AN: This is a one-shot turned two-shot that I "had to" write because I referred to a hunt for a Mongolian Death Worm in a different story, and some readers said pretty please write that into an actual story all its own. There's no reason to read the other one (Some Jobs Just Stink) to get this one; they're unrelated.
Takes place very early in season one. In my brain it comes between episodes two and three and right after the fanfic story Landslide, but really, it can fall anywhere in those first few eps.
Be aware this has definite icky parts.While I was writing a previous story, a faithful reader (and friend) asked if I could reference John's journal in that story and I agreed. And promptly forgot. So, Lena, all the references to the journal in this story are for you! And, yes, I put in the Star Wars reference for you, too.
Janice acted as beta, for which I am immensely grateful.
The second chapter is written but not proofed and I'm too tired. It will be up tomorrow.
* * *
Sam tapped on the door of the car three times in quick succession and Dean immediately maneuvered the big car onto the shoulder with a grimace. He'd thought (hoped) that they were past this, or he never would have gotten on the highway.
The car wasn't even in park before Sam had launched himself out his door. By the time Dean made it around the hood, Sam was on his hands and knees trying to puke his guts out. There wasn't much if anything left in his stomach, but the message hadn't reached Sam's body yet.
With a sympathetic sigh, Dean crouched with his back against the car and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, the only support he could really offer.
Sam, being Sam, had apologized once he'd realized that he had food poisoning. He hadn't mentioned it earlier, he said, because he hadn't recognized it right away. The apology had made Dean feel like crap. Sure, maybe ordering an egg salad sandwich in a bar slash restaurant that had visible cobwebs in the corners hadn't been the smartest move, but the fact was, Sam wasn't used to their lifestyle anymore. He'd lived a life without fear of food poisoning for enough years that the possibility hadn't even occurred to him even after he'd first felt sick. This was what Dean had dragged him back to.
And then Sam had insisted that they keep going "because people's lives are in danger, Dean. And it's just a little food poisoning. I'll be fine."
So much for Sam not being a real Hunter.
And while Sam was right that a case of food poisoning was rarely dangerous, it was damn miserable, especially when you were in a moving car. Not to mention that Sam's reserves weren't what they normally were. He barely slept at night and had the twitchy, haunted look of someone mourning the sudden death of a loved one – which he was. On top of all that, Sam was driven by revenge and a need to find Dad and was fresh off a couple of back-to-back hunts. All of it added up to one wretched kid.
Sam sat back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, so Dean hauled him to his feet. Out of practice or not, Sam knew how to tell when an episode was over. In the light of the sunset, Sam looked so washed out that Dean didn't let go of his jacket immediately. He was about to ask something inane like "You good?" when headlights and the crunch of gravel alerted Dean to the fact that a car was pulling over in front of the Impala. A police car.
"Just what we need," Dean grumbled. He propped Sam against the car and stepped between him and the barrel-chested man who was walking toward them. Dean kept his stance easy and expression neutral and waited for the officer speak first.
The cop – sheriff, according to his car – dragged a totally unnecessary flashlight over the two men. When Sam and Dean didn't say anything, he flicked off the light.
"You boys havin' car trouble?" he drawled, overly friendly.
"Nope. My brother was feeling sick and knew I'd kick his ass if he ralphed in the car," Dean answered in the same tone.
The cop's eyes went over Dean's shoulder and Dean resisted the impulse to shift so he couldn't see Sam. It would only make them look guilty of...something...if he did. It was ironic, really, to be confronted with such suspicion the one time when they hadn't actually done anything illegal.
"You been into somethin' you shouldn'ta been, son?" the sheriff asked, again friendly with a hard edge.
"Yeah," Sam answered, wry and raspy. "An egg salad sandwich that was apparently past its prime." He swallowed audibly and Dean wondered briefly if Barney Fife would leave them alone if Sam started heaving again.
The cop just stood there for another minute, but Sam and Dean were both too experienced to feel the need to fill in the silence with potentially damning words.
"You stoppin', maybe get looked over?"
The question was directed toward Sam, but Dean answered anyway. "Nope. He'll be fine in a couple hours. 'Sides, I haven't heard there was anything here worth stopping for." He dropped the fake friendliness and practically sneered the last. He and the cop understood each other well enough. They didn't like each other, didn't trust each other, and the cop wanted to see nothing of Dean but his taillights, which Dean was perfectly fine with. He had no interest in sullying the guy's crappy little town.
The sheriff's mouth twisted. "Sorry to hear that. It's a nice little town." He stopped, not wanting to impugn his home, but also not wanting to encourage them to stay. He settled with, "Take care, now." He climbed back in his car without even demanding to see any ID. He did, however, sit in his car and watch them leave.
"You didn't have to be like that," Sam complained, but it was listless, like his head lolling against the back of the seat. He didn't see the malice behind the badge,
Dean knew, so he didn't argue back. "Just wanted to get you to a motel so Baby's upholstery is safe," he lied.
"Might as well just finish the drive," Sam posited. "I think I'm done."
Dean considered that. It really would be nice to get to their destination tonight yet. "Yeah, okay. Why don't you grab some sleep?"
Sam grunted and curled against the door without a single complaint about Dean being overbearing and telling him what to do, which was telling as to just how lousy he felt.
Sam didn't wake up until they were parked under a flickering neon cactus at Prickly Pear Motel, Caleb's recommended place for them to stay in the not-so-bustling burg of Toadlena, New Mexico. To Dean's practiced eye, the long, single story white building looked shabby but more than serviceable.
"Stay here," he grunted to Sam, probably unnecessarily, since the guy looked more than half asleep yet.
Dean deflated a little to find a teenage boy behind the counter. He'd hoped for a young coed or even a bored housewife type that he might be able to flirt into giving them a better rate. He didn't have as much cash as he'd like, but he wasn't going to pay with a fake credit card at what was obviously a mom-and-pop shop.
The bored kid with his dark hair determinedly gelled into a faux-hawk and wearing a KoЯn shirt seemed unlikely to care much for Dean's charming smile. Especially considering the old, world-weary eyes looking out from the young face. Dean smiled anyway. "I don't suppose there's a discount if we're staying for a week?" he asked hopefully.
The kid shrugged. "Sure. Shicheii will be glad to have someone staying. $245 for the week."
Some of the tension drained from Dean. He could handle that and still have plenty for gas and food at the inevitable cash-only establishments he'd find this far from the main drag. "Thanks, kid."
The kid grunted. His dark eyes slid to the glass door and Dean knew what he'd see before he turned. Sam had gotten out of the car and was leaning against the door, looking gray and shaky.
"Listen," the boy started, cautious now. "Is your boyfriend on drugs? Cuz we can't have anything like that here."
Irritation tightened Dean's face. Really, he didn't care as much he pretended that people mistook them for a couple. But sometimes, the prejudice they faced as roughly-dressed outsiders built up and made him want to explode, usually when it was aimed at Sam. He often wondered what they'd think if they knew that the guy had attended Stanford on a full scholarship. Or that he'd lost it all and still regularly risked his life to protect the unknowing from what they didn't want to see lingering in the dark.
Only the clerk's age – he couldn't be more than 15 or 16 –and scrawny frame saved him from Dean's full ire. "My little brother is recovering from food poisoning," he all but spat, making the other guy lick his lips a little nervously. He looked apologetic.
"Oh. Sorry, man. Look, let me switch you to number 8. It has the best air conditioning. And I've got a 2-liter of 7-up if that would help. It's just...we live here, you know?"
Dean did. He knew what it was like to be a kid living on the edge of respectability and trying to stay safe. He instantly forgave the earlier words and appreciated the offer.
"Thanks, kid, but I'll pick up some ginger ale after we're settled." He put an extra ten down and exchanged the 12 key for the 8, even though they wouldn't be at the end like they normally preferred. There was only one other vehicle in the gravel lot anyway, so he wasn't exactly worried about a lot of prying eyes.
"I did not earn that," the boy said with great reluctance, pointing at the ten. How badly he wanted to take it was clear on his face.
Dean shrugged, ready to get Sam horizontal. He wouldn't mind an early night himself. "Take it. Let it set there until some rando walks in and grabs it, I don't care, kid," he said, dismissively. Charity was hard to take. Kindness was sometimes harder.
"Kyle," answered the boy. "Ahéhee'. Thanks." He looked like it hurt to say the words and Dean bit back a little smile as he gave a chin tilt of acknowledgment. It sucked when you were trying to look like a rebel and manners made an appearance.
The motel room itself was shabby but a whole lot cleaner than Dean had anticipated, and he silently acknowledged Caleb's advice. The other Hunter was the whole reason they'd come. He'd been hunting the worm but had been called away when yet another Hunter had an emergency that was far more immediate. The Winchesters owed Caleb a few favors, so they'd readily agreed to head out to Nowheresville (er, Toadlena), New Mexico. Besides, hunting an underage Mongolian Death Worm was usually pretty fun.
The ugly cryptids would appear somewhere hot and arid, apparently at random. Dad's journal said they started out as small as a cat, but Hunters never found them until they were big enough to start leaving behind bodies of medium-sized animals. There was no mistaking the remnants of a worm's meal.
Death Worms were only worm-like in the vaguest sense. Their mouths were huge, so big that they couldn't entirely close, but their hairless gray bodies tapered quickly to a point. Cilia-like appendages stuck out seemingly at random, of all different lengths and thicknesses, but all extremely flexible. Using these, worms could move surprisingly quickly given their stumpy bodies. They could also bury themselves in the sand and lie motionless for days waiting for their next meal.
They were not picky eaters. Anything warm that moved was on the menu. They didn't seem to be overly bothered by sand and anything else that came with the meal either. The unfortunate animal would be sucked right into the gaping maw and stay inside until its skin had been digested off. Then the worm regurgitated the remainder and went in search of its next meal. They were not smart enough to be careful where they left the signs of their presence, either.
Hence, any Hunter worth his or her salt knew what it meant when news outlets started reported that "skinned" animals were being found.
The size of the animal carcasses was in direct relation to the size of the problem, and the size of the worm. Eventually, and faster than any natural animal, they'd grow big enough to consider humans a viable snack.
There was good news, however. Dad's journal put it this way: It's easy to track a MDW because it just leaves its leftovers out in the open. Follow the trail of bodies. No matter how small they are, they aren't afraid of you and will attack when you get close. Your most important weapons are a strong stomach and a machete. MDW's can be killed by hacking them into pieces. No special equipment needed.
It also warned: They're much faster than you expect, and if they latch onto you, the acid in their mouth will burn. (Neutralize with vinegar or strong alcohol. Hurts like a bitch.) Even though they don't have any eyes, they can sense the slightest vibrations, so there's no way to sneak up on them.
They're tough, too. Took on one the size of a Volkswagen and blowing pieces off with a shotgun didn't even slow it down.
There weren't any pictures or sketches, but there was a note in the margins that Dean didn't remember. Burn remains.
Though they'd hunted small worms twice before, Sam had read the relevant passages aloud on the drive over, before the ill-fated egg salad sandwich had diverted both of their focus. Now, with Sam so sick, Dean was loath to drag him out after the worm that was wreaking havoc in the desert nearby.
"Don't even think about going after it without me," demanded Sam the second Dean walked back in the motel room after a trip to the closest gas station he could find for ginger ale and crackers for Sam and a massive sub and a six pack for Dean. If he hadn't been dealing with it most of his life, Dean might have been startled by how closely Sam's words mirrored his own thoughts.
Instead, he just sighed as he set his purchases down on the scarred orange table. "Look, worms aren't that big of a deal. I'm just not sure you're up for it."
Sam propped himself up against the headboard. If he was going for looking more intimidating, he missed it by a mile. He had his arguing face on. "Dean, the last animal found was a coyote. You know how big that makes the worm? I mean, it's not a giant like the one Dad went after with Bobby and Deacon, but it's still too big for one guy to take on."
Sam had a point, but so did Dean. Sam looked like hammered crap. "You don't look like you can take on an earthworm. Look, first get yourself un-dehydrated and keep some food down, and we'll talk about it."
Sam paled at the word food but nodded gamely. Dean hated it but stopped pestering. Sam pale and wan kicked up all the instincts that had laid dormant and unacknowledged for the last few years. And food poisoning, a non-supernatural physical ailment, was something Dean could actually do something about.
In a quiet corner of his mind, Dean craved that. Craved having something he could fix or at very least make a little better. The way he could not do with Sam's nightmares and grief and the whole pile of things that he'd lost.
Dean didn't like to talk about those lost things or even think about them, but he wasn't an idiot. Sam's dreams of a normal life had burned along with his books and clothes and almost every physical thing he'd owned. The woman he loved was dead, and in one fell swoop, Sam had also lost contact with the friends he'd made, his routines, all of the things that gave normal people comfort and security. It wasn't the life Dean had ever really wanted, but it was what Sam had wanted.
Late one night after Sam had finally fallen back to sleep after yet another dream that had him waking with a scream, shaking and sweat-soaked, Dean had tried to imagine what a loss of that magnitude would be like. His best thought was that it would be like if Dean had a terrible car accident that left the Impala unfixable and his own body twisted and broken so he could no longer hunt. Just thinking about it made prickles of sweat break out over Dean's body. He had no idea who he'd be if he wasn't transient and free, hunting monsters, hustling pool, and flirting as easily as breathing. If Sam felt like that...well, even the fact that he was walking around and not scaring small children was pretty amazing.
And, hell, the guy was even hunting, watching Dean's six. It's not like Dean would ever say it, but it was one of the bravest things he'd ever witnessed, and that included the time Dad had stared down an ogopogo with nothing but a burning stick and the pot they'd been cooking their dinner in.
So if Dean could help with something, even something as small as making Sam feel a little less lousy from an episode of food poisoning, he was all over that.
With that in mind, Dean had convinced a very green Sam to stay in the room while he ran out to get supplies. Once he'd returned and after he'd yelled at Sam for warding the room instead of resting, he used every ounce of big brother mojo (which involved a very precise recipe of bullying, coercion, distraction, charm, and outright trickery) to get Sam to drink his ginger ale, eat some saltines, and grab a shower. The last because he knew that Sam would be likely put on sleep clothes afterward, which would make it easier to convince him to go to bed early. The saltines were a no-go, but the rest of it happened.
"Since you've been such a good boy, I have a little treat for you," Dean wheedled in his most obnoxious, preschool-teacher voice when Sam emerged from the shower. In soft sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, with his hair tousled from being toweled off, and throwing a sleepy glare at Dean, Sam didn't look much older than Kyle. Dean tried and failed to avoid nostalgia.
"Think fast," he ordered, lobbing his surprise at Sam's head. Sam caught the clementine easily and looked at it in surprise. Dean hadn't even known what a freaking clementine was until Sam had taken one along when they'd set out for Jericho the fateful night Dean had showed up at Stanford. Seeing a bag hanging on a display near the gas station check out, Dean had remembered and begged (possibly borderline whined) until the clerk had rolled her eyes and sold him a handful instead of making him take the whole bag. Sam's face did a weird thing where it went through a bunch of different expressions and Dean was afraid for a just a second that he'd inadvertently done something wrong.
But then Sam's eyes went all soft and sappy. He visibly fought the urge to smile and lost and Dean relaxed. "I can't eat this right now, but thanks, Dean. I love these. I'll have it for breakfast. Where – ?"
"Had 'em at the gas station," Dean said quickly, concerned that a gooey moment was coming. "No big deal."
Sam smiled that dopey smile that was all dimples and teeth that Dean hadn't seen since Jessica had died. It only lasted a second, but it lightened Dean's heart more than he'd ever admit.
Sam went to sit on his bed and found that Dean had pulled The Bone Collector from the bottom of his duffel and set it on his pillow. Sam eyed Dean like he was some strange kind of bug but obligingly picked it up instead of the lore book Dean was sure he'd have picked for himself, set himself against the headboard, and began to read.
Dean wasn't just being nice. He knew for a fact that: 1) Sam did not need to learn more about Mongolian Death Worms before they tracked the thing in the morning, 2) Sam would fight to stay awake if he were researching, but would often quickly doze when reading something for sheer enjoyment, 3) Sam would argue that he was an adult who could make his own decisions if told he should sleep, and 4) not much helped food poisoning more than time...and sleep.
Dean sat on his bed and put the TV on Columbo, nice and low. Within twenty minutes, Sam was drooping. After forty-five, the book was loose on his lap and his chin was on his chest. After an hour, Dean figured he was far enough under to not wake up, so he tugged and directed until Sam was lying down properly and covered by the comforter. He set the book safely on the nightstand and felt an even bigger wave of nostalgia than before. Tucking in his little brother had been a nightly routine for so many years. It was part of who Dean was even when Sam became old enough to insist that he did not need to be babied. It felt good to have this chance to take care of him again.
Not long after it began to be less effective (and feasible) to physically dump Sam in bed and threaten him into staying put, Dean had discovered that his brother's love for reading (which was weird to Dean, but made sense for a kid who'd always loved stories) was a key to getting him to sleep.
Dad wasn't big on taking the time to go to the library, so it was up to Dean to feed that love, and he did. Soon, Sam was reading himself to sleep most nights, and it was a common occurrence for Dean to rescue the current book and convince Sam to lie down. Same kid, bigger package. It was comforting, in a strange way.
And if Dean didn't start to button up such girly thoughts, he was going to have to drink some whiskey and shoot something to get his man card back.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean was surprised to find Kyle back at the desk in the morning. He didn't know what time it was, but it was way too early and it seemed an odd time for a teenager to be up, much less working.
Dean didn't have the brain cells available to give it more than just a passing thought.
"Coffee?" he grunted hopefully, and the kid pointed wordlessly to a coffee pot in the corner. Liquid heaven was dripping in even as Dean looked. He sighed in appreciation and filled the cup Kyle handed him, drained it, and repeated the process.
Sam had woken – loudly – from dreams three times during the night, which added up to not nearly enough of the kind of sleep that meant anything. Dean had ignored the signs of tears and the fact that two of the times, Sam had woken with Jess' name on his lips.
The upshot of it all was that Dean felt like he'd had one of those naps that makes you more tired than if you'd stayed awake.
He looked up from the dregs of his second cup of coffee to find Kyle watching him, a hint of amusement under a well-practiced look of teenage ennui. He looked tired, too. Today he was wearing a plain white t-shirt that had been washed so many times that it was at best gray. He had set down a book when Dean had walked in, and Dean nodded toward it. "Whatcha readin'?" he asked, pouring yet another cup of goodness.
"Nothin'," Kyle shrugged but held up the book so Dean could see the title. The Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant. The kid's cheeks had pinked and he was watching Dean's reaction closely, so Dean dialed back his typical sarcastic comment or even faux-impressed whistle.
"Looks like something my genius little brother would read," he said instead. Fact was, though Kyle looked nothing like Sam with his small frame, dark skin, and piercings, he reminded Dean forcibly of a teenage version of the youngest Winchester, embarrassed by his own intelligence and floundering between insouciance and a genetically-endowed good nature.
Kyle relaxed and shrugged again. "I like it."
"When Sam's feeling better, you should ask him for suggestions," suggested Dean, pretty sure he'd find the book insanely boring. He recognized the author's name and philosophy was pretty damn low on the Dean Winchester scale of importance. "Speaking of Sam, any chance there's somewhere around here I could buy the princess a smoothie?" Dean grimaced as he spoke. Smoothies weren't much higher on said scale than philosophy was.
Kyle looked skeptical. "Gallup, I s'pose."
Gallup was probably an hour's drive to the south. Dean nodded, unsurprised. "Figured it was worth a try, see if it would settle his stomach. The kid went to school in Cali and his taste's all messed up by all that – " Dean waved a hand in the air, at loss for the right words. " – fancy crap."
"Still sick, huh?" Kyle made a that sucks face, then leaned forward slightly, like he was reluctant to show too much interest. "Where'd he go to school?"
"Stanford," responded Dean immediately, because while even that name hurt and probably always would, he was damn proud too. "Full ride."
The wistfulness was too easy to read in Kyle, and the sense of recognition grew in Dean even more strongly. It made him a little uneasy, bringing back a longing for the past that Dean rarely allowed to see the light of day.
Kyle worried his lip rings and for the first time, Dean could see that his lip wasn't actually pierced. He wondered vaguely if the nose ring and earrings were the same. "I think smoothies are just, like, fruit and ice and maybe some juice?" He sounded unsure. "You should go to Tsosie's Market, ask the girls to help you with what to get. Then you can use my mom's blender if you want."
Dean blinked momentarily. Not a day ago while they'd sat drinking watery beer in a dark bar, Sam had told Dean that nothing threw him more than strangers showing him kindness. Dean had made some smart ass comment about how he'd like to get some kindness from the brunette sitting a few tables over, but it turns out Sam had been right about him. Like usual.
"Uh, yeah, kid. That'd be great. Where's that market?"
Kyle gave Dean simple directions, and the latter headed back to the other end of the long building to leave Sam a note. Sam barely cracked an eye at Dean's return, so he told his brother he was going for breakfast and left a note for good measure.
The market was tiny and rundown but easy to find. "The girls" turned out to be a 20-something with high cheekbones and glossy black braid long enough to kiss the waistband of her Daisy Dukes and her doppleganger but at least two generations back, with white hair and lot more clothes. Both were reticent until they heard Kyle had sent him, then happily filled his basket with strawberries, bananas, blueberries, and some weird kind of yogurt Dean had never heard of.
He grabbed a few more things and hurried back. Kyle let him use the blender right in the office and Dean tasted their creation. It wasn't too bad, tasting sort of like a milk shake without enough sugar.
"Kyle, you are a god among men," Dean announced, gratified when the kid actually sort of smiled.
Dean brought his bounty back to the room in an avocado green tumbler that Kyle had produced and Dean had promised to return.Kyle's pleased smile was nothing compared to the radiant smile Sam gave Dean when presented with the smoothie (after some initial confusion: "Where did this come from?" and "How did you do this?" etc.).
"Thanks, Dean. I'm not sure I want anything heavier yet, so this is great." He didn't stop smiling the whole time he got dressed and geared up, taking little sips throughout the process and managing to finish the entire big glassful, which made Dean smile.
It wasn't long before the brothers were driving out to the last place Caleb had found traces of the worm.
It was good and bad that the area was so remote. It was good because hunting a worm during the day was far preferable to the night, since it didn't need light to attack but humans very much did. It was bad because the terrain was hell on Baby's undercarriage.
Sam tolerated the complaints with less derogatory commentary than usual, probably because he was trying to keep his stomach where it belonged on the bumpy ride. He was so white that Dean felt a little contrite over worrying about his beloved car. There was nothing Sam needed but time to cure his rocky stomach, but the jolting ride certainly wasn't helping anything.
"Kid working the desk at the motel was like fifteen and reading, uh, Critique of Reason or something. Reminded me of you when you were that age," Dean offered by way of distraction.
"The Critique of Pure Reason?" Sam asked, surprised. He was speaking carefully, like he was afraid that if he opened his mouth too far he'd puke. "Smart kid."
"Yeah, he acts all punk but he's a nice kid, too," Dean admitted. He didn't have the anti-teenager bias so many adults had. He was firmly of the opinion that you should be nice to anyone whose body was a constant morass of roiling hormones. "Hang on – I think this is it."
Caleb's directions relied heavily on landmarks because street names were in short supply, but at least he'd been descriptive. Dean found a place to park the Impala that at least wasn't directly on the rutted monstrosity masquerading as a road, and they geared up with every blade they could carry.
Sam made Dean put sunscreen on and slathered some on his own nose and cheekbones. Dean studied his brother obliquely as they both worked. Sam was still ghostly pale but steadier. Well, as steady as he got since the fire. It would have to be enough.
They'd been walking for only about fifteen minutes when the smell first hit Dean. "Think I got something," he called to Sam, who was paralleling him about 20 feet away. He followed his nose until he found the bloody shape half under a creosote bush. It wasn't fresh.
"You might want to stay back," he warned.
Sam found the next of the worm's leavings and announced it by losing the smoothie. He started apologizing almost before he was done, which Dean ignored. Sam never ralphed at even the worst attacks or autopsies normally. In fact, he had a stronger stomach for such things than Dean did, so it was definitely the fault of the lingering food poisoning.
Dean could see the next body from where he stood waiting for Sam to rinse his mouth. It, too, was old enough that the type of animal it had been wasn't clear.
They found a fourth body quickly, then nothing for nearly half an hour. Dean was just starting to get concerned that they were going the wrong way when Sam nudged him. "Smell that?" Dean did, a second later.
Within ten more steps, the smell of decay was strong enough to make Dean's eyes water. He watched Sam even as he paid even more attention than before to their surroundings. Sam swallowed, then again. He was definitely fighting nausea, but he was alert and cataloging everything he could see, which now included two more of the worm's leftovers.
They were near the edge of a rocky arroyo, so the worm couldn't be that direction, as it couldn't burrow through rock. There hadn't been any signs of disturbances back the way they'd come.
Besides, these kills were more recent. So that left straight ahead or to their right. Nothing was pinging on Dean's radar, but worms were sneaky up until they were trying to jump on your face like a Xenomorph after Sigourney Weaver.
He moved forward more slowly now. Some kind of bush – mesquite maybe – blocked his way, and he slid it to the side with his foot. Something distinctly squished under Dean's boot, and Sam made a strange sound like a busted squeaky toy. Dean looked down reluctantly. It wasn't as bad as it had sounded – he hadn't really stepped on the body, just gotten a little blood on his boot, which he quickly wiped off on the hard ground. The animal was no more or less gross than any of the rest, but it was newer.
"Dean, I gotta…" Sam sounded strained.
"Ten paces back," Dean ordered. It was the safest way to take the time for an upchuck break.
There wasn't much left for Sam to lose, but Dean knew that that sometimes made it worse. He was really starting to regret taking this hunt. It should have been almost pleasant with the decent accommodations, utter lack of research to do, and sunny but not hot weather (well, besides the nastiness of the worm's leavings, but that kinda crap was par for their course). Instead, it was just misery on top of misery for poor Sam. He was so wretched that Dean couldn't even make fun of him for it.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm done, I swear," said Sam like the moron he was. Dean could see him gather himself to look less shaky and pathetic. "I'm okay. Let's keep going."
It was time to act like the big brother. "Nope. We're done. I'm not comin' out here alone, so don't worry about that. We'll give you a day and come back tomorrow." Or the next day, but Dean wasn't going to push it for now. He just really wanted to get Sam back to a quiet, air-conditioned room so maybe his conscience would stop screaming at him for thinking Sam was ready for such a gross hunt.
"But the worm is big enough to kill a person," Sam argued as if he weren't swaying on his feet. "You saw the size of some of those...bodies." He swallowed hard again, and Dean swore at himself silently. He'd let the fact that Sam drank the whole smoothie and his own claims that he was fine fool him. (Like any Winchester in the history of Winchesters ever admitted when they weren't fine.)
"Who, Sam? We didn't pass a single vehicle on the way here, and I'm not exactly seeing signs of civilization. You? The chances of anyone wandering out here before tomorrow morning are pretty much zero. You need more time."
Of course, that was when the ground exploded.
* * *
AN: Lots of notes, probably more than I actually need. The second chapter notes are here, too, since it was originally a really long one-shot.
Barney Fife was a hapless cop on the old TV show The Andy Griffith Show.
According to omniglot dot com, shicheii means maternal grandfather, ahéhee means thank you, and shimá means motherin Diné Bizaad, the language of the Navaho people.
The Bone Collector is a crime novel by Jeffrey Deaver.
Xenomorphs are face-hugging aliens from the Alien series of movies. Sigourney Weaver is an actress who starred in them.
Slimer is from Ghostbusters movies.
The Sarlacc is from the Star Wars movies and literature.
Tremors is a 1990 movie about gigantic worm-like creatures that live underground and can sense any movement. I didn't consciously imitate it, but when I was about halfway through the story, the similarities struck me.
KoЯn and Limp Bizkit are rock groups.
Do I need to tell people that The Hobbit was written by JRR Tolkien?
Sabbath Bloody Sabbath is a song by Black Sabbath.