Writer's Block Part 4,598,234.
I'm slowly coming out of it. SLOWLY. So slowly, the word should have a period after every letter.
HOLY GOD YOU GUYS. The AMULET PORN. That has KILLED ME DEAD.
lyra_wing: All Is Bright
There are not enough fluffly white bunny rabbits and strings of lights and tequila to bring forth the amount of awesome that this is. I broke my squee valve.
AND THIS ONE.
The first time I felt like, yeah, Sam is convinced. And guilty. And lonely. And intensely in love.
nutkin: Ficlet? Fic? Something?
The night before last, I dreamed that Bobby knew how to play the piano. That the boys walked in all punked up and bleeding from a bad hunt and there was Ellen sitting with their back to them at the table with a whiskey bottle and two shot glasses, watching Bobby delicately piece out Chopin's Concerto #2 Larghetto in E minor. And they just stood there on the rug, arms holding each other up, dripping water and blood and staring, because nobody heard them come in until Sam broke the sound barrier and said he might have to hurl. And after they get stitched up (thanks Bobby) and Sam didn't hurl after all, and cleaned up so they didn't smell like they just fell into a swamp (oh comon, it was a lake) and gingerly step into warm, dry longjohns and heap on enough blankets to suffocate a polar bear, they steal the whiskey bottle and camp out in front of the fireplace until almost 3 in the morning, killing the muscle aches and the numbness in their fingers, because it's farking freezing outside, the stacks of cars look like towers of ice, and the heater fan in the Impala had cut out again, and hey Dean remember that time when Dad wanted Bobby to teach us how to play? Yeah, I can still kill at Chopsticks...
It was a good dream.
*goes to watch BAUBS again...*