Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
My first try at Supernatural. Please give it a try.
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"Ow!" Dean Winchester hissed, sucking on the tip of his index finger that had just lost a fight with the ever so sharply edged paper of doom. Sitting propped up against pillows on an unmade bed, he had been flipping through his father's tattered notebook when the edge of a paper mercilessly sliced through the skin of the said finger, tauntingly drawing just a drop of blood. His younger brother sat in a worn out green chair across the room from him, his opened laptop resting on the chair's arm.
"You manage hard blows to the head without as much as a grunt, yet cry out because of a paper cut?" Sam Winchester asked dubiously, his tired gaze briefly flickering from the glowing laptop's screen to his brother.
Dean looked mildly insulted. "Have you ever experienced a paper cut, Sam? It hurts like a bitch."
"So you'd rather get a baseball bat upside the head than a tiny, baby of a paper cut?"
"Hell yeah." Sam shot him a skeptical look, one brow arched appraisingly. "What? You get more sympathy and attention from those cute little nurses in the ER with a head injury than with a paper cut."
The brunette rolled his eyes, lazily scrolling down Google search results on the laptop.
As always, life was going by just ridiculously for the brothers. They had a haunted house mystery to solve without anything to go on. This was proving more difficult than originally thought. Whatever happened to the necessary information easily and coincidentally falling right into their hands? It sucked not to have the right information spoon fed to them.
"Ow—dammit, Sam!" Aggravated, Dean got to his feet, carelessly tossing the notebook onto the bed behind him. "Get your coat, we're making a house call."
Sam closed the laptop, rather gratefully since all the searches came up futile, but didn't move from his seat. "Dean, it's after midnight."
"Yeah, so?" Immune to any reasoning (unless it cruelly involved his brother's infamous puppy dog look) the elder slipped on his leather jacket. His hands went up to the collar, absent-mindedly popping the back of it up. Before Sam could even think about opening his mouth to protest more, he put up a hand. "Like you were really planning on getting any sleep."
Considering the increase of his nightmares that were anything but lollipops and candy canes, the comment was harsh, but Sam brushed it off, nearly unaffected. "Jerk."
"Yeah, yeah, bitch, tell me more about it on the way to the car."
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Needless to say, Dean wasn't in the mood to deal with their usual "playmates." He stalked up the brick pathway to the house, impatiently glaring back at Sam, who purposely lagged behind and watched with an amused smirk, when he reached the stone stairs leading to the porch. Even though he was clad in the leather jacket, a blue and white button down plaid shirt, a white undershirt, and jeans, he shivered when the lightest breeze brushed past him.
"Why is it always the creepy old abandoned houses that are haunted?" Sam mused out loud, peering up at the large house through his long brown fringe, furrowing his brow. His hands were shoved into the deep pockets of his worn out jeans, and his oversized, dark colored hoodie stuck to his lanky form. With a sigh, he followed his brother up the stairs. The porch was littered with garbage, vandalized with graffiti, and the windows were busted. The sharp edges of the broken glass glistened ominously in the moonlight, glaring expectantly at the brothers. Sam shuddered.
"Yeah, it's really lacking that homey feeling, huh?" Up until now, an off white screen door had been left open a few inches, but when Dean leaned forward to grab the thin, white metal knob it slammed shut almost angrily. Dean arched a brow, looking back at Sam. "And hospitality, geesh."
"Guess it's time for the welcoming committee."
"Really? 'Cause I just thought we'd wait out here for the poltergeist to invite us in for some tea." Once again, Dean moved forward, extending his arm to open the screen door, but this time it suddenly whisked open, crashing harshly against his fingers. Cursing, he jerked back, his green eyes now shooting blazing daggers perilously at the door. Alarmed, Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder, his eyes darting around cautiously. "I think you were right."
"About what?" Dean shrugged Sam's hand off his shoulder.
"The welcoming committee, genius." His sharp words were accented with the sound of his foot getting acquainted with the wooden door through the bitter screen. The rusted hinges gave out with the sudden force and the door practically fell apart. Dean's top lip curved into a smug smirk. "Now, was that welcoming or what?"
Sam didn't say anything. He stepped past the shorter Winchester, kicking aside door debris, and finally, he took a deep breath and entered the ominous house. Unfortunately for him, a brass doorknob rolled under his foot, and he stumbled forward. To keep himself from falling, he grabbed at the wall, knocking a dust covered, oval framed mirror off the wall. Needless to say, he still managed to lose his balance, and fell to the ground along with the ill-fated mirror. He quickly turned away so no flying shards would nick any exposed skin.
Dean let out a low whistle as he made his way in, a rock salt loaded gun grasped in one hand, a flashlight in the other. "Ooh boy, it's going to be a long night." He looked down at Sam, nudging the prone boy's leg with his foot. "You all right there, Captain Klutz?"
"Yeah, but I broke a mirror." What's seven years of bad luck added to six hundred?
"Put it on our tab." He waited until his brother was back on his feet before he continued walking down the hallway. He stopped when he reached the staircase that led upstairs. Across from the staircase was another room. "Hey, I'll check upstairs, you stay down here. If anything attacks, just call for me and then stop, trip, and roll way."
Sam wrinkled up his nose, practically lost on a retort as he walked into the next room, a flashlight leading his way through the darkness. "Shut up." Considering how the outside door's actions made it clear they weren't wanted there, he began asking himself how they made it this far. He slipped Dean's precious homemade EMF reader out of his pocket. He scoffed at it after turning it on. "Yeah, I'm the nerd."
The next few minutes proved only to be uneventful, which struck Sam as odd. Wasn't there supposed to be blunt objects getting whipped ruthlessly at his head? Instead it was dark, boring, and silent except for the sounds Dean's footsteps from above him. With a defeated sigh, he turned off the silent EMF, sticking it back into his pocket. If whatever hadn't wanted them into the house wasn't downstairs, where…
"Dean." Sam's brown eyes darted up at the ceiling, where he no longer heard the creaking floorboards. Now, instead he heard a muffled, strangled cry, and panic struck at his heart. He hurried out of the room and raced upstairs, calling out his brother's name. Something told him that the cause of Dean's cry wasn't from a paper cut.
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"Dude, where the hell's my EMF?" Dean stopped halfway through the upstairs hallway; setting down his flashlight on a small, dust covered end table. With his free hand, he checked his pockets, trying to remember where he put it. Now, he recalled setting it down on the dashboard of the car before starting the ignition… Did he grab it? His empty pockets laughed at him—obviously he hadn't. "Oh, fuck me."
"Oh, fuck me." A voice echoed from behind him, and Dean whipped around, his finger tight against the trigger of his gun. The only thing behind him was a closed door. Was that an offer or a mimic? With the said gun aimed at it, he reached out his hand to open the door, but before his fingertips could even touch the cool brass knob, the door slowly opened, its old hinges screeching with age.
"Well, would you look at that?" Despite himself, Dean chuckled, remembering how hostile things had seemed just moments earlier. Now there almost seemed to be an anxious, vulnerable atmosphere. He quickly shrugged it off, and moved away momentarily to grab his flashlight, but it was no longer there. "You've got to be kidding me." An imprint left from the flashlight was set in the thick dust on the table, so at least Dean could reason that he wasn't going crazy. Yet.
"Well, would you look at…? Me." The same, eerie voice rasped from the mysterious room. Dean glanced over at the stairs, wondering if he should call for Sam, but that idea was dismissed quicker than it occurred to him. Clearing his throat, he pushed the door the rest of the way open, and took a step into the—cold, cold room!
Now would be a good time to get out, Dean realized. Now would be a good time to get Sam, or at least steal his flashlight, spray a little holy water, light a match or two, and get the fuck out! A small, nearly inaudible click was heard, followed by a burst of bright light. Flinching, Dean put his arm up to cover his eyes, his other arm still outstretched. He cocked the gun. At the sound of that, the door behind him shut quietly. Too quietly.
Dean got served.
"Shit." A strong force shoved him back hard. Even with the moonlight seeping through the broken window, it was still far too dark for his liking. His gun was knocked out of his hand. He never heard it fit the floor. The light, he gathered, was his missing flashlight faded. Long, bony fingers locked around his neck, not tightly, but not loosely. An intense pain flared up from behind his Adam's apple, and with his mind only focused on the pain, he let out a manly war cry, or so he figured.
Almost as if on cue, Sam barged through the door, his arms crossed protectively across his chest. He let out a sharp gasp at the sudden slap of cold air, but that didn't stop him from blindly shooting at the dark figure that appeared to be strangling his brother. When the rock salt blasted past the creature, he flung his flashlight at it, and with an almost aggravated sigh, the beast—ghost—whatever disappeared.
Dean fell to his knees, coughing. "Fine!" He gasped out before Sam could even think about asking. "I'm fine. Fantastic. Just dandy." His throat hurt like hell, and his voice faltered, sounding almost hoarse like he had a cold. He decided it was all right that Sam helped him to his feet, since little brothers do need to feel like they're being helpful sometimes.
"We're getting you out of here." Sam told him, his tone persistence and stern. His jaw tightened with determination. For a second, he reminded Dean of their father. With his hand pressed against the small of his brother's back, Sam lead them out of the house, not bothering to find and pick up their flashlights or Dean's gun.
"Me, what about you, Mr. 'Oh, I'm going to prance merrily into a haunted house and trip over a freakin' doorknob?' Geesh, and who do you think you are trying to flashlight a demon to death, Sam, 'cause—"
Annoyance flickered in Sam's brown eyes. "Dean, shut up!"
Dean complied with a croaky and sarcastic "yes sir," and he would've added a salute if his hands were rubbing at his flushed neck. It wasn't until they were in the comfort zone of the Impala when Sam noticed the drying blood on Dean's lips. Unconcerned, Dean pushed him away, both mentally and physically, and started the car.
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It was around noon when Dead gave up on trying to sleep. He blamed it on the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, and the light scent of bleach that mixed with the hotel's already stale odor. There were multi-colored glow in the dark stars and moons super-glued to his white plastic leather-covered headboard. Where the hell did they find these places?
Sam slept peacefully, however awkwardly, on the other small bed, sprawled out on his back, already tangled up in the sheets. The television was turned on, although on mute, and Dean guessed the remote was trapped—probably willingly, too--somewhere under Sam.
How does he do it? Dean wondered, glimpsing over at his sleeping brother as he quietly walked to the bathroom, holding his toothbrush and toothpaste in one hand. How does Sam manage to look so peaceful in the little sleep he manages? How could someone who has been through and seen so much look so innocent and carefree? He felt a tinge of envy. Then he remembered about Sam's nightmares, and presto, envy is gone.
"Mornin' boys." Dean whispered to his darling teeth as he wet his toothbrush. Sure, Sam was given the freak power of premonitions, but Dean? Was given the power of awesome teeth. Those babies were as straight and as white as can be. Don't stand too close to them though, the sun can reflect right off those bad boys and blind you faster than you can sigh, 'what magnificent teeth!'
After brushing his teeth, he discarded his shirt, fully intending to take a long, hot relaxing shower, and maybe even hum a few Metallica songs while soaping up his lovely body. Remembering that Sammy was still sleeping in the next room and the bathroom door was wide open, Dean turned around to close it.
That was the sound of the door clicking shut before he even lifted a finger. "Aw, man." The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. He reached for his toothbrush, wishing he had brought in a gun, or three. He mentally kicked himself repeatedly with steel toe boots—how could he not bring in any protection? His father taught—trained—him better than that.
It happened again. He felt the fingers back around his neck, and was ready to fight back but when he saw them: eyes. Sad, depressing, soul wrenching eyes that desperately pleaded out to him. He felt paralyzed, unable to move, but felt that pain that brought him down on his knees. His toothbrush fell from his numb fingers and clattered to the tiled floor.
"Sam!" He managed to whisper, his voice meager. He tried again, his urgent whisper too weak to even penetrate through the thin walls. "Sam." It pained him to speak, but that wasn't enough to stop him. He tore his gaze away from the dominating creature's. He called out his brother's name again, this time through a wet wheeze. Blood and saliva dripped from his lips.
Where the hell was Sam? Was his watch broken, or what? No, really, where was Sam? He was supposed to gallop in, his shiny, luscious hair flowing behind him in a dramatic, heroic way. Realization struck harder than the pain. When did he come to expect his brother to come to his rescue? He was supposed to rescue his brother, one sarcastic comment at a time.
Although only seconds were passing, it felt like minutes, and Dean finally had enough. Without a weapon in sight, he reached up for his toothpaste, and with a great effort, he pushed forward against the creature, surprising it, and lashing out at it with the mint toothpaste. It shot out from the tube like a missile with a mission, baby!
The creature hissed loudly, like a clear growl, and let go of its grip. It seemed too happy to let go, and it backed away. Dean got to his feet quickly, staring at it in confusion. It was suddenly almost too eager to get away, but before he could even whip out anymore of those fantastic quick thinking moves, it disappeared.
"Dean?" A groggy voice asked from outside. There was a tap at the bathroom door. "Is everything all right in there?" Even though he sounded not even half awake, the concern was evident. Dean opened his mouth to response, but not even a whisper passed his lips. When he realized this, he brought a hesitant hand to his throat, making choking sounds as he tried to talk, cry, scream—just make a noise!
"Shit." He mouthed, his throat sore, and his chest tight and heavy with confusion and anxiety. The door swung open, and Sam stumbled in, like he had expected it to be locked. He looked at his shirtless brother, waiting for an explanation.
"What happened? Is everything all right?" He asked, not yet realizing what had just happened. "Is that---blood?" He took half a step closer, squinting at the blood that had dripped from Dean's opened mouth and down his chest. "Are you okay?" The brunette asked, his voice trembling when Dead just continued to stare at him blankly, his eyes cloudy. "Answer me!"
Dean opened his mouth, but no sound would come out, not even for Sammy. He shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to say. Well, that wasn't the hard part—there wasn't anything he could say. He just stared at his brother hard, mentally screaming, "some punk ass bitch just robbed me of my voice!" He hoped that maybe Sam happened to be a mind reader too.
"Shit." The younger Winchester mumbled when it finally dawned on him what had happened. Okay, so, he didn't know the details, but he pretty much got the message: Dean, his sarcastic, wiseass, big mouth of an older brother, was suddenly a mute. He wasn't sure if the gods were smiling down at him, or if this was a sign of the Apocalypse.
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