A/N: For Musica Diabolos, who totally bribed me with sick Dean. (Yum.) One element stolen with permission from Wicked Rebel.
Pepper. Black and grey. Flakes and flecks. Airborne.
It's a tight burn in one nostril, then a quick spread of heat through his nose.
"Sam?"
Sam ducks his head, blocks everything out like an actor or an athlete. The warmth builds, prickles, but he's holding his breath, focusing. Mind over matter...
A dangerous involuntary intake of air, and he resorts to the physical: rubs his tongue up behind his teeth, pinches his nose. He teeters - then the pressure recedes, and he sighs, looks up.
The grinder hovers above his lasagna. "Pepper, sir?"
He nods helplessly, raises his linen napkin. "AGH-KHAHHH!"
And... scene.