Competence Before Haste
Your weak stomach had let you down before. Unfortunately, just by the smell of the root itself, you knew there would be no shot of keeping it down. But, it was Bobby. The smell intensified with every ingredient. Improvising, you grabbed the package of leftover bread and soaked one in the horrid concoction. Finally finishing, you walked over to the boys, drink and toast in tow. Dean eyed the toast, clearing his throat, "Listen, I know how your stomach is, why don't Sammy and I take this one." Bringing your hand up to your forehead in mock fever, you responded in a breathy whisper, "That's awful kind of you, such a gentleman. I'm going."
"Sammy and I got this. Age before beauty, sweetheart. Someone's gotta supervise."
"Competence before haste, honey bun. I'm not a babysitter."
"This is Bobby! Do you think we'd screw this up? He's like a father to me!" His voice raised and you matched his volume. "He is a father to me, jackass!"
"I'll stay." You and Dean both looked to Sam, who's concession had broken the tension. Looking back to him, a nod was shared, and the last ingredient was ready to mix.
You sprinkled the remnants into each cup. "What the hell is that?"
"Bobby's hair."
"We have to drink Bobby's hair?"
"Yup, it's how you control whose dream you're entering. You have to consume some of their uh, DNA." The matching grimaces were almost comical. "Well, guess the hair of the dog's better than other parts of the body." You shuttered, never wanting that image of your father figure again.
Taking his, Dean quipped, "So, should we dim the lights and sync up "Wizard of Oz" and "Dark Side of the Moon"? Sam tilted his head, "Why?"
"What did you do during college?" You paused to reminisce about the one night you did shrooms and ventured to the biosphere in Arizona. Rad. "Well, bottoms up."
"Yeah." Pinching your nostrils shut, you choked down the bread, gagging only three times before consuming the entire thing. You stared at each other, not feeling any different (apart from the nausea). Looking to your left, you questioned, "When did it start raining?" Dean stood to investigate. "When did it start raining upside down?" The both of you turned to find a version of Bobby's house you hadn't seen in nearly fifteen years. Dean spoke up, "Okay, I don't know what's weirder, the fact that we're in Bobby's head or that he's dreaming of Better Homes and Gardens."
"No, this is Bobby's house back in the day. Before he gave up. God, I remember when this chair was actually green." You'd forgotten someone else was in the room until Dean questioned, "And when was that?" You ignored his question, still basking in the memories. "Y/N," Dean treaded carefully, " how long have you been coming here?"
"Spent most of my childhood here. After my family...Well, I've called it home for almost a decade now." The silence that followed confirmed the point you had made earlier; Dean may have been close with Bobby, but he was still second tier to you.
"Bobby?!" broke the silence. Turning your head, you saw that Dean had slid the double doors to the kitchen wide open. After two more instances of Dean shouting his name, a sound from the pantry had caught both of your attentions.
"Who's out there?" Bobby. You didn't wait for a second sign before opening the door. Or tried to. It was locked. With a sigh, the pick that rested in your jacket fixed the problem. Bracing for impact, you dodged before the surly geezer could knock you a good one with the butt of his shotgun. "Y/N/N?! How the hell did you find me?"
"We choked down some of the Dream-Root."
"Dream-Root? What?" Dean finally spoke up, "Dr. Gregg-The experiments?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" How far into his psyche were you? The lights flickered, interrupting your conversation. "Hurry." The three of you ran to the study, Dean following up behind. A loud SLAM! Had successfully separated the two of you from the older Winchester. "Dean?"
"Y/N, it's stuck!" Thinking on your feet, "See if you can get in from the outside!"
"Got it!" You turned to see Bobby's face, white as the ghost you were hunting. "Bobby, who is it?" He stuttered…"She's...she's coming." Pointing a bit too high for your comfortability, you followed his gaze. Crap. Karen Singer.