SPN/AtS fic: under the haystack, fast asleep
Title: under the haystack, fast asleep
Pairing: Sam/Drusilla (crossover character)
Type (friendship, romantic, other--please specify): adversarial
Rating: G
Word Count (if applicable): ~550
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any related character.
Warnings: eh
Notes: For
spnpairingbingo. Set between S5-6
Sam works alone these days. Alone is predictable, productive, and doesn’t drag anyone else into the suckhole that is his life.
This hunt, irritatingly, is turning out to be less than predictable. Five exsanguinated grade-schoolers within two counties, should have vampire written all over it. Nothing too weird about it, by his standards.
The toys left next to the corpses, though, that’s weird. Dolls in lacy white dresses, ripped only where the monster had reached into their chests.
Sam gets the blood, but the dolls are damn weird.
He sits down at the Starbucks across a parking lot from the little town’s dance studio, one of the few activities the town’s kids get to do after dark these days. If it’s going to strike-whatever it is - it’ll make an appearance.
It does appear, an unmistakably feminine monster in a long, soft, cream-colored dress. She’s small and dark and moves like liquid.
She locks eyes with him, unmistakeably invites him, come.
He’s gotten worse offers, so he follows her to the parking lot behind a loud bar.
He fires his usual round: one silver bullet, one iron, one salt. She doesn’t vanish or even bleed, just drops her doll and whines like a puppy.
“What are you?” he barks back, not particularly expecting an answer.
“Could ask the same of you.” She - it - she sings with a fairy-tale English lilt.
“You could, but I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”
“I’ve my angel for that.” Her creepy eyes don’t blink. “And so do you.”
Angels. Doesn’t quite explain the dolls, but blood sacrifice sounds about their speed. He pulls out his angel blade. “Sorry, lady. I don’t like to hurt vessels, but -“ them’s the breaks.
“Not a vessel.” He guts her and twists the knife. “But you are.” She pulls the blade through her side, blinking slowly at his collarbones.
“Were.” Okay, not an angel.
“Are so.”
“Whatever.” Still something he should kill.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t. Not when I know the answers and you don’t even know the questions.”
He decides to keep her talking until he can spot something to hit her with. “A psychic monster.”
She smiles. “Terrifying, aren’t we.”
“It’s a little weird.”He sidles toward the streetlight, but she matches him step for step and edges him out into the dark. “So, answers.” Those have been thin on the ground lately. “Do you know how I’m -“ alive? Around? “ - here?”
“Cold,” she says, even though it’s a balmy August night. “Brittle and hollow, like a garden in winter, wide paths and sturdy trestles and bare, dead roses.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “So, you don’t know jack.”
“They’ll grow again. Monkshood, oleander, snapdragon.”
“Oh, good, I always wanted my own pet dragon.”
“All kinds of beasties, I see around you. Bees in the summertime, bzzz bzzz bzzz.” Her fingers pinch the air around his ears. “Lose their wings but keep their stings. Deadly when you kick the hive.”
She presses the angel blade flat against his torso, tip pointing down at his toes. “Our angels abandon us, don’t they? But they never leave."
That son of a bitch is definitely gone.
He thinks, anyway.
“He is.” Her face contorts into a fierce brow and a single, elegant set of fangs. “For now.” She keeps his gaze for another second, and runs.
Pairing: Sam/Drusilla (crossover character)
Type (friendship, romantic, other--please specify): adversarial
Rating: G
Word Count (if applicable): ~550
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any related character.
Warnings: eh
Notes: For
spnpairingbingo. Set between S5-6
Sam works alone these days. Alone is predictable, productive, and doesn’t drag anyone else into the suckhole that is his life.
This hunt, irritatingly, is turning out to be less than predictable. Five exsanguinated grade-schoolers within two counties, should have vampire written all over it. Nothing too weird about it, by his standards.
The toys left next to the corpses, though, that’s weird. Dolls in lacy white dresses, ripped only where the monster had reached into their chests.
Sam gets the blood, but the dolls are damn weird.
He sits down at the Starbucks across a parking lot from the little town’s dance studio, one of the few activities the town’s kids get to do after dark these days. If it’s going to strike-whatever it is - it’ll make an appearance.
It does appear, an unmistakably feminine monster in a long, soft, cream-colored dress. She’s small and dark and moves like liquid.
She locks eyes with him, unmistakeably invites him, come.
He’s gotten worse offers, so he follows her to the parking lot behind a loud bar.
He fires his usual round: one silver bullet, one iron, one salt. She doesn’t vanish or even bleed, just drops her doll and whines like a puppy.
“What are you?” he barks back, not particularly expecting an answer.
“Could ask the same of you.” She - it - she sings with a fairy-tale English lilt.
“You could, but I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”
“I’ve my angel for that.” Her creepy eyes don’t blink. “And so do you.”
Angels. Doesn’t quite explain the dolls, but blood sacrifice sounds about their speed. He pulls out his angel blade. “Sorry, lady. I don’t like to hurt vessels, but -“ them’s the breaks.
“Not a vessel.” He guts her and twists the knife. “But you are.” She pulls the blade through her side, blinking slowly at his collarbones.
“Were.” Okay, not an angel.
“Are so.”
“Whatever.” Still something he should kill.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t. Not when I know the answers and you don’t even know the questions.”
He decides to keep her talking until he can spot something to hit her with. “A psychic monster.”
She smiles. “Terrifying, aren’t we.”
“It’s a little weird.”He sidles toward the streetlight, but she matches him step for step and edges him out into the dark. “So, answers.” Those have been thin on the ground lately. “Do you know how I’m -“ alive? Around? “ - here?”
“Cold,” she says, even though it’s a balmy August night. “Brittle and hollow, like a garden in winter, wide paths and sturdy trestles and bare, dead roses.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “So, you don’t know jack.”
“They’ll grow again. Monkshood, oleander, snapdragon.”
“Oh, good, I always wanted my own pet dragon.”
“All kinds of beasties, I see around you. Bees in the summertime, bzzz bzzz bzzz.” Her fingers pinch the air around his ears. “Lose their wings but keep their stings. Deadly when you kick the hive.”
She presses the angel blade flat against his torso, tip pointing down at his toes. “Our angels abandon us, don’t they? But they never leave."
That son of a bitch is definitely gone.
He thinks, anyway.
“He is.” Her face contorts into a fierce brow and a single, elegant set of fangs. “For now.” She keeps his gaze for another second, and runs.