Rating: PG - Gen
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Dean fondly recollects the Winchester arsenal as a phlegmy zombie loots the Impala's trunk.
Dean leaned back and felt the old oak’s trunk take three rounds on its opposite side.
Holding his arms up to make himself less of a target, he watched in annoyance when Sam eased out from behind another tree of equally substantial size. He knew that hand cannon his brother preferred only had half a magazine left and this party wasn’t going to be ending anytime soon.
Sammy had never been any good at waiting.
Dean turned his face to avoid being blinded by the multiple discharges flashing a few feet from his face. Ears ringing, he frowned as the clip ran out and ended with a dry click. Now Sam was going to need to take the last spare they had. Feeling the weight of the sole remaining clip in his jean pocket, Dean knew his brother would burn through those too in no time flat before they even got the thing cornered—
All Dean could see was that Sam’s attention was no longer concentrated on the heavily armed problem. With a hand jerked protectively over his eyes, Sam had instinctively shifted backwards to his cover but he’d unknowingly left about one quarter of his body wide open. Dean wasn’t sure what had hit him but it wasn’t a bullet. Deciding he’d figure out that part later, he slid sideways and squeezed out an even spread of return fire as he passed between trees. There wasn’t room for two so he shoved his brother two steps over to the next tree and took his place.
Settling against the soft rotting bark, Dean raised the muzzle and waited.
“What the hell was that?”
Sam rubbed the inside of his jacket sleeve vigorously over his face. His incredulity was only equaled by his outraged disgust.
Dean did a quick glance around his new tree to see the objective was standing right where he’d left it. He looked back his brother who was coughing and pouring the contents of his flask over his face like there was a fire. Dean sighed as their only holy water ended in a trickle before the container was angrily tossed aside. He made a face when the stink of the insalubrious assault wafted over in his direction. With a renewed appreciation for what Sam had been vilely coated with, he couldn’t entirely blame the guy for the expenditure.
It would have been nice if dad might have left something in the notes about that nauseatingly unprecedented detail. It also would have been great to get the memo about the thing’s apparent ability to work a firearm. That was supposed to be one of the perks of their particular occupation. Not many things they went looking for knew how to load a gun. Most of the time the very material of the artillery itself made the weapons inaccessible to the decomposing grip of the flip side.
Another blast splintered the wood next to Dean’s head.
He had always privately thought the laws of paranormal chemistry were a cosmic helping hand that leveled the playing field a little. High-velocity projectiles stopped living flesh such as his with a quick efficiency that didn’t require the hassle and energy of black magic. The tribulations they had to deal with were troublesome enough without the additional thrill of dodging stray shots from a reanimated human carcass.
“That bastard’s got my Smith & Wesson.” Dean muttered.
Lurching around a swamp and eating road kill didn’t really leave the undead with a penchant for fine gun ownership but it hadn’t stopped the fucker from being resourceful.
“That’s my cleanest, newest and unslimed Smith & Wesson—“
Dean was interrupted by the muffled sound of dry heaves.
Sam had ripped off the contaminated jacket all together and was looking a tad pale. Even in the obscured shine of the headlights Dean could see his brother had taken on the green sickly cast of a glow in the dark sticker. Leaning down unsteadily with his hands on his knees, he was doing some spitting himself. From the smell of whatever the hell that thing had sprayed, Dean got ready to cover both their asses while Sam took a few moments to decide whether or not to vomit. If they weren’t already wading in a bog that smelled like raw putrefied animal matter he would have backed up to protect his boots.
“This could have all been easily avoided.” Dean told him.
“I-I didn’t go near the damn trunk.” Sam croaked.
Ever since they had been cut off from their supply of weaponry, Dean had been comforting himself with his own lack of vigilance the best way he knew how. With a constant barrage of blame that was so firmly delivered that he was starting to believe it himself, he transferred the guilt for stupidly leaving their car unlocked. However, despite Dean’s unjustified rain of culpability, Sam wasn’t completely innocent in the moronic mistake. He could have had the common sense to notice that Dean hadn’t noticed.
The car squeaked on its shocks as the lumbering stiff began to peruse what else the arsenal had to offer.
Sam had the presence of mind to flatten himself back up against the tree when the explosive impact of a shotgun shells started lighting up the night. When those ran out the attack continued with some inventory that Dean had forgotten was even back there. Beretta 92. Browning. Walther P38. Taurus Millennium. Springfield. Glock. It was like being at a backwoods carnival gun show without the hot chick in a neon bikini trying to hawk pistol grease.
The corpse had swapped armaments.
Dean smiled fondly as the tree shuddered with a steady bombardment from a series of long heavy trigger pulls. The sound of the Ruger Redhawk was like hearing a long lost favorite on the radio. That useless paper weight really brought Dean back to the good old days. His grin went from nostalgic to smug when the faulty barrel made its predictably sad and decrepit failure to lock. As glorious as the crossbones etching was on the mother of pearl handle, he’d had better luck inflicting damage by hurling the son of a bitch like a rock.
He had to admit that even he was prone to making vanity purchases from time to time.
Dean rolled out from hiding and unloaded a full magazine right into the bullseye of the chest cavity. It felt pretty good but to his disappointment all it seemed to do was make the freak stumble backwards in confusion. So much for the ‘shooting shit up with pentagrams’ theory. They’d spent an entire night carving up perfectly good ammunition too. Next time he’d just cut to the chase and go for the head. In his experience the undead could still function surprisingly well while faceless but it did slow them down a bit.
With a howl of rage from a wet throat full of decayed vocal chords, the faulty revolver was discarded to the ground. There was a pause as they waited for the volley of gunfire to proceed. Instead of another frenzied hail of molten lead they heard something else.
Dean pushed Sam hard back into place.
“Dean.” He moaned. “That’s my stuff.”
They both listened to the telltale jingle of zippers as the noisy nylon duffel was handled. Sam stifled some panicked distress as the phlegm hacking cadaver groped through his most personal possessions. They could replace any underwear that the thing was busy blowing its nose into but not everything in there was laundry. When the precious electronics started making small splashes down into the ankle high swamp sludge Dean had to haul his brother back one more time.
“You wanna die for a couple of hard to find ringtones?”
Sam might not have been a man of tolerance but he responded well to succinct and dramatically phrased reason.
Another much louder cascade of numerous splashes caught their attention.
“Those were your tapes.”
“It’s fine.” Dean clenched his jaw. “Just copies. A few mixes. No big deal.“
A large object shattered into pieces against a nearby mossy stump.
“Was that the tape deck?” Sam asked.
“Got it at Wal-Mart.” Dean forced a shrug. “Nothing a third world sweat shop can’t replace—“
Something flipped through the air between them and stuck upright in the mud like a gleaming arrow. Sam had the audacity to assume a tone of introspection.
“Guess you only really need one windshield wiper.”
Sliding in the last clip, Dean rolled off the opposite side of the tree and took the eyeless corpse by whatever surprise there was to be had. Its head started to disintegrate almost immediately but it was still coming at him with nothing but a jaw bone hanging off its spine. His weapon spent, he braced himself for how hand to hand with a gangrenous bag of moving meat was going to feel. Before he had time to ponder the ramifications of his plunge, two solid blasts came from right over his shoulder. Flinging himself down onto the ground he watched the impacts annihilate what was left of the sagging cave of the body's chest. The gray outstretched arms stilled and it dropped ungracefully to its bony knees before crumbling into the muck beside him.
Dean wiped the cold splatter of flesh off his face and started breathing again.
Standing up didn’t hurt too badly. Working an elbow, he stepped over the dearly departed and headed towards the car. He was amazed but extremely relieved to see that the immaculate paint job didn’t sport one single bullet hole. At least it had been immaculate when he woken up that morning. It wasn’t the wisest move on his part to spend all their money on a new coat of black one week before driving up to the hubcaps into a gross swamp. To his unending self defense, his truly was a life that didn’t always allow the luxury of foresight.
He looked back tiredly at his brother who supposedly hadn’t had a single round left.
“Thought you were out.”
Sam managed a real smile although he still looked like he’d rather be puking. He held up a comically sized but shiny .32 automatic that fit neatly into the palm of his hand.
“Keep this one in my pants.”
Dean had said before and he’d say it again.
The Winchesters just couldn’t own nice things.