First Star I See Tonight, for sinfulslasher (1/2)
Title: First Star I See Tonight
Written for: sinfulslasher
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 14,667
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Disclaimer:
a) I do not, nor have I ever owned any part of Supernatural. The characters were just so pretty-shiny, I had to borrow them.
b) My knowledge of injuries, Arabic, genies, and Haxton, CO is based entirely off what I could Google in an afternoon. Andy medical, linguistic, supernatural, or geographical errors are mine alone
Summary: Because Winchester luck dictates that Dean’s genie in a bottle could be neither Barbara Eden nor Christina Aguilera. Instead, he gets a fat guy with some serious hygiene issues and a mean streak a mile wide.
Note to my prompter: I felt like this one meandered away from your original prompt a little bit. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.
First Star I See Tonight
“Why are you being like this,” Dean screamed. Sam was standing there in the doorway to the room Dean had hidden in, seething and sniffling and all around glaring at Dean.
“Because I’ve had enough. Why are you such a child!?”
“It’s milk,” Dean said, trying to regain some of his calm. The only reason they were even fighting was because Sam was sick and bitchy. It would pass. “Just milk. You’ll live without your Lucky Charms for one day.”
Sam punched the door frame. “It’s not about the fucking milk! It’s about the fact that you never pick up after yourself. Today it’s the three drops of milk you put back in the fridge. Yesterday it was the toilet paper you couldn’t bother to replace. Before that it was your stupid, muddy boots strewn across the living room floor.”
“So what is it that’s really bothering you Sam?”
“Why do you never do anything around here? I’m always picking up your crap!”
Dean’s hands balled into fists. “I never pick up my crap? I do everything around here! Just because I’m not some OCD neat freak, doesn’t give you the right to act like I don’t. Hell, if I did anymore, I’d be changing your diapers.”
Sam flashed from angry, to shocked, to hurt. Dean saw tears collecting in his eyes. Dammit. He’d gone too far. Even he knew that, but Sam had gone there first. He could see Sam trying to blink away the moisture in his eyes, trying to prove he wasn’t as childish as Dean claimed. Dean knew it was just because he was sick, his defenses were down. Any other day, that comment would have kicked the argument up a notch.
Sam turned, hiding the hurt. When he spoke, his tone was the perfect balance of loathing and anger. “Glad we cleared that up, Dad.”
Sam left, storming up the hall.
Dean bit his tongue to keep from yelling after his brother. Instead, he whirled and kicked a cardboard box that was sitting against the wall, satisfied when the side crumpled in with a dull thud. He knew he really should be more careful. The Men of Letters could have any sort of mystical whoosit stashed around that wouldn’t appreciate being kicked. The guilt passed quickly as he heard Sam’s gargantuan feet on the stairs, probably retreating to his bedroom to sulk.
Sam was sick. It wasn’t anything serious, just enough to make him miserable. He had looked better that morning, but apparently that had been a fleeting reprieve. Even now, Dean could hear him snuffling and panting just climbing the stairs.
Dean glared down at the box. The light caught on something shiny inside, glinting just enough to catch his eye. He huffed and scooped up the box, dropping it on the table along the wall with a thud. Knowing his luck, he had probably managed to break the one thing that could save the world from the next apocalypse. Figures.
He pried open the flaps, resolutely ignoring the little voice that sounded suspiciously like Sam saying this was a bad idea. Normally he would check the register before he went looting just to make sure he didn’t get into a room full of nasty. This was one of the unlocked rooms. The warding on the door was pretty mild. If there was anything in there, it wasn’t likely to be very dangerous. Besides, he needed some new swag and he couldn’t listen to Sam whine another minute.
Dean dug through the contents, laying each item out on the table in a neat row. There was a stone knife about as long as his forearm with characters carved into the blade - maybe ancient Sumerian if he had to guess - that would look pretty awesome hanging on his wall. Next was a large, round copper plate with an inscription that he couldn’t decipher, but which appeared to be along the same lines as the knife. There was a carved sandstone figure of a toad with glittering black stones for eyes that seemed to watch him as he moved, definitely too freaky to leave sitting on his desk, and a tightly wound scroll.
The last thing inside the box, tucked away in the opposite corner from where he’d kicked in the side, was a cylindrical package wrapped up in brown paper and sealed with a glob of green sealing wax. It was unexpectedly heavy for being no bigger than the length of his hand. He broke the seal with his pocket knife and carefully unwrapped the paper. On the reverse side, he found symbols he was more familiar with; hunting marks for binding, a few minor wards, and some low level witch type symbols. It all looked to have been designed to keep the object from breaking while it was being transported.
A foot of crumpled paper later Dean was left holding a small, green porcelain bottle decorated with delicate veins of gold. It was thin necked and flared around the bottom. The tiny cork in the top was crowned with a shaped ruby. The entire thing screamed Middle East in that hokey, tourist trap way.
He was tempted to peek inside, but every instinct he’d ever had screamed not to. He shook it, expecting the contents to shift. It was far too heavy to just be an empty knickknack. It didn’t make a sound. There was no sloshing, no swishing, and definitely no thumping. Dean was perplexed as to what could possibly be inside.
His hand hesitated over the cork. Before he could do anything, he heard the creaking of the floor as someone approached the stairs to the lower level. The hinges squeaked as the door at the top of the stairs swung open. He stared down at the bottle and waited.
“Dean?” Sam sounded rough, like his voice was made of brittle paper. Dean grimaced, letting his thumb trace over the gold patterns and sighed. Sam sounded pathetic. The idiot had probably forgotten to take his medicine again.
“Just once,” he muttered as he tucked the bottle into his pocket followed shortly by the knife. “Just once I’d like to be the one being looked after.” He dumped the other things back into the box and flipped the light out as he left the room.
He met Sam at the top of the stairs. His brother was pale with bright spots of color on his cheeks and sweat on his brow. He stared at Dean with glassy eyes. Maybe he wasn’t feeling as better as he had looked that morning. He was leaning against the wall and when he saw Dean his posture sagged. Dean had a suspicion that he could probably sleep where he was and never know the difference.
“Don’t feel so good,” Sam said in a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah. When’s the last time you took your meds?” Dean asked.
“Hmm?”
Dean frowned. “Medicine. Have you taken anything recently?”
Sam stared at him a long time before he finally blinked and said, “Um, no?”
“Right,” Dean said with a sigh. “Let’s get you in bed.”
Sam shook his head and pulled back a little. “No, I gotta apologize.”
Dean hooked Sam’s arm over his shoulder and moved so that he could support him. “What for?”
Sam stumbled forward a few steps under Dean’s guidance. He seemed to consider for a moment. “I…I don’t remember.” He said before launching into a coughing fit that made Dean wince.
“Right,” Dean said, guiding him down the hall. “Well, you can figure it out in the morning.”
Between the two of them, they made it back through the halls and to Sam’s bedroom. Dean flipped the light on and propped Sam against the door. The place was a disaster. Discarded clothes littered the floor, and the sheets lay tangled and strewn half across the bedroom.
Dean made his way to the bed, kicking books and clothes aside to clear a path as he went. With a few brisk flaps of the sheets and a crisp tuck to the corners, he had made the bed and was getting Sam situated.
After a brief tussle with the thermometer, Dean was swearing under his breath. Sam was basically supernovic. He was reading at 104.3, creeping into the dangerously high zone. Dean shoved pills at Sam and stood over him as he chased them down with a glass of tepid water, not that Sam was coherent enough to care. He’d lost whatever real fight he’d had to remain lucid about the time they stumbled into the room. Dean was just waiting for him to drift off.
He knew he wouldn’t be going far until that fever was under control. Instead, he gathered up all the clothes from the floor and dumped them in the basket in the corner of the room. That done, he started to collect the books that had been strewn haphazardly around the bed and stacked them neatly on the desk, taking a moment to swipe a pile of tissues into the trashcan. He should get paid for hazardous working conditions. He set the can next to the bed, just in case as Sam started to snore.
With Sam sleeping, Dean grabbed the clothes basket and hauled it to the back of the bunker to the laundry room. He had already been planning to throw a load in, so he just added Sam’s things to the pile. He took his time sorting everything and started a load. That done, he wandered into the kitchen, more out of habit than any real purpose.
He supposed he should go check on Sam. The kid would need liquids when he woke up and he wanted to monitor that fever. He mixed together some of the powdered Gatorade they had in the cabinet and carried it back to Sam’s room. He set the glass on the nightstand for when his brother woke up. He took a moment to swipe the back of his hand over Sam’s forehead, relieved when he found some of the fever had dissipated. Sam was still hot, but the Tylenol had taken the edge off.
Dean glanced at his watch. If he was lucky, Sam would surface sometime around six or so. Between slight nip in the air, and Sam’s rabbiting appetite lately, he figured soup would make a good dinner for them. He might even have the stuff left to make a loaf of bread.
Somewhere between pulling out chicken to defrost and chopping vegetables, Dean felt himself relax. This is what he really enjoyed. Not sick little brothers, but providing for his family.
He knew Sam didn’t understand. To him, providing was being stable and settled. It was bringing home a check at the end of the day and mowing the lawn. It was keeping the Impala stocked with licorice because he knew it was Dean’s favorite or watching monster movie marathons when one of them was down.
Dean loved him for it, but that was the extra stuff. Having a place to call home was something he’d never even thought to dream of. Providing for his family meant clean clothes and warm food. It was having a roof over their heads and hustling pool to pay for it if he had to. It was knowing enough first aid to handle most things and having enough ammunition to make sure he never needed the knowledge. Dean took pride in the little things, like making soup. And if Sam made a crack or two about Martha Stewart, he could wash his own rank socks.
It was closer to seven than six when Sam finally shuffled into the kitchen. Dean had been periodically checking on him and had shoved another round of Tylenol down him an hour or so back. He was still feverish, eyes still glassy, but he was a little more coherent. He sank down in a chair at the table and groaned.
“Can’t you just shoot me now?”
Dean snorted. “So feeling nice and refreshed, I take it.”
Sam slumped forward so his head was laying on his arm across the table. His eyes were lidded and Dean was a little worried he’d fall asleep there. “If you’re going to start snoring, at least go back to bed so I don’t have to listen to it.”
“Sick of laying down.”
Dean shrugged. “Think you could eat something?”
Sam’s eyes slipped closed. “Too tired.”
But Dean already had a bowl full of soup and was setting it in front of Sam, who stared blearily at it for a few seconds before propping himself up enough to eat. A chunk of bread found its way to Sam’s spot before Dean collected his own portion and sat across from him. Sam picked at the bread and ate a bite before turning his attention to the soup. It took him a full thirty seconds to chew and swallow and another minute to pick up his spoon. Dean was relieved to see him ladle a spoonful up.
“S’ good,” he said.
Dean hummed in response. They stayed that way, Dean eating and Sam trudging through his soup. Finally Sam heaved a sigh. “How much more do I have to eat?”
Dean glanced down at the half full bowl. “One more.”
Sam dutifully sucked down another spoonful before he gave up and went back to laying across the table.
Dean finally took pity on him. “All right, bed or couch?”
Sam grunted.
“Table ain’t one of your options.”
“Time’s it?”
“Bout eight.”
“Bed.”
Dean nodded and got up to haul Sam to his feet. Together they went back to Sam’s room and settled him there. Dean spent the rest of the evening periodically checking on Sam and digging through the Men of Letters catalog to find the records for his mystery objects.
They rode out the next few days until Sam felt more like a human being with the tacit agreement not to talk about their argument at all. Mostly this involved a lot of Netflix and popcorn. Sam’s fever broke the second day and he was up and shuffling about the next. He was still tired easily, which grated at him, leaving him huffing in annoyance when Dean told him to go take a nap.
A day after Sam had gotten up and moving under his own steam, he brought Dean a hunt. Dean suspected it was a peace offering.
“I think I found us something.” Sam’s voice was still a little hoarse, but he seemed to be doing fine otherwise.
“Oh, yeah?” Dean asked. “What kind of thing?”
“A hunt a couple of towns over. Looks like a restless spirit. Should be a simple salt and burn.”
“Are you sure you’re up to doing anything of the sort?” Dean said, finally sitting up and looking at Sam properly. He was still pale, but he was doing much better.
Sam sighed and sank down in a chair at the table. “I’m fine Dean. Besides, this should be an easy one. I think I’ve figured out who it is. We just need to do the grunt work. Take us two days, tops.”
“Alright, so what do you have?”
“Daniel Morse, 35, owner of a local jewelry store, was killed six months back in a bad car wreck just outside of town. He wasn’t exactly well liked by any standard. His kids closed the shop and sold the building last month.”
“And?”
“There have been people claiming the building is haunted. There have been reports of strange noises and lights coming from over there at night too.”
“So you thinking poltergeist?”
“Nah. The scope’s not big enough for a poltergeist, just one seriously pissed of ghost of a grumpy old man.”
“Where is this grumpy old man?”
“In Haxtun, CO. It’s like a 3 hour drive from here.” Sam slid the papers he’d been reading from over to Dean.
“So, northern Colorado then,” Dean asked. “Man, last time we drove that there was nothing but construction. Take us twice that to get anywhere near there.”
Sam shrugged. “Sound like something you want to pick up, or should I forward it on?”
Dean took a minute to grumble about the horror of taking his car through construction zones, but finally acquiesced. “Fine, sure. We’ve been sitting still too long anyway. Let’s do it. But we’re waiting a couple of days.”
“What? Why?”
Dean narrowed his eyes ate his brother. “When you can walk down the hall without panting, we’ll go.”
Sam scowled, “Fine.”
Dean chuckled and collected his dishes. He ruffled Sam’s hair as he walked by, earning himself a scowl in the process. “Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll be back to chasing ghosts in no time.”
Sam just rolled his eyes and leaned forward to collect some old book that had been left on the table, flipping it open curiously. Dean decided he’d leave Sam to his books. Kid could entertain himself all day with one of those musty old things. Instead, he made his way back to his room intending to examine the objects he’d found a little more closely.
Dean sat down at his desk, pulling out the file he’d snaked from the Men of Letters catalogue, and opening it in front of him. He’d finally gotten a chance while Sam was snoring through Indiana Jones the other day, to flip through the files and find the one for the room he’d been in.
He pulled open the file, wrinkling his nose at the typical dusty smell that assaulted him, making him want to sneeze. He and Sam, barring some sort of impending apocalypse or threat of untold evil, should try and digitize some of the records eventually. He knew Sam had been itching to do something of the sort for years now. Dean was dreading it, aside from the potential exploring it would require. Sitting and logging things for hours on end sounded like Hell on earth - one of the few tortures he’d not managed to endure in his lifetime.
He was presented with the typical log of all the artifacts in the room. It basically just listed each item by call number and location. Behind the inventory was a more detailed archival entry for each object. The knife was apparently from Egypt, but the writing was Sumerian as he’d first guessed. It had been used for purification rituals. It could theoretically kill a ghost, although that claim had never been put to the test as far as he could tell.
The bottle had been collected because it was supposedly a genie’s bottle, but the battle with Abaddon had happened before anyone could do anything about it. It seemed really unclear what they had intended to do with it - whether they had planned to try and slay it, use it, or simply see if it actually existed. There were reference notes that Dean had picked up, but they were all about djinn in general, nothing he didn’t already know. He had never heard of a djinn actually being bound in a bottle or lamp or even Tupperware for that matter.
He picked up the ornate bottle from its spot on the corner of his desk and held it in his palm. The gold inlay held a soft warmth in the low lighting of his bedroom. It was beautiful, if a little gaudy. Dean grinned. A genie in a bottle, huh?
He’d blame his next few actions on his love for TV Land reruns and a serious middle school crush on Barbara Eden. Also on the fact that what followed was quite honestly not how djinn were supposed to work at all.
Dean wasn’t quite stupid enough to take the cork out of the bottle. He’d seen the binding rune carved into the base of the ruby and the bottle’s unusual weight would have been enough to make him believe there was something inside. But he couldn’t help himself. “All right, genie. Come on out. Let’s see if you’re real.”
Letting the bottle lay delicately across his palm, he rubbed his hand across the body of the porcelain.
He was entirely unprepared for a thick, blue smoke to start pouring out around the cork. He almost dropped the bottle, barely holding on to it with the tips of his fingers. The smoke billowed out and collected on the floor, creating a low, dense fog over the carpet. When the last wisps floated down, the smoke began to coalesce into a form, growing taller and more concentrated. Finally it settled into the shape of a person, and with a tight twisting that happened so fast Dean barely saw it, a squat man appeared before him.
Whatever thoughts of attractive, exotic blonds he’d held before fled when faced with the thing standing in front of him. He was short, coming maybe to Dean’s chest, and bald. He was wearing clothes that looked like maybe he’d been reading to many romance novel descriptions of the Middle East. He had long pants that might have once been white but had turned a spotted yellow color. They flared at the bottom before being cuffed at his ankles. Over that he wore a short, open vest of a greying blue that did little to hide his thick pelt of curly brown chest hair, which he scratched at absently as he eyed Dean. Or the large drape of belly that curved over the waistband of his pants. He stood barefoot about three inches above Dean’s bedroom floor, which was something of a relief as his feet were as hairy as his chest and coated in grime. In fact the only thing that didn’t seem to be sprouting hair was his head, which was shining with a thin sheen of sweat.
“What the…” Dean said. It was the only intelligent thought in his head at the moment.
“What the Hell do you want, kid?” The man said. His voice was rough and graveled.
Dean stared at him. He didn’t look like any djinn he’d ever seen before. “What are you?”
“You rubbed, didn’t ya? What exactly did you expect to happen?”
“Nothing.”
“Great. Just fucking great. First job in ages and I get a moron.”
“Excuse you,” Dean said, beginning to get his bearings again.
The man had begun pacing. “It’s bad enough I get crammed in that thing, but now I gotta explain the whole shtick.” He paused to look Dean up and down. “Look, you rubbed the lamp,” he said, speaking loud enough that Dean took a step back. “I came out. You get the picture yet?”
“So you’re a genie, then. A real genie.”
“No I’m a sea cucumber. And technically I’m a jinn.”
“But genie in a lamp. That’s a fairy tale. Kid’s stuff.”
“Right, well do you want your wishes or not? I got things to do so either get to it or fuck off.”
“Wait just one minute there. Wishes.”
“Good, God. How did you make it to adulthood? Wishes. Three of them. Didn’t your mother read you bedtime stories?”
Dean flinched, but plowed on. “Okay, wishes. So what’s the catch?”
“I don’t do dead people. I don’t dick around with making people love you. I don’t fuck with time. No going back and fixing mistakes, no meeting future spawn. And I’m not an assassin, so if you want someone dead, kill ‘em yourself. I do make a pretty mean poison, if you’re interested.”
“Yeah, yeah. And it’ll cost me what? My soul? Firstborn son?”
“Do I look like a demon to you?”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“We’re cousins. Got it? Cousins. Barely even related. As if I’d stoop to their level.”
“You still didn’t answer the question.”
The jinn shrugged. “Doesn’t work that way. I’m the guy in the bottle. I grant the wishes. You’re the moron who rubbed the bottle. You make the wishes. It’s a strictly business relationship.”
“There’s always a catch. Last one of your kind I ran into strung me up and drugged me to the gills. It was all just a fantasy.”
“If I had that kind of juice, I wouldn’t be stuck in the micro apartment from Hell.”
“And how does that work anyway. How’d you end up in a bottle?”
“There was a sorcerer - now that was real power - and a poor decision on my part. A chant and a binding spell later, here we are. Took out the bastard’s kids before he managed it though.” The genie grinned, his filed teeth glinting in the light.
“Right….” Dean said. The more he heard, the less he liked this whole situation. “Given all that lovely information, I think I’m going to pass.”
“Seriously? Universe at your fingertips and you’re ‘going to pass’?”
“Yup. So back into the bottle for you. I know that symbol. You’re bound to it. You ain’t going anywhere, so go on. Get.”
“Go to Hell.” He said and sat down right in Dean’s floor.
Dean pulled out the knife he’d prepared just in case. It was long, with a wicked curve at the end, high quality silver, and had been dipped in lamb’s blood. He let the full meaning of it sink in before he said, “You didn’t think I’d come in totally unprepared did you?”
The bald man huffed, but jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he whined. “I’ve been stuck in that fucking thing for centuries. Eight of them, in fact. I’m so fucking bored. Just one little wish. Hell, I’ll make you a sandwich if you want. Just throw me a bone here.”
Dean turned a little green at the thought. He remembered all too well the last magically conjured sandwich he’d eaten and didn’t want a repeat of the experience.
His next remark was interrupted by a faint, grating call of, “Dean!” Just from his tone, Dean could tell that Sam was overly excited about something, which probably meant he’d found some obscure, geeky passage.
Kid shouldn’t even be shouting with his voice all for shit. “Dean!”
There was a muffled crash and tumble. Dean thought it sounded a lot like falling books. He paused, wondering if he’d misjudged the situation, but Sam called again, “Dean? Come here! You’re gonna want to see this!”
There was no panic or desperation, only excitement.
“In a minute, Sam,” he yelled.
“Hurry!”
Dean rolled his eyes. Trust Sam to pick the worst time to interrupt. Was five minutes too much to ask? “The only thing I want is some peace and quiet, so unless you’ve got that up your sleeve, we’re done here. You can go the easy way or the hard way,” Dean said, waving the knife a little to get his point across.
A Cheshire grin spread over the genie’s face, pulling his lips over his pointed teeth. “That I can do!”
The man straightened, clapped twice, and then dissolved back into the smoke that he’d emerged as. The smoke began filtering into the bottle as Dean watched, finally leaving nothing but the intricately decorated bottle sitting on his desk rocking a little from the force of the genie’s quick exit.
Dean frowned, not entirely sure he liked what had just happened. He eyed the bottle, but decided it was better safe than sorry. He collected it and tucked it into his shirt pocket, afraid that if he left it there, the occupant might just decide to have a little fun in his room. He had no idea if the genie could emerge if he hadn’t first been summoned.
Dean cast one last glance over his room then left to go find Sam.
He made his way down the hall towards the front of the bunker. He’d left Sam reading in the war room and he assumed that Sam had found something interesting. He’d better have. If he was just hollering for food or something Dean would murder him.
He’d gone about halfway when a hand landed on his shoulder. A hand that was presumable attached to a body that he had not noticed was behind him. Sam had been silent for several minutes now. Were they being attacked? Had something gotten into the bunker? He didn’t think, he just moved. He grabbed the hand, whirling around and shoving the person behind him up against the wall, wrenching their arm up behind their back.
Only to stop, mid motion when he realized he recognized the shaggy head of hair attached to the intruder’s body. He let the arm drop. “What the fuck, Sam,” he said.
Only he didn’t hear himself say it.
“What the fuck?” He said again, with just as much comprehension as last time.
Sam whirled to face him, rubbing his shoulder and looking pissy. He was talking, but Dean had no idea what he was saying. He couldn’t hear Sam either.
“What the fuck!”
Sam frowned. Apparently Dean’s response had been non sequitur enough to tell Sam something was wrong.
“Sam, if you’ve done something and this is your fault, I’m going to make you wish you were never born. I’m going to…”
But anything he could come up with paled in comparison with the panic clawing its way up his throat. Sam grabbed him by the elbows, looking worried. His mouth moved but…but nothing, nothing at all.
“I can’t hear you,” he said.
The color drained from Sam’s face. He looked Dean up and down, searching for any injury or cause of this sudden turn of events. He spoke…
“Sam, I said I can’t hear you. I can’t fucking hear. What the hell is going on? I - I mean -I -”
Sam cut him off by shaking him. Dean just blinked at him. Sam frowned but tapped his lips. Dean scowled. He couldn’t hearing anything and now Sam wanted to play charades. Sam rolled his eyes, but tapped Dean’s temple beside his eye then his lips again.
Oh, yeah. Read Sam’s lips. Right. He could do that. He gave a small nod.
“When did this happen?”
“Uh, just now. Like in the last five minutes.”
“Any idea why?”
“If I knew why, do you think I’d be standing here, talking about it?”
Sam threw his hands up. “Okay, okay. We need to stay calm. What’s the last thing you remember doing?”
He frowned. He’d been fine in his room with the genie. The genie! Dean scowled. “Dammit!”
He yanked the bottle from his pocket and scowled down at it. Sam frowned at him, but didn’t interrupt. “Come on out here,” he said, polishing the side vigorously. “I know you can hear me, so get your fat ass out in this hallway, now.”
Sam laid a hand on his elbow but Dean shook him off in favor of trying to rub the gold from the side of the bottle. Sam, undeterred, snatched the bottle from Dean’s hand. He held it up to eye level, turning it and observing it. Finally he caught Dean’s eye, “What is this?”
Dean nearly growled. “That’s a genie in a bottle. Literally.”
“A djinn?”
“Not quite, apparently. He’s bound to the bottle, or at least to the stopper. Check out the ruby set in the top.”
Sam tipped the bottle towards him, scrutinizing the gem. He turned it, studying the symbol carved into it. “I thought they were a myth.”
“When has anything actually turned out to be a myth?”
Sam shrugged. “So he popped out and offered you a wish and you just took him up on it?”
“Dude! Do I look like an idiot?” Dean snatched the bottle back. “I told him he could shove his wishes where the sun don’t shine.” He shook the bottle. “So you better show up soon, pudgie. Cause you’ve just screwed up big time.”
Dean swiped his hand over the base of the bottle and the blue smoke began to form again. This time the genie took shape almost immediately. The little lump of a man stared up at Dean, foot already tapping.
“For God’s sake, what!
“What did you do?”
“I granted your wish. For the last fucking time, this is not a difficult concept to grasp.”
“I never made a wish.”
“Sure you did. You said you wanted peace and quiet. Well, you’ve got it. Nice and fucking quiet.”
Dean stared at the genie, dumbstruck. He was having a hard time getting his head wrapped around all the ways that sentence was screwed up. “Now wait one minute. I never said I wished for that. This is so not what I meant. And you know it.”
The genie flopped back, floating in midair with the look of an offended teenager. He was careful to keep in Dean’s line of sight though. “Oh good, here we go. On with the bitching and the whining. I did you a favor, you ungrateful little bastard.”
“A favor? A favor!” Dean roared. “Undo it now.”
The genie barely blinked. “No.”
“NO? What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I won’t. Christ, were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Dean reached for the knife he always kept in his back pocket, but he’d left the one dipped in lamb’s blood on his desk. Sam laid a restraining hand on his arm and brought Dean’s attention to him. “Why not?” Sam wanted to know.
The genie shrugged. “I exerted good magic on that wish. The whelp should learn to appreciate what he’s given.”
“It wasn’t a wish! I never said ‘I wish,’ I didn’t ask you to do it. I certainly didn’t say anything about not being able to hear. However you contorted that conversation into a wish probably goes against some cosmic law. So, for the last time. Fix this.”
“Nope,” he said sitting up.
Dean lunged for him, dropping the bottle in his desire to choke the life out of the man in front of him. Before his hands could settle satisfyingly around the genie’s throat, he was gone, vanishing in blue wisps of smoke into the bottle. The bottle Sam now held. From the looks of things, Sam dove for it the minute Dean moved, catching it just before it hit the ground. Which, yeah, alright, they probably didn’t want the bottle to break, but still.
Dean whirled before his brother could say anything and stormed down the hall, not in the mood for a lecture. He stomped into his bedroom and slammed the door shut. He just couldn’t deal with this shit right that moment. Instead he flung himself face down on the bed with a groan.
Stupid genies. Stupid wishes. Stupid Abaddon for massacring the stupid Men of Letters before they could deal with the stupid annoying shit living in their slightly less stupid bunker.
Right now, Dean would enjoy kicking all their asses.
In fact, if he didn’t get to be violent and soon, he was going to implode. He shoved himself up off his bed, grabbed his gun from under his pillow, and stalked down to the shooting range in the basement. He took just enough time to set up a target before taking his position across the room and firing a round. It was subtly less satisfying knowing the wall was reinforced, his target was paper, and he couldn’t actually hear the tap-tapping of the shots. But he was satisfied watching the bullets tear holes in the paper and the recoil of the gun in his hand felt powerful and threatening.
He knew vaguely when Sam appeared in the doorway. He didn’t bother to look up. Sam wisely stayed out of the line of fire until he’d unloaded his gun. He reached to reload, but found Sam’s hand covering his. He snarled at Sam and the hand retreated. He reloaded with harsh, jerking movements and continued to fire shot after shot, neatly clustering together on the target’s head. He repeated the process twice more before he felt calm enough to deal with anything. When he turned he found Sam sitting against the wall, chin on his knees, watching silently like he had when he was twelve and Dad had made him watch Dean to learn proper technique. This time, instead of the simmering resentment, he was more relaxed, just keeping Dean company.
“What do you want, Sam,” Dean demanded.
Sam glanced up at him and shrugged. “Just watching. Hadn’t seen you just shoot in ages. Sorta scary how good you are.” He offered up a lopsided grin, as if to say that Dean knew how it was, but Dean didn’t.
“You know it’s only temporary right? We’ll figure out how to fix this.”
“Yeah? And what am I supposed to do in the mean time? Just sit on my ass?”
“Look, he said it was some sort of magic, which means there’ll be some way to reverse it. It’s just a matter of finding his weak spot so he’ll do what we want.”
“Yeah. We’ll see.”
He didn’t like talking when he couldn’t hear. He was nine types of sure he sounded funny and it was hard to know if he was modulating his voice right. Sometimes he felt like he was screaming but Sam said he was barely loud enough to be heard. Other times, he ended up getting louder and louder, still expecting to hear himself over the ringing silence in his ears.
He would have given up talking completely if it hadn’t been a necessity. There was just too much going on, between research and Sam’s emo crap and even just normal stuff to constantly be passing notes back and forth. He could read lips thanks to the John Winchester school of survival and other random things. So he kept talking and wondered if it would ever not be weird to not hear himself.
On the second day, as he stared morosely at the laptop he’d been using to research genies, he glanced up at Sam and said, “Maybe I should just wish for my hearing back. That would count and he’d have to do it, right?” He’d said it offhandedly, but was desperate to try something.
Sam shook his head. “We don’t know how that works. Do you really want to try it without knowing how he operates? What if he screws something up even worse?”
And that was a fair point. Dean kind of hated him for it.
Weird as it was, they settled into a routine. Dean kept forgetting that he couldn’t hear. Not that he could ever stop being amazed that he was wrapped in silence. It was in his daily routines and habits. He had picked up the phone to call for carryout. He held the phone up to his ear before he realized what he’d done. He’d flipped the radio on in his bedroom and immediately flipped it off again. There were a hundred little things he had to find work arounds for, especially solutions that didn’t involve going to Sam every five minutes.
Sam didn’t seem to care. He just took everything and rolled with it. He didn’t let Dean sink into self-pity either. Any time it looked like he might be spinning his wheels, Sam would be there with a question, or a problem, or another book to look through. By the time Sam broached the topic of the case they were supposed to be doing, Dean was ready to murder his eternally perky brother. If he couldn’t brood or get roaring drunk, he needed to be out doing something.
Sam slid a note across the table one morning as he settled across from Dean with his breakfast.
I’m going to call Mark and hand off the Haxtun case. Last I heard, he and his cronies were in Idaho. Should be able to pick it up and take it off our plate while we work on this.
Dean scanned it and scowled. Their research wasn’t going anywhere. He was just as stone deaf today as he’d been the last three days. He was irritated and bored and more than a little ready to punch something.
He glanced up at Sam who was shoveling what looked to be the blackened remains of scrambled eggs into his face. Well, that explained why it smelled like something was burning. Instead of arguing about the case, he found himself asking, “Dude, what are you eating?”
Sam shrugged, avoiding eye contact.
“From now on, stick with sandwiches. Geeze. It’s not that hard, man. You’d think you threw all your food into and incinerator.”
Sam stuck his tongue out at him, but continued to eat his charred meal. There was a reason Sam still ate cereal for breakfast.
Before Sam could say anything else, Dean said, “Let’s take the Haxtun case.”
Sam paused, fork halfway to his mouth and frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s an awesome idea.”
“But what about…”
“I need a break. Now. Let’s go.”
“But -”
Dean rose and closed the book he’d been reading. “I’m doing this. End of discussion. Are you coming or what?” Without waiting for Sam to answer, he turned and went to go pack a bag. Ten minutes later, Sam was waiting for him, leaning against his car. As Dean threw his bag in the trunk and moved to climb into the driver’s seat, he caught Sam talking to him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know what he’d actually said, but he could make a fair guess.
“I’m driving. If you don’t like it, then you can walk. I’m deaf, not blind.”
Sam settled into the passenger side of the car, frown entrenched on his face. To his credit, he didn’t try to dissuade Dean anymore. Dean felt his heart drop as the Impala shivered to life under him without her distinctive growl. Sam grimaced and flick the volume of the music down. Dean couldn’t for the life of him remember what was in the player, but he cranked it, mildly surprised when the thumping base line rumbling under his feet and he could feel his jeans vibrating against his leg. Sam’s pained bitch face was worth the second swooping in his stomach when he realized he could turned the volume up as loud as it would go and he still would not know which tape was playing.
He grinned at Sam instead, thumping his head to the beat and ignoring Sam’s pleas. He cranked it another notch and Sam’s hands went to his ears. He glared at Dean. Dean relented.
“Keep your hair on Samantha. It’s just a little music,” but he did let the volume drop to a more normal level, missing the thumping nearly as soon as it was gone. This was going to be a long drive.
A half hour later Dean wished he’d let Sam win the driving argument. His hands were starting to ache from the tight grip on the wheel and his neck was stiff from the tension sitting right between his shoulders. He’d hoped he would relax when he got pavement flying under him, but there was a lot of traffic and every time he passed a car or changed lanes he felt a little tenser. There were other cars everywhere and he kept seeing the motion from the corner of his eye. It felt like he was trying to look in several directions at once. And he couldn’t talk to Sam or rock out. He was in his own personal bubble and it was suffocating.
Finally, he’d had enough. He needed coffee. He pulled off maybe an hour into their drive at a little café aptly named Caffeine. He waited long enough for Sam to climb out of the car before making his way across the street to the little, green trimmed building.
Part Two
Written for: sinfulslasher
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 14,667
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Disclaimer:
a) I do not, nor have I ever owned any part of Supernatural. The characters were just so pretty-shiny, I had to borrow them.
b) My knowledge of injuries, Arabic, genies, and Haxton, CO is based entirely off what I could Google in an afternoon. Andy medical, linguistic, supernatural, or geographical errors are mine alone
Summary: Because Winchester luck dictates that Dean’s genie in a bottle could be neither Barbara Eden nor Christina Aguilera. Instead, he gets a fat guy with some serious hygiene issues and a mean streak a mile wide.
Note to my prompter: I felt like this one meandered away from your original prompt a little bit. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.
First Star I See Tonight
“Why are you being like this,” Dean screamed. Sam was standing there in the doorway to the room Dean had hidden in, seething and sniffling and all around glaring at Dean.
“Because I’ve had enough. Why are you such a child!?”
“It’s milk,” Dean said, trying to regain some of his calm. The only reason they were even fighting was because Sam was sick and bitchy. It would pass. “Just milk. You’ll live without your Lucky Charms for one day.”
Sam punched the door frame. “It’s not about the fucking milk! It’s about the fact that you never pick up after yourself. Today it’s the three drops of milk you put back in the fridge. Yesterday it was the toilet paper you couldn’t bother to replace. Before that it was your stupid, muddy boots strewn across the living room floor.”
“So what is it that’s really bothering you Sam?”
“Why do you never do anything around here? I’m always picking up your crap!”
Dean’s hands balled into fists. “I never pick up my crap? I do everything around here! Just because I’m not some OCD neat freak, doesn’t give you the right to act like I don’t. Hell, if I did anymore, I’d be changing your diapers.”
Sam flashed from angry, to shocked, to hurt. Dean saw tears collecting in his eyes. Dammit. He’d gone too far. Even he knew that, but Sam had gone there first. He could see Sam trying to blink away the moisture in his eyes, trying to prove he wasn’t as childish as Dean claimed. Dean knew it was just because he was sick, his defenses were down. Any other day, that comment would have kicked the argument up a notch.
Sam turned, hiding the hurt. When he spoke, his tone was the perfect balance of loathing and anger. “Glad we cleared that up, Dad.”
Sam left, storming up the hall.
Dean bit his tongue to keep from yelling after his brother. Instead, he whirled and kicked a cardboard box that was sitting against the wall, satisfied when the side crumpled in with a dull thud. He knew he really should be more careful. The Men of Letters could have any sort of mystical whoosit stashed around that wouldn’t appreciate being kicked. The guilt passed quickly as he heard Sam’s gargantuan feet on the stairs, probably retreating to his bedroom to sulk.
Sam was sick. It wasn’t anything serious, just enough to make him miserable. He had looked better that morning, but apparently that had been a fleeting reprieve. Even now, Dean could hear him snuffling and panting just climbing the stairs.
Dean glared down at the box. The light caught on something shiny inside, glinting just enough to catch his eye. He huffed and scooped up the box, dropping it on the table along the wall with a thud. Knowing his luck, he had probably managed to break the one thing that could save the world from the next apocalypse. Figures.
He pried open the flaps, resolutely ignoring the little voice that sounded suspiciously like Sam saying this was a bad idea. Normally he would check the register before he went looting just to make sure he didn’t get into a room full of nasty. This was one of the unlocked rooms. The warding on the door was pretty mild. If there was anything in there, it wasn’t likely to be very dangerous. Besides, he needed some new swag and he couldn’t listen to Sam whine another minute.
Dean dug through the contents, laying each item out on the table in a neat row. There was a stone knife about as long as his forearm with characters carved into the blade - maybe ancient Sumerian if he had to guess - that would look pretty awesome hanging on his wall. Next was a large, round copper plate with an inscription that he couldn’t decipher, but which appeared to be along the same lines as the knife. There was a carved sandstone figure of a toad with glittering black stones for eyes that seemed to watch him as he moved, definitely too freaky to leave sitting on his desk, and a tightly wound scroll.
The last thing inside the box, tucked away in the opposite corner from where he’d kicked in the side, was a cylindrical package wrapped up in brown paper and sealed with a glob of green sealing wax. It was unexpectedly heavy for being no bigger than the length of his hand. He broke the seal with his pocket knife and carefully unwrapped the paper. On the reverse side, he found symbols he was more familiar with; hunting marks for binding, a few minor wards, and some low level witch type symbols. It all looked to have been designed to keep the object from breaking while it was being transported.
A foot of crumpled paper later Dean was left holding a small, green porcelain bottle decorated with delicate veins of gold. It was thin necked and flared around the bottom. The tiny cork in the top was crowned with a shaped ruby. The entire thing screamed Middle East in that hokey, tourist trap way.
He was tempted to peek inside, but every instinct he’d ever had screamed not to. He shook it, expecting the contents to shift. It was far too heavy to just be an empty knickknack. It didn’t make a sound. There was no sloshing, no swishing, and definitely no thumping. Dean was perplexed as to what could possibly be inside.
His hand hesitated over the cork. Before he could do anything, he heard the creaking of the floor as someone approached the stairs to the lower level. The hinges squeaked as the door at the top of the stairs swung open. He stared down at the bottle and waited.
“Dean?” Sam sounded rough, like his voice was made of brittle paper. Dean grimaced, letting his thumb trace over the gold patterns and sighed. Sam sounded pathetic. The idiot had probably forgotten to take his medicine again.
“Just once,” he muttered as he tucked the bottle into his pocket followed shortly by the knife. “Just once I’d like to be the one being looked after.” He dumped the other things back into the box and flipped the light out as he left the room.
He met Sam at the top of the stairs. His brother was pale with bright spots of color on his cheeks and sweat on his brow. He stared at Dean with glassy eyes. Maybe he wasn’t feeling as better as he had looked that morning. He was leaning against the wall and when he saw Dean his posture sagged. Dean had a suspicion that he could probably sleep where he was and never know the difference.
“Don’t feel so good,” Sam said in a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah. When’s the last time you took your meds?” Dean asked.
“Hmm?”
Dean frowned. “Medicine. Have you taken anything recently?”
Sam stared at him a long time before he finally blinked and said, “Um, no?”
“Right,” Dean said with a sigh. “Let’s get you in bed.”
Sam shook his head and pulled back a little. “No, I gotta apologize.”
Dean hooked Sam’s arm over his shoulder and moved so that he could support him. “What for?”
Sam stumbled forward a few steps under Dean’s guidance. He seemed to consider for a moment. “I…I don’t remember.” He said before launching into a coughing fit that made Dean wince.
“Right,” Dean said, guiding him down the hall. “Well, you can figure it out in the morning.”
Between the two of them, they made it back through the halls and to Sam’s bedroom. Dean flipped the light on and propped Sam against the door. The place was a disaster. Discarded clothes littered the floor, and the sheets lay tangled and strewn half across the bedroom.
Dean made his way to the bed, kicking books and clothes aside to clear a path as he went. With a few brisk flaps of the sheets and a crisp tuck to the corners, he had made the bed and was getting Sam situated.
After a brief tussle with the thermometer, Dean was swearing under his breath. Sam was basically supernovic. He was reading at 104.3, creeping into the dangerously high zone. Dean shoved pills at Sam and stood over him as he chased them down with a glass of tepid water, not that Sam was coherent enough to care. He’d lost whatever real fight he’d had to remain lucid about the time they stumbled into the room. Dean was just waiting for him to drift off.
He knew he wouldn’t be going far until that fever was under control. Instead, he gathered up all the clothes from the floor and dumped them in the basket in the corner of the room. That done, he started to collect the books that had been strewn haphazardly around the bed and stacked them neatly on the desk, taking a moment to swipe a pile of tissues into the trashcan. He should get paid for hazardous working conditions. He set the can next to the bed, just in case as Sam started to snore.
With Sam sleeping, Dean grabbed the clothes basket and hauled it to the back of the bunker to the laundry room. He had already been planning to throw a load in, so he just added Sam’s things to the pile. He took his time sorting everything and started a load. That done, he wandered into the kitchen, more out of habit than any real purpose.
He supposed he should go check on Sam. The kid would need liquids when he woke up and he wanted to monitor that fever. He mixed together some of the powdered Gatorade they had in the cabinet and carried it back to Sam’s room. He set the glass on the nightstand for when his brother woke up. He took a moment to swipe the back of his hand over Sam’s forehead, relieved when he found some of the fever had dissipated. Sam was still hot, but the Tylenol had taken the edge off.
Dean glanced at his watch. If he was lucky, Sam would surface sometime around six or so. Between slight nip in the air, and Sam’s rabbiting appetite lately, he figured soup would make a good dinner for them. He might even have the stuff left to make a loaf of bread.
Somewhere between pulling out chicken to defrost and chopping vegetables, Dean felt himself relax. This is what he really enjoyed. Not sick little brothers, but providing for his family.
He knew Sam didn’t understand. To him, providing was being stable and settled. It was bringing home a check at the end of the day and mowing the lawn. It was keeping the Impala stocked with licorice because he knew it was Dean’s favorite or watching monster movie marathons when one of them was down.
Dean loved him for it, but that was the extra stuff. Having a place to call home was something he’d never even thought to dream of. Providing for his family meant clean clothes and warm food. It was having a roof over their heads and hustling pool to pay for it if he had to. It was knowing enough first aid to handle most things and having enough ammunition to make sure he never needed the knowledge. Dean took pride in the little things, like making soup. And if Sam made a crack or two about Martha Stewart, he could wash his own rank socks.
It was closer to seven than six when Sam finally shuffled into the kitchen. Dean had been periodically checking on him and had shoved another round of Tylenol down him an hour or so back. He was still feverish, eyes still glassy, but he was a little more coherent. He sank down in a chair at the table and groaned.
“Can’t you just shoot me now?”
Dean snorted. “So feeling nice and refreshed, I take it.”
Sam slumped forward so his head was laying on his arm across the table. His eyes were lidded and Dean was a little worried he’d fall asleep there. “If you’re going to start snoring, at least go back to bed so I don’t have to listen to it.”
“Sick of laying down.”
Dean shrugged. “Think you could eat something?”
Sam’s eyes slipped closed. “Too tired.”
But Dean already had a bowl full of soup and was setting it in front of Sam, who stared blearily at it for a few seconds before propping himself up enough to eat. A chunk of bread found its way to Sam’s spot before Dean collected his own portion and sat across from him. Sam picked at the bread and ate a bite before turning his attention to the soup. It took him a full thirty seconds to chew and swallow and another minute to pick up his spoon. Dean was relieved to see him ladle a spoonful up.
“S’ good,” he said.
Dean hummed in response. They stayed that way, Dean eating and Sam trudging through his soup. Finally Sam heaved a sigh. “How much more do I have to eat?”
Dean glanced down at the half full bowl. “One more.”
Sam dutifully sucked down another spoonful before he gave up and went back to laying across the table.
Dean finally took pity on him. “All right, bed or couch?”
Sam grunted.
“Table ain’t one of your options.”
“Time’s it?”
“Bout eight.”
“Bed.”
Dean nodded and got up to haul Sam to his feet. Together they went back to Sam’s room and settled him there. Dean spent the rest of the evening periodically checking on Sam and digging through the Men of Letters catalog to find the records for his mystery objects.
They rode out the next few days until Sam felt more like a human being with the tacit agreement not to talk about their argument at all. Mostly this involved a lot of Netflix and popcorn. Sam’s fever broke the second day and he was up and shuffling about the next. He was still tired easily, which grated at him, leaving him huffing in annoyance when Dean told him to go take a nap.
A day after Sam had gotten up and moving under his own steam, he brought Dean a hunt. Dean suspected it was a peace offering.
“I think I found us something.” Sam’s voice was still a little hoarse, but he seemed to be doing fine otherwise.
“Oh, yeah?” Dean asked. “What kind of thing?”
“A hunt a couple of towns over. Looks like a restless spirit. Should be a simple salt and burn.”
“Are you sure you’re up to doing anything of the sort?” Dean said, finally sitting up and looking at Sam properly. He was still pale, but he was doing much better.
Sam sighed and sank down in a chair at the table. “I’m fine Dean. Besides, this should be an easy one. I think I’ve figured out who it is. We just need to do the grunt work. Take us two days, tops.”
“Alright, so what do you have?”
“Daniel Morse, 35, owner of a local jewelry store, was killed six months back in a bad car wreck just outside of town. He wasn’t exactly well liked by any standard. His kids closed the shop and sold the building last month.”
“And?”
“There have been people claiming the building is haunted. There have been reports of strange noises and lights coming from over there at night too.”
“So you thinking poltergeist?”
“Nah. The scope’s not big enough for a poltergeist, just one seriously pissed of ghost of a grumpy old man.”
“Where is this grumpy old man?”
“In Haxtun, CO. It’s like a 3 hour drive from here.” Sam slid the papers he’d been reading from over to Dean.
“So, northern Colorado then,” Dean asked. “Man, last time we drove that there was nothing but construction. Take us twice that to get anywhere near there.”
Sam shrugged. “Sound like something you want to pick up, or should I forward it on?”
Dean took a minute to grumble about the horror of taking his car through construction zones, but finally acquiesced. “Fine, sure. We’ve been sitting still too long anyway. Let’s do it. But we’re waiting a couple of days.”
“What? Why?”
Dean narrowed his eyes ate his brother. “When you can walk down the hall without panting, we’ll go.”
Sam scowled, “Fine.”
Dean chuckled and collected his dishes. He ruffled Sam’s hair as he walked by, earning himself a scowl in the process. “Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll be back to chasing ghosts in no time.”
Sam just rolled his eyes and leaned forward to collect some old book that had been left on the table, flipping it open curiously. Dean decided he’d leave Sam to his books. Kid could entertain himself all day with one of those musty old things. Instead, he made his way back to his room intending to examine the objects he’d found a little more closely.
Dean sat down at his desk, pulling out the file he’d snaked from the Men of Letters catalogue, and opening it in front of him. He’d finally gotten a chance while Sam was snoring through Indiana Jones the other day, to flip through the files and find the one for the room he’d been in.
He pulled open the file, wrinkling his nose at the typical dusty smell that assaulted him, making him want to sneeze. He and Sam, barring some sort of impending apocalypse or threat of untold evil, should try and digitize some of the records eventually. He knew Sam had been itching to do something of the sort for years now. Dean was dreading it, aside from the potential exploring it would require. Sitting and logging things for hours on end sounded like Hell on earth - one of the few tortures he’d not managed to endure in his lifetime.
He was presented with the typical log of all the artifacts in the room. It basically just listed each item by call number and location. Behind the inventory was a more detailed archival entry for each object. The knife was apparently from Egypt, but the writing was Sumerian as he’d first guessed. It had been used for purification rituals. It could theoretically kill a ghost, although that claim had never been put to the test as far as he could tell.
The bottle had been collected because it was supposedly a genie’s bottle, but the battle with Abaddon had happened before anyone could do anything about it. It seemed really unclear what they had intended to do with it - whether they had planned to try and slay it, use it, or simply see if it actually existed. There were reference notes that Dean had picked up, but they were all about djinn in general, nothing he didn’t already know. He had never heard of a djinn actually being bound in a bottle or lamp or even Tupperware for that matter.
He picked up the ornate bottle from its spot on the corner of his desk and held it in his palm. The gold inlay held a soft warmth in the low lighting of his bedroom. It was beautiful, if a little gaudy. Dean grinned. A genie in a bottle, huh?
He’d blame his next few actions on his love for TV Land reruns and a serious middle school crush on Barbara Eden. Also on the fact that what followed was quite honestly not how djinn were supposed to work at all.
Dean wasn’t quite stupid enough to take the cork out of the bottle. He’d seen the binding rune carved into the base of the ruby and the bottle’s unusual weight would have been enough to make him believe there was something inside. But he couldn’t help himself. “All right, genie. Come on out. Let’s see if you’re real.”
Letting the bottle lay delicately across his palm, he rubbed his hand across the body of the porcelain.
He was entirely unprepared for a thick, blue smoke to start pouring out around the cork. He almost dropped the bottle, barely holding on to it with the tips of his fingers. The smoke billowed out and collected on the floor, creating a low, dense fog over the carpet. When the last wisps floated down, the smoke began to coalesce into a form, growing taller and more concentrated. Finally it settled into the shape of a person, and with a tight twisting that happened so fast Dean barely saw it, a squat man appeared before him.
Whatever thoughts of attractive, exotic blonds he’d held before fled when faced with the thing standing in front of him. He was short, coming maybe to Dean’s chest, and bald. He was wearing clothes that looked like maybe he’d been reading to many romance novel descriptions of the Middle East. He had long pants that might have once been white but had turned a spotted yellow color. They flared at the bottom before being cuffed at his ankles. Over that he wore a short, open vest of a greying blue that did little to hide his thick pelt of curly brown chest hair, which he scratched at absently as he eyed Dean. Or the large drape of belly that curved over the waistband of his pants. He stood barefoot about three inches above Dean’s bedroom floor, which was something of a relief as his feet were as hairy as his chest and coated in grime. In fact the only thing that didn’t seem to be sprouting hair was his head, which was shining with a thin sheen of sweat.
“What the…” Dean said. It was the only intelligent thought in his head at the moment.
“What the Hell do you want, kid?” The man said. His voice was rough and graveled.
Dean stared at him. He didn’t look like any djinn he’d ever seen before. “What are you?”
“You rubbed, didn’t ya? What exactly did you expect to happen?”
“Nothing.”
“Great. Just fucking great. First job in ages and I get a moron.”
“Excuse you,” Dean said, beginning to get his bearings again.
The man had begun pacing. “It’s bad enough I get crammed in that thing, but now I gotta explain the whole shtick.” He paused to look Dean up and down. “Look, you rubbed the lamp,” he said, speaking loud enough that Dean took a step back. “I came out. You get the picture yet?”
“So you’re a genie, then. A real genie.”
“No I’m a sea cucumber. And technically I’m a jinn.”
“But genie in a lamp. That’s a fairy tale. Kid’s stuff.”
“Right, well do you want your wishes or not? I got things to do so either get to it or fuck off.”
“Wait just one minute there. Wishes.”
“Good, God. How did you make it to adulthood? Wishes. Three of them. Didn’t your mother read you bedtime stories?”
Dean flinched, but plowed on. “Okay, wishes. So what’s the catch?”
“I don’t do dead people. I don’t dick around with making people love you. I don’t fuck with time. No going back and fixing mistakes, no meeting future spawn. And I’m not an assassin, so if you want someone dead, kill ‘em yourself. I do make a pretty mean poison, if you’re interested.”
“Yeah, yeah. And it’ll cost me what? My soul? Firstborn son?”
“Do I look like a demon to you?”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“We’re cousins. Got it? Cousins. Barely even related. As if I’d stoop to their level.”
“You still didn’t answer the question.”
The jinn shrugged. “Doesn’t work that way. I’m the guy in the bottle. I grant the wishes. You’re the moron who rubbed the bottle. You make the wishes. It’s a strictly business relationship.”
“There’s always a catch. Last one of your kind I ran into strung me up and drugged me to the gills. It was all just a fantasy.”
“If I had that kind of juice, I wouldn’t be stuck in the micro apartment from Hell.”
“And how does that work anyway. How’d you end up in a bottle?”
“There was a sorcerer - now that was real power - and a poor decision on my part. A chant and a binding spell later, here we are. Took out the bastard’s kids before he managed it though.” The genie grinned, his filed teeth glinting in the light.
“Right….” Dean said. The more he heard, the less he liked this whole situation. “Given all that lovely information, I think I’m going to pass.”
“Seriously? Universe at your fingertips and you’re ‘going to pass’?”
“Yup. So back into the bottle for you. I know that symbol. You’re bound to it. You ain’t going anywhere, so go on. Get.”
“Go to Hell.” He said and sat down right in Dean’s floor.
Dean pulled out the knife he’d prepared just in case. It was long, with a wicked curve at the end, high quality silver, and had been dipped in lamb’s blood. He let the full meaning of it sink in before he said, “You didn’t think I’d come in totally unprepared did you?”
The bald man huffed, but jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he whined. “I’ve been stuck in that fucking thing for centuries. Eight of them, in fact. I’m so fucking bored. Just one little wish. Hell, I’ll make you a sandwich if you want. Just throw me a bone here.”
Dean turned a little green at the thought. He remembered all too well the last magically conjured sandwich he’d eaten and didn’t want a repeat of the experience.
His next remark was interrupted by a faint, grating call of, “Dean!” Just from his tone, Dean could tell that Sam was overly excited about something, which probably meant he’d found some obscure, geeky passage.
Kid shouldn’t even be shouting with his voice all for shit. “Dean!”
There was a muffled crash and tumble. Dean thought it sounded a lot like falling books. He paused, wondering if he’d misjudged the situation, but Sam called again, “Dean? Come here! You’re gonna want to see this!”
There was no panic or desperation, only excitement.
“In a minute, Sam,” he yelled.
“Hurry!”
Dean rolled his eyes. Trust Sam to pick the worst time to interrupt. Was five minutes too much to ask? “The only thing I want is some peace and quiet, so unless you’ve got that up your sleeve, we’re done here. You can go the easy way or the hard way,” Dean said, waving the knife a little to get his point across.
A Cheshire grin spread over the genie’s face, pulling his lips over his pointed teeth. “That I can do!”
The man straightened, clapped twice, and then dissolved back into the smoke that he’d emerged as. The smoke began filtering into the bottle as Dean watched, finally leaving nothing but the intricately decorated bottle sitting on his desk rocking a little from the force of the genie’s quick exit.
Dean frowned, not entirely sure he liked what had just happened. He eyed the bottle, but decided it was better safe than sorry. He collected it and tucked it into his shirt pocket, afraid that if he left it there, the occupant might just decide to have a little fun in his room. He had no idea if the genie could emerge if he hadn’t first been summoned.
Dean cast one last glance over his room then left to go find Sam.
He made his way down the hall towards the front of the bunker. He’d left Sam reading in the war room and he assumed that Sam had found something interesting. He’d better have. If he was just hollering for food or something Dean would murder him.
He’d gone about halfway when a hand landed on his shoulder. A hand that was presumable attached to a body that he had not noticed was behind him. Sam had been silent for several minutes now. Were they being attacked? Had something gotten into the bunker? He didn’t think, he just moved. He grabbed the hand, whirling around and shoving the person behind him up against the wall, wrenching their arm up behind their back.
Only to stop, mid motion when he realized he recognized the shaggy head of hair attached to the intruder’s body. He let the arm drop. “What the fuck, Sam,” he said.
Only he didn’t hear himself say it.
“What the fuck?” He said again, with just as much comprehension as last time.
Sam whirled to face him, rubbing his shoulder and looking pissy. He was talking, but Dean had no idea what he was saying. He couldn’t hear Sam either.
“What the fuck!”
Sam frowned. Apparently Dean’s response had been non sequitur enough to tell Sam something was wrong.
“Sam, if you’ve done something and this is your fault, I’m going to make you wish you were never born. I’m going to…”
But anything he could come up with paled in comparison with the panic clawing its way up his throat. Sam grabbed him by the elbows, looking worried. His mouth moved but…but nothing, nothing at all.
“I can’t hear you,” he said.
The color drained from Sam’s face. He looked Dean up and down, searching for any injury or cause of this sudden turn of events. He spoke…
“Sam, I said I can’t hear you. I can’t fucking hear. What the hell is going on? I - I mean -I -”
Sam cut him off by shaking him. Dean just blinked at him. Sam frowned but tapped his lips. Dean scowled. He couldn’t hearing anything and now Sam wanted to play charades. Sam rolled his eyes, but tapped Dean’s temple beside his eye then his lips again.
Oh, yeah. Read Sam’s lips. Right. He could do that. He gave a small nod.
“When did this happen?”
“Uh, just now. Like in the last five minutes.”
“Any idea why?”
“If I knew why, do you think I’d be standing here, talking about it?”
Sam threw his hands up. “Okay, okay. We need to stay calm. What’s the last thing you remember doing?”
He frowned. He’d been fine in his room with the genie. The genie! Dean scowled. “Dammit!”
He yanked the bottle from his pocket and scowled down at it. Sam frowned at him, but didn’t interrupt. “Come on out here,” he said, polishing the side vigorously. “I know you can hear me, so get your fat ass out in this hallway, now.”
Sam laid a hand on his elbow but Dean shook him off in favor of trying to rub the gold from the side of the bottle. Sam, undeterred, snatched the bottle from Dean’s hand. He held it up to eye level, turning it and observing it. Finally he caught Dean’s eye, “What is this?”
Dean nearly growled. “That’s a genie in a bottle. Literally.”
“A djinn?”
“Not quite, apparently. He’s bound to the bottle, or at least to the stopper. Check out the ruby set in the top.”
Sam tipped the bottle towards him, scrutinizing the gem. He turned it, studying the symbol carved into it. “I thought they were a myth.”
“When has anything actually turned out to be a myth?”
Sam shrugged. “So he popped out and offered you a wish and you just took him up on it?”
“Dude! Do I look like an idiot?” Dean snatched the bottle back. “I told him he could shove his wishes where the sun don’t shine.” He shook the bottle. “So you better show up soon, pudgie. Cause you’ve just screwed up big time.”
Dean swiped his hand over the base of the bottle and the blue smoke began to form again. This time the genie took shape almost immediately. The little lump of a man stared up at Dean, foot already tapping.
“For God’s sake, what!
“What did you do?”
“I granted your wish. For the last fucking time, this is not a difficult concept to grasp.”
“I never made a wish.”
“Sure you did. You said you wanted peace and quiet. Well, you’ve got it. Nice and fucking quiet.”
Dean stared at the genie, dumbstruck. He was having a hard time getting his head wrapped around all the ways that sentence was screwed up. “Now wait one minute. I never said I wished for that. This is so not what I meant. And you know it.”
The genie flopped back, floating in midair with the look of an offended teenager. He was careful to keep in Dean’s line of sight though. “Oh good, here we go. On with the bitching and the whining. I did you a favor, you ungrateful little bastard.”
“A favor? A favor!” Dean roared. “Undo it now.”
The genie barely blinked. “No.”
“NO? What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I won’t. Christ, were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Dean reached for the knife he always kept in his back pocket, but he’d left the one dipped in lamb’s blood on his desk. Sam laid a restraining hand on his arm and brought Dean’s attention to him. “Why not?” Sam wanted to know.
The genie shrugged. “I exerted good magic on that wish. The whelp should learn to appreciate what he’s given.”
“It wasn’t a wish! I never said ‘I wish,’ I didn’t ask you to do it. I certainly didn’t say anything about not being able to hear. However you contorted that conversation into a wish probably goes against some cosmic law. So, for the last time. Fix this.”
“Nope,” he said sitting up.
Dean lunged for him, dropping the bottle in his desire to choke the life out of the man in front of him. Before his hands could settle satisfyingly around the genie’s throat, he was gone, vanishing in blue wisps of smoke into the bottle. The bottle Sam now held. From the looks of things, Sam dove for it the minute Dean moved, catching it just before it hit the ground. Which, yeah, alright, they probably didn’t want the bottle to break, but still.
Dean whirled before his brother could say anything and stormed down the hall, not in the mood for a lecture. He stomped into his bedroom and slammed the door shut. He just couldn’t deal with this shit right that moment. Instead he flung himself face down on the bed with a groan.
Stupid genies. Stupid wishes. Stupid Abaddon for massacring the stupid Men of Letters before they could deal with the stupid annoying shit living in their slightly less stupid bunker.
Right now, Dean would enjoy kicking all their asses.
In fact, if he didn’t get to be violent and soon, he was going to implode. He shoved himself up off his bed, grabbed his gun from under his pillow, and stalked down to the shooting range in the basement. He took just enough time to set up a target before taking his position across the room and firing a round. It was subtly less satisfying knowing the wall was reinforced, his target was paper, and he couldn’t actually hear the tap-tapping of the shots. But he was satisfied watching the bullets tear holes in the paper and the recoil of the gun in his hand felt powerful and threatening.
He knew vaguely when Sam appeared in the doorway. He didn’t bother to look up. Sam wisely stayed out of the line of fire until he’d unloaded his gun. He reached to reload, but found Sam’s hand covering his. He snarled at Sam and the hand retreated. He reloaded with harsh, jerking movements and continued to fire shot after shot, neatly clustering together on the target’s head. He repeated the process twice more before he felt calm enough to deal with anything. When he turned he found Sam sitting against the wall, chin on his knees, watching silently like he had when he was twelve and Dad had made him watch Dean to learn proper technique. This time, instead of the simmering resentment, he was more relaxed, just keeping Dean company.
“What do you want, Sam,” Dean demanded.
Sam glanced up at him and shrugged. “Just watching. Hadn’t seen you just shoot in ages. Sorta scary how good you are.” He offered up a lopsided grin, as if to say that Dean knew how it was, but Dean didn’t.
“You know it’s only temporary right? We’ll figure out how to fix this.”
“Yeah? And what am I supposed to do in the mean time? Just sit on my ass?”
“Look, he said it was some sort of magic, which means there’ll be some way to reverse it. It’s just a matter of finding his weak spot so he’ll do what we want.”
“Yeah. We’ll see.”
He didn’t like talking when he couldn’t hear. He was nine types of sure he sounded funny and it was hard to know if he was modulating his voice right. Sometimes he felt like he was screaming but Sam said he was barely loud enough to be heard. Other times, he ended up getting louder and louder, still expecting to hear himself over the ringing silence in his ears.
He would have given up talking completely if it hadn’t been a necessity. There was just too much going on, between research and Sam’s emo crap and even just normal stuff to constantly be passing notes back and forth. He could read lips thanks to the John Winchester school of survival and other random things. So he kept talking and wondered if it would ever not be weird to not hear himself.
On the second day, as he stared morosely at the laptop he’d been using to research genies, he glanced up at Sam and said, “Maybe I should just wish for my hearing back. That would count and he’d have to do it, right?” He’d said it offhandedly, but was desperate to try something.
Sam shook his head. “We don’t know how that works. Do you really want to try it without knowing how he operates? What if he screws something up even worse?”
And that was a fair point. Dean kind of hated him for it.
Weird as it was, they settled into a routine. Dean kept forgetting that he couldn’t hear. Not that he could ever stop being amazed that he was wrapped in silence. It was in his daily routines and habits. He had picked up the phone to call for carryout. He held the phone up to his ear before he realized what he’d done. He’d flipped the radio on in his bedroom and immediately flipped it off again. There were a hundred little things he had to find work arounds for, especially solutions that didn’t involve going to Sam every five minutes.
Sam didn’t seem to care. He just took everything and rolled with it. He didn’t let Dean sink into self-pity either. Any time it looked like he might be spinning his wheels, Sam would be there with a question, or a problem, or another book to look through. By the time Sam broached the topic of the case they were supposed to be doing, Dean was ready to murder his eternally perky brother. If he couldn’t brood or get roaring drunk, he needed to be out doing something.
Sam slid a note across the table one morning as he settled across from Dean with his breakfast.
I’m going to call Mark and hand off the Haxtun case. Last I heard, he and his cronies were in Idaho. Should be able to pick it up and take it off our plate while we work on this.
Dean scanned it and scowled. Their research wasn’t going anywhere. He was just as stone deaf today as he’d been the last three days. He was irritated and bored and more than a little ready to punch something.
He glanced up at Sam who was shoveling what looked to be the blackened remains of scrambled eggs into his face. Well, that explained why it smelled like something was burning. Instead of arguing about the case, he found himself asking, “Dude, what are you eating?”
Sam shrugged, avoiding eye contact.
“From now on, stick with sandwiches. Geeze. It’s not that hard, man. You’d think you threw all your food into and incinerator.”
Sam stuck his tongue out at him, but continued to eat his charred meal. There was a reason Sam still ate cereal for breakfast.
Before Sam could say anything else, Dean said, “Let’s take the Haxtun case.”
Sam paused, fork halfway to his mouth and frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s an awesome idea.”
“But what about…”
“I need a break. Now. Let’s go.”
“But -”
Dean rose and closed the book he’d been reading. “I’m doing this. End of discussion. Are you coming or what?” Without waiting for Sam to answer, he turned and went to go pack a bag. Ten minutes later, Sam was waiting for him, leaning against his car. As Dean threw his bag in the trunk and moved to climb into the driver’s seat, he caught Sam talking to him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know what he’d actually said, but he could make a fair guess.
“I’m driving. If you don’t like it, then you can walk. I’m deaf, not blind.”
Sam settled into the passenger side of the car, frown entrenched on his face. To his credit, he didn’t try to dissuade Dean anymore. Dean felt his heart drop as the Impala shivered to life under him without her distinctive growl. Sam grimaced and flick the volume of the music down. Dean couldn’t for the life of him remember what was in the player, but he cranked it, mildly surprised when the thumping base line rumbling under his feet and he could feel his jeans vibrating against his leg. Sam’s pained bitch face was worth the second swooping in his stomach when he realized he could turned the volume up as loud as it would go and he still would not know which tape was playing.
He grinned at Sam instead, thumping his head to the beat and ignoring Sam’s pleas. He cranked it another notch and Sam’s hands went to his ears. He glared at Dean. Dean relented.
“Keep your hair on Samantha. It’s just a little music,” but he did let the volume drop to a more normal level, missing the thumping nearly as soon as it was gone. This was going to be a long drive.
A half hour later Dean wished he’d let Sam win the driving argument. His hands were starting to ache from the tight grip on the wheel and his neck was stiff from the tension sitting right between his shoulders. He’d hoped he would relax when he got pavement flying under him, but there was a lot of traffic and every time he passed a car or changed lanes he felt a little tenser. There were other cars everywhere and he kept seeing the motion from the corner of his eye. It felt like he was trying to look in several directions at once. And he couldn’t talk to Sam or rock out. He was in his own personal bubble and it was suffocating.
Finally, he’d had enough. He needed coffee. He pulled off maybe an hour into their drive at a little café aptly named Caffeine. He waited long enough for Sam to climb out of the car before making his way across the street to the little, green trimmed building.
Part Two