AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!
*Lampito runs in and slams door behind her*
Oh, thank dog for that – I think I've finally managed to escape Real Life for a moment. The last two weeks or so have been just hideous – not only was I constantly assailed by the Annoyingly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality, but I was attacked by a Christmas. Srsly. It was all just dreadful. I mean, I usually get stalked by one about this time of the year, but I nearly didn't get out alive. It scared the plot bunnies so much, that every single one of them ran away. And I don't blame them.
But for the moment, I am back, and have managed to get another chapter out of little Monty-Fred. Hopefully this will get wiya, and any carroty colleagues of wiya's, back into the swing of dictating, we'll see.
Chapter Twelve
Sam stared at his brother. "You did fall of that damned bike, didn't you?" he stated flatly. "You fell off, and hit your head, and didn't tell me, and that idiotic 'I'm-Your-Big-Brother-Don't-Worry-About-Me-I-Look-After-You' streak kicked in, and you didn't tell me, and now you're concussed, and possibly got a blood clot on your common sense lobe…"
"Sam, this'll work," Dean said confidently, "I did it before, I can do it again. It's bloodlines, bro – I'm the Dominican, the Lord of the Hounds, Official Hellhound Whisperer Dude."
"I take that back," humphed Sam, "You don't have a blood clot on your common sense lobe; you obviously had some sort of massive stroke in that area of your brain years ago, and there's nothin' left there but some scar tissue and a few stray neurons that use an amino acid undescribed anywhere in science except your brain as a neurotransmitter – it's called stupiditate."
"I have no idea what you just said," Dean informed Sam breezily, "But whatever it was, you're totally wrong."
"Look, technically, in this reality, you're not the Dominican yet," Sam pointed out, "That didn't kind of kick in until you'd already summoned Jimi Senior. Or Belisarius, as he was, the Alpha of the Infernal Pack."
"But I could summon him because I was The One," Dean insisted, "Come on, Sam, you gotta take the red pill with me here."
"You don't even know if Bobby has that doily in this reality," Sam noted.
"Oh, he'll have it," Dean grinned. "Bobby got his collection of doilies from lady acquaintances he's met in the course of Huntin', who send him baked goodies, right?"
"Yeah," Sam's tone indicated that he didn't follow his brother's train of thought, or if he did, he was only keeping the caboose in sight out of morbid curiosity because the derailments could be so baffling as to be amusing.
"Well, in this reality, he's not just a Hunter, he's been a professional Hunter," Dean theorised, "So think about how many women he'll have encountered!"
"It doesn't follow," Sam sighed, "We can't know that."
"Oh, come on, Sam," Dean wheedled, "Look at him! He's shaped like a guy who eats lots of baked goodies!"
"Maybe he just eats too many bacon cheeseburgers," Sam remarked pointedly, "Take a good look at him, Dean, he could just be the ghost of Waistlines Yet To Come."
"He didn't eat any doughnuts at our meeting," Dean said portentously.
"So?" shrugged Sam. "Maybe his doctor has read him the riot act about his cholesterol."
"Nope," Dean shook his head, "A Hunter not eatin' any doughnuts when they're put in front of him, that's the sign of a man who's already helped himself to delicious baked treats at home, maybe for breakfast. Either that, or he's seriously some sort of freak."
"I didn't eat any doughnuts," Sam reminded his brother.
"See my comment about bein' some sort of freak," Dean countered dismissively.
"This is a bad idea," Sam reiterated, "This is a really bad idea. A really, really bad idea."
"It's our best shot at taking her down," Dean said firmly, "At the very least, we'll need some way of runnin' interference on at least one dog. We cannot, can NOT, walk away from this reality, leavin' a monster like that on the loose, when we know how to deal with it, so but me no buts, Francis."
"I'm tellin' you, Bobby will never give you the okay to just pick up and go chasing after her," Sam restated, "And nobody's seen any sign of her for nearly twelve months, since your, uh, encounter."
"Which is where you come in," Dean said firmly, "You get on that laptop, you whisper sweet nothings into its circuits, and you find her. It's what you do. Meanwhile," he grinned, "I will be plannin' our extra-curricular activities for tonight."
"I don't suppose there's any way I can talk you out of this?" Sam practically wailed.
"Nope," Dean turned back to the PC, laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles like a pianist about to commit Rachmaninov. "How many B&Es have we done, Sam? We know what we're looking for, we know where it'll be, we'll be in and out like a sixteen-year-old trainspotter in a whorehouse."
"How do we know where it'll be?" demanded Sam.
"It'll be in a box under the stairs," Dean replied confidently, "Because FOOCER-Bobby is batching it, and he'll have stashed his junk around his house the same way he does in any other reality. These doilies arrive wrapped around baked goods, so all we gotta do is follow the smell of gingerbread crumbs."
"Great," griped Sam, "Like Hansel and Gretel. Let's just hope we don't have to push the cranky old witch into his own oven to make our getaway."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
There were the small tells – wards and sigils and suchlike – that would, to a Hunter, indicate that another Hunter lived there, but other than that, everything about Bobby's home was, well, normal to look at. It was a very normal looking house, on a normal looking street, in a normal looking neighbourhood, not so very far from their 'own' house, bearing a resemblance to the house of Singer Salvage, with a normal looking fence and a normal looking garden and a normal looking.
There was so much normal that it set Dean's teeth on edge.
"This place is really creeping me out," he complained from the darkness of the Impala, taking a drink from the flask he always managed to have somewhere to hand, even when he was wearing nothing but an undersized motel towel.
"What?" asked Sam, peering out at the house, where no lights were on, "You pickin' up some weird vibe? It looks completely normal to me."
"Exactly!" stated Dean, "It's Bobby's house, lookin' completely normal, which aint normal, because not normal is normal for Bobby's place, and normally this sort of normal would worry me, because anything that normal cannot be, you know…"
"Normal?" suggested Sam, with an eyeroll that was audible in the dark.
"Well, yeah," Dean said, checking several occult items that he had about his person. "So, we gotta be careful of the normal. And the not normal, too, this is Bobby's house."
"Got it," humphed Sam, silently sliding from the car and following his brother. "I really would rather come with you, have your back."
"If somethin' goes wrong, I'll need you out here to get ready to make a quick getaway," Dean said firmly. "You get me through the mine field, then hightail your ass back here."
Mumbling about his big brother's recklessness, Sam set to locating and deactivating the charms, wards and a couple of very interesting occult traps so that they could approach the shadows along the side of the house.
"Are we good to go?" Dean asked quietly.
"Almost," Sam murmured back, peering at a sigil inscribed on the wall, "Just this last one, and then…"
There was an almost inaudible 'pop', and a small crackle of ozone.
"What the fuck was that?" hissed Dean. "Watch where you're puttin' your feet, so to speak."
"Cluck cluck cluck cluck!" replied Sam in a low angry tone. "Cluck cluck clu- cluck? Cluck? Cluck!"
Dean couldn't help but grin. "Uh, did you fuck up, Francis?"
"Cluck cluck cluck!" went Sam.
"Oh, sorry – I meant, did you cluck up, Francis?"
"Cluck cluck pekaaark!" went Sam, pulling a Bitchface™ (Cluck Cluck Cluck Dean, Cluck CLUCK You).
"So Bobby didn't actually duck with us after all," Dean added.
Sam glared at him.
"Okay, okay, don't lay an egg," Dean told his brother, "Gimme a boost, then get back to the car and undo whatever the fuck – whatever the cluck, heh heh – you just triggered."
"Cluck, Dean, cluck cluck CLUCK cluck!" insisted Sam.
"Look, I know what I'm lookin' for, and I know where it'll be," Dean tried to reassure his little brother, "You just go, you know, dechicken yourself, and be ready to head out." He paused. "And don't scratch up my upholstery, Henny Penny. Now, gimme a boost."
Glaring as crankily as the most bad-tempered chicken who's been chased around the yard once too often by a small yappy dog, Sam looked as though he was contemplating pecking his brother, but nonetheless bent to help Dean get up to the window, where he popped the lock, opened it, and slipped silently into the house.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Once inside, the sense of too-normal-to-be-normal abated somewhat; the interior of the house suggested that it was occupied by a batchelor with an esoteric academic bent, a sort of shabby-chic that was a diluted version of the Singer Salvage he was accustomed to, which was not so much shabby-chic as post-hurricane-deco.
Wielding his small flashlight so as not to bump into anything, Dean made his way to the stairs, and located the cupboard underneath. It wasn't difficult to open, and he quickly located the crumpled cardboard box. He'd been right; the smell of gingerbread was lingering on the doilies it contained.
Working quickly, he pulled the box from the recess, and started to work his way through the contents, eyes and fingers alert for the glass decorations that would identify the one he was looking for.
With a small hiss of triumph, his hand closed on a handful of lacey crochet with the beads worked into the edging – just as he heard the unmistakeable click of a weapon being cocked behind him, as a grumpy voice behind him commanded:
"Okay, mister, put 'em where I can see 'em."
Rolling 'cross the floor, with a stomachful of snack,
If I eat any more, the floor is gunna crack,
I ate my Christmas lunch, then ate my Christmas tea,
Then eating up the leftovers has quite expanded me,
Oh,
Christmas food, baked and stewed, boiled or grilled or fried,
Didn't eat 'til bursting, although Cas knows that I tried,
Oh,
Tater tots, chocolate pots, mince pies, prawns and chips,
One week of delicious treats has gone straight to my hips.
Feed Monty-Fred the plot bunny nice reviews, to encourage further dictation, and feed me imaginary celery sticks and cottage cheese to encourage further deflation. Le sigh.
