Brained
title: Brained
part: 14 of 15
rated: PG/K+
spoilers: none
warnings: this fic has crack-y origins
summary: A hunt at a haunted library leaves Sam wondering just what happened to his brother.
* 2002 *
Bobby, sap that he would never admit to being, thought that Dean's quiet voice was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. It was certainly the first thing he had heard from the boy since his and John's arrival. John, however, didn't seem to think so.
“And just how did you come up with that?” he demanded, clearly irritated with the useless hours of researching he had just done. But, John had been the one to tell - order - Dean to start looking at the other aspects and objects in the restaurant and show while he and Bobby went through the employee files.
For a moment Dean was silent, still looking down at the sheet of paper in his hand, and Bobby thought that he might just retreat back into silence after his father's harsh tones. But, Dean surprised him. The kid appeared to come to the end of what he was reading, put the paper down, and looked up at the two men across the table from him.
“You ever heard of the Zebrina?”
*
* present *
*
“That sounds a little familiar,” Sam said, “but I can't place it.”
“You know,” Bobby laughed, “your brother always had the strangest tastes in reading materials. The kid read some fiction here and there - some King, Bradbury, Vonnegut - but he would go from nothing but classic car magazines one minute and then find everything he could read about old Hitchcock movies the next.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” Sam laughed along. “Anything the he wasn't forced to read by a teacher... you know, I once caught him reading Hamlet? Wanted to make fun of him for it but I knew he would get me back so much worse.”
“Yep, that sounds about right. Well, one summer when you all were at my place, Dean's interest of the moment was ghost ships. He read about the legend of the Flying Dutchman, the story of the Mary Celeste, and about Zebrina.”
*
* 2002 *
*
“The Zebrina set sail from England to France in the 1900s,” Dean told them. “Well, two days later, she was found a little farther north than intended, with little damage but with no crew.”
“Well, thank you for the history lesson, son,” John said, trying to keep his patience, “but we are a little busy right now-”
“John,” Bobby warned under his breath.
“The ship at the restaurant,” Dean looked down at his piece of paper again, “the Naumachia was built using a few parts from the Zebrina. There is a detailed, though embellished, story about the old ship on the children's' menus.”
*
* present *
*
“And, after another hour of researching, it was your brother who figured out what we were up against.”
*
* 2002 *
*
“A matagot,” Dean suddenly said. The three men were sitting amid piles of Bobby's books, resembling college students studying for finals.
“A matagot,” Bobby repeated, he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it himself.
“A what?” John asked.
“It's a French spirit of sorts,” Bobby told him. “Some folks have obtained them in the cockeyed notion that they can be helpful or bring wealth to the owner. And that can be true to a point. Only, the matagot is particular and can and will turn on you when it feels it's been done wrong. End result, the owner becomes the slave until he or she suffers a long, agonizing death.”
“And,” John turned to Dean, something looking suspiciously like pride in his eyes, “how did you figure that out?”
“Well,” Dean said somewhat shyly, “the reports... there were reports of people hearing wings flapping, and recently a few people have said they'd seen a parrot out of the corner of their eye. The matagot usually takes the form of a cat, but it can be any animal.”
“I don't remember seeing reports like that,” John said, looking back through the witness accounts.
“Because most were stated as an afterthought,” Dean told him. “Kind of a, by the way thing. Most likely, people thought the parrot was a part of the show - they were watching pirates, after all.”
*
* present *
*
“Long story short,” Bobby said, “it ain't easy catching a bird. Especially when the bird is not really a bird. And, especially when the restaurant wanted a little bit of authenticity and sat the boat in a pool of water. Weren't as bad as a sea cruise, but it was enough for us to be unsteady.”
“What happened?”
“Well, we managed to take the dang-blasted thing out... along with six tables, a good portion of the ship, and a dressing room or two. I managed to get out with a busted lip, some nasty abrasions on my left side, and a big chunk'a table in my thigh. Your daddy ended up with a twisted wrist and a number of bruised ribs to go along with his bruised pride. Your brother... well, Dean, of course, took the worst of it.”
“He wouldn't have it any other way,” Sam mumbled.
“The matagot gave him a good clawing. There were two long lines on the right side of his jaw and up behind his ear, but mostly he was able to throw his arms up to block it. Thing seemed intent on scratching his eyes out. His foot went through a weak spot in the floor and his jeans were torn to shreds - his leg only looking a little bit better.”
“And how did he hit his head?” Sam had to know.
“The ship was coming down around us,” Bobby told him, “John and I were firing at the evil parrot over and over, but the dang thing was fast. One of our shots - couldn't even be sure whose - hit something that knocked a rope that bumped something else... I tell you, it was like that old mousetrap game you boys enjoyed so much. The final move was that crossbeam - the one that holds down the sail on the mast...”
“The boom.”
“Right, the boom-” Bobby said, then looked up startled. Neither he nor Sam had seen or heard Dean walk into the room. But there he was, leaning against the doorway without the room occupants having any idea how long he'd been there.
While both Bobby and Sam knew that talking about a past hunt wasn't really a reason to feel guilty, they also felt that they were doing so behind Dean's back - therefore, there was a certain amount of self-reproach going on. So, as both men sat trying to figure out what to do next, Dean walked into the room and sat down next to Sam on the sofa.
“So, giving Sammy a replay of Dean Winchester's greatest hits?” Dean asked with a hint of amusement, extending the olive branch to Sam, but more so to Bobby.
“Just giving him the rundown of that ridiculous evil parrot at the pirate-themed restaurant hunt.” He didn't mean to laugh, really he didn't. It was not an easy hunt by any means - long hours of research, an assortment of injuries between them. But really, who could describe such a hunt without laughing. Apparently Dean agreed as he laughed right along.
“Right,” Dean smiled, and just like that, he and Bobby seemed to be on good terms again, “you were just telling him how I was introduced to the business end of the boom. I'd help you out but the damn thing hit me on the back of my head and things got a little blurry after that.”
“The beam not only hit you, son,” Bobby told him, a bit of old worry and pain filling his eyes, “it knocked you out and off the boat.” He turned to Sam. “Threw him into some barrels at the side of the ship and they all fell overboard. And, if that weren't bad enough, he fell face down with the barrels on top of'im.”
“Into the water,” Sam said.
“Yep. Your daddy and I started shooting at that bird without stopping and one of us finally nailed him with some silver,” Bobby told them, all mirth gone. “John, well, he ran to the spot where Dean went over and nearly jumped from the ship right then and there. I just barely got to him in time to remind him about his ribs.
“When we got down to the pool level, John rushed into the water and grabbed you, hauled you out,” he explained looking at Dean again. “You weren't breathing and we started CPR. After a couple'a rounds, you coughed up all that water and were conscious enough to help up get you to the car.”
“You know,” Dean said, knowing what was coming and hoping to head it off, “if that place is still open, I think we should all go. Should probably get free tickets after that hunt. You think the manager would remember us?”
“Dean,” Sam whined in that long-suffering little brother way.
“Next morning,” Bobby plowed ahead, he was almost completely on-board with Sam's crazy theory now and wanted to see Dean's reaction, “I asked John and Dean if they wanted any coffee. John gave me usual affirmative grunt and Dean said, 'mercy we.'”
“Merci oui?” Sam asked, not sure if it was funny or not. He looked over at his brother and Dean looked away.
“That's right. All morning long, he's saying stuff that don't make a lick of sense to us. And John-” Bobby stopped short, realizing he didn't really want to rehash this part.
“Go on, Bobby,” Dean said, voice full of pained acceptance. “I was delirious after the blow to the head and Dad thought I was intentionally being difficult. He yelled, I was confused, he yelled some more, and then stormed out.”
“And when he came back?” Sam prompted hopefully.
“I got a call a week later to take care of a poltergeist in Maine and then to meet him within four days in New Hampshire.”
“You know, Dean,” Bobby said quietly, “I know a few different languages, but French ain't one of'em. And John... well, I think your daddy knew enough Latin to get by but was by no means fluent-”
“I wasn't speaking French, Bobby. I don't know French. I told you then and I'll tell you now - it was gibberish, nonsense. I was loopy after getting hit in the head. That's all.”
* * *
Bobby walked into his kitchen to give the boys some privacy.
“Dean,” Sam hesitated.
“Yeah.”
“Can I just ask you one thing?”
“I think you just did, Sammy.”
“Seriously, Dean.” Dean rolled his eyes but nodded for his brother to continue. “OK, I know that this is going to sound really, well, strange but...”