A.N.: This is what happens when I get writers block...don't ask.

Disclaimer: Not mine, because I would have loved to see this on the show. Jensen would have owned it. :D

"A man witch?" Dean asks skeptically, as he raises one eyebrow at his brother over the stack of papers.

"More accurately a warlock, but yeah, pretty much." Sam bobs his head.

"A warlock? Dude…so gay." He stretches a hand across the table to take the article from his brother.

Sam notices that Dean flinches a little as he makes the give it gesture, the motion pulling on the fresh wound in his shoulder.

He notices, but doesn't say anything because really, why bother, his brother would just brush it off anyway.

The booming voice informs them that 'you will pick the form of the impending doom' and Dean snorts.

"Guy has watched too much Ghostbusters." he says, but instantly stills when he realizes his brother is fixated on a spot on the wall.

"Sam?" He waves a hand in front of his stone still brother. "Sammy?"

Nothing else is moving in the room, the only sound the huff of his breath.

"Oh crap." he moans as a disembodied voice states.

YOU SHALL CHOOSE YOUR OWN DEMISE.

Dean really, really wishes the loser would show his face so he can knock his teeth in.

YOUR END WILL APPEAR IN THE FORM YOU CHOOSE.

"Got it the first time, asswipe!" he yells to the ceiling, feeling foolish when nothing but silence answers his outburst.

Dean tries to clear his mind. He tries to think of something funny, but his eyes keep sliding over to his brother, face frozen, chest inert.

Man, Dean could really use the big geek right now.

Okay, stop thinking about Sam or you are going to have two of them on your hands. One Sam is enough, more than enough. He is pretty great though, when he's not whining, or crying or…shit! Don't think about Sam.

Sam. His little brother. His sanity. His anchor in a chaotic sea. God,now he's the one that sounds like an emo girl.

He tears his eyes from his brother and tries to think of something non threatening, something that he could gank in five seconds flat.

Something that wouldn't shoot him in the shoulder. The thought comes unbidden and his stomach rolls at the image. The image of Sam. Of his eyes. The usually kind eyes were gone. They flashed with a look of disdain; of hatred, and finally of satisfaction as the slug ripped into his flesh.

Dammit! Don't think about that. It wasn't Sam, it wasn't him, it was Meg. Stupid, evil bitch Meg. Clamping down into the wound, ripping into me. Stupid Meg. Don't think about Meg, you want to take that whore on again. Jesus Dean, get it together!

Don't think about Meg. Don't think about Sam. Think about something else, anything.

A life you don't deserve. A trade. A deal.

Dad. God,Dad. How can I do this? I can't take care of Sam. I can't keep him safe. The whole world is bearing down on me and I'm drowning.

Shit! Don't think about Dad you idiot! You want to face off with Dad! You can do this, just don't think about anything. Nothing.

The funny thing about Dean Winchester was he usually did the opposite of nothing and his mind was having a hard time coming to screeching halt.

You don't deserve to be alive. You have escaped Death not once, but twice. Dad's dead…because of me.. And Marshall Hall. They didn't deserve that.

His mind runs through a series of images, all from his experience with Roy Lagrange and him in the hospital, preparing himself to say goodbye to Sam when the voice calls out.

THE CHOICE HAS BEEN MADE.

And everything is propelled into motion again.

"Shit." Dean breathes, because he can't for the life of him remember what the last thing he thought of was.

"Dean, what the hell happened?" Sam asks as he rubs his eyes. "What was that?"

Dean ignores him and starts to pace

.What was the last thing I thought of? Sam? Meg? Dad?Oh God, what if it's some horrible mixture of all three of them?

Dean feels like he might be sick as Sam grips his arm.

"Talk to me bro. Is it bad?"

"What was it? Marshall? Dad? Dammit!"

Sam jerks his hand on his brother once. "You're freaking me out Dean, what the hell is going on?"

Dean meets his eyes. "I picked Sam. I just don't know what."

"Okay." Sam looks around the room uneasy."I obviously missed something."

There is a brilliant flash of white in the room and all Dean can think is Oh God.

And then he and his brother are staring, slack jawed at the figure that has materialized in front of them.

"Is that?"

Dean chuckles loudly. "It is."

"How? What? Why?" Sam sputters.

Dean beams at the spectacle in front of him and thanks whatever higher power there is that this is what he thought of last.

"I'll tell you why Sammy," Dean pauses as he slides a hunting knife out of his boot. "Someone up there must like me."

When they get back to the hotel after they have disarmed the warlock, Dean can't stop laughing and Sam can't even believe what just happened.

He brushes fuzz off of his jacket and lets out a snort as it floats down to the ground as delicate as snowflakes.

"Dude, that was,"

He is stopped by Sam raising a hand.

"You know how we have those hunts that we never, ever talk about."

"Yeah?"

"Seriously ever."

"What's your point Sammy?"

Sam pats the remaining fluff of his shoulder. "This goes in that category. Never Dean…just…never." He shudders.

"Deal!" He punches his brother in the gut. "I just have one thing to say though."

Sam sinks onto the bed and scrubs a hand over his face. "What's that?"

He smirks towards his brother. "I told you I was going to hunt that fabric softener teddy bear bitch down."

Sam groans and falls down towards the bed. "It's on the list man… never again."

Dean thinks about how he yanked the freakin; thing's head off and laughs at the sheer insanity of it. The fact that for once he is cleaning fuzz and fur off of him instead of blood and guts is a madness that he is more than willing to live with.