Just a short post-season 9 one shot, about if Team Free Will went darkside. Warnings for possibly disturbing imagery, and vague hints of Wincest if you want to take it that way. The italicized lyrics are from the song "The Shankill Butchers" by The Decemberists. I may continue this at some point if inspiration strikes.
So you think yourself a hunter, huh kid?
Let me guess- monster killed your family, and you're searching for revenge? Yeah, I've heard it before a million times, kid. Same song, different verse, hundreds of hunters singing the same thing.
So what's your biggest kill so far, hm? Spirit? Werewolf? Wendigo? Angel, even?
Oh yes, angels exist, kid. But don't get caught up in your fantasies of halos and fluffy clouds; they can be just as bad as any demon.
Wait, you didn't know about demons? Jeez, you are a greensleeve, aren't you kid? So then… have you ever even heard about the Winchesters and their angel?
You haven't?
Hey, Jeff, get a load of this; this kid's never heard of the Winchesters!
Well let me buy you a drink, kid, and I'll tell you all about them.
The Shankill butchers ride tonight,
You better shut your windows tight.
They're sharpening their cleavers and their knives,
And taking all their whiskey by the pint.
So the story goes that the Winchester brothers have been cursed from the start. You must have at least heard of old Johnny Winchester, right? Finest hunter in the States until he was killed. He was the boys' daddy, brought them into the life when they were real little after their momma was killed. By a demon.
(Or so they say. Some people think that was just a cover up story for something much worse.)
The older brother's name is Dean. Take my advice kid, and if you ever hear the name Dean Winchester, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. Newbie hunter like you, he'd gut you in two seconds flat if he wanted. He's not even human anymore, can't touch holy water or walk across a devil's trap. They say he went to Hell and didn't come back the same. He's a black-eyed demon now, the same species that killed his own momma and the thing he spent his life hunting.
(At least he said he did. Maybe he was evil right from the start.)
The younger brother's called Sam. And my, that boy's got the devil in him if anyone ever did. He's supposedly human, but no one's quite sure. Holy water won't do a lick of good against him, not salt or iron or silver either, but he could snap your neck with a single thought, or send your soul to Hell with a twitch of his fingers. Telekinesis, mind control, visions, you name it; he's got it. It's somethin' in his blood, they say, that rotted his soul from the inside out.
(They say he beat Lucifer himself once. Imagine what he could do to you.)
And then there's that angel of theirs, Castiel. Don't let the pretty name fool you kid, because God may have made that one but he certainly ain't controlling him. His true voice could bust your eardrums, and he could burn your eyes out without even touching you. He's got the power of God and the wrath of the Devil behind him, and I ain't never seen him myself, but he could look like anyone.
(He stole some poor sap's body to be his own. Poor guy's probably trapped screaming in his own mind.)
They used to be just like me and you,
They used to be sweet little boys.
But something went horribly askew,
Now killing is their only source of joy.
No one lasts long around those boys. Anyone who gets close, gets dead. Ellen Harvelle and her family used to run a hunter's bar up in Nebraska, until the Winchester's befriended her. The Roadhouse was up in flames within a year, Ellen herself and her daughter not too long after that. Bobby Singer had the finest folklore library this side of the Mississippi, and he knew the Winchesters since they were kids. His house is ash now, and his body too. Bela Talbot was an artifact thief, Pamela Barnes a class A psychic, Rufus Turner a reclusive hermit friend of Bobby's, Frank Devereaux a technological genius, Gordon Walker the best vamp hunter I'd ever met, the entire Campbell family hunters for generations… All of them are dead now, not too long after meeting the Winchesters.
(There are even whispers of patricide in regards to John Winchester's passing. I wouldn't be surprised if they were true.)
Any hunters that try and put those bastards down end up bloody and broken in a ditch somewhere, sometimes cut up in pieces or drained of blood or with every bone snapped clean in two.
There was this teenage girl in Pontiac about a year ago, named Claire Novak. She was training to be a hunter, and she had this personal vendetta against Castiel for some reason. I met her once, and she was a damn fine fighter, all things considered. She went after the angel before she was ready, and met an early grave. Her mother found her in her bed three days after she went missing. She'd been tortured before they killed her. Her arms were pulled from their sockets, her Achilles tendons sliced, her skin bruised on every surface, her intestines hanging out, her throat slit so deep she was nearly decapitated.
(She was seventeen.)
The Shankill butchers on the rise,
They're waiting till the dead of night.
They're picking at their fingers with their knives,
And wiping off their cleavers on their thighs.
Sam gets his power from blood, like some sort of freaky vampire. Demon blood, but I doubt that would stop him from sucking you dry if he liked how you taste. His brother is his main source of demon blood, and they say he cuts Dean open every night and drinks from him just to get the buzz.
(They say Dean likes it. Like some sort of twisted kinky thing.)
Dean's got a curse from the beginning of time on him, from what I've heard. The Mark of Cain. It makes him addicted to violence and killing and rage, and he murders innocents with the same blade that tasted Abel's blood all those thousands of years ago. He can't be killed, neither, and no one's lasted long enough to try and exorcise him. I'm not even sure if it's possible.
(He ain't like any demon I've ever seen, that's for sure.)
Castiel is living on borrowed time. The part that made him an angel is long gone, and he's been stealing other angels' graces ever since. It doesn't sit quite right and burns him up inside, but that just makes him more angry and more deadly, and he'll drain you of your life force too if he thinks it'll let him live a little longer. Do you remember that freak meteor shower a couple years back? Well, that was no freak phenomenon, and those were no meteors. Those were angels falling from Heaven; Castiel cast them all down so he could pick them off one by one.
(You don't know which of your friends are angels. You don't know who he'll come for next.)
'Cause everybody knows,
If you don't mind your mother's words,
A wicked wind will blow your ribbons from your curls.
You can't even get into Heaven anymore. If you die, you either get sent to the deep fryer or stuck on Earth as a ghost. Death holds no closure anymore, not for any of us.
(Some stories even say they have Death himself on a leash, acting as their servant.)
They massacred a school of kids a few months back, I'm sure you heard about it. They went in, just the three of them, guns blazing, knives flashing, powers flaring. A hundred kids and twenty some teachers in that school, all of them dead. Shot or stabbed or sliced open, eyes burnt to a crisp just to top it off. Then they set the place on fire and watched it burn to the ground.
(No one knows why they did it. I think they just liked to hear the screams.)
They leave a bloody trail of slaughtered bodies wherever they go. The FBI, SWAT, even the Army have tried to catch them, but they're in over their heads. No human police is going to be able to land a finger on them. Hell, no human, period.
(No one can stop them. No one knows how.)
We all have nightmares about them. Dreams about Sam's razor smile dripping with blood, and Dean's black eyes glittering with pleasure as he fillets you like a fish, and Castiel's hands hot and heavy on your forehead as your eyes burst into flame.
(Despite all their powers and sharp, pointy tools, terror is their greatest weapon.)
So don't go out in the dark alone, kid, especially if there's whispers of those three being in town. Shtrigas, shifters, and hellhounds are nuthin' compared to those boys. And kid, if they set their sights on you, you'd be better off putting a bullet in your brain before they can touch you. Because you'll find no mercy from them.
(Judgment Day has come and gone, and they have found us guilty.)
Everybody moan,
Everybody shake,
The Shankill butchers wanna catch you,
The Shankill butchers wanna cut you,
The Shankill butchers wanna catch you,
Awake.