Sam knew Claire was on her way over so he picked up around the apartment. In general, he was pretty neat. There wasn't a lot to do but his suit jacket had to be hung up and the work he'd brought home put up. He washed the dishes he'd eaten take out on and sort of made up the bed. Martha Stewart would have found fault but it was clean enough. He was wearing a pair of sweats and a tee shirt when Claire knocked at the door. He checked in the peephole then unlocked the door and swung it wide open.

"Hey," he greeted her, reaching out to pull her inside for a hug and a kiss.

[What are you hiding from?]

His fingers curl around the hex bag despite knowing where the magic to create one came from. Lemonade from lemons. Isn’t that the saying? He’ll use everything knows, everything he’s learned to stay hidden from Lucifer, even if the knowledge came from the biggest mistake he’s ever made; trusting Ruby. Knuckles clenched white around the small leather pouch gives him a feeling of safety that settles in his stomach like hot chocolate. He knows it’s false and he knows it’s useless but things are finally right. Dean is snoring in the bed across from him, the motel heating unit is clicking in an offset rhythm and there’s a thick line of salt across the door and windows. Sam is home and that’s what matters for the moment.

He can resist. He can tell Lucifer no over and over again. He just needs Dean at his back because Lucifer may have made plans while Dean was in Hell but Castiel changed the rules of battle and everyone is set scrambling. Except him. Except Dean. They’re standing at the eye of the storm hiding from an apocalypse and counting the minutes until they’re found.

[This is…]

This is not the grape juice stain in the back seat of the Impala. Dean can’t take swats for this and get Sam off the hook. He acts like it is.

”You made a mess. We’ll clean it up

Sam wants to know how. He needs details. He needs a plan. He needs to be able to research this. Only no one has ever made this mess before. There’s no trail blazed and no ready made solution.

But Sam thinks it would all be a lot better if Dean could act like it was okay. He knows that’s expecting too much. This isn’t the grape juice stain in the back seat of the Impala.

He thought they’d get past this. Together. That was what they did because together was all they had left. Except they don’t seem to have that anymore either. Somehow the culmination of everything he’s done did what each incident on its own couldn’t.

They’re as broken as the ground Lucifer came from and Sam’s afraid they’re just going to stay that way.

[293: Talk about a News Item]

Story comes from here and here

The flashlight played over the paintings, pausing every now and then before moving on. The store was closed up, yellow crime scene tape still across the door.
“You sure this is the right place, Sammich? Wife didn’t take the painting home and hang it over her fireplace?”

Sam nodded. “No. She never took possession of the painting but I’m not sure which one we’re looking for. I thought they’d be of people…like the last painting we did.”

“Yeah ‘cause the world needs more friggin’ creepy ass family portraits,” Dean smirked as he searched the other side of the room. “Who the hell paints with someone’s ashes? You ask me, artist deserved to be wasted.”

The artist had been the spirit’s first victim followed by the spirit’s wife before it started working its way down the artist’s client list. The freakiest thing about the whole deal was how long that list actually was.

Sam glared at Dean then shrugged. “At least they’re landscapes and not weird little girls with razor blades.”

Dean chuckled at that. “Guess we caught a break. S’not like we’re gonna get hit a tsunami.” He nudged a beach scene on the floor.

“Dean…seriously?”

“What?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at Sam. “We’re dealing with vengeful spirits not pissed off oceans.”

“Yeah but-“ Sam’s protest turned into a wail as he was knocked off his feet. He landed hard on his back, breath driven out of him. Claws slashed at his chest, shredding his tee shirt. Blood welled up and the sound of a shoutgun made Sam’s ears ring. The smell of gun powder and burned rock salt was comforting.

“Sammy, you okay?” Dean asked, crouching next to him, arm going underneath his brother’s shoulders to help him sit up and then get to his feet.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Sam assured him in a gasping breath, his hand going to his bleeding chest.

“Okay. You know what? This is bullshit. We’re lighting the whole damn place on fire.”

“Dean, you can’t-“ Sam started and Dean cut him off with a glare. A painting hurtled at forehead height made both Dean and Sam duck.

“Sam! Go get the gas,” Dean yelled as another painting smashed against the wall. Dean fired the shotgun and ducked behind a counter to reload. Sam got tagged in the head as he went out the door. He stumbled and fell against the door frame making a worried Dean pop up from his hiding spot.

“Son of a bitch,” he yelled as he fired another round of rock salt. “SAM! Gas! Now!”

The further urging wasn’t really necessary Sam was already getting the gas can out of the trunk. He was on his way back when Dean met him at the door, grabbing the gas can out of Sam’s hands and shoving the shotgun into his hands. Sam rolled his eyes and took point while Dean splashed gas around the store, taking the more dangerous job. The spirit took its rage out on Dean, scraping across his cheek and his back, smashing paintings against his shoulders and it was furious. Despite all its efforts, the shop was engulfed in flames within five minutes. The brothers dashed out the backdoor, coughing up some of the smoke they’d inhaled in the process.
“Next time, we do it my way,” Dean told Sam as they got in the Impala.

“Alright…so maybe we should have just set the place on fire,” Sam admitted reluctantly.

“What I tell you, Sammy, I’m always right,” Dean beamed at him. “Got me thinking though…next time I die just paint my baby with my ashes. Stick to classic black but she could use a fresh coat.”

“That’s so gross.”

“You just don’t want me haunting your ass. Throwing shit at you when you try making her all girly and bitchy.”

“Girly and bitchy?” Sam asked one eyebrow quirking up.

“You heard me and you know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Sam rolled his eyes as he slumped down in the seat. Dean grinned that idiot’s grin at him, reached over and turned up the music until BOC Fire of Unknown Origin blared out the speakers.

My Results:




Red

Your soul is painted the color red, which embodies the characteristics of love, strength, physical energy, sex, passion, courage, protection, excitement, speed, leadership, power, danger, and respect. Red is the color of the element Fire, and is associated with blood, life and death, birth, volcanoes, and intense emotions.


Well it's not black

1) Post ten however many you'd like of any pictures currently on your hard drive that you think are self-expressive.

2) NO CAPTIONS!!! It must be like we're speaking with images and we have to interpret your visual language just like we have to interpret your words.

3) They must ALREADY be on your hard drive - no googling or flickr! They have to have been saved to your folders sometime in the past. They must be something you've saved there because it resonated with you for some reason.

4) You do NOT have to answer any questions about any of your pictures if you don't want to. You can make them as mysterious as you like. Or you can explain them away as much as you like.

( Read more... )

Sam was lying in the hammock with his arm thrown over his eyes. One leg was over the edge, pushing the hammock back and forth so it swung just a bit. His legs were past sunburned and his chest slowly turning to tan. His body was only half in the shade of the palm trees the hammock was anchored to.

The vacation had been a good idea. It gave him a chance to relax a little before the bar exam as well as a chance to sort out what was going on with all these memories. Things were screwed up and getting worse as far as he could tell. He didn't know how to fix them either. Going back to a crossroads demon wasn't going to do anything. He hadn't been able to get ahold of Ruby, something he was certain was planned rather then accident. His best guess was that everything was coming unraveled but he didn't know how far that would go or what he could do to stop it.

He lifted his beer to his lips only to discover it was empty. That meant getting up to renew it...at some point that was not right now.

Pick one of my characters and I'll tell you...

- One thing that I enjoy about playing this character.
- One of my favorite interactions this character has had with one of yours.
- One of my favorite things about the relationship our characters have.
- The last thing my character did "off screen".
- One thing my character wants to say to your character.
- One thing I'd like to see our characters do in the future.


Bonus Round

- I will tell you what character of yours I'd like to play mine against.
- You may ask me a free question.

Other Boys:

dude_imbatman
mybrothershadow
askurself_wwrd
yes_imagenius

Related to this

Sam sat on the couch in his apartment, hands knit together loosely between his knees. He was trying to sort out everything. He needed to tell Claire what was going on but he had no idea how to tell her. He'd gone over and over it in his mind since he'd called her a few hours ago. He had pizza from a place around the corner that she liked and beer for him. He had a feeling he was going to need the beer to get through this.

There was a soft knock on the door and he stood up, walked across the still sparsely furnished living room to open it. He knew he should probably check to make sure it was Claire but he didn't. He unlocked the door and swung it open, a smile curving his lips despite the reason he had invited Claire here.

"Hey," he greeted her, reaching out to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her inside so that he could bend over and kiss her. "I'm glad you came over."

I've given my characters a healthy dose of Veritaserum and now they have to tell the truth. What does this mean for you? Ask my characters questions about anything and everything and they will truthfully answer it. Specify game or PSL if you want to.

[What do you remember?]

He’s asleep when it happens and surprisingly it takes him a while to realize it’s not a vision. The images hit like a train, crushing him with their weight. They’re real and they hurt. It’s not surprising when the pain starts at the base of his neck and radiates outward until his whole body feels contorted with it. In reality, he’s curled in a ball, as small as Sam Winchester can make himself, in the middle of the bed.

The wake of all those images leaves him breathless and drenched in sweat. Once it’s all over, he struggles with the sheets and blankets, heading for the shower first.

“C'mooon!! Where the hell are you??..I don't want ten years. I don't want one year. I don't want candy! I want to trade places with Dean!”

“If you do this, Sam, all those people you saved won’t be.”

Sam swallowed hard, coming to terms with all those innocent lives. He never could save the ones that really matter: Mom, Jess, Dad…Dean so he nodded, wetting his lips because he knew she’d require more than that to make a deal. “But I’ll save Dean.”

“Yes. I can save Dean. You’ll trade the whole world for your brother.”

“He’ll be happy?” Sam was direct about that because it was one of the sticking points. His soul might not be worth much but it turned out the souls of everyone they’d ever saved was.

“I’ll set him up in a little house with a picket fence. I’ll throw in Mary for a bonus.” After all, she’d really never done anything to them. Mary Campbell (Winchester) had helped them. She’d never be standing here in front of the anti-Christ making a deal if it weren’t for the feisty blond that had started it all.

“Mom?” It was an offer he couldn’t refuse and the demon standing in front of him knew that.

“Exactly the way she wanted her life. You’ll go to Stanford and become a brilliant lawyer. Dean will get his house, his pretty little wife and a mini van…or something equivalent. He won’t remember this.”

That was a lie. Dean would remember everything given time. Memories could only be suppressed for so long, particularly the kind of memories that the Winchesters had.

“Jess?” Sam asked. He knew he was pushing his limits and testing the demon’s patience.

The woman considered it for a moment, head tilting. She knew the direction this choice would take Sam. She could see the tiny threads of their lives spooling out. Some things couldn’t be changed but they could be altered.

“Alright.”

“Really?” His voice was piqued with surprise and excitement. That phrase ‘too good to be true’ played over and over in his head but then Hell was getting a few hundred new souls. It was a pricey deal no matter what.

“I’ve got my faults, Sam. I can omit things and I can twist things but I don’t lie. If I say I’ll give you Jess back, I’ll give you her back.”

“Okay.” The answer was whipfire quick, as if he was afraid he’d change his mind if given any more time.

For a second, the demon wearing a woman suit looks surprised. Her dark eyebrows arch up toward her hairline and then fall as her face settles into an expression of satisfaction. “You know what it takes to seal a deal with someone like me.”

A kiss that felt like death and then nothing. He woke up in bed with Jess. Of course a couple of months later she’d been struck with cancer and she’d died but the demon hadn’t lied. She’d given him Jess back. The water pounds on Sam’s shoulders as he leans his forehead against the tiled wall in the bathroom. He sorts the images out—memories of the life he’d traded for this one. He flinches as they hit, hunching a little more under the weight of each.

He’d accused John of not doing anything to help Dean only to find out he’d done everything. Their father’s body burning on a pyre instead of buried deep in the ground the way he is in this life. Sam likes the image of him snug and safe better than he does of his father burning.

Dean—there are too many memories of his brother to sort. Just having those memories and knowing…it hollows him out, scraping everything from the sides so that he is empty. The feeling makes him nauseous and it takes several deep, gulping breaths to calm his stomach. Even now, with the memories and reasons so tangled that he can’t follow them, he knows why he made the deal. He knows he would make it again and again.

“I have demon blood in me, Dean. I’m a whole new level of freak!”

He’s a monster and he doesn’t care. Dean is happy. He’s got his picket fence and his pretty girlfriend, their mother just down the street. He runs John’s garage and he doesn’t remember any of this. He doesn’t remember Hell and to Sam, that’s worth a few hundred souls.

“No. You don't know what you're doing, Sam.”

“Yes, I do!”

“Then that's worse!”

“Why?”

“Because it's not something that you're doing, it's what you are! It means...”

“What? Say it!”

“ It means you're a monster.”

Sam was still opening boxes of cookware. The apartment was fairly new and cookware wasn't something Sam had needed. He had a pot for spagetti-o's and he could get take out for everything else. Claire was behind him, rinsing out the pyrex bowls he'd just unboxed. He had made a sales lady named Jennifer extremely happy at Bed, Bath and Beyond. He'd told her he had an empty kitchen, a girlfriend that cooked and baked and one pot. She'd set him up with everything else. In fact Sam was pretty sure, if they made it for the kitchen he had it. The price tag had been a little daunting but or the first time in Sam's life he had money he had no idea what to do with. Working for Tony Stark had a lot of benefits, one of them monetary.

"Okay, oven is preheating to 350, we've got a cupcake pan, those paper cups to drop in them, mixing bowls and an electric mixer. You've got the ingredients?"

Because grocery store shopping wasn't Sam's forte. He loved buying lots of food. He just didn't really buy the right sort of food to cook or bake with. Everything was centered more on the junkfood and frozen food aisles.

[Love is what you've been through with somebody- James Thurber]

He sits on the edge of the tub in a bathroom too warm and too humid. The shower is running, misting his bare back with lukewarm water. He has his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. It’s his default position right now. He’s trying to remember how to breathe but a loop of thought stutter stops through his head and interrupts everything; like a jolt of electricity rushing through his body.

He started the apocalypse. He broke the last seal and the whole world is ending.

Because of him

His breath catches, chest going tight and everything burning. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Oh God, can’t breathe.

The mist at his back grows colder and he sits up straighter, the shock of the coolness rebooting, interrupting the loop and he takes a deep breath. There’s a knock on the door. He knows who it is—and who it isn’t. That causes his chest to seize up again.

“Sam, are you okay?”

It takes a long time for him to answer because words require breath and he can’t breathe.

“Yes.” It’s strangled and raspy, barely his voice at all. He starts to move, to reassure her and he runs into a wall; at least mentally.

He started the apocalypse. The end of the world courtesy of one Samuel Winchester.

But he was only trying to save everyone

She goes away, mollified by the weak assurance and he’s thrown back into the loop. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

The water is still running cold now, his skin is prickled with goose flesh but he doesn’t move; stuck in that loop. It’s a struggle to keep his heart pounding but he knows he’s doing it because he can hear the rush of blood in his head, the vibration of each beat in his chest. He can’t breathe but he’s incredibly aware that he’s not dead.

Yet.

There’s another knock, later he knows but he couldn’t guess how much later.

“Sam, open the door.”

He doesn’t respond and the door creaks open, slowly at first then smoothly. She presses his cell phone into his hand and force of habit makes him croak a ‘Hello”

“Sammy…come home.”

He can breathe again.

[Girls I've dated]


-Shelly

-Rachel-Doesn't really count. She was my senior prom date. Dean slept with her, I didn't

-Jessica

-Claire

**Belated obviously. Goes along with the evil!Sam semi canon storyline.

[Things I did on my birthday this year]

Spent the day and night in the basement in chains.

Said hateful things to my girlfriend.

Did not see my brother.

Broke my girlfriend’s neck

Twice

Listened to previously mentioned girlfriend read Twilight out loud as punishment.

Cursed Edward Cullen

Tried to kill Stephenie Meyers with my brain from a distance.


Obviously it was a very special day.

Come play with me at shakeitup_pf

Panfandom RP

Evil!Sam storyline that hasn't actually happened yet set in Kids Are Alright Verse. And thanks to Claire mun for all the help and bits to this piece that she added

[Alfred: I love you.
Sarah: You mean it today.
Alfred: Of course.
Sarah: It just makes it so much harder when you don't.

- The Prestige]

She’s not supposed to be down here and he really shouldn’t be out of chains. Dean’s out of the house or he wouldn’t be loose. Claire is curled up next to him, reading out loud to him from Wuthering Heights and he’s content to be her back rest. He stretches the arm that’s not around her and pops his wrist then returns to the previously all encompassing pastime of watching her.

“I love you,” he whispers, bowing his head so that his breath hits the curve of her neck.

She puts her hand over that spot on her neck—either to keep it close or to ward it off, he’s never sure which—and looks up at him. “You mean it today.”

“I mean it every day, Claire, you just don’t always believe me,” he tells her. The look on his face broadcasts all the betrayal he feels at her words.

Claire shakes her head, ponytail bobbing and looks back to the book, taking a moment to gather her composure and find her place in the book. She folds her bottom lip between her teeth a moment, takes a deep breath.

“You teach me how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. Why do you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry, and wring out my kisses and tears; they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery, and degradation and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.”

Sam won’t look at her and she can’t look at him because on the good days he tells her he loves her. On the bad days, he tells her that’s what guys say when they want sex.

I didn't know where Dean was getting the money. I just thought it was poker or pool then I saw this:

( Read more... )