~o0o~
The sequel to 'Lost'
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Found
Chapter Three
"You with us?" Bobby's gruff voice broke into his thoughts and Dean lifted his head, realising he had been staring at the same page for quite some time. The old hunter, eyes narrowed, was looking at him from under the peak of his baseball cap. Sam raised his shaggy head, disturbed from his intent study of the pile of books on the dusty desk.
"If this is borin' ya, go and do somethin' useful. That old M16 of mine could do with a strip down and clean. Y'know where it's at."
Feeling somehow caught out, Dean made his escape from under the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes and settled at the kitchen table with a feeling of relief. He'd never been one to enjoy research, but lately he was finding it hard to concentrate for any length of time. Another enjoyable after effect of brain trauma according to Sam's pamphlets.
He stripped the M16 methodically, laying the parts on a cloth on the kitchen table. There was a comfort in handling the old weapon; it'd been at Bobby's for as long as he could recall and he'd stripped, cleaned and reassembled it more times than he could remember. It was one of the many 'just in case' weapons Bobby had stashed away in his armory. John had given it to him, back in the far off days when they had actually been something approaching friendly. Cleaning it always soothed Dean, made him feel closer to his father.
Thirty minutes later he was feeling far from soothed. The cleaned parts lay in a row on the cloth in front of him, the light sheen of oil reflecting the light from the dim bulb. He swallowed nervously. Crap, he thought, give it a minute, keep calm. Crap!
The boards in the hallway creaked, giving him just enough warning to pick up the bolt carrier and wipe it diligently. Sam popped his head inside the kitchen. "You okay there?"
Dean smirked at him, playing it cool. He pushed his chair back from the table, gestured at the array of parts. "Well c'mon then Sammy, let's see how fast you can put it back together." He got up, stepped back, watching intently as Sam rose to the challenge and started rapidly reassembling the weapon.
"Not bad," he allowed grudgingly, taking it off him and heading casually for the armory. In the privacy of its quiet, cool walls he slotted the M16 back into its rack and dropped his forehead against the cold metal, his knuckles white on the racking. "Shit," he whispered to himself. If Sam hadn't reassembled the weapon it would still be sitting in parts on the kitchen table; between one blink and the next it had changed from the easily recognisable parts of a familiar piece of equipment into an incomprehensible array of pieces of metal.
I'm kinda tired, that's all, he told himself, knowing it was a lie. Sam's sorted it, so I'll keep my mouth shut. I can look up that stuff on the Internet, re-learn it. How hard can it be? I'll remember later anyhow.
He fingered the leaflet in his back pocket. There was no need to open the worn folds; he'd read the contents so many times they were committed to memory. 'Difficulty concentrating' - check. 'Disturbed sleep patterns' - check. 'Volatile emotions' – check. Now 'temporary inability to remember basic and previously familiar procedures' – check, fucking check. He wondered if the friggin' leaflet was cursed. Maybe he should take it outside and salt'n'burn it.
Even with the follow-up scans safely out of the way and with some serious fitness training under his belt, it'd been an uphill struggle to hide his problems with concentration and sleeping and convince his brother and Bobby he was well enough to hunt. He wasn't planning on jeopardising their wary acceptance of his full recovery anytime soon, not with the research almost complete and departure for the swamps of southern Georgia imminent.
Dean headed casually back to join the others, stepping carefully over the piles of books, scrolls and parchment littered liberally around the room. They'd spent the weeks of his 'recovery' researching every possible variety of supernatural swamp dweller to assist Bobby's long-time hunter friends, Jake and Verne, who were currently embroiled in a hunt down in the swamps.
The sad truth was, after weeks of research, they were no closer to pinning down the likely culprit. There was not even any real, solid evidence to suggest this was definitely a case of supernatural disappearances. A rogue, killer alligator may even be responsible and it'd seemed the job was drawing to a close when Bobby received a rushed call late one night to say Jake was onto something. That was three days ago. They'd heard nothing since.
Bobby was on the phone again. He flipped it shut. "Balls!"
"Still nothing?" Sam stretched, yawning. "Guess we're heading out in the morning then?" He flicked a worried glance at Dean. "You sure you're up to this?"
"Dude! You ask me that one more time and so help me, I will kick your ass!" Dean glared at him, grinding his teeth as he fought down his instinct to start swinging punches. He pointed angrily at Sam's bed-hair and the dark shadows under his eyes, at Bobby's tired face. "You're the ones look like crap on toast."
He felt guilty even as he said it, well aware that at least part of the reason they looked so worn was the worry his head injury had caused. This was no time to back off though; he stared them both down, the challenge clear in his green eyes. For once there was no argument. He backed out of the room, too angry to remain but aware he was being unreasonable. "Goin' for a run," he muttered, heading out of the house and pounding up the road before he completely lost his cool and blew weeks of pretence.
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"Bobby?" Sam's face was creased with worry.
"Don't reckon we're gonna be able to stop him. We get down there and he ain't handlin' it, we'll shut him down. No good leavin' him here. He's like to just take off. Least we can keep an eye on the idjit."
"He's hiding something. I know it."
Bobby squinted at him, incredulity coloring his tone. "Course he's hidin' somethin'. This is Dean we're talkin' about! Idjit never did know what was good for him."
Sam sighed. It was the truth. "I swear Bobby, one thing, just one thing and I'll tranquilise him if I have to, he can't take another injury right now."
"You know it, I know it. Try tellin' it to that stupid son of a bitch." Bobby shoved his baseball cap back. "We'll get a coupla hours shut-eye, get on the road. Mebbe we can find somethin' in that cabin the boys've been stayin' in."
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Sam was in bed by the time his brother got back. He heard the shower running and then the soft noises of him heading into bed, trying not to disturb his little brother on the other side of the room. Sam guessed Dean knew he wasn't asleep. Years of sleeping in the same room had made it nearly impossible to pretend to be asleep without the other one realising. In any event, Dean didn't call him on it.
Sam lay quietly, unhappy at the thought of exposing his brother to more danger so soon after nearly losing him, again. He waited until Dean's breaths slowed and deepened before allowing himself to drift off, knowing it wouldn't be long before Dean started shuffling. He'd hadn't told his brother that he was only too aware he spent most of the night-time hours sleeping fitfully or not at all. Trying to talk about it would only make Dean work harder at concealing things from them.
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They were up, had sucked down some coffee and were ready for the road by first light. Dean threw a couple of extra weapons in the trunk, borrowed from Bobby's armory.
"What?" He slammed the Impala door with its customary squawk, staring at Sam's raised eyebrow.
"Nothing. You're kinda well-armed dude."
"Yeah Sammy, that's cause there are lotsa things down there that can eat ya, 'fore we even start on the supernatural crap."
"Well," Sam nodded wisely, "…there is a high percentage of potential threats for the unwary, alligators, bears, snakes and of course Utricularia subulata and Pinguicula caerulea abound, although of course they won't be a threat to us."
"Utricky… what!" Dean stared at him.
"Carnivorous plants, Dean." Sam spoke airily. "They only hunt bugs though."
"Don't go all geek boy on me Sammy! Meat eating plants, awesome." Dean looked disgusted. "One of them sonsabitches tries to feed off me, I'm gonna ice 'em."
"It may be a little difficult to find ice in a swamp, Dean." Sam's tone was mild.
Dean glared at him, turned ACDC up to full ear crushing volume and peeled out after Bobby's battered vehicle.
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The hunt begins… what will be waiting for them in the swamps?
As always, thank you so much for reading. Please review if you have a free minute or two.
