After the nun's femur dried, Dean wrapped it in newspaper, set it on the table, and swirled the stale, unclotted blood around in the bottom of the steel bowl. Sam, at the fridge, turned and watched him, a styrofoam tray of raw beef in his hands. Dean reached for a canister of salt, then paused. "We getting rid of this?"
Sam bared his teeth awkwardly, like a dog trying to scrape peanut butter off the roof of its mouth. "Uh, yeah," he said. "Yeah, that's like ten kinds of contagious we don't need lying around. I mean, not to say Cas -- but --"
"-- But if it's a dud, we'll be dead," Dean finished for him. He dumped a handful of salt into the bowl, crossed the room, and started stoking up the coals in the cabin's small fireplace.
Sam didn't move. Cow juice leaked out of the styrofoam package in his hand and splattered on the floor. "I think it'll work," he said, his voice clipped.
"I don't need a pep talk," Dean muttered, tossing some sticks and balled-up newspaper onto the coals and watching the paper flare. "Just Dick's smug face. I get to stab him with a leg. Win-win."
"No," said Sam, taking an aborted step toward him. More cow juice dripped on the floor. "Plan on coming back, man. It should work."
Dean blew on the fire a bit, then twisted, still crouched at the hearth, to look Sam in the eye. "You notice something?"
Sam bowed his head and stared at the meat in his hands, then dragged his boot through one of the drips on the floor as he saw it for the first time. Yes, Sam had definitely noticed something. He looked up abruptly. "It's Crowley's," Sam announced. "Pretty sure. I mean, it's, it, it smells like him." It was like the words were gristly and kept getting caught in his throat -- looked about as uncomfortable, too. "Not positive, but pretty sure."
"How sure?" Dean asked, quick before this turned into something they didn't have time or energy for.
Sam kept scuffing the floor with his boot. "Eighty percent?"
Eighty percent. Dean looked behind him at the bowl on the table, and at Sam, but Sam was just looking at the drips on the floor. He seemed okay, for whatever that was worth, as okay as he'd been when Crowley had tossed him the vial like the black-souled asshole he was, but Dean was getting the demon blood laced with vampire and angel blood out of the cabin, now. He threw more sticks onto the fire, and when they started to catch, tried a small log.
"So you can, uh." It was a strange feeling, like his mouth was hydroplaning down the highway, just doing what it was gonna do. "Sniff 'em out?"
"Sometimes," Sam admitted, sounding calm. Which was not as reliable a measure as Dean would like. "When you get close, they all smell a little like matches and roadkill, you know? But they've each got this . . ."
"Unique special flavor of roadkill," Dean suggested. Did he actually say flavor? Dammit. "So Crowley, what's he? Skunk?"
Dean looked over his shoulder, and saw Sam grin faintly. "Possum. Plays dead, scavenges, ugly as hell."
"Right," said Dean, relieved. And why shouldn't he be? He was going to kill Dick. "We got our righteous bone and our essence of possum; we are locked and loaded."
"And Chinese stir fry in an hour," said Sam, waving a be-beefed hand at the formidable bag of vegetables that sat on the counter next to one of their knives.
"Yeah, if the meat was poisoned, too, I think I mighta killed myself," Dean muttered. Sam chewed on his lip and hissed in a breath. "What?" Dean lurched to his feet, his bad shin still a bit tender from last year, and retrieved the bowl of blood. He stuffed the whole thing into the fireplace. "I still don't buy that we can't make burgers," he grumbled.
"Corn syrup in the buns," said Sam, disgustingly cheerful in the midst of this national emergency that seemed designed just to prove self-righteous college kids right about everything food-related. "And the ketchup. And the relish. Mustard. Miracle Whip --"
"I get it, I get it."
Sam retreated into the kitchen to cook them dinner like a good little sister. Dean worked the bellows, and after a few minutes the coals were cherry red, the bowl was warped, and the blood was nothing but salted ash.
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Filled: Essence
Date: 2012-05-22 04:46 am (UTC)Sam bared his teeth awkwardly, like a dog trying to scrape peanut butter off the roof of its mouth. "Uh, yeah," he said. "Yeah, that's like ten kinds of contagious we don't need lying around. I mean, not to say Cas -- but --"
"-- But if it's a dud, we'll be dead," Dean finished for him. He dumped a handful of salt into the bowl, crossed the room, and started stoking up the coals in the cabin's small fireplace.
Sam didn't move. Cow juice leaked out of the styrofoam package in his hand and splattered on the floor. "I think it'll work," he said, his voice clipped.
"I don't need a pep talk," Dean muttered, tossing some sticks and balled-up newspaper onto the coals and watching the paper flare. "Just Dick's smug face. I get to stab him with a leg. Win-win."
"No," said Sam, taking an aborted step toward him. More cow juice dripped on the floor. "Plan on coming back, man. It should work."
Dean blew on the fire a bit, then twisted, still crouched at the hearth, to look Sam in the eye. "You notice something?"
Sam bowed his head and stared at the meat in his hands, then dragged his boot through one of the drips on the floor as he saw it for the first time. Yes, Sam had definitely noticed something. He looked up abruptly. "It's Crowley's," Sam announced. "Pretty sure. I mean, it's, it, it smells like him." It was like the words were gristly and kept getting caught in his throat -- looked about as uncomfortable, too. "Not positive, but pretty sure."
"How sure?" Dean asked, quick before this turned into something they didn't have time or energy for.
Sam kept scuffing the floor with his boot. "Eighty percent?"
Eighty percent. Dean looked behind him at the bowl on the table, and at Sam, but Sam was just looking at the drips on the floor. He seemed okay, for whatever that was worth, as okay as he'd been when Crowley had tossed him the vial like the black-souled asshole he was, but Dean was getting the demon blood laced with vampire and angel blood out of the cabin, now. He threw more sticks onto the fire, and when they started to catch, tried a small log.
"So you can, uh." It was a strange feeling, like his mouth was hydroplaning down the highway, just doing what it was gonna do. "Sniff 'em out?"
"Sometimes," Sam admitted, sounding calm. Which was not as reliable a measure as Dean would like. "When you get close, they all smell a little like matches and roadkill, you know? But they've each got this . . ."
"Unique special flavor of roadkill," Dean suggested. Did he actually say flavor? Dammit. "So Crowley, what's he? Skunk?"
Dean looked over his shoulder, and saw Sam grin faintly. "Possum. Plays dead, scavenges, ugly as hell."
"Right," said Dean, relieved. And why shouldn't he be? He was going to kill Dick. "We got our righteous bone and our essence of possum; we are locked and loaded."
"And Chinese stir fry in an hour," said Sam, waving a be-beefed hand at the formidable bag of vegetables that sat on the counter next to one of their knives.
"Yeah, if the meat was poisoned, too, I think I mighta killed myself," Dean muttered. Sam chewed on his lip and hissed in a breath. "What?" Dean lurched to his feet, his bad shin still a bit tender from last year, and retrieved the bowl of blood. He stuffed the whole thing into the fireplace. "I still don't buy that we can't make burgers," he grumbled.
"Corn syrup in the buns," said Sam, disgustingly cheerful in the midst of this national emergency that seemed designed just to prove self-righteous college kids right about everything food-related. "And the ketchup. And the relish. Mustard. Miracle Whip --"
"I get it, I get it."
Sam retreated into the kitchen to cook them dinner like a good little sister. Dean worked the bellows, and after a few minutes the coals were cherry red, the bowl was warped, and the blood was nothing but salted ash.