A/N: No word count this time, folks.
Summary: This is the sequel (kinda) of evil with a small e. Dean likes to smash things with Jerry, his trusty crowbar. Sam's concerned. VERY concerned. I get the feeling this is not the last I've heard from Dean and Jerry. Will continue this and see how far I get.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.
"You named your sawed off too," Sam says hours later.
"What? No. No, I didn't…I…"
"Maybe it was the meds, but you talked nonstop in your sleep. You didn't name your shotgun Angelina?"
"Don't talk about her like that!"
"What? All I said was her name."
"You got that bitchface in your voice. I feel like you're judging me."
"Judging you? Okay. You wanna talk about your feelings, Dean?"
"Hell no, Dr. Phil."
Sam stands there and stares at his brother so intently it starts feeling weird and damned awkward. Dean's still pale, so much so his freckles look like grains of brown sand scattered over a white tablecloth. Breathing's better, but he's still wheezing a little.
Dean bristles when Sam leans down, puts his hand to Dean's forehead. "Quit feelin' me up, you perv. 'm not sick."
"Uh huh. Yeah."
Sam goes back to the kitchen, and within minutes he puts another bowl of chicken noodle soup down on a tray on Dean's lap. Dean's eyeroll is classic, but he picks up the spoon and starts eating.
Sam feels that heaviness in his own chest loosen up, just a bit.
This is better. A hell of a lot better. Dean didn't eat much before. Orange juice, maybe, clear soda with the bubbles stirred out of it. He always seems younger when he's sick, like his guard's down, and that macho man swagger and smartass mask is melted away by the fever in his skin.
Sam plumps the pillows up behind Dean, and that's when he sees Jerry's curved handle poking out from under the blankets.
Sam looks at the crowbar.
Dean stops, wide-eyed, a spoonful of soup in mid-air. The spoon wobbles a little.
"Is it okay if I put Jerry back in the trunk?" Sam says quietly.
Dean blinks. He looks at Sam, and then he looks at Jerry.
"Yeah. I guess."
"Okay." Sam shrugs into his jacket, then walks over and picks Jerry up. "Finish your soup. I'll be right back."
The snow's still piled high outside. No more snow in the forecast, though. It'll be another four days at the most before they can leave. Sam decides to make it another week. By that time Dean will be better, and he'll be climbing the walls, wanting to leave.
Sam puts Jerry in the trunk, almost gently. He doesn't know why.
Bobby answers his phone on the third ring. Good. Sam wants to talk to a live human.
"I mean, Bobby, he thought the damn alarm clock was possessed."
Sam can almost see Bobby shrug over the phone. "You never know, Sam. Maybe it was."
"I'm just saying. Sometimes inanimate objects have bad vibes. I tell you, I've been up to that cabin lots of times and I never saw an alarm clock. I don't even remember one being there. Even if Dean did go psychotic, at least he didn't bash your head in."
Sam chuckles. "Bet Jerry would have liked that."
"He named the crowbar Jerry?"
"Huh. Well, other than that slight lapse from reality, how's your idjit brother?"
"Better. He's got an appetite now. After he killed the clock and the nightstand Dean grinned at me and staggered off to bed. With Jerry."
Sam chuckles too. First laugh he's had in four days, and it feels good.
Chapter 2 is next. Jerry speaks his piece.