OhSam Triple Play 2015!

[ohsam-mod.livejournal.com]

The comm hosted this little event a couple of years ago, and as November 2 is an auspicious day for our darling Sam, today would be the perfect time to revisit this challenge. Welcome to the Triple Play 2015!





BOOST THE SIGNAL

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And here's how we play!

Step One (mandatory): Write a three-part prompt.
1.) Pick a setting
2.) Pick an additional character or characters (Sam is assumed, naturally.)
3.) Pick an H/C scenario, with Sam as the focus. Other characters can share the misery, but Sam should get the brunt of it. That's how we roll. :D

You can make as many prompts as your little heart desires, one set per comment, but it would probably work best if kept simple. For instance: 1.) the Impala 2.) Dean 3.) a hangover, or 1.) autumn 2.) Rowena 3.) a curse.

Step Two (optional): Participants can choose to make visual art: create a drawing, painting, photomanip, or video based around an offered prompt set. All three points must be addressed. The art can be doodled or extravagantly detailed, artist’s choice. And, of course, Sam should be the primary focus of the h/c. Please reply with your art under the prompt you choose, and either put the art beneath a cut or supply a link to it, with appropriate header and warnings! (See "Posting Guidelines" in the left sidebar.) As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD.

Step Three (optional): Participants could also choose to write a ficlet, again with Sam as the primary victim of our dastardly h/c scenarios. (No minimum or maximum word count is required; just go where the muse takes you, as long or short as you'd like.) Again, please reply with your fic under the chosen prompt set, using the appropriate header and warnings. (See "Posting Guidelines" in the left sidebar.) As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD.

If more than one author or artist wants to work with the same prompt, have at it! The ideal goal is to make a Triple Play, where a prompt set gets both art and fic – the art potentially inspiring the fic or the fic inspiring the art. But no matter how it's sliced, we get lots of delicious Sammy h/c! Have all the fun … at Sam’s expense. ;)

The usual courtesies apply:
→ If you notice that your fic is not on the master list after a decent amount of time (say, three days), please poke us in a PM. We might have missed it.
→ Anon posting enabled.
→ NO SPOILERS FOR UNAIRED EPISODES.
→ Play nice - no flaming and no character bashing, period. Any comments that break this rule will be deleted without warning.
→ Feedback is catnip for writers. Leave some author-love!
→ No spam comments.
→ Contact one of the mods if you have a question.
→ Spread the Sam love - pimp this meme!



MASTERLIST

Sick City by fireheart13
1.) Las Vegas
2.) Dean
3.) Gall stones

Better Than Trick or Treat by septembers_coda
1. town of 200 people
2. john
3. parasite

What's in a Job by cherry916
1. the bunker
2. a service dog
3. PTSD

Hour of Darkness by amypond45
1. Squatting in an abandoned building.
2. Mary.
3. Fever dream.

Twist in the Wind by thursdaysisters
1.) the bottom of a ravine
2.) the ghost of Sarah Blake
3.) broken bones

Untitled by caranfindel
1. The bunker (maybe a newly discovered part?)
2. Dean
3. Impaled

It's Gotta Be a Hex by tarotgal
1. Crappy motel room
2. Dean and John
3. Strep throat

We Shall Gather at the River by crowroad3
1. Monument Valley
2. Dean
3. Staked out in the burning sun

Break No Bones by milly_gal
a) Bobby's panic room
b) Bobby and/or Dean
c) broken leg

What You Don't Know (Can Kill You) by center_galaxy
1. A foggy deserted road.
2. Jess
3. Car accident.

Bleed by hugglewolf
1) The Bunker
2) Cas
3) Sam wakes up wounded and weak from blood loss on the floor of the Bunker—with no memory of how he got there, how he got hurt, or where Dean is.

Tornado Warning by ameliacareful
1.) Setting: somewhere flat and Midwestern
2.) Other character: Dean
3.) H/C scenario: tornado related injuries

(Art) Untitled by cassiopeia7
1. pacific northwest
2. dean
3. drowning

West of Omaha by laughablelament
1) the lonesome highway
2) Dean & whoever's in the trunk
3) feverish magic-induced flashbacks

It's Gotta Be The Pie by tarotgal
1.) the bunker in the middle of the night
2.) Dean
3.) stomach flu

Stone Number One by caranfindel
1. Bobby's
2. Hallucifer
3. Psychotic episode that doesn't seem to want to end

(Art) Vatican Prison by amberdreams
1) Vatican jail cell
2) Dean
3) stigmata

It's Gotta Be At Least 200 Stairs by tarotgal
1. fire escape
2. Dean
3. permanent limp

Remember by soserendipity
1. A cornfield at night.
2. Dean.
3. Bleeding out.

Surf's Up by firesign10
1) The beach
2) Jess
3) Kelpie attack

Can We Call It Bob? by soserendipity
1. Hanging off the ledge of a bridge/tall building
2. Dean
3. Dislocation

Cor Unum by crowroad3
1) the bunker
2) Dean
3) heart condition

The Forest at Night by thursdaysisters
1) Car accident
2) John
3) Head Injury

I Can Move Forward Looking Back by hugglewolf
1) A hunt
2) A hunter (one we've met, or a new one)
3) PTSD

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream by center_galaxy
1.) Stanford
2.) Brady
3.) Chronic insomnia

The Definition of Insanity by center_galaxy
1. The Impala
2. Dean
3. Gunshot wound to the gut

In the Woodsman's Cottage by thursdaysisters
1.) Setting: a forest
2.) Other character: Bobby
3.) H/C scenario: bear trap

Shaken by cowboyguy
1. A laundromat
2. Dean
3. Trying to heal from a bad fight while trying to wash blood out of their clothes

It's Gotta Be a Plane This Time? by tarotgal
1) Airport security gate
2) Dean
3) bullet wound

Trapped by cowboyguy
1. tunnels
2. Dean
3. mutism/voice loss

Cold as Ice by indiachick
1.) Byberry Mental Hospital
2.) Dean
3.) botched lobotomy

The Source of All Sorrows by center_galaxy
1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) coma

Draconids by crowroad3
1.) High school
2.) EMTs
3.) Fever

Like a Rock by caranfindel
1.) middle of nowhere
2.) Baby
3.) dislocated shoulder

Dead River by crowroad3
1. Impala
2. The ghost of a loved one
3. Poisoned

Broken Memories by cherry916
1) motel room
2) Jody Mills
3) head injury/concussion

Hidden by hugglewolf
1. backwoods
2. castiel
3. buckshot

Empty Hearts by center_galaxy
1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) Panic attack

Unsettled by cowboyguy
1.) the bunker in the middle of the night
2.) Dean
3.) stomach flu

Splintered by themegalosaurus
1. THE BUNKER
2. DEMON!DEAN
3. HAMMER

Fingerprint by anonymous
1. Impala
2. Dean
3. touch starvation

It's Gotta Be Four in the Morning by tarotgal
1. Roadhouse
2. Ellen
3. Respiratory illness

Bitter and Sick by indiachick
1. Setting is author's choice
2. Dean
3. Forced/tricked into ingesting demon blood

words like glass by anonymous
1.) Camp Chitaqua, post-apocalypse
2.) Dean, Stoner Cas
3.) disfigurement, mutism

Feathers and Claws by themegalosaurus
1) Decrepit old building
2) A priest
3) Demonic possession

Maleficus by crowroad3
1. Field at night
2. Witch doctors
3. Blood-letting

Sup by hugglewolf
1) A grassy field at night
2) Castiel
3) Poison

It's Gotta Be a Damn Ghost by tarotgal
1. A busy bar in Stanford
2. Jess/Brady/Becky/Zach/Luis (any or all!)
3. Beaten up (bruises, bloody nose, scrapes, or maybe even a broken bottle to the head/body!)

Somewhere, Beyond the Sea by center_galaxy
1) Somewhere watery
2) Dean
3) Amnesia

Dis(connected) by center_galaxy
1) On the end of a phone
2) Bobby or Castiel
3) Blood loss, in and out of consciousness

It's Gotta Be a Day and a Half Now by tarotgal
1.) Singer Salvage scrap yard
2.) Bobby
3.) exhaustion

Placebo by anonymous
1) the woods
2) Dean
3) bitten by a snake

Hiss by cowboyguy
1) the woods
2) Dean
3) bitten by a snake

Across the clouds I see my shadow fly by caranfindel
1) Coffee shop or Diner
2) Employee of said establishment
3) Gun shot wound

Check It Out by themegalosaurus
1. MOL Bunker
2. Dean (and/or Charlie, Cas, or Kevin)
3. A curse involving plaid shirts or plaid in general (you're screwed, Sammy! Will they figure it out?)

The End of the World (and Back Again) by harrigan
1. A boathouse
2. Dean
3. Permanent physical disability (knee/hip/leg etc)

If Only by foolscapper
1. Hell, the cage
2. Castiel
3. hallucinations

Bitten (art) by foolscapper
1.) zombie infested suburbia
2.) Dean, Bobby
3.) bitten

Play It Again, Sam by caranfindel
1) A hospital
2) Dr Cara Roberts
3) Axe wound(s) to the upper body

The Mustard Seed by kettle_o_fish
1. Out on a case
2. Dean
3. Sam develops minor healing powers (not angel-level resurrection or demon killing, more like curing lesser illnesses, fixing broken bones, moderate wounds, etc). However, each time he helps someone, there's a drain on his own health/strength. Dean wonders if it's worth the toll it takes on Sam.

Comments

[madame-naan.livejournal.com]

1) the bunker
2) Dean
3) heart condition

FILLED: Cor Unum

[crowroad3.livejournal.com]

"Slow," Dean says, "slow."

There's bradycardia and there's bradycardia; there are skips and there are skips.

They're cross-legged, ouija-style, facing, fetches bracing across a circulatory highway.

The witch gave them one heart. Left them their hands.

"A little faster," Sam says. Black gnats in the peripherals. A high whine.

"Goddamnit," Dean says. Fingers brush Sam's wrists dust-chilly as the archive, where there's a book, where there's a spell.

The Bunker fills, rushes, rights itself, contracts.

Cor aut mors, Sam mutters, heart or death, choose, be chamber-to-chamber or none.

A word and a blood-flash splits them, aortic arch, rips left, carotid, subclavian--

it's his pulse, damn it, his to keep, stop, count, give---

"Sam!"

Their fingers spark apart; they gulp in the breath of the beholders, palms slapped flat to their own chests on their own arcs of their own circle.

"Witches,"Dean mutters.

It's always been theirs.

[madame-naan.livejournal.com]

1) motel room
2) Jody Mills
3) head injury/concussion

Filled: Broken Memories 1/2

[cherry916.livejournal.com]

"Sam Winchester! Of all the stupid, idiotic, things." Jody grumbled with worry. Sam was doing his best 'comatose patient' impression as he laid on the bed, the old bloody rag lying forgotten next to him.

Jody was busy digging through her first aid kit for a needle and some thread to sew the big gash up in Sam's skull.

"I come and see you two and then this happens." Jody shook her head remembering just a little over a day ago how they had all met up for some lunch and quality time. The boys came through South Dakota for a hunt but Jody knew that it was also a lot more. It was the anniversary of Bobby's death.

Just remembering the old fool and what they could have had tore Jody up inside. Sometimes it was difficult to sleep or eat. She had to admit that even seeing Sam and Dean again was painful. They had become like sons to her, much in the same way Bobby became their surrogate father.

Jody felt her eyes watering but quickly wiped it away. She had one son to deal with while the other was busy taking care of the body.

"I oughta kick Dean's hide for this hair brained scheme" She mumbled as her hands deftly threaded the needle. She has to admit that knowing how to sew someone up was not on her list of goals. However, she's still forever grateful at what she has learned thanks to Sam and Dean....and Bobby.

"De..."

Jody quickly turned around at Sam's faint whisper. He was now staring up at the ceiling, blinking sluggishly. Jody really wanted to take him to a hospital because she was always taught a concussion was not to mess with. However, Dean insisted to take him back to the motel room. Jody couldn't go against big brother's wishes even if she knew sometimes motherly instinct ran out.

"That boy's a mother, father, and brother if I ever did see such a thing."

Bobby's words rang out in her head like a faint caress. Jody shook the smile from her face and slowly walked over to Sam so not to spook him.

"Hey sweetie. How you feeling?" Jody lightly brushed his face and watched as Sam closed his eyes. He didn't reopen them for a while, Jody assumed that he maybe passed out again.

"B'by?"

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) The Cage
2) Michael
3) A break from the physical torture, but not the emotional torture

xxx

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) A hunt
2) A hunter (one we've met, or a new one)
3) PTSD

xxx

FILL: I Can Move Forward Looking Back (Teen) 1/2

[hugglewolf.livejournal.com]

(This somehow veered into Sam being an indirect victim of PTSD but I figured it'd tide you over until someone does a proper fill, hope you don't mind)

Bobby had vouched for the guy, and that had been enough.

Enough for Dean to, albeit grudgingly, hand his brother off to Penman even as he gave the other hunter a look that promised painful drawn out death if he didn’t look after him.

Enough for Sam to roll his eyes once he knew Dean was looking at him again, before he got into Penman’s SUV and they roared out of the scrap yard.

Bobby had fucking promised the guy was as straight down the centre as they came, so why Sam was now on his stomach, hands tied behind his back, he had no idea.

Penman was pacing backwards and forwards in the small cabin, fists pressing into his temples. “Can’t shut them out,” he groaned. “Shush, babies, I know, I know! Stop hurting them!”

Sam winced as Penman staggered, and one foot came dangerously close to tramping on his head.

“Tell me, Roy,” he soothed. “Tell me what you can hear. I promise you, man, there’s just us in here but if you talk to me….”

When the other man drew his gun and aimed it at Sam’s head, he wished he’d kept quiet. “You brought it here, didn’t you? Didn’t you? Else how did it know where I was?”

Before it was as if Penman had forgotten Sam was there. Now Sam had his sole attention.

“I swear,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I didn’t tell anybody. We came here to find the witch, remember? The one that made that guy drive the school bus off the bridge. That’s why we’re here. You remember Bobby sending us here?”

Penman’s hand shook a little which wasn’t comforting when it held a gun pointing at him, but his conviction that Sam was some kind of threat seeming to be wavering as well.

“Bobby. Yeah, I remember Bobby. He…he saved my life. He stopped it before it could get me too. You know Bobby?”

Sam knew it was too soon to be relieved. “Yeah. He’s kind of like my dad. He wouldn’t want you to hurt me, Roy. Why don’t you try to call him? He’ll vouch for me.”

Penman looked a little lost, like he had a million directions to choose from and no idea which was the safest route to pick. He pulled his cell from his pocket, and for a tantalising moment he transferred his focus from Sam to it.

Sam was tempted. It was risky, but he could sweep Penman’s legs and once he was on the floor, he could probably choke him out. But if Penman didn’t drop the gun, or got off a lucky shot, things would head even further south than they already were.

If Penman just phoned Bobby, Sam knew the older hunter could snap the guy out of whatever flashback or hallucination he was suffering, and then this would be over.

“How do I know,” Penman snarled suddenly, “that you haven’t got to him already? You tried that before with me, and I lost my family because of it. Lured us right out to a cabin like this, and you were there waiting and you massacred them. I haven’t forgotten it. No. No calling Bobby.”

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) Coffee shop or Diner
2) Employee of said establishment
3) Gun shot wound

xxx

Filled: Across the clouds I see my shadow fly (1/2)

[caranfindel.livejournal.com]

It all happens so fast. One minute she's flirting with the lone customer in the coffee shop, a cute tall guy who ordered a latte to go, and trying to figure out if he's reading her nametag or looking down her shirt. The next minute, a creepy guy with flat, dead eyes is standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at her.

Tall Guy immediately moves in front of her, positioning himself between her and Dead Eyes. "Drop the gun," he says calmly.

It's a robbery,she tries to say, just stand back and I'll open the register. But all that comes out is a squeaky "robbery."

Tall Guy and Dead Eyes both shake their heads. "I don't care about the money," Dead Eyes tells her, eerily calm. "All I wanna do is blow your head off."

"You don't want to do that," says Tall Guy, just as calmly.

"No, I do," says Dead Eyes. "I've always wanted to. And now I finally can."

"Okay," says Tall Guy. "But it's gonna be me, not her." He extends his arms, palms facing out, like he's trying to make himself bigger, more of a shield. "Carrie?" he says, without looking away from Dead Eyes. "Is there a back door in the kitchen?"

She nods, then realizes he can't see her. "Yes," she says, her throat almost too dry to make a sound.

"Get out of here," he says. "Go out the back door." But she can't move; she's frozen to the spot and she doesn't want to leave him. "Go," he barks, still maintaining eye contact with Dead Eyes. "Now."

Carrie scurries into the kitchen, even opens the back door and lets it slam shut, but she doesn't leave. She hides behind the walk-in and peeks around the corner. He saved her, he made himself a fucking human shield and saved her, and she can't abandon him.

"Look," Tall Guy says, quietly. "I know what's going on. I know what you're feeling. There's nothing stopping you now. All those inhibitions, that little voice that said don't, that's all gone. But you know what's gonna happen, don't you? Carrie probably already called the cops." (Oh, crap. She should have, she should have run outside and called the cops, and now she can't get to a phone without Dead Eyes seeing her.) "Is it really worth spending the rest of your life in jail just to scratch that one little itch?"

"You don't know jack shit about what I'm feeling," Dead Eyes moans. "It's not a fucking itch. It's all I want. It's all I can fucking think about!"

The gunshot is loud, so loud. Carrie covers her ears and shrieks, but Dead Eyes is still yelling and can't hear her. Tall Guy spins to the side and then slams against the wall, clutching his left arm. He stumbles a little but stays upright, leaning on the wall. "Okay," he says, and he really sounds a lot calmer than anyone in situation should be. "Got it out of your system now?"

Dead Eyes laughs and shoots again, this time hitting Tall Guy in the leg, and now he collapses to his knees. He's grabbing at his leg now, but down by his boot, lower than the gunshot wound. As Dead Eyes looms over him, pointing the gun at his forehead, she sees a flash of metal. Tall Guy whips a knife out of his boot and lunges at Dead Eyes. There's a scream and a gunshot and a lot more screaming, and Carrie realizes it's her. She clamps her hands over her mouth until she can stop, and then runs over to Tall Guy, who's sprawled on the floor with blood on his chest.

"Oh god," she says, pulling away his jacket. "Oh god, oh god." The wound is bleeding heavily, but it's a steady flow, not pulsing. She jumps when Tall Guy grabs her wrist.

"Go check on him," he gasps.

She glances over to Dead Eyes, who has a big-ass knife embedded in his chest and doesn't look like he's going anywhere. "He's dead, I think."

"Crap." Tall Guy says quietly, and yeah, that's an understatement. "Okay. I need you to get me a towel." She hurries into the kitchen, and glares at Dead Eyes' carcass on her way back out. "It's not his fault," Tall Guy says quietly, as she kneels next to him. "Can you fold that up and put pressure on the wound?"

"He fucking shot you," she mutters, putting the towel over his wound and pressing down gently. "How is it not his fault?"

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) Hospital
2) Local LEO
3) Coma

xxx

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) School (Pre-Series .. or not)
2) Teacher
3) Electrocution

xxx

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) Car accident
2) John
3) Head Injury

xxx

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) Library
2) Castiel
3) Broken leg

xxx

[ash48.livejournal.com]

I hope I'm not too late:

1. Campus
2. Dean
3. Hostage

[ash48.livejournal.com]

1. Motel
2. Jody
3. nightmare

[ladykorana.livejournal.com]

1. Roadhouse
2. Ellen
3. Respiratory illness

It's Gotta Be Four in the Morning part 1

[tarotgal]

It's Gotta Be Four in the Morning

Lightning illuminated the sky ahead just as thunder rumbled. From inside the Impala, it sounded like the thunder was all around them. Dean had the windshield wipers on full blast and kept flipping the headlights from regular to brights and back again, desperately hoping for some visibility in this terrible storm. Total concentration was needed to stay on the road, and Dean's knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. They didn't speak, not even about the storm or the road conditions or the possibility of pulling over somewhere until all of this blew past, because they both knew that wasn't a possibility. Even though Sam and Dean did not speak, it was hardly silent inside the car. There were the occasional bursts of thunder and the constant barrage of rain against the car. And there was also the sneezing.

“There it is,” Dean finally said, pressing down on the gas pedal. It was a little reckless, but he was desperate to get there.

“I still dond't thindg this is a good idea,” Sam said. Dean didn't say anything; Dean didn't even look over at him. But Sam could tell from his expression that he didn't want to have this argument a third time. So Sam just bunched Dean's bandanna up and buried his runny nose in it with some small sniffles and light coughs.

Dean pulled into parking lot of the Roadhouse, threw the Impala into park, and cut the ignition. “On your feet, Sammy.”

Sam coughed bu obeyed his brother, grabbing his bag from the backseat in the process. Despite his slightly longer stride, Sam had to double-time it to catch up with Dean. Before he could voice his uncertainty again, Dean tried the front door. Finding it locked “Dean?” Dean raised a fist “Dean?” and knocked loudly. “Dean...”

The door flew open and a shotgun was shoved right into Dean's face. “Whoa!” he stepped back, throwing his hands up. “Hey, Ellen, hey. Don't shoot. It's us.” Instinctively, he stepped to the side, in front of Sam, protecting his younger brother.

Rain pelted down upon them, drops running down their faces. Ellen lowered the gun and sighed, staring at them. “Winchesters.” Wet and pathetic, the boys stared back at her.“Of course it's Winchesters. What are you two doing here?”

“Told you we should have called ahead,” Sam said from behind Dean.

“Boys, it's gotta be four in the morning. What are you doing here?”

From behind Dean, Sam drew a sharp breath and sneezed, mostly smothering it into the now rain-soaked bandanna. Dean turned and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. He pulled Sam a few steps forward, as if presenting his little brother to Ellen. “We're hunting a pack of fledgling vampires. Shouldn't be a problem for us, except this one here has to go and get all sneezy on me.” He poked at Sam, who flinched.

“God, Deand, I cand't just sndeeze ond comband.” Sam rubbed the side of his hand at his nose.

“He's sneezy, trust me on that. It's one hell of a head cold,” Dean explained. “And all it takes is one sneeze for the vamps to wake up and be all over us.” Dean positioned himself behind Sam now and pushed him a step forward toward Ellen. “He needs a place to stay until he kicks this thing.”

Rain ran down their faces, dripping from their hair and clothes. Sam couldn't have looked more pathetic if he'd tried.

“hahhh-IHPTshxxxtttt!”

Correction: now he couldn't have looked any more pathetic. He snuffled and wiped his nose on the soggy bandanna before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

“Let me get this straight: you want me to take your obviously sick brother into my establishment, knowing I have to be up in four hours to put the coffee on?”

Dean gave her a part-sheepish, part-worried look. “Yes?”

[ladykorana.livejournal.com]

1. Setting is author's choice
2. Dean
3. Forced/tricked into ingesting demon blood

Filled: Bitter and Sick (1/3)

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

(A/N: I am pretty sure this is not what you had in mind, dear prompter. And I hope someone else fills this prompt with proper Sam h/c. But: while this fic is gen, it can be read as slight slash. Sam, demon!Dean. Somewhere between season 9 and 10. Inspired by the song "Bitter and Sick" by One Two.)

Sam’s vision is already coming apart in thready reds and pinks when Dean shows up. The barkeep smacks the counter thrice in quick succession: like Morse code, secret magic alphabet designed to set things rattling in Sam’s brain. He smells beer and blood and something darker in the stained wood against which he’s slumped; something terrible. He thinks he’ll throw up. His skin flushes with heat, he shivers with cold—it’s as if somebody’s thrust a finger in his brain and is swirling it around in there. His mouth still tastes like blood, but this time his own: somewhere between the last two vicious stabs of pain to his eyeballs, he’d bitten his tongue.

“I’ll take it from here,” says Dean. He’s got a big gun, a smile like the sun. His arm is strong under Sam’s good arm, his feet steady. Oh, Sammy, he says, bite-you-bloody fond. Sam can’t see a thing in front of him, let alone stand. He’s vaguely aware of felted tables and clinking bottles and sharp, inhuman laughter. String lights fizzle in his vision with auroral potency. The old jukebox in the corner’s playing something that’s mostly just unfettered warbling and screaming. Sam feels hands on him as they pass, hears whispers about the Devil and his Cage and his own tenancy there. A sweaty guy shoving rashers into his face calls out to Dean, friendly, his eyes black and bulging like a beetle.

Dean roughs him through the door. “How much did you drink anyway, Sammy?”

Dean’s voice is booming in his head; a proclamation; messianic thunder. Sam tries to shape words, but he just slurs something. And he isn’t sure of the answer anyway. One shot mixed with whiskey, before he started protesting. Before they tied him up. He’s not sure since then. It felt long—forever—he’s got the, the blood, all over his front and smeared into his face and tracking his skin like the glory marks of addiction. His throat burns from the pressure of fingers. Sometime in the recent past, the world began to do that trick of listing farther the more you tried to make it steady. Everything started to feel like being on a Tilt-a-Whirl: dizzying colours, fragmentary bliss, mostly horror.

“Dean, I—s-spat out m-more than I—”

“Oh, I’m the last person you need to justify this to, Sam, remember?”

One of the girls outside the bar reaching out to grab playfully at them has whipping wet green hair and teeth like a shark. Her smile is obscene; he meets her eyes and is disoriented for a second, sees vicious glimpses of flesh and tongue and blood—

This one likes to choke, he does, she sings. We like the ones who like it rough.

Her nails whip out to dig at his skin, but Dean’s too quick, and they’re stumbling down the steps now, squelching through the mud, the red of the roadhouse’s lights following them all the way to the Impala.

“Sloppy,” comments Dean, strapping Sam’s seatbelt on, tugging indifferently at the rope binding his arms together. “But also impressive. How did you find this place?”

“S-search The W-web,” Sam stutters out, teeth chattering now, the withdrawal truly setting in. He meets Dean’s gaze full on, doesn’t look away at that cheap demon parlour trick of black sliding away to green.

“What were you doing in there?”

Sam forces his voice into a semblance of calm. “Looking for you.”

Dean’s smile is wide as the Cheshire cat. “Well, you found me.”

“How—how did you find me?”

Dean grins, disconcertingly. “I always will, little brother,” he says. “Now. How about we make this less painful
for you?”

*****

[center-galaxy.livejournal.com]

1) Disneyland
2) Jess
3) Heat stroke

[center-galaxy.livejournal.com]

1) A grassy field at night
2) Castiel
3) Poison

FILL: Sup

[hugglewolf.livejournal.com]

This…

It’s the only way, he knows, but it takes everything he has not to just break and run.

But the old man is smiling at him and holding out the cup – it’s china, fragile and thin and there’s a crack up one side distorting the faded pattern, shouldn’t it be a chalice with a sharp rim that cuts at his mouth – and nodding encouragement at him.

Sam swallows, then he puts the cup to his mouth and swallows for real. And it’s dark and bitter and he wants to curse and spit in the old man’s face but he doesn’t. He can’t.

The cup falls from his fingers, empty, and the man tuts at him, but Sam can’t feel his fingers anymore. Or the rest of him.

He pitches over, lying on his side, watching as the old man gets up – withered and creaking – and moves to stand over him.

::

The only light is from the moon. It casts a wane glow over the high stalks that surround him, a makeshift hide that reduces his world to that small patch of sky he can see when the old man rolls him onto his back.

“Good boy,” he whispers. “Such a good boy. And I’ll keep my word, boy, you’ll see. You did for me, I’ll do for you.”

Cold gnarled fingers shove his T-shirt up, exposing his skin to the cold, and those same fingers ghost across him.

They’ll start to hurt in a minute, Sam knows – he can’t say he went into this blind. Every part, every detail was explained so thoroughly. A verbal contract, and he can’t back out now even though he wants to so bad.

He’s in, now. Has to see it through whether he wants to or not.

He doesn’t.

“Too late to change your mind, boy,” the old man says.

Sam realises that low whine is coming from himself.

“You want your brother to live, don’t you boy? Don’t want to let him down again, do you?”

No, Sam doesn’t and he won’t.

He tries to focus on the moon, bright and pale and the only impassive witness to what’s about to happen.

Then the old man’s fingers dally across Sam’s ribs and he jerks back like he’s been scalded.

“You’re marked!” he hisses. “You…. You little bastard, you’re protected!” He looks around wildly as if he expects something to fall on him at any moment.

Then there’s a pressure building around them and Sam knows that feeling.

Castiel’s there a moment later, and he glances down once at Sam before he hauls the old man to his feet by his neck.

“You’ll trade no more men to prolong your own life, Ezra. The punishment laid upon you by my brother was earned.”

“This?” Ezra shrieks. “A hundred years, like this? And you have the gall to chide me! I suppose you’ll kill me now for my sins.”

“Just for the ones you committed tonight,” Castiel says, and then he lets the dead man drop.

“Sam.” Castiel kneels next to him, and Sam wants so desperately to ask, to plead.

Dean, is he alright, did you find him? Is he safe? Please, Cas, please help me.

Hot tears form and break, and Cas pulls Sam into his arms. He holds him there, lets him cry it out, whispering words that bring relief and a sense of safety.

Dean’s fine, he’s in the car. Just rest and I’ll heal you.

I’m here.

[kettle-o-fish.livejournal.com]

1.) Camp Chitaqua, post-apocalypse
2.) Dean, Stoner Cas
3.) disfigurement, mutism

[quickreaver.livejournal.com]

HELLO, DARLING!!

[kettle-o-fish.livejournal.com]

1.) That grocery store from The Mist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mist_(film))
2.) Dean and/or Bobby, other survivors
3.) Appendicitis

[kettle-o-fish.livejournal.com]

1.) Byberry Mental Hospital (http://www.complex.com/pop-culture/2013/01/crazy-mental-asylums/byberry-mental-hospital)
2.) Dean
3.) botched lobotomy

Filled: Cold as Ice (1/3)

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

(O-kay. Not pretty. And I wanted to write Sam POV for this but Dean had other plans.)

The Pacifists that worked this hospital never mentioned the sun and moon wallpaper. Stars on the ceiling in the death-house—Orion there, the Pleiades here—quiet, unassuming pattern that was perhaps meant to be comforting. Superimpose the history the Winchesters have with ceilings and the chalked death outline would encompass the Auriga, Canis Major, Sirius as large as a burning heart. Where they first bled—gut-flower bloom—Draco and Pegasus, forever poised in fight.

Mother. Lover. Sam mumbles about both. He can’t remember Jessica’s name right now, keeps asking Dean why, but look up and the ceiling burns, he says. Look down and there’s Hell. Fire. We’ve been trapped in fire all our lives, Dean, but now we’re cold. A pause. And then Sam adds, worriedly, this can’t be real.

Dean can’t see him, can only feel him rattling the cot he’s strapped to, rattling Dean along with it. He hears Sam strain to look over the side of the cot, sees a few drops of blood hit the filthy hospital floor.

I’m right here, Dean says. You hang on.

There are ashes drifting down from the ceiling. It lands on Dean’s shoulders, his lap, his useless legs and arms, swanning like spider-thread. Sunlight diffuses in pink novae through holes in the architecture, and turns the ashes lilac. Dean wishes it were acid, which may eat through the shackles so he could get free. Instead, it collects. The ashes, and paint flakes, and cement chips, and petrified insects. It builds up around him. Around them both. This ruin.

Dean’s not sure what it is, who’s doing it.

They could suffocate. On the ashes, and the curled up spiders, and the frozen moths. They could suffocate on their own dry tongues, the dust powdering their mouths, the blood freezing in their veins. They could suffocate on the must and the thick disuse and that special haunted-space molecular heaviness that fattens the air in here. If the ghosts didn’t get to them first.

My head hurts, says Sam. Something’s wrong with my head.

Tiny voice; definite slur. Dean says nothing. He thinks he’s going to throw up if he tries.

(Is this real?)

***

There are three, according to Sam. Three ghosts.

Sam of the meticulous research into haunted asylums which in the end, don’t come of much use except in reinforcing already disturbing stories when the ghosts toss them around and steal their things.

The death-house is where they kept violent-delusional-suicidal types, Dean remembers him reading. Get this: once, this dude broke free of his restraints and jammed a spoon in another guy’s jugular.

Sam’s fingers kept straying to his palm, almost healed now. Maybe it was too soon for them to tackle a haunted asylum after Sam and his psychotic breaks, but Sam had found this case (Byberry Mental Hospital in Pennsylvania, and hell, even Dean knew this story, the place was the Alcatraz of asylums) and Dean didn’t know how to get out of it without implicating that Sam was not at his 100%. Which would just lead to a lot of Sam-angst. He’d rather just take haunted asylums over angst.

They’d looked at photos, taken by WW2 Pacifists who’d brought the hospital down. With naked men and patients strapped down to cold metal cots and a ridiculous count of trans-orbital lobotomies, the place was a downright horror story even before there ever was a whiff of a haunting. Foreboding, yes, but Dean had been flying on a cocktail of Sam-crazy and ancient tablets and Leviathans, and a classic wham-bam case sounded good right then.

They’d been doing well. Stake-out tent at the back, a whole lotta supplies, and sacks of rock-salt for too many ghosties. Sam found a mound of bones in an unnamed grave out the back before they’d even actually set foot inside the place. The snow was falling, and the fire in the grave had screamed normal, a return to the ordinary for them, loop-back to less-complicated times.

And then came the death-house.

[kettle-o-fish.livejournal.com]

1.) Hospital
2.) Charlie
3.) coma

Filled: The Source of All Sorrows (1/2)

[center-galaxy.livejournal.com]

“This is all my fault.”

The redhead sitting in the worn-out plastic chair is crying, her eyes red rimmed and puffy. She’s been crying for what might be a small eternity, ever since she got here. Teardrops roll down her cheeks and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away, it won’t do any good. Her tiny frame shakes as the sobs run through her. She can’t do this; she can’t lose someone else precious to her, not now, not so soon after letting go of her mother.

Sam’s in a coma and she’s responsible.

If she had only been paying attention, if she hadn’t looked away for just that second, then none of this would’ve happened. Sam would be joking with Dean and she’d been laughing along with them.

She deserves to be the one lying in that hospital bed. She’s the one that should be slipping away, not Sam.

“I’m so sorry.” She cries, but he doesn’t stir—he hasn’t stirred since the attack—and he shows no signs of waking up now.

Dean is out, looking for the witch that did this. Turns out LARP-ing was popular with witches, who knew? And one witch had gotten power hungry, wanted the throne for herself and she was just about to take Charlie out of commission when Sam had taken the blow for her. Dean had been right on his heels, chasing after the witch, leaving a shaken Charlie behind with Sam.

Sam hadn’t opened his eyes since.

“I’m going to save you.” She wipes a tear away and reaches down to her bag. Pulling out a small jar—it was really too easy to swipe some African Dream Root from the Impala; she’d have to talk to Dean about securing these items properly—she opens the lid and takes a drink of it. It’s bitter and acidic and it burns as she swallows it.

“This is probably a bad idea.” She whispers to Sam, a small grin alighting on her lips. “If Dean were, he’d try to stop me. Say things about how I shouldn’t risk it, blah blah blah.” She chuckles wetly, grabbing Sam’s hand and squeezing it within hers. “But I have to try.” She sobers, realizing that she’s playing with forces beyond her control. She’s never done this before and she has no idea if this will work or if she’ll end up trapped in a coma too.

“Hang on, Sam.”

She pulls out a syringe from her bag and presses the needle against her skin. She injects herself and within seconds, the sedative whisks her away to darkness.

To Sam.


It’s cold and dark and she is alone.

“Sam?” She calls, but her voice echoes, bounces off the walls.

There’s no response.

“Well, okay.” She runs a hand through her hair and tries to decide which direction to start moving in. Sam has to be here somewhere, she knows that, so she just needs to get a move on and find him.

Easy as that.

[kettle-o-fish.livejournal.com]

1.) zombie infested suburbia
2.) Dean, Bobby
3.) bitten

FILLED - BITTEN - Comic/Art! Warning for bite.

[foolscapper.livejournal.com]

WELL I WAS TRYING TO PUT IT UNDER A LJ CUT BUT IT WASN'T WORKING.

SOOOOO.

Click the pic below to see the full comic!

(http://foolscapper.tumblr.com/post/134261527479/quick-comic-prompt-for-the-oh-sam-triple-play)

[chellexxx.livejournal.com]

1) On the end of a phone
2) Bobby or Castiel
3) Blood loss, in and out of consciousness

xxx

Filled: Dis(connected)

[center-galaxy.livejournal.com]

Author's Note: Set early season 5, brief trigger warning for a mention of a suicide attempt. If that bothers you, do not read please!

Bobby's used to the phone ringing.

In his line of work, he must answer at least 20 different phone calls a day, redirecting hunters to their right destinations, fooling law enforcement for their own good, giving much needed advice and guidance. He's no stranger to being that reassuring voice on the other end of the line. He's seen too many hunters die due to lack of communication so if that means he has to be the one connection to the community, it's a cross he's willing to bear.

That doesn't mean he likes picking up the phone. At 2am (when most of his calls seem to come in) he wants nothing more than to sleep. But having hunters in different time zones all over the country (and sometimes the globe) causes him to lose more sleep than not. He's used to burning the midnight oil. It is one of the reasons he invested in one of those fancy gourmet coffee machines. In his line of work, he needs to be alert and ready to move at a moment's notice.

The phone rings at 2:31am, which a half an hour more than he'd been expecting. He forces his eyes open and gropes for the ringing device (it's labelled "Personal") and then places it to his ear.

"Hello?" His voice is slurred and thick with sleep.

"Bobby?"

He immediately sits up in bed. He recognizes that voice, knows it better than all the others, understands what every inflection means and instantly, Bobby knows he's in for a long night.

"Sam?"

Sam Winchester has only called once before after 2am and that had been in a drunken haze a year ago when his brother had been burning in Hell and Sam had thought it was a good idea to put a gun to his head. Bobby had been able to talk him down from the ledge last time, but it had been a terrifying close call.

He waits for Sam to speak again; he does not.

"Sam?" He tries again, more insistent. "What's wrong?"

Because with the Winchesters, there's always something wrong after 2am. Those boys just couldn't seem to stay out of trouble during the early hours of the morning.

". . . hurts, Bobby." Sam's voice slurs and ice settles into the gruff hunter's veins.

"Sam, what hurts?" He gets up from the bed, his joints protesting. He isn't as young as he used to be, a fact that his body will happily remind him about.

There's static for a moment on the other end of the line.

"Sam!"

"M'here." It's faint, but Bobby will take it. Boy must be somewhere with limited reception which narrowed it down to anywhere in the midwest, which isn't exactly helpful.

"Okay," Bobby breathes, trying to keep his racing heartbeat in check. Panicking will not help Sam. "Sam, are you okay?"

"There's a lot of blood, Bobby."

Shit.

Anything but that.

"You're hurt?" Bobby asks and then waits for a response.

There is none.

"Sam!" He barks, trying to keep the sheer fear out of his voice. "Sam, what happened? Where's Dean?"

Nothing but static.

"Balls." He swears, under his breath. He's gripping the phone much too tightly and he forces himself to breathe and let go ever so slightly.

"Bobby, you there?" Sam's voice is fainter now, barely above a whisper.

"I'm here, Sam." He repeats quickly. "Sam, son, listen to me, I need to know where you are."

He can't help the youngest Winchester if he doesn't have a location to go to.

"I don't . . . His voice is much too breathy, his words slurring, their syllables colliding.

"Sam?"

No response.

"Sam!"

Still nothing.

"Sam, c'mon," He pleads. "Talk to me!"

"Bobby? . . . I hit m'head."

Shit, shit, fucking shit.

"Sam, son!" He shouts, hoping to cut through the fog of pain that must be clouding Sam's mind. "Where are you? A location, now!"

There's no answer for the longest while.

"M'sorry, Bobby."

"Sam, no, you don't have to apologize--"

"Tell, Dean, m'sorry . . .

"Sam, where are you? C'mon, tell me--!"

There's static.

"Sam?"

More static. Then, a chirpy mechanical voice chimes,

"The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please check the number and then dial again. Thank you!

And then the line goes dead.

[madebyme-x.livejournal.com]

1. Hospital
2. Imaginary Dean or John
3. High as a kite on pain killers

[(Anonymous)]

1) Silent Hill
2) Castiel
3) Something's dragging him away

[cowboyguy.livejournal.com]

1.) High school
2.) EMTs
3.) Fever

FILLED: Draconids

[crowroad3.livejournal.com]

A star tumbles over the soccer fields and Dean's late, late--

Sam hacks into a fist, trips, rights, cuts left along the perimeter in the early dark.

Set fire to the stairs. Count out the field-pace and salt it. Set it on fire.

The goalie's ghost goes up and sparks shower the sideline and Sam--

cuts right, sprints, for where blood's making a puddle between the posts.

"God, "Jessica Kent gasps, "what --"

"Just--" whip off the coat, lean and press, stop the flow-- "don't move, it's gonna be--"

Sam leans, presses, phone-flips left-handed, dials.

*

The EMT's fall on their knees, Ponytailed; Widow's-peaked.

"Femoral," Sam spits, "laceration. Fell on a--" Sweat slips down his spine.

"Saw something on fire and heard her screaming and--" words sucked into a gust, choked off.

"Slowed the bleeding," Ponytail says, "good job."

A flare of static. Jessica's moan. They lift. Sam hacks into his bloody jacket.

"Better get that looked at, man," Peak says, spins quick for the bus. Strobing lights.

They spirit her up, away, leave Sam wet-kneed next to the bloodpool under the crystal-cut, high-hunkered dark,ghostless under the Hunter, Draco snaking though. Field-smolder at Shiloh High, Home of the Devils! Engine 2, incoming.

Dean's hand lands, sudden, and Sam's spirited too, shotgunward, lolling head-to-glass while his ghost-faced brother rearviews the burn.

"Sammy you're--" something blares from the deck, gets turned down, something with fire, "--an idiot."

Next he knows he's got the best bed, olive-curtain'd walkup and beam on the pane and Dean on the bed hipside holding to his face something froze; whiff of whiskey, faint promise of father.

"That was solo, dude, with a 103-degree fever."

Hear Dean's grin; that's it that's it. No flame on the ceiling, just stars.

Dean shifts the sheet, makes him drink, tells him sleep.

Later he'll remember; hells and years and angels tumbling he'll remember, plain, just this bed, the salt and the siren-wail, the ghost and the girl, sparks; his brother with a glass.

[cowboyguy.livejournal.com]

1.) the Bunker kitchen
2.) Dean
3.) a burn or other cooking mishap

[cowboyguy.livejournal.com]

1.) middle of nowhere
2.) Baby
3.) dislocated shoulder

(Impala POV, perhaps?)

Filled: Like a Rock

[caranfindel.livejournal.com]

(You had me at Impala POV. Sorry it's so short.)

Something feels different. Something's wrong.

Sam's in the driver's seat, but that's not different. Not different enough to be weird, anyway. No, the weirdness is the way he's driving. It's not unusual for him to grunt in pain when he slides behind the wheel, or to need a minute to steady his breathing before he puts the key in her ignition. But the way he's leaning over to reach the ignition with his left hand, struggling with the key, stopping to put the keys down on the seat and wipe blood away from his eyes, again with his left hand. That's different. The way he finally gets the engine started and collapses across the seat, suddenly crying out in pain when he lands on his right arm, then pulls himself up and reaches over to the gearshift with his left arm. That's different.

But the most uncomfortable thing, the thing that screams wrong to her, is that he's by himself, that no one is stitching him up or cleaning the blood off his face or just saying it's gonna be okay, and that's not how it's supposed to be. She doesn't like it. (She remembers a long stretch of it. She doesn't like it at all.)

He takes her on a long slow loop through the empty cornfield instead of backing out onto the gravel road, and given his difficulty with the gearshift, she's not going to complain about off-roading. (She wouldn't complain anyway. She'd do anything for him.)

As he points her toward the highway, she feels his hand trembling on her wheel, his foot unsteady on her pedals. She gradually moves a vent so it blows cool air on his pale, sweaty forehead. Outside air, not the A/C, because she's low on fuel and she doesn't think he's noticed. He wipes his face again and then scrubs his bloody hand on his jeans, but there's still enough blood for her to feel it, slick and then sticky on the wheel.

When his phone rings, he pats his left pocket and groans in defeat. He tries to reach into his right pocket with his left hand, but her steering wheel is in the way. (She's so sorry.) He pulls to the side of the road and she slows down as quickly and gently as she can. He barely gets her into park, but she gives the gearshift the extra little nudge it needs as he slowly opens the door. He hauls himself out and leans wearily against her as he retrieves his phone. She can tell he's speaking to Dean, and her uneasiness fades a little, because wherever they're going, Dean will be able to take care of him. (She does all she can, but there's only so much.)

He slides back into his seat and awkwardly puts her in drive again, and she wishes she could do this for him. Wishes she could just deposit him safely somewhere, without any effort on his part. His breathing sounds shallow and pained, and his eyes are getting glassy. She feels his hand slipping off the wheel, and she subtly veers toward a pothole. He cries out in pain again, but he's awake and alert.

They're finally back in town and stopped at a traffic light when he notices her gas gauge. Oh, fuck me, he mutters. He places his hand, large, warm, and gentle, on her dash. Please, he says. Please get me back to the hotel. (He doesn't need to worry. She'll take care of him.) She makes the necessary adjustments. Dean would be disappointed in the lack of power, but right now, Dean's enjoyment is not her priority. She's got to get Sam home.

When they pull to a stop at the motel, he gasps in pain as he reaches over to turn her off, then lays his head back against the seat for a minute. Just before she starts to worry, he groans, sits up, and pats her dash. Thanks, he says. She watches him pull himself out of the seat and stumble into the motel room, clutching his right arm against his chest.

(You're welcome, my boy.)