Okay, I've decided to try something new. I've posted all of my half-finished Supernatural stories in the hopes that you guys will pick the ones you like most, and then, by popular vote, those will be the ones I prioritise. PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT IF I DON'T HAVE FEEDBACK WITHIN ONE WEEK, I WILL TAKE THIS DOWN.

Mostly the warnings are as listed: self-harm, suicide. That's just what I write. There's no smut or anything, and I'll try to have a basic description of each story in the titles. Some of them are really old, so they might not be quite informationally sound. REMEMBER: THESE ARE WORKS IN PROGRESS. THERE WILL BE PARTS MISSING AND MOST LIKELY NO ENDINGS.

Also; REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW. I'M BEGGING YOU.

Thanks, and happy reading! =D

It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn.

Sam snorted. Simple salt and burn my ass, he thought. Then again, were salt and burns ever really simple?

The youngest Winchester was beginning to believe that hunting was never going to be simple; there were far too many things that could go wrong.

Looking down, Sam brushed at the side of Dean's face gently. It was simultaneously wet and crusty with blood, both fresh and drying, and at this point Sam wasn't sure which was Dean's and which was his. He supposed that the fresh blood would be his, since he was fairly certain that he was the only one still bleeding.

Yes, far, far too many things could go wrong in hunting, like your brother being thrown into a wall and you being stabbed and both of you ending up stuck in some dusty attic with a ghost prowling the house, one of you unconscious and the other one bleeding out.

Sam winced as he attempted to shift into a more comfortable position and only managed to jar his wound and blur his vision, and then he sighed. Dean was going to be pissed when he woke up with a concussion and a dead little brother.

"Sorry, Dean," he mumbled, smearing the blood around the older man's face instead of wiping it away. He supposed there was too much on his hand to really get the crimson liquid off effectively.

White and black spots danced across Sam's vision; he knew that soon unconsciousness would come to take him too. He imagined what Dean would say, had he been fully—or even remotely—alert.

Stay awake, Sammy. Don't you dare close your eyes on me, you hear? Fight! Dammit, Sam, fight!

"S'rry, D'n," Sam breathed, his hand falling from his big brother's hair to rest limply on the ground beside him.

Four hours earlier...

"Dude, slow down!" Sam nearly shouted, bracing himself against the dashboard and ignoring the fact that if they were to crash he would most likely break both his arms. "The hunt's not going anywhere!"

Dean smirked at his younger brother. "Just savin' time, Sammy, just savin' time," he replied loudly. He turned up the music before resting one arm out of the open window and singing AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill" as the hand on the Impala's speedometer continued to inch past 100.

They were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, and the road twisted and turned so much that Sam was afraid that they were going to pitch right off of it. With the speed Dean was driving, he would have been worried about tipping off the road even if it wasn't curvier than the older Winchester's taste in women.

Laughing, Dean turned the music down and finally began to slow. "Chill out, Sam. Besides Dad, I'm the best driver you know. You really think I'd get us into a wreck?"

"I wouldn't put it past you," Sam muttered, relaxing a little.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, if you won't believe me for any other reason, believe me for this one: Dad'd kill me."

Sam shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "Are we almost there?" he asked, redirecting his gaze to the window and the blurring countryside. "Why would anyone want to live out here? There's literally nothing for forty-five minutes."

"What can I say?" Dean responded. "The girl's crazy, even in the afterlife. And yes, we're there."

Even as Dean said the words they pulled up to a large, rather old-looking house.