The Return of the Wild Man of Orford - a fic

[amberdreams]

Title: The Return of the Wild Man of Orford
Author/Artist: amber1960
Beta: dizzojay
Country: England
Type: Fic with art
Characters/Pairing: Gen: Sam, Dean & Bobby, OCs
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set in Season 7, possible spoilers up to episode 7ish
Warnings: None
Summary: Sam is at his wits end. Dean is missing, presumed kidnapped by Leviathans; meanwhile on a pebble beach in Suffolk, England, an ancient legend appears to be reinventing itself.

Additional work/works - PDF download fic with art: URLby amber1960

The Return of the Wild Man of Orford

The only colours were greys and greens, and sometimes blues.

The only sensation was pain and an all-pervading cold.

Early on, he thought perhaps he remembered a time when it wasn’t like this, when there had been other things to see/hear/taste/feel – but those thoughts had become too difficult to hold onto, they slipped through his mind just like the water surrounding him slid through his clumsy fingers when he reached out to grasp it, and after a while he had stopped trying.  A little more time passed (or a lot of time, he had no way of knowing), and he stopped thinking altogether.

So the end, when it came, wasn’t surprising, or shocking, as he had lost the ability to feel any of those things.  When the sea chewed him up and spat him out, and he could feel the touch of the breeze on his skin, and hear the slow sough of the waves on shingle, the plaintive cries of the gulls, and smell earth instead of salt, he didn’t know what to do with the flood of sensations he no longer had names for.

So he did nothing.

He waited.

Waited for the tide to rise and swallow him again.

It was Bessie who found the new Wild Man. On one of her explorations of the endlessly exciting beach, that in the past had turned up such treasures as a sardine tin with a whole smelly sardine still wedged into one rusty corner; a tennis ball that had not been in the sea long enough to rot the lovely yellow fur coating that was so satisfying to tear off, piece by piece; and once, most notably as far as Bessie was concerned anyway, a tangled heap of beautifully smelly seaweed that had concealed a dead rabbit.  Sometimes Bessie got the impression that her partner, Arthur Webb, was less than impressed with her wonderful finds, but she couldn’t let his lack of enthusiasm dim her joy at each and every one, or shake her desire to share them all with him.

This find was no exception, so once she had sniffed and licked and generally slobbered all over it, she wasted no time in letting Arthur know of her latest thrilling discovery.  She alternated between running back and forth, wagging her tail like a flag and barking, until her persistence paid off and Arthur eventually strolled over to inspect her prize.

The aftermath was a sudden flurry of shouting and frenetic activity and a sad neglect of Bessie, which left the collie somewhat crestfallen, until she discovered a rather large piece of driftwood, which she carried proudly for the rest of the (somewhat confusing) day.

A naked unconscious man was last thing old Arthur Webb had expected to find on the beach at Orford Ness when he went over to investigate his exhaustingly energetic collie’s antics.  Arthur knew the Wild Man legend, of course.  It was a staple story regaled for the tourists, along with the scandalous tales about the wicked Hugh Bigod.  The ancient town of Orford, Suffolk, was a hotbed of fascinating anecdotes and scandal; it was a shame none of them were more recent than the late 1500s. 

The original Wild Man story was ancient, from 1170 or thereabouts, right after King Henry II finished building Orford Castle. Fishermen found a man caught up in their nets, naked and hairy and unable to speak.  It being the bad old days, the local lord had ‘questioned’ the stranger, ended up flogging him when he wouldn’t talk.  Eventually the Wild Man had escaped, swum away back into the cold North Sea, never to be seen again.

Familiar though Arthur was with the tale of the Orford Wild Man, he had no reason to anticipate becoming the prime source for a modern version when he set out on his usual early morning stroll along the steeply sloped shingle of the Ness that day. 

When he caught up with his excited dog, he recoiled in shock.  Instead of the bundle of driftwood and old rope he had been expecting, there lay a naked sprawl of long limbs and tangled hair, and his brain took a few seconds to click into gear and make sense of what he was seeing.

For one horrible moment, Arthur thought he had a dead body on his hands; the man’s skin was so white, so pallid, so cold to the touch when he had tentatively felt for a pulse.  It was with great relief that Arthur saw the man’s face first twitch, then flinch, as Bessie decided this hairy unkempt creature needed some grooming and set about licking his beard.  Arthur took pity on the stranger and grabbed Bessie’s collar to pull her away after the man tried and failed to raise a hand to save himself from her ministrations.  Arthur suppressed a slightly hysterical laugh at the irony of escaping the embrace of the North Sea only to die from drowning in dog slobber while on dry land. 

It was pretty clear that the man must have been washed ashore, though how he came to be totally naked, Arthur had no idea.  If he’d been fallen overboard from a sailing boat, or perhaps from one of the huge container ships that sailed down this coast to the port of Felixstowe, surely he would still have had clothes on.

“Bit of a mystery man, eh, Bessie?”  He said, and Bessie panted her agreement.

It was hard to get an impression of age under the straggly growth of facial hair, but there were not many lines on his face, and no grey showing in beard or hair, so Arthur thought the stranger was perhaps of a similar age to his eldest son, or probably younger - early thirties rather than early forties like his Frank.  Arthur noticed the man’s eyes had cracked open, so he smiled in reassurance as he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone.  It was a good job his wife Dorothy had insisted he carry one.  She worried he was going to pop his clogs from all the excitement of walking the dog, Arthur supposed. 

It took him a moment to remember how to switch the damn thing on.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get help for you, boy.  Won’t be a jiffy.”

The stranger’s expression never changed from one of vague puzzlement, and his stare never wavered from Arthur’s face while the Suffolk man made his first ever call to the emergency services.  Arthur was becoming quite disconcerted at being the focus of such close attention from the stranger. The young man’s gaze was piercing yet at the same time so blank.  It was as if the boy was trying and failing to understand what he was seeing at the most fundamental level, and Arthur was starting to wonder if the chap was two sandwiches short of a picnic.

Mentally challenged or not, the man was certainly weak as a kitten and although he was tall and must have had some bulk to him, Arthur could feel a kind of sharpness to the man’s edges as he wrapped all that nakedness up in his beige raincoat.  As he folded the stranger in the long coat, he saw a flicker of some nameless emotion in those sea-changeable eyes, as if a memory had snagged on something deep inside the man.  A hand came up and grasped the edge of the coat, and for a second, Arthur thought the man might speak.  Cracked lips parted but then his eyes closed and his shaggy head fell back, leaning heavy on Arthur’s shoulder. 

The odd couple stayed that way, in a pieta-like tableau, Arthur trying not to notice how his old knees were locking up in the long half hour or so it took for the ambulance to arrive, closely followed by a police car.   Both vehicles drove up as close as they could to the wide stretch of shingle, making use of the old disused road that ran along the Ness, a remnant of more dangerous times when this peaceful pebbled beach had been closed off with barbed wire and concrete blocks for use by the military.

Arthur was old enough to remember those times, as well as old enough to get lost in a world of reminiscences, so the stranger’s reaction was a rude awakening from his reverie when the paramedics and the police approached.  On seeing the official uniforms, the stranger chose that moment to earn his new-Wild-Man label.

Suddenly the young man, who had barely been able to lift one hand without collapsing with exhaustion, exploded into a silent whirlwind of near lethal action.  Fortunately for all concerned, his weak and starved condition tempered the impact of his kicks and punches, reducing the damage to a black eye and one sprained wrist on the side of the emergency services, and bruises accompanied by a concussion for the Wild Man, when finally in desperation, one of the policemen whacked that wild hairy head with his truncheon. 

Afterwards the officer (local bobby, Eric Horne aged 42) told the Evening Star reporter that it was the first time he’d ever had to use the weapon in earnest.  “There really isn’t much call for it outside of Lowestoft or Ipswich on a Saturday night,” he explained, a little plaintively.  “And even there I haven’t ever had to actually hit anybody.  Usually just waving it about..,” Eric demonstrated helpfully and the reporter had to hurriedly duck, “Is enough.”

This little martial arts demonstration from their patient caused the paramedics to hold a conference with the two police officers, one of whom was showing a distinct lack of interest in the discussion, his only contribution a continuous series of moans and groans as he applied a chemical ice pack to his face.  The officials didn’t seem to care that the good old Suffolk boy, Arthur Webb, was hanging around, listening in as they debated what to do with the crazy castaway.

“Look, we can’t take him to Ipswich hospital if he’s liable to go berserk like that, we just don’t have the security there to cope with that sort of aggressive behaviour.”  This from Paramedic #1, whom Arthur had already marked down as a shifty-looking blighter.  He now added pompous and cowardly to that assessment.

“But the man is clearly half drowned, and um – concussed –  he needs hospitalisation.” Said Officer Truncheon, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable with the fact that he was responsible for knocking out the Wild Man with said truncheon.  He glanced guiltily to where Paramedic #2, a very competent looking woman, was ministering to the unconscious Wild Man, who was now being wrapped in a couple of foil blankets, replacing Arthur’s trench coat.

“Derek, it would be really nice if you and your friends could stop faffing and go fetch the stretcher before the tide comes in!” The woman paramedic snapped, and Arthur was amused to see Shifty (no Derek) and the two cops jump and look even more guilty.  Or in Derek’s case, even more shifty.

As the three men manhandled the stretcher out of the ambulance, Arthur decided to offer a suggestion to the woman paramedic, who he deemed to be the most sensible person there.

“The Colony has a sick bay, you know, my cousin’s boy is the doctor there,” he pointed out. “Maybe they would be happy to treat him; and you couldn’t get much more secure than a prison, now could you?”

So that was how the modern day Wild Man ended up in HM Prison Hollesley Bay, Suffolk.

Hopefully not to suffer being tied upside down and beaten like his ancient counterpart, Arthur thought that evening, as he filled up Bessie’s bowl with Pedigree Choice Cuts (the one with gravy, because it was Bessie’s favourite).  Because that would be unfortunate, especially as it had been his idea to send the boy there.

Sam grabbed the phone without looking away from his laptop screen, and was talking before the person on the other end had had time to realise he’d picked up the call.

“Bobby!  You got anything?”

He heard the old hunter give an exasperated huff before answering, and Sam knew what Bobby was going to say before the first word reached him across the ether.

“Nothin’, son.  I’m just checking in to make sure you ain’t done nothing stupid.”

Sam almost hung up, but somewhere there was still a faint spark of reason that told him that such an action would be rude, and stupid, and ungrateful, so he didn’t.  He thumbed the button to put the cell onto speaker so he could carry on typing in his latest search parameters.  Although Dean had been missing for weeks, Sam still felt driven by an urgency he couldn’t explain.  As if time was still of the essence, but could run out soon.

He hit return, waited for the search results.

“Bobby, I’m not doing anything stupid.  I’m not going after Dick Roman on my own.”

Bobby humphed again, and even over the tinny cell phone speaker Sam could hear the faint note of disbelief in the old hunter’s tone.

 “Well, if you say so, Sam.  But it’s been four weeks now, don’tcha think we’d have heard something; anything; if there was anything to hear?”

Four weeks ago they hadn’t thought there could be such a thing as a rogue Leviathan, but they were wiser now.  Sam hadn’t told Bobby the source of his information about what had snatched Dean out from under his nose, knowing the old hunter would flip if he knew. 

Sam had emailed the head of Roman Enterprises in desperation, never expecting the Leviathan boss to respond.  Then a day later he’d received a curt reply from the man himself declaring himself totally innocent of any involvement with Dean’s disappearance into the deep waters off the coast of Harker’s Island, NC (no, not Harper’s Island Dean, this is nothing to do with the TV show), and advising Sam “…it was more likely to be a lone Leviathan following its own agenda. There are a few independent types who like to play in this world’s waters, entertaining themselves for personal gratification instead of contributing to the Cause.”  Sam got the feeling from the tone of the message that Dick was not particularly happy with this situation, but even if all the Leviathans loose in the world were eventually brought under the control of the Roman Empire, that wasn’t going to help Sam get his brother back.

“I’m not giving up on him.  If you want to walk away, fine.  But I’m not gonna stop searching until I find my brother.” 

Sam made an effort to unclench his jaw. The ever-present anger and fear made it difficult to focus.

“I’m not walking away, Sam.”  The old man’s voice was softer now, but Sam’s shoulders were still tense.  A tension that wasn’t helped by the mocking looks Lucifer was throwing him from behind the laptop, his very own personal Devil positioned so Sam couldn’t avoid seeing him where he idly leaned against the wall.  Catching Sam looking, Lucifer gave him a cheery conspiratorial wink.  Sam looked away in disgust.  Mostly at himself, for allowing his hallucinations to distract him.  You’d have thought he would have been used to it by now.

“I know, Bobby, I’m sorry. I’m just...,”

“Frustrated?  Yeah, son, I know.  Me too.  But I just don’t want you going after those Leviathans alone, or trying to team up with Crowley’s demons to get to them either.  It’s just too risky.”

“Besides,” Lucifer chimed in, helpfully.  “It’s probably too late for Dean by now anyway, so why sacrifice yourself for that worthless, angst-ridden drunk?”

Sam couldn’t help it.  He roared to his feet and threw the first thing that came to hand with unerring accuracy at Lucifer’s smug smiling face.

“Shut the fuck up!” He yelled, even as the smarmy-faced illusion vanished back into the deepest recesses of Sam’s messed up brain.  The whiskey glass (yes, Sam was channelling his inner Dean) smashed against the blank magnolia motel wall, chipping the paint and splashing rotgut in a way Sam noted absently was bound to stain.

Bobby was shouting at him down the phone as he slumped back into his chair a little shakily.

“Sorry, Bobby, I wasn’t yelling at you...,” he trailed off when he realised how that would sound, but Bobby was quick to pull him back together.

“Lucifer?” the old hunter asked, knowingly.

Sam nodded then remembered he needed to speak.  Bobby’s on the phone, dumbass.

 “Yeah, but I’m fine, really.  I just lost it for a second.  It’s like listening to the worst part of myself, and sometimes I just get so freaking angry.”  He paused, ran a slightly sweaty hand through his hair and sat up straighter. “Any how, he’s gone now.  And I’m fine.”

He broke off again, this time as something on the screen caught his eye.  He must have accidentally clicked on one of the links his search around the route of the North Atlantic Drift had thrown up, because this news item was from England and the  wrong coast at that, so he would normally have passed it over. The story reading like something out of World of the Weird, but it was the rather pixelated photograph accompanying the BBC local news article that had snagged his attention.  He tapped the screen as a sudden excitement ran through him like a raw whiskey burn.

“Bobby, have you seen this news story about a Wild Man in a place called Orford, UK?”

“Nope?  Hang on a minute, I’ll just…,” Sam heard the tell-tale clicking of fingers on a keyboard and then “Holy shit.”

“It’s not just me, then, Bobby?”  Sam couldn’t help the slightly desperate hopefulness that was creeping into his voice.  “That Wild Man photo really does look like Dean?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he really does.”  Bobby was silent for a minute.  “So kid, did you get Frank to make the two of you passports when he gave you your new identities?  Cause it looks like you ‘n’ me are going on a little trip across the pond!”

He woke up in a hospital bed. 

He knew hospitals, that distinctive smell of antiseptic and starch that usually overlaid the fainter yet lingering scent of shit and puke.  Eyes tight shut, he inhaled deeply, let the breath out.  Strangely, this hospital seemed to be free of the latter unpleasant smells.  It also seemed quieter than most hospitals he’d known, so he decided he needed to open his eyes to find out the reason for that.

White walls. White sheets. A pale blue blanket and white painted metal bars on the window. 

Bars on the window.  That was not good.

He tried to sit up but his body was weak.  Lifting his head he could see his right arm was attached to a drip.  He wasn’t restrained in any way, though given how his body was betraying him right now, perhaps that didn’t mean anything, other than he was no threat to anybody because he was more rag doll than man right now.

He had a room to himself, it seemed.  The door was shut and it was so quiet he was getting more and more spooked by the minute, though he didn’t really know why. 

In fact, he didn’t seem to know very much of anything. 

Not even his own name.

There was a white cable snaking down from the wall behind him and the end of it was resting next to his left hand. It terminated in a red button.  He thought about pressing it.  His fingers closed around the cool plastic and he closed his eyes. 

Maybe later.  He’d press it later to see what would happen.

“Hey, Rob!”

He looked around, waved at Tony and carried on filling the bucket with feed.  He was getting used to his new name.  Although he was sure Robert Plant wasn’t his real name, there was something comfortable and familiar about it all the same; something that he liked about it.

It didn’t really matter what they called him, anyway.  He was far more comfortable in the company of the heavy horses of the Suffolk Punch Stud Farm than he was with the people, however nice they were being to him.  Emily was the only person who didn’t try and make him talk, she just showed him what to do around the stables, and only supervised him until she was sure he knew what he was doing, then she’d leave him to get on with it.

He liked Emily.  She reminded him of someone, with her petite figure and long blonde hair, and her feistiness towards the inmates from Hollesley Bay prison who were helping out at the Stud.  He didn’t try and delve too deep to retrieve the memory – he had found that if he tried to remember stuff, before too long he reached a kind of dark, hollow place inside himself that only spoke of hurt and loss, so he’d stopped digging.

Instead, he just kept an eye on Emily, made sure the few nastier guys didn’t give her any trouble.  His body might be weaker than it should be, but he still knew a few tricks and could compensate for any physical frailty if need be.

He didn’t know how long he was going to be allowed to stay here; the authorities at the prison didn’t seem to know what to do with him. He certainly didn’t know what he would do or where he would go when they did eventually throw him out to fend for himself in this strange land.

After two days he had no longer needed the ministrations of the visiting doctor and the prison sick bay, and he had been moved into a single room in one of The Colony’s accommodation blocks.  Technically speaking, he was not actually being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, as no charges had been pressed after the beach incident.  He was free to leave whenever he wanted, but the doctor, allied with the Protestant chaplain, had persuaded the prison Governor to allow him to stay on site for at least a few more days until someone could find out who he was.

He thought he was grateful for that intervention, in spite of feeling nothing but contempt for the poor Chaplain’s mumblings about God’s love, God’s infinite compassion.  He didn’t know why, but he knew as an absolute truth that this God had no love for him.  If he had been able to talk, he would have told the Chaplain that his God had left the building.  That thought had made him smile, as if it was attached to a good memory, or to someone he’d loved.

He might not have any conscious memories, but it would seem he had no defences against unconscious ones.  Guys in neighbouring cells (no, round here they called them rooms, not cells – this was a really weird prison) had complained about the screaming at night, which was one reason he’d been moved to a single room, and was now on a floor that was largely unoccupied.  When they told him about his nightmares, he’d only nodded.  That had felt familiar too.

After a few days at Hollesley Bay, he started to think that he could live with the hollowness inside him.  He could ignore it, and something told him it might be easier than the life he had had before.

Suppress, bury, deny.  There was something familiar about that too.

Emily escorted the two Americans across the yard to Samson’s stall, conscious that she was chattering like a demented starling, but unable to slow herself down.  Firstly because the younger of the two was so damned tall and so ruggedly handsome that looking up at him was giving her palpitations, and secondly because she was increasingly nervous on behalf of Robert.  If these two men were right, Robert – or she should now say Tom Smith as that was apparently his real name - was about to be reunited with his family after weeks of being missing.

As they neared the half-open door of Samson’s stall, they could hear Robert/Tom’s deep voice singing softly. 

If the sun refused to shine,

I would still be loving you.

When mountains crumble to the sea,

There will still be you and me.

Emily waved a hand at the door.

“That’s why we called him Robert Plant, you see?  He’s never spoken a word to anyone, though I think he talks to the horses when there’s no one else around, but he sings Led Zeppelin all the time...,”  She broke off at the look on the tall one (John, the brother)’s face.

Afterwards, she was hard put to say what that expression had been – anguish, hopefulness, relief and caution all rolled into one?  As if he was so used to disappointment he was afraid to believe in happiness.

Biting his lip, John turned to her and to the other man, Bobby Singer (the uncle).

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to do this alone?”  The question was clearly a request for Bobby Singer’s permission, not hers, so Emily stepped back.  She and Bobby stopped where they were, and watched as John Smith opened the lower door of the stable stall and stepped inside.

Sam’s heart was beating hard and he was sweating under his layers as he entered Samson’s stall.  He stood still for a moment just inside the door, allowing his eyes to adjust to the contrast between the bright sunshine outside and the dim light within.  The Suffolk Punch was the first thing he saw, it’s blonde tail swishing idly against its large chestnut haunches, one huge hoof tipped at rest so Sam could see the iron of the shoe.  The giant horse was obviously enjoying the attentions of its groom, who also had his back to the open door, and was busy with the currycomb on Samson’s gleaming flanks.

Then the man stopped singing and turned, some sixth sense warning him of Sam’s silent presence.

For a terrible moment, Sam thought he had been mistaken, and that this man was not his brother.  The groom’s face was too thin, framed with an unkempt reddish beard, his hair shaggy and longer than Dean had ever had it, his frame too angular and gaunt, and his shoulders hunched up as if he was trying not to be noticed.   

Then the man stepped forward into a patch of sunlight, and Sam saw his eyes widen as his gaze moved up from Sam’s boots to take in the whole of Sam’s six foot five frame.  Sam gasped as those oh-so-familiar eyes flashed green and gold in the sun.

“Dean!” He breathed, and simultaneously, his brother’s hoarse voice said “S…s..sammy?”

The currycomb clattered to the floor, closely followed by Dean.  Sam leaped forward and caught his brother before his body hit the concrete, gathering Dean into his arms tighter than he ever would have been allowed if the older Winchester had been awake.  He cradled his brother’s head, cupping a cheek with one large hand, feeling the too-sharp edges of his cheekbones, the loss of muscle mass in the rest of Dean’s body.

“God, Dean, what happened to you?” Sam whispered, brushing the overgrown bangs back from Dean’s pale face.

Sam and Bobby had taken rooms in the Jolly Sailor inn (Dogs, Parrots, Children welcome - Humans by appointment), which was living up to its promise of good food and fine beers.  Emily stayed with them for one drink, then left them alone.  She had said she didn’t want to intrude on a private reunion, but the truth was, she was finding it hard to recognise the awkward quiet man she’d come to care for, in this charming yet brash, clean shaven and disturbingly handsome creature, sitting at ease with a pint glass in his hand.

Dean was a little sad to be dragged away from his horses, especially Samson, but the promise of a real British pub, and the pints of Adnams Broadside lined up in front of him were doing wonders in smoothing the way a little.  That and the hair-cut and shave that had been his first priority after Sam had shown him their accommodation.  With a touching optimism (or perhaps it was confidence), Sam had taken a twin room in readiness for Dean’s return.

“These Brit beers might be warm but they are damned tasty,” Dean declared, and it warmed his heart a little further to see Sam roll his eyes in response.

He sat back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, knocking against Sam’s shins under the table.

“So, are you going to tell me what the hell happened?  How did I get here?”

Sam frowned and his worried look returned.  Bobby just gently bumped his shoulder with a gnarled fist.

“We were kinda hoping you’d be able to answer that one for us, son.”

“What do you remember, Dean?” Sam asked, and Dean momentarily had to fight of an overwhelming sense of suffocating in wash of sea-green and grey and all pervading blackness.  He reached for his beer glass, took a swallow to help regain his composure, hoped neither of them would notice how his hand was trembling.

“Okay. The last thing I remember clearly, until I woke up on the beach here, was that case in North Carolina.  You thought it was a kelpie, or some such.  We were on the shore of that island that wasn’t Harper’s Island, and then something grabbed me.”  He took another swig of beer.  He knew they should be long past lying to each other, but there wasn’t much point trying to describe something he had no words for, now was there?  “I remember the water was freaking cold.  Not much else.”  He looked at Sam across the rim of the glass, trying for wide-eyed innocence and knowing he was fooling nobody.  “So what do you think it was?”

He thought Bobby was going to call his bullshit, but Sam got there first and surprisingly, let him off the hook.

“I had a butt-load of theories at first, but in the end only one made any sense.  It was a rogue leviathan, but we have no clue why it took you, or how it got you to England alive.”

“Well actually, I have a theory about that,” said Bobby.  “We know leviathans can sample human DNA and recreate us.  Well, I reckon this one did something with Dean’s DNA while it had him that meant either it became part of him, or it altered him so he could survive in the ocean.”

Dean couldn’t help the full body shudder that ran through him at that – that fit so perfectly, making sense of all the sensations and memories that haunted him.  Those feelings of being invaded, of losing himself in darkness and cold; in some ways it had been worse than Hell.  His hand automatically reached for the beer again, only to find his glass was empty.

“So I was literally dragged across the Atlantic then what? It got bored and dumped me here?”

“Yeah, well, you can’t blame it for that now can you? I mean I’ve felt like dumping your ass after three weeks of your stupid jokes,” Sam tried with a weak grin, and Dean jumped on the offer of levity with gratitude.

“I’ll have you know that I’m awesome company!”

Sam managed a creditable bitch-face and Dean felt a genuine smile tugging at his lips.  He leaned across the table and snatched a menu out of the wooden holder.

“Hey, do you think they have pie?”

Bobby tugged the brim of his ever-present baseball cap to hide his grin.

“By the way,” Dean added later, as he was tucking into a steak and ale pie (awesome Sammy – pies with MEAT! And then I can have real pie for desert too…),  “You two do know there’s a job here, don’cha?”

Both Sam and Bobby gave him blank looks and Dean grinned his best shit-eating grin through a mouthful of pastry. 

“Yeah, apparently there’s a ghost here at the inn, and, get this!  This Hugh Bigod guy from way back used to be an earl or a duke or something.  Well anyhow, he was a real evil dude, and is supposed to manifest as a Black Dog.  So how’s about we sort his ass out before we go home then, eh?”

Sam looked kind of horrified, while Bobby just chuckled.

“Dean, have you seen the size of our room? If I have to stay here one more night I’ll end up braining myself on that beam by the bed…,”

“But Sammy, it’s aristocracy, I thought you’d love that shit…,”

Bobby looked at the bickering brothers with a deep sense of contentment. This, this was what coming home felt like.

“Idjits.”

FIN

Authors note: The legend of the Wild Man of Orford happened as described, back in the 1170s. A naked hairy man was netted by some fisher men, then taken to Orford Castle where he was tortured, but couldn't or wouldn't speak. Later they allowed his to swim in the river, but he dived under the nets they'd put out to contain him, and swam out to sea. 

Earl Hugh Bigod was a notorious bad boy of the early 12th century, an aristocratic bandit opportunist taking advantage of the civil war and took any chance to grow his personal fortune. After he died, a boy was scared to death by the vision of a monstrous black hound.  Dean would probably enjoy tackling such an ancient ghost.