This is something new for me. I'm diverting from my usual comfort zone of getting Dean's clothes off in as many comical ways I can think of, to do something a bit dark and sinister - I'm a bit scared, but I know the boys will look after me! This starts off with nasty (very nasty) things happening to good people, for instance, little children dying, so if you don't like reading that kind of thing, best not read.
Just a note about the location. Being a Brit, *waves, offers a cup of tea and a shortcake biscuit to you all*, my knowledge of smalltown America is non-existent, so the town of Devonwood is a product of my own deranged imagination. If there happens to be such a place in America, I'm sure it's very nice and has never had a nasty witch living there.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even my own mind after this.
The sleepy midwest town of Devonwood was suffering as it had never suffered before. Tragedy had touched the town and was showing no sign of going anywhere soon; the Townsfolk had seen dead newborns, children going to sleep, never to wake up, and the mysterious deaths of young, healthy people, including a newly-wed bride for whom the vow, 'until death do us part' had taken on a tragic and appallingly premature meaning.
Eleven deaths in the last six months. All under twenty-one, and all in apparently perfect health up until the moment of their death. Autopsy results revealed no patterns, talking about heart failure, chronic dehydration, brain haemorrhage; some had just dropped dead where they stood, others lingered for a couple of days. It didn't matter; the end result was the same; a town's heart was broken.
Eleven. Out of a population of just over a thousand.
Those odds were just skewed enough to attract the attention of two young guys who had turned up in town about a week ago in a black Chevy Impala. They wore cheap, poorly cut suits, and asked odd questions, but there was something about their genuine, easy manner that people liked. They both looked way too young to be feds, but with this sort of shit going on, the townsfolk were prepared to accept help from whichever quarter it might come.
The Winchesters quickly realised they had a witch on their hands, a freakin, nasty one at that. They found hex bags turning up in nurseries, playgrounds and even under the altar of the church where the ill-fated newly-weds had said their vows.
A wilted bud that had fallen from the bride's bouquet as she had sunk to the flagstones lay abandoned under the altar next to the concealed curse.
Sam picked it up and rolled it between his fingers, touched by the little yellow symbol of joy and purity laying next to such dark evil. He gently put it in his shirt pocket, close to his heart.
Dean, for his part, hated witches. He didn't know why especially, they were normally no more or less evil than most of the other supernatural freaks he and Sam had to deal with, but he hated witches in the same way some people hate spiders more than any other animal; but a witch that hurt and killed children? The young? The defenceless? Her card was marked. The bitch was his; he would make her suffer; and what's more he would enjoy it.
This job had affected them both. Any job that involved the suffering of decent, good people was distressing to them, but it was the painting on the fridge door in the Campbell household that tipped the scales. The one that six year old Rebecca had done for her Mommy the evening before she was found cold and dead in her bed the following morning.
Dean had had to leave the room.
Sam had managed to hold it together; just. That night, he had lain awake in the lumpy motel bed, images of the red and blue dribbles of paint swirling in his mind. He could hear occasional sniffs and spasmodic swallows coming from the bed beside him.
He got up and went to sit on Dean's bed, needing the closeness as much as his brother did. Dean didn't stop him or tell him to get lost as he otherwise might, but silently shifted over to make space for Sam to sit. He kept his back to Sam, no need for Sam to see his tears.
Sam was still there as the Sun filtered through the frayed net curtain, sitting close to his brother, his leg pressed against Dean's warm back. Not a word was spoken but their silence and touch gave them both strength.
Investigations led to boys to the house of Miss Mary Harper, a local school teacher, fellow of the local archaeological and historical society, pillar of the community and all round good egg.
With links to all the families of the deceased, it appeared that her motive was a long standing blood feud, going back to times before the families involved had even left Europe to emigrate to the new world. Her means was the archaeological and historical society, enabling her to map the lineage of every family in the town.
Her modus operandii was to hurt the descendents of those who hurt her bloodline all those centuries ago in the most painful way possible; by taking their youngest and brightest. Their future.
The Winchesters made an unannounced visit to the respectable Miss Harper's basement that afternoon. The visit revealed, as Dean put it, "some seriously dark shit". Bottled blood, animal parts, effigies and pictures of the deceased, and incantations and symbols which the boys recognised as 'dark, evil and freakin' dangerous' told them all they needed to know.
They lay in wait for their quarry, and watched her from behind a partly closed larder door as she walked up the garden path. Dean was adamant she was his; Sam was NOT to touch her. Sam was in charge of the incantation that would make sure that once she was dead, the bitch stayed dead.
Sam had opened his mouth to argue, he was concerned that Dean was too emotionally involved. He knew his brother's emotions ran deep, and it wouldn't be the first time they had impaired his judgement, but he knew it was a lost argument. Dean needed to do this for those little children, for that blushing bride, for those bereaved families, For himself.
However, Sam refused to promise that he wouldn't wade in if Dean got into trouble, despite Dean's vocal and colourful protestations.
The key turned in the lock and Miss Harper stepped into her kitchen. She had a bag of groceries - a move the Winchesters had banked on as they had watched her movements and ascertained that she visited the store on her way home every evening; with this in mind, they secreted themselves into her larder.
She removed her coat, and sighed, rolling her neck and shoulders. Two pairs of eyes, one vivid green, the other velvety hazel, both blazing with hatred, watched her through the crack in the door.
When it happened, it happened quickly. She strolled across to the larder, and opened the door.
Dean pounced like a caged panther, pushing Sam aside into a pile of canned fruit. He knocked her through the kitchen table which smashed, scattering splinters and chair legs over the room and knelt over her, pinning her to the floor, hand over her mouth to stop her spewing any curses or incantations as he fumbled into the back of his waistband for his knife.
As if to prove she was no ordinary little old lady, her unnatural strength almost managed to tip Dean, 180 pounds of solid muscle, over, but he clung hard, bracing his legs against the floor. She lashed out with a hand she had managed to slip loose and caught Dean square across the cheek-bone, opening a thin gash and spraying scarlet drops across the bridge of his nose,
"Freakin' BITCH" he snarled, pressing his hand harder against her face, dodging her flailing arms, and shook his head to clear his vision. It took just that moment of distraction for her to tip him over.
Sam gasped and moved to run towards them.
"NO", Dean barked, rolling onto his belly.
Dean and Mary Harper both scrambled to their feet, screaming obscenities at each other. She picked up a chair leg which she swung furiously, catching Dean hard across the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over with a breathy roar, stumbling backwards, crashing into the wall.
Sam lurched towards him, but Dean pushed him away, drunk with rage.
Dropping down onto his haunches, Dean drew his knife from his waistband, and watched her every move.. She loomed over him, bloody and rabid with fury, her trembling finger pointing accusingly at him.
Closer, closer …
"you dare to think that you can stop me, you reptile" she shrieked.
Closer and closer she moved in, her lips silently mouthing, no doubt, some vile incantation.
Sam knew what Dean was doing and watched, wide-eyed, barely able to breathe.
Closer and closer, she leaned into Dean as he crouched, panting, against the wall, his knife in his hand behind his back.
Dean could feel her fetid breath on his face, see her watery blue eyes boring into his. The deep green flashed with fury.
Her cold, calloused hand encircled his neck in a strangling motion. He cringed against the repellent touch. Then he moved …
The knife drove into her chest with such force, his fist followed it halfway in. There was a choking, flooded scream as the blade exited her back.
Dean pushed harder – his whole hand buried in the wet cavity of her chest. "Take it bitch; that's for Rebecca Campbell!" he roared.
Sam dashed out to Dean's side, almost sobbing out the incantation, Mary Harper screamed and writhed on the blade, almost ripping Dean's shoulder out of it's socket as she did, the words were killing her as surely as the blade.
"Burn in hell, you freakin' evil skank" Dean snarled, nose to nose with the twitching, grey face.
He twisted the knife just to ensure maximum damage, ignoring hot, black blood which trickled down his forearm.
Mary Harper raised a trembling finger to touch Dean's heaving chest, yawning a silent gasping scream before the life finally left her body.
"D-dry" she croaked wetly through the blood and foam on her lips.
The body went limp and Dean sagged under the weight. He let it drop to the floor and then kicked it away like a piece of garbage.
to be continued …