A brief "hello" to whoever is reading this! :P Ok, onto a second challenge and a second publication. In case I didn't mention this before, and I don't think I did, I do not own Supernatural - but, I wish I did. I would also like to add that although I was originally upset with my rival and sometimes-friend Tankspridd (3) for giving me "grandpa" as a word, I am now perfectly fine since I think my story didn't end up too shabby. But then again, that's up to you - the reader. Now, I'm done speaking. Thank you.

SPN Write-Off Day 2
Challenge Word: "Grandpa"
Character(s): Dean (with implied Dean/Castiel)
Rating: T (Only for Language)
Genre: Drama, Humor
Setting: In Season 6, after episode 10: "Caged Heat," and before episode 11: "Appointment in Samarra." (SEASON 6 EP. 10 & 11 SPOILERS!)

How to Kill Your Grandpa

Dean hunched forward in the impala, finishing his letter to Ben. He had started the letter a few hours ago, and had been thinking about it ever since that whole 'oops, I'm a vampire now' business, but hadn't been able to start it. After his last argument with Sam, he knew the letter had to be finished before he met Death again, just in case something went wrong.

It seemed so difficult, finding the right words to say. Dean was never really gifted with just knowing what to say. That was always Sam's forte. To Dean, something as simple as a gaze, a pat on the shoulder, or a smile was enough to convey feeling, but he knew that just staring at someone without speaking was something most people would freak out about, despite the fact that it was almost comforting to him.

As he neared the end of the letter, it seemed almost impossible to find the right words to end the letter, so instead he just wrote: Dean Winchester, and hoped Ben would understand. A phrase like "Sincerely," or "Take care," didn't seem like enough for Dean, and could not possibly convey what he was feeling, and something like "Love you" or "Miss You" was just something out of a chick flick. He felt weird just writing it, and knew Ben would have second thoughts to the letter's origin if it had gotten that mushy. That was not the Dean that Ben knew.

The last thing Dean wanted was for the letter to sound like it came straight out of P.S. I Love You - a movie he would never admit to anyone that he *kind of* watched with Lisa. He would never understand her attraction to Gerard Butler, or that other guy - Jeffrey Dean Morgan. He could see the appeal of the scruffiness, the deep and sometimes gravelly voice, and those moments of intense gazing (to which he felt a certain sting of longing) but otherwise, there was just something missing. And Jeffrey Dean Morgan always seemed too fatherly for his tastes.

Dean soured at the memory of time with Lisa as he folded Ben's letter and placed it in an envelope which he eventually placed in his jacket pocket. He looked up and over toward the Asian markets which lay just a ways away. He knew he would have to go in there for his appointment, but he just...needed a few minutes. Plus, he was too early anyway. The "doctor" wouldn't be available just yet.

So instead, Dean tried to find something to distract himself with. He shuffled through some papers in his glove box before finding an old napkin, which was mostly clean...or partially, really. He pulled out the pen he had just been using, and hunched over to use his dashboard as a writing desk.

At first, he just doodled a bit. In the corners, there were just a couple drawings of angel wings, lightning bolts, and maybe a robot head or two. But as he went to draw his third pair of angel wings, his mind zeroed into the last time he saw Castiel -

Castiel's blue eyes looked at him, solemnly. "I wish the circumstances were different." He looked down, and turned away. "Much of the time, I'd rather be here."

Now Dean looked away, searching for something. "Cas, we know you have a steaming pile on your plate. There's no need for apologies." He looked down then, and away. "We're your friends."

The words felt odd. "We're your friends," felt like "Sincerely," or "Take care" - they just weren't enough. But what was? Dean's mind rushed to the thought of Castiel and...Meg. There, just there. Standing in the hall, hands in one another's...

A strange and icy chill ran up and along his back, his breathing a bit rough. He almost broke his pen in anger. "Stupid bitch," he mumbled to himself, his knuckles going white as he shifted in his seat, flushed with anger. If his anger was not geared toward Cas not being there, it was at Meg just for being alive...

...and if not that, his mind raged and switched gears, it was at Samuel. "The bastard," Dean commented, placing the pen against the napkin again, scribbling furiously at the top: "How to Kill Your Grandpa" before hurriedly crossing out "Grandpa" and putting "Bastard Named Samuel." Why had he even thought to write "Grandpa" in the first place both confused and angered him. That man was no relative of his.

#1. Track him down, Dean wrote, his sudden anger already settling into new-found amusement.

#2. Shoot him in the face. Dean crossed it out quickly, mumbling "not good enough."

#2, Dean wrote again, shoot him in the knees... tie him up... extra tight.

"Mm," he mused, pursed his lips, and looked up for a moment, pen cap between his lips.

He could just picture the look on Castiel's face if he were there. "This is very immature, Dean," he would say. "Don't you think you should avoid writing death threats on napkins?"

To which Dean would say, "Don't you think you should avoid reading death threats on napkins?"

And then, Cas would say "How can I when you've drawn pictures of me all over them?"

Dean tightened his lips and stopped mimicking Castiel in his mind. Sitting there, thinking about that angel of the lord wouldn't get him anywhere. Dean looked at his watch, sighed, and started his baby's engine. He pulled out of the parking lot and back into the street, headed toward the market area. Pictures of Castiel aside, his grandfather was going to get what was coming to him - and soon. Once he was done with getting Sammy's soul back, he was going to figure out the best way to kill that son of a bitch Samuel. And once he was done with that, maybe he'd make some sense out of the pictures on his napkin and the pain he had in his chest whenever he thought of the other night, with Cas and Meg...

"Stupid, stupid bitch."