Chapter Fourteen
Even as he worked, a small part of Sam's brain marvelled at and admired Dean's resilience – having suffered the sort of personal set-back he had, Dean nevertheless got his head back into the game, concentrating on the laptop and pausing only to make occasional notes. It was only to be expected, Sam mused fondly, his brother might be capable of being a total man-slut or a complete drama queen, but when it came to the family business, Dean would always have his priorities right.
Dean sat back, stretched luxuriantly and yawned. "I think it might be time for me and Juliet-india-mike-india to go get our daily dose of cardio," he announced, standing up. "Give this tracker thing a workout so it doesn't get fat."
"Sounds good," Sam agreed, shutting down his own laptop, "Before it gets too hot."
"Do you mean the weather, or the bikini migration?" Dean's eyebrows would be capable of waggling lewdly if he was transmogrified into the body of an elderly nun.
Sam couldn't help but laugh at his brother's innate and irrepressible Deanness. "Both, I guess," he chuckled, standing up and reaching for his new trainers. "I can break these in a bit."
Dean's eyes bugged at the new shoes. "Jesus, Sam, when the fuck did you get them?"
"Last night," Sam replied, ratting through his duffle for some suitable running gear that didn't smell too bad.
"What the fuck?" spluttered Dean, "Those shoes, Sam, we and the dog and the car could eat for a fortnight and have change left over from what they cost!"
"Nuh-uh," Sam grinned, "Got 'em on special. Clearance, and there's a mark on one of 'em. Well, so they said, I couldn't really see it. I lucked out on these, and I'm not ever gonna be able to afford 'em again, so," he waggled his new shoes. "Just this once, a really decent pair of trainers."
"That's not proper Winchester luck," Dean declared. "That's anti-Winchester luck. If you were having proper Winchester luck, they'd turn out to be possessed, or something. You put 'em on, and suddenly you have this irresistible urge to Usain Bolt yourself to death."
Sam sat down to put on his new shoes, then stood up.
He conspicuously failed to set off at a sprint and continue to run at his absolute maximum effort until he dropped dead from catastrophic cardio-pulmonary failure.
"They feel really good," he noted, bouncing on his toes a few times.
"Well, if you suddenly feel like you wanna set any land speed records, stop and take 'em off," Dean specified firmly. "And maybe you might wanna stay off your top speed today."
"What? Why?" demanded Sam.
"Well, if they're possessed, the run-yourself-to-death thing might not kick in until you get to a certain speed," Dean theorised, "A bit like a scramjet, you have to get to a minimum speed before the possession kicks in, and then, whammo."
"Whammo?" echoed Sam.
"Whammo," Dean repeated grimly. "One minute you're joggin' along, the next you're Carl Lewising your way to an occult death."
"Dean, these shoes are not possessed!" Sam snapped in exasperation, "I was just lucky to notice them, and lucky to get such a ridiculously good price!"
"Well, it aint normal," Dean complained. "Luck doesn't smile on us, Sammy. Or if it seems to, it's only doin' it to try to distract us while it kicks us in the nuts."
"Okay," Sam rolled his eyes, "I will monitor myself very carefully for any sudden overwhelming urge to try for Olympic qualification." He paused, then because Dean had annoyed him, added, "Enjoy your WALK with JIMI, bro."
"Bitch," Dean called after him as the dog began to woof and jump around him in excitement. "You owe me something edible for lunch for this!"
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Sam returned to their room before Dean did, having somehow avoided being murdered by his own footwear – they were really comfortable, and despite what Dean had told him, they felt really good at top speed.
In fact, after he'd pulled up a bit from a short sprint along one side of a park, he'd paused to help a middle-aged lady whose dog had treed a squirrel, and was in The Zone, refusing to return to his owner. Firmly taking the yappy little animal by the scruff (and murmuring 'Christo', just to check, because it looked like there might be a bit of Chihuahua in there) and returning him to his worried mistress, the woman had become tearfully grateful, and pressed a business card listing a diner's details on him, inviting him for a meal on the house sometime.
"You shouldn't have done that, Sam," Dean chided him when he and Jimi returned and Sam told him that lunch was arranged, "What if you'd got bitten?"
Sam gave him a Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "Dean, if I can throw Lucifer into the Cage, if I can drag Jimi away from a dead skunk, if I can drag you away from a bar, I can drag a small dog away from a squirrel! Oh, by the way, my shoes didn't kill me."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean sniffed at his shirt and screwed up his nose. "I call first on the shower."
"Okay, hey, just let me download your tracker data." Sam tapped at the keys, and opened a new window. "That's... Dean, you've increased your number of steps again! And your distance! Well done!"
Dean shrugged, "Well, it's less aggravating that listenin' to you bleat about my health," he said nonchalantly, "This job gives me enough headaches without listenin' to you rant about my cardio-vascular wellbein'."
"You keep this up, you'll be coming for a run with me," Sam told him.
"I don't intend to be in this body for long enough to get it conditioned enough to chase Sasquatches," Dean informed him firmly. "And once I'm my awesome self again, it won't be necessary."
"No point trying to keep up with me, short-ass?" grinned Sam.
"Nope," Dean smirked annoyingly, "Got nothin' left to prove."
As his big brother headed for the bathroom, Sam smiled to himself; Dean would never admit it, but he'd agree to train for a marathon if it was the only way he could stop his baby brother worrying.
"What the hell?... Sammy, that bottle is enormous!"
"I got it on special. Clearance."
"Seriously, that's enough for us both to shower twice a day for the next month."
"STAY OUT OF MY STUFF YOU JERK!"
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Dean seemed remarkably chipper – suspiciously chipper, even – after a lunch at which he had been served a turkey and roast vegetable club sandwich with no fries but plenty of salad.
"What are you up to?" Sam demanded flatly.
"What?" Dean picked up a slice of cucumber and crunched on it noisily.
"What are you up do?" Sam repeated, "You're sitting there, eating your lunch, with an absolute minimum of complaining. That's weird, bro."
Dean regarded his brother seriously. "Has it occurred to you that I might've decided that fightin' you on this is a battle I can't win? Or that maybe you're right, and I gotta keep this body alive and functioning long enough to get my own awesome one back? Or maybe, just maybe, I'm developing a taste for some of this stuff?"
"No." Sam narrowed his eyes.
"It could happen, you know," Dean picked up another piece of cucumber. "You go exposing me to all this stuff I never eat, and some of doesn't taste completely crap. I mean, look at this." He gestured with the piece of cucumber, and smiled winningly. "Who'd ever think that this is what pickles come from? I never realised how, how, how crunchy this stuff is!"
Sam was about to begin the Rite of Exorcism when their waitress drifted back to their table. "Is there anything else I can get for you boys?" she asked.
"Definitely," Dean turned his smile to her, "I still got room for dessert, so..."
"Dean, we've been through this, you are not having..."
"I'd like a piece of that zucchini and pumpkin slice," Dean finished. "With Greek yoghurt. You should have one too, Sam," he went on, "They look great!"
"I will find out what you're up to," Sam growled for his brother's ears alone when the slices arrived. "Sooner or later, I will find out."
"Maybe it's nothing I want to hide, Sam," Dean grinned as he shoved a mouthful of slice and yoghurt into his face, "Maybe I just don't wanna sabotage myself tonight."
"Tonight? What are you doing tonight?"
Dean gave him the sort of look that kindergarten teachers probably use when they catch one of their students eating the Play-Doh. Again. "Well, I'm goin' out to get laid, of course!"
Sam sighed, and managed not to facepalm. "Look, Dean, maybe for the duration, it's not a good idea..."
"It's a totally good idea!" Dean insisted, "I mean, your approach worked, right? And the, uh, the slight technical hitch in proceedings, you said that it's normal for an average guy to have these occasional, you know, difficulties, on the odd occasion, occasionally?"
"Yeah," Sam drew the single word out dubiously.
"Well, moping about it aint gonna solve anything," Dean declared, "What I gotta do, is man up, and just get right back on the horse. Or," the Eyebrows Of Lust did their thing, "Let her get back on me, whatever the lady would prefer..."
"Gah!" Sam let out a noise of disgust and shot Dean a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). You really have a one track mind. How can somebody have such a one track mind, and stay alive past adolescence?"
"That's just how awesome I am," Dean sighed.
With a shake of his head, Sam turned his attention to his own piece of slice. Should the world ever end in the searing flash of a thermonuclear holocaust, he'd discovered one more unkillable thing that would inherit the Earth: along with the rats and cockroaches, Dean's libido would wander the glowing slag of the post-apocalypse landscape forever.
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"You should come with me," declared Dean as he prepared to head out that evening.
"No," scowled Sam, "I'm staying here. There have been some really interesting Attenborough docos on TV, which I'd rather watch than you picking up women."
"You might learn something," wheedled Dean, picking up the Impala's keys.
"I could go to that weird part of the internet and 'learn something'," Sam countered, "That doesn't mean it's something I want to learn about."
"How did you turn into such a great big prude?" Dean asked good-naturedly. "Well, you know the drill, salt the door after me, and don't wait up."
"Don't drink too much!" Sam yelled after his smirking brother, then turned to Jimi, who was curled up contentedly on his blanket. "I should learn from you, shouldn't I?" he mused. "You are a model of affection, of forgiveness for all human failings, of selfless concern for the well-being of another. an epitome of unconditional love. Life would be less complicated for us if I was more like you."
Jimi wagged his tail, yawned hugely, and farted.
As the lavender-scented half-Hellhound flatulence reached him, Sam sighed. "He'd probably love me a lot more if I did that," he told the dog. "And best of all, if he told me just one Chicks I Have Banged story too many, I could use my Hellhound teeth to tear out his throat."
He found himself spoilt for choice for the television, which was a real change from the usual porn, sport or Mexican soap operas that was the usual fare on offer. Sir David was just whispering earnestly about the astonishing night time navigation capabilities of bats, and sounding remarkably eager and cheerful for somebody who had just rappelled down onto a twenty-foot mound of guano, when his cell chirped with a message from Dean.
It gave him the name and address of a bar, and one more word that made his blood run cold.
funkytown
He checked the map, then pulled on his trainers and called to Jimi – it wasn't far, and if his brother was in trouble, he was taking the nose for evil shit, and health regulations be damned.
Oh noes! A Winchester in peril! What has happened to Dean? Or what has Dean happened to? Beau-Ponty loves your tasty reviews, feed him more and lets find out!