As promised...
... here's my latest hoodie_time roundup, all Christmas-themed Dean-centered h/c.
First up, for a prompt from astarloa: Sam’s convinced that Dean’s the only person ever to have contracted food poisoning from a fruit-mince pie. It shouldn’t be possible, in fact. Now he’s trying to research holiday curses with an affinity for dried fruit whilst dealing with his miserable and cantankerous brother.
It had seemed like such a simple case. Go in, gank the poltergeist, get out. Getting out was harder than they’d expected, though. The two sweet little old ladies who lived in the house, sisters who’d never married, were extremely grateful and insisted on rewarding them with coffee and cake, fussing and fretting over them even though they were (outwardly) fine and asking them all about their plans for Christmas. Dean tried to fend them off, but finally he gave up and admitted that it would be just the two of them this year since they had no one else to visit.
“All alone in the world?” asked one, sounding like it was the saddest thing ever.
Dean tried to shrug it off. “We’re okay.”
“Well, you’ll take a pie with you, at least,” said the other, walking over to the pie safe.
Dean blinked. “Pie?”
Sam finally spoke up. “No, really, that’s not necessary....”
But the lady who’d offered the pie would not be deterred. “Nonsense. You can’t have a proper Christmas without a fruit-mince pie!” She pulled one out and bustled over to Dean, pressing it into his hands. “There, now.”
Dean grinned. “Awesome. Thanks, Miss Brewster. Hey, uh, we should get going.”
“Yeah,” Sam nodded.
It took another minute or two of repeated farewells and refusals to take more than the pie before they were finally able to get out the door. Then, with an exchanged look and mutual sighs of relief, they made their way back to the Impala-out of storage, now that Dean didn’t see the point in hiding anymore and Sam didn’t have the energy to argue-and drove back to the motel, stopping for burgers on the way.
After scarfing down his bacon cheeseburger and washing it down with a beer, Dean cut himself a slice of the pie. “Hey, Sammy, you want some?”
Sam, who was working steadily on his own hamburger, wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks.”
“Dude, it’s fruit-mince. There’s no meat in this thing anywhere.”
“Still doesn’t sound good to me.”
Dean shrugged. “Your loss.” And he tucked into his slice. He slowed down after the first couple of bites, though, and he’d barely eaten half of it when he stopped.
Sam frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Dean shook his head. “I dunno. Tastes funny.”
Sam had a sudden flashback to Broward County. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I... I think....” But his breathing was quickly becoming rapid and labored, and one arm curled around his stomach. “Then again... gettin’ dizzy... kinda nauseous.”
“The burger?”
Dean shook his head and, after another few seconds of panting, bolted for the bathroom.
Sam’s mind whirled as he listened to Dean being noisily sick. No, there wasn’t really a reason to suspect the burger of causing food poisoning, not with it coming on this fast. Sam had eaten a burger from the same place and felt fine. But the pie tasted funny... yet there wasn’t anything in the pie that could cause food poisoning. Even if the ingredients could have been suspect, the top crust was a perfect golden brown; it should have baked well enough to kill off any bacteria or parasites.
Yeah, I don’t think it’s food poisoning, said Lucifer.
Sam bashed his knee against the leg of the table to shut Lucifer up and went to check on Dean, since it sounded like he’d finished vomiting. But Dean slammed the door shut before Sam could get there, and seconds later Sam heard explosions coming out Dean’s other end.
By the time Dean dragged himself out of the bathroom, pale and sweating and still breathing rapidly, Sam had a clean change of clothes and a bottle of Gatorade waiting for him. Dean waved off the clothes but accepted the Gatorade as he sank down on the bed with a groan that might have contained profanity.
“I think it’s the pie,” Sam said as Dean gulped Gatorade between gasps for air. “I dunno what they did to it, but I don’t think it’s food poisoning. I’ll see what I can dig up about curses someone could put in a pie.”
“’Kay.” Dean leaned back against the headboard, hands twitching a little.
Hey, Sammy, said Lucifer from the other bed, why does the name Brewster sound familiar?
Sam gritted his teeth and went back to the table to start researching curses.
He was still there half an hour later when Dean’s breathing got worse and the muscle spasms started. Fighting panic and trying desperately to ignore Lucifer’s cackling, he got Dean onto his side, but Dean’s joints seemed locked, and his back and neck kept arching backward as he screamed hoarsely. The spell lasted a good two minutes, and then Dean went completely limp.
“Dean?”
“Damn,” Dean croaked, “that was hellish.”
And Sam knew Dean didn’t say that lightly. Not anymore.
“Found anything yet?”
“Not yet,” Sam replied as Lucifer started whistling “There Is a Happy Land.” “You said the pie tasted funny; what did it taste like?”
Dean made an uncertain noise. “Kinda bitter. Almond-y. But there’s no nuts.”
Sam’s eyes went wide as he put all the clues together and realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him:
Well, dear, for a gallon of elderberry wine, I take one teaspoonful of arsenic, then add half a teaspoonful of strychnine, and then, just a pinch of cyanide.
He swore and grabbed the phone.
Dean frowned. “Dude, what....”
“911, what is your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance right away,” Sam said, not bothering to hide the panic in his voice. “My brother’s been poisoned!”
The next few hours were a whirl of activity and anguish; any touch other than Sam’s sent Dean into another round of painful seizures, and the police had all kinds of questions for Sam about the pie and its origins. Sure enough, tox screens from both Dean and the pie showed that it was laced with all three of the poisons that had figured in Arsenic and Old Lace. And in the middle of everything, the Brewster sisters called to say that the poltergeist hadn’t been banished after all.
Sam had a sudden suspicion that the problem wasn’t actually a poltergeist.
“Okay, listen,” he said. “I’m kinda tied up right now, but I’m gonna send someone to come get you out of the house. Until they get there, get a box of salt and pour it in a big circle on the floor. Make sure there aren’t any gaps in it, okay? Then sit in the middle of it; you’ll be safe there.”
The sisters agreed and thanked him, and he hung up.
The officer he’d been talking to looked at him oddly. “What was that all about?”
Sam huffed a laugh. “They think they’re being attacked by a poltergeist. Do you mind... ‘rescuing’ them?” He even made the scare quotes with his fingers.
The officer chuckled. “Nah, I think we’ve got enough to at least bring ’em in for questioning-I mean, ‘protective custody.’” He winked.
Sam laughed. “Thank you.”
As soon as the officer left, Sam made his way into the ER room where Dean was being treated. He was still in danger, especially given how much alcohol as was in his system; but the EMTs had gotten the antidotes to all three poisons into him quickly and put him on oxygen, so he was looking a little better as he looked up at Sam.
“Hey,” Sam said quietly. “The Brewster sisters just called-they’re still being attacked. But I don’t think it’s a poltergeist. If they’re doing the whole Arsenic and Old Lace thing, there’s probably a ton of bodies buried in their basement.”
Dean winced.
“Once the cops have ’em out of the house, I figure I should go take care of the remains. You gonna be okay until I get back?”
Dean shot him a thumbs-up.
“Don’t you dare give up, dude. I can’t-I can’t lose you, too. Not again. Not now.”
Dean gave him a look that spoke volumes: exhaustion, grief, depression... and love. After a moment, he flashed another thumbs-up.
“Okay. Be back in a couple of hours.”
Sam drove slowly back to the Brewster house and stopped a couple of blocks before he got to it. The sisters were just leaving with the police. As soon as they were gone, Sam got out, grabbed the shovel, salt, and gas, and made his way to the back of the house, where there were doors leading down to the cellar.
The icy blast that met him when he opened the cellar door didn’t surprise him. Neither did the crowd of ghosts that appeared as soon as he reached the bottom of the steps, mostly elderly men.
“Your brother took a pie,” said one of them. “Is he....”
“They think he’ll live,” Sam replied. “We’ll make sure the police take care of the Brewsters.”
“They didn’t even ask if we wanted to die,” said another ghost.
“I know. But we’ll see justice done. Can... can you let go? If not, I’ll have to burn your bones.”
A number of the weaker spirits did look relieved and faded out. The stronger ones, however, shook their heads.
“Been here too long, son,” said the first ghost who had spoken. “But I reckon we can make your job a sight easier.”
The ground shook, making the foundations tremble and the house above groan. And then a strong, icy wind rushed in through the open doors, blowing away the dirt and uncovering row upon row of neatly buried bodies in various states of decay. Sam let out a quiet, sad curse.
“That ain’t all they’ve killed,” said the first ghost, “just the ones buried here. They use wine, too, just like the movie. Far as I know, though, none of the souls that took pies and died elsewhere are here.”
There was a general murmur of agreement from the other ghosts.
Sam nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
He opened the bag of salt he’d brought down, and one of the ghosts picked it up carefully and scattered the salt evenly across the graves while Sam splashed gas in a trail that would require striking only one match. Then he made his way back to the stairs.
“Thank you, son,” said the first ghost. “I hope your brother makes it.”
“Me, too,” Sam replied. “Thanks.” Then he lit the match, dropped it in the gas, and made his way out as the fire began consuming the victims’ remains.
He didn’t stay to keep an eye on the fire or to re-bury the remains. Whatever the cops thought, even if the house burned down, at least the bodies would be easy to find.
Dean surprised everyone but Sam by pulling through, even in spite of the alcohol detox that followed hard on the heels of the other poisons’ effects wearing off. His lungs had been damaged by the combination of cyanide and strychnine, so the doctors kept him in the hospital until they were sure he wasn’t likely to catch pneumonia right away. There was also some slight damage to his heart and brain from the cyanide, though not enough to significantly affect his health or mental functions-provided he cut back on his drinking. Dean grumbled, but Sam gave Dean the Look, which finally convinced him to cooperate so they could finally get out of there. Sam had already poured out all of the stashes of anything stronger than beer that he could find, anyway.
And shockingly, their faked insurance not only held up but also failed to trip any of the leviathans’ search protocols. Sam had to wonder if God, or maybe Kali, was still looking out for them in spite of everything.
“Whatever happened to the Brewsters?” Dean asked as Sam wheeled him out to the Impala.
Sam snorted. “Weirdest copycat crime ever, dude. Their name really is Brewster, and they saw Arsenic and Old Lace when it was in the theaters and never figured out why Mortimer was making such a big deal about such a great charity. They’ve been ‘helping’ people who are alone and unhappy for something like fifty years, ever since their father died and left them the house. Nobody realized they were nuts. But they confessed to the whole thing when the police questioned them.”
“Victims?”
“Hundreds, by their count. There were something like fifty just in the cellar.”
Dean shuddered, and Sam gently helped him into the front passenger seat before putting the wheelchair in the trunk and getting into the driver’s seat. Then Sam looked at Dean for a moment.
“What?” said Dean.
“One of the ghosts said, ‘They didn’t even ask if we wanted to die.’”
Dean huffed. “Yeah, well, I won’t lie to you, Sam. If they had, I probably woulda said yes. World doesn’t know it needs saving, and revenge won’t hold us for long. I probably woulda eaten that whole pie in a few minutes, made you drink their wine. Hell, as it was, I coulda given up, just let the poison take me.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Dean just looked at him for a moment before answering quietly, “You asked me not to.”
Sam’s lip trembled as he tried to come up with an adequate reply. Finally, he just pulled Dean into a tight hug and tried not to cry. And Dean held on and pretended he wasn’t crying.
After a long moment, Dean sniffled and patted Sam’s back. Sam took the cue and let him go, then handed him a Kleenex and looked away as Dean wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
“So what now?” Dean finally asked hoarsely.
Sam pulled himself together and started the car. “Now, big brother? You and me got a date with the Grand Canyon.”
For the first time in a long time, Dean grinned.
Next, for a prompt from mad_server for heroically injured Dean with a stuffed animal, a missing scene from Semper Fi:
December 23, 2005
Dean had rather overdone at the Christmas party, Carmen whispered to Sam after wheeling him back into the apartment, and she’d had to give him a fentanyl patch to help bring the pain under control. She had made sure he didn’t drink, so if he was loopy at all, it was purely the fentanyl. Sam thanked her for the update and for taking care of Dean, and she left.
Jess was already in bed, but Dean wasn’t in the living room when Sam turned around. He was just about to wonder whether Castiel had made off with him (for no reason Sam could fathom) when he heard Dean’s voice coming from his bedroom-quiet, but still audible to a hunter, and slurred and somewhat off-key:
Alec, the six-gun cowbear,
Had a very shiny gun...
Sam clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble out. Even knowing Dean was stoned, and for good reason, the image of his brother-his brother the Marine-crooning a Christmas carol to his teddy bear was just too funny for words. It got funnier still when he got to Dean’s doorway and found Dean, now humming, dancing Alec around on the bed with his good hand.
Dean finally noticed Sam standing there, and his head wobbled a little as he turned to look at him. “Oh, hey, Sammy.” And he waved Alec’s paw.
Sam cleared his throat, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. “Hey, Dean. What are you up to?”
“’Mmmmm talkin’ to Alec. ’S awesome.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Alec’s m’friend-him’n Cas... ’member Cas?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“All... all m’other friends’re... still’n Iraq. But Alec’s here. Alec’s awesome.”
“How was the party?”
Dean made an uncertain noise. “Carmen... she pulls stuff outta m’face. Dunno... dunno if I like that. But yeah, it was... kinda fun.” He fiddled with Alec for a moment. “Woulda been better if you’n’Jess’d come. ’N Cas. ’N Alec.”
“Missed you, too,” Sam whispered without meaning to.
Dean patted Alec’s head with his stump. “Y’know... how long’s been since I had my own bear?”
Sam tried to remember Dean ever owning anything but GI Joes. “No.”
“The fire.” Dean sniffled.
Sam wasn’t tempted to laugh anymore as he came into the room and knelt beside Dean’s wheelchair, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“After... we... we couldn’t afford a bear for each of us. So we shared.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean made a negative noise. “Was sharin’ with you, Sammy. Wasn’t so bad ’cept when you di’n’ wanna share. But... you were really little. You di’n’ know.”
“No. But I do now.”
Dean turned a not-quite-tearful smile to Sam. “Love you, Sasquatch.”
Sam pulled him into a hug and nearly cried himself when he felt Dean return the hug-teddy bear still in hand.
“You ready for bed?” he finally asked without letting go.
“Nn-mm. Gotta put my p’jamas on.”
Sam huffed in amusement and did let go at that. “Want my help?”
Dean started to shake his head and then thought better of it. “Guess so. ’M sleepy. Damn fentanyl.”
Sam chuckled and gently helped Dean change and get into bed. His leg had healed well enough that he could move around the room unassisted most days, but tonight he needed his little brother’s steadying hand, and Sam was very happy to provide it.
And if Dean wondered in the morning who had tucked Alec under his left elbow, the knowing smile he got from Sam at breakfast meant he didn’t need to ask.
And finally, for a prompt from mobiusklein, a fusion with The Horse and His Boy:
’Twas three nights before Christmas, and Dean had to get word to Dad that he was heading into a trap. Sam had been badly injured during the hunt that the brothers had just finished, but playing dead allowed them to overhear the demons’ plans. Now Sam and the Impala were safe with Bobby, and Dean was on his way to Rufus Turner’s cabin north of Whitefish to get the information to Dad. Rufus was helping Dad prepare for this hunt, and both of them were maintaining virtual radio silence until Dad left-not that Dad usually answered Dean’s calls on the first try anyway, and it wasn’t like northwestern Montana had decent cell phone reception even at the best of times.
But it had been snowing long before he got to Whitefish, and now the conditions had deteriorated to a whiteout blizzard. There was no way he’d get a cell signal through in this weather. And of course the old junker Dean had borrowed from Bobby gave out on him halfway between Whitefish and the cabin.
He had three choices: stay put, hike back to town, or keep going to the cabin. He was almost certain to freeze to death no matter what he did. But he had to get word to Dad, and only one option gave him any chance at all to do that.
So he ate, put on the hat and scarf and gloves that Sam had insisted he bring, braced himself, and got out of the car to head up the mountain.
The wind was disorienting, the snow blinding. It took a bit of shuffling for him to be able to tell when his feet were on the pavement and when they strayed over the edge of the roadway. There wasn’t a steep dropoff on this part of the road, to his knowledge, but he couldn’t be sure what the road ahead was like, so he knew he needed to follow the road as much as he could.
He’d gone maybe a tenth of a mile when he realized he couldn’t tell when he needed to turn. His map memory was fine, but his internal compass was completely offline.
Maybe ten steps later, he sensed something in front of him, like a wall or mountainside. He couldn’t see it, and it wasn’t within arm’s reach, but he could tell it was there. Instinctually, he turned right and kept going.
Maybe ten steps after that, he realized that whatever he was sensing was moving with him. He couldn’t hear anything over the wind, but he could tell that it was still there, still the same distance away at his left, moving at exactly the same speed. He wasn’t sure whether to be worried or grateful.
He eventually settled on grateful when he sensed it getting closer and turned to keep his path parallel to it. He did the same when it started getting further away and when it eventually disappeared and reappeared to his right. If he stumbled or fell, overcome with the cold, he felt it get closer, and a sudden hot downdraft washed over him, warming him enough to rise and keep going once it backed away.
He lost all sense of time and distance. He let his eyes close to keep out the snow; he couldn’t see where he was going anyway. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever hear anything but the wind again. But that presence was still there, still silently guiding him, silently nudging him forward even if it never touched him or made a noise that he could hear.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the blizzard died down, and Dean felt his boots crunching on gravel beneath the snow, then the paving stones of a walkway. He forced his eyes open enough to make out porch lights on a cabin, and lights on inside, but he had no clue whether he’d reached the right one. His ears were still ringing from the wind, and he wasn’t sure if he had voice enough to call out.
But before he could get his bearings and summon the strength to look over at his guide, the toe of his boot caught on an uneven stone, and he faceplanted into the snow.
Another hot downdraft, a broad swath of warm wetness brushed along his cheek and ear, a gentle nudge against his shoulder....
“DEAN!”
Dad’s voice.
Dean pushed himself up to his hands and knees as he heard boots pounding across the wooden porch and down the stairs. He looked up to see Dad and Rufus both running to him. But his guide’s presence was gone. Suddenly sad and confused, he looked down to his right and gasped silently at what he saw.
The pawprint of a giant lion.
First up, for a prompt from astarloa: Sam’s convinced that Dean’s the only person ever to have contracted food poisoning from a fruit-mince pie. It shouldn’t be possible, in fact. Now he’s trying to research holiday curses with an affinity for dried fruit whilst dealing with his miserable and cantankerous brother.
It had seemed like such a simple case. Go in, gank the poltergeist, get out. Getting out was harder than they’d expected, though. The two sweet little old ladies who lived in the house, sisters who’d never married, were extremely grateful and insisted on rewarding them with coffee and cake, fussing and fretting over them even though they were (outwardly) fine and asking them all about their plans for Christmas. Dean tried to fend them off, but finally he gave up and admitted that it would be just the two of them this year since they had no one else to visit.
“All alone in the world?” asked one, sounding like it was the saddest thing ever.
Dean tried to shrug it off. “We’re okay.”
“Well, you’ll take a pie with you, at least,” said the other, walking over to the pie safe.
Dean blinked. “Pie?”
Sam finally spoke up. “No, really, that’s not necessary....”
But the lady who’d offered the pie would not be deterred. “Nonsense. You can’t have a proper Christmas without a fruit-mince pie!” She pulled one out and bustled over to Dean, pressing it into his hands. “There, now.”
Dean grinned. “Awesome. Thanks, Miss Brewster. Hey, uh, we should get going.”
“Yeah,” Sam nodded.
It took another minute or two of repeated farewells and refusals to take more than the pie before they were finally able to get out the door. Then, with an exchanged look and mutual sighs of relief, they made their way back to the Impala-out of storage, now that Dean didn’t see the point in hiding anymore and Sam didn’t have the energy to argue-and drove back to the motel, stopping for burgers on the way.
After scarfing down his bacon cheeseburger and washing it down with a beer, Dean cut himself a slice of the pie. “Hey, Sammy, you want some?”
Sam, who was working steadily on his own hamburger, wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks.”
“Dude, it’s fruit-mince. There’s no meat in this thing anywhere.”
“Still doesn’t sound good to me.”
Dean shrugged. “Your loss.” And he tucked into his slice. He slowed down after the first couple of bites, though, and he’d barely eaten half of it when he stopped.
Sam frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Dean shook his head. “I dunno. Tastes funny.”
Sam had a sudden flashback to Broward County. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I... I think....” But his breathing was quickly becoming rapid and labored, and one arm curled around his stomach. “Then again... gettin’ dizzy... kinda nauseous.”
“The burger?”
Dean shook his head and, after another few seconds of panting, bolted for the bathroom.
Sam’s mind whirled as he listened to Dean being noisily sick. No, there wasn’t really a reason to suspect the burger of causing food poisoning, not with it coming on this fast. Sam had eaten a burger from the same place and felt fine. But the pie tasted funny... yet there wasn’t anything in the pie that could cause food poisoning. Even if the ingredients could have been suspect, the top crust was a perfect golden brown; it should have baked well enough to kill off any bacteria or parasites.
Yeah, I don’t think it’s food poisoning, said Lucifer.
Sam bashed his knee against the leg of the table to shut Lucifer up and went to check on Dean, since it sounded like he’d finished vomiting. But Dean slammed the door shut before Sam could get there, and seconds later Sam heard explosions coming out Dean’s other end.
By the time Dean dragged himself out of the bathroom, pale and sweating and still breathing rapidly, Sam had a clean change of clothes and a bottle of Gatorade waiting for him. Dean waved off the clothes but accepted the Gatorade as he sank down on the bed with a groan that might have contained profanity.
“I think it’s the pie,” Sam said as Dean gulped Gatorade between gasps for air. “I dunno what they did to it, but I don’t think it’s food poisoning. I’ll see what I can dig up about curses someone could put in a pie.”
“’Kay.” Dean leaned back against the headboard, hands twitching a little.
Hey, Sammy, said Lucifer from the other bed, why does the name Brewster sound familiar?
Sam gritted his teeth and went back to the table to start researching curses.
He was still there half an hour later when Dean’s breathing got worse and the muscle spasms started. Fighting panic and trying desperately to ignore Lucifer’s cackling, he got Dean onto his side, but Dean’s joints seemed locked, and his back and neck kept arching backward as he screamed hoarsely. The spell lasted a good two minutes, and then Dean went completely limp.
“Dean?”
“Damn,” Dean croaked, “that was hellish.”
And Sam knew Dean didn’t say that lightly. Not anymore.
“Found anything yet?”
“Not yet,” Sam replied as Lucifer started whistling “There Is a Happy Land.” “You said the pie tasted funny; what did it taste like?”
Dean made an uncertain noise. “Kinda bitter. Almond-y. But there’s no nuts.”
Sam’s eyes went wide as he put all the clues together and realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him:
Well, dear, for a gallon of elderberry wine, I take one teaspoonful of arsenic, then add half a teaspoonful of strychnine, and then, just a pinch of cyanide.
He swore and grabbed the phone.
Dean frowned. “Dude, what....”
“911, what is your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance right away,” Sam said, not bothering to hide the panic in his voice. “My brother’s been poisoned!”
The next few hours were a whirl of activity and anguish; any touch other than Sam’s sent Dean into another round of painful seizures, and the police had all kinds of questions for Sam about the pie and its origins. Sure enough, tox screens from both Dean and the pie showed that it was laced with all three of the poisons that had figured in Arsenic and Old Lace. And in the middle of everything, the Brewster sisters called to say that the poltergeist hadn’t been banished after all.
Sam had a sudden suspicion that the problem wasn’t actually a poltergeist.
“Okay, listen,” he said. “I’m kinda tied up right now, but I’m gonna send someone to come get you out of the house. Until they get there, get a box of salt and pour it in a big circle on the floor. Make sure there aren’t any gaps in it, okay? Then sit in the middle of it; you’ll be safe there.”
The sisters agreed and thanked him, and he hung up.
The officer he’d been talking to looked at him oddly. “What was that all about?”
Sam huffed a laugh. “They think they’re being attacked by a poltergeist. Do you mind... ‘rescuing’ them?” He even made the scare quotes with his fingers.
The officer chuckled. “Nah, I think we’ve got enough to at least bring ’em in for questioning-I mean, ‘protective custody.’” He winked.
Sam laughed. “Thank you.”
As soon as the officer left, Sam made his way into the ER room where Dean was being treated. He was still in danger, especially given how much alcohol as was in his system; but the EMTs had gotten the antidotes to all three poisons into him quickly and put him on oxygen, so he was looking a little better as he looked up at Sam.
“Hey,” Sam said quietly. “The Brewster sisters just called-they’re still being attacked. But I don’t think it’s a poltergeist. If they’re doing the whole Arsenic and Old Lace thing, there’s probably a ton of bodies buried in their basement.”
Dean winced.
“Once the cops have ’em out of the house, I figure I should go take care of the remains. You gonna be okay until I get back?”
Dean shot him a thumbs-up.
“Don’t you dare give up, dude. I can’t-I can’t lose you, too. Not again. Not now.”
Dean gave him a look that spoke volumes: exhaustion, grief, depression... and love. After a moment, he flashed another thumbs-up.
“Okay. Be back in a couple of hours.”
Sam drove slowly back to the Brewster house and stopped a couple of blocks before he got to it. The sisters were just leaving with the police. As soon as they were gone, Sam got out, grabbed the shovel, salt, and gas, and made his way to the back of the house, where there were doors leading down to the cellar.
The icy blast that met him when he opened the cellar door didn’t surprise him. Neither did the crowd of ghosts that appeared as soon as he reached the bottom of the steps, mostly elderly men.
“Your brother took a pie,” said one of them. “Is he....”
“They think he’ll live,” Sam replied. “We’ll make sure the police take care of the Brewsters.”
“They didn’t even ask if we wanted to die,” said another ghost.
“I know. But we’ll see justice done. Can... can you let go? If not, I’ll have to burn your bones.”
A number of the weaker spirits did look relieved and faded out. The stronger ones, however, shook their heads.
“Been here too long, son,” said the first ghost who had spoken. “But I reckon we can make your job a sight easier.”
The ground shook, making the foundations tremble and the house above groan. And then a strong, icy wind rushed in through the open doors, blowing away the dirt and uncovering row upon row of neatly buried bodies in various states of decay. Sam let out a quiet, sad curse.
“That ain’t all they’ve killed,” said the first ghost, “just the ones buried here. They use wine, too, just like the movie. Far as I know, though, none of the souls that took pies and died elsewhere are here.”
There was a general murmur of agreement from the other ghosts.
Sam nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
He opened the bag of salt he’d brought down, and one of the ghosts picked it up carefully and scattered the salt evenly across the graves while Sam splashed gas in a trail that would require striking only one match. Then he made his way back to the stairs.
“Thank you, son,” said the first ghost. “I hope your brother makes it.”
“Me, too,” Sam replied. “Thanks.” Then he lit the match, dropped it in the gas, and made his way out as the fire began consuming the victims’ remains.
He didn’t stay to keep an eye on the fire or to re-bury the remains. Whatever the cops thought, even if the house burned down, at least the bodies would be easy to find.
Dean surprised everyone but Sam by pulling through, even in spite of the alcohol detox that followed hard on the heels of the other poisons’ effects wearing off. His lungs had been damaged by the combination of cyanide and strychnine, so the doctors kept him in the hospital until they were sure he wasn’t likely to catch pneumonia right away. There was also some slight damage to his heart and brain from the cyanide, though not enough to significantly affect his health or mental functions-provided he cut back on his drinking. Dean grumbled, but Sam gave Dean the Look, which finally convinced him to cooperate so they could finally get out of there. Sam had already poured out all of the stashes of anything stronger than beer that he could find, anyway.
And shockingly, their faked insurance not only held up but also failed to trip any of the leviathans’ search protocols. Sam had to wonder if God, or maybe Kali, was still looking out for them in spite of everything.
“Whatever happened to the Brewsters?” Dean asked as Sam wheeled him out to the Impala.
Sam snorted. “Weirdest copycat crime ever, dude. Their name really is Brewster, and they saw Arsenic and Old Lace when it was in the theaters and never figured out why Mortimer was making such a big deal about such a great charity. They’ve been ‘helping’ people who are alone and unhappy for something like fifty years, ever since their father died and left them the house. Nobody realized they were nuts. But they confessed to the whole thing when the police questioned them.”
“Victims?”
“Hundreds, by their count. There were something like fifty just in the cellar.”
Dean shuddered, and Sam gently helped him into the front passenger seat before putting the wheelchair in the trunk and getting into the driver’s seat. Then Sam looked at Dean for a moment.
“What?” said Dean.
“One of the ghosts said, ‘They didn’t even ask if we wanted to die.’”
Dean huffed. “Yeah, well, I won’t lie to you, Sam. If they had, I probably woulda said yes. World doesn’t know it needs saving, and revenge won’t hold us for long. I probably woulda eaten that whole pie in a few minutes, made you drink their wine. Hell, as it was, I coulda given up, just let the poison take me.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Dean just looked at him for a moment before answering quietly, “You asked me not to.”
Sam’s lip trembled as he tried to come up with an adequate reply. Finally, he just pulled Dean into a tight hug and tried not to cry. And Dean held on and pretended he wasn’t crying.
After a long moment, Dean sniffled and patted Sam’s back. Sam took the cue and let him go, then handed him a Kleenex and looked away as Dean wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
“So what now?” Dean finally asked hoarsely.
Sam pulled himself together and started the car. “Now, big brother? You and me got a date with the Grand Canyon.”
For the first time in a long time, Dean grinned.
Next, for a prompt from mad_server for heroically injured Dean with a stuffed animal, a missing scene from Semper Fi:
December 23, 2005
Dean had rather overdone at the Christmas party, Carmen whispered to Sam after wheeling him back into the apartment, and she’d had to give him a fentanyl patch to help bring the pain under control. She had made sure he didn’t drink, so if he was loopy at all, it was purely the fentanyl. Sam thanked her for the update and for taking care of Dean, and she left.
Jess was already in bed, but Dean wasn’t in the living room when Sam turned around. He was just about to wonder whether Castiel had made off with him (for no reason Sam could fathom) when he heard Dean’s voice coming from his bedroom-quiet, but still audible to a hunter, and slurred and somewhat off-key:
Alec, the six-gun cowbear,
Had a very shiny gun...
Sam clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble out. Even knowing Dean was stoned, and for good reason, the image of his brother-his brother the Marine-crooning a Christmas carol to his teddy bear was just too funny for words. It got funnier still when he got to Dean’s doorway and found Dean, now humming, dancing Alec around on the bed with his good hand.
Dean finally noticed Sam standing there, and his head wobbled a little as he turned to look at him. “Oh, hey, Sammy.” And he waved Alec’s paw.
Sam cleared his throat, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. “Hey, Dean. What are you up to?”
“’Mmmmm talkin’ to Alec. ’S awesome.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Alec’s m’friend-him’n Cas... ’member Cas?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“All... all m’other friends’re... still’n Iraq. But Alec’s here. Alec’s awesome.”
“How was the party?”
Dean made an uncertain noise. “Carmen... she pulls stuff outta m’face. Dunno... dunno if I like that. But yeah, it was... kinda fun.” He fiddled with Alec for a moment. “Woulda been better if you’n’Jess’d come. ’N Cas. ’N Alec.”
“Missed you, too,” Sam whispered without meaning to.
Dean patted Alec’s head with his stump. “Y’know... how long’s been since I had my own bear?”
Sam tried to remember Dean ever owning anything but GI Joes. “No.”
“The fire.” Dean sniffled.
Sam wasn’t tempted to laugh anymore as he came into the room and knelt beside Dean’s wheelchair, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“After... we... we couldn’t afford a bear for each of us. So we shared.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean made a negative noise. “Was sharin’ with you, Sammy. Wasn’t so bad ’cept when you di’n’ wanna share. But... you were really little. You di’n’ know.”
“No. But I do now.”
Dean turned a not-quite-tearful smile to Sam. “Love you, Sasquatch.”
Sam pulled him into a hug and nearly cried himself when he felt Dean return the hug-teddy bear still in hand.
“You ready for bed?” he finally asked without letting go.
“Nn-mm. Gotta put my p’jamas on.”
Sam huffed in amusement and did let go at that. “Want my help?”
Dean started to shake his head and then thought better of it. “Guess so. ’M sleepy. Damn fentanyl.”
Sam chuckled and gently helped Dean change and get into bed. His leg had healed well enough that he could move around the room unassisted most days, but tonight he needed his little brother’s steadying hand, and Sam was very happy to provide it.
And if Dean wondered in the morning who had tucked Alec under his left elbow, the knowing smile he got from Sam at breakfast meant he didn’t need to ask.
And finally, for a prompt from mobiusklein, a fusion with The Horse and His Boy:
’Twas three nights before Christmas, and Dean had to get word to Dad that he was heading into a trap. Sam had been badly injured during the hunt that the brothers had just finished, but playing dead allowed them to overhear the demons’ plans. Now Sam and the Impala were safe with Bobby, and Dean was on his way to Rufus Turner’s cabin north of Whitefish to get the information to Dad. Rufus was helping Dad prepare for this hunt, and both of them were maintaining virtual radio silence until Dad left-not that Dad usually answered Dean’s calls on the first try anyway, and it wasn’t like northwestern Montana had decent cell phone reception even at the best of times.
But it had been snowing long before he got to Whitefish, and now the conditions had deteriorated to a whiteout blizzard. There was no way he’d get a cell signal through in this weather. And of course the old junker Dean had borrowed from Bobby gave out on him halfway between Whitefish and the cabin.
He had three choices: stay put, hike back to town, or keep going to the cabin. He was almost certain to freeze to death no matter what he did. But he had to get word to Dad, and only one option gave him any chance at all to do that.
So he ate, put on the hat and scarf and gloves that Sam had insisted he bring, braced himself, and got out of the car to head up the mountain.
The wind was disorienting, the snow blinding. It took a bit of shuffling for him to be able to tell when his feet were on the pavement and when they strayed over the edge of the roadway. There wasn’t a steep dropoff on this part of the road, to his knowledge, but he couldn’t be sure what the road ahead was like, so he knew he needed to follow the road as much as he could.
He’d gone maybe a tenth of a mile when he realized he couldn’t tell when he needed to turn. His map memory was fine, but his internal compass was completely offline.
Maybe ten steps later, he sensed something in front of him, like a wall or mountainside. He couldn’t see it, and it wasn’t within arm’s reach, but he could tell it was there. Instinctually, he turned right and kept going.
Maybe ten steps after that, he realized that whatever he was sensing was moving with him. He couldn’t hear anything over the wind, but he could tell that it was still there, still the same distance away at his left, moving at exactly the same speed. He wasn’t sure whether to be worried or grateful.
He eventually settled on grateful when he sensed it getting closer and turned to keep his path parallel to it. He did the same when it started getting further away and when it eventually disappeared and reappeared to his right. If he stumbled or fell, overcome with the cold, he felt it get closer, and a sudden hot downdraft washed over him, warming him enough to rise and keep going once it backed away.
He lost all sense of time and distance. He let his eyes close to keep out the snow; he couldn’t see where he was going anyway. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever hear anything but the wind again. But that presence was still there, still silently guiding him, silently nudging him forward even if it never touched him or made a noise that he could hear.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the blizzard died down, and Dean felt his boots crunching on gravel beneath the snow, then the paving stones of a walkway. He forced his eyes open enough to make out porch lights on a cabin, and lights on inside, but he had no clue whether he’d reached the right one. His ears were still ringing from the wind, and he wasn’t sure if he had voice enough to call out.
But before he could get his bearings and summon the strength to look over at his guide, the toe of his boot caught on an uneven stone, and he faceplanted into the snow.
Another hot downdraft, a broad swath of warm wetness brushed along his cheek and ear, a gentle nudge against his shoulder....
“DEAN!”
Dad’s voice.
Dean pushed himself up to his hands and knees as he heard boots pounding across the wooden porch and down the stairs. He looked up to see Dad and Rufus both running to him. But his guide’s presence was gone. Suddenly sad and confused, he looked down to his right and gasped silently at what he saw.
The pawprint of a giant lion.