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roxyTitle: Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 2930
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
So, in this bit, the monsters wanted to come out and play. I don't even know-I'm just letting it flow! We'll have fun, right? The cut text I blame on Mr. R—
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
The air was deciding whether to be thick and steamy, or clammy with an edge of chill. Patrick checks the sheath holding the knife John insisted he carry, rubs his thumb against it and sighs. He was shit with a knife. He was a pretty good shot, and handled a machete pretty darn well, if not elegantly. He had the strength to smash through meat and bone, and that's pretty much all it takes …but. Knives. He just doesn't like them.
John had directed the both of them down a, told them he'd meet them where the run crossed over a hiking path the town had put in. It was at the point the paths crossed that the bodies had been found, chests torn open and the hearts out, along with most of the insides--but the heart and liver were the only things eaten.
Patrick grips the silver blade at his hip tighter, the gun in his other hand loaded with silver bullets. Werewolf. He can't believe that he'd had his mind on taking out some brownies and now here he is, in the asscrack of night, hiding under the trees and trying not to pee himself while he struggles to remember everything he can about werewolves. If he makes it out of this in one piece, he was fucking someone's brains out. Just then Dean turns to him, the moonlight turning his excited grin into a mask of fucking crazy.
"Fuck—I'm about to piss myself—how about you?" He sounds like he's about to get the best prize ever, like hunting werewolves is a gift his dad's giving him. Patrick decides it's not Crazy Dean he's going to be fucking if he gets out of this alive and in enough pieces to still want dick, 'cause if that werewolf comes after them, he's stuffing Dean in its gullet and running like hell.
Out in the dark, twigs crack and leaves shift. Patrick freezes and looks at Dean. Huge green eyes are locked on his. "Dude, you think it's your dad…?" Please be Dad Winchester--
It comes out from between the trees--at first, a darker shadow against the black, and then it stalks forward, an odd, spindly walk, like it's walking on nails. It's fully out from the trees, and batwing ears picked out in silver by the moonlight twitch and swivel towards them with each breath they take. It hunches forward again and then…unfolds.
It's…huge. Werewolves were big but this thing is—it's gigantic. It keeps rising and rising, until its shoulders block out the moon and its arms spread wide, a fucking condor's wingspan, tipped with knives.
"This…this doesn't look like any werewolf I've ever seen," Dean whispers harshly, "and I've killed a few." He licks his lips and flexes his fingers around the butt of the Colt.
Patrick turns to Dean, kind of awed--definitely impressed. "Really? A few—" before the suicidal depth of what he was doing caught up with him—about the same time Dean turned white as milk.
"WATCH THE WOLF—"
Patrick rips his head back around to face the thing. It's flexing at the knees, and suddenly, huge nostrils flare, wet and red inside, drinking up their scent. Patrick staggers, gets the distinct impression it's studying *him*. There's awareness in those eyes, cool, calculating, intelligence. There is a human looking back out of the yellow eyes in that long, fanged, face.
Fingers grip his sleeve and twist, hard enough to startle a hiss out of him. "Shit…you see it too?" Dean asks him. "What the fuck *is* that thing?"
The thing in question tilts its head, and then its eyes narrow, black velvet lips peel back from ivory spikes. Patrick can smell it's breath from where they were. "…Jesus," and it's a prayer.
The were's lips writhe over its million wet teeth; it makes a sound. "Hurg-hurg-hurg…"
Laughing. It's fucking laughing--Patrick backpedals, shock making him move without thought, the reptile brain taking over, since the monkey wasn't smart enough to.
A litany of "fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell—" trails Dean as he breaks for the head of the deer run with Patrick. "Okay, okay—Dad's somewhere back of us, he's probably got a bead on this fucker now…" He gulps and eyes darts towards Patrick. Neither one of them wants to even consider that maybe—maybe John was—
The monster shakes all over and then jumps like fucking Carl Lewis, straight up and almost over their heads. Lands to their left and slightly behind them and makes that horrible laughing sound....
Dean slams his elbow into Patrick's side. "Run Pat, run to the car." His pretty little Colt's trained on the were, and he looks equal parts scared shitless and determined as hell.
"Are you--fuck you! I'm not leaving," Patrick shouts, and draws on the thing, too. The were takes off, running sideways off the trail and for the trees and Patrick's wondering why the fuck it's not going after their livers. Dean curses, and shoots, curses again when the were staggers and blood flies. It claps a huge, long fingered paw against its shoulder. It wheels around, and its intent is plain to see—whatever reason it had for leaving, Dean's shot has changed its mind. It takes a step towards them, crouches—and suddenly leaps away from them again. Makes a noise that sounds like a curse, and jumps straight back through the trees like—
"Fucking Superman, dude. Look at that fucker fly!"
Suddenly John breaks through the brush behind them, cocking the shotgun as he comes, and yells out, "Run, idiots!"
The moment of frozen fear that had gripped the both of them pops like a bubble with the 'boo-yah' of the shotgun spiting out silver pellets and salt. Patrick puts his head down and just runs like fuck for the Impala, his brain helpfully providing the illusion of hot rank breath on the back of his neck, and so intent on putting distance between himself and the monster werewolf when Dean brushes him as he runs past, Patrick lets out a shriek.
They're in the car and more than halfway back to the motel before he feel the slightest prick of embarrassment about screaming. How bad the shit was, is just reinforced by Dean *not* teasing him for it. Patrick drops his head back against the hot vinyl seatback. He closes his eyes and swallows. He knows he is ready to kill that thing—the next time they met, it would die, just…tonight, he'd been so fucking scared he'd wanted to cry. That thing dropped him right back into childhood nightmares. Nightmares so horrifying, so awful, even though he'd known full well who the monster was, breathing harsh and wet in the dark hallway outside his bedroom. Patrick shivers hard; his teeth chatter a little before he grabs control. Long, hot fingers grip his thigh hard, shake just a little before settling to hold his knee.
Patrick's throat hurts, feels tight and raw....
~~~oOo~~~
Back at the motel, they're all crowded around one bed, the age-old instinct driving them to cower in the caves too strong to let them separate yet. Dean's shoved against the headboard, boots and all on the bedspread, and Patrick's cross-legged on the other twin, facing John. There's a bottle passing back and forth between them, and Patrick wishes it was a joint—booze makes him twitchy and short-tempered, too much of it makes him talk way too much…..
John takes a deep pull and passes it to Dean. "So, if you're wondering what the fuck that was, that, boys, was a warg," John says, his voice rumbling out of his chest, rough with Jack Daniels and tension.
Den gapes at him, blinking blearily. "A what? A wart? The fuck?"
"W-a-r-g," John spells patiently. "Old English. Means…well, basically it means rouge wolf. Pass."
Dean drinks again, and hands him the bottle. "That thing. Dad, that thing looked right at us. It knew what we were and it laughed at us. I swear that fucker said 'shit'when I shot it!"
John nodded and passes Patrick the bottle, then wipes his mouth with a sigh. "Probably did. Warg's aren't werewolves, they share a lot of traits with 'em, yeah, but werewolves are cursed humans—three nights a month, they're just animals. Well...not just. But *wargs*…they choose it. They're not cursed. Asked for what they are."
Patrick grimaces, chokes a bit on the burning liquid. "Who the fuck would willingly…how do you choose a thing like that?"
"Ask a demon in. A specific kind of demon, a specific kind of spell. Leaves the asker in charge of the body, the changes…lets him share carnage with the demon. Demon gets what it wants—blood and chaos, the asker gets power, revenge, the opportunity to satisfy bloodlust." John shakes his head, his face dark with disgust.
Dean leans back into the headboard. "Fuck. How do we deal with it? I mean, in that case, it could change any night—right?"
John shook his head. "No. the body has a limit. It gets three nights, like a real werewolf. Just…it's not bound by the moon. Or silver. Upside, regular bullet to the brain will take it out. So will ash stakes, I'm pretty sure…" He actually looked kind of doubtful, Patrick thought—and a little buzzed.
Patrick clears his throat, "My friends can research this for us. They're pretty damn good at this kind of thing."
John nodded. "Good. I say we take this on in the morning. In the meanwhile—nothing we can do right now. Sun's almost up--" He stands and says, "Go to sleep, boys. We've got work ahead of us."
Dean nods, toes off his boots. "Yes sir, g'night," he says, without a trace of sarcasm. Twenty-three years old and being sent to bed by Daddy, Patrick thinks. Winchesters.
~~~oOo~~~
"This is what we have. Okay, first, and bear in mind, it sounds nuts but. According to lore, a warg needs to remove--depending upon which legend you're reading--its apparel, or its pelt, or its human skin, and hide it, most myths have the things hanging it in the trees…so you're looking for one of those and sorry, we couldn't narrow that down for you."
Dean snorts and twists an eyebrow at the phone like the guy can see him. "Okay. That's…weird. Like, crock of shit weird." Really. And not very helpful.
Dad, though, he just looks thoughtful. "I don't know…I've heard stories about some creatures that do something like that…drop their skins…go on, son."
The voice over the phone says, "Right. So, some legends claim if you take the skin or block the thing from getting to it, the creature loses its power, some legends say it dies. Also, mistletoe, rye, and mountain ash are good defenses—stakes made of ash will kill it, iron will hurt it, and anything that will kill a man will kill a warg—brain, chest shot. Oh, and monkshood is poisonous to it, whether it's ingested or it touches it… and you're right, sir, silver doesn't bother it."
John nods and scratches notes in the back of his journal. Dean knows if the info pans out, "warg" will be getting an entry to itself. "Okay."
The voice on the line continues. "It's bound by a slightly different set of rules to the average werewolves."
Dean thinks that's pretty damn funny—average werewolf. He looks up and catches Pat grinning at him—he's caught the humor in that too.
"The warg is sharing its body with a demon, so there's a possibility it's bound by demon rules, too. Couldn't find anything there, but you might try to put a seal of Solomon around its skin-if you find it. One more thing—this bugger isn't just some guy who decides life's not worth living unless he's chewing on someone's liver. Quite a few legends reference necromancers, witches so high up the scale that they're practically a whole 'nother animal…and I realize that none of this is a whole lot of help. Ya'll have found yourselves something unique, for sure. Patrick, man, make sure you take *copious* notes, man."
Pat is beaming at Dean like he's the last donut in the box, and Dean realizes kind of crankily that he's just getting spillover meant for the guy on the phone. He figures this guy must be the Alex that Pat talks about from time to time. He has a nice voice, soft, deep…sounds like a big guy. Smart. Probably just Pat's type. Good looking, tall, brains…at least that's what Dean imagines Pat goes after.
Pat's holding the phone like it's a kitten and smiles into the air. "Thanks, Alex. We really appreciate your help. And…maybe after this job, I should come by the Post House with the info?"
"Man, if you don't want me to hurt you, yes. Have you been eating?" The change is so abrupt that Dean blinks. Patrick colors a bit, and shoots a look of apology before putting his back to them and sort of hunching over the phone. Off speaker phone, he speaks so quietly, Dean can't catch a word, not that it matters or anything.
Dad stretches, rubs the back of his neck. His eyes are red, he really looks tired, Dean thinks, and feels a sharp quick burst of worry before dismissing it. Hell, that's John Winchester—it'd take all of hell to take him out, even on his worst day. Dean grins at him, and Dad tosses him a wink. "Okay, boys. That's it. Give Alex my thanks, Pat."
Pat looks full of pride as he cuts the connection. Dean watches him, notes the blush, the brightness in his eyes…oh yeah, Pat's got himself a real bad case, he thinks. Wonder how that'll work out?
~~~o0o~~~
John maps out his plan and Dean shouts him down, angry, and insulted, hurt.
"Why are *we* looking for the fucking skin? What sense does that make? We all go after the warg—odds on our side that way. Dad, it makes no sense for us to split up!"
"Dean, I want you and Pat looking for that skin, ward it and if you get a chance destroy it. I'm doing what I know is right—I have more experience than you with this sort of thing—a better chance against the warg.
Dean just manages to turn a foot stamp into kicking the table leg…Patrick watches the table wobble dangerously, the laptop shift a little…he moves to catch it because it looks like Dean's about to kick it again….
"Dean," John shouts, and Dean jerks to attention. "Sir," he shouts back, but the tone is totally different, totally void of rebellion.
"That's the plan, hear me?"
"S'suicidal," Patrick hears Dean mutter but John must choose to ignore it. "And how much experience do I need—Dad, I've been hunting with you since I was fourteen! I've bagged mine, too. I know how to track and gank a were—"
"Pat doesn't. And you haven't gone against something like that and—"
"Dad. Please. You can't do this alone." Dean's face is twisted, pale and his eyes are a little brighter than normal.
"Dean, don't fight me on this. This thing—it's not your typical monster. There's a man, awake and aware in that head and," John smiles, and Patrick takes a casual step back…"My country spent a lot of money training me to handle something like that."
Dean's not buying it, not so much as a little bit, but he's quiet now. Patrick is in awe of John Winchester. How did that man manage to do that to Dean, fashion such an unbreakable rein on him? Did Dean even know that is was only himself that kept him second to John? Patrick was pretty sure that John knew it, and he wondered just how far John would be willing to take it….
"Let's go over our weapons…oh, and I picked up something…" John pulls a plastic quart container holding a spindly plant out of a bag, the kind sold at big box hardware places all over. He drops it on the table and smiles. Dean pulls a plastic tag out of the dirt. "Aconitum…" he reads, comfortable with the Latin. "Monk's Hood?" World's of so-what are written over his forehead and John smiles.
"Wolf's Bane," he says.
"Hunh." Patrick leans closer, pokes the little blue flowers clustered along the ends of a thin stem. "I thought it'd look...I don’t know. More…"
"Butch?" Dean grins. "Think those should look like manly, monster killing flowers? 'Cause appearances are never deceiving, right, Pat--"
Patrick glances quick at John, who's looking at him kind of…speculatively. But he just shakes his head. "Don’t listen to Dean," he says, "he can be kind of an…asshole sometimes."
"Hey! Standing right here!"
Patrick nods at John and has the feeling that…a whole lot of things just got said without a word. He's pretty sure John knows and doesn't give a shit. Good. John flashes Patrick a quick smile. "Alex did a good job for us; make sure you thank him for me. I'm turning in; suggest you guys do the same. We'll meet around one at the car, right?"
They both nod and John shuts the door. Patrick glares at Dean. "He's right, you are an asshole."
"What! What the fuck did I say ?" Dean yells, hands in the air and shoulders around his ears. "What?"
"Go to sleep," Patrick growls. He can feel Dean's eyes on him as he leaves the room.
part 10
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 2930
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
So, in this bit, the monsters wanted to come out and play. I don't even know-I'm just letting it flow! We'll have fun, right? The cut text I blame on Mr. R—
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
The air was deciding whether to be thick and steamy, or clammy with an edge of chill. Patrick checks the sheath holding the knife John insisted he carry, rubs his thumb against it and sighs. He was shit with a knife. He was a pretty good shot, and handled a machete pretty darn well, if not elegantly. He had the strength to smash through meat and bone, and that's pretty much all it takes …but. Knives. He just doesn't like them.
John had directed the both of them down a, told them he'd meet them where the run crossed over a hiking path the town had put in. It was at the point the paths crossed that the bodies had been found, chests torn open and the hearts out, along with most of the insides--but the heart and liver were the only things eaten.
Patrick grips the silver blade at his hip tighter, the gun in his other hand loaded with silver bullets. Werewolf. He can't believe that he'd had his mind on taking out some brownies and now here he is, in the asscrack of night, hiding under the trees and trying not to pee himself while he struggles to remember everything he can about werewolves. If he makes it out of this in one piece, he was fucking someone's brains out. Just then Dean turns to him, the moonlight turning his excited grin into a mask of fucking crazy.
"Fuck—I'm about to piss myself—how about you?" He sounds like he's about to get the best prize ever, like hunting werewolves is a gift his dad's giving him. Patrick decides it's not Crazy Dean he's going to be fucking if he gets out of this alive and in enough pieces to still want dick, 'cause if that werewolf comes after them, he's stuffing Dean in its gullet and running like hell.
Out in the dark, twigs crack and leaves shift. Patrick freezes and looks at Dean. Huge green eyes are locked on his. "Dude, you think it's your dad…?" Please be Dad Winchester--
It comes out from between the trees--at first, a darker shadow against the black, and then it stalks forward, an odd, spindly walk, like it's walking on nails. It's fully out from the trees, and batwing ears picked out in silver by the moonlight twitch and swivel towards them with each breath they take. It hunches forward again and then…unfolds.
It's…huge. Werewolves were big but this thing is—it's gigantic. It keeps rising and rising, until its shoulders block out the moon and its arms spread wide, a fucking condor's wingspan, tipped with knives.
"This…this doesn't look like any werewolf I've ever seen," Dean whispers harshly, "and I've killed a few." He licks his lips and flexes his fingers around the butt of the Colt.
Patrick turns to Dean, kind of awed--definitely impressed. "Really? A few—" before the suicidal depth of what he was doing caught up with him—about the same time Dean turned white as milk.
"WATCH THE WOLF—"
Patrick rips his head back around to face the thing. It's flexing at the knees, and suddenly, huge nostrils flare, wet and red inside, drinking up their scent. Patrick staggers, gets the distinct impression it's studying *him*. There's awareness in those eyes, cool, calculating, intelligence. There is a human looking back out of the yellow eyes in that long, fanged, face.
Fingers grip his sleeve and twist, hard enough to startle a hiss out of him. "Shit…you see it too?" Dean asks him. "What the fuck *is* that thing?"
The thing in question tilts its head, and then its eyes narrow, black velvet lips peel back from ivory spikes. Patrick can smell it's breath from where they were. "…Jesus," and it's a prayer.
The were's lips writhe over its million wet teeth; it makes a sound. "Hurg-hurg-hurg…"
Laughing. It's fucking laughing--Patrick backpedals, shock making him move without thought, the reptile brain taking over, since the monkey wasn't smart enough to.
A litany of "fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell—" trails Dean as he breaks for the head of the deer run with Patrick. "Okay, okay—Dad's somewhere back of us, he's probably got a bead on this fucker now…" He gulps and eyes darts towards Patrick. Neither one of them wants to even consider that maybe—maybe John was—
The monster shakes all over and then jumps like fucking Carl Lewis, straight up and almost over their heads. Lands to their left and slightly behind them and makes that horrible laughing sound....
Dean slams his elbow into Patrick's side. "Run Pat, run to the car." His pretty little Colt's trained on the were, and he looks equal parts scared shitless and determined as hell.
"Are you--fuck you! I'm not leaving," Patrick shouts, and draws on the thing, too. The were takes off, running sideways off the trail and for the trees and Patrick's wondering why the fuck it's not going after their livers. Dean curses, and shoots, curses again when the were staggers and blood flies. It claps a huge, long fingered paw against its shoulder. It wheels around, and its intent is plain to see—whatever reason it had for leaving, Dean's shot has changed its mind. It takes a step towards them, crouches—and suddenly leaps away from them again. Makes a noise that sounds like a curse, and jumps straight back through the trees like—
"Fucking Superman, dude. Look at that fucker fly!"
Suddenly John breaks through the brush behind them, cocking the shotgun as he comes, and yells out, "Run, idiots!"
The moment of frozen fear that had gripped the both of them pops like a bubble with the 'boo-yah' of the shotgun spiting out silver pellets and salt. Patrick puts his head down and just runs like fuck for the Impala, his brain helpfully providing the illusion of hot rank breath on the back of his neck, and so intent on putting distance between himself and the monster werewolf when Dean brushes him as he runs past, Patrick lets out a shriek.
They're in the car and more than halfway back to the motel before he feel the slightest prick of embarrassment about screaming. How bad the shit was, is just reinforced by Dean *not* teasing him for it. Patrick drops his head back against the hot vinyl seatback. He closes his eyes and swallows. He knows he is ready to kill that thing—the next time they met, it would die, just…tonight, he'd been so fucking scared he'd wanted to cry. That thing dropped him right back into childhood nightmares. Nightmares so horrifying, so awful, even though he'd known full well who the monster was, breathing harsh and wet in the dark hallway outside his bedroom. Patrick shivers hard; his teeth chatter a little before he grabs control. Long, hot fingers grip his thigh hard, shake just a little before settling to hold his knee.
Patrick's throat hurts, feels tight and raw....
Back at the motel, they're all crowded around one bed, the age-old instinct driving them to cower in the caves too strong to let them separate yet. Dean's shoved against the headboard, boots and all on the bedspread, and Patrick's cross-legged on the other twin, facing John. There's a bottle passing back and forth between them, and Patrick wishes it was a joint—booze makes him twitchy and short-tempered, too much of it makes him talk way too much…..
John takes a deep pull and passes it to Dean. "So, if you're wondering what the fuck that was, that, boys, was a warg," John says, his voice rumbling out of his chest, rough with Jack Daniels and tension.
Den gapes at him, blinking blearily. "A what? A wart? The fuck?"
"W-a-r-g," John spells patiently. "Old English. Means…well, basically it means rouge wolf. Pass."
Dean drinks again, and hands him the bottle. "That thing. Dad, that thing looked right at us. It knew what we were and it laughed at us. I swear that fucker said 'shit'when I shot it!"
John nodded and passes Patrick the bottle, then wipes his mouth with a sigh. "Probably did. Warg's aren't werewolves, they share a lot of traits with 'em, yeah, but werewolves are cursed humans—three nights a month, they're just animals. Well...not just. But *wargs*…they choose it. They're not cursed. Asked for what they are."
Patrick grimaces, chokes a bit on the burning liquid. "Who the fuck would willingly…how do you choose a thing like that?"
"Ask a demon in. A specific kind of demon, a specific kind of spell. Leaves the asker in charge of the body, the changes…lets him share carnage with the demon. Demon gets what it wants—blood and chaos, the asker gets power, revenge, the opportunity to satisfy bloodlust." John shakes his head, his face dark with disgust.
Dean leans back into the headboard. "Fuck. How do we deal with it? I mean, in that case, it could change any night—right?"
John shook his head. "No. the body has a limit. It gets three nights, like a real werewolf. Just…it's not bound by the moon. Or silver. Upside, regular bullet to the brain will take it out. So will ash stakes, I'm pretty sure…" He actually looked kind of doubtful, Patrick thought—and a little buzzed.
Patrick clears his throat, "My friends can research this for us. They're pretty damn good at this kind of thing."
John nodded. "Good. I say we take this on in the morning. In the meanwhile—nothing we can do right now. Sun's almost up--" He stands and says, "Go to sleep, boys. We've got work ahead of us."
Dean nods, toes off his boots. "Yes sir, g'night," he says, without a trace of sarcasm. Twenty-three years old and being sent to bed by Daddy, Patrick thinks. Winchesters.
"This is what we have. Okay, first, and bear in mind, it sounds nuts but. According to lore, a warg needs to remove--depending upon which legend you're reading--its apparel, or its pelt, or its human skin, and hide it, most myths have the things hanging it in the trees…so you're looking for one of those and sorry, we couldn't narrow that down for you."
Dean snorts and twists an eyebrow at the phone like the guy can see him. "Okay. That's…weird. Like, crock of shit weird." Really. And not very helpful.
Dad, though, he just looks thoughtful. "I don't know…I've heard stories about some creatures that do something like that…drop their skins…go on, son."
The voice over the phone says, "Right. So, some legends claim if you take the skin or block the thing from getting to it, the creature loses its power, some legends say it dies. Also, mistletoe, rye, and mountain ash are good defenses—stakes made of ash will kill it, iron will hurt it, and anything that will kill a man will kill a warg—brain, chest shot. Oh, and monkshood is poisonous to it, whether it's ingested or it touches it… and you're right, sir, silver doesn't bother it."
John nods and scratches notes in the back of his journal. Dean knows if the info pans out, "warg" will be getting an entry to itself. "Okay."
The voice on the line continues. "It's bound by a slightly different set of rules to the average werewolves."
Dean thinks that's pretty damn funny—average werewolf. He looks up and catches Pat grinning at him—he's caught the humor in that too.
"The warg is sharing its body with a demon, so there's a possibility it's bound by demon rules, too. Couldn't find anything there, but you might try to put a seal of Solomon around its skin-if you find it. One more thing—this bugger isn't just some guy who decides life's not worth living unless he's chewing on someone's liver. Quite a few legends reference necromancers, witches so high up the scale that they're practically a whole 'nother animal…and I realize that none of this is a whole lot of help. Ya'll have found yourselves something unique, for sure. Patrick, man, make sure you take *copious* notes, man."
Pat is beaming at Dean like he's the last donut in the box, and Dean realizes kind of crankily that he's just getting spillover meant for the guy on the phone. He figures this guy must be the Alex that Pat talks about from time to time. He has a nice voice, soft, deep…sounds like a big guy. Smart. Probably just Pat's type. Good looking, tall, brains…at least that's what Dean imagines Pat goes after.
Pat's holding the phone like it's a kitten and smiles into the air. "Thanks, Alex. We really appreciate your help. And…maybe after this job, I should come by the Post House with the info?"
"Man, if you don't want me to hurt you, yes. Have you been eating?" The change is so abrupt that Dean blinks. Patrick colors a bit, and shoots a look of apology before putting his back to them and sort of hunching over the phone. Off speaker phone, he speaks so quietly, Dean can't catch a word, not that it matters or anything.
Dad stretches, rubs the back of his neck. His eyes are red, he really looks tired, Dean thinks, and feels a sharp quick burst of worry before dismissing it. Hell, that's John Winchester—it'd take all of hell to take him out, even on his worst day. Dean grins at him, and Dad tosses him a wink. "Okay, boys. That's it. Give Alex my thanks, Pat."
Pat looks full of pride as he cuts the connection. Dean watches him, notes the blush, the brightness in his eyes…oh yeah, Pat's got himself a real bad case, he thinks. Wonder how that'll work out?
John maps out his plan and Dean shouts him down, angry, and insulted, hurt.
"Why are *we* looking for the fucking skin? What sense does that make? We all go after the warg—odds on our side that way. Dad, it makes no sense for us to split up!"
"Dean, I want you and Pat looking for that skin, ward it and if you get a chance destroy it. I'm doing what I know is right—I have more experience than you with this sort of thing—a better chance against the warg.
Dean just manages to turn a foot stamp into kicking the table leg…Patrick watches the table wobble dangerously, the laptop shift a little…he moves to catch it because it looks like Dean's about to kick it again….
"Dean," John shouts, and Dean jerks to attention. "Sir," he shouts back, but the tone is totally different, totally void of rebellion.
"That's the plan, hear me?"
"S'suicidal," Patrick hears Dean mutter but John must choose to ignore it. "And how much experience do I need—Dad, I've been hunting with you since I was fourteen! I've bagged mine, too. I know how to track and gank a were—"
"Pat doesn't. And you haven't gone against something like that and—"
"Dad. Please. You can't do this alone." Dean's face is twisted, pale and his eyes are a little brighter than normal.
"Dean, don't fight me on this. This thing—it's not your typical monster. There's a man, awake and aware in that head and," John smiles, and Patrick takes a casual step back…"My country spent a lot of money training me to handle something like that."
Dean's not buying it, not so much as a little bit, but he's quiet now. Patrick is in awe of John Winchester. How did that man manage to do that to Dean, fashion such an unbreakable rein on him? Did Dean even know that is was only himself that kept him second to John? Patrick was pretty sure that John knew it, and he wondered just how far John would be willing to take it….
"Let's go over our weapons…oh, and I picked up something…" John pulls a plastic quart container holding a spindly plant out of a bag, the kind sold at big box hardware places all over. He drops it on the table and smiles. Dean pulls a plastic tag out of the dirt. "Aconitum…" he reads, comfortable with the Latin. "Monk's Hood?" World's of so-what are written over his forehead and John smiles.
"Wolf's Bane," he says.
"Hunh." Patrick leans closer, pokes the little blue flowers clustered along the ends of a thin stem. "I thought it'd look...I don’t know. More…"
"Butch?" Dean grins. "Think those should look like manly, monster killing flowers? 'Cause appearances are never deceiving, right, Pat--"
Patrick glances quick at John, who's looking at him kind of…speculatively. But he just shakes his head. "Don’t listen to Dean," he says, "he can be kind of an…asshole sometimes."
"Hey! Standing right here!"
Patrick nods at John and has the feeling that…a whole lot of things just got said without a word. He's pretty sure John knows and doesn't give a shit. Good. John flashes Patrick a quick smile. "Alex did a good job for us; make sure you thank him for me. I'm turning in; suggest you guys do the same. We'll meet around one at the car, right?"
They both nod and John shuts the door. Patrick glares at Dean. "He's right, you are an asshole."
"What! What the fuck did I say ?" Dean yells, hands in the air and shoulders around his ears. "What?"
"Go to sleep," Patrick growls. He can feel Dean's eyes on him as he leaves the room.
part 10
TBC
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(no subject)
7/20/09 08:11 pm (UTC)*needs more...NOW!*
(no subject)
7/23/09 03:51 am (UTC)*beams all goofy like* Thanks!!!!