AND BABY MAKES THREE
Rating: T for a few naughty words
Genre: gen, humour, case!fic
Characters: Sam, Dean, Impala
Word Count: 14,000 (12 chapters)
Disclaimer: as if it actually needs repeating, I still don't own them
The old text wasn't getting any more interesting the longer Sam stared at it. In fact if anything, it was becoming even more unfathomable.
Reports of five people going missing in the space of six months around the denser woodlands of Kansas had piqued the Winchesters' interest. Two hikers and two hunters; all gone, seemingly vanishing without trace, plus a lone horseback rider whose horse had turned up two days later, agitated, dripping with tree sap and riderless, but otherwise completely unharmed.
It was the horse that had given the brothers the clue they needed.
They concluded that they were hunting a Leshy; a malevolent and mischevious woodland spirit whose sole aim in life was to protect the flora and fauna of the forest from people. Even if the people in question didn't actually mean any harm; simply being human was reason enough for a Leshy to go postal on you. The hikers, the hunters and the rider had all paid a dear price just for being human. The horse, it would appear, had counted as fauna and thus had not been harmed.
But regardless of the details of the case, finding a way to kill the thing meant ploughing through endless hours of eye-wateringly tedious Slavic lore.
Sam tried not to dwell on the fact that he was the one who had ended up stuck in the Letters' library with that particular job after Dean had muttered something cryptic about having to do something important somewhere else and had promptly disappeared like a rat up a drainpipe.
Sitting back, he rolled his shoulders, taking a tentative sip of his long-cold coffee in a half-hearted bid for a caffeine boost. Blinking wetly, he knuckled his tired eyes before he dared to look back at the interminably boring leatherbound text which lay on the massive table before him among an ocean of paper scrolls.
It was at that moment that he heard the sound of Dean's rapid footsteps echoing heavily through the bunker seconds before the man himself barrelled through the doorway wiping his hands on an oily rag. His hands hadn't been the only things he'd wiped on it if the black smudge across his nose was any indication.
"Hey Sammy," he grinned; "y'know what? This place is all kinds of awesome!"
Sam glanced up blearily; "really?" He hoped that Dean would catch the note of exasperation in his voice.
His vain hope was cruelly dashed when his little note of exasperation whistled over Dean's oblivious head at a safe distance.
"Yeah," Dean gushed, hopping up to sit on the table beside Sam and unceremoniously scattering all his research papers in the process. "I've just been down in the bunker's garage doing some work on Baby," he blathered enthusiastically; "and everything I needed was down there. Not just tools – I'm talking about parts too."
Sam stared blankly at him.
"She had a little misfire," Dean explained, eyes sparkling with glee; "so I changed the spark plugs and a couple of solenoids, and I never even had to leave the room." He genuinely looked like all his birthdays had fallen over each other at once. "It was all there, loads of stuff in great big cabinets in the garage and along through into the basement." Breathless with excitement, he continued; "I'm not even sure if some of this stuff is actually even meant to be used on cars," he added; "you know with the Men of Letters, it could be freakin' anything, but hey – they fit, they work. They're good parts."
He paused for breath momentarily, an exercise which also gave him an opportunity to gauge whether Sam was keeping up with what was admittedly a very one-sided conversation.
Sam, for his part, was almost ready to shove his seven-hundred page grimoire on Slavic mythology right up Dean's ass, if Dean hadn't already been halfway toward doing the job himself by sitting on top of the damn thing.
"Ah, c'mon Sammy," Dean prompted, playfully punching Sam in the shoulder; "I've worked marvels down there. I didn't just fix stuff that needed fixing; I've given her a complete overhaul. I've rewired her lights and tuned her radio, changed her bearings and practically rebuilt her engine from the inside out." His beaming grin was one of pure, radiant self-satisfaction. "Baby's gonna run like a freakin' champion."
"You've been messing around with the car?" Sam eventually grumbled. "I've been sitting here researching this garbage until my eyeballs shrivel, and you've been messing around with the damn car! Couldn't it wait?"
Dean glanced around him; "what garbage?"
"The garbage that you just parked your ass on," Sam muttered darkly.
Sliding down off the table Dean deigned to cast a glance at the ancient, now somewhat flattened, book.
"Ugh, yeah – see what you mean," he mumbled. "And no, it couldn't wait," he added more forcefully; "if we're gonna be driving across state hunting this skanky thing, I want Baby in tip-top condition."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He hated to admit it, but he had to accept that Dean was right - in his own uniquely bull-headed way. The Impala was their lifeline on their hunts. She routinely served as accommodation, protection, store-room and getaway vehicle and so they needed her to be totally dependable.
And thanks to Dean's formidable skill in dealing with cars, she usually was.
Although Sam wasn't entirely sure where tuning the radio fitted in with that requirement.
"Say, I wanna give her a run out," Dean suddenly announced; "there's a great bar two towns along, they have a poker game on Wednesday nights. Why don't we have a night out?"
"But Dean," Sam protested, gesturing across the paper-strewn table; "I'm not finished here yet."
"Aw c'mon Sammy," Dean countered, seemingly uncaring of the faint whine that crept into his voice; "we haven't been out for nearly a week. I'm going freakin' stir crazy in this place."
"But, Dean …"
"All work an' no play," coaxed Dean; "you know what they say – it makes Sammy a boring bitch."
"Dean, no. I'm … hey! That's not what they say." Sam's eyes flashed dangerously.
Dean's grin was the grin of a man who knew the argument was won.
Dean turned to look directly at Sam - and that was all she wrote. Sam couldn't understand how people said HE was the one who could pull the puppy eyes out of the bag when he needed to. Dean, the conniving bastard, could manufacture a pair of Bambi eyes that could melt granite.
Sam sort of hated Dean just a little bit right now.
"Okay," he sighed wearily, slamming the book closed; "you win."
"Awesome," Dean couldn't help a little triumphant fistpump.
"But you're helping me with this research tomorrow – hangover or not," Sam added swiftly, effecting his sternest voice.
"Sure thing Sammy," Dean chuckled and slapped Sam's back so hard his teeth rattled.
"C'mon, bitch - let's go!"
I'll post one chapter each day (more or less!)