SpN: Maple Town
3/21/10 11:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Maple Town
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam, Dean (Sam/Dean inferred)
Rating: PG-13 for violent images
Word Count: 1484
Summary: "Is it just me, or is this the most inept werewolf ever?"
Notes/Warnings: as above, violent images
The werewolf, because that's what it had to be, had pretty much cleared the neighborhood of pets that tended to stray. Looking through newspaper articles, they tracked its progress. It'd started out eating through the neighborhood garbage cans, which threw them off—but when it worked its way through the Labs and Pomeranians, they knew it was something that ate a *lot*, and liked to do it by the light of a full moon. Seeing as there were few demons or monsters restricted to acting out under a full moon, no matter what movies and thrillers said, it had to be a werewolf and not just cranky bears.
By the time they were reached New Jersey, they were reading reports of people being chased variously by bears, hairy axe murderers, or giant rabid dogs. The last article Sam found was a soft piece claiming that a small housing area outside of an army base was ground zero for a series of 'weird animal stories'.
"Is it just me, or is this the most inept werewolf ever?" Sam shuffled through the pile of articles on the seat between them.
"Yeah, it does seem kind of…klutzy. Here's the town." Dean aimed the Impala onto an off ramp. "Next stop, Maple Town," he called out cheerfully. Sam snorted.
They were driving through a depressed looking suburban neighborhood, lit by yellowish street lights and a big silvery full moon. "I think that's it," Sam said, and Dean slowed. Sam smoothed a crumbled sheet of paper covered with notes and a scrawled address against his thigh. "I think—yep. The beige house with brown shutters." An overturned tricycle lay in the front yard, and a late model Volvo was parked in the driveway. "-- 607 South Maple Street. Pull over."
"Maple Town, Maple Street…boy, they gave this one a lot of thought." Dean snorted. The Impala stopped at the curb and they climbed out, went to the trunk. "Shotgun?" Dean asked, and juggled a couple of shells in his hand. "One good shot to the head and we don’t have to worry about separating head from the corpse."
Sam shrugged. "I'm thinking the colt, silver bullets—maybe a silver knife to be on the safe side. Less noise too, look how damn close these houses are. Axe to take the head off."
Dean looked around the scene and sneered. "This is the suburbs, dude. You can shoot off guns all night and no one's going to believe anyone's shooting up anything in their neighborhood." He unearthed a small rosewood box of silver bullets, loaded the colt and went to hand it to Sam. He shook his head and unlatched an axe from the trunk rack; Dean stuck the gun in his waistband. "Okay, we're loaded." Sam tossed a quick smile at Dean and they walked casually up the front walk and just as casually looked around. Every window in every house was dark, or the blinds drawn. No one was looking. They could have danced naked up the walk and no one would have seen. Dean said as much and Sam told him to shut up and concentrate.
"On what, walking? Okay, okay…"
They were at the front door, and of course, as in any good slasher flick, it creaked ominously and swung wide at Sam's touch.
It was quiet inside. No TV, no player, no sound at all and in a suburban home filled with electronics that was an oddity. It was pitch black inside. No lights on anywhere. The street light outside provided just enough light for Dean to feel about for a lamp—he turned the switch on the lamp he found and they both jumped a little when it worked. Dean grinned at Sam and got an eye-roll in return.
They did a quick check of the lower floor—nothing odd until they reached the kitchen. The freezer was open and packages of frozen meat were beginning to defrost on the floor. They all looked a little worse for the wear, gnawed at, the packaging ripped open.
"Hunh," Sam said. "That's…weird."
"Yeah. What the hell." Dean kicked a package and it skidded across the bright vinyl floor and through a puddle of milk. The empty, overturned carton lay on its side.
They carefully made their way to the stairs. Foot on the first tread, Dean stopped abruptly and sniffed. "Oh damn it. Smell that?"
Sam nodded. The stink wasn't a big surprise. They'd been expecting it since the door swung open….
The last tread before the second-floor landing squelched and they felt a slight sucking sensation when they took a step. Dean looked down and cursed. Blood oozed up, thick and black, from the plush pile carpet. "That's not good."
"You think?" Sam muttered. The lower three feet of hallway walls were painted in blood. The bedroom doors were open, the locks looked broken.
In the first bedroom, what might have been two people were on the bedroom floor. The smell was overpowering—not just blood and shit but a thick odor a little like concentrated wet dog. At first glance, it appeared as though severed body parts were everywhere--blood *was* everywhere. The victims had been dragged from bed, the bed linens were shredded and half on the floor. On the dresser sat a glass of water, a hand and a picture of a happy family, mother, father, little girl…on the carpet, in the blood, was the shredded remains of a tiny night gown.
"Fuck. I hate this kind of shit so much. I fucking hate when kids are involved."
Sam nodded. "Let's check the other bedroom. Maybe…"
Dean sighed, "Yeah, maybe."
Blood trailed down the hallway in a wide swath, past an open empty bathroom, and puddled at another bedroom door. Inside, the room was a little less bloody. There were more parts on the floor, mostly scraps of skin…some hair…and neon bright barrettes.
"Mother fuck," Dean cursed, but without heat. He'd expected it. "Sam, where next? Basement, garage...God, it stinks in here—" Sam's hand closed over his upper arm, bit in painfully. "What?"
There was a black shadow in the corner of the room. Behind its head, huge bloody handprints almost obscured a border of dancing bears in pink tutus.
"There it is."
It tried to squeeze itself further back into the corner—made a noise like a garbage disposal breaking down and threw up a foot.
"Fuck!" Dean and Sam jumped back, and Sam wiped a hand furiously over his mouth. "Shit."
The thing in the corner rolled it's eyes at them and whined. It was lumpish, not much bigger than Sam and covered with coarse brindle fur. It whined louder, hunched forward and swept a long arm back and forth across the floor.
"Oh, yug, it wants to eat the foot again!" Dean yelped, dancing back away from the questing claws, knocking into Sam and throwing them both against the wall behind them.
Dean was pressed against Sam, and Sam's nose was a throbbing painful knot pressed to the back of Dean's head…"Smooth. You almost broke my nose..."
"Shut up."
The arm moved, the hairy lump with teeth and eyes and fangs let out a noise that sounded horribly like a baby's cry. It found what it wanted—a worn powder blue teddy bear. It swept the stuffed animal to its chest and whimpered, ropes of drool wetting the plush.
"No. nonono…" Dean pushed back harder, tried to climb the wall, unmindful of Sam behind him.
"Dean—*stop*."
The werewolf shifted, stood on its hind legs and moaned. It cradled the bear to it, and black greasy tears ran down its cheeks. Its lips writhed back from its teeth and it growled/whimpered, "Shorreeee…"
Sam reached around Dean and pulled the gun free of his waistband. Held it out. "Shoot, Dean. Now. Shoot."
"I—wait—shit. The little girl."
Sam whispered in his ear, a harsh explosion of breath. "Is dead. She's as good as dead Dean. Do it."
He nodded, "Okay." This one was his. Had to be. "Go on. Get out."
"No." Sam wrapped an arm around his waist, and they shared the tension as Dean aimed, and the kick as the gun went off.
Its head blew into a ragged shower of brain and bone and blood, hit the wall with a wet thump, and it slid down, and Sam's grip didn’t loosen as he pulled Dean back, whirled him into the hallway and slammed the door shut.
Strawberry Shortcake fell off the hook on the door and dropped soundlessly on the rug.
Five miles out of town, Dean finally stopped shaking enough to bully Sam into letting him take the wheel back. A mile after that they pulled over, Dean laid his head in Sam's lap. Sam's hand covered him from temple to jaw. He stroked lightly, calming, soothing. They stayed parked on the roadside, talking, until the sun rose.
3-17-2008
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam, Dean (Sam/Dean inferred)
Rating: PG-13 for violent images
Word Count: 1484
Summary: "Is it just me, or is this the most inept werewolf ever?"
Notes/Warnings: as above, violent images
The werewolf, because that's what it had to be, had pretty much cleared the neighborhood of pets that tended to stray. Looking through newspaper articles, they tracked its progress. It'd started out eating through the neighborhood garbage cans, which threw them off—but when it worked its way through the Labs and Pomeranians, they knew it was something that ate a *lot*, and liked to do it by the light of a full moon. Seeing as there were few demons or monsters restricted to acting out under a full moon, no matter what movies and thrillers said, it had to be a werewolf and not just cranky bears.
By the time they were reached New Jersey, they were reading reports of people being chased variously by bears, hairy axe murderers, or giant rabid dogs. The last article Sam found was a soft piece claiming that a small housing area outside of an army base was ground zero for a series of 'weird animal stories'.
"Is it just me, or is this the most inept werewolf ever?" Sam shuffled through the pile of articles on the seat between them.
"Yeah, it does seem kind of…klutzy. Here's the town." Dean aimed the Impala onto an off ramp. "Next stop, Maple Town," he called out cheerfully. Sam snorted.
They were driving through a depressed looking suburban neighborhood, lit by yellowish street lights and a big silvery full moon. "I think that's it," Sam said, and Dean slowed. Sam smoothed a crumbled sheet of paper covered with notes and a scrawled address against his thigh. "I think—yep. The beige house with brown shutters." An overturned tricycle lay in the front yard, and a late model Volvo was parked in the driveway. "-- 607 South Maple Street. Pull over."
"Maple Town, Maple Street…boy, they gave this one a lot of thought." Dean snorted. The Impala stopped at the curb and they climbed out, went to the trunk. "Shotgun?" Dean asked, and juggled a couple of shells in his hand. "One good shot to the head and we don’t have to worry about separating head from the corpse."
Sam shrugged. "I'm thinking the colt, silver bullets—maybe a silver knife to be on the safe side. Less noise too, look how damn close these houses are. Axe to take the head off."
Dean looked around the scene and sneered. "This is the suburbs, dude. You can shoot off guns all night and no one's going to believe anyone's shooting up anything in their neighborhood." He unearthed a small rosewood box of silver bullets, loaded the colt and went to hand it to Sam. He shook his head and unlatched an axe from the trunk rack; Dean stuck the gun in his waistband. "Okay, we're loaded." Sam tossed a quick smile at Dean and they walked casually up the front walk and just as casually looked around. Every window in every house was dark, or the blinds drawn. No one was looking. They could have danced naked up the walk and no one would have seen. Dean said as much and Sam told him to shut up and concentrate.
"On what, walking? Okay, okay…"
They were at the front door, and of course, as in any good slasher flick, it creaked ominously and swung wide at Sam's touch.
It was quiet inside. No TV, no player, no sound at all and in a suburban home filled with electronics that was an oddity. It was pitch black inside. No lights on anywhere. The street light outside provided just enough light for Dean to feel about for a lamp—he turned the switch on the lamp he found and they both jumped a little when it worked. Dean grinned at Sam and got an eye-roll in return.
They did a quick check of the lower floor—nothing odd until they reached the kitchen. The freezer was open and packages of frozen meat were beginning to defrost on the floor. They all looked a little worse for the wear, gnawed at, the packaging ripped open.
"Hunh," Sam said. "That's…weird."
"Yeah. What the hell." Dean kicked a package and it skidded across the bright vinyl floor and through a puddle of milk. The empty, overturned carton lay on its side.
They carefully made their way to the stairs. Foot on the first tread, Dean stopped abruptly and sniffed. "Oh damn it. Smell that?"
Sam nodded. The stink wasn't a big surprise. They'd been expecting it since the door swung open….
The last tread before the second-floor landing squelched and they felt a slight sucking sensation when they took a step. Dean looked down and cursed. Blood oozed up, thick and black, from the plush pile carpet. "That's not good."
"You think?" Sam muttered. The lower three feet of hallway walls were painted in blood. The bedroom doors were open, the locks looked broken.
In the first bedroom, what might have been two people were on the bedroom floor. The smell was overpowering—not just blood and shit but a thick odor a little like concentrated wet dog. At first glance, it appeared as though severed body parts were everywhere--blood *was* everywhere. The victims had been dragged from bed, the bed linens were shredded and half on the floor. On the dresser sat a glass of water, a hand and a picture of a happy family, mother, father, little girl…on the carpet, in the blood, was the shredded remains of a tiny night gown.
"Fuck. I hate this kind of shit so much. I fucking hate when kids are involved."
Sam nodded. "Let's check the other bedroom. Maybe…"
Dean sighed, "Yeah, maybe."
Blood trailed down the hallway in a wide swath, past an open empty bathroom, and puddled at another bedroom door. Inside, the room was a little less bloody. There were more parts on the floor, mostly scraps of skin…some hair…and neon bright barrettes.
"Mother fuck," Dean cursed, but without heat. He'd expected it. "Sam, where next? Basement, garage...God, it stinks in here—" Sam's hand closed over his upper arm, bit in painfully. "What?"
There was a black shadow in the corner of the room. Behind its head, huge bloody handprints almost obscured a border of dancing bears in pink tutus.
"There it is."
It tried to squeeze itself further back into the corner—made a noise like a garbage disposal breaking down and threw up a foot.
"Fuck!" Dean and Sam jumped back, and Sam wiped a hand furiously over his mouth. "Shit."
The thing in the corner rolled it's eyes at them and whined. It was lumpish, not much bigger than Sam and covered with coarse brindle fur. It whined louder, hunched forward and swept a long arm back and forth across the floor.
"Oh, yug, it wants to eat the foot again!" Dean yelped, dancing back away from the questing claws, knocking into Sam and throwing them both against the wall behind them.
Dean was pressed against Sam, and Sam's nose was a throbbing painful knot pressed to the back of Dean's head…"Smooth. You almost broke my nose..."
"Shut up."
The arm moved, the hairy lump with teeth and eyes and fangs let out a noise that sounded horribly like a baby's cry. It found what it wanted—a worn powder blue teddy bear. It swept the stuffed animal to its chest and whimpered, ropes of drool wetting the plush.
"No. nonono…" Dean pushed back harder, tried to climb the wall, unmindful of Sam behind him.
"Dean—*stop*."
The werewolf shifted, stood on its hind legs and moaned. It cradled the bear to it, and black greasy tears ran down its cheeks. Its lips writhed back from its teeth and it growled/whimpered, "Shorreeee…"
Sam reached around Dean and pulled the gun free of his waistband. Held it out. "Shoot, Dean. Now. Shoot."
"I—wait—shit. The little girl."
Sam whispered in his ear, a harsh explosion of breath. "Is dead. She's as good as dead Dean. Do it."
He nodded, "Okay." This one was his. Had to be. "Go on. Get out."
"No." Sam wrapped an arm around his waist, and they shared the tension as Dean aimed, and the kick as the gun went off.
Its head blew into a ragged shower of brain and bone and blood, hit the wall with a wet thump, and it slid down, and Sam's grip didn’t loosen as he pulled Dean back, whirled him into the hallway and slammed the door shut.
Strawberry Shortcake fell off the hook on the door and dropped soundlessly on the rug.
Five miles out of town, Dean finally stopped shaking enough to bully Sam into letting him take the wheel back. A mile after that they pulled over, Dean laid his head in Sam's lap. Sam's hand covered him from temple to jaw. He stroked lightly, calming, soothing. They stayed parked on the roadside, talking, until the sun rose.
3-17-2008
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(no subject)
3/22/10 09:34 pm (UTC)You have such a way with the apt detail: the rosewood box, the glass of water and a hand, the Strawberry Shortcake,
Wonderful, very gut-thumping little story.
(no subject)
3/23/10 03:01 am (UTC)