elinorwise

Donald was a permanent resident of Rockville, in
the state of Daddy Cool. He wore pink-rimmed specs with
thick lenses, belt-in-the-back slacks, and saddle shoes so
grotesquely square they were authentically crazy, man. His
face was an exploding zit-factory below a Brylcreem-loaded
Bobby Rydell duck’s ass. He looked like he might get his first
kiss from a real live girl around the age of forty-two, but he
was fast and funny with the mike, and his record collection
(which he called “the stack-o-wax” and “Donny B.’s round
mound of sound”) was, as previously noted, the ginchiest.

SAM: What do we need?


BOBBY: Blood.


SAM: How much blood?


BOBBY: Ritual says near a gallon. And it's gotta be fresh, too.


SAM: Meaning we have to bleed a person dry.


BOBBY: And it's gotta be tonight. Or not for another fifty years.


SAM: Then let's go get some.

TRICKSTER: Sam, there's a lesson here that I've been trying to drill into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours.


SAM: Lesson? What lesson?


TRICKSTER: This obsession to save Dean? The way you two keep sacrificing yourselves for each other? Nothing good comes out of it. Just blood and pain. Dean's your weakness. And the bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam. Sometimes you just gotta let people go.


SAM: He's my brother.


TRICKSTER: Yup. And like it or not, this is what life's gonna be like without him.


SAM: Please. Just—please.