ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 05:08 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 05:08 pm
Entry tags:
Not the Demons You're Looking For (12/24)
Part 11
Part 12
It was official, Dean felt like total and utter crap, and it didn't look as though it was going to get better anytime soon. Sam was long gone from the bed when he finally forced his eyes open, and with a groan he realized that he was probably the last one up. It was embarrassingly late in the morning, too. He pulled himself out from under the covers, sat on the edge of the bed for a minute while his head throbbed mercilessly. His throat felt as though it had swelled shut in the few hours he'd been asleep, and his whole body ached as though he'd gone ten rounds with a wendigo.
The box of tissues was already starting to run low, he noted as he snatched another one just in time to bury his nose and mouth in it. “HGFFHH! HEPKTSCH! Hih... HPTSCHH! Uh...” he allowed himself a small moan of pain as the sneezes threatened to rip his throat apart, felt his breath start to hitch again. Son of a bitch. “Hih... HEISHH! HPKTSHH! HHFFGHH!” Trying to stifle them only hurt more, as it turned out. Awesome. Couldn't win for losing, such was the lot of Dean Winchester. He blew his nose with the last two remaining tissues in the box, tried to remember where he'd put the ones Sam had bought for him the day before.
There was still water left in the glass by his bedside, and he downed the contents along with a few more decongestants before dragging himself downstairs. He realized that talking was a mistake the minute he opened his mouth and saw the look on Sam's face. It hurt, too. He managed a swallow of coffee, but the thought of food turned his stomach, which was a crying shame. There was bacon, for God's sake, and even that didn't tempt him. Not even pie was an encouraging thought, and that depressed him even more. What he ought to have done is take a shower the minute he was out of bed. His voice gave out halfway through announcing his decision to go back upstairs and shower, which was just peachy. It was going to make getting through the day a real joy, he could tell. He held onto the wall as he went back up the stairs, his legs shaky under him, feeling as though he was breathing through a straw. A bendy straw.
He turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, took a handful of decongestants and gripped the sink, white-knuckled, as his throat protested anything having to do with swallowing, followed them up with Tylenol. Then he stood under the shower, letting the hot water hit his back like a thousand needles. It didn't do as much good as the day before, but it did work a bit, loosening muscles he hadn't even realized were tense. The steam was the best thing about the shower, clearing up some of the congestion, and he pressed a hand to his chest, erupting in a fit of harsh, barking coughs which hurt even more than he'd imagined they would. His nose was running, and once again he was struck by how unfair it was that he could be congested and have his nose run at the same time. He scrubbed at it with the back of his wrist, felt the steam from the shower working itself into his already-abused sinuses, prickling annoyingly.
“Heh... HEEISH!” he kept one hand braced against the tiled wall, wondering just what it was he'd done to deserve this special brand of hell. “ISHOO! Huh... huh-ESH-uh! HISHOO!”
Almost too late he remembered Sam's admonition not to use up all the hot water, and reluctantly he stepped out of the shower. He paid a little more attention to his shave today, figuring that he was going to look terrible enough as it was without adding “scruffy and disreputable” to the list. Interviewing people was an art form, and they didn't generally react well if you looked as though you'd spent the night sleeping outside. He borrowed another of Sam's hoodies, figuring the cat was out of the bag anyway, and most of his shirts had short sleeves, which he just didn't want to contemplate, given the weather out there. He pulled on his jeans, sat back down on the bed for a minute to catch his breath, feeling yet another damned tickle building in his sinuses. He scrubbed at his nose, sniffled, but that only made it worse. Figured.
“Sniff... huh... HEISHH! HEPTCHUH! Hep-KSHH-uh! Uh... God. Sud of a bitch,” he muttered, his throat on fire.
Pathetic. He reached for another tissue, blew his nose, feeling pain blossom anew in his sinuses, and allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a while longer at the thought that he might well be getting a sinus infection on top of everything. Just freaking peachy.
He found Sam and Andy still seated at the kitchen table when he went back down, having sorted himself out as much as he could. They'd cleared most of the dishes to make room for Sam's laptop and the papers they'd collected the day before, and were apparently discussing the most likely candidate for Sam's vision. He slid into a chair next to Sam, nodded to Andy, and let Sam hand him a mug of coffee.
“You take your meds?” Sam asked, his tone carefully modulated in that see-how-I'm-not-making-a-big-deal way that he tried to have when he knew he was about to spark an argument. Luckily for Sam, Dean didn't feel like having an argument, because it would hurt, and so he just nodded, rummaged in the pocket of his jeans for the roll of lozenges he'd shoved in there earlier, waggled it vaguely in Sam's direction. They were going to have to stock up on those.
“So Sam thinks the woman in his vision is Lesley Barnes,” Andy supplied. “So, do we go talk to her?”
Dean nodded. Sounded like a pretty good plan, so long as he wasn't doing the talking.
“I figure we can pull out the old U.S. Marshall identities if she turns out to be just a civilian,” Sam said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “FBI might have been better, but both our suits are pretty much wrecked until we get them dry-cleaned.”
Yeah, well, Dean hadn't been the one to have a seizure in the middle of a freaking rainstorm.
“I know,” Sam rolled his eyes. “But it's not like I planned to have a crippling vision in the middle of the street, Dean.”
Dean shook his head, made a “carry on” gesture with the hand that wasn't clenched around the handle of his mug, brought it back hastily to catch a sneeze that sneaked up on him. “HGHHFF!”
“You going to live?” Sam asked a bit ruefully, sympathy obvious in his body language.
Dean lifted a hand, made a “so-so” gesture.
“So I'm thinking I'll do most of the talking, then.”
He nodded. God, even the idea of talking hurt. He resisted the impulse to rest his forehead against the cool tabletop, propped himself up on his elbows instead, massaging his temples with his fingers.
“I want to get a feel for the woman, see if she's... well, if she's like us. See if she's willing to talk.”
Us? That was a new word. Clearly it didn't refer to Sam and Dean.
“One of the demon's psychic kids,” Sam clarified unnecessarily. “If she isn't, then Andy can probably get her to open up pretty easily. Otherwise, his gift won't work on her, same as with me.”
Oh, gift was it, now?
“Well, what else do you want to call it, Dean?” Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. “Until you can conclusively prove it's bad, let's try to stay positive, okay?”
Whatever. If Sam was going to get his panties in a wad over this, Dean wasn't about to stop him. He just wasn't sure that anything that came from a demon should be called a “gift.” Slippery slope, that.
“Come on, don't get all melodramatic on me.”
Melodramatic? That was rich, coming from Bitchy McBitchface over there. Sometimes Dean felt like he was living in an after school special.
“Dean...” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as though he was developing a headache.
“Uh, guys? As fun as this really weird quasi-telepathic thing you've got going on is, maybe we could focus on the plan?” Andy had an odd expression on his face, as though he didn't know whether to be amused, annoyed, or horrified.
Dean shot Sam a see-I-told-you-so look, and Sam huffed again. It was kind of fun. He wondered how many times he could get him to do it before the day was over, and began a mental count. Dean: two, Sam: zero. His triumph was short-lived, interrupted by a fit of hacking coughs that made his eyes water. When he regained his composure he caught Sam staring at him, his face screwed up with worry. He flapped a hand at him in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. No sense in having Sam freak out as well as Andy. The one up side to all this was that he was feeling way too sick to be freaking out anymore.
He shoved his chair away from the table, steeled himself, and drank the rest of his coffee. Then he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack by the door (had he hung it up yesterday? He couldn't remember, and that in itself unsettled him) and turned to look expectantly at the others. Andy was close on his heels, and with another soft huff (three) Sam followed.
It was raining. Again. God damn it.
He let Andy and Sam grab umbrellas, made a dash for the Impala and managed to get in without getting too wet, cranked up the heater. Not only was it raining, but it was cold, too. Miserable, cold, torrential rain. Fate obviously had it in for him. Sam took shotgun, not that there was any question of that, and Andy once again settled himself contentedly in the back seat.
“I still love your car. Don't get me wrong, I'd never want to get rid of the van, but she's gorgeous.”
Dean glowed at the praise for his baby, ignored Sam's reaction (four), turned the key in the ignition, immediately let go to clap both hands to his face. “Huh... HEISTCH! Huh-PKSHH-uh!” He waited for a moment, hands poised, but he seemed to be done —small mercies. He twisted in his seat to look at Sam, who pulled out the map and addressed himself to Andy.
“Andy? You know where we're going?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He provided directions, and wasn't too much of a pain in the ass as a back seat driver. Dean was beginning to develop a whole new appreciation for his Dad, who'd had to drive with two fidgety boys in the back seat for years.
He drove around a large park full of trees and well-tended lawn, picnic tables scattered here and there, the underbrush getting a bit denser, a bit more wild as they approached their destination. There was a small river flowing here, Cottonwood Creek, Andy informed him, which looked considerably larger than a creek. Then again, it had been raining a lot lately. Probably not surprising that the creek would have overflowed its banks. Sam made a low whistling sound, and Dean couldn't help but agree: it was a lot of water for such a small piece of land. He accepted an umbrella from Sam, climbed out of the car into the rain.
Unlike downtown Guthrie, which was all Victorian-era architecture (not that he'd ever admit out loud to knowing anything about architecture, least of all where Sam could hear him), the outskirts were more typical of a middle American town. Lesley Barnes lived in a quaint little two-story house with gabled windows and latticework climbing one wall to accommodate what looked like it would be a really lush ivy plant in the summer. Right now it clung, skeletal and frail, to the outside of the house, and Dean found himself shuddering inexplicably. He trotted up the stairs, was about to ring the bell when he remembered that speaking was probably a bad plan. He stepped back, gestured ironically for Sam to do the honours.
A pretty woman with brown hair swept back into a ponytail opened the door. “Yes, can I help y—” her eyes travelled up to Sam's face, and she stopped cold, all the blood draining from her face. For a moment Dean thought she was going to faint, and he stepped forward instinctively, ready to catch her if she did. “Oh. Oh my God. You are here,” she stammered. “Oh, God. That means it's true.”
Sam was gaping at her, and Dean was pretty sure his expression was identical. Andy was trying his best to look invisible. She recovered herself, wiped her hands on her sweater.
“Uh, I guess you'd better come in, then.”
Part 13
Part 12
It was official, Dean felt like total and utter crap, and it didn't look as though it was going to get better anytime soon. Sam was long gone from the bed when he finally forced his eyes open, and with a groan he realized that he was probably the last one up. It was embarrassingly late in the morning, too. He pulled himself out from under the covers, sat on the edge of the bed for a minute while his head throbbed mercilessly. His throat felt as though it had swelled shut in the few hours he'd been asleep, and his whole body ached as though he'd gone ten rounds with a wendigo.
The box of tissues was already starting to run low, he noted as he snatched another one just in time to bury his nose and mouth in it. “HGFFHH! HEPKTSCH! Hih... HPTSCHH! Uh...” he allowed himself a small moan of pain as the sneezes threatened to rip his throat apart, felt his breath start to hitch again. Son of a bitch. “Hih... HEISHH! HPKTSHH! HHFFGHH!” Trying to stifle them only hurt more, as it turned out. Awesome. Couldn't win for losing, such was the lot of Dean Winchester. He blew his nose with the last two remaining tissues in the box, tried to remember where he'd put the ones Sam had bought for him the day before.
There was still water left in the glass by his bedside, and he downed the contents along with a few more decongestants before dragging himself downstairs. He realized that talking was a mistake the minute he opened his mouth and saw the look on Sam's face. It hurt, too. He managed a swallow of coffee, but the thought of food turned his stomach, which was a crying shame. There was bacon, for God's sake, and even that didn't tempt him. Not even pie was an encouraging thought, and that depressed him even more. What he ought to have done is take a shower the minute he was out of bed. His voice gave out halfway through announcing his decision to go back upstairs and shower, which was just peachy. It was going to make getting through the day a real joy, he could tell. He held onto the wall as he went back up the stairs, his legs shaky under him, feeling as though he was breathing through a straw. A bendy straw.
He turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, took a handful of decongestants and gripped the sink, white-knuckled, as his throat protested anything having to do with swallowing, followed them up with Tylenol. Then he stood under the shower, letting the hot water hit his back like a thousand needles. It didn't do as much good as the day before, but it did work a bit, loosening muscles he hadn't even realized were tense. The steam was the best thing about the shower, clearing up some of the congestion, and he pressed a hand to his chest, erupting in a fit of harsh, barking coughs which hurt even more than he'd imagined they would. His nose was running, and once again he was struck by how unfair it was that he could be congested and have his nose run at the same time. He scrubbed at it with the back of his wrist, felt the steam from the shower working itself into his already-abused sinuses, prickling annoyingly.
“Heh... HEEISH!” he kept one hand braced against the tiled wall, wondering just what it was he'd done to deserve this special brand of hell. “ISHOO! Huh... huh-ESH-uh! HISHOO!”
Almost too late he remembered Sam's admonition not to use up all the hot water, and reluctantly he stepped out of the shower. He paid a little more attention to his shave today, figuring that he was going to look terrible enough as it was without adding “scruffy and disreputable” to the list. Interviewing people was an art form, and they didn't generally react well if you looked as though you'd spent the night sleeping outside. He borrowed another of Sam's hoodies, figuring the cat was out of the bag anyway, and most of his shirts had short sleeves, which he just didn't want to contemplate, given the weather out there. He pulled on his jeans, sat back down on the bed for a minute to catch his breath, feeling yet another damned tickle building in his sinuses. He scrubbed at his nose, sniffled, but that only made it worse. Figured.
“Sniff... huh... HEISHH! HEPTCHUH! Hep-KSHH-uh! Uh... God. Sud of a bitch,” he muttered, his throat on fire.
Pathetic. He reached for another tissue, blew his nose, feeling pain blossom anew in his sinuses, and allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a while longer at the thought that he might well be getting a sinus infection on top of everything. Just freaking peachy.
He found Sam and Andy still seated at the kitchen table when he went back down, having sorted himself out as much as he could. They'd cleared most of the dishes to make room for Sam's laptop and the papers they'd collected the day before, and were apparently discussing the most likely candidate for Sam's vision. He slid into a chair next to Sam, nodded to Andy, and let Sam hand him a mug of coffee.
“You take your meds?” Sam asked, his tone carefully modulated in that see-how-I'm-not-making-a-big-deal way that he tried to have when he knew he was about to spark an argument. Luckily for Sam, Dean didn't feel like having an argument, because it would hurt, and so he just nodded, rummaged in the pocket of his jeans for the roll of lozenges he'd shoved in there earlier, waggled it vaguely in Sam's direction. They were going to have to stock up on those.
“So Sam thinks the woman in his vision is Lesley Barnes,” Andy supplied. “So, do we go talk to her?”
Dean nodded. Sounded like a pretty good plan, so long as he wasn't doing the talking.
“I figure we can pull out the old U.S. Marshall identities if she turns out to be just a civilian,” Sam said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “FBI might have been better, but both our suits are pretty much wrecked until we get them dry-cleaned.”
Yeah, well, Dean hadn't been the one to have a seizure in the middle of a freaking rainstorm.
“I know,” Sam rolled his eyes. “But it's not like I planned to have a crippling vision in the middle of the street, Dean.”
Dean shook his head, made a “carry on” gesture with the hand that wasn't clenched around the handle of his mug, brought it back hastily to catch a sneeze that sneaked up on him. “HGHHFF!”
“You going to live?” Sam asked a bit ruefully, sympathy obvious in his body language.
Dean lifted a hand, made a “so-so” gesture.
“So I'm thinking I'll do most of the talking, then.”
He nodded. God, even the idea of talking hurt. He resisted the impulse to rest his forehead against the cool tabletop, propped himself up on his elbows instead, massaging his temples with his fingers.
“I want to get a feel for the woman, see if she's... well, if she's like us. See if she's willing to talk.”
Us? That was a new word. Clearly it didn't refer to Sam and Dean.
“One of the demon's psychic kids,” Sam clarified unnecessarily. “If she isn't, then Andy can probably get her to open up pretty easily. Otherwise, his gift won't work on her, same as with me.”
Oh, gift was it, now?
“Well, what else do you want to call it, Dean?” Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. “Until you can conclusively prove it's bad, let's try to stay positive, okay?”
Whatever. If Sam was going to get his panties in a wad over this, Dean wasn't about to stop him. He just wasn't sure that anything that came from a demon should be called a “gift.” Slippery slope, that.
“Come on, don't get all melodramatic on me.”
Melodramatic? That was rich, coming from Bitchy McBitchface over there. Sometimes Dean felt like he was living in an after school special.
“Dean...” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as though he was developing a headache.
“Uh, guys? As fun as this really weird quasi-telepathic thing you've got going on is, maybe we could focus on the plan?” Andy had an odd expression on his face, as though he didn't know whether to be amused, annoyed, or horrified.
Dean shot Sam a see-I-told-you-so look, and Sam huffed again. It was kind of fun. He wondered how many times he could get him to do it before the day was over, and began a mental count. Dean: two, Sam: zero. His triumph was short-lived, interrupted by a fit of hacking coughs that made his eyes water. When he regained his composure he caught Sam staring at him, his face screwed up with worry. He flapped a hand at him in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. No sense in having Sam freak out as well as Andy. The one up side to all this was that he was feeling way too sick to be freaking out anymore.
He shoved his chair away from the table, steeled himself, and drank the rest of his coffee. Then he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack by the door (had he hung it up yesterday? He couldn't remember, and that in itself unsettled him) and turned to look expectantly at the others. Andy was close on his heels, and with another soft huff (three) Sam followed.
It was raining. Again. God damn it.
He let Andy and Sam grab umbrellas, made a dash for the Impala and managed to get in without getting too wet, cranked up the heater. Not only was it raining, but it was cold, too. Miserable, cold, torrential rain. Fate obviously had it in for him. Sam took shotgun, not that there was any question of that, and Andy once again settled himself contentedly in the back seat.
“I still love your car. Don't get me wrong, I'd never want to get rid of the van, but she's gorgeous.”
Dean glowed at the praise for his baby, ignored Sam's reaction (four), turned the key in the ignition, immediately let go to clap both hands to his face. “Huh... HEISTCH! Huh-PKSHH-uh!” He waited for a moment, hands poised, but he seemed to be done —small mercies. He twisted in his seat to look at Sam, who pulled out the map and addressed himself to Andy.
“Andy? You know where we're going?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He provided directions, and wasn't too much of a pain in the ass as a back seat driver. Dean was beginning to develop a whole new appreciation for his Dad, who'd had to drive with two fidgety boys in the back seat for years.
He drove around a large park full of trees and well-tended lawn, picnic tables scattered here and there, the underbrush getting a bit denser, a bit more wild as they approached their destination. There was a small river flowing here, Cottonwood Creek, Andy informed him, which looked considerably larger than a creek. Then again, it had been raining a lot lately. Probably not surprising that the creek would have overflowed its banks. Sam made a low whistling sound, and Dean couldn't help but agree: it was a lot of water for such a small piece of land. He accepted an umbrella from Sam, climbed out of the car into the rain.
Unlike downtown Guthrie, which was all Victorian-era architecture (not that he'd ever admit out loud to knowing anything about architecture, least of all where Sam could hear him), the outskirts were more typical of a middle American town. Lesley Barnes lived in a quaint little two-story house with gabled windows and latticework climbing one wall to accommodate what looked like it would be a really lush ivy plant in the summer. Right now it clung, skeletal and frail, to the outside of the house, and Dean found himself shuddering inexplicably. He trotted up the stairs, was about to ring the bell when he remembered that speaking was probably a bad plan. He stepped back, gestured ironically for Sam to do the honours.
A pretty woman with brown hair swept back into a ponytail opened the door. “Yes, can I help y—” her eyes travelled up to Sam's face, and she stopped cold, all the blood draining from her face. For a moment Dean thought she was going to faint, and he stepped forward instinctively, ready to catch her if she did. “Oh. Oh my God. You are here,” she stammered. “Oh, God. That means it's true.”
Sam was gaping at her, and Dean was pretty sure his expression was identical. Andy was trying his best to look invisible. She recovered herself, wiped her hands on her sweater.
“Uh, I guess you'd better come in, then.”
Part 13