After neglecting this story for a bit (on account of the Chocolate Powered Update Inspiration Fairy deserting me and the 'Prince Charming' plot bunny insisting - at gunpoint - that I finish that one first), I am back to finish of 'Can You Dig It?' We're just about there: Sam will undo the incantation, and once again we will get to see Dean's awesome Latin skills. And possibly, by popular demand, his awesome arse... you know, some of you really are unhealthily obsessed with it...
Chapter 10
"So, I'm thinking crew cut," Dean told Jimi, as he leaned on the shovel, "Or maybe just a buzz cut would be quicker. Either way, my bitchfacing baby brother has to pay for this." He patted the dog. "I figure we take some of those harmless painkillers he fed me, crush them up, and stir them into his camomile tea, then you sit on him just to make sure, while I plug in the clippers. What do you think?" Jimi grinned up at him, wagging his tail. "Yeah, you're right, let's go the buzz cut. Number three? Nah, let's go for number two. I'll decide a bit later whether his eyebrows have to die, too…"
His phone pulled him from fantasising about taking revenge upon his brother for sending him out to make pleasant casual conversation in a dead language with dead dudes in the dead of night.
"Um, hello, Dean?" It was Doc. "Sam began the incantation about twenty minutes ago, so wherever they were, they should be showing up soon."
"Locked and loaded at this end," Dean assured him, "Can you put Sam on for a minute? I'd like to offer some keen insights into his counter-spell devising ability…"
"Um… he said he can't stop, he has to keep reciting until they're back underground and the spell is broken," replied Doc a bit apologetically. "He says hold that thought and he'll get back to you after this."
"Great," muttered Dean, deciding maybe not to put a comb on the clippers at all. "Looks like it's just you and me, bud." Jimi whuffed, and butted his head affectionately against Dean's leg.
A few minutes later, a figure made its way deliberately through the cemetery. It was dressed in a slightly mouldy looking suit, with clumps of what must once have been a truly impressive shock of grey hair still sticking up from the scalp. It approached him, a suspicious expression on a surprisingly well-preserved face.
Dean pulled out his phone. "Doc, looks like we've got our first arrival," he said, "It was Matthew with the Einstein hair, right?"
"Er, yes, that's correct," confirmed Doc. "Matthew was the sports fan."
Dean stared as the reanimated Fardlehaus old boy approached. "Er, you know, he looks pretty well preserved," he commented, "Did he drink a lot?"
"It's the adipocere," Doc told him, "The ground here is cold and damp, favours saponification rather than putrefaction."
"Okaaaay, you might want to tell Sam that, it's the sort of thing he'd be interested in," Dean suggested. "Hang on, just gotta deal with a client." The corpse of Matthew McKenzie approached his grave, and frowned at Dean.
"Salve," grinned Dean. Hi there. "Sona si Latine loqueris!" Honk if you speak Latin! The late Mr McKenzie's frown deepened, so Dean quickly added, "Gramen artificiosum odi". I hate Astroturf.
The old dead dude's face broke into a smile, with the slightly disconcerting effect of cracking his face. However, he calmly climbed back down into his grave, and lay in his coffin.
"Is everything all right, Dean?" quavered Doc's voice on speaker phone from his pocket.
"We got our first satisified customer," confirmed Dean, "Just gotta put him back to bed. Bury, Jimi!" he encouraged the dog to join in as he shovelled. "Bury! Bury! C'mon, it's the opposite of Dig! NO! NO! Stop it!" He dropped the shovel and grappled with Jimi, who had heard the command for his latest trick, and eagerly started undoing Dean's grave-filling. "No, Bury. Bury! Like this." Dean dropped to all fours, and began tunnelling the soil backwards between his feet. "Bury! Bury!" Jimi just continued to look at him with an expression of complete 'WTF?' on his face, head cocked endearingly.
"Okay, well, we'll work on the Bury thing," Dean conceded. "Just don't do the… D-word again."
He had just finished re-interring Matthew when a second shape approached.
"Tell Sam to keep it up, it's working," he said to his phone. "Shortish, chubby, balding, looks like he was buried in a cloak of some sort…"
"That's Paul. He was buried in his judicial robes. Not his wig though. He had one, but hated it. Never wore it once in his working life, not even for formal occasions. Said if he was going bald, he'd damned well do it proudly, ridiculous long-standing Imperial traditions be damned," related Doc. The portly ex-judge made his way ponderously to his open grave, and frowned at Dean.
Dean smiled as politely as he could manage. "Quid fit?" he asked. What's happening? The old law man frowned at him; when he was alive, it must've been an expression to strike fear into counsel for the prosecution as much as counsel for the defence. "Minime! Non est! Ego fui! Semper ego! Ego facinus feci! Atque gaudeo me fecisse!" No, no! It was me! It was me all along! I did it! I did it and I'm glad! Judge Atwell did not look amused. "Hahahae, tantummodo iocabar." Hahaha, just kidding. Dean smiled brightly. Judge Atwell's lip curled in disapproval, making part of it detach and fall off, as his mouldering hands reached for Dean's neck. "Oh. Ew. Gross. Er, Mea sententia, causam privatam obtinenti ut minimum decies centena milia Ioachimicorum addici debent, at de perdente supplicium ultimum in electrica sella sumendum est" I believe the minimum award in civil cases should be one million dollars, but if you lose, you get the electric chair.
That, apparently, was a sentiment the old man could appreciate. He smiled and nodded approvingly to Dean, then climbed into his coffin and lay down obligingly.
"Right, just about done," he sighed, beginning to shovel. "Just gotta fill this one in, and we're done. You wanna have another go at 'Bury', Jimi? C'mon, Bury! Jimi?" Dean looked around; the pup had been right behind him a moment ago. Still, it wasn't surprising: in a cemetery, full of the smell of dead things, Jimi was probably wandering around, blissfully oblivious, with his nose to the ground, unable to decide where to roll first…
Jimi sniffed at the ground until he found it... there! The scent his Alpha had laid. It bore a minor whiff of Second, too. This was his doing.
He had learned a new Command, and it was one he was eager to obey. Dig! It was fun, and it gained him praise from his Pack. He'd already done Dig twice tonight, and basked in the happy approval of his Alpha. Now, he'd found another place marked like the others. The working dog in him knew what to do; the Hellhound in him had the wherewithal to do it.
So Jimi Dug...
Dean was just tidying up Judge Atwell's grave, when he heard a raspy yet distinctly pleasant voice behind him say, "So, then, what seems to be the trouble?"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"What's wrong, Sam?" asked Doc anxiously.
"I'm not sure," frowned Sam, gesturing at the carefully laid lines of powdered herbs, "But something's not right. The line's should've disrupted - the spell hasn't broken. Call Dean, ask him if there's a problem at his end…"
Sam's phone rang.
"Er, I think we have a slight problem with the plan," his big brother said warily.
"Dean! What's happened? It hasn't broken yet!" asked Sam.
"While I was finishing up with Judge Atwell, Jimi went and dug up Luke," Dean answered. "He must've been attracted to the zombie repellent you brewed up - I got him to dig – No! NO! Jimi! STOP THAT! I got him to, er, d-word at the two graves after I'd splashed them."
"Oh, damn," huffed Sam, "He must think that the smell means that's where he's supposed to, um, d-word." He glanced back at the undisturbed lines. "So, what's Luke, er, doing?"
"Um, he's just standing there, smiling at me, looking friendly," Dean informed them. "Not very zombie-like at all, really. He, uh, just asked me what the trouble was."
"Okay," said Sam, "Okay, we keep doing what we're doing, I'll start the recitation again, you get this guy back to his grave, fill him in, and we're done."
"Right, right," agreed Dean nervously. "Um, why has he decided to rise now?"
Over the phone, Sam and Doc heard a distinct second voice:
"Now now, don't be shy, I am a doctor. I'm just here to help you."
"Oh, dear," muttered Doc, "Oh dear. That's Luke, all right, in his Caring Professional Voice. Always did have an astonishingly good bedside manner for a surgeon. I'd recognise it anywhere." He turned sheepish eyes to Sam, and spoke to the phone. "Er, Dean, it might be you that's raised him." At Sam's confused expression, he continued, "I did tell you that probably the only thing that would get him back from the dead would be a patient needing his help. Well, er, do you have any, um, health problems at the moment?"
"You mean his ankle?" asked Sam, still confused. "It's much better now. Hardly the sort of thing needing the attention of an orthopaedic surgeon… " he suddenly stopped. A truly dreadful suspicion was forming in his mind…
"Oh, Luke wasn't an orthopod," Doc corrected him with a slightly nervous grin. "He was a, er, proctologist. A colo-rectal surgeon."
Sam grabbed up his notes, and began reciting again, ignoring the horrified scream from the phone.
"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!" yelped Dean, backing away as the friendly zombie followed him.
"Ah, one of Doc Hanson's patients, then," he smiled. "Dean, was it? So, can you give me a description of your symptoms?"
"Huh?" gaped Dean in horror.
"Look, I can see you're clearly in some discomfort in the nether regions, son," explained Mr Sorensen, "You might think you're hiding it, but I can tell just from the way you're walking. I have been doing this for a number of years, now, you know," he added with a wink. "So, when did you first notice that something was wrong?"
"Nonononononono, I'm fine, really…" replied Dean nervously, backing away faster. The newly risen, caring and compassionate specialist followed him.
"It's perfectly normal to be a bit concerned," said the zombie in a reassuring voice, "And a bit embarrassed. But I assure you, it's nothing to be worried about. Why don't we just take a look…"
A clammy hand shot out and grabbed hold of Dean's arm.
"No, really, there's nothing wrong with me," Dean told him desperately, trying to wriggle out of the zombie's grasp.
"Well, let's just make sure, shall we?" Mr Sorensen was all professionalism. "If it is something, chances are, we catch it early, the prognosis for full recovery is excellent in a patient of your age."
"Jimi! Jimi!" squawked Dean. Unfortunately, Jimi had found something absolutely irresistible in a manicured garden bed nearby, and was happily digging for all he was worth, soil and shrubbery flying.
"Come come, Dean, you're a big boy," coaxed the zombie, "Just try to relax, this will be over before you know it." With his immoveable grasp on Dean's arm, he bent the Hunter over a convenient tombstone.
"I'm fine there's nothing wrong with meeeeeeeee!" yowled Dean.
"Oh, don't be such a baby," smiled Mr Sorensen, "There's just you and me here, and there's nothing to be ashamed of. I won't see much. Certainly not anything I haven't seen many times before."
"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalp!" squalled Dean.
"Dear me, we men are such babies about doctor visits, aren't we?" sympathised the zombie in a friendly voice. "You know, I suspect I'm an even bigger baby when I go to visit my urologist. Mind you," he confided, "It was never an area I'd want to work in. Spending your career looking at other men's junk, just plain unsavoury, if you ask me."
"And looking up their asses isn't?" screeched Dean, squirming ineffectively in the zombie's grip.
"Now, then, do try to relax, Dean, this will be over in a moment…"
A disintegrating hand took hold of the waistbands of his jeans and boxers; the worn fabric and prolapsed elastic was no match for zombie strength.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" wailed Dean.
"Oh. Oh my. Goodness me, I think I see what the problem is," commented Dr Sorensen, inspecting the pale flesh in the moonlight. "You have extensive bilateral contusions of your glutei maximi, here, young man."
"YEEEEEP COLDHAAAANDS!" shrieked Dean.
"Now, it's none of my business how it happened," the zombie specialist assured him, "Informed consenting adults, and all that. I am only interested in diagnosing and treating your problem. But that's all it is. Your posterior is otherwise in fine form. I think that an over-the-counter medication would help with this. It's called Hirudoid. Works wonders with bruising. An analgesic would probably be helpful, too. If you need something stronger than Tylenol, go back to Doc Hanson, and tell him I sent you." The vice-like grasp released, and Dean straightened up with a shuddering breath.
"Er, yeah, right, right," he gasped, his head spinning. "Um… thank you?"
"My pleasure, Dean." The zombie took a step back, and just stood there, watching him with a friendly and compassionate expression.
"Dean? Dean!" Sam's voice called anxiously from his cell; dimly, he realised that it was still in his pocket on speaker phone. "Dean? Are you okay? What's happening?"
"Oh, I'm fine, Sam," he answered, an edge of giggling hysteria creeping into his voice, "Dr Dead Dude here has examined my ass, and pronounced it bruised, but otherwise healthy. And I don't think he's even gonna charge me."
"Dean!" snapped Sam. "You have finish the counter-spell at your end!"
"What? Oh, yeah," replied Dean faintly. Mr Sorensen still stood, looking expectantly at Dean. "Um…"
The problem was, he couldn't think of anything resembling polite idle chit-chat that might be appropriate to having an old, dead dude rip his pants off and start feeling him up...
"Er... Potesne mihi medicus testimonium impertire adfirmans caput meum reapse non infixum esse podici? Pro frater meus." Could you provide me with a doctor's certificate stating that my head is not, in fact, up my ass? For my brother.
That seemed to do the trick. Luke Sorensen smiled, nodded genially, and turned to head back to his grave.
Instead, he walked straight into the hole that Jimi had dug in the flower bed.
"Oh, fuck me," moaned Dean to Jimi, who sat with his tail wagging, grinning down at the zombie reclining comfortably at the bottom of a hole at least ten feet deep. He shivered slightly at the chilliness of the night breeze caressing his nether regions, "Now I gotta haul him outta this damned pit you've dug – with my ass hanging out of my pants – before I can even bury him again..."
Jimi cocked his head attentively. Something went 'click' in his brain, and...
He began to Bury.
Clutching the remains of his pants to himself, Dean considered his options. He could stop Jimi from filling in the gaping crater he'd dug, figure out a way to get down into it and haul the late Mr Sorensen out and back to his own grave, or...
Looking down into the hole, he saw the ex-surgeon lying composed, smiling, and extremely, properly, reassuringly dead.
"Good boy, Jimi!" he praised the pup, as the soil continued to fly back into the hole. "Bury! Bury! Good boy!"
When Jimi had finished, Dean did what he could to restore a semblance of order to the flower bed that was now the final resting place of Mr Luke Sorensen. Consecrated ground was, after all, consecrated ground. Together, they filled in his original grave, then headed back to the Impala.
Dean ratted around in the trunk, finding an old pair of sweat pants. As he pulled them on, he turned to Jimi, and made a final decision.
"We are not screwing around with a buzz cut," he growled. "It will be a wet shave."
I think we need one more chapter to finish this off properly. After all, they still have to worship unto the Gods Of Whiskey...
Reviews are the Zombies Tearing Off Dean Winchester's Clothes in the Graveyard Of Life.