Killer Clowns
“It’s been closed down for, like, a million years,” Dean had said. “There’s not going to be any freakin’ clowns there, so would you just get in the damned car?” Dean had said. Sam’s going to drag his brother on a round the world flight on the tiniest, most rickety plane he can find when he gets out of here. If he gets out of here.
Sam’s bleeding from half a dozen wounds and the warm, rich scent of his blood has the cadre of cannibal clowns closing in. Cover’s not a problem; abandoned rides and empty concession stands are everywhere. It’s what might already be hiding inside that’s the issue. Ducking into the Tunnel of Love cost Sam the use of his left arm and he’d been damned lucky to escape with his life. Only a swift and messy hacking off of the clown’s head detached its pointed teeth from their death grip on his bicep. He hopes the damned things aren’t rabid. Or were-clowns. He’d rather spend an eternity in Hell than one minute as a white faced, rainbow haired horror that chows down on humans while blowing squeaky horns.
He may be hallucinating the squeaky horn bit; blood loss is making him a little dizzy. It’s possible they were just high pitched “mmmm” noises because his flesh was so delicious. He clutches his upper arm, red running over his fingers, and ducks into the shadow of the rusted out roller coaster. He could run into clowns here, but he could also run into Dean and it’s better than being in the open in any case.
There’s movement on the midway as two of his pursuers dart into sight, feet slapping the ground as their large, red noses test the air. Sam bites down on a cry of pain as his bad shoulder connects with a metal support pole and freezes as two pairs of crazed yellow eyes swing his way. Blood slicked fingers grip the handle of his machete as he backs further into the maze of metal, heart rate somewhere north of ‘way too fucking fast’.
“You can get here any time, Dean,” he whispers shakily, hoping that his brother’s not already headed under the rollercoaster in the belly of a clown. Or two. A high pitched giggle comes from Sam’s left. Or three, damn it.
Fear’s deadly, Sam knows that, but there’s just no getting away from it. “Face it, you wuss,” he mutters. Channeling his brother at a time like this isn’t the worst thing he could do. “You already took out one, what’s three more?”
“You tell ‘em, Sammy.”
Sam doesn’t take his eyes off the brightly outfitted figures with their gaping, toothy mouths, and he doesn’t relax because if he unclenches his muscles in the slightest he’s going down. Still, hearing Dean’s voice at his back slows his racing pulse a little. “’bout time you showed up,” he wheezes, trying to sound like his heart hasn’t been clogging up his throat for the last few hours.
“Better late than never,” Dean shoots back, the concern on his pale face when he takes in Sam’s injuries belying the snark in his words.
The clowns are clumped together instead of spread out on the attack, they may be evil and bloodthirsty but they’re not good tacticians. Dean’s got a machete in each hand and Sam knows these things are toast. He himself may be headed toward unconsciousness but he’s not going down without taking at least one more of his nightmares with him. Dean moves a few steps forward, Sam a few back. Distance between brothers is always important when a machete is your weapon of choice.
“You good for this?” Dean asks without turning his gaze away from the clowns.
“Sure thing.” Sam’s weak voice barely trembles at all and Dean nods.
“Awesome. Because I don’t think we’re getting out with me carrying your gigantor self. These fuglies move way too fast in those big ass shoes.”
“Told you clowns were scary, asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Sam readies himself as Dean moves, machetes whirling. It’s possible his brother can take out all three, but it’s possible he can’t too, and if any get by Dean they’re all Sam’s responsibility. Blood’s still trickling into the saturated arm of his shirt and the clowns are fixated on it, thick saliva running down their chins. If Sam makes it out of here alive, he’s never sleeping again.
Dean hamstrings the giggling clown first, thank God, because Sam was about to hack his own ears off just to get away from the sound. The thing spins on one leg, hands outstretched, but Dean’s too fast and its head rolls across the ground, thumpity thump, and yeah, sleep…not going to be a thing.
Both remaining clowns rush Dean and Sam takes a step forward, swaying as a rush of dizziness overtakes him. Only a swift lurch into the nearest support keeps him on his feet. While Dean’s occupied with the goat horned clown, the other turns on its heel and heads toward Sam.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean yells, trying to finish off his clown, but it’s a little smarter than his last opponent and leads him away from his brother. “Head’s up, Sam. Incoming!”
“Got it,” Sam whispers back, sliding around the support. The clown follows only to meet Sam’s machete, neck high, as it rounds the corner. The body crumples while the head stays, balanced for a moment, on Sam’s blade. Sam follows the clown to the ground and the head follows Sam. He tries to concentrate on the sounds of Dean’s battle, but all his remaining consciousness is focused on the dead yellow eyes and spike like teeth directly in front of his face. “Hurry, Dean,” he whispers before sliding into the dark.
It’s dim when Sam startles awake; only a lamp in the corner of the room allowing him to see. Dean’s there, bottle in hand, staring at the floor.
“Hey,” Sam whispers, and his brother’s up and at his side in an instant.
“Hey, yourself,” Dean says, shadowed eyes telling Sam all he needs to know.
“I’m not okay?”
“You’re going to be fine,” Dean assures him. “I flushed that shit out with about twenty gallons of holy water and thirty of iodine.”
“Stings,” Sam murmurs, eyes fighting to slide closed.
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you let a clown gnaw on your arm.” Dean looks down at him and smiles tiredly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Don’ wanna,” Sam argues. “Clowns are there.”
“What, nightmares?” Dean strokes a hand across Sam’s forehead and actually grins. “We kicked some serious killer clown ass, Sam. Dream about that instead.”
“We did, didn’t we?”
“Yup. Clowns might be scary, but you know what’s scarier?”
“Us?”
“Right the first time. Now, are you gonna let something that’s not nearly as scary as you keep you awake?”
“Killed ‘em,” Sam mutters, eyes slipping closed. The clowns aren’t as scary as he is and he’s not as scary as Dean, who he’s positive will keep watch tonight. Sleep’s sounding pretty good right now and he relaxes right into it.