Suffer A Witch [1/3]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG, no spoilerschibifriezaApril 1 2010, 06:57:26 UTC
~
It took a little longer than perhaps it should have for them to catch on.
“I hope you rot in Hell, you heinous bitch!” roared Dean as the witch crumpled to the floor. He turned to Sam and Castiel with a triumphantly satisfied look on his face.
Dean hated witches like nothing else; Sam had heard the diatribe a thousand times. He couldn’t say he was fond of them, either, and sometimes, like today, there was nothing for it but to kill them, human or not. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be concerned that neither of them was plagued by guilt over that kind of thing anymore. Apparently, if it’s evil, we kill it had won out over humans aren’t our job.
Right now, Sam had a more immediate concern. “What was that flash of light, before she died?”
Castiel looked grave. “I don’t know, but it might have been a spell.”
“The state that witch was in?” Dean scoffed. “I doubt it, man. You really think she could have pulled it off?”
“You never know. This one was pretty old,” Sam pointed out. “We might have triggered something like a trap.”
“Whatever. Let’s just clean up and get back.” They’d cornered the witch in an abandoned barn - well, less abandoned than they’d thought, apparently, but at any rate it was now - so the mess didn’t really matter, but some of their equipment had been tossed around in the process of taking her down. Sam and Dean went picking through debris in silence, while Castiel waited by the door.
“How come you’re still here, Cas?” demanded Dean, retrieving his shotgun from underneath a pile of moldering parchment with a grimace. “Not that I mind,” he added, then looked a bit surprised, like he hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud.
“I think Sam is correct to be concerned. If something’s wrong, then we should try to find out what it is, and I would like to help.”
“Well, suit yourself. It’s not like I’ll complain.”
“I hope we’re wrong,” Sam interjected, “but thanks for offering.” They had gathered everything that had scattered in the altercation, and joined Castiel by the door.
Dean surveyed the carnage, both literal and figurative - the witch’s corpse was still in the centre of the barn - with distaste. “Let’s torch this place and just get the hell back,” Dean muttered. “I need a shower, like, right freakin’ now.”
Sam retrieved the gas can and made a ring around the foundation while Dean liberally salted the witch’s corpse and her effects. Sam followed and doused them with accelerant as well. Then they both stepped outside and lit up a couple of matchbooks, tossing one inside and one at the base of the barn wall.
They all walked back to the Impala in silence.
The drive back was relatively short, punctuated by Sam’s careful, “You wanna maybe turn the music down?” because he was getting kind of a headache and Metallica was really the last thing he needed right now. Dean huffed and turned the knob down about three degrees.
Back at the motel, Dean took first shower with an unspoken acquiescence from Sam. It suited him fine anyway; he wanted to see if he could find anything about delayed-action trap spells, or death-triggered curses, or that kind of thing. The internet wasn’t generally the most reliable source for actual witchcraft, but he knew a couple of boards that dealt in pretty accurate material. Some of the discussion threads were skin-crawlingly shudder-inducing, even for him, but they could be pretty damn useful sometimes. He was hoping this would be one of those times.
It took a little longer than perhaps it should have for them to catch on.
“I hope you rot in Hell, you heinous bitch!” roared Dean as the witch crumpled to the floor. He turned to Sam and Castiel with a triumphantly satisfied look on his face.
Dean hated witches like nothing else; Sam had heard the diatribe a thousand times. He couldn’t say he was fond of them, either, and sometimes, like today, there was nothing for it but to kill them, human or not. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be concerned that neither of them was plagued by guilt over that kind of thing anymore. Apparently, if it’s evil, we kill it had won out over humans aren’t our job.
Right now, Sam had a more immediate concern. “What was that flash of light, before she died?”
Castiel looked grave. “I don’t know, but it might have been a spell.”
“The state that witch was in?” Dean scoffed. “I doubt it, man. You really think she could have pulled it off?”
“You never know. This one was pretty old,” Sam pointed out. “We might have triggered something like a trap.”
“Whatever. Let’s just clean up and get back.” They’d cornered the witch in an abandoned barn - well, less abandoned than they’d thought, apparently, but at any rate it was now - so the mess didn’t really matter, but some of their equipment had been tossed around in the process of taking her down. Sam and Dean went picking through debris in silence, while Castiel waited by the door.
“How come you’re still here, Cas?” demanded Dean, retrieving his shotgun from underneath a pile of moldering parchment with a grimace. “Not that I mind,” he added, then looked a bit surprised, like he hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud.
“I think Sam is correct to be concerned. If something’s wrong, then we should try to find out what it is, and I would like to help.”
“Well, suit yourself. It’s not like I’ll complain.”
“I hope we’re wrong,” Sam interjected, “but thanks for offering.” They had gathered everything that had scattered in the altercation, and joined Castiel by the door.
Dean surveyed the carnage, both literal and figurative - the witch’s corpse was still in the centre of the barn - with distaste. “Let’s torch this place and just get the hell back,” Dean muttered. “I need a shower, like, right freakin’ now.”
Sam retrieved the gas can and made a ring around the foundation while Dean liberally salted the witch’s corpse and her effects. Sam followed and doused them with accelerant as well. Then they both stepped outside and lit up a couple of matchbooks, tossing one inside and one at the base of the barn wall.
They all walked back to the Impala in silence.
The drive back was relatively short, punctuated by Sam’s careful, “You wanna maybe turn the music down?” because he was getting kind of a headache and Metallica was really the last thing he needed right now. Dean huffed and turned the knob down about three degrees.
Back at the motel, Dean took first shower with an unspoken acquiescence from Sam. It suited him fine anyway; he wanted to see if he could find anything about delayed-action trap spells, or death-triggered curses, or that kind of thing. The internet wasn’t generally the most reliable source for actual witchcraft, but he knew a couple of boards that dealt in pretty accurate material. Some of the discussion threads were skin-crawlingly shudder-inducing, even for him, but they could be pretty damn useful sometimes. He was hoping this would be one of those times.
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