Author Notes: This is a follow-up to "There's More Than Corn in Indiana," taking place in S3, after "Bad Day at Black Rock." Found a couple of scenes in a notebook that I'd cut from the original story, and this developed. I'm labeling it "episodic drama."
Never Roam Alone
Those first few weeks after the midnight graveyard showdown with Yellow Eyes and Dean's deal, Sam was forced to stand by and witness painfully and helplessly as his brother tumbled into a tailspin the likes of which he'd never experienced to before, something somehow even worse than his worst memories of his father. Strange women and endless booze and bacon cheeseburgers three meals a day, treating even the little things like his life is no longer important while Sam has to play at being amused by it all, keeping a safe dynamic between them. His eyes have a dark, frightening, and unfamiliar look.
It's been made abundantly clear that Dean's intentions were to hide the deal he'd made for the return of Sam's life, keep him in the dark until being finally ripped to shreds right in front of his little brother's eyes. He wouldn't be behaving this way if Sam hadn't sussed this all out for himself, no matter how badly Dean wants to downplay it. Things would be situation normal, or as normal as they ever are, Dean perfectly fine with deceiving Sam day in and day out. Sam prefers it this way, the better of two horrible options. He's not happy about the way things are but he's been letting Dean do as he pleases without complaint because he doesn't know how he's supposed to tell his brother not to enjoy the time he has left when he gave it all up to save Sam.
Dean's calmed down considerably since his initial burst of reckless abandon, wants more than anything just to hunt evil like he does best, and that's a last wish Sam feels relatively okay fulfilling. Things have settled into a pattern that feels familiar and comfortable, enough so to distract his mind time to time from the thought of Dean's imminent, violent demise. Those thoughts always come quickly creeping back, though, because there's that foreign look in Dean's eyes that scares him. He knows his brother, knows without a doubt Dean would rather go out fighting than allow those dogs to come for him, and Sam's afraid that's what this hunting kick is really all about. Still, he's in no position to be telling Dean no, in no position to give him any less than exactly what he asks for.
When his cell phone chirps, Sam's not thinking clearly. This is probably one of those things he should keep to himself, but he's been wrong about such instincts before. He has a scholar's mind and, however reluctantly, a hunter's gut; in this moment he ignores them both.
He drops a handful of sugar packets and awkwardly moves his paper coffee cup to his left hand, immobile against his chest and rendered pretty much useless by the stark white sling from the emergency room back in New York. It's more an annoyance than anything, and he'd ditch the damn thing in a heartbeat if Dean would allow it. Sam has to grow up, quickly and soon, but Dean won't let go, keeps treating him like chubby little Sammy, with Dad riding his ass to keep his baby brother at arm's length. When he'd mustered up the stones to ask about the bullet he remembered leaving in Dean's shoulder while hijacked by Meg, Dean shrugged it off. Said it wasn't worth a stitch, wouldn't even let Sam see it. Sam gets this tiny flesh wound and Dean drops his ass off at the nearest ER, no listening to reason, starts dumping pain pills into his hands like jelly beans. He won't permit himself to NOT take care of Sam.
Sam digs his phone out of his pocket and studies the screen. "Huh."
"Huh?" Dean materializes behind him, hands full with a to-go cup of his own and their breakfast in a plain white paper bag. He's visibly antsy to get out of the trendy coffee shop but it's Sam's turn to pick, so tough cookies. He wants a healthy, substantial meal, not something fried and greasy. So, egg whites on whole wheat muffins, not gas station nuked sausage burritos.
"Hmm?" There's a moment's hesitation. Sam's kept information from Dean before, and his brother never takes it well, even with the small stuff. Which is pretty ironic, considering the state of things. "I, uh, have news alerts with some key words set up for the towns we've passed through on hunts. You know, in case anything we thought we'd taken care of pops up again." He collects his coffee and follows Dean out to the car. "Got a report about something weird going on in Anderson, Indiana."
Dean shakes his head, jerking open the door of the Impala with its standard creak. He tosses the paper bag onto the bench seat with a look of disdain. "I'm drawing a blank. We've been through Anderson, Indiana?"
It could very easily be a power play, Dean aiming to find out if Sam is willing to bring this up again, seeing as it went so swimmingly the first time. The hunt he all but fabricated in an attempt to help his brother deal with Dad's death. Dean forgets girls' names and who's president and how many beers, but he doesn't forget a hunt.
Sam lingers a moment outside the car, juggling phone, beverage, and thoughts until he manages a configuration that allows him to open the door without dumping hot coffee down his front. "Dwarf sightings in the state park," he says, settling awkwardly onto the bench seat. "Pud-wuk-ies? Ancient American Indian earthworks? Any of this ringing a bell?"
"Oh. Right." Dean retrieves his sunglasses from the glove box and slides them on despite the overcast skies. "Turned out to be a giant pile of nothing, right? Pun definitely intended. What's with the news alert?"
Sam stares at the side of his brother's head, trying to get him to look over but Dean keeps his shaded eyes on the road as he guides the Impala toward the interstate. He gives up, rolls his eyes, and scrolls through the page on the screen of his phone. "Uh, blurb in the local paper. Parks department reminding visitors to keep pets on leashes at all times. There's been some mauled wildlife. And a Cocker Spaniel. They think it might be coyotes."
"So there are coyotes in the woods in the Midwest. Shocker. What about it?"
"Well, this is actually the second alert I've gotten from Anderson this week about the park." Sam kind of feels like he's digging his own grave here, but the words keep pouring out of his mouth. "There was a rash of new dwarf sightings near the mounds."
"And you're just telling me this now because?"
Sam's eye twitches in what feels like a very obvious way, in a way Dean has to notice and recognize as his tell. "I just am."
Dean snorts. "So, what, you think these dwarves are in the park killing squirrels?"
"I dunno. Maybe. Everything has to eat, right?"
"Yeah." Breakfast lies untouched between them on the seat, their appetites gone for different reasons. "Hey, aren't these the same Puck-woodies that are supposed to wear dresses?" Dean snaps his fingers. "And, oh yeah, that you said don't exist."
Oh, now he remembers. And also, Again with the name thing? Sam shakes his head. "I'm still not saying they do, but it's something to look into. We're in the area."
Dean quirks an eyebrow as they pass a sign for the Cleveland city limits. "I'm not sure I'm down with your definition of 'in the area'."
To be fair, it WAS pretty poor timing on Sam's part. "I know. But we've checked out more with less to go on. It's pretty strange for reports of a confirmed hoax to reemerge like this, right?"
"Confirmed by YOU." Dean rolls his head in a circle, which means 'I'm bored, and maybe wouldn't mind getting to kill something weird and freaky.' "Indiana?"
Sam nods, finally taking a sip of his coffee.
"Yeah, okay." Dean takes the next off-ramp and follows the cloverleaf exit around to head back the opposite direction. "You, uh, get these alerts often?"
"We wouldn't be very good at our job if I did, would we?"
"Nah. Guess not."
Sam does what he can researching these latest sightings from the tiny screen of his smartphone, gives himself a headache trying to simultaneously read the small text while attempting to recall the details of their stop in Anderson a year earlier. He has half a day in the car to relive it, to feel like an ass all over again, how he manipulated his brother into chasing an urban legend he'd really wanted to be nothing more than just that – an urban legend. Dean had wanted it to be more, got the crazy notion that one of the dwarves, if found, could be coerced into communicating with Dad. Sam had nearly inadvertently driven Dean further down the very road he'd been so desperate to keep him from straying in the direction of.
Dean had been furious with Sam in the moment, silent about the whole ordeal since. Sam doesn't expect Dean to be okay with this, but if he's having any issues he's keeping them tightly under wraps, buried deep inside with everything else.
After nearly an hour of silence Dean sighs. Not necessarily annoyed, not yet. Tired, maybe. "Just call Bobby, man. We had a hell of a time digging up any info on our own when we were here last year."
We? Sam recalls doing the research himself, with Dean focused more on beer consumption and annoying him from across the room. He gives Dean a sidelong glance and rubs absently as his sore shoulder. "Good call." He closes the web browser and scrolls through his contacts. He frowns at Dean as he brings the phone to his ear. If his brother's going to treat him like a wounded baby bird, he might as well take advantage of it, try to get an honest response or two. He gives the shoulder another, more calculated rub and sighs. "You okay with all this?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Yeah."
"Hey, Bobby," Sam says, still frowning at his brother. "I've got a weird one for you."
"Well, weird's what I do best."
"Hope so. You know any lore about dwarves?"
Dean's chewing his lip. His grip on the steering wheel is ironclad, his knuckles white. Definitely NOT okay with this, but Sam can't pull them out now, with Bobby already on the line.
"Dwarves? Like little people?"
"Like really little people."
"Not much, that's for damn sure. We talkin' Norse? Germanic?"
"American Indian, maybe. Hopewell, if I'm remembering right. Um, Pud-wuk-ie."
Dean jerks his neck, eliciting a very audible and painful-sounding crack. "Speakerphone?"
Sam swallows, pulls the phone away and presses the button. Yeah, this was a bad idea.
"Urban legends, rumors." Bobby's voice crackles from the cell phone's speaker. "Nothin' credible. I've certainly never caught wind of a hunter layin' eyes on anything like that. Why you askin'?"
"Dean and I checked out some reported sightings in Central Indiana last year about the time we took off from your place, ruled it a hoax. Couldn't find much to go on and never did see one for ourselves. Seems like the reports are starting up again."
"Hmm. Haven't heard anything myself." A rustle of papers as Bobby presumably preps to take notes. "Any deaths?"
"Couple of squirrels and a dog," Sam admits sheepishly. "A rabbit, maybe."
Dean shoots him a look, smirking despite the tension his posture suggests he's feeling.
"Heh. Well, that'd explain why I haven't heard anything. Why the interest if no one's getting hurt?"
"Call it unfinished business," Sam dares, careful not to look at Dean. "If we got this wrong the first time, we should figure it out." He doesn't know what Dean's tension is all about. He only stands to gain from this excursion. Thought he saw one of the dwarves last year and Sam told him otherwise. If they come to prove their existence, well, Dean loves to say I told you so. And if not, then no harm, no foul.
"Well, I'll make a few calls, check a few books, see what I can see. Call ya back if and when I know somethin'."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean speaks up for the first time.
Sam disconnects the call. "You sure you're okay with this?"
"'Course," Dean responds flatly. "Why wouldn't I be?"
The small university town looks the same to Sam. An aesthetically appealing mix of older brick academic buildings, tall and narrow, and more modern staples, Starbucks and the like. He spots the motel where they stayed before, the fill-up station they hit on the way out of town. Under gray skies and a light, persistent drizzle the streets have an ominous feel he doesn't like. Makes this whole thing feel like a really bad idea. A year removed, a completely different situation, and he still feels like he's manipulating his brother. At the very least he fears that's how Dean sees it.
Sam lets Dean pick the motel even though it's his turn, and they end up somewhere pretty bland by Dean's standards, just a strip of five rooms on the outskirts of town. Good for a quick and easy getaway when they inevitably overstay their welcome. Sam suggests they stay in and turn in early, maybe split a pizza, but Dean shakes his head.
"We're not an old married couple, Sammy, just gonna hang around the room and watch TV. I think we can find something to do around town." All said with a smirk and a false twinkle in his eye.
"Think I am just gonna hang here."
"Suit yourself." And Dean gathers up his coat and stomps out of the room, presumably trolling for coed ass.
It's ramping up to be a long couple of days on the heels of another stretch of long days, so Sam makes the valiant attempt to turn in at a reasonable time. He finds himself unable to sleep, lying awake on a rock-hard mattress but pretending otherwise when Dean comes slinking back at an inappropriately late hour.
Sam doesn't ask, doesn't want to know. He's trying out a new theory that Dean is acting out like he did with Dad in his teens, trying to get a rise out of Sam. If he doesn't acknowledge it, stops pointing out all of the dumbass things Dean says and does, maybe this behavior will run its course.
He's up before Dean and starts making calls from the motel room, striking out over and over again with all of the most recent reported sightings. No one's home or no one's talking. Sam's starting to wonder all over again if this whole thing isn't just a big fat fraud. When Dean finally drags himself out of bed with that telltale smirk Sam ignores him. While Dean's in the shower he walks to the convenience mart down the road to fetch some coffee and takes a stab at getting some information from the locals. He leaves the shop with not only two steaming twenty-six ounce foam cups but thanks to the FBI badge that is always on his person, the name and address of the sister of a friend of the girl manning the counter, who'd mentioning catching a glimpse of a "creepy little dude" in the park while camping with friends a couple of weeks earlier. So, you know, score. And to wipe that smirk off Dean's face, he dumps copious amounts of sugar into his coffee.
Dean's rolling up his sleeves as Sam reenters the room, greets him with a more solemn bob of the head.
"Got a tip," Sam tells him as he hands over the goods. "Girl in town might have seen something a couple of weeks ago. Got a name and address."
"Oh, yeah?" Dean pops the lid of the coffee cup and takes a giant gulp. He makes a face as he swallows.
"Yeah, sorry," Sam oozes as a half-assed apology. "They were out of regular."
"Ugh."
"It's decaf, too," he adds, taking a drink to cover his own smirk. "We should get a move on."
"Garbage," Dean grumbles, grabbing his jacket and dropping the drink into the trash can on the way out of the door.
They can manage this one without the starchy suits from the trunk, which is more than fine with both of them. Sam doesn't normally mind but it's all about selling the look and he's pretty sure Dean's tie has been crammed in the glove box for over a week now. Finally having a reason, Sam ditches the sling in the car, and rotates his stiff arm with a wince as they make their way down the sidewalk of a narrow, cluttered street close to the university. Almost every house has a "For Rent" sign out front, every driveway crowded with three or four rusted compact cars spilling out to line the street. Typical housing for college upperclassmen.
It's a familiar sight for Sam, tugging at that part of him that still misses Stanford. Not just Jess, but every aspect of his life in Palo Alto. Instead of California sunshine warming the street, the sky remains gray and overcast, the previous night's rain remaining in cracks and potholes in the pavement. Dean is silent but not sullen. Thinking, but not sharing with the class. Typical Dean.
The girl's address brings them to a small single-story house somehow dingy and tidy at the same time, with both peeling yellow paint and immaculately kept rose bushes on either side of the walkway leading to the front door.
"Chicks," Dean snorts, hopping onto the porch.
Sam immediately tears his gaze from the red flowers. "Yeah. Chicks." But not immediately enough.
"No, you go ahead and take your time, Martha." Dean gives an authoritative pound on the door as Sam takes long strides to join him.
After a moment the door opens and a yapping Golden Retriever puppy squeezes through the gap. Dean makes a face and steps back as Sam stoops to keep the pup from escaping into the unfenced yard.
"Lady, no! Get back in here!" A young woman runs out of the house, stopping in relief at the sight of Sam corralling her pet.
Lady squats and pees right next to Dean's perfectly worn-in boots. He swears and Sam turns his head, chuckling into his shoulder as he grabs hold of the puppy's rhinestone-studded pink collar so Dean can't punt the dog into the street.
Apologizing, the girl bends and takes Lady from Sam, cradling the puppy to her chest. They stand for a few awkward moments watching the brunette make kissy noises at her dog before Dean clears his throat, just a tad grumpy and impatient without his morning caffeine jumpstart.
"Oh, I'm sorry…" It then seems to dawn on her there are two strange men on her doorstep. She gives the puppy one last squeeze before setting her inside – "Go see, Sarah!" – and pulling the door closed. "Are you guys selling something?"
Dean shoots Sam a look he easily translates. This girl is all wide brown eyes and hugging a fluffy puppy and that means Sam is definitely the one who should be doing the talking.
"No," he obliges with an easy smile. "We're looking for Kim Clark?"
She's already more at ease, immediately returning the smile, and Sam really hates that smug look Dean has on his face. "Yeah, that's me. Am I in trouble or something? It's totally okay to park in the street, everybody does it."
Sam misses meeting people with this untarnished view of life. "Ah, no, we're not here to give you a ticket."
"Oh, good. And I was gonna say…" Kim gestures at their outfits. Or, specifically, at Dean's.
Dean frowns down at his frayed jeans and mud-splattered boots. "What's wrong with my clothes?"
At that break in character, the comfort zone Sam had so effortlessly constructed is brought down with a crash. Kim's eyes narrow and she crosses her arms defensively. "So then why are you here? How did you get my name again?"
"You kidding me? You can Google anything these days." Dean's mouth is the gift that keeps on giving.
Kim is visibly horrified, steps back towards the door. "You Googled me?"
Sam frowns and shakes his head at his big brother. Way to throw out the only internet term you know, nimrod. If Sam didn't know any better he'd think Dean was deliberately sabotaging this interview. Which, okay, maybe Sam deserves. "Um, no. Park records."
"What?"
"Oh." Sam reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out Badge #7, Park Ranger from Insert County Here, bumping Dean with his elbow so he'll do the same. "Kim, would you mind if we asked you a few questions about what you saw in Mounds State Park?"
She's a sweet girl, nodding at the IDs, buying into them without really scrutinizing them. If she did she'd notice the badges are for Washington County, the most common county name in the States, while they're in Madison. Still, she inches away from them as she speaks. "What do you mean, what I saw in the park?"
She's not playing them nearly as well as they're playing her. Recovered from the dig at his outfit, Dean steps in. "You know. The, uh…" And then he immediately tags back out, makes a face and glances at Sam with a look that say, I just can't.
Sam clears his throat. "The dwarf." He gives Kim his best 'I believe this crazy shit you're saying' smile, but his doubt is deepening by the minute. He's had a lot of practice perfecting this smile.
"I never said 'dwarf.' And I never said anything to the people at the park."
"Well, somebody did," Dean says.
Kim laughs harshly, shaking her head. "Damn it, Jason. Unbelievable."
"Who's Jason," Sam prods.
"My boyfriend. Until I kill him for making me sound like a nutjob." She sighs, placing her hands on her hips. "You do think I'm crazy, right?"
Sam shakes his head. "Not at all."
"Did your boyfriend also happen to see the, uh…" Again, Dean struggles, looking to Sam for the assist.
"The dwarf."
"I never said 'dwarf,'" Kim repeats. "Who would say that?"
"What exactly did you say?"
"Look, it was late, and we'd all had a few beers." Kim has that look they both know all too well. They've overstayed their welcome, pushed her further than she's comfortable, and this conversation is over. She steps back, opens the door a crack. Lady resumes her yapping while a muffled female voice attempts to shush her. "I really think you guy are wasting your time."
"Well, thanks…" Dean begins as the door closes in their faces. "…for nothing." He jerks his head at Sam and starts back toward the car with a stiff, tense gait. "So that was pretty much pointless."
"They can't all be helpful."
"Yeah, but it's so much easier when they are."
They pause at the Impala, eyes meeting over the roof of the car for the briefest of moments before Dean predictably looks away. Sam rests his hands on the cool black metal. "Guess the only thing left to do is check out the park."
Dean nods without looking back. "Or we give this one up for lost, again, and move on to what's next."
Sam squints. "What's next?"
"I dunno," Dean says, shrugging. "Vampires, demons. Something always seems to come up."
"No, I mean…what's next, Dean? Where are we going from here?"
A shadow falls over Dean's face. "You know, I can't help feeling like we've done this before, you and me. Is there just something about this town that turns you into a sissy teenage girl? Is it in the air?"
"Dean – "
"The park, right? Let's go." He disappears into the car, has the engine growling in record time.
"Sure." Should've just let him have his damn coffee. Sam sighs, dipping into the car before Dean has the chance to leave without him.
For someone who initially claimed not to remember this hunt, Dean manages to drive straight to Mounds State Park without pulling out a map or stopping to make Sam get out and ask for directions. He pays the fee at the gate with his trademark charming grin for the young female attendant. The smile disappears as soon as they pull past the entrance. He's charming to everyone except Sam, but Sam is used to being the only one able to see through Dean's bullshit.
"You okay?" he stupidly ventures, eyes glued to the trees passing outside the car.
"Haven't we already talked about you asking me this question?"
Sam bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head. God forbid they have a serious conversation. There isn't exactly an abundance of opportunity in the near future, as Dean doesn't have much of one left. He gives up, sighs. "Every time I try to picture one of these things, all I can see in my head is that Travelocity gnome."
Dean throws up a hand. "Yes!" like he'd been thinking the same thing and hadn't been able to put a name to it. "Thank you. Me, too."
Sam chuckles, encouraged. He'll take superficial jokes over uncomfortable silence any day. "Or, uh, maybe Gimli."
"Who?"
"From Lord of the Rings."
"What?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Never mind." I thought you said you saw one of these things, he wants to ask. He doesn't, because he owes enough to his big brother – owes his LIFE – and allowing Dean this small lie through omission is easy enough. Bugs him, though.
It's the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, and the woods are calm, the narrow trails deserted. Neither Winchester feels exceptionally comfy with calm, Dean especially. He's twitchy, antsy as they weave through the trees, jumps at an innocent bird call.
Sam's phone trills, breaking the silence. Bobby. He doesn't bother with speakerphone this time, greedily keeps the goods to himself. Knowledge is power, and last go-round in these woods Dean did some serious damage, albeit mostly to himself, with what little information about the mounds and Pud-wuk-ies they'd garnered from Dad's journal. He takes a few steps away from the path and Dean. "Hey, Bobby."
Dean shakes his head, annoyed, and leans against a wooden trail marker. He scuffs his boots in the dirt.
"Sam."
"You find anything?"
"Found heaps. Problem is, it's too much to really know which parts will be of any use to you."
"Give me the CliffNotes version."
"Well, if they do exist outside of the myths, they definitely have powers, the specifics of which vary by account and by region, but most lore speaks to connections to the dead."
Sam nods. "I remember reading that."
"And regardless of mythology or region or origin, the bottom line seems to be if these things are really out there, you wanna make friends with 'em. Really don't like to be crossed. If they aren't hurtin' anyone, Sam, I would just leave them be."
"Sounds good, Bobby, but we're, uh, already here."
"Plus, you're the one who dragged us here," Dean supplies helpfully. "Again."
Unable to hear Dean, Bobby continues. "If you tick these things off, if you spook 'em, offend 'em in any way…you could find yourself in a real bad way."
"Make friends," Sam confirms. "Got it. Thanks, Bobby."
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"Don't let that idgit brother of yours do anything stupid, you hear?"
Sam squints across the trail, where Dean studying his fingernails, looking sullen. "Yeah." He returns the phone to his pocket.
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Bobby tell you anything we don't already know?"
"Just to play nice if we come across one, or it could go Darkside on us."
"Wonderful." Dean pulls his favorite nickel-plated pistol from his waistband, checks the magazine and returns the gun to its spot. Sam hadn't known for sure until now that he was packing but he's not at all surprised.
Dean pull away from the trail marker. "Hi ho, it's off to work we go."
"I could really go for a cold beer right now."
Sam snorts. "What else is new?" He hates himself for being too annoyed with Dean to not say it out loud, but being brothers means not pulling punches. Or it's supposed to, at least.
Dean isn't fazed, just yawns and gestures toward the tree line where the sun is quickly disappearing. "Exactly how much time are you planning on sinking into this wild dwarf chase?" He wanders over to the edge of a steeps drop-off to the left of the path, taking in the view with a stretch.
Sam rubs his forehead. "Dean, just – "
It's not the Travelocity gnome but there it is between them, a perfectly proportioned man standing about knee-high, with skin as dark and rough-looking as tree bark and wearing some kind of hand-stitched garment dyed with what must be berry juices, stained to a deep indigo. Almost looks like a blue dress.
Sam swallows and shifts his weight slowly. He's wary to make any quick, sudden movements, remembering Bobby's advice to make friends with this creature.
"Chill out, Sammy. I thought you found this nature crap relaxing." Dean doesn't seem to have noticed, staring over the treetops and playing with his gun like there isn't a miniature bearded man standing by his feet. The dwarf doesn't move a muscle, except to shift his eyes from Sam to Dean and back again.
"Uh, Dean." Staring into those little black eyes, Sam can only think, huh.
"Son of a bitch." Dean, for whatever reason, decides freaking the fuck out is the best course of action. He spooks but the dwarf doesn't. It remains still as a tiny statue as Dean spins and slips on a patch of fallen leaves.
The heel of his boot catches in an exposed tree root and shoots out over the edge of the drop-off as he goes down hard, his chin connecting with the rocky ground.
"Dean – "
"Son of a BITCH," Dean spits, pulling himself away from the edge and pressing a palm to his chin. He spots the dwarf in front of him and scrabbles for his gun, leaving a bloody smear across his jaw. He levels the pistol at the creature's head from his splayed position in the dirt. "I'm gonna kill it."
"Dean!" Sam protests, taking a cautious step forward. "Just – he's not doing anything?"
"He's freaking me out!"
"Well, if that was our main criterion for hunting we'd have to shoot everyone dressed like food outside of restaurants," Sam grits, holding up his hands.
"Sam! It's a dwarf!"
"It's not evil." I think, Sam adds to himself.
Dean cocks his head. "He's lookin' at me kind of evil."
"You're pointing a gun at him, Dean!"
Blood drips from Dean's chin to the dirt. "Well, what am I supposed to do?"
"Ach mea nu mo acht as isch." The voice that comes from the dwarf seems impossibly deep for such a small statured being.
Dean's eyes widen and he tightens his grip on the gun. "What the hell was that?"
Sam frowns and digs into his pockets for his cell phone. "I don't know. See if you can get him to do it again."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
Sam presses buttons quickly, bringing up the voice recorder. "I don't know, man. Talk back to it."
Still on the ground, Dean's eyes remain wide as dinner plates. "What the hell am I supposed to say?" His gun is still trained on the dwarf standing between them. Its eyes roam the space.
Sam hold out a hand. "Look, just calm down, and – "
"Ach mea nu mo acht as isch."
Dean's eyes move to Sam. "Please tell me you got that."
Sam glances down at the phone. "Yeah, I got it." When he looks back at Dean the dwarf is gone, the trail empty.
Dean notices as well, scrambles quickly to his feet, scanning the tree line with the nose of his gun. "Dude, where'd that little mofo go?"
"Gimme your phone."
Dean absently hands it over and continues to search the woods.
Sam glares at his brother as he scrolls through girls' names to find Bobby and sets the call to speaker. "Will you put that away? We're in a public park."
"Huh?" Dean looks dumbly as the pistol in his hand before hastily tucking it away. "Son of a bitch," he grits a third time, pressing the heel of his hand to the gash on his chin.
"Yeah, Sam."
"How's this for a credible source, Bobby," Dean starts before Sam has a chance. He steps toward the phone, pulling a dark blue bandana from his back pocket. "We just saw one of the freakin' things."
"What? A dwarf?"
"Oh yeah, a dwarf. And it talked to us." Dean wipes the blood from his face and produces a flask from inside his coat. He takes a long swig.
Not cool, man, Sam thinks, frowning, but takes the opportunity to glimpse the cut on Dean's face. Stitches again.
"It talked to you? What the heck did it day?"
"You think I speak dwarf? I don't know what it friggin' said." Dean meets Sam's eyes and he looks away, quickly, returning the flask to its pocket.
Sam interjects calmly. "I recorded it, Bobby. I have an audio file. What do you make of this?" He awkwardly hits the 'play' icon and holds one phone to the other.
"Huh. Well, it ain't Spanish."
"I can email it to you – "
"I deal in books, Sam, not computers." A long sigh. "Play it again and I'll write it down phonetically. See if I can work up any kind of translation."
Dean mouths 'phonetically' with a wince as Sam replays the audio file.
"It's nothing I've heard before, boys. I'm not even sure I have a book can help me translate this."
"Do whatever you can, Bobby. Whatever this thing said, it definitely wanted us to hear it."
Bobby chuckles. "You boys love to keep me workin', don'tcha?"
Sam disconnects the call and stares at the phone a long moment.
"What?"
"Huh. Nothin', man." He returns Dean's cell.
Dean shakes his head. "No, no, no. You are definitely doing some heavy thinking over there. What's going on?"
Sam would love to scour the woods for that little guy, but there's barely any light left in the day and Dean is dripping blood onto his last clean t-shirt, which means it's time to pack it in. Sam sniffs, starts down the path. "Nothing. Let's get out of here, get your face patched up."
Dean shrugs out of his jacket, the navy cotton one with all of those useful pockets on the inside, and leaves it draped haphazardly over the back of a chair. "What was that back there? You really had that sour lemon look workin'."
Sam folds his own Carhart neatly and lays it on top of the dresser before gathering the first aid kit. "It was nothing, really." He gestures for Dean to sit at the table.
Dean goes to the green cooler on the counter instead, pops open the lid and pulls out two beers. "No, you were definitely thinkin' something." He offers Sam a bottle.
Sam waves it away with a sigh. "I don't think Gimli was talking to us, Dean. Sit."
Dean obliges. "Then what the hell was – "
"I think it was talking to you." Sam gently grabs Dean's chin and his hand is immediately smacked away.
Dean lets the rejected bottle thunk to the tabletop. "What do you mean you think it was talking to me? We don't even know what the hell it said."
Sam's phone buzzes from the table between them and he holds out a clean gauze pad as he checks the caller ID. Bobby. That was fast, and…really convenient. "Maybe we do."
Dean shakes his head and settles heavily in his chair, tipping back his beer, pressing the gauze to the cut.
Sam again places the call on speaker, pushing it to the center of the table and studying Dean's wound. "Bobby, hey. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
"Hey, even I get lucky sometimes."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure. You got something?"
Sam smacks Dean's arm but Bobby's unaffected.
"Right down to business, huh? Well, it ain't perfect, and it ain't pretty, but I pieced together something from what you played for me."
"Really?" Dean asks.
"How?" Sam inquires at the same time, wiping away dried blood while Dean squirms in his chair.
"Who exactly do you think you're talkin' to? Now, from what I've been able to suss out, dwarf-speak ain't exactly structured like any language I've ever encountered, not to mention there are dozens of regional dialects to choose from, so I'm making a few assumptions here based on what makes sense and what don't."
Sam meets Dean's eyes and they both shrug. "So what's your best guess?" Sam ventures.
"Something along the lines of, you can't find it here, won't find it here. Basically your new little friend seems to think you boys are after something, and he says it ain't there. Any idea what that could mean?"
"What we're after?" Dean shakes his head and Sam grabs his face. "We're not after anything."
Sam chews his lips as he applies antiseptic. "Well, that's not exactly true, Dean."
Dean jerks away. "What?"
Sam ignores him for a moment. "Thanks, Bobby. That was really helpful."
"You bet."
Sam rummages through the kit for the butterfly bandages. "Don't think you'll need those stitches after all."
Dean holds out his hands. "Sam, you wanna fill me in?"
"Look, Dean, Bobby confirmed what we already knew from Dad's journal. That these things have some kind of connection to death, or spirits."
"Yeah, so."
Sam shifts his weight. "So you're dying, Dean. I mean, not today, but soon, man."
"Yeah," Dean repeats. "So?"
Sam shakes his head, tips Dean's chin back to apply the closures. "So maybe there's a reason you went along with this trip so easily. Maybe you wanted something from one of these Pud-wuk-ie things."
Dean laughs harshly, lurching away from Sam with a bandage half-hanging from his face and shakes his head. He grabs the beer Sam turned down and twists the cap roughly, crossing the room. "Man, I'm just damned if I do, damned if I don't with you, huh?"
Sam tosses the packaging from the bandages to the tabletop. "Well, obviously you were thinking something, Dean. And that dwarf answered you."
"So now I'm not only supposed to believe these things exist but that they can read minds? And this all hinges on whether or not Bobby got any part of that translation right. The one that took him all of forty-five minutes to…cobble together."
Cobble? "He did, Dean. And you know it."
"No, thank you. Peddle that crap somewhere else, Sammy. I ain't buyin'."
"Dean, I was looking right at it," Sam says. "And it was talking to you."
Dean spins on his heel, half-empty bottle in hand. "Tell me something, College Boy. You stop and think for even a second that thing was talking to you and not me?"
"Dean – "
"Did you?"
Sam squints. "No."
Dean smirks. "So maybe you're not as smart and, uh, mentally balanced as you like to think."
"Dean, I wasn't thinking anything. I wasn't LOOKING for anything out there."
"Oh, bull. You're the one who dragged my ass to this town. Again."
"Yeah," Sam argues, "because you wanted to hunt. I just wanted to help you find something to hunt."
"God, Sam." Dean sets down the bottle and runs a hand over his face. His fingers contact the bandages and he pats them down, wincing as he presses the bruised skin beneath. "Look, I don't need you doing this. We've been down this road before. Literally, actually. You don't need to be trying to make things easier or better or any of that crap. I made a choice, and I'm okay with it."
Sam swallows, and it's like trying to swallow a roll of quarters. "I'm not."
"Tough. I'm older, smarter, better-looking. And I make the decisions." Dean plucks a fresh beer from the cooler and hands it to Sam.
Sam shakes his head, staring at the bottle before accepting this one. "You're an idiot."
Dean cocks his head, taking a drink. "Maybe. But I'm still right."
Sam sighs, twists the cap from his beer and tosses it aside. "What should we do about this dwarf situation?"
Dean chuckles, drains his beer in a long, calculated gulp. Sam really wishes he would take it easy, but his survivor's guilt keeps him quiet. "I don't know, man. I guess they aren't really hurting anyone."
"Tell that to the Cocker Spaniel."
"We save people, Sam. Not puppies."
"Yeah." Sam lowers himself to the edge of his bed. "We done?"
Dean shrugs. "We can keep our ears open. You've got that alert thing," he says, gesturing to Sam's phone on the table.
Sam nods. "You wanna try to figure out what it meant?"
"You mean like cry and talk about our feelings?"
"Don't be a jackass."
"It didn't mean anything, Sam. It was gibberish. I know this is pointless even as I say it, but please don't obsess about this."
"Yeah."
"I mean it, Sam."
"I said 'yeah,' Dean," Sam all but snaps at his brother. He slams his beer to the surface of the nightstand. A twinge runs all the way into his injured shoulder and he winces, rubbing the spot.
Dean rolls his eyes and looks around the room. "What'd you do with the damn sling? That doc said you'd need it at least a week."
"I know this is pointless even as I say it," Sam says flatly, "but stop worrying about me all the time."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever."
"It's my turn to worry about you. To…" Sam sucks in a breath, swallows. "To save you."
"Okay."
"And I'm not gonna stop looking for a way." Sam realizes what he's saying as he says it.
"Something along the lines of, you can't find it here, won't find it here. Basically your new little friend seems to think you boys are after something, and he says it ain't there."
Dean realizes, too, but he's too good a brother, and a man, to acknowledge it. As always, he takes this bullet for Sam. "Okay," he says simply, letting the matter fall away.
"I mean it."
"Good."
A long moment of uncomfortable silence hangs in the room.
Dean sniffs, rubs his stomach. "You hungry? Wanna get some food?"
And that's how they do it. Sam forces a smile. "Yeah. Let's get some food."