Sen Beret's Anniversary Meme!
It's actually been a year and two months since I became involved with the fandom, but hey, who's counting?
Masterlist
rules
Masterlist
rules
- comment on this post with your prompts! all prompts are welcome (be as vague or detailed as you'd like!) as long as they fit with the theme of sneezy/sick/allergic Sam, Dean, Castiel, John, etc.
- reply to prompts with your ( Read more... )
Sam slumps, head into his hands and clears his throat.
“He’s a little protective over the car,” Sam explains. It’s not as if she didn’t know that already (I mean, please…) but his tone is so kind and conciliatory that it could be a reassuring hand around her shoulders and she remembers instantly why this is her favourite brother. “but Deand. If idt’s the ondly way to gedt to Bobby...”
Dean only turns his glare on Sam now, in response, but he breathes deep between coughing and looks as if he’s going to say something, when there’s a low vibrating hum of the phone against the table.
“He’s… Cough! Cough! Gasp! He’s callindg mbe.” Dean manages, breathless, and he stumbles into the bathroom with the phone, holding a hand against the wall to steady himself.
Becky sags, physically as well as emotionally, she thinks. She decides not to wonder about what Dean obviously doesn’t want her to hear. And why he doesn’t want her to hear it. I mean… she can be trustworthy! Mostly. She tucks one arm under the other across her chest so that she can hide the ring in the folds of her sweater.
But… God… the Impala. To have come so close to driving it. No one would believe that she’d done it on the message boards, but she’d know. Man… just imagine, to twist those keys in the ignition and turn up the music just like Dean has done a million times. She’s not even sure that she likes Classic Rock (she’s tried to, of course, for the sake of the boys), but she’d make allowances for the situation. And… and… Oh wow… Sam was that car! She laughed so hard at that chapter. She can picture herself behind the wheel, running hands across the speakers, imagining Sam’s voice thrumming out electronically.
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“He’s sick?” Sam sniffs and rubs at his nose.
Dean shrugs. “That’s what he said.”
Sam frowns, and speeds up the rubbing, attacking the tip of his nose in circles as he breathes shallow and fast.
“Sndeeze already kiddo.” Dean tells him, “S’goddna happened evendtually andyway; you’ll ondly mbake it worse.”
Sam does. Loudly and painfully and over and over again.
“You take sombe mbedicinde this mbordning Sambby?” Dean asks when he starts to slow.
“Ahh… ASCHHHhh! HahAHSCHHhh! HahhHASHHSHYEW! I uhhh… We’d… TSCHH’SHYEW! We’d started…”
Dean sits down on his own bed, next to Becky.
“Okay, show mbe,” he says to Sam.
Sensing her cue, Becky pulls her backpack onto her knee. “Okay, so, I’ve given him…”
Dean turns slowly where he’s sat, looking at her with tired eyes. “Why are you still here Becky?”
“I…”
“I hhh-HHHhh UhhESCHH’SHyew! HeSHHH’yew! HuhESCHHH! Ughhhh.” Sam massages the top of his nose. “Hu’TESCHH! I wandt her here.”
“I got your back kiddo.”
Sam blows his nose. “Ndot for mbe. For you.”
“For mbe? Are you serious?”
Sam nods. “I’mb gondda ndeed her if your fever goes up.”
Becky swells up with pride.
“Are you kiddindg mbe? Samb, you’re the onde sndeezindg too mbuch to strindg two sendtendces together.”
He just shakes his head. “Give mbe a box of kleednex and sombethindg for mby throat, and I’ll combe through this just finde.” He coughs. “You’re the flight risk and you kndow it.”
Dean looks at first as though he’s about to protest, but in the end he just scowls at Becky. “Well dond’t you have that wrapped up ind a ndice little bow.” He pulls the bag of medicines from her and passes her a laptop. “Earnd your keep. We’re lookindg for sombethindg that breaks indto houses and cand rip apart a humban ribcage.”
Becky tries to hide a grin, squeezes the laptop to her chest and scuttles across to set up at the desk.
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Becky is shaking as she’s flicking through webpages, her eyes scanning the screen faster than her brain can keep up with. She’s in. She’s on the team. She’s sitting in a crappy motel room, discussing gruesome murders and pouring through Supernatural lore. This is straight out of her actual dreams. She has to nip herself surreptitiously and breathe long and slow through pursed lips to settle her heartbeat enough so that she can be useful.
Sam cranes his neck around the side of the laptop. “What are you loo-huh… Huh-H’TCHHhew! Sniff! … lookindg at?”
She has to check his face to make sure he isn’t making fun of her. “You’ve never seen this before?”
He shakes his head, face blank before it crumples and he sneezes a bunch of times into the tissue he’s clutching between two hands. Then he sniffs and looks up at her expectantly. He’s adorable. Like a little confused hamster.
She turns the laptop to face him, unable to keep a smile from her face at the surrealism of it all. Imagine explaining this stuff to Sam Winchester.
“Supernaturalhunterhub.net,” she announces. “It has everything you need to know about the books. This part’s the database of all the ghosts and demons and creepy crawlies you guys have come across. Plus, probably, a few you haven’t. People add to it all the time: local legends; stuff they find on the net... I can’t believe you didn’t know about it. I mean,” she touches the side of his thigh, meaningfully, “you’re the centre of it all.”
“HHKkHh! ” Sam explodes, trying to bring his Kleenex up to his face at the same time as he jerks away and generally making a mess of it. “Oh God! I’bm s’uh -sorry. EKkKuh’shuh! HuSHHhh! Heh’USHhhuh! It’s just…Ugh, bad sinduses. Ahh…H’USHHH’SHyew! HuUSHHSHyew! Kinda sensditive...”
“Yeah I thindk she got that kiddo.” Dean grumbles, head in his hands and staring down at his Dad’s journal.
Sam wipes his nose and leans back in to the laptop. “You mbind if I take a look?”
Becky hands it over, gladly.
He clicks on the filter tool on the sidebar.
“Oh yeah. That. That’s pretty great. See, after the convention, people thought it’d be pretty useful… you know, for LARPING… It’s so we can search the database. See here,” She leans over to get to the mouse mat, biting her lip when her shoulder brushes his arm, “you can put in some of the things you’ve observed… say for example coldspots and flickering lights and ectoplasm… Bam! You’ve got Ghost Possession!”
“Huh.”
“I helped put it together you know,” she tells him, trying not to sound too proud. “I’m a moderator .”
Sam reaches for a pen. “What’s the address?”
Dean finally looks up at this. “You have to be kiddindg mbe?” His voice is starting to go now, as well.
“A searchable directory, sniff! I dunddo, could combe in useful.”
“Fromb the guys who brought us ‘Rockindg the Imbpala: A Windcesteral History.’ I thindk I’ll pass.”
Becky flushes hot. “That’s… it’s kind of an artistic interpretation… the directory… probably more of a practical use…”
“HuhrhHuUSHHshhshew!”
“HeEH’EHUSH’SHYew!”
Becky jumps when she gets the noise this time in stereo, and turns, along with Sam, to find Dean slumped over the desk, face buried in his cupped hands.
“Bless you.” Sam tells him, and pushes the Kleenex box across the table. Dean pulls out a few sheets, his face already pinched, mouth hanging open.
“AhH’Ushhhhh! HAH’USHhhhAh! Hah’HAhRhUSHhhhSHuew!” Each time he throws himself into the Kleenex, emptying his lungs entirely with every breath. When he’s finished he lets himself flop forward, forehead forming condensation on the tabletop.
“You’re shiverindg againd Deand…” Sam observes, mouth twisted in an uncomfortable frown.
“Tylendol?” Dean suggests.
Sam glances at Becky, but she hesitates.
“This is the last dose, okay?” Sam tells him. “Mbuch mbore and you’re gondda be a whole different kind of sick.”
Dean just sniffs and shivers while Becky goes for the medicine bag.
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About ninety minutes ago, Bobby rang them back and said he could get a hunter called Garth over, which is way less helpful than it sounds because, for a start, neither Sam nor Dean have the first idea who he is, and second, because he’s a hundred miles away and still wrapping up a job. Bobby was trying some other guys, but they’ve not heard anything since, and Dean says not to pin too much on that anyway, because apparently he was sounding awful on the phone and he oughta go to bed.
A couple of times Sam and Dean have gotten their own list out: hunter contacts, but only to look over it, share some meaningful looks and then set it aside. (She’d have enjoyed that more if things hadn’t been getting so stressful). They haven’t said why they’ve not taken it further, but Becky has a fair idea. Apart from the old faithful, (Who are, let’s face it… Dead.) she’s not sure how many hunters they can really trust to invite over these days. She read Dark Side of the Moon ; she knows how it goes.
She possibly should have considered that before taking Dean and Bobby out.
“HuuurrUhftChuh! UhhhHUhTt’CHUH!”
Oh yeah - that’s the other thing. Sam’s holding firm on the ‘no more Tylenol’ rule, Dean’s got another couple of hours to wait at least, but lately his fever’s been back with a vengeance. They’re holding it kinda steady at just over a hundred and three, but only with instant ice packs and cold flannels, and he doesn’t seem to be taking to them too well.
“EhhhIHhhhSHuhh! Huhhh… HUrRhuSHUH!”
Sam winces, and Becky can see why. Sam sneezes a bunch , great long strings of them all in one go, but Dean sneezes enormously. Not loudly, necessarily, but totally , with every last inch of his energy. He’s panting right now with the exertion of them and shivering like he’s balancing on his own private earthquake.
“HpPPpPSshhhhSheww! EhH’ISHhhShew!”
He looks up at Sam and Becky before frowning and reaching wearily for the box of tissues.
“What?” he grumbles. “Sniff! You surprised I’mb sndeezindg? Probably be doindg a little better if I didndt have the Ahhh-HHH… ” He jams a knuckle at the side of his nose like he’s got a vendetta and takes a couple of measured breaths through his mouth, scowling. “If I didnd’t have the Goddambnd Andtarctic over mby forehead.”
“Couple mbore mbindutes Deand. If your tembperature’s stayindg constandt, you cand take it off.” It sounds like it’s coming through gritted teeth.
Dean looks for a minute as though he’s going to argue back, but then he reclines in his seat, letting the front legs of his chair lift from the ground as his lungs fill… once… twice…
“HAHhRHhuhShHHAH! HEH’UHhhhSHhhah! HSSHhhhAhh! HSSHHH’AH!
“Okay.” Dean blows his nose and then wipes a hand over his face. “Combe ond…” He clears his throat and opens out his Dad’s journal. “Kitsunde.”
Sam shakes his head. “Pituitary glands were still indtact.”
Dean licks his index finger and keeps flicking pages.
“Zombie,” he announces, eventually.
“Mbaybe,” Sam allows, rubbing his nose against the back of his wrist, “but ndo obvious, recendt death to conddect the victimbs.”
Dean grimaces and turns back to the book.
“Uh… a striga?”
“I thindk…”
Dean wafts his words away with a flap of his hand and goes back to massaging the sides of his head. “Forget it. I kndow that’s stupid. Ugh. I’mb grabbindg at straws.” He shudders and reaches over for a blanket from the bed. He’d laughed when they’d suggested it twenty minutes ago. Becky suspects there’s nothing positive about his sudden change of heart.
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“What do you kndow? It’s ice pack timbe againd.”
Dean lets himself fall flat against the table, forehead steaming up the motel-standard plastic. “Sombethindg’s wrondg with your watch, dude. These are the shortest tend mbindute breaks sindce high school.”
Sam snaps the pack and hands it over.
“What’re you doindg? Usually you give mbe a chandce to prove I dond’t ndeed idt.”
Sam shrugs but he doesn’t look up from the computer screen. “Take your tembperature if you wandt, but I already kndow it’s up. You cand’t sit still.”
As soon as Sam mentions it, Becky can see for herself all of Dean’s jittery movements. His fingers drum against his thigh, his feet tap against the chair legs, his knees knock against the tabletop. Becky swallows. She’d forgotten quite how big Dean was when she’d promised Sam she’d help him get back to bed.
The minute he puts the pack on his forehead he shakes violently: teeth chattering, the works. Sam watches him for a minute and then leans into Becky, asking her if she can make him some tea. Much as she wants to enjoy it, she leaps up, because she’s afraid of what will happen next if they don’t sort Dean out.
“HuhhUHHhhuh! UHHshhuhh! HEH’UsHhhhuww!”
“Gesundheit,” Sam offers.
“Uck, thandks. Sniiiff! Hhuh.... HHH’HHHTtCHUH! God, how did we get so sick?”
“I dunddo.” Sam blows his nose. “I bet we cut a pretty pathetic picture right ndow.”
“It’s beend years sindce we’ve beend as sick as this, actual years. Ndot sindce we were kids.”
“Actually you had a heart attack five years ago. That was worse,” Becky comments. Helpfully, she thinks.
“I’bm talkindg about bugs, viruses... We ndever get themb like this.”
“I guess ndot.”
“It’s weird.”
Becky freezes, hand on kettle.
Sam coughs. “What do you mbeand weird?”
“Okay.” Dean straightens in his seat, a bundle of nervous energy. “The two of us get the flu,” he shrugs, “undusual, but okay. We spend endough timbe together we’re gondda catch it off onde andother. But why’s Bobby sick? We havend’t seend him for weeks.”
“And he ndever gets ill to begind with.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay! Tea for everyone.” Becky bundles the mugs onto the table, setting them down quick before anyone sees her hands shaking. “Just… you drink these… and relax… and feel better… and…(Get off this train of thought - She can’t say that).
“Thandks for these,” Sam tells her, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. And God he’s adorable (if sniffly), and for a minute she forgets there was ever anything to worry about. Until he turns to turns to Dean and says.
“You thindk the illndess has sombethindg to do with the mbonster?~”
“I dunddo, mbaybe?”
“The monster! Causing the illnesses! That sounds right! Definitely... the monster...” She tails off, noticing Sam frowning at her. “Makes sense to me,” she finishes, feebly.
“Okay so whhHHuh... Oh God...” He turns away, rubbing circles against the tip of his nose with his fist.
“Sure, why dnot, I mbeand, it’s beend tend mbindutes so...” Dean rolls his eyes and pushes the Kleenex across the table.
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Dean taps the end of his pen against the tabletop and makes the back of his chair creak as he shuffles around.
Tap-t-tap. Tap-t-tap. Tap-t-tap. Creeeeakk.
“HEHHhhhH’USHHah! HEH’USHHHah! HEHUSHHHhhah!
Tap. Tap-tap. Creeeeak. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.
“HEHTtSHUH! HEHT’SHUH! HuhhhASHCH’UH!”
Tap. T-tap. T...
“Hey. Do you hear sombethindg?”
Dean’s looking at Becky like he’s wanting an answer, but she’s not sure how she could have heard anything with all the noise the pair of them are making in the tiny room. She’s also not sure she wants to argue with him though, so she just shrugs and keeps her mouth shut.
“Hehhh... HiKKk’ishhyew!”
“Sammy?”
Dean stands, and wobbles, along the whole table, which takes down all of the mugs of tea.
“Duhh... Deand! HEHT’SHyew!” Sam yelps, taking an awkward hold of the two laptops by their screens while he tries to twist into his shoulder sneezing. Becky manages to take the computers off him and set them down on the bed, and Sam sneezes another four times before he breathlessly gets out the words to ask if she was burnt by the tea.
“Guys, I’bm ndot kiddindg, there’s sombethindg out there.” Frenzied, Dean takes a step, but either he falls prey to the crap that’s blocking up his ear tubes, or he gets tangled in the legs of the chair somehow, because he falls straight to the ground, headbutting the table on the way down.
Sam takes a deep breath. “Okay, Deand you’re... ISHHHh! You’re goindg to bed.”
Dean holds his hands out, as though Sam is about to take him by force and drag him. Becky hopes he’s not about to do that. Sam’s wobbly as hell himself; she’d probably have to help.
“Okay, I’bm feverish, Ibm feverish, I kndow, but I swear to God there is sombethindg out there.”
Sam presses his fingertips against his temple and then sneezes another bunch of times, doubling right over into his cupped hands. He sniffs and straightens. “Look Deand, I feeeeel...” He pinches his nose and continues. “I feel crappy too. But onde way or andother we... weehhhSCHYEW! Sniff! We have to get you ind to bed. Just... please do it ndow while you’re still lucid endough to go without a fight. We cand check the place over ondce you’re there safely.” He adds, just when Dean looks as though he’s about to argue.
“Okay.”
“Oh thandk God. Cand you stand?”
Sam crouches and tucks an arm around his brother’s waist, and Becky rushes to help, not quite so nervous now it looks as though Dean’s prepared to go willingly.
“Okay. Let’s see if we cand get you over there ind onde piece.”
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“Hhhehh... Uhhh...HHHuhhh...”
At the last moment he makes a grab at his face, pressing shut his nose between his whole fist.
“HEH-FffmMPh!”
Holding that position, his eyebrows curve into a look of pained concentration, eyes wet and watering as he forces his nose to stay still while his breath comes shallow in ever-quickening pants. He rocks forward onto his elbows.
“EHHhhHhTTssshmmp! HUHT’ShnmK! UhhhSHHHH’SHNt!”
He follows it up with a set of enormous gasps, the corners of his nose inflamed red and wriggling now that he’s released them from his grasp. But somehow, with a palm pressed hard against the tip of his nose and one last shuddering sigh, he manages to wrest back control. He casts a searching eye over his brother, still stretched out across his bedsheet, and sinks down on to the table, nostrils still rebelling with the occasional twitch.
“Why are you doing that?” Becky asks him, picking up a mug from the floor - the last piece of evidence of Dean’s motel room acrobatics. “It sounds painful.”
Sam sniffs, and rubs a knuckle against his nostril. “It’s a lot less paindful thand waking up mby brother up, trust mbe.”
Abruptly, he stirs himself, sitting up again and pinching his nostrils shut, while his eyes blink repeatedly. An irritated tear drips down the side of his cheek and pools near his finger in the well at the side of his nose. “Ugh” he complains, as the moment seems to pass, “Doesnd’t do mbuch to keep mby ndose frobm itchindg though.”
Becky stands and watches him as he turns back to the computer. He’s tired, flesh an unhealthy pale and eyes dark, resting his chin heavily on his hand as he stares glassily at his monitor. He clears his throat and presses his fingertips to his Adam’s apple as if the process is uncomfortable.
“Maybe we should leave the research for now.”
Sam protests at first, but it’s not as if they’re getting anywhere, and his eyes are drooping even as she walks him over to his bed. Once he’s tucked up under his blankets, she pulls her bag onto her knees and starts to work her way through the medicines. He’s overdue on most of it. The focus for both of them has been a little more on Dean in the past few hours. She feels guilty realising it. Sam is the reason she’s here after all. But still. Dean is out of the picture for the time being, and there’s plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time.
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Sam shuffles in his bed and tries to speak, but summons nothing more than a groaning croak. He winces and swallows and tries again, but apparently his voice, which has been strained for hours, has capitulated entirely under the pressure of smothering his sneezes.
She leans in toward him, and feels a little lightheaded herself as she gets close. The air is hot from his fever, and it smells of the lemon in the lozenge he’s sucking. She closes her eyes and puts her ear to his lips, hearing a flurry of little light sniffles before he tries to speak.
He nearly headbutts her on the chin as he sits up abruptly, crunching up and bending over the other side of the bed.
“HEH’NTTSssh!” He squashes it awkwardly in the palm of his hand and tilts backwards, shivering and sweating as he waits for the next to hit. “HURrHHMPtch! HPP’TCHhuh! HNKkTSchh! HhhmpppsH’shyew!”
I’m so sorry he mouths at her, before laying himself back down onto the mattress. Becky just nods mutely and bends in closer, excited for the tickle of his breath against her cheek.
“Don’t let me sleep too long,” he manages at a whisper, reaching for Kleenex to press against his nose. The decongestant cleared him out just fine, but since he’s taken it, his nose has been running relentlessly and the skin of his upper lip is splotchy and sore. He twists away from her to cough, and then continues. “And if Dean gets up, wake me, okay?”
Becky agrees and is about to get up when he catches her by her sleeve.
“Becky,” he wheezes, when she brings her ear back against his lips. “Just... thank you, okay.”
She sits and watches him for a long time after he drifts off to sleep.
--
Becky doesn’t remember setting her head on the desk, but when she blinks her eyes it’s darker, her neck is sore and the plastic is hard against her temple.
Consciousness returns in a rush, though, when Dean’s bed gives an enormous creak, and she looks up to find Dean himself, still tangled in his bed sheets, muttering under his breath and glaring across the room with a look that reminds Becky, with horror, that there’s a pistol underneath his pillow.
She’s stood in front of him before she realises she’s so much as gotten to her feet.
“Okay Dean...” she begins, tiptoeing around the bed as if it were an unexploded bomb fragment. “Maybe it’s time to go back to sleep...”
“It’s okay.”
She’d forgotten Sam was there, and nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice. Not that it’s not a relief. She can hear him, which is an improvement at this distance, but his voice is still raw and he has to cough, trying to get the words out.
“It’s okay, it’s been long enough. He can have some more medicine.” Sam drags himself up and eases his feet to the floor, rubbing at one eye.
“Sambby?” Dean’s tone is insistent, but he doesn’t look away from the window.
“Yeah buddy.”
“There’s sombeonde outside.”
“No Dean.” Sam pulls himself to a shaky stand and makes the slow plod across to his brother’s bed. “No. You’re sick, that’s all. We gotta get your fever down. Hey,” He crouches, wincing at the movement. “Look at me, Dean.”
Dean does.
Behind him, the window pane shatters.
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Okay, okay, okay… Becky isn’t afraid to admit that she wasn’t entirely prepared for this.
There’s an almighty crash outside of the bathroom door.
She whimpers, and tries to cling on tighter to the door handle, but it’s slippery from the sweat of her palms. Whatever it was that crashed through the bedroom window had been fast, and she hadn’t waited around to see what it was capable of.
Oh God, she can’t believe that the books are real.
Okay, of course, the books are real . She’s knows that. She’s known that for over a year now. But that was a totally different kind of real. That was about the road trip and the motel rooms and Sam always forgetting to get the pie. This is…
People die.
People actually die .
When John died, and Maddison, and Ellen and Jo, she’d thought about how sad it was, and it hurt, but it hurt because the boys went through so much heartbreak. She hadn’t thought about John, tortured in Hell, Maddison’s brains splattering against her apartment wall, Ellen and Jo’s flesh being literally torn from off their bones.
Her stomach heaves, but she presses herself harder against the bathroom door. She tries not to think about how the fighting noises continue even after the gunshots, tries not to wonder just what exactly she is keeping out.
It’s okay, she tries to tell herself over the clamour of her blood rushing though her ears. If it’s like this now, then it’s like this in every book. The Winchesters have survived (mostly) through sixty books. Not to mention all of the unpublished works. They kill the monster and rescue the girl. That’s how it works. Becky had always wanted to be that girl. She’ll just need to wait until…
There’s another noise then, alongside the other scary stuff: alongside the sickening thump of blunt-force trauma; the other-worldly hiss of whatever-it-is that came through the window; the hysterical screams of the motel employee who probably just came round to see what all the noise was about. It starts, urgent, but quiet at first. Then it grows with volume and intensity.
“Hhh…HHhhTCHhH! Huhk’KsHhh! KShh! HEhK’TcHhhChyew! HHpPTtchYew! UHhTCHhhYew! HPP’TCH’TChYew! AhhTCHYEW! AhhTCHHSHhUH! HUHhhhUSHHHUH!”
Oh God, Becky, what have you done?
She tries to swallow, but it just kind of sticks in the middle of her throat. She remembers now what Dean had said.
“We’re looking for something that breaks into houses and can rip apart a human ribcage.”
There’s a horrifying cry of triumph from outside as the door handle is wrenched from out of her hands. The whole bathroom door tears away at its hinges, and a something -vaguely humanoid and smelling of rot - tosses it over its shoulder as though it were a candy bar wrapper.
It grins then, and closes in on Becky.
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The thing topples, face-first, as Sam tackles it from behind. As they crash down hard against the carpet, Becky can see Dean behind them, slumped unconscious against the side of his bed and bleeding from a cut across his forehead. This definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
She scrambles backward and almost topples over into the bathtub.
“Ru… Hhh’KHTCH’HH!” Sam sneezes, jaw clenched with the effort of fighting off the monster. “Run!”
But the monster lifts its head, looks Becky straight in the eye. With a roar, it stands, throwing Sam off of its shoulders.
“You.” The thing lurches forward, catches a handful of her shirt within its fist. Twisting at the fabric, it hoists her upwards until her tiptoes just graze the floor and the stitching starts to come away at the seams. “It is you.”
Somewhere behind, Sam scrambles, tries to catch a hold of the monster’s ankles, but it plants a boot in his face without even loosening its grip.
“You know Death,” it insists, pressing its mouth right up against her face.
The smell is worse this close up. Like a warm rutabaga, rotting on a compost pile. “I… I don’t…” she begins, angling her head away and not feeling at all sure about engaging it in conversation.
It grabs her head with its free hand and yanks it in its direction. Its skin is white and wet and wrinkled. It looks almost as like a whole chunk of it would slide off at a touch. She strains to look anywhere other than into its eyes.
“You have to get a message.... I don’t want to be here. Tell Death,” it pants, “He has to take me.”
And then she sees it. Oh thank God. Over in the bedroom, Dean is staggering to his feet, creeping around the bed, reaching under the pillow…
She clamps her lips together, determined not to sigh with relief, and looks back at the monster as if she hadn’t noticed a thing.
It shakes her. “Tell him!”
“I don’t know him!” She squeaks.
“Yes you do,” it roars in response, holding up one of her hands by the wrist, “Horseman!”
Sam’s sneezing, which had become something of a smothered soundtrack to this fight, falters and then stops entirely. She catches sight of him, shivering as he stands ready, a lamp gripped between two hands. When she meets his eyes, they’re wide with realisation.
Shit.
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It shrieks in frustration and barrels into Sam, knocking him over easily and tearing the lamp out of his grip.
“De… Hhh-Deadn-KHSHhH! Get… huh! Becky. The rhhuh… the rindg… HhhNgh’TCHUH!”
Dean advances on her, but she can see that he’s confused. It doesn’t matter. She’s way ahead of them both.
She slips the ring easily off her finger and tosses it onto the ground.
Dean squints at it for a moment when it rolls over to his feet. When he looks up at her again, it’s with a look that could boil iron. Apparently, he recognised it.
His eyes not leaving Becky’s face, he slams the ring underfoot. There’s a glow of green and a crack of energy and the tide of the battle turns immediately. As if without a thought, Sam wrenches the whatever-it-is off of his chest and pins its arms to the floor.
“Silver bullets,” he yells.
“On it.”
When Dean runs for the door, it’s smooth and not stumbling. Sam doesn’t sneeze, doesn’t gasp. He grimaces a little as the monster struggles beneath him, but he doesn’t let up.
He doesn’t look at Becky.
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“That’s it?” She asks, “It’s dead?”
“For now,” Dean mutters. “If we don’t want it up and running around with half a face, we’ll need to steak it in its gravesite later.” He kicks at the motionless body where it is sprawled next to Sam on the carpet. “Whaddyouknow? Turns out you don’t need Head Reaper himself to switch the lights out.”
When no-one reacts, Dean sighs, and pulls Becky’s dufflebag from underneath their upended table. “Well, thank you for your entirely individual brand of help, but it’s probably time you were leaving. I assume there are no objections this time,” he adds, looking pointedly at Sam.
Sam shakes his head and looks away, his face creasing. He reaches out for the Kleenex box, now crushed and abandoned on the floor. Pulling out a couple of tissues, he arches back, blinking.
“Huhhh… Uhhh… Huhhh… HHT’ZCHhhHuh! HggKhhTCHYEW! Ow.”
Dean stares at him. “You’re not seriously still sick?”
“Ndo,” Sam grumbles, holding Kleenex against his face. “Bastard zombie broke mby ndose. Pressure was botherindg mbe.”
Becky notices then, what a mess has been left by this whole thing. The motel room looks an absolute wreck, and the boys look worse. Sam has mud and blood smeared across his cheekbone where he’d taken that foot to the face; Dean is limping and holding his arm awkwardly; and the pair of them are moving slow and stiff now that the adrenaline of the fight it wearing off.
“Um… so… I know I’m probably the last person you want around right now, but, you know, you’re gonna need some help clearing this place up…”
“No!” They answer. In Unison. Becky’s not gonna pretend it’s not totally awesome. She turns to Sam.
“At least let me bandage your…”
“Becky,” Sam interrupts, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I dond’t kndow what you were tryindg to achieve here…” She thinks about explaining, but he cuts her off. “Actually, I dond’t evend wandt to thidnk about it. But believe mbe whedn I tell you that if we see you agaidn, or hear that you’ve beedn withind a hundred feet of a mbagical object, thedn you will be the ndext thindg that we steak ind a graveyard.”
It occurs to Becky that it’s probably not a good idea to argue with a guy on the same day that you see him whack a zombie with a lamp.
Oh well, no shame in knowing when you’re beaten.
She gives them one last (winning - she thinks) smile, and hefts her bag back onto her shoulder. “Well, it’s been nice hunting with you. I hope you feel better.”
“Really?” Dean rounds on her. “You hope we feel better? Maybe next time you could…”
“Leave it.” Sam tells him, getting to his feet with a groan as Becky steps out of the door.
It could have gone worse, she decides, squeezing at Sam’s toothbrush that she’d snuck into her jacket. After all - she totally almost got to drive the Impala.
She’ll just need to come up with a better plan next time.
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(Sorry for the lateness of the reply. With all the excitement, I had commented at the wrong place :P)
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