Fic: 'Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)' (Sam/Dean; R, 1/2)
Title: Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 12,850 words
Spoilers: S2, post-AHBL
Warnings: Language, animal transformation, violence, and gore.
Summary: It’s Halloween, and the locals aren’t clued in to the fact that those things going bump in the night are much more than fabric and latex. Sam and Dean learn this fact the hard way as the clock winds down and a town’s about to be overrun by monsters.
Author’s Notes: Beta by the sound mind and fine body of one regala_electra. Written for spn_halloween for prompt #21: “Someone is giving out Halloween candy that transforms kids and adults - anyone who eats it - into monsters. Sam OR Dean eats one of the candies and the other one has to cope.”
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)
Part One
Sam sucks in a breath when the shot goes off, feels his heart hammer as the Impala skids, and he realizes he’s yelling.
Not like this, he thinks, but Mom didn’t get to ask that, Dad didn’t, Jessica didn’t. But fuck if he’s going to let it happen like this.
~
One day ago
They’d pulled into this town the day before, rumors of old horrors popping up in the state newspapers: ‘juvenile delinquents’ read the headlines thirty years ago, ‘troublemakers’ nowadays-though how that’s better, new, this updated lingo, Sam isn’t sure-all going crazy around Halloween night. Looting, stealing, that’s nothing too stressful, but there’s talk of dead animals, ripped open, broken windows, and empty beds.
Halloween’s always been tricky, fraught with boredom or too much excitement or both, either way, Sam doesn’t care about it. Got his fill of it every other day of the year, thanks.
Truth be told, he’d rather spend the night at the motel and get some research done-despite Dean telling him not to bother breaking the deal, Sam’ll do it anyway, especially tonight, with Dean likely to be passing out in front of the T.V. full of chocolate and candy as he sleeps through an old horror movie marathon.
He doesn’t think anything supernatural will turn up with investigating, and he’s bringing coffee to Dean when the first screams go off down the block. His legs are pumping before he knows it, but they’re too late: there’s an empty baby carriage, and the mother’s hysterical, tears smearing her mascara, screaming about her baby, her baby.
Dean’s body language is tense when he rubs her shoulder. Doesn’t flirt, says to her with his eyes still on Sam, “Don’t worry, miss. We can help.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she says, and points, “My baby crawled into the bushes! It’s-oh my god, what happened to my baby, his hands, his eyes were yellow! Oh God!”
Sam’s jaw goes rigid. Dean bumps him with his shoulder, later, after they take her to a neighbor’s, call the police.
“Still think it’s nothin’, Sam?”
“Didn’t say it was.” Sam frowns. “Isn’t a two year old a little young to be possessed?”
“Dude, the kid had yellow eyes. That’s not possession; that’s freakin’ Village of the Damned,” Dean says as he nears the driver’s side of the Impala. “Now that was messed up.”
“Dean, weren’t those kids aliens?”
“Doesn’t matter. The Thing crawled.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hey! Could be Rosemary’s Baby.”
Sam rolls his eyes when he slips into the car, knees knocking against the dashboard. “Sometimes I wonder why Dad ever let you near a TV.”
~
It’s not the first time it’s happened.
“1985. Halloween night. A few children died in a fire after coming home from trick-or-treating,” Sam says, turns his laptop to face Dean. Dean sorts through his duffel, two piles of clothes as he lifts them up, does a smell check. “Thing is, there were reports of, quote, ‘demonic beings.’ Sightings of blood rituals, animal sacrifices passed off as pranks. We’re talkin’ full-on monsters here, Dean.”
“Any reason why?”
“None that they could tell. But,” Sam says, shuffles through his papers, continuing when he lifts up a sheet, “there were an unnatural number of people brought in to the local hospital. Stomach virus. Check this out: same thing happened in ’73. No fires though. It got more violent the second time. And, some people were suffering from ‘erratic, wild behavior.’ Thing was, they went missing. Some of them never came back. The ones that did were almost insane, covered in bruises.”
Dean pulls at the sides of one shirt, saying, “So the disappearances are increasing and the things that go bump in the night’re getting more vicious. All on Halloween night, right?”
“Not just Halloween-it continued until the morning of November 2nd, both incidents.”
“Huh,” Dean says. “Day of the Dead.”
“Second half.” Sam closes the laptop and leans forward, elbows on his knees, paper in one hand. “‘All Souls’ Day’. November 1st being ‘All Saints Day.’”
“Your inner geek is showin’.”
Sam ignores Dean, looking at the paper. “They claimed it was a stomach virus. Could be a demon virus. All it takes is a human carrier.”
“And that narrows it down how?”
“It turns out a local doctor settled down in ’73 with a background in genetics and viruses. He lost his funding after pushing for donations in animal testing and that’s why he came here. Kept to himself since he moved in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the man had a lot of demons comin’ to his doorstep.”
Dean nods, pulls and stretches the shirt a little. “That’s why you always gotta use protection, Sammy.”
“Thing is, he’s not listed in the phonebook. No recent records. Either he’s dead or alive, there’s no way of telling. We’ll have to check out the library, maybe ask around,” Sam says, already slipping on his jacket.
Dean shoves the shirt into his duffel, throwing on his own jacket, nearly making a mad dash for the door.
“Great. You can tell me all about Frankenstein here when we get somethin’ to eat,” he says as Sam searches for his wallet. “Can’t investigate on an empty stomach.”
“Dude,” Sam starts, and he’s eyeing the shirt, and Dean. He hesitates and then goes for it, knows he’ll get the same kind of response either way. “What’s with the shirt?”
“Didn’t fit,” Dean bites out, already pulling the door open. “Probably got fucked up in the wash.”
Sam represses the urge to smirk when he follows his brother outside, Dean calling out over his shoulder, “You give me one word about my eating habits and I’ll make sure the doc does a number on your ‘nads.”
~
They’ve got nothing when they slip into the diner booth, Dean ready to scowl at Sam’s teasing when the windows shatter, rain of glass and broken concrete. There are shadows at first, and then they hit the tables and booths, topple, rip, and break, heavy muscle and claws that sink in.
Sam’s ready, has been all his life for these kind of things-freaky things that go bump in the night, but this slight tinge of reality, of humanity that makes them harder or easier to kill. Vampires. Werewolves. Spirits. Some shape he can recognize, a turn of phrase and a smile that puts you at ease before the ‘demon’ emerges. Except these things here don’t really exist, and Sam’s admittedly a little freaked out.
Different sizes, reptilian, large mammals like dogs and bears, heavy and clawed-red and yellow eyes, snot and slime as they scuttle forth and wreak havoc, wreathed in clothes and human skin, human hair, Christ-
It’s all in three seconds, from the break-in to the assault, and Dean’s down on the ground, this cross between a bear and an alligator trying to bite a chunk out of his forearm. Sam doesn’t get a chance to shout at Dean, instead starts to wave towards the diner patrons and workers-few, five or six that take his cue and run the hell out of there. They nearly get pounced on by the spry monsters but Sam fires a couple of warning shots at the feet of the creatures, black blood oozing in pools and swirls on the tiles.
Dean’s ready though, always is, gets a shot off in the thing’s shoulder, a warbling mix of animal and human scream in response. Human. Oh God.
“Dean!” Sam calls, breath knocked out of him as two smaller creatures tackle him by the waist, like gargoyles, wings flapping him in the face. “Don’t hurt them! They’re still people!”
Dean whips his head around as he pushes the weak beast off him, raises his gun to aim it directly at Sam-and there’s a shot going off before Sam can think, both ways, good and bad, inevitable-but the bullet catches the wolf-like creature about to pounce on Sam’s neck, rip the soft flesh of his throat.
“That isn’t!” Dean shouts back.
Sam manages to dig his gun out from the waistband of his jeans when he pushes the gargoyles off. He and Dean start firing, Sam shouting to “watch for the flesh!” between gunshots. Dean’s already there, delivering wounding, not fatal, shots at the creatures still covered in patches of human skin, clothing, hair. It’s hard to tell, the way the creatures keep moving, leaping from table to table and skittering on the floor before they leap right out of the diner and tear off down the street.
They both get their bearings before Sam hobbles over to Dean, stepping on candy wrappers, bits of broken glass and furniture. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
Sam avoids the urge to check Dean, touch his arm, feels a little odd at the thought. It’s been like this for weeks now, Dean’s deal, and Sam’s walking on eggshells-he’s looking out for him a little too much, touching a little too often. It’s the stress, he thinks, that’s all, little heightened than usual.
Forces himself to bury it down, whatever this is, new and painful all of a sudden, driving him to distraction at the thought of Dean hurt. Sam sniffles and wipes at his nose. “The patches of skin... They used to be human.”
“Yeah.” Dean nods, rubs the blood off his neck, gun still held. “Didn’t do too good of a job with the monster act. Couple of science projects. Except for those.”
He waves the gun at the two remaining monstrous looking corpses, no human hide or hair in sight, straight out of any B-movie horror film.
“Too far gone?”
“I hope so,” Dean says grimly, wipes the blood off his gun. “What’s triggering the transformations?”
Sam doesn’t know, and looking at the monstrous bodies, is anxious to find out.
They salt and burn the two corpses in the cemetery a few blocks down, exchanging looks only when the first monstrous cries are carried on the wind.
~
They manage to get the address with Sam doing all the talking, turning a librarian away from the window as Dean occupies himself with taking potshots at harpies flying overhead from his place on the stairs outside. Traveling through the neighborhood breaking up fights here and there, not quite able to kill or capture the monsters, only stun them, stop them until the creatures run away. Sam knows it’s slowing them down, but people will die if they don’t-and people will die if they take too long in getting rid of the source of these transformations.
Thing is, it gets difficult with costumes-Halloween’s carrying on as usual, kids and adults trick-or-treating; the locals aren’t clued in to the fact that those things going bump in the night are much more than fabric and latex. The sidewalks are both empty and full, scattered clutches of Trick-or-Treaters here and there; either obliviously screaming for fun, or screaming for their lives, discovering those other kids and adults walking and chaperoning might be out to kill.
Two hours past sundown finds them cruising, slow, through a neighborhood. The air’s crisp and windy, blows Sam’s bangs into his eyes when he gets out of the car. He steps back as a group of teenagers come running past, a blur of colorful fabric and plastic masks. Dean grins at the teenagers like he’s ready to join them, tapping Sam on the chest before he points to the house they’re parked in front of.
It’s a decrepit, run down two story, weeds and straggly undergrowth threatening to ensnare the porch and it’s even got an honest to god creepy old rocking chair too.
The boys look at each other, Dean volunteering, “Guess we oughta knock.”
Sam does so, getting a creaky unlocked door opening in response. He takes his gun out while Dean follows suit, gingerly stepping into the house.
The interior’s just as bad as the outside, with ivy vines snaking in from the windows, a thick layer of dust on all surfaces, floating in the air in the fading sunlight. Sam is careful to avoid walking into the spider webs in the archways. He takes stock of each room that they pass through. It’s empty and looks like it hasn’t been lived in for years, save for a study room Sam nearly misses, door left ajar. He nods towards Dean and they inch closer, Sam slowly nudging the door open as Dean steps forward, gun ready.
Dean hesitates, frowns. “There’s no one here.”
“And you call me Captain Obvious,” Sam responds as he lowers his gun.
The study’s more like a workshop, by the look of it-quick glance has bookcases near the doorway but there’s more, counters and tabletops with strewn household items, as though the place had been ransacked. Dean steps into the room and moves, quietly, into the adjoining kitchen area. Wrappers crunch underfoot and there’s a lot of them-tart and sweet candies, chocolate smears on the walls and cabinets, like the place was overrun by trick-or-treaters.
Sam turns away from Dean and starts to sort through the papers scattered around on the desk, the counter, thick and dusty textbooks that look like they haven’t been opened in years. He’s holding a flashlight in one hand, the other flipping pages.
“This stuff doesn’t help-no journals, nothing. Just a lot of junk. Old medical articles about his glory years. If you call horrific and inhumane genetic testing on animals for the key to a good facial scrub glorious, that is,” Sam says, voice thick with sarcasm.
“Dude, you were expecting Frankenstein here?” Dean snorts behind Sam, still looking around the kitchen, sharp ring of metal pots and broken china plates. “Really don’t think he left a map to his hidden evil lair.”
Sam hmms in response, because now he’s found something. Old writing, cursive, a list of items. Old school, eye of newt and all that, but the way it is, it looks like a recipe. Or a spell. He glances at the pool of light briefly reflecting near the wall in front of him, Dean’s flashlight; he’s turned away from Dean, concentrating on the books.
Dean starts poking and sorting through the scattered, open bags of candy. “Doc’s got something of a sweet tooth, huh. A man after my own heart. Except, you know, without my good looks and he’s the one pullin’ the freaky ass experiments.”
Sam pauses, lets his finger run down the surface, the spine of the book. Feels dusty. He hears bags shifting behind him, Dean poking at the bags still. “Hey. Hey, Dean.”
Dean grunts, more wrapper crinkling.
“Dean, I think it’s-I think he put something into the candy and gave ‘em out to the kids,” Sam says, rubbing the grains between his fingers. He sniffs it, scrunches his nose.
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. There’s traces of sulfur. The ingredients here are straight out of a demonic lover’s cookbook.”
“Or the Elvira movie.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Dean says with a cough. “Uh. Sam, tell me you’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m-what do you mean?”
Sam turns to look over at Dean, and for the rarest of moments, Dean’s shaking, sweaty, skin looks clammy. “Because I just ate half a fucking candy bar, genius.”
“What?” Sam stares. “You-you ate… Jesus Christ, Dean, is there anything you won’t put into your mouth?”
“Yeah, your dick if you don’t figure out when I’m gonna start goin’ all Creature of the Night here!” Dean frowns. “Man! This isn’t fair.”
“You had, what, half?” Sam asks, two long strides taking him across the room, near Dean. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and gets Sam smacking him, on the arm, hard. “Stop it!”
Sam winces a little, says, edge of desperation in his voice, “Maybe-maybe half won’t do anything?”
Dean mutters, pulling the half-eaten bar of chocolate out of his pocket. “Yeah. Half.”
He lifts the bar up to his nose to sniff it, eyelids flutter in pleasure. But Sam snatches it away before Dean can take another bite. “Gimme that!”
“Sammy-” Dean hesitates, “I…” but he doesn’t get to more than that, doubling over, spewing brackish black on the floor.
“Dean!” Sam’s already there in a few steps, hesitates-Dean’ll refuse his support, Dean’ll change, god, they just saw those twisted creatures in the diner and Dean might become one of them-
Lifts his head up, says through the pain, teeth grit, keeping that stuff from dribbling out of his mouth, “I think it’s starting.”
Sam opens and closes his mouth, jaw tightens.
“Come on,” Sam says, and with that they’re out the door, small stack of textbooks under one arm and Dean’s arm pulled by the other.
~
“Pull over.”
“Dean.”
“Sam,” he says, shaky, this exhale of breath. Sam looks in the rear view mirror and sees shadows and light play on Dean’s face, one second bathed in light, the next in the dark. His eyes are yellow now, and for that, Sam flinches. In every flash of visibility, Dean seems to be changing, muscles shifting underneath, bones moving, skin stretching, discoloring, sheen of sweat covering-
“Please, Sammy.”
The voice is haggard, this click in Sam’s brain as he pulls over immediately, click of fear. “Dean?”
They’re in the downtown area, far off screams in the distance, broken glass, decorations and toilet paper everywhere. The back door opens and there’s a large whumpf, a heavy weight. Sam barely has a chance to turn off the ignition and slide over the passenger seat, out onto the sidewalk, Dean already gone.
He bends down and picks up Dean’s jacket, black canvas ripped, wet.
“Dean! Dean, wait! Let me help you!”
It figures that they’re outside an alley, right between a convenience store and a liquor store, toilet paper clinging sticky to an overstuffed green dumpster. Sam ducks into the car to pull out a flashlight, dropping the jacket on a seat. He starts to move forward into the alley.
A groan cuts through the dark, gurgling towards the end of it. “St-stay back.”
“Bullshit. I’m helping you, Dean,” Sam snaps, flicking the flashlight on. He sucks in a breath, taking a step back. “Holy shit.”
This monster is like nothing Sam has ever seen-in reality, grounded-it’s like a thing straight out of myth, straight out of late night horror movies all rolled into one. Scaly, dark tan-green hide, last vestiges of lighter flesh vanish with a ripple effect, and there aren’t any legs, gone, melted straight into one large serpent tail. Dean’s thrashing on the ground, back arches up, another flesh tearing groan as the flesh hardens into ridges along his spine, almost like armor plating.
But the real kicker is his face, the way it’s him but not him, how Dean’s face pushes out ever so slightly, same facial features, eyes that deep yellow. Scales covering his face and skin, tightly packed together, lighter color, shine and patterns that accentuate his cheekbones, give way to the still soft flesh of his lips. He’s got claws-and hands, and arms-on top of it.
Sam’s shouting Dean’s name and moving to grab him. But Dean moans and bats his hand away, grits his now sharp teeth. He grabs at his head like he’s got a migraine, palms his hair-same, just darker-and covers his face.
“Dean, come on. I’m-it’s me, okay?”
“Get away.”
And that’s when Sam stops breathing for a second, two, clears his throat, the faint sounds of flesh readjusting, transformation still heard. Dean only moans, tries to curl up in a ball before he thrashes, tail whipping and nearly slashing Sam across the thigh with its sharp ridges. Dean lifts his head out of his hands, and the look on his face twists Sam’s gut.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sam whispers harshly.
“I’m gonna hurt you,” Dean says quietly, and slowly rights himself, holding onto the wall for support. Ridges of muscle, chest, and belly are covered in lighter tan-yellow scales, flesh that fades away and melts into bands, thick muscle of his waist and tail that keeps going, long, tip darker, hard, not quite a rattlesnake’s but close.
“I’m gonna fix you,” Sam responds, keeps his voice steady. “I swear. Don’t keep me out, Dean.”
There’s a moment’s pause before Dean’s whole body language changes, settles even, straightens, firm, like the change has passed and he’s okay, if not worse for the wear.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all soft on me,” Dean’s saying, his voice still the same. He stares at his hands and arms, and then his gaze moves downward. “Oh, fuck.”
“It’s uh, it’s not that bad,” Sam tries.
“‘Not that bad’? I have no legs. My dick’s gon-” Dean stretches and wriggles up, rights himself and shakes a little, as if adjusting his package. “Oh. Uh. Okay. It’s still there. Thank god. It’s just hidin’.”
“Dude. Seriously?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Gimme some fuckin’ dignity, Sam, I’m a snake for crying out loud.”
“Fine,” Sam responds, pulling his hands away. “You think you can, uh, move?”
“What? Oh.” Dean pushes back off the wall and straightens, raises himself so that he’s eye level with Sam-and Sam notices Dean’s tail, the length of it, twenty feet or so from head to the tail end. “Yeah, I think.”
Sam bends down on one knee to pick up Dean’s torn, wet clothes, watching Dean move, no, slither past him, jerky at first before he gets the hang of it. Holds his head up high, like he isn’t naked, and he isn’t half a freaking snake from the waist down, human torso head to waist held up, same cocky swagger, only no legs, just this… this tail, slithering. Sam swallows, following after.
~
~
Traveling is the trickiest part because all fifteen, twenty feet of Dean can’t fit into the Impala, a fact he doesn’t remain quiet about. Sam doesn’t hesitate when they approach the car; he goes past it, towards a pick-up truck with broken windows. A few minutes of hotwiring has Sam poking his head out, gesturing to the pick-up. Dean moves over and climbs in the back, murmuring about “great, just like the friggin’ mermaids” under his breath when he sits up, tan-green head to mid-chest visible.
Twenty minutes after they get to the motel, Sam comes out, hands in his pockets, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
Dean straightens, fumbling and throwing off the tarp covering his waist and tail, scowling. “What took you so long? I was startin’ to get a cramp in, uh, never mind.”
Sam scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve got bad news and worse news.”
“Cutting to the chase,” Dean says, eyes large and golden, that freaking shade. “What is it?”
Sam’s putting his laptop in the cab when he steps back, almost bumping into Dean-the way Dean just leans, slinks over the edge, like he’s all muscle, no bones.
“Bad news is, it’s not a demon virus, it’s a curse, judging by the ingredients listed. The curse’s pretty difficult to break by what I was able to look up, quickly. There’s a handful of things that might work, but I’ll have to research further.” Off Dean’s look, Sam adds, “More than one of those counter spells involve ‘grievous bodily harm’, Dean.”
“Children of the candy corn, huh. Plus, we have to take care of all of the transformed people. Gotta catch ‘em all. Like Pokémon, only not as fuckin’ cutesy,” Dean answers, rolls his shoulder muscles and cracks his neck a little, stretching, up. “You look up anything else on the spell?”
“According to your, uh, change, and the recipe book-the transformation’s based on how much candy consumed. You had half a bar. Some people had a little, some had a lot. You saw how it is. It’s random, the effects,” Sam says, worries his lip for a second before he blurts out, “Hey, I think yours might have to do something with Greek myths; you know, Erichthonius? The half-man, half-serpent, king of Athens? Something.”
Dean rolls his eyes, about to speak-Sam knows he walked right into that one, geeky kid brother with his nose buried in those old books-but doesn’t. He clears his throat, deep, unnerving rumble, before saying, “And the worse news?”
“Time limit, remember? We’ve got until sunrise, on November 2nd.”
“So it’s like 48 Hours. Good cop, bad cop-”
Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing like 48 Hours.”
“Okay, so it’s thirty some odd hours,” Dean says, eyebrows quirk up and it’s weird, seeing that-it’s him, just changed, facial features slightly distorted, shine on scales accentuating his cheekbones. There’s no time though, to think about it. No time to joke, because Sam’s brother is a freakin’ reptile and if that’s not enough, they have an entire town to either save or capture.
He doesn’t get a chance to make a decision; Dean’s doing it for him. “We gotta help the people affected first-we can worry about me later.”
Sam taps his fingertips on the door edge, seeing a flicker of Dean’s tail as it swishes back and forth, Dean moving it unconsciously. He does look like a mermaid-
With a bang, Sam’s in the cab of the truck and starting it up, truck rumbles to life and tears down the street, actions that shake Dean and makes him curse, slide over and shout through the broken window. “Hey, asshat, not like I have any fuckin’ legs here for balance!”
“I know how to capture the monsters!” Sam shouts back, and Dean’d shout at him too, only he flings back when the truck lurches around a corner, whipping his tail around in a gesture more of frustration-not too used to it, not too smooth in motions yet, still trying-than anger.
He’ll have to learn. They’ve got less than two days.
~
“This fuckin’ blows, dude. Why couldn’t it be something cool, like wings or, I don’t know-Spider-Man! Like that. No, I get this, and I gotta tell you, Sam, my lower half is not something to be missed. Shit.”
“We counting your bowlegs, too?”
“Shut up.”
Dean starts moaning petulantly for a good two minutes, running down a list of monsters in films over the past few decades, from A to Z, when Sam begrudgingly cuts in with, “Dean, you do realize you’re like a walking-okay, uh, slithering penis metaphor.”
Dean shuts up immediately, arching an eyebrow.
“You’re welcome,” Sam mutters under his breath, awaiting the inevitable trouser snake joke that comes five minutes later.
Sam’s gotta give him credit for waiting that long.
It’s good though, because they’re in a cemetery, and the conversation’s low and uncomfortable when you’re dragging bodies. They had a job in Florida a while back, chasing down some freakin’ evil mermaid and Sam’d invested a pretty penny in enchanted fishing nets-didn’t get around to use them, stuffed them in the bottom of the Impala’s trunk, but they’re getting good use out of them now.
Whip, snap, crackle of magic, burning, rolling down the links and patterns of the net, thrills and hums; the net keeps others out, and its contents knocked out and paralyzed within.
It had been easy to handle by Sam, but Dean, Dean’d been crowing earlier, teasing the monsters from their hidden places, shadows near trees and gravestones. He moved fast for being in this strange new body, coiling and ready to strike out, whipping a net over their heads-paralyzed the monsters, these wolflike, B-movie lizard things, knocked them right out. The net crackled with magic, livewire that snapped and nearly burned Dean’s side.
He took it more seriously after that, licks of magic that nearly said, almost got you, before Sam’s eyes. Because they were after monsters, and Dean was one, and man, Sam’s admittedly a little worried about how well Dean’s acting, for now.
His jaw’s tight with these kind of thoughts rumbling around his head, heaves up his bundle of monster into the pick-up, Dean following suit.
“Sam?”
Sam flinches, runs a hand over his face before turning to Dean. Or, turning to look up at Dean, who’s raised himself up a few inches above Sam’s eye level.
“What, little brother?” Dean asks, grinning, teeth a little too sharp, face a little too scaly tan-green, the good looks not buried but accented by reptilian features. And isn’t that a whole other issue Sam doesn’t want to fucking think about, how despite everything-despite not being the same fucking species-Dean looks, well, good.
Yeah, ‘good’. No need to fill his already big head up.
Sam shakes his head and moves a hand forward to Dean’s waist. Dean flinches back, Sam grunting, “Let me see your burn.”
“Sam-”
“C’mon, man, I’m not gonna bite,” Sam snaps, fingertips darting forward.
Dean all the while breathes, steady, this rumbling noise not quite like a cough. He stiffens when Sam gets close.
There, the curve of where Dean’s hip should be, no hipbone, only other bones, snake ones, doesn’t reach quite around like ribs. His front and belly’s covered in scaled bands, snake underbelly, soft and firm at the same time, still has that little bit of extra flesh Sam had teased him about earlier. And it’s smooth-Sam catches himself staring, coughs. Right, series of burned slashes a few inches there.
Sam cocks an eyebrow. “I think they’re already healing.”
Dean’s posture visibly relaxes and he bats Sam’s hand away. “Let’s get these monsters back to base camp and get somethin’ to eat. I’m starving.”
~
‘Base camp’ is more like an abandoned storage facility, no fancy separate rooms-only cages, scattered garbage, junk, building’s condemned and yet no one loots it. They’d spotted it on the start of their patrolling, hearing the screaming voices from blocks away, and it looked perfect enough to house the creatures until they figured out how to change them back to normal.
By now there’s more monsters running rampant than trick-or-treaters, only beings in costume are changing, others locking themselves in their houses, afraid to come out. They’d torched the candy at the doctor’s house, kept up this notion that the candy’s recalled to others, spouted this warning off fast to frustrated, harried onlookers who thought Dean’s ‘costume’ was the best thing they’d ever seen.
But here, it’s dusty, it’s dirty, “fucking convenient, s’what it is, though I really don’t wanna think about what I’m, uh, slitherin’ through right now.”
They’d caught at least twelve monsters, various sizes and shapes-like bears, like rhinos, like hydras; they’re all a mix of real and fantasy, extra limbs and twisted flesh that doesn’t quite make sense. Far as it goes, Dean’s the best looking one out of them. The brothers unwrap the monsters from the magical nets, still asleep, paralyzed, place them in cages with old furniture, strong and heavy locks that held fast when the creatures shoved their weights against the doors.
Sam’s bag and books are laid out at the caretaker’s desk, duffel bag of weapons and equipment on the floor nearby. He sits on his haunches as he rummages through the bag, hearing the steady click of locks as Dean makes sure the creatures stay in their cages, soft slurring voices that speak to him before they slip into unconsciousness, that tell him to shed his human face, to join them.
Dean doesn’t respond, and it’s loud enough that Sam can hear, both do, but don’t talk about it.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
Sam whips his head around, comes face to face with the lower half of Dean, soft underbelly and thick muscle. He almost falls flat on his ass, wearily moving to stand up. “Dude. Uh. That was fast. Getting… You’re getting the hang of it, huh.”
“I guess. Place’s friggin’ dusty and filled with garbage. Don’t know how I can move this fast when-uh.”
They both look down, Sam flexing the tips of his boots unconsciously, tap tapping them against the runny pool of slime-lubrication, huh-around Dean’s tail.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dean groans, rears back and slides, too, a little too fast for his own good, almost goes sprawling, tail whipping forward as his arms windmill back.
Sam reaches a hand out to steady Dean, misses, jerks back to grip the edge of the desk with his hands, avoiding Dean’s thrashing tail. “Hey! Dean, you okay?”
“No, I’m not friggin’ okay!” Dean barks, hands and arms waving a little too wildly, anger in his voice. “Not only do I have to be a fucking snake but a goddamn freak of a boa constrictor, snail hybrid, shit, I don’t know-I gotta be that, too!”
Sam straightens, glancing at the spell book. He hasn’t had time to look it over yet, not when they’re out getting the monsters, making sure they don’t stay outside causing havoc. And for all his ‘geeky’ studying, he knows this isn’t quite right, finds himself saying out loud, “Snakes aren’t slimy. It’s a misconception.”
“Yeah, and I’m a freak of nature at the moment. Kinda think the doc’s playing fast and loose with the rules, all right?” Dean rubs a hand over his face, gold eyes half-lidded, sheen of sweat light on small green scales. “Look, uh. Look, can we just-Can we get out of here? I’m really fuckin’ hungry, Sam.”
Sam looks over at him, nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”
~
Dean moans, this rasp in his voice, saying, “God, I’m hungry, Sam.”
It’s something serious, can’t be taken as a joke, not the way Dean is now: he shakes a little and slumps in his place in the back of the pick-up truck, eyes half-lidded, a dull glow of yellow and he’s constantly licking his lips, teeth, with a forked tongue that makes Sam flinch.
And he’s not joking, at all, when they’re pulling up in the pick-up truck outside a little stripstore mall, smattering of parked cars and broken glass, refuse blowing across the empty streets. Three in the morning now, no one in sight-lights turned on and nobody’s home.
Only thing to do, then, has Sam making a food run, made easier by the emptiness of the mini-mall, broken glass windows and doors, food and clothes, items, everything strewn on the ground like the places were ransacked. There’s blood too, a lot of it, and a stench Sam covers his nose with the crook of his elbow to avoid, gun held in both hands.
“Here,” Sam says later, laden with bags of food, couple of bills put into the deli cash register, not quite stealing. He throws them in the back of the pick-up in Dean’s direction-doesn’t mean to, but it looks like Dean might attack him first, the way he tears into the bags and starts shoveling food into his mouth. Bags of junk food, red meat, poultry. Meat, bone, Dean eats it all, blood and juices running down his chin, his mouth a little wider-and Sam doesn’t want to think about unhinging, because that isn’t true, another misconception, please no-with a steady flow of junk food and meat going right into it.
“Dean? I’m gonna check out the store over there. Thought I heard something. You stay here, all right? Don’t worry about me.”
Dean grunts and Sam immediately turns away before Dean actually has an orgasm.
The convenience store’s lights flicker dully, fluorescent strobe that bathes the aisles in pale blue light. Shelves are overturned; food packages ripped open, a sick sweet smell of meat and rot permeating the air. He holds his gun, folded net, and flashlight with both hands as he’s going through the aisles, slow, methodically. A bag of potato chips falls to the ground to his right; Sam whips his head around. Nothing.
He’s barely able to keep from puking his guts out when he hears them, low sobbing. Long strides carry him towards a clutch of small bodies, their costumes soiled and torn.
“Hey. Hey, don’t be scared. I’m here to help,” Sam says, bending down-
And that’s when the gremlins try to bite his ankles.
~
“Next time, you’re checking out the scary empty convenience store. Not me,” Sam says, wiping gunk off his chin with his shoulder. He’s got two netted bodies under one arm, another netted one on the other; they’re unconscious, but they’re heavy and itchy, ragged hair poking through the seams and holes of their torn costumes. A princess, a ninja, and a cowboy-
Dean jerks his head up, leaning back in the pick-up, bare and scaly shoulders against the cab window. “Dude, that’s where you were? You shoulda told me were you went!”
“I did tell you,” Sam says, reaching over to place the monster kids in the back, Dean’s tail coiling around them. “Figured you didn’t want to be interrupted.”
Dean frowns and licks at a canine tooth, a hand rubbing his distended belly; it’s an image that has Sam thinking about a snake swallowing a rat whole.
“Man, that felt good,” Dean says, wriggles around so he’s draped on the side of the pick-up, like a weird, dark green mermaid, Sam’s hand on the driver’s seat door. “Felt like I hadn’t eaten anything in a week.”
“Let’s hope your metabolism’s just as freaky as the rest of you,” Sam says, slipping into the driver’s seat but not before Dean looks down at himself and flips Sam the bird.
~
The sun doesn’t quite rise high and full; it settles, dull glow, reddish haze of sky.
The few hours before sun-up were spent patrolling, netting monsters, storing them in the pick-up until it gets full, ‘til Dean has to squeeze and wrap around them, muttering under his breath. The monsters are scattered by morning, slipping off to hide, rest and sleep during the day, avoid the light-the halfway time before the change becomes permanent. By the time they get to the warehouse, latest group sinking to the ground in their cages, fast asleep, Sam’s tempted to join them.
He doesn’t though, spends a good chunk of the morning hours reading feverishly, wooden chair uncomfortable, back tense, in knots. His head bobs, jerks up, shakes the bangs out of his eyes.
“Sam. Get some rest.”
Dean’s voice, somewhere, too far. There’s a dull ache behind Sam’s eyes, a throbbing migraine.
He straightens and starts organizing his papers, says under his breath, “You shouldn’t let me nod off like that.”
“You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead on your feet,” Dean says, sliding over and putting a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the desk. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, he supplies, “Early bird special. Well, early near heart attack special, but hey, drive through windows? Get ya from the waist up. Waitress liked my costume. I told her it was spray painted.”
He waggles his eyebrows, faint against scaly skin. “Had to come back before I could see just how retractable my junk is.”
Sam makes a face, licking his lips before he fumbles, grabbing at the coffee weakly. He takes a sip, eyelids flutter, taste of coffee strong enough to make his body stir awake. Dean’s leaning down and sorting through the duffel, pulling and poking at weapons here and there.
He’s examining a gun when Sam says, “Dean, I have less than twenty four hours to get all of those affected in one place, figure out what’s gonna be a long and complicated ritual by the looks of things, and you’re telling me to take a freaking nap?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Dean responds, doesn’t look up.
Sam leans forward, peering over the side of the desk. “I don’t understand you-”
“Hey, I figure if you fuck up, I’ll make you push the pedals so I can drive.”
“Dean. That’s not funny.”
Dean sighs but Sam cuts him off, saying, “You’re not doing this. You’re not pushing me away, not now.”
“Sam, I’ve got a year-”
“Stop it,” Sam bites out, palms slamming the desk. “Don’t you dare bring that up. I know you’re scared. You’re not okay. You’re not human right now, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal. Dean! Are you even listening to me?”
“I hear a lotta whining, that’s what,” Dean says, looking up. He straightens up, slowly, rises above Sam, little taller than eye level. “I’m not gonna flip out, all right? No good havin’ two hot heads. Felt like going out-”
“-by yourself.”
“-to test this new body. And dude, I can take care of myself. Thought you’d better get some sleep for tonight. That’s when the real monsters come out.”
Sam wipes the sleep out of his eyes, rubs a hand over his face. He ignores Dean’s unflinching gaze and looks over at the books laid out on the desk. “Okay. I-I think I found something. A cleansing ritual. One with fire. Right up your alley.”
“We talkin’ fireworks, paint job, the whole nine yards?” Dean rubs his hands, arms moving, like trying to give himself something to do-little distracting, seeing all that skin, slight muscle definition lost with a different body, distended belly gone. (And that had been a fun hour, Sam unable to resist teasing Dean, who unconsciously-and self consciously-rubbed it as he digested the load of food).
“Yeah.”
“Awesome,” Dean says, claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezes. But his grip is too tight and his nails dig into the fabric of Sam’s shirt, making him wince. “Damn it! I’m-I’m sorry.”
Sam shakes his head, eyes half-lidded again, saying, “No, no, it’s okay. You, uh. You think you can handle the paint?”
“With my arms tied behind my back,” Dean swears, offers a little shrug. “Really.”
The tip of his tail raises up near his elbow, and he adds, “This thing’s pretty bendy. Dude, I can pop M&M’s off it.”
He grins at Sam, gets a stare in return before he rubs the back of his neck, tongue flicking out. “What? I was bored.”
~
Sam groans, paper plastered to his face, bangs in his eyes. Sam’s wristwatch is blurry in his vision, reads 4 ‘o clock, mouth tasting grimy, wet.
He rolls his shoulder muscles, exhales, eyes crusted over. Pauses, takes it all in-cramped little office, halo of white shine from windows through the open door, cages, and swears.
Dean’s at the door, nodding to him. “Coming?”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“Yeah, do it later when I’ve got my handsome corpse back. Not that I can’t still pick up more chicks than you even when I’m doing the friggin’ monster mash. C’mon, little brother.”
Despite the different features, he’s got the same impatient look on his face, tinged with amusement-only he’d let Sam sleep, made a point of it, even during the nightmares with Jess. It’s your job to keep my ass alive, so I need you sharp, and all that, sleeping alone, tired and aching from whatever they’d gone after during the waking hours. But now, now’s when they don’t have any time, Sam thinks, knows. Not when Dean’s arching up, six foot five and more, because of his freaking tail.
Two minutes to get ready, and Sam’s out the door, shaking his head at Dean’s ‘tallness’, says, “Seriously?” to which Dean just grins, sharp, sharp teeth.
~
“We’re like the Monster Squad, Sammy,” Dean declares, reclining on his back and elbows, tail swishing lazily and whapping Sam on the back of his calf every few seconds, getting a glare in return. They’re hidden in a few bushes at the local playground, having just told a group of kids and parents to leave-picked up three creatures there earlier, might come back, and they’re on stake out.
Sam adjusts himself, lying forward on his belly, almost facing Dean next to him. He can’t move away from Dean-doesn’t want to, and the leaves don’t offer much by way off covering.
He checks his gun for the fifth time, examining it as a distraction, murmurs, “Yeah, and you’re the team leader.”
“I am the fiercest of these critters,” Dean agrees. “Dude, we haven’t caught any other monsters that went all snake like me, you got any theories on why that is?”
“Because you’re special, Dean.”
“Good to finally hear you say that, Sammy,” Dean says, forked tongue twitching out for a moment, Dean saying, “Man, I’m not used to that. Although I bet the chicks would dig it. Wonder what I could-”
“Okay, seriously man, please don’t say what I know you’re about to say. I’m not really in a mood to start dry-heaving,” Sam groans, fidgeting a little so he bumps into Dean’s side, pushes Dean’s coiling tail away from wrapping around his leg. “I’m still trying to heal from the sight of you inhaling all that food. Again, today. Aren’t snakes supposed to store food?”
“Yeah, well, this snake ain’t passing up the opportunity to goddamn eat anything it wants,” Dean says, running a hand over the paunch of his belly. “Not like it’s gonna stay on me with my super awesome metabolism right now. It’s either that, or I act on the other urge I have.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Grossing me out?”
“Bitch.” Dean rolls over with a grunt, lies on his belly, elbow to elbow with Sam. He smacks Sam’s calves with his tail, as though smacking him on the back of his head, saying, “Fuckin’. That urge.”
“Oh. Oh.”
“Think it’s better to take my mind off those kinda, uh, logistics, and if stuffing my face helps, I’m all for it.” He frowns. “Never did-and never fucking will, that’s a goddamn truth-get the appeal of bestiality-” He stops suddenly, grabbing Sam’s forearm. “Don’t move. I got ‘em.”
He doesn’t because he’d never catch up, not at the speed Dean goes-off, sliding forward and dragging his body with his forearms, elbows, out of the bushes before he rears up and slams his full body into one leathery skinned monsters, cross between a rhino and god knows what. It’s covered in boils and slime, putrid mix with horns poking out of its skin here and there.
Dean gets a few scrapes, gashes, too, and his fighting tactics have changed without weapons. His transformed body is a weapon, doesn’t need a gun, not when he can wrap his tail around the struggling creature, choke the breath out of it as he punches. Digs in his claws, teeth bared.
He’s about to sink them into the tough flesh of the monsters neck when Sam’s standing nearby, shouting his name harshly.
Bring him back, bring his damn brother back.
Dean pulls away as it drops, as Sam throws his net over the monster. He starts to tie the ends and gives a hard look at Dean.
His brother wipes the blood off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and licks his skin as he does, skin tearing as though loose. Patches of it are, slightly mottled and lighter, dull and loose as though a separate skin.
Sam thinks of Dean, eating, the pleasure that rolled off him in waves as he tore into his food-
“Good job, Sam,” Dean says after a minute, curt.
They get into the pick-up truck with their new capture, avoiding each other’s gaze for a long stretch of minutes, soundtrack being the rumble of truck on the pavement and the screams they listen out for, in the dark.
~
This afternoon and evening’s colder than last, November blows in with a chill in the air, makes the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up, at attention, everything all the more tense. Dean is, too, clock winding down when he seems to take stock of it, doesn’t throw out one-liners, isn’t constantly joking.
The monsters come out at night, places Sam would never guess but Dean does-and he says it’s some “kinda snake thing,” the way he feels a shift in the air, heat temperature. Cold-blooded, always searching for warmth; that’s what Sam knows from third grade, doesn’t help that Dean’s got a tendency to keep close to Sam often, but tonight, it’s almost too much.
“Do you want my jacket?”
“What?”
Sam shifts his weight from either foot, Dean up close next to Sam, and Sam can see every little scale on his skin, packed tight together, sheen that nearly makes it glow. It’s duller on places, rough, on the sides of his arms, dull patches on his chest, belly now flat. Sam leans a little away from Dean’s shoulder and arm, feels the brush of fingertips and claws reach out towards him, drop just as quick.
“You keep rubbing up on me. Uh. Are you cold? You should be cold. You’re not wearing anything. You’re-you’re cold-blooded, aren’t you? Snakes are cold-blooded,” Sam says, babbling now, stammer of words that Dean scrunches his face at, mouth open to retort before they hear a crash of glass. They’re on a lawn leading up to an old, country style house, porch swing hanging by one chain, a constant banging on the wall.
Then, a scream, voices, a woman, a child.
They look at each other before rushing up the stairs and into the house, Sam’s long legs and the stairs the only lead he has on Dean, who’s a few feet behind, slithers right up as fast as he can manage.
Sam’s holding his gun soon enough, about to step into the living room when Dean says, curt, “Upstairs.”
Sam goes up first, catches Dean whipping his tail around and goes up the stairs, body low, grabs up on the stairs with his hands and arms every few feet. It’s fast and startling to watch in the space of a few seconds, uneasy feeling in the bottom of Sam’s stomach when there’s another scream as he tries to follow up.
He lifts his gun at the thing in the bedroom doorway straight ahead, a lumbering, goblin-like creature, twisted silhouette in the little light available, light that catches teeth and eyes.
Sam thinks it reminds him of the wendigo, way back, thinks it for a good second and a half before it lunges at him, slashing its claws down the side of his face, shoulder, arm. It pins him to the ground and starts to rake its fingers, claws, on Sam’s belly, a tearing pain that stuns and burns. He drops his gun and his vision’s swimming.
“Sam!”
The weight is lifted all of a sudden, a blur of tan-green tail, thin, thicker, that wraps around the shoulders of the creature, pulls it off. Dean’s there, tail tightening around the monster, arms held out for balance as he slams his right fist in the thing’s jaw, bares his own sharp teeth as he shouts.
But it’s too fast, too strong, throwing Dean against the wall down the hallway. Sam backpedals on his elbows, nearly bumps into an opening closet door. He sees it crack open, a young woman and child, anxious and terrified. Sam shakes his head at them, turning back.
It’s too dark, and his gun’s gone, and Dean-
There’s some light from downstairs once Sam sits up, enough to see past the crouching monster, to see Dean straighten up from his sprawled out place on the floor.
To see him grab his arm and start to pull his skin off, long and wide swath of dead skin that falls away from his arm and chest, strings of slime, sticky and wet.
To see him move forward, smooth and fast, upper body held high and his eyes narrow, tail whipping forward, gripping the monster by a leg.
To see him dangle the monster over the balcony railing with his tail, and, as if shrugging, slow then fast, he throws it over and towards the ground, doesn’t flinch when it stays down, doesn’t move.
“Sam,” Dean says, and that’s when Sam exhales, staring up at him. Dean comes closer, his eyes narrowed-not by choice, by features, snake-like. His skin is in patches, parts that hang off, dead and rough, connected by strands of slime, twisted flesh he hasn’t torn off yet. Shedding, like a shapeshifter, a snake, musk and smell of flesh and blood roiling Sam’s stomach as Dean slithers closer, moving down, almost on top of Sam.
Sam chokes out, throat bare, cants his head and blinks through the pain, the smell, the sight of skin and “Dean?”
He cocks his head and breathes against Sam’s neck, heavy, smelling his skin. His forked tongue runs along the edge of his teeth that Sam sees, too close for comfort, sharper and longer. Feels the indentations of claws pressing against his arms, sides, too weak from the wounds to bat Dean’s hands away.
Feels the indentations of teeth on his neck-
Dean moans, this horrible, loud sound, wracks him from head to toe. He grabs at his head with his hands and pulls away sharply, torso and upper body rear back off of Sam, who’s exhaling, finally, just remembers to do so.
Dean stares at Sam for a moment, at his face, and his expression crumples. He takes off down the stairs just as the woman comes out of the closet slowly, a gasp of surprise at his retreating form. Sam can barely struggle to get up, much less run after him, weakly calling out to Dean before there’s silence, and he’s left alone.
Five hours left ‘til sunrise.
Part Two of Two
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 12,850 words
Spoilers: S2, post-AHBL
Warnings: Language, animal transformation, violence, and gore.
Summary: It’s Halloween, and the locals aren’t clued in to the fact that those things going bump in the night are much more than fabric and latex. Sam and Dean learn this fact the hard way as the clock winds down and a town’s about to be overrun by monsters.
Author’s Notes: Beta by the sound mind and fine body of one regala_electra. Written for spn_halloween for prompt #21: “Someone is giving out Halloween candy that transforms kids and adults - anyone who eats it - into monsters. Sam OR Dean eats one of the candies and the other one has to cope.”
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)
Part One
Sam sucks in a breath when the shot goes off, feels his heart hammer as the Impala skids, and he realizes he’s yelling.
Not like this, he thinks, but Mom didn’t get to ask that, Dad didn’t, Jessica didn’t. But fuck if he’s going to let it happen like this.
~
One day ago
They’d pulled into this town the day before, rumors of old horrors popping up in the state newspapers: ‘juvenile delinquents’ read the headlines thirty years ago, ‘troublemakers’ nowadays-though how that’s better, new, this updated lingo, Sam isn’t sure-all going crazy around Halloween night. Looting, stealing, that’s nothing too stressful, but there’s talk of dead animals, ripped open, broken windows, and empty beds.
Halloween’s always been tricky, fraught with boredom or too much excitement or both, either way, Sam doesn’t care about it. Got his fill of it every other day of the year, thanks.
Truth be told, he’d rather spend the night at the motel and get some research done-despite Dean telling him not to bother breaking the deal, Sam’ll do it anyway, especially tonight, with Dean likely to be passing out in front of the T.V. full of chocolate and candy as he sleeps through an old horror movie marathon.
He doesn’t think anything supernatural will turn up with investigating, and he’s bringing coffee to Dean when the first screams go off down the block. His legs are pumping before he knows it, but they’re too late: there’s an empty baby carriage, and the mother’s hysterical, tears smearing her mascara, screaming about her baby, her baby.
Dean’s body language is tense when he rubs her shoulder. Doesn’t flirt, says to her with his eyes still on Sam, “Don’t worry, miss. We can help.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she says, and points, “My baby crawled into the bushes! It’s-oh my god, what happened to my baby, his hands, his eyes were yellow! Oh God!”
Sam’s jaw goes rigid. Dean bumps him with his shoulder, later, after they take her to a neighbor’s, call the police.
“Still think it’s nothin’, Sam?”
“Didn’t say it was.” Sam frowns. “Isn’t a two year old a little young to be possessed?”
“Dude, the kid had yellow eyes. That’s not possession; that’s freakin’ Village of the Damned,” Dean says as he nears the driver’s side of the Impala. “Now that was messed up.”
“Dean, weren’t those kids aliens?”
“Doesn’t matter. The Thing crawled.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hey! Could be Rosemary’s Baby.”
Sam rolls his eyes when he slips into the car, knees knocking against the dashboard. “Sometimes I wonder why Dad ever let you near a TV.”
~
It’s not the first time it’s happened.
“1985. Halloween night. A few children died in a fire after coming home from trick-or-treating,” Sam says, turns his laptop to face Dean. Dean sorts through his duffel, two piles of clothes as he lifts them up, does a smell check. “Thing is, there were reports of, quote, ‘demonic beings.’ Sightings of blood rituals, animal sacrifices passed off as pranks. We’re talkin’ full-on monsters here, Dean.”
“Any reason why?”
“None that they could tell. But,” Sam says, shuffles through his papers, continuing when he lifts up a sheet, “there were an unnatural number of people brought in to the local hospital. Stomach virus. Check this out: same thing happened in ’73. No fires though. It got more violent the second time. And, some people were suffering from ‘erratic, wild behavior.’ Thing was, they went missing. Some of them never came back. The ones that did were almost insane, covered in bruises.”
Dean pulls at the sides of one shirt, saying, “So the disappearances are increasing and the things that go bump in the night’re getting more vicious. All on Halloween night, right?”
“Not just Halloween-it continued until the morning of November 2nd, both incidents.”
“Huh,” Dean says. “Day of the Dead.”
“Second half.” Sam closes the laptop and leans forward, elbows on his knees, paper in one hand. “‘All Souls’ Day’. November 1st being ‘All Saints Day.’”
“Your inner geek is showin’.”
Sam ignores Dean, looking at the paper. “They claimed it was a stomach virus. Could be a demon virus. All it takes is a human carrier.”
“And that narrows it down how?”
“It turns out a local doctor settled down in ’73 with a background in genetics and viruses. He lost his funding after pushing for donations in animal testing and that’s why he came here. Kept to himself since he moved in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the man had a lot of demons comin’ to his doorstep.”
Dean nods, pulls and stretches the shirt a little. “That’s why you always gotta use protection, Sammy.”
“Thing is, he’s not listed in the phonebook. No recent records. Either he’s dead or alive, there’s no way of telling. We’ll have to check out the library, maybe ask around,” Sam says, already slipping on his jacket.
Dean shoves the shirt into his duffel, throwing on his own jacket, nearly making a mad dash for the door.
“Great. You can tell me all about Frankenstein here when we get somethin’ to eat,” he says as Sam searches for his wallet. “Can’t investigate on an empty stomach.”
“Dude,” Sam starts, and he’s eyeing the shirt, and Dean. He hesitates and then goes for it, knows he’ll get the same kind of response either way. “What’s with the shirt?”
“Didn’t fit,” Dean bites out, already pulling the door open. “Probably got fucked up in the wash.”
Sam represses the urge to smirk when he follows his brother outside, Dean calling out over his shoulder, “You give me one word about my eating habits and I’ll make sure the doc does a number on your ‘nads.”
~
They’ve got nothing when they slip into the diner booth, Dean ready to scowl at Sam’s teasing when the windows shatter, rain of glass and broken concrete. There are shadows at first, and then they hit the tables and booths, topple, rip, and break, heavy muscle and claws that sink in.
Sam’s ready, has been all his life for these kind of things-freaky things that go bump in the night, but this slight tinge of reality, of humanity that makes them harder or easier to kill. Vampires. Werewolves. Spirits. Some shape he can recognize, a turn of phrase and a smile that puts you at ease before the ‘demon’ emerges. Except these things here don’t really exist, and Sam’s admittedly a little freaked out.
Different sizes, reptilian, large mammals like dogs and bears, heavy and clawed-red and yellow eyes, snot and slime as they scuttle forth and wreak havoc, wreathed in clothes and human skin, human hair, Christ-
It’s all in three seconds, from the break-in to the assault, and Dean’s down on the ground, this cross between a bear and an alligator trying to bite a chunk out of his forearm. Sam doesn’t get a chance to shout at Dean, instead starts to wave towards the diner patrons and workers-few, five or six that take his cue and run the hell out of there. They nearly get pounced on by the spry monsters but Sam fires a couple of warning shots at the feet of the creatures, black blood oozing in pools and swirls on the tiles.
Dean’s ready though, always is, gets a shot off in the thing’s shoulder, a warbling mix of animal and human scream in response. Human. Oh God.
“Dean!” Sam calls, breath knocked out of him as two smaller creatures tackle him by the waist, like gargoyles, wings flapping him in the face. “Don’t hurt them! They’re still people!”
Dean whips his head around as he pushes the weak beast off him, raises his gun to aim it directly at Sam-and there’s a shot going off before Sam can think, both ways, good and bad, inevitable-but the bullet catches the wolf-like creature about to pounce on Sam’s neck, rip the soft flesh of his throat.
“That isn’t!” Dean shouts back.
Sam manages to dig his gun out from the waistband of his jeans when he pushes the gargoyles off. He and Dean start firing, Sam shouting to “watch for the flesh!” between gunshots. Dean’s already there, delivering wounding, not fatal, shots at the creatures still covered in patches of human skin, clothing, hair. It’s hard to tell, the way the creatures keep moving, leaping from table to table and skittering on the floor before they leap right out of the diner and tear off down the street.
They both get their bearings before Sam hobbles over to Dean, stepping on candy wrappers, bits of broken glass and furniture. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
Sam avoids the urge to check Dean, touch his arm, feels a little odd at the thought. It’s been like this for weeks now, Dean’s deal, and Sam’s walking on eggshells-he’s looking out for him a little too much, touching a little too often. It’s the stress, he thinks, that’s all, little heightened than usual.
Forces himself to bury it down, whatever this is, new and painful all of a sudden, driving him to distraction at the thought of Dean hurt. Sam sniffles and wipes at his nose. “The patches of skin... They used to be human.”
“Yeah.” Dean nods, rubs the blood off his neck, gun still held. “Didn’t do too good of a job with the monster act. Couple of science projects. Except for those.”
He waves the gun at the two remaining monstrous looking corpses, no human hide or hair in sight, straight out of any B-movie horror film.
“Too far gone?”
“I hope so,” Dean says grimly, wipes the blood off his gun. “What’s triggering the transformations?”
Sam doesn’t know, and looking at the monstrous bodies, is anxious to find out.
They salt and burn the two corpses in the cemetery a few blocks down, exchanging looks only when the first monstrous cries are carried on the wind.
~
They manage to get the address with Sam doing all the talking, turning a librarian away from the window as Dean occupies himself with taking potshots at harpies flying overhead from his place on the stairs outside. Traveling through the neighborhood breaking up fights here and there, not quite able to kill or capture the monsters, only stun them, stop them until the creatures run away. Sam knows it’s slowing them down, but people will die if they don’t-and people will die if they take too long in getting rid of the source of these transformations.
Thing is, it gets difficult with costumes-Halloween’s carrying on as usual, kids and adults trick-or-treating; the locals aren’t clued in to the fact that those things going bump in the night are much more than fabric and latex. The sidewalks are both empty and full, scattered clutches of Trick-or-Treaters here and there; either obliviously screaming for fun, or screaming for their lives, discovering those other kids and adults walking and chaperoning might be out to kill.
Two hours past sundown finds them cruising, slow, through a neighborhood. The air’s crisp and windy, blows Sam’s bangs into his eyes when he gets out of the car. He steps back as a group of teenagers come running past, a blur of colorful fabric and plastic masks. Dean grins at the teenagers like he’s ready to join them, tapping Sam on the chest before he points to the house they’re parked in front of.
It’s a decrepit, run down two story, weeds and straggly undergrowth threatening to ensnare the porch and it’s even got an honest to god creepy old rocking chair too.
The boys look at each other, Dean volunteering, “Guess we oughta knock.”
Sam does so, getting a creaky unlocked door opening in response. He takes his gun out while Dean follows suit, gingerly stepping into the house.
The interior’s just as bad as the outside, with ivy vines snaking in from the windows, a thick layer of dust on all surfaces, floating in the air in the fading sunlight. Sam is careful to avoid walking into the spider webs in the archways. He takes stock of each room that they pass through. It’s empty and looks like it hasn’t been lived in for years, save for a study room Sam nearly misses, door left ajar. He nods towards Dean and they inch closer, Sam slowly nudging the door open as Dean steps forward, gun ready.
Dean hesitates, frowns. “There’s no one here.”
“And you call me Captain Obvious,” Sam responds as he lowers his gun.
The study’s more like a workshop, by the look of it-quick glance has bookcases near the doorway but there’s more, counters and tabletops with strewn household items, as though the place had been ransacked. Dean steps into the room and moves, quietly, into the adjoining kitchen area. Wrappers crunch underfoot and there’s a lot of them-tart and sweet candies, chocolate smears on the walls and cabinets, like the place was overrun by trick-or-treaters.
Sam turns away from Dean and starts to sort through the papers scattered around on the desk, the counter, thick and dusty textbooks that look like they haven’t been opened in years. He’s holding a flashlight in one hand, the other flipping pages.
“This stuff doesn’t help-no journals, nothing. Just a lot of junk. Old medical articles about his glory years. If you call horrific and inhumane genetic testing on animals for the key to a good facial scrub glorious, that is,” Sam says, voice thick with sarcasm.
“Dude, you were expecting Frankenstein here?” Dean snorts behind Sam, still looking around the kitchen, sharp ring of metal pots and broken china plates. “Really don’t think he left a map to his hidden evil lair.”
Sam hmms in response, because now he’s found something. Old writing, cursive, a list of items. Old school, eye of newt and all that, but the way it is, it looks like a recipe. Or a spell. He glances at the pool of light briefly reflecting near the wall in front of him, Dean’s flashlight; he’s turned away from Dean, concentrating on the books.
Dean starts poking and sorting through the scattered, open bags of candy. “Doc’s got something of a sweet tooth, huh. A man after my own heart. Except, you know, without my good looks and he’s the one pullin’ the freaky ass experiments.”
Sam pauses, lets his finger run down the surface, the spine of the book. Feels dusty. He hears bags shifting behind him, Dean poking at the bags still. “Hey. Hey, Dean.”
Dean grunts, more wrapper crinkling.
“Dean, I think it’s-I think he put something into the candy and gave ‘em out to the kids,” Sam says, rubbing the grains between his fingers. He sniffs it, scrunches his nose.
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. There’s traces of sulfur. The ingredients here are straight out of a demonic lover’s cookbook.”
“Or the Elvira movie.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Dean says with a cough. “Uh. Sam, tell me you’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m-what do you mean?”
Sam turns to look over at Dean, and for the rarest of moments, Dean’s shaking, sweaty, skin looks clammy. “Because I just ate half a fucking candy bar, genius.”
“What?” Sam stares. “You-you ate… Jesus Christ, Dean, is there anything you won’t put into your mouth?”
“Yeah, your dick if you don’t figure out when I’m gonna start goin’ all Creature of the Night here!” Dean frowns. “Man! This isn’t fair.”
“You had, what, half?” Sam asks, two long strides taking him across the room, near Dean. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and gets Sam smacking him, on the arm, hard. “Stop it!”
Sam winces a little, says, edge of desperation in his voice, “Maybe-maybe half won’t do anything?”
Dean mutters, pulling the half-eaten bar of chocolate out of his pocket. “Yeah. Half.”
He lifts the bar up to his nose to sniff it, eyelids flutter in pleasure. But Sam snatches it away before Dean can take another bite. “Gimme that!”
“Sammy-” Dean hesitates, “I…” but he doesn’t get to more than that, doubling over, spewing brackish black on the floor.
“Dean!” Sam’s already there in a few steps, hesitates-Dean’ll refuse his support, Dean’ll change, god, they just saw those twisted creatures in the diner and Dean might become one of them-
Lifts his head up, says through the pain, teeth grit, keeping that stuff from dribbling out of his mouth, “I think it’s starting.”
Sam opens and closes his mouth, jaw tightens.
“Come on,” Sam says, and with that they’re out the door, small stack of textbooks under one arm and Dean’s arm pulled by the other.
~
“Pull over.”
“Dean.”
“Sam,” he says, shaky, this exhale of breath. Sam looks in the rear view mirror and sees shadows and light play on Dean’s face, one second bathed in light, the next in the dark. His eyes are yellow now, and for that, Sam flinches. In every flash of visibility, Dean seems to be changing, muscles shifting underneath, bones moving, skin stretching, discoloring, sheen of sweat covering-
“Please, Sammy.”
The voice is haggard, this click in Sam’s brain as he pulls over immediately, click of fear. “Dean?”
They’re in the downtown area, far off screams in the distance, broken glass, decorations and toilet paper everywhere. The back door opens and there’s a large whumpf, a heavy weight. Sam barely has a chance to turn off the ignition and slide over the passenger seat, out onto the sidewalk, Dean already gone.
He bends down and picks up Dean’s jacket, black canvas ripped, wet.
“Dean! Dean, wait! Let me help you!”
It figures that they’re outside an alley, right between a convenience store and a liquor store, toilet paper clinging sticky to an overstuffed green dumpster. Sam ducks into the car to pull out a flashlight, dropping the jacket on a seat. He starts to move forward into the alley.
A groan cuts through the dark, gurgling towards the end of it. “St-stay back.”
“Bullshit. I’m helping you, Dean,” Sam snaps, flicking the flashlight on. He sucks in a breath, taking a step back. “Holy shit.”
This monster is like nothing Sam has ever seen-in reality, grounded-it’s like a thing straight out of myth, straight out of late night horror movies all rolled into one. Scaly, dark tan-green hide, last vestiges of lighter flesh vanish with a ripple effect, and there aren’t any legs, gone, melted straight into one large serpent tail. Dean’s thrashing on the ground, back arches up, another flesh tearing groan as the flesh hardens into ridges along his spine, almost like armor plating.
But the real kicker is his face, the way it’s him but not him, how Dean’s face pushes out ever so slightly, same facial features, eyes that deep yellow. Scales covering his face and skin, tightly packed together, lighter color, shine and patterns that accentuate his cheekbones, give way to the still soft flesh of his lips. He’s got claws-and hands, and arms-on top of it.
Sam’s shouting Dean’s name and moving to grab him. But Dean moans and bats his hand away, grits his now sharp teeth. He grabs at his head like he’s got a migraine, palms his hair-same, just darker-and covers his face.
“Dean, come on. I’m-it’s me, okay?”
“Get away.”
And that’s when Sam stops breathing for a second, two, clears his throat, the faint sounds of flesh readjusting, transformation still heard. Dean only moans, tries to curl up in a ball before he thrashes, tail whipping and nearly slashing Sam across the thigh with its sharp ridges. Dean lifts his head out of his hands, and the look on his face twists Sam’s gut.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sam whispers harshly.
“I’m gonna hurt you,” Dean says quietly, and slowly rights himself, holding onto the wall for support. Ridges of muscle, chest, and belly are covered in lighter tan-yellow scales, flesh that fades away and melts into bands, thick muscle of his waist and tail that keeps going, long, tip darker, hard, not quite a rattlesnake’s but close.
“I’m gonna fix you,” Sam responds, keeps his voice steady. “I swear. Don’t keep me out, Dean.”
There’s a moment’s pause before Dean’s whole body language changes, settles even, straightens, firm, like the change has passed and he’s okay, if not worse for the wear.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all soft on me,” Dean’s saying, his voice still the same. He stares at his hands and arms, and then his gaze moves downward. “Oh, fuck.”
“It’s uh, it’s not that bad,” Sam tries.
“‘Not that bad’? I have no legs. My dick’s gon-” Dean stretches and wriggles up, rights himself and shakes a little, as if adjusting his package. “Oh. Uh. Okay. It’s still there. Thank god. It’s just hidin’.”
“Dude. Seriously?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Gimme some fuckin’ dignity, Sam, I’m a snake for crying out loud.”
“Fine,” Sam responds, pulling his hands away. “You think you can, uh, move?”
“What? Oh.” Dean pushes back off the wall and straightens, raises himself so that he’s eye level with Sam-and Sam notices Dean’s tail, the length of it, twenty feet or so from head to the tail end. “Yeah, I think.”
Sam bends down on one knee to pick up Dean’s torn, wet clothes, watching Dean move, no, slither past him, jerky at first before he gets the hang of it. Holds his head up high, like he isn’t naked, and he isn’t half a freaking snake from the waist down, human torso head to waist held up, same cocky swagger, only no legs, just this… this tail, slithering. Sam swallows, following after.
~
~
Traveling is the trickiest part because all fifteen, twenty feet of Dean can’t fit into the Impala, a fact he doesn’t remain quiet about. Sam doesn’t hesitate when they approach the car; he goes past it, towards a pick-up truck with broken windows. A few minutes of hotwiring has Sam poking his head out, gesturing to the pick-up. Dean moves over and climbs in the back, murmuring about “great, just like the friggin’ mermaids” under his breath when he sits up, tan-green head to mid-chest visible.
Twenty minutes after they get to the motel, Sam comes out, hands in his pockets, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
Dean straightens, fumbling and throwing off the tarp covering his waist and tail, scowling. “What took you so long? I was startin’ to get a cramp in, uh, never mind.”
Sam scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve got bad news and worse news.”
“Cutting to the chase,” Dean says, eyes large and golden, that freaking shade. “What is it?”
Sam’s putting his laptop in the cab when he steps back, almost bumping into Dean-the way Dean just leans, slinks over the edge, like he’s all muscle, no bones.
“Bad news is, it’s not a demon virus, it’s a curse, judging by the ingredients listed. The curse’s pretty difficult to break by what I was able to look up, quickly. There’s a handful of things that might work, but I’ll have to research further.” Off Dean’s look, Sam adds, “More than one of those counter spells involve ‘grievous bodily harm’, Dean.”
“Children of the candy corn, huh. Plus, we have to take care of all of the transformed people. Gotta catch ‘em all. Like Pokémon, only not as fuckin’ cutesy,” Dean answers, rolls his shoulder muscles and cracks his neck a little, stretching, up. “You look up anything else on the spell?”
“According to your, uh, change, and the recipe book-the transformation’s based on how much candy consumed. You had half a bar. Some people had a little, some had a lot. You saw how it is. It’s random, the effects,” Sam says, worries his lip for a second before he blurts out, “Hey, I think yours might have to do something with Greek myths; you know, Erichthonius? The half-man, half-serpent, king of Athens? Something.”
Dean rolls his eyes, about to speak-Sam knows he walked right into that one, geeky kid brother with his nose buried in those old books-but doesn’t. He clears his throat, deep, unnerving rumble, before saying, “And the worse news?”
“Time limit, remember? We’ve got until sunrise, on November 2nd.”
“So it’s like 48 Hours. Good cop, bad cop-”
Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing like 48 Hours.”
“Okay, so it’s thirty some odd hours,” Dean says, eyebrows quirk up and it’s weird, seeing that-it’s him, just changed, facial features slightly distorted, shine on scales accentuating his cheekbones. There’s no time though, to think about it. No time to joke, because Sam’s brother is a freakin’ reptile and if that’s not enough, they have an entire town to either save or capture.
He doesn’t get a chance to make a decision; Dean’s doing it for him. “We gotta help the people affected first-we can worry about me later.”
Sam taps his fingertips on the door edge, seeing a flicker of Dean’s tail as it swishes back and forth, Dean moving it unconsciously. He does look like a mermaid-
With a bang, Sam’s in the cab of the truck and starting it up, truck rumbles to life and tears down the street, actions that shake Dean and makes him curse, slide over and shout through the broken window. “Hey, asshat, not like I have any fuckin’ legs here for balance!”
“I know how to capture the monsters!” Sam shouts back, and Dean’d shout at him too, only he flings back when the truck lurches around a corner, whipping his tail around in a gesture more of frustration-not too used to it, not too smooth in motions yet, still trying-than anger.
He’ll have to learn. They’ve got less than two days.
~
“This fuckin’ blows, dude. Why couldn’t it be something cool, like wings or, I don’t know-Spider-Man! Like that. No, I get this, and I gotta tell you, Sam, my lower half is not something to be missed. Shit.”
“We counting your bowlegs, too?”
“Shut up.”
Dean starts moaning petulantly for a good two minutes, running down a list of monsters in films over the past few decades, from A to Z, when Sam begrudgingly cuts in with, “Dean, you do realize you’re like a walking-okay, uh, slithering penis metaphor.”
Dean shuts up immediately, arching an eyebrow.
“You’re welcome,” Sam mutters under his breath, awaiting the inevitable trouser snake joke that comes five minutes later.
Sam’s gotta give him credit for waiting that long.
It’s good though, because they’re in a cemetery, and the conversation’s low and uncomfortable when you’re dragging bodies. They had a job in Florida a while back, chasing down some freakin’ evil mermaid and Sam’d invested a pretty penny in enchanted fishing nets-didn’t get around to use them, stuffed them in the bottom of the Impala’s trunk, but they’re getting good use out of them now.
Whip, snap, crackle of magic, burning, rolling down the links and patterns of the net, thrills and hums; the net keeps others out, and its contents knocked out and paralyzed within.
It had been easy to handle by Sam, but Dean, Dean’d been crowing earlier, teasing the monsters from their hidden places, shadows near trees and gravestones. He moved fast for being in this strange new body, coiling and ready to strike out, whipping a net over their heads-paralyzed the monsters, these wolflike, B-movie lizard things, knocked them right out. The net crackled with magic, livewire that snapped and nearly burned Dean’s side.
He took it more seriously after that, licks of magic that nearly said, almost got you, before Sam’s eyes. Because they were after monsters, and Dean was one, and man, Sam’s admittedly a little worried about how well Dean’s acting, for now.
His jaw’s tight with these kind of thoughts rumbling around his head, heaves up his bundle of monster into the pick-up, Dean following suit.
“Sam?”
Sam flinches, runs a hand over his face before turning to Dean. Or, turning to look up at Dean, who’s raised himself up a few inches above Sam’s eye level.
“What, little brother?” Dean asks, grinning, teeth a little too sharp, face a little too scaly tan-green, the good looks not buried but accented by reptilian features. And isn’t that a whole other issue Sam doesn’t want to fucking think about, how despite everything-despite not being the same fucking species-Dean looks, well, good.
Yeah, ‘good’. No need to fill his already big head up.
Sam shakes his head and moves a hand forward to Dean’s waist. Dean flinches back, Sam grunting, “Let me see your burn.”
“Sam-”
“C’mon, man, I’m not gonna bite,” Sam snaps, fingertips darting forward.
Dean all the while breathes, steady, this rumbling noise not quite like a cough. He stiffens when Sam gets close.
There, the curve of where Dean’s hip should be, no hipbone, only other bones, snake ones, doesn’t reach quite around like ribs. His front and belly’s covered in scaled bands, snake underbelly, soft and firm at the same time, still has that little bit of extra flesh Sam had teased him about earlier. And it’s smooth-Sam catches himself staring, coughs. Right, series of burned slashes a few inches there.
Sam cocks an eyebrow. “I think they’re already healing.”
Dean’s posture visibly relaxes and he bats Sam’s hand away. “Let’s get these monsters back to base camp and get somethin’ to eat. I’m starving.”
~
‘Base camp’ is more like an abandoned storage facility, no fancy separate rooms-only cages, scattered garbage, junk, building’s condemned and yet no one loots it. They’d spotted it on the start of their patrolling, hearing the screaming voices from blocks away, and it looked perfect enough to house the creatures until they figured out how to change them back to normal.
By now there’s more monsters running rampant than trick-or-treaters, only beings in costume are changing, others locking themselves in their houses, afraid to come out. They’d torched the candy at the doctor’s house, kept up this notion that the candy’s recalled to others, spouted this warning off fast to frustrated, harried onlookers who thought Dean’s ‘costume’ was the best thing they’d ever seen.
But here, it’s dusty, it’s dirty, “fucking convenient, s’what it is, though I really don’t wanna think about what I’m, uh, slitherin’ through right now.”
They’d caught at least twelve monsters, various sizes and shapes-like bears, like rhinos, like hydras; they’re all a mix of real and fantasy, extra limbs and twisted flesh that doesn’t quite make sense. Far as it goes, Dean’s the best looking one out of them. The brothers unwrap the monsters from the magical nets, still asleep, paralyzed, place them in cages with old furniture, strong and heavy locks that held fast when the creatures shoved their weights against the doors.
Sam’s bag and books are laid out at the caretaker’s desk, duffel bag of weapons and equipment on the floor nearby. He sits on his haunches as he rummages through the bag, hearing the steady click of locks as Dean makes sure the creatures stay in their cages, soft slurring voices that speak to him before they slip into unconsciousness, that tell him to shed his human face, to join them.
Dean doesn’t respond, and it’s loud enough that Sam can hear, both do, but don’t talk about it.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
Sam whips his head around, comes face to face with the lower half of Dean, soft underbelly and thick muscle. He almost falls flat on his ass, wearily moving to stand up. “Dude. Uh. That was fast. Getting… You’re getting the hang of it, huh.”
“I guess. Place’s friggin’ dusty and filled with garbage. Don’t know how I can move this fast when-uh.”
They both look down, Sam flexing the tips of his boots unconsciously, tap tapping them against the runny pool of slime-lubrication, huh-around Dean’s tail.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dean groans, rears back and slides, too, a little too fast for his own good, almost goes sprawling, tail whipping forward as his arms windmill back.
Sam reaches a hand out to steady Dean, misses, jerks back to grip the edge of the desk with his hands, avoiding Dean’s thrashing tail. “Hey! Dean, you okay?”
“No, I’m not friggin’ okay!” Dean barks, hands and arms waving a little too wildly, anger in his voice. “Not only do I have to be a fucking snake but a goddamn freak of a boa constrictor, snail hybrid, shit, I don’t know-I gotta be that, too!”
Sam straightens, glancing at the spell book. He hasn’t had time to look it over yet, not when they’re out getting the monsters, making sure they don’t stay outside causing havoc. And for all his ‘geeky’ studying, he knows this isn’t quite right, finds himself saying out loud, “Snakes aren’t slimy. It’s a misconception.”
“Yeah, and I’m a freak of nature at the moment. Kinda think the doc’s playing fast and loose with the rules, all right?” Dean rubs a hand over his face, gold eyes half-lidded, sheen of sweat light on small green scales. “Look, uh. Look, can we just-Can we get out of here? I’m really fuckin’ hungry, Sam.”
Sam looks over at him, nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”
~
Dean moans, this rasp in his voice, saying, “God, I’m hungry, Sam.”
It’s something serious, can’t be taken as a joke, not the way Dean is now: he shakes a little and slumps in his place in the back of the pick-up truck, eyes half-lidded, a dull glow of yellow and he’s constantly licking his lips, teeth, with a forked tongue that makes Sam flinch.
And he’s not joking, at all, when they’re pulling up in the pick-up truck outside a little stripstore mall, smattering of parked cars and broken glass, refuse blowing across the empty streets. Three in the morning now, no one in sight-lights turned on and nobody’s home.
Only thing to do, then, has Sam making a food run, made easier by the emptiness of the mini-mall, broken glass windows and doors, food and clothes, items, everything strewn on the ground like the places were ransacked. There’s blood too, a lot of it, and a stench Sam covers his nose with the crook of his elbow to avoid, gun held in both hands.
“Here,” Sam says later, laden with bags of food, couple of bills put into the deli cash register, not quite stealing. He throws them in the back of the pick-up in Dean’s direction-doesn’t mean to, but it looks like Dean might attack him first, the way he tears into the bags and starts shoveling food into his mouth. Bags of junk food, red meat, poultry. Meat, bone, Dean eats it all, blood and juices running down his chin, his mouth a little wider-and Sam doesn’t want to think about unhinging, because that isn’t true, another misconception, please no-with a steady flow of junk food and meat going right into it.
“Dean? I’m gonna check out the store over there. Thought I heard something. You stay here, all right? Don’t worry about me.”
Dean grunts and Sam immediately turns away before Dean actually has an orgasm.
The convenience store’s lights flicker dully, fluorescent strobe that bathes the aisles in pale blue light. Shelves are overturned; food packages ripped open, a sick sweet smell of meat and rot permeating the air. He holds his gun, folded net, and flashlight with both hands as he’s going through the aisles, slow, methodically. A bag of potato chips falls to the ground to his right; Sam whips his head around. Nothing.
He’s barely able to keep from puking his guts out when he hears them, low sobbing. Long strides carry him towards a clutch of small bodies, their costumes soiled and torn.
“Hey. Hey, don’t be scared. I’m here to help,” Sam says, bending down-
And that’s when the gremlins try to bite his ankles.
~
“Next time, you’re checking out the scary empty convenience store. Not me,” Sam says, wiping gunk off his chin with his shoulder. He’s got two netted bodies under one arm, another netted one on the other; they’re unconscious, but they’re heavy and itchy, ragged hair poking through the seams and holes of their torn costumes. A princess, a ninja, and a cowboy-
Dean jerks his head up, leaning back in the pick-up, bare and scaly shoulders against the cab window. “Dude, that’s where you were? You shoulda told me were you went!”
“I did tell you,” Sam says, reaching over to place the monster kids in the back, Dean’s tail coiling around them. “Figured you didn’t want to be interrupted.”
Dean frowns and licks at a canine tooth, a hand rubbing his distended belly; it’s an image that has Sam thinking about a snake swallowing a rat whole.
“Man, that felt good,” Dean says, wriggles around so he’s draped on the side of the pick-up, like a weird, dark green mermaid, Sam’s hand on the driver’s seat door. “Felt like I hadn’t eaten anything in a week.”
“Let’s hope your metabolism’s just as freaky as the rest of you,” Sam says, slipping into the driver’s seat but not before Dean looks down at himself and flips Sam the bird.
~
The sun doesn’t quite rise high and full; it settles, dull glow, reddish haze of sky.
The few hours before sun-up were spent patrolling, netting monsters, storing them in the pick-up until it gets full, ‘til Dean has to squeeze and wrap around them, muttering under his breath. The monsters are scattered by morning, slipping off to hide, rest and sleep during the day, avoid the light-the halfway time before the change becomes permanent. By the time they get to the warehouse, latest group sinking to the ground in their cages, fast asleep, Sam’s tempted to join them.
He doesn’t though, spends a good chunk of the morning hours reading feverishly, wooden chair uncomfortable, back tense, in knots. His head bobs, jerks up, shakes the bangs out of his eyes.
“Sam. Get some rest.”
Dean’s voice, somewhere, too far. There’s a dull ache behind Sam’s eyes, a throbbing migraine.
He straightens and starts organizing his papers, says under his breath, “You shouldn’t let me nod off like that.”
“You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead on your feet,” Dean says, sliding over and putting a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the desk. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, he supplies, “Early bird special. Well, early near heart attack special, but hey, drive through windows? Get ya from the waist up. Waitress liked my costume. I told her it was spray painted.”
He waggles his eyebrows, faint against scaly skin. “Had to come back before I could see just how retractable my junk is.”
Sam makes a face, licking his lips before he fumbles, grabbing at the coffee weakly. He takes a sip, eyelids flutter, taste of coffee strong enough to make his body stir awake. Dean’s leaning down and sorting through the duffel, pulling and poking at weapons here and there.
He’s examining a gun when Sam says, “Dean, I have less than twenty four hours to get all of those affected in one place, figure out what’s gonna be a long and complicated ritual by the looks of things, and you’re telling me to take a freaking nap?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Dean responds, doesn’t look up.
Sam leans forward, peering over the side of the desk. “I don’t understand you-”
“Hey, I figure if you fuck up, I’ll make you push the pedals so I can drive.”
“Dean. That’s not funny.”
Dean sighs but Sam cuts him off, saying, “You’re not doing this. You’re not pushing me away, not now.”
“Sam, I’ve got a year-”
“Stop it,” Sam bites out, palms slamming the desk. “Don’t you dare bring that up. I know you’re scared. You’re not okay. You’re not human right now, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal. Dean! Are you even listening to me?”
“I hear a lotta whining, that’s what,” Dean says, looking up. He straightens up, slowly, rises above Sam, little taller than eye level. “I’m not gonna flip out, all right? No good havin’ two hot heads. Felt like going out-”
“-by yourself.”
“-to test this new body. And dude, I can take care of myself. Thought you’d better get some sleep for tonight. That’s when the real monsters come out.”
Sam wipes the sleep out of his eyes, rubs a hand over his face. He ignores Dean’s unflinching gaze and looks over at the books laid out on the desk. “Okay. I-I think I found something. A cleansing ritual. One with fire. Right up your alley.”
“We talkin’ fireworks, paint job, the whole nine yards?” Dean rubs his hands, arms moving, like trying to give himself something to do-little distracting, seeing all that skin, slight muscle definition lost with a different body, distended belly gone. (And that had been a fun hour, Sam unable to resist teasing Dean, who unconsciously-and self consciously-rubbed it as he digested the load of food).
“Yeah.”
“Awesome,” Dean says, claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezes. But his grip is too tight and his nails dig into the fabric of Sam’s shirt, making him wince. “Damn it! I’m-I’m sorry.”
Sam shakes his head, eyes half-lidded again, saying, “No, no, it’s okay. You, uh. You think you can handle the paint?”
“With my arms tied behind my back,” Dean swears, offers a little shrug. “Really.”
The tip of his tail raises up near his elbow, and he adds, “This thing’s pretty bendy. Dude, I can pop M&M’s off it.”
He grins at Sam, gets a stare in return before he rubs the back of his neck, tongue flicking out. “What? I was bored.”
~
Sam groans, paper plastered to his face, bangs in his eyes. Sam’s wristwatch is blurry in his vision, reads 4 ‘o clock, mouth tasting grimy, wet.
He rolls his shoulder muscles, exhales, eyes crusted over. Pauses, takes it all in-cramped little office, halo of white shine from windows through the open door, cages, and swears.
Dean’s at the door, nodding to him. “Coming?”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“Yeah, do it later when I’ve got my handsome corpse back. Not that I can’t still pick up more chicks than you even when I’m doing the friggin’ monster mash. C’mon, little brother.”
Despite the different features, he’s got the same impatient look on his face, tinged with amusement-only he’d let Sam sleep, made a point of it, even during the nightmares with Jess. It’s your job to keep my ass alive, so I need you sharp, and all that, sleeping alone, tired and aching from whatever they’d gone after during the waking hours. But now, now’s when they don’t have any time, Sam thinks, knows. Not when Dean’s arching up, six foot five and more, because of his freaking tail.
Two minutes to get ready, and Sam’s out the door, shaking his head at Dean’s ‘tallness’, says, “Seriously?” to which Dean just grins, sharp, sharp teeth.
~
“We’re like the Monster Squad, Sammy,” Dean declares, reclining on his back and elbows, tail swishing lazily and whapping Sam on the back of his calf every few seconds, getting a glare in return. They’re hidden in a few bushes at the local playground, having just told a group of kids and parents to leave-picked up three creatures there earlier, might come back, and they’re on stake out.
Sam adjusts himself, lying forward on his belly, almost facing Dean next to him. He can’t move away from Dean-doesn’t want to, and the leaves don’t offer much by way off covering.
He checks his gun for the fifth time, examining it as a distraction, murmurs, “Yeah, and you’re the team leader.”
“I am the fiercest of these critters,” Dean agrees. “Dude, we haven’t caught any other monsters that went all snake like me, you got any theories on why that is?”
“Because you’re special, Dean.”
“Good to finally hear you say that, Sammy,” Dean says, forked tongue twitching out for a moment, Dean saying, “Man, I’m not used to that. Although I bet the chicks would dig it. Wonder what I could-”
“Okay, seriously man, please don’t say what I know you’re about to say. I’m not really in a mood to start dry-heaving,” Sam groans, fidgeting a little so he bumps into Dean’s side, pushes Dean’s coiling tail away from wrapping around his leg. “I’m still trying to heal from the sight of you inhaling all that food. Again, today. Aren’t snakes supposed to store food?”
“Yeah, well, this snake ain’t passing up the opportunity to goddamn eat anything it wants,” Dean says, running a hand over the paunch of his belly. “Not like it’s gonna stay on me with my super awesome metabolism right now. It’s either that, or I act on the other urge I have.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Grossing me out?”
“Bitch.” Dean rolls over with a grunt, lies on his belly, elbow to elbow with Sam. He smacks Sam’s calves with his tail, as though smacking him on the back of his head, saying, “Fuckin’. That urge.”
“Oh. Oh.”
“Think it’s better to take my mind off those kinda, uh, logistics, and if stuffing my face helps, I’m all for it.” He frowns. “Never did-and never fucking will, that’s a goddamn truth-get the appeal of bestiality-” He stops suddenly, grabbing Sam’s forearm. “Don’t move. I got ‘em.”
He doesn’t because he’d never catch up, not at the speed Dean goes-off, sliding forward and dragging his body with his forearms, elbows, out of the bushes before he rears up and slams his full body into one leathery skinned monsters, cross between a rhino and god knows what. It’s covered in boils and slime, putrid mix with horns poking out of its skin here and there.
Dean gets a few scrapes, gashes, too, and his fighting tactics have changed without weapons. His transformed body is a weapon, doesn’t need a gun, not when he can wrap his tail around the struggling creature, choke the breath out of it as he punches. Digs in his claws, teeth bared.
He’s about to sink them into the tough flesh of the monsters neck when Sam’s standing nearby, shouting his name harshly.
Bring him back, bring his damn brother back.
Dean pulls away as it drops, as Sam throws his net over the monster. He starts to tie the ends and gives a hard look at Dean.
His brother wipes the blood off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and licks his skin as he does, skin tearing as though loose. Patches of it are, slightly mottled and lighter, dull and loose as though a separate skin.
Sam thinks of Dean, eating, the pleasure that rolled off him in waves as he tore into his food-
“Good job, Sam,” Dean says after a minute, curt.
They get into the pick-up truck with their new capture, avoiding each other’s gaze for a long stretch of minutes, soundtrack being the rumble of truck on the pavement and the screams they listen out for, in the dark.
~
This afternoon and evening’s colder than last, November blows in with a chill in the air, makes the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up, at attention, everything all the more tense. Dean is, too, clock winding down when he seems to take stock of it, doesn’t throw out one-liners, isn’t constantly joking.
The monsters come out at night, places Sam would never guess but Dean does-and he says it’s some “kinda snake thing,” the way he feels a shift in the air, heat temperature. Cold-blooded, always searching for warmth; that’s what Sam knows from third grade, doesn’t help that Dean’s got a tendency to keep close to Sam often, but tonight, it’s almost too much.
“Do you want my jacket?”
“What?”
Sam shifts his weight from either foot, Dean up close next to Sam, and Sam can see every little scale on his skin, packed tight together, sheen that nearly makes it glow. It’s duller on places, rough, on the sides of his arms, dull patches on his chest, belly now flat. Sam leans a little away from Dean’s shoulder and arm, feels the brush of fingertips and claws reach out towards him, drop just as quick.
“You keep rubbing up on me. Uh. Are you cold? You should be cold. You’re not wearing anything. You’re-you’re cold-blooded, aren’t you? Snakes are cold-blooded,” Sam says, babbling now, stammer of words that Dean scrunches his face at, mouth open to retort before they hear a crash of glass. They’re on a lawn leading up to an old, country style house, porch swing hanging by one chain, a constant banging on the wall.
Then, a scream, voices, a woman, a child.
They look at each other before rushing up the stairs and into the house, Sam’s long legs and the stairs the only lead he has on Dean, who’s a few feet behind, slithers right up as fast as he can manage.
Sam’s holding his gun soon enough, about to step into the living room when Dean says, curt, “Upstairs.”
Sam goes up first, catches Dean whipping his tail around and goes up the stairs, body low, grabs up on the stairs with his hands and arms every few feet. It’s fast and startling to watch in the space of a few seconds, uneasy feeling in the bottom of Sam’s stomach when there’s another scream as he tries to follow up.
He lifts his gun at the thing in the bedroom doorway straight ahead, a lumbering, goblin-like creature, twisted silhouette in the little light available, light that catches teeth and eyes.
Sam thinks it reminds him of the wendigo, way back, thinks it for a good second and a half before it lunges at him, slashing its claws down the side of his face, shoulder, arm. It pins him to the ground and starts to rake its fingers, claws, on Sam’s belly, a tearing pain that stuns and burns. He drops his gun and his vision’s swimming.
“Sam!”
The weight is lifted all of a sudden, a blur of tan-green tail, thin, thicker, that wraps around the shoulders of the creature, pulls it off. Dean’s there, tail tightening around the monster, arms held out for balance as he slams his right fist in the thing’s jaw, bares his own sharp teeth as he shouts.
But it’s too fast, too strong, throwing Dean against the wall down the hallway. Sam backpedals on his elbows, nearly bumps into an opening closet door. He sees it crack open, a young woman and child, anxious and terrified. Sam shakes his head at them, turning back.
It’s too dark, and his gun’s gone, and Dean-
There’s some light from downstairs once Sam sits up, enough to see past the crouching monster, to see Dean straighten up from his sprawled out place on the floor.
To see him grab his arm and start to pull his skin off, long and wide swath of dead skin that falls away from his arm and chest, strings of slime, sticky and wet.
To see him move forward, smooth and fast, upper body held high and his eyes narrow, tail whipping forward, gripping the monster by a leg.
To see him dangle the monster over the balcony railing with his tail, and, as if shrugging, slow then fast, he throws it over and towards the ground, doesn’t flinch when it stays down, doesn’t move.
“Sam,” Dean says, and that’s when Sam exhales, staring up at him. Dean comes closer, his eyes narrowed-not by choice, by features, snake-like. His skin is in patches, parts that hang off, dead and rough, connected by strands of slime, twisted flesh he hasn’t torn off yet. Shedding, like a shapeshifter, a snake, musk and smell of flesh and blood roiling Sam’s stomach as Dean slithers closer, moving down, almost on top of Sam.
Sam chokes out, throat bare, cants his head and blinks through the pain, the smell, the sight of skin and “Dean?”
He cocks his head and breathes against Sam’s neck, heavy, smelling his skin. His forked tongue runs along the edge of his teeth that Sam sees, too close for comfort, sharper and longer. Feels the indentations of claws pressing against his arms, sides, too weak from the wounds to bat Dean’s hands away.
Feels the indentations of teeth on his neck-
Dean moans, this horrible, loud sound, wracks him from head to toe. He grabs at his head with his hands and pulls away sharply, torso and upper body rear back off of Sam, who’s exhaling, finally, just remembers to do so.
Dean stares at Sam for a moment, at his face, and his expression crumples. He takes off down the stairs just as the woman comes out of the closet slowly, a gasp of surprise at his retreating form. Sam can barely struggle to get up, much less run after him, weakly calling out to Dean before there’s silence, and he’s left alone.
Five hours left ‘til sunrise.
Part Two of Two