UPSIDE DOWN
Chapter 2
xxxxx
THE FOLLOWING MORNING…
Sam was sitting at the main table, coffee in hand, browsing through one of the Men of Letters' disappointingly scant files about faeries.
After getting Dean home the previous night, he was relieved to note that Dean didn't appear physically affected by the strange occurrences in the warehouse. He could walk, see and talk. He wasn't sick or unconscious, and he didn't appear to have been altered in any way, or at least Sam couldn't see any horns, tails, wings, hooves, boobs – or worse.
Part of Sam was thinking – or maybe hoping - that maybe, just maybe, they may have dodged a bullet. However, the rational part of him knew the Winchesters could never be that lucky. There was something coming, the shit was going to hit the fan, it was just a question of when and how hard.
He looked up from his musings when he heard Dean's socked feet pitter-pattering along the corridor.
"Morning, Sam," Dean chimed brightly, as he strode purposefully over to the refrigerator.
Sam hesitated. This wasn't the semi-comatose, sleep-rumpled pre-caffeine brother he was used to seeing shambling around in the morning.
"Uh, morning," Sam replied hesitiantly. "What are you wearing Dean?" He added curiously.
Dean turned and looked at Sam. Hell, Sam would have been prepared to admit Dean looked like a million dollars. This was a stark contrast to his usual morning appearance which was more like four and a half cents wrapped in the dead guy robe.
"What am I wearing?" Dean's brow furrowed as he asked the rhetorical question; "well, clothes Sam," he grinned brightly. "What else would I be wearing? Furniture?"
"No, smartass, Sam replied; "I mean that." He pointed at Dean's chest.
Dean glanced down; "this? Oh, I've never worn it before. I spent a few nights with this cute cashier in a department store in Tulsa one week about five years ago. She gave it to me."
"It's a Ralf Lauren Polo shirt," Sam observed; "and it's PINK."
Dean nodded as he took the milk from the refrigerator. "I am aware," he replied.
Shit… Fan… Sam could feel the splat coming; and coming soon.
Dean walked over to the table opposite Sam and placed a bowl of muesli on the table in front of himself.
Sam stared. "Dean, that's muesli," he croaked.
"Yes," Dean replied with an exasperated sigh; "and this is a table, this is a chair. Over there is the door. Anything else in this room you want to describe…?"
Sam rubbed his head wearily. "Dean, I made you bacon. It's in the pan on the stove."
"Oh, thanks Sam, but I'd better not," Dean shook his head as he munched on the muesli; "all that saturated fat and nitrates? I don't think so."
Sam blinked.
"Anyway," Dean announced; "I really don't want to eat the flesh of another living being; it's ethically and morally wrong when there are so many delicious alternatives."
"Speaking of which," he added; "I couldn't find any tofu in the larder."
"But, but Dean," pleaded Sam; "we're hunters? How the hell can you go vegan when we're hunters?"
"Not any more Sam," I'm done with that. Ghosts, werewolves, whatever – they all have as much right to live as we do."
SPLAT!
And there it was.
xxxxx
Sam was on the phone to Bobby while Dean had gone out for a conveniently timed run. He explained all about the abortive Redcap hunt, and the fact that Dean flattened something with his great size twelve boot and it seemed to have taken the strange revenge in its dying moments of turning Dean into some kind of new-age, vegan pacifist.
"Bobby I don't recognise him," Sam pleaded. "I mean, he looks the same, but it's not him. At all. He's refusing to go back out hunting because he respects the rights of the monsters we're supposed to be offing."
"Well, that's … a different take," Bobby admitted.
"Bobby, before today, he didn't even respect my rights!" Sam gritted out between clenched teeth.
"How the hell do we fix this?"
"Keep looking, son," Bobby, sighed; "I've got a couple of contacts who know a thing or two about faerie lore, I'll see what I can find out."
Sam quietly thanked Bobby as he ended the call and sighed. The irony that Dean always teased him for being the touchy-feely emo health freak wasn't lost on him.
xxxxx
LATER…
Sam snatched up the phone as Bobby's number appeared on the call display.
Dispensing with any niceties, he jumped straight to the point. "Bobby! You got anything? I've drawn a blank."
Bobby pulled in a long breath before speaking. "I think I know what we're dealing with," he explained; "one of my contacts - expert in faerie lore; seventh son of a seventh son, you know, all that jazz."
He paused for a moment, before continuing.
"It's called a 'Bunoscionn' Sam. It's a kind of imp, a mischievious little shit that curses folk by turning them into upside-down versions of themselves. Since your great flat-footed idjit of a brother trod on it, and pissed it off royally, it's worked it's magic on him."
"Even its name means 'upside-down' in gaelic," Bobby continued; "so, it might make a very good person do something really horrible. Or it might make a very shy person want to stand up and sing in front of a room full of people ..."
Sam nodded; "or in Dean's case, it's turned my smart-mouth, carnivore caveman brother into …"
"Yup," interrupted Bobby; "it's turned him into Mister vegan tree-hugger metrosexual."
"Honestly Bobby, he's driving me nuts," Sam pleaded. "He's been burning joss sticks in his room all afternoon. The whole bunker stinks like a goddamn hippie commune."
Sam grimaced as he thought back to earlier that afternoon when he walked in on Dean partaking in a yoga session on the library floor. Sam had had the misfortune of seeing some screwed-up shit in his life, but the sight of his brother clad only in his underwear in the downward dog position was something that would be seared across his retinas forever.
"Well, my contact seems to believe that it's pretty weak magic and it'll wear off soon," Bobby tried to reassure the younger Winchester; "but he did say you might be able to help the situation by trapping the faeries in their own world and cutting off the influence of their magic."
"Oh," Sam replied unhelpfully, "right…"
"Apparently faeries operate a bit like ants or bees – hive mind," Bobby explained; "the strength of their magic is increased when there's lots of faeries around, feeding off of each others' magic energy. If you can remove all the faeries in that area, that will weaken the magic and hopefully disperse it."
"Okay," Sam nodded hesitantly; "how do we do that?"
"My contact's getting back to me," Bobby replied.
"Will that resolve the Redcap problem too?" Sam mused.
"I guess so," Bobby answered. "Speak to you later."
xxxxx
It was late in the evening that Bobby called back.
"So, Sam, you need to go to the faerie ring tomorrow when the sun is at its zenith."
Sam nodded into the phone. "Zenith. Right, gotcha."
"Faeries never venture out of their world in our midsummer sun," Bobby explained; "it's too strong, they're creatures of dawn and dusk."
"Okay," Sam replied, jotting down Bobby's instructions.
"Go to that goddamn faerie ring in the forest and cut every mushroom down with a silver knife." Bobby began, "solid silver, mind. None of that silver plated crap. Then burn the ring and coat the burnt patch with oil of St Johns Wort and Yarrow. That should neutralise any residual magic and stop the damn thing from growing back any time soon!"
"And that should put Dean back to normal?" Sam asked.
"So my contact seems to think," Bobby replied. "Wish I knew more, but faeries are notoriously tricky little customers. Ain't hardly anyone knows a lot about them," Bobby sighed; "guys like my buddy are rare as rockin' horse shit!"
"Thanks Bobby," Sam replied gratefully. "I'll report back."
xxxxx
THE FOLLOWING DAY…
Sam had it all worked out. It would take about two hours to get to the site of the faerie circle. The sun would be at its zenith at 12:56 pm, so he needed to be on the road around 10 am to give himself some wiggle room.
He checked his duffle. Silver knife, check. Lighter and kindling, check. Oil of Yarrow and St John's Wort, check.
Now he just somehow had to sneak out of the bunker and take off in the impala without Dean noticing.
He snuck over to the drawer in the kitchen dresser where he knew Dean kept the Impala's spare key and tiptoed up the bunker's staircase. Opening the exterior door, he stepped out into the sunlight. Here he was met by the sight of …
A silver Toyota.
Sam stood and stared in disbelief. He was only shaken out of his shock by a voice behind him.
"What d'you think?"
Sam turned to see his brother sanding at the bottom of the staircase.
"Dean. Where's the Impala?" Sam croaked, trying to sound calmer than he felt.
"Oh, yes. I meant to tell you, I traded it in for a hybrid." Dean smiled; "I can't believe we were still driving around in that thing. I mean, that engine, what a gas guzzler; absolute disaster for the environment."
Sam was fighting not to hyperventilate.
"This is great for green energy utilisation." Dean explained as he climbed the staircase; "It'll help the environment, of course, by using a combination of gas and electricity, so it gives us reduced fuel dependency."
Sam stared at Dean face to face for a full minute. "Of course," he parroted blankly.
Eventually, Sam's awareness snapped back. "Dean I'm going out because there's something I've got to do, but when I get back I'm going to punch you in the face, okay?"
Dean reached out and patted Sam's shoulder. "Whatever works, Man," he smiled. "Holding in anger and frustration isn't cool. It seriously messes with your good chakra, okay?"
Sam pulled in a deep breath. He had to think of the bigger picture.
"Hey Dean, can I take it for a spin?"
Dean grinned beatifically and tossed the Toyota fob to Sam.
xxxxx
Sam stood looking down at the smoking remains of the faerie ring. He'd done everything as described, and hoped that he'd achieved his aim, to lock the freaky little dicks back in their world for the foreseeable future.
It was with some degree of trepidation that he drove back to the bunker, unsure of what he might find. Would Dean revert back to normal immediately? Would it happen gradually? Would it happen at all?
If it didn't happen, could he cope with living with this new ultra-ethical version of his brother.
There so many variables and every one of them worried Sam.
And just to complicate matters even further, he actually really liked the car.
xxxxx
Sam stepped nervously through the bunker's main door. There was no sign of Dean and Sam immediately began reading all sorts of concerning messages into his absence.
Sam hadn't even made it to the bottom of the staircase when Dean stomped into the main hall. The ugly green plaid flannel shirt that Dean was wearing was possibly the most beautiful sight Sam had ever seen.
"Hey Sam, I wish you wouldn't fill the refrigerator up with all your green shit," Dean snorted; "we need to do a supply run. There's no decent food in there, and I could have sworn we had some bacon."
"Okay, Dean," Sam smiled, letting the relief wash over him like an ocean.
Dean took a chug from the beer bottle in his hand. "Where have you been?"
Sam shrugged; "uh, just an errand…"
"Seriously Sam, has something weird been going on round here?" Dean snapped; "I just woke up, and I was dressed like a complete pussy. I feel like I haven't slept for a month, my freaking head's pounding, and hungry …? My belly feels like my throat's been cut."
Sam smiled, weakly.
"Yeah, about that, Dean," he sighed; "you think you feel bad now? You need to look outside the bunker. There's something out there that's going to REALLY piss you off…"
xxxxx
end