Disclaimer:The TV show Supernatural and all characters therein are owned by assorted Americans, not me. This fiction is purely for the enjoyment of readers; no money is being made. All Original Characters remain the property of Catherine D. Stewart and may not be used without the express permission of the authoress.

Summary: The view from the Peanut Gallery…

Rating:'T'/15. Bad words here and there; like the title says, it's Bobby's view point; Set immediately after TALL TALES (Season 2). Note: this story will absolutely no sense whatsoever unless you have seen the episode TALL TALES. Not a smidgeon.


Chapter 1

It took nigh on f'ever t' find me a pen that actually worked. It w' gettin' to the "opening a vein for ink" stage when these ole eyes o'mine finally registered the pencil I'd already looked at twice next to the kettle.

That's the thing 'bout demon hunters y'see, they tend to overcomplicate things – I should know, I am one. Some reckon that's just the American way, y'know – kinda how NASA spent $12 million bucks inventin' a pen a that defied gravity so Armstrong could practice his moon-landin' speechifying while 'e was floatin' in null gee, but the Reds just used pencils.

Anyhoo, dontcha all believe it, 'cause there're hunters all over the danged planet and damn if most of 'em ain't got that thingie – pendant, pensive – nope, penchant, that's it – fer cookin' up elaborate shenanigans. Me, I'm Old School 'n' proud of it – yer finds yer badass 'n' yawl blasts it back t'hell. Simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.

ah know ah sound like some curmudgeonly ole timer – and don't gimme that look neither, 'cause just 'cause ah look like I come straight from Deliverance 'n' I talk like Grandma Moses don't mean I'm an idiot. Like one of our kind once said, "Never mistake the fact that I don't, with the idea that I can't". I talk plain ''cause mah momma allus said that a fella who allus uses multi-syllables when he can use one is a) showin' off, b) hidin' somethin' 'n' c) tryin' to bamboozle yah.

Anyhow, ah got mah pencil, so I wrote down danged John-boy's latest IOU for him on mah balance sheet. Right now he owes me so many favours he's gonna be in hock t'me till 'bout a week past the end o'time.

And yes, ah know John B. Winchester's currently dead as can o' spam, so y'all c'n stop rollin' yuh eyes – yeah, you, little miss at the back there – I can see that. But fer yer info-may-shun kiddies, I also know that John Winchester is in Hell right now 'cause puttin' hisself there is all part of whatever Master Plan he's got cookin' and eventually he'll be back, just like that ole bad penny. Like I said – some of us hunters are just frustrated Drama Queens at heart. Mind it, ahm not ecksackly in the clear – used to love pushin' his Marine buttons by callin' 'im 'Good John'…yah know? John B. Winchester…John B…Johnny B Good???

'On'stly, musikul illiterates the lotta yah…ain't yah ever heard o' rock 'n' roll?

Anyhoos, oh yeah…he owes me a double-whammy a) fer helpin' his boys get that Trickster, 'n' b) fer not banging the pair of them's heads together within the first five minutes. Damn, if ever anythin' proved to me ah was right to avoid repro'in' offspring, havin' to ride corral on two grown men bickerin' like squabblin' two-year-olds definitely did.

Although, alright, ah gotta'dmit I do have a bit o' a soft spot fer them two, much as they drive me crazy, 'n' they did help me a lot roun' mah yard when Dean was puttin' th' Impala back t'gether. They're good boys really, an they've been in each others pockets on the road fer nigh on 2 years – you spend 24/7 in a confined space with the same person – ah mean eatin', livin', sleepin' – that jus' don't sound right even though I jus' mean in the same room 'cause they's brothers – together then yer gonna get friction sometimes.

But ah gotta 'dmit, ah was worried 'bout 'em. See, Tricksters do kill folks – this guy had already whacked 3 in this town alone – but what makes 'em s'hard t'hunt (other th'n th' obvious that they're demi-gods who c'n create shit outta thin air, ah know – what did ah tell you people about bein' a smart-ass?) – is that nine times outta ten their "victims o' choice" deserve everythin' they git 'n' more – to borro' from Dean, they're dicks. Kinda hard to really put yuh heart inta huntin' somethin' you'd prefer t'be rootin' fer.

But thing is, tho' Tricksters can create matter 'n' stuff outta nuthin' they need somethin'...damnit, what's th' word, begins with a t, sim'lar t' that typa orange fruit…tangerine…nope…tan-jee-bull. That's it. Take the Prof – iffen he'd really been as moral as he pretended to be insteada usin' his pozish to seduce young, inexperienced girls who trusted him, then th' Trickster wudda left 'im alone 'cos it w'ldve' had nuthin' to work with, yah see?

Like Dean 'n' Sam, now they used the Trickster as an excuse, but it wudda niver been able t'set 'em at each other's throats if their…what's that stupid p'litical correct idiot word folks use nowadays to avoid sayin' what they actually mean…like 'ethnic cleansin' instead o' genocide and 'insurgents' insteada 'terrorists'…it's on th' tip o' mah tongue…

Oh yeah – issues – whata a word, ah hate even thinking the sappy thing – yeah, the Trickster would niver uh bin able t'set the pair of 'em off at each other's throats if they hadn't already got issues with each other bubbling away in th' first place.

And yep, it worries me. John made a lotta mistakes as a dad, but he was the best dad he knew how to be, 'n' b'lieve me, he was a whole lot betta Dad than many – fer not jus' dumpin' 'his babies on the steps o' the nearest Child Protection office and drivin' off inta the night fer starters. Niver trust a man – or woman – who is willin' t' leave a small child, no matter how good the rationale 'n' reasons they give yah. I know it's been hard, real hard, for both o' them boys since John – well, literally went to Hell – on 'em.

Pertickly fer Dean, 'cos don't let that cocky badass act fool yah, boy's got th' self-esteem o' pancake after it's been steamrollered an' 'n inferiority complex big enough to fit Manhattan in, 'n' yawl c'n guess how much he's beatin' hisself up 'motionally over his pop "sacrificing" himself in a deal with the YED so Dean could live. Trouble is, that boy's too much like Mary.

Don't get me wrong, Sam's a good kid, but he 'n' John never got that th' reason theyall butted heads so much was 'cos they were too much alike, not too different. But Dean's got Mary's personality, which is why John 'n' Sam spent most o' their time fightin' fer his attention 'n' affection like two junkyard dogs over one juicy bone.

What, jus' 'cos ah din' go t'Princeton ah can't spout psychobabble? Trust me, afta a decade o' Oprah, it starts to sink in. 'N' quit yer sniggerin at th' back too – what, yawl think Dean got that nice line in sarcasm and that 'I'm gorgeous 'n' I know it' 'tude from buttoned-down, buttoned-up John Winchester? Dude was a Marine fer cryin' out loud – his idea o' flirtin was t' blink real slow. Trust me, that package, including them twinkly green eyes 'n' that fine facial bone structure that makes so many o' th' fairer sex lose all common sense, is pure Mary – includin' his bein' a short-stop. 'Bout the only thing John gave him apart from exuberant hair is the freckles; now Sam, he's got Mary's pretty blue eyes, but everythin' else includin' his heft 'n' bein' up where the air is rare is Winchester – John's momma's Daddy came in at jus' under seven feet 'n' ah reckon he musta suffered oxygen dep., way up there.

But still, ah did manage t' straighten th' pair o' 'em out in thuh end. Th' instant they admitted thuh aliens – aliens! Gah, don' get me started – made the frat brat slow dance, ah wuz 90 percent sure, 'specially with what the Trickster had targeted – Sam's laptop (darn fangled contraptions, don't hold with 'em personally) 'n' Dean's Impala.

Now, don't get me wrong, it wudda bin typ'cal o'Dean to use Sam's laptop to surf for Internet porn 'n' end up freezin' it on or whatever, but he would niver o' taken it so Sam couldn't find it…a) 'cos he knows the laptop is Sam's "Impala", but b) because first 'n' foremost Dean is a demon hunter – by my reck'nin' one of the best if not the best in the world – 'n' he's no more gonna ixnay a valuable resource like the laptop th'n 'e would dump all th' weaponry from the Impala's trunk down a storm drain 'n' then decide to take on a werewolf pack.

Ditto Sam - sure he did a little rewiring o' the car to play a prank on his big brother when they were tryin' t' get ridda that Tulpa (that's what little brothers do, I wuz allus lookin' fer ways to get one o'er on mah older bro, Cary, 'specially when he started datin') but agin he's a professional and – mostly – acts like it. Fer starters, he'd never deliberately do somethin' that damagin' to th' Impala 'cos he knows how much it means t' Dean, that's why he insisted on fixing the darn hunk o'junk while Dean was still in th' hospital, 'n' second, he'd never do anythin' that might jeopardise their ability to git outta Dodge at a flat second's notice. All hunters, 'n' them boys more'n most, hafta t' be ready to put thah pedal tah thah metal if things go south between one heartbeat 'n' the next. Sam would never put that ability – 'n' by definition Dean's safety – at risk by doin' somethin' as all-get-out stupid as lettin' the air out of all four o' the Impala's tyres.

Thing is, they both shoulda known it too, 'n' the fact that they didn't showed me where ah needed to kick ass 'n' take names. Like ah said, havin' to be Poppa to the Winchester boys should come wi' hazard pay and John-boy is gonna owe me huge foh this. Now, don't be huffin' 'n' puffin', ah know its hard, ah know all 'bout cabin fever. Had it m'sel a time or two, but sometimes yer jus' don' have that luxury. Take John and his friend Daniel Elkins – it was cabin fever that caused their spat – a stupid non-argument about somethin' neither of 'em could remember by the next day, but their durned pride wouldn't let either o' em back down 'n' look where that left 'em – John lightin' his friend's funeral pyre chock full o' remorse 'n' regrets when it was too late to do any good. D'yah really want Sam and Dean tah end up like that?

Didn't think so. Besides, there's more'n them to consider. Somethin big's not jus' comin' it's practically here – y'c'n feel it in thuh air around yer if yer concentrate hard enough and when it comes down to it, they're gonna hafta to step up to the plate, and if necessary, one of 'em's gonna hafta to go on if the other is a battlefield casualty. Now, ah know that sounds harsh – and it is. This ain't no chick flick reality, people. Those that live in the shadows ain't allus the bad guys, and the white hats don't always win and the heroes don't allus survive. There are greater things at stake here than one man, or two men and if there's a great black sucking hole at the heart o' evil then there's a pitiless icy-cold pillar of light at the heart o' good, and in neither case does the 'individual' count for a wooden nickel in the reckonin'.

But, those boys gotta much better chance o' makin it iffen they aren't clogging up their emotional connection 'n' their symbiosis with petty trivia and minor irritations. That's why I set up the plan so they had that humdinger outside Crawford Hall so the Trickster could see – let em get the argument they wuz itchin' for outta their system at the same time as putting that angst to useful effect. Hell, if I'd let the Trickster in on the plan it couldn't have worked better. Like a charm, though ah coulda kicked em both for their lousy timin' – we're hell for leather outta there after Dean staked the sucker and that is the point that Sam decides to go all Bambi eyes and apologise – inarticulately and rambling like a stoned sheep – over the roof of the car for sayin' hurtful things to Dean.

And what does Dean do? He-all reciprocates, ah got the pair of 'em staring at each other with all the coherence of two-year-olds in the middle of a gruesome crime scene with Dean covered in the Tricksters blood and looking like's gone ten rounds with Ali – or at least Elvira Mistress of the Dark and her Evil Twin. Ah cut short the Hallmark moment and we got outta there.

But it did seem to work. They dropped me off at mah truck and then they drove away, a lot more relaxed than when ah got there. All ah c'n do is hope it's enough, 'specially as ah ain't told 'em bout the Trickster. See, Tricksters are well…tricky. When you're a demigod who can create simulacrums of anything outta, well, anything you've got a pretty good chance of endin' up effectively immortal as long as you're smart with it. Now, I stayed in the Winchesters hotel room for a few days afterwards and when ah didn't read a skerrick of anything in the local newspapers, I called by Crawford Hall campus.

Yep, you've guessed it. No horrible murder o' a janitor, no hint of any untoward occurrence at all – save their janitor had to quit his job 'n' leave for Arkansas afta his momma was taken ill. Which told me all ah needed to know – what Dean had managed to kill was a simulacrum of the real Trickster – real 'n' solid but nevertheless a puppet, kinda like a supernatural stunt double the real Trickster conjured up just in case – luckily for it.

That is one creature that won't ever underestimate Dean again, and ah c'n only hope it doesn't go afta 'im. Ah mean, sure Dean (thought he) killed it, but he didn't want to, and the one 'n' only virtue of Tricksters is that by and large (except for odd ones like Loki or Anansi) they don't take things personally – lots of hunters only go after Tricksters if the thing starts actually killing folks, and even then, only 'cos it's in their job description, and a lot of Tricksters are actually on board with that.

Besides, the Trickster probably knows a lot more about what's about to go down in the Big Bad sense than most – scuttlebutt exists in the world of the paranormal too, believe me, and ah'll let you folks in on a little secret – all those rule the world or destroy it types like the YED aren't too popular around there either.

If someone like the YED got control, or managed to blow the planet literally, a whole host of things that depend on humans would themselves be reduced to slavery or extinction. Tricksters for a start; vampires, werewolves, ghosts, poltergeists…and a whole slew o' demon types. Most supernatural entities no more want the YED to win this shootin' match than any sane person would vote for higher taxes and a military junta to run the country.

Well, ah've said mah piece and now ahm gonna shut up. See yah on the road sometime folks, and allus remember…the things in the shadows are nowhere near as scared o' you as you are o' them, so keep your gun-hand ready and allus lay in a good supply of salt and iron – 'n' gratefully accept that pointless solid silver flatware from yer mah-in-law, you never know – she could save yer life.

Bobby Singer

© C. D Stewart, 2007