A/N: This was written in an effort to fend off writer's block, so there's really no plot. Some might even call it crack-ish. Or a fatigue-induced hallucination. You have been warned. Liz is an OC of mine and Paxton is her hometown.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or anything vaguely related to it. They're Kripke's characters, I just borrow them.

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"You realize you've been sitting there for about five minutes now, don't you?"

The question breaks the daze I'd drifted into. Ripping the headphones from my ears—I can never really concentrate when music is on, anyway—I turn in the too-stiff desk chair. She's sitting there in the blue fold-up lounge chair, her legs propped on the footstool and her hands folded behind her head. She smirks and says, "Trying to come up with an idea?"

I sigh and turn back in the chair. She hasn't been much help with writing her own story and now she's trying to mess with me? I don't think so. "Liz, what do you want?" I ask. I try to reposition myself, but the chair's arms are way too high to allow for anything but sitting with both feet on the ground.

She furrows her brow, but maintains that casual, cocky air of hers. "Just popping in to say hi. Haven't seen you write anything in a while. I wanted to make sure you hadn't completely abandoned Paxton." She's trying to come off as nonchalant, but there's a distinct note of worry in her voice. On any other occasion I would've taken complete advantage of this, messed with her head a little, but not tonight. I have an ungodly amount of reading to do for my morning class and no motivation to do it and it's already a quarter to midnight.

"Not now," is all I say. I set my glasses on the desk beside the laptop and rub my eyes. They burned from fatigue and staring at my computer screen all day. While they're closed I can hear Liz shifting in the seat to my right. When I look up, she's perched on the edge of the seat, tense.

"You haven't forgotten about us." I can't tell if it's a question or a statement and smart money says that she can't, either. I replace my glasses and sit up straight, working a kink out of my back.

"No," I say dully, "I haven't forgotten. You really think I'd be able to? You lot were all I wrote about for what, a year? More?"

Liz shifts a bit in her seat. "That was two years ago," she says quietly—more quietly than I would've expected from her, "You barely wrote anything last school year, and this past summer—"

She's going there? I snap out, "Yeah, well, this summer wasn't exactly a freaking picnic for me, either," right as she says, "—was taken up by more important things."

There's a silence. I roll my shoulders and stare at the laptop screen, the sudden flare of anger still flowing over me. In my peripheral vision, I see Liz look away, head down.

I want to yell at her, say things, scream—but I can't. I know full well that Liz Alexander doesn't often let her guard down like this. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for chewing her out right now, and I don't think she would, either. And it's not as if my writer's block is remotely her fault. What was the quote about writer's block being half laziness and half something else?

I rake my hand down my face and heave a heavy sigh, swallowing my anger. I'm angry at my situation, not at her.

"I'm sorry," I say finally. I turn to face her again. "I…" I look to her, but she's giving a small smile, one hand up.

"No chick-flick moments," Liz says, smirking a little.

I can't help but chuckle, the tension flowing out of me. I wince, smiling. "Too much Supernatural?"

"No, I don't think that's the problem," Liz says, settling onto the footstool. "Too much Dean thinking, maybe. And you never even really wrote him, you just posted on Twitter a few times."

"Yeah," Dean says, perched on the window ledge to my left. "What's that about? You write a post or two, finally get the hang of the voice and let me take over and then you just stop?"

"Now you know how I feel," Liz chimes in.

I sigh, more lightly this time. I turn back to the laptop and open Word.

Nodding to Dean, I say, "You know I didn't want to. I've had a crap summer and things are just starting to even out. You want me to write you and Sam? Give me a storyline—a shred of plot—and we'll go from there." Before he can turn that scowl into a verbal protest, I nod to Liz. "I'm more than willing to keep writing your story—you just gotta work with me. There are a thousand and one ways this thing could play out and so far, I've been getting little to no direction." She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. "And as far as all these abilities of yours go? It's too perfect. I don't buy it."

"You're the one who's always gotta have a female lead with some kinda psychic mojo." Dean absently drums his boots on the air conditioner/heating unit. Somewhere in the back of my head, I register the beat as a line from 'Enter Sandman.'

I frown, snapping, "Would you cut that out?" He shoots me a look, mumbling, "Whatever, Sam."

I rub my face vigorously a few times, then sit up straight again, eyes open wide. "Where was I? Right. Liz. The abilities. No way they're that perfect. You've got virtually little to no weakness. You've been exaggerating, haven't you?"

I turn my head to look at her, just in time to catch her rolling her eyes and letting out a sharp breath. She doesn't answer me. It's like working with children.

"Liz."

She folds her arms across her chest. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes…I've been exaggerating." She frowns, screwing up her face. "What's the big deal? I think makes for a better story."

I want to slam my head against the desk. "Not really. If I don't know exactly what I'm working with, how can I—" I pause.

He's too quiet.

Liz and I turn to find Dean on his haunches before my bookshelf, scanning through it. I sit there watching him as he gets to Cassell's Latin Dictionary. He leafs through it, nodding approvingly. He turns to me, waving the book a bit, "You use this?"

"Not yet," I say, stifling a yawn. "Taking a class this semester."

" S'not somethin' you should be learning in a classroom," Dean says disapprovingly, shoving the dictionary back in its place on the shelf. He stands and returns to his perch on the window ledge. "And it's not like they're gonna to be teaching you what you really need to know, anyway."

"Well…" I stifle another yawn. "You know you're my source for all things Latin and ritual-related."

He nods. "Damn straight."

At this, Liz stands and clasps her hands above her head, stretching. "Speaking of classrooms," she looks down at me, "you've got class in nine hours."

I cock an eyebrow at her. "Not a chance you're getting out of this. We're hashing through this thing with your abilities here and now. I want to get it out of the way so we can—"

"Nope!" She cuts me off, rocking back and forth on her heels, expression irritatingly cheerful. "That's all for story time. Time for bed!"

…And she's gone. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Dean's chuckling. I turn to him, head cocked, expression saying, "You got something to say?"

Still smirking, he holds up both hands and shakes his head. Then he's gone.

I stand from the desk chair and stretch. "Nice, guys," I mumble as I fall into bed, my head barely making the pillow. "Thanks."