This one is really, really short. And it doesn't really end, but I'd like to think you all come up with a conclusion on your own. This is what happens when I'm trying to keep myself awake, to tire myself out so that hopefully i'll sleep TOMMORROW night. hopefully. enjoy.

I do not own Supernatural... but i hope to one day... or at least i hope to own Dean... or maybe some wierd cross between Dean and Larry Fleinhardt... dear gods, i am a geek. hmmm.

It's that shit-eating grin again, the one that shines through when he knows something that I don't. It doesn't matter what it is; he knows it, I don't, and that is enough for that stupid-ass grin. There are only three instances in which that grin doesn't mean he pulled a fast one on me.

1. He has found the next hunt and it promises to be difficult.

2. He just pulled some random fact from the caverns of his mind that has magically solved the case.

3. There is a hot chick behind me that he's going to swoop down on… in other words, "Don't wait up Sammy".

This one, however, feels more like the time he dyed my hair blue. I'm still puzzled over that, I know for a fact he didn't bleach it first, and all the goth chicks I've known swear that's the only way to get dark hair any other color.

Of course, not only does he have to grin like that at me in the middle of a job, it also happens that I'm pinned to the wall… fifty feet above his head.

"Just hang'in around Sammy?"

"It's Sam, and get me DOWN DEAN!"

"I dunno, I'm kinda tempted to leave you there, you know? Teach you to be more aware of your surroundings," placing his thumbs in his jeans pockets he rocks back and forth on his worn down, "kick-ass" boots and gets that contemplative look in his eyes. He's wondering how much to charge for the freak show.

"If you don't get me down," I glare, he calls it pouting, "I will personally tell every girl for the next five states that you like watching horse porn."

"You wouldn't-"

"And that you've had some "close, personal" relationships with sheep," I'm completely serious.

"How the hell did you get stuck up there anyway?" he asks, frustrated in his hurried attempt to find a ladder.

The poltergeist flung me up the wall, and there used to be a heavy portrait up here. The fixture had never been taken down. My jacket is caught. But I'm not going to tell him that, he'll tell me I'm a wuss, that fifty feet isn't that much of a drop. Besides, I like this jacket. And watching him scramble around like an ant on acid is slightly hilarious. He's looking everywhere; I hear closet doors slamming, and his frustrated swearing. I think it finally fell into his brain that he can't leave this hick town without me.

I have his car keys.