Fic: Twelve Days 10/10 | Gen pg-13
Title: Twelve Days
Authors: princess_schez & mlebayre
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Someone’s been reenacting a beloved holiday song, but with a very dark twist.
Authors Notes: Set during S2. Banner by princess_schez
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming…
Sitting around her neck was the athame. Behind him, his brother was stirring inside one of the drums.
He knew the twelfth day of Christmas had something to do with drummers or drumming, but whatever it was and how it would play out, he didn’t want him or his brother to find out.
“Look,” Dean said, trying to reach the girl trapped inside the angry spirit, “I know life has dealt you a bad hand, but this has got to stop! There are other ways… healthier ways… to deal with it!”
Devon stared at him, unblinking.
Dean knew he had to take action, but short of seriously injuring the girl, he was left with few options.
Rising up further, almost into a squatting position, Dean quickly swung his leg around, knocking Devon to the ground. The wind was knocked out of her body, and in the split second it took her to react, Dean had her pinned down. He got the chain loose when he heard a faint “D-Dean! I can’t get out!” again.
Instinctively he looked up, but it was all the time Devon needed, thrusting her fist up, nailing Dean in the chin. The athame sailed somewhere behind them into a darkened room.
“Damn it!” Dean yelled, scrambling past the teenage girl.
The pounding from the drums intensified until Dean could feel it throughout his chest as well hear it banging in his ear canals. Sam’s pleas were getting weaker, more desperate. Dean considered blowing his own brains out just for some quiet. That certainly wouldn’t help anyone, especially his brother.
Sam was in one of the drums, they were large kettle things on metal tripod legs. Sticks hanging in the air above them pounded the drum heads manically. The drums were bouncing around from the impact of the sticks, and as the drums bounced they moved and clanged into one another.
Dean realized that one drum wasn’t moving and the sound was more muffled than with the others. Both Dean and Devon sprinted toward where the athame lay right next to the drum.
Devon dove for the athame. Dean couldn’t reach both it and Sam, so he sidestepped and rammed his shoulder into Devon’s side sending her staggering away. She crashed to the floor, spewing more swear words than Dean thought a teenager would know.
“Nice vocabulary,” Dean muttered and threw himself at the drum. He bounced his fist against the skin, “Sam, Sammy? Hit twice if that’s-” He hadn’t even finished his sentence when pounding came from inside the drum. Dean fished his pocket knife from his back pocket. “Hang on, Sammy, just one…” he sliced the top of the drum. “…more minute.” He pried the skin and away from the base of the drum.
Sam was cruelly stuffed into a space a third of the size he should have been, his legs were bent so his knees were on either side of his chin. His chest heaved and he stifled a cough. “Hard to breathe.” He could barely wheeze the words out.
Dean quickly folded and re-pocketed his knife. He reached in and grabbed Sam by both arms and jerked him out of the drum.
The cacophony of noise doubled, making the windows rattle and sparks ignited between the metal feet and concrete floor.
Sam’s feet hit the floor. He stood for about a second for lurching forward and crumpling downward and against Dean. Dean was caught off guard and his brother’s unexpected weight crashing into him, sent them both tumbling to the floor.
Dean moved Sam to the side and clamored to his feet. He reached down and took hold of his brother’s arms again, “Sammy, we gotta-”
“I can’t feel,” Sam whispered, pushing his hands over his ears. “Legs. It hurts, Dean.”
Devon was fumbling around the floor on her knees, hands groping for the athame.
“Crap.” Dean could get Sam out or Devon, the simple fact was carrying them both was a little impossible. “I can’t…your arms work?”
Devon stood and screamed, “No!” She had the athame’s chain in her fist and was holding it above her head as she charged them.
Sam looked up, his breath hitched and he nodded, extending and flexing one arm slowly.
“That’ll work.” Dean lunged forward at Devon and swung his fist. He connected solidly with her jaw, sending her reeling away from him. She was out cold.
Dean took the athame and threw it to the ground, smashing it with his heel. He expected silence, but the drumming ramped up another few decibels. Spreading his arms wide he looked down at Sam.
“That breaks the spirit’s hold on her,” Sam panted.
“But doesn’t get rid of the ghost, not until the song ends.” Dean put the rest of it together. “You’re the last victim. If you don’t die, he will.”
Scooping up Devon, Dean carried her to Sam. “Hold onto her.”
Sam wrapped his arms around Devon and nodded. Dean grabbed Sam under the arms from behind and lifted to his feet, then slung one around his brother’s middle, taking most of Sam’s weight. Prepared this time he took a few steps sideways before propelling them at the exit.
The drumming was deafening even from the outside. As they slipped out the door Dean was the sparks grown to small flames, lapping at the wooden drum bases. He got Sam and Devon far enough away from the building and left them on the ground.
Running to the Impala, Dean had kerosene, salt and a flare gun out of the trunk in no time. Hurrying back he saw that Devon was beginning to wake up. Sam was bending his knees and stretching his legs, rubbing his thighs with his hands.
Dean threw the salt inside the room and emptied the kerosene container over the threshold. He backed up a few steps and took aim with the flare gun and fired. There was a whoosh of hot air when the room ignited in flames.
“What the hell! Let go of me you pervert,” Devon screeched.
Dean turned around in time to see her slap Sam’s face hard enough Dean felt the sting. Devon was up and moving away from them.
“Don’t either of you come near me. How did I get here? You drugged me!”
“N-no we-” Sam shook his head and tried standing.
“Stay away from me,” She screamed and kicked Sam hard in the shin. Then turned and ran.
Flames shot from the windows and door of the building. “The damn drums finally stopped,” Dean grumbled and pulled Sam up and against him once more.
Sam watched Devon’s back retreat and shook his head. “You’re welcome.” He looked up at Dean. The sounds of sirens made them both look to their right, the same direction Devon ran to. “Dean, we should…”
“Uh huh.” Dean steered them to the Impala and opened the door for Sam. Once they were both safely inside Dean eased the car into gear, and kept the lights off until they were clear of the old carnival. They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when Devon ran out to the road, waving her arms at an approaching police car.
“She should be okay,” Sam said, and turned far enough to look out the back window.
“How about you?” Dean asked.
Sam nodded and smiled. “I hate Christmas carols. And drums.”
Dean burst out laughing. “See I told you!”
They made a quick stop at their motel. Sam could still barely walk and despite Dean’s protests hobbled after him into their room.
Sam flopped onto the bed and turned the only TV in the room on. A special news report was just announced. It was the fire at old amusement park, but thankfully there was no mention of Devon at all, or even them for that matter, which was always a good thing in their line of work.
Dean hurried around the room, throwing things into their suitcases, preparing for their usual hasty exit after a job was finished.
Once they were on the road, Sam called Devon’s friend and got the report she was normal, scared and confused but normal. It would probably take years of therapy, but the Winchesters were confident that Devon would move on from this ordeal.
As the road darkened from lack of city lights Sam leaned back against the seat and sighed. “We should lay low when Easter gets close.”
Dean glanced to the side and snickered. “What’s the matter? Worried about the Easter Bunny?”
“Oh hell yeah.” Dean laughed and reached for the radio. Sam’s fingers closed around his wrist. “How about a tape instead of the radio?”
“Good thinking. No one ever died from Metallica.”
The End.
Authors: princess_schez & mlebayre
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Someone’s been reenacting a beloved holiday song, but with a very dark twist.
Authors Notes: Set during S2. Banner by princess_schez
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming…
Sitting around her neck was the athame. Behind him, his brother was stirring inside one of the drums.
He knew the twelfth day of Christmas had something to do with drummers or drumming, but whatever it was and how it would play out, he didn’t want him or his brother to find out.
“Look,” Dean said, trying to reach the girl trapped inside the angry spirit, “I know life has dealt you a bad hand, but this has got to stop! There are other ways… healthier ways… to deal with it!”
Devon stared at him, unblinking.
Dean knew he had to take action, but short of seriously injuring the girl, he was left with few options.
Rising up further, almost into a squatting position, Dean quickly swung his leg around, knocking Devon to the ground. The wind was knocked out of her body, and in the split second it took her to react, Dean had her pinned down. He got the chain loose when he heard a faint “D-Dean! I can’t get out!” again.
Instinctively he looked up, but it was all the time Devon needed, thrusting her fist up, nailing Dean in the chin. The athame sailed somewhere behind them into a darkened room.
“Damn it!” Dean yelled, scrambling past the teenage girl.
The pounding from the drums intensified until Dean could feel it throughout his chest as well hear it banging in his ear canals. Sam’s pleas were getting weaker, more desperate. Dean considered blowing his own brains out just for some quiet. That certainly wouldn’t help anyone, especially his brother.
Sam was in one of the drums, they were large kettle things on metal tripod legs. Sticks hanging in the air above them pounded the drum heads manically. The drums were bouncing around from the impact of the sticks, and as the drums bounced they moved and clanged into one another.
Dean realized that one drum wasn’t moving and the sound was more muffled than with the others. Both Dean and Devon sprinted toward where the athame lay right next to the drum.
Devon dove for the athame. Dean couldn’t reach both it and Sam, so he sidestepped and rammed his shoulder into Devon’s side sending her staggering away. She crashed to the floor, spewing more swear words than Dean thought a teenager would know.
“Nice vocabulary,” Dean muttered and threw himself at the drum. He bounced his fist against the skin, “Sam, Sammy? Hit twice if that’s-” He hadn’t even finished his sentence when pounding came from inside the drum. Dean fished his pocket knife from his back pocket. “Hang on, Sammy, just one…” he sliced the top of the drum. “…more minute.” He pried the skin and away from the base of the drum.
Sam was cruelly stuffed into a space a third of the size he should have been, his legs were bent so his knees were on either side of his chin. His chest heaved and he stifled a cough. “Hard to breathe.” He could barely wheeze the words out.
Dean quickly folded and re-pocketed his knife. He reached in and grabbed Sam by both arms and jerked him out of the drum.
The cacophony of noise doubled, making the windows rattle and sparks ignited between the metal feet and concrete floor.
Sam’s feet hit the floor. He stood for about a second for lurching forward and crumpling downward and against Dean. Dean was caught off guard and his brother’s unexpected weight crashing into him, sent them both tumbling to the floor.
Dean moved Sam to the side and clamored to his feet. He reached down and took hold of his brother’s arms again, “Sammy, we gotta-”
“I can’t feel,” Sam whispered, pushing his hands over his ears. “Legs. It hurts, Dean.”
Devon was fumbling around the floor on her knees, hands groping for the athame.
“Crap.” Dean could get Sam out or Devon, the simple fact was carrying them both was a little impossible. “I can’t…your arms work?”
Devon stood and screamed, “No!” She had the athame’s chain in her fist and was holding it above her head as she charged them.
Sam looked up, his breath hitched and he nodded, extending and flexing one arm slowly.
“That’ll work.” Dean lunged forward at Devon and swung his fist. He connected solidly with her jaw, sending her reeling away from him. She was out cold.
Dean took the athame and threw it to the ground, smashing it with his heel. He expected silence, but the drumming ramped up another few decibels. Spreading his arms wide he looked down at Sam.
“That breaks the spirit’s hold on her,” Sam panted.
“But doesn’t get rid of the ghost, not until the song ends.” Dean put the rest of it together. “You’re the last victim. If you don’t die, he will.”
Scooping up Devon, Dean carried her to Sam. “Hold onto her.”
Sam wrapped his arms around Devon and nodded. Dean grabbed Sam under the arms from behind and lifted to his feet, then slung one around his brother’s middle, taking most of Sam’s weight. Prepared this time he took a few steps sideways before propelling them at the exit.
The drumming was deafening even from the outside. As they slipped out the door Dean was the sparks grown to small flames, lapping at the wooden drum bases. He got Sam and Devon far enough away from the building and left them on the ground.
Running to the Impala, Dean had kerosene, salt and a flare gun out of the trunk in no time. Hurrying back he saw that Devon was beginning to wake up. Sam was bending his knees and stretching his legs, rubbing his thighs with his hands.
Dean threw the salt inside the room and emptied the kerosene container over the threshold. He backed up a few steps and took aim with the flare gun and fired. There was a whoosh of hot air when the room ignited in flames.
“What the hell! Let go of me you pervert,” Devon screeched.
Dean turned around in time to see her slap Sam’s face hard enough Dean felt the sting. Devon was up and moving away from them.
“Don’t either of you come near me. How did I get here? You drugged me!”
“N-no we-” Sam shook his head and tried standing.
“Stay away from me,” She screamed and kicked Sam hard in the shin. Then turned and ran.
Flames shot from the windows and door of the building. “The damn drums finally stopped,” Dean grumbled and pulled Sam up and against him once more.
Sam watched Devon’s back retreat and shook his head. “You’re welcome.” He looked up at Dean. The sounds of sirens made them both look to their right, the same direction Devon ran to. “Dean, we should…”
“Uh huh.” Dean steered them to the Impala and opened the door for Sam. Once they were both safely inside Dean eased the car into gear, and kept the lights off until they were clear of the old carnival. They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when Devon ran out to the road, waving her arms at an approaching police car.
“She should be okay,” Sam said, and turned far enough to look out the back window.
“How about you?” Dean asked.
Sam nodded and smiled. “I hate Christmas carols. And drums.”
Dean burst out laughing. “See I told you!”
They made a quick stop at their motel. Sam could still barely walk and despite Dean’s protests hobbled after him into their room.
Sam flopped onto the bed and turned the only TV in the room on. A special news report was just announced. It was the fire at old amusement park, but thankfully there was no mention of Devon at all, or even them for that matter, which was always a good thing in their line of work.
Dean hurried around the room, throwing things into their suitcases, preparing for their usual hasty exit after a job was finished.
Once they were on the road, Sam called Devon’s friend and got the report she was normal, scared and confused but normal. It would probably take years of therapy, but the Winchesters were confident that Devon would move on from this ordeal.
As the road darkened from lack of city lights Sam leaned back against the seat and sighed. “We should lay low when Easter gets close.”
Dean glanced to the side and snickered. “What’s the matter? Worried about the Easter Bunny?”
“Oh hell yeah.” Dean laughed and reached for the radio. Sam’s fingers closed around his wrist. “How about a tape instead of the radio?”
“Good thinking. No one ever died from Metallica.”
The End.