*TW: Mentions of drug use & the methods thereof.*


Chrys hovered over Dean's shoulder, watching closely as he worked. "Did you strip enough wire?"

He turned to glare at her over his shoulder. "Yes, I stripped enough wire."

She held her hands up in surrender. "All right, all right, Mr. Handyman. Calm down."

He hmphed at her at the same time that the wires connected and the lights came on. "See?" he sneered. "I told you."

"Yeah, yeah, you're the best," she said with a smile as the abandoned house they were squatting in lit up.

In the weeks since Vegas (and the Events That Shall Not Be Named) life had been rough. Because they knew the leviathans were tracking their credit card usage, they were lying lower than usual. That meant a lot of sleeping in cars ("Sleep in Bobby's truck, you two, no defiling Baby." "Please, like we haven't already defiled Baby." "Goddammit!"), motels cheap enough to not have any security cameras, and breaking into abandoned homes like the one they were in just then.

It kinda sucked, but it sucked less than getting eaten by a leviathan, so Chrys was trying to be grateful.

Bobby was clearly not feeling the same as he walked in, eyebrow cocked. "Well, isn't this cozy?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, well, Motel Six just ain't leaving the light on anymore."

The older man heaved a sigh, but shrugged. "Well, I'm taking a page out of Frank Devereaux's Bible on this one. Paranoia's just plain common sense."

"It's not paranoia if everyone's really out to get you," Chrys said cheerfully.

"Weeks," Dean hissed. "We've been living with cold showers, cold Hot Pockets, cold fucking everything for weeks. I mean, this is the bottom that we're living in. You guys get that, right?"

Chrys rolled her eyes. "Better than being leviathan food."

He made a face at her, but before she could retaliate, the lights switched off with little fanfare.

To her surprise, Dean hauled off and kicked one of the chairs in the kitchen. "That's just fucking great," he snarled. "This is stupid. Our quality of life is shit. We've got purgatory's least wanted everywhere, and we're on our third 'the world's screwed' issue in, what, three years? We've steered the bus away from the cliff twice already!"

Chrys met Sam's eyes, shocked. "Well," he said, voice low and wary, "someone's gotta do it."

Dean was staring out one of the windows, refusing to make eye contact with any of them. "What if the bus wants to go over the cliff?"

Chrys felt goosebumps prickle up and down her spine. "You think the world wants to end?"

"I think that if we didn't take its belt and all its pens away each year that, yeah, the whole enchilada woulda offed itself already."

"Stop trying to wrestle with the big picture, son," Bobby said firmly, and Chrys felt a rush of gratitude that he was with them. "You're gonna hurt your head."

Dean grumbled, grabbed a beer from the cooler, and flung himself down onto the couch, scowling.

Chrys was worried. She wanted to drag Dean out of there, take him to a bar, and force him to talk to her. She didn't want to have a conversation about feelings any more than he did, but she'd also seen firsthand the result of either Winchester stowing their feelings. It was never pretty.

She opened her mouth to suggest just that, but was cut off by Bobby.

"So, what's the guff?"

After a beat, Sam turned back to the research he'd gotten printed out at the last library they'd had the opportunity to stop at. "Well, uh, there've been a rash of sightings all over the southern pine barrens. A 'strange, fast-moving, human-like creature.'" He smirked. "Locals even have a name for it."

Chrys read over his shoulder, and he held it up so she could see the title of the article.

JERSEY DEVIL REPORTED!


"You'd think that after all this time, you'd be used to the Fed suit," Bobby said, amusement heavily coloring his words.

"Can it, old man," Chrys snapped without heat in her voice, fidgeting in her stupid Fed suit pants.

They came close to Dean and Sam before he had a chance to respond out loud, but she saw him roll his eyes.

Dean looked hopeful. "So?"

Bobby shrugged. "Well, I took a look at the cadaver… What's left of it. Not a happy camper. Don't have any stats on a 'Jersey Devil,' but the bite radius on the vic's wounds, it's too small for a leviathan. And he's still got a ventricle and some change, so I doubt we're talking werewolf. And a wendigo don't leave scraps."

Sam had come to stand next to her as Bobby talked. He had a knowing twinkle in his gaze that had her scowling up at him already.

"Going commando again, beautiful?" he murmured.

"Shut it, Winchester."

He was chuckling at her, so she focused on Dean instead, although she didn't fight it when Sam put his arm around her.

Dean was looking around the Biggerson's restaurant they were in. "Lunch?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of the menu.

Chrys nodded emphatically. "Starving."

Dean grinned, then turned to hail a passing waiter.

"Hey! Uh," he read the nametag on the kid's chest, "Brandon. Can we grab a booth?"

Brandon glared fiercely. "Hey, uh, douchewad. A hostess will seat you. Do I look like a fucking hostess?"

Taken aback, Dean spluttered, "Do you want to look like a hostess?"

As Brandon stalked away, Sam leaned forward. "That didn't really make any sense, what you… Y'know, said."

Chrys was staring in awe. "What the hell was that?"

"Sure hope we don't get Brandon's section," Bobby said darkly.


"Sidewinder soup and salad combo goes to Big Bird, patty melt combo goes to Bitch Barbie, TDK slammer to Ken Doll, and a little heart-smart for creepy uncle."

Dean was staring at their waiter in shock. "What's your problem?"

"You're my problem," Brandon snarled before stalking away.

Bobby blinked. "Brandon's got his flare all up in a bunch."

Chrys snorted. "There goes his eighteen percent."

Dean shrugged. "Whatever. Anyway, chief ranger? I don't think he believes in the Jersey Devil."

Sam snapped his fingers. "Oh, oh, and by the way, did he seem a little, uh… Stoned to you?"

"Ranger Rick? Yeah. Definitely growing his own on the back forty and smoking the profits."

Sam nodded. "I mean, he did seem to think that there was something-"

"Oh, that is a good sandwich," Dean moaned happily. It was a decidedly carnal sound.

"What the hell is it?" Chrys asked.

Dean turned the card advertising the special placed on the table toward them. Chrys wrinkled her nose. "What the fuck?"

"New Pepperjack Turducken Slammer," Dean said cheerfully, deepening his voice to sound like an announcer. "Limited time only."

Bobby shook his head. "Bunch of birds shoved up inside each other. Shouldn't play god like that."

"Hey, don't look at me sideways from that, that Chinese chicken geezer salad there, okay?" Dean protested to Sam, who was also making face. Chrys snickered, and Dean continued. "This is awesome. Like the perfect storm of your top three edible birds."

Sam rolled his eyes and apparently decided to ignore his brother. "All right, anyway, uh… The ranger did seem to think there was something out in Wharton forest."

While they talked shop, and even through watching Brandon the Best Waiter Ever throw a fit at another table, Chrys kept a close eye on Dean. She was no stranger to depression or suicidal thoughts, and it was starting to feel like Dean was veering in that direction. With everything else heaped on top of them, it was easy to see how he could get discouraged, but she'd be damned if she let his brain win where so many other creatures had failed to kill him.

Yeah, over my dead body, she thought grimly.


Sam was trying to stay focused on the mission, but Chrys had changed back into a pair of tight jeans, so it was hard.

They stalked through the woods single-file, trying to find the missing ranger. Bobby was leading them, because as good as Sam and Dean were at hunting the supernatural, they were kind of garbage when it came to regular hunting.

Bobby stopped at a bush to examine a tuft of hair. Dean was staring up at the sky, Chrys was paying close attention to Bobby, and Sam was paying even closer attention to Chrys.

The older hunter showed them what he was looking at. "Couple of bucks. Head-butting over turf, probably." He looked up at Chrys. "Pretty sure the other fella won."

"I keep forgetting that before you were a hunter, you were actually a… Y'know, hunter," Sam said sheepishly.

Bobby shrugged. "Yeah, well, we shot our dinner when I was a kid."

Dean smiled. "You used to take us hunting, remember? Dad had a case, he'd just dump us on you. Shit, you must have taught us most of the outdoor tracking we know."

"Yeah, what I could get to stick," Bobby scoffed. "I never could get you little grubs to pull a trigger on a single deer."

Sam watched as Chrys lit up. "Aw, did you guys have trouble killing something all squishy and soft?"

"Shut it, Summers," Dean said cheerfully. "You're talking about Bambi, woman." Sam laughed.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "You don't shoot Bambi, jackass. You shoot Bambi's mother."

Sam winced. "That's even worse."

A drop of blood hitting her shoulder stopped whatever response any of them may have had. Frowning, Sam looked up to see a bloodied arm hanging from a tree.

"Huh," Dean said thoughtfully. "Looks like we found Phil."


Chrys huddled next to Sam for the warmth he seemed to radiate at all times as they watched Ranger Rick pull up in his Jeep and jump out. He was still a little wobbly on his feet and she frowned. He must have gotten another hit between the restaurant and now. There's no way he'd still be this high.

I know too much about this shit.

"Special agents," the Ranger said. "Listen, I got your call, but I'm not sure I got what you were saying." When Dean pointed up to the arm still hanging in the tree, Rick's eyebrows went up. "Hey, I think we found Phil."

Dean grinned. "That's what I said!"

"Uh…" The ranger rubbed his chin hard. "I should probably call this in."

Sam was frowning, too. "Yeah, yeah. Solid move, Rick."

The Ranger nodded and moved back to his Jeep. He pulled the walkie-talkie connected to the vehicle out the window and hit the button.

A rustle from behind the Ranger's car made Chrys frown. "Um…"

"This is Ranger Evans up at Archer's Point. Come in. Uh, repeat." Rick brightened. "This is Chief Ranger Evans."

There was a screeching noise, then a response. "Chief Ranger, go ahead."

The rustling continued, got louder. Chrys grabbed Sam's hand. "Hey-"

"I have a situation out at Archer's Point," Rick was saying into the radio.

"Sam!" Chrys hissed, pulling him forward.

"We got company," Bobby Bobby said grimly.

Rick smiled dopily. "Yeah? Who's that?"

Chrys had already started to step forward when something grabbed the Ranger and yanked him backwards, into the forest.

"Rick!"


Chrys felt too tightly wound as they placed the dead creature on the table in the abandoned house they were staying at. She'd argued strongly for finding somewhere else (literally anywhere else) to do the examination, but had been soundly overruled.

Dicks.

Bobby was looking warily at the thing. It… Sort of looked like a person. A person who'd somehow had all of the fat sucked off of him, so he was just bone and muscle beneath his skin. His eyes were a cloudy, greyish green. He had clothes on, so he had, presumably, been a person at some point, but that point was long gone now.

Chrys was exceedingly glad it was dead.

"Built like a supermodel," Bobby said, "but the thing was strong, that's for damn sure. Carried a full grown man up a tree in nothing flat."

"But it only took one bullet to bring it down," Sam mused, running a hand through his hair.

"And not even a silver bullet!" Dean chirped. "Just a bullet bullet."

Dean was starting to grate on Chrys' nerves.

As she had the thought, the creature bolted upright, snarling and reaching its hands toward her. Before she could really even process it, Chrys whipped out her gun and started firing into its chest. The other three did the same until it fell back down onto the table.

"First one must have just stunned it." Bobby sounded shaken up.

"Well, all righty then," Dean said, clapping his hands together. The loud sound made Chrys' trigger finger twitchy. "Let's check its hulk pants for some ID." He fished the wallet out of the thing's pocket, his face set in disgust. "Oh, that is just gonna ruin the leather."

Chrys snatched it out of his hands. "Give me that, you nimwit."

Bobby was surveying the eldest Winchester. "You feeling okay?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah. I feel great."

Chrys flipped the wallet open to the driver's license slot, still giving Dean the stink eye before she looked down to read. "Gerald Bowder. Lived in town. Five foot nine. Brown hair, blue eyes, and…" She looked back up at the body on the table. "Two hundred thirty-five pounds."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Woah."

"Well, apparently, he's lost a little pudge," Bobby mused."

Dean chuckled. "Maybe it's a lap-band side effect."

Chrys watched with suspicion curling in her heart as Dean laughed. When he'd calmed himself down, Sam found a stick in the living room and poked it into one of the bullet wounds of the creature. It began to ooze thick gray goo.

"The hell?" Bobby said, wincing.

"Better have a look under Gerald's hood," Sam said darkly.


Chrys could not believe she was so desperately in love with a man who had so casually ripped open Gerald's chest cavity so they could see what made him tick. Oh, sure, the raw strength he'd exhibited when separating his ribcage made her heart go pitter-patter, but… Well, gross.

"God! Its organs are swimming in the stuff." Bobby sounded disgusted. Chrys felt that he was much too close to the creature they weren't sure was dead.

They'd found forceps somewhere, which made Chrys survey them both with dark suspicion. Sam said he'd just found them when he'd seen the alarm in her eyes, but she was wise to his ways. The love of my life, she thought ruefully, carries forceps around in his duffel.

Dean came back into the room, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "You guys getting hungry? I'm getting hungry."

Chrys sent him a death glare. And all of the men in my life are ghouls.

Sam and Bobby were studiously ignoring Dean. "What's that?" Sam asked, pointing.

"His stomach," Bobby said, his mustache twitching in what Chrys could only hope was disgust. "For a guy on a diet, Gerry here packed it in pretty good."

Sam pointed again. "That's human right there."

Bobby sighed. "That's fresh Rick. Let's see…" He used his forceps to move some of the innards around, and Chrys wondered why she was still in the room as her gag reflex made itself known.

Bobby continued, ignorant of her distress. "Plus… A pine cone? Pack of gum in the wrapper."

"This over here is older. Maybe like a…" Sam winced. "Mabe Ranger Phil? Or the camper?"

Then Bobby was pointing. "What's that?"

Sam followed his lead. "Looks like a…" He pulled something out in the forceps, and Chrys had to cover her mouth with her hand. "Yeah, that's a…. That's a cat's head."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Chrys groaned.

Bobby's eyebrows were at his hairline. "A glamper or two is one thing, but you gotta be damn hungry to eat a cat's head." When Sam agreed, Bobby dug into the creature with his own forceps (Chrys was going to get new friends) and pulled out a big black hunk of… Grossness.

"I think that's his adrenal glands."

Sam blinked. "Okay… And?"

"Meant to be the size of hotel bar soap... " Bobby waved it a little. "And bright orange."

"All right," Sam said, nodding, "that might explain the strength. Um, but whatever this thing is, it's not the Jersey Devil, but it sure as hell ain't Gerald Browder anymore."

"Okay, guys," Dean complained, "seriously. "It's time for dinner!"


They were back at Biggerson's, much to Chrys' displeasure (although it could have been said that the only thing that would have given her pleasure at this point would have been leaving this godforsaken town in the dust, and that would have been fair).

Her stomach hadn't really recovered from breaking Gerald open like a cheap walnut, so she just glared at Dean, who was eating like he was fine. Around them, Sam and Bobby discussed the case.

"Missing person number three," Sam said. "Disappeared eight days ago."

"Well, that explains all the people who got eaten in the last eight days."

Dean gave an indecent moan as he took a particularly large bite.

"Dean," Chrys hissed. She straightened a little. "What do you think happened to him?"

He shrugged. "I'm not that worried about it."

Bobby frowned. "Excuse me?"

"That's funny, right? I could give two shakes of a rat's ass. Is that right? Do rats shake their ass? Or is it something else?" He considered for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh."

Several things came together very quickly in Chrys' mind. She reached across the table and snatched Dean's disgusting sandwich out of his hands. Ignoring his indignant, "Hey!" she signalled their server.

"We're gonna need a box for this."


"This is stupid," Dean groused. "My sandwich didn't do anything. I don't know what you think you're gonna find."

Sam unwrapped the sandwich like he was opening a bomb, which was the first thing he'd done that Chrys had approved of heartily in several hours.

"There's something wrong with you, Dean," Bobby said, placating.

"Are you kidding? I'm fine! I actually feel great. The best I've felt in a couple months." He shrugged. "Cass? Black goo? I don't even care anymore. And you know what's even better? I don't care that I don't care. I just want my damn slammer back."

"Dude," Sam protested, "you're completely stoned, just like Ranger Rick was."

Chrys nodded. "Which explains how his high lasted so long. He was essentially shooting up every time he sat down to eat."

"Just like the dinner rush back at Biggerson's," Bobby concluded. "And everybody's loving the Turducken."

As he spoke, grey goo started to bubble out of the sandwich with a nauseating splat sound. All four of them stared at it in horror for a moment.

Dean swallowed hard. "I think you pissed off my sandwich."


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