Chapter Two

Feathered Hats & Strip Poker

It was only half-an-hour later that Dean awoke from his nap. A baby in the back of the cart had begun screaming, and Dean grimaced as the shrill sound hurt his ears. These were the moments he was glad he didn't have a kid. Giving up on any hope of enjoying the remainder of his rest, Dean stretched in his chair as he glanced over at his brother.

Sam was on his laptop, probably reading something to expand his encyclopedia of weird. As he leaned over to glance at the screen, Dean realized that today's topic was Tricksters. "Anything else we've got to know about him?" he asked.

"Not really," Sam mumbled, only partially concentrated on answering. "I'm just going through some legends, wondering if we can find out where others have buried Tricksters in the past."

"How about at the bottom of the ocean?" Dean suggested. "Marianas Trench sounds perfect to me."

"Bobby said water will corrode the bottle," replied Sam. "We have to bury it somewhere dry."

"Then the Sahara desert. Sounds good."

"Let's be realistic here, Dean." Sam gave him a sidelong glance. "You wouldn't be up to taking a plane there, and taking a boat isn't the greatest alternative since we'd be surrounded by water." He turned back to his laptop screen. "And we're both kind of wanted felons. Trying to get out of the country wouldn't be the brightest move, not to mention trying to get back in."

"All right, so the Sahara Desert is a no go," Dean agreed. "Then somewhere in the Colorado Desert. That's relatively close. We find my baby and then we drive there, get rid of the bastard for good." He patted the red knapsack sitting between him and his brother. Inside was the jar that contained the Trickster. Burying it was the only way to ensure the demi-god wouldn't be able to escape, according to the instruction manual that had come with the thing (aka. Bobby).

"We'll see." Sam shut his laptop, slipping the device onto his seat as he stood up. He hit Dean's leg. "Move. I need to use the washroom."

Dean swung his legs into the aisle, leaving enough space for his Sasquatch brother to squeeze passed. "Yes, your majesty," he grumbled, shoving Sam away as the train lurched and he almost landed in his lap. "Just hurry up. We've gotta decide what to do with this bottle."

As his brother headed in the direction of the coffee room, Dean found himself quickly becoming bored. Outside there was nothing to look at but passing wheat fields and sleepy country towns. The train chugged past a herd of brown cows, their tails swatting at flies in the still heat.

Why do trains have to be so slow? Dean thought to himself. He missed the feel of a wheel moving in his hands, the shift of the gas pedal beneath his foot, the gust of wind through his hair. Moving Sam's laptop, he switched seats. Momentarily struggling to pull down the train's window, he stuck his head out into the cold flow of air, closing his eyes in an attempt to imagine he was in his Impala. Just coasting down the road, Metallica blaring in the speakers…

He sighed. He had never had the greatest imagination, and it was failing him now as it reminded him he was not in his car, but on a train. He opened his eyes, frustrated, and found himself staring into the familiar black beady eyes of a small monkey.

Dean did not hesitate to reach his arm out of the window and try to snatch the thing from its perch on the side of the train, but it was too quick. It climbed over the roof and disappeared. "Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, his voice quickly carried away by the wind. The monkey reappeared a few meters away, on the side of the next cart. He seemed to wave, reaching a skinny arm out, and then disappeared through a window.

It's mocking me, Dean realized incredulously. He retracted his upper torso from the window, ignoring the perturbed expressions of his fellow passengers, and zoomed down the aisle to the adjacent trolley. Upon crossing the bridge outside, he entered the room through a sliding door, his body buzzing with adrenaline. He was going to catch this monkey if it was the last thing he did.

He scanned the room quickly. Nothing but a booth of old ladies dressed in those large, feathered hats and 19th century clothing that he didn't think were still worn seriously these days. They were toasting to something, all clearly a bit tipsy as they raised glasses of red wine into the air. "To living large!" one of the women said.

Dean didn't give them much more thought as he began to search the cabin more thoroughly, searching for the little furry devil that had led him in here. He checked underneath the seats, almost losing his balance on a number of occasions as the train rocked from side to side. He stood on his tiptoes to peer into the luggage spaces. He even made a point to inspect every window to ensure the little creep wasn't hanging around outside.

He was so engrossed in his hunt that he didn't realize he had encroached on the old women's party until he felt a hand grab his ass. He immediately straightened, having been bent over to check beneath a booth, and turned to face the grannies.

"My, my," one of them – possibly the harasser – said with a wry smile. She had a thick set of white hair beneath a plum-coloured hat with two ostrich feathers poking out from its wide brim. "What taut, firm buttocks."

Dean didn't flush easily when given the attention of a female, but with all of these old women grinning up at him, he was sure his face had turned bright pink. He cleared his throat, planning to ignore the abrupt harassment, but the woman grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him down onto the seat next to her. She was surprisingly strong for her age, and Dean had been so caught off guard that he didn't even give up a struggle. Instead, he stared at the little old lady with wide, unbelieving eyes as she turned to one of her companions across the table.

"Doesn't he remind you of Harry when he was young, Madeline?"

"Oh, indeed," replied another woman dressed in yellow with a white mesh veil falling across half her face. "Though I have to admit this one is much more handsome."

"I do have to agree with you, Agnes," another in blue commented. She reached across the table and placed a gloved hand on Dean's forearm. "He has strong arms. Look at his bulging muscles."

"I bet that's not all he has that bulges," Madeline threw in, and the group of ladies burst into laughter.

Suddenly recovering from his shock, Dean smiled uncomfortably as he drew in a deep breath, trying not to make eye contact with any of the women as they openly stared at him. "Um, I'm really sorry but I'm actually looking for something," he got up from the bench. "Uh, someone. Yeah, someone. I've really got to go."

"Oh no you don't," Ms. Plumb said as she grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back down. "Not until you have a drink with us."

There was a round of cheers and agreements, and suddenly a wine glass was being pushed into his hand. Dean wasn't quite sure how to handle the situation, so he relented and downed the entire thing as the ladies toasted to "fine looking young men who make you feel alive again". He brought the glass down with a thump and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to grimace. He never had liked wine, especially the red kind.

"Thanks for the drink, ladies, but I really have to be on my way-"

"You're drinking and splitting?" Agnes cried out, her face full of horror. "Those can't possibly be the manners of a strapping youth such as yourself."

Dean was flabbergasted. He opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to explain that they were the ones who had forced him to drink their wine, but no words came out. The women seemed to take his silence as a sign that he wasn't leaving, for they all beamed and Madeline even clapped her small hands in glee.

"Good, now who's up for a game of poker?" Ms. Plumb asked.

"Only if it's strip poker!" one of them called out, causing another bout of laughter. Dean looked around in panic, wondering how the hell he had gotten himself into such a weird situation. He knew he could easily stand up and walk away, but the grannies had a certain air around them that made him terrified of entertaining the idea. He could just picture one of them grabbing his ear and scolding him, but not in a grandmotherly kind of way. He rested his chin on his hand, cursing himself for being scared of little old ladies.

As Madeline dealt out the cards, Dean looked longingly towards the entrance he had come through. Sam was probably wondering where he had gone, and wouldn't being caught playing strip poker with a bunch of ladies thrice his age be good fuel for more of his jokes? Dean shivered at the thought.

Twenty-five minutes later and Dean was down to his boxers and one sock. The Winchester had always prided himself on his hustling abilities, consisting primarily of both poker and pool, but these women were putting his skills to shame. What made matters worse – or better – was the fact that the old ladies had on so many accessories, it would require a hundred rounds before Dean saw some skin. Ms. Plumb – or Amelia, as she had asked to be called – had on twenty light scarves at least. Not that he was complaining, but being the only one partially naked was a little unnerving.

"I fold," Dean said meekly, dropping his cards onto the table. The women cheered as he reached beneath the table and removed his remaining sock. He was damn glad he had decided to wear his boxers instead of boxer-briefs today. Less for the women to gawk at, though they weren't going to protect him for much longer. If he lost another round he was screwed.

Oh the humility… He watched as another hand was dealt, swallowing anxiety as he looked at his and found a row of crappy-ass cards. His only chance was to bluff, but that Agnes had a keen eye. She'd be able to spot his act in an instant. "That's what living with four fibbing grandchildren does for you," she had said the first time she had caught him in a lie.

Several of the women folded, including Amelia. Dean looked over his card at Madeline, who was staring back with a set of crinkly narrowed eyes. She was one to watch out for too. "I raise two articles of clothing", she said, garnering a few gasps.

"But what about poor Dean?" Amelia asked. "He only has his undergarment left."

"I'm sure we can work something out," Agnes said, winking at him from behind her veil. Dean swallowed tightly, not wanting to imagine what that could possibly entail.

"I raise it to three," he stated, making sure his voice did not betray any of the panic he felt.

Agnes' expression transformed from flirtatious to suspicious in a millisecond. She raised her chin, looking down her nose at him. "I think you're telling a fib, Dean."

He matched her stare, knowing it was the only chance he had. "Try me."

"Oh, I intend to." She smiled, setting her cards face-up on the table. A straight flush. Dean went pale with dismay as the old woman cackled. Madeline cursed a very unlady-like curse as she threw her cards down, accepting defeat. Dean's hands shook as he looked down at his hand and then back at the straight flush spread out on the table. It was his doom. The cards slipped from his fingers as his skin went numb, revealing his incomparable set to the rest of the table.

"Off with his clothes!" Agnes yelled as she stood up and pointed a crooked finger at him. Dean felt like he was being sentenced to death as all of the women turned to him expectantly. Really, this just wasn't his week…

/

The door slid open and Dean shuffled in. Sam had been wondering where his brother had run off to, determining he had probably spotted the monkey again and had gone bounding after it. Judging by his sullen expression, it seemed he had failed to catch it again.

As he sat down, Sam gave him a one over, noticing that his shirt was crumpled. "You get in another fight with that monkey?" he asked.

Dean turned to him, obviously pissed. "Dude, there is a freakin' monkey on this freakin' train and I'm going to prove it to you. Then we'll see who's laughing."

"I'm not laughing, Dean," Sam reassured him, wondering what exactly had gone down. "I'm actually beginning to believe you might not be as crazy as I thought."

"I'm not craz-" Dean stopped midsentence, Sam's words obviously not the ones he had been expecting. "Wait, what?"

"I've been doing some research while you were… you know, battling it out with the monkey." Sam turned the open laptop sitting on his knees so that his brother could peer at the screen. "Looks like Tricksters don't usually work alone."

Dean's eyes skimmed the page. "You've got to be kidding me. Familiars? Demi-gods have familiars?"

"Only a handful of them. Most don't, which is why they're rarely mentioned."

"So that ninja monkey thing is the Trickster's familiar?"

"Looks like."

"Perfect, that's just…" Dean folded his arms over his chest. "Perfect."

"It must be after the bottle."

"Of course it's after the bottle, Sam. It tried to take off my head to get it. It's trying to free its master."

"Well, you saw it again, didn't you? Where did it go? You were gone for a pretty long time, so you must have chased it pretty far."

Dean seemed to hesitate. "I, uh… It got away."

"Well let's hope it shows itself again soon. From what I've read, these things can be pretty damn tricky. Sometimes even more so than their owners. The only good thing is they usually don't take the violent route, but they can put people into some pretty bad situations."

Dean looked at him with that stare he always got when he felt awkward and irritated at the same time. "You mean they have powers too?"

"Yeah. The powers differ with each animal, but it says here they can manipulate reality. Not to the extent of their masters, but they can influence the way people act, how they think. They might not turn a bunch of girl scouts into a violent horde, but they can turn them into a rebellious group of daughters who prefer to smoke and drink over selling cookies."

"Could one change a group of nice old grandmas into a pack of lusty, ravenous animals?"

Sam raised an eyebrow at the strange question, but shrugged his shoulders in response. "Yeah, I guess that's possible."

Dean's expression darkened as he stared straight ahead, his focus seeming to be somewhere in his mind. His fists tightened by his sides. "That monkey is so dead."

To be continued.