Author's Note:

I was given a prompt of three episode titles, after a chuckley discussion of season six silliness and what had to be in it. I made the three titles in acts instead, and here we are, just a little bit of fluff. Don't phone in, it's just a bit of fun!

It's also for Tiny_WInchester, cos she's ace and she suggested it. I suppose it's also for WrathOfKripke, seeing as he came up with one of the act titles too.

Thanks, guys. :)

.

Act I

Eyebrow Rising

.

They stand by the boot of the Impala, their hands hastily loading shotguns with salt. The evening is silent save the clicks and clinks of weapons.

Sam looks at his brother. He doesn't want to ask. But he does. "Are you ready?"

Dean looks back at him.

I been to Hell, dumbass, his face says. After that, this will be a cakewalk. It was our fault, and now we gotta fix it.

He raises his chin, the chin that starts to jut with indignation. The dark green eyes pierce the younger Winchester's pretence at bravery in the face of scrutiny. Dean lifts the loaded shotgun and snaps it shut.

Sam watches. He waits. He knows it is coming; the tiny movement that will scream 'so yeah, I'm all kindsa ready here'.

Dean lifts his chin higher. He eyes his brother.

Here it comes, Sam predicts.

And come it does; the right eyebrow. It starts small, tutting in contempt at the left one to beat it into submission. The left drops. The right, victorious, arches as if a perfect apex will save the world.

Again.

This is no ordinary eyebrow, Sam notes. This is the I-Will-Kill-You Eyebrow of Especially Messy Death. He grins at Dean, realising his brother knows exactly what has just passed through his head. This is it, Sam nods. This is eyebrow rising.

.

.

Act II

My Nose Is Itchy

.

"This way," Sam whispers as he shuffles forward.

Dean follows, the shotgun up along his line of sight. They slip silently down the hallway. Sam stops at the first door, a wooden affair with a large glass window upon which the black lettering declaring 'P. Woodhouse' is clearly visible.

Sam turns the knob. He is about to push the door open.

Dean's left hand leaves the shotgun. The backs of his fingers knock Sam's arm. They both freeze. They both listen.

Dean's hand lifts. He waits; Sam turns. Dean gestures to the other door across the hall.

Sam's eyebrows ask the question; Are you sure?

Dean knocks his arm again, gesturing. Sam turns for the other door. He reaches for it slowly. Then he hesitates. Dean nudges him. Sam looks.

You don't trust me any more? says Dean's pout.

"How do you know?" Sam breathes below a whisper.

"My nose is itchy."

.

.

Act III

My Ass Hurts

.

Sam puts his hand to the doorknob. Dean pushes him to one side. The door is summarily booted inward.

The Winchesters almost gag on the stench of aged flesh but contain themselves. Sam and Dean raise their shotguns at the haggard man in the wooden chair by the table.

"You!" he rasps. He tries to stand. He fails.

"Us," Sam threatens. He takes point, stealing across the tiles and pointing the gun directly at the man's head. "You know what we want."

"A repair spell?" he hazards.

"A repair spell," Sam nods. "Do it now."

Dean backs up to the door, keeping his eyes on the withered, emaciated old man. His ear goes to the doorjamb and beyond. "Hurry!" he orders. "I can hear the wheels!"

Sam takes aim. The man notices the shotgun close on his temple. He whimpers and begins to mumble and chant. The room heats up. The Winchesters remain poised to shoot. The wizened, ancient being mutters faster and louder.

The windows rattle. The table shivers in fear. Sam gets ready to fire.

"Done!" the man wheezes.

Everything stops.

Sam steps back one in caution. Dean puts head round the doorjamb.

Bobby pushes him back and walks - walks - into the room.

"Bobby, you're walking!" Dean confirms. "He did it, Sam!"

Sam looks down the barrel of his shotgun at the old being trembling in fear. "He did?" he ask, not looking away from his target. "Bobby, you're ok? You can walk?"

Bobby Singer does not answer. Sam takes two steps back to be out of swiping range. He risks a look over his shoulder at Bobby.

"Well?" Dean demands. "Say something, man! We got your legs back for you!"

Bobby takes a deep breath. He tries to think of something to convey his anger at their folly, his indignation at their stubbornness in thinking he would need their help, his outrage at their audacity, and yes, his relief they were actually right this time. He searches for the words that will reassure them all is well with him.

He opens his mouth.

"D'you know how long I been sittin' in that chair?" he demands. "My ass hurts."

.

FIN

And there we are. I have more stories on the way, and they're nothing at all to do with season 5 or 6. :)