Hell and Fangirls
Title: Hell and Fangirls
Rating: M
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFCs
Warnings: Language and enough crack to make an elephant twitchy. Also, fangirls. Lots and lots of fangirls.
Genres: Humor, Gen, Crack
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word count: 2077
Disclaimer: If I did own them, I'm pretty sure they'd petition for emancipation after this fic. No, they belong to Kripke and co. Lucky sunza- *cough* I mean . . .
Notes: I did not start this, or even conceive of it. I was minding my own business when tunes84 and sky attacked and demanded I write this because they felt that only I could do it justice.
I think Dean and Sam would argue for a different definition of 'justice'. :D
If this crack was much more pure, I'd be on government watchlists for drug distribution. ^-^
Also, rated for language. It's not really pervasive or overall horrible, but the F-bomb is dropped a couple of times. BAD WINCHESTER BOYS. BAD. *smacks with rolled up newspaper*
Summary: The Winchester boys face down one of the most terrifying creatures to exist in myth and legend as the strength of their brotherly bonds is pushed to the breaking point . . .
They took the corner without slowing, almost going down, clinging to each other for balance, doubled over, hands bouncing off the pavement as they pushed off and stumbled forward, the only focus in their minds right now the instinctual directive to KEEP MOVING.
Fight or flight had kicked in and right now, the only option was flight.
Which worked until the came skidding around another corner and almost went down again, backpedaling furiously when they realized that sneaky bastards has circled around.
Sam had the oddest recollection just then of watching Jurassic Park with Dean, sitting on a motel bed, Dean tossing out constructive-if sarcastic-criticism of the hunting techniques of both dinosaurs and humans.
But then the guy, the hunter guy, had been preparing to shoot one of the raptors when the bushes shook and he realized that he wasn't the hunter. He was the prey.
Right before dying a horrible grisly death, he'd voiced praise, a sort of good sport kind of thing. “Clever girl,” he'd said. And then he'd screamed like a man being fed into a wood chipper.
Which hadn't been too far off of the mark.
Anyway, Sam found himself in much the same position, realizing that he was prey-not predator-and having to offer praise for the skills shown.
But he didn't think Dean would understand his appreciation. So he swallowed his own, “Clever girls,” and squared his shoulders.
Dean went with him-mostly because he was half hanging off of Sam anyway and natural laws of physics said that when Sam stood taller, Dean with his death grip on Sam's shoulder would too unless he exerted a force great enough to counter Sam's.
But Dean was too busy watching them, wide eyes flicking back and forth as he tried to keep an eye on all of them at the same time. It was futile, but it was also panic-driven and that was a hard thing to overcome with this much adrenaline in your system.
Then Sam took a step forward, hands out.
Dean did exert enough force to counter that, dragging Sam backwards two steps, his one eye twitching when they all followed, only one step, but still. It wasn't helping.
“Dean, I think we can reason with them.”
“Are you fucking nuts, Sam?! They're not human.”
“We're not sure what they are, remember? There isn't a lot of lore on them.”
“Yeah well, Bobby said shoot first and ask questions later. And Bobby knows a whole hell of a lot more than we do about things like this. So I say we go with Bobby's plan.”
“One problem there, Dean. We don't have our guns anymore, remember?”
“Fuck!” Dean hissed, having apparently forgotten that.
“So since fighting our way out of this isn't going to work, we'll have to try reason.”
“Do they even understand language?” Dean asked.
Sam frowned. “Well, they were talking before.”
“Parrots can talk, Sam. Doesn't mean they know what the hell 'Polly wanna cracker?' means.”
Sam twisted so he could scowl at his brother. “If you have a better plan . . .”
Dean looked at the crowd facing them, the strings of drool, the twitching eyes, the hungry eyes . . .
“Man, this is such a bad plan.”
“Yeah, well, when you think of a better one let me know. Until then . . .”
Sam jerked his arm free and took a step forward.
Dean hissed and cursed and reached for his idiot little brother, but he was out of range and Dean wasn't going to step closer to get in range. Because it was also one step closer to them.
Sam's hands came up placatingly and he cleared his throat, then began speaking. “Hi. I'm Sam.”
“Hello, Sam Winchester.”
Unison. Who knew how many voices, all in perfect unison.
Well that wasn't creepy as hell.
“Um, right. You . . .” Then he squinted. “How did you know my last name?” he asked, unable to resist being sidetracked.
Their eyes seemed to grow hungrier if that was possible. “We know many things about you. We have watched you for some time.” Still in unison and still creepy as hell. And the words were even moreso.
A single voice piped up. “You have a gift.”
Another. “And a curse.”
Sam's head whipped over to where a third chimed in. “You are lost.”
“But found,” a fourth added.
“You have an open heart.”
“And a really cute ass.”
The came faster and faster now, starting to blend into each other until they became a hum of indistinguishable sounds.
“You lost your love. You found your family. You resent your father. You love your brother. You are guilty. You are innocent. Youwoulddieforthem. Youwouldliveforthem. Youfeeltoomuch. Youdon'tseeenough. Youwantyouneedyouareyoucan'tyoumustyouwill-”
He felt it pressing down on him, weighing on his soul and his shoulders.
His hands came up to his head, cradling it, pressing on it, until he couldn't take it anymore.
“STOP!”
For a moment he thought he'd gone deaf, it was so silent.
He looked up and saw they were still there, still watching, still drooling, still hungry. And he was pretty sure Dean was right.
There was no reasoning with them. And yet . . . what else could they do?
And then the unified voice said something that chilled Sam's blood to ice in his very veins. His heart gave an labored thump, trying to pump the solidified blood, but to no avail.
“He needs a hug.”
Dean gasped.
Sam swallowed.
And then they started moving forward.
Sam bit down on the whimper, but he was pretty sure that it still made it out.
And it only fueled the hunger. They advanced faster, their shambling steps becoming more coordinated as they picked up speed.
Sam turned to ask Dean what the plan was now but Dean wasn't there. Sam's eyes came up to see Dean running flat out, down the open street.
“Hey!” he protested. “Dean!”
“Sorry, Sammy!” Dean yelled, not even bothering to glance back.
“But-”
“I'd go to Hell for you, little brother. But this? No way!”
“BUT-”
“HELL, YES. FANGIRLS, NO. THIS IS EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!” And then a very girly scream was let loose that Sam vowed with a fierce scowl to bring up later.
You know, assuming he survived.
At any rate, Dean was gone, having vanished around the only corner not filled with encroaching fangirls.
“NO!”
Sam turned back and saw they were mere feet away, hands reaching, fingers opening and closing.
“SAMMY,” the voice said. “MUST . . . HUG . . . SAMMY . . .”
And then they pounced, burying him almost instantly, increasingly louder chants of “SAMMY! SAMMY! SAMMY!” ringing in his ears as he fought against their clutching, grasping hands.
“NOOOOO!” he yelled back, bucking and writhing, anything to try to break free.
But it was useless and they soon smothered him under the ever growing pile until there was no sign he'd ever been there.
o.o
“NO!”
The shout woke Dean and had him tumbling out of bed, knife in hand, arms extended for balance and possibly defense.
He saw no immediate threat, but a whimper redirected his attention and he realized that Sam was in the throes of a nightmare. With a sigh he dropped the knife on his bed and wiped a hand over his face.
Perching on the edge of Sam's bed he gently shook Sam's shoulder. “Sam.”
Sam whimpered and continued to toss and turn, fighting the sheets that had become wrapped around him.
“Sammy!” Dean repeated, his hands starting to tug on the restricting bedclothes.
He almost got a black eye for his troubles when he freed one of Sam's arms, but his reflexes were sharp enough to get him out of the way.
He grabbed the arm and gave it a good squeeze. “Come on, Sammy! Wake up!”
“NOOOO!” Sam yelled and bolted upright.
His eyes were wild as they looked around, his lungs heaving as if he'd just outrun a Wendigo.
Dean just held onto the arm he had and continued to speak softly, repeating Sam's name along with mindless platitudes of comfort. “You're okay, Sammy. I'm right here. You're okay. It was just a nightmare.”
Finally Sam blinked and focused on Dean. “Dean?” he said, sounding lost and scared.
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said with a smile and another squeeze of his arm. “Right here, buddy.”
Sam looked so relieved that the right hook was completely unexpected and Dean's reflexes had no chance in hell of moving him in time.
Dean put on hand to his jaw as he worked it, the other bracing him from his spot on the carpet.
“What the hell?” he demanded.
Sam just stared at him stonily. “Fuck you, too, brother,” he said coldly and then laid down and rolled away, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders.
Dean just stared at the lump of tacky abstract print and blinked a few times.
“Christo?” he said into the silence.
A pillow came over Sam's shoulder in a surprise volley to hit him smack in the face.
Dean looked down at it, then back up. With a shake of his head he stood and climbed back into bed, staring at the hunched form of his brother in the other bed.
Hopefully when it was daylight and there was coffee involved, he'd be able to figure out what the hell that had been about.
Until then, he was going back to bed. And keeping his knife close.
o.o
In the other bed Sam stared at the wall, holding himself perfectly still until he was sure Dean was asleep again.
Then he allowed a single, all encompassing shiver.
He probably shouldn't have punched him. Or said what he said. Because it wasn't Dean's fault really. Real-life-Dean couldn't control what the Dean in Sam's head did during his dreams.
But then the sensation of fingers crawling over his skin came back and he could have sworn he head a faint, “He needs a hug . . .” drift into his ears.
And right then, Sam didn't care which Dean it was. Because he'd been abandoned.
And that would never be forgotten.