ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-08-22 02:05 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-08-22 02:05 pm
Entry tags:
Not the Demons You're Looking For (1/24)
Part 1
“Dean, we've been driving for a million hours. Are you ever going to stop?” Sam could hear the petulant whine in his own voice and hated it, but couldn't quite help himself. His legs were cramped, his back hurt from being in the same position since God knew when, he was hungry and had to pee, and Dean looked like death warmed over. That was what bothered him the most, if he was honest with himself, and not the fact that Dean once again had insisted on leaving right away and kept them going at a frantic pace.
“It hasn't been a million hours. More like eleven. And quit being such a pussy. We're almost there, so keep your pants on.” Dean coughed into the back of his wrist.
“You look like crap.”
“Is that your medical opinion?”
“Dean, you barely got away from that djinn. You should be resting, not driving halfway across the country chasing after demon signs.”
“Sammy, I am not in the mood for a lecture.” Dean's face scrunched up for a moment, and he scrubbed at his nose with an irritated expression.
Sam huffed. “It's not a lecture. Why can't you just accept that I'm right about this?”
“So it's not your medical opinion. What, did you have some sort of freaky psychic premonition about not driving to Oklahoma?” Dean snapped.
“I don't need to be a psychic freak to tell that you're not feeling well,” Sam snapped right back, feeling his cheeks heat up. It was bad enough feeling like a damned freak without having his older brother rub it in. It had been weeks of this, of talking around the subject, pussyfooting around it, as Dean would say —if it were about anything other than Sam. Whenever Sam brought it up, Dean brushed it aside with varying levels of impatience, but it was obvious something was eating at him, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that was.
“I'm fine.”
“Well, I'm not,” Sam cheated, shamelessly. “I'm tired and sore, and if we don't stop soon you're going to have to replace your precious baby's original leather interior.”
His brother growled low in his throat, but shook his head. “Fine. We're going to be reaching Langston soon. Can you hold it or do you need a bush?” he asked sardonically.
“Shut up and just get us there.”
By the time they were seated in the diner (and Sam had finally been able to make a break for the men's room), Dean was slumped in his seat, staring listlessly at his cheeseburger. Sam slid into his own seat, and began methodically tucking into the club sandwich he'd ordered, carefully separating the top layer of bread in order to spread mayonnaise on it with a flimsy plastic knife.
“Dude, how much mayo do you need on that thing?” Dean managed to look disgusted. “You manage to be a freak of nature even about your sandwiches.”
“I wouldn't talk if I were you. You're the one who puts ketchup on his Kraft Dinner.” Sam looked over at him, trying to be casual about it. Dean sounded congested, his voice rougher than usual. Sam sighed. If Dean was getting sick it certainly explained why he was so damned touchy, but it was going to make their trip a whole lot more difficult.
“It enhances the f-flavour.” Dean turned his head aside suddenly to catch a violent sneeze in the lapel of his coat. “HEHKRRSH!”
“Bless you.”
Dean grunted something that might have passed for thanks, reached for a napkin to wipe his nose. “You about ready to go?”
Sam gestured at his sandwich. “Uh, no? We just sat down, and you haven't even touched your food. You're sick, you need to eat something other than coffee. It doesn't count as a food group. Neither does whisky.”
Dean's breath was hitching. “Hh... HEPKSCHUH! HAAISHH!” he sneezed into his napkin, crumpled it into a ball, shoved it into his pocket. “I'm not sick. Would you stop?”
“Uh huh. Definitely not sick. People who aren't sick always sneeze that much.”
“HHEISHH-uh! It's fine. Just dusty in here, or something.”
“Denial is not a river in Egypt, Dean.”
“Just eat your dabbed sandwich, and let's go over the case.” Dean glowered, blew his nose into another napkin from the dispenser thoughtfully left on the table.
Sam leaned back in his seat, took a bite of his sandwich. “Fine. So from the stuff Ash gave us, we're heading right into demon central. There have been all sorts of the usual thing: weird weather patterns, lightning storms, unexplained livestock deaths, the whole nine yards.”
“You think it... huh...” Dean's eyes fluttered, and he pressed the back of his wrist to his nose to stave off the sneeze that threatened. “You think it's our yellow-eyed friend?”
Sam shrugged, uncomfortable. “Hard to say. From the outside, one demon looks pretty much like any other.”
“No freaky visions?” Dean scrubbed at his nose with another napkin, turning it bright pink.
“Have you noticed me passed out from excruciating pain any time recently?” Sam rolled his eyes, debated calling Dean on the “freak” nomenclature, decided against it when he saw the expression on his brother's face.
“Okay, you h-have a p-poi... HESTSCHUH! Uh,” Dean groaned, rubbed his face with both hands. “So, we have exactly no information.”
“Well, my keen powers of deduction tell me you've come down with a cold.”
“Shut up, Sherlock. I'm fine. Quit trying to analyse me, or whatever.”
Sam blinked at him. “Dude, how did that sentence even make sense?”
“Shut up.”
“I don't know why I even talk to you when you're like this.”
He finished his sandwich slowly, as well as his fries, watching surreptitiously to make sure Dean had at least a few bites of his cheeseburger. When he was done, and Dean hadn't so much as touched his plate, he stood up, pulled a couple of bills from his wallet. “I'll be right back.”
“Dude, I swear you have a bladder the size of a walnut.”
He didn't bother answering, headed to the men's room to wash his hands clean of the remnants of his sandwich. This was exactly the kind of thing Dean enjoyed ribbing him about (“OCD much, Sammy?”), and he was decidedly not in the mood for it. He was watching the water run clear and cold over his fingers when the pain struck like knives being plunged into his temples, and he grabbed hold of the sink to keep from falling, his knees buckling as the vision took over in a series of flashes: a woman, holding a baby —flash— a window breaking —flash— the woman screaming —
“Hey, Princess, what's the hold-up?”
—flash— the baby crying —flash— blood pooling beneath the windowsill —flash—
“Sam?”
The next thing he knew, Sam was on the floor, the cold seeping from the tiles through his jeans, the heels of both hands pressing against his eyes. Slowly he pulled his hands away, blinked painfully at the sharp light coming from the overhead bulb, watched Dean's worried face swim into focus.
“Talk to me, Sam.” Dean was tilting his head back, looking at his eyes, then he leaned into one of the stalls, pulled a wad of toilet paper free, and it was only when he lifted it to Sam's face that Sam realized that his nose was bleeding. He took the paper from Dean, pinched his nose shut, kept his head tilted back, concentrated on breathing. In and out. “Sam?”
“A... a woman. I think. And a baby. Someone died.” He struggled to find the right words, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. “There was a window, and blood.”
“Do you know where?”
He shrugged helplessly, setting off more flares of pain in his head, clutched at his eyes with his free hand, grateful that Dean was there to prop him up. “I couldn't tell. I could hear the baby crying...” His stomach lurched as images of blood surged back behind his eyelids. “Gonna be sick...”
Dean was on his feet in seconds, dragging him to the nearest toilet. “Okay, Sammy, take it easy,” he rubbed Sam's back, up and down, between his shoulder blades, as all of Sam's lunch came back in a hurry. “I got you. Take it slow.”
For a few minutes Sam thought he might never stop. Even when there was nothing left his body kept trying to turn itself inside-out, choking and coughing, until he was simply spitting up strings of bile and saliva, burning his throat and mouth. When it finally subsided he dragged in a shuddering breath, pushed himself shakily to his feet. Dean kept hold of his elbow, steered him back to the sink so he could rinse out his mouth and have a drink of water, kept rubbing his back.
“They're getting worse, aren't they?” he asked quietly.
Sam nodded, didn't have the energy to answer just yet. He splashed water over his face, washed away the remnants of blood, tried to get the trembling in his limbs under control. Took another shuddering breath. “I guess that answers your earlier question.”
Before Dean could reply, Sam's cell phone chirped. He fumbled in his pocket, flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“Uh... Sam? That you?”
“Andy?” He straightened, Dean's hand at his back. They hadn't heard from Andy Gallagher in months, not since the day they'd met him and he'd been forced to kill his twin brother. If he was calling now, it had to be bad.
“Uh, yeah, yeah it's me. Uh, how you doing?” Andy sounded nervous. Definitely something bad.
“Don't ask. What's wrong?” He flapped a hand impatiently at Dean's questioning expression.
“Uh, well, I think... something weird's happening. I don't suppose you're anywhere near me?”
Sam rubbed at his eyes. “Actually, we're about an hour and a half away. What's going on?”
“I'm not sure. Look, a woman died, and... I don't know. Look, I think it's bad. Can you come?”
“Of course. We'll be there as soon as we can.”
The relief in Andy's voice was unmistakeable. “Thank you.”
Sam flipped the phone shut, looked over at Dean. “Looks like we're going back to Guthrie.”
Part 2
“Dean, we've been driving for a million hours. Are you ever going to stop?” Sam could hear the petulant whine in his own voice and hated it, but couldn't quite help himself. His legs were cramped, his back hurt from being in the same position since God knew when, he was hungry and had to pee, and Dean looked like death warmed over. That was what bothered him the most, if he was honest with himself, and not the fact that Dean once again had insisted on leaving right away and kept them going at a frantic pace.
“It hasn't been a million hours. More like eleven. And quit being such a pussy. We're almost there, so keep your pants on.” Dean coughed into the back of his wrist.
“You look like crap.”
“Is that your medical opinion?”
“Dean, you barely got away from that djinn. You should be resting, not driving halfway across the country chasing after demon signs.”
“Sammy, I am not in the mood for a lecture.” Dean's face scrunched up for a moment, and he scrubbed at his nose with an irritated expression.
Sam huffed. “It's not a lecture. Why can't you just accept that I'm right about this?”
“So it's not your medical opinion. What, did you have some sort of freaky psychic premonition about not driving to Oklahoma?” Dean snapped.
“I don't need to be a psychic freak to tell that you're not feeling well,” Sam snapped right back, feeling his cheeks heat up. It was bad enough feeling like a damned freak without having his older brother rub it in. It had been weeks of this, of talking around the subject, pussyfooting around it, as Dean would say —if it were about anything other than Sam. Whenever Sam brought it up, Dean brushed it aside with varying levels of impatience, but it was obvious something was eating at him, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that was.
“I'm fine.”
“Well, I'm not,” Sam cheated, shamelessly. “I'm tired and sore, and if we don't stop soon you're going to have to replace your precious baby's original leather interior.”
His brother growled low in his throat, but shook his head. “Fine. We're going to be reaching Langston soon. Can you hold it or do you need a bush?” he asked sardonically.
“Shut up and just get us there.”
By the time they were seated in the diner (and Sam had finally been able to make a break for the men's room), Dean was slumped in his seat, staring listlessly at his cheeseburger. Sam slid into his own seat, and began methodically tucking into the club sandwich he'd ordered, carefully separating the top layer of bread in order to spread mayonnaise on it with a flimsy plastic knife.
“Dude, how much mayo do you need on that thing?” Dean managed to look disgusted. “You manage to be a freak of nature even about your sandwiches.”
“I wouldn't talk if I were you. You're the one who puts ketchup on his Kraft Dinner.” Sam looked over at him, trying to be casual about it. Dean sounded congested, his voice rougher than usual. Sam sighed. If Dean was getting sick it certainly explained why he was so damned touchy, but it was going to make their trip a whole lot more difficult.
“It enhances the f-flavour.” Dean turned his head aside suddenly to catch a violent sneeze in the lapel of his coat. “HEHKRRSH!”
“Bless you.”
Dean grunted something that might have passed for thanks, reached for a napkin to wipe his nose. “You about ready to go?”
Sam gestured at his sandwich. “Uh, no? We just sat down, and you haven't even touched your food. You're sick, you need to eat something other than coffee. It doesn't count as a food group. Neither does whisky.”
Dean's breath was hitching. “Hh... HEPKSCHUH! HAAISHH!” he sneezed into his napkin, crumpled it into a ball, shoved it into his pocket. “I'm not sick. Would you stop?”
“Uh huh. Definitely not sick. People who aren't sick always sneeze that much.”
“HHEISHH-uh! It's fine. Just dusty in here, or something.”
“Denial is not a river in Egypt, Dean.”
“Just eat your dabbed sandwich, and let's go over the case.” Dean glowered, blew his nose into another napkin from the dispenser thoughtfully left on the table.
Sam leaned back in his seat, took a bite of his sandwich. “Fine. So from the stuff Ash gave us, we're heading right into demon central. There have been all sorts of the usual thing: weird weather patterns, lightning storms, unexplained livestock deaths, the whole nine yards.”
“You think it... huh...” Dean's eyes fluttered, and he pressed the back of his wrist to his nose to stave off the sneeze that threatened. “You think it's our yellow-eyed friend?”
Sam shrugged, uncomfortable. “Hard to say. From the outside, one demon looks pretty much like any other.”
“No freaky visions?” Dean scrubbed at his nose with another napkin, turning it bright pink.
“Have you noticed me passed out from excruciating pain any time recently?” Sam rolled his eyes, debated calling Dean on the “freak” nomenclature, decided against it when he saw the expression on his brother's face.
“Okay, you h-have a p-poi... HESTSCHUH! Uh,” Dean groaned, rubbed his face with both hands. “So, we have exactly no information.”
“Well, my keen powers of deduction tell me you've come down with a cold.”
“Shut up, Sherlock. I'm fine. Quit trying to analyse me, or whatever.”
Sam blinked at him. “Dude, how did that sentence even make sense?”
“Shut up.”
“I don't know why I even talk to you when you're like this.”
He finished his sandwich slowly, as well as his fries, watching surreptitiously to make sure Dean had at least a few bites of his cheeseburger. When he was done, and Dean hadn't so much as touched his plate, he stood up, pulled a couple of bills from his wallet. “I'll be right back.”
“Dude, I swear you have a bladder the size of a walnut.”
He didn't bother answering, headed to the men's room to wash his hands clean of the remnants of his sandwich. This was exactly the kind of thing Dean enjoyed ribbing him about (“OCD much, Sammy?”), and he was decidedly not in the mood for it. He was watching the water run clear and cold over his fingers when the pain struck like knives being plunged into his temples, and he grabbed hold of the sink to keep from falling, his knees buckling as the vision took over in a series of flashes: a woman, holding a baby —flash— a window breaking —flash— the woman screaming —
“Hey, Princess, what's the hold-up?”
—flash— the baby crying —flash— blood pooling beneath the windowsill —flash—
“Sam?”
The next thing he knew, Sam was on the floor, the cold seeping from the tiles through his jeans, the heels of both hands pressing against his eyes. Slowly he pulled his hands away, blinked painfully at the sharp light coming from the overhead bulb, watched Dean's worried face swim into focus.
“Talk to me, Sam.” Dean was tilting his head back, looking at his eyes, then he leaned into one of the stalls, pulled a wad of toilet paper free, and it was only when he lifted it to Sam's face that Sam realized that his nose was bleeding. He took the paper from Dean, pinched his nose shut, kept his head tilted back, concentrated on breathing. In and out. “Sam?”
“A... a woman. I think. And a baby. Someone died.” He struggled to find the right words, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. “There was a window, and blood.”
“Do you know where?”
He shrugged helplessly, setting off more flares of pain in his head, clutched at his eyes with his free hand, grateful that Dean was there to prop him up. “I couldn't tell. I could hear the baby crying...” His stomach lurched as images of blood surged back behind his eyelids. “Gonna be sick...”
Dean was on his feet in seconds, dragging him to the nearest toilet. “Okay, Sammy, take it easy,” he rubbed Sam's back, up and down, between his shoulder blades, as all of Sam's lunch came back in a hurry. “I got you. Take it slow.”
For a few minutes Sam thought he might never stop. Even when there was nothing left his body kept trying to turn itself inside-out, choking and coughing, until he was simply spitting up strings of bile and saliva, burning his throat and mouth. When it finally subsided he dragged in a shuddering breath, pushed himself shakily to his feet. Dean kept hold of his elbow, steered him back to the sink so he could rinse out his mouth and have a drink of water, kept rubbing his back.
“They're getting worse, aren't they?” he asked quietly.
Sam nodded, didn't have the energy to answer just yet. He splashed water over his face, washed away the remnants of blood, tried to get the trembling in his limbs under control. Took another shuddering breath. “I guess that answers your earlier question.”
Before Dean could reply, Sam's cell phone chirped. He fumbled in his pocket, flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“Uh... Sam? That you?”
“Andy?” He straightened, Dean's hand at his back. They hadn't heard from Andy Gallagher in months, not since the day they'd met him and he'd been forced to kill his twin brother. If he was calling now, it had to be bad.
“Uh, yeah, yeah it's me. Uh, how you doing?” Andy sounded nervous. Definitely something bad.
“Don't ask. What's wrong?” He flapped a hand impatiently at Dean's questioning expression.
“Uh, well, I think... something weird's happening. I don't suppose you're anywhere near me?”
Sam rubbed at his eyes. “Actually, we're about an hour and a half away. What's going on?”
“I'm not sure. Look, a woman died, and... I don't know. Look, I think it's bad. Can you come?”
“Of course. We'll be there as soon as we can.”
The relief in Andy's voice was unmistakeable. “Thank you.”
Sam flipped the phone shut, looked over at Dean. “Looks like we're going back to Guthrie.”
Part 2