SPN Ficlet
Just a ficlet to amuse between chappies of Blind Spot , New Deal, and the Sharpness of the Outline.
Dean woke up dead. Which, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. He had woken up dead for quite a number of days, ever since St. Louis. In fact, he had woken up dead on a daily basis (sometimes even more than once a day) until Agent Henriksen discovered the error and restored Dean to the land of the living. Plus, given everything he had seen and done, unusual had become relative and waking up dead, technically or not, did not rate.
But he didn’t really have a term to describe waking up on a cold metal table in the morgue. Rationally, he knew that the mere act of waking up mostly, if not totally, cancelled out the dead part. Except for zombies. Well, the ones still capable of thought processes. The mindless ones probably had less of a wake up and more of a get up. So, waking up didn’t totally rule out being dead. But waking up because you were cold and hungry, but not for brains, probably did. Dean didn’t actually know from personal experience, but he assumed that most zombies probably woke up with a craving for brains. Or something besides Denny’s Combo #2. Which meant that he had woken up not dead. Just in a morgue. And, as his mind took inventory beyond hunger, he had woken up naked.
To sum it up then, Dean woke up not dead, cold, hungry, and naked. Dizzy made the list when he sat up, the thin draping sheet dropping to puddle at his waist, covering up the paperwork that had been taped to it. He was also thirsty. And brother-less. But, being a natural optimist, he started to look for the bright side, you know, something besides not dead. He didn’t get far but he figured that was based upon the distraction his stomach was providing. He had never been the best of thinkers while hungry.
Sighing, he swung his legs to the floor. Naturally, that was also cold. But at least now he was not dead and standing. A noise in the hallway alerted him to the fact that he was about to be not dead, standing, and entertaining company. He scooted over to the far side of the door, clutching his sheet. Walking didn’t bring any injuries to light - all of his limbs happily, and without much more than their usual protest, obeyed his orders to move. So, again the optimist, he added uninjured to his list. On the positives: not dead, mobile, and uninjured. All in all, a good start to a morning.
The man that entered seemed a bit taken aback by Dean’s not dead state. In fact, his surprise made knocking him out pathetically easy. And, as Dean’s conscience had informed him that it may have been a little cruel to take advantage of the poor guy (it was possible that he had affected a zombie-esque appearance to increase the advantage of surprise), after taking his clothes (but not his underwear, because that would be just gross), Dean was kind enough hoist the unconscious morgue attendant off the floor onto the table, where he left him with his sheet for warmth.
Still not dead, mobile, uninjured and now dressed, Dean made his way cautiously down the long hall. Thankfully, it was deserted - Dean’s new identity was Ko-Fang Li, Morgue Attendant. He didn’t want to bet too high on his odds of passing a thorough inspection. Plus, Combo #2 was still calling, and thanks to Li, he had a crisp twenty to get him through. One thing life on the road had taught him, a town big enough for a morgue was big enough for a good breakfast. Which made him think of his brother. Had Sam been here, Dean could have passed that pearl of wisdom on. His absence was troubling, given that Dean was pretty sure that when he went to sleep the night before (not dead, not hungry, not thirsty and definitely not naked) Sam had been there.
Dean couldn’t figure out if he should be pissed Sam wasn’t here, or worried. He was actually worried that he wasn’t more worried. He knew he should be worried, but he felt mostly annoyed that he would be worrying again about a missing Sam. There was also a nagging sense of something forgotten, important but not…dangerous. So he settled for angry and worried. Current tally: not dead, mobile, uninjured, hungry, thirsty, dizzy, dressed, pissed and worried. The addition of pissed and worried to his list brought his day down a bit - and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet.
He was thinking that breakfast thought when he stepped outside into the night. And promptly updated the list to include disorientated and move worried further up the line (but not before not dead). If it wasn’t breakfast time, or at least morning, then it was late. And since his last memory before waking up was going to sleep, then he was missing more time than he thought. Which, ok, fair enough, was a conclusion that he had already come to - he hadn’t, after all, woken up where he should have. But he had been banking on having woken up when he should have. Missing time was scary. Lots of things disappeared when didn’t keep a careful eye on them. Like brothers.
Everything outside the county facility looked normal and quiet. The lack of people about made Dean think it was probably pretty late (or really early). He crossed the street and made for the convenience store on the corner, shucking the morgue coat on the way. Once inside, he grabbed two packs of M&Ms and a large coffee. The clock on the wall marked the time as 4:45. Early. The bleary clerk gave him change for the pay phone outside, along with his purchase and Dean forgave him for not informing him that the pay phone wasn’t working when the clerk let Dean use his cell phone. Only took a little bit of persuasion too.
Sam didn’t answer, so Dean left a message that he was heading back to the room. All factors considered (not dead, worried, mobile, uninjured, annoyed), he thought the message was polite. Judging by the clerk’s shaking hands and bugged out eyes, he may have been wrong about that, though.
It was a long walk back to their motel room, and he had a lot of time to re-evaluate. He set his status to not dead, worried, mobile - but on foot, and reinstated hungry, figuring he should have grabbed some jerky. By the time he finished hoofing the four miles, he knew he should have grabbed some jerky. And that wearing too small shoes for any length of time sucked. But shoe size was par for this course. And he wasn’t really that surprised when the Impala wasn’t in the lot. But he was surprised when, after resorting to picking the motel room door, it was empty. Not just empty as in no brother, but empty as in no one staying there. For a moment, he was just plain worried (well, and not dead).
So he stood for a while, just inside the empty room, contemplating his next move. He’d only lifted twenty bucks from Mr. Li and had already spent some of that. He didn’t have his wallet or any cards. He was wearing a stranger’s clothes. And he had no weapons. He tried to recall exactly what he had said to Sam on voicemail. He was pretty sure he had said he would meet him back at the motel. Not which. So if Dean’s missing time problem was a little larger (or geographically wider) than he had thought, Sam might not know exactly where to meet him.
And he still had that nagging feeling of forgetting. Normally, he would bluff his way along until Sam reminded him of some little (but occasionally vital) detail that he’d forgotten. No Sam meant no backup. And yet, he didn’t really know if he should move worried up the list beyond hungry or sore feet. It just didn’t seem right somehow. In fact, he had a vague suspicion that he was only worried that he wasn’t worried. Which was, you know, worrying. After a few more moments pondering the empty, but upon closer inspection, not serviced, room, he decided his status was: not dead, uninjured, mobile but with sore feet, hungry, worried, pissed, and maybe confused. He could knock out hungry at the convenience store. Although, the irrational part of his mind, the part he often listened to, was urging him to return to the morgue. A quick more intensive system check indicated he was hungry for a breakfast burrito (or Combo #2), so he didn’t think (but wasn’t entirely certain) that the craving to return to the morgue implicated any other, grosser cravings, like for brains.
So, he trudged back to the morgue, one complaining foot in front of the other. To take his mind off his feet, he concentrated on his stomach and determined, to a 99% confidence level, that he really, really wanted a Combo #2, not brains. Especially uncooked, formaldehyde injected brains. Or you know, brains at all. No, it was Combo #2. Maybe some more M&Ms. Or jerky - but beef only. Or venison. Turkey wouldn’t be so bad either, if it was teriyaki. Thus engaged in not thinking of brain food, he made it back to the morgue. By this time, it was six am, and the morning sun was starting to come up. Current status: not dead, moderately mobile but really ready to get his boots back, hungry - but absolutely positively not for brains, worried and pissed (no longer at something specific, like a certain missing brother, but rather a vague hunger induced discontent), confused. The sun was nice though, so he added moderately cheered to the list. He only caught the occasional sunrise but they were nice. In a totally non-girly way.
Again the hallways were deserted, probably due to the hour, and Dean wound his way back to the bowels of the building without incident. Except for stumbling a bit on his miserable feet, but since he had managed to catch himself prior to any damage infliction (yes, he was that awesome), no incidents.
Which also meant that he arrived at the entrance without a clear plan in mind. Or any type of explanation to provide the attendant if he’d woken back up. Being a man of action, Dean put these thought aside and pushed the door open. And stood there, gaping. His brother, wearing his own clothes, and the morgue attendant, still sheet draped, were playing cards. Looked like Mexican Stand-off, if the cards stuck to their foreheads and the pile of pins in front of each was any indication. Luckily, Dean, no stranger to stupefaction, was quick to recover.
“Gentlemen.” Given the circumstances, he thought it came out rather suave.
“Welcome back, idiot. You owe Ko-Fang breakfast. Again. I fold.” Sam threw his cards down, unstuck the one from his forehead and looked at it with a grimace.
Ko-Fang, pausing in gathering up his winning pins, jerked his head at Dean. “Your clothes are in the closet. Can I have mine back?”
Sam and Ko-Fang were very calm, acting as if it was an ordinary occurrence for Dean to walk into a morgue and find his brother (why did he get to have clothes?) playing poker with the morgue dude (who didn’t have clothes, but at least Dean knew why). So Dean freaked. Mostly on the inside.
Sure enough, his clothes, wallet, weapons and car keys were all in the closet. Dean made fast work of undressing and redressing. The guilt over having gone commando in another man’s pants had him folding Ko-Fang’s clothes very neatly before moving to hand them back over.
Ko-Fang looked at the proffered pile, a troubled frown creasing his face.
“You wore underwear, right?”
“Dude.” Dean tried to pack affront, shock and a hell of a lot of leave it alone into his response. When Ko-Fang didn’t reach to grab his clothes back, he figured it hadn’t worked. He was just about to reel off some inventive explanation about why it really shouldn’t matter when he heard Sam snicker. Grateful for the interruption, he wheeled on his brother.
“What the hell, Sam? Why do you have clothes?” Nice, Dean. Cause clothes are what you want to focus on right now….. “How come you know this dude?” Better.
“Because we’ve woken up here every morning for the last five mornings. Because I read the notes left for me. Because I don’t punch out people trying to help us and go for long walks in the moonlight. But mostly, because I’m awesome.”
“Huh?”
Ko-Fang peeled the piece of paper off his sheet, handed it to Dean, then crossed back to the closet, where he pulled out a fresh pair of pants and a shirt. Dean started to get the uncomfortable feeling that his brother and the morgue attendant accomplice were messing with him. He looked down at the note, put down Ko-fang’s worn, but come on - not really soiled - clothes, and started reading.
Dean - don’t freak. We’re hunting a fugly (your words, not mine) - it releases a toxin that wipes short term memory and leaves you for dead. The morgue attendant - Ko-Fang Li - knows about it. Our stuff is in the closet. Impala’s at the parking garage - Kenny the attendant (you liked him) is guarding it. I think we are going to get it this time. Wake me up if I’m not already up - should be near you somewhere. Drink the anti-dote in your pocket. Sam
Shit. His hand fumbled a small vial out of his jeans. He had a vague impression of impending nastiness, but at this point, he figured being a wuss about swallowing anything inside the vial would just land him in further trouble. Naturally, the contents followed the unwritten rule that any antidote had to taste like ass. He grinned through it and belched.
“Awe…” Oh FUCK. A blinding white pain hit him, moving from the center of his brain out, binding all his senses in a vortex of misery and dropping him to his hands and knees. Thankfully, it passed quickly. Still down, he waited out the flash of memories - late night hunt in the abandoned factory at the edge of town, trapping the fugly (it was seriously fugly), killing it with silver and brass, stumbling out, seeing Ko-Fang pulling up in the coroner's wagon (which was freaking cool really) and then succumbing to the toxin. He looked up to see the other men grinning at him.
“Ready?” Sam asked, no sympathy apparent.
“Uh, yesh…yeah.” Pause. Dean’s brain kicked back into gear. Given the looks on the faces of the other two men, a very important question was in order. “For what?”
“Breakfast - you’re buying.”
Ahh, yes, Combo #2. Rising, he evaluated his status again: Not dead, mobile (in his own boots), pissed (come on, no warning about that freaking antidote?) and hungry. Actually, he thought as he gave the back of Sam’s head a retaliatory swipe on the way out the door, his status could be summed up in one word. Awesome. He still had most of Ko-Fang's money.
Dean woke up dead. Which, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. He had woken up dead for quite a number of days, ever since St. Louis. In fact, he had woken up dead on a daily basis (sometimes even more than once a day) until Agent Henriksen discovered the error and restored Dean to the land of the living. Plus, given everything he had seen and done, unusual had become relative and waking up dead, technically or not, did not rate.
But he didn’t really have a term to describe waking up on a cold metal table in the morgue. Rationally, he knew that the mere act of waking up mostly, if not totally, cancelled out the dead part. Except for zombies. Well, the ones still capable of thought processes. The mindless ones probably had less of a wake up and more of a get up. So, waking up didn’t totally rule out being dead. But waking up because you were cold and hungry, but not for brains, probably did. Dean didn’t actually know from personal experience, but he assumed that most zombies probably woke up with a craving for brains. Or something besides Denny’s Combo #2. Which meant that he had woken up not dead. Just in a morgue. And, as his mind took inventory beyond hunger, he had woken up naked.
To sum it up then, Dean woke up not dead, cold, hungry, and naked. Dizzy made the list when he sat up, the thin draping sheet dropping to puddle at his waist, covering up the paperwork that had been taped to it. He was also thirsty. And brother-less. But, being a natural optimist, he started to look for the bright side, you know, something besides not dead. He didn’t get far but he figured that was based upon the distraction his stomach was providing. He had never been the best of thinkers while hungry.
Sighing, he swung his legs to the floor. Naturally, that was also cold. But at least now he was not dead and standing. A noise in the hallway alerted him to the fact that he was about to be not dead, standing, and entertaining company. He scooted over to the far side of the door, clutching his sheet. Walking didn’t bring any injuries to light - all of his limbs happily, and without much more than their usual protest, obeyed his orders to move. So, again the optimist, he added uninjured to his list. On the positives: not dead, mobile, and uninjured. All in all, a good start to a morning.
The man that entered seemed a bit taken aback by Dean’s not dead state. In fact, his surprise made knocking him out pathetically easy. And, as Dean’s conscience had informed him that it may have been a little cruel to take advantage of the poor guy (it was possible that he had affected a zombie-esque appearance to increase the advantage of surprise), after taking his clothes (but not his underwear, because that would be just gross), Dean was kind enough hoist the unconscious morgue attendant off the floor onto the table, where he left him with his sheet for warmth.
Still not dead, mobile, uninjured and now dressed, Dean made his way cautiously down the long hall. Thankfully, it was deserted - Dean’s new identity was Ko-Fang Li, Morgue Attendant. He didn’t want to bet too high on his odds of passing a thorough inspection. Plus, Combo #2 was still calling, and thanks to Li, he had a crisp twenty to get him through. One thing life on the road had taught him, a town big enough for a morgue was big enough for a good breakfast. Which made him think of his brother. Had Sam been here, Dean could have passed that pearl of wisdom on. His absence was troubling, given that Dean was pretty sure that when he went to sleep the night before (not dead, not hungry, not thirsty and definitely not naked) Sam had been there.
Dean couldn’t figure out if he should be pissed Sam wasn’t here, or worried. He was actually worried that he wasn’t more worried. He knew he should be worried, but he felt mostly annoyed that he would be worrying again about a missing Sam. There was also a nagging sense of something forgotten, important but not…dangerous. So he settled for angry and worried. Current tally: not dead, mobile, uninjured, hungry, thirsty, dizzy, dressed, pissed and worried. The addition of pissed and worried to his list brought his day down a bit - and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet.
He was thinking that breakfast thought when he stepped outside into the night. And promptly updated the list to include disorientated and move worried further up the line (but not before not dead). If it wasn’t breakfast time, or at least morning, then it was late. And since his last memory before waking up was going to sleep, then he was missing more time than he thought. Which, ok, fair enough, was a conclusion that he had already come to - he hadn’t, after all, woken up where he should have. But he had been banking on having woken up when he should have. Missing time was scary. Lots of things disappeared when didn’t keep a careful eye on them. Like brothers.
Everything outside the county facility looked normal and quiet. The lack of people about made Dean think it was probably pretty late (or really early). He crossed the street and made for the convenience store on the corner, shucking the morgue coat on the way. Once inside, he grabbed two packs of M&Ms and a large coffee. The clock on the wall marked the time as 4:45. Early. The bleary clerk gave him change for the pay phone outside, along with his purchase and Dean forgave him for not informing him that the pay phone wasn’t working when the clerk let Dean use his cell phone. Only took a little bit of persuasion too.
Sam didn’t answer, so Dean left a message that he was heading back to the room. All factors considered (not dead, worried, mobile, uninjured, annoyed), he thought the message was polite. Judging by the clerk’s shaking hands and bugged out eyes, he may have been wrong about that, though.
It was a long walk back to their motel room, and he had a lot of time to re-evaluate. He set his status to not dead, worried, mobile - but on foot, and reinstated hungry, figuring he should have grabbed some jerky. By the time he finished hoofing the four miles, he knew he should have grabbed some jerky. And that wearing too small shoes for any length of time sucked. But shoe size was par for this course. And he wasn’t really that surprised when the Impala wasn’t in the lot. But he was surprised when, after resorting to picking the motel room door, it was empty. Not just empty as in no brother, but empty as in no one staying there. For a moment, he was just plain worried (well, and not dead).
So he stood for a while, just inside the empty room, contemplating his next move. He’d only lifted twenty bucks from Mr. Li and had already spent some of that. He didn’t have his wallet or any cards. He was wearing a stranger’s clothes. And he had no weapons. He tried to recall exactly what he had said to Sam on voicemail. He was pretty sure he had said he would meet him back at the motel. Not which. So if Dean’s missing time problem was a little larger (or geographically wider) than he had thought, Sam might not know exactly where to meet him.
And he still had that nagging feeling of forgetting. Normally, he would bluff his way along until Sam reminded him of some little (but occasionally vital) detail that he’d forgotten. No Sam meant no backup. And yet, he didn’t really know if he should move worried up the list beyond hungry or sore feet. It just didn’t seem right somehow. In fact, he had a vague suspicion that he was only worried that he wasn’t worried. Which was, you know, worrying. After a few more moments pondering the empty, but upon closer inspection, not serviced, room, he decided his status was: not dead, uninjured, mobile but with sore feet, hungry, worried, pissed, and maybe confused. He could knock out hungry at the convenience store. Although, the irrational part of his mind, the part he often listened to, was urging him to return to the morgue. A quick more intensive system check indicated he was hungry for a breakfast burrito (or Combo #2), so he didn’t think (but wasn’t entirely certain) that the craving to return to the morgue implicated any other, grosser cravings, like for brains.
So, he trudged back to the morgue, one complaining foot in front of the other. To take his mind off his feet, he concentrated on his stomach and determined, to a 99% confidence level, that he really, really wanted a Combo #2, not brains. Especially uncooked, formaldehyde injected brains. Or you know, brains at all. No, it was Combo #2. Maybe some more M&Ms. Or jerky - but beef only. Or venison. Turkey wouldn’t be so bad either, if it was teriyaki. Thus engaged in not thinking of brain food, he made it back to the morgue. By this time, it was six am, and the morning sun was starting to come up. Current status: not dead, moderately mobile but really ready to get his boots back, hungry - but absolutely positively not for brains, worried and pissed (no longer at something specific, like a certain missing brother, but rather a vague hunger induced discontent), confused. The sun was nice though, so he added moderately cheered to the list. He only caught the occasional sunrise but they were nice. In a totally non-girly way.
Again the hallways were deserted, probably due to the hour, and Dean wound his way back to the bowels of the building without incident. Except for stumbling a bit on his miserable feet, but since he had managed to catch himself prior to any damage infliction (yes, he was that awesome), no incidents.
Which also meant that he arrived at the entrance without a clear plan in mind. Or any type of explanation to provide the attendant if he’d woken back up. Being a man of action, Dean put these thought aside and pushed the door open. And stood there, gaping. His brother, wearing his own clothes, and the morgue attendant, still sheet draped, were playing cards. Looked like Mexican Stand-off, if the cards stuck to their foreheads and the pile of pins in front of each was any indication. Luckily, Dean, no stranger to stupefaction, was quick to recover.
“Gentlemen.” Given the circumstances, he thought it came out rather suave.
“Welcome back, idiot. You owe Ko-Fang breakfast. Again. I fold.” Sam threw his cards down, unstuck the one from his forehead and looked at it with a grimace.
Ko-Fang, pausing in gathering up his winning pins, jerked his head at Dean. “Your clothes are in the closet. Can I have mine back?”
Sam and Ko-Fang were very calm, acting as if it was an ordinary occurrence for Dean to walk into a morgue and find his brother (why did he get to have clothes?) playing poker with the morgue dude (who didn’t have clothes, but at least Dean knew why). So Dean freaked. Mostly on the inside.
Sure enough, his clothes, wallet, weapons and car keys were all in the closet. Dean made fast work of undressing and redressing. The guilt over having gone commando in another man’s pants had him folding Ko-Fang’s clothes very neatly before moving to hand them back over.
Ko-Fang looked at the proffered pile, a troubled frown creasing his face.
“You wore underwear, right?”
“Dude.” Dean tried to pack affront, shock and a hell of a lot of leave it alone into his response. When Ko-Fang didn’t reach to grab his clothes back, he figured it hadn’t worked. He was just about to reel off some inventive explanation about why it really shouldn’t matter when he heard Sam snicker. Grateful for the interruption, he wheeled on his brother.
“What the hell, Sam? Why do you have clothes?” Nice, Dean. Cause clothes are what you want to focus on right now….. “How come you know this dude?” Better.
“Because we’ve woken up here every morning for the last five mornings. Because I read the notes left for me. Because I don’t punch out people trying to help us and go for long walks in the moonlight. But mostly, because I’m awesome.”
“Huh?”
Ko-Fang peeled the piece of paper off his sheet, handed it to Dean, then crossed back to the closet, where he pulled out a fresh pair of pants and a shirt. Dean started to get the uncomfortable feeling that his brother and the morgue attendant accomplice were messing with him. He looked down at the note, put down Ko-fang’s worn, but come on - not really soiled - clothes, and started reading.
Dean - don’t freak. We’re hunting a fugly (your words, not mine) - it releases a toxin that wipes short term memory and leaves you for dead. The morgue attendant - Ko-Fang Li - knows about it. Our stuff is in the closet. Impala’s at the parking garage - Kenny the attendant (you liked him) is guarding it. I think we are going to get it this time. Wake me up if I’m not already up - should be near you somewhere. Drink the anti-dote in your pocket. Sam
Shit. His hand fumbled a small vial out of his jeans. He had a vague impression of impending nastiness, but at this point, he figured being a wuss about swallowing anything inside the vial would just land him in further trouble. Naturally, the contents followed the unwritten rule that any antidote had to taste like ass. He grinned through it and belched.
“Awe…” Oh FUCK. A blinding white pain hit him, moving from the center of his brain out, binding all his senses in a vortex of misery and dropping him to his hands and knees. Thankfully, it passed quickly. Still down, he waited out the flash of memories - late night hunt in the abandoned factory at the edge of town, trapping the fugly (it was seriously fugly), killing it with silver and brass, stumbling out, seeing Ko-Fang pulling up in the coroner's wagon (which was freaking cool really) and then succumbing to the toxin. He looked up to see the other men grinning at him.
“Ready?” Sam asked, no sympathy apparent.
“Uh, yesh…yeah.” Pause. Dean’s brain kicked back into gear. Given the looks on the faces of the other two men, a very important question was in order. “For what?”
“Breakfast - you’re buying.”
Ahh, yes, Combo #2. Rising, he evaluated his status again: Not dead, mobile (in his own boots), pissed (come on, no warning about that freaking antidote?) and hungry. Actually, he thought as he gave the back of Sam’s head a retaliatory swipe on the way out the door, his status could be summed up in one word. Awesome. He still had most of Ko-Fang's money.