaxy
1. A foggy deserted road.
2. Jess
3. Car accident.
Bleed byhugglewolf
1) The Bunker
2) Cas
3) Sam wakes up wounded and weak from blood loss on the floor of the Bunker—with no memory of how he got there, how he got hurt, or where Dean is.
Tornado Warning byameliacareful
1.) Setting: somewhere flat and Midwestern
2.) Other character: Dean
3.) H/C scenario: tornado related injuries
(Art) Untitled bycassiopeia7
1. pacific northwest
2. dean
3. drowning
West of Omaha bylaughablelament
1) the lonesome highway
2) Dean & whoever's in the trunk
3) feverish magic-induced flashbacks
It's Gotta Be The Pie bytarotgal
1.) the bunker in the middle of the night
2.) Dean
3.) stomach flu
Stone Number One bycaranfindel
1. Bobby's
2. Hallucifer
3. Psychotic episode that doesn't seem to want to end
(Art) Vatican Prison byamberdreams
1) Vatican jail cell
2) Dean
3) stigmata
It's Gotta Be At Least 200 Stairs bytarotgal
1. fire escape
2. Dean
3. permanent limp
Remember bysoserendipity
1. A cornfield at night.
2. Dean.
3. Bleeding out.
Surf's Up byfiresign10
1) The beach
2) Jess
3) Kelpie attack
Can We Call It Bob? bysoserendipity
1. Hanging off the ledge of a bridge/tall building
2. Dean
3. Dislocation
Cor Unum bycrowroad3
1) the bunker
2) Dean
3) heart condition
The Forest at Night bythursdaysisters
1) Car accident
2) John
3) Head Injury
I Can Move Forward Looking Back byhugglewolf
1) A hunt
2) A hunter (one we've met, or a new one)
3) PTSD
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream bycenter_galaxy
1.) Stanford
2.) Brady
3.) Chronic insomnia
The Definition of Insanity bycenter_galaxy
1. The Impala
2. Dean
3. Gunshot wound to the gut
In the Woodsman's Cottage bythursdaysisters
1.) Setting: a forest
2.) Other character: Bobby
3.) H/C scenario: bear trap
Shaken bycowboyguy
1. A laundromat
2. Dean
3. Trying to heal from a bad fight while trying to wash blood out of their clothes
It's Gotta Be a Plane This Time? bytarotgal
1) Airport security gate
2) Dean
3) bullet wound
Trapped bycowboyguy
1. tunnels
2. Dean
3. mutism/voice loss
Cold as Ice byindiachick
1.) Byberry Mental Hospital
2.) Dean
3.) botched lobotomy
The Source of All Sorrows bycenter_galaxy
1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) coma
Draconids bycrowroad3
1.) High school
2.) EMTs
3.) Fever
Like a Rock bycaranfindel
1.) middle of nowhere
2.) Baby
3.) dislocated shoulder
Dead River bycrowroad3
1. Impala
2. The ghost of a loved one
3. Poisoned
Broken Memories bycherry916
1) motel room
2) Jody Mills
3) head injury/concussion
Hidden byhugglewolf
1. backwoods
2. castiel
3. buckshot
Empty Hearts bycenter_galaxy
1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) Panic attack
Unsettled bycowboyguy
1.) the bunker in the middle of the night
2.) Dean
3.) stomach flu
Splintered bythemegalosaurus
1. THE BUNKER
2. DEMON!DEAN
3. HAMMER
Fingerprint by anonymous
1. Impala
2. Dean
3. touch starvation
It's Gotta Be Four in the Morning bytarotgal
1. Roadhouse
2. Ellen
3. Respiratory illness
Bitter and Sick byindiachick
1. Setting is author's choice
2. Dean
3. Forced/tricked into ingesting demon blood
words like glass by anonymous
1.) Camp Chitaqua, post-apocalypse
2.) Dean, Stoner Cas
3.) disfigurement, mutism
Feathers and Claws bythemegalosaurus
1) Decrepit old building
2) A priest
3) Demonic possession
Maleficus bycrowroad3
1. Field at night
2. Witch doctors
3. Blood-letting
Sup byhugglewolf
1) A grassy field at night
2) Castiel
3) Poison
It's Gotta Be a Damn Ghost bytarotgal
1. A busy bar in Stanford
2. Jess/Brady/Becky/Zach/Luis (any or all!)
3. Beaten up (bruises, bloody nose, scrapes, or maybe even a broken bottle to the head/body!)
Somewhere, Beyond the Sea bycenter_galaxy
1) Somewhere watery
2) Dean
3) Amnesia
Dis(connected) bycenter_galaxy
1) On the end of a phone
2) Bobby or Castiel
3) Blood loss, in and out of consciousness
It's Gotta Be a Day and a Half Now bytarotgal
1.) Singer Salvage scrap yard
2.) Bobby
3.) exhaustion
Placebo by anonymous
1) the woods
2) Dean
3) bitten by a snake
Hiss bycowboyguy
1) the woods
2) Dean
3) bitten by a snake
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly bycaranfindel
1) Coffee shop or Diner
2) Employee of said establishment
3) Gun shot wound
Check It Out bythemegalosaurus
1. MOL Bunker
2. Dean (and/or Charlie, Cas, or Kevin)
3. A curse involving plaid shirts or plaid in general (you're screwed, Sammy! Will they figure it out?)
The End of the World (and Back Again) byharrigan
1. A boathouse
2. Dean
3. Permanent physical disability (knee/hip/leg etc)
If Only byfoolscapper
1. Hell, the cage
2. Castiel
3. hallucinations
Bitten (art) byfoolscapper
1.) zombie infested suburbia
2.) Dean, Bobby
3.) bitten
Play It Again, Sam bycaranfindel
1) A hospital
2) Dr Cara Roberts
3) Axe wound(s) to the upper body
The Mustard Seed bykettle_o_fish
1. Out on a case
2. Dean
3. Sam develops minor healing powers (not angel-level resurrection or demon killing, more like curing lesser illnesses, fixing broken bones, moderate wounds, etc). However, each time he helps someone, there's a drain on his own health/strength. Dean wonders if it's worth the toll it takes on Sam.
BOOST THE SIGNAL
And here's how we play!
Step One (mandatory): Write a three-part prompt.
1.) Pick a setting
2.) Pick an additional character or characters (Sam is assumed, naturally.)
3.) Pick an H/C scenario, with Sam as the focus. Other characters can share the misery, but Sam should get the brunt of it. That's how we roll. :D
You can make as many prompts as your little heart desires, one set per comment, but it would probably work best if kept simple. For instance: 1.) the Impala 2.) Dean 3.) a hangover, or 1.) autumn 2.) Rowena 3.) a curse.
Step Two (optional): Participants can choose to make visual art: create a drawing, painting, photomanip, or video based around an offered prompt set. All three points must be addressed. The art can be doodled or extravagantly detailed, artist’s choice. And, of course, Sam should be the primary focus of the h/c. Please reply with your art under the prompt you choose, and either put the art beneath a cut or supply a link to it, with appropriate header and warnings! (See "Posting Guidelines" in the left sidebar.) As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD.
Step Three (optional): Participants could also choose to write a ficlet, again with Sam as the primary victim of our dastardly h/c scenarios. (No minimum or maximum word count is required; just go where the muse takes you, as long or short as you'd like.) Again, please reply with your fic under the chosen prompt set, using the appropriate header and warnings. (See "Posting Guidelines" in the left sidebar.) As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD.
If more than one author or artist wants to work with the same prompt, have at it! The ideal goal is to make a Triple Play, where a prompt set gets both art and fic – the art potentially inspiring the fic or the fic inspiring the art. But no matter how it's sliced, we get lots of delicious Sammy h/c! Have all the fun … at Sam’s expense. ;)
The usual courtesies apply:
→ If you notice that your fic is not on the master list after a decent amount of time (say, three days), please poke us in a PM. We might have missed it.
→ Anon posting enabled.
→ NO SPOILERS FOR UNAIRED EPISODES.
→ Play nice - no flaming and no character bashing, period. Any comments that break this rule will be deleted without warning.
→ Feedback is catnip for writers. Leave some author-love!
→ No spam comments.
→ Contact one of the mods if you have a question.
→ Spread the Sam love - pimp this meme!
Sick City by
fireheart131.) Las Vegas
2.) Dean
3.) Gall stones
Better Than Trick or Treat by
septembers_coda1. town of 200 people
2. john
3. parasite
What's in a Job by
cherry9161. the bunker
2. a service dog
3. PTSD
Hour of Darkness by
amypond451. Squatting in an abandoned building.
2. Mary.
3. Fever dream.
Twist in the Wind by
thursdaysisters1.) the bottom of a ravine
2.) the ghost of Sarah Blake
3.) broken bones
Untitled by
caranfindel1. The bunker (maybe a newly discovered part?)
2. Dean
3. Impaled
It's Gotta Be a Hex by
tarotgal1. Crappy motel room
2. Dean and John
3. Strep throat
We Shall Gather at the River by
crowroad31. Monument Valley
2. Dean
3. Staked out in the burning sun
Break No Bones by
milly_gala) Bobby's panic room
b) Bobby and/or Dean
c) broken leg
What You Don't Know (Can Kill You) by
center_galaxy1. A foggy deserted road.
2. Jess
3. Car accident.
Bleed by
hugglewolf1) The Bunker
2) Cas
3) Sam wakes up wounded and weak from blood loss on the floor of the Bunker—with no memory of how he got there, how he got hurt, or where Dean is.
Tornado Warning by
ameliacareful1.) Setting: somewhere flat and Midwestern
2.) Other character: Dean
3.) H/C scenario: tornado related injuries
(Art) Untitled by
cassiopeia71. pacific northwest
2. dean
3. drowning
West of Omaha by
laughablelament1) the lonesome highway
2) Dean & whoever's in the trunk
3) feverish magic-induced flashbacks
It's Gotta Be The Pie by
tarotgal1.) the bunker in the middle of the night
2.) Dean
3.) stomach flu
Stone Number One by
caranfindel1. Bobby's
2. Hallucifer
3. Psychotic episode that doesn't seem to want to end
(Art) Vatican Prison by
amberdreams1) Vatican jail cell
2) Dean
3) stigmata
It's Gotta Be At Least 200 Stairs by
tarotgal1. fire escape
2. Dean
3. permanent limp
Remember by
soserendipity1. A cornfield at night.
2. Dean.
3. Bleeding out.
Surf's Up by
firesign101) The beach
2) Jess
3) Kelpie attack
Can We Call It Bob? by
soserendipity1. Hanging off the ledge of a bridge/tall building
2. Dean
3. Dislocation
Cor Unum by
crowroad31) the bunker
2) Dean
3) heart condition
The Forest at Night by
thursdaysisters1) Car accident
2) John
3) Head Injury
I Can Move Forward Looking Back by
hugglewolf1) A hunt
2) A hunter (one we've met, or a new one)
3) PTSD
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream by
center_galaxy1.) Stanford
2.) Brady
3.) Chronic insomnia
The Definition of Insanity by
center_galaxy1. The Impala
2. Dean
3. Gunshot wound to the gut
In the Woodsman's Cottage by
thursdaysisters1.) Setting: a forest
2.) Other character: Bobby
3.) H/C scenario: bear trap
Shaken by
cowboyguy1. A laundromat
2. Dean
3. Trying to heal from a bad fight while trying to wash blood out of their clothes
It's Gotta Be a Plane This Time? by
tarotgal1) Airport security gate
2) Dean
3) bullet wound
Trapped by
cowboyguy1. tunnels
2. Dean
3. mutism/voice loss
Cold as Ice by
indiachick1.) Byberry Mental Hospital
2.) Dean
3.) botched lobotomy
The Source of All Sorrows by
center_galaxy1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) coma
Draconids by
crowroad31.) High school
2.) EMTs
3.) Fever
Like a Rock by
caranfindel1.) middle of nowhere
2.) Baby
3.) dislocated shoulder
Dead River by
crowroad31. Impala
2. The ghost of a loved one
3. Poisoned
Broken Memories by
cherry9161) motel room
2) Jody Mills
3) head injury/concussion
Hidden by
hugglewolf1. backwoods
2. castiel
3. buckshot
Empty Hearts by
center_galaxy1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) Panic attack
Unsettled by
cowboyguy1.) the bunker in the middle of the night
2.) Dean
3.) stomach flu
Splintered by
themegalosaurus1. THE BUNKER
2. DEMON!DEAN
3. HAMMER
Fingerprint by anonymous
1. Impala
2. Dean
3. touch starvation
It's Gotta Be Four in the Morning by
tarotgal1. Roadhouse
2. Ellen
3. Respiratory illness
Bitter and Sick by
indiachick1. Setting is author's choice
2. Dean
3. Forced/tricked into ingesting demon blood
words like glass by anonymous
1.) Camp Chitaqua, post-apocalypse
2.) Dean, Stoner Cas
3.) disfigurement, mutism
Feathers and Claws by
themegalosaurus1) Decrepit old building
2) A priest
3) Demonic possession
Maleficus by
crowroad31. Field at night
2. Witch doctors
3. Blood-letting
Sup by
hugglewolf1) A grassy field at night
2) Castiel
3) Poison
It's Gotta Be a Damn Ghost by
tarotgal1. A busy bar in Stanford
2. Jess/Brady/Becky/Zach/Luis (any or all!)
3. Beaten up (bruises, bloody nose, scrapes, or maybe even a broken bottle to the head/body!)
Somewhere, Beyond the Sea by
center_galaxy1) Somewhere watery
2) Dean
3) Amnesia
Dis(connected) by
center_galaxy1) On the end of a phone
2) Bobby or Castiel
3) Blood loss, in and out of consciousness
It's Gotta Be a Day and a Half Now by
tarotgal1.) Singer Salvage scrap yard
2.) Bobby
3.) exhaustion
Placebo by anonymous
1) the woods
2) Dean
3) bitten by a snake
Hiss by
cowboyguy1) the woods
2) Dean
3) bitten by a snake
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly by
caranfindel1) Coffee shop or Diner
2) Employee of said establishment
3) Gun shot wound
Check It Out by
themegalosaurus1. MOL Bunker
2. Dean (and/or Charlie, Cas, or Kevin)
3. A curse involving plaid shirts or plaid in general (you're screwed, Sammy! Will they figure it out?)
The End of the World (and Back Again) by
harrigan1. A boathouse
2. Dean
3. Permanent physical disability (knee/hip/leg etc)
If Only by
foolscapper1. Hell, the cage
2. Castiel
3. hallucinations
Bitten (art) by
foolscapper1.) zombie infested suburbia
2.) Dean, Bobby
3.) bitten
Play It Again, Sam by
caranfindel1) A hospital
2) Dr Cara Roberts
3) Axe wound(s) to the upper body
The Mustard Seed by
kettle_o_fish1. Out on a case
2. Dean
3. Sam develops minor healing powers (not angel-level resurrection or demon killing, more like curing lesser illnesses, fixing broken bones, moderate wounds, etc). However, each time he helps someone, there's a drain on his own health/strength. Dean wonders if it's worth the toll it takes on Sam.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 06:14 pm (UTC)2. Jess
3. Car accident.
Filled: What You Don't Know (Can Kill You) 1/2, PG-13
Date: 2015-11-03 09:39 pm (UTC)“So?” Jessica begins, voice tight and strained. She’s still dressed in her flannel p.j.s, blonde hair askew and her eyes glassy from exhaustion. It was close to three AM when he woke her up—normal hours for him; an ungodly one for her—and bundled her in blankets before getting her into a car that he “borrowed” (i.e. stole, but intended to return) from Brady.
“So.” He turns on the radio, trying to keep her unaware of the grave situation that’s unfolding around them. She’s blissfully in the dark, unaware of all the things that go bump in the night, of all the things that could kill her in horrifically brutal and gruesome ways.
“Sam.” She places a warm hand on his wrist, her eyes pooling with concern. “What’s going on?”
He’d begged her to get into the car, no questions asked, and she acquiesced—though whether that was because she was too tired to press the issue or because he saw the sheer panic on his face remains to be seen—and he got onto the road as calmly as he could. He can’t allow himself to be pulled over by the cops until it’s over and she is safe.
“Just trust me.” He pleads, voice breathy. He doesn’t know what else to say without ripping the Band-Aid off his past, telling her every awful, too crazy to be real detail of hunts gone by, of creatures she believes to be mere fantasy.
It’s not though.
And somehow Jessica had managed to make herself a target.
She’d been staying later at the library, working late on her latest English essay. She’d always call before she left though, except for that one night—the night that changed everything.
He’d tried not to panic, of course, when she was late. Jessica was always careful, always prepared with her pepper spray and her self-defense training. But as midnight approached, he knew, deep down, that something was wrong. So, Sam Winchester did something he’d never thought he’d do again. He prepared himself for a hunt and went down to the library.
Jessica had been bleeding out on the floor, a dark faerie standing before her, a blood-crusted blade in her hand. The faerie’s eyes were as dark as storm clouds, but sparkled like stars. With plum lips and sinewy arms, the faerie smiled cruelly as she reached out towards him.
“Come away with me.”
He knew that faeries were fickle and flighty creatures. They killed those they viewed as rivals and kidnapped those that they found lovely. Jessica was a target of opportunity and Sam was the consolation prize, so to speak.
Sam fished out some iron powder and quickly tossed at the eerily beautiful creature. She flinched and let out a piercing scream as the powder burned her skin and quickly, Sam grabbed his girlfriend. The powder wouldn’t subdue the faerie for long, but he didn’t have time to properly deal with her. Banishing a faerie required a complicated spell with ingredients he didn’t have on hand.
The best course of action—retreat.
He’d called Dean the next morning as he sprinkled iron powder along the windowsill and doorway of Jessica’s hospital room, in the hopes that this would keep out the determined faerie.
“She’s been marked,” Dean murmured softly. “The blood the faerie took is like a tracking device. Until she dies, she’ll find Jessica anywhere.”
“That’s what I figured,” Sam sighed, glancing at his girlfriend’s peacefully sleeping visage. “I can’t do this on my own.”
“I’m in Florida,” Dean informed him. “If I start driving now, I can meet you outside of town in a few days.”
“You think I should get her out of the hospital?” Sam asked, adding more iron powder, just for good measure.
“She should be fine.” Dean answered. “There’s too much iron equipment in there for her to get through. Just get her in the car as soon as she’s discharged. I’ll meet up with you soon.”
“Thanks, Dean.”
He could almost picture his brother’s smile on the other end of the line.
“Anytime, Sammy.”
The phone call disconnected and Sam felt like he could finally breathe.
They had a plan.
Jessica would be okay.
It would all be okay.
RE: Filled: What You Don't Know (Can Kill You) 2/3
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 06:24 pm (UTC)2.) Dean
3.) Gall stones
(I have no idea...)
FILLED: Sick City 1/2
Date: 2015-11-02 08:38 pm (UTC)It wasn't gone.
Sam bit his lips, praying for Dean just to leave their room, go on down to the blackjack and poker tables. For him to go guzzle some free whiskey and hook up with some showgirl or craps groupie and get laid. For him to leave Sam to his quiet misery, stretched out on the softest bed he'd slept in in a year, air conditioning quietly blowing cool air over Sam's over-heated skin.
Just go.
The pain receded, and Sam shakily exhaled. He knew he shouldn't have eaten so much last night, but they'd been starving when they'd pulled in after midnight. Dean had been hot to trot about their annual Vegas week, their 'vacation' from hunting, a week of wine, women, and song. Or, in Dean's case, whiskey, women, and whatever game he could win at. Sam had felt some pangs in his middle, but written them off as hunger. He'd eaten more heavily than usual, even joining Dean in some chocolate cream pie, and now he was paying for it.
Oh, how he was paying.
A sudden surge inside his stomach pulled Sam off the bed, and he ran to the bathroom. He threw up everything from last night and kept going. By the time the nausea subsided, Sam was pretty sure he'd expelled everything he's eaten all week. Gasping as he flushed the mess away, he felt a cool, damp washcloth drag across his sweaty forehead.
“Dude, I think that's more than a late night pig-out. You gotta have the flu or something.” Dean's voice was quit and concerned.
“So what...even if it is, what are you going to do? Sit around and watch me sweat and puke? Go on, go have some fun. Besides, my stomach's calming down now.” He laughed weakly. “The pie must have been too much.”
Dean looked at him with uncertainty. “Are you sure? I don't want to--”
“Go, go. It's Vegas, baby! Unleash the kraken! If I need you, I'll text.” Sam got to his feet, holding on to the sink to combat his spinning head. The cranial gyroscopes settled, and he was able to smile at Dean. “I feel a lot better now. Just gonna flake out and watch TV.”
“Okay. I'll text you in 30, see how you're doing, okay?” Dean looked in the mirror, giving his hair a final tweak and checking his teeth.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh god, you're perfect, okay? Jesus!” He climbed back into bed, pulling the snow white Egyptian cotton sheet over him. God, this bed is heavenly, he thought, wishing it could roll up and fit into the Impala's trunk.
RE: FILLED: Sick City 2/2
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:25 pm (UTC)2.) Brady
3.) Chronic insomnia
FILLED: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream (1/2)
Date: 2015-11-04 09:38 pm (UTC)Sam Winchester was quiet, kept his side of the room cleaned and he didn't try to fill their time together with awkward small talk. Sure, he and Sam got along well. They were on the path to becoming friends, but unlike some roommates, Sam didn't try to force the relationship, something that Brady appreciated. They settled into each other's routines, and slowly but surely, they formed a partnership. Sam would help him on his English homework in return for his aid on Sam’s chemistry homework. They would joke with each other, go get breakfast every once in a while. They became friends.
He got lucky when he was assigned Sam Winchester as his roommate, that Brady knew. But like most good things that came into his life, Brady knew there was a catch.
Sam was keeping secrets and hiding a dark and deep pain that seemed to consume in the night hours. While he would retire to his bed, Sam would stay up, seemingly unable (or maybe unwilling) to close his eyes and get some rest. He would be awake when Brady would go to sleep and still awake when Brady woke up, dark circles under his eyes. He thought about asking Sam about the monsters that plagued his nights, but chickened out upon seeing the temper bubbling under the surface.
Lack of sleep can, after all, lead to mood swings, among other things.
“Do you ever sleep?” Brady finally asked, three weeks before Christmas break.
Sam was typing away on his laptop, chugging his now fourth cup of what must now be cold coffee. He glanced up, flashed a rueful grin and shook his head, “Nah. I’ve never really needed to.”
He should’ve dropped the subject right there, but Brady couldn’t help it.
“Do you want to . . .” God, he sounded like such a girl! “Do you want to talk about it?”
Sam continued to type away.
“No, thanks.” His roommate answered quickly. “I’m good.”
And that was the end of that.
At least, until break came and he found out was staying in their dorm.
“You don’t want to go home?” Brady questioned as he finished packing his suitcase.
“I don’t really have anywhere to go,” Sam replied. Then, quieter, “Not anymore.”
“That settles it then.” Brady nodded to himself.
“What?” Sam inquired, his eyes widening as Brady tossed an empty suitcase towards him.
“You can come home with me this year, Sam.”
“Oh, no,” Sam began to protest, “It’s okay. I wanted to get some studying done—”
Brady chuckled mirthlessly, “Dude, the semester is over. There’s nothing to study for.”
“Really, Brady,” Sam continued, voice tinged with what sounded suspiciously like panic. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You’ve been on your own a lot, haven’t you?” Brady mused. “You never talk about your family. You don’t have anywhere to go for break. You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, that’s your business, but I’ll be damned if I let my friend sit here and freeze his ass off in this crappy dorm.” He shoved the suitcase towards Sam again. “Now, hurry up and pack.”
Sam was too stunned to do anything but nod. And slowly, he began to pack.
Brady just grinned.
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:26 pm (UTC)2. Mary.
3. Fever dream.
<b>FILLED: Hour of Darkness 1/2</b>
Date: 2015-11-03 02:37 am (UTC)Sam's voice echoes in his own pounding head, amplified by the sound of rushing wind, also inside his head. At least he thinks it must be all inside his head, because when he opens his eyes a crack, there's no one there. It's just the same dusty, cavernous warehouse where he crashed earlier this evening, after yet another, typically frustrating interview with yet another demon, this one managing to land a particularly nasty kick to his abs before Sam put an end to its already-dead human meat-suit and sent the demon back to Hell.
Second one this week, and Sam's no closer to finding his brother.
It's been almost three weeks since Dean disappeared, and Sam can feel the desperation niggling at the back of his brain, prickling up his spine, giving a familiar edge of controlled panic to his every movement. He's followed every lead, researched every possible angle, certain that the next tip will be the one that gets him the answer he needs. All he needs to do is stay focused, not let useless distractions like sleep and food and health get in his way.
But three days ago the annoying tickle in the back of his throat turned into a full-blown cold, with congestion and fever and hacking, miserable coughing that wouldn't let him sleep even if he had time to sleep. And no amount of cold medicine, fever reducers, even god-damn chicken soup and herbal tea wasn't helping. Not that he had time to indulge in lying around this god-forsaken warehouse on a futon in a corner with nothing for warmth but a couple of ratty blankets.
Then the fuckin' demon had the nerve to kick him in the gut, causing him to vomit up all his tea and soup and goddamn cough medicine and Sam has fuckin' had it. It's enough to make him want to throttle his brother, when he finds him.
If he finds him.
No. Not thinking that way. Sam feels another coughing fit coming on, grabs the water bottle next to the futon, finds it empty, and struggles to sit up. He reaches for the grocery bag on the floor at the foot of the futon, but of course it's mostly empty. Just a used box of cold tablets and a half-drunk bottle of cough medicine. He downs that in a couple of quick gulps and lies back, shivering despite the heat of the warm June night. He remembers vaguely how hot and stuffy this place was when he first crashed here, how he swore to himself he'd buy a battery-operated fan on his next trip to the store.
Now it's freezing, and Sam can't stop shivering. His teeth are chattering so violently he tastes blood, realizes he's bit his own lip. His muscles are aching. No, make that his bones. But sweat is pouring off him in waves at the same time, and that makes no sense. He's feverish, needs ibuprofen. Needs to get up so he can go to the store, get ibuprofen.
"You're an idiot."
Sam blinks his eyes open. It's day, he's been sleeping a long time, feels stiff and sore along with that bone-deep weariness he remembers from last night. He starts coughing immediately, rolls onto his side just to take the pressure off his back, keep it from clenching and going out completely. He needs to do some ab work, but his abs are a screaming fire-pit of agony, the muscles barely responding as he clenches them tentatively.
That shit-hole demon kicked him. Right.
Used to be, Sam would feel sorry for the human inside, the poor schmuck whose body was being used and abused and usually left for dead long before the thing inside was done with him. God knows, Sam understands what that's like. And he still feels the sympathy, still cares.
But lately, it's just been so hard. Lately, with Dean gone, nothing feels right. Nothing makes sense. It's a familiar feeling; Sam's been through it before, Dean leaving him, dying on him, exploding into oblivion and just being gone, maybe dead. But it's more intense this time. This time it's on Sam, because Sam drove Dean to take on the Mark in the first place...
Dean tricked Sam into being possessed by that angel, and the angel killed Kevin...
"Sam."
Sam struggles to open his eyes, he really does, but it's not happening. His eyes feel heavy, like they're imbeded in concrete, and there's no way he can open them. Probably ever.
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:28 pm (UTC)2.) the ghost of Sarah Blake
3.) broken bones
Twist in the Wind
Date: 2015-11-03 03:57 pm (UTC)Sam came to, coughing smoke and then a string of blood. "Dean...?"
It's raining hard and the light from the headlights doesn't go far. As the night progressed, humanoid shapes appeared far away, and over the next few hours more approached the Impala from all directions. Big acts of black magic always attracted the dead, and the birthday hostess had bragged about bagging a Winchester weeks in advance.
At last the first figure arrived and stepped into the twin cones of the headlights. Rain sizzled on it's head. It climbed on the hood and breathed and the ice against the windshield melted in the shape of a mouth, and at this the other dead cowered and faded into the shadows.
Sam smiled. "Hi Sarah."
He picked broken glass from his ribs with his good arm and rummaged under the driver's seat for a med kit and whiskey and guns. "Dean's in trouble," he said, biting off a length of duct tape and wrapping his left arm against his chest, "Can you get me up there?"
Sam shoved the tape in the glove compartment. Amidst the maps and ancient condom wrappers fell a photograph stuck to the back of a postcard. A spectral hand reached down and flipped it over.
Dean looked about thirteen, drawing Batman logos all over Sam's arm cast beside a cupcake he'd stolen from the nurse's private stash. Another birthday party in another world. When Sam tried to take it back, he found Sarah's grip to be quite real.
"Hold on Sam."
And pulling him through the windshield as though he were made of smoke, the thing that had been Sarah Blake...unfolded. One moment they were both several hundred feet above the Earth, her hair streaming behind her as he looked down at the houses spread across the valley like stars, the next he was standing before a witch's house with Dean shouting his name inside.
He never did recall how long that moment lasted. Even now Sam dreams of flying with her above the cloudline, twisting in the wind with only an old photograph to hold on to for purchase.
Sam turned to thank her, but the yard was empty save for him and the shadows at the edge of the light. He stared back at them and when no more stepped forward to his aid, he chambered a round in his gun and kicked down the door.
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:31 pm (UTC)2. Dean
3. Impaled
Filled: untitled (1/2)
Date: 2015-11-03 07:16 pm (UTC)He's concentrating so hard that he doesn't hear the door to the storeroom open and close, and then it all happens in an instant - a final twist of the lock mechanism, Sam's "what the hell, Dean?", a bang, a whoosh, the sound of splintering wood and something heavy hitting the storeroom door. When he looks up, he has to stare at the scene in front of him for a minute, because it doesn't make any sense. Because Sam's up against the door, and it looks like... it looks like something is sticking out of him. Pinning him to the door.
Oh, Jesus fuck.
"Sam!" He sprints across the room. "Sam? You okay?" And no, of course Sam's not okay. He's flat against the door, eyes wide in shock and confusion, and a foot-long barbed bolt is sticking out of his abdomen. A foot long on this side, anyway. God knows how much there is on the other side of the door; how much already went through Sam's gut. Sam's very, very not okay.
He can tell the second the pain hits; Sam tries to fold in on himself, tries to collapse, but he can't. His hands grope for the source and he grabs the end of the bolt and starts to pull. "Oh, God, Dean. Get it out. Get it out."
Dean quickly yanks his hands away - not quickly enough, he managed to move the bolt an inch or so. "No, Sam, no, don't." He clutches Sam's wrists. "It's barbed, man. You're gonna do more damage. And you'll bleed out. Leave it alone. You hear me? You understand?"
Sam's eyes widen even more as he realizes the severity of his situation, and for a second or two he starts to panic. Then he closes his eyes, tries to take a deep breath, shudders in pain, and settles for a few shallow breaths. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I got it. I'm okay."
Dean releases Sam's wrists and reaches for his phone. "I'm gonna call Cas, okay? We need him here to do some angel mojo when we..." (When we shove this thing the rest of the way through your gut. When we pop the cork that's keeping you from bleeding out.) "When we fix this."
Cas answers on the first ring, thank God. "Cas! I need you back at the bunker, fast as you can. Sam's hurt."
"I'm on my way. What happened?"
(I happened.) "Just get here, okay? I'll explain it when you get here."
"I'll be there in 45 minutes."
"Make it 30." Dean shoves the phone back in his pocket and turns back to Sam. "It's gonna be okay. Cas is on his way. He'll fix it. Just hang in there."
Blood is oozing around the wound. Blood and maybe something else, something Dean doesn't want to think about, but he has to, because if it's viscera, he needs to keep it wet. But water is on the other side of this door, the door that Sam is pinned to, and, well. He's not moving him. So it needs to not be viscera.
Sam is frighteningly pale. His eyes are tightly closed, his hands scrabbling at the door, fingertips pressing against it like he's trying to claw his way through it. His legs are trembling with the effort of holding himself upright. Dean edges close to him on his left side, carefully avoiding the bolt. He picks up Sam's arm and drapes it over his shoulder. "Hold on to me, buddy. I'll hold you up." He shifts closer, right up against him, so Sam can lean his head on him. Sam coughs weakly, and Dean tries to ignore the small dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth.
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:35 pm (UTC)2.) Other character: Kevin (can be a ghost or alive, I don't mind)
3.) H/C scenario: Sam is concussed and thinks he's in Bobby's panic room, detoxing
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 06:37 pm (UTC)2.) Other character: Bobby
3.) H/C scenario: bear trap
FILLED: In the Woodsman's Cottage
Date: 2015-11-06 05:58 am (UTC)Frick stared at the wound. His skin gathered in folds beneath his bald head like a carrion bird in the medieval glow of the torchlight. "How much you got Bobby?"
"Eighty dollars."
Frack turned away. "Throw him out."
"You guys said you would help!" said Dean, rounding on Bobby, "You know what, this was a bad idea---"
"Hey now, where you going?" said Frick, hands up placatingly, "Eighty is a lot, isn't eighty a lot? Let's work something out."
Bobby would leave, but one look out the window and there was no way Sam could navigate past the forest predators with only one good leg.
Frack cut away Sam's bloody blue jeans. "Oooo that's not so good. You sure you want to keep the leg?"
"We could make him a new one."
"Or steal one, there's a cemetery out back."
"Yep, we buried a mule on Tuesday, he probably ain't turned yet."
Sam looked around unfocused. "Dean..."
"What is it Sammy?"
"...I don't think these guys are doctors."
The Doctors Frick and Frack bent over Sam's leg, one man tapping an evil-looking knife against his palm while the other jotted down notes.
"What're you writing?" Sam slurred.
Frick checked his watch. "At 12:14 I prepped the patient and made an incision below the knee..."
"Here, drink this."
Dean sipped gin and made Sam drink the rest, a second before the good Doctor Frack took the bottle and dumped half the contents on Sam's wound. Sam screamed, burying his face into Dean's shirt and willing the pain to disappear, but instead he drank some more while Dean's fingers massaged his arms and sang a lullaby he only remembered when he was drunk. Dean smelled good, sweat and soap and burning leaves, and eventually the pain subsided.
A few stitches later and Fricked exclaimed, "Good news! I think you're gonna live!"
Frack shook his head at Sam's dented leg. "Man, it really got you, you oughta call a vet."
"I wasn't bitten, I got caught in a bear trap!"
"Whatchu hunting bears for son?" asked Frack, "Those things will mess you up."
"I wasn't hunting bears. Not tonight at least," said Sam, wincing as he swung both legs over the table and reached for his gun, "Got any more gin?"
Frick slapped his shoulder. He recognized a repeat customer. "Take the whole bottle."
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:44 pm (UTC)2.) Other character: Dean
3.) H/C scenario: tornado related injuries
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 09:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:45 pm (UTC)2.) Other character: Jo
3.) H/C scenario: influenza
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 06:48 pm (UTC)2. castiel
3. buckshot
FILL: Hidden (1a)
Date: 2015-11-08 10:40 am (UTC)Despite the situation, he found himself fighting back a smile. Castiel was giving him a look of tolerant frustration, the same one Dean had described as kinda cute once before quickly changing the subject in case Sam should think any less of his masculinity.
“Ok, then,” Sam said. He slipped his hand into Castiel’s pocket, retrieved his I.D, and pushed it into the angel’s hand. Then he knocked.
The thing was, while he didn’t doubt Cas, it was too ingrained in him by now to check and double check. Less left to chance, less chance of either of them getting hurt. Or wasting time following up dead end leads while people were dying in nearby Berhampton.
There was every chance that Frederick Bunt was the man they were looking for. A loner, odd, difficult to get along with. If the townspeople they’d interviewed were to be believed – and Sam wasn’t sure he did believe them, not yet, aware how easy it was to become a child kidnapping, drug dealing arsonist who worshipped Satan and didn’t recycle just because you didn’t attend the church social once a month – he was the sole cause of several long running feuds with a lot of people.
And a lot of those people were dead, suddenly, without any cause or explanation. So, of course, Bunt was somehow involved.
Cas knew that something powerful was operating in the area – it was centred here, around Bunt’s admittedly creepy old cabin, though whether Bunt himself was the source or just allied with it, he couldn’t say. Not without seeing the man himself, checking him out. And since whatever it was could clearly drop people in their stride, Cas had been unwilling to let Dean go – he was still getting over the curse-induced stomach flu – or let Sam go alone.
“Take him,” Dean had commanded, as Castiel had put him back to bed after the latest round of vomiting. “Don’t want you going in there alone, Sam. Just don’t let him get dinged.”
Leaving Dean behind while sick had torn at him, and he knew Cas wasn’t happy about it either. But the hex had to work its way out of his system – any attempt to heal it had just prolonged the symptoms. All Cas had been able to do was promise Dean wouldn’t die of it, though he was in for an unpleasant few days, and sternly suggest that the next time they had any encounters with the local witches’ coven Dean refrain from asking if they did practise sky clad and around what time.
Though in Dean’s defence, one of them had just managed to turn the Impala pink so his brother had probably thought that level of dickery was justified.
When he got no answer, Sam knocked again, and called out, “Mr Bunt? FBI, Agents Marcus and King. Can you open the door please?”
Still nothing, but then Cas held up a hand as if he’d heard or sensed something. When Sam saw him pale, he knew they were in trouble.
The next thing he knew was the cold hard ground meeting his back roughly – Castiel had given him a shove that had carried him several feet away from the cabin.
And now the angel was gone.
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:49 pm (UTC)2.castiel
3.hallucinations
FILL - f Only (warnings for gore, torture, cage stuff)
Date: 2015-11-30 10:11 am (UTC)Strange echo, sounds like Cas, trickles into view to sit in front of him as he huddles away in the corner. Blood drips down between his fingers, from his mouth, because his teeth are broken and his jaw is smashed, talking too hard, focus is split like the skin on his arms. Cas doesn't notice, never notices. That's okay. Sam's eyes flutter open while Lucifer coils up like a snake, hissing and bickering with his brother; these are the good moments. Good, because he's forgotten, and Sam would rather everyone forget him than their eye turn on him again. Sam releases his misshapen jaw, curls his fingers around the metal bars jutting from the walls.
Cas. He's sitting patiently, cross-legged, trench laid out behind him across jagged metal. It doesn't cut at his feet, at his calves. Sam used to see Dean, but then Lucifer began to use Dean's face, too... and now it's hard to look at him and remember what Dean's hands have done down here. Sam just nods. Please, yes, he says without words. His tongue twitches, but his throat is wet and red. Lying is good. Lie away, Cas.
"Everything will be alright, Sam," Castiel says quietly. He cocks his head in that way Sam remembers. Sam's shoulders relax a few inches and he repeats it, but it doesn't sound like anything. Just makes his teeth ache sharply, his crumpled jaw not listening. He says it in his head. Everything will be alright.
"Does it help?" Castiel asks, furrowing his brow. "Talking."
A tear trickles, and Sam nods again, the bruises against his cheekbones and under his eyes darkened.
It does help. Helps a lot. I don't know how much longer I can do this... Be... me.
He sucks in a gurgled breath and heaves a sound close to a sob in return.
Cas, man, I don't — This is forever. How'm I supposed to...?
"I wish I had answers. I'm just — you. I'm an old voice in your head, my friend."
Sam leans his head against the sharp wall, feeling the barb slice there, but it's soothing to rest against something now. He closes his eyes. He'd smile if he could. 'My friend'. That's right... he has friends. Living, breathing friends. He has them, has Dean, and all those who've died? They're in a good place. Better place. He reaches out and runs a shaking hand over Castiel's. There's no warmth, just coldness, because the Cage is always so cold. It feels good, to make believe that someone's here. He imagines Castiel swooping in, grabbing him like he did Dean. Putting his hand print on him as he guided him to a happier ending. Dean would have him in a vice-grip, hug him like he'd just witnessed salvation, witnessed a kind God that mended instead of broke, in their lives.
He envisions, maybe, Castiel carrying him up to Heaven. Seeing the fireworks, watching Dean from far away.
Castiel's vision flickers, a sad expression on his face. "It will all be okay."
It's all in his mind, he knows. It's all...
He buries his broken face in his knees — the hallucination drifts like the last trail from a dying cigarette. Sam's sorry, too. He'll never not be sorry. He'll also never realize that someone's hand is on his shoulder, won't even notice how his body is plucked away, ripped through the holes in the wall, left to be fragments of himself. Outside of the Cage, Castiel wills Sam's corpse to mend back together. Sam can hear his voice distantly through the grating:
"It will all be okay. Everything will be alright."
If only it weren't all in his head, he thinks. If only.
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Date: 2015-11-02 06:50 pm (UTC)2. dean
3. drowning
FILLED: Untitled
Date: 2015-11-04 05:42 am (UTC)At my journal. (http://cassiopeia7.livejournal.com/571131.html)
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 06:52 pm (UTC)2. john
3. parasite
FILLED: Better Than Trick or Treat, part 1
Date: 2015-11-02 08:59 pm (UTC)Author:
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Gen, wee!chesters, casefic
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, hunter-OC
Word count: ~1,400
Summary: Something’s in wee! Sam.
Disclaimer: No ownership of anything Supernatural.
Sam woke up with sticks and gravel poking his legs, and his first thought was that the ground was very cold—and why was he dressed only in underwear?—but he was too hot under the old Army sleeping bag draped over him. Dad’s—he recognized it by the slightly mildewed smell that featured in some of his earliest memories.
Or was this one of his earliest memories? No, he was nine now, too old for childish reminiscing. As he blinked open his eyes, sights and sounds slowly gained volume and clarity. The weird, flickering light shadowed more than it illuminated, but Sam gradually made out the shapes of several men around the fire—and the sound of low chanting.
He felt a thrill of fear, but it was almost rote—and wasn’t that strange, that at nine years old, it wasn’t that unexpected to wake up this way? But why couldn’t he move? And what was that strange, awful sensation in his belly, a squirming inside like he needed to throw up, but with no sick feeling gathering in his throat, and something tamping down his muscles, like cords tied around each one of them and a whisper made physical, all through his body, be still, be still…
He tried to scream for Dad or Dean, but it was like thinking about a scream from a long way away, and then he was born up, strong arms lifting him, and Dad’s face slid into view. “Sam?”
The voice was an intense relief, and Sam opened his mouth to ask what was happening, and found that he could only say, “Dad…” and then he was weeping, and oh God, they were on a hunt, they’d gone together because there was no time to drop Sam somewhere safe and he didn’t want to be dropped, he wanted to stay with Dean, and if Dean could hunt, why couldn’t he, even if Dad still pretended it wasn’t all real and he wasn’t supposed to know, he’d known for years now…
“Take it easy, buddy. I’ve got you. Just hang in there. Damn it, Aidan! Why isn’t it working? I would never have come to your god damned podunk shithole if you’d told me—”
“Relax, John. I’m sorry one got in. I’ve done this ritual a thousand times, and if it only got in him today—”
The stream of invective that John launched at Aidan was full of words he never said where Sam could hear; words Dean had started saying lately too but which always got him in trouble, and Sam felt Dad’s arms shaking with fury where they held him, and for some reason he liked it, so though his insides churned horribly, and even poked against the sleeping bag from inside his belly, like they were reaching, he sat still, wanting only to stay where he was, and maybe go to sleep and wake up somewhere different, better, but still in Dad’s arms.
“…you’re damned, damned to hell if you think it’s OK for one of my boys to get taken like this, and it’ll be your death, Aidan, unless…”
Sam knew Aidan, one of dad’s weird hunter friends who said things Sam didn’t like, but Dean did; Dean always asked him questions and didn’t seem to care that he was kind of off, weird and creepy like too many people Dad talked to, but Dean always wanted to know what weapon killed what, and Aidan would always tell him, saying things Sam, and even Dean, wasn’t supposed to hear, if Dad wasn’t there…
(cont'd next comment)
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 06:58 pm (UTC)2. Dean and John
3. Strep throat
FILLED: It's Gotta Be a Hex part 1
Date: 2015-11-03 04:04 am (UTC)So Sam lay in bed, trying to breathe. But his head felt so hot and stuffed. Every breath in was agony as it hit the back of his throat. How had his dad and brother managed to fall asleep like this? Granted, these days John was out before he hit the bottom of the bottle of Jack, and Dean had always been good at dropping off when John was there. When it was just him and Sammy, he was always the last to fall asleep and first to wake up. Even though Sam was a teenager now, Dean still looked after him like he was a little kid. Sam wondered when that would change.
He wondered if it would change. And he wondered it while lying on his side of the crappy motel room bed, listening to his dad’s steady snores and Dean’s heavy, slow breathing. Sam wanted to be sure they were both asleep before he got up. He kept an eye on Dean the whole time, half-expecting his brother to get up. But Dean slept on, passed out on his back with one arm draped over his chest, the other dangling off the side of the bed. If Sam believed in monsters under the bed, that hand would soon be gone for sure.
But Sam didn’t believe in those. He did, however, believe in every other kind of monster. Because he’d seen them. He’d fought them. And they were a whole lot scarier that something that lies in wait and nibbles your fingers while you sleep. Demons were devious and cruel. Creatures were violent and unpredictable. And witches were self-centered and unforgiving.
Sam wasn’t sure which was at work on him right now, but he meant to find out. Cautiously, he crept over to Dad’s bed and searched around in the dark until he found a duffel bag so heavy it could have been used to haul bowling balls around. The sound of the zipper as Sam slowly, oh so slowly, unzipped the bag was loud enough to make Sam’s ears buzz. His heart pounded, and he kept his gaze trained on the bed, expecting his big brother to wake up at any second.
Finally he got the bag opened and pulled out the book that was on top of the stack in there. He wasn’t sure which book it was, but it didn’t matter; he planned on going through them all tonight. Because something was most definitely wrong.
It wasn’t just the stifling heat of the room that was getting to Sam. Dean was sleeping without his shirt off, but he was half under the covers and there wasn’t a bead of sweat on his forehead. Sam, on the other hand, kept dragging his sleeve across his forehead as he felt sweat starting to trickle down his face. His head thumped painfully as he sat in the bathroom, trying to make out the words by the light of a dimly glowing bathroom light switch. The tiles that were starting to come off the wall dug into his back. He kept banging his arm against the rusty pipe under the sink. And his whole body hurt to sit there, even after he stuffed one of the rough bathroom towels under his butt as a sort of cushion.
Most of this book was in Latin. Sam could make out a lot of it, but this meant he couldn’t skim it for words like ‘fever’ and ‘aches’ and ‘sore throat.’ Oh God, his throat. The thing felt like it was on fire, hundreds of degrees hotter than it was supposed to feel. This wasn’t normal. Sam had been sick loads of times before. But this wasn’t how a cold or even the flu felt. So this had to be something supernatural. And, with any luck, he’d find it in the book and figure out how to fix it before his dad or brother woke up.
Sam ruled out demonic possession pretty quickly. He figured he wouldn’t be in the right might to research if that were the case. It still could have been a curse or a hex. Or some residuals leftover after their last hunt. Or… or… well, Sam didn’t really know. That’s why he was reading.
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 07:01 pm (UTC)2. college friends (Jess, Luis, Zack, Becky, Brady, or OCs)
3. mosquito bites
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 07:04 pm (UTC)2. Mary
3. migraines
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 07:09 pm (UTC)2. Dean
3. freezing/hypothermia
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 07:12 pm (UTC)2. Dean
3. stabbing
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 07:25 pm (UTC)2. a service dog
3. PTSD
FILLED: Whats in a Job? 1/1
Date: 2015-11-02 10:46 pm (UTC)Colt’s ears perk up at hearing Sam’s voice.
He’s attuned to his every noise and knows every one of his sounds. This sound most definitely is not a good sound.
Colt inches forward after a quick stretch and watches as Sam’s long legs swing over the edge of the bed. He knows this routine very well and keeps back and let’s Sam decide what is going on.
The last time Colt got to close to Sam when he was like this he wound up tripping Sam. Of all the things a dog can do for his master, tripping is definitely not on the list.
Colt’s been around for a long time.
Well, technically you could say Colt has been around hunters for a long time. His old master sadly lost his life on a tragic hunt, for which Colt had to witness.
Colt has changed hands quite a few times over the years but he must say that Sam is his favorite.
Not just because Sam gives the best belly scratches or sneaks him extra food when he thinks Dean isn’t looking; though those do count.
No, Sam was his favorite owner because Sam had a lot of compassion. If it is one thing dogs know best it is the amount of compassion a person has.
Sam bleeds compassion.
This is why Colt always gets upset at seeing Sam like this; blank and upset, listless and angry. Sam sometimes lashes out, never at Colt, but at inanimate objects then promptly cries himself back to sleep. Then other days Sam is perfectly normal.
Smiling and happy, takes Colt outside for walks, watches T.V, interacts with Dean.
It would almost be picture perfect.
Colt has learned however that the only thing that he can do for Sam when he gets in these moods is to offer silent companionship. It is of course what he does best.
So when Sam’s hand slowly uncurls from the fist he was making and hangs limply over the bed, an offering, Colt knows what his job is.
He gets up and walks slowly over to Sam. He sits down and waits patiently.
When that hand hits his head and slowly scratches Colt knows he has done his job.
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 07:27 pm (UTC)2) Cas
3) Sam wakes up wounded and weak from blood loss on the floor of the Bunker—with no memory of how he got there, how he got hurt, or where Dean is.
<b>FILLED: Bleed (PG) 1/2</b>
Date: 2015-11-03 10:00 pm (UTC)Sam lay there, no choice but to let it hold him under until he at least felt like moving wouldn’t end him. Finally, he was able to roll carefully onto his side, and from there get what information he could on where he was, what had happened to cause him to be lying on the cold floor.
He recognised the table – their table, with the few steps leading into the kitchen just visible beyond that. So he was in the bunker.
Ok.
He was hurt. How bad, he wasn’t sure, but being unconscious for an indeterminate period was never a good sign. And he was…wet. He tried to push himself at least half way upright and his hand touched something sticky and warm. Even before he lifted his hand to look at it, he knew what he’d find, so wasn’t surprised to see his skin covered in red.
Not ok.
He took slower, deeper breaths, trying to keep himself calm. If he was bleeding, then he’d taken a hit, and he managed to sit all the way upright so he could start checking himself out. From the amount of blood on the floor, it either wasn’t a deep wound or hadn’t hit anything vital, or it had only just happened.
In which case he needed help, fast.
“Dean! Dean, I’m hurt, get down here!”
His voice echoed away down the corridors of the bunker, but the expected rush of footsteps never came.
“Dean!” Maybe he was in one of the further rooms, maybe he hadn’t heard him. But Sam knew the bunker was built…weird. He didn’t know what the Men of Letters were on when they’d designed the place but wherever you were when you called out, the person you were talking to seemed to hear it. It was freaky, but he wasn’t about to knock it.
Still, there was no answer which meant one of two things. Either Dean wasn’t in the bunker, in which case where the hell was he, or he was hurt somewhere too, and unable to respond.
That thought drove him to try to stand. He grabbed the table, hauled himself up on legs that were too weak and shaky to support him, and ended up lying flat on the table top. He gripped the sides to keep himself there, because he knew if he went down he wasn’t getting back up.
But all the same he couldn’t move, and now the front of his shirt was starting to stick to him. So were his pants. In fact, everything, and he wanted to believe it was sweat but somehow he knew better.
What was going on?
FILLED: Bleed (PG) 2/2
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 08:00 pm (UTC)2. Dean
3. Gunshot wound to the gut
FILLED: The Definition of Insanity
Date: 2015-11-04 11:30 pm (UTC)Bleeding out in the Impala, crimson staining his fingertips as his shirt grows more and more moist. Dean, in the driver seat, alternately cursing their misfortune and cursing at Sam to stay awake.
Just two days ago, he was encouraging Sam to sleep more. Funny, how fast things change. In a blink of an eye, in a flash in a—insert whatever cliché you like here.
“Sammy, you keep your goddamn eyes open, you hear me? Open, Sam, and awake—”
At Stanford, Jessica would curse to herself, softly, when she was sure he couldn’t hear. She’d break her pencil and curse or that one time she’d stubbed her toe and jeez, he hadn’t even heard some of those curses she’d screamed before. It was a little personality quirk—something he’d loved about her, back when normalcy had been within reach.
And now he’s here, bleeding out from a well-aimed bullet wound, in the back seat of the Impala, normalcy gone the second she’d started burning on the ceiling.
“Sammy, hey,” Vibrant green eyes meets his in the rear view mirror. “You stay with me, okay?” They sparkle, though is it because of the light or the unshed emotions welling up within his brother?
Maybe he would never know.
“Sam?”
If he could, he would say something to put his brother’s mind at ease, but a bullet to the gut is one of the most painful—if not the most painful—wounds you could ever experience. Sam may have a high tolerance for pain, but even he has his limits and right now, the idea of opening his mouth to speak is beyond his comprehension.
All he knows is that he hurts and Jessica is dead and he’s bleeding out in the back of the Impala.
How’d he even get shot anyways? They’d been chasing a nymph, not going after something with firepower.
“It’s going to be okay,” Dean reassures, but Sam knows it’s more for his older brother than for himself, “I promise.”
For his part, Sam is having trouble focusing on really anything other than the searing pain in his gut. Fuck, bullets really hurt. He’d forgotten that at school. He’d forgotten a lot of things about this life actually, but the one thing he’d never forgotten was how it always ended up in the same place every single time without fail.
He’s going to die here.
“You’re not going to die,” Dean growls, low and deep in his throat. “Don’t you fucking say that again, you hear me? You’re not dying, I don’t allow it.”
Sam would laugh at that, if he had the strength. Leave it to Dean to try and stop Death. Not even Dean could do that. There were some forces beyond even their control. Otherwise, Jessica would still be alive, smiling warmly at him, baking cookies and cursing when she thought he wasn’t listening.
But Jessica is dead and Sam is dying and that’s the way this life works.
Hunt, kill, hurt, repeat.
Over and over, the same cycle, the one he tried to break out of so many times before.
He misses Stanford. He misses the life he had there—the life he could’ve had there. But until he’s avenged Jessica, until he is finally able to conquer the demons of his past, the backseat of the Impala is where he’ll stay.
Bleeding out, in the backseat of the Impala.
“Sam, look at me! Keep your eyes open!”
Dean roars to try and keep the darkness at bay. He can’t though. Unconsciousness, as sinister as it may be, is welcoming. It’ll be a break from the pain, from the grief, from this life—if only for a moment.
“Sammy!”
And bleeding out in the backseat of the Impala, Sam Winchester passes out.
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 08:02 pm (UTC)2. Dean
3. Staked out in the burning sun
FILLED:We Shall Gather at the River
Date: 2015-11-03 01:02 am (UTC)Gut-red. Highish noon.
The Mittens, sprung bloody from a thousand screensavers, might be, if they were in sight, burning palms onto his retinas, and the red, the red, the flare of John Ford's own personal backlot, where John Wayne kicked a saddle and drawled break out the grain and chased the Navajo stand-ins for all his Comanche...
Suck in a breath, son; it might be yer last; there's a good little cowboy. Staked him to spikes and left him, no shit, to dessicate with the brittlebush, the coyote. Ghoul-gunslinger, might have been. Got the girl to safety and chased him, silver-swinging, into the sage-scented scrub. Got turned round in the canyon, jumped. A howl out there. Everything gone to ground now. Streaks of wrist-red onto the old earth. Highish noon.
Pray a little, to the valley of the gods. Dean's gonna laugh at it; no hoof-thunder; no fool-cavalry to fuck it all up.
*
Not like this, Sam shouts to the sun, get back here, you bastard.
There's such a thing, John Wayne muses back, as a creature that'll just keep comin'. Ride a horse a thousand miles and then eat him. There's a Stetson-silhouette, right there.
Sam's brain crackles over the cowboy fire, pork-strip, mesquite. Think I don't know that, he says, since I was nine, I knew that. Think I haven't been eaten before. Think I haven't come back.
It's not hell here. It's beautiful.
Not by what you believe, John Wayne says. But one day this country's gonna be a fine place to be, you'll see.
Pain's like rock, like something he's felt a million times, the earth the demon-dirt, entrails; after all this time slip to the empty, heaven or hell and desert, death. He'll follow the water if he finds it; follow it back to tourist-town, tug at the stakes.
John squats at his side, spits, maybe a horse-pat.
What do I believe then, Sam says.
Long as you live, John Wayne says, never ask me again.
There's a dry western wind.
*
Maybe a horse-pat, a slap. Croak of a desert corvid.
Sam. Sammy. Jesus Christ.
No, John Wayne, he groans, alkali-tongue, lets his brother tip the canteen, tell him they're not so far, tell him (no) he never stopped looking, haul him up, fold him under the fire of the mesa.
Scout for the Texas Rangers, he mumbles, without pay.
Yeah, Dean says, fingers his neck, me too.
Sam breathes into his brother's hatbrim into his hair the whole of their own always-keep-coming.
"Girl's safe," Dean says, "you did good, Sammy."
Navajo land red under the setting not so far from where the canyons come together like seven fingers on some old hand.
Sun's going down. There's water. They're not so far from the road.
* with apologies to John Ford's The Searchers.
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From:no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 08:04 pm (UTC)2. Gabriel
3. crucifixion
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 08:16 pm (UTC)2. Jody
3. slow dehydration and/or starvation (maybe an injury from fighting off zombies?)
no subject
Date: 2015-11-02 08:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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