#it-always-escalates

Too Much Time on My Hands: My character is bored and passes the time with yours.

“Ohhhh you are so dead.”

Giving Sam an innocent smile, Jo decided to try an old standby.  ”Whoops?  I tripped?”

Sam was trying unsuccessfully to get egg out of his hair, but paused to scowl at Jo.  ”Uh huh.  Tripped, my ass.”

Jo brandished the wooden spoon she was holding as Sam started towards her.  "Nuh uh.  Don't even think about it.  I will use this, swear to God."

Snorting, Sam walked past her to scrape the mess of yolky egg shells off his head and into the trash.  "Sure.  Maybe this time try using it on the batter, not for balancing eggs."

"Spoilsport," Jo muttered.  "You're lucky I like you, Winchester."

"I feel so lucky right now."

Beach: I’ll write a drabble of our characters at the beach together.

Sif found the modern peoples of Midgard a bit confusing.  She'd learned English centuries ago, but hadn't completely understood that often words change meaning or mean different things depending on which region you are from.  That is how she found herself in her current predicament.  The Allfather wanted her to watch over Sam Winchester and Sif decided that this mortal was worth the effort.  When he mentioned going to a beach Sif agreed and prepared for a day at the beach.  She found when she got there that her net and outfit made of white dragon leather along with her fur trimmed long coat were not attire for Sam's idea of a beach.

Sif looked over the crowd of barely dressed people relaxing on towels or strange furniture.  They seemed to be covered in an oily substance.  The sun blazed overhead and the sand was strange.  She frowned and looked at Sam.  "This is what you meant by a beach?  What were you planning on spending the time doing?"

Sam scratched his head in discomfort.  "Um, well, usually beach volleyball, sun bathing or swimming.  What do you usually do at the beach?"

"Usually fishing.  When we have a large enough catch, we build a fire and cook the fish.  We pass mead around while we eat and tell stories," Sif said looking at the beach crowd.

Sam considered it for a moment.  "That sounds like fun."  He looked down at himself.  "I'll probably want warmer clothes.  Do you have a spare rod for fishing?"

Sam Winchester liked dogs.

This was not a difficult thing to find out. It barely took a week, and then there was only to implement the plan.

When Dean opened the door to their hotel room, there was nothing there. He blinked, leaned forward to glance out to either side, and shrieked when something sniffed at his ankles. Sam immediately dove for the gun, but panic spiked when the invisible thing smashed into him and pinned him down with its paws.

Sam turned his head to the side, screwing his eyes shut and waiting for the teeth to descend. Instead, a rough tongue slapped sloppily against his cheek.

"Eurgh!" he groaned, opening his eyes again. Dean had found his feet again and was leveling his gun. "Wait," Sam mumbled, noticing a card hanging in midair by his shoulder. "There's something here."

He grabbed it, maneuvering enough that he could see the writing without dislocating his shoulders, and read it aloud.

Dear Sam, it said, It has come to my attention that you two are quite dreadfully vulnerable to all sorts of attacks. I can't be having this, and as such have sent you a present. You may name him (or her, hellhounds are funny that way) whatever you like.

Regards, Lucifer.

It had been one of those "anything that can go wrong will go wrong" sorts of hunts.  The only saving grace was that neither of them was badly hurt, but Jo was favoring her right ankle as they trudged back to the car in the rain, and from the careful way Sam was moving, she was guessing he had a couple cracked ribs in addition to the collection of bruises and scrapes they were both sporting.  The way it was pouring down rain, she wouldn't be surprised if they both added hypothermia to their list of complaints before they got back to the road.

Fuck England, with specific emphasis on its weather, and fuck creepy little kid ghosts that drag people out in it.

Sam huffed out a soft laugh, and Jo realized that she was tired enough to have said that out loud.  "And add Dean to that list too, for sending us out in this while he gets his 'touched by an angel' time," she added vindictively, as the rental car finally came into sight.  From the epic dark look on Sam's face, she was guessing he agreed with her.

The rental (oh, no, they couldn't have taken Dean's precious Impala, might have gotten mud on the seats, and breaking into a car was a bad plan when they couldn't just duck out of town two steps ahead of the cops) was one of those dinky clown cars, and Sam looked ridiculous squeezed into the driver's seat.  Jo curled into a tight ball in the passenger's seat, shaking, waiting for the hot air blasting out of the vents to sink into her bones.  They didn't leave yet, just sat there on the side of the road, enjoying the peace and warmth.

Sam was the one that finally broke the silence, when Jo was almost warm and thinking about falling asleep.  "So, Dean.  I'm thinking we make friends with some witches, get a little payback.  Thoughts?"

"You know, for someone with long legs, you need some work on the running," the TARDIS remarked breathlessly as she skidded around a corner after Sam.  She had jumped on the opportunity to have someone who didn't seem to think she needed looking after take her down into the sewers to observe the Weevils Jack had told her about.  Sam seemed much more agreeable when it came to taking her into dangerous situations.

As it turned out, Weevils weren't particularly amenable to being studied, even from a distance.

They'd nearly reached the ladder, and the TARDIS had taken the lead, but the Weevils were gaining, probably because they knew the sewers better than a time machine and an American hunter.

The TARDIS surveyed their situation -- had to get up a narrow ladder, things that wanted to eat them almost there, with a hunter who would most likely kill them if they got too close.  This might not have been one of her finer decisions.  "You go up first," she called to Sam, leaving no room for argument.  "I will stop them."

"How are you-"  The TARDIS tuned him out, turning to press her hands against the wall.  She could have done something flashy, like trying to slow time down, but there was a much easier solution.  Aging the wall of the sewer was, comparatively speaking, quite easy.  After a few seconds, the wall a few feet ahead of them collapsed with a solid thud, cutting off the approaching Weevils.

"Oh, you are so dead!"

The shout was loud enough to be audible inside the Roadhouse, even over the pounding of the rain on the roof.  A moment later, a soaking-wet Sam Winchester came dashing through the door.  "You didn't see me, I wasn't here," he gasped at the bar at large, before bolting for the back room.

Jo pelted into the room, the battered remains of an umbrella in one hand, looking half-drowned and covered in mud from the waist down.  "Sam, you ass, get back here so I can beat you!"  A muffled snort came from the back room, and Jo took off without hesitation.  A window scraped open, followed by the soft thud of someone climbing out of it.  Jo darted back through the bar and out the door.  There was another thud, and a distinctly un-manly yelp.

I’ve been fooled beforeWouldn’t like to get my love caughtIn the slammin’ doorAre you more than hot for meOr am I a page in your history-bookI don’t mean to make demandsBut the word and the deed go hand in handHow about some information—please

Jo never had boyfriends in high school. Oh, there had been boys, and they’d been friendly, but not in the sort of way that would lead to flowers and dates and coming home with her to meet her mother.  Ellen Harvelle was the sort of mother who tended to scare nice guys away, and Jo didn’t want to know what would happen to a less-than-nice guy if her momma decided he wasn’t good enough for her baby.

She didn’t remember (had forgotten on purpose) his name.  He had been a physics major, exactly the sort of nice guy her mother would have scared away without really trying, the sort of guy who wore ugly sweaters while he sat in the campus coffee shop scribbling out circuit diagrams with a cup of something over-caffeinated going cold in front of him.  In short, he had been disgustingly normal, and Jo had been a little bit in love with him.  She thought it was probably his smile — warm and a little crooked and not the sort of thing she ever expected to fall for because it wasn’t the sort of smile her bad-boy athlete boytoys had.

She was the one who dumped him, a week before Thanksgiving break and an hour after her knife collection got her kicked out of the dorms because her roommate was a bitch and had told their RA where to find it.  Not because she thought he wouldn't be okay with her freakishness.  Not even because she was afraid of bringing him home to meet her mother.  Because he liked the fact that she was weird, and if there was any guy who could manage to charm Ellen Harvelle it was this one. But she was pretty sure he was her Prince Charming (someone she'd always secretly believed in because if all the bad old stories were true maybe some of the good ones were too), and she had no illusions about what happened to Prince Charming at the end of the story. He fell in love with the princess, and they lived happily ever after for a little while, but then he died, cold and alone and scared and far away from his princess.

The end.

Trauma: Break a bone, or many if need be, or injure my character.

Jim had been rather interested on going on a hunt with Sam. Dean had protested that Jim was in over his head and that this would be more intense than anything Jim had ever done. Jim insisted that it was the best way for him to learn about the supernatural and how to protect himself from it. Besides, if something decided to come after him, he wouldn't always have either one of them around to help him.

Dean had done a lot of grumbling, but Sam had agreed to help Jim understand. That was how Jim found himself in a haunted house carrying around a shotgun full of rock salt rounds and preparing to face down a ghost. 

Sam had informed him that they would need to salt and burn the remains, which had been placed in the basement. All they needed to do was find them before the ghost killed them. Great. Wonderful.

Why did Jim feel like these boys survived on blind luck? Normally, he would have suggested burning the house down. That would have destroyed the place of the haunting and exposed the basement. It was old and abandoned anyhow, so any fire would be assumed to have been started by teenagers that were looking for a private place to smoke and drink while avoiding their parents' wrath. With the majority of the house gone, the basement would be exposed and salting and burning would be a rather simply walk by process. 

No such plan seemed to cross anywhere near either of the brothers' minds.

That's how Jim found himself walking around the haunted house and trying to find the door to the basement. He gripped the shotgun a bit tighter, trying to act nervous. Haunted houses had never been particularly terrifying to him. Even knowing that there was a ghost here that killed people didn't really make it all that much more worrisome. 

"Alright, just stay quiet and stay low," Sam said as he opened the door to the basement. He lit his way down the staircase before he quietly made his way down each protesting step. 

Jim suppressed a sigh as he followed Sam down the stairs. 

And the he failed to suppress a yelp as something grabbed his ankle and sent him tumbling into Sam and down the stairs.

"Well," Jim told Sam as they untangled themselves, "I think she knows we're here."

The scream that followed Jim statement only confirmed that. He got to his feet first, but this only seemed to make him the prime target. He found himself flying through the air right before he crashed into a nice stone wall. 

He heard Sam's shotgun go off and the ghost screamed as it vanished.

"We have a moment!" Sam shouted. "We need to find the remains!"

"One step ahead of you," Jim quipped. When he had slide down from the wall, he had landed on a rather brittle wooden surface and now found himself cuddling with a corpse. 

Sam rushed over and grabbed Jim's arm to help him out of the casket. He pulled his arm to help him up and Jim gave a yelp of pain in protest. "I think she broke my ribs..." Normally, he would just toughed out such injury, but he was a computer nerd at the moment and therefore not accustomed to such pains.

Sam helped to roll Jim out of the casket, despite his pathetic whimpers of protest. With Jim safely out of the way, Sam dumped salt on the bones. Before he could drop his lighter into the casket, it was his turn to be thrown across the basement and into a heap. 

Jim, however, was able to get to his knees, light his own lighter and dump it onto the remains. He sat back as the fire caught and the casket burned merrily.

He sat back against the wall and breathed gently. He had two broken ribs and he was covered in dirt, dust and remains. This is why he hated leg work.