Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional (6/6)
Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional
Author: greenthumb421
Artist: annartism
Summary: Laughing used to come easy to the Winchester boys.Sometimes Sam thinks they'll never really laugh again. Sam n' Dean, worn down by Bobby's death, Sam's hallucinations of Lucifer, lack of sleep, and the (temporary) loss of the Impala, decide to take a week or two off from hunting, rest up, and try to have some fun, see if they can remember how to laugh. The old Reilly 'House of Death' case in Pittsburgh, PA, seems like a nice, non-urgent case to chew over while they kick back and catch up on sleep. Unfortunately, the hyena demons infesting the house have other ideas.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Sheriff Jody Mills and OMC's.
Pairings: Gen. No, really! Okay, some if-you-squint slashiness, but no worse than canon.
Disclaimer: No profit, no glory, just borrowing the boys from Kripke and the CW.
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Word Count: approx 33,000
Warnings: Spoilers through 7.12 Time After Time. Language. (Seriously, gratuitous overuse of the F-bomb.) Misuse of the Pittsburghese dialect, the Ethiopian Christian Church, italics (and parentheses), Trojan condoms, and stuffed cats (but not together, ewwww). And epically long run-on sentences.
.pdf version, created by annartism (thanks, hon!)
The freakin' awesome artworks by annartism can all be seen here, including some tinted versions not seen with the story. Be sure to look for all the hilarious 'Lord of the Rings' references in the scene she created of Sam sitting on his bed!
Song lyrics taken from Bruno Mars' Grenade.
Many thanks go to my primary beta namichan89 for reading and cheerleading and idea bouncing and for making me laugh. The world would be a better place with more sweet souls like you.
Thanks also to my backup beta vyperdd for her emergency handholding and critical feedback. Also, thank you to paleogymnast, one of the mods of the immensely helpful omgspnbigbang, for taking the time to answer my questions and lend a helping hand. Finally, thank you to slightlysatanic, the other mod of omgspnbigbang, and to wendy and thehighwaywoman, mods of spn_j2_big_bang. Our fandom rocks because of people like you ladies!
Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional (6/6)
Master Post Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
“Dean.”
Sam is stopped, four steps down from the attic floor, his head and shoulders exposed to the room above them. “We've got shadows moving,” he says in a subdued voice.
Dean grabs Jon by the collar, hauls him along as he bypasses Albert on the narrow staircase to get to his brother. The enormous open space of the attic is choked with shadows, lumpy pieces of anonymous furniture stacked alongside scattered boxes and trunks and the treasured junk of a century of family life - There. Something scurrying along the wall that reaches only four feet high before the pitch of the roof begins. A black, doglike shape with a sloping back, slinking behind boxes, sticking to the wall before ducking into a dark alcove.
“Holy shit,” Jon breathes.
Albert hums a bit in agreement, but doesn't falter in his subdued prayers.
“They're not as intelligent as humans, but they're also not dumb animals, so be careful and don't underestimate them,” Albert had told them earlier. He had also told them that there could be as many as six of the demons leashed to the curse. Or as few as one, but yeah, their luck never runs that way.
Their group silently climbs the last few steps.
“Jon, make yourself a salt circle and sit your ass in it,” Dean tells him, eyes fixed on a second dark form undulating in a distant corner. “We're gonna flush them out. They might try for you, but they can't get through the salt line, so don't panic when we send them your way, okay?”
The chilly breeze is a steady cold wind up here, and Dean can see the moment when Jon realizes that it's July and yet he can see his breath wisping in the freezing air. The kid finishes with the salt, and gives the nearly empty bag to Sam, hands shaking.
“How many are there?” Sam mutters.
“No clue,” Dean says, and now that Jon's ass is safely parked in a salt circle, Dean doesn't bother whispering. “Let's find out, shall we? Light 'em up, boys.”
“Amen,” Albert says, and he already has the first road flare in his hand.
They twist the caps, white sparks flare and luminous smoke trickles to the floor. The light is blindingly sharp, outlining in unforgiving detail the men's clothing and determined features. The three of them stick close to the sloping walls, Dean on the west side, Sam and Albert on the east side, over the front of the house. Through the dormer windows set into the center of each side of the roof, they can see the last of the daylight graying the sky through the branches of the trees against the house. “Don't forget --” Dean calls over the hiss of the flares and the rising wind and Albert's full-throated Ge'ez prayers and the rustling sound of the tree limbs stroking the roof.
“I'm on it,” Sam nods, and lays a thick line of salt along the sill of the dormer window, identical to the one Dean is laying down on his side of the attic. Sam stuffs the empty bag into his murse, then takes the shotgun back from Albert.
The wind's howl is picking up, swirling the flare's smoke trail into Dean's eyes if he's not careful, and he wonders idly how much more a spark in the eye would hurt -
“They're running!” Sam calls, and damn if he doesn't sound like he's grinning, the big dork.
Indeed they are. Flushed out of hiding by the flares' cutting lights, the doglike black shapes move with unnatural speed from the darkened far end of the room towards the men. Dean grips his flare with one hand, takes aim with his shotgun with the other. A monstrously ugly canine face, composed of wickedly sharp teeth and wisps of black smoke, manifests just inches from Dean's head. He squeezes the shotgun's trigger without hesitation, and the hyena-shadow-demon-whatthefuckever dissolves into streaks of nauseating shadows with an almost comical yip. Down, but not dead. It will be back. He hears two booms of Sam's shotgun on the other side of the attic, but doesn't let his guard down.
“Doing okay, Jon?” he hollers.
“So far,” the young man calls back in an amusingly high pitched voice. Dean wouldn't be surprised to hear that Jon's balls have decided to travel north for safety and fucking stay there till this is over.
“They'll be coming at you now. Don't panic, okay? It'll all be over in a minute. Close your eyes and - and count your trust funds or something. ”
“I've only got one ohfuckgetitoffme --”
“Jon, freeze,” Sam bellows, and by golly, when the yeti decides to bellow, the rafters shake. Literally. Dust of a century sifts down upon their heads, and a startled Jon, who was on the point of bolting out of the circle, stops keening with panic, wraps his arms around his head, and freezes.
Heh. Got to get Sammy to try that in dahntahn traffic someday, Dean thinks, but really he's too busy watching the three semi-formed hyenas edging closer to Jon's huddled form on the floor. The poor kid is sobbing with terror, and yeah, can't really blame him for that, those are some ugly mofo's sniffing at his salt line.
They are fascinated by Jon, snarling and barking in rising tones until it's a cacophony of eerie yipping laughter, and even when Dean breaks formation and retraces his steps to bring his flare closer to the cowering kid to herd them along, they still hover for a disturbingly long moment before slipping flickering away from the light and down the stairs.
Down the stairs to the devil's traps.
“They are cunning pack hunters,” Albert had told them earlier. "They listen, and they wait. But if we force them out of their hiding places, they can be separated, and on their own, they can be trapped.”
Well, actually, he'd said, “Dem fuckers is rilly smaht n'at, but we can beat 'em.” It sounds better when Dean rewrites it in his head. More Gandalfish.
This is one for the books. Well, one for Sam's journal, anyway. They've filled the mansion with a shit-ton of devil's traps, sealed off all possible exits, and now they're beating the bushes until the fuckers have no choice but to scurry from their hiding places. The Reilly House of Death is now a gigantic roach motel. For demons. (Which would make it a demon motel, but never mind, Dean's not gonna argue about it.)
The pounding has stopped, thank fuck, and the supernatural wind is dying down already, and they're still barely past the attic's halfway point.
“Doing okay, Mr. Frodo?” Sam calls to Dean, grinning when he gets a reassuring middle-finger salute in return.
“Sure, brothers,” Jon bitches, peering through his fingers.
“Kid, I've had about enough - Can I shoot him?” Dean barks at Sam, pointing his shotgun at the shaking Jon. Sam gives a disapproving shake of his head. Rule Number One of firearms safety: Never point a weapon at someone unless you're okay with killing them. Dean lifts one eyebrow, doesn't lower his weapon. Yeah, and your point is?
Another shadow rushes at Dean, and he takes out his agressions on it, as Winchesters do. Shooting things is so much cheaper than therapy sessions.
They take it slowly, shining their flares under tables and other obstacles where shadows hide, and finally, after three more yipping demons have slunk away down the stairs - each time pausing to check out the object of their affections, shivering in his circle - the attic is cleared. Seven demons in all. Dean's damn grateful they have Albert along. It would have been a damn sight more dangerous clearing the house with just Jon as backup.
“Think it worked?” Sam asks, dousing his flare with Albert's jug of holy water.
“Let's go see,” Albert grins.
They troop down the stairs for the first of that night's exorcisms.
“Uh. Guys?” Jon feebly tries to grab their trouser legs as they walk past him.
Dean looks back. “You should stay here. In case anything goes wrong downstairs. You know. Like maybe the house catching on fire. Or something,” he shrugs. At the bottom of the stairs, he's careful to turn off the light and shut the door behind him, good steward of the Earth that he is.
“Guys?” Jon's muffled voice calls sadly.
Heh.
Albert really is a fucking wizard.
He's not the least bit shy about stepping up to the first occupied devil's trap they encounter. The demon, still making inappropriate laughing noises that will never not be creepy, is not as visible as it was upstairs, perhaps because the trap's magical symbols weaken it as well as constrain it. It's a greasy black fog that flits across the trap's surface until it presses up against the invisible perimeter, like a jellyfish in a glass jar. Sharp teeth form, as do malevolent yellow eyes, then are swallowed up again in the constantly reforming smoke.
Two minutes of deep-throated Ge'ez incantations, a couple of sloshes of holy water, and the noisy creature screeches and melts into the floorboards.
“Check, please,” Albert says, and staggers but doesn't lose his grin when Dean slaps him on the shoulder. “Well done, kiddo. But you really gotta work on your Schwarzenegger line.” It's a point in Albert's favor that he chuckles without needing to have that explained to him.
“Next,” Sam nods at the end of the corridor, where again there is a swirl of black fury.
“Looks like we got us a twofer.” Albert watches the pair of shadows prowling.
“Be my guest,” he tells Sam, and steps aside.
“You sure? I can get the next one if you like.”
“Nah, I been dying to hear how it's done in Latin.”
“Oh, it's the same old Rituale Romanum everyone uses --”
“Ladies?” Dean says through his teeth. “Could we exchange recipes later, please?”
Sam is busting out the Exorcizamus te when Dean goes to let Jon out of the attic. In a week's time, Sam will no doubt be Ge'ez-ing demons back to Hell. Geek. There's not a dead language out there that Sam doesn't latch onto like a leech -
Speaking of which.... “Jon?”
Shit.
The flashlight, still lit, lays on the floor next to the circle of salt they'd left him in. The circle is empty. And the saltline is broken.
Shit. Dean's reaching for his pistol when the lights go out.
“No, no, it's Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. The verb tenses can be a bit confusing, but you almost got it right that time,” Sam says encouragingly.
“From the snares of the Devil, free us, Lord,” Albert says, looking at Sam with curiosity. He's apparently familiar with the hunter etiquette of never asking another hunter how he got started in the business. “Most people don't talk about the devil these days. It's not fashionable to believe in him, I guess. You and your brother seem to have no problem though.” Sam just pastes on a polite smile and very casually does not glance at Lucifer, who's been doing a running commentary over in the corner on the poor pronunciation of modern-day exorcists. Albert presses a bit harder. “I'll bet you've got a hell of a story--”
“You have no idea,” chortles Lucifer, and Sam says loudly, “I wonder what Dean and Jon are up to.”
“They've been awful quiet up there.”
Quiet? Yeah, sometimes he almost forgets that not everyone can hear the constant bullshit all-Lucifer-all-the-time radio chatter that he hears -
Wait. Quiet?
And between one heartbeat and the next, Sam goes from (mostly) relaxed banter to danger mode. “Did we do six rites or seven?” Seven demons. Seven exorcisms. Did one of them double back to the attic?
“Six. No, five, there was a twofer, remember? Dammit, I'm not sure --”
“Neither is he,” Lucifer singsongs as Sam runs out of the room.
Albert grabs the half-empty jug of holy water as he tears after him.
“Dean!” The attic door swings opens with no resistance. For some reason, that surprises him. Sam checks his shotgun, chocks it up against his shoulder, left hand pressing the flashlight to the stock. He's still wearing the satchel slung across his chest, briefly considers shrugging it off in case it catches on something, but the white plume of air ghosting from his own mouth makes him forget the damn murse.
Fuck.
“Dean!” Sam bellows as he advances up the stairs, voice breaking with fear. “Dean, answer me!”
“Jon?” Albert calls behind him. There's a loud clicking noise as he tries the light switch. Nothing. The attic is completely dark.
Lucifer is standing at the top of the stairs, looking smug. “Fucked up again, didn't you, Sam? Wonder if this is the time you finally get your brother killed?”
“Do you see - “
“Shut up,” Sam snarls. He doesn't know if he's talking to both of them, doesn't give a fuck about hurt feelings. “Dean!” He's standing in the attic, swinging the light and the shotgun barrel left to right, sweeping, peering into the far corners. Nothing.
“Can't wait to see how this turns out,” Lucifer smirks as they go past him.
“Here - please --”
The dormer window at the back of the house is open.
Sam is there in a second, with Albert pressed to his back as they peer out. The line of salt is scuffed but intact. Jon is laying face down on the steeply sloped roof, awkwardly clutching at the dormer's sill with bloody fingernails. His face is wet with tears. “I ran,” he says, voice hoarse, shaken.
“Where's my brother?”
“I - It threw him against the wall. I'm so sorry, I ran --”
“Get him in,” Sam tells the Dabtara.
Albert is already reaching for the kid.
“Dean!” He strides toward the far end of the attic, his flashlight's beam cutting circles into the darkness. There. “-- the fuck - Dean?”
His brother is hanging upside down, feet tangled in a snarl of rope looped around the horizontal crossbeam of a rafter. Bloody smears on his face, dripping onto the dusty wood floorboards. His arms dangle limp, hands floating lifeless three feet above the ground.
Sam's at his side in an instant. He drops the gun and flashlight, crouches to grab Dean's shoulders and haul him up against his chest. He's breathing. “I've got you, buddy. I've got you.” He wipes at the blood, hand shaking, can't tell where the injury is. Dean's face is slack, whites showing through the thin slits of his partially open eyes. “Fuck, man. Fuck.”
“Run,” he hears Albert say. “Go to their car. Get the kitab amulet. It's in a box in the back seat. Bring it here.”
“I can't --”
“Bring it or they'll die. Go now.”
Sam gently lowers Dean's limp form, letting his bound ankles again support his dead (not dead) weight. He looks up at the rope. Knife. Dean carries a knife inside his right boot. The rafter is too high to jump up and catch a grip on the beam.
“You gonna shinny up him like a fat kid climbing the rope in gym class? Oh, this should be fun. You do realize he's bait, don't you? Otherwise he'd be dog chow by now.”
Sam deliberately walks right through Lucifer's shadowy form. He digs his thumb into the scar on his palm as he hurries to a nearby stack of wooden crates. Too flimsy to hold his weight. Sasquatch. Wooden chest, over there. Yes, this will hold him. He drags it over to Dean, shoving Albert out of his way.
“His pulse is strong.”
“We need salt,” Sam says.
“We used the last of it on the windowsills - ”
“Then fucking scoop it up in your hands. We need a salt circle now.” He's standing on the wooden chest now, reaching up to slide his fingers into Dean's boot.
“Dabtara.”
Sam's head whips around. There's a hyena demon standing on its hind legs just a few yards away. It's taller than it should be, man height, its smoke-mist-fog form morphing as he watches, becoming vaguely human even as it bares its fangs in a hungry canine grin. Its yellow gaze is fixed on Albert, who steps warily back. “Dabtara,” it says again, and its voice is meaty and ancient.
Albert's arm whips up and across, and the open jug of holy water splashes an acid path across the demon's midsection. It blinks out of existance with a ragged howl.
Sam shoves his hand into the murse strapped to his chest, grabs the stub of chalk. “Draw the trap.”
“I don't know your symbols,” Albert whispers, backing away toward the nearest dormer window and trying to watch in every direction at once.
“Fuck!” Sam drops the chalk, goes for the knife again, but Dean's fucking bootlaces are too tight, he can just touch the haft with his fingertips, he has to untie the bowknot first - There. He tugs the knife free, flips it open and starts sawing furiously at the rope.
The sound of running feet makes him look back. Albert is making a desperate dash for the salt on the dormer windowsill.
The creature reappears, horrifically close to Albert, catches him by his dreadlocks and flings him to the floor. It goes down on all fours astride the young man. “Dabtara,” it breathes, and giggles its insane chuffing laugh in Albert's face.
Sam has no doubt that within seconds, Albert's throat will be torn out. “Hey!” He steps down from the wooden chest, knife in one hand, the other steadying Dean's spinning body. “I'm a Dabtara,” he says. The creature looks up, snarling.
Dean's hand closes around his wrist. “Sam,” he whispers. “Don't.” He's tugging at Sam's sleeve.
Sam can't afford to look at him. He shakes off Dean's hand, then shrugs off the murse to give himself more range of motion, laying it on the chest without thinking. The shotgun, where's the fucking shotgun, it was right here a minute ago. The knife isn't iron, or silver, or anything that will harm this evil fucker. But it's all he has.
“That's right, bitch. I'm a Dabtara,” Sam says with a sneer, brashly holding his arms wide to make himself a bigger, more obvious target. He takes a few cautious steps away from Dean. He wants him to be out of the direct line of attack, but close enough that Sam can defend him if necessary. “C'mon, Fido, show me what you got.”
An instant later, the demon has left Albert's side -
And Sam is pinned to the sloping ceiling by invisible claw-tipped paws wrapped around his throat. (“Sam!”) If the sight of that feral beast's grinning jaws and ancient eyes right the fuck up in Sam's face hadn't been so overwhelmingly attention-getting, Sam would definitely have been embarrassed by the whole choking thing. As it is, Lucifer has no such qualms, and complains, “Seriously, again? Hey, Dean, you better get busy on that steel-reinforced girdle slash chastity belt.”
Sam wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, but yeah, no air is getting past that inhuman grip. (“Let him go! Goddammit -- Sam!”) He slashes at the creature with the knife, but it slides uselessly through the demon's smoke-like flesh, and he drops it, spots swimming at the edges of his vision, and frantically begins patting his pockets in search of something, anything - Yeah, grape sucker, give it tooth decay, genius, fuck, find something else, fuck fuck fuck, only his fumbling fingers slip -- and suddenly there's a crack of thunder and the sound of horses neighing in terror.
It must be the lack of oxygen, because he could swear the creature pauses in mid-snarl to do a 'What the fuck was that?' squint at him.
Great, does no one appreciate Mel Brooks?
Sam has just enough time for an apologetic grimace before the growling and squeezing resumes, worse than before, and sonovabitch I don't want to go to Hell again and he can feel his heart (“Sam!) starting to stutter, and then Dean can't handle me dying again and then Dean... and then … Dean...
“Get your paws off my brother, you ugly fuck.” Dean slings the murse at the creature's legs. There's a light sheen of white as the bag opens in mid-air and stray grains of salt from the bottom of the murse are flung out in a gentle spray against the canine legs. There was no way Dean could have known there was even a dusting of salt in the bag, no chance at all that he'd planned to do anything more than briefly annoy it, but Dean - even concussed and hanging upside down - is not a person who misses, and that plus the lucky accident of the salt is enough to make the creature's hind legs sizzle with supernatural burns.
It releases Sam with a howl of fury and turns to Dean.
“Hey!”
Sam, gasping on his knees on the floor, and Dean, gently swaying in the path of an infuriated demon, both look up to see Albert standing there, holding out the curse box like it's a corsage for his prom date. Jon hovers behind him, white-faced.
“Time to go, ya jagoff.” Albert flips the lid open, exposing the kitab amulet. Instantly, there is an odd low hum of energy permeating the attic, and a fizz of electricity in the air.
And the creature, finally realizing who the real threat is here, gathers itself to pounce on Albert - and dissolves.
In less than a second, it is just harmless wisps of foul smoke, and in another fraction of a second, even that is gone.
Albert is left staring at the empty space where the demon had been. “Oakel-doakel,” he nods, breathing hard.
The mansion hums and ticks and hushes - and is once again simply a house.
Jon grabs the amulet, puts its chain around his neck. Ever the stylish accessory, it hangs there exactly like a petrified burrito should. “I'm never taking this off again.”
“If you start calling it 'my precious', I'm gonna hurl,” Dean croaks. “Fuck, I might just hurl anyways...”
“Dean!” Sam is on his feet, crouching a bit, one hand under Dean's head so he can get a good look at his face, see that he's all right, the other clutching his brother's shirt to stop him from spinning. He hopes Dean can't feel how he's shaking. Too fucking close. Don't the bad guys ever take a vacation? “Hey, man,” he growls, all his ravaged throat can manage at the moment. “You okay?”
Dean blinks, tries to focus on his brother's face. “Steel,” he says.
“What?”
“Reinforced.”
“Oh.”
“Turtleneck --”
“-- slash jock strap, yeah, whatever, I get it, okay? It's not like it's my fault --”
“Bullshit. The seige of Stalingrad, that Jersey Shore show? - those are things 'not your fault'. But this choking thing, Sam? Man, you're doing something wrong.”
“Wait, have you been reading my journal?” Sam is blinking rapidly, trying to process what's happening.
“It's bizarre, the way they always go for your throat.”
Sam winces at that 'bizarre'. Coming from a man who's lived a life that would make the Addams Family goggle-eyed with awe - and who is currently hanging by his Timberlands - that is quite a stinging criticism.
“So whatever this shit is, you need to quit it right now --”
“Oh, right, like I have any control over that. Like I have any fucking control over anything anymore. Do you think I enjoy being choked?” He realizes how close he is to just - what? throwing a tantrum? giving up? - Fuck, I just wanted to make the stupid jackass laugh and this is what happens. “What about you, Dean? How many times have you been thrown against a wall and knocked out cold?” Sam leans in, nostrils flaring, and says, “Do you get a sick thrill from that, Dean? Cause I sure don't. Matter of fact, I'm sick to death of you getting hurt and scaring the living shit out of me, so you can just fucking quit it!” and behind him, he hears, “Oh my god, they're going to do the upside-down kiss scene from Spiderman 1.”
Sam has a blissfully ignorant moment when he believes it was Lucifer speaking, and that no one else heard it, but then Dean's eyebrows go up (down), and “Jeez, Jon,” Albert says in a weary voice, and Sam looks around to glare at the fucking idiot they'd all risked their lives to save.
Jon sees Sam's scowl, flinches back a bit, but then rallies and says confidingly to Albert, “It's okay. He's one of Jerry's Kids.”
Sam looks at his brother warily.
His brother looks warily back at Sam.
And something... happens. A switch is flipped in their brains, or maybe something that's been building up for a long time just spills over.
Sam snorts. “Jagoff.”
Dean's mouth starts to twitch. “Bitch...n'at.”
And the rich kid and the young Gandalf watch in disbelief as the two hunters start to snicker silently, and then to chuckle. Shoulders shaking, the brothers burst into howls of laughter, grabbing at each other's shirts and necks and elbows because the world is always trying to throw them off.
Mission accomplished, Sam thinks with fierce satisfaction.
They're still wheezing with mirth when the rope snaps and Dean hits the floor headfirst, dragging Sam down atop him.
“It's only funny until someone gets hurt,” Lucifer pouts.
“I want it gone. Forever,” Jon says.
And because Jon didn't run away, leaving them to die, when he had the chance - and because he is worried that Dean might sue him for medical expenses down the road and so is on his best behavior, offering whiskey and Tylenol and icepacks - Sam doesn't argue when Albert tells him,“We can do that.”
Dean is a bit confused but conscious. And still seriously pissed off. (“That overgrown labradoodle is going on your 'Not Cool' list, Sam. You hear me? Boy bands and Dora the Explorer and toll roads? Fuck 'em, they're all moving down a spot. Fucking hyenas... Number One spot, Sam. Urgh, I think I'm gonna hurl.” “No, you're not, Dean. Here, can you sit up on your own?” “And Albert got the Schwarzenegger line! How is that fair?” “The what? Dude, take these Tylenol.” “You're damn right, I will. That's the whole point.” “Uh. Yeah.” “Labradoodle!”) Sam makes sure that his brother, holding an icepack to one of the twin lumps on his head, is safely propped up against the wooden chest before he steps over to the spot where the demon had disappeared, squats down, and begins to draw.
After a few minutes, he stands up, steps carefully outside of the devil's trap. “You sure about this, Albert? It'll reappear right there?” He checks the load in his shotgun.
“Yeah. The kitab amulet doesn't destroy the demon or send it to Hell, or anywhere else. It just … cancels it out,” he shrugs. “Anyway, I promise this'll work. Let 'er rip, Jon.” Albert has the jug of holy water in hand.
Jon places the amulet in the curse box. He sucks in a fortifying breath, and gingerly closes the box's lid. The faint electric fizz leaves the air almost immediately, and in mere seconds, wisps of dark vapor are visible, swirling within the confines of the devil's trap. Flash of jagged teeth, yellow eyes glinting with evil intelligence.
Albert steps forward, already reciting his Ge'ez exorcism incantation. The demon snarls at Albert, attempts to claw at him, bite him, but the circle holds.
Sam puts aside his weapon and flops down beside Dean, legs sprawled. They're content to watch. Dean leans wearily against his brother's shoulder, and Sam gives Dean's knee a friendly pat. It's been one hell of a long day.
“Wait. Before you do the big finale, lemme see that jug of water.” Dean nods his thanks, sets the jug on the floor beside him, then leans up on one hip so he can get at the wallet in his back pocket, muttering something under his breath that sounds like … Schwarzenegger?
“He's going to tuck dollars in its g-string?” Lucifer muses, rubbing his chin.
“Hey, is that a --” Jon's mouth hangs open in disbelief.
“Ah, fuck, no - Dean --” Sam half-squints, afraid to watch.
“Why'd yinz put a gumband on it?” Albert says.
Even the demon tilts its head in bewilderment.
Holy water slops out of the open end of the LayZBoy condom as Dean stretches the rubberband to its limit and takes aim. “Ribbed, for your pleasure, motherfucker,” he snarls, and lets fly.
.
.
.
.
.
They say their goodbyes on the front porch of the former House of Death, shaking hands with Albert, promising to keep in touch and maybe go out to a sports bar some Monday night to share a beer and cheer on the Steelers. "You take care of yourselves," Albert says solemnly.
They always do.
"Sam. Thank you so much." His brother smiles politely, shakes Jon's hand when it's offered.
"Dean." Jon holds out his hand.
"Douchebag," Dean nods, and turns away. Since he's all but leaning on Sam to stay upright, he has no choice in the matter when Sam grips his elbow and swings him back around to face the young man. "Be nice," Sam growls.
"Jon." Dean shakes his hand. "May you never have reason to call us ever again. Ever."
Sam makes Dean lay in the backseat of the Mustang on the drive back to the motel. Dean insists he's good to drive, of course, because he's Dean and because he's a Winchester, which is never a good combination when head injuries are involved. The argument was settled with rock-paper-scizzors. Sam threw 'rock'. Dean threw up his lunch. (“Best two out of three?” “Yeah, no. Gimme the keys, Dean.”) Sam's fairly certain that the nausea was a result of being hung upside-down for a solid twenty minutes, rather than the repeated blows to the head, but he'll keep a close eye on his brother for the next day or so, just to be sure he doesn't need a trip to the ER.
“There's gonna be one humiliated demon down in the pit tonight,” Lucifer says from the passenger seat, and smiles knowingly at Sam.
He won't talk to it. But he's thinking, you nearly got Dean killed, when he glances over. Which is the exact same thing as saying I nearly got Dean killed.
Fuck. This has to stop.
“Hell of a vacation,” Dean mumbles from the backseat, holding an icepack to the growing lump on his head. “Next time? I vote we just take turns lying in the road and backing the car over each other.”
Sam absently nods, resting his wrists on top of the steering wheel. Makes it easier to do the thumb-in-the-palm trick without driving off the road.
“Aww, you're gonna miss me so --” Lucifer winks out of existence, cut off in mid-sentence, and Sam huffs out a breath of relief.
He's going to call the number Sherrif Mills gave him.
He wets his lips, nods firmly to himself. I can do this. Dean deserves for me to at least try to fix this.
“Hey.” Dean has managed to sit up, and is resting his chin atop the back of the front seat. “Did you see it, Sam?” He's wearing this silly-ass grin as he clutches the icepack to his thick skull.
“See what?”
Dean lazily rolls his head to look at Sam's profile. “Did you see her fly?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “It's just a satchel, Dean.”
Dean looks a bit baffled, then brightens, and reaches over the seat to swat Sam's shoulder. “Hey, that's right. Tiffany totally saved your sorry ass! Heh, good girl, Tiff. I think you've earned a reward. Maybe a vinyl pocket protector? All the nerds will love ya.”
Sam nods, serene as a Buddhist monk on a mountaintop. Their life is not at all weird.
“No, actually, I meant the LayZBoy condom.” Dean's own smile is also kinda … well, serene. “Did you see her fly, Sammy?” he asks, and it comes out sounding kinda … dreamy. Like he's Elizabeth friggin' Taylor in National friggin' Velvet and just fell off his friggin' pony.
That must be some first-class brain damage in there, Sam thinks, amused. But honestly? He knows it's because of The Laugh. (Yeah, it's capitalized in his mind. Anyone who has a problem with that can just 'mordimi'.) They're both riding a mellow endorphin high right now, and it's fucking fantastic.
Sam doesn't want to spoil the moment. So he's completely serious when he says, “Yeah, Dean, she spooged the living shit out of that demon.”
It's not the perfect thing to say. People rarely do say the perfect thing when they want to. But it's good enough to make Dean laugh out loud again, and that's all Sam wants.
“S'what I thought,” Dean hums, and dozes off with his hand on Sam's shoulder and a smile on his face.
It should have been a perfect ride-off-into-the-sunset moment. Except…
Except that the (optional) front bench seat of the 1965 Ford Mustang has a central fold-down armrest that tends to yeah, fold down when some idiot in the back seat dozes off while leaning against the back of said seat, especially if said idiot's brother (who totally does not deserve a moped) accidentally hits a fucking pothole ten seconds later.
“What fucktard designed this piece of crap?” Dean snarls, peeling his face off his brother's lap. “Gimme a Chevy any day.”
THE END
Master Post
Author: greenthumb421
Artist: annartism
Summary: Laughing used to come easy to the Winchester boys.Sometimes Sam thinks they'll never really laugh again. Sam n' Dean, worn down by Bobby's death, Sam's hallucinations of Lucifer, lack of sleep, and the (temporary) loss of the Impala, decide to take a week or two off from hunting, rest up, and try to have some fun, see if they can remember how to laugh. The old Reilly 'House of Death' case in Pittsburgh, PA, seems like a nice, non-urgent case to chew over while they kick back and catch up on sleep. Unfortunately, the hyena demons infesting the house have other ideas.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Sheriff Jody Mills and OMC's.
Pairings: Gen. No, really! Okay, some if-you-squint slashiness, but no worse than canon.
Disclaimer: No profit, no glory, just borrowing the boys from Kripke and the CW.
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Word Count: approx 33,000
Warnings: Spoilers through 7.12 Time After Time. Language. (Seriously, gratuitous overuse of the F-bomb.) Misuse of the Pittsburghese dialect, the Ethiopian Christian Church, italics (and parentheses), Trojan condoms, and stuffed cats (but not together, ewwww). And epically long run-on sentences.
.pdf version, created by annartism (thanks, hon!)
The freakin' awesome artworks by annartism can all be seen here, including some tinted versions not seen with the story. Be sure to look for all the hilarious 'Lord of the Rings' references in the scene she created of Sam sitting on his bed!
Song lyrics taken from Bruno Mars' Grenade.
Many thanks go to my primary beta namichan89 for reading and cheerleading and idea bouncing and for making me laugh. The world would be a better place with more sweet souls like you.
Thanks also to my backup beta vyperdd for her emergency handholding and critical feedback. Also, thank you to paleogymnast, one of the mods of the immensely helpful omgspnbigbang, for taking the time to answer my questions and lend a helping hand. Finally, thank you to slightlysatanic, the other mod of omgspnbigbang, and to wendy and thehighwaywoman, mods of spn_j2_big_bang. Our fandom rocks because of people like you ladies!
Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional (6/6)
Master Post Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
“Dean.”
Sam is stopped, four steps down from the attic floor, his head and shoulders exposed to the room above them. “We've got shadows moving,” he says in a subdued voice.
Dean grabs Jon by the collar, hauls him along as he bypasses Albert on the narrow staircase to get to his brother. The enormous open space of the attic is choked with shadows, lumpy pieces of anonymous furniture stacked alongside scattered boxes and trunks and the treasured junk of a century of family life - There. Something scurrying along the wall that reaches only four feet high before the pitch of the roof begins. A black, doglike shape with a sloping back, slinking behind boxes, sticking to the wall before ducking into a dark alcove.
“Holy shit,” Jon breathes.
Albert hums a bit in agreement, but doesn't falter in his subdued prayers.
“They're not as intelligent as humans, but they're also not dumb animals, so be careful and don't underestimate them,” Albert had told them earlier. He had also told them that there could be as many as six of the demons leashed to the curse. Or as few as one, but yeah, their luck never runs that way.
Their group silently climbs the last few steps.
“Jon, make yourself a salt circle and sit your ass in it,” Dean tells him, eyes fixed on a second dark form undulating in a distant corner. “We're gonna flush them out. They might try for you, but they can't get through the salt line, so don't panic when we send them your way, okay?”
The chilly breeze is a steady cold wind up here, and Dean can see the moment when Jon realizes that it's July and yet he can see his breath wisping in the freezing air. The kid finishes with the salt, and gives the nearly empty bag to Sam, hands shaking.
“How many are there?” Sam mutters.
“No clue,” Dean says, and now that Jon's ass is safely parked in a salt circle, Dean doesn't bother whispering. “Let's find out, shall we? Light 'em up, boys.”
“Amen,” Albert says, and he already has the first road flare in his hand.
They twist the caps, white sparks flare and luminous smoke trickles to the floor. The light is blindingly sharp, outlining in unforgiving detail the men's clothing and determined features. The three of them stick close to the sloping walls, Dean on the west side, Sam and Albert on the east side, over the front of the house. Through the dormer windows set into the center of each side of the roof, they can see the last of the daylight graying the sky through the branches of the trees against the house. “Don't forget --” Dean calls over the hiss of the flares and the rising wind and Albert's full-throated Ge'ez prayers and the rustling sound of the tree limbs stroking the roof.
“I'm on it,” Sam nods, and lays a thick line of salt along the sill of the dormer window, identical to the one Dean is laying down on his side of the attic. Sam stuffs the empty bag into his murse, then takes the shotgun back from Albert.
The wind's howl is picking up, swirling the flare's smoke trail into Dean's eyes if he's not careful, and he wonders idly how much more a spark in the eye would hurt -
“They're running!” Sam calls, and damn if he doesn't sound like he's grinning, the big dork.
Indeed they are. Flushed out of hiding by the flares' cutting lights, the doglike black shapes move with unnatural speed from the darkened far end of the room towards the men. Dean grips his flare with one hand, takes aim with his shotgun with the other. A monstrously ugly canine face, composed of wickedly sharp teeth and wisps of black smoke, manifests just inches from Dean's head. He squeezes the shotgun's trigger without hesitation, and the hyena-shadow-demon-whatthefuckever dissolves into streaks of nauseating shadows with an almost comical yip. Down, but not dead. It will be back. He hears two booms of Sam's shotgun on the other side of the attic, but doesn't let his guard down.
“Doing okay, Jon?” he hollers.
“So far,” the young man calls back in an amusingly high pitched voice. Dean wouldn't be surprised to hear that Jon's balls have decided to travel north for safety and fucking stay there till this is over.
“They'll be coming at you now. Don't panic, okay? It'll all be over in a minute. Close your eyes and - and count your trust funds or something. ”
“I've only got one ohfuckgetitoffme --”
“Jon, freeze,” Sam bellows, and by golly, when the yeti decides to bellow, the rafters shake. Literally. Dust of a century sifts down upon their heads, and a startled Jon, who was on the point of bolting out of the circle, stops keening with panic, wraps his arms around his head, and freezes.
Heh. Got to get Sammy to try that in dahntahn traffic someday, Dean thinks, but really he's too busy watching the three semi-formed hyenas edging closer to Jon's huddled form on the floor. The poor kid is sobbing with terror, and yeah, can't really blame him for that, those are some ugly mofo's sniffing at his salt line.
They are fascinated by Jon, snarling and barking in rising tones until it's a cacophony of eerie yipping laughter, and even when Dean breaks formation and retraces his steps to bring his flare closer to the cowering kid to herd them along, they still hover for a disturbingly long moment before slipping flickering away from the light and down the stairs.
Down the stairs to the devil's traps.
“They are cunning pack hunters,” Albert had told them earlier. "They listen, and they wait. But if we force them out of their hiding places, they can be separated, and on their own, they can be trapped.”
Well, actually, he'd said, “Dem fuckers is rilly smaht n'at, but we can beat 'em.” It sounds better when Dean rewrites it in his head. More Gandalfish.
This is one for the books. Well, one for Sam's journal, anyway. They've filled the mansion with a shit-ton of devil's traps, sealed off all possible exits, and now they're beating the bushes until the fuckers have no choice but to scurry from their hiding places. The Reilly House of Death is now a gigantic roach motel. For demons. (Which would make it a demon motel, but never mind, Dean's not gonna argue about it.)
The pounding has stopped, thank fuck, and the supernatural wind is dying down already, and they're still barely past the attic's halfway point.
“Doing okay, Mr. Frodo?” Sam calls to Dean, grinning when he gets a reassuring middle-finger salute in return.
“Sure, brothers,” Jon bitches, peering through his fingers.
“Kid, I've had about enough - Can I shoot him?” Dean barks at Sam, pointing his shotgun at the shaking Jon. Sam gives a disapproving shake of his head. Rule Number One of firearms safety: Never point a weapon at someone unless you're okay with killing them. Dean lifts one eyebrow, doesn't lower his weapon. Yeah, and your point is?
Another shadow rushes at Dean, and he takes out his agressions on it, as Winchesters do. Shooting things is so much cheaper than therapy sessions.
They take it slowly, shining their flares under tables and other obstacles where shadows hide, and finally, after three more yipping demons have slunk away down the stairs - each time pausing to check out the object of their affections, shivering in his circle - the attic is cleared. Seven demons in all. Dean's damn grateful they have Albert along. It would have been a damn sight more dangerous clearing the house with just Jon as backup.
“Think it worked?” Sam asks, dousing his flare with Albert's jug of holy water.
“Let's go see,” Albert grins.
They troop down the stairs for the first of that night's exorcisms.
“Uh. Guys?” Jon feebly tries to grab their trouser legs as they walk past him.
Dean looks back. “You should stay here. In case anything goes wrong downstairs. You know. Like maybe the house catching on fire. Or something,” he shrugs. At the bottom of the stairs, he's careful to turn off the light and shut the door behind him, good steward of the Earth that he is.
“Guys?” Jon's muffled voice calls sadly.
Heh.
Albert really is a fucking wizard.
He's not the least bit shy about stepping up to the first occupied devil's trap they encounter. The demon, still making inappropriate laughing noises that will never not be creepy, is not as visible as it was upstairs, perhaps because the trap's magical symbols weaken it as well as constrain it. It's a greasy black fog that flits across the trap's surface until it presses up against the invisible perimeter, like a jellyfish in a glass jar. Sharp teeth form, as do malevolent yellow eyes, then are swallowed up again in the constantly reforming smoke.
Two minutes of deep-throated Ge'ez incantations, a couple of sloshes of holy water, and the noisy creature screeches and melts into the floorboards.
“Check, please,” Albert says, and staggers but doesn't lose his grin when Dean slaps him on the shoulder. “Well done, kiddo. But you really gotta work on your Schwarzenegger line.” It's a point in Albert's favor that he chuckles without needing to have that explained to him.
“Next,” Sam nods at the end of the corridor, where again there is a swirl of black fury.
“Looks like we got us a twofer.” Albert watches the pair of shadows prowling.
“Be my guest,” he tells Sam, and steps aside.
“You sure? I can get the next one if you like.”
“Nah, I been dying to hear how it's done in Latin.”
“Oh, it's the same old Rituale Romanum everyone uses --”
“Ladies?” Dean says through his teeth. “Could we exchange recipes later, please?”
Sam is busting out the Exorcizamus te when Dean goes to let Jon out of the attic. In a week's time, Sam will no doubt be Ge'ez-ing demons back to Hell. Geek. There's not a dead language out there that Sam doesn't latch onto like a leech -
Speaking of which.... “Jon?”
Shit.
The flashlight, still lit, lays on the floor next to the circle of salt they'd left him in. The circle is empty. And the saltline is broken.
Shit. Dean's reaching for his pistol when the lights go out.
“No, no, it's Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. The verb tenses can be a bit confusing, but you almost got it right that time,” Sam says encouragingly.
“From the snares of the Devil, free us, Lord,” Albert says, looking at Sam with curiosity. He's apparently familiar with the hunter etiquette of never asking another hunter how he got started in the business. “Most people don't talk about the devil these days. It's not fashionable to believe in him, I guess. You and your brother seem to have no problem though.” Sam just pastes on a polite smile and very casually does not glance at Lucifer, who's been doing a running commentary over in the corner on the poor pronunciation of modern-day exorcists. Albert presses a bit harder. “I'll bet you've got a hell of a story--”
“You have no idea,” chortles Lucifer, and Sam says loudly, “I wonder what Dean and Jon are up to.”
“They've been awful quiet up there.”
Quiet? Yeah, sometimes he almost forgets that not everyone can hear the constant bullshit all-Lucifer-all-the-time radio chatter that he hears -
Wait. Quiet?
And between one heartbeat and the next, Sam goes from (mostly) relaxed banter to danger mode. “Did we do six rites or seven?” Seven demons. Seven exorcisms. Did one of them double back to the attic?
“Six. No, five, there was a twofer, remember? Dammit, I'm not sure --”
“Neither is he,” Lucifer singsongs as Sam runs out of the room.
Albert grabs the half-empty jug of holy water as he tears after him.
“Dean!” The attic door swings opens with no resistance. For some reason, that surprises him. Sam checks his shotgun, chocks it up against his shoulder, left hand pressing the flashlight to the stock. He's still wearing the satchel slung across his chest, briefly considers shrugging it off in case it catches on something, but the white plume of air ghosting from his own mouth makes him forget the damn murse.
Fuck.
“Dean!” Sam bellows as he advances up the stairs, voice breaking with fear. “Dean, answer me!”
“Jon?” Albert calls behind him. There's a loud clicking noise as he tries the light switch. Nothing. The attic is completely dark.
Lucifer is standing at the top of the stairs, looking smug. “Fucked up again, didn't you, Sam? Wonder if this is the time you finally get your brother killed?”
“Do you see - “
“Shut up,” Sam snarls. He doesn't know if he's talking to both of them, doesn't give a fuck about hurt feelings. “Dean!” He's standing in the attic, swinging the light and the shotgun barrel left to right, sweeping, peering into the far corners. Nothing.
“Can't wait to see how this turns out,” Lucifer smirks as they go past him.
“Here - please --”
The dormer window at the back of the house is open.
Sam is there in a second, with Albert pressed to his back as they peer out. The line of salt is scuffed but intact. Jon is laying face down on the steeply sloped roof, awkwardly clutching at the dormer's sill with bloody fingernails. His face is wet with tears. “I ran,” he says, voice hoarse, shaken.
“Where's my brother?”
“I - It threw him against the wall. I'm so sorry, I ran --”
“Get him in,” Sam tells the Dabtara.
Albert is already reaching for the kid.
“Dean!” He strides toward the far end of the attic, his flashlight's beam cutting circles into the darkness. There. “-- the fuck - Dean?”
His brother is hanging upside down, feet tangled in a snarl of rope looped around the horizontal crossbeam of a rafter. Bloody smears on his face, dripping onto the dusty wood floorboards. His arms dangle limp, hands floating lifeless three feet above the ground.
Sam's at his side in an instant. He drops the gun and flashlight, crouches to grab Dean's shoulders and haul him up against his chest. He's breathing. “I've got you, buddy. I've got you.” He wipes at the blood, hand shaking, can't tell where the injury is. Dean's face is slack, whites showing through the thin slits of his partially open eyes. “Fuck, man. Fuck.”
“Run,” he hears Albert say. “Go to their car. Get the kitab amulet. It's in a box in the back seat. Bring it here.”
“I can't --”
“Bring it or they'll die. Go now.”
Sam gently lowers Dean's limp form, letting his bound ankles again support his dead (not dead) weight. He looks up at the rope. Knife. Dean carries a knife inside his right boot. The rafter is too high to jump up and catch a grip on the beam.
“You gonna shinny up him like a fat kid climbing the rope in gym class? Oh, this should be fun. You do realize he's bait, don't you? Otherwise he'd be dog chow by now.”
Sam deliberately walks right through Lucifer's shadowy form. He digs his thumb into the scar on his palm as he hurries to a nearby stack of wooden crates. Too flimsy to hold his weight. Sasquatch. Wooden chest, over there. Yes, this will hold him. He drags it over to Dean, shoving Albert out of his way.
“His pulse is strong.”
“We need salt,” Sam says.
“We used the last of it on the windowsills - ”
“Then fucking scoop it up in your hands. We need a salt circle now.” He's standing on the wooden chest now, reaching up to slide his fingers into Dean's boot.
“Dabtara.”
Sam's head whips around. There's a hyena demon standing on its hind legs just a few yards away. It's taller than it should be, man height, its smoke-mist-fog form morphing as he watches, becoming vaguely human even as it bares its fangs in a hungry canine grin. Its yellow gaze is fixed on Albert, who steps warily back. “Dabtara,” it says again, and its voice is meaty and ancient.
Albert's arm whips up and across, and the open jug of holy water splashes an acid path across the demon's midsection. It blinks out of existance with a ragged howl.
Sam shoves his hand into the murse strapped to his chest, grabs the stub of chalk. “Draw the trap.”
“I don't know your symbols,” Albert whispers, backing away toward the nearest dormer window and trying to watch in every direction at once.
“Fuck!” Sam drops the chalk, goes for the knife again, but Dean's fucking bootlaces are too tight, he can just touch the haft with his fingertips, he has to untie the bowknot first - There. He tugs the knife free, flips it open and starts sawing furiously at the rope.
The sound of running feet makes him look back. Albert is making a desperate dash for the salt on the dormer windowsill.
The creature reappears, horrifically close to Albert, catches him by his dreadlocks and flings him to the floor. It goes down on all fours astride the young man. “Dabtara,” it breathes, and giggles its insane chuffing laugh in Albert's face.
Sam has no doubt that within seconds, Albert's throat will be torn out. “Hey!” He steps down from the wooden chest, knife in one hand, the other steadying Dean's spinning body. “I'm a Dabtara,” he says. The creature looks up, snarling.
Dean's hand closes around his wrist. “Sam,” he whispers. “Don't.” He's tugging at Sam's sleeve.
Sam can't afford to look at him. He shakes off Dean's hand, then shrugs off the murse to give himself more range of motion, laying it on the chest without thinking. The shotgun, where's the fucking shotgun, it was right here a minute ago. The knife isn't iron, or silver, or anything that will harm this evil fucker. But it's all he has.
“That's right, bitch. I'm a Dabtara,” Sam says with a sneer, brashly holding his arms wide to make himself a bigger, more obvious target. He takes a few cautious steps away from Dean. He wants him to be out of the direct line of attack, but close enough that Sam can defend him if necessary. “C'mon, Fido, show me what you got.”
An instant later, the demon has left Albert's side -
And Sam is pinned to the sloping ceiling by invisible claw-tipped paws wrapped around his throat. (“Sam!”) If the sight of that feral beast's grinning jaws and ancient eyes right the fuck up in Sam's face hadn't been so overwhelmingly attention-getting, Sam would definitely have been embarrassed by the whole choking thing. As it is, Lucifer has no such qualms, and complains, “Seriously, again? Hey, Dean, you better get busy on that steel-reinforced girdle slash chastity belt.”
Sam wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, but yeah, no air is getting past that inhuman grip. (“Let him go! Goddammit -- Sam!”) He slashes at the creature with the knife, but it slides uselessly through the demon's smoke-like flesh, and he drops it, spots swimming at the edges of his vision, and frantically begins patting his pockets in search of something, anything - Yeah, grape sucker, give it tooth decay, genius, fuck, find something else, fuck fuck fuck, only his fumbling fingers slip -- and suddenly there's a crack of thunder and the sound of horses neighing in terror.
It must be the lack of oxygen, because he could swear the creature pauses in mid-snarl to do a 'What the fuck was that?' squint at him.
Great, does no one appreciate Mel Brooks?
Sam has just enough time for an apologetic grimace before the growling and squeezing resumes, worse than before, and sonovabitch I don't want to go to Hell again and he can feel his heart (“Sam!) starting to stutter, and then Dean can't handle me dying again and then Dean... and then … Dean...
“Get your paws off my brother, you ugly fuck.” Dean slings the murse at the creature's legs. There's a light sheen of white as the bag opens in mid-air and stray grains of salt from the bottom of the murse are flung out in a gentle spray against the canine legs. There was no way Dean could have known there was even a dusting of salt in the bag, no chance at all that he'd planned to do anything more than briefly annoy it, but Dean - even concussed and hanging upside down - is not a person who misses, and that plus the lucky accident of the salt is enough to make the creature's hind legs sizzle with supernatural burns.
It releases Sam with a howl of fury and turns to Dean.
“Hey!”
Sam, gasping on his knees on the floor, and Dean, gently swaying in the path of an infuriated demon, both look up to see Albert standing there, holding out the curse box like it's a corsage for his prom date. Jon hovers behind him, white-faced.
“Time to go, ya jagoff.” Albert flips the lid open, exposing the kitab amulet. Instantly, there is an odd low hum of energy permeating the attic, and a fizz of electricity in the air.
And the creature, finally realizing who the real threat is here, gathers itself to pounce on Albert - and dissolves.
In less than a second, it is just harmless wisps of foul smoke, and in another fraction of a second, even that is gone.
Albert is left staring at the empty space where the demon had been. “Oakel-doakel,” he nods, breathing hard.
The mansion hums and ticks and hushes - and is once again simply a house.
Jon grabs the amulet, puts its chain around his neck. Ever the stylish accessory, it hangs there exactly like a petrified burrito should. “I'm never taking this off again.”
“If you start calling it 'my precious', I'm gonna hurl,” Dean croaks. “Fuck, I might just hurl anyways...”
“Dean!” Sam is on his feet, crouching a bit, one hand under Dean's head so he can get a good look at his face, see that he's all right, the other clutching his brother's shirt to stop him from spinning. He hopes Dean can't feel how he's shaking. Too fucking close. Don't the bad guys ever take a vacation? “Hey, man,” he growls, all his ravaged throat can manage at the moment. “You okay?”
Dean blinks, tries to focus on his brother's face. “Steel,” he says.
“What?”
“Reinforced.”
“Oh.”
“Turtleneck --”
“-- slash jock strap, yeah, whatever, I get it, okay? It's not like it's my fault --”
“Bullshit. The seige of Stalingrad, that Jersey Shore show? - those are things 'not your fault'. But this choking thing, Sam? Man, you're doing something wrong.”
“Wait, have you been reading my journal?” Sam is blinking rapidly, trying to process what's happening.
“It's bizarre, the way they always go for your throat.”
Sam winces at that 'bizarre'. Coming from a man who's lived a life that would make the Addams Family goggle-eyed with awe - and who is currently hanging by his Timberlands - that is quite a stinging criticism.
“So whatever this shit is, you need to quit it right now --”
“Oh, right, like I have any control over that. Like I have any fucking control over anything anymore. Do you think I enjoy being choked?” He realizes how close he is to just - what? throwing a tantrum? giving up? - Fuck, I just wanted to make the stupid jackass laugh and this is what happens. “What about you, Dean? How many times have you been thrown against a wall and knocked out cold?” Sam leans in, nostrils flaring, and says, “Do you get a sick thrill from that, Dean? Cause I sure don't. Matter of fact, I'm sick to death of you getting hurt and scaring the living shit out of me, so you can just fucking quit it!” and behind him, he hears, “Oh my god, they're going to do the upside-down kiss scene from Spiderman 1.”
Sam has a blissfully ignorant moment when he believes it was Lucifer speaking, and that no one else heard it, but then Dean's eyebrows go up (down), and “Jeez, Jon,” Albert says in a weary voice, and Sam looks around to glare at the fucking idiot they'd all risked their lives to save.
Jon sees Sam's scowl, flinches back a bit, but then rallies and says confidingly to Albert, “It's okay. He's one of Jerry's Kids.”
Sam looks at his brother warily.
His brother looks warily back at Sam.
And something... happens. A switch is flipped in their brains, or maybe something that's been building up for a long time just spills over.
Sam snorts. “Jagoff.”
Dean's mouth starts to twitch. “Bitch...n'at.”
And the rich kid and the young Gandalf watch in disbelief as the two hunters start to snicker silently, and then to chuckle. Shoulders shaking, the brothers burst into howls of laughter, grabbing at each other's shirts and necks and elbows because the world is always trying to throw them off.
Mission accomplished, Sam thinks with fierce satisfaction.
They're still wheezing with mirth when the rope snaps and Dean hits the floor headfirst, dragging Sam down atop him.
“It's only funny until someone gets hurt,” Lucifer pouts.
“I want it gone. Forever,” Jon says.
And because Jon didn't run away, leaving them to die, when he had the chance - and because he is worried that Dean might sue him for medical expenses down the road and so is on his best behavior, offering whiskey and Tylenol and icepacks - Sam doesn't argue when Albert tells him,“We can do that.”
Dean is a bit confused but conscious. And still seriously pissed off. (“That overgrown labradoodle is going on your 'Not Cool' list, Sam. You hear me? Boy bands and Dora the Explorer and toll roads? Fuck 'em, they're all moving down a spot. Fucking hyenas... Number One spot, Sam. Urgh, I think I'm gonna hurl.” “No, you're not, Dean. Here, can you sit up on your own?” “And Albert got the Schwarzenegger line! How is that fair?” “The what? Dude, take these Tylenol.” “You're damn right, I will. That's the whole point.” “Uh. Yeah.” “Labradoodle!”) Sam makes sure that his brother, holding an icepack to one of the twin lumps on his head, is safely propped up against the wooden chest before he steps over to the spot where the demon had disappeared, squats down, and begins to draw.
After a few minutes, he stands up, steps carefully outside of the devil's trap. “You sure about this, Albert? It'll reappear right there?” He checks the load in his shotgun.
“Yeah. The kitab amulet doesn't destroy the demon or send it to Hell, or anywhere else. It just … cancels it out,” he shrugs. “Anyway, I promise this'll work. Let 'er rip, Jon.” Albert has the jug of holy water in hand.
Jon places the amulet in the curse box. He sucks in a fortifying breath, and gingerly closes the box's lid. The faint electric fizz leaves the air almost immediately, and in mere seconds, wisps of dark vapor are visible, swirling within the confines of the devil's trap. Flash of jagged teeth, yellow eyes glinting with evil intelligence.
Albert steps forward, already reciting his Ge'ez exorcism incantation. The demon snarls at Albert, attempts to claw at him, bite him, but the circle holds.
Sam puts aside his weapon and flops down beside Dean, legs sprawled. They're content to watch. Dean leans wearily against his brother's shoulder, and Sam gives Dean's knee a friendly pat. It's been one hell of a long day.
“Wait. Before you do the big finale, lemme see that jug of water.” Dean nods his thanks, sets the jug on the floor beside him, then leans up on one hip so he can get at the wallet in his back pocket, muttering something under his breath that sounds like … Schwarzenegger?
“He's going to tuck dollars in its g-string?” Lucifer muses, rubbing his chin.
“Hey, is that a --” Jon's mouth hangs open in disbelief.
“Ah, fuck, no - Dean --” Sam half-squints, afraid to watch.
“Why'd yinz put a gumband on it?” Albert says.
Even the demon tilts its head in bewilderment.
Holy water slops out of the open end of the LayZBoy condom as Dean stretches the rubberband to its limit and takes aim. “Ribbed, for your pleasure, motherfucker,” he snarls, and lets fly.
.
.
.
.
.
They say their goodbyes on the front porch of the former House of Death, shaking hands with Albert, promising to keep in touch and maybe go out to a sports bar some Monday night to share a beer and cheer on the Steelers. "You take care of yourselves," Albert says solemnly.
They always do.
"Sam. Thank you so much." His brother smiles politely, shakes Jon's hand when it's offered.
"Dean." Jon holds out his hand.
"Douchebag," Dean nods, and turns away. Since he's all but leaning on Sam to stay upright, he has no choice in the matter when Sam grips his elbow and swings him back around to face the young man. "Be nice," Sam growls.
"Jon." Dean shakes his hand. "May you never have reason to call us ever again. Ever."
Sam makes Dean lay in the backseat of the Mustang on the drive back to the motel. Dean insists he's good to drive, of course, because he's Dean and because he's a Winchester, which is never a good combination when head injuries are involved. The argument was settled with rock-paper-scizzors. Sam threw 'rock'. Dean threw up his lunch. (“Best two out of three?” “Yeah, no. Gimme the keys, Dean.”) Sam's fairly certain that the nausea was a result of being hung upside-down for a solid twenty minutes, rather than the repeated blows to the head, but he'll keep a close eye on his brother for the next day or so, just to be sure he doesn't need a trip to the ER.
“There's gonna be one humiliated demon down in the pit tonight,” Lucifer says from the passenger seat, and smiles knowingly at Sam.
He won't talk to it. But he's thinking, you nearly got Dean killed, when he glances over. Which is the exact same thing as saying I nearly got Dean killed.
Fuck. This has to stop.
“Hell of a vacation,” Dean mumbles from the backseat, holding an icepack to the growing lump on his head. “Next time? I vote we just take turns lying in the road and backing the car over each other.”
Sam absently nods, resting his wrists on top of the steering wheel. Makes it easier to do the thumb-in-the-palm trick without driving off the road.
“Aww, you're gonna miss me so --” Lucifer winks out of existence, cut off in mid-sentence, and Sam huffs out a breath of relief.
He's going to call the number Sherrif Mills gave him.
He wets his lips, nods firmly to himself. I can do this. Dean deserves for me to at least try to fix this.
“Hey.” Dean has managed to sit up, and is resting his chin atop the back of the front seat. “Did you see it, Sam?” He's wearing this silly-ass grin as he clutches the icepack to his thick skull.
“See what?”
Dean lazily rolls his head to look at Sam's profile. “Did you see her fly?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “It's just a satchel, Dean.”
Dean looks a bit baffled, then brightens, and reaches over the seat to swat Sam's shoulder. “Hey, that's right. Tiffany totally saved your sorry ass! Heh, good girl, Tiff. I think you've earned a reward. Maybe a vinyl pocket protector? All the nerds will love ya.”
Sam nods, serene as a Buddhist monk on a mountaintop. Their life is not at all weird.
“No, actually, I meant the LayZBoy condom.” Dean's own smile is also kinda … well, serene. “Did you see her fly, Sammy?” he asks, and it comes out sounding kinda … dreamy. Like he's Elizabeth friggin' Taylor in National friggin' Velvet and just fell off his friggin' pony.
That must be some first-class brain damage in there, Sam thinks, amused. But honestly? He knows it's because of The Laugh. (Yeah, it's capitalized in his mind. Anyone who has a problem with that can just 'mordimi'.) They're both riding a mellow endorphin high right now, and it's fucking fantastic.
Sam doesn't want to spoil the moment. So he's completely serious when he says, “Yeah, Dean, she spooged the living shit out of that demon.”
It's not the perfect thing to say. People rarely do say the perfect thing when they want to. But it's good enough to make Dean laugh out loud again, and that's all Sam wants.
“S'what I thought,” Dean hums, and dozes off with his hand on Sam's shoulder and a smile on his face.
It should have been a perfect ride-off-into-the-sunset moment. Except…
Except that the (optional) front bench seat of the 1965 Ford Mustang has a central fold-down armrest that tends to yeah, fold down when some idiot in the back seat dozes off while leaning against the back of said seat, especially if said idiot's brother (who totally does not deserve a moped) accidentally hits a fucking pothole ten seconds later.
“What fucktard designed this piece of crap?” Dean snarls, peeling his face off his brother's lap. “Gimme a Chevy any day.”
THE END
Master Post