I was never into doing prompts until I discovered the new site spnquotefic on Live Journal, a site where quotes from the episodes are listed and they can be filled in any way the author chooses, not having to tie into the episode at all. So here is my collection of the first ten I did.
(Possible spoilers for the start of season 6)
Sam: "Even if we do find the thing that killed her - Mom's gone. She isn't coming back."
"Mom" had never been real to Sam until this very moment. This was Mom from the night of her death and flames still flickered on the edge of Sam's vision even though the fire around her was gone. He wanted to say he remembered her, remembered her yellow hair, her brilliant eyes, her sadly sweet smile. But he couldn't—because he really didn't.
"I'm sorry, too," he wanted to say, sorry I don't remember you, sorry I don't want to spend the rest of my life chasing the thing that killed you, sorry I don't know you enough to need vengeance for you.
Why would his mother say she was sorry to him?
Sam: "Things have gotten more... complicated."
To be fair, Dean knew in the back of his mind that it really wasn't Sam's fault. Well, not completely. Maybe seventy percent…Okay, sixty. But. It still sucked.
For a moment it looked like Sam was going to fire right back at him, but then he wilted. Like all the starch just slid out of him. And actually? That kinda made Dean more pissed. 'Cause if Sam wasn't going to bitch back, there wasn't much point in Dean ranting.
"There was no way to tell there was a trap spell until we triggered it, Dean."
"Well, how come you didn't go ahead of me?"
"Because you always barge in first, dumbass."
Name-calling. That was better. "Then next time we tangle with a witch you're going first, Sammy!"
"Yeah, right, like that'll ever happen. Let me see it, Dean."
"Don't be a big baby. Turn around and pull your pants down."
"You gotta let me see it. Then I can research how to get rid of it."
Dean deliberately plopped himself down on the well-worn mattress, then popped right back up swearing.
"I gotta look. Just pretend like you got shot in the ass."
"Like that's any better?"
His brother was not biting back a smile. "Suck it up, Dean." Sam took a couple steps closer to him. Unfortunately since Dean was standing in the narrow space between the two motel beds he had nowhere to go.
Muttering curses under his breath to hide his embarrassment, Dean turned and dropped his jeans and boxers.
"Jesus, Dean, it looks like a … monkey tail." Even without seeing his face, Dean knew Sam was laughing at him. He hastily pulled his pants back up, yelling "Shit!" as his new body part got caught in his jeans waistband.
"Don't you say one word!" he glared at Sam.
"Okay, relax, dude, let me go see how to get rid of it." Sam went over to his laptop and flipped it open.
"Oh, do you want a banana?"
1.03 Dead in the Water
Dean: "You know, Sam, we are allowed to have fun once in a while."
Plink. Plink. Plink.
"Dean, what the hell?"
Plinking stops. "Forty-seven. I win, Sammy."
"What are you talking about?"
"I bet myself you would get annoyed before I hit the can fifty times. Forty-seven, Sammy."
"Dean, you are a moron. First, for being fuckin' annoying and second, you can't win a bet against yourself!"
"Dude, I just did. Forty-seven."
1.03 Dead in the Water
Sam: "People don't just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them."
Dean thinks the cold or the water will kill him before the irony, though it will be close. After surviving vampires and werewolves and demons and however many thousands of other evil sons-of-bitches, hell, making it through the damn Apocalypse … he was gonna buy the farm because of his own stupidity for falling through thin ice.
He deserves whatever shitty afterlife he ends up with.
No one will think to look for him until at least tomorrow because he has the stupid habit of just disappearing on Lisa for a day or two at a time. And then no one will have a clue which way he drove, and even if they hit upon the right direction, he was very clever and parked the Impala out-of-sight because he didn't want to be disturbed while he continued to not-move-past his grief.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he says as his head slips into the water for the last time.
1.04 Phantom Traveler
Sam: "You really believe that?" Dean: "Well, I will if you will."
It was Sam.
Every drop of hunter's instinct he had was screaming at Dean to be careful, this couldn't possibly be him.
And Dean couldn't stop himself.
He was through the doorway and wrapping his arms around it has to be his brother even as he wanted to look for signs that it wasn't.
The voice was quiet, unemotional, but arms came up around his back and after the barest hesitation pressed back.
"Sam," Dean choked on the word. "Sammy, is it really you?" He knew it was a meaningless question, he should be checking with holy water, and silver, and …
He knew tears were streaming down his cheeks as he held on to Sam like there was no tomorrow.
"Yeah, I think … I think I'm me. I don't know how …"
How really didn't matter.
But if he ever ended up back in Heaven someday, this would be the happiest moment Dean would be willing to relive forever.
1.04 Phantom Traveler
Dean: Huh. These monkey suits do come in handy.
"No frickin' way."
Sam sighed. He knew how to read Dean's refusals and this one sounded pretty non-negotiable. And to be honest, he sympathized. But…
"I don't fit."
"No way, Sam. Just no."
"So, do you have a better idea of how to get in?"
Dean kept working the gun oil over the Glock. "It's a haunted 'haunted house.' Why can't we just go in with the rest of the idiots who think pretend spooks are a good idea?"
"Because it's not the public getting hurt, it's the workers. We've got to get in the locker room and backstage areas."
"No. Gotta be another way."
Now Sam was getting frustrated. He got that it would be humiliating, he did. Because…
"Dean. These were the only two costumes available. And really, I'm sorry you have to be the gorilla. But I … I have to be a clown."
1.05 Bloody Mary
Sam: "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary ... Bloody Mary."
The Moral of the Story
From the booth in the back, Sam watched his brother.
Dad wasn't due back for several more days. Today had been Sam's last day of eleventh grade and he had brought home a 4.0 report card.
"So let's see it, geek boy," Dean had accosted him when Sam went to slide the computer printout in his duffle. Rather than have it tear, he let loose when Dean tugged it from
"That's my genius baby brother," Dean grinned, simultaneously mocking and affectionate, and thwapped Sam on the head as he handed the paper back. "I'm taking you out for a beer tonight, Sammy."
"Sam," Sam muttered automatically, but since he was just a little bit pleased at Dean's reaction, he kept the response too soft for Dean to have to answer back.
Dean had stashed the two of them in a dim corner and ordered celebratory bottles. Knowing from experience that a full bottle would give him a respectable buzz —"You're not even a lightweight, Sammy, you're a … a featherweight!" had been Dean's dismayed reaction last time when three beers had pretty much put Sam under the table – Sam took little sips and played with the label.
Within twenty minutes of sitting down Dean had run through the possibilities presented by the girls at the bar and announced his intention to pick up the chick with the denim miniskirt who they were both pretty sure had gotten in with a fake ID.
"See, Sam, she's got an ankle bracelet," Dean explained. "She wants to be a rebel, wants to be a 'bad girl' but she doesn't know how. Doesn't have the nerve to get a tattoo, and she'll never start a conversation with a guy. But the right pick-up line, and a hot guy," Dean smirked, "and she'll want to have that wild and crazy night to always remember."
"Dean … I swear you may be twenty-one but you act like a teenage boy. Like a fourteen-year-old teenage boy."
"You wound me, Sammy, chicks see me as a mature alternative to teenage boys."
So Sam watched as Dean sauntered – or was it strutted – over. Sam decided he'd have to invent a new word for his brother's 'prowling the bar' walk – straunting, maybe, or suttering. Whatever. Dean moved in closer, Sam could see the girl relax her back against his brother's arm as Dean motioned for the bartender. The girl ordered something, they exchanged a few more words, and then Dean was strolling back to their booth with two more beer bottles.
"Whassamatter, Dean, you strike out?"
Dean pursed his lips. "Naw, dude. But I never, ever make out with a girl who drinks a Bloody Mary."
1.05 Bloody Mary
Sam: "We're doing this. You have to let me do this."
"We have to."
"Absolutely not. He'll kill us."
"No, he won't. He'll be tickled."
"Sam. Bobby will take his shotgun and blow us both to bits. And I won't blame him."
"Think about it, Dean. He's had a rough year. And he needs to know people care."
"He knows, okay? This is frickin' unnecessary and completely lame. And embarrassing. For all of us."
"C'mon, dude. Chocolate cake. Next best thing to pie."
"Not with birthday candles."
Sam: "It was like he was downloading your thoughts and memories."
Dean: "You mean, like the Vulcan mind meld?"
Halfway between Bobby's and Detroit.
"Spock had it right, you now."
"What the hell are you talking about, Sam?"
"The movie, it was one of the first ones, the one where Spock dies saving the ship...'The good of the many outweight the needs of the few.'"
"Dammit, Sam, that was a movie!"
"The end of that movie sucked!"
Silence for the next twenty miles. Suddenly Dean smirks.
"Dude, you realize you're saying I'm Captain Kirk?"
Dean: He's the artist. Things he can do with a brush.
He wonders how many quarts of blood are in the human body anyway.
Sam would know. Sam would know and be able to convert it into pints and liters and gallons.
However the fuck much it was, Dean was positive that he'd bled out at least five bodies worth if he added up all the blood he'd lost in his fifteen or so years of hunting.
And damned if it didn't hurt every single time he had to cut himself whether it was to prove he really was the one-and-only Dean Winchester or to supply blood for some spell or anti-spell or whatever.
Or anti-angel sigil.
Naturally they hadn't left him with anything sharp so he had to make do with a shard of metal he twisted off a cabinet, and it stung like a sonovabitch. Blood welled up in his cupped palm as he massaged it with the fingers of his other hand until he had enough to start.
His crimson fingertips drew the circle, then dipped back into the red pool in his hand for more. Tongue caught unconsciously between his teeth, Dean sketched the whorls and angles as he'd been shown.
Cas had never explained exactly where the banishing mark sent an angel. Dean had never asked if it hurt. But Zachariah always seemed to come back fine and while Cas was a hell of a better representative of Heaven than that asshole, right now Cas had no use for Dean. And Dean had no use for any of those dicks. Even if he was going to surrender to one.
He wanted to feel sorry for what he was going to do to Cas. Wanted to … but being sorry wasn't going to matter shortly anyway, so Dean kicked over the chair and moved out of sight, hand ready to make the final mark with his body's paint.
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