For those keeping track at home, four of the ten aforementioned prompt requirements are met in this chapter.
Part II
"We're thinking witches," Sam pointlessly announces as he deposits a sulky, grumbling Dean into the padded armchair in Bobby's library, because the idiot was seconds from stumbling his dizzy ass straight into a wall.
Dean attempts feebly to kick Sam away, but only succeeds in sending the rolling desk chair sailing backwards across the room to collide with one of the bookcases. A thick, leather-bound book slides off of a shelf over his head and thumps into his lap. "Not WE," he grumbles, tongue rolling against his teeth. "You. YOU'RE thinkin' witches."
Bobby shakes his head. He knows the basics, facts and symptoms spewed over the phone at a speed to set the record until he'd told Sam to slow the hell down and put a real thought and sentence together. Presumably, he's been nose-deep in his books ever since they hit the road, rerouting to follow some less vague, more direct line of research whenever Sam checked in with a new thought or idea. And now it's time for the grand reveal. "S'what you said on the phone, but, Sam, this is no spell I've ever heard of."
Disappointing as far as grand reveals go, to say the least. Frustrated, Sam fidgets, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves.
"Have you heard of all the spells, Bobby?" Dean demands sourly, despite his contradictory anti-witchy thoughts, and flings the thick tome to the hardwood with an echoing smack.
Sam winces and shakes his head disapprovingly at his brother, though he's thankful for the opportunity to redirect his nervous energy. "He's a little grumpy," he explains by way of apology.
Bobby pops one eyebrow. "No kidding. How long?"
"Pretty much forever." Sam's cracking half-assed jokes for Dean's benefit, because the last couple of hours in the car had been hell – relatively speaking – but neither of the other hunters is having it.
In fact, Bobby kind of looks like he wants to hit him. He leans over the wide desk, thick books open and covering the entirety of the sizeable surface. "How long's he not been able to eat or drink anything?"
"Almost twenty hours." Sam swallows, knowing exactly how bad that sounds, how bad that IS.
Bobby's head bobs but his expression doesn't change. "You two boneheads even come across any witches the past few days?"
"None that were wearing the club t-shirts, no," Dean speaks up.
Sam shoots his brother a withering glare and Bobby quirks that eyebrow again. "Y'want me to sedate him?"
Sam sighs. The man's idea is not without its merits. "We're not there yet."
"We is ME," Dean says pointedly, shoving up from the desk chair. "And me is standing right here. Right here."
Bobby looks between the two. "Twenty hours?"
Sam nods.
"Should probably start some fluids."
There's an accusation lying beneath Bobby's words, and Sam rubs the back of his head. "Yeah, I figured as much, like, half a day ago, but his dumb ass wouldn't let me take him to a hospital." It's unseemly for him to lay any blame on Dean here, but the words come too easily to stop them in time. "Convinced him to come to you, instead."
Instead, as though the ramshackle farmhouse is as good as a sterile hospital room. It's all a moot point, because when Dean puts his foot down, there's no moving it until the body attached to that foot is limp with unconsciousness and therefore easier to relocate.
"From Ohio?" Bobby asks with wide eyes. "Wasted a hell of a lot of time doing that."
"Yeah," Sam starts as anger begin to churn in his gut, from being talked to like a stupid child. Like he doesn't KNOW all of this already.
Thankfully, Dean has now had enough time to assemble the puzzle Sam and Bobby's words have created in the atmosphere of the room. He was able to connect the dots between fluids and IV fairly quickly, considering he's still trudging through the headache of his increasing state of dehydration.
"Um, hello?" he asks with a bite, raising his hand. He loses his balance and trips backwards into the bookcase, taking away any of the poise of his follow-up question. "Do I get a vote here?"
"No," Sam says with a forced smile and put-upon patience as Bobby leaves the room to fetch the necessary supplies. He points to the lumpy couch under the picture window. "You get an IV."
"You know," Dean says, breaking the heavy, hungry silence that has settled over the room. His voice is as rough and dry as one would expect it to be, given the circumstances. "It doesn't matter, anyway."
It had taken a fair bit of pissiness and manhandling to get him here, but Dean is at last stretched out and looking sick on the couch, boots dirty but crossed and propped up on the armrest. The arm with the IV inserted is laid just so at his side and his left arm is crooked and tucked under his head like a pillow. Sam has found himself a window of extremely specific space so small, he can reach out to smack Dean's opposite hand away when he moves intermittently to fiddle with the thing, but Dean can't quite reach him back due to the placement of the line.
Sam drops his hand from where it's been cradling his chin and straightens from his vigilant lean against the desktop. There are a few open books next to his elbow whose existence he's doing a fine job of ignoring, but he's not too worried about the books, because he's starting to get a feeling in his gut more and more that the answer isn't going to come from any of these dusty pages. "What doesn't matter?"
"That I can't eat," Dean says hollowly, shifting enough to withdraw his left arm and rub at his nose with a finger from that hand. "I'm not hungry, anyway."
"That's because you're dehydrated, Dean. It's a symptom, not a good thing," Sam snips, growing more and more agitated as the afternoon wears on. Solidarity has its place and all, but he's getting pretty damn hungry, himself.
Sam studies his brother. His color is better, from the fluids Bobby's gotten into him, and he's only half a bag in. Still, he doesn't get his hopes up, because if anything, this is a temporary fix they're in the middle of.
Dean looks up, gives the IV stand above his head the same expression Sam gets when he suggests a place to stop for dinner. Complete aggravation with a dash of dissatisfaction. "Hey, Sam, do me a favor?" he asks without looking over. "Switch that up with some whiskey?"
Sam shakes his head, glaring at the side of his brother's head. "This isn't funny, Dean."
Dean sighs and settles his arm back under his head, resumes staring at the ceiling. "Yeah, and I'm not laughing."
His brother wasn't ever able to stay so long in one place, in one position, wasn't ever this damn STILL before Hell. Sam chews the inside of his cheek. "Maybe I should call – "
"So help me God, Sammy, if you even say that bitch's name…"
Sam clenches his jaw stubbornly but complies. He doesn't shut up, but he doesn't say Ruby's name. "If this is some kind of spell, there's a chance she'd know something about it, Dean. When she was human, she was a witch."
"Then it was probably her who did this, Sam. It's not like we're besties."
"Just because she thinks you're a jerk doesn't mean she'd kill you." Sam forces a smile. "I mean, I think you're a jerk."
"Yeah, and how many times have you tried to kill me?"
"Fine," Sam sighs. He fidgets and shoots a glance across the room, spots a maroon and black checked fleece-lined throw tossed over the back of what was once a nice dining room chair but is now a dust covered catch-all in a corner. "You want a blanket?" he asks, somewhat stupidly.
"Only if you want me to tie it in a knot and choke you with it."
The delivery is off but the words are right, so Sam does his part and cracks a smile in return. "I'm not gonna let that get to me, because I know enough to know that irritability is also a symptom of dehydration."
Dean fidgets again, scratching at the needle in his arm, and Sam is quick to smack his hand away even though it's nice to see he's not just lying down and taking this. "Whatever makes you feel better, Sammy," Dean says dully, his nose wrinkled in displeasure.
Bobby clomps an ungraceful but comforting return, and two sets of wide, hopeful eyes trail his movements as he joins them in the room with a large drive-thru bag balanced precariously atop a pair of new books from the library.
Dean breaks eye contact almost immediately, sniffs and tilts his head back to gaze up at the moldy, much-marked over ceiling. He stays curiously silent and brooding, conceding the lead to his little brother. Another new, unfamiliar, Post-Hell personality trait that has Sam's stomach flipping uncomfortably.
"Anything?" Sam begrudgingly obliges, though the expression Bobby wears is answer enough, and probably the real cause of Dean's silence. That, or the unmistakable scent of deep-fried wonderment the man's got in his hands.
Bobby shakes his head and continues across the study, dropping the pair of new books to the desk and handing Sam the bag of food. He's quick to set it aside out of Dean's eye line.
Bobby checks the fluid left in the bag hanging from the stand behind the couch, large calloused fingers trailing the delicate line into Dean's arm. "Seems to be taking okay?"
Dean sniffs and nods, bringing his arm up enough to glare at the intrusion of the needle. "Think so."
"So there's that," Bobby comments, fingers scraping over his short beard.
"Yeah," Sam says, having already had the same thoughts a quarter of a bag ago. Dozens of French fry sticks call his name from the greasy bag on the desktop, like tiny hostages screaming for rescue. He scoots his chair further into the center of the room.
"There's what?" Dean pipes up, eyes darting between the two.
"And he doesn't have a mark on him," Bobby continues, ignoring Dean. "Or so he says."
"So he KNOWS." Dean argues with a fair amount of indignation, finally shoving up gingerly into a more seated position, with an angry jerk of his chin at the IV line in his arm. "This thing is invasive enough. You two perverts aren't gettin' me to strip down."
"Yeah. Right," Sam huffs, despite knowing exactly how little there is to be gained by doing so. "We just have to trust that you're telling us everything that's going on with you."
He's not talking only about this current predicament but the overall and lingering effects of the literal Hell he's been through, and his brother's narrowing eyes are not only evidence that Dean knows it, but also carry something of their own accusation. Sam supposes he's right, that he hasn't been the most forthcoming with personal details of late, and they might be in something of a pot, kettle situation here, but that's not the most pressing issue at hand.
He shifts his eyes to the books Bobby has just deposited, fighting to ignore the grumble tearing through his stomach, the ache yawning that the sight of the fast food bag next to them. "You need help with these?"
Bobby nods. "We sure we're just gonna rule out something natural bein' the cause of this? Somethin' medical?"
"What're you sayin', Bobby?" Dean asks coolly. "You think that I just came back from Hell wrong?"
"No, he's not saying that," Sam interjects forcefully. "This isn't medical. Someone did this." He stands and gathers the library books under his arm.
Bobby sternly picks up the takeout and plants it firmly against Sam's chest, forcing him to reach up to cradle the bag and no doubt leaving a smudge of grease on his button-down.
Sam's eyes drift down to the phenomenal-smelling bag and move immediately to take in Dean's pinched expression across the room. "Bobby…"
"Stop tryin' to be so damn good, Sam, and eat something. You're no good to your brother if you fall down."
"He's right, Sammy," Dean agrees, his voice dry, tone lifeless and unfamiliar. "Just because I can't eat doesn't mean you have to starve with me."
Sam swallows with some difficulty. "You good?" he asks Dean.
Dean nods curtly. "You two go enjoy your lunch. You need me, I'll just be hangin' out here with my new best friend." He reaches out and wraps his fist around the thin stand to his right. "Think I'll call 'im Standley." He waggles his eyebrows, but underneath, his eyes are dull. "Get it?"
Bobby crosses his arms and stares back a moment. Suddenly he turns on his heel and leaves the room, leaving behind the echo of boot soles on hardwood and the smack of the screened door in the kitchen.
"Don't know why he's so grumpy," Dean mumbles, kicking the heel of his heavy boot against the floor. "I'm the one with the tagalong, here."
"Maybe be just a little less of an ass, huh?" Sam suggests, because he knows what Dean responds to, and it's not going to be kid gloves and coddling.
"Whatever."
The aluminum framed door squeaks and smacks once more, and Bobby aggressively reenters the library with an armload of a large, dusty utterly ancient police scanner. It looks as though it may very well be the first police scanner that there ever was. With some of the things he's seen in Bobby's stores, Sam wouldn't be that surprised. The hunter drops the heavy bit of electronics to the desktop next to Sam and a cloud of dust envelopes them both. He sneezes, then leans in to inspect the merchandise.
"What trash heap did you dig this thing out of, Bobby?" Dean asks, also leaning forward and squinting at the scanner, a boxy contraption with too many buttons, switches and knobs to count.
"The same one I'm two seconds from throwin' your mopey smartass into. Mind your manners, boy. You're in my house." Bobby throws his hands up. "And I'm not gonna sit here in my house and watch you both stew and sulk. Sam, you're with me and the books and the food. Dean…" he points to the busted radio. "I wanna hear static comin' outta this before that bag's run dry."
Dean recoils like a scolded child, eyes shifting up to the bag of fluids above his head. "What – Bobby – "
"Keep talkin' and you can clean the spare bedroom," Bobby threatens with raised brows.
It's no hollow threat, and not one to be taken lightly. Both Winchesters had been chored with tidying the room as misbehaving children, a veritable clusterfuck of the hunter's collected and hoarded nonsense. Years upon years' worth of found and pilfered crap boxed and stacked into dangerously tall formations, much like a maze. It's what Sam imagines the compiled hidden objects in the Room of Requirement to look like, in his mind's eye, though that not an observation he's ever put verbal words to. He once found half a raccoon inside a milk carton overflowing with extension cords, and has no doubt there are still examples of both living and dead wildlife somewhere in the depths of the piles.
Dean swallows and coughs a little, maybe trying to play the sympathy card, and curls his lip when he sees it's not working. He glances once more up at the bag of fluid to gauge the time he's got to complete his assignment, which would be a daunting task for anyone. Except Dean, who turned a busted Walkman into a working EMF detector, and has rebuilt the Impala to mint condition from little more than a scrap heap. "Fine."
Like there was any chance in hell he was going to back down from this challenge. Sam'll give the man this much: Bobby knows what he's doing.
"Bobby, I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for," Sam says, slamming shut his book in frustration. Eyes rolled toward the clock on the wall confirm that less than an hour has passed. Once again it crosses his mind that Ruby might be a resource they shouldn't turn up their noses at here, but he knows exactly how far that suggestion is going to go with Dean, and he wouldn't even know how to breach the subject with Bobby. When Dean is skittish about something, it exacerbates the older hunter's inherent paranoia. Even when he's acting as Bobby's partner in research, Sam sometimes feels like the odd one out when the three are together.
Bobby sighs and leans back in his chair. He pulls the worn mesh-fronted hat from his head and tosses it to the tabletop, sets his calloused fingertips rubbing tired eyes. His hesitance is only evidence of his own lack of answers. He stalls even longer, rising completely from his chair and moving to the counter to pour a sizeable glass of whiskey. He turns to lean against the edge and sips his drink before finally conceding, "We widen the search. Start diggin' into other cultures and older lore." He pauses for another sip. "Probably wouldn't hurt to back trace your steps the last few days, take note of anything out of the ordinary."
Sam snorts and plays with the crisped tip of a long-cold fry. "Bobby, in our lives, out of the ordinary kind of becomes the ordinary, you know? I wouldn't even know where to start."
"Ha HA!" Dean suddenly exclaims from the library. When Sam and Bobby converge on him in the room, he's leaning on the desk looking smug, if not still a little pale. He Vanna White's the lit up, crackling police scanner in front of him. "Suck it, Singer!"
Bobby pops an eyebrow, though Sam can tell he's satisfied the play with the scanner worked.
Dean winces and averts his eyes, goes to work picking the IV needle out of his arm. "Or just, you know, ha ha."
"Mm hmm," Bobby hums, hand outstretched, a cotton ball having materialized there like some kind of reward.
Which is exactly what it is to Dean, a treat in the form of permission to yank the offending needle from his vein. He doesn't hesitate, doing so with gusto and a hiss, and crams the cotton ball to the blood welling from the small hole there.
The police scanner continues to crackle, and just as Sam is moving to flip the thing off, a frantic female voice pops and statics out of the speaker.
Each hunter pounces like street dogs warring over a bone.
Somehow Dean beats Sam to the knob, turning up the volume to catch the full dispatch report of some sort of animal mauling in the woods of the Big Sioux Recreation Center. A deer, and, much more concerning, two teens.
"Dean," Sam says quickly, in an attempt to cut his brother off at the pass. "It's probably just an animal."
"When is it EVER just an animal, Sam?"
"Now, just hold on a damn minute," Bobby cuts in, leveling a stern gaze at Dean. "Regardless of any point you might have there, kid, your brother's got one just as valid. Last thing you need to do right now is to going traipsin' through the damn woods huntin.' For anything."
"No, that's exactly what I need to be doing, Bobby." Dean presses the cotton ball into the crook of his elbow and sneers at the IV pole that's been trailing him for the past few hours. "How long you think I can go before I need another one of these?"
Bobby's eyes narrow. "There's no way to know for – "
"Perfect," Dean replies brightly, or as close to such as he can muster. "Plenty of time."
"Dean," Sam says seriously, having had just about enough of this.
"What's the problem? Bobby keeps hittin' the books and we get to kill something." Dean's already looking around the house for where he'd deposited his jacket earlier. "Sure as hell beats sittin' here with you giving me deathbed eyes."
"I'm not giving you – " Sam pauses, takes a breath. "Dean, Bobby's right. On the off-chance that this is anything more than a wild animal, you are HARDLY in a condition to go out hunting for something that is ripping people apart."
Dean grins big, bumps Sam with his elbow and completely ignores everything he's just said. "You know what, Sammy? If it's something new, I'll even let you name it."
"Dean – "
Dean accepts the strip of tape Bobby's begrudgingly holding out and pats down the cotton ball. "Full tank, Sammy. I'm golden. Let's go kill something fugly."
To be continued...