Fic: Hotter Than Hell and Twice As Big
The stories over at fandom_stocking have been unscreened, so I thought I'd crosspost mine over here. It's a comment fic that kinda ran away with itself. A Supernatural crossover with surprise AtS guest.
And head on over to fandom_stocking to see a whole multi-fandom array of comment fic -- and Ryan's Hope fans will especially enjoy the ships (I wish) passing in the laundromat ficlet callmesandy wrote for me. It's here: http://community.livejournal.com/fandom_stocking/18449.html
Title: Hotter Than Hell and Twice As Big
Author: nwhepcat
PG-13
SPN/AtS (with some slightly AU qualities on the AtS side): Sam, Dean, undisclosed character
Written for debc as a comment-fic stocking stuffer for fandom_stocking
Summary: Dean and Sam are on the trail of something wicked in Texas. They discover not all the locals are complete yokels.
Spoilers: Early S2, having only to do with the Impala (story takes place later in the season). A little AUish on the AtS side.
Thanks to spiralleds, nestdweller and amy_star_ for catching my mistakes. Any that snuck through are purely mine.
Dean stepped out of the motel room into heat so thick and smothering he had to repress the urge to loosen his just-knotted tie. "Let's make a rule. No more jobs in Texas unless it's between November and May."
"Don't tell me, Dean. Tell the demons."
Dean settled in behind the wheel, his breath hissing between his teeth; the black upholstery was like sitting on a damn hot plate. "How far is this place?"
"About five miles down the road." Sam pointed to the left, and Dean pulled out onto the two-lane. "Car's at the John Deere dealership, they've got a garage there too."
"Could just be kids getting shitfaced and running off the road," Dean said, playing devil's advocate. "These things can go in cycles."
"No. I'm thinking not. I saw the map. That road's straight as an arrow."
"That's what I thought. Something's running them off the road. Maybe a ghost haunting that stretch?"
"Could be that, could be something else. The survivor of that last crash wasn't too lucid about what she saw." Sam pointed a finger. "Up here to the right."
"Ya think?" Nothing chapped his ass like being told where to turn when he knew damn well where he was going. "Maybe there's another acre lot full of big green tractors here in Anal Fissure, Texas." Irritated, he pulled into the lot a little too fast, and a swarm of dust drifted over the car as he rolled up to the office.
As the dust cloud cleared, he spotted a big man inside, standing behind the plate glass window, scowling at the cloud and the pair of suits emerging from it. He stepped out of the office, squinting in the harsh sunglare. "What can I do for you fellas?" He was a smart one, this guy. Figured out right away that they weren't there to buy a combine.
"We're actually here about the garage," Dean said.
"Are you having some --" The big guy stopped dead as he got a look at the Impala. "Will you look at that. That car's a real beaut, son." He moved past Dean to gaze at the car, bending at the window to take in the instrument panel. "Restoration or original equipment?"
"Well, a year ago I'd have said original, but I had to do a lot of work on her. Accident."
The man straightened and continued his slow circuit around the car. "Oh yeah. I can see you had some serious body work done." He brushed his fingers over the back fender. "Quality work, though. It takes a trained eye to see." He glanced up at Dean. "You did all this?"
Dean nodded. "Nobody touches my baby but me."
"Did a helluva job tearing her up, too."
The implication hurt. "Got on the wrong side of a trucker and his pills. T-boned her, not a skid-mark on the road."
The big guy whistled. "Lucky you weren't in one of those flimsy things they make nowadays. If Detroit made cars like they did back when, they wouldn't need to be putting those damn airbags in 'em."
"Damn right."
"She's giving you trouble?"
"Naw, she runs like a scalded ape." A little bit of freeway hop, but that was strictly between his baby and his tender back. "We're actually here about the accident out on the country road." He offered his hand. "Sorry, I'm Rod Argent, from the adjuster's office. This is Colin Blunstone."
The big guy engulfed Dean's and then Sam's hands in his own. "Roger Burkle."
"We're trying to determine exactly what happened out there," Sam said. "We thought we'd start here, if you've still got the car."
Burkle nodded. "We've been hoping your people would show up. I don't mind telling you, it's pretty bad. Four dead kids and one near-dead, that's a lot of blood, and in this heat --" He walked them to a building behind the dealership, pausing outside the entrance. "We stored it out of the sun, luckily we've got the old bay we used before we expanded the garage, but it's still hard to go near it."
Sam looked to be in no big hurry. "This happened out on County Road 22?"
"Yeah, about seven and a half miles from where it Ts into this road."
"We hear there's been several accidents along there in the past couple of years."
Burkle's expression turned sour. "That's right, and a lot of near misses."
"We'd appreciate it if you could fill us in on some of the details," Dean said.
"Sure thing. I'll just be in the office getting to some paperwork. Come find me when you're done here." Burkle unclasped a padlock on the bay door and backpedaled quickly away.
Dean considered mocking Sam for gagging in the .001 second before he started dry-heaving himself. He pulled out a bandana and covered his mouth and nose as he groped for a light switch. They wasted no time making a thorough inspection of the flattened Jetta.
"Jesus," Sam choked, his own face half-covered by his handkerchief. "Hey. Take a look at this."
Dean joined him by the driver's door, covered with dents and tears but also a series of parallel scratches along the door and beyond.
"What's that look like to you?"
"Claw marks," Dean said. "But of what?" He pulled his tape measure out of his pocket and braced himself to lower the bandana and draw the tape out to check the claw span. Then he straightened, spun and motioned Sam out of the way as he bolted for the door.
Too late; just over the threshold he doubled over and booted every trace of his truck stop lunch. Bracing his hands on his knees he panted and finally said to Sam, "I been thinking maybe we should get into the insurance racket."
"Dea-- uh, Rod?"
Mopping his face with his bandana, Dean turned toward his brother, who was standing a few feet in front of him, his hands up in the air. "Shit."
Roger Burkle and a guy in coveralls stood out of smell range of the garage bay, leveling shotguns at them. "You boys want to tell me just what the hell you were doing in there?" Burkle demanded.
Oh, fucking hell. Dean went for the bluff. "I told you, we're from the adjuster's office."
"Funny, they just called five minutes ago to set up an appointment."
"That? Oh, that's just a mix-up. The head office is screwy that way."
The shotgun didn't waver. "You're blowin' smoke so far up my ass I can taste it. Those girls were kids of my friends. My own daughter babysat two of 'em. Whatever you think you're doing, nobody around here is going to be amused."
When the bluff fails, go for truth. Or some small piece of it, anyway. "Look, we weren't lying about this: we're trying to find out what's going on over out along 22."
The other guy with the shotgun spat on the ground and muttered something.
"What was that?" Sam asked sharply.
"Superstition," Burkle said.
"Please," Sam said to Burkle's friend. "Just repeat what you said."
"People say it's a lachusa," the man said.
"Nobody believes in that," Burkle said, but the statement rang flat and false.
"Of course," Sam said.
"Lachusa, what's that?" Dean asked.
"Big goddamn bird with the head of a woman," said the guy in coveralls.
"It's a folk tale in these parts," Burkle said. "That's all."
"It makes perfect sense," Sam said.
"It does?" Burkle asked. "Who are you fellas?"
Sam threw Dean a glance. "We, uh, hunt things."
"Dammit, Sammy."
"What, things like lachusas? Demons?"
Dean said nothing, because responding at all would sound insane, and Sammy belatedly decided to shut his yap.
"Dangerous work, isn't it, boys?" Burkle lowered his gun and nodded toward his friend. "We're all right here, Eduardo. Go on back to work."
Dean half dropped his hands, not quite sure what was going on.
Sammy, by the look of him, didn't have any better idea. "Dangerous?" he echoed.
"You don't have to tell me, my wife killed one with a Greyhound bus, first time we were in LA. Big bug looking thing with some kinda stilty legs. We never did find out the name of it. Purple blood that clots into crystals, you wouldn't happen to know of it?"
"Uh, no," Sam stammered.
Burkle looked disappointed. "But you know about the lachusa."
"Yeah, I've heard a little," Sam said.
"Glad to hear that. You know, there's always wild tales, but after this second fatal accident, it's not worth taking chances." He tucked the shotgun into a side carry beneath his elbow. "I was going to call my daughter and her friends, but sounds like they've got their hands full -- did you boys know there's a hellmouth in Cleveland?"
"Your daughter?" Sam echoed.
"Hellmouth?" Dean repeated.
"Well hell, let's not be standing here jawin' in the heat." Burkle turned and led the way, gun muzzle pointed downward. "What have you got on these things?"
Sam shot a look toward Dean, then said, "There's two kinds of stories about lachusas. Some say they're witches, some that they're vengeful spirits, always women. We've got a reference in the car --"
"Well, c'mon, then, let's take a look. And I can tell you what people have seen along 22."
Dean went to the Impala to retrieve Dad's journal, shucking out of the jacket and yanking off the tie, while Sam followed Burkle into his office. When Dean stepped back into the cool of the air conditioning, Burkle was leaning back in a squeaky desk chair, running a massive hand over his hair while talking into the phone.
"Trish? I just called to warn you, I'm bringing a couple of boys over for supper tonight. Pair of demon hunters, out here looking into that lachusa business.... Oh, around the normal time, I'm filling them in, and I expect we'll head out there to take a look.... Oh, and they're awful skinny. I'm thinking they might could use some of your Dr. Pepper pecan pie."
Sammy gave Dean a wild-eyed look. "We're not going?" he whispered.
"Hell yeah, Sunny Jim. You heard the man. Pie.
And head on over to fandom_stocking to see a whole multi-fandom array of comment fic -- and Ryan's Hope fans will especially enjoy the ships (I wish) passing in the laundromat ficlet callmesandy wrote for me. It's here: http://community.livejournal.com/fandom_stocking/18449.html
Title: Hotter Than Hell and Twice As Big
Author: nwhepcat
PG-13
SPN/AtS (with some slightly AU qualities on the AtS side): Sam, Dean, undisclosed character
Written for debc as a comment-fic stocking stuffer for fandom_stocking
Summary: Dean and Sam are on the trail of something wicked in Texas. They discover not all the locals are complete yokels.
Spoilers: Early S2, having only to do with the Impala (story takes place later in the season). A little AUish on the AtS side.
Thanks to spiralleds, nestdweller and amy_star_ for catching my mistakes. Any that snuck through are purely mine.
Dean stepped out of the motel room into heat so thick and smothering he had to repress the urge to loosen his just-knotted tie. "Let's make a rule. No more jobs in Texas unless it's between November and May."
"Don't tell me, Dean. Tell the demons."
Dean settled in behind the wheel, his breath hissing between his teeth; the black upholstery was like sitting on a damn hot plate. "How far is this place?"
"About five miles down the road." Sam pointed to the left, and Dean pulled out onto the two-lane. "Car's at the John Deere dealership, they've got a garage there too."
"Could just be kids getting shitfaced and running off the road," Dean said, playing devil's advocate. "These things can go in cycles."
"No. I'm thinking not. I saw the map. That road's straight as an arrow."
"That's what I thought. Something's running them off the road. Maybe a ghost haunting that stretch?"
"Could be that, could be something else. The survivor of that last crash wasn't too lucid about what she saw." Sam pointed a finger. "Up here to the right."
"Ya think?" Nothing chapped his ass like being told where to turn when he knew damn well where he was going. "Maybe there's another acre lot full of big green tractors here in Anal Fissure, Texas." Irritated, he pulled into the lot a little too fast, and a swarm of dust drifted over the car as he rolled up to the office.
As the dust cloud cleared, he spotted a big man inside, standing behind the plate glass window, scowling at the cloud and the pair of suits emerging from it. He stepped out of the office, squinting in the harsh sunglare. "What can I do for you fellas?" He was a smart one, this guy. Figured out right away that they weren't there to buy a combine.
"We're actually here about the garage," Dean said.
"Are you having some --" The big guy stopped dead as he got a look at the Impala. "Will you look at that. That car's a real beaut, son." He moved past Dean to gaze at the car, bending at the window to take in the instrument panel. "Restoration or original equipment?"
"Well, a year ago I'd have said original, but I had to do a lot of work on her. Accident."
The man straightened and continued his slow circuit around the car. "Oh yeah. I can see you had some serious body work done." He brushed his fingers over the back fender. "Quality work, though. It takes a trained eye to see." He glanced up at Dean. "You did all this?"
Dean nodded. "Nobody touches my baby but me."
"Did a helluva job tearing her up, too."
The implication hurt. "Got on the wrong side of a trucker and his pills. T-boned her, not a skid-mark on the road."
The big guy whistled. "Lucky you weren't in one of those flimsy things they make nowadays. If Detroit made cars like they did back when, they wouldn't need to be putting those damn airbags in 'em."
"Damn right."
"She's giving you trouble?"
"Naw, she runs like a scalded ape." A little bit of freeway hop, but that was strictly between his baby and his tender back. "We're actually here about the accident out on the country road." He offered his hand. "Sorry, I'm Rod Argent, from the adjuster's office. This is Colin Blunstone."
The big guy engulfed Dean's and then Sam's hands in his own. "Roger Burkle."
"We're trying to determine exactly what happened out there," Sam said. "We thought we'd start here, if you've still got the car."
Burkle nodded. "We've been hoping your people would show up. I don't mind telling you, it's pretty bad. Four dead kids and one near-dead, that's a lot of blood, and in this heat --" He walked them to a building behind the dealership, pausing outside the entrance. "We stored it out of the sun, luckily we've got the old bay we used before we expanded the garage, but it's still hard to go near it."
Sam looked to be in no big hurry. "This happened out on County Road 22?"
"Yeah, about seven and a half miles from where it Ts into this road."
"We hear there's been several accidents along there in the past couple of years."
Burkle's expression turned sour. "That's right, and a lot of near misses."
"We'd appreciate it if you could fill us in on some of the details," Dean said.
"Sure thing. I'll just be in the office getting to some paperwork. Come find me when you're done here." Burkle unclasped a padlock on the bay door and backpedaled quickly away.
Dean considered mocking Sam for gagging in the .001 second before he started dry-heaving himself. He pulled out a bandana and covered his mouth and nose as he groped for a light switch. They wasted no time making a thorough inspection of the flattened Jetta.
"Jesus," Sam choked, his own face half-covered by his handkerchief. "Hey. Take a look at this."
Dean joined him by the driver's door, covered with dents and tears but also a series of parallel scratches along the door and beyond.
"What's that look like to you?"
"Claw marks," Dean said. "But of what?" He pulled his tape measure out of his pocket and braced himself to lower the bandana and draw the tape out to check the claw span. Then he straightened, spun and motioned Sam out of the way as he bolted for the door.
Too late; just over the threshold he doubled over and booted every trace of his truck stop lunch. Bracing his hands on his knees he panted and finally said to Sam, "I been thinking maybe we should get into the insurance racket."
"Dea-- uh, Rod?"
Mopping his face with his bandana, Dean turned toward his brother, who was standing a few feet in front of him, his hands up in the air. "Shit."
Roger Burkle and a guy in coveralls stood out of smell range of the garage bay, leveling shotguns at them. "You boys want to tell me just what the hell you were doing in there?" Burkle demanded.
Oh, fucking hell. Dean went for the bluff. "I told you, we're from the adjuster's office."
"Funny, they just called five minutes ago to set up an appointment."
"That? Oh, that's just a mix-up. The head office is screwy that way."
The shotgun didn't waver. "You're blowin' smoke so far up my ass I can taste it. Those girls were kids of my friends. My own daughter babysat two of 'em. Whatever you think you're doing, nobody around here is going to be amused."
When the bluff fails, go for truth. Or some small piece of it, anyway. "Look, we weren't lying about this: we're trying to find out what's going on over out along 22."
The other guy with the shotgun spat on the ground and muttered something.
"What was that?" Sam asked sharply.
"Superstition," Burkle said.
"Please," Sam said to Burkle's friend. "Just repeat what you said."
"People say it's a lachusa," the man said.
"Nobody believes in that," Burkle said, but the statement rang flat and false.
"Of course," Sam said.
"Lachusa, what's that?" Dean asked.
"Big goddamn bird with the head of a woman," said the guy in coveralls.
"It's a folk tale in these parts," Burkle said. "That's all."
"It makes perfect sense," Sam said.
"It does?" Burkle asked. "Who are you fellas?"
Sam threw Dean a glance. "We, uh, hunt things."
"Dammit, Sammy."
"What, things like lachusas? Demons?"
Dean said nothing, because responding at all would sound insane, and Sammy belatedly decided to shut his yap.
"Dangerous work, isn't it, boys?" Burkle lowered his gun and nodded toward his friend. "We're all right here, Eduardo. Go on back to work."
Dean half dropped his hands, not quite sure what was going on.
Sammy, by the look of him, didn't have any better idea. "Dangerous?" he echoed.
"You don't have to tell me, my wife killed one with a Greyhound bus, first time we were in LA. Big bug looking thing with some kinda stilty legs. We never did find out the name of it. Purple blood that clots into crystals, you wouldn't happen to know of it?"
"Uh, no," Sam stammered.
Burkle looked disappointed. "But you know about the lachusa."
"Yeah, I've heard a little," Sam said.
"Glad to hear that. You know, there's always wild tales, but after this second fatal accident, it's not worth taking chances." He tucked the shotgun into a side carry beneath his elbow. "I was going to call my daughter and her friends, but sounds like they've got their hands full -- did you boys know there's a hellmouth in Cleveland?"
"Your daughter?" Sam echoed.
"Hellmouth?" Dean repeated.
"Well hell, let's not be standing here jawin' in the heat." Burkle turned and led the way, gun muzzle pointed downward. "What have you got on these things?"
Sam shot a look toward Dean, then said, "There's two kinds of stories about lachusas. Some say they're witches, some that they're vengeful spirits, always women. We've got a reference in the car --"
"Well, c'mon, then, let's take a look. And I can tell you what people have seen along 22."
Dean went to the Impala to retrieve Dad's journal, shucking out of the jacket and yanking off the tie, while Sam followed Burkle into his office. When Dean stepped back into the cool of the air conditioning, Burkle was leaning back in a squeaky desk chair, running a massive hand over his hair while talking into the phone.
"Trish? I just called to warn you, I'm bringing a couple of boys over for supper tonight. Pair of demon hunters, out here looking into that lachusa business.... Oh, around the normal time, I'm filling them in, and I expect we'll head out there to take a look.... Oh, and they're awful skinny. I'm thinking they might could use some of your Dr. Pepper pecan pie."
Sammy gave Dean a wild-eyed look. "We're not going?" he whispered.
"Hell yeah, Sunny Jim. You heard the man. Pie.