Dean would rather have taken his little excursion during daylight, but that was not to be, much to his chagrin. Sam had been on his case the rest of the day, making sure that, not only Dean behaved with his pills, but actually ate something other than salted peanuts.
When Sam finally backed off and went to bed, the full moon was the only source of light Dean had to see his way around. A sane person would've left it for the following day, but it was his sanity itself that Dean was trying to protect. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep without knowing for sure what the hell had happened earlier on.
There were stairs.
Dean had totally forgotten about the stairs. But then again, you couldn't exactly remember something you'd not been aware of in the first place, and back when they'd first arrived, 'aware' did not describe Dean's pain-killer-doped-up haze, not in the least. So, fine. The stairs were probably there since like forever.
Ten stairs. He could totally do ten stairs.
Keeping a death grip of the railing, Dean carefully picked a place on the first step to brace his crutch and carefully began his descent. For two insanely tense seconds, he hovered in mid-air, neither foot in contact with a hard surface, before his good leg landed near the rubber base of the crutch, balancing his weight.
One down. All those remaining fuckers to go.
By the time Dean reached the soft, dirt ground, he was ready to call it quits. His good leg was shaking, his arms were trembling, his frigging teeth were rattling inside his mouth like those weird ass things that Spanish dancers clapped in their hands. Everything had turned to jello and Dean was not finding it the least bit amusing.
Taking a minute or twenty to catch his breath, Dean was finally able to reach the spot where he'd seen the buck get killed. Turning on his flashlight, he aimed the feeble beam of light everywhere: at the bushes, at the ground, at the tree trucks near the place where he'd seen it go down. Other than scaring away two owls and a fox, the search was pretty useless.
"Oh c'mon…" Dean murmured and widened the area of exploration.
It was no use, though. There wasn't even the faintest hint of blood, no sign at all that a body had ever been there.
Dean shuddered with more than the night's cold and his own deepening exhaustion. Sam had been right. He'd just imagined it all.
Disgruntled, Dean pulled his coat closer to his body and resigned himself to once again face the Everest of stairs. This had all been a monumental waste of time and energy.
If Dean was being honest with himself, something he avoided as often as he could, there had been loads of weird crap happening around him ever since they'd arrive at Rufus' cabin. And given that Dean had been happily skimming through his recovery on a chemically induced oblivion, thanks to a steady stash of pain meds ever since he'd left the hospital, Dean couldn't deny the possibility that maybe his brain and reality weren't exactly seeing eye to eye.
For one, there was that weird voice that he heard on occasion, a voice belonging to neither Sam nor Bobby, a voice that Dean had been too embarrassed to ask them if they'd heard as well.
And the Smurf. Well, it hadn't actually been blue like Smurfs tend to be, but the thing Dean had thought he'd seen was no bigger than two feet tall, had a big bushy beard and a white cap on his head. Just like Papa Smurf.
Sure, most days for the past week, Dean had woken disoriented and without a clue where he was and why there was a heavy cast on his leg, but that confusion went away after a bit, mostly after he'd rubbed the sleep off his face and had downed his first cup of coffee. Or his first beer, depending which was closer at hand. And no, that wasn't a sign of alcoholism; as far as Dean saw it, it was merely an issue of mobility. He had those now.
But full on imagining things that weren't there? Shit like that hadn't happened to Dean in a very long time.
At first, when his Hell memories had started resurfacing, Dean had found it very difficult to tell what was happening now apart from what had happened before, just like Sam. Sure, Dean hadn't been keeping conversations with Lucifer at the time, but it had taken him a while to stop seeing people's guts hanging out whenever he looked at someone. Or seeing Alastair over his shoulder, like some bloodthirsty crow, whenever he looked in the mirror reflection.
The pills had helped, he guessed. So had the drinking.
But now that he sort of had a handle on that, it scared the crap out of Dean that he might be losing it again. Not now, not when Sam needed him to be the one with a firm grasp on reality.
Dean's mind swirled with panicky thoughts as he walked back. He should've been paying more attention to where he was stepping instead, because not a half hop later, his good foot snagged on something half buried in the ground. Suddenly unbalanced, Dean pitched forward and stumbled. Struggling to stay on his feet, he put his bad foot down and leaned too heavily on the damn too-short-crutch under his arm.
There was no telling which hurt the most: the jolt of pain traveling up his leg as the cast failed to insulate Dean's broken bone from the impact with the frozen ground or the hard metal of the crutch, biting into the tender flesh of his armpit. "Son of a bitch!"
Tears sprung to his eyes, but Dean was more pissed than sad or hurt. First his brain was bailing on him, and now he found himself stumbling in the dark, like some drunk, crazy person. All that was missing now was for Sam to come outside and find him like that. Or Bobby, to return earlier from his latest supply run.
Fortunately for Dean's dignity, Bobby didn't like driving at night and Sam wouldn't be waking any time soon. Dean's magic pills, the ones he'd started taking because there was no way he could keep on waking Lisa and Ben every single night with his screaming nightmares, worked wonders on Sam as well. Didn't stop him from checking out during the day, or having muted conversations with fucking Satan, but it guaranteed that Sam, at least, got a good night's sleep.
Angling the beam of his flashlight down, Dean aimed it at the guilty piece of crap that had almost sent him face planting.
There was a bone sticking out from the ground. A large, white, devoid of any sort of flesh, bone sticking from the ground.
He cursed his gimp leg for not allowing him to crouch down. His only other choice was to sit down and dig the thing out, but with nothing around to grab onto, he'd be spending the rest of the night freezing his butt off. Instead, Dean tried to loosen the dirt around the bone with the tip of his crutch.
Rubber tips, however, worked for shit at digging, and balancing his weight on one foot, while basic for Dean on most days, was impossibly hard when one leg weighed double of the other. Every time Dean managed to get the rubber edge in the right place and dislodge a piece of dirt, his balance was lost and he had to start all over again.
He was pretty sure that that the bone was all that remained of the dead buck; Dean's proof that he wasn't going nuts. He only had to... wait until morning and ask either Bobby or Sam to dig it out for him so that they could finally see that he was right.
Dragging his weary body back to the stairs, Dean looked back. Given what had happened earlier, with the whole buck and blood vanishing in the blink of an eye, there was no way Dean was leaving his sole evidence abandoned like that, all night long.
Easing himself on the stairs, Dean leaned back and readied himself for a long wait.
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
"What the hell are you doing there?"
Bobby. Screaming. Not good.
Dean opened his eyes and scrunched his face in annoyance. Bobby was totally scaring the chirping birds away. "Hey, Bobby... I was-" he started, the reason why he was sitting in a flight of frozen steps escaping through his half-asleep brain. He was glad that it was cold enough to stop his cheeks from turning red. Damn Bobby and his ability to make Dean feel like he was five again. He was a grown man, for Pete's sake!
"You were making sure you got pneumonia along with a gimp leg, is that it?" Bobby went on, steamrolling all over Dean's failed attempt at explaining himself in two seconds flat.
Finally remembering why he was out there in the cold, sitting on legs he could no longer feel, Dean looked up. "You have to dig out the bone!"
Which, of course, did nothing to help his case of pleading sanity.
"What the hell are you talking about, boy?" Bobby let out, his roughness slowly giving way to concern. He had that look in his grey eyes, the one that spoke of pity and helplessness over how broken Dean was.
Dean hated that look, even when it was coming from Bobby. "Something weird, like supernatural weird, killed a buck yesterday, right in front of the cabin and now there is a bone buried in the dirt and I need it to prove to Sam that I wasn't imagining things because I'm not insane," Dean explained.
Somehow, that had sounded a lot better in his head. The sneeze that he'd been trying to keep inside, busted out of Dean as he finished, rocking his whole aching body. "Shit!"
Bobby looked back to where Dean had been pointing the whole time, doing his perfect impersonation of Lassie. "Over there?" he asked before turning and walking the small distance.
"There!" Dean directed when he saw Bobby standing directly above the spot. "Right there. It should be easy to see; nearly fell last night when I stumbled over the thing."
Dean had the grace to shut up when Bobby send him a look before resuming his task. It told exactly what the older man thought of the fact that, one: Dean was out since the previous night; and two: that he'd almost fell out there.
There were ants crawling inside Dean's stomach as he watched Bobby hunch down and dig around the dirt with his hands. Dean grunted as he got to his feet, figuring that the older man was taking just too damn long to find something that was right there, near the surface.
The air was heavy, or maybe gravity was being a bitch to Dean that particular morning, but man… he felt like he weighed two tons. On unsteady steps, hobbling actually, Dean made his way slowly towards Bobby. "So, did you find it?"
Bobby looked up at him, holding a small skull in his hand. Some kind of rodent, from the looks of its teeth. Probably a squirrel. Certainly not a buck. "Yeah, I found your bone."
Dean grabbed the thing from Bobby's hand with a frown. "No... no, no, no! This was not what I saw last night," he vented, throwing the small thing away. "It was a long bone, a big bone… Jesus! Fuck!"
Bobby rose to his feet, wiping the dirt off his hands on his jeans. "I think its best we go inside. What do you say, Dean?"
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
Dean refused to get up from the couch the rest of the day. And the day after that. And the one that followed.
He wasn't being emo; he had a cold from the night he'd spend outside and his leg was taking turns in between itching like a herpes-ridden whore – because casts were, apparently, like white, giant zits- and hurting like a bitch –because that's what happens when you stop taking your pain meds because they are making you hallucinate. Also, there was snot and sneezing... not always as separate events.
The couch-attachment had, of course, nothing to do with the fact that, while he remained with his eyes glued to the TV screen, it was easier for Dean to ignore the looks that Sam and Bobby kept throwing his way, as well as make sure that his sight and mind were distracted enough to avoid wondering off into half-assed hallucinations.
And that was what scared Dean the most; the fact that, even though he had stopped with the pills, he was still seeing things.
He hadn't ventured outside again. For one, he did have a cold and no intention to further prove to Bobby that he was actually dimwitted by turning it into pneumonia; also, Dean was sure that the minute he stepped outside, some other animal would get killed, or a tree would start walking, or the frigging mountains would burst into song and dance and that was the last thing that he needed.
So, it was Mexican soap operas and Wild Life programs for him. And a sore butt because, as it turned out, sitting on your ass all day long was actually tiring.
Every time Dean turned his attention away from the TV, however, the Smurf was back. The more time Dean spent inside, focus on not looking, the more he saw the little thing everywhere.
When Dean woke in the morning, almost every day now, the little bearded man was there, standing by the coffee table, picking fallen salty peanuts from the floor and mumbling, "Such a mess, such a mess, such a messy mess."
Dean usually spared a look around the living room, trying to gauge whether Sam or Bobby was seeing any of that, but most of the times he was either alone or they simply weren't looking.
Figuring that closing his eyes again and ignore the half muted words was the sanest course of action, Dean usually did just that. When he looked again, seconds later, the vision was gone. Almost every single time.
One time, Dean had woken to find it staring at his cast, like it was trying to melt it with his gaze alone, breathing hard on Dean's unprotected toes. It had freaked Dean out, made him jump out of the couch and land on the floor with a pained grunt. Bobby, cooking dinner at the time, had just stared at him until Dean had lamely whispered "Spider".
Then there were the few times in the bathroom, where Dean would catch a fleeting glance of something in the corner of his eye, balancing from the –now bare- shower curtain rod that Sam had managed to put up again, or playing with the shower head or even –and that had to be the weirdest of all of Dean's hallucinations- soap-skating on the shower stall.
A few days after that, the thing had started looking back at him, not bothering to hide anymore. Like it was defying Dean to acknowledge his presence and out himself as an insane person. Dean was too miserable and in pain to give it the satisfaction.
Right now, it was yanking a long, thin branch across the living room. It waved at Dean as it passed, sleazy smile on his tiny face, like it was the most normal of things.
"Hey, Sam," Dean called out, slightly panicked, pointedly ignoring the racket Papa Smurf. Instead, he twisted around and looked at where his brother sat by the table. Sam had a book in his hands, the third one he'd gone through, from Rufus' small stash, ever since his concussion had backed off enough for him to be able to focus on the small print. There was no way a book on seeds and herbs could be compelling enough to stop Sam from noticing what was going on in there. "Grab me a cup of coffee, will ya?"
Sam gave him a look above the edge of the open book. "There is no coffee, remember?" he said, sounding half annoyed, half exasperated. "You drank the last of it yesterday. The whole pot."
Dean stared at his brother. Right. Just like he'd eaten the whole pie.
Either they had some coffee addict, pie-eating, five foot tall rats in the cabin, or one of them was eating and drinking in his sleep. And Dean's bladder assured him that it hadn't been him, though there was no convincing Sam of that. "Sam… are you," Dean started again, wishing for a nice way to phrase what he needed to ask. "You sure it isn't you doing these things? I mean, without knowing… maybe like, sleep walking?"
Sam gave him no answer other than a raised eyebrow and a huff, before closing his book and walking outside. Because he could do that, the two legged bastard.
"I was just asking!" Dean yelled at Sam's retreating back, looking longingly at his crappy crutches.
Sitting back, Dean let his head fall back into the couch. There was a hole in the ceiling wooden planks, like a black eye staring back at him. Frowning at him.
Dean felt bad. He knew how sensitive Sam was about the whole head thing he had going. And of course, unless Dean came right out and confessed that he was experiencing the same, Sam would only see Dean's questions as lack of trust in him. Broken minds sucked worse than broken bones.
The sound of a hand saw, going back and forth on wood, coming from the kitchen pulled Dean's attention away from his funk. "What the hell…"
Pulling himself to his feet, Dean bit down a grunt of pain and grabbed the wall for support. From where he stood, he could only catch a small portion of the whole kitchen.
The tree branch was on the floor, shaking as someone cut into it. Already all around it was a mess of leaves, dirt and sawdust.
Hands on the wall, Dean moved a couple of inches further, trying to see deeper into the kitchen. Papa Smurf was sweating and cursing, pulling a saw almost as big as he, yakking at the branch. With a happy yelp on the small man's part, the branch snapped, leaving a sharp end.
Dean gulped. That thing was sharp enough to gut a man. He closed his eyes, willing the vision to go away.
This had nothing to do with Hell; there were no Smurfs in Hell. Maybe a couple of those Teletubbies creeps, but no Smurfs. This was plainly insane. "You're losing your marbles here, Dean," he whispered to himself, feeling the sweat pooling at his back. "You're gonna open your eyes and there will be nothing on that kitchen floor but grease."
And if that wasn't the case, Dean swore to himself: if that thing was still there with its sharp stick, he was going to fetch his shotgun and shoot it, hallucination or not.
"You feeling okay, son?"
Crap.
Bobby.
"Yeah… never felt better," Dean replied with a shit-eating grin. It sounded fake even to his ears.
"So… any particular reason why you're standing there, with your eyes closed and grabbing the wall like your life depends on it?"
Dean opened his mouth, planning to tell the first lie that came to his mind. He could still see the dirt left behind by the hallucination's shenanigans on the kitchen floor, even if the nasty looking branch was gone. He was losing his mind, and Sam was losing his mind and at least one of them in that cabin had better be wise to the matter. "I think I'm seeing things, Bobby," he confessed.
To his credit, Bobby didn't deck him or run for the hills. "Seeing things as in... Sam-seeing things?"
Dean could only nod, the weariness and pain of the last few days taking hold and robbing him of all his remaining strength. He switched his hold on the wall for a firm grasp on Bobby's arm. Somehow, the warm flesh underneath felt safer than the hard wood.
"Come on, let's get you sitting down before you fall down," Bobby said gently, guiding Dean back to the couch.
Dean landed with a weary sigh, refusing to meet the older man's inquisitive eyes. Which really was useless now that he'd let the cat out of the bag. "So, you're seeing Lucifer as well... or is it Hell...?" Bobby probed gently.
"I'm seeing all kinds of strange crap, Bobby," Dean confessed, massaging his head. God, this whole hallucinating thing was giving him a headache. "But not that kind of crap. It's like here, but a weird here, you know what I mean?"
Judging from how high Bobby's brow rose at that, no, he didn't know what he meant. "What exactly are you seeing?"
Dean leaned back, checking the kitchen floor. "Do you see anything on the kitchen floor?" he asked, hopeful that Bobby would prove him wrong and actually say yes.
"No," he answered, after giving it a good long look. "I mean it could use a mop, but we ain't princesses in a castle."
The younger hunter sagged deeper into the couch. A loose spring dug into the left side of his ass but he didn't even care. "So you don't see a mess of dirt, leaves and sawdust?"
Bobby looked again, as if he could've missed it the first time. "Is that what you're seeing?"
Dean nodded, reaching for the bottle of painkillers. There was no point in being crazy AND in pain.
"Why is there sawdust on the kitchen floor?"
Dean swallowed the pill dry before letting out an equally dry chuckle. "Because there was a tiny man there, sawing a sharp stick. I think he may be out to kill us all. That, or I'm going insane."
"You checked for EMF, sulphur, ectoplasm... all the usual suspects?"
Dean nodded, disheartened. He was a gimp and the world was going down the crapper faster than he could do something about it, but he was still a hunter.
"I don't think it's catchy, son," Bobby said, finally taking a seat beside him. "All of this stuff with Sam's noggin... I know this is a hard time for you, for all of us..." the older man went on, a strong hand gripping Dean's shoulder and holding tight.
It was the same shoulder where he still bore the mark Castiel had left on him, more than four years ago. The grip pressed against his skin and Dean could feel each edge of a digit, their touch overlapping like waves of comfort.
"... this whole thing with your brother, and losing the angel like that... I guess what I'm saying is that no one would blame you for cracking under the pressure, Dean," Bobby pointed out, like he was giving Dean permission to do just that. "We know you're human, just like the rest of us, and Lord knows you're way over due for some good ol' mental breakd—"
Dean pulled back, effectively dislodging Bobby's hand, and turned the TV on. It wasn't like he didn't know that Bobby's intentions were the best, letting Dean off the hook as his mind slipped away. It was the same approach the older man had taken to Sam's hallucinations and blank stares and Dean couldn't disagree more.
Sam needed grounding in reality, something that he had fortunately found in Dean's stability and in his own pain. And Dean needed his stability to keep his brother grounded in reality.
Neither of them needed someone telling them that it was okay to be seeing things that aren't' there.
"My favorite soap opera is about to start," Dean offered, his attention already focused on the TV as he flipped through all three channels. One of them had better be airing some soap opera.
Bobby was a smart guy; he knew when his company was no longer wanted.
Which was why, Dean figured, the older man sat himself more comfortably on the sofa next to him and settled himself for the long haul of bad TV.
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
Sam found them both asleep when he came back from his walk, Dean's cast over Bobby's lap and Bobby's head bent backwards at an angle that promised severe pain when he woke up.
When he'd left, Sam had just wanted some distance from Dean's veiled accusations that his head was actually worse than Sam thought. Like Lucifer had occasional spouts of the midnight munchies and had decided to eat a whole pie and a pot of coffee while Sam was looking the other way.
Sure, Sam knew that he wasn't the most reliable person as of late, but he was doing so much better in telling apart what was real and what wasn't. Dean's lack of trust, more than hurt him, made Sam doubt himself.
It had felt nice to get out of that stifling cabin, though, even if his hallucinations had decided to join him on his trek.
Lucifer had decided to 'walk the dogs', as he has put it, which meant that, for most of the way, Sam had to studiously ignore the two hellhounds that Lucifer was pulling on a leash. A few times, it felt like there was a third leash, pulling at Sam's throat every time he ignored the fallen angel.
The cut in his hand was mostly healed by now, would've been completely healed by now if Sam stopped poking at it whenever he needed a proof of reality. For now, it still hurt enough to make Lucifer's whiny voice go away when Sam pressed that scar hard enough.
Sam wished he no longer needed for such subterfuge to keep himself grounded. He wished his head would get better so that he would be one less thing for Dean to worry about, but life seemed to have only lemons for the Winchesters and, for his part, Sam was sick and tired of lemonade.
Dean, he knew, was just as sick and tired as him.
It hadn't surprised him that Dean had started to lean so heavily on the painkillers and booze. Always one ill-equipped to deal with loss, Dean had steadily become worse and worse with every other ally and friend they had lost.
Sam's mind was scrambled, but he wasn't forgetting about everyone Dean had lost in less than a week: Lisa, Ben... and now Castiel. Himself as well, if he was counting brain-damaged brothers in the list. If Bobby had been inside that house when it burned, Sam didn't want to imagine what Dean would've done, because he was pretty sure he wouldn't like it.
Watching Dean sleeping like that, relaxed and at peace, could've fooled Sam into believing that everything would be okay. But Sam wasn't a fool.
There was a long wooden stick leaning against the living room table, perched in between two chairs. Sam picked it up, admiring the craftsmanship of the piece, all smooth angles and carved handholds. It was also, Sam noted, the perfect height to fit under Dean's arm, unlike those metal crutches that he kept complaining about being too short.
Bobby, it seemed, had gone all the way to find Dean some proper support to wander around and Sam kicked himself. He should've thought about it, knowing perfectly well that his brother loved being cooped up like that just about as much as Sam did.
"Hey, old men," Sam called out, putting on his cheery, game-face. Two sets of bleary eyes zeroed on him, as both Dean and Bobby roused from sleep.
Slightly embarrassed by the position he found himself in, Dean slowly pushed his cast out of Bobby's lap and bend down, reaching for his crutches. "Shuddup, Gretel."
"Here, try this one instead," Sam offered as he handed Dean the brand new crutch.
A smile of appreciation washed over Dean's sleepy face as his eyes traveled over the long walking stick with the same level of admiration Sam had felt. "Thanks, Sammy," he whispered before making his way to the bathroom with more ease than ever.
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
Bobby felt bad for what he had said to Dean. Sure, he loved both Winchesters like the sons he never had, but that didn't gave him magical abilities to always say the right thing. Calling Dean crazy when, clearly, that boy needed someone to assure him that he wasn't losing his mind, had been genius on his part.
The thing was, Bobby had been painfully honest in his assessment because he knew Dean had been lied to way too many times. Bobby had no intention to join those ranks.
Didn't mean he didn't feel guilty, though. Which was why he had driven all the way to town to get Dean some pie. The last one had mysteriously disappeared and even if Dean had gone behind their backs and eaten the whole thing, like Sam seemed sure he had, Bobby figured he owed the kid another one. Chocolate this time, because nothing said 'I'm sorry' better than chocolate.
Bobby had thought about something handier to give Dean to ease his imprisonment in the cabin, but Sam had been faster than him. That walking stick that the kid had gotten for his brother was a sturdy and well-crafted thing, something that Bobby had no idea Sam could even do.
He was glad he had though. Dean deserved people looking after him for a change.
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
"Ingrate!"
Dean woke with a start and a sharp pain in his ankle. "Ow! Damn it!" Sleepy brain barely registering anything but the throb at the back of his good leg, Dean looked down just in time to see Papa Smurf lift the hem of his jeans, and hover open mouthed over his ankle, teeth poised to sink in again.
"Serves you right, big foot!" And with one more bite, he was gone.
"Son of bitch!" Dean let out, contorting to look at the damage. He stopped himself before pulling the blue denim up. This was all inside his head, Dean reminded himself. There was no not-blue Papa Smurf walking around the house, therefore, there was nothing wrong with his ankle.
Still, it hurt like a bitch.
"Woke up on the wrong side of be—well, couch?" Sam greeted him from the kitchen. The smell of fried bacon wafted through, making Dean's mouth water.
By all reasoning, Dean should be stuffed enough to last him a whole week without eating. Taking no risks with the glorious chocolate pie that Bobby had brought them the previous day, they'd attacked the thing like there was no tomorrow. Well, there was a tomorrow, but it was one without pie.
Still, there he was, stomach rumbling at the delicious smell coming from the nearby division. "There'd better be some of that bacon left for me, or wrong side won't even begin to cover it," Dean yelled back with a grin as he made his way towards the bathroom.
Setting the walking stick against the wall, Dean leaned his hip against the sink as he brushed his teeth. The man looking back at him from the other side of the mirror looked gaunt.
Dean had been doing his best to avoid his own reflection for the past days. Mirrors were never welcome when his mind was playing tricks on him and now was no different.
But his leg hurt a little less that morning, and Sam was up and fixing them breakfast in the kitchen and Bobby had promised that he was going to go pick up his car as soon. So, for the first time in way too many days, Dean felt good about things; good enough to brave a look in the mirror.
Unlike he feared, however, there were no bloody walls or screaming souls, no echoes of Hell coming through the reflective surface, no Alastair over his shoulder. Just his face.
He needed a shave. Badly. Just because they were living in the middle of the woods, didn't mean he had to look like a caveman. "Sam... have you seen my shaving kit?"
Sam's head peeked in the door a couple of minutes later, a small, black leather bag in his hand. "Think you can handle this without giving yourself a Columbian necktie?"
"Hardy, har, har," Dean laughed without humor. "I've been shaving for a lot longer than you, baby-cheeks."
Sam's smile was almost carefree. "Well, I'm just saying... someone will have to wipe the blood clean when you—"
Sam cut himself short and Dean looked back, his stomach sinking to the ground as he thought that Sam was having another one of his absences. Or maybe he was seeing Lucifer, taking a dump in the toilet.
Sam's eyes, however, were clear and focused, staring at Dean's feet. "You started shaving your legs too?"
Confused, Dean followed Sam's gaze down. Sure enough, there was blood pooling under his left foot. The one he'd been studiously ignoring ever since his hallucination had decided to make chow out of his ankle. "You can see that?"
Sam's eyebrow arched up. "Humm... yeah," he said, making it sound like Dean was the weirdest person on Earth. "Is there a reason why your blood should be invisible?"
The surge of hope that filled Dean's chest made him ignore the jib in his little brother's words altogether. Shuffling forward, Dean pulled the toilet seat down and sat. Angling for a better look, he crossed his good leg over the casted one and examined the spot that had been bothering him since he'd woken. He pulled back the edge of his jeans and sure enough, there was an oozing bite on his ankle.
Sam's mop of a head filled Dean's vision as he knelt in front of him to take a closer look. "Is that... is that a rat bite?"
He sounded, at once, disgusted and horrified. Dean wasn't the only one who didn't like rodents.
"You see the bite? For sure? No question about it?" Dean asked again, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.
Sam gave him a funny look. "Why the hell are you so psyched over a rat bite?" he asked. "Those things are filled with diseases, you know?"
Dean was about to announce that he was just happy because he wasn't crazy after all, that he hadn't been imagining anything, that it was all real, when his brain kicked in and he realized what a douche-bag move that would be.
Just because Sam seemed to be coping with his own hallucinations didn't mean that he would like having Dean rub in his face that he was free of his; even less that they had never been hallucinations to begin with.
"I'm excited," Dean said in a rush, knowing he'd been silent for too long, "because now I have something to hunt."
Sam gave him a look that spoke of just how much he thought of Dean's new entertainment. "That bored, are you?"
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
First step was figuring out what the hell the thing was. Rats, and all other physical things, Dean could pretty much put aside. He was the only seeing this little man around the house, which meant that it probably wasn't corporeal most of the time or else Sam or Bobby would've stumbled across him at some point.
It couldn't be a spirit or a poltergeist, as Dean had initially thought, because those always left behind a trail a mile long on the EMF reader and Dean's had remained silent every time he'd turned it on.
Other than playing a number on Dean's brain and making him think that he was losing his mind, Papa Smurf had been pretty harmless so far. Well, there had been the ankle-biting episode, but given how much that had done for his mental health, Dean was putting that one on the good-stuff column. And if that had been the same thing Dean had seen jumping that buck, there was no guarantee that harmless equaled not dangerous.
What intrigued him most was the fact that neither Sam nor Bobby seemed to catch the slightest inkling as to the presence of the being inside the house while Dean had seen it from day one. No matter how shy or bold the being chose to be, Dean could always see him.
And Dean knew he wasn't like Sam; there was nothing paranormal or beyond human about him. No freaky ESP stuff about his noggin. He didn't get any tingly feeling in his spidey-senses when it came to ghosts or demons, no visions, no ability to move things with the power of his mind. Nothing.
Truth be told, neither did Sam these days, thank God. Still, the fact remained that it was mighty weird the way Dean was, for some reason, being singled out when it came to this particular creature.
So, either this creature had the ability to chose who saw it and had decided to mess with Dean's head, or it was something that only Dean could see for whatever freaky reason. Hell, it could even be a mix of both.
An image of the little man, kneeling on the floor by the couch, angrily picking salted peanuts from the floor flashed through Dean's mind.
At the time, more concerned about ignoring it rather than observe it, Dean hadn't realize an important fact. It wasn't the peanuts that the creature had been bothered with at the time. It was the salt.
Suddenly, what this creature was became so obvious that Dean felt like an idiot for not having realized it before.
Fairies.
They had a frigging, hairy fairy in the cabin.
Despite the fact that he was pretty sure that he was right about this, Dean didn't share his findings or plans with either Bobby or his brother. Even as he kept trying to convince himself that there was no point in bringing more hunters to the party when he was the only one who could see the game, a small part of him was still afraid that the bite on his ankle was really from a rat, even though none seemed to be about.
Taking advantage of Bobby's trip back to South Dakota to tow his car in, Dean put his plan into action as soon as Sam went out to take another of his walks.
It was easy, really. All he needed was a big bag of salt.
When he was ready, Dean planted himself comfortably in the couch, turned the TV on and waited. It didn't take long for him to start hearing the shuffling of small feet around the house.
Keeping track of Papa Smurf's wanderings, Dean waited until the being was closer to him before he opened his hand. The grains of salt that he'd been holding, fell to the floor with a muffled pelted sound.
"Son of a bitch!" the Kermit-like voice muttered. There was more shuffling of feet and then a quiet "One... two... three... four..."
Easily rolling on his stomach, Dean peered down. Sure enough, the being that had been teasing him from day one of their arrival at the cabin, was on the floor, counting salt grains like his life depended on it.
Buck naked too, now that Dean was looking close enough to catch his furry little butt, sticking up obscenely in the air.
"You're a fairy," Dean announced in triumph. It was the only possibility, now that he thought about it. The only supernatural creature that Dean would forever Dean be able to see, because he'd been a 'guest' in the Fae world.
"You're an ass," Grumpy replied as he turned, cursing when he lost track of his count. "One... two..."
"I'm an ass? You're the one who's been fooling around, making me think I was going insane, making me look insane," Dean pointed out, pouring a couple more grains just for spite. "AND... you bit me."
The little being looked up from his count, a row of needle-sharp teeth, that Dean hadn't quite noticed before, adorning his tiny mouth. "Served you well... I carved you the perfect crutch, you damn gimp, and you ate all the pie!"
Dean blinked. So that was what the tree branch had been for! It certainly was better than as a sharp stake to kill them all. "Thanks for that," Dean offered sincerely. And then it dawned on him. "You ate that first pie. And the coffee?"
Another wide grin answered the hunter. "I was hungry and I happen to love pie. And coffee. Do you know how long it had been since I've eaten anything but birds and deer?" More salt found its way to the ground, making the small man swear like a sailor and start all over again. "Will you stop that?"
"No," Dean answered with a grin of his own. As far as he knew, there was no way of getting rid of one of the Fae people other than the spells in that book that they'd gotten from the Irish watchmaker. That book, however, like many others that they'd picked up along the way, had burned alongside Bobby's house and library. "Tell me what you're doing here. Are you working for Oberon? Did he send you to kill me?"
"Oberon? Oberon!" the little man sputtered, scattering all the salt grains he'd collected so far. His face, pale until that moment, grew red as a pepper. "Do I look like I take orders from that cat-faced, shit-for-brains, little-princess snoozedoozle? I'd rather fuck a troll!"
Dean's eyebrows arched. Actually, he had no idea what Oberon was like because, fortunately, he had no recollection of his time on 'the other side'. And if he were to believe what that over-glittered lady, their very own 'fairy expert', had said about the fate of those brought in to 'service Oberon'... Dean didn't want to remember it ever.
But cat-faced, shit-for-brains, little-princess snoozedoozle seemed about right for any entity that went around stealing people from their homes and basically enslaving them. "So you're not his little bitch?"
For a moment there, as the fairy rose to his feet and threw him a heated look, Dean thought that he was going to bite him again. Dean grabbed another handful of salt, just in case.
Carefully eyeing Dean's hand and his implied threat, the fairy sat back down. His eyes, of a disturbing violet color, skimmed higher, peering at the hunter's face. "You know... I was curious about why you could see me," the fairy said, going back to his counting. "I mean, for years that other hunter came and went from this place, sometimes alone, sometimes with more of your kind, but never once did any of them ever catch so much as a sniff of my presence. But you, a first born who can see fairies... you were one of Oberon's, am I right? You're the little bitch here, not me," he finished with a loud cackle.
Dean leaned forward, just enough to reach the fairy, before smacking him upside the head, dislodging his white cap. Underneath, the creature had a wisp of blue hair and pointy ears.
It hissed at Dean, like a pissed off cat, before picking up his beanie and carefully putting it back. "That's what I get for doing my job," the fairy muttered under his breath, turning his back on Dean. "See if I care next time around."
"What job?" Dean jumped in, his suspicions peeking up. So far, he had dubbed this guy all but harmless, with none of the evil streak of the last fairy with his red cap, the one that had been sent after him. Maybe he was even telling the truth, claiming to hate Oberon.
"I'm a hobgoblin, you ass," the fairy said, still pissed off. Which, given its pint size, was kind of funny. "It's what we do. We help around the house, do this chore here and that chore there and we collect our dues in food. Why do you think this cabin is still standing after all these years of neglect?"
Dean looked around the place, confirming what he'd seen a million times before, since he first woke and found himself stuck there. The ceiling beams were cracked and blackened by the fireplace smoke; there was too much smoke coming from the fireplace because the chimney was clogged; the furniture seemed clean, until you moved anything a few inches aside and the perfect drawing of its shape was left there to mark its place.
"Well," Dean said with a smirk, swinging his gaze back the goblin. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not doing such a great job."
"Screw you. I haven't eaten anything but small birds and de—"
"-deer, yeah, I heard you the first time," Dean cut in. He eyed the fairy critically. It wasn't like being abducted by fairies made him an expert on the matter, but it struck Dean as odd that such a being would remain in the same place when there was no one around to reward him for his work. "How long have you been here, anyway?"
The fairy stopped his count and closed his eyes. Above his head, the number fifty-seven appeared in a sparkle of tiny fireworks.
"Nice trick," Dean let out, sounding bored. "Think you can use words instead?"
The hobgoblin opened his violet eyes to give him a look. "That's the number of grains, you troll," he informed. "Don't wanna lose my count again. And I've been here for half of that."
Dean rolled his eyes up as he did the math. "That's a really long time to be stuck in one place," he ruled after a bit. He could almost sympathize with the little guy. After all, Dean was stuck in there for over a week and he was ready to blow his brains out. "Why are you even here and not, you know... wherever you fairies live?"
"Because my car broke down." The answer was dripping with sarcasm. More salt found its way to the floor as retaliation and the hobgoblin's face grew redder. "I was cast out, okay? Oberon banned me from the realm. You happy now?"
Well, at least that explained why he hated the fairy's king. "Why?"
The sparkling number morphed from fifty-seven back to fifteen, which made Dean feel kind of bad for all the salt he'd been accumulating on the floor.
The hobgoblin sunk lower on the carpet. Even his white beanie seemed depressed.
"I was a soldier over there, you know?" the fairy told him, violet eyes shiny with longing. "And when all the other goblins and brownies decided to stand against Oberon and his rule, I fought my own brothers, killed my own kin because I believed it was the right thing to do. Because, despite what I am, I believed in order."
Dean shifted uncomfortable in his seat. Suddenly, he really, really did not want to know about the fairy's story.
"In the end, when our side won, he cast me away, along with all the other goblins," the fairy went on. "Trust issues, he claimed. Because of what I am, he couldn't trust me. The prick."
A while back, Dean would've been angry for the unfair punishment the fairy had suffered. The little guy had chosen his side, gone against every instinct engraved in his species and fought for what he believed in. And he'd been punished for that.
Now, though... it was hard to judge the king of fairies' actions when Dean had finally understood how ugly free will could turn. No matter how good the intentions, it would always result in everything blowing up in people's faces. Or fairies' faces, for that matter. "Makes you wanna go back and stick a knife between his ribs, doesn't it?"
The fairy pondered the idea, an evil smile spreading through his thin lips as he imagined Oberon bleeding. "That was all I could dream about, at first you know?" he confessed. "I would come up with a thousand and one ways to go back, sneak my way into his inner circle and gut him in front of the whole court," the fairy told, his lithe body mimicking the actions, quick jabs of empty hands killing imaginary kings. "But now… I've grown used to being here. In there, I was just one more fairy, a low rank soldier. In here, I'm special… and there is no one to judge me."
Dean gave him a look. He supposed the little guy was being honest, at least in his own head.
"Besides," the fairy went on, "I know I wouldn't be able to hold myself if I was ever back there. Oberon is well full of himself already. No need for me to prove him right by widening his belly button."
Dean had no chance to say anything. The door creaked open, revealing a flushed Sam. Out of habit, Dean searched his brother for any clue that he was seeing what Dean was seeing, but there was no reaction to either the fairy sitting on the floor or the glowing numbers above his head. "Someone grabbed your ass?" Dean asked, forcing himself to not look at the fairy as well. "You look like that one time when that old lady tried to get into your pants… Gert, was it?" he added with a snigger.
"Shuddup," Sam grumped, little brother indignation all over his red face. He stepped into the kitchen, disappearing for a few seconds before returning with a water bottle. "We've been cooped up in here for long enough… I went for a run."
Dean's eyebrow arched up. "Okay," he let out slowly and carefully. Normal people ran for sports all the time, right? There was no reason at all for Dean to assume that Sam was running from someone rather than towards something, right?
"Why is there salt all over the floor, Dean?"
Dean looked down. Shit. In the middle of all the crap that he could see and Sam couldn't, Dean had lost track of the stuff that Sam could see. "I thought I'd heard something. Figure it would be wiser to keep some salt at hand, just in case," Dean offered lamely.
Sam gave him a look that clearly said that he wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or concerned with his brother's odd behavior. Guess that made two of them.
"You do know that there's a line of salt crusted in the foundations of the cabin, right? Bobby mentioned it a couple of times."
Dean gave him a circular nod that wasn't yes but wasn't no either. "Better safe than sorry?"
"Yeah, well," Sam said, definitely opting for 'annoyed', going back into the kitchen and exchanging the water bottle for a broom. "Whatever this is, it's pretty frigging far from a circle, Dean."
Before Dean could open his mouth, Sam had taken a swipe of the salt on the floor and freed the fairy in the process.
The hobgoblin gave Dean the finger before disappearing from view. "Great. That's just… great," he muttered.
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
Dean watched the door close, leaving him alone once again. Sam was out on a supply run and Bobby was gone again, barely minutes after coming back with the Impala.
Ever since the 'event' with the salt and the hobgoblin's escape, Dean had seen neither hide nor hair of the fairy. It was hard to guess if that was because he was afraid or mad at Dean.
Sam's laptop, fortunately still in the car when the whole mess at Bobby's had gone down, had been the first thing that Sam had retrieved from the Impala as soon as Bobby had her parked outside.
Dean hobbled to the table where Sam had left it, one of those net stick-thingies still attached to one of its ports.
Hobgoblins, Dean soon found out through his research, were like the tricksters of fairyland.
Most of what the hobgoblin had told him fit with what Dean found online. Soldiers of fairyland, hobgoblins were close cousins of brownies, sharing their attachment to house chores. They were also mischievous creatures that could shapeshift, read people's minds and alter reality around them. And, like dragons, they loved gold. Hoarded the thing, actually.
A nagging suspicion started to form in Dean's mind. He could go as far as believing the fairy's story about Oberon being a dick, but its attachment to that cabin seemed fishy to his hunter instincts.
As far as Dean knew, Oberon had, at least, gotten that part right. You can't change what you are.
For all the time he'd been trapped in there, Dean was sure he'd seen every square inch of that cabin, save for the basement. Nothing but C-rations and dust, Bobby had said. Dean thought that maybe it was time he saw that for himself.
The stairs to the basement were, obviously, crappy and steep. Because that was just the way Dean's luck ran these days. Figuring that he had less chances of falling down and breaking his neck without his crutch, Dean left the thing at the top of the flight of stairs and grabbed hold of the rotten banister. He pushed on it, testing its ability to take his weight without crumbling apart, and once he was satisfied, hopped down.
The descent was slightly easier than the one he'd tried outside, almost a week before, but he was still drenched in sweat when his good foot finally hit the unpaved floor at the bottom.
Flicking the lights on, Dean wasn't sure what he would find in there. C-rations and dust, he hoped.
It was like stepping inside Scrooge McDuck's vault. The golden glow, fed by the feeble light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, at the end of the steps, filled the entire basement like a yellow mist. The gold was… everywhere.
There were small hills of the stuff, piled together in several spots; there were golden objects, from crowns to tableware, all over the place; jewelry, coins, frigging bricks made of gold...
Dean's breath caught in his chest. He was certain he had never seen that much gold put together. Twenty-six years worth of piling it up, he figured.
Taking a tentative step into the vault –it was impossible to keep thinking of it as a mere basement- Dean grabbed onto one of the support beams and carefully bent down towards one of the tallest mounds. The golden necklace he picked up felt real in his hands, but given the fact that Bobby had been there several times and had failed to mention that they were rich, Dean figure that no one else –banks included- would be able to see it either.
"It's a shame, really… Bobby could use a new house," Dean muttered to himself.
"It's not yours to spend, even if you could," the Muppet like voice yelled, anger in his every word. "You really shouldn't have come down here, Dean."
Dean spun around, too fast for his good leg to keep up. The necklace fell to the floor with a sound of tingling coins as Dean dropped it to grab the pole with both hands.
Heart racing, his eyes scanned the dim interior; he couldn't see the fairy anywhere. "I really doubt that you got all of this from some eccentric, rich old aunt that decided to make you her heir," he replied. "How much of it did you steal from Oberon, huh? How much did you steal from the people around here?"
One of the small hills of gold fell apart as the fairy stepped from his hiding place behind a tall cabinet, every shelf filled with square boxes of ready-to-eat meals. In his small hand, there was a long, shiny dagger. Something ceremonial made of, like everything else, gold. The fairy held it like someone with experience. "I brought only what I was due… and people lose a lot of things in these woods… I didn't steal a thing."
Dean eyed him carefully. He had only one weapon to fight with, and one weapon alone. But he had to play it carefully. "Do you mind?" he asked, already easing himself down to sit on the gold covered floor. The grimace in his face was part real, because his leg really wasn't finding all that exercise amusing, and part because he had spotted a cup nearby that would do just fine for his plan. "So, Oberon was right after all, hum? You really can't trust a goblin."
The fairy was on him faster than Dean could see him move. Angry violet eyes stared at him from just inches away, light stealing a glint of a golden out of the blade in the hobgoblin's hand. "I gave him everything, did everything that he asked of me," he spat in rage. "And what do I get in return? A kick in the butt! So yeah, you can't trust a goblin, particularly a pissed off one."
"And now that I've seen your retirement savings?" Dean ventured, guessing what the fairy's next move would be.
Predictably, the fairy charged.
Dean managed to roll away just as the goblin swung the sharp dagger at his chest. The edge of the blade skimmed through his casted leg with a jarring sound of nails on chalkboard.
Hastily picking up a large plate, made of solid gold and with Greek motifs engraved, Dean used it to shield the fairy's continued assault. The blade struck the disc with alarming accuracy and in a hail of solid, deadly blows.
One particularly vicious swing, that Dean barely managed to dodge, got the fairy's dagger stuck in one of the wooden beams. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Dean swung his shield, hitting the hobgoblin right in the face.
Stunned, the creature staggered back, piles of coins making his steps even more unsteady than the ringing in his head.
Dean knew he couldn't keep ducking and dodging forever. The creature was faster than him, stronger than him and not working on any broken bones. Taking a dive forward that brought tears to his eyes as he leg collided with the hard floor, Dean's hands folded around the large gold trophy that he'd been keeping track of. First place for the Toole's male swim team, Dean noted in passage.
"Give it to me! It's mine," the fairy hissed, sharp teeth ready to finish what he couldn't with the dagger.
"Okay… okay," Dean let out in surrender. Pushing himself up until he was sitting against one of the walls, he held out the trophy, waiting for the hobgoblin to collect it.
Pointy ears bent back in suspicion and keen violet eyes following Dean's every move, the fairy moved closer, careful step after careful step, sniffing some trap in the air.
The call of the gold, however, was stronger than prudence, and the fairy snatched the trophy from Dean's hands with a snarled "Mine!"
Dean sagged back in relief. "Yeah… yours," he whispered. "All of it."
Confused, the fairy looked closer at the trophy. Inside, a pair of grey boxers was tucked neatly, hidden at first glance. "Don't worry… it's a clean pair," Dean added with a wink.
From the look of fright and sadness that suddenly took over the fairy's face, Dean knew that lore had it right. The only way to get rid of a hobgoblin was to offer it some clothes.
"I'm going to rip your spine through your ears, you sack of pus!" the fairy menaced, his eyes shimmering with angry tears, as he lunged at Dean one more time. Before he could even touch the hunter, however, an invisible force yanked him back.
The hobgoblin started shimmering around the edges, center of gravity shifting like his midriff was made of quicksand. "No," the goblin cried in anger and disbelief. "I can't go ba—"
The fairy was gone with a sonic pop and an electric blast that plunged the place in darkness.
"Send my regards to king dick," Dean finished with a wave. And then Dean was alone in the basement. "Aw, shit."
ooOoOoOoOoOoo
Dean was barely awake when Sam returned from his grocery run. On top of the coffee table in front of him, there was a pile of coins that he'd brought up with him, fairy gold. Just in case.
The bag Sam had with him landed on top of the coin-pile, sending half of them to the floor. It was hard to hear what Sam was saying over the clatter of spinning and rolling coins, but his brother wasn't taking notice of any of that.
They were rich... and the money would never be used because no one could see it. Karma, it seemed, had arrived early to punish them.
Dealing with the fairy, however, had quenched some of Dean's nervousness about how to deal with Sam and the crap that was heading their way. In a weird sense, he felt good that he'd been right about the fairy; that his instincts, despite all that had happened with Cass, were something he could still depend on.
And Dean's instincts were telling him that there was something off with Sam. Well, something off-er.
The fact that Sam had brought him a piece of cake rather than pie? It felt like it was just the tip of the iceberg about to sink the Titanic.
The end
Again, the biggest thank you goes to Jackfan2 for her marvelous work. All remaining mistakes are mine ;)