A/N: Oh, what the heck. Got other things I plan on posting later on today, so I decided to let the cows out one day early.
Disclaimer: I know I don't own 'em. You know I don't own 'em. Must you torment me with that cruel knowledge?
At first the food at the rest stop's just about what you'd expect: fast, and greasy. Doesn't mean good or cheap, though. A burger, fries, and a small soda's eight bucks. John suspects that either Dean or Coyote gave the credit cards a good tweaking, the mother of all tweaks, as a matter of fact, because they've had a run of real good luck lately. As in unlimited, phenomenal credit.
John briefly wonders whether it's a waste of power having them engage in something as low as credit card fraud, but he doesn't miss that mellow gleam in Dean's eyes. If his family's happy and taken care of, Dean's happy, so John lets the matter drop.
The salads in the those clear plastic clamshell containers look like they were fresh last week sometime, and Sam's pretty sure that botulism and e-coli lurks in those withered greenish-brown leaves. He tries in vain to go for something healthy and fails miserably. He's shoulder to shoulder with Dean as they stand at the counter eyeing the menu overhead and Sam doesn't miss the way Dean's eyes spark golden.
The food's suddenly too good, too fresh to come from a roadside joint like this one, and there's plenty for everybody. People who shuffled in with only pocket lint and three quarters in their jeans suddenly find tens and twenties in their pockets.
Sam's lost count how many times Dean's done this since they came back from New Mexico months ago. First time he did it, Sam and John instantly knew what happened, and Dean just shrugged. What's the sense of havin' all this mojo if I can't use it, huh?
Sam's willing to overlook something like this. No moral outrage on his part. Not this time.
They're sitting at one of the picnic tables on the side nearest the parking lot. Sam dives into that turkey sub, nearly moans as he bites into it and indescribable goodness floods his taste buds.
Dean rolls his eyes as he attacks his food. Red meat's within striking distance and he's not wasting any time.
John's quiet as he goes to work on that triple hamburger of his. He's not sweating the cholesterol. Dean devours half of his own triple burger, pauses in mid-bite, and the center of his pupils glow a soft, mellow gold.
Sam freezes. So does John. Dean's usually not this obvious, not out in public, anyway.
Dean stares into space as the glow in his eyes brightens. No one else notices.
"Well, I'll be damned," Dean whispers, and that weird overlay to his voice lets John and Sam know that Coyote and Dean have merged, however briefly.
Whatever the hell this is, it can't be good.
Dean gets up without another word and quickly walks through the picnic area, Sam and John right on his heels. John's very aware of the pistol in his back waistband. Silver rounds. He knows a trick or two if this is something that silver doesn't work on.
Sam's only a step or two behind Dean. He hears Dean chuckle under his breath, but even though Dean sounds relaxed and even happy Sam doesn't let his guard down. He's heard his brother make that same sound just as they were about to go hunt something terrible, like werewolves. Sometimes it's kind of hard to tell what mood Dean's really in.
Dean walks up to this nattily attired black dude sitting at one of the tables, sipping orange juice from a glass bottle.
Sam stops short, and he can't help but stare. Dude looks just like Samuel L. Jackson.
Dean slides onto the opposite bench, leans forward as he puts his elbows on the table. He grins wolfishly. "Sam the Man. I loved you in 'Snakes on a Plane'!"
"That makes you an' twenty other people in the continental United States," the black dude says dryly. He quirks an eye at Dean. "I see bein' walled up for over 22 years didn't dull that sense of humor of yours."
Sam and John walk up behind Dean, and the black man looks up and smiles, nods. "Well. The family that stays together hunts together. Samuel and John Winchester."
Dude's image changes each time Sam and John blink. One moment he wears ornate black robes edged with intricate silver webbing on the sleeves and the hem. The skullcap on his head matches the robes, but that's not the most striking part.
He has eight arms, and a gold or silver ring on each finger.
Each arm moves independently of the other. Several arms are just idle, tapping on the worn wooden tabletop, or tracing intricate designs on the wood out of boredom. One hand holds the glass bottle of orange juice, while the parallel hand gently smooths out the folds of those midnight black robes. Still another hand holds a copy of the local newspaper, while the other hand holds one of the paper menus.
"It's Tuesday. The burgers are on special today," Dean says mildly, and the guy laughs, a warm, hearty sound.
The only constant is that pair of silver wire-rimmed glasses perched on the dude's nose.
Sam just stares, fascinated. The next blink the man's wearing jeans, a black tee shirt and a tan jacket. Minus the four extra arms, of course.
Either way, well hell, he looks like Samuel L. Jackson sitting in a food court drinking OJ.
John nods back politely. He figures he can pull his weapon in one motion if need be. "And you are?" He already knows the answer. He just wants to hear it out loud.
"I have many names." Sam listens attentively but he can't place the accent. It's not Jamaican. Not Nigerian, either. "I am Kweku Anansi. Ananse. I am the son of Nyame and Asase Ya, husband of Aso."
Dean shakes his head. "You can stop being so formal. Dad, Sam, this is Aunt Nancy. Otherwise known as Spider."
John frowns. "Spider? The Trickster Anansi?"
Sam fairly sputters. "Dean, how do you…when did you…" For once Sam's at a loss for words.
Dean laughs.
Sam finally gets it together. "Uh, Dean? Why didn't you tell us about..umm…this?" Sam flinches as soon as he says it. This? Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam gets his meaning: Way to go, Sammy. Insult the ancient trickster dude, why don't you?
Remarkably enough, Anansi doesn't take offense.
Dean shrugs. " 'cause you didn't ask me."
"I have to ask?" Sam sounds amazed.
"Yep. And even then I might not tell ya," Dean adds sotto voce.
Sam lightly cuffs him upside the head.
"Hey! Take it easy with that massive Sasquatch paw of yours, Francis."
"Been noticin' anythin' strange in the atmosphere lately?" Anansi quirks an eyebrow at them. "Flying objects of the bovine variety? I heard rumors 'bout it. Came ta see for myself."
"Whoa. Dude, you gotta work on your timing. We took care of that about two hours ago."
Anansi frowns. "Did you now? That's not what I heard, Old Man."
Dean tilts his head slightly to one side. "So. What'd you hear?" The inflection is pure Coyote.
Before Anansi can answer a vision of feminine beauty slinks up to the table, and even John stops and stares.
She's gorgeous. Tall, shapely, skin the color and smoothness of rich dark chocolate, a perfect round face framed by a waist-length mass of wavy coal back hair. Her image shifts, from those bejeweled royal blue robes that hug her body, to faded blue jeans and a light blue tee shirt in the next blink.
Dean looks up at her and smiles, and she smiles right back as he gets to his feet.
"I'd heard 'bout you, child. They were right. You're gorgeous, you are."
Anansi nods. "Oshun. The Winchesters. Dean, Samuel and John."
All three say hello as she smiles and nods at them.
Sam's already processing this bit of information. Oshun. The answer comes soon enough out of the Sam Winchester Encyclopedia of Weirdness database: Oshun. Yoruba goddess of Love, Creativity, and Sensuality.
Sensuality, Sam thinks. Oh yeah, that figures.
She sits down next to Anansi and Dean takes his seat again.
Coyote fades into thin air right next to Dean's feet. "Hello, darlin'."
"Hello, Céré." Her smile gets even brighter.
Nobody in the entire rest stop notices the oversized, perfect looking coyote as it pads over and sits down at the bejeweled feet of the Yoruba goddess.
She runs her fingers down Coyote's chest, massages his ears, strokes his neck. The Old Man grins like a loon.
Dean shudders. He fidgets and squirms in his seat. It takes both John and Sam a moment to realize that Dean's getting really, ah, worked up.
Dean Junior certainly does not mind. Neither does Coyote.
Coyote's eyes close. Oshun runs her long slim fingers through his fur slowly, sensuously. Dean's head moves in the same circular motion that Coyote's does. Dean's eyes glaze over. He finally stops himself and blinks.
"Uh…could you…" Dean clears his throat. He sounds a trifle…squeaky. "Could you stop doin' that?"
Anansi snorts out loud. Sam frowns, then shakes his head. John clearly wants to bust out laughing but he reins himself in with a visible effort.
A slight blush colors Oshun's perfect cheekbones as she looks at Dean. She pulls her hand back from Coyote. "I'm sorry, sweetie. You got that whole furry thing going on here."
"Hey," Coyote grumbles, "I didn't say you could stop."
Dean reaches out with his mind and thumps Coyote upside the head.
Oww! What the hell was that for?
They usually call her The Modest One.
Not with me. Fur is her kink.
Isn't she Shango's girlfriend? His, uh, consort?
Well, yeah. Never stopped us before. Coyote sniffs loftily. It's an open relationship.
Yeah, I bet. Well, I'm not gonna get my ass fried by a lightning bolt from the African God of Thunder just because of you. Put a leash on it, Old Man.
Oshun puts her hands on the table instead as Coyote sits there with his ears lowered slightly. He grumbles something underneath his breath about Dean pulling the stick out of his a--
What was that? Dean snarls ominously.
Hmph. Nothing.
Anansi shrugs. "As one trickster to another, Roamer, watch your back."
"You came all this way just to tell us that?" Coyote snaps. Anansi ignores him.
"I couldn't find out the who, but I know the how. This thing with the flying bovines is not over. Be careful out there."
"Gee, Spider," Coyote drawls lazily. "Didn't know you cared."
"I don't. You still owe me, remember?" One of the hands comes up and for added emphasis points directly at the Old Man. "And permanently dead tricksters can't repay debts."
"Oh." Coyote's ears droop, just a little.
Oshun smiles brightly at Dean. "Well, goodbye. It was nice meeting you."
All Sam remembers is that they all mumbled something politely stupid as Oshun and Anansi disappear in the blink of an eye.
Dean sits there and eyes Coyote. "So. You owe him, huh? For what?"
"That was a long time ago." Coyote grins sheepishly. "I paid him. He -- he just forgot."
"Uh huh. Yeah." Dean gets up, jiggling his girl's keys in his right hand.
"You didn't have to cut, uh, whatever that was short on our account. The three of you could've gotten a room. Sam and I could ah, find something to do for the rest of the day. And night, even." John shrugs, and his eyes go kind of blank, like he's trying real hard to not to imagine what would go on in the motel room. "Something."
"Dad…" Dean shakes his head. Sam snorts. Loudly.
John shrugs. "I'm just saying."
Listen to him, niño. Coyote rumbles softly. I could call her back.
I don't do threesomes, dude.
I like the way John thinks.
Shut uppp…
000
Five minutes and fifty miles down the highway later John's cell phone goes off.
"Hey, Bobby."
"Just wanted to check on you boys. Keepin' out of trouble, huh?"
John grins. "Yeah. We are."
They hear mooing at first. It's faint, barely noticeable over the rumble of the Impala's engine on the highway
The sun's blotted out as something dive-bombs the Impala. Dean has excellent lane control and doesn't waver, but playing chicken with his girl while Dad and Sam are around is pissing him off.
In the back seat Sam leans forward and stares as the object gains altitude. It's a black and white jersey cow, and the poor thing is bug-eyed with fear, legs waving madly as it rises into the air.
"I gotta go, Bobby," John says distantly. "We got cows."
"Cows? What the f—" John snaps his cell shut.
Sam quirks an eyebrow at Dean. "Dean, you know what that is?"
"Do I know – why, of course I do. It's the beef council expressing their thanks for our support." Dean growls harshly. "It's a damned cow, am I right?"
The cow rushes back directly at the car, and for a moment the windshield's filled with the onrushing spectacle of 1800 pounds of flailing, panic-stricken airborne beef on the hoof.
"Son of a bitch--" Dean jags the Impala to the left, and the cow hits the ground behind them in a cloud of dust and concrete chips.
Not over yet, Coyote whispers softly. Right, go right --
Dean does, just in time to avoid another large object that plows into the space the Impala was in only seconds before. He puts up a shield to deflect the flying gravel and debris as his girl fishtails off the shoulder of the road and comes to a stop on the opposite side of the highway.
They sit there for a long minute. There's no other traffic on the road this time of day, and that's a miracle in and of itself. The Impala sits encased in a shield on all four sides. If that tractor trailer that crashed into her two years ago that night came along now, it would bounce right off. As it is, it's still friggin' nerve-racking to sit there like that.
The dust cloud settles after another minute or so, and they finally get their first real good look at the unidentified flying object.
It's a cow. A big white one this time.
Only thing is, the cow's not alone. It's stiff, all four legs sticking straight up into the air, just like all the others they'd seen in the past week or so, but its inside the wreckage of a trailer rig, attached to the remains of a dark blue F-150 pick up.
"Son of a bitch," John whispers softly.
"Huh," Dean says dryly as the dust settles. "I think they just traded up."
000
Depending on where I decide to put the chapter breaks, we have two more chapters of bovine inspired insanity to go.