Punxsutawney Sucks – Chapter 6
If you spell 'disclaimer' backwards it reads: remialcsid, and that sounds a little like "Read me all, Sid!" Which, if my name were Sid, would be really cool. Just saying.
Supernatural boys belong to others; all else is mine. As usual, colourful and descriptive language throughout. Oh, and swearing, too.
In terms of playing the 'if this was a real episode' game, now we're at the part between the penultimate commercial and the final commercial, the part where you don't pick up the ringing telephone no matter what poor soul is dying on the other end.
--
All around was white and moving.
The Impala's wiper blades scraped long liquid lines across the foggy screen, and even the heater going full blast wasn't enough to keep Sam's fingertips from going completely numb. He could barely see where he was going it was snowing so hard. Strange for it to be snowing like this when the temperature was so cold, but this was unnatural weather, was not meteorologically logical.
Meteorologically logical. Sam smiled at that combination of words, always having been the sort of kid who loved the way words fit in his mouth; he could turn them over, make them into shiny new things, bright as pennies. In the absence of Lego and Playskool Knight's Kingdom playsets, he had toyed with words in the backseat of many a long journey while Dean slept, or sang, or held his breath when they passed cemeteries. One long summer, back when they'd spent almost all of an August alone in a cabin high in the Rocky Mountains, Sam had nearly driven Dean nuts by making up his own language, which he practiced and refined until he was fairly certain Dean was going to string him up by his ankles and use him for target practice.
Words were not going to help him tonight, he thought, turning the Impala slightly so it wouldn't lose traction and slide sideways. Words were not going to help him with the fact that the Impala only had all-season radials when weather like this demanded snow tires and maybe chains or studs. And now he was nearly at the hill, which he'd been dreading – among other things. It had taken him a long time to get this far because no matter how well he did with the Gobbler tonight, Dean would feed him slowly to the worms if he put so much as a greasy fingerprint on the car. So Sam had driven carefully, without haste. At least, that's the reason he'd given himself.
He'd turned off the phone because he'd wanted to keep two hands on the wheel. Another dubious thing he'd told himself. Torn between wanting to do this and wanting to be prevented from doing this – stop me before I kill again! You're a complicated guy, Sam Winchester.
What if, he thought, then pushed the words down, smacked them like they were two of those plastic moles that popped up in an arcade game. What. If. His bones have already been burned once.
I know that, thank you very much.
I don't think ghosts burn very well. Not much to actually catch fire, is there?
It's not a ghost.
Why is it -- Sam thought while putting the Impala into low gear, hoping like hell that it wouldn't start to slide cause it was a really long walk to the Knob – that the devil on my shoulder always sounds like Dean?
Well, if it's not a ghost, then what is it, geek-boy?
Even at Stanford, this had been the voice that kept him company.
Don't exactly know. But it lives on the Knob, and it's gotta be killed there.
Sure of that, are you?
Pretty sure. It gets stronger the closer it gets. And you said it yourself, asshole. You saw its foot. Did that look solid enough to you?
The voice was silent. For a moment, Sam congratulated himself. That shut you up, didn't it? Then realized that the only reason the devil on his shoulder wasn't answering that question was because Sam didn't know for sure if the foot Dean had seen was completely solid.
Maybe you should just wait until morning. You know, talk it over with someone who has a little more experience with –
No. This thing needs to go.
Feed it a groundhog and it'll go.
Yeah, but for how long? They've been feeding it groundhogs for over a hundred years, probably longer.
Hey, maybe we should just torch some of those fiberglass Phils in town. Reverse a curse, and make Punxsutawney a more beautiful place in one classy act.
Very funny. I need to get rid of the Gobbler once and for all, and I need to do it tonight, otherwise you're just going to do something stupid tomorrow.
And the devil that sounded like Dean had no real answer for that, so Sam concentrated on the road, the gas can sitting on the floorboards under the dash sloshing impatiently as the Impala struggled up the slope.
--
The groundhog looked sleepy, not scared, and not hungry. Dean had picked up a carrot from where he'd watched Britni store them under the entrance desk, but Phil wasn't putting up any kind of fight. Dean waved the carrot in front of the cubbyhole where Phil was curled up like a massive furry medicine ball, hoping to lure him out. The groundhog raised its nose and sniffed, stretched a little, and shuffled from its ersatz burrow with all the enthusiasm of a shift worker punching in at the factory. Knowing that this would hurt, but not actually understanding quite how much until he did it, Dean cautiously grasped Phil under his belly with both hands and tried to stand up.
Sonofabitch.
If anybody had been in the library – from the circulation desk to the nether regions of the reshelving area – they would have known immediately that someone was being tortured in the Groundhog Zoo.
Dean shook uncontrollably, balanced on his hands and knees, fingers clutching the wood shavings, forcing his breath to come in little tiny gasps after the yell of pain he'd just given. That fucking groundhog must have eaten a cannonball for dinner. A sewing machine. A ride 'em mower. A droplet of sweat rolled off the tip of his nose into the soft curls of wood and sawdust between his fisted hands. There was no way he was going to make it. I'm sorry, Sammy, the groundhog's too heavy.
Then he started to laugh, which was also a bad idea.
Finally, he managed to sit back on his heels, hands resting slackly on his thighs. Phil, about twice the size of his lady-friend, who was still sleeping in the side-by-side cubby, raised himself on his hind legs, looked speculatively over at Dean.
Considering Dean was planning on taking him to a rather unpleasant death, Phil appeared unconditionally friendly, almost resigned to spending time with this unusual yelling man.
"Well," Dean grumbled, once he'd brought his breathing under control. "What are we going to do, Phil?"
Phil settled back to the floor, waddled over to the gate. The zoo's gate was disarmed; Kris had known exactly what to do, had been scoping this out for the past two weeks, apparently. She'd given Dean the exterior door codes and told him how to bypass the zoo's alarm system. Britni was a good friend, Kris has said with a long, slow smile. Damn, Dean had thought. Scooped.
All of it would do him – would do Sam – absolutely no good unless he could somehow get Phil into the truck. And he thought he might pass out if he tried to pick him up again. Maybe he could herd him toward the truck – and the laughter bubbled again, and he felt the pain radiate across his chest. Dean Winchester, Groundhog Herder. Maybe he could get a flannel shirt and a nametag.
Fortunately, Phil seemed to have no intention of making a break for it. He waited patiently by the gate for Dean to stumble over, only turning his head once to focus his tiny glossy eyes on Dean's.
Dean swallowed, would have shrugged, had that been possible. I am talking to a groundhog, he thought. I have done weirder things.
"Okay, Phil, let's go for a drive."
--
He walked the last bit, just parked the Impala in the middle of the road when it started slipping backwards. He didn't think he'd be blocking the way, except for emergency vehicles coming to cart your sorry flamed ass away. Shut up, Sam responded half-heartedly. I know what I'm doing. But the silence was empty. Empty, but not echoing, the snowfilled night softly absorbing all noise, the opposite of being in an empty room with smooth surfaces reflecting sound. An acoustic black hole, sucking in sound, not light.
Sam slipped several times on the treacherous ice. He'd lost track of time: was it three o'clock, maybe? Four? There must have been action up here earlier in the evening, when Kris had come, but the snow obliterated all signs of the activity, blanketed previous snow and ice with an inviting layer of soft powder. Knowing that Dean would be safely asleep now, he turned on his phone, saw he had a message, ignored it, knowing it would only be Dean, probably asking him for a greasy delivery of fast food.
Finally, he saw the raised stage, could barely make out the hollow stump where Kris had said they put the groundhog every February. He stumbled on something, an empty cardboard box with a picture of a cat on it, half buried in the snow. A circle in the snow, over to the south of the clearing, where he'd found Dean the night before, the dark spot perfect and warm. A scene of death.
Sam set down the gas can, held a rag-wrapped stick, dipped in tar, a staple from the Impala's trunk. They did this for a living, whatever that meant. He knew what he was doing. He unscrewed the cap of the can, picked it up in fingers numb and aching, tucking the butt end of the torch under his armpit. In his other hand, he held a lighter. A poster child for the self-immolation set. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
Do you really want to say that out loud?
Shut up, he repeated, but said it low in his throat because that was when the snowflakes parted, reassembled, became the negative space that defined what was there and moving toward him.
--
Despite the snowstorm – the fucking blizzard – Kris's truck flew through town, heading south, then slightly eastward. The heater was blowing furiously, but there was a huge blackened hole in the side of Dean's parka, and he was frozen. The truck bucketed across ice-bumpy roads, across windrows of heaped snow, making fast progress across a town shut down by weather and night and grief. He shifted into low as he came to the hill; although the truck had good snow tires, it couldn't climb a wall of ice. He'd see how far he could get.
A sudden pressure on his thigh caused him to jump, then yelp as his ribs protested. He risked a glance down to figure out what it was and was surprised to see that Phil had shuffled over on the bench seat and was now resting his head on Dean. More sweat ran down his face, but he was cold, and he knew that this couldn't be a good sign. Still, he had to do what he was going to do – sorry, Phil – and small considerations like fever, broken bones, and lacerated internal organs weren't things that generally slowed Dean down in a situation like this.
The headlights caught the flying snow as it pulled towards and around the truck's cab, mesmerizing, like a Stars at Warp Speed screensaver. Dean shook his head. Fuck me, but concentrate on the road. Kris said she'd kill me if I bruised her ride.
Then engaged with his worst nightmare ever as the rear end of the Impala appeared motionless in his headlights right in front of him and he slammed on the brakes, which is a dumb, dumb, dumb thing to do when it's snowing, he knew that. The truck slid across the road, only coming to a full stop when the tailgate kissed the rear quarter panel of the Impala. A peck, the kind of kiss you'd give to your best friend's kid sister when their dad was looking. Please, please, please let it be that kind of kiss.
As if in juxtaposition to this worry, Phil slipped off the smooth vinyl interior, dropped to the floor with a meaty thud, disappeared like a jumper from a high bridge.
Oh fuck. Sam is so screwed if I've killed the pig.
Now there were speckled dots in front of his vision, like flocks of dandelion seeds, coordinating themselves to become unspeakably distracting. Dean opened the door, didn't bother to check what damage he might have just done to his car, or Kris's truck, just peered into the black recess under the glove compartment, hoping that Phil wasn't stunned, or worse, because he didn't think he could climb under there to find out, no matter how much danger Sam was in.
While Dean tried to focus his tired eyes, Phil jumped up onto the bench seat, lightly, with the surprising grace of a big cat. I must be running a really high fever, Dean thought, his coat open, wind slicing inside, delivering snow like junk mail. He didn't have any gloves. He wasn't really all that prepared. Still, Phil ambled over, nose high in the air, testing the breeze like he was searching for something.
The cab of the truck was quite high and Phil was level with Dean's bellybutton. The groundhog came closer still, then nosed his head into Dean's open parka, and Dean was able to get his arms around him without lifting. That did not mean that thirty pounds of groundhog against his chest didn't hurt. Quite the reverse: it was excruciating. Given the options, Dean made it manageable.
He was shivering, but Phil was like a big hot water bottle snuggled against his sternum, his wide head stuck out by Dean's collar as he wrapped his coat around him. How far was it to the top? God, what time was it? How long had Sam been gone? He thought about sounding the horn to let Sam know he was here, but that would waste time and he'd have to negotiate reaching into the truck to do it, and he really wasn't that far, he could now see. The Impala was only covered in a thin layer of snow, so Sam couldn't have been here for that long.
Hefting Phil's weight and biting his lower lip to distract himself from the agony that his entire chest had become, Dean started to walk carefully toward the clearing.
--
At first, the Gobbler looked a little like soot swirling in the night, snow getting out of its way. I am so not going to be able to burn that, Sam knew, his heart pounding. Come a little closer. See? I'm a young guy. Tasty, yum, yum.
The soot coalesced suddenly, forcefully, came together like black sand on a beach, shifting with wind and water. Sam tightened his grip on the lighter. You've tested that lighter, right? He couldn't actually remember.
Narrowing his eyes, wishing that the snow would part for him as easily as it was now doing for the Gobbler, Sam watched as the black sand became obsidian, shimmered with heat. About the length of the Impala away. The obsidian become something else, resolved into a blackened body, bones charred, skin hanging like the mouldering pennants on an ancient battlefield. The skull was half-fleshed with skin that had become dark leather, hair down to where its waist had once been, defined now only by the thin curving sticks of rib.
Okay, buster, Sam thought, calling spark to lighter. Let's go. His right hand arced toward the torch head, catching it spectacularly. Watch it, that's a can of gaso –
And the Gobbler jumped, leapt like a deer above and over him, knocking the gas can away in a crazy circle, the torch ripped from Sam's hands, but not before it ignited the spilled gas and lit the whole clearing in a bright yellow haze.
The Gobbler had no eyes anymore, Sam knew that, standing there empty handed, his gas and his torch gone, the gas burning in a semi-circle behind him, the torch further away still. Sam still knew that the Gobbler was staring at him, in the same way he knew that the monster was smiling, even though it had no lips.
--
The fiery glow erupting through the screen of trees in front of him surprised Dean so badly that he almost lost his grip on Phil. The groundhog sensed his sudden slack embrace and dug his claws – the ones most groundhogs used to create tunnels under the earth – into Dean's shoulders and belly.
That had the immediate effect of forcing his host to his knees, nothing more vehement than a moan coming from him. Done, he was done, and the snow came up to meet him in the same instant that the groundhog moved like a bobsled down an Olympic track, emerging from the bottom of Dean's parka to skid to a halt several feet away.
With the hot water bottle's departure, the cold enveloped Dean, was like a blow, it was so harsh and unforgiving. He came to his elbows, trying and failing for more elevation. Dean glanced through the snow, trying to locate Phil. The groundhog shook ice pellets from itself like a wet dog. Phil was now more than twenty feet away, closer to the clearing than Dean. With one backward glance that conveyed all sorts of meaning, not the least of which was gratitude, Phil jumped through the snow toward the fire beyond the trees, leaving Dean stunned and immobile on the frozen ground.
--
The skeletal hand reached out, hovering near Sam's forehead as he backed away. A shimmy of heat from the gasoline fire stopped him from retreating much further. Oh, great, trapped by my own weapon.
The Gobbler lurched forward, not particularly graceful, despite the fact that his feet were intact. Weird how some bits of things burned, and others did not. Their dad had taught them how to get an even burn on a body – oh, shut up, Sam. Solid feet, an imperfect burn. This sucker is still in play, as far as a good torching is concerned. Just how to get some flame to him when the torch is way over...
A blur, a blur of fur moving at an indescribable speed jumped toward Sam, came to a stop only a few inches from his foot. Despite the danger in ignoring the Gobbler less than an arm's length from him, Sam looked down to see an enormous groundhog on its hind legs, its attention fastened on the Gobbler.
Phil. It's Phil, Sam had time to think before the groundhog hopped away from Sam, sure of the Gobbler's attention. The burned wreck followed the groundhog's moves, stepped away from Sam aiming for the animal.
Then, Phil did the unthinkable.
Without apparent concern, without hesitation, the groundhog ran into the gasoline fire, emerging scant seconds later, engulfed in flame. At a run, Phil launched himself at the Gobbler, lodging deep in his ribcage, a living bomb.
For a brief moment, it appeared that nothing would happen, and Sam judged the distance between himself and the torch guttering on the snow. Then, a rushing, harsh wind filled his ears, coming from everywhere, and he was thrown across the clearing, blown to his back by a white hot light that shot up to the sky like a Hollywood premier's searchlights.
Dazzled, Sam tried to make sense of the scene: where the Gobbler had been, where Phil had been, there was nothing but light. As he watched, it dimmed infinitesimally, then snapped out like there'd been a fucking switch. Damn. He got to his feet, a little shaky, and walked to the blackened circle the heat had created. He smelled burned hair, suspected it might be his own. The gasoline fire was going out, an insignificant light beside what had just occurred. Sam picked up the dying torch, and it flared into light as it was released from the snow.
The snow.
Sam looked up into the sky, which was clear. The wind shifted.
He held the torch up to examine the circle. In the centre of it, a pile of dusty char that might have been the archeological remains of an ancient campfire. Sam knew better. He bent down to finger the ashes, kicked them around to make sure it was a good burn. He'd seen countless, enough to know that the job was done.
A tiny set of bones, amongst the embers, needle-thin, light as feathers. Sam licked his lips, and realized that he was not cold anymore.
By the time he'd scattered the remains, he was dog-tired. And that was when his phone rang.
TBC
a/n: Whew! Bent some logic rules to get here, but here we are...almost at the end. Let me know if the whole thing is goofy beyond belief. I just couldn't make Phil evil in the end, big doofus groundhog. A huge, huge thank you to those of you who leave reviews, which keep me keen. Uh, that's your cue to leave a review, in case you missed it.
