Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.
Author's Note: Please excuse the format of this story. It is merely to contribute to comic effect. Thanks! I'm still working on Firstborn - sorry it's taking me so long to update!
Dude, Where's My Life?
Dean (entering motel room): Dude, where were you? I really could've used your help digging up the bones of that vengeful spirit.
Sam (groaning from his bed): Dude, I'm sorry. I just couldn't get out of bed this morning. I feel like there's . . . this thing . . . and this thing is, you know, gnawing at my soul, man.
Dean: Dude, we've all got skeletons in our closets, but you can't let them keep you from going to work in the morning. Especially when your work deals with conquering the evil dead.
Sam (attempting to prop himself up): Dude, look. I couldn't help it. I've just this hold inside of me . . . and I'm just, like, wallowing in it. A piece of me is, like . . . lost, bro. (Flops back to a lying position.)
Dean: Dude, have you checked at the front desk? Maybe somebody turned it in. (Chuckles at his own feeble joke.)
Sam: Dude, I don't think you're getting the gravity of the situation. If I had gone with you, I probably would've just, like . . . lay down in the grave you dug, (tragically) and died.
Dean (crossing to the bed and putting his hand over his heart): Dude, I'm with you, and it hurts me too. (Sits.) That's how I felt after Dad . . . you know, kicked the bucket. You could do what I did.
Sam (unconvinced): Which was?
Dean: Beat savagely on your car. . . . Then again, you don't have a car. And I am not letting you beat savagely on mine. (Dreamily.) She's been through enough. . . . Besides, you're more of a slow-dance/hug-and-make-up healing kinda guy. And/or the beheading-a-hunter-turned-vamp kinda guy. But look man, any way you flip it, you still gotta get out of bed to do it.
Sam (leaping up): Dude, you know what? You're right. We're hunters. So let's hunt the bitch down and get it back.