Title: Boogeyman
Author: Mad Server
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 1200
Summary: The boys go after a boogeyman.
A/N: Soncnica, Enkidu07 and I decided to all write h/c involving pouring something into a Winchester - Enkidu's "North of Normal" and Soncnica's "Like Moths Upon Old Scarves" are going up today. We also decided to remix for each other, so on June 27th watch for Enkidu's remix of this ("Of Teddy Bears and Hummingbirds"), my remix of Soncnica's ("Meat"), and Soncnica's remix of Enkidu's ("The Other Side of Normal"). Big thank you to Soncnica for the stimulating beta.
Disclaimer: That happiness is not mine.

How do you kill the monster under the bed? Not with silver bullets, Bobby tells them. Not with a spray of holy water. All it takes, according to him - and the man tends to know his shit - is some well-placed, good old-fashioned steel.

Belly-down on dusty floorboards, breathing stalely through a balaclava, Dean sees two shiny, slitted eyes crack open under the bed, and silently hopes Bobby's right. Today's been made of ass so far: grieving parents, stale sandwiches, spitting rain, and a splitting headache; directions into cottage country that were not only vague but inaccurate; shtriga memories that heated his ears. Dean's in the mood to kick some ass.

Slowly, gingerly, he levers himself forward on toes and elbows in the faint moonlight, holding a giant, dark brown teddy bear in front of himself for cover. He settles again, a few inches closer, the cold floor pressing into his belly, hurting his knees. Sam's stock still between the sheets, his outline barely visible, breathing slowly and steadily like good bait.

Something thin and shadowy unfurls from under the bed - a tentacle, Dean confirms - and passes slowly down the length of the bed, at floor level, like it's feeling for an arm or a leg that might have fallen over the side in sleep. It undulates like seaweed. Dean swallows, inches closer.

The feeler, unhurried, withdraws, and Dean goes still. He waits, watches. It's hard to get a decent breath through the balaclava, and his nose is tingling with the dust.

The serpentine probe re-emerges, higher this time, and steals up along the side of the mattress. Dean shimmies closer... closer... and into range.

He ditches the teddy bear and lunges under the bed; finds the thing's body, surprisingly small and cool and dry, and pulls it against him; bumps his head hard on the underside of the bed frame as his prey bucks beneath him; and finally slits its throat from ear to ear.

One of its tentacles has pushed up under his balaclava. This was not part of the plan.

Sam's leaning over the edge now, one gloved hand poised and full of knife, ready to help. His hair hangs down, touches the floor. He's just in time to see the thing melt into a sort of gelatin.

"Did it just dissolve?" Sam asks, his voice a bit high, the way it gets when he's stressed.

"Presto change-o," Dean affirms, furtively wiping goo off his neck as he peels off the balaclava.

"Did you kill it?"

"Slit its throat from ear to ear."

Sam nods, his hair brushing back and forth against the dusty floor.

"Did you touch it?"

Dean hesitates. "A little?"

Sam's jaw drops. "Shit!"

"It's no biggie," Dean breezes, still wedged under the bed. "Just need some water, right? Isn't that what Bobby said?"

"Yeah, it is, and we need it fast. Come on, get outta there."

Dean pushes forward, sneezing hard through the dust. Out in the open again, he sits up too quickly and immediately recalls the blow to his head. He takes a second with his back against the wall and his still-gloved hand gripping the bedpost, breathing through the lights behind his eyelids and the pain. When he can see again, Sam's staring at him.

"Think you can make it downstairs?"

Dean tries to scoff but just sneezes again. "Yeah," he manages, snuffling and dragging a sleeve under his nose. He hauls himself up by the bedpost, and it's a good thing Sam has him by the elbow because suddenly he feels weightless, and all he can see is spots.

He comes to with his face mashed against Sam's chest, his body subsumed in a massive bear hug. He shivers, then startles further awake and tries to nudge Sam back.

"Take it easy," Sam says neutrally, slackening his hold on Dean but not letting go. "Just walk with me, OK?"

Dean still can't see anything but static, so he doesn't have a lot of choice.

"That's gotta be enough."

"Bobby said a gallon and a half at least."

"Dude... I'd like to see him try drinking a gallon and a half of anything at once."

"He hasn't been poisoned. You have. Drink."

"You make it sound so dramatic. Poisoned. Like it was Colonel Mustard in the drawing room."

"Are you delirious?"

"Am I delirious, he says."

"Then quit stalling and drink. You have a gallon to go."

"...Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"What happens if I throw up?"

"If you throw up, you have to start over."

"Son of a..."

"That gonna be a problem?"

"Maybe."

Sam sighs. "All right, maybe these people have some antinausea meds."

Sam opens the medicine cabinet, scans the collection of bottes. Dean, propped against the bathroom wall, planted on the edge of the bathtub with one foot in and one foot out, watches him hopefully.

Sam's skin has turned a deep sky blue. Dean chooses not to comment on this.

"Nope. There's nothing," says Blue Sam. "You want me to see if they've got some peppermint? I could make tea. It might help."

Dean shivers, rubs his face. His throat aches from all the water, and his hands feel... crunchy. "Would it count as part of the gallon and a half?"

Sam just nods toward the glass in Dean's other hand. "Drink that now, and I'll give you a refill for while I go check the kitchen."

"Tyrant." Is there really a hummingbird on each of Sam's shoulders? Dean figures the guy would have acknowledged them in some way if they were really there, so, probably not. He shifts forward a little, getting ready to drink, and hears water sloshing in his stomach.

He raises the glass, but then can't find his mouth. His head feels like it's floating all of a sudden, disconnected from his body. Backtracking, he tries to set the cup down on the edge of the tub, but can't find that either; he's pretty sure it's Sam's quick reflexes that keep it from shattering. Water splashes over Dean's leg.

"Shit," mutters Blue Sam With Hummingbirds. "Stay with me, man." He refills the water glass in the sink, settles on the tub's edge in front of Dean, and holds the glass to Dean's lips. He looks worried. So do the hummingbirds.

Dean drinks as much as he can and then turns his head, gets water down his shirt.

"Just a bit more, OK?" Sam comes forward again, but Dean holds up a hand to stop him.

"One second," he breathes. He's having trouble keeping his eyes open. A cool palm settles on his forehead. He hears jungle drums. "Just... one second."

It's a long trip back into town: subjectively, because Dean feels like a wad of soggy belly button lint, and objectively, because they're constantly pulling over so he can pee. Shaky and light-headed at the outset, he gets steadier as the drive progresses, and by the fourth pit-stop he can relieve himself without help.

"I'm never having kids," Sam announces as they stagger into the room.

"I'll bite," rasps Dean, picking at his bootlaces.

"Force feeding? Not the barrel of laughs it's cracked up to be."

"What is these days," Dean sighs, and trudges off for one last pee.

end