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Drabbles Every Weekend

Chapter Text

“What I had in mind was a matured Red Leicester with a precocious little Shiraz. Not . . .” Crowley indicated their surroundings with a sweeping hand gesture that fittingly summed up his contempt for the cheap, bourgeois restaurant.

Dean ignored him, only lifting his head when the sassy blonde waitress arrived at their table. “Welcome to The Cheesecake Factory!” she said. “What can I get you boys?”

“The cherry deluxe, please, sweetheart,” Dean replied, handing her the menu. “Extra large.”

“And two spoons?” she asked, glancing at Crowley.

Dean frowned. “What for?”

Crowley sighed. “I’ll just have coffee. Black.”


Chapter Text


Dean’s shoulder muscles tightened. “What?” He’d learned to be wary of that exclamation while Sam was researching.

Sam studied his laptop screen without meeting Dean’s gaze. “Apparently in medieval times ‘freckles were considered a disgusting, unsightly blemish. Sulphur would be vigorously rubbed into the skin daily to minimize their appearance’,” he quoted.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “So?” he demanded warningly.

Sam pursed his lips. “You’d just think . . . after all that time in Hell – “

Shut it,” Dean growled.




Chapter Text

“Little Shop 4 Horrors” babywear store was living up to its name. The body of the sales assistant had been found . . . all over, apparently hacked apart by a slimy monster with an axe. Sam studied the splatter pattern on the floor. ‘Dean, do we have any duct tape?” Well, it had helped once before . . . “Dean –  ?” All thought in Sam’s brain popped like a soap bubble as he witnessed his brother holding two pairs of baby shoes, one in each hand, and he was walking them along the counter.

“Have you ever seen anything so adorable?” His voice rose to a bizarre cutesy octave. “They’re sooooo tiny!”

Sam stared. “Dean . . . what is wrong with you?”

Dean’s bottom lip fell loose. His gaze dropped to his hands then he hurriedly replaced the shoes in their rack. “I ha – have no idea,” he stammered. Recovering, he squared his shoulders, worked his head and neck in his collar and straightened his tie. “So, axe wielding slime monster,” he continued in his normal register, as if nothing amiss had happened, and focused attentively on the splatter pattern.

“Do we have any duct tape?” he asked.


Chapter Text

“Careful, Dean,” Meg sneered. “Wouldn’t want to harm this pretty blonde meat-suit.”

“This won’t hurt her much.” He upended the bucket of holy water over her and waited for the smoke. Instead, her jeans split along the seams revealing scaly flesh. “What the hell - ?”

“You boys have really screwed up this time,” Meg bitched as fins unfurled from beneath the denim and, finally, a full tail flip-flopped against the floor.

“She’s a fish!” Tom Hanks opined from the TV.

Dean blinked awake and reached for the remote. “Man, I gotta stop watching old chick-flicks at night,” he muttered.



Chapter Text

Tuesday: to the occupants of apartment 112B
Hello, we do hope your exorcism was successful last night. We do ask as a courtesy to us and the other neighbors on this floor that you limit expelling demons to Friday and Saturday nights. Thank you in advance.

Wednesday: to the occupants of apartment 112B
Hello again, we trust your vampire issue had a satisfactory outcome. Please remember, however, that the smell of skunk cabbage can be offensive to residents with allergies and other olfactory sensitivities. Also, you may have forgotten our recycling practices. It would be helpful if, in future, you could ensure that decapitated heads are disposed of in the bin for biodegradable material.

Thursday: to the occupants of apartment 112B
When applying for your subscription, is it possible that you inadvertently neglected to mention that your address is 112 B? Your magazine was mistakenly left in our mailbox. We hope you enjoy your issue of “Busty Asian Beauties”.

Friday:  to the occupants of apartment 112B
When entertaining your angelic friends, could you please ask them to observe our guidelines on noise pollution and maximum reasonable decibel levels. Several residents have reported breakages and interference with their television viewing.

Saturday:  to the occupants of apartment 112B
After some discussion at a meeting of the residents, it was agreed that we feel unable to share the cost for the removal of blood stains from the carpet in the entryway. We must ask that you bear full responsibility, and enclose the invoice from Crowley’s Moonlight Cleaning Services which we trust you will settle at your earliest convenience.

Sunday: to the occupants of apartment 112A
My brother and I would like to apologize for any and all inconvenience caused while ridding your neighborhood of supernatural predators and making it safe to live in for fine upstanding citizens like yourself. Regrettably, circumstances dictate that we must leave this charming residence tonight, but we hope you will accept the enclosed parting gift of a lucky rabbit’s foot by way of recompense.
Yours, with due respect, The Winchesters.



Chapter Text

His hand glided lovingly over the familiar lines of her body. His touch was warm and intimate and, as his eager fingers reached for her, she opened easily for him. He moved inside her, feeling her warm and supple embrace as he seated himself against her, and he breathed a soft, quiet sigh of satisfaction.

Sam coughed. “Are you sure you two don’t need some alone time?” he asked.

Dean scowled back at him then leaned forward and gave the dash a soothing, conciliatory pat. “Don’t you listen to him, baby,” he said. “He still doesn’t understand us.”



Chapter Text

"OH MY GOD!" Dean rolled around on the bottom of the deck, clutching frantically at his groin. "It's agony! It's freakin' AGONY!"

"OK, well hold still or I can't help you!" Sam yelled back.

"Let's take a vacation," Dean had said. "We'll ‘borrow’ a yacht and cruise the Carribean. It'll be fun!" Dean had said.

Turns out there's all manner of evil lurking in the depths of the ocean and they were just as busy now as they ever were on dry land. Sam was researching how to kill Leviathan lobsters when they were attacked by demonic crabs, and a particularly ferocious specimen had sunk its claws into the front of Dean's speedos.

"Do something, Sam! Get it off! Get it OFF me!"

Sam raised the salt gun.

"Not like that!" Dean screamed. "NOT LIKE THAT!"



Chapter Text

“Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Sure. You know where it is.”

He loped up the stairs and along the corridor then dodged into the master bedroom and through to the en-suite. Opening and closing cabinet doors, he hastily riffled through the assorted bottles and tubes. He was troubled by occasional stabs of guilt when his questing fingers lit on odd inappropriate items, but he wasn’t interested in those.

He startled at the sound of a nearby footfall, hurriedly snapped a cupboard door shut and turned just as the bathroom door opened.



Their faces both wore frozen expressions, one of shock, one of shame.

“The guest bathroom’s down the hall, Jared.”

“I got turned around, Dan,” Jared explained, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Sorry.” But as he fled from the room he thought he caught the ghost of a knowing smile at the corners of Danneel’s lips. She knew, as did Jared, that Jensen had to have a bottle of Grecian 2000 stashed somewhere!


Chapter Text

Sam blinked awake as the opening chords of “Highway to Hell” assaulted his ears for the fortieth time that week. There were 2000 tracks on the Ipod but Dean only seemed able to find AC/DC.

“Welcome to the new Winchester motel,” Dean greeted him cheerily and passed him a beer. “We don’t have cable, but we still have room service.”

Sam tapped the small screen embedded in the back of the passenger seat. “Actually, I think we might have cable. If you just let me in the front for a bit I might be able to find the – “

“No chance in hell, Sammy.”

Sam sighed. Reaching up, he pressed a button in the roof panel and the sky-light opened with a smooth electronic whirr. The fresh air barely made a difference to the rankness in the vehicle’s interior, but it helped a little.

“This car does have some great features,” he observed.

“Yeah, but I miss the bench seat,” Dean retorted, pressing a button that gently lowered his back rest until Sam’s legs were crushed beneath it.

 Sam sighed again, closed the roof once more, and let one rip.

The radio station manager approached the show producer. “Any change?” he asked tersely.

“Not since they drove the other contestants out of the car in the first few hours. Now they just seem to be getting comfortable.”

“They’re not arguing at all?”

“Oh, they’re arguing all the time! Just doesn’t seem to bother them.”

“How long’s it been now?”

“Eight days.”

The manager clicked his teeth in frustration. “Check with the lawyers. See if we can stop feeding them,” he snapped. “And take away the beer!”

Dean was trying to open the sky-light but Sam had managed to get a foot out from under the seat and had it wedged in his brother’s face instead. “Have you thought about what the hell we’re going to do with an extra car when we win it?” he asked conversationally while he resisted Dean’s efforts to reach the roof panel.

“When I win it, you mean,” Dean insisted through clenched teeth as he tried not to gag.

“Or, I win.”

“Dream on, Bitch.”

Sam waggled his toes. “Jerk.”


Chapter Text

“Honestly, I thought you’d be pleased.” The angel raised his hands theatrically. “I mean, don’t you ever get tired of Texans always claiming theirs is bigger?” He rolled his eyes. “The biggest oil wells, the tallest buildings, largest hats, biggest ball – ”


 “As a Kansas lad yourself, I thought you’d appreciate a few extra inches, just to settle – ”

Change it back!” Sam’s face was a picture of moral indignation.

“You heard my brother.” Dean didn’t really get it. Admiring the impressive erection, he couldn’t help sympathizing with the dick angel’s argument. So what if it had had a little . . . ah . . . heavenly augmentation? But if Sam demanded authenticity, Dean would back his play.

Balthazar sighed expansively. “Oh, very well.”

The monument shrank visibly before their eyes and as the angel vanished with a petulant flutter Sam relaxed, apparently satisfied in the knowledge that Cawker City, Kansas was still the home of, supposedly, the second largest ball of twine in the continental US.


Chapter Text

He once compared his possession with being chained to a comet but, today, the angel was still – for he knew not how long – face turned toward a distant blue-green sphere. Awed by the radiant beauty hung against the jeweled darkness, for once, Jimmy didn’t curse the feathered glory that made him tenant in his own body.

It was a new perspective. From here one might admire God’s creation distanced from those who live and suffer on the ground. But since Castiel was made to wallow in the mire and blood his perspective, also, has changed.

Now angel and vessel are one, united in sympathy with those brothers who love the world enough to fight for it, just as it is.


Chapter Text

Sam was disconcerted on entering his room to find Dean there, wearing overalls and covered from head to foot in light flecks. His gaze flicked between the roller in his brother’s hand and the half-painted walls.

“Dean . . . what are you doing?”

“Your room needed a make-over. It’s positively Spartan.”

“Uh . . . any particular reason you chose baby-pink?”

Dean glanced at the paint tin. Sam could tell from his confused expression he was hard-pressed for an answer, but he recovered quickly. “Just seemed like the right color for you, somehow,” he insisted, grinning.


Chapter Text

“Hey! You said art class was a good way to meet girls.”

“This isn’t what I had in mind!”

Dean didn’t know what his brother was complaining about. It looked to him like the ladies in this class were plenty interested in the new guy.  “Anyway, break’s over,” he pointed out. “Back on your pedestal, princess.”

Sam glared, climbed on the podium, struck a pose, and dropped his robe – to a chorus of audible gasps from the female students . . . and a couple of the men.

Dean studied his palette. “I’m gonna need more red,” he observed.



Chapter Text

“Wow! Did you see this car?”

“See it?” Sam shook his head. “I can’t look away. And I’m trying,” he added.

“Wow.” Dean gazed admiringly at the proud, classic lines of the vintage Rolls Royce. “I’m not normally a fan of the British gentry, but you’ve gotta admit they have style. I mean, that is really . . . ”


“Yeah, but it’s – “

“Really, really pink.”

“Yeah, but it’s actually pretty fabulous. And it knows it.” Dean indicated the number plate.



Chapter Text

It's 5 o'clock in the morning
and I could be in a bed,
so I’m wond’ring why I’m in Texas hunting something that’s undead.
But the monster’s open for business
and 5-oh’s eyes are closed,
so it’s up to us
or the teenage twink is toast.
Opening up the weapons cache
and loading up the guns
while all across the world
there’s people buttering their toasted buns
and our battle with
the Jekylls and the Hydes has just begun.

It's 6 o'clock in the morning.
I’m only half awake.
The other half is dreaming
of a nice thick juicy steak as something
slithers out of the bathroom
and Sam yells in my ear
“Get up!” “Dean!” “Get out of here!”
The smell of smoke and rock salt
makes me think of curly fries,
and all the crazy things we’ve done
keep flashing past my eyes.
Then the thing I’m holding
sinks its claws into my thighs.
And it’s on!

Shifting through the gears.
It's 8 o'clock in the morning.
It's been 8 o'clock for years.
But the slimy thing is dusted
and its victims all got out.
And I’m done in.

It's 9 o'clock in the morning.
It’s time for sleepy-bye . . .
but the motel bed is hard and lumpy
and, besides, Sam’s just come in with beer and pie . . .


Chapter Text

“Flip,” Dean complained, then glowered at Sam – like it was his fault.

“Just try to stop saying it.”

“I am trying. Hurry with that counter-spell! Flippin’ witches!”

Sam smirked as he shredded ingredients into the bowl. “It’s kinda poetic justice, Dean. You did call Rowena a b—”

“She is a flip!Dean launched a frustrated kick at the bed, stubbed his toe and yelled “flip!” then “FLIP!”

Sam finished the incantation and nodded.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmured, then grinned and yelled triumphantly “SON OF A BITCH!” He collapsed on the bed with relief.

“Feel better now?”




Chapter Text

Gunfire from Dean’s room brought Sam running, but bullet holes in the walls and floorboards and the sight of his brother standing on the bed were clues there was no immediate cause for alarm.


“Where is it?”


“Under the desk. It’s HUGE! I heard it creep across the floor! I heard it coming, Sam!”


“You don’t think trying to shoot it was an over-reaction?”


“You know the rules: nothing in this room has more legs than me!”


Sam bent down, gently scooped the terrified spider into his hand and carried it outside. It was worth it to glimpse that rare “you’re my hero!” look on Dean’s face.



Chapter Text

Rain hammered the window while Prince crooned from the juke box.

“How many apocalypses has it been now?” Buffy asked.

“Must be at least nine,” Angel confirmed, “and I helped –”

“Four times?”


Iron Man prodded his shawarma. “Me and my friends have saved the world a lot. Once I nearly died.”

“Hey, I died twice!” Buffy objected.

Dean indicated himself. “Hundreds of times. And I went to Hell.”

“How many times?” Angel asked innocently.

 “We saved the Galaxy!” Star-Lord boasted.  “And we’re gonna do it again!”

Dean frowned and quietly asked Sam, “explain the raccoon to me again.”



Chapter Text

Gabriel (on balcony wearing girly nightdress): You speak badly! Go away! You don’t love me!

Dean (below, prompted by Sam): To accuse me! Heavenly creature! Of no longer loving when (grimaces) I love you more!

Gabriel: Better!

Sam (reading from play text): Love grew within rocked in my anxious soul which, cruel boy, it took for a cradle!

Dean: I’m not saying that! It’s frickin’ humiliating!

Sam: You’re humiliated! Look and tell me what exuberance I can have with this protuberance!

Dean (studies the long, pointed nose Gabriel has given Sam and shrugs): I can’t see any difference.

Sam: (bitch-face)



Chapter Text

The boys were excited to be hunting a mountain troll since they were thought to be long extinct. Sam even insisted on keeping the body to study its unique physiology. Trolls have exceptionally high bone and muscle density; despite being an immature specimen only four feet high, it took both brothers to lift its weight into my trunk.

Dean can be a little dense himself sometimes, but it's unlike Sam to overlook a detail that's related to the creature's mass: trolls turn to stone when exposed to sunlight. And I think both may have forgotten the trunk still has bullet holes from last week's hunt. I tried to warn them: I was shamefully slow to start and misfired repeatedly driving down the mountain pass, but Dean missed the hint until the sudden extra weight at dawn dragged my back wheels off the road.

Now, as I desperately try to maintain balance, rocking precariously over the edge of the precipice, I think we all appreciate the gravity of the situation.


Chapter Text

Sam tipped back his beer chaser, rocked backwards and hurriedly gripped the bar. “OK, time to go.”


“Don’t throw in the towel, yet, Sammy! It’s your birthday!” Dean insisted, adding cajolingly “just one for the road.”


Sam sighed. “Just one.”


Grinning wickedly, Dean produced a glass of varicolored liquids, umbrellas and plastic monkeys. “Chug, chug, chug,” he recited quietly, lifting the straw to his brother’s lips, growing ever louder as Sam’s cheeks gradually hollowed and his eyes crossed.


Outside, watching Sam trip over the kerb and face-plant on the tarmac, Dean wondered idly if that’s where the expression came from.



Chapter Text

Flames flutter like wings whip dark yellow orange at sputtering tips black and blue rock back and forth below. Mummy body white wrapped shroud singeing black in strips. Like marshmallow. 

“Did he say anything to you? About anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

Wind changes. Inhaling smoke and cooked meat. Familiar smell. Most linked to memory.

Fire rolls like waves over ceiling. Mom drowns in yellow sea. Woman in white and red then black. “Now, Dean! Go!” Roast dinner smell. Sunday barbecue.

“Hey, Dean!” Grinning, Sid hands him a beer. “We eating soon, buddy?”

“Another minute.” He grins back, and turns the steaks.



Chapter Text

The sound of gunfire from the bathroom brought Sam running, although he was growing used to these artillery outbursts and suspected he knew the cause. As he burst through the door his expectations were confirmed by the sight of his brother standing naked and dripping by the bathtub, smoking gun still in hand, while bits of dead spider floated in water that was rapidly emptying through a bullet hole in the enamel.

“Good shot,” Sam acknowledged, but he had to wonder as he glanced around the bare room, and again at the naked shooter. “Where were you keeping the gun?”


Chapter Text

I get bored in the bunker. Though I’m safe here from theft and rust, I was happier when I was free to feel wind and rain, see life around me, always changing. Here nothing changes; nothing new to see. I dream of the highway, traveling the country again.

Sometimes I dream of other countries. Dean hates to fly and he’d never trust me to a storage hold, but how good it would be to drive the unfettered German autobahn, or the spaghetti asphalt of the Italian Alps. They call it the old world. They say Europe has churches a thousand years old. How strange! They talk of great art, and sculpted statues so fine they seem alive.

Still, statues are only hard, cold marble. I have my boys – here they come – walking, breathing art in warm, living flesh.


Chapter Text

“. . . third bizarre death at Hefner’s Playboy Mansion . . .”


Sam paused his research to absorb the latest details from CNN.


“Anything?” Dean asked.


“Yes, the victims all connect to a model who died in the seventies. Could be a spirit. But how would we get into there?”


“You could pass as a model.”


Sam sighed, mildly aggravated, but Dean needed to work harder.


“You’d look real sexy in a bikini.”




“With floppy ears, and the tail, you’d be smokin’!”


Sam’s annoyance mounted, seeing where this was going. “Don’t!” he warned.


“Then you’d be – ”


“Don’t say it.”


“You know you want me to.”




Dean grinned triumphantly. “A hot, cross bunny!”



Chapter Text

Dean examined the offending packet. He knew from the get go there was something wrong. It wasn’t just the taste, or even the smell; it was the way his stomach reacted to the first mouthful – the warning cramp that alerted him that his body already instinctively knew something bad was coming.

When he looked up he found Sam was watching him intently. He seemed oddly concerned and anxious for some reason, which was weird but, then again, dude had been acting weird all morning, so what was new?

Dean’s stomach growled ominously. “These tacos taste funny to you?” he asked.



Chapter Text

Dean returned from the consulting room. It seemed to Sam that he was . . . walking oddly.

“Did you get any intel on the dead hospital porter?” Sam asked.

“That and a whole lot I didn’t ask for,” Dean snapped. “The doc decided I needed a thorough examination. Do I look old enough to need a prostate check?”

“It’s not the years, Dean; it’s the mileage.”

Dean glared. “Next time, you can pretext as the patient.”

Sam responded with an appropriate hand gesture.

Don’t!” Dean growled. “That’s not even funny.”

Sam grinned, wickedly. “It’s a little bit funny,” he insisted.



Chapter Text

They were surrounded by vampires, werewolves, ghouls, an astronaut, various slutty nurses, and three slutty pumpkins. Sam loitered self-consciously at the door while Dean strode into the party like he was walking onto a yacht.

“Stay sharp, Sam. Any one of these could be the shifter!”

“Why did I have to come as Cat Woman?” Sam grumbled, immediately regretting it as he realized he’d fed Dean his perfect cue to say –

“Because I’m Batman.

Sam tugged irritably at his armpits and crotch. “All this rubber is making me sweat.”

“No, Sammy. Remember: Animals sweat, and men perspire, but ladies glow!”



Chapter Text

Dean thrust his hand into the soft, slimy meat of the bait box and selected a worm at random. Picking up his rod he threaded the sharp point of a hook through the head of the worm, pausing briefly to watch it wiggle and squirm helplessly at the end of the line before casting it out into the rapidly flowing river - where it would soon be swallowed by some ravenous carnivore, or slowly drown in the chill waters.

And Dean wondered, for an uncharitable moment, if this was a glimpse of what it was like to be Chuck.



Chapter Text

Dean trudged outside, dodging puddles from an overnight downpour. Opening the bin, he tossed the bag onto the pile, and closed the lid hastily. All the while he held his breath to avoid catching the heady olfactory experience of rotten food, gunpowder, abramelin oil, goofer dust, eviscera, monster fluids various . . . The bunker’s trash could be an interesting mix.

He was beyond the parking lot before he could cleanse his lungs with fresh air. The breeze brought smells of ordinary daily life: exhaust fumes, tarmac, new mown grass, damp earth.

Occasionally simple things made up for a lot.

Chapter Text

“Ah, the sun! The sand! The surf!” Mini!Dean sighed contentedly. “Gotta love the lucky country, Sammy!”

Mini!Sam’s head twisted from the crashing waves to the tiny surf board. He doubted this would end well, but didn’t want to dampen his brother’s enthusiasm for their new Australian home.

A roar of childish laughter and thunderous running footsteps interrupted Sam’s anxieties. Suddenly there was a loud “crump” sound, and all there was left to see of Dean was the top of a shiny plastic head extruding from a damp sandy footprint. From beneath, he heard a muffled cry of “mmm mm m mmmph!”

A/N: The adventures of Funk Pop Sam and Dean in Australia can be found on my Livejournal page. See especially:

Chapter Text

“Is this going to become a habit?” Sam complained.

“I dunno. It’s kinda cute.”

Sam stared at the soppy grin on his brother’s oddly drawn features.

“Who are you? And what have you done with my brother?” The question had never seemed more apt.

Wings fluttered and whizzed in front of his face and he barely resisted the reflex to swat before Tooth Fairy’s excessively cheery voice urged “come on, boys! It’s going to take all of us to defeat Pitch!”

“I can’t wait to drive the sleigh!” Dean gushed.

“Only North drives the sleigh, mate!” Easter Bunny insisted, thumping the ground with his foot. “We’re taking the express route.”

A hole opened beneath them, they hung in the air for a second, then their bodies briefly elongated before snapping back as they dropped.




Chapter Text

for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.


Sam closed his book and took the tumbler from his brother's fingers. Scotch on the rocks.

"How's dinner coming?" he asked.

Dean knelt by the fire, turned the skewers in the flames and poked the potatoes with a fork. "Just about done, I'd say," and he started manhandling food onto plates, cursing all the while as the hot foil and metal singed his fingers.

A blast of wind rattled the oaken door in its hinges.

"Winter is coming," Dean quipped, with his best attempt at a Northern Westerosi accent, handing up a plate filled with meat and roast vegetables.

"I'd say it's already here." Sam glanced into the night, watching as icy gusts drove flurries of snow past the cabin window. It was cold in Northern Maine this time of year. "You know, we could be holed up here a while," he observed.

"Well, we've got enough meat to last a while, a couple of bottles of hunters' helper, and you've got a pile of big fat books to read. There are worse ways we could spend Christmas."

Sam pursed his lips in acknowledgment and ice rattled against glass as they clinked their tumblers together in a seasonal toast. Easing back into the comfortable armchair, he stretched his toes toward the warm fire, and picked up the next volume in the series as he chewed appreciatively on a mouthful of roast Chupacabra

Chapter Text

It was raining when they showed up for work after their unscheduled absence. Jared cleared his throat. “I’m glad we finally talked.”


“Cleared the air.”


“We can be adult about this. It was just that one occasion. And we’re agreed it was a . . . mistake.”

Jensen grunted.

“A really, really, really – ”

“Great,” Jensen mumbled.  

Jared chuckled nervously, then coughed. “But unprofessional, man. I mean, we gotta work together for another year . . . maybe even two!” He clapped his colleague's shoulder as they turned toward the set. “And it’s not the end of the world, you know? Not like anybody’s died!”



Chapter Text

“Snowy got sick because our yard was too small,” Mary explained. “So, we took him to live on a big farm where he’ll have lots of room to hop about, and he can eat fresh carrots and lettuce straight from the fields. He’ll be happier there. Do you understand?”

Tears welled in Dean’s eyes and his lips trembled, but he nodded. “Yes, Mommy. I want Snowy to be h – happy”.

Sweeping back her little boy’s bangs, she kissed his forehead and tucked him into his bed. “That’s my brave boy.”

John was wiping earth from his hands when she joined him at the back of the yard. Gazing at the sad little mound hidden behind the tree, she wondered “should we have told him the truth?”

John shook his head. “I think he’s too young to understand about dying,” he said. “It’s only been three months since he turned four.”


Chapter Text

Sam gazed ruminatively at the strange, yet oddly familiar, teenager sitting beside him.

“Dude, quit staring at my hair!” his brother complained.

“It’s just, I don’t remember you having highlights,” Sam explained. “When did you get highlights?”

“I had ‘em a while,” Dean replied evasively.

Sam figured, if he didn’t remember them, it couldn’t have been for long. “I’m surprised Dad let you color your hair,” he remarked experimentally.

“I’m fourteen, dude!”

Sam allowed a short silence to pass, then delivered the decisive thrust. “He made you cut them out, didn’t he?”

“Took the trimmer to me himself,” Dean grumbled.


Chapter Text

The severed heart lay on the bench still throbbing and bleeding. Before Sam’s horrified eyes, it began to grow. Lifting itself upright, the quivering muscle continued to swell until the unnaturally engorged organ towered over him. Deep in the right ventricle a bloody gash appeared, bubbling and gurgling as it widened and curled into an oozing parody of a smirk. Then a mitral valve . . . winked.

The heart chuckled. “Be my Valentine?”

“GAAARRGGH!” Sam awoke, gasping for air.

“Wha’ up?” Dean murmured sleepily.

“Nothing. Just a dream.”

“Clowns or midgets?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

Dean grunted. “You’re too sensitive.”