Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iswayzedthatmother) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ya_assemble2014-11-09 09:57 pm
iswayzedthatmother) wrote in ya_assemble2014-11-09 09:57 pm
Entry tags:
[LN] Dean can have firearms, but not nice things.
The motel that Dean went to sleep in was the same one he woke up in, until he walked outside.
For one thing, he'd gone to sleep at night, and knew he'd been asleep at least a full 8 hours. In defiance of this, the stars were still twinkling. This was doubly odd, because the motel he'd gone to sleep in had been on the outskirts of Chicago, under too much light pollution for any stars at all, but this motel was so far out of any town that the road leading up to it was unpaved.
"What the hell?"
Someone was playing a piss-poor game on him, and nobody ever played games on Dean Winchester for harmless fun. He reached into his coat for a weapon, and found a fully loaded sig sauer right where he'd . . . not actually put it the night before.
And yet there it was in his shoulder holster. Huh. Had he seriously slept with a loaded gun? It wouldn't be the first time, but seriously, how had he forgotten that the night before?
There was no real time to look this gift horse in the mouth, so Dean kept the muzzle of the firearm to the ground as he looked around for a trace of movement, any clue as to what he was not currently doing adjacent to a major city.
For one thing, he'd gone to sleep at night, and knew he'd been asleep at least a full 8 hours. In defiance of this, the stars were still twinkling. This was doubly odd, because the motel he'd gone to sleep in had been on the outskirts of Chicago, under too much light pollution for any stars at all, but this motel was so far out of any town that the road leading up to it was unpaved.
"What the hell?"
Someone was playing a piss-poor game on him, and nobody ever played games on Dean Winchester for harmless fun. He reached into his coat for a weapon, and found a fully loaded sig sauer right where he'd . . . not actually put it the night before.
And yet there it was in his shoulder holster. Huh. Had he seriously slept with a loaded gun? It wouldn't be the first time, but seriously, how had he forgotten that the night before?
There was no real time to look this gift horse in the mouth, so Dean kept the muzzle of the firearm to the ground as he looked around for a trace of movement, any clue as to what he was not currently doing adjacent to a major city.
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Sam was the one who did linguistics. Dean didn't have an encyclopedia in his head, and yet, his brain just picked the title apart for him, like somebody'd plugged a translator right into his brain. Their dad had always told them that the Easter Bunny didn't exist, and that if it did, it'd probably turn out to be awful and they'd have to kill it.
The Easter Bunny existed and had a badass title and . . . was Australian?
Ninja turtles existed and were being lectured by the Easter Bunny, and between Raphael's sudden defensiveness at the lecture and Michelangelo's enthusiasm for ninja bandaids in santa's workshop Dean was remembering the "teenage" part of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, seeing the "teenage" part demonstrated so strongly that there was no possible way he could overlook it, and if Sam said they were real, if Sam said they were them, then he'd just tried to kill the real Raphael. He'd just tried to kill a 16-year-old kid. Whose little brother applied first aid in the form of ninja bandaids and hugs.
Dean didn't like being bewildered or feeling like a piece of shit, and he didn't like feeling them both at the same time.
"Sam, what the hell?"
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"Don't bring my dad into this," Raph snapped at Bunny, a tense ball of teenage frustration. Now that he was bandaged up he didn't have to stay any longer.
"I'm done with all this," he said, waving a dismissive hand at Bunny, at Dean, at the whole situation. "C'mon, Mikey. Let's go play video games or something. Anything other than hanging around here."
As he stomped off, he was angrily muttering under his breath: " - ungrateful, paranoid, trigger-happy -"
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"How about you, did he give you any holes back?" he asked, sniffing in Dean's direction.
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And is feeling lucky that his brother apparently doesn't have holy water on him.
He takes a moment to look over his brother, though, just a quick glance before shaking his head. "He looks to be in one piece."
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Until he whipped his hand into his coat pocket and drew . . . a flask of holy water.
He splashed his brother before the rabbit, because Sam was closer.
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Bunny sniffed his damp fur quickly, then glared at Dean.
"D'you know how long it takes to dry wet fur? Holiness doesn't make a difference," he complained, dropping to all fours and shaking.
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...The holy water was NOT what he was expecting.
Sam had just opened his mouth when he got splashed, which turned into coughing because he'd been trying to breathe, too. After a moment, he reached up and wiped his hand down his face. "Feel better now?" he asked Dean, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.
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All right. The rabbit was legit, or at least not demonic. Sam was legit, and that at least was comforting.
"From the top now, Sam. What are we doing here?"
He'd heard it before, but from people not Sam, who'd know all the things that were actually important to tell him - the things someone in the murder business needed to know.