NOT another art fic! I've graduated to crack!
It’s amazing what the human brain can get used to, given enough time or exposure. The Winchesters are a living example of this. Things that go bump in the night, the scary things that make up the darkest nightmare tales and would have most normal people pissing their pants, are the everyday routine for them. Homicidal ghost haunting your house, appearing at your dinner party swinging an axe? Easy salt-n-burn, yawn. Poltergeist spinning the tables and throwing the cutlery and family cat into walls? Smudge, trap and banish, been doin’ it since they were kids.
Even curses, as varied as they get, don’t usually cause all that much excitement or concern. Yes, it’s a problem to whomever’s been cursed, but they’ll break it, and later they’ll tease each other about it. It’s not really something to get excited over. Just another typically weird thing that happens in the line of duty.
Not to mention, most things supernatural have an astounding lack of originality. Maybe they think that since they’re supernatural, firmly within anyone else’s definition of weird and unusual, they can get away with being unoriginal and sophomoric when wrecking havoc. Witches especially, no matter what type or of what sect, seem to stick to a fairly basic formula when bestowing curses. There’s only so many times one can be cursed with truth spells or transfigured into something before it gets really old. Some are more interesting than others, but still, been there, done that.
Or, Sam thinks, maybe it’s not the witches, maybe it’s them. After all, the specific curses are usually cast in order to extract punishment or to teach a lesson. It’s the general ones, usually placed as protective deterrent over an object, that tend to be more fun. Like the amulet that made Sam speak nothing but ancient Egyptian for two weeks, when the spell to destroy the thing was in Etruscan. Or the goblet that had turned Dad into a peace-loving pacifist flower child until Dean got seriously creeped out by the tie-dye and patchouli and ran over the damn thing with the Impala. Yeah, those can liven things up.
It’s when they manage to seriously piss off a witch or something else capable of cursing them specifically, those get boring. Sam’s been struck mute four separate times, and Dean’s been turned into a girl so many times he keeps a spare duffel of women’s clothes stuffed in the bottom of the trunk. Both have transformed into dogs, Dean a ferret, Sam a cat and, one memorable time, a toad. They’d each been age-regressed, and Sam had learned a whole new appreciation for their father after having to babysit a five year old Dean for three days.
So it’s something of a surprise when, after the last puff of purple smoke dissipates from the remains of the spellbook they burned after confiscating it from a coven of would-be witches, Sam looks over to find, not his brother, but a pile of clothes and a gun. Or more accurately, a gun with a pile of clothes.
Dean had only been carrying a knife and a crossbow.
“Huh. That’s new.” Sam gingerly steps around the remnants of the purifying circle to poke at the clothes, making sure Dean hadn’t simply shrunk or turned invisible or something more innocuous. Nope. Dean’s amulet is twisted around the base of the barrel, and his ring is caught in the trigger guard.
Dean’s been turned into a gun.
Despite himself, Sam’s slightly impressed. Appropriate. Some points for originality there, although with a name like Winchester, not very much. How many times have they introduced themselves and gotten the response, “Winchester? Like the rifle?” So more like kudos for doing something nothing else has done to them before, even though the logic leap was more like a small hop.
Sam stashes the weapons in their duffel before gathering up Dean’s clothes and the gun. He handles it gently because who knows what part of Dean he’s actually touching, and what if Dean is conscious? Does he know what’s happened to him? Curses like these, it can be real touch-and-go whether the subject is aware after the transformation. Animals are usually aware on some level, but objects . . . Dean remembers the rubber duck incident only too well, but Sam can’t remember a single thing from when he was a book, only that he knew he lost at least a day in there.
Either way, Sam feels better by talking to him. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ll figure out how to turn you back. I’ll call Bobby, see what he thinks. You’ll be back to your annoying self in no time.” Scrutinizing the matte black finish, idly rubbing a finger over the Winchester logo, he adds impishly, “Although you might be more useful like this.”
It doesn’t feel right to stick Dean in the trunk, so he lays him out carefully on the passenger seat, making sure the safety is on. Sam makes sure to obey every traffic law on the way back to the motel. It wouldn’t do to be pulled over by a cop when he has a weapon on the seat. He’s not even sure if it’s loaded. He would bet yes, just because it’s Dean, and his fingers itch to break it open and check. What if he is? What part of Dean corresponds to the bullets? And what would happen if Sam were to shoot it? Would Dean turn back whole, or would he be missing parts?
The idea of Dean changing back missing a couple fingers, or his nose, and the missing parts found embedded in a target or a tin can on a fence somewhere conjures such a strange Dali-esque image that Sam has to think about something else. So he digs out his cell phone and calls Bobby.
“What kind of trouble are you two in now?” Bobby answers gruffly after two rings.
Sam can’t help the smile. “What makes you think we’re in trouble?”
“Because you only call when you’re in trouble, or dropping by my house, which counts as trouble,” Bobby retorts, but Sam hears the grin in his voice. Unfortunately, he’s right. None of them are phone chatters, preferring to shoot the shit in person over a couple beers, and a phone call only comes when help is needed.
“All right, we’re in a little trouble,” Sam allows. “Dean’s a gun.”
“Huh. That’s new,” Bobby muses, and Sam chuckles. “What kind of gun?”
“A Winchester,” Sam retorts as if offended. What else could he be? “A 12-gauge Model 1300 NRA Defender 8-shot.”
“Nice,” Bobby whistles. “Appropriate. Whoever cursed him has some taste. You know what did it?”
“Yeah, pretty sure.” Sam explains about their latest job, the group of bored college girls who’d actually managed to find a real spellbook and the mostly accidental havoc they’d created. He describes the ritual they used to nullify the protective spells before they burned the book, and what preparations they’d done.
Bobby is quiet for a few seconds, clearly thinking. “Purple smoke, huh? Not black?” There’s a sound of metal on glass, then flipping papers. “Probably tripped off one of the protection spells, but I doubt it set off the full effect, else it woulda got you both.”
“So it was accidental? Not a deliberate cursing?”
“Nah. You know witches. If it was deliberate, Dean would be a girl right now, not a kick-ass rifle.” They both laugh.
“So, how do we break it? Or d’you think it’ll wear off on its own?”
“Most likely it’ll wear off in a day or two. Curses like that are unstable, doesn’t take much for the magic to dissipate. Best to wait it out. Some rituals can actually reinforce curses, make them longer or permanent.”
Yeah, not good. As much as Sam complains, he actually likes his brother when he’s human. They’ve already got enough guns. “’Kay. Hey, what d’you think would happen if I tried to shoot him?”
Bobby snorts. “Depends. If he’s actually aware, he’s going to kick your ass as soon as he changes back. Does he already have bullets in him?”
“Dunno, haven’t checked yet.”
“If he does, don’t. Who knows what they are and if they’ll transform back with him. If he doesn’t . . . you’ll probably be safe trying it, for today at least, although he might kick your ass later. Just use light powder loads and for God’s sake don’t jam it.”
Sam shudders at the thought of jamming Dean only to have him transform back. “”kay, thanks Bobby.”
“Anytime. And Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me how he shoots.” There’s no mistaking the shit-eating grin in Bobby’s voice, and Sam laughs as they hang up. Stopping at a stoplight, he takes a moment to check the magazine and chamber. Sam debates briefly with himself, then turns the Impala towards the outskirts of town, where they saw an abandoned barn earlier and no one will mind if someone is sighting in a gun. Even if Dean finds out and kicks his ass later, it’ll be worth it.
Yeah, this one is definitely more fun than the usual curses. Besides, Dean gets really cranky when he's on his period.
Even curses, as varied as they get, don’t usually cause all that much excitement or concern. Yes, it’s a problem to whomever’s been cursed, but they’ll break it, and later they’ll tease each other about it. It’s not really something to get excited over. Just another typically weird thing that happens in the line of duty.
Not to mention, most things supernatural have an astounding lack of originality. Maybe they think that since they’re supernatural, firmly within anyone else’s definition of weird and unusual, they can get away with being unoriginal and sophomoric when wrecking havoc. Witches especially, no matter what type or of what sect, seem to stick to a fairly basic formula when bestowing curses. There’s only so many times one can be cursed with truth spells or transfigured into something before it gets really old. Some are more interesting than others, but still, been there, done that.
Or, Sam thinks, maybe it’s not the witches, maybe it’s them. After all, the specific curses are usually cast in order to extract punishment or to teach a lesson. It’s the general ones, usually placed as protective deterrent over an object, that tend to be more fun. Like the amulet that made Sam speak nothing but ancient Egyptian for two weeks, when the spell to destroy the thing was in Etruscan. Or the goblet that had turned Dad into a peace-loving pacifist flower child until Dean got seriously creeped out by the tie-dye and patchouli and ran over the damn thing with the Impala. Yeah, those can liven things up.
It’s when they manage to seriously piss off a witch or something else capable of cursing them specifically, those get boring. Sam’s been struck mute four separate times, and Dean’s been turned into a girl so many times he keeps a spare duffel of women’s clothes stuffed in the bottom of the trunk. Both have transformed into dogs, Dean a ferret, Sam a cat and, one memorable time, a toad. They’d each been age-regressed, and Sam had learned a whole new appreciation for their father after having to babysit a five year old Dean for three days.
So it’s something of a surprise when, after the last puff of purple smoke dissipates from the remains of the spellbook they burned after confiscating it from a coven of would-be witches, Sam looks over to find, not his brother, but a pile of clothes and a gun. Or more accurately, a gun with a pile of clothes.
Dean had only been carrying a knife and a crossbow.
“Huh. That’s new.” Sam gingerly steps around the remnants of the purifying circle to poke at the clothes, making sure Dean hadn’t simply shrunk or turned invisible or something more innocuous. Nope. Dean’s amulet is twisted around the base of the barrel, and his ring is caught in the trigger guard.
Dean’s been turned into a gun.
Despite himself, Sam’s slightly impressed. Appropriate. Some points for originality there, although with a name like Winchester, not very much. How many times have they introduced themselves and gotten the response, “Winchester? Like the rifle?” So more like kudos for doing something nothing else has done to them before, even though the logic leap was more like a small hop.
Sam stashes the weapons in their duffel before gathering up Dean’s clothes and the gun. He handles it gently because who knows what part of Dean he’s actually touching, and what if Dean is conscious? Does he know what’s happened to him? Curses like these, it can be real touch-and-go whether the subject is aware after the transformation. Animals are usually aware on some level, but objects . . . Dean remembers the rubber duck incident only too well, but Sam can’t remember a single thing from when he was a book, only that he knew he lost at least a day in there.
Either way, Sam feels better by talking to him. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ll figure out how to turn you back. I’ll call Bobby, see what he thinks. You’ll be back to your annoying self in no time.” Scrutinizing the matte black finish, idly rubbing a finger over the Winchester logo, he adds impishly, “Although you might be more useful like this.”
It doesn’t feel right to stick Dean in the trunk, so he lays him out carefully on the passenger seat, making sure the safety is on. Sam makes sure to obey every traffic law on the way back to the motel. It wouldn’t do to be pulled over by a cop when he has a weapon on the seat. He’s not even sure if it’s loaded. He would bet yes, just because it’s Dean, and his fingers itch to break it open and check. What if he is? What part of Dean corresponds to the bullets? And what would happen if Sam were to shoot it? Would Dean turn back whole, or would he be missing parts?
The idea of Dean changing back missing a couple fingers, or his nose, and the missing parts found embedded in a target or a tin can on a fence somewhere conjures such a strange Dali-esque image that Sam has to think about something else. So he digs out his cell phone and calls Bobby.
“What kind of trouble are you two in now?” Bobby answers gruffly after two rings.
Sam can’t help the smile. “What makes you think we’re in trouble?”
“Because you only call when you’re in trouble, or dropping by my house, which counts as trouble,” Bobby retorts, but Sam hears the grin in his voice. Unfortunately, he’s right. None of them are phone chatters, preferring to shoot the shit in person over a couple beers, and a phone call only comes when help is needed.
“All right, we’re in a little trouble,” Sam allows. “Dean’s a gun.”
“Huh. That’s new,” Bobby muses, and Sam chuckles. “What kind of gun?”
“A Winchester,” Sam retorts as if offended. What else could he be? “A 12-gauge Model 1300 NRA Defender 8-shot.”
“Nice,” Bobby whistles. “Appropriate. Whoever cursed him has some taste. You know what did it?”
“Yeah, pretty sure.” Sam explains about their latest job, the group of bored college girls who’d actually managed to find a real spellbook and the mostly accidental havoc they’d created. He describes the ritual they used to nullify the protective spells before they burned the book, and what preparations they’d done.
Bobby is quiet for a few seconds, clearly thinking. “Purple smoke, huh? Not black?” There’s a sound of metal on glass, then flipping papers. “Probably tripped off one of the protection spells, but I doubt it set off the full effect, else it woulda got you both.”
“So it was accidental? Not a deliberate cursing?”
“Nah. You know witches. If it was deliberate, Dean would be a girl right now, not a kick-ass rifle.” They both laugh.
“So, how do we break it? Or d’you think it’ll wear off on its own?”
“Most likely it’ll wear off in a day or two. Curses like that are unstable, doesn’t take much for the magic to dissipate. Best to wait it out. Some rituals can actually reinforce curses, make them longer or permanent.”
Yeah, not good. As much as Sam complains, he actually likes his brother when he’s human. They’ve already got enough guns. “’Kay. Hey, what d’you think would happen if I tried to shoot him?”
Bobby snorts. “Depends. If he’s actually aware, he’s going to kick your ass as soon as he changes back. Does he already have bullets in him?”
“Dunno, haven’t checked yet.”
“If he does, don’t. Who knows what they are and if they’ll transform back with him. If he doesn’t . . . you’ll probably be safe trying it, for today at least, although he might kick your ass later. Just use light powder loads and for God’s sake don’t jam it.”
Sam shudders at the thought of jamming Dean only to have him transform back. “”kay, thanks Bobby.”
“Anytime. And Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me how he shoots.” There’s no mistaking the shit-eating grin in Bobby’s voice, and Sam laughs as they hang up. Stopping at a stoplight, he takes a moment to check the magazine and chamber. Sam debates briefly with himself, then turns the Impala towards the outskirts of town, where they saw an abandoned barn earlier and no one will mind if someone is sighting in a gun. Even if Dean finds out and kicks his ass later, it’ll be worth it.
Yeah, this one is definitely more fun than the usual curses. Besides, Dean gets really cranky when he's on his period.