Hey guys! I'm baaaack~ and I've got a real treat for you all. This is my first ever Supernatural fanfic. I wrote this as an assignment for school, and decided I'd share it with you! Hope you enjoy! Please review! I love reviews.
A woman sat on her couch in her home, filing her nails with an automatic nail filer. She heard a sound in the foyer, close to the front door. She stopped the filer, the buzzing ceasing. "Greg?" she called out. But no one answered. The woman stared at the doorway that led into the foyer for a few moments longer, then returned to her task.
Unbeknownst to her, a mist had formed gradually behind the couch where she was seated. Suddenly, the mist darted for and then into the woman's mouth with a sharp whoosh. The scream that had been building in her throat was strangled and cut off as the mist entered her body. She jerked, as if hit by a strong gust of wind.
Her eyes, which had snapped shut in fright and shock, whipped open again. This time, however, instead of baby blue eyes and white sclera, there were endless pools of coal black. The woman stiffly gripped the automatic nail filer in her hand and brought up her free hand. She smiled deviously and pressed down on the button, the whirring buzz of the filer dominating the silence in the room. The buzzing turned into a shrill whine, and finally the gruesome, blood-chilling cacophony of shredding flesh and screaming began.
Sam gets out of the 1967 Chevy Impala with a cup of coffee and a white paper bag. Dean was still asleep in the stingy motel room that they had rented out for a couple of days. Sam knows that if he doesn't bring Dean his breakfast, it will take them even longer to get back on the road. Sam sighs as he dutifully locks Dean's car, and walks to their room, breakfast in hand. When he gets there, he takes the room key from his jacket pocket, unlocks the door quietly, and creeps in.
Sam eyes the bed closest to the door, Dean's bed. He notes with a small smile that his older brother is, indeed, still passed out. Sam closes the door quietly, and then deposits the food and the cup of coffee on the table in the small kitchen area. "Dean." Sam walks over to Dean's bed and shakes his shoulder a bit. Dean groans and stirs, his head groggily lolling up off the pillow. "What time is it," he slurs tiredly.
Sam looks at his watch, "Seven-thirty A.M., Dean." Dean groans again as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and drags himself upright. "You're waking me up at the crack of dawn, Sam?" Sam rolls his eyes as Dean walks over to the table and sits down, opening the paper bag to take a look inside. Dean pulls out an apple fritter and stares at it in bewilderment. He looks over at Sam, "Where's my pie, Sam?"
Sam gives Dean an incredulous look. "Who eats pie for breakfast, Dean?" Dean raises an eyebrow and exclaims, "You kidding? Who wouldn't eat pie for breakfast; it's delicious!" Nevertheless, Dean wolfs down the gooey, twisted lump of apple-flavored dough. "What do we got?" Dean asks around a mouth full of donut. Sam passes Dean a glance of mild disgust at his brother's manners, then shakes it off and replies, "Okay, it came across the scanner about a week ago that a woman in Salt Lake City, Utah was reported as cutting off her hand… with an electric nail filer."
Dean looks up from his coffee, looking more awake now with this news. "A what now?" Dean inquires. Sam stares at his brother and replies, "It's a nail file with batteries, Dean, it's like a drill." Dean blinks and then smiles coyly, "Really, how do you know that, Sammy?" Sam gives Dean a semi-aggravated look before shooting back, "Maybe because I've seen enough of them to know what they're for!" Dean chuckles and takes a gulp of coffee as a gesture for Sam to continue.
Sam rolls his eyes once again and clears his throat before continuing, "The police said the woman was alone when they found her and that she'd bled out from her injury on her living room floor." Dean taps his index finger on his coffee cup thoughtfully. "Think it could be a demon?" Sam purses his lips for a second. "Sounds like it." He replies. Dean stands up from his seat at the table after gulping down the last bit of his coffee, then makes his way to the bathroom. "Looks like we're paying a visit to the Beehive State."
Sam has hardly looked up from the research he'd gathered for their case since they left the motel back in Helena, Montana. Dean glances over at him before returning his eyes to the road before them, his hands positioned comfortably on the rough leather of the Impala's steering wheel. AC/DC is playing on the radio, to Sam's displeasure. "Dean, will you turn that down?" Dean reluctantly turns down the volume and shifts his green gaze to his little brother. "Aw, come on, Sam! AC/DC rocks and you know it."
Sam looks up from the papers in his hands to briefly meet Dean's gaze and scoff, "Dude, all you have for music is the Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock!" Dean shakes his head, his eyes on the road again. "You got your badge, Sam?" The younger brother sneaks Dean a little glare before replying, "Yes, Dean, I've got my badge and my suit on me. It's like you think I'm 12 years old all over again, on my first hunt or something!"
Dean shrugs one shoulder and replies, "Just making sure. As FBI agents, we want to look professional to sell the show, if you know what I mean." Sam sighs, "Alright." Dean turns up the volume on the music, AC/DC once again screaming proudly from the speakers as the boys continue their trek to Utah.
Sam and Dean slide out of the Impala, observing the house. "So, Sam, you said the woman had a husband?" Dean looks over at Sam as they both begin walking towards the concrete sidewalk leading up to the front door of the house. "Uh, yeah, his name is Greg Wrathall. He claimed he wasn't home the night she died."
Dean nods and turns his attention to the front door as they step up onto the porch. Sam rings the doorbell and the brothers wait for the owner to answer. After a few seconds, a rather short man answers, looking nothing short of a wreck. His red-rimmed eyes size up both the fake FBI agents tiredly. The man clears his throat before speaking, "Can I help you, gentlemen?"
Dean shows his badge briskly and answers, "Agents Smith and West." Sam displays his badge in the same professional fashion as Dean addresses his little brother's fake alias before tucking it into his breast pocket. Dean continues, "And we'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Wrathall, if you don't mind." Mr. Wrathall washes a hand over his face in mild exasperation. "How many times do I have to answer questions for you guys? I mean, I just lost my wife a week ago; I'd like to move on…"
Sam spoke up with a sympathetic tinge in his voice, "We understand, Mr. Wrathall, and we're very sorry for your loss. We just need to ask a few questions and then we'll get out of your way." Mr. Wrathall sighs and invites Sam and Dean in, leading them to the kitchen where the three of them sit down at the table. Mr. Wrathall clasps his hands together on the table in front of him. Dean begins, "So, Mr. Wrathall-" "It's Greg, if you don't mind." Greg cuts him off.
"Greg, you told the police that you were out with friends on the night of your wife's death. Is that correct?" Dean asks, his eyes trained on the man across the table. Greg nods, his eyes dropping to his hands. "Yeah… I called her after I got off work. I told her I'd be at the usual bar with a few buddies from work, and she said she'd be waiting here for me at 10:00pm. But when I came home…"
Greg's voice drops almost to a whisper, "Heather was dead… She was…" Sam and Dean share a grim look before returning their gazes to the emotional man. "Greg, my partner here needs to take a quick look around the house; just standard procedure, if you would." Dean breaks the silence finally. Greg looks up at Dean, then to Sam, and nods, "Sure, go ahead, Agent West." Sam stands up and investigates various rooms of the house while Dean continues to talk to Greg.
When he gets to the living room, Sam spots a dark colored substance behind the couch. He sneaks a glance in the direction of the kitchen before crouching down and swiping a finger across the substance. He carefully brings it up close to his nose and sniffs briefly. "Sulfur…" He whispers to himself, then wipes his finger off and returns to Dean and Greg.
"Alright, thank you, Greg," Sam says, offering Greg a small sympathetic smile, which Greg nods to. Dean stands and adjusts his tie, nodding to Greg and supplying, "Sorry for your loss, Mr. Wrathall. We'll show ourselves out." The two brothers leave the house, and Dean slides into the driver's seat of the Impala, Sam taking the passenger seat. "Did you find anything?" Dean inquires as he turns the key in the ignition, the car purring to life.
"Yeah, sulfur, behind the couch," Sam answers as he puts on his seatbelt. The Impala turns onto State Street. "Man, what's the deal with these demons? They jump all over the place, it's like they know we're on their trail," Dean comments as he drives. Sam sighs as he looks out the window and replies, "We're Winchesters, Dean. We're not exactly unknown to the paranormal."
Dean scoffs, "Tell me about it! We're like freakin' celebrities to the world down under." Sam shrugs. "Well Dean, this demon is just another creature to gank so the world can be a better place." Dean grunts in agreement and then a comfortable silence stretches between them.
Dean opens the trunk of the Impala swiftly and pulls up the hidden arsenal that acts as the floor of the trunk, propping it up with a thin metal bar. Sam joins him in loading rock salt rounds into two sawed-off shotguns by the light of the moon. Sam pauses in his current task of stuffing a rosary into a jug of water to scan their surroundings. Dean finishes gearing up with two knives made of pure iron as Sam begins reciting the holy water blessing ritual. As soon as the incantation ends, Dean speaks up. "So the demon is supposed to be here, right?"
Sam finishes his own gearing up and turns to Dean. "Yeah, pretty sure. That woman at the bar was definitely possessed. It makes sense that this abandoned warehouse is where she would go to kill someone else." Dean grins and teases, "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Always the brains of the operation." Sam chuckles a bit. "Shut up, dude."
Dean collapses the arsenal back into its hiding spot and shuts the trunk just as swiftly as he'd opened it. He then expertly slithers to the warehouse, Sam following closely. They draw their sawed-offs, on high alert for any sign of the demon and its host. Dean quietly picks the lock on the door closest to them, then opens it. He creeps in, shotgun pointed to shoot at anything that may ambush them. Sam follows, shutting the door behind them with nary a sound.
As the two brothers near the center of the large storage area, a smug voice greets them. "Hello, boys." Sam and Dean whip around, guns pointed at the owner of the voice. A woman steps out of the shadows, her high heels clicking on the concrete. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the Winchesters. You boys are quite a hit in the big, dark beyond."
Dean snickers dryly, "Beyond, huh? Nah… I'd prefer the nasty, hot and humid pit of despair you ugly abominations call home." The woman's face darkens and she blinks, the normal color of her eyes replaced with coal black nothingness. "You little-!" Dean shoots a round of rock salt at the demon, causing her to cry out in pain, her skin sizzling.
Sam backs him by splashing holy water at her. She screams in pain, her skin sizzling more violently, and her knees buckle. Taking that opportunity, Dean lunges forward to knock her out. The woman growls and thrusts her hand out at Dean, sending him hurtling halfway across the room. "Dean!" Sam shouts. He glares at the demon and shoots furiously at her.
The shotgun suddenly clicks and Sam throws it to the side, backing up as the woman advances on him. "What are you gonna do now, Sam?" The demon taunts. Sam swallows hard, his jaw clenched in anger. He keeps backing up until the woman suddenly stops short. She looks down.
A circle with a pentagram and symbols surrounds her, painted in red on the ground where she stands. She glares up at Sam and snarls, "Devil's Trap, huh? Clever, Winchester!" Sam glares back, and then Dean walks up beside him. "How about we cut this merry conversation short?" Dean sneers, and then Sam begins reciting an exorcism ritual by memory.
The woman screams and writhes for most of the incantation until finally, the demon shoots out of her mouth in a black cloud, retreating into the ground. The woman collapses, unconscious. Dean and Sam stare at her for a few seconds, then at each other. "You alright, Dean?" Sam concernedly asks once they both catch their breath. Dean chuckles a bit, "Couldn't be better, Sammy. Come on, let's get this girl home."
"Ramble On, And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song! I'm goin' 'round the world; I got to find my girl, on my way! I've been this way ten years to the day, Ramble On! Gotta find the queen of all my dreams!" Dean sings along enthusiastically to the music playing on the cassette player. Sam is listening to his older brother sing off-key in amusement as he looks out the window.
Dean turns down the volume as the song ends. "So, where to now, Sam? Wanna go to Vegas? We can earn some money hustling pool if you feel up to it!" Sam looks over at Dean and smiles, chuckling, "Dude, you know I can't play pool to save my life."
Dean shrugs and grins. "Nothin' a little practice can't fix, Sammy!" The older Winchester boy cranks up the volume on the radio again, Led Zeppelin's 'Travelling Riverside Blues' pumping through the speakers as the Winchester brothers continue travelling the highway.