Interesting Times, a supernatural fanfic

A/N: This story was written in French a year ago. It's crack!fic, people, so don't look for any deeper meaning. And if you enjoy this story even only a little, send flowers to Wave Obscura for the beta work she did on it.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.

"Dean! "

On all fours, Dean searches the dark space under his bed until finally, he manages to find his jacket – he has absolutely no idea how it got there. He slips on the right sleeve.

"Dean! Stop it! "

Then he slips on the left sleeve, and straightens his collar.

"Don't turn your back on me! Stop acting like you can't hear me! "

Oh, yes, because that's absolutely impossible. The corpses buried in the cemetery at the other end of the town can hear you.

"Dean! "

Sam's voice goes high pitched, and Dean has this image of him with his hands on his hips, tapping his foot. Dean turns, and Sam does not have his hands on his hips and does not tap his foot, which is too bad because at least that would've been funny, whereas right now Sam's just being a pain in the ass. And when Sam starts being too annoying, there's only one thing Dean can do.

"I'm gonna take a walk. Don't wait up for me."

"What?"

Sam looks incredulous, like he can't believe what he's hearing, even though it's the exact reaction Dean's had his whole life when things get heated. He has never been able to tolerate conflicts, unlike his father and his brother, who always seemed to take a perverse pleasure in them, never missing an occasion to fight and scream.

"You're just gonna leave like this, right when we're talking?

"We're not talking, Sam, we're fighting. If you don't me want to take a swing at you, get the fuck out of my way. "

Because Sam is also doing this very aggravating thing, which is to put himself right in front of Dean to prevent him from getting to the door, and in addition to it being exasperating, it also cruelly reminds Dean of how his little brother is now so much larger and more… imposing than he is. He could seriously never understand how it was possible to love someone in such an absolute way and still sometimes want to bash their head against the wall. Which he won't do because the motel walls look thinner than paper and Dean doesn't want to pay for the damage. He prefers going out to get drunk.

"I hate when you do that, I really hate…"

"Shut up, Sammy."

" Fuck you, Dean!"

"Fuck you too," Dean retorts oh-so-eloquently. He finally manages to shove Sam aside and to open the door. He violently slams it closed behind him.

"Shut the fuck up!" somebody yells from the next room.

"Asshole! " Dean yells in return, and he takes his car keys out of his jeans pocket.

The bar is called the MacLaren's, which is classy enough as far as bar names go, more classy at least than the Drunken Duck or other dumb names of the kind from bars Dean had the occasion to visit. The inside is definitely less classy. It's small and crowded, smokey, the tabletops and counters black with dirt, there are unidentified crap on the floor, and everyone looks at various stages of intoxication even though it's hardly 8:30 pm. Dean already feels a real improvement in his mood.

He rests his elbows on the counter and leans against it, asks the barman for whisky. The man glares at him, and Dean wonders if he did something wrong or if it's simply the local way to greet strangers. He doesn't really care one way or the other; he's used to hostility.

He's focused on his glass, or what's inside of it, and is satisfied for the moment with letting the world around him merge into indistinct noises in the background. He feels somebody slipping into the seat beside him, but doesn't pay any attention to whoever it is – until a female voice whispers in his ear:

"Is there a reason you're drinking alone, beautiful? "

He turns his head, a little surprised because the place doesn't seem the kind to attract young women, and he wasn't expecting any female company for tonight. The girl has brown hair, with very blue eyes and a reasonably attractive face – not a beauty queen, but a pretty girl, and it's enough for Dean, who watches her with more interest. She's wearing a plain gray tank top and black jeans that underline her curves. There's a mole under her left eye, Dean notices, and an engaging smile that doesn't need any subtitles – Dean also notices that, and shows her his own version of it.

"No particular reason," he answers. "I always enjoy company. "

The girl asks for a beer and the barman looks like he wants to rip her head off, which kind of reassures Dean because it means it's not just him. She turns to him, and rests her elbows on the not-so-clean counter.

"Linda."

"Nice to meet you. Dean. "

No last name, it's a tacit rule for this kind of encounter. Linda seems younger than Dean, probably closer to Sammy's age, but it obviously isn't her first rodeo. Dean briefly wonders about the presence of such a young woman in a bar filled with truckers, but Linda clasps her hands together and brings her elbows closer on the counter. It has an interesting effect on her boobs, and he forgets why it could be a relevant question.

"You're not from around here. "

An assertion, not a question, which means that Linda is from around here.

"I'm just passing through," he confirms.

"For work, or for fun?

"What fun is there in this town? "

She bursts out laughing. She has a pleasant laughter, and the mole under her eye makes her look mischievous.

"Touché. So you're not here for fun, huh. You took the wrong exit on the highway?"

"Not, we're just stopping here for the night."

"Who's 'we'? "

He doesn't want to talk about Sam, not when he's still mad at him, but the "we" has escaped him. He doesn't have the occasion very often to be an "I".

"My brother and I. We're on our way to a job."

"What do you do? "

Dean thinks fast. He has a dozen stories in store, but he instinctively knows Linda will never buy anything too outrageous. He's enjoying the conversation, even though what they're talking about isn't so important as they both know how it's going to end. Contrary to what Sam thinks, he actually speaks to the girls he has sex with.

"We're bounty hunters. "

He has never told this one, and he's happy with the idea because it's rather close to the truth and it gives him an aura of adventure and danger that could make him even more attractive - not than he really needs it.

"Well," Linda says, "isn't that kind of… dangerous? "

She's not wide-eyed with admiration, but she looks interested. Turned on, even. Dean answers with the casualness of the guy who knows about life – it's a game, a game he's good at.

"Sometimes, it is. And we move around a lot. But enough about me. What do you do for a living? "

Linda is on him, all of a sudden, and Dean forgets that he even asked a question.

Ok, Dean can now check all the points on his list of what makes a successful night out: alcohol – check – get into a fight – check – sex in a very very near future – oh yeah, baby.

After Linda started to kiss him at the bar, things went bad so fast Dean still can't wrap his mind around what happened. A guy got rough with Linda and Dean, always the protector of the ladies, pushed the guy back, nice but firm. Then all hell broke loose, because the guy in question had friends – this kind of moron always does – friends who all seemed to be at the bar. Dean didn't stop to wonder what it was all about – later, he will think that perhaps he should have – and threw himself happily into the fight. He just needed to let off some steam, and when there's no son of a bitch to hunt, you make do with whatever you have.

Now he's in a back street behind the bar with Linda; his fists are sore but it's a good pain, one that makes him feel alive. He's pressed back against the wall and Linda's lips are on his, Linda's tongue is in his mouth, and he's definitely in a better mood than when he slammed the door of his motel room a little earlier that evening.

At least until he hears somebody's footsteps approaching and diverts his eyes from Linda for one second. A huge shadow fills his world, and darkness eats him whole.

Shit.

His phone rings and Sam picks up without checking who's calling.

"Sam?"

Sam can't help being a little disappointed that the voice at the other end is Bobby's, though he knows there's very little chance that Dean would call, at least not for a while.

"Hi, Bobby."

"Where are you? I maybe have a job for you two, but if you're too far away, I'll ask someone else."

"We're in Missouri, east of Mountain Grove."

"Great, the job is in Iowa."

Sam listens to the details of the case, noting everything down on a sheet of paper that was lying around, asking all the right questions. The exercise relaxes him; he enjoys focusing on something that isn't his fight with his brother. He's starting to think of the research he'll have to do to prepare their hunt, looks forward to this way to pass the time. He's almost back in a good mood, which of course Bobby has to ruin by asking:

"Where is Dean?"

"Why?" Sam asks. It comes out more dryly than he intended.

"Well, he'll be the one driving, right? I want to know how long he thinks it will take you to get there."

"He's not here. I don't know where he is."

"Really? You don't know where he is? "

Bobby sounds doubtful. Sam feels anger bubbling inside him, and before he has time to get a grip on his temper, he explodes:

"No, I don't know where he is! I'm not his mother, or his girlfriend, or his parole officer! I don't know where he is, and you know what, I don't give a shit!!"

"I see. You two had a fight. "

Sam realizes that he has just yelled at Bobby and he feels his face heating up.

"Uh, sorry, Bobby. I… I kinda lost my temper."

"Didn't even notice. So, you gonna tell me what got your panties in a twist? "

Sam swallows back his pride that tells him to keep his problems to himself, and tells Bobby everything. Sometimes, all he wants is to be able to speak with somebody who is not Dean.

The first thing that comes back to Dean is his hearing; the familiar rumble of a car engine immediately strikes him. It's not the comforting humming of his baby, though. No, it sounds rather like… a Volvo. He's sitting up, not a very common occurrence after losing consciousness – he speaks from experience – and the right side of his head rests on something cold.

The second thing that comes back to Dean, unfortunately, is pain. It's a living, pulsating thing behind his forehead, following the beats of his heart. His lower lip also hurts and feels twice its usual size; he tastes blood in his mouth.

He decides that it's time to open his eyes and face the undoubtedly not very amusing situation.

He's in a car, he got that much right. The night has fallen and it's dark inside the enclosed space, but he can distinguish two silhouettes in the front seat. The form in the passenger seat is certainly not Linda, 'cause it's huge, but the one behind the wheel is small and petite and has long hair.

He turns his head, slowly because he's used to taking blows to the head and knows that moving too quickly could make him lose his last meal. There's a third silhouette, beside him in the backseat. A man – or man-shaped at least – and he's slumped against the window and he isn't moving. Dean thinks that he's probably unconscious like he was just a minute ago. Jesus, who the hell are those guys? Serial kidnappers?

He moves a little to have a closer look at the man, but he's stopped by a voice.

"Dean? You awake? "

It's Linda's voice. Curiously, she sounds friendly, almost worried, and Dean begins to hope that it's simply a huge misunderstanding. There's perhaps a perfectly logical explanation to all this.

"Uh, yeah, I think so. " He carefully feels the bump on his forehead, clears his throat. "My head kinda aches but well, what's a blow to the face between people of good company, huh? "

It occurs to him he maybe should go easy on the sarcasm if he has indeed been kidnapped. But Linda sounds as friendly as ever when she retorts:

"Ah yes, sorry about that. Paul… he sometimes overreacts. "

Overreacts, huh? Hmm, is Paul the customer in the front or in the back?

His question is answered when the big man in the passenger seat starts whining.

"Lin, you promised, you promised that…"

"That's enough, Paul, shut up now, you made enough of a mess for the night! "

The aggravation in Linda's voice is familiar to Dean.

"Let me guess," he says. "Siblings? "

Linda snorts a laugh.

"That obvious, huh?"

"I have a brother. I live and I work with him. I know the signs."

"Lin…" Paul moans.

"God, you're so annoying, Paul!"

Linda sighs. Paul seems to be sulking. Dean holds his breath, and glances again in the other guy's direction. He still hasn't moved.

"Hey, this guy okay?"

"Oh yeah, he just drank too much. We'll take him back to his place, after. "

Dean sniffs, and he can smell alcohol on the man. He wants to ask Linda and Paul who he is but he's struck by something Linda has just said.

"What do you mean by "after"? After what?"

"We have something to do. I promised Paul."

"What are you talking about?"

"We have to get Julie back. Don't worry, it won't be long."

Julie? What the fuck?

His head really hurts, and all he wants is to be back in his crappy motel room with his little brother, who keeps driving him nuts but at least doesn't usually hit him for no apparent reason.

"Who is Julie?"

"She's Paul's goat," Linda answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh. Oh. Of course, what didn't I think of that sooner? "

If he had thought that the night couldn't get stranger, he's proven wrong when they finally reach their destination.

His watch reads 11:07 when the car stops, which means that he's been unconscious for a while and that they have been driving for even longer. He feels a little nauseous when he gets out of the car and stands up, probably too fast, and he has to clutch the door not to fall and wait until the dizziness passes.

They are parked in front of a house lit by the moon. It looks dilapidated, even in ruins. It's surrounded by a vast garden overgrown with weeds and there's no fence – but at the same time, Dean can see why the owner isn't too worried about burglars; he's seen haunted houses that look more welcoming.

Linda is leaning against the Volvo, arms crossed, Paul standing close to her – and the guy is really tall, for god's sake, definitely taller than Sam. Dean joins them.

"What the fuck are we doing here? " Dean asks, as politely as he can given the circumstances. He left the motel without any weapon and he's starting to wonder if he's going to regret it.

"Hush! " Linda shushes, with a gesture of the hand intended to make him shut up.

The three of them are silent for a moment, Linda and Paul lost in their contemplation of the house, and Dean wondering if he'd be able to steal their car and go back to town before they can stop him.

And then all of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, Paul straightens, unfolding his whole height – it seems that he was even taller than he looked – and fucking howls. A long, horrible howl that makes Dean's skin crawl, the cry of a man who's being murdered or of a dying animal. Thirty seconds or so later, just as suddenly, he goes silent and resumes his quiet observation of the house.

Dean starts so violently that he knocks against the open door on the driver side – like his head had not suffered enough abuse tonight. He rubs the back of his skull, wincing, and gapes at Paul. That's when he notices something that has escaped him until now. Paul's eyes are different, as in different from each other, and also simply different. The right one is dark, and the left one is of a pale blue, with a pupil small like a pinhead, which is odd given the darkness. Dean can't look at this eye for more than a few seconds before he feels an overwhelming uneasiness.

He turns to Linda, and the strangest thing in this situation is that the young woman hasn't moved a finger, like her brother hasn't just had some kind of psychotic episode.

"Uh, Linda?"

She turns to him, obviously with regret.

"What?" she says, sounding irritated.

Apparently, she doesn't see why Dean is interrupting her, and he's starting to wonder whether he's just hallucinating from the blow to the head, because nobody seems to be aware that something very unusual has just happened. He gives up on the question he was about to ask, preferring another one:

"Can you tell me why we're here? Because I got to say, this really wasn't the way I planned to spend the night."

"It's the witch's house," Paul whispers in a hollow voice and with a childish expression, which comforts Dean, because in addition to being a total nutcase, the man must be suffering from some kind of mental deficiency.

Dean turns to Linda for a more adult explanation. Which proves to be this:

"The witch took Julie. We'll get her back, just let me think."

Okay, he's probably the sanest person here right now, which is not a comforting thought. It's not that he doesn't believe in the existence of witches, because he knows that witches exist, he's even met some. He also knows that often in small towns freaky old women are called "witches," though in his experience real witches look very ordinary. He doubts that the person in this house is a real one.

"And why… did she do that? "

Linda shrugs, unconcerned.

"How the hell would I know? I'm not a witch."

That would be a good explanation.

Dean doesn't know how long they would have stood there waiting for Linda to think of a genius plan, if a weak bleat had not broken the eerie silence – well, except for Paul's howl, that maybe was born from Dean's fucked up imagination, or maybe not. Speak of the devil – Paul yells with all the strength of his well-developed lungs – "Julie!" – and bolts towards the house – which maybe is the house of a witch. Or not, hopefully.

"Paul! Come back here!" comes Linda's high-pitched whisper. Dean wants to tell her that at this point there's no need to try to be sneaky anymore, but he doesn't have time because before he can open his mouth she breaks into a run, following her brother.

Dean doesn't know why he follows, because when confronted with madness the best thing to do is sit and wait until everything calms down. However, even knowing that, Dean finds himself running behind Linda, who is running behind Paul, and really, he thinks that somebody somewhere is probably having a good fucking laugh.

Sam turns in his bed and sighs.

After hanging up with Bobby he had put himself to work researching the hunt, but a day spent in the car had quickly caught up with him and the words on the computer screen had started to get blurry. He decided that it was time to go to bed, rebuild his energy in preparation for tomorrow.

Only problem is, he can't seem to find sleep.

It takes him a moment to identify the problem. He analyzes the present circumstances, trying to put his finger on the uneasy feeling that won't let him relax enough to fall asleep. And when the answer comes to him, clear as crystal, he's so taken aback that he sits up in his bed.

In twenty-three years, Sam has never slept on his own. That sounds hard to believe, but it's true nevertheless. All his childhood and teenage years Sam has shared a room – and sometimes a bed – with his older brother. At college he had a roommate, then he lived with Jess, and after her death he was back with Dean – and that is how one can live more than two decades without falling asleep alone.

When he was a teenager there was a time when he would have done about anything to have his own room, because sharing with Dean… let say it wasn't always buckets of fun. But right now, the room seems too big, too quiet, too dark, the atmosphere is heavy without the noises that usually betray his brother's presence. Without his slow breathing, the rustling of sheets, the bed squeaking when he turns, the half-formed words he sometimes mumbles in his sleep.

Sam swears under his breath against his brother, who manages to be annoying even when absent.

He closes his eyes, deciding to fall asleep, because it will never be said that a Winchester gave up without a fight.

Dean, Linda and Paul turns around the corner of the house, still running after each other like cartoon characters. Behind the building there's a neater portion of garden that looks like somebody's been caring for it and voluntarily making things grow.

The moonlight is bright enough that Dean can distinguish some of the plants. He stops when he catches sight of some bell-shaped flowers and pointed oval leaves characteristic of the belladonna. He recognizes then the aconite, the mandrake. Well, all right, he's ready to admit that this house is maybe really inhabited by a witch, but he still doesn't know what she would do with Julie the goat.

As if to remind Dean that there are more pressing matters, Paul's voice resounds in the night.

"Oh, Julie, my Julie!"

"Paul, stop making so much noise!"

Dean joins Linda and Paul, who are kneeling in front of something that looks like a doghouse, except that inside there is… well, there's a goat.

I'll be damned

The goat – Julie – is surprisingly small, enough that Paul can carry her in his arms without effort. It's true that Dean hasn't met a lot of goats and that Paul is unquestionably a giant, but the animal still looks ridiculously tiny.

He doesn't have the time to be intrigued any longer, because a light is suddenly turned on –surprise surprise, somebody is actually living here. Almost simultaneously, a door at the back of the house slams open and a disheveled old woman comes out, a rifle in her hands. She sees the three of them – or the four of them – standing there like overgrown garden gnomes and without warning starts shooting in their direction.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" Dean swears before he starts running for his life. He's not willing to take a bullet for a fucking goat.

Their disorganized run leads them back to the car, and Dean doesn't know how they make it out safe and sound, just that they manage to drive away with Linda at the wheel, Paul in the passenger seat with the goat on his knees, and Dean in the back next to the still unconscious guy. In all this madness, he is undoubtedly the luckiest of them.

He's half asleep when the car finally stills, and he needs a minute or two to clear his thoughts. He's more exhausted than after a hunt, his mind slow and sluggish like he was drunk although the whiskey he had hours ago should be nothing more than a memory.

He gets out of the car, legs a little wobbly, but a new energy fills him at the sight of the Impala, parked just where he had left her.

"Hey, baby!" he exclaims brightly and reaches out to pet the black hood.

"I didn't know where you were staying for the night, so I brought you back here," Linda says behind him.

He turns around to answer her, and wow, Linda is close, very close. She presses against him and he takes a step back, and another, until he hits the Impala. Then she kisses him and once again, he tries to get her off him because seriously, does Linda believe promising sex will make him forget everything that happened tonight? Dean doesn't appreciate being shot at, especially when he's on a night off.

Linda slips her hand between Dean's legs, and she squeezes, and Dean thinks that well, okay, perhaps that promising sex is enough for him to show mercy. Except that immediately Linda pulls back, smiles, waves her hand in good bye, and walks back to her Volvo, leaving Dean breathless and feeling like his jeans are way too tight. Dumbstruck, he watches as the car drives away with Linda, her brother Paul, and this mysterious guy who Dean is seriously wondering if he's still alive.

He finally shakes himself because he doesn't intend on spending the night here. He will just have to jerk off quickly in the car – it won't be the first time – and go back to the motel and to Sam. The thought is curiously comforting after the detour he made to Weirdo Land.

Dean has to try three times before he can put his key into the lock. This hasn't happened to him since the last time he came home completely wasted, and he's starting to worry a little about this coordination problem he seems to have.

When he enters the room he turns on the light without thinking, before he it occurs to him that it's perhaps not a very good idea since Sam is probably sleeping. Oops.

Sam sits in his bed and rubs his eyes as though to shake off sleep, but Dean has seen his brother waking up often enough to know that it's bullshit. Sam wasn't sleeping – Dean doesn't know what twisted truth it reveals about their relationship.

"Dean?" Sam mumbles, his sleepy tone so convincing that anyone but Dean would have bought it. Then Sam really looks at Dean and his eyes widen in alarm. "Dean?"

Dean absently wonders what is causing such a reaction from his brother, before he remembers the bump on his forehead and his split lip. He must look like he's been in a fight – which is true, even if that's not what the wounds are from. He expects Sam's disapproval and a lecture, so he's taken aback when his brother abruptly pushes his covers back, gets out of bed, and is at Dean's side in two steps.

"Oh, Dean. Oh my God. What… Oh Dean."

Dean is even more surprised to see that Sam's looking him up and down, examining his whole body except for his face. He looks worried with an edge of panic, without any reason, and curiosity finally makes Dean lower his eyes on himself. It's then that he can see the blood. He's covered with blood. Well, he now understands Sam's reaction.

"Oh," he sighs, and it's at that moment his legs choose to stop holding his weight.

He would have fallen if Sam had not caught him by the shoulders. His brother guides him to the nearest bed, whispering reassuring words in his ear.

"Easy, easy. I got you, it's okay. Oh, god, Dean, what the hell happened to you? Where'd this the blood come from?"

Dean doesn't know, he wasn't even aware he was hurt, but before he can say any of this to Sam, his brother has already found the answer on his own. Dean's left sleeve is torn, and curiously it's when Sam notices that his arm begins to burn.

Sam helps him remove his jacket so they can both see the wound. It's hardly more than a scratch, probably one of the old woman's bullets that grazed him, and it wouldn't be serious if Dean had not emptied himself of his blood all the way back. Sam grabs their first-aid kit and starts cleaning the wound while grumbling:

"What the fuck did you do, Dean, huh? I just don't know. You leave for a few hours, and you…"

"It's 'cause of the witch," Dean tries to explain, but he sounds weird and he has trouble forming the words.

Sam raises his eyes with a concerned expression, his forehead lined and his eyebrows frowning. He reaches out to Dean's face.

"You got hit, too. How's your head? Did you pass out?"

Dean tries to dodge the big hand invading his personal space, but it seems like nothing is in his control anymore, so he lets Sam lightly brush the bump with the tip of his fingers, lets Sam handle him carefully to patch his wound. He remembers that they were mad at each other when he left earlier, but for the life of him he can't remember why. He decides that it probably wasn't very important.

"Dean, hey! Don't fall asleep, stay with me just for a moment."

"Mmh hmm."

As his surroundings get blurry, Dean thinks that it feels good to be home.