AN: This is kind an absurd romp, but if you've gotten this far in this fic, you already know I don't always stick to normal when I write.

sfaulkenberry: Yes, I was thinking Al and glasses guy and the dogs all survived. I learned on the TV show Bones that it takes a very hot fire to completely burn remains. LOL And I just couldn't kill the dogs, you know? I'm glad you liked the old movie references.

The Whumptober prompt options for today were: Forced to Beg / Hallucinations / Shoot the Hostage. Sounds pretty heavy, but…that's not the direction I went! Not sorry. I set it immediately after season 2, episode 4, Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things, though it really could fall pretty much any time in season 2.

"See, Tiamat was a goddess of chaos and creation, and she kept makin' these weird combinations of creatures that would kill of thousands, even millions of reg'lar animals. Whole species went extinct. They killed people too. This pissed off the rest of the Babylonian pantheon, and eventually, they took her out. That was at least a thousand years ago. But every once in a while, coupla these things'll show up again. They ain't all that powerful any more. Probably bred with ordinary animals over the years and got kinda diluted. But then some damn fool idjit named Connors who illegally gits and sells exotic animals gits his mitts on a coupla these Tiamat's children things and brings 'em to South Dakota."

The recipient of the lecture blinked thoughtfully.

"Now Connors is a stiff, the freaky snake things are loose in the woods, and we're stuck here cleanin' up his mess. Ow! Dammit, boys!"

"Sorry, Bobby," said Sam apologetically. "Just keep telling the squirrel about Tiamat's children. We'll be done with your leg in a minute."

Tiamat's children looked like medium sized snakes, except they had fifty or so tiny, retractable legs. They could move ridiculously fast when the legs were in play. And they had supernatural venom, not on their teeth, but on the spines that lined their backs and the entire terminus of their tail. It was simply happenstance that Sam and Dean were nearby when Bobby heard about the problem. They'd actually come to Sioux Falls at Bobby's request. They'd lost their father, Sam had a broken wrist, and Bobby wanted them to just take a break. But of course, they'd insisted on coming along on the hunt. It was supposed to be easy, since the creatures were stupid and very easy to lure.

Now the Winchesters were performing field surgery on Bobby's leg, which had been badly cut up by one of the creatures' spines. "Actually, tell us about this venom," suggested Dean grimly. Their mentor wasn't the Disney princess type, to talk to woodland creatures.

"Shut it, boy. I'm talkin' to Suzy." The squirrel dashed up a tree, and Bobby glared at Dean. "Now see what you done?"

"Hallucinogenic, I take it?" sighed Sam, pouring water over his hands to wash off the blood while Dean tugged Bobby's pant leg down over the cleaned, stitched, and wrapped injury. It wasn't deep, but there were a lot of cuts, and it had to be painful.

"Oh yeah," agreed Bobby, suddenly paying attention. "Bad. It'll send you on a bad acid trip. Pretty soon, ya don't know what's real or not, and go batshit and pass out. Eventually, your brains basically leak outta your ears." He didn't sound concerned, but nodded agreeably. "That's what I said, Ernestine."

"Are you…are you talking to a tree, Bobby?" asked Sam carefully.

Bobby sat up. "Ernestine ain't just any tree, boy. She's a white pine. You take a buncha Ernestine's skinny leaf things, crush 'em, boil 'em into a tea, and add a drop of fresh venom right before drinking it. Cures ya' right up."

"White pine needles?" Sam clarified. He and Dean had a whole conversation with their eyes. Bobby was talking to trees and squirrels, but if anyone could correctly remember a supernatural cure while supernaturally stoned, it was Bobby. Besides, it wasn't like they had a lot of other options. Without a word, Sam began to pull needles off the tree and Dean very gingerly picked up one of headless snake things.

"Carefully, Sam. Ernestine is a lady," grumbled Bobby. He caught sight of Dean's macabre burden. "Fresh venom, Dean. Offa live one." He frowned in thought. "'Samatter? One of you get tagged?"

"Just a little," lied Dean. "Maybe it's a good thing we only killed three of the four Connors brought over." He pulled a collapsible shovel from their bag. "We better quick bury these things, then find the last one."

Sam's eyes cut to Bobby. "Yeah, we can, uh regroup at the car."

"Oh, yeah. I left…my favorite machete there," said Dean immediately. Bobby certainly couldn't hunt, and they weren't leaving him alone in the woods while he was so out of it.

"You get started. I'll bury them," offered Sam. "You're closer to the same height as Bobby." That made it far easier to help someone unsteady walk.

Dean looked pointedly at Sam's cast and stole the shovel. "Yeah, no." His tone brooked no argument. He hadn't even wanted Sam hunting yet, since the latter refused all pain medications when they were hunting. Sam sighed and nodded. He and Dean pulled Bobby, who wasn't paying any attention to them at all, to his feet.

"C'mon, Bobby. We can get a head start while Dean takes care of those." Sam pulled Bobby's right arm across his shoulders and started walking.

"I understand," agreed Bobby, nodding too long. "I hope we're done soon. My copy of Million Little Pieces came in the mail. Oprah recommended it." He grinned a little dopily. "And I want a date with Nadine. You should hear her sing I Fall to Pieces. It's almost…almost…it could make you actually cry." He nodded politely to a lilac bush.

Sam wondered if an affection for flora was a common side effect of the venom. He shouldn't laugh because the whole situation was dangerous, but the inside of his cheek was bleeding from him biting it to keep a straight face. "Who's Nadine, Bobby?" He easily steadied his friend, who was limping but still doing pretty well walking.

"Newish neighbor. Lonesome. Big rack."

Sam choked on his own spit. That was not what he'd expected.

Bobby tipped his head back and stared at the canopy of leaves above them. The new position made him even more unsteady. "I understand why Dean wants to make sure his ma – ma – um, big knife is okay. The relationship of a man and his weapons is an almost…spiritual thing. It's symbiotic, you know? You trust them, and take care of them, and they protect you." He sounded emotional. "It's beautiful. I have this shotgun that I call Willie."

Sam listened in horrid fascination, trying to figure out how to stop the flow of words. Before he could think of anything, Bobby shot an acidic look to the empty space on his left. "Nobody asked you," he snarled. "I named it for Boxcar Willie."

Sam mouth moved without any sound coming out for a moment. He wasn't just out of his depth, he was so far out of his comfort zone he wasn't sure he'd ever get back to it.

A gunshot rang out, making Sam almost jump out of his skin. In a split second, he had Bobby leaned up against a tree (maybe he'd make friends with it) and his own gun out. "Dean?" he yelled, facing the way they'd come. "Dean, are you okay?" Hunting wasn't uncommon in the area, but it wasn't in season, and that had been a handgun – close by.

"All good, Sammy," Dean reassured, jogging into sight. "Just was surprised by a big-ass snake as I was finishing up. I probably shouldn't have shot it but…well, it was a big-ass snake. How's Silent Bob doing?"

Sam tucked his gun away and shrugged, wishing Bobby would be silent. "He's just acting really, really drunk."

In response, Bobby began to sing Hobo Heaven and slid sideways. He would have hit the ground if the two younger men hadn't jumped forward and each grabbed an arm. Bobby just kept singing and didn't answer when Dean asked if he was okay. "A hobo's needing love toooooooo, ya know…."

Sam closed his eye in silent supplication and Dean snickered. They started walking again, pulling their ailing friend between them. Despite his name, singing was not Bobby's gift.

After a few minutes, Bobby trailed off and peered myopically ahead. "Well, yes, they're good boys. Not in the way that they always do what they should or follow all the rules. But in the way that they always do what needs to be done, even if it's hard." He blinked. "Nadine ain't sure what she thinks 'bout you boys. But she'll warm up." He blinked again, harder. "She thinks you're too tall. But she's a chicken right now, so I don't think she has any cause to judge."

Dean snickered again, but broke off when Bobby's head drooped forward. He was still walking, but not taking much of his own weight any more. Without talking about it, he and Sam picked up their pace.

A few minutes later, they were basically carrying Bobby while he sang haltingly about a lake of stew and whiskey too. Their worry was palpable, and they had quite a ways to go yet. Dean suddenly stomped his foot. "Damn bugs! I hate the woods."

Sam looked behind them worriedly. "Dean, none of those things scratched you, did they?"

"Nope, none touched me. Why?"

"I think…are you sure you saw that snake? And whatever bug you just stomped?"

Dean laughed, then saw that Sam was serious. "Yeah, I'm fine Sam. You worry too much."

"But…what if the venom can be absorbed through the skin? You took care of those things' bodies. And Bobby's injury."

"That's me!" Bobby told them. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The satyrs didn't know that."

Dean ignored that. "You helped with Bobby's injuries too," he accused.

"Yeah, but I'm not seeing things that aren't there." Sam stopped walking to glare at his brother.

"Neither am I!"

"Okay. Well…count backwards from 10. And spell, uh, illusion."

Dean performed the tests with ill grace. "I'm not drunk. And I'm not hallucinating. Okay, if I have to do that, so do you. Say something…in a foreign language."

"Baka o aruki tsudzukeru," said Bobby unexpectedly.

"Does that actually mean something?" Dean asked Sam.

"I…have no idea. But here's mine: I anexélenkti zoí axízei na zíseis."

"I have no idea if that's actually right," Dean admitted as they started to walk again. "I feel fine. You don't sound any weirder than usual. Let's get to the car and figure out how to lure the last one to us." His gaze fell to Bobby, who was mumbling about talking cars. "We'll just…if you see something that doesn't seem right, ask me, and I'll do the same. We'll help each other."

Sam nodded. He couldn't think of a better plan. The only good news he could think was that they had lots more verbena, a plant the creatures couldn't get enough of, back in the car. If they didn't find it soon, Bobby might not make it. And…maybe Dean either.

After about 10 minutes, Dean squinted. "Sam? Is there…is there a lobster in front of us?"

He better not be messing with me, thought Sam, even as a jolt of fear pierced him. "No, Dean. There's nothing."

"Shit. Not that I want there to be a lobster in the forest but…"

"I know, Dean. We have to be getting close to the car now. Hang in there."

"Sam? That laundry bear is singing."

"Ignore him, Dean. Why do you hate Snuggle, anyway?"

Dean shuddered theatrically. "He's obviously evil. So, so creepy."

Sam smiled through his worry. Okay, now I hope he is messing with me. He noticed that Dean was now staring at his own feet. "Dean?"

"Uh…my boots. They have…literal tongues. Like, people tongues instead of shoe tongues. It's kinda gross. But kinda cool too."

"Just look up, Dean. Focus on walking. We have to get Bobby out of here safely, right?" Sam felt like he was parenting a toddler. Though, honestly, sometimes being Dean's brother required that. He knew getting Dean to focus on taking care of someone else would be his best bet. He was right, because Dean straightened and started moving faster. Bobby's feet were pretty much dragging now, and Sam was getting more and more worried.

To punctuate that thought, a drop of blood rolled out of Bobby's nose. Awkwardly with his casted right hand, Sam pulled out a bandana and blotted the blood out of Bobby's moustache. He never stopped walking though. Dean gave him a strange look, but Sam didn't bother to ask what his brother was seeing.

"I must be hungry for sea food," Dean commented off-handedly.

"What?! Why?"

"Because there are fish. Swimming around the trees. It's very Dr. Seuss. Or, I know: Little Mermaid."

"Why do you know about The Little Mermaid?" asked Sam curiously, happy for the distraction.

Dean grinned and shrugged. "Your class sang Under the Sea in a school musical thing. Don't you remember? You were obsessed with that seagull for like a month."

Sam couldn't help but smile a little. "No. How do you remember that crap?"

"Cuz I'm an awesome brother…" Dean trailed of uncharacteristically and his eyes focused to Sam's right. "Wow. I'm tripping balls here. That is…pillow talk."

"Ugh, Dean, I don't want to hear it."

"No, I mean pillows are talking." It was strange how rational Dean's voice sounded while he was discussing the crazy things he was seeing. He stopped staring into the woods and looked where Sam was wiping more blood off Bobby's face. "What, uh, what are you doin'?"

"Bobby's nose is bleeding." Sam grunted. Even shared, Bobby wasn't light.

"I…" Dean sounded so uncertain. "I don't think it is, Sammy."

Still moving forward, Sam looked down at the bandana he was holding. The perfectly clean bandana. "Oh. Oh. Fuck."

"What? What is it, Sam?"

"I'm seeing stuff too."

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Things did not get better after that. Bobby had completely stopped all movement except breathing. And Dean's focus fractured more and more. But Sam's brother was nothing if not stubborn. He kept moving doggedly forward, holding up his side of their friend. And every time Sam called his name, his head snapped up and he answered immediately, trying to reassure his little brother. But he was also muttering under his breath sometimes, or humming, a sign he was getting freaked out.

Sam's own hallucinations were pretty far apart, and were ridiculous enough that he knew they weren't real. He actually enjoyed it when the trees began to blow bubbles. And when a faceless figure rose out of the dirt, he walked determinedly through it.

"Uh, Sam?" asked Dean, brushing away something Sam couldn't see. "Can you see our path? I c-can't tell where we need to go any more." He sounded so apologetic. So not Dean, and Sam hated it.

"Yeah, Dean. I can. I got this. Just keep going. Not long." Sam injected every bit of confidence he could in his voice, trying to sound like the Dean he was used to.

And it must have worked, at least a little, because Dean sent him a decent facsimile of a smile. "Course you do, little bro. After all, I taught you everything you know about finding your way. About time you stepped up."

Sam appreciated the effort, even as Dean again brushed something invisible away from his face and grumbled something about fuel injection. And as the forest rippled around him, Sam hoped he was telling the truth.

Then – oh, thank God – Sam saw the car. He had never had the depth of feeling for the car than Dean did, but at that moment, he truly considered falling to his knees and kissing its grill. "Dean?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Dean, do you see the car?"

Dean lifted his head. His eyes were red rimmed and he was shaking. Or Sam thought he was. "Yes. God, yes. Just past the ostrich."

Unless they were sharing a hallucination and could touch it, they actually were at the car. They laid Bobby in the back seat and Sam made Dean sit down and work on crushing up the pine needles. Though Dean didn't complain, the fact that Sam was able to make him spoke volumes. The older man's legs were shaking, but he went about his task with determination.

Sam opened the trunk, ignoring the Smurfs running around inside it, and grabbed the whole bag of verbena. They'd only been able to buy a large bag – at least a pound – but Sam was glad for it now. He flung it all over the clearing, knowing it was utterly irresistible to the creature he sought. He made sure his gun was loaded (three times) and pulled out some bottles of water and three tin cups that were throwbacks to their childhood, trying not to watch as Papa Smurf grew an impressive set of fangs. He slammed the trunk on the freak and gave the supplies to Dean.

He didn't have to wait long. A freaky legged snake shot into view suddenly and flung itself to the ground, rolling around in the verbena like a cat. Sam lifted his gun slowly. His hands were shaking, but not bad. But as he was about to take the shot, 5, then 10, then at least 20 more of the creatures ran into area and started to frolic in the verbena. Sam knew they were rare, knew that Connors had only gotten four and that three were dead. He knew it wasn't real – he just didn't know which one was.

"Dean? Dean, there's so many."

Dean was scrunched up against the car with his knees drawn up like a little kid, but he picked up his face and put a hand on Sam's ankle, grounding him just a little. "Just shoot 'em all, Sammy."

So that's what Sam did. He blew through four clips before all except one of the things disappeared, and that one was very dead. Breathing hard, he took the cups that Dean had somehow managed to get ready, and oh so carefully got a drop of venom in each one. Then he made tea the most redneck way possible. Holding a cup in the grip of a long pipe wrench, Sam warmed up the bottom with an acetylene torch until it steamed. He had no idea how he did it without spilling, between the tremors in his arms and the howler monkeys bedeviling him. But he did, and set the cup carefully in the dirt next to Dean.

"As soon as the cup is cool enough to hold, drink it all," he ordered, his voice sounding hoarse.

"You drink first," argued Dean, sounding just as bad. "You know, put on your own mask first and all that."

"I have to make more." Sam dismissed him, already working on just that. "Drink it or I'll plug your nose and pour it down your throat, like you used to do to me with medicine."

Dean gaped. "You can't. And won't."

"I will. And right now, I can."

There was shock. Sputtering. But Dean drank the tea, getting at least 90% of it down. Then he took the next cup when it was ready and stated he could get it into Bobby himself. Sam squinted at him. It could be he was imaging things, after all, he doubted Elton John was really doing the chicken dance with an enthusiastic alder, but he honestly thought Dean was looking better already.

Sam dismissed Dean and Bobby from his thoughts with difficulty, hearing the Impala's door open but not turning to look. His vision was tunneling, and he had to get his own tea finished now...

Sam coughed and opened his eyes to see Dean's face wearing the unique combination of affection, mockery, and worry that only he could pull off. It was also wearing a porn 'stache, and Sam tipped his head in confusion.

"It's not real, Sammy. Just drink. You'll feel better in a minute or two. Seriously, this stuff works fast."

A warm cup touched Sam's lip, and he drank the bitter beverage. Dean said he'd feel better if he drank, so he drank. Almost as soon as it was gone, Dean's moustache melted away. Then the mountain of fedoras behind him. And the Stetsons. And Sam's head cleared.

"Better?" asked Dean warmly. Sam nodded.

"Yeah. It does work fast."

"And I told you to drink first."

Sam shrugged and ignored that. "How's Bobby?"

Dean smile was genuine and relaxed. "Awake and not seeing pink elephants any more. You did it, Sammy."

Sam scoffed. "We did it." He allowed Dean to pull him to his feet, neither of them completely steady, but a damn sight better than they'd been. They buried the last "Tiamat's child" and argued about who would drive, given that they were both getting migraines. Dean, like usual, won.

It was a good thing they only had an hour to drive. All three of the puked at some point along the way, and their headaches spiked to miserable levels. In fact, all three hunters did very little for nearly three days as their bodies worked through the venom. They had muscle spasms, migraines, nausea, and most of all, exhaustion. Bobby was so sick the other two considered bringing him to the hospital…and he took to sleeping with his shotgun to ensure they didn't.

Bobby called in a favor to his neighbor Nadine (who did really exist, and who, yes, had a nice rack), and she picked them up saltines, over the counter pain remedies, and gallons of Gatorade. Since Bobby had said they had the stomach flu, she also made a Dutch oven full of amazing chicken soup that they really enjoyed once they could keep food down.

In total, the boys stayed with Bobby for eight days, recovering and resting. None of the hunters took to coddling very well, so they found secretive ways to take care of each other. Sam, who suffered the most from migraines, came out of the shower to find the windows were all covered with blankets, keeping it comfortably dark. And every time he woke up, there was something cold to drink and a couple Tylenol waiting for him. Dean, who had chills, would wake up with extra blankets on or a fire going in the fireplace. And there always seemed to be warm tea available. Bobby, who was really struggling with nausea, would find saltines and ginger ale next to his bed, and the trash can would be conveniently close. They all found ways to care for each other, though none of them said anything about it. It was just their way.

And by mutual, unspoken agreement, nobody mentioned what anybody else had talked about while they were on their little trip over the rainbow. Even Sam, who had been lucid the longest, didn't take the opportunity to mock the others. (It was really hard not to mention The Little Mermaid, but he managed.)

Finally, the boys knew it was time to move on. "Thanks for letting us stick around so long, Bobby," said Dean, as they all pretended they'd stayed because they wanted to and not because they were worried by how sick their surrogate father had been.

"Any time, boys," nodded Bobby, and he actually smiled. "It's kinda nice having you idjits around once in a while. But next time, you buy the beer."

"Yes, sir," Sam and Dean chorused with matching grins. So what if they'd hardly drunk any alcohol during their stay in deference to their illness? It was such a Bobby complaint that it made them smile.

Dean watched Bobby in the rearview mirror longer than he normally would have. The latter was a few pounds lighter and a few shades paler than they were used to seeing him. "Think he'll be okay?"

Sam nodded confidently. "Yeah, he will. He's got Willie to take care of him."

"What??"

"Nothing."

AN 2.0: Housekeeping stuff again. There really was a singer named Boxcar Willie, and Hobo Heaven was one of his songs. I Fall to Pieces is a song that was one of Patsy Cline's greatest. The line about a lake of stew and whiskey too is from the song Big Rock Candy Mountain by Harry McClinock. White Rabbit is a very trippy song by Jefferson Airplane (before they were Jefferson Starship!).

The non-English stuff comes from Google translate, as usual. Bobby says "keep walking, idiots," in Japanese, and Sam says the famous Socrates quote "the unexamined life is not worth living" in Greek.

I think that's everything!