I'm having writers block… I HATE IT!!! Wanna kick it in the ass and just… run away. BUT… having writers block means that the only way of crawling out of it is TO WRITE! So… this story is short and bleh and stupid and I haven't written anything in a long time and I'm panicking and my hands are sweating and I'm nearly halfway to fainting and you don't need to read or review or anything, but… it's my way of kicking this writers block in the ass! So… yey me! LOL

I own nothing. All mistakes that you're gonna find are my own. Sowwy!



"What did you do?"

When Dean's voice reached Sam's ears through the open bathroom door, he dropped his toothbrush into the sink, the plastic pink handle making a loud noise when it hit the cold porcelain.

Dean sounded pissed, tired and just a little bit annoyed.


He rose up from being hunched over the tiny, white sink, his back popping and cracking and aching all the way up and looked into the mirror that was covered with tiny specks of toothpaste.

Not his fault.

His mouth was full of toothpaste; white foam around his mouth like he has rabies.

His wet hair was sticking out in every direction possible; he just washed out the blood and guts from the latest hunt.

His eyes were not quite ready yet to let in Dean's appearance; standing in the middle of the living room/kitchen/bedroom with his hands on his waist, looking really, really kinda annoyed. Or like someone killed his car.

Sam did some mental checking… no, the Impala's okay.


He spit out the extra toothpaste that was making his mouth burn, caught his brother's wide eyes in the mirror and said: "What?"

"Where's the extra onions, dude?"

He can kill his brother after he rinses out his mouth.

The End.