running_hot (running_hot) wrote,

Happy (belated) birthday!

That's right, it's  dante_s_hell 's birthday today (well, yesterday. but shush! I wrote this author's note while I as planning to be ready by yesterday.)! And to celebrate, I'm writing a collection of ficlets from the These are a variety of SPN, J2, and Pinto stories - just little drabbles and snippets. But I was doing my best to get all of them done, so I didn't want to have a novel for each! Warning: Character death, but it's quickly rectified in the next ficlet, so don't worry about it. And besides, it's horror, right?

When it appears that you have killed the monster, never check to see if it's really dead.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean called, his voice slightly too loud for the dank and dingy basement. Sam's head snapped up, and he shifted his attention from the bones he was collecting -- best not to leave any bones behind, human or otherwise, when it was just as easy to salt and burn them.

"Yeah? What's up?" he replied with a little sniff. The scent of rotting flesh was only now beginning to dissipate from the small and cramped space.

"You shot that thing with iron bullets, right?" What a stupid question. Dean had watched Sam do it not ten minutes ago, and Sam said as much.

"What are you doing, man? Leave that thing alone and let's go." With a heavy sigh and a bitch face to rival that of Paris Hilton, Sam walked over and poked his head next to Dean's. "See? It's --"

It was not dead. In fact, it was getting up with its massive swampy mouth wide open, sewage dripping from its teeth, a snarl ringing deep from its throat.

"Well, fu--" And then it became hard to speak as the jaws closed around them.

If you find that your house was built upon or near a cemetery, was once a church that was used for black masses, had previous inhabitants who went mad or committed suicide or died in some horrible fashion, or had inhabitants who performed necrophilia or satanic practices, move away immediately.

It was theirs.

It was finally theirs.

After months of hunting, scanning for trustworthy real estate agents, Chris and Zach were finally moving into their own place, a little brownstone on the edge of LA. Nothing too fancy, but it was out of the way without being out of the loop, it had a fenced-in yard for Noah, and it was theirs.

The old inhabitants were just getting out the last of their things as Chris and Zach pulled up in Zach's little black Prius, having decided to wait until the next morning to move the furniture. Both families exchanged token greetings, and then the old homeowners were pulling away in a beat up four-door.

"What's that smell?" Chris asked as he walked in. "Smells like incense or something. It's nice." Zach took a deep sniff and hummed contentedly. "See, told you. Maybe they were trying to make us feel at home or something."

After several seconds, Zach shook his head. "Wait, it smells like something's still ... burning. Fuck! They must have left a candle lit or something. Come on, help me find it."

They split up to start searching, Zach taking the first floor while Chris headed upstairs. "Chris! Get down here -- get down here now!" Zach hollered, panicked, from the basement after Chris had given up and decided to come down for lunch.

"Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming. What's wrong?" Chris took the steps downstairs two at a time, because Zach honestly sounded petrified of something. "Are you talking to someone?" 

"No, no, go away! Go away! That wasn't us, whatever they did, it wasn't -- Chris!" And then -- silence.

The basement was filled with a black cloud of some sort, smelling of pine smoke and sulfur and burning hair and blood. Zach was nowhere to be found. And on the floor, there was some elaborate diagram of some sort, anointed with incense and red fluid.

By the time Chris had time to get out a frantic 'what the fu-', he was already gone.

If you find a town that looks deserted, it's probably that way for a reason. Take the hint and stay away.

"Why didn't we go with the other cast members when we had a chance? No, the big bad Jensen Ackles just had to drive us all the way to Oklahoma. We've got time to spare, he says. It'll be fun, he says. And now we're royally lost in who knows what state. Aren't you just slick. Is there even a gas station anywhere in the next twenty miles?" Jared gripes, and crosses his arms across his chest. This whole trip has turned out to be a bad idea. They've done nothing but fight and bicker for the last twelve hours of driving along lonely highways.

"Oh, would you just shut up, Jared? We're gonna be fine. See, look. There's a town just up the road." Jensen takes one hand off the wheel and points to a tiny little town -- more like a couple of buildings and a gas station. Mold grows on the few walls that haven't crumbled to the ground, and there are weeds everywhere, twining out of cracked foundations and remains of old houses.

"This is not a town," Jared remarks as Jensen pulls over at what might possibly be the side of what was once a road. There's not a shred of evidence that anyone might have ever have lived here, or at least, no one in the last fifty years. "If there ever was a town here, it's long since hit the road. And by hit the road, I mean the walls collapsed and impacted the pavement."

Jensen smacks Jared on the arm gently, playfully. "Dude, I can see a light in one of the windows. It's cool. They must like the whole lived-in look. Let's just go ask for directions. No, I'll go ask for directions. You call Kripke and let him know that we might be late." With that, he flounces - outright flounces, the prissy dick -- out into the street, slamming the door behind him.

Sighing in a manner he knows he's inherited from Sam, Jared pulls out his phone and dials. Kripke doesn't pick up, so he leaves a message.

"Hey, Kripke, Jensen's being a dick about directions and I have no idea where we are, so we're gonna be a little late. Hopefully, we'll get in sometime tomorrow morning, but we'll be sure to make it before the -- what? Jensen, what's wrong? Why are you -- oh my fucking God! You can't -- what the?! Is that a -- holy shit! No, no, go the fuck AWAY! Stop! You fucking -- no, go away! Go away! Jensen! Jensen!"

The line cuts off with a screeching click.

If you're running from the monster, expect to trip or fall down at least twice, more if you are of the female persuasion. Also note that, despite the fact that you are running and the monster is merely shambling along, it's still moving fast enough to catch up with you.

If you are running for your life and are being chased by a monster/psychopath/axe murderer and you happen to be female, take the high-heeled shoes OFF!

You stumble along, Sam's hand around your wrist, the horrible keening behind you, and it just keeps getting closer. Louder. It sounds like almost-but-not-quite growling, snarling, screeching, every horrific noise you can imagine rolled into one haunting monster call.

Sam keeps trying to get you to move faster, but your legs are getting tired and damn if you hadn't picked exactly the wrong footwear for this sort of thing. Not only that, you've already fallen once, and your knee aches something awful. It's futile anyways, right? Sam tried shooting at the thing. You watched him do it.

Nothing happened.

A few minutes ago, you were screaming your head off, but at this point, what's it going to do? So you run along, huffing and puffing, and at least you're not being devoured yet. Every few seconds, Sam either mutters an encouragement or yanks you forward. What right does he have, anyways? You don't even know him. All you remember is waking up in an alley after a really wonderful night of partying, and then this giant man is dragging you away down the street, and that's when the roaring started.

Just when it can't get any worse, you feel a sharp crack from below you, and then you're careening to the ground. Your snapped heel has the nerve to roll under you and cram itself into your sternum just before you hit the pavement, because who doesn't need hard plastic digging into their sternum? All the breath flies out of you in an instant.

"Fuck! I don't have time for this!" And instead of helping you up, Sam just scoops you up, and then he's running, running, running, and your head smacks against his shoulder endlessly no matter how much you protest. It keeps getting harder to protest, too, because you're getting really damn dizzy from all the shaking, and whenever you look up, you can see the thing that's chasing you. It's all fangs and scales and massive, leathery wings. You decide, after several glances, that you'd rather trust his feet than yours in your broken high heels.

Bad decision. Sam trips on some invisible hole in the road and loses his balance, and while he manages to stay standing, you fall from his arms and smash into the ground. Something breaks -- you think it's somewhere in your upper arm -- and then you're screaming. "Shit, shit, shit! It's alright, just hold on."

Instead of picking you back up, there's a bang of gunfire, and then a muttered curse. The next thing you hear is the sound of crunching bones and inhuman wailing. Then the thing is breathing down your neck, and all you can think before its mouth opens around you is that its breath really, really stinks.

A/N: Sorry this is a day late, but I had to study for finals :/ Hope you enjoy, and happy birthday, dante_s_hell ! If you like this, I'll be happy to keep writing more.
Tags: birthday, fic, flist celebration!, horror rules

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