#about spn fanfiction

[wendibird]

I haven't written a LOT of fanfic (or at least completed and posted) and some of it is shippy so I wouldn't actually want it made canon, but one in particular is gen and I think would make a good episode. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286014 "The Room of Revitalization" AKA For the love of Chuck can we PLEASE just let Sam have a freaking nap?! (Takes place in S14.)

By "my favorite fanfic" I mean fanfic that you like, but wasn't written by you.

[heliotrope155]

I do think it'd been hilarious to have a truth-serumed or spelled Dean around Cas, just start spilling his guts and flirting worse. But also genuinely think Cas would get so overwhelmed from going zero to eighty on this that he'd duct tape Dean's mouth shut after attempts to tell him to stop confessing romantic feelings kept failing. Final resort, Cas would whoosh away to some glacier and sit there until he'd collected himself.

[its-alittleobsessed]

Stop this is funny to me yall.

[youchangedmedestiel]

Friend: What are you doing right now?

Me: I have a lot of projects.

Friend: Oh so cool, what are those? New job, new business, new home, new relationship?

Me: Ok, I have a lot of SPN/Destiel projects.

[stridingathinline]

Nice! For me, I'm fairly convinced that one way Dean died (that wouldn't be shown on The CW) is jerking it to some cable porn and having a random heart attack. *LOL*

And my favorite au/trope/setting for Wincest... well there's several depending on my mood, but I love pre-series stuff as a setting, for tropes I'm a sucker for "fuck-or-die", and for AU's there was a particularly well-done Hunger Games one done that I really enjoyed reading. But honestly I'm willing to give a lot of au's a chance if they're done well and the characters come through.

For the Wincest Wednesday asks, 6 and 8?

Happy Wincest Wednesday!!

6. what's one way you think dean died in mystery spot that wasn't shown? hmmm.....it sounds so werid saying it but something that I'm pretty sure could have happened is Dean dying of a staph infection or something.

like say he gets a small cut or something but it leads to a staph infection even though sam cleaned it for him.

8.favorite au/trope/setting for wincest? Ooooh mpreg is always one of my favorites, I love domestic!chesters, late seasons post chuck where they're settled in domestic bliss. I love alpha!dean and omega!sam, I've been thinking a lot of fem!sam lately, I just love thinking of them in all sorts of situations.

[daisukekaza]

I love sub!Sam content, I do, but I also love the idea that Sam is actually an amazing dom. He's gentle, but he has all the control—something his real life usually lacks—he's commanding but not mean, he can see all the signs of his sub being on the edge of what's comfortable.

Similarly, Dean wants to let someone else be in charge, for someone to take the reigns and tell him what to do, to stop having to be the only leader. And once Sam finally leads him into the bedroom and shows him that he can fully trust himself to Sam's care? He practically falls into subspace. Peaceful, happy, cared for.

[tortured-poet-of-thursday]

“in every other universe” is cool, but what about “only in this one”?? what about “this is the only universe where it happens, that’s why it’s so precious and even more important. it’s not a product of fate, of circumstances, it’s us, just us and we made it happen. it’s rare and unique and beautiful and this universe will be the only one to witness it.”

what about it?

[plutoswritingplanet]

Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader)

a/n: again, no one asked for this, but i've been rewatching supernatural and there is something about season 5 Lucifer that just hits the spot for me. this one will be multiple chapters (i swear), a bit on the darker side. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (nothing too scandalous), Soulmates (but not really), follows season 5 storyline, Kinda Depressing, Strongly Inspired by "Preacher's Daughter" by Ethel Cain

Summary: Knowing God has an actual plan for you would be comforting for most people. You, however, seem to be always down on your luck.

PT.2

The foliage is damp with the night's air, water seeping into the fabric of your jeans, as you sit in the low bushes, watching. Smoke still fills your lungs, and grief still fills your heart, Jo and Ellen's faces etched just beneath your eyelids. Tears stain your cheeks, drying slowly on your skin, forming an uncomfortable crust. It's been such a long time since you've experienced loss such as this. One that rips something out of you and refuses to give it back. You must've grown too comfortable since Dean has been brought back, life needed to bring you back down. Your hands hurt from the tight grip you hold on a branch of a nearby tree, nerves locking you in place, as you watch Dean approach the Devil. Except, you're not there anymore. 

It's warm inside Bobby's home, and you've changed out of your past outfit, scattering it on the floor, never to be used again. Still, you can feel phantom moisture on your knees, elbows, on the palms of your hands. Coldness, like nothing you've ever experienced, seeps deep into your bones, taking root within you. No candle, no prayer, no ancient exorcism can cleanse you of the revelations you've seen tonight. Your head feels heavy, when you drop it onto the pillow, as if some weight is pressing you further down, through the comforter, through the bed and the wooden floor. Through all the layers of Earth, until you're right where you're supposed to be. 

It's unfortunate, you thought back then, compelled to reveal yourself from your hideout by one command you couldn't ignore, he looks just like any human. Tall and lean, with a little softness to his body. His clothes were unassuming as well, casual. As if he just took a stroll through the woods from a supermarket. No one told you the name of his vessel, who he was before he said yes, why did he do it. His eyes were ordinary as well. Blue and gray, aged, tired. Human.

It would've been so easy to pass him on the streets, not knowing. He could've been one of the patrons in the countless bars you've visited while on the hunt. Handsome, yes, with an aura of a beaten dog around him, that, in any other circumstances would've made him irresistable to you. You could never refuse a hopeless case, now you supposed you knew why. 

Sam made you tea. It sits untouched on your night stand, steam flowing in dancing ribbons into the ceiling. Somehow, you can't seem to force yourself to drink it, even if you know the intention behind it has been kind. You couldn't eat as well, the smell of cooking coming from Bobby's kitchen reminded you too much of the smell of smoke coming from the exploding hardware store. And his smell. 

Burning coals, cedar wood, jasmine, all of them were pleasant once. Now, you know they will always be stuck in your head with only one association. Lucifer. 

Even thinking of his name brings a wave of shivers running down your back, as you curl into yourself on the bed. Your fingers scratch at skin of your jaw, trying to regain some sense of autonomy. Still, you can feel a phantom of his icy touch, where he grabbed your face like his hands were meant for it. And in a way they were. At least, that's what he told you. 

The demons gathered around the mass grave didn't even react, as you ran out of your cover, pushed to reveal yourself by the sight of Dean's flying body. Because how else would he coax you out, if not through the hurt of your boys? In hindsight, you were glad Dean was unconscious for the most part of this ordeal. After the night's events, it was hard to look him in the eye, you didn't need him witnessing your downfall over your head as well. Sam tried to make his way over to you, feet sliding cautiously through the grass, but suddenly Lucifer's eyes were on you, and you could feel your fate get sealed then and there. 

He clasped his hands in front of him, pursing his lips as he took you in, cowering on the ground, trying hard to find Dean's pulse. 

- You boys brought me a gift - he mused, eyes crinkling with some strange emotion - You shouldn't have. 

One gesture later, you're up on your feet, limbs trembling as he abandoned his shovel in favor of making his way towards you. You're frozen, fear seizing you in a tight grip, and you can't seem to think straight, as you watch him approach. Last day on Earth, you muse, life flashing before your eyes, when he raises both his hands. And then he grips your face, gentle yet confident, and the world around you spins. He's cold, so cold it's unnatural. Your lips fall apart in a silent gasp. 

- Do you know who you are? - he asks in a quiet voice that suddenly makes you understand why he's temptation incarnate - Do you know why you were put on this Earth?

All you can do is stare, confusion creasing your eyebrows. His breath reaches your collarbones, as he lowers his head slightly. You can hear him chuckle to himself. The sound makes you shudder, fear and anticipation mix within your gut. 

- All those years of hunting, struggling... - your life seems so trivial, coming from his lips - It all lead you here, to me. Doesn't that sound lovely?

It doesn't. It most definitely doesn't. Tears of confusion prick at the corners of your eyes, your breathing quickens. Panic settles into your nerves like a paralyzing blanket. Because here stands a threat of magnitude you couldn't even dream of. The Satan, the Devil, Bible's biggest villain. And he knows something about you, that you cannot comprehend. 

- It's really quite pathetic, when you think about it - he muses, hands leaving your face in a flash, as he starts to pace in thought.

Swaying in your place, you risk looking at Sam, his confusion mirroring your own. Dean is still unconscious beside him. There's a thin smudge of blood running down his forehead, and you want to move so badly. You've spent years caring for these boys, being there for them, whenever they needed you. Yet, at this crucial moment all you can do, is stare in horror.  

- My Father's last ditched attempt - Lucifer turns to you with a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes - To give me my own special little bag of worms. To own, to care for, to change my mind. 

- What?

Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears. Lies. Those had to be lies. He's Satan after all, manipulation was his forte. Yes, that had to be it. Just another, messed up way at getting an upper hand over Sam. 

This time, you nearly scream when he advances towards you, his cold hands immediately finding purchase on your face, covering your jaw and your cheeks. He presses against your face so hard, you have to take a step back as he comes closer still. Sam's figure flashes out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you feel the rough surface of a tree bark digging into your back. 

- You - for the first time you can hear some tension in his voice, something more than cold indifference - You were made for me, Honey. Just like Sam is destined to be my vessel, you're destined to be by my side. To own, to care. - he repeats those words like a mantra, and you want to throw up at how genuine he sounds.

He smiles at your terror. Tears start to flow freely from your eyes, falling on his cold fingers, skipping down his arms in smudges. His hands start to move, a perversion of a caress, as he ruffles your hair. Your head bounces off the tree, and you try with all your might to free yourself out of his grip. Your limbs flail at your sides, and you crane your neck so far back, your muscles start to strain. He doesn't let go, pressing himself closer, one of his hands coming up to grip your hair. Your nails dig into his cotton shirt, as you push against his chest to no avail. 

- No - you whisper, your rejection falling flat against his unaffected stare - I'd never...

- See, but that's the best part - his sudden enthusiasm scares you deeper, than any passive stare ever could. - Unlike Sam...

You backpedal into the tree again, as he leans closer still. His cold breath mixes with your short, panicked ones, and your stomach churns, when he tilts his head in curiosity, as if he's experiencing this intimacy for the first time. And in a way, you suppose he is. Then, his eyes meet yours, gray captivates you, and you hold your breath on instinct.

- You don't have to say yes to me. 

You're not even allowed the decency of taking a gasp of air, when his lips press into yours. It feels beyond weird. He's unnaturally cold, and there is a sort of unpracticed sloppiness in the way he fights for your mouth to fit against each other. Reminding you of your first, inexperienced romances, he smashes your faces together until you feel both sets of your teeth through the flesh. Then, he pulls back just a smidgen, taking in your terrified face. Something flashes through his expression, and he sighs, leaning back towards you, stopping just short of your left ear. 

- Kiss me like you mean it, or I'll make Dean eat his intestines. 

He looks at you, just once, letting you know this is not a game. Your heart stops. 

Dean's unconscious body starts to move by the tree, and never in your life have you felt so helpless. So, when Lucifer unavoidably leans back down, you give him all you've got. Your body arches, hands come up to his hair, and you will yourself not to feel grossed out by the feeling of his cold tongue slipping past your teeth. It's a fight for survival, you remind yourself, as his hands move to your back, rubbing your skin like a horny teenager in a bathroom stall. The short supply of air you've been granted runs out quickly, and as pressure builds in your lungs, you start to push against the Archangel's chest. He doesn't register what you're doing, not at first, confusing your sudden unwillingness as some sort of late attempt at rebellion. That is, until you bang your fist against his shoulder, letting out a muffled scream. 

Finally, he detaches himself, hair even more disheveled than before. You take a heaving gasp of air, as you brace yourself against the tree, your vision swimming ever so slightly. Lucifer watches you, his body hunched over, as if he's observing some middle schooler's science project. There are new tears in your eyes, just waiting to fall. Your hair is disheveled and your lips are puffy from his unpracticed assaults. His right hand comes up to his face, and he bites on his index finger in thought. 

- You really are human - he muses to himself, and with every fiber of your being, you try to explode his head with your brain - That's no fun, you'll break so easily...

- Fuck you - your words make his eyebrows raise, and he straightens out with a flourish.

- Fuck you - he repeats, mocking your tone - Yeah, I probably will - you watch, disgusted, as he sends a wink towards Sam.

Then, he's back to his shovel, back to his mass grave, where he completes the ritual. 

You can't move, not really, even when Sam tugs on your shoulder. Your head runs empty, realization of your current predicament far from registered in your brain. You stay frozen in your spot, when Castiel arrives, taking the three of you back to Bobby's house. Only, when the Angel's hand pushes against your rib cage, only when you feel Enochian symbols burn into your bones, do you lift your gaze. Apologetic doesn't really cover the way Castiel looks at you, and the pity painted on his face drags you down more than any Devil could.  

Sam is the only one to truly understand, when you fall to the floor, shock, anger and dread spilling out of you like a broken faucet. He's the only one that truly knows how it feels to have your bodily autonomy stripped away by the literal Devil. How it feels to have a threat of such magnitude hanging over you, every day. Which is why, he's the one to lift you in his arms, and get you to the guest room, lead away by the concerned glances of the rest of the men. He's the one to make you tea, bring you fresh clothes. He opens the window when the smell of dinner makes you retch. And finally, he's the one to explain, what really happened back on that hill to the rest of the group.

From your fetal position on the bed you can hear Dean curse, throw something somewhere. All the ways he knows, how to show he cares. Despite everything, it makes you smile, face pressed to the pillow that smells like cigarette smoke and beer. You're doomed. There's nothing you can do against God's plan, and you can feel that thought take root in you like an invasive species ready to destroy every crop in it's path. Still, despite it all, a sense of security falls upon you like a decieving blanket. 

- What sort of a messed up game is this? - Dean screams somewhere in the house, you assume it's at Cass, the only one even remotely aware of your destiny. 

The idea, that God made you specifically to be Satan's personal therapist sounds far fetched at best, but given how the last couple of months have been going, you're more inclined to believe in the absolutely worst scenarios. You don't even need to hear Castiel's response. The sound of glass breaking is telling enough. Then, a door slamms somewhere, and the house falls into heavy silence.

You can't think. Can't allow yourself to fall apart more than you've had already. So, you focus on the sound of your own breathing, interlinked with your heartbeat. Steady, alive. Your eyelids are heavy, eyes burn with drying tears, so you close them and sigh. Exhaustion pinns you in place, sinking you into the blankets. Darkness welcomes you like a long lost friend.

Your boys will find a way, they always do. And Lucifer can't find you, not with the wards Castiel has put on you. You'll have to thank him i the morning, you think, and it's the last conscious thought you have, before slipping into sleep, shivering like an abandoned child. 

[faramirsonofgondor]

sometimes i want fix-it fics but sometimes i want break-it fics where everything gets worse and every good thing that happened in canon gets destroyed, obliterated, and decimated.

[ebenelephant]

in my sam-and-dean-fuck-during-stanford-era-thus-ruining-their-relationship-and-causing-them-not-to-talk-for-almost-twenty-years-in-which-time-dean-becomes-a-firefighter au, dean and bobby nash are really good friends. just, fyi.

[heliotrope155]

Dean teaching Cas to drive is good, but I need to know how many people understand my perspective on it. Because Dean would put his hand over Cas's on the shifter and squeeze Cas's fingers under the pretense of helping him drive stick, which he insists is very complicated.

[cursedconstellation]

I just had the absolutely diabolical thought-

After Cas died the last time, Dean just shut down. He wouldn't let Sam speak of him, he wouldn't let himself think of him, if he saw a man in a familiar trenchcoat, he'd just turn away. Any of Cas' belongings made it to an old shoe-box, stashed away so well it could only gather dust, intentionally forgotten. As far as Dean Winchester was concerned, Cas might have not existed at all.

Sam, of course, wouldn't leave it alone. Every once in a while he'd mention the angel fleetingly, only to be ignored. He tried being forward, cornering Dean and begging him to at least acknowledge a part of their life was missing. He tried being careful and gentle in his approach, trying to spot a hint of vulnerability in Dean, that momentary, blink-and-you-miss-it look in his eye when he'd hear his name. He tried to be casual, off-handedly say something to catch him off guard.

"Oh, I think this was Cas' favourite mug," off to the shoebox it went.

"Cas really liked this song," and coincidentally, he'd never hear it again.

"Cas would've loved that," and whatever 'that' was would never be mentioned again.

No matter what he said, as soon as Cas' name was uttered, Dean suddenly could not hear it. Even when it was left unspoken, as soon as it became clear who 'he' that Sam incessantly talked about was, it fell on deaf ears.

Months went by, and Sam would not give up, he'd never give up. However his attempts would become more sparse and he'd go weeks without even trying to say anything alluding to Cas. In fact, at a certain point, although he could not remember exactly when, he actively avoided the topic, just as Dean did. Some days he was too tired to confront the reality of his brother being severely unwell, and played into it, just to give himself a couple of days of false normalcy. Because Dean was 'fine'. He said so every time Sam dared to ask. So, some days Sam allowed everything to be just 'fine'.

It was one of those streaks, then. They'd have breakfast together and make a small talk, about anything and everything - as long as Cas wasn't mentioned. Dean would make a bad joke, and Sam would roll his eyes. They fell back into decades long routine, only occasionally broken by Sam, who would always end up coming back to the topic of the angel. He'd always try and catch Dean off-guard, even though he knew the outcome by heart by then. Dean would simply look away, the same, dark look over his eyes, and while he'd stand still, the same as before Sam said anything, he seemed miles away.

That day Sam didn't plan on saying anything. In fact, he himself forgot about it, caught in Dean's denial. It was truly easier that way, to just take Dean at face value, to ignore the fact everything he said, did, or perhaps even thought was a facade. The day itself wasn't remarkable in any way, either. It was as if the entire world adjusted to ignore the fact Cas ever existed in it.

They had their usual banter over breakfast, only to split up after finishing - Sam hid away with his laptop in hands, Dean would leave to work on Baby. In fact he worked on her so much, Sam wasn't sure there was anything left to improve. He never doubted that was in fact what Dean was doing, as he'd always hear banging and scraping of metal even through the walls. It was like that then, too. There was clanking, and music, and occasional roars of the engine. Yet-

At one point it stopped.

Sam only noticed it after a couple of minutes - the music still played, echoing through the bunker, but there was no other sound accompanying it. There was no delicate vibrations from tools being tossed onto the floor.

Perhaps it was his hunter instincts kicking in, or perhaps simple paranoia, but there was something unsettling about that silence.

Sam carefully put his computer away and followed the music up the stairs, listening in closely for any sound of distress, or even any sound at all, but Led Zeppelin blaring from the speaker drowned everything out. Once he reached the garage and the music barely sounded like any melody at all, with mild annoyance, he turned it off, for a moment relishing in the sudden silence.

Except- he heard heavy breathing, as if someone was gasping for air despite being locked in a place deprived of oxygen. It was loud, it was panicked, it was-

It was Dean. Dean, sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, tears streaming down his pale, clammy face. Before Sam could even move, Dean looked up at him, eyes wide and glistening, and he looked so terrified and helpless, for a moment it felt like he was just a scared kid, who saw something in the darkest corner of his room.

Between heavy, disorganised breaths, he managed to pant out,

"My ears keep ringing, and it sounds just like him."

[its-alittleobsessed]

Me rocking back and forth and twitching in a corner — is this good characterization? Have i made him too ooc? Would he say this? Is this good characterization? Is this good characterization? Is this

[luxurystark-jackson]

so first up. they made my boy sam into a tech support loser. i’m. wow. secondly they made dean like??? his superior??? his boss??? something like that???

third. THEY USE A GHOSTFACERS VIDEO TO SOLVE A CASE??? IN THIS AU??? WHILE THE GHOSTFACERS REFERENCE THE WINCHESTERS MULTIPLE TIMES??? alright.

dean smith. DEAN SMITH???

god i love this stupid show. so many things i could say about this episode and yet nothing is coming to the coherent sentence making part of my brain

[quietwingsinthesky]

hmmm. lucifer collaring fic for the night.

Sam puts a hand on Lucifer’s bare back, the space between his shoulderblades that’s alwqys a coinflip to whether Lucifer will relax into his touch or flinch. Tonight, he tenses, but he doesn’t retreat or lash out. That’s all Sam needs to allow that hand to slide up, making sure Lucifer can feel every inch it travels. He doesn’t want to surprise him.

Lucifer lets out a breath he’s been holding for far too long for human lungs as Sam curls his hand around his shoulder. He grips it gently, raising Lucifer back up from his hands and knees. Lucifer’s hands clench into fists, but his muscles tell a different story, no longer locked up tight but pliable beneath Sam’s hands. He pulls Lucifer to kneel back on his heels and soothes him once he’s settled, rubbing his hand up and down Lucifer’s arm until the angel breathes again. It’s only one cycle of air, an inhale and an exhale, but Sam slides his hand down to Lucifer’s ribs to feel it.

“Thank you,” Sam says. There’s a flood of praise he’s barely managing to hold back, but right now, he needs to pick his words carefully and sparingly. “You’re being so obedient for me right now. Thank you.” Lucifer huffs. Sam can’t help smiling.

He takes his time following the path back up Lucifer’s side, over his shoulder, to the crook of his neck. Lucifer inhales again sharply when Sam touches his throat, spine rigid as Sam leans forward. “Relax,” he presses the order into Lucifer’s skin between kisses to calm him down. Lucifer lets the breath back out in a hiss, trembling minutely as Sam’s hand rounds his throat. “I want you to do this.” He can feel Lucifer’s throat bob beneath his palm, and he thinks he could savor this for hours—the devil’s slow submission beneath his hand. “For me, Lucifer,” he emphasizes.

Lucifer swallows again. Sam kisses his shoulder. He presses closer, in case that’s what Lucifer needs, more skin against his.

Lucifer’s tension melts. He can’t hold onto it beneath the weight of Sam’s orders, the warmth of his body, the steady hand still holding his throat. Something has to give first, and between them, that something will always be Lucifer before it will ever be Sam.

“So obedient,” Sam repeats. Lucifer shivers under the words, and his lips part like he has an argument for that. Sam never hears it. He’s too busy gripping Lucifer’s jaw in his hand and tipping his head back. Not far, but enough to leave his throat exposed.

Finally, Sam can bring what he’s been holding in his other hand into play.

The collar he’s holding onto is heavy, supple leather. He presses it against Lucifer’s throat, holding his chin to keep Lucifer from moving away from it. He waits long enough to be sure Lucifer won’t, then releases him to fasten the collar with both hands. He spreads the band over Lucifer’s throat, wrapping the ends back as he waits, still and awaiting Sam’s instructions. Sam strokes the back of his neck with his thumb as he fastens the buckles around the back.

Closing the last buckle is like casting a spell over Lucifer. Whatever tension was left in him vanishes.

“Good boy,” Sam says, and now, Lucifer can accept it, purring under his praise as Sam holds onto the back of his collar. “My good boy. How’s that feel? Too tight?”

Predictably, Lucifer doesn’t answer, only leans back into Sam and shuts his eyes. Sam’s never sure what exactly it is that’s filling up Lucifer’s head when the collar clicks shut: safety and security, or trust in Sam’s orders and praise, or just sheer pleasure at his own ability to hold still long enough to be collared?

“I’m going to stand now,” Sam says. Lucifer whines in the back of his throat, but he’s quieted by Sam pressing the collar into his skin. “You stay down here. It’s where you belong right now, isn’t it?”

He lets go of Lucifer and watches the angel sway without Sam to steady him. It’s intoxicating to have this much power over him. Nothing else in the world makes Lucifer half as docile as allowing Sam to collar him, and Sam can’t help reaching out to pet his hair. Lucifer’s eyes tip up to meet his, soft and blank with bliss. “You’re perfect,” Sam says, scratching gently down Lucifer’s scalp as Lucifer sighs. “Beautiful pet angel… You’d do anything for me right now, wouldn’t you?”

He says that as if Lucifer wouldn’t do anything for him no matter what.

Lucifer nods. His upturned gaze is pure, simple adoration.

Sam knows Lucifer; all that love is true, is there every second of every day, but he’s also drowned in rage and hurt and exhaustion. Maybe that’s why he always lets Sam get the collar around his throat. He wants to be something that only needs to feel love again.

Lucifer shuffles forward on his knees. Sam doesn’t even have to guide him to rest his forehead on Sam’s hip. If he ever spoke when collared, Sam thinks Lucifer might have begun to pray to him.

“Get used to being on your knees,” Sam tells him. “I’m not taking that collar off for a long time.” Lucifer nuzzles into his hip, smiling easily.

[ananke-xiii]

I literally don't care about Dean teaching Jack how to drive&fish but I absolutely need a fic with Sam, Rowena and Cas going to meet the shaman Sergei who was recommended by none other than Ketch. Cas huffs and puffs about it for the whole drive, Rowena complains about Sam driving too slow and Sam thinks about driving them all into a cliff, the thought of dying Jack is the only thing keeping them all alive. What's even worse? The ride back home. With Sergei. Level of "I'd rather be in the pit of hell than in this car with you all" over nine thousand. It's, again, the thought of a dying Jack that keeps them all safe from eternal damnation because these people would otherwise Commit Crimes&Sacrileges.