Comment Fic: Legs
Author: crowroad3
Title: Legs
Characters: Sam,Dean
Genre: h/c, humor-horror
Warnings/spoilers: Arachnids.Guts. Feverish Dean.
Summary: Werefreakingspiderrabbits. From hell.
Expansion/alt version of this DEW drabble, Blackrabbit, at dizzojay's request. For you!
"Spiders, to me, are just about the most horrible, awful things that I can think about. I think everyone is afraid of spiders."--Stephen King
Bitten, and it's not pretty. There's a livid, two-fanged prick-mark on his upper arm, and his whole left side is throbbing, bass line. Sweating. Sam, mouth all pearl-clutchy, has got him by the elbow, the room stinks like a swamp, and there's no beer.
No time for this shit.
"Dude," Sam says, pushes him down on the stiff mattress, "you're already burning up."
"I'm alright."
"Sure. Tell me that later when you're seeing arachnids."
"Arachnids."
"Yeah. Spiders."
"I know what they are!"
"Just-- look, just trust me for once and lie down."
"I'm fine."
Sam shoves a pillow behind him, tugs his boots off under protest, bangs into the bathroom to use up all the hot water.
"Crap," Dean says, leans back just for a minute.
*
He wakes up.
The faultlines in the ceiling widen slowly, and soon he'll fall in, up; he'll fall up into hell, a whacko quantum version of hell, a multiverse of hells all the same.
There are legs coming out of the cracks. Hairy ones, edged with hair.
"Fuck," he says, mostly to himself, but Sam appears and leans over him anyway.
"You alright?"
A body starts to emerge from the cornermost crack, first one and then another, bloated and black.
Son of a bitch. His torso seizes up and he shivers, points in the general direction of the horror, not so steady.
Sam glances up at the ceiling, drops a palm on his forehead, shakes out his fingers like they’re singed.
"Dude."
"Freaking spiders." He's not shaking, not even a little.
"Yeah," Sammy says, goes into the bathroom for a wet towel.
*
It's midnight and the eight-legged freaks are mobilizing on the stained, vein-cracked ceiling, on the walls, waving their mouthparts, bubbling and bursting with venom and juice.
"Jesus, what're you waiting for," Dean hisses, scrabbles up against the wall, "flamethrower's in the trunk."
"Listen," Sam says, clotheslines him gently back down, "you really gotta trust me on this one, there's nothing there." His fingers get a fix on Dean's pulse; frantic. "This shit has a short half-life, so just relax and try to sleep it off."
Sam has always been so full of shit, more full of shit than it's possible to be full of shit.
"They're right there!" He kicks at the sheets, scrubs at his eyeballs, swallows queasily against the juicy innards and stringy things and the (oh god) rows of moistly clicking mouthparts.
Sam has the freaking nerve to cover his eyes with one hand and pull the covers up with the other.
"Just go to sleep, alright? Think about...I don't know, Victoria's Secret um, pushup bras and...you know, pie."
*
He does (red, no black, bra, satiny, that beautiful Angel with the illegal mouth and the hair like Kansas cornsilk, all apples and sugar). It doesn't help. The spiders start dropping, sticky-webbed, onto the bed like toxic gut-bombs, and it's bad, it's worse, it's worse than witch-fluids and bloated marsh-corpses and all the disgusting things in the universe natural and super-.
"Legs," he groans, not really to himself, and starts itching, flings the sheets off, pulls himself up and digs the lighter from his jacket pocket, flicks it at the hem of the cheap, scratchy quilt.
"They're everywhere!" (Just fire because salt might (god) pickle them, shrink them into little disgusting preserved spider-bits with curled-up legs that might...)
He flicks the lighter again.
"Uh, Dean, no, no...just..no! Give me that!"
Sam flings open the bathroom door, makes a flying leap, snatches the lighter and stuffs the matches in his pockets and does a quick lockdown on all the flammables, sharps; circles back to the bed to sit on Dean's legs and douse him, alive and kicking, with half an ice-bucketful of cold water.
"Got to cool you off, man."
"Get off me," Dean shouts, "and fucking kill them before they...multiply like...werefuckingspiderrabbits." He coughs, perilously close to heaving. "Rabbit freaking spiders." He coughs again, for emphasis. "From hell."
Sam pauses, still clutching the bucket. "What?"
Dean shoves at him, hard as he can with his weak, traitorous arms.
"You heard me!"
For some unfathomable reason Sam chokes with laughter, just once. Then he sighs and gets Dean by the back of the neck and pushes pills into his mouth and tilts a glass and says drink already, that's it, slow.
Dean swallows (against moving moving legs oh god), doesn't vomit it all up.
"Good," Sam says, "just go the fuck to sleep, alright?"
*
The morning light drops over central Iowa and the Black Widow Motel and the stains and the cracks are still there but the spiders have all gone inside, to ground, wherever the hell they've gone. Just waiting to crawl out again and torment him, the freaking leggy little --
"Morning," Sam says, tired-eyed but disgustingly chipper, "how're you feeling?"
Dean rolls over, hides his eyes, lets them back out again.
"Hung over," he says, thinks how hair of the dog really isn't a good expression, not at all. "Need bacon."
"Hey, there you are," Sam says, ho-shit-relieved in the mouth and brows, almost a smile.
Dean sticks his arm out and Sam looks at the twin-fanged puncture wound, nearly faded now, hands him a glass of water, nods like his work is done here, but not quite.
Glances up at the fissured ceiling and arches a brow.
"Your friends all gone?" His mouth's twitching and he looks about to crack himself.
"Shut up!"
Dean's recovered arm sends a sweat-stained pillow directly at his head.
Sam ducks (jerk!), mutters something about werefreakingspiderrabbits (from hell), bangs into the bathroom to use up all the hot water in the shower.
Title: Legs
Characters: Sam,Dean
Genre: h/c, humor-horror
Warnings/spoilers: Arachnids.Guts. Feverish Dean.
Summary: Werefreakingspiderrabbits. From hell.
Expansion/alt version of this DEW drabble, Blackrabbit, at dizzojay's request. For you!
"Spiders, to me, are just about the most horrible, awful things that I can think about. I think everyone is afraid of spiders."--Stephen King
Bitten, and it's not pretty. There's a livid, two-fanged prick-mark on his upper arm, and his whole left side is throbbing, bass line. Sweating. Sam, mouth all pearl-clutchy, has got him by the elbow, the room stinks like a swamp, and there's no beer.
No time for this shit.
"Dude," Sam says, pushes him down on the stiff mattress, "you're already burning up."
"I'm alright."
"Sure. Tell me that later when you're seeing arachnids."
"Arachnids."
"Yeah. Spiders."
"I know what they are!"
"Just-- look, just trust me for once and lie down."
"I'm fine."
Sam shoves a pillow behind him, tugs his boots off under protest, bangs into the bathroom to use up all the hot water.
"Crap," Dean says, leans back just for a minute.
*
He wakes up.
The faultlines in the ceiling widen slowly, and soon he'll fall in, up; he'll fall up into hell, a whacko quantum version of hell, a multiverse of hells all the same.
There are legs coming out of the cracks. Hairy ones, edged with hair.
"Fuck," he says, mostly to himself, but Sam appears and leans over him anyway.
"You alright?"
A body starts to emerge from the cornermost crack, first one and then another, bloated and black.
Son of a bitch. His torso seizes up and he shivers, points in the general direction of the horror, not so steady.
Sam glances up at the ceiling, drops a palm on his forehead, shakes out his fingers like they’re singed.
"Dude."
"Freaking spiders." He's not shaking, not even a little.
"Yeah," Sammy says, goes into the bathroom for a wet towel.
*
It's midnight and the eight-legged freaks are mobilizing on the stained, vein-cracked ceiling, on the walls, waving their mouthparts, bubbling and bursting with venom and juice.
"Jesus, what're you waiting for," Dean hisses, scrabbles up against the wall, "flamethrower's in the trunk."
"Listen," Sam says, clotheslines him gently back down, "you really gotta trust me on this one, there's nothing there." His fingers get a fix on Dean's pulse; frantic. "This shit has a short half-life, so just relax and try to sleep it off."
Sam has always been so full of shit, more full of shit than it's possible to be full of shit.
"They're right there!" He kicks at the sheets, scrubs at his eyeballs, swallows queasily against the juicy innards and stringy things and the (oh god) rows of moistly clicking mouthparts.
Sam has the freaking nerve to cover his eyes with one hand and pull the covers up with the other.
"Just go to sleep, alright? Think about...I don't know, Victoria's Secret um, pushup bras and...you know, pie."
*
He does (red, no black, bra, satiny, that beautiful Angel with the illegal mouth and the hair like Kansas cornsilk, all apples and sugar). It doesn't help. The spiders start dropping, sticky-webbed, onto the bed like toxic gut-bombs, and it's bad, it's worse, it's worse than witch-fluids and bloated marsh-corpses and all the disgusting things in the universe natural and super-.
"Legs," he groans, not really to himself, and starts itching, flings the sheets off, pulls himself up and digs the lighter from his jacket pocket, flicks it at the hem of the cheap, scratchy quilt.
"They're everywhere!" (Just fire because salt might (god) pickle them, shrink them into little disgusting preserved spider-bits with curled-up legs that might...)
He flicks the lighter again.
"Uh, Dean, no, no...just..no! Give me that!"
Sam flings open the bathroom door, makes a flying leap, snatches the lighter and stuffs the matches in his pockets and does a quick lockdown on all the flammables, sharps; circles back to the bed to sit on Dean's legs and douse him, alive and kicking, with half an ice-bucketful of cold water.
"Got to cool you off, man."
"Get off me," Dean shouts, "and fucking kill them before they...multiply like...werefuckingspiderrabbits." He coughs, perilously close to heaving. "Rabbit freaking spiders." He coughs again, for emphasis. "From hell."
Sam pauses, still clutching the bucket. "What?"
Dean shoves at him, hard as he can with his weak, traitorous arms.
"You heard me!"
For some unfathomable reason Sam chokes with laughter, just once. Then he sighs and gets Dean by the back of the neck and pushes pills into his mouth and tilts a glass and says drink already, that's it, slow.
Dean swallows (against moving moving legs oh god), doesn't vomit it all up.
"Good," Sam says, "just go the fuck to sleep, alright?"
*
The morning light drops over central Iowa and the Black Widow Motel and the stains and the cracks are still there but the spiders have all gone inside, to ground, wherever the hell they've gone. Just waiting to crawl out again and torment him, the freaking leggy little --
"Morning," Sam says, tired-eyed but disgustingly chipper, "how're you feeling?"
Dean rolls over, hides his eyes, lets them back out again.
"Hung over," he says, thinks how hair of the dog really isn't a good expression, not at all. "Need bacon."
"Hey, there you are," Sam says, ho-shit-relieved in the mouth and brows, almost a smile.
Dean sticks his arm out and Sam looks at the twin-fanged puncture wound, nearly faded now, hands him a glass of water, nods like his work is done here, but not quite.
Glances up at the fissured ceiling and arches a brow.
"Your friends all gone?" His mouth's twitching and he looks about to crack himself.
"Shut up!"
Dean's recovered arm sends a sweat-stained pillow directly at his head.
Sam ducks (jerk!), mutters something about werefreakingspiderrabbits (from hell), bangs into the bathroom to use up all the hot water in the shower.