han_solo | (no subject)

"Just what I wanted to hear," Dean grumbles. "You shoot me in the back, I'm shootin' you right back."

"Because between the two of us, I'm the one who's been untrustworthy so far," Rachel grumbles right back, glaring.

She inspects the shotgun in her hands.

For a long time.

She has yet to actually prime it. Probably because it isn't the same process as on her tiny six-shooter.

Several steps down the track, Dean turns -- and glares.

"Please tell me you know how to use that thing."

Rachel lifts her gaze from the shotgun to just look at him for a few moments. "Point-and-shoot. Beyond that, no. How do you cock it?"

"God, we do not have time for this. Give it here. You use this --" he hands her his pistol.

Sighing, Rachel rolls her eyes and trades him, already making a mental note to wear her shoulder holster everywhere from now on.

The pistol, at least, she cocks and holds like a pro.

"Go."

They go.

The track is narrow and twisty, obviously not well-used even before the apocalypse; it leads to a house that looks perfectly normal, not even unusual compared to every other deserted house they've seen.

Except that those houses didn't have fresh trails leading straight to them. Rachel bites back another shiver, rolling her shoulders to adjust the jacket without letting go of the gun, and glances back behind them. This is Dean's show and she's asked all the questions she's willing to ask at this point.

...until he does something stupid, anyway.

The house seems quiet. They're very quiet too, approaching it. At least, up until Dean tries the door, and it won't open. He tries again, glances back at Rachel, and shrugs.

SHOULDERING IT IN NOW.

That totally works better than using the rusty knob anyway.

...hey, rust.

"Kick it."

"Too late."

The door's swinging open after only a couple of thuds.

Dean frowns at it.

"... it's bolted from the inside."

Rachel lifts a brow right back, glancing back - she'd been facing away from Dean, scanning the woods around the house.

"To keep something out or in?"

Dean drops the broken bolt in the dust, stirring more up when he steps cautiously inside the house.

"Good question."

It looks like a fairly standard country living room; floral covers on the couches, a TV piled thick with dust, a handful of magazines.

And a knife on the floor.

The same one the spirit had been carrying.

Frowning, Rachel steps inside after him, lowering the gun - but keeping both hands on it. She moves around Dean to look around a bit more, kicking the knife gently to the side with the flat of her sandal. The TV and the magazines get a glance, the latter more than the former. Vogue, Elle... good choices.

Though the year on them is 1989.

This does not help her frown, really. But it gives her more of a reason to look around, peeking into the bedroom.

Not much there. A double bed with a lump in the middle, some quilted floral covers, a nightstand with a frilly wrap, some cute brass lamps.

Yeah, but... lump?

Eyes narrowing, Rachel steps further into the room. She uses the nose of the gun to nudge the lump a few times.

It's unpleasantly squishy.

In the main room, Dean stubs his toe on a decorative trunk and swears loudly.

He gets a glance back but she doesn't lower the gun, or turn around.

"You all right?" Rachel calls.

...yeah, that's the best he's getting. She's got a squishy thing to investigate, holding the gun steady with her right hand and reaching for the blanket with her left.

"Fuck. Yeah. Found some bones."

So did Rachel.

Well, there's bones in there, anyway. The flesh around them has mostly kind of liquified and putrefied.

"Augh, god-"

Liquified, putrefied bones do not smell good. Dean's jacket sleeve is totally being used to cover her nose right now, even while she keeps the gun trained. "Yeah, me too. One of these has to be the right ones, right?"

Dean has one arm pressed across his nose too.

"Not mine. 's male."

Rachel groans, mouth open to breath and practically tasting it. But she looks a little more closely, just for his comment. "...mine's a girl," she reports after a moment, then tilts her head, brows lifting. "Or a cross-dresser. Lingerie."

Dean groans. "So we got a dead man and woman. Chick's spirit out on the road. Guy's on his back in the kitchen, chick's in bed... suicide? Murder-suicide?"

People are so freaking predictable sometimes.

"I can't tell, she's practically liquid. Some stains on the sheets... could be blood, could just be body-fluid from decomposition." Rachel shakes her head and turns away, looking out the bedroom door to look for Dean. "Who cares? This is her, right? So we salt and burn it?"

"Yep. Both of them," Dean says. "... long as they've got salt in the kitchen. Uh ... the guy's kinda ... oozy. I'm thinking we just burn the whole damn house, easier'n carrying them out."