collegedropout | Two Hunters and a Chef Baby

Two Hunters and a Chef Baby

[Sam hasn't hunted a wendigo for a pretty damn long time, okay? They seem to be a dying breed; who knew that cannibalism was so last century, right? Splitting up in the middle of a wendigo case isn't always the wisest idea -- it's just, you know. Sometimes you fall down a mine shaft and you end up not with your partner. Whoops. Sam's trying not to focus on that. What matters here is finding the potential food sources of this creature. Three young kids went missing around here, and if they're lucky... they'll find all three, alive and waiting to be eaten.

If not... Sam doesn't like to think of that part of the job, either.

He holds the flare gun low at his side, sneaking around the winding passage ways. It's cold as hell, and it's dark as hell, save for those slivers of moonlight peaking through the boarded up holes far above him. He's trying not to use his flashlight too intensely, but there's only so much you can do before you need that light. He's been known to trip over his own feet.

Just... get this over with, get back to looking for a cure for Dean.

Easy enough.

Thank god his shoulder is healed for this shit. Barely even hurts now, and that's only from the cold seeping in.]

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A car's a lot smaller than a ship. A lot faster, too, and Sanji's stomach drops to his knees when Dean slams his foot on the gas to get them out of there. The children quickly twinkle out of sight, swallowed by a sea of wood and the kick of flying dirt from underneath the back wheels. It's like they never existed in the world to begin with.

Sanji stares out the back window and dreams of ocean spray until his chest drums with the ache of fractured ribs, a pain so familiar it's more an annoyance than a concern. It's a blessing for these cushions, even if Sanji doesn't dare relax further than a slight recline. He can feel the pressure building in the front seat.

Bastard's got questions, no doubt. Sam, too.

They'll both be disappointed when it comes time to answer them.

"How long until we get to the..." A pause. "Uh, the bunker."

Sam opens his mouth to reply, arm cradled in his lap and swatched in temporary bandages—

"A day," Dean says first, blunt and a bit more serious. "But we're gonna stop and get a place for the night. We'll get you a room, figure all this out. Which I'm still waiting on an actual answer on."

He glances wordlessly after that to Sam. Sam clears his throat.

"Um. Sanji, this is Dean. My brother. Dean, this is — uh. One of the pirates I told you about, one of my friends from Adstringendum." Dean's looking ahead at the road, but Sanji can see him in the rearview mirror, scrutinizing Sanji with a raising eyebrow as Sam continues, "He's kind of... out of his world."

"The guy who kicked you in the head?"

Ahm.

"Y-yeah, well..."

"--I lost my strength."

Like the crack of a fired gun, blurted out with no finesse in the middle of Dean and Sam's conversation. If Sanji sounds pissed rather than panicked, then good, it's how he prefers it, and he meets Dean's stare like he'd prefer nothing better than to suplex the car in a fit of rage.

"Getting dragged here, somehow it..." Well, frankly, it turned him into what probably equates to a normal human on Sam's world. Ability to sense auras? Gone. Clearing a building with one jump? Nope. Moving your feet fast enough to take flight? Ha, that's some funny shit right there. It's a with a twitch and a hand to his temple that he continues, turning his grimace at the ceiling of the car. "Maaah, whatever. I'll deal with it." Not like he's got a choice. "But I'm telling you shits now, I might not be much help in a fight."

It's a bitter admission for him to be making, and only Sam is gonna understand the implications that Sanji is spelling out in clear letters. He's useless in a way he's unaccustomed to, weak as a newborn babe. This isn't his world; these aren't his rules. While he plans to buck up and earn his keep for as long as he's stuck in limbo, the chances are high he'll be suckling on their resources until they send him back to his own world.

That, assuming, sending him home is their top priority. He vaguely remembers some of the weird shit that the brothers deal with on a daily basis. There might not be room for a lost pirate chef.

Dean hardly reacts to the news — he doesn't really know Sanji, after all, can't possibly know just what that entails — but there's a clear surprise on Sam's face when he glances back toward the chef. No strength? Jesus. It reminds him of Adstringendum the weeks after they had transferred to a new area; people had lost their powers then, too. But here...?

He pauses, rubbing his chin, considering the logic behind it.

"Maybe — maybe it's because the physics of your world don't match ours."

It would make sense. Sam has no strength whatsoever in contrast to Sanji; it's like a tree versus a small stick, and he's confident in saying that Sanji on a normal day could crush his bones into a lot of friggin pieces. After a moment, he breathes a sigh.

"It's alright, man. We'll help you out, get you some training at least so you know your stuff—"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean says, waving a hand. "Did you forget that we have some bigger problems on our hands? Like getting this mark off my arm? We don't exactly have time to spend teaching a new guy the ropes."

Sam glances at Dean. "He's my friend, alright?"

Dean huffs, but whatever he's thinking, he's apparently keeping it to himself.

Sam continues, looking back at Sanji, "Ignore him, man, he's just cranky without a nap."

"Oh, whatever, bitch."

Sam ignores that, quirking an eyebrow. "Bet those ribs are really feeling crappy. Welcome to our reality; try to rest until we get there, alright? We'll look into the lore books, the magic, all that. See if we can help open a portal back up for you."

Despite the dip in mood on his part, the longing to throw himself into the darkness outside the car like it might send him home, Sanji can't help but watch the exchange between Sam and his brother, brow quirking that much higher on his forehead. Shit, this is as bad as a sparring match. It's suddenly easy to reason why Sam's always been good at tolerating the chef's attitude.

Not that Sanji can find it in him to blame Dean for his opposition. No shitty idea what this mark thing is, but it's probably got something to do with the world ending. That kind of standard shit. He sighs and sinks into the cushions again, subconsciously following his friend's orders.

"Right, right." With his dirty secret shared, the panic has lessened somewhat, and left the deepening ache in his ribs. It's starting to hurt to breathe. He opts to grit his teeth behind his lips and ignore it. "If you shits got food there, I can at least make you both a proper meal."

Might as well earn his keep, he figures. The least he can do. And that will keep his fingers from itching with anxiety, if he's got people to feed.

Dean looks back at him again, this time with a greatly lifted mood.

"Wait, wait, you're the chef one?" He grins tiredly in Sam's direction, then looks back at Sanji. "Well... I mean, we could use a chef. Pretty sure you'd have a heart attack if you saw the creatures growing in our fridge."

Sam groans, leaning back into the seat. "You mean the leftovers you forgot about."

Dean looks at Sanji in the mirror like he's about to quiz him on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.

"Can you make a decent burger?"

Sanji knows a glutton for meat when he sees one. It's so familiar a look, the face of a starved predator, and he barely keeps from rolling his eyes at Dean's question. It's been a rough-ass day, he's still processing half of what's happened to him, so his voice is hardened with selfishly-coiled pride.

This isn't about making a good first impression; cooking is the only security he's got outside of Sam.

"Tch. don't make "decent" burgers." His chin lifts with smug intent. "I make the best shitty burgers anyone's ever tasted."

Dean is pretty much on the verge of hiring you as a personal chef, Sanji. :|

But Sam in the meanwhile just shakes his head slightly, as if he's so in tune with his brother that he reads the guy's mind. The drive is relatively calm — mostly Dean asking Sanji here and there about different food, or about pirate life, and it's clear that Dean's got a sort of (annoyingly) child-like wonder that spirals into questions of peg legs and eyepatches and walking planks. Between those bouts, though, Sam and Dean talk about the case a few towns over, how they'll have to call Rudy in to hit that one instead while they recuperate.

When they pull up to the motel and Dean gets them their keys, Sam nudges Dean to go on ahead, he'll catch up after he checks with Sanji and makes sure the guy is physically okay. After Sanji gets his key and is allowed a moment in the confines of his own motel room, Sam knocks before slipping in quietly with a well-stocked first aid kit.

"... Hey. You doing alright?"

For all the lacking subtlety of Dean's questions, it does plenty to keep Sanji's mind on the "can"s instead of the "can't"s. He entertains the hunters with amused replies and (mostly) patient answers, all while carefully burying the ache that only a seaman ripped away from his mother sea can feel. It's as much a blessing as a curse when they arrive to the hotel and Sanji is allowed a moment's reprieve from talking.

... And he sits there, hunched at the edge of the bed, fingers flexed and folded against each other while one of his last cigarettes hangs from the corner of his mouth. Sam will find him in that position. The pirate barely glances up at the appearance of his friend.

"I'm fine."

Don't give him any lip, hunter. He can fake it, too.

... Feh. But then that means he'll have to use up precious energy on false smiles when all he wants to do is sleep and wake up from the nightmare. It's not worth it. So there's a sigh before Sanji begins the laborious ordeal of shedding his jacket. He figures Sam'll want it off so he can get a better look at the bruises on his skin.

"Sure, sure, we're all fine," Sam says with a cheeky little smile; apparently, he's a hell of a lot braver when you can't kick him into a concussion. Um. Not really counting that he's already got a mild one. Anyway. He motions for Sanji to sit down, frowning at the bruising. Give him some credit, he didn't try to help you remove that coat. "Jeez, it sure got you good. I've got a few small ice packs; nothing fancy, but it's better to get these on there in the first few days than to leave them as it is."

A pause.

"Lay down and relax. If you're a good patient, I'll go get you a new pack of cigarettes."

This totally sounds like the beginning of a porn (and hey, remember he digs the blonds, hyuck hyuck), but he's quick to return from his kit with the ice packs in hand, ready to be placed. You're gonna have good fun laying down for the night, aren't you, buddy.

Seas, yes, give him some cigarettes. Buy him 12 packs, he'll smoke them all at once in a desperate bid to either wake up from the nightmare or just smoke himself to a quick, cancerous hell. Odds are he won't be losing much.

The pirate rolls his eyes a little at the demand - almost chucks a pillow at Sam's face when he demands the chef "relax" - but again, there's no real fight in him tonight. He grimaces at every twist and bend, until eventually he's got his back against the sheets of dubious cleanliness and is staring at a rough, flaky patch of ceiling.

"Oi, Sam."

A pause. He doesn't know where to start with this and frankly, every intake of breath makes it hurt to talk. Did broken ribs always hurt this much? The dip in his brow hasn't left since he got stuck on this shitty world, he fucking swears.

"If it's better for you two to leave me somewhere while you take care of--" Another pause. He tries to make a dismissive gesture with his hand and soon regrets it, pulling his eyes shut as he slowly lowers the hand again. "Listen, I'm not interested in being anyone's shitty baggage."

"Don't be stupid."

Sam apparently elects to be you for half a sec here, hardly fazed as he patiently works on Sanji; he expects the chef'll be a good enough patient, probably inspired by Chopper and the kid's diligence. He glances at Sanji sparingly. "If I ended up trapped in your world, you wouldn't think I'm your baggage. Even if I'm a pile of feathers. The same applies here — just because you're not some big strong hero doesn't mean you've lost any worth at all."

He clears his throat, expression soft and troubled.

"We've got our problems, but you being here isn't going to make them any worse, that's for sure."

That's a loaded reply, of course. He thinks immediately of Dean's... explosive behavior lately. Or his scary silence in the wake of bloodshed. Or his nonchalant way about him when it comes to ganking anything on two legs.

It's a bit scary. He swallows.

"Honestly, I'm more worried about you getting into trouble because of us, not the other way around."

Sanji considers, considers -- mouth pulling into a thoughtful line while Sam tends to the his injuries, speaking more truth than the chef wants to hear -- and after a significant pause, the man takes the pillow he isn't laying on and cracks Sam upside the head with it.

Damn if that isn't a little bit satisfying.

"Oi. If I can't complain about being baggage, you don't get to whine about causing me problems, either." Said with the awareness of a man who knows they'll both be breaking that promise at the crack of dawn, and it's funny enough to warrant one very tired smile. His expression cools right after, however, taking in the hidden severity of Sam's reply.

"But let's say I'm gonna be stuck here for a while." Forcing the words out with stiff neutrality, he looks his friend in the eye. "What should I be looking out for?"

"Probably wendigos, first, if tonight's anything to go by."

He raises his eyebrows at the chef, but purses his lips, thoughtful. Should he tell him? Of course he should. If Sanji's going to be trapped in their affairs, he's gonna have to be prepared for anything to happen. Anything. Even if Dean'll probably get pissed that he's passing out his private problems. But whatever. He's the jerk who went and took the Mark off on his own.

"... My brother's got a problem, right now. We're trying to find a solution for it right now, but it's... He's not completely himself, sometimes. Um. It's kind of like - do you guys even have steroids in your world?"

Because 'hulking out' will just confuse you.

"Aa, we got 'em."

He knows it by many other names besides the one Sam uses, and Sanji speaks his words slowly, testing them out for Sam's hearing as he tries to gauge the other man's reaction. "What, so he flips out and suddenly benchpresses boulders or some shit?"

The aggressive metaphor is used for a reason; as a barometer for what Sanji should expect. This isn't his world, after all. The rules are different, the humans far more fragile. If Dean's strength is on par with monsters he's used to seeing on the Grand Line, then it speaks volumes of how ugly this might get.

"He's got a thirst for blood, you could say," Sam says softly, hands hanging in his lap. The hotel room feels a bit stuffy; better than the terrible cold distance he feels sometimes, when he's alone with Dean. It's been difficult... the nightmares his brother has, the violent twitches, the harsher words. He tries to remind himself it's not his brother, not entirely. This isn't Dean, when he gets like this. This is some weird 'roided out hybrid. Dean's under that surface, kicking and screaming, and Sam's... Sam's got to help him. It's his job, isn't it?

"He accepted something into his body -- a special Mark that's only sated by violence. He took it so he could ice the queen of hell, so to speak... But now we can't get rid of it. And every day, it's making him more and more angry and hard to deal with and -- I have to... keep a careful eye on him, y'know? I can't let him turn into something like that."

It's been an extremely heavy weight, one seen only in the tired lines of his eyes.

He trusts Sanji to know, though.

Oh yes, Sanji understands, has watched Sam dance through his insistent refusal to take care of himself because he's that low on his list of priorities. That Dean really does need the babysitter is stiffly noted for a later time, but the truth of the matter is Sanji doesn't give much of a shit about the other hunter. He isn't Sanji's friend.

Sam is.

"And just how violent has your brother gotten?" The pointedness of the question won't escape Sam, he's certain. He's asking of Dean has ever hurt Sam.

Not that the chef's banking on a straight answer, either. He knows you, asshole, and settles forward into the pillow on his lap, fully expecting a half-truth and a gentle steering to softer topics.

Sam does hesitate, and that's always a more telling answer than any sort of attempt to lie. He doesn't want to lie to Sanji -- things have been bad, real bad -- but he also doesn't want to paint Dean in a shitty light before Sanji really gets to know him. Dean has his faults. Of course he does. But he's not a terrible person. He's... he can be loyal, and he's brave, and he wants to help people. He protects the weak, and he values a good time, and this Dean they're seeing? It's masked by a veil of something ominous and shitty.

He clears his throat, fidgeting with an ice pack.

"Nothing I can't handle. I knew what I was getting into, bringing him back out of it."

A soft sigh.

"He'd been changed almost completely into a monster when I found him. A demon. Um. I repaired the damage and got rid of the demonic side. But now... He's decided to give up trying to find a cure -- so I've been looking on the downlow."

That's not the way to assuage the fears of a guy with a very violent temper, Sam. Nor does the hesitation award any points in Dean's favor. The only reason Sanji merely grits his teeth instead of grinding on those pressure points is because he gets it - he knows Sam would want to give Dean the benefit of the doubt where a stranger probably wouldn't, and Sanji can't say he wouldn't be pulling this shit for a member of his crew.

But that last, muttered detail at the end? Oh hell no. Sanji hears it and wears his disapproval on his face.

"Oi, whaddya mean he's given up? He plans to let this curse take 'em?"

Coward -- no, worse than that. Placing a fuckin burden on his brother. If Dean's that committed to his own demise, jump in the sea and at least save Sam the time and effort.

Edited 2017-01-21 06:18 (UTC)

He bites his lip, quieting for a brief moment.

"Yeah. We've hit some dead-ends before, so he's losing hope. And I think that the mark on his arm, it's like a parasite -- it wants him to give up. It pressures him to, I think." He clutches his hand into a fist. "I'll keep looking, but, um. I haven't really been bringing up that I'm looking into stuff. We argue enough lately as it is, you know?"

He smiles rather sadly, exasperated.

"It's not something you have to worry about, though. I mean... Not worry about a lot. I'm telling you because my brother might be an asshole and you deserve to know why he's being a dick. But I'll handle it. We'll get through it somehow." He's already almost been murdered via hammer. Can't get much worse.

"... I can handle an asshole." Said like an asshole, too, and there's not a lick of repentance in Sanji's expression for it. But he faces Sam, very serious, and he wants to make himself clear.

"If he attacks you, I'm not gonna sit there, Sam."

It's not a matter of strength, or the arrogance Sanji isn't able to shed quickly enough after being robbed of his homeworld's gifts. Even if he can't fully grasp that he's but one man on this planet instead of a monster, swarmed by mythologies that will melt him to the bone, there are things he won't compromise on.

"And I'm telling you now - stop acting like you're gonna be the only one looking for a cure. Pisses me off."

He frowns deeply. "I can take care of myself, Sanji. Honestly."

He doesn't want to seem like some victim or anything. He's not. He's just Sam Winchester, some guy with a fuckton of baggage and a brother who needs fixing. That's all. But regardless -- he doesn't want Sanji to get into a bigger mess than he already is. "And anyway, we got to think about how to also get you back. You'll be helping me with that, y'know. We've got an insane number of books back at the bunker you can sink your teeth into."

And yeah, sure, you called it. He's trying to turn the subject elsewhere. Sue him.

"You weren't doing anything weird back home before you showed up, were you?"

No.

No you do not get to change the subject, and Sanji's nostrils flare open like a displeased animal. There's a barely hidden growl lurking under the cover of his voice.

"Lemme put it this way, shithead; if I don't help solve this mess, just means me and your brother are gonna try to kill each other quick." Point blank, and with the frankness of a man who knows Sam won't be able to stop the slow trainwreck. Doesn't take a genius to peg what kind of person his brother is, either - not evil by any stretch, but Sanji spent enough time alone with him in the cave. He can spot one of his own temperament.

It'll take a one word, some mundane irritation, and the impending fire will choke whatever unfortunate city they're in.

"I'm helping, alright?"

A hefty stare, as he reads each line in Sanji's face.

He knew better, but there it is. After a moment of reading what's there, he surrenders.

Just a little. He sighs softly,

"... Don't kill each other, and you've got a deal."

A pause.

"... Fair warning, though; Dean's gonna bitch if you try to smoke in the car."

And there's a deal Sanji can agree to.

Well, one of them, at any rate. The last part ends a side-eye, Sanji casually looking over to the left like he's found something extraordinary in the stained hotel carpet.

"Maaah, well. If he kicks my ass for that, can't hold it against him."

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LOOK WHAT YOU DID

who me :)

heathen B[

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