Myrkur
Creeno


Serial killers are fun to write, and thus with these words, I accidentally spawned a 'verse. Enjoy.


«warehouse»

The photos are gruesome, to say the least.

All of them are hitchhikers or runaways, and all of them never saw what was coming.

He reads the reports, can't make heads or tails, because the only halfway decent reasoning is how they traveled. Beyond that, he's got nothing but the smirking asshole behind the two way mirror.

-

They caught him in Stone Mountain, Georgia. It wasn't easy, Henricksen admits that fully. It'd taken months and months of planning, but it'd happened.

He hadn't been happy, either, when he caught him, not at first.

He'd already started to slice up Linda Mewes when they'd come racing into the room. She'd been crying and bleeding all over the sheets and he'd gone absolutely livid at the sight of them.

It'd taken eight agents to bring him down, three dead on the floor.

Henricksen stared at him dead in the eye and the little fucker grinned, blood smeared on his face.

And then he spat on his good shoes.

-

"Why'd you do it?"

Hazel eyes spark at him, feral and not really there.

"Why not, preacher?" He grins back, using his nickname he'd given him during the slip in Louisiana. "Can't tell me you don't enjoy a writhing body under you some―"

The butt of the Desert Eagle hits his face.

He chuckles darkly and Henricksen's eyes smolder.

-

He watches as, in his cell, he draws symbols on the walls.

Symbols that look like malformed crosses, mangled pentagrams, things he doesn't know, things that make his stomach turn uncomfortably.

-

"Give me that,"

Hazel eyes look at him coolly and the edge of the metal cot he snapped off continues to screech against the concrete.

"No,"

-

While he's tending to a black eye and split lip, he has him sedated and put into a room with no metal, no plastic, and barely any cloth at all.

-

"Says here, after your mother and brother died, you just dropped off the map with your father," he looks at the disheveled psycho humming something that sounds like that shitty rock music his daughter listens to.

He laughs and leans in his chair, still handcuffed to the table.

"My Dad's dead if that's what you're askin'," he grins, chuckles some more. "Died about that time I killed that waitress in Tampa. She was cute, wasn't she?"

-

"We think he's communicating with someone else,"

"Who does he have?" Henricksen's eyes narrow. "There's no one else, they're all dead."

-

He stares past Henricksen this time, pale but still mocking.

Henricksen just looks at him pensively.

There are too many pieces.

Not enough time.

-

"Hey!"

The man ahead of him just pushes open the cell, pays him no mind. Henricksen draws out his gun, but before he can do anything, he's pressed up against the wall, unforgiving weight on his chest.

He can feel himself choking as he struggles to keep his eyes on the open cell:

He looks shocked, fearful as the man walks to him, resolutely. He tentatively reaches up, touches the stranger's face.

"You did a good job,"the voice is warm, but cold too, cold in the way that he's killed and doesn't care.

"Sammy," the word is whispered in half-awe.

Then Henricksen feels his chest depart from his bones and then he's standing before a man with a severe look and wings at his back and it's then he knows that he's lost to Dean Winchester.


Review! There's more to come.