A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar [2/4]

[windscryer]

Title: A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar
Series/Collection: Psych You Out (A Supernatural Remix)
Rating: M
Characters: Shawn, Dean, MotW
Warnings: language, gore, Dean and his normal brand of roguish charm
Spoilers: none
Genres: Friendship, Gen, Supernatural, Hurt/Comfort, Action/Adventure, Humor
Chapters: 4
Completed: Yes
Word count: 3814 (total: 10,479)
Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Notes: See chapter 1.

Summary: Shawn was just minding his business and playing some pool when his life took a sharp turn South. And he's not talking Georgia here. But at least it's good company.

1 2 3 4

Shawn left the bar feeling pretty good about the night.

He didn't, as a rule, hustle pool for money, but it had been a few days since his last gainful employment and he needed gas or he'd be stuck here. And here was not where he wanted to spend any more than a day or so.

So he'd played a few friendly games with a few guys, sort of accidentally ended up in a game with a hustler, and, as an alternative to losing, outhustled him. It had been . . . refreshing.

He hadn't had a challenge like that since Gus' last birthday present.

Oooh, speaking of which. He needed to mail another postcard or Gus was going to call the FBI and report him missing again. He'd do that tomorrow though.

He'd been shot down by Ashley the bartender, but that was okay because while he wouldn't have minded some feminine company, he wasn't dying for it either.

And right now he was focused on walking in a straight enough line to not end up in jail or the street. He hadn't had too much to drink, but he'd had enough to mellow him and make walking just a little harder. He only had another block . . . maybe two . . . and he'd be back at home, sweet . . . well, crappy motel actually. But it wasn't a park bench again so he'd call it good.

He turned the corner onto the street that ended at his motel and, feeling the inexplicable urge to whistle and unable to think of a reason not to, began adding a soundtrack to his evening. Though why in the world he had Kansas in his head he might never know. Ah well.

His slightly off key rendition of Carry On Wayward Son was interrupted about the time he passed what this town laughingly called a public park.

Not that it wasn't a sort of public place with plants and things, but didn't parks have, like, toys for the kids? There were no toys here and that was just sad. Where did the kids go to- Ooooh. There it was again!

Shawn stopped and blinked at the trees. Awfully thick trees for a park. Maybe the kids played on the trees? Okay, that might actually make this park cooler than most. Because for some reason they were taking the fun trees out of parks.

He'd always had so much fun climbing trees-when his Dad wasn't around to spoil it-but it seemed like more and more they were taking the trees away because they were dangerous or something.

Like the whole freaking world was channeling his father.

He snorted. Trees weren't dangerous. Fathers who wouldn't listen were dangerous.

Also, dogs.

Especially ones without leashes.

Left in the park late at night.

To growl at random passers-by.

"Nice doggie," Shawn whispered. "Good boy." What was that saying? Diplomacy was saying 'nice doggie' until you found a rock? Well he had the first part down. Now to . . .

Crap.

Why weren't there any rocks in the street? What kind of neat-freak town didn't leave rocks in the street so you could defend yourself from the crazy dogs in the park?

Man, he was so leaving this town come daylight. Or noon. Whichever he was conscious for first.

And then came a new sound. A sort of click. Like, say, the safety of a gun being switched off.

And Shawn really began to hate this place. Because the crappy parks and crazy dogs weren't enough. Oh no. Now he was going to be mugged.

Seriously. What. The. Hell?

He started to turn so he could keep both crazy dog growl and the mugger in his frontal sort of area-he couldn't keep them in line of sight because, well, he hadn't actually seen the dog yet, but whatever.

And then he realized that he recognized the mugger. It was none other than his hustling pool buddy.

Dammit. He'd seemed like a nice guy.

Shawn sighed. He'd have to try again tomorrow night to get some more cash. Wouldn't be easy with what he'd done tonight, but it was that or walk his bike to the next town. Not how he wanted to spend tomorrow. He had plans to be in Pennsylvania for the weekend. A town with a candy factory that had tours was calling his name . . .

"Look, I wasn't trying to hustle you," he explained as he slowly reached for his wallet. "I was just playing an honest game of pool and then you tried to hustle me and-"

"SHHH."

Shawn lifted his hands. Okay. Guy didn't want to talk. Understandable.

But Shawn wasn't always good at doing what other people wanted. Mostly he sucked at it, to be honest. And when he was . . . just this side of inebriated he really sucked at it.

"Look, I'm not gonna fight you," Shawn said.

That got a snort from mugger dude.

Shawn frowned. Okay, he wasn't totally sober, but he wasn't that drunk. If he wanted to fight he could. But right now he was tired and wanted to get away from the crazy dog and he really had to pee.

So he wasn't going to fight. But if he did want to, he'd so win.

"Look, just take the money and-"

"I don't want your freaking money," mugger guy hissed.

What was his name? Shawn was good with names. It was something with a 'D' . . . Derek? No. Damon? No. Delia? Shawn laughed. No.

Dean! That was it! "Dean, I really- wait . . ." Shawn's brain was just catching up. Damn booze. Slowed everything down. "You don't want my money?" he asked. "What the hell kind of mugger are you?"

Okay that came out kind of indignant. Like Shawn was offended that he wasn't going to be giving away his money. And he wasn't. Offended, that is.

But seriously, what kind of crappy mugger didn't want money?

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't lower his gun.

"I'm not mugging you, jackass," he said shortly. "I'm trying to- DUCK."

Shawn blinked. Trying to duck? How much beer had Dean had if he couldn't tell the difference between ducking and mugging someone?

And then Shawn was tackled to the ground by Dean.

Well he was getting closer anyway. But ducking was not a group activity. It was a solo thing. Shawn opened his mouth to explain this when a gun went off very very close to Shawn's head and, really, it was kind of unexpected, so the tiny squeak of terror it shook loose was totally not his fault.

"What the hell?"

Shawn opened his eyes, but instead of Dean looking at the crazy dog or whatever, he was looking at Shawn.

"You're the one who can't duck," Shawn said. "This is so not my fault."

Dean just stared at him for a very long moment, then shook his head and climbed to his feet.

"Look, do you think you can get back home by yourself or do I need to call you a . . . someone to come get you."

Obviously Dean had figured out what Shawn had: This podunk town was too small for a taxi service.

Shawn snorted. "You think I'm drunk?" he demanded. "You're the one who can't mug someone or duck and you think I'm drunk?"

Dean growled in frustration and looked skyward. "Oh. My. Fucking-"

And that's when Shawn screamed.

And really, even though he might have had a few more beers than was smart, he'd also had to deal with a crazy dog and an even crazier human and he still had to pee and now some sort of horror movie reject had just crawled out of the bushes and was eying Dean like he was a side of prime rib with Shawn playing the part of the loaded baked potato and really that was the final straw in this insane evening and so Shawn should really be excused for screaming in a higher pitch than can be considered manly.

Luckily for them both, Dean had some hella good reflexes even when drunk.

He took one look at Shawn's face and spun around and brought the gun up and fired in a move so smooth Shawn was beginning to wonder if he'd passed out and was now dreaming he was on a movie stage.

Because, seriously, that was a totally awesome ninja move there.

And it had to involve, like, strings, or CGI or something.

Because DAMN.

The other reason Shawn suspected it was a movie was because the gun obviously had blanks in it.

I mean, who can do a totally badass ninja move like that and then miss the huge creature thingy standing like four feet away?

Shawn could have hit it and he was . . . not entirely sober.

And then Dean did something that clinched the whole 'movie' thing.

He ran straight at the monster and tackled it.

Like, to the ground. With a guttural war-cry and everything.

Who the hell would do that in real life? No one. So this was obviously some sort of movie dream he was having.

Cool.

And hey, if it was a dream he couldn't get hurt. So why the hell not join in? With his own battle cry-which might have, again, been higher than is strictly manly, but, whatever, it's HIS dream-he ran and leapt into the fray.

And was promptly thrown back out of it by the big hairy guy thing.

Ow.

Tree, meet head. Head, meet tree. Tree specializes in giving concussions. What industry are you in, Head?

Shawn winced but dragged himself back to his feet. And promptly fell down again, all of his earlier boozing and not-really-eating-mostly-light-snacking coming back to haunt him.

Oh yeah, definitely concussion.

Except . . . He frowned. How did one get a concussion in a dream? Man. This was turning into a lame-ass dream.

And then he spotted something shiny.

Oooooh. Shiiiny.

He reached forward and picked it up and blinked as the two hands holding two guns merged into one.

Well that was a neat trick. And so more proof this was a dream. But, he decided with a shrug, it meant he could be the hero.

He grinned and straightened, paused briefly to think about standing up, decided he didn't want to fall down again, and raised his arm.

"DEAN! DUCK!"

He waited, knowing Dean would need a little more time to figure out how to do that, then aimed at the big ugly creature thing and fired.

Wow. Blanks still had one hell of a kick.

There was a sort of yelpish sound, then the big hairy thing fell over.

Dean-who had done much better at ducking this time-raised his head from where he was crouched down next to the thing.

"What the fuck?"

Which was kind of rude considering Shawn had just saved his life, but, well, he could totally understand the sentiment. Because he was beginning to think that his head hurt way too much for this to be a dream.

Dean looked at the hairy thing, then at Shawn, then back at the hairy thing. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, then grunted. "Damn. It's dead."

Shawn blinked, then again for good measure.

Wait . . . WHAT?

Dean chuckled and wiped a hand over his mouth, then came over. "That is either the luckiest thing I have ever seen or the FUCKING STUPIDEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN." He looked kind of angry and, well, since he had tackled the big hairy thing and Shawn had killed it, that was, again, understandable. But this was Shawn's dream so he totally got dibs on being the hero.

"Please don't yell," Shawn said, squinting with the flash of pain that rattled through his skull. Sheesh. Couldn't even get any respect in his own head.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

Shawn winced. "I hit a tree. With my head. Now it hurts. And loud really hurts. Not a difficult concept, dude."

Dean stared at him some more and Shawn decided that this was an excellent time to lay down and let himself go so he could wake up. It must be morning and the headache was from the hangover. Although he'd never had one sneak into a dream before . . .

"Oh no," Dean said. "No going to sleep. You've obviously got a concussion and I did not save your ass so you could die in the park. Now sit up and open your eyes."

Shawn mumbled something about going away or doing something else.

Dean's indignant voice came from further away. Sort of higher-up-ish. "Did you just tell me to grow a set of boobs?"

Shawn frowned and forced his eyes open at that. Had he? Maybe. But it was his dream so why the hell not?

If he wasn't going to wake up, he wanted to dream something more fun than almost being killed. Or at the very least he wanted to dream about almost being killed with Angelina Jolie.

A smile curved his lips. Hell yes. Now that was a dream worth having.

A disgusted sigh told Shawn that Angelina had not replaced Dean. And really, this was starting to concern Shawn. Because he did NOT bat for that team.

Nuh uh.

He was all about the boobs.

And the hips.

And the legs.

And other various and sundry NOT GUY parts.

But apparently his subconscious wasn't so sure.

Because Angelina didn't show up and Dean grabbed his shirt and began dragging him along the grass.

He forced his eyes open, dug in his heels, gripped the wrists that had his shirt and said-as clearly as he was possibly capable of doing so-"Let me go."

"Shut up. Your virtue is safe," Dean informed him. "But I need to drag this fugly's ass into the park to light it on fire and I don't want you getting hit by a car or anything." He added in a mutter, "Although it might be in everyone's best interests if it did happen."

Shawn blinked-again dammit. Why couldn't things stay not fuzzy?-and then started trying to regain his feet.

"You're going to what the who where?"

Dean sighed-also again. Did he have a breathing problem or something?-and said, "Shawn, right?"

Shawn nodded.

"I have to go get the werewolf's carcass-" At this he pointed to the big hairy thing. "-And drag it into the park-" He pointed to the shadows and trees. "-And light it on fire. Or it will not be dead and gone. Do you understand?"

Shawn scowled. "I'm not five, dude."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, prove it."

At that he left Shawn propped against the tree and headed back to the . . . wait. Did he say werewolf? Seriously?

Dean grabbed it by a leg and started pulling it up onto the grass and towards Shawn.

Shawn blinked and watched as it drew closer, eyes locked on the . . . corpse.

Oh hell.

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking hell.

It was.

It was a . . . well, it wasn't human.

And since it was hairy and had sharp teeth and growled, calling it a 'werewolf' was as good a name as any for it.

And Shawn had killed it.

Shawn doubled over, stomach so disgusted by the idea of killing a werewolf that it was apparently committing mutiny and trying to jump ship.

There was a curse and a thump and then a hand with a rough palm was on his arm holding him up-which was awesome, because face down in a pile of puke was never a good thing-and a voice telling him to breathe.

Which seemed like a decent enough idea so Shawn gave it a whirl. Huh. The voice was right. Breathing was good.

"Easy there, buddy," the voice said again. "Man, what a waste of perfectly good alcohol."

Maybe, Shawn thought. But if this was what came of drinking he was never touching the stuff again.

Finally he was able to push himself back up to a semi-upright-if totally leaning on the tree-position and he looked at Dean.

"This isn't some fucked up, hangover-induced nightmare is it?"

Dean half smiled. "Sorry. No."

Shawn nodded. "Okay then."

He wiped a hand over his face and then blinked some more because, why the hell not?

And then he looked down at the werewolf again.

Fugly didn't even begin to describe it.

"Are you going to be okay? Because, really, I need to get rid of this thing. Preferably before someone realizes that was a gunshot and calls the cops."

Shawn glanced at him, then nodded. "Uh, yeah. I think so. You know . . . Maybe."

Dean didn't look remotely convinced.

"Uh huh."

He gave Shawn an assessing look, then grabbed his wrist and drew his arm up over his shoulder.

"Whoa, wait a second there."

Dean's eyes made another circuit in their sockets. "For the last fucking time, I am NOT going to do anything to you. Except get you back to wherever you live and leave you for someone else to deal with. Holy shit, you're a paranoid drunk."

Shawn half smiled. "I didn't think you were. I mean, really, this would be an odd way for my subconscious to inform me that I was gay-even for me." Dean gave him an odd look, but, come on, wasn't that kind of a pot-kettle-black thing? Especially considering there was a werewolf at their feet?

"I was just going to say that I could help you take care of . . . Furry here. It seems kind of important to you to do it sooner rather than later and-"

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine, dude. It'll keep for a few more minutes. As long as we're not here to loiter suspiciously anyway. So where to?"

Shawn shook his head-and, okay, REALLY bad idea-and freed his arm. After Dean helped steady him again he cautiously bent down and grabbed a leg.

Ew, by the way. Just . . . ew.

A snort that might have been amused or possibly resigned was exhaled above and then Dean was leaning down grabbing the other leg.

"Let's get this barbecue going."

o.o

It took ten minutes to drag the carcass deep enough into the woods that Dean was satisfied-and really what the hell kind of park was this anyway? The Hundred Acre Woods? It was huge! And full of nothing but TREES!-and then another ten for him to prepare a site to burn the corpse without setting anything else on fire.

Shawn passed that time sitting on a log and wondering how he'd missed the signpost saying he'd entered the Twilight Zone. And trading questions with his new friend, Dean the Werewolf Slayer. Who was way less hot than Buffy, but still cool.

"Favorite band of the 1980's."

Dean snorted. "Like there's a contest? Metallica, of course."

Shawn's nose wrinkled. "Classic rock fan, huh?"

Dean was sprinkling some kind of white powdery substance over the corpse, but he glanced at Shawn. "How can you be a child of the eighties and not be a classic rock fan?"

Shawn snorted now. "Because I have taste?"

"Bad taste, maybe," Dean muttered as he capped the can of . . . whatever it was. Although Shawn was beginning to wonder about the whole 'barbecue' comment from before. He wasn't seriously going to-

"Let me guess, you like Michael Jackson and Rick Astley?"

"Michael, yes. Rick . . . Well not all of his songs were bad."

"Yeah okay. If you say so."

A liquid that Shawn's nose identified as gasoline was liberally poured over the corpse. Shawn took that as a hopeful sign that there really wasn't going to be any barbecuing in the literal sense of the word.

"Geeze, pyro. Use enough accelerant there?"

Dean grinned. "Never can use too much gasoline. Makes such a pretty sound when it ignites in large quantities."

Shawn chuckled. "If you say so. I was always told not to play with matches."

"Yeah, but did you listen?"

Shawn tilted his head. "Fair point."

Dean pulled a book of matches out and then held it out to Shawn. "You want to do the honors?"

Shawn looked back in surprise. "Wait, seriously? Pyro boy is willing to share his matches?"

Dean shrugged. "If you don't want to I understand, but you made the kill shot. House rules."

Shawn shook his head. "What the hell kind of house did you grow up in?"

But he was making his way to his feet, the cool night air, the exertion of dragging the body, and the general adrenaline-pumping activities all contributing to making him much less drunk than when he'd started whistling just a short time ago.

He managed the ten feet to the pyre and accepted the matches, tearing off one and striking it on the back. "Booyah," he quietly cheered and tossed it in.

Then almost fell on his ass when the flames rushed up at him with a FWOOMP, nearly singeing his eyebrows.

Dean caught him with a laugh and steadied him. "Okay, maybe there is such a thing as too much accelerant."

Shawn laughed and shook his head. "Nah. That was a pretty cool sound when it went up."

"It was, wasn't it?"

Dean gently urged Shawn back to the log and pushed his shoulder until he sat. Then he inhaled deeply and with satisfaction.

"Ahhh. Nothing like the smell of werewolf roasting in the moonlight."

Shawn, feeling much more comfortable after the time spent with Dean-and after some of the topics of discussion quite secure in the knowledge that Dean like girls just as much as the next red-blooded American male-teased, "You have an odd sense of romantic, Dean Winchester." He batted his eyes and grinned.

Dean, now much more accustomed to Shawn's sense of humor which was refreshingly similar to his, replied with a wink and a saucy, "Oh Shawn, just wait until the second date."

The two laughed together as the smoke from their impromptu bonfire rose into the night.

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