Who: Sam Winchester and whoever would like to get on this wacky train
When: May 31st
Where: Sam's room (112)
What: Sam is FINALLY trying the spell he proposed to the general public over yonder. While it's going to fail utterly because Sam is a failure, anyone is welcome to stop by and ask him what the heck he's doing. He’s going to be trying this routinely for most of the day, so anyone who had plans to help him can jump in with a starter, and threadjacking’s a go if all parties find that tubular.

This is the most bare-bones spell in the history of bare-bones spells, he's sure, but it doesn't need to necessarily do what it's meant to. It just needs to flare up with that thick scent of magic, dark and thick and fathomless, and hopefully? Hopefully that'll be enough. Someone out there has to be listening.

He's not about to accept that someone isn't.

Sam Winchester surveys his sad, sad arrangement of a spell and tries not to feel as completely, achingly tired as he is. A rough approximation of a sigil, triangular and even, has been painstakingly scratched onto the crumpled canvas of a notebook page, divorced from John Winchester’s journal. He's carefully portioned his meager collection of salt into a neat circle in the middle of the room in lieu of an actual Devil's Trap, with Sam himself folded up into a cross-legged position just outside the circle. He presses the page flat against the floor in the circle's center with splayed fingertips and the sharp crinkle of aligning edges. Directly beside it is a bundle of shredded paper, the result of assembling a makeshift pyre from a bundle of pilfered napkins. Classy, he knows.

It’s a dumb, stupid idea. But it's the best of the dumb, stupid ideas that have become the Winchesters' collective trademark over the years, and at least this way he's doing something. He knows exactly what he's doing and who he's summoning. She's been dead for years, he helped gank her himself, and if anything goes the slightest bit off-key, the weight of the Latin incantation is heavy on his tongue to send her smoking out and right back to Hell.

He's cutting corners, and how - no herbs, no candles, nothing but the most base ingredients - leaving the solid chance that it won't work anyway. Even if it does, he's making himself the target, and that's nothing he hasn't done before. He'll take the hit. Gladly. He always does. He's falling apart as it is; a week of ragged, willful sleeplessness between the waves of broadcasted nightmares hit him with a serious backslide, and this little stunt might be what finally does him in.

It occurs to him that maybe he should be worried about how little he cares about that being an extremely possible outcome.

But he isn’t.

Not one to linger over scathing justifications and introspective self-flagellation, Sam clears his throat and steels himself to begin.