Fic #20: The A to Z of Demonology 1/6

[mizpah1931]

Title: The A to Z of Demonology
Season: 3 – immediately after the episode Bad Day at Black Rock
Category: General, Action, Humour
Warnings: Sam sings...
Tagline: After dealing with the YED and the Seven Deadly Sins, the boys thought they were getting a handle on demons  – but they’d never encountered anything quite like this before…
Total Word Count: 34,601
Total Chapters: 6
Chapter 1 Word Count: 5053
Beta: ziggyuk
Story Banner: Chasidern
Award Banner: hobbleit
Winner:  SN.TV 2008 Awards – Best Humour Fanfiction (Tied with Concussed – And Loving It)

The idea for this story came to me after a comment my good friend Windyfontaine made regarding demonic eyes. She mentioned that we'd seen black, yellow and red - perhaps it was time for a different colour - what about fuchsia eyes? And of course, my freaky mind filed it away for future reference. Alisa, thanks - and here's your fuchsia-eyed demon.

Thanks also goes to Alisa for letting me borrow her for the story. I wrote in a big Sammy-hug for her for the privilege.

And oh, gosh, how embarrassing....this  tied with another story for Best Humour in the SN.TV 2008 Awards – Concussed And Loving It, written by....*blush*....me...

Sheesh.....

Chapter 1

“It’s just a damned cat!”

“And you know that if she gets into Mrs Tremayne’s trashcan again, there’ll be trouble. Now, you get out there and bring her back in.”

“Well, the damned woman shouldn’t eat so much damned tuna. It’s not natural.”  Chester Winslow strode out of his front door and down to the sidewalk, peering under the bushes and around the trashcans waiting on the kerb for the early morning garbage collection. “Damned cat – come on, where are you at?”

Mumbled, off-key singing floated down the length of the deserted street. Chester straightened up, grimacing as he turned toward the sound. He dusted off his hands, and scowled, watching the short, stocky figure weave down the street. “Harry,” he muttered, disapproval in every line of his seamed, weathered face. “Won’t you ever learn?”

The man staggered to an unsteady halt, blinking owlishly at his neighbour. “Ches…*hic*…ter – how ya doin’?”

Chester turned away with a snort of disgust and made sure the trashcan lids were fixed firmly onto the tops of the cans to stop any animals pulling at the garbage inside. “Better’n you, Harry.”

“Hey – I’m jus’ great…” Harry sagged against the post of a nearby streetlamp, and searched the pockets of his rumpled suit. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, fumbled one out, and dropped the whole pack onto the ground. “Shit, man…”

“Harry, why doncha give up the cancer sticks and just stick to drinkin’? Don’t seem right that a man’s gotta have two vices.”

“Three,” the drunk murmured, holding up four fingers. “Ya forgot about the wimmin.”

“Women – right.” Chester shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I got work in the mornin’, and so have you. And I gotta find Donna’s damn cat before she gets into the trashcans again.” He walked back inside his own gate, and stopped as a faint mewl reached his ears. Crouching down to peer under his wife’s prize rosebush, he encountered a pair of wide green eyes in an endearing black and white face. Growling a little in annoyance, he scooped the cat into his arms and headed up the front steps. “A dog would stay put when I told it to, damn it.”

The cat let out a meow of protest as the door closed.

Harry bent down, almost falling over in his attempt to rescue a handful of dropped cigarettes. He straightened up, a sloppy grin on his face, as his neighbour walked back inside his house. Harry raised an unsteady hand and directed a sloppy salute toward the closed front door. “G’night, Ches-Chester, ole…*hic*…buddy. Hope you can get that stick outta your ass one…*hic*…day.”

The stocky businessman continued his weaving path down the street toward his own house, mumbling under his breath, and occasionally breaking out into a half-remembered song. Two doors down from Chester’s home, Harry stopped, and leaned up against the fence as he felt a wave of dizziness overcome him. He gasped, pressing one hand to his head as he hung onto the fence with the other. “Ooh – too much tequila, not ‘nuff beer…”

Finally, the dizziness passed, and Harry straightened up, his sloppy grin lighting his pale, puffy face. “Hey – that could be a song…Too much tequi…” He broke off, staring at the nearby trashcan as it rattled against the ground. “What the – mus’ be Chester’s damned cat. Go on, scat, you cat!”

The metal receptacle trembled more violently, rocking from side to side as if shaken by an unseen hand. The lid vibrated against the body of the can, making a low humming noise.

Harry scowled, blinking rapidly, as he made his unsteady way toward the jittering trashcan. “Hey – go on, scat! Get on…*hic*…home!”

The lid flew up into the air, and the trashcan tipped over with a loud clatter. Seconds later the lid landed on the sidewalk, ringing like a gong as it landed. The porch light flicked on over Chester Winslow’s door as Harry eased cautiously forward, his bleary eyes making out a vague shape in the darkness.

“Hey…” Harry trailed off into an uneasy silence, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Shivering as if cold, he took a step back, his gaze locked on the dark mass gliding across the ground. “What the…”

Suddenly the mass lurched forward with terrifying speed. The businessman opened his mouth to yell for help, when he found himself locked into immobility. Light from the nearby streetlamp shone down on the small black cloud as it flowed up the helpless man’s chest and poured into his open mouth. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared, and Harry staggered back, his hand clutching at his chest as he drew in a ragged breath.

“Harry? What the hell’s goin’ on?” Chester leaned over his front gate, staring at his friend in concern. “What’re you doin?”

Harry shook himself, blinking rapidly, and then he coughed, thumping his chest. Turning toward his friend, he straightened his stocky frame, and smiled. “Just your damned cat. Better tell Willy to come clean up his mess. And he better put the lid on tighter next time, huh?”

“The cat’s inside the house, Harry.” Chester felt a chill ghost down his spine. “Harry? You all right?”

Harry Peterson smirked, and sauntered closer. The light from the porch shone in his eyes, and Chester drew back with a gasp of shock. “Never better, Chester, my boy. Never better. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to take care of.”

Turning on his heel, the businessman strode swiftly along the sidewalk. “Now, first things first…” He came to an abrupt halt, and jerked to one side, as if pulled by strings. “No, I don’t want….yes, I do – go that way…..no, I want to go this way…..I said THAT WAY!”

His arms and legs twitching spasmodically, he set off down a side street, and was soon gone from sight.

Chester’s mouth hung open. He blinked, and swallowed nervously, turning back toward his front door like a man in a dream. Making his way inside, he stared at his wife as she sat on the couch with her knitting in her lap. “Donna…”

Donna Winslow glanced up, her soft gaze turning worried as she met her husband’s wide eyes. “Chester? What’s happened?”

Chester’s gaze dropped to the ball of wool in the basket next to his wife’s feet, and he pointed a trembling hand toward the bright half-completed scarf hanging from the knitting needles. “Honey, what – what colour’s that?”

“What, this?” Puzzled, Donna held up the scarf. “Why, it’s fuchsia.”

Running a hand over his grizzled face, the man stared over his shoulder at the deserted street. “Harry…”

“What about that old drunk? What’s he done now?”

“He’s actin’ almighty weird, even for Harry. And his eyes – his eyes were the colour of that there scarf.”

Donna snorted softly. “You mean bloodshot, don’t you?”

Chester vehemently shook his head. “No, dammit, woman! I mean his eyes were that colour – his whole eyes! Harry’s got fuchsia eyes!”

*     *     *     *     *

“Son of a bitch!!”

Sam shifted on the seat, trying to ease the sickening throb of his wounded shoulder. “I believe you already made that point, big brother.”

Thumping his fist against the steering wheel, Dean scowled fiercely at the stretch of road illuminated by the Chevy’s bright headlights. “That bitch! If I get my hands on her…” He let the threat go unfinished as he ground his teeth together in frustration.

The younger hunter sighed softly, and wearily let his head drop to lean against the back of the seat.

“Son of a bitch! Forty thousand dollars – forty thousand dollars!!!! That bitch!!!!”

“Forty-six thousand dollars,” Sam, always a stickler for accuracy, added quietly. He cast a sideways glance at his sibling, who glared savagely back. Inclining his head and arching his brows in a shrug, the shaggy haired hunter went back to contemplating the dark road flashing by under the tyres of the growling Impala. It was almost as if she’d picked up her master’s mood, he thought fleetingly, and smiled at the mental image of his big brother and his monster-hunting car.

“What’s so freakin’ funny?” Dean snapped.

Sam jumped, and gasped as his shoulder let him know in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t a good idea to move quickly. His smile turned into a pained grimace. “What? Uh – nothin’ – I just – shoulder hurts…”

The tyres shrieked like a banshee, scrabbling for purchase against the asphalt. Sam flung out his good arm to stop his slide into the dashboard as the Chevy came to a sudden, rocking halt. “Crap, Dean…” He broke off the rest of his comment at the determined glint in his brother’s eyes. Slumping against the seat in defeat, Sam closed his eyes as Dean pulled his jacket and shirt off his shoulder to check the Bela-inflicted bullet wound.

Dean’s scowl grew even deeper as he surveyed his brother’s shoulder. “It’s still bleeding, Sam. Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

Sam shrugged helplessly with his good shoulder, holding his blood-smeared hand palm up in a placating gesture. “We kinda had other things to deal with first, Dean. Like getting rid of the rabbit’s foot, and the psycho thief who was gonna plug me full of holes…” He ruefully shook his head – it really hadn’t been his day…

Flinching guiltily, Dean pulled out his own handkerchief and folded it into a pad. He should have seen to his brother first before bitching about Bela and the stolen scratch tickets. Dean grimaced a little as he focussed on the task at hand. “Well, looks like the bullet’s not too deep – means I won’t have to go digging too far to get it out.”

Sam’s face paled. “Yeah – that’s – that’s great.” He bit back a gasp of pain as Dean pressed the clean pad against the entry wound.

The elder hunter held the pad in place as he pulled his brother’s shirt and jacket back over his wounded shoulder, and nodded in satisfaction. “Keep the pressure on the wound – slow down that bleeding. I’ll find us a motel.”

Nodding slightly, Sam clamped his hand over his shoulder, and pressed against the seat as the Chevy roared back onto the road. He stayed silent, watching the darkened countryside slide past the windows. Casting a glance at his brother, he frowned in concern as he saw how tightly Dean’s hands were clamped around the steering wheel. “Dean? You okay?”

“I’m telling you, Sammy – if I catch up with that bitch – she’s toast!”

The young hunter grimaced in sympathy.

*     *     *     *     *

The young hunter grimaced in pain as he carefully shrugged out of his jacket and surveyed the bullet hole in the brown corduroy. “That was almost new – now look at it!” He let out an annoyed huff as he turned to face his brother, wiggling his finger through the bloody hole in the thick fabric.

Dean rolled his eyes and banged the first aid kit down on the sink in the tiny motel bathroom. “Dude – if it makes you feel any better, how about I stitch up the hole in your jacket before I stitch up the hole in you, huh?”

“Hilarious, Dean.” Sam sat down on the edge of the bath and tossed his bloodstained jacket down beside him. Slowly, trying not to move his left arm too much, he pulled off his shirt and tee shirt, throwing the garments onto the jacket. Peeling the blood-soaked handkerchief away from the wound, Sam sighed gustily, and glanced down at his shoulder.

The bullet wound was small, but messy, and it hurt like hell. Sam could imagine how it was going to feel after Dean started digging around to get the bullet out. Suddenly a silver flask appeared in his line of sight, and he reared back, startled.

Dean grinned. “Nerves of steel, there, Sammy.”

“Bite me.”

Chuckling softly, the elder hunter handed over his hip flask, and watched his sibling take a small swig. “You’re gonna need more than that, dude. Chug that sucker.”

Sam groaned faintly, and took a long swallow of the neat spirit, blinking a little as the whiskey burned its fiery path down his throat to his belly. “Okay.”

“You ready?” Dean’s eyebrows arched as he studied his brother’s pale face. He took the flask back, and put it down on the edge of the sink as he sterilised a set of long tweezers with hot water and an alcohol wipe.

“Yeah…”

Dean flipped down the lid of the toilet, and settled on it, scooting forward a little as he reached toward his brother. “’Cause this is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Sam swallowed convulsively. “Just do it.” He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he felt the first touch of the tweezers against his flesh. Pain flared deep inside his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop the breathless grunt escaping his tightly clamped lips. Sam’s good hand clamped down onto the edge of the bath, his knuckles whitening as the tweezers probed deeper into the wound. “Ho-holy friggin’ crap….”

Dean hesitated, his free hand reaching out to grasp Sam’s uninjured shoulder. “Keep still – I’ve almost got it, dude.” He pushed the tweezers in further, feeling the faint scrape as the tips made contact with something small and hard. “Got it.”

“Wait, wait, wait…” Sam begged breathlessly. He peeled his bloodless fingers from the edge of the bath and gestured toward the silver hip flask. “Give me – give me an-other – belt.”

As he reached for the flask and handed it over, Dean noticed the faint tremors rippling through his brother’s tall frame. Shock was beginning to set in, he decided. “Dude – you sure?”

Sam scowled, his eyes blazing in sudden anger. “It’s to stop – stop me feeling – the pain?”

Dean nodded. “That’s the idea, yeah, but dude, I think you’re …”

“Well then I need – need more, ‘CAUSE I C-CAN STILL F-FRIGGIN’ FEEL IT!” Sam roared into his brother’s face.

Blinking in wordless surprise, Dean handed over the flask, deciding not to mention Sam’s piss-poor anger management at that moment. At least, not until he was out of range of his brother’s fist.

Sam snatched the flask, and drained it, swaying slightly as he handed it back. He flinched as he felt his brother’s hand clamp down on his wounded shoulder, holding him immobile.

“Okay, hold still – we’re almost there.” Frowning in concentration, Dean ignored his brother’s pain-filled gasps and muttered curses as he slid the tweezers carefully around the sides of the small object he could feel at the bottom of the hole. Clamping the arms together, he slowly drew the surgical steel instrument out, smiling in relief as he saw the bloody lump of metal gripped between their jaws. “Got it.”

Dean dropped the flattened bullet into a plastic dish on the vanity unit, and laid the tweezers down beside it. Picking up the bottle of peroxide and a gauze pad, he turned back to his sibling, studying Sam’s sweat-dappled face in concern. “Okay, this is gonna…”

“Hurt – like a – bitch – I get it,” Sam muttered shakily. “Just get on – with it.”

“You need another shot of whiskey?”

“It’s empty.”

“I got a bottle in my duffle bag.” Dean waited for his brother’s jerky nod before striding from the bathroom. He was back in moments, a three quarters full bottle of Jack in his hand. Grinning faintly, he twisted off the cap and handed the bottle over. “Dude – take it easy with that stuff, okay?”

Sam huffed, and took a long drink. He nodded, gave the bottle back, and drew in a deep breath. “All ri – right. Do it.”

Dean held the bottle of peroxide over the bullet wound, his gaze flicking briefly to his sibling’s pale, tense face. “You want a bullet to bite on? Not the one I just pulled out of you – that would be…” He saw his brother glance up, and quickly tipped the bottle over the wound as soon as Sam was distracted.

“Dean, just geeEEEAAAAAAHHHHHmmffff!” Sam’s agonised scream was choked off as his brother clapped a hand over his mouth. He reared up, his shoulder erupting in burning agony, as if someone had just jammed a red-hot poker through the bullet hole. Dean rose with him, driving him back against the wall and holding him there until the worst of the pain subsided. Sam drew in a ragged breath as Dean dropped his hand, and he sagged against his brother, his head coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder as he fought the pain and the nausea. A stream of breathless curses spewed from his bloodless lips.

Dean’s mouth fell open in shock as he heard the whispered cussing. He didn’t realise his brother knew half those words. The elder hunter shook his head as he stretched out his arm to place the open bottle of peroxide carefully onto the edge of the sink, and then he transferred his grip to his sibling’s upper arms. He could feel the shudders wracking Sam’s frame as his body reacted to the pain.

“Okay, Sammy, take it easy. We’re almost done.” Dean eased his brother back down onto the edge of the bath and began to clean up the blood and spilled peroxide from around the wound. The cleanup work done, he reached for the needle and suture thread and began to stitch up the wound.

“Th – that – was – dir-dirty trick…” the young hunter gasped. He winced, grinding his teeth together as he felt the needle puncture his skin.

“Yeah, well…” Dean shrugged as he tied off the last suture. Working quickly, he wiped up the last trickle of blood before taping a gauze dressing over the wound. “Okay, all done.”

Sam shuddered, blinking the sweat from his eyes as he mopped his forehead with a shaking hand. “Give me – the bottle.”

Dean shook his head. “No, dude, I think you’ve had enough already. How about I give you some painkillers, and then you get some sleep, huh? Sound like a plan?” Reaching into the first aid kit, he palmed two Ibuprofen and handed them to his sibling. “I’ll go get you some water.”

He was back in a few moments, and scowled at his brother. While he’d been gone, Sam had snagged the whiskey bottle, and was busy lowering the tide. Dean reached for the bottle, snatching his hand back as his brother growled at him. “Dude – anger management!”

“Dean – back off, all right?” Sam’s bottom lip stuck out petulantly as he glared at his sibling. “I’ve had a really crappy day! I lost the foot, spilled my coffee, then I knocked that guy over, then I fell down and skinned my knees, then I fell down again in that guy’s apartment, and I lost my shoe, and the air conditioner caught fire, and then I caught on fire, and I slipped and knocked myself out, and then those guys beat the crap out of me, and they were gonna shoot me, and then Bela did shoot me…” His chest heaved as he drew in a ragged gulp of air.

“Okay, all right – just calm down.” Dean held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Jeez, try taking a breath once in a while, would ya?” He sighed, running a hand across his face and through his hair. “Okay, let’s get you out of here and onto the bed.”

Sam stood up, wobbling slightly, and accepted his brother’s help in getting to his bed. Dean pulled the covers back, and Sam lay down with a relieved sigh. He kept a tight grip on the half empty whiskey bottle, and blinked owlishly up at his hovering sibling. “What?”

“You want to give me the bottle now?” Dean held out his hand.

The shaggy haired hunter scowled fiercely as he clutched the bottle to his chest.

Dean sighed. It was going to be a long night.

*     *     *     *     *

“I feel I could
And I know I should – *hic*
Step away, turn around
Let my feet hit the ground
Running – running – running – running…”

The shrill ringing of his cell phone sounded like music to Dean’s ears, which was more than he could say for the racket coming from the next bed. He flipped the cover open. “Yeah?”

“Dean? What the hell’s happening? Is everything all right?”

“Hey, Bobby. Yeah, everything’s just peachy – why do you ask?” Dean shot an exasperated glance over his shoulder, and stuck a finger in his ear.

“You don’t need a broken heart…*hic*…”

“Well – you didn’t call…what the hell’s that noise?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “What – that? That’s – uh – Sammy.”

“To know a heart can be broken…”

“What the hell’s he doing? Is he – is he singing?”

“If you can call it that, yeah.”

“Dean – what’s going on?”

“You just need to open your ey-eeessss…*hic*…”

“Sam – shut up!” Shaking his head in annoyance, Dean strode to the bathroom, slamming the door on his sibling’s less than tuneful warbling. “Sorry about that, Bobby. Okay, what’s up?”

“What happened with Bela?”

The green-eyed hunter sighed, and ran a hand across his gritty eyes. It had been a long night. “Oh – well, I got the foot back, and then we burned it – just like you said to do.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“I know you, Dean. You’re not telling me the whole story. What else happened?”

“Uh – she – kinda – shot Sammy…”

“She WHAT???”

Dean grimaced, and snatched the phone away from his ear. Gingerly, he put it back. “Uh – she shot Sam – in the shoulder. I got the bullet out – he’s okay.”

“And she’s still breathin’?”

“Yeah – well, you know the golden rule. I gotta let her live – she’s human. Or – at least I think she is.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Please tell me she’s not, so I can hunt her ass down.”

“Nah – she’s human all right. Sorry, Dean.” Bobby cleared his throat. “So, are you sure Sam’s okay?”

“Yeah – well, he’s wasted – but I guess you already got that. He’ll be fine.”

“Well, good – ‘cause I got a hunt for you boys. It’s only a few hundred miles from where you are now. I’m getting some weird reports from this town – and there’s the usual demonic signs – crop failures on a small scale, power fluctuations – that kind of thing.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Okay – give me the details and we’ll hit the road in the morning. I’ll call you when we get there.” He walked out into the main room, glancing at his now silent sibling as he searched for a pen and paper and jotted down Bobby’s directions. “Uh-huh – yeah – okay, got that.”

“You boys be careful.”

“We will. Thanks Bobby.”

Sam figured it was safe to resume his song, as it sounded like the phone call was over. “We don’t need to be deceived…to know a lie can be spoken…we don’t have to learn everything twi…*hic*…iiiiicce….” He closed his eyes and flopped back onto the pillows, wincing as he jarred his newly repaired shoulder. “Ow…”

“I can’t believe you let him have a bottle, Dean – you know how he gets.”

Dean turned his back on his sibling, cradling the phone close to his face as he gritted, “I tried to take it off him, Bobby – he freakin’ growled at me!”

“”Cos I know how it feels….all the pain is so real…”

“He growled at you? What, so you’re scared of your little brother now?”

“’Cos you sink and you drown….’til your feet hit…*hic*…the ground….running….run…”

“I am not!” Dean hissed indignantly. Striding back to the bed, he leaned down, and snatched the three quarters empty bottle out of Sam’s hand. “Okay, that’s it! No more whiskey, and no more singing! You got that?”

Sam gazed blearily up at his fuming brother. His long bangs fell across his eyes, making him look much younger than his twenty-four years. Sam’s lower lip began to tremble.

Dean groaned aloud as he looked into his brother’s glassy puppy dog eyes. Reluctantly he handed back the bottle. “Fine, you can have the whiskey – but no more singing, okay? I’m on the phone.”

“’Kay…” Smiling brightly, Sam accepted the bottle, and blinked owlishly up at his sibling. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Sucker.”

Ignoring the taunt that floated out from the speaker of the cell phone, Dean turned his back on his brother and walked across to his own bed, sitting down on the edge. “Anything else we need?”

“You mean besides a good supply of coffee to sober Sam up? Nah, that’s everything I know. But you boys know the drill – you come up against anything weird, you call me.”

“Okay, I’ll check in with you when we get there.” Sighing, Dean flipped the phone closed and eyed his plastered sibling.

Sam had fallen asleep, the bottle cradled against his side. His head was turned toward the bathroom, his hair falling messily across his closed eyelids. Soft snores fluttered from his slightly parted lips.

Dean sighed again, checked his brother’s wound, and removed the whiskey bottle. “I’ll take that bottle now.” He downed the last few swallows, and wiped his mouth as he walked over to place the empty bottle on the small table across the room. “My freakin’ whiskey anyway…” Striding back to the bed, he pulled up the blankets and spread them over his snoring sibling. “Freakin’ growl at me…”

The shaggy haired hunter grunted, rolled his head to face Dean’s bed, smacked his lips together, and mumbled something unintelligible. The soft snores began again as Dean pulled the covers down on his own bed.

*     *     *     *      *

The motel room door banged shut, startling the sleeping hunter into wakefulness. He flipped the blankets away from his face and glared at the tall figure silhouetted by the morning sunlight streaming in through the parted curtains.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Screw you!” Sam pulled the covers back over his head, hiding his sibling’s grinning face, and the bright sunlight, from view.

Dean chuckled as he put the two takeaway coffees on the nightstand between the beds. He reached out and poked the mound of blankets, grinning as the mound twitched away from his prodding finger. “Hey – rise and shine, princess – we gotta hit the road.”

“Go away or I’ll hurt you.” The muffled reply floated up through the bedclothes.

“Huh. Guess all that whiskey wasn’t such a gang busters idea after all.” Dean tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin, before prodding the mound of blankets again. “Unless it was all that singing.”

The Sam-shaped mound twitched sharply, and an annoyed huff stirred the section of blankets close to the head of the bed. A long fingered hand snaked out from under the covers to push them down, revealing Sam’s pale face and sleep-mussed hair. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, scowling at his sibling as he sat up and leaned against the headboard.

Grinning faintly, Dean handed his hung-over sibling one of the foam containers. “What – nothin’ to say this morning? You had plenty to say last night.”

The young hunter grunted, and pried the top off his coffee with a trembling hand. He took a cautious sip of the strong brew, grimacing as it hit his whiskey soaked stomach.

Dean settled onto his own bed and flipped the lid off the remaining coffee. “Get your sorry ass up. We got a gig.”

“Where?” Sam croaked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“A few hours from here. Some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere. Bobby thinks there’s signs of demon activity.” Dean took a long swallow of his coffee, and appraised his lanky sibling. “How’s the shoulder?”

Sam carefully stretched out his left arm, and winced. “Great.”

“Liar.”

The shaggy haired hunter grunted again, and concentrated on his coffee.

Dean arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Don’t you want to know all about the gig?”

“No.”

“Man, you’re in a good mood.”

Sam narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “You try getting…” he bit off the rest of his sentence, remembering that Dean had already experienced the joy of getting shot – by his own brother, no less. A blush rose to his face, and he dropped his head, staring fixedly at his coffee. He sighed softly. “What did Bobby say?”

Dean pursed his lips, reading his brother’s face like a book, and decided a little cheering up was in order. “Hey, look on the bright side – now we’ll have matching scars.” He held up a hand as Sam scowled. “Dude, chill, okay?”

“The hunt?” Sam prompted him icily.

“Okay, all right – Bobby said there were some demonic signs – a few crop failures, power fluctuations – not a lot, but worth checking out. If you’re up to it, that is.” Dean frowned slightly as he studied his sibling’s pale face, and the darkening bruises across his cheek and chin. His gaze slid to the gauze pad on Sam’s left shoulder, and he quirked one eyebrow in a silent query.

Sam glanced down at the pad. There was a small patch of dried blood in the middle of the pristine white dressing – not much bigger than a dime. His shoulder felt stiff and sore, but that was to be expected. He figured he could rest it for a day or two, and then get it mobile again with a bit of training. “I’ll be fine, Dean.”

“Okay. Well, go get cleaned up, and we’ll hit the road. Hey, you want breakfast? I could really go for some bacon and eggs.”

The young hunter’s face rapidly drained of all colour, and he let out a strangled gulp as he quickly put the half finished coffee on the nightstand. Sam threw himself from the bed and clapped a hand over his mouth as his stomach roiled.

Dean grinned. “Hung over, huh? Well, like I always say, the best hangover cure is a greasy…”

“Mmmfff!” Sam fled to the bathroom, banging the door closed behind him.

His big brother carried on, undaunted, sauntering to the bathroom door and leaning a shoulder against the wood. “…pork sandwich, served up in…”

“Buuuuuurrrrrrgggggggggg….”

“…a dirty…”

“Gaaaaaahhhhhhhhroooooooorrrrr…”

Dean winced at the strangled moaning coming from the other side of the door. He lifted a hand, and scratched the back of his head. “Okay, I’ll shut up now.”

*     *     *      *      *

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