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Some things Dean just doesn't believe he has to do. Killing cursed teddy bears is high on this list. So is having to listen to Sam mock him about his recent teddy bear fetish for hours.

College boy's just lucky this is for a case. Otherwise he'd have to walk to the next city.

Dean's still in a shitty mood when he and Sam make it to Milliways.

It shows. Maybe a beer will help.

Sam's buying. Dean is definitely not ponying up this time.

[ooc: Plotlocked today. Sorry!]

[tinytag: Snuggle bear, Snuggleplot]

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Angela shakes her head. "No.

"Did you find anything?"

And, with a nod to the seat opposite his, "Do you mind?"

"Go ahead. I ain't complaining."

He shifts in his seat a little, getting comfortable.

He may also be putting his game face on.

"Pretty much all I found out was what I already knew. Some kinda cursed object thing--salt and burn should take care of it."

God, he really hopes that works. Because otherwise--

It seems like not too many people talk about possessed teddy bears back home. Who knew?

It's a stunner, that.

"And that gets rid of the bear, and breaks the . . . spell? Is that the right word?"

Across the bar, there is a bear with a pic-a-nic basket. (No, not the one who is usually associated with pic-a-nic baskets, a different one.)

He's whistling, cheerfully, as he heads outside.

He doesn't seem to notice Dean and Angela at all.

"That's pretty much . . . . it."

Dean's jaw doesn't drop. That's pretty much because he just manages to catch it.

"So, uh--that thing over there, going out the door--that match the description of what's been screwing with people?"

Angela turns just in time to see the bear vanish out the door.

"I'm going with yes," she says. "Because, you know, what are the odds there are two of them?"

Dean gives her a dirty look.

"Do not jinx us."

He stands up anyway, scanning the bar for Sam. But he doesn't want to let the little pissant bear get away--

"All right. Come on. I'm gonna keep an eye out for Sam, though. Gigantor can come in pretty handy."

Okay, so he brought the shotgun in today. And he's got a little container of lighter fluid in his pocket.

It's best to be prepared, right? Even against--uh--fuzzy little bears.

Christ.

"Oh, um, sure."

She usually spends the chasing the bad guy part of anything safely back in the lab. But, hey, she can adapt.

"You just tell me what to do. I'm happy to be the Bond girl."

There's a split second, and then, because Angela may not have known Dean long but she has figured one or two things out, she adds, "The happily-engaged-to-a-man-I-adore-so-don't-even-think-about-it Bond girl.

"Who's Sam?"

"You don't have the right kind of name, anyway. Pretty sure you're safe."

He smirks, maybe a little half-assed.

"And Sam's my brother."

Now, about that bear--

He doesn't grab Angela's hand, but he does make his way for the back door at a rapid clip.

Here's hoping they don't have to run.

Why would they have to run? It's far too lovely a day to run; they'd miss all the beautiful things around them. Like butterflies and flowers and the way the sunshine hits the grass.

A hundred yards or so from the door, there's a freshly laundered blanket spread out, the mountains rising majestically behind it. A teddy bear sits with a half-unpacked picnic basket and smile.

"Okay, now that is fucking creepy."

It's really making the hackles rise on the back of Dean's neck.

He walks closer, keeping an eye out for any movement from the bear.

But the bear doesn't move. It still doesn't seem to see them, just goes on sitting and looking up at the mountains.

Such a very very beautiful day.

"I think 'fucking creepy' is an understatement, really.

"If I say something seems wrong here, does that . . . I mean, okay, everything seems wrong here, but something seems . . . wrong."

"Yeah. Most cursed shit has some kinda sense of self-preservation."

Well, the spell does, at least.

Which really kinda sucks.

"Oh well. You keep an eye out while I--"

Dean cocks the shotgun and fires it at the seated bear. It doesn't stand a chance.

Edited 2008-06-30 00:13 (UTC)

Angela rubs her ears.

"Sorry, louder than it is in the movies."

She looks over at the no longer quite so idyllic picnic site. Even from here, she can see stuffing blowing in the breeze.

"Guess we better check it out."

Dean gives her a quick sideways glance.

"Yeah, sorry about that."

He doesn't really sound sincere, and is already heading for the remains of the picnic.

And the bear.

One hand's in his pocket, fishing out the lighter fluid. Better to be thorough in this kind of thing, right?

Yes, being thorough is always is good idea. And part of being thorough is not underestimating your opponant. It seems that someone here has.

See, Snuggle is a lot of things. He's cute, and fuzzy, cuddly, soft, sweet and lovable, laundry-scented, and snuggly (of course). But what he's not, really, is stupid, and sitting and waiting for your executioner, well now that would be stupid, wouldn't it?

So while Dean has done an admirable job (really, it's very nicely done) of shooting a decoy bear, Snuggle himself is sneaking up now, because these two?

These two are so. Not. Uplifted.

And that's sad.

Tragic, even.

But fixable.

So very easily fixable.

What the--

Dean almost fumbles the lighter fluid, eyes going really wide for a second.

"Oh, you have got to be shitting m--Angela, look out!"

Great.

Just great.

This is so not his day.

This is really not Angela's thing. She doesn't know how to fight, or shoot a gun. She can spit with deadly accuracy, but she can't really see how that's going to help, here, with a demented little teddy bear, arms outstretched, trying to hug her leg.

Though it turns out, when it's a matter of kick or be uplifted, Angela's not bad at kicking. The bear goes flying a good twenty feet.

"Did we seriously just get faked out by a fucking teddy bear?"

"Looks like."

Dean looks incredibly pissed off.

"Let's never mention that again, okay?"

Then, because Christ Jesus he recognizes that bear now--

"Hey. You! You get your bitch ass back here right now."

He's already reloading the shotgun.

"Do not even make me hunt you down."

Fucking fabric softener. Dean is scarred by daytime TV, man. Scarred.

Just ask Sam.

The bear gets back onto his little stuffed feet.

Looks left.

Looks right.

There's nothing nearby that could properly be called "cover" -- not even a laundry basket.

"I'm just trying to make people happy," he yells, backing away from the angry, not uplifted people.

"That's not a bad thing, is it?"

"Fuck yeah it is."

It is if you've gotta screw with people's minds to do it.

And then stuffing explodes into the air as Dean pumps the little bear full of lead.

Oh yeah.

Fucker deserved it.

It turns out that being shot by an angry man with a shotgun is not at all uplifting.

Even when you're made of stuffing and synthetic (if all new) material, well, it's actually quite painful, being shot, and pain is rarely uplifting.

Snuggle falls to the ground, which is also not uplifting, as bits of stuffing begin to blow away, like an unexpected snow shower falling on early spring grass.

"My. . . . mission . . . Up . . . . up . . . . . upliftment . . . . ."

There's a final exhalation (it smells rather like melon and lotusflower, really) and then Snuggle is still.

He hadn't taken all that long to write the note for Sallie, or so he'd thought, but when Sam had turned around, Dean was gone.

Sam only needed one glance at the table with the basket of fries left there only half-finished to realize that something was wrong.

"Dean?"

By the time he finishes searching through the bar and yelling out the front door for his brother just in case, Sam's more than a little alarmed. When he comes out the door to the lake and sees his brother with a girl and a picnic blanket, worry shifts to being pissed off...

... until he sees the shotgun in Dean's hand and the mangled carcass of the stuffed bear lying on the ground.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Dean whirls, pointing one finger at Sam.

"We are never gonna talk about this again, you hear me? Never."

Then he stomps over to the mangled remains of the bear, squirting it down with lighter fluid.

"Not. Ever."

And then he lights a match, dropping it down onto the fuzzy corpse.

It goes up like a torch.

Awesome.

Edited 2008-06-30 01:42 (UTC)