*realizes she's getting funny looks*


Yeah, uh, this isn't the epic I promised all y'all. But it is epic. :D

I'm still working on that one and then when IT'S posted, we'll go back to Phone Tag. I swear. -_-;;

Shawn is my Psych-canon character. I also pick on Dean and Sam a little just because it's fun. :D (Bobby's injuries are his own damn fault and he knows it.)

My weapons of choice were as follows: Coffin lid, graveyard dirt, a tree, a spiked iron fence, some gravestones, and the ground itself. Also, since it's on the list and I'm feeling cheeky, a crazy woman. :D (Yeah, I know not all of those were in the tool kit. :shows artistic license: This says I can use 'em anyway. :D)

My location was a graveyard. Which, considering how I went with the idea, is also kind of my weapon of choice. It's a very versatile location like that. :D

As to the whump... Oh come on. That would totally spoil it! Trust me though. It's in there. In spades. :snickers: :D


Psych: After American Duos, before 65 Million Years Off.

Supernatural: After Folsom Prison Blues, before What Is And What Should Never Be

It all started with a back.

Bobby's to be specific.

And the fact that he threw it out.

Dean answered the call from the hospital looking for Bobby's emergency contact—a nephew Dean Spencer—at two a.m. and they were on the road by two-fifteen.

Sam called Shawn while Dean topped the Impala's tank off. They had been headed toward South Dakota anyway—well, California, but South Dakota was between them and it, so it was pretty much the same thing—and if they filled up now they should make it into Sioux Falls without having to stop again.

Shawn wasn't much fazed by the early morning call they way he had been once upon a time. Sam briefly wondered if he should give that further consideration when he was more coherent, but Dean opened the door and climbed in and Sam's concentration was broken.

"What'd Shawn say?" Dean asked as he passed a cup of coffee over.

Sam took a nice long, slow swallow of the nectar of the gods and sighed as the first pulses of caffeine-induced awareness began to bounce into his system.

"He's flying out. Probably get in this afternoon since he'll have to layover once or twice."

"We couldn't make it to him so he's coming to us," Dean said as he started the car and put it in gear. "I'm sure I've got some surprise buried way down deep somewhere."

Sam's smile was tired but genuine.

"I doubt it. That's probably the burritos from dinner last night."

Dean leaned toward his door, lifting one ass cheek off the seat. A fart squeaked out and he grinned. "Sounds like it." He sniffed. "Whew!"

"Gah, Dean!" Sam protested as he rolled down his own window, sticking his head out and breathing the fresh air rushing past his face. "You're disgusting."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm a guy, Sam. Kinda comes with the territory." He shot his sibling a look. "But being a girl I guess you wouldn't know that. Also, a Mr. Kettle returned your call, Mr. Pot. He said to call him back about the message you left on his machine. Something about him being black? And full of gas?"

Sam shot him a glare and after a few more minutes pulled his head back in and started to roll it up.

"Leave it down," Dean said.

"No way, dude," Sam said, cranking the window back up. "You have to roll down your own window if you're having regrets."

Dean snorted. "It's about air flow and staying awake, asswipe. I don't believe in regrets."

Sam thought about calling his brother on a lie so bald-faced not even the great Dean Winchester could pull it off, then decided it was way too early to be that existential. So he balled up his jacket, stuffed it between his head and the window and got comfortable.

He wasn't sleeping—not with the caffeine in his system—but resting more comfortably. Years of being on the road virtually non-stop and he'd never gotten over the annoyance factor of feeling the vibrations of the car in his skull by leaning on an unshielded window.

"What was Bobby hunting when he got hurt?" he asked, frowning.

Dean shrugged and took another belt of coffee. "Dunno. I didn't ask and the doc didn't say, obviously. Bobby's on the good stuff so I couldn't talk to him. You can play twenty-questions when we get there and the drugs wear off."

Sam accepted that answer and settled in more comfortably for the duration of the drive.

Yeah, I know, Shawn wasn't really in this one. I should have the next one up in a few days and he IS in that one though. I promise. :D

Review, plz&thx?