Fic: Zombies, Zombies, Everywhere (1/?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.
Spoilers: General up to 3x12
Word Count: 2300
Summery: Sam, Dean, and Henriksen track Bela to a small town, unfortunately, she's left them a surprise.
AN: I hearby dub this my hunter!Henriksen verse.
This is, sadly, unbeta'd, even though
arlisshas kindly offered to beta for me, because I'm a slow poke and would like to get at least one part of this story done in time for the challenge it was written for. Any subsequent parts will be beta'd.
This was written for the for the April humor challenge over at
copsandhunters, for the prompt "Zombies, zombies, everywhere." I kind of think that I've failed with this, firstly because it's not done yet, and secondly, because it's not actually that funny. Mildly screwed up maybe, but not actually that funny.
There is no town named "Mishap" in Garret County, Maryland. There is, however, a town named "Accident." It has nothing to do with this story.
I'm not sure whether Bela would actually do something this terrible, but hey, just go with it.
This follows on from Go Down Swinging, and takes place during the third part of that (this is the Maryland zombie incident).
“So... how do you kill zombies?”
“Well, usually, you pin the fucker to its grave bed with a silver stake.”
“I hate to say it Dean, but there's a few too many of them for that.”
“I'm telling you both, they're not zombies.”
“Hey, if it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...”
“You've watched too many Romero flicks.”
“Okay college boy, then what are they?”
They're in West Virginia when they get the call. The tape deck in the Impala is broken, and Dean doesn't have the parts to fix it right now. He sulked about it at first, but as soon as they crossed the state line into West Virgina he apparently decided to provide his own music. By singeing “Country Roads.” Over and over. Off key.
What's worse is he only seems to know about a third of the words, and after the four or fifth rendition started filling in the blanks with his own lyrics, which have been getting increasingly obscene. Victor can practically hear Sam's teeth grinding together. Personally, Victor is trying to occupy himself by updating some of his files but the singing is too damned annoying for him to be able to concentrate. He catches Dean's eye in the rear view mirror and scowls at him, but Dean just goes right on ahead singing, only taking a brief break between verses to send Victor a cheeky grin.
“Dean, I swear to god, if you don't shut up right now...” Sam's voice is strained, but the edge of his mouth is twitching slightly, as if he's trying really hard not to smile. Victor never finds out exactly what Sam's going to do if Dean doesn't shut up, because a cellphone starts ringing. Sam frowns and fishes it out of his pocket. He takes a look at the screen before answering.
“Hey Bobby,” he says, and Dean immediately stops singing.
“Bela? What about her?” Sam asks, suddenly intense. He listens to the speaker on the other end for a few moments. Victor can only assume that it's Bobby Singer, whom he's heard of but never met.
“Mishap?” Sam says, pulling out a map from the glove compartment. “Where is that, exactly?”
Dean gives Sam a confused look. “Bela's had a mishap?” he asks.
Sam snorts quietly. “Yeah, I wish.” he mumbles. “No, I'm listening,” he says back into the phone. “Garret county, Maryland? No, we're in West Virginia. We can be there in a few hours. Are you sure about this?” He listens for a little. “Yeah, just a second,” Sam takes a moment to write a phone number down on a scrap of paper, says “thanks Bobby,” and hangs up.
“What the hell was that all about?” Dean asks.
“An acquaintance of Bobby's ran into Bela in the small town of Mishap, Maryland, earlier today. Bobby said the guy, a Walter Oldenburg, was handling an angry spirit and ran into her in the town's graveyard.”
“What the heck is Bela doing in a graveyard in some podunk town in Maryland?” Dean asks.
“I don't know,” Sam replies, “but it can't be anything good.”
“Bela?” Victor asks. “The thief who stole that gun from you? The one who turned you in in Colorado?”
“Yeah, that's the one.” Dean says.
“What are you going to do when you find her?”
The brothers share a dark look, full of complete agreement, but it's Dean who speaks.
“We shoot the bitch. Then we salt and burn what's left of her.”
Victor thinks for a second that Dean can possibly be serious, but there's no joke in voice.
“She's human.” It's all he can think to say. So far they've only taken on monsters and restless dead. Things that either used to be human but weren't any longer or things that never were, and while he expects that sort of attitude from Sam, Dean has consistently shown more concern for human life. Victor will be the first to admit that the idea of one of the killers he was tracking down getting the death penalty never bothered him. Hell, there was a time when he would practically have cheered to see Dean carted off to the execution room, but what they're talking about is murder, and Victor still has too much respect for the law to be willing to take it into his own hands like that.
“You got a better idea?” Dean snaps, upset with the implication in Victor's tone.
And there's the problem, because really, Victor doesn't. Sam and Dean have told him a bit about Bela, and he knows that she's, dangerous, amoral, and that turning her into the authorities would be useless, because murder via cursed object isn't actually a crime, exactly.
“We don't have any other options,” Sam says. “If it helps, look at it this way: she's aware of the supernatural, a part of this world, and she's not above using it to kill people. She's no better than anything else we've hunted.”
“Hell,” Dean says with a humorless smile, “In some ways, she's worse. At least the demons aren't doing anything they're not suppose to be doing. Well, most demons, anyway.” He add that last bit in a lower tone of voice and with a slight roll of his eyes that Victor catches in the rear view mirror. Sam gives Dean a sharp look but doesn't say anything.
“Still, doesn't this seem a bit suspicious to you?” Victor asks. He's still not okay with killing this woman, but he does want her to pay for what happened in Colorado, even if that is a bit irrational. Hopefully, if and when they catch her, he'll be able to think of something else.
“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“You two spend all this time tracking her, and now she's turned up in some small town graveyard not four hours away from where you are? Last time you caught up with her, she sprung a trap on you. Seems to me, she might be planning on doing it again.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “We're kind of expecting it.”
Except, as it turns out, there's some things that just so simultaneously horrible and damned ridiculous that you can't actually see them coming.
Victor convinces Sam and Dean to stay outside the town limits with their huge, distinctive car, and enters the town alone and on foot. Neither one of them is happy about it, but they both admit that Victor has a point when he notes that if this is a trap, he really should do the scouting, because this Bela woman has never met him before. He leaves them trying to contact this Oldenburg guy, who's apparently not picking up his phone. Yeah, and that's not suspicious at all.
He enters Mishap around mid-afternoon. It turns out be a speck of a town, tucked into the slopes of the Allegheny mountains. It has a well scrubbed but dilapidated look to it and seems to largely owe its existence to a nearby ski resort where most of its residents work. The streets are steep enough to bother Victor's bad knee. The buildings have peaked roofs, and it's a good bet the place gets a lot of snow in winter. Even in spring, it's cold enough to preserve the scattering of snow on the ground and to have Victor wishing he'd worn gloves. And a hat. Definitely a hat.
As it turns out, there's no sign of Bela. She hasn't stayed in the town's only motel, hasn't eaten in either of its two restaurants and no ones he's asked has seen her. At least Victor doesn't have much trouble getting answers from people. He just uses his best, official-sounding “I am a badass government agent and you do not want to fuck with me” voice and they're only too happy to tell him what he wants to know, no fake ID needed. Unfortunately, none of them actually have anything useful to tell him.
Cliche as it sounds, Victor has a bad feeling about this.
When he gets back to the impala, Sam and Dean are sitting on the hood. Sam's got his cellphone up to his ear and they both look concerned.
“Anything?” Dean asks.
“Nothing, no one in towns seen her. You manage to reach Oldenburg?”
“No, and now his phone's out of service.” Sam says, pulling his phone away from
“You think this guy might be working with Talbot to set you two up?”
“Bobby says he's on the level,” Dean replies.
“Bobby know him real well?”
“No,” Sam says. “Not really.”
“Man, this is getting us nowhere. Get in the car. We're gonna find that bitch.”
“Where?”
“Last place we know she's been: the Mishap historic graveyard.”
“Great,” Victor observes, watching the sun start to set. “Running around graveyards at night. Just my idea of a good time”
Sam snorts. “You say that like it's something new.”
“Just give me a second,” Victor says. He shuffles around in his bag for a moment and pulls out a knit cap.
“Got a head chill there, Chrome Dome?” Dean asks with an obnoxious grin.
Victor doesn't even dignify that with an answer.
It's full dark as they approach the cemetery. Dean pulls the impala onto the side of a dirt road, just behind a battered gray pickup truck with an equally battered brown bedcover. There's no actual parking lot for the cemetery, which is located not far outside of the town. There's no one else around either, least, not that Victor can see. Sam informs them that a volunteer group from several of the surrounding towns does upkeep on the graves, but there's not actual gravekeeper, so the truck either belongs to someone visiting a grave late in the evening, or to the elusive Walter Oldenburg.
Dean climbs out of the car and approaches the old truck. The driver side door is slightly open. “Shit.” Dean says, grimacing. He brushes his fingers lightly against the door handle, and when he pulls them away, there's a smudge of dark liquid against them.
“Blood?” Sam asks, except that it isn't really a question.
“Yeah,” Dean replies. “Lots of it.”
Sam and Victor walk over to take a look, and there is a hell of a lot of blood, alright. It's splattered in the inside of the cab, streaked on the windows and coating the outside of the door, but there's no sign of a body. The blood is tacky, but mostly dry. This happened hours ago, and if it's all from the same person, and Victor's willing to bet that it is, then there's no way they survived loosing this much blood.
Sam shines his flashlight down on the ground at their feet. “Someone was dragged from here.” He nudges the door open. The seat's been badly torn in long strips, like someone was trying to hold on to it. There's a shotgun laying on the passenger side seat, and the very end of the stock has a small amount of blood smeared on it.
“They were reaching for the shotgun when they were dragged out,” Victor observes.
“Think it was Oldenburg?” Sam asks.
“One way to find out.” Dean says, wiping his finger clean on the upholstery. Victor gives him a dirty look, because he can't help but think of it as contaminating a crimescene, and wipes the smudge Dean's left behind with a spare tissue he pulls from his pocket. He's going to have to have another talk with Dean about leaving fingerprints all over the damn place. Dean ignores him, walking around to the back of the truck. He pulls the back open and looks inside. “Oh, yeah. I'd say so. Unless there's another hunter that's decided to set up shop here.”
The inside of the truck has been made into a makeshift living area, with the bedcover offering a crude shelter from the elements. There's a sleeping bag, a camp stove, some dirty laundry, and about twelve canisters of instant coffee, but it's the pile of weapons, ammo, journals, and computer printouts that confirms that, yeah, this is probably a hunter's lair.
“Heh, think this guy's got a caffeine addiction?” Dean asks. The nearest can is open and has a spoon sticking out of it, even though there's no sign of a mug. Dean reaches for it, but Victor grabs his arm stopping it short.
“Gloves, Dean. Really. Unless you want the FBI to figure out you're not really dead.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but digs into his pockets, only managing to find one leather glove. Sam comes to stand next to them, he's holding something in his gloved hand. “I found this not far from the car,” he says.
“Dude, gross,” Dean says, pulling the spoon out of the can, with his one, newly begloved, hand. Little grains of instant coffee stick to the surface of the utensil. “I think he was eating this shit right out of the can.”
Victor ignores him, addressing Sam instead. “What is it?”
“A fingernail.”
“Aww man, if this is the work of a couple of cannibalistic pagan gods doing a Happy Days impression, I'm outta here. 'Cause once was enough.”
“Wait, what?” Victor asks, because while that's not the weirdest thing he's heard from them, it's up there.
“What are you complaining about? It was my fingernail they ripped out.”
“Seriously, what the hell?”
“Remind us to tell you about how we spent last Christmas,” Sam says, with a twist of his mouth. “But, no, this looks pretty old. I doubt it belonged to the victim.”
“Please tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting,” Victor says.
“Well,” Sam says, “Some rituals use human bodyparts, including fingernails as components, or...”
“Zombies,” Dean says with a big grin. “Totally zombies.”
Hey, everyone! Look over here! That is, if you want a say in what I write after this story is done...
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.
Spoilers: General up to 3x12
Word Count: 2300
Summery: Sam, Dean, and Henriksen track Bela to a small town, unfortunately, she's left them a surprise.
AN: I hearby dub this my hunter!Henriksen verse.
This is, sadly, unbeta'd, even though
arlisshas kindly offered to beta for me, because I'm a slow poke and would like to get at least one part of this story done in time for the challenge it was written for. Any subsequent parts will be beta'd.
This was written for the for the April humor challenge over at
copsandhunters, for the prompt "Zombies, zombies, everywhere." I kind of think that I've failed with this, firstly because it's not done yet, and secondly, because it's not actually that funny. Mildly screwed up maybe, but not actually that funny.
There is no town named "Mishap" in Garret County, Maryland. There is, however, a town named "Accident." It has nothing to do with this story.
I'm not sure whether Bela would actually do something this terrible, but hey, just go with it.
This follows on from Go Down Swinging, and takes place during the third part of that (this is the Maryland zombie incident).
“So... how do you kill zombies?”
“Well, usually, you pin the fucker to its grave bed with a silver stake.”
“I hate to say it Dean, but there's a few too many of them for that.”
“I'm telling you both, they're not zombies.”
“Hey, if it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...”
“You've watched too many Romero flicks.”
“Okay college boy, then what are they?”
They're in West Virginia when they get the call. The tape deck in the Impala is broken, and Dean doesn't have the parts to fix it right now. He sulked about it at first, but as soon as they crossed the state line into West Virgina he apparently decided to provide his own music. By singeing “Country Roads.” Over and over. Off key.
What's worse is he only seems to know about a third of the words, and after the four or fifth rendition started filling in the blanks with his own lyrics, which have been getting increasingly obscene. Victor can practically hear Sam's teeth grinding together. Personally, Victor is trying to occupy himself by updating some of his files but the singing is too damned annoying for him to be able to concentrate. He catches Dean's eye in the rear view mirror and scowls at him, but Dean just goes right on ahead singing, only taking a brief break between verses to send Victor a cheeky grin.
“Dean, I swear to god, if you don't shut up right now...” Sam's voice is strained, but the edge of his mouth is twitching slightly, as if he's trying really hard not to smile. Victor never finds out exactly what Sam's going to do if Dean doesn't shut up, because a cellphone starts ringing. Sam frowns and fishes it out of his pocket. He takes a look at the screen before answering.
“Hey Bobby,” he says, and Dean immediately stops singing.
“Bela? What about her?” Sam asks, suddenly intense. He listens to the speaker on the other end for a few moments. Victor can only assume that it's Bobby Singer, whom he's heard of but never met.
“Mishap?” Sam says, pulling out a map from the glove compartment. “Where is that, exactly?”
Dean gives Sam a confused look. “Bela's had a mishap?” he asks.
Sam snorts quietly. “Yeah, I wish.” he mumbles. “No, I'm listening,” he says back into the phone. “Garret county, Maryland? No, we're in West Virginia. We can be there in a few hours. Are you sure about this?” He listens for a little. “Yeah, just a second,” Sam takes a moment to write a phone number down on a scrap of paper, says “thanks Bobby,” and hangs up.
“What the hell was that all about?” Dean asks.
“An acquaintance of Bobby's ran into Bela in the small town of Mishap, Maryland, earlier today. Bobby said the guy, a Walter Oldenburg, was handling an angry spirit and ran into her in the town's graveyard.”
“What the heck is Bela doing in a graveyard in some podunk town in Maryland?” Dean asks.
“I don't know,” Sam replies, “but it can't be anything good.”
“Bela?” Victor asks. “The thief who stole that gun from you? The one who turned you in in Colorado?”
“Yeah, that's the one.” Dean says.
“What are you going to do when you find her?”
The brothers share a dark look, full of complete agreement, but it's Dean who speaks.
“We shoot the bitch. Then we salt and burn what's left of her.”
Victor thinks for a second that Dean can possibly be serious, but there's no joke in voice.
“She's human.” It's all he can think to say. So far they've only taken on monsters and restless dead. Things that either used to be human but weren't any longer or things that never were, and while he expects that sort of attitude from Sam, Dean has consistently shown more concern for human life. Victor will be the first to admit that the idea of one of the killers he was tracking down getting the death penalty never bothered him. Hell, there was a time when he would practically have cheered to see Dean carted off to the execution room, but what they're talking about is murder, and Victor still has too much respect for the law to be willing to take it into his own hands like that.
“You got a better idea?” Dean snaps, upset with the implication in Victor's tone.
And there's the problem, because really, Victor doesn't. Sam and Dean have told him a bit about Bela, and he knows that she's, dangerous, amoral, and that turning her into the authorities would be useless, because murder via cursed object isn't actually a crime, exactly.
“We don't have any other options,” Sam says. “If it helps, look at it this way: she's aware of the supernatural, a part of this world, and she's not above using it to kill people. She's no better than anything else we've hunted.”
“Hell,” Dean says with a humorless smile, “In some ways, she's worse. At least the demons aren't doing anything they're not suppose to be doing. Well, most demons, anyway.” He add that last bit in a lower tone of voice and with a slight roll of his eyes that Victor catches in the rear view mirror. Sam gives Dean a sharp look but doesn't say anything.
“Still, doesn't this seem a bit suspicious to you?” Victor asks. He's still not okay with killing this woman, but he does want her to pay for what happened in Colorado, even if that is a bit irrational. Hopefully, if and when they catch her, he'll be able to think of something else.
“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“You two spend all this time tracking her, and now she's turned up in some small town graveyard not four hours away from where you are? Last time you caught up with her, she sprung a trap on you. Seems to me, she might be planning on doing it again.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “We're kind of expecting it.”
Except, as it turns out, there's some things that just so simultaneously horrible and damned ridiculous that you can't actually see them coming.
Victor convinces Sam and Dean to stay outside the town limits with their huge, distinctive car, and enters the town alone and on foot. Neither one of them is happy about it, but they both admit that Victor has a point when he notes that if this is a trap, he really should do the scouting, because this Bela woman has never met him before. He leaves them trying to contact this Oldenburg guy, who's apparently not picking up his phone. Yeah, and that's not suspicious at all.
He enters Mishap around mid-afternoon. It turns out be a speck of a town, tucked into the slopes of the Allegheny mountains. It has a well scrubbed but dilapidated look to it and seems to largely owe its existence to a nearby ski resort where most of its residents work. The streets are steep enough to bother Victor's bad knee. The buildings have peaked roofs, and it's a good bet the place gets a lot of snow in winter. Even in spring, it's cold enough to preserve the scattering of snow on the ground and to have Victor wishing he'd worn gloves. And a hat. Definitely a hat.
As it turns out, there's no sign of Bela. She hasn't stayed in the town's only motel, hasn't eaten in either of its two restaurants and no ones he's asked has seen her. At least Victor doesn't have much trouble getting answers from people. He just uses his best, official-sounding “I am a badass government agent and you do not want to fuck with me” voice and they're only too happy to tell him what he wants to know, no fake ID needed. Unfortunately, none of them actually have anything useful to tell him.
Cliche as it sounds, Victor has a bad feeling about this.
When he gets back to the impala, Sam and Dean are sitting on the hood. Sam's got his cellphone up to his ear and they both look concerned.
“Anything?” Dean asks.
“Nothing, no one in towns seen her. You manage to reach Oldenburg?”
“No, and now his phone's out of service.” Sam says, pulling his phone away from
“You think this guy might be working with Talbot to set you two up?”
“Bobby says he's on the level,” Dean replies.
“Bobby know him real well?”
“No,” Sam says. “Not really.”
“Man, this is getting us nowhere. Get in the car. We're gonna find that bitch.”
“Where?”
“Last place we know she's been: the Mishap historic graveyard.”
“Great,” Victor observes, watching the sun start to set. “Running around graveyards at night. Just my idea of a good time”
Sam snorts. “You say that like it's something new.”
“Just give me a second,” Victor says. He shuffles around in his bag for a moment and pulls out a knit cap.
“Got a head chill there, Chrome Dome?” Dean asks with an obnoxious grin.
Victor doesn't even dignify that with an answer.
It's full dark as they approach the cemetery. Dean pulls the impala onto the side of a dirt road, just behind a battered gray pickup truck with an equally battered brown bedcover. There's no actual parking lot for the cemetery, which is located not far outside of the town. There's no one else around either, least, not that Victor can see. Sam informs them that a volunteer group from several of the surrounding towns does upkeep on the graves, but there's not actual gravekeeper, so the truck either belongs to someone visiting a grave late in the evening, or to the elusive Walter Oldenburg.
Dean climbs out of the car and approaches the old truck. The driver side door is slightly open. “Shit.” Dean says, grimacing. He brushes his fingers lightly against the door handle, and when he pulls them away, there's a smudge of dark liquid against them.
“Blood?” Sam asks, except that it isn't really a question.
“Yeah,” Dean replies. “Lots of it.”
Sam and Victor walk over to take a look, and there is a hell of a lot of blood, alright. It's splattered in the inside of the cab, streaked on the windows and coating the outside of the door, but there's no sign of a body. The blood is tacky, but mostly dry. This happened hours ago, and if it's all from the same person, and Victor's willing to bet that it is, then there's no way they survived loosing this much blood.
Sam shines his flashlight down on the ground at their feet. “Someone was dragged from here.” He nudges the door open. The seat's been badly torn in long strips, like someone was trying to hold on to it. There's a shotgun laying on the passenger side seat, and the very end of the stock has a small amount of blood smeared on it.
“They were reaching for the shotgun when they were dragged out,” Victor observes.
“Think it was Oldenburg?” Sam asks.
“One way to find out.” Dean says, wiping his finger clean on the upholstery. Victor gives him a dirty look, because he can't help but think of it as contaminating a crimescene, and wipes the smudge Dean's left behind with a spare tissue he pulls from his pocket. He's going to have to have another talk with Dean about leaving fingerprints all over the damn place. Dean ignores him, walking around to the back of the truck. He pulls the back open and looks inside. “Oh, yeah. I'd say so. Unless there's another hunter that's decided to set up shop here.”
The inside of the truck has been made into a makeshift living area, with the bedcover offering a crude shelter from the elements. There's a sleeping bag, a camp stove, some dirty laundry, and about twelve canisters of instant coffee, but it's the pile of weapons, ammo, journals, and computer printouts that confirms that, yeah, this is probably a hunter's lair.
“Heh, think this guy's got a caffeine addiction?” Dean asks. The nearest can is open and has a spoon sticking out of it, even though there's no sign of a mug. Dean reaches for it, but Victor grabs his arm stopping it short.
“Gloves, Dean. Really. Unless you want the FBI to figure out you're not really dead.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but digs into his pockets, only managing to find one leather glove. Sam comes to stand next to them, he's holding something in his gloved hand. “I found this not far from the car,” he says.
“Dude, gross,” Dean says, pulling the spoon out of the can, with his one, newly begloved, hand. Little grains of instant coffee stick to the surface of the utensil. “I think he was eating this shit right out of the can.”
Victor ignores him, addressing Sam instead. “What is it?”
“A fingernail.”
“Aww man, if this is the work of a couple of cannibalistic pagan gods doing a Happy Days impression, I'm outta here. 'Cause once was enough.”
“Wait, what?” Victor asks, because while that's not the weirdest thing he's heard from them, it's up there.
“What are you complaining about? It was my fingernail they ripped out.”
“Seriously, what the hell?”
“Remind us to tell you about how we spent last Christmas,” Sam says, with a twist of his mouth. “But, no, this looks pretty old. I doubt it belonged to the victim.”
“Please tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting,” Victor says.
“Well,” Sam says, “Some rituals use human bodyparts, including fingernails as components, or...”
“Zombies,” Dean says with a big grin. “Totally zombies.”
Hey, everyone! Look over here! That is, if you want a say in what I write after this story is done...