picfor1000 fic: Road Work, (SPN, PG, gen one-shot)
Title: Road Work
Author: marinarusalka
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam and Dean and a lot of mud
Summary: There's something just not right about this stretch of highway...
AN: Written for round 6 of the picfor1000 challenge. Picture included at the end of the story. Bonus points to anyone who spots the stealth crossover reference.
"Oh, come on," said Dean. "There's no way that could work."
"I'm telling you, it's the only explanation. Look." Sam turned the laptop around so that Dean could see the satellite photo he'd called up on Google Maps. "This is the spot where all the accidents have been happening. See how the highways are laid out?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So," Sam held up their father's journal, opened to a page near the back, "this is the dreaded sigil odegra, which means 'Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds' in the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu." He leaned back against the headboard -- which, for reasons that presumably made sense to the owners of EZ-Rest Motor Inn, was upholstered in purple and black tiger-striped velour -- and folded his arms across his chest. "I rest my case."
"I'll rest your ass," Dean huffed in the sulky tone of a man who knows perfectly well that he's been caught without a good come-back. He took the journal from Sam and examined the drawing, then leaned in for a closer look at the laptop. "They do look pretty similar," he admitted grudgingly.
"It fits," Sam insisted. "All these car crashes -- they make no sense. Straight roads, well-lit, well-paved, no heavy traffic. Nothing unusual about the area. No records of violent deaths until the last overpass was built, completing the sigil. Then the accidents started."
"Okay, but what about these runes at the corners?" Dean tapped one finger against the diary page. "I don't see anything that looks like them in your photo."
"They have to be there somewhere," Sam said confidently. "I bet you whoever arranged for the sigil put the runes in too, and then made sure they were hidden."
"Arranged the sigil. Right." Dean shook his head. "We're talking five highways, Sam. Built over how many years?"
"Almost twenty."
"And by more than one contractor, I'll bet. That's a hell of a lot to arrange."
"A demon could do it," Sam said. "Possess the right people at the right times, and once the construction's done, you've got guaranteed death and destruction for as long as those highways last."
"Huh." Dean leaned over to look at the laptop again. "So how many pounds of dynamite do you figure it'll take to bring down one of those suckers?"
"Dean!" Sam sat straight up, an outraged expression on his face. Dean blinked at him.
"What?"
"We can't blow up a highway!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's a highway! People drive on it!"
"So? We can do it at night." Dean jumped to his feet, practically vibrating with excitement, and paced the narrow space between the bed and the wall. "We'll put some detour signs up, get everyone out of the way and--"
"No."
"Aw, come on, it'll be--"
"No."
"Bitch." Dean stalked over to his side of the room and flung himself down on the bed. "You never let me do anything fun."
It was a dark and stormy night. Dean hated those.
Every stitch of clothing he had on was soaked. It would take days to get the leather dried out properly. Mud caked his jeans up to the knees. His feet were squelching inside his boots, and he could feel a blister starting to form on his left heel. His hands were so cold he could barely hold the shovel, and his throat was getting that lovely scratchy feeling that usually foreshadowed a nice long bout of flu.
"You'd better be right about this!" he yelled, straining to make his voice heard above the howling wind. "'Cause this is a shitty night for digging." The rain had turned the ground into sludgy mud that flowed around their shovel blades and filled up the hole almost as fast as they could dig it.
"Don't bitch at me." Sam heaved a shovelful of mud to the side with a grunt. He was wearing a cheap hooded poncho that he'd picked up at Wal-Mart earlier that day. Dean had mocked him mercilessly at the time, but now he was starting to think the little bastard was on to something. He was probably dry under all that plastic. "You're the one who did the calculations, Mr. Wizard. If the runes aren't where they're supposed to be , it'll be your fault."
"Oh, I know they'll be there." Dean planted his shovel in the dirt for a moment and shoved his hands into his armpits in a vain attempt to warm them up. "Provided there are runes in the first place."
"They will be," Sam said. "And we will find them, and destroy them, and then the sigil won't have any power.
"Right. Provided we don't drown first."
"I don't like this weather any more than you do, Dean. But if the temporal pattern holds --"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. The next accident will be tomorrow. Shut up and keep digging."
The runes were there, carved on rough stone tablets and buried right where they were supposed to be. Sam and Dean smashed the tablets into pieces, doused the remains with holy water and salt, and chanted a couple of exorcisms over them, just to be sure.
"See," Sam announced smugly after five days had passed accident-free. "I told you it would work."
"Screw you," Dean croaked, and took a swig of Robitussin from the bottle on the bedside table. "I still say dynamite would've worked just as well, and with a lot less goddamn digging in the goddamn rain."
"Hey, I'd offered to get you a poncho too, but you--"
"Shut up and give me that tissue box, bitch."
He blew his nose with a noise like a Canadian goose in heat, tossed the wadded tissue at Sam's face and missed. "I hate you."
"No you don't."
"Yes I do. You haven't let me blow anything up in ages."
"Next job, Dean. I promise."
"Yeah, sure. That's what you always say."
Author: marinarusalka
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam and Dean and a lot of mud
Summary: There's something just not right about this stretch of highway...
AN: Written for round 6 of the picfor1000 challenge. Picture included at the end of the story. Bonus points to anyone who spots the stealth crossover reference.
"Oh, come on," said Dean. "There's no way that could work."
"I'm telling you, it's the only explanation. Look." Sam turned the laptop around so that Dean could see the satellite photo he'd called up on Google Maps. "This is the spot where all the accidents have been happening. See how the highways are laid out?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So," Sam held up their father's journal, opened to a page near the back, "this is the dreaded sigil odegra, which means 'Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds' in the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu." He leaned back against the headboard -- which, for reasons that presumably made sense to the owners of EZ-Rest Motor Inn, was upholstered in purple and black tiger-striped velour -- and folded his arms across his chest. "I rest my case."
"I'll rest your ass," Dean huffed in the sulky tone of a man who knows perfectly well that he's been caught without a good come-back. He took the journal from Sam and examined the drawing, then leaned in for a closer look at the laptop. "They do look pretty similar," he admitted grudgingly.
"It fits," Sam insisted. "All these car crashes -- they make no sense. Straight roads, well-lit, well-paved, no heavy traffic. Nothing unusual about the area. No records of violent deaths until the last overpass was built, completing the sigil. Then the accidents started."
"Okay, but what about these runes at the corners?" Dean tapped one finger against the diary page. "I don't see anything that looks like them in your photo."
"They have to be there somewhere," Sam said confidently. "I bet you whoever arranged for the sigil put the runes in too, and then made sure they were hidden."
"Arranged the sigil. Right." Dean shook his head. "We're talking five highways, Sam. Built over how many years?"
"Almost twenty."
"And by more than one contractor, I'll bet. That's a hell of a lot to arrange."
"A demon could do it," Sam said. "Possess the right people at the right times, and once the construction's done, you've got guaranteed death and destruction for as long as those highways last."
"Huh." Dean leaned over to look at the laptop again. "So how many pounds of dynamite do you figure it'll take to bring down one of those suckers?"
"Dean!" Sam sat straight up, an outraged expression on his face. Dean blinked at him.
"What?"
"We can't blow up a highway!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's a highway! People drive on it!"
"So? We can do it at night." Dean jumped to his feet, practically vibrating with excitement, and paced the narrow space between the bed and the wall. "We'll put some detour signs up, get everyone out of the way and--"
"No."
"Aw, come on, it'll be--"
"No."
"Bitch." Dean stalked over to his side of the room and flung himself down on the bed. "You never let me do anything fun."
It was a dark and stormy night. Dean hated those.
Every stitch of clothing he had on was soaked. It would take days to get the leather dried out properly. Mud caked his jeans up to the knees. His feet were squelching inside his boots, and he could feel a blister starting to form on his left heel. His hands were so cold he could barely hold the shovel, and his throat was getting that lovely scratchy feeling that usually foreshadowed a nice long bout of flu.
"You'd better be right about this!" he yelled, straining to make his voice heard above the howling wind. "'Cause this is a shitty night for digging." The rain had turned the ground into sludgy mud that flowed around their shovel blades and filled up the hole almost as fast as they could dig it.
"Don't bitch at me." Sam heaved a shovelful of mud to the side with a grunt. He was wearing a cheap hooded poncho that he'd picked up at Wal-Mart earlier that day. Dean had mocked him mercilessly at the time, but now he was starting to think the little bastard was on to something. He was probably dry under all that plastic. "You're the one who did the calculations, Mr. Wizard. If the runes aren't where they're supposed to be , it'll be your fault."
"Oh, I know they'll be there." Dean planted his shovel in the dirt for a moment and shoved his hands into his armpits in a vain attempt to warm them up. "Provided there are runes in the first place."
"They will be," Sam said. "And we will find them, and destroy them, and then the sigil won't have any power.
"Right. Provided we don't drown first."
"I don't like this weather any more than you do, Dean. But if the temporal pattern holds --"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. The next accident will be tomorrow. Shut up and keep digging."
The runes were there, carved on rough stone tablets and buried right where they were supposed to be. Sam and Dean smashed the tablets into pieces, doused the remains with holy water and salt, and chanted a couple of exorcisms over them, just to be sure.
"See," Sam announced smugly after five days had passed accident-free. "I told you it would work."
"Screw you," Dean croaked, and took a swig of Robitussin from the bottle on the bedside table. "I still say dynamite would've worked just as well, and with a lot less goddamn digging in the goddamn rain."
"Hey, I'd offered to get you a poncho too, but you--"
"Shut up and give me that tissue box, bitch."
He blew his nose with a noise like a Canadian goose in heat, tossed the wadded tissue at Sam's face and missed. "I hate you."
"No you don't."
"Yes I do. You haven't let me blow anything up in ages."
"Next job, Dean. I promise."
"Yeah, sure. That's what you always say."