ratherastory: (Supernatural)
ratherastory ([personal profile] ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 05:49 pm

Not the Demons You're Looking For (14/24)

Part 13

Part 14

Dean gave a bark of laughter that turned into a coughing fit. “Oh, I like her, Sabby!” he rasped when he caught his breath. “You're a real keeper, sweetheart.”

She glared. “You may be cute, but you're a jackass.”

Andy and Sam both snorted at that, and Dean glared daggers at them. They were damned lucky his throat hurt too damned much to do much more than that. He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, grimaced, and tried to look as though he wasn't sulking. Because he wasn't. Sulking, that is. That was Sam's department.

“Sniff... huh! Uh, God...” he wrenched aside, raising his arm over his face. “HEPTSCHUH! Huh-EKSH-uh! HEISHTCHUH!” When he looked up he saw three worried faces staring at him. “Whad?”

“Uh, are you sure you're all right?” Lesley asked. He rolled his eyes, then immediately regretted it as the movement sent pain rocketing to the back of his skull. The only thing he wanted at that moment was to be out of that room, to not be the centre of everyone's focus.

“Fide. Cad I just use your bathroob while Sab explaids thigs?” he had to stop twice to swallow just to get that one sentence out. Totally pathetic.

“Oh, of course. It's upstairs on the right.”

“Thagks.”

He got up carefully, his head pounding. He wasn't sure that he wouldn't face-plant into the floor if he got up too fast, and then Sam would never leave him alone for the rest of his natural born days, and that was not a prospect he relished. He could hear the conversation pick up as he made his way back through the living room and to the main entrance. More stairs. Super. This time he took them at a normal pace, resting one hand on the bannister. Lesley's bathroom was much like the rest of the house: messy, but in a lived-in way. The towels were damp but neatly hung over the racks, someone had left a tube of toothpaste lying on the edge of the sink, and three toothbrushes stood in a glass just under the mirror, one red, one white, and one with a Thomas the Tank Engine design. Idly he wondered where the other kid was. Maybe in school, depending on how old he was. Dean had been too preoccupied to pay attention to the photos in the living room, which made him wonder just what else he'd missed while this cold was playing the let's-stab-Dean-in-the-head-with-a-hot-poker game.

He turned on the tap in the sink and splashed water over his face, pulled the bottle of decongestants out of his jacket pocket as well as the Tylenol, and swallowed the handful of pills with a grimace of pain. This sucked. It sucked beyond words. Here they were on what might turn out to be the most important case they'd had since... a really important case, and he was so off his game it wasn't even funny. He took the empty glass next to the one with the toothbrushes and filled it with water, knowing that it would help even if swallowing was the last thing he wanted to be experimenting with right now. He felt his breath hitch (again, Jesus), his eyelashes fluttering, and he made a quick lunge for the box of tissues on top of the toilet tank.

“Hih... HISHOO! HEISHH! Heh... uh... HEKTSCHUH-uh!” He'd gone right through the tissue. Making a face he pulled a handful out of the box and gingerly blew his nose, washed his hands. Gross. He was still breathing hard, his head pounding. He felt a shiver run through him, then another, and kept his hands under the hot water, trying to warm up. This was ridiculous. How could he be cold? He hadn't even gotten more than a few drops of rain on him outside. He leaned over the sink, coughing so hard he thought he might actually throw up for a moment. He managed to get it under control, sucked in a deep breath, his eyes streaming. He cuffed at them with the sleeve of his sweater. Come on, Winchester, he told himself, pull it together. No way was he letting some stupid cold get the better of him. He drained the glass of water, refilled it, drained it again, his throat screaming at him the whole time.

Another sound caught his attention, one that was so familiar that for a moment he felt as though he was four years old again. The baby was crying. He caught his breath, poised by the sink, shook his head to clear it, which turned out to be a mistake, as pain flared up behind his eyelids. He stole out through the bathroom door, saw a door with the painting of a teddy bear on it, and made his way there. The room was small but cozy, the walls painted pastel yellow, with a painted border of balloons and teddy bears. On one side of the room stood a changing table and a small chest of drawers, and a brightly-coloured mobile was hanging motionless over a white crib by the window. It wasn't difficult to pinpoint the source of the crying. The kid had a good pair of lungs on him, that was for sure.

“Hey, ared't you cute?” he said softly, looking down at the squalling child, all waving fists and kicking feet, clad in a pastel blue onesie with teddy bears on it (obviously either Lesley or her husband had a thing for teddy bears, and his money was on Lesley). “What's wrogg, buddy?” He leaned over, checked the diaper, but the kid was dry. He laid his hand gently on the baby's belly, started rubbing in slow circles, kept his voice soft, as much for the baby's sake as for his own —his throat was still killing him. “Dylad, righd? I'b Dean. You're kickig up a big old fuss, ared't you? By baby brother Sabby used to do that too, ad this always bade hib feel bedder. By Dad taught be to do thad.” He turned his head aside to cough into the lapel of his jacket. “Sorry, buddy. Ugcle Dean's got a killer of a head cold. You wadt to tell be whad's got you all riled up? If id's debods, I cad help with thad.”

The baby was hiccupping now rather than outright wailing, and when Dean reached down with his other hand tiny fingers clenched around his index. He grinned, and Dylan cooed and smiled back. Or maybe it was just gas. Dean couldn't remember at what age babies started smiling back for real. “Well, ared't you sobethig? Loogk at you, workig od your hadd-eye coordidation. So you were just angling for sobeode to cobe ad pay attedtion to you, huh? Cad't blabe you. Your bobby's a hottie. Just sayigg.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Dean started violently, pulling back from the crib as though it had suddenly filled with poisonous snakes. “I wasd't doig adythig. Hodest! I jusdt heard hib cryig...” Oh, this looked very, very bad. What the hell, Winchester? Walk into a strange woman's house, tell her all sorts of weird shit about visions and demons, and then have her catch you in the same room with her baby. Oh, that was really smart. Definitely a good way to gain her trust. “Uh...”

“Relax, I saw you. I would have already lobbed something heavy at the back of your head if I thought you were trying to hurt Dylan,” Lesley smiled at him from where she was leaning in the doorway, arms folded over her chest. She straightened and came to stand beside him, smiling down at Dylan, who looked back at them with very large brown eyes before sticking a fist in his mouth and sucking on it diligently, eyes never leaving their faces. “You're good with babies. I wouldn't have pegged you as the type. You seem more like a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy.”

He coughed into his lapel again. “I ligke kids. Raised by brother, sort of.”

“Parents weren't around much?”

He rubbed at his forehead, wishing he didn't feel quite so sick, his eyes pricking. “Our bother died whed Sabby was Dylad's age. Dad was kide of busy with... worgk.”

“Hunting. Sam explained it to me.”

Dean groaned. It didn't seem to matter how many times he gave Sam the don't-discuss-the-hunt-with-civilians speech, it never seemed to sink in. “He did?”

“An abbreviated version. I sort of insisted. I figured that if I'm going to have psychic powers I should at least know where they come from. And before you ask, there was no fire in my home when I was a baby.”

“I w-wasd't g- HEISTCH!” he pulled away from the crib, sneezed into his jacket. “Sorry.”

“Bless you.”

“Thagks.” He moved back, glanced down at the crib, where Dylan was still watching him. He put out a hand tentatively, and when Lesley didn't stop him he resumed rubbing circles on the boy's stomach. After a few moments Dylan's eyes fluttered, closed, and he drifted to sleep.

“You'll have to show me that trick. I can never get him to sleep when he gets fussy. Steven was never this fussy as a baby.”

“Thad's your other kid?”

She nodded. “Yeah. He's at pre-school right now.” She glanced at her watch. “The carpool will be dropping him back here pretty soon, actually.”

“He's, whad, four? Five?”

“Not quite five. He'll be five in July. I was pretty young when I had him,” she said, sounding a bit defensive.

“Huh.” Dean rubbed at his face with both hands, his father's voice suddenly echoing in his head again.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back. Now, Dean, go!

“Dean?”

“Wha'?”

It's okay, Sammy.

“Are you all right?”

I gotcha.

“Yeah, I'b fide. Uh... you wod't tell Sab, will you?” he asked, suddenly worried. He could see a million ways in which this could go south.

She snorted with amusement. “What, that you're a big old gooey softie? I'm betting he probably already knows. But no,” she reassured him, “if you don't want me to tell him that I found you cooing over my infant son, I won't. Rest assured, your reputation as a tough guy is safe with me.”
He grinned at her. “Thagks. I owe you. Whad else did Sab tell you?” he asked, leading her away from the sleeping baby.

It turned out that they hadn't gotten as far in the conversation as he'd thought they would, although Sam had at least covered the basics: demon, babies, fire, bad. All things considered, Lesley was taking it all with surprising equanimity. It was almost six months to the day since Dylan's birth, and that was never a good thing. If things went according to pattern, Lesley and her family would be getting a visit from the yellow-eyed demon, sooner rather than later, and the thought sent chills running up Dean's spine. He was still shivering when they got back to the kitchen, although he tried to keep it under wraps by shoving his hands in his pockets, keeping his arms clamped to his sides. He saw Sam shoot him a worried look, ignored him, and sat back down at the table.

“Id's goig to happed, Sab.”

“I know.”

“They cad't stay here. It's dot safe.”

Lesley glared, crossing her arms. “I'm not letting some demon bully me from my house.”

Sam huffed, although Dean couldn't tell exactly what he was frustrated about. Seven, he thought idly, biting back a smile. Unless there were some he'd missed while he was upstairs.

“I don't know that they'd be safer anywhere else,” he pointed out. “Here, at least, we can make preparations, keep the demon from coming in. Lay down salt and maybe some devil's traps. Hell, we still have the Colt, Dean. This could be our shot,” he said, looking at him earnestly.

God, he so did not want to deal with his brother when it felt as though his head was going to fall off, or as though he might drown in his own mucus at any moment. “I dod't ligke it. It feels... off. Wrogg.”

Sam drummed his fingers on the table, the conflict in his mind visible on his face, and Dean could definitely sympathize with that. He wanted the yellow-eyed sonofabitch dead as much as Sam did —possibly more, depending on who you asked— but there were civilians on the line here. Okay, freaky psychic civilians with potential demon connections, but they were closer to being civilians than anything else. The one thing they had on their side was that it wasn't the exact six-month anniversary of the kid's birth, which was when the demon always struck. That might give them time to come up with some sort of plan to deal with this.

Other than that, this whole situation pretty much sucked.

Part 15

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