Two Hunters and a Chef Baby

[collegedropout]

 
[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.]

Comments

[concasse]

Sanji expects Sam's silent displeasure, it's obvious someone didn't get any sleep, but god damn if Dean isn't as graceless as the Marimo when it comes to the simple things. It's a mercy when he asks which kinds of cigarettes Sanji prefers, and the man replies with a shrug.

"Whatever's cheaper. So long as the shit's got nicotine in it." Dean is not the only one minding his p's and q's today. Sanji pulls himself to a stand, grimacing as he cracks every vertebrae out of its stooped position. Damn, why the hell is he so sore?

"And no shitty idea what a corndog is, so why not? Let's tour the local delicacies." Forever the shit-talker, subdued expression and all. No way does he expect anything called a 'corn-dog' to be the height of fine dining.

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Dean just grins like a shithead as he goes.

"Sure thing. Local delicacies. Lets hope they microwaved it well enough."

He ducks into the car and takes off, leaving Sam to turn to Sanji with a little smile.

"How much did you sleep, exactly?"

So maybe he's not gonna leave that as alone as he thought.

Sue him, this has become a common theme in his life. And your spine is talking a lot.

[concasse]

"... I'll tell you if you tell me what "microwaved" means."

Yes. He's being serious. The One Piece universe has devil fruits, corrupt marines, rampant death and pillaging - but they don't have a Satan who basks in the glory of nuked microwaved food.

[collegedropout]

"Microwaved is probably you're worst nightmare."

With a sigh, he moves to sit down nearby, still terribly aching.

"Basically it cooks things really fast, but it makes everything not as good as if you'd take the time to actually cook them. Um. And it's all mostly pre-cooked, and you just... re-heat it in the microwave."

He huffs, humored.

"Basically, my childhood."

[concasse]

Sanji can't help himself; his nose gives a delicate twitch, morphing his entire expression into bemused disgust. Oh sure, he can think of many ways in how that'd be helpful to a busy family with very little time to cook, but he'd also bet Nami-san's beri (no he wouldn't) that it doesn't taste satisfying. What a terrible trade-off.

"Shit, should we stop him?"

Never mind that Dean has already driven the car to the stop light and is getting ready to turn. Sorry, Sanji's still getting used to these new... limits.

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He laughs.

"What, you gonna sprint after a moving vehicle? Good luck, man."

He jingles a bottle of pills at him. A little mercy for those sore ribs.

[concasse]

"I could've done it before."

Maybe that comes out with more sharpness than Sanji intends, but he promises he won't fall into a fouler mood than that of a sleep-deprived asshole who, less than 24 hours ago, didn't belong in this world.

Also, the hell is Sam jiggling at him? Sure, Sanji takes it at the other man's prompting, but his eyes set in such a way that doesn't look like recognition. In many ways, his world is a primitive reflection of this one.

-- Though, y'know. He's got beautiful mermaids back home, so. Yeah, he wins.

"These for something?"

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"Pain medication. I know if you're working in the realm of our world you're in plenty of pain still." You did get your ass kicked, but he's not going to frame it like that; you can probably still punch pretty hard, after all. He shakes the bottle again. "Already took one myself. You should take it easy yourself; hunts can really drain a person."

They're a different breed from the Grand Line. Those fights usually are epically big from what he knows, but despite that they all seem to be quick to get back on their feet and move out. That won't work here; the fighting is grittier, more dirt and mud and blood and spit, a sort of uglier fight than the rather extreme powerfest back in Sanji's world.

Sanji learned just how dark and ugly the sort of fighting here is.

You get hit, you crumple, you bow bones, you spit blood that might mean death instead of a minor inconvenience.

He's gonna fucking hate it.

[concasse]

Heh, the truth is the hunt was no worse than the shit Zeff put him through as a child, or further back still - when he had a last name and a title worth gold, and daily beatings that nearly killed him. It's been a long, long time since then, but Sanji is... accustomed to ugliness. He just needs to remember.

That's a discussion for never, however, and Sanji already berates himself for the trip down memory lane. After another brief inspection, Sanji pops out one of the pills and swallows it dry. Fine, Dr. Sam - he'll take your advice.

"So what do we do from here, eh?"

[collegedropout]

"Pray that the corndogs are cooked all the way through."

He grins?

"But also, head back home. To the bunker. The Men of Letters used to conduct their work there -- we're kind of legacies to it. But the American Men of Letters kind of got wiped out a while back by a Knight of Hell..." He pauses. "Probably all gibberish to you, but, uh. It's basically a place full of books and information. And nice water pressure."

He rubs his neck, thoughtful.

"I bet there's something there to get you back home."

[concasse]

Does it count as waste if Sanji vomits the food out of sheer disgust? ... Probably. Sam, you're twisting his arm here.

"I'll take both a good shower and some shitty text." Sanji knows he smells of sweat, smoke, and sea, along with whatever bloody scents he picked up in the cave.

"So long as we got a starting point, I won't complain." All things considered, this is a pretty optimistic sign, and it shows in his lightening expression.

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He gives Sanji a supportive and confident smile.

"If there's anyone who can figure it out, it's us. We'll get it done."

And if you need any more inspiration for how dependable the Winchesters are, here's Dean, about twenty minutes later, throwing a concerningly greasy bag down on the table in front of Sanji. He's practically rubbing his hands together as he pulls out some taquitos and some salsa.

"Bon appetite, from your grubby land-lover."

And yes, he did say that like a generic pirate.

And yes, Sam is holding a corndog and is sniffing it for safety.

You're in the best hands.

[concasse]

.... Right. Well, Sanji knows the first thing he's gonna be doing while stuck in Sam's world - introducing these heathens to real food. He gets about five bites into whatever Dean thinks passes for a burrito before he pushes the rest away (and thankfully Dean is there to polish off the leftovers).

Seriously, he wouldn't feed this to Luffy. How are these two hunters still alive?

That'll be the question of the day for everyday it takes for the trio to reach the bunker, though besides Sanji's obvious disdain for their eating habits, he remains on his best behavior. In that time, enough of their situation is explained for Sanji to paint the bigger picture - that they're as broke as the Straw Hats most days until they plunder an ATM, that Sanji's natural skills at deception might come in handy for hunts (shut up, he's gonna hunt, just try and stop him), and that Dean loves to toe that line between glorious asshole and actual shitheel.

That last part's the hardest to swallow. Sanji recognizes camaraderie born from tough love, but it's a struggle curbing his natural instincts to shove Sam behind him and tell Dean to meet him in the pit whenever tempers run high. Everyone is thankful when they finally reach the Bunker.

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Sam is the most thankful of all.

I mean, who wants to be sandwiched between the personalities of Dean and Sanji?

(Nobody, that's who.)

But they're there in one piece, and that's what matters. The doors are pushed open and the place lights up — it's got an earthly sort of vibe, all hues of creme and brown and leathery textures. Dean does his usual jig down the stairs, eager to get some distance between them to recuperate; even he knows nobody should be stuck in a car too long together.

Well, him and Sam are rare exceptions, but they fight plenty after being together too long, too.

"I call dibs on the shower," he says.

"There's more than one, you know," Sam huffs, but Dean's already tossing his jacket off into the chair before vanishing. Sam's admittedly glad for the space — he's pretty sure Dean was getting antsy, not because of the drive, but because —

"Check for cases while I'm gone, huh?" Dean hollers, gone down the hall.

Sam's bruised and sore shoulders sag, and he sighs.

Yeah, the thirst for hunting. It's bad, real bad. He turns to Sanji with a smile.

"Make yourself at home. We've got tons of rooms to pick from."

[concasse]

Sanji has no rights to complain about his newest living quarters, he's already raking up quite a tab on Sam's goodwill, though the earthiness of the bunker is... uncomfortable. Mostly warm colors, opposite of the cool hues he associates with the oceans. He takes a few tentative steps inside and pretends his sea legs aren't being cut out from underneath him.

"I'll pick later. Where's your fridge?"

Given what he could say, or the look he could shoot at Dean's retreating form, Sanji is being exceptionally kind right now. Let's talk about something nice and easy, that will end with light banter instead of knowing glances.

Let him be a chef for a while. A role he can still proudly claim as his own.

[collegedropout]

"... The fridge."

He stares at Sanji for a moment, and — oh, jesus.

"... Just that way. But I, um, don't think you should look."

Unless you want a heart attack.

[concasse]

"Tch, you got a dead body in there?"

He says as he very purposefully keeps his stride until he's standing in front of the fridge in question, hand resting on the handle. He looks over at Sam with an eyebrow cocked high.

[collegedropout]

"Not this week, no."

He's kidding! Or is he? Look, sometimes they have weird shit in the fridge.

Now is not the weird shit — just concerningly old and expired shit.

When Sanji looks at him, he just smiles. Wince-smiles, really.

"I promise it's nothing that'll kill you."

[concasse]

Given everything he knows about the hunters, Sanji thinks that last statement is debatable. Indeed, he squints like he does expect to find a corpse folded between the cheese and milk when he opens the fridge door.






... He closes it five seconds later, swinging his horrified expression in Sam's direction.

"Oi oi! How do neither of you have food poisoning yet?!"

The fuck was that. The fuck.

The fuck.

"The shitty mold's rainbow-colored!"

1/3

[collegedropout]

"... Oh, come on, it can't be that bad."

[collegedropout]

He opens the fridge, with some level of confidence.

...

He slowly closes it.

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"... Alright. Maybe it's not the most sanitary place in the bunker."

Where'd that confidence go.

[concasse]

"We're going shopping."

Hear that, Sam? It's a tone that books no argument and doesn't care how tired you are. His arms fold in agitated defiance.

"I don't care how we get the money or where, but I'm not cooking with any of that shit in there. We might as well invest in real food."

[collegedropout]

Sam is quick to put up his hands, eyebrows matching the motion.

"Got it, read you loud and clear. Shopping it is."

He gives a pause.

"I mean, we don't technically get our money legally, but you don't mind that, right?"

You're a pirate, c'mon.

/COMES THE FUCK OUTTA NOWHERE

[concasse]

"So long as they're not already dirt poor."

A pirate with morals, it turns out, though Sanji doesn't look particularly fussed either way. He's already making strides towards the bunker's front doors and glancing behind to make sure Sam follows.

... Honestly, he wouldn't mind some time with the two of them. To... well, maybe not talk about the bigger picture still suffocating them, but there's no denying Sam is the brother better equipped to handle Sanji at his most heated. Even without his power set, the pirate doesn't feel in the mood to murder his friend's only family.