Hell Hath No Fury
The brothers' relationship from a confused and generally pissed-off demon reject's point of view after she finds herself fighting for the wrong side of the war in exchange for some good old-fashioned revenge. No pairings, just badassery. And whumpin'
Not to be taken 100% seriously. It's like a 83% serious. It's a C+ on the serious scale. If it walks like a joke, talks like a joke, and looks like a joke – it's a joke.
"You guys suck." The girl- practically still a kid- growled from her spot tied to the solid wood chair in the middle of the room, a circled pentagram laid out on the floor underneath of her, the proper symbols in their proper places to keep 'demon bitches' in their proper place.
"Shut up." Dean snapped over his shoulder, his back to her only because his gun was pointed to the salt lined windows. "Can't ya see we're trying to concentrate here?"
"Oh, I'm very sorry," she bit off sarcastically, rolling her eyes significantly. "if I'm interfering with your obviously busy schedule!" She screamed, throwing herself back and forth in the chair, causing it to jump and clatter loudly against the hardwood floor.
"God!" Dean raked his fingernails against his scalp in frustration, the sound of the chair scratching against the varnish of the floor doing absolutely nothing to help him keep his cool. "Can't we just exorcise this bitch already?" He demanded.
"Not yet." Sam snipped over his shoulder, voice solid as he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "We need her."
She grinned manically and then blew a sloppy raspberry at both of them.
"You are so annoying!" Dean snapped.
"I told you that I could help you!" She hissed. "But what do you do? You tie me to a chair!"
"Dean," Sam called, voiced intoned with warning as he watched the black clouds of smoke crawl across the windows, spongy and thick against the glass.
"I see 'em." Dean affirmed with a sharp nod.
"Do you think if we give 'em her—" Sam began to ask. The girl winced as if he'd slapped her.
"I told you already," she interrupted snippily, glaring straight through him with her black eyes. "Yeah, sure, they want me, but who the hell is going to pass up the Winchester brothers just for one demon reject?" She demanded and then added, for good measure. "Are you morons?"
Sam and Dean shared a look. "She has a point."
"Ah crap." Dean kneaded at his brow. "How the hell did we even get here?"
Two Weeks Earlier:
"And get me some pie!" Dean leaned out the window to call to Sam's retreating figure. It was too dark to tell if he shot him a very nasty hand gesture over his shoulder or an assuring wave. Dean was leaning more towards 'nasty hand gesture'.
The diner that the 6'Gigantic" figure of Sam Winchester was stalking towards stood alone on the empty lot, the sole beacon of light in the otherwise damp, dark night. The thick fog coating the ground gave the neon lights an eerie glow that echoed across the flat, smooth ground.
The brothers had been driving for about ten hours straight and Dean had reached beyond the point of caring to actually leave the cab of the Impala, instead designating the task to Sam because he was younger and dorkier and Dean could still kick his ass if the situation called for it.
But, Sam was smart. Dean supposed that he wouldn't have been able to score a free ride to Stanford if he'd been dumb, but Sam wasn't even just your regular old book-smart, Sam was a wily one. Which was why when Dean leaned over to the passenger's seat to hunt for some new tunes; he came face-to-face with Sam's wallet.
"Dammit." Dean narrowed his eyes, absolutely positive the wallet had been abandoned on purpose. Why? Because Sam knew that Dean knew that he couldn't buy pie without his wallet, and Sam knew that Dean knew he wasn't going to come back out and get it, leaving Dean to know that Sam knew that the only option left was bringing it to him, which would give Sam the opportunity to force a semi-healthy meal down his throat the second he stepped over the threshold, which he would then be richly rewarded with any slice of pie he saw fit.
He was pitting Dean's love of pie against Dean's laziness.
And damn it all if the pie wasn't about to win.
"Devious bastard." Dean grunted as he shouldered open the door, snatching up the wallet as he went to stand on his sore legs, grumbling through the entire trip to the front of the diner.
"Oh, there you are!" Sam gasped in mock shock as Dean pushed open the double doors of the diner. "And you brought my wallet, too! I was wondering where that went!" He smacked Dean on the back, grinning as he plucked the leather pouch out of his hand. "What a guy."
"You suck." Dean grumbled.
"Yeah, well, it looked like you and the car were going to fuse or something if you sat there any longer." Sam shrugged. "Come on, let's sit down and have something to eat."
"I don't wanna eat," Dean's brow wrinkled as Sam guided him forward to a table and then shoved him down into the seat. "I wanna get to Jersey before nightfall."
"We'll get to Jersey." Sam promised, rolling his eyes as he slid in across from his brother, his knees hitting the underside of the table. "We're making great time. Don't be such a baby."
"Shut up." Dean snatched up his menu, too damn exhausted to come up with anything more witty than that, doling out a scathing look in the process. Sam saw him his 'Scathing Look' and raised him an 'Eyebrow Furrow'.
"Hey fellas," a bubbly waitress strode up to the table, interrupting the playful glaring contest. "How y'all doin'?" She smiled winningly at the two of them.
"Absolutely fantastic, thank you for asking," Dean smiled back charmingly, his eyes running down the length of the woman's exposed legs.
"My name's Candy and I'll be your waitress this evening," she grinned right back at Dean, combing her brown hair shyly behind her ear. "I hope y'all are hungry."
"Starved." Dean propped his chin on his hand, maybe flexing his arms.
"Well, you came to the right place." Candy leaned forward to casually put down napkins, maybe flashing her cleavage. "Is there anything I can get you? Anything at all?" She fluttered her eyelashes.
Sam groaned and rolled his eyes, slumping back in his seat as he considered the possibility that maybe leaving Dean in the car would have been more convenient to his appetite. He shook his head and looked around the rest of the diner in an attempt to distract himself from the blatant flirting. The diner was ridiculously busy given the fact that it was three in the morning on a Wednesday. (It was a Wednesday, wasn't it? It could have been a Thursday, come to think of it. It felt like a Thursday.) About two dozen people littered the booths, mostly men. Two waitresses other than Candy scampered along the narrow alleys between tables, wide trays of food balancing on their hands with small clouds of flies hoarding around them.
Sam stifled a gag and turned to the window, assuming the flies were part of the southern heat and lack of enforced health code.
Of course the idea that maybe they were buzzing about because the meat the two girls were dropping down on tables was half-burnt and bloody and not at all farm-bred didn't even occur to Sam because he'd seen a lot of weird shit in a lot of weird places, but he had never yet had a reason to doubt a place that sold pie.
"I'll be right back with your orders." Candy giggled, shooting Dean a wink before scurrying away.
Dean leaned out of the seat to watch her all the way back to the kitchen before settling back to find Sam staring at him with a resigned expression, his chin resting on the heel of his palm.
"What?" He held his hands out in exasperation. "You can't give me an ass like that and expect me not stare at it!"
Sam could only roll his eyes and turn back to anything other than the plates the waitresses were dealing out across grimy tables. However, with the pointed ignorance of the buzzing mass of insects clinging to the roof came the awareness of the smell. It was a subtle thing, really. The stench of baking meat. Something you would expect in a diner. In fact, if Sam hadn't been Sam it might have gone unnoticed altogether. But Sam was Sam. And he knew the difference between burning pork and burning flesh.
It was in the charred hair, really.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice reached him as he slapped his hand over his mouth, and he would have been thankful all of the sudden that he hadn't eaten anything substantial in almost ten hours if he hadn't been busy concentrating on not vomiting up the un-substantial.
"Smell," He gritted out from between his teeth, a twisted smile stretching across his face to battle the gag reflex. One of the many lessons John Winchester had ground so deep in his brain it was probably tattooed across the inside of his skull. 'You're gonna see some tough shit, but you're gonna grin and bear it.' "We need to leave." His stomach heaved against his throat.
Dean was confused, but like hell was he was gonna argue with the face Sam was making right now. "Come on," Dean beckoned, Big Brother mode dominating over his hunger despite the fact he didn't really understand. "Let's get you outta here, little brother." He fisted his hand in the front of Sam's shirt, hauling him to his feet. "It's gonna be fine." He grunted his assurance as Sam wavered on his feet in his nausea, stumbling in a general 'Doorway' direction.
Dean turned with him, stopping short when he nearly collided with Candy as she stood there brightly, blocking their path with a plate balanced on each hand. Her smile was still plastered across her face in a mask of perkiness that didn't suit the situation. The rest of the diner had gone silent and still, all cold eyes on the brothers.
"You fellas leaving so soon?" She cocked her head to the side at an obtuse angle, her thousand watt smile never wavering as her head teetered at what should have been an impossible corner. "But I just brought y'alls food," her smile faltered. Her eyes flashed. "Don't tell me you're not hungry?" she held out the plates of food and Dean finally got what was making Sam sick.
The least they could have done was remove the pinky ring. Really.
Some of the blood and congealed fat spilled off the edge of the plate as Candy pushed it forward, urging them to eat, and spattered against the ground, tacky and slick.
Dean beat down a gag. "Who picked this place?" He grimaced.
"You did." Sam grumbled between his deep, tempered breaths.
"Ain't 'cha gonna eat?" Candy asked, taking a step forward, more of the congealing blood sloshing off the plate and splattering across the ground, splashing back onto her bare legs and seeping into her shoes. "Eat." She urged, shoving the plates at them, the action causing a rebound of blood to stain across her shirt. "Eat!"
"I think I'm gonna be sick." Dean muttered, groping around his waistband for his knife, the small of his back pressed into the table. "Smarmies?"
"Smarmies." Sam nodded his agreement, eyeing the patrons scathingly as they lumbered out of their seats and slugged heavily across the floor, backing Candy as she pressed them further. The theory made sense. Smarmies were related to changelings, famed for setting clever traps for their food (which they liked warm). Usually they stole the babies of young couples and replaced it with their own young until they reached a Smarmy puberty of sorts and killed and ate their adoptive family. However, the traps did get cleverer. The boys had heard of one in Las Vegas that been disguised as a hotel, working together for a more constant source of food than hunting alone would have sustained. Very clever, indeed. But, Smarmies were too clever for their own good. The humanoid shapes they took were so convincing not even other Smarmies could make the differentiation, leaving the only way to be absolutely sure if they were dealing with another of their kind was to offer food.
If the food was accepted- Smarmy. If the food was denied- Lunch.
Friggin' diner in the middle of nowhere.
"Any ideas?" Dean threw over his shoulder as they were cornered, the hunting knife in his hand and the six-shot in his waistband were nothing against this.
"Pray?" Sam said half-jokingly. He was the antichrist. Dean didn't think God existed. That shit was funny.
Dean snorted his appreciation of the irony as he ran numbers in his mind. Their twelve bullets divided between twenty three Smarmies wasn't a good ratio. They were good, but they weren't that good.
Candy was growing increasingly frustrated. They hadn't accepted the food, but they hadn't flat out denied it either. Hadn't even vomited like all of the other meals.
"Do you want it or not?" She demanded, shoving the plates at them again, her brow furrowing with vexation, her sharp teeth bared.
Sam and Dean shared a significant look before nodding.
"No!" The exclamation was accented by the explosion of gunfire and the spray of Candy's brains across the faces of the other Smarmies.
The reaction among the other Smarmies was instantaneous as they lunged forward, teeth bared. It was chaos, the ones in the back clawing at the ones in the front, harsh welts forming on their assumed skin as they fought for first dibs on the fresh meat, and fought the fresh meat for the fresh meat.
Dean stepped in front of Sam, loosing another shot as his mind worked a million miles a minute, dredging up any information he could recall on Smarmies on the spot. But, as a sharp set of fangs sunk into his upper arm and Sam gave off a shout of distress, he had more important things to worry about. Like the sound of said fangs chipping under the assault of the butt of his gun and Sam's triumphant curse, accented with the click of his gun re-chambering.
"Dean!" Sam shouted over the din of snarls and combusting gunpowder, his back pressed to the column between booths as he kicked and shoved at hungry Smarmies, opening deep gashes and welts across his arms and legs, but successfully keeping them away from anything vital. "Plan?" He was down to two bullets and any time that it would take to work his knife out of its hiding place in his waistband was time enough for a Smarmies' teeth to find a comfortable home in his throat.
"I got jack!" Dean was down to one bullet. "Ow! Fucker!" Zero bullets.
Sam spared a precious half a second to look around the diner again, the first glance having been too casual to really find anything really useful.
The kitchen door swung lazily on its loose hinges.
"The hell are you doing?" Dean screamed as Sam scrambled up on top of the table, his face was covered in Smarmy blood and his forearm was chewed up as he used it to keep their teeth distracted as his bowie did the dirty work. The ground in front of his was crowded with twitching bodies and a small flood of blood.
"Catch!" Sam tossed the gun, giving Dean two more bullets that Sam knew he wouldn't have been able to use as well. It went very noticed that he hadn't given an actual explanation.
"The hell are you doing!" He screamed again, fumbling the gun for a half second before tightening his fingers in a decent grip.
"Trust me!" Sam shouted over his shoulder as he leapt across table tops, staying barely out of the reach of pursuing Smarmy hands as he cut a path across the restaurant, distracting half the remaining twelve hellcreatures from his brother in the process.
"Of course I fucking trust you!" Dean bashed his forehead into a fat one's nose, the sound of cartilage and bone crunching wetly sounding loudly in his ears, offended at the very implication that his brother thought he didn't trust him. "I just wanna know what you're friggin' doing!" he leveled Sam's gun , finger tensing on the trigger before an alien hand swatted the gun out of his grip, sharp nails leaving bloody welts across the back of his hand as the gun scattered across the ground and Dean lost sight of it as he enlisted a chair in its place.
Sam leapt from the final table, fingers clawing against his thick blue jeans as he slammed into the kitchen door with enough force to unhinge it, wood splintering as he and the door fell to the ground en masse; leaving him winded and the door dented.
Fingers; dirty, bloodstained fingers were on him the instant the air hissed out of his lungs, digging into his skin the second he couldn't get the oxygen enough to fight them back. He sucked in a sharp, hard breath as their nails buried themselves into his stomach, clutching and clawing; dragging chucks of his flesh away from the rest of him to get closer to the tender meat underneath.
"Shoulda taken the food, sug'." One of the other waitresses chuckled throatily as she straddled his bleeding abdomen. She opened her mouth, jaw unhinging, teeth elongating into sharp points. Sharp points that found themselves embedded deeply in his shoulder.
Sam screamed.
"Sammy!" Dean immediately went from straight up pissed to 'Somebody's-Fucking-With-Sam' livid, which was a new level of malice not yet experienced by average man. He lurched forward, hurling caution into the wind as he threw himself against the wall of Smarmies and for a second, a glorious second, he broke through their ranks and had a clear shot towards the kitchen door.
The second ended as twenty fingernails burrowed deeply into the small of his back.
Dean screamed.
"Dean!" Sam yelled. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His back arched in pain as the waitress bit down harder into his shoulder, his collar bone crunching under the force. His arm flailed out with no obvious destination and his fingers collided sharply with the handle of a frying pan perched on the burner of the stove. Sam didn't want to even think about the contents of the pan that spilled across the filthy brown tiles of the kitchen floor as his fumbling, shaking fingers dragged it over the edge, all he could think about was the sound of the bitch's skull caving in as he brought it down of the crown of her head. He pried her jaws out of his shoulder, kicking at the other Smarmies as he scuttled backwards on one elbow. He didn't know if the blood on the ground was his or from the overturned pan and he didn't know if the cursing coming from the other side of the wall were going to be the last curses he ever heard from his brother, but he knew that he had to stick to his original plan because it was the best way –the only way, really- that he could think to help Dean.
He pressed himself against the wall next to the stove and, using his legs for the leverage necessary, dislodged it from its place with more than a little effort and more than a little pain as used his forearm and the pan to try and keep the remaining five in the kitchen away from his neck and chest.
The gas line behind the stove stretched and groaned its protest in the relocation of the stove. Sam kicked at it, dislodging it with a pressurized hiss.
Smarmies; clever as they were; knew the smell of gas and knew the sight of the pilot light on the stoves, but they were too lost in the smell of fresh blood too comprehend the implications of Sam's actions.
Sam, eager to get Dean and get out, scrambled up on his gangly legs, slipping and tripping over the sludge that coated the ground, feet pinwheeling in a Scooby-doo esque fashion that would have been comical if he hadn't been slipping over blood. He worked for some sort of traction only to lose his balance spectacularly. He fell flat on his stomach, his shoulder sending out shrill screams of pain that penetrated through the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He scrambled backwards in a panic, swiping at the hands reaching out for him wildly with the pan until his back struck the wall."Dean!" He shouted at the top of his voice between the short sharp pants he had been reduced to, hoping to God (Irony or no irony, sometimes the asshole actually saw fit to answer a Winchester prayer) that Dean could hear him. "Get outta here!"
There was a short, sharp grunt between the curses from the other side of the wall that Sam correctly interpreted as a 'Shut up, bitch. I'm not leaving here without you.'
"Jerk!" He swung the pan down, breaking another one's jaw as he counted down the seconds for the gas to catch. He was not going to die in a fire. It just was not an option. Mom died in a fire. Jesse died in a fire. Him and Dean? They were going to die guns-blazing against the devil himself. That was the only way he was going to be satisfied.
This?
This was bullshit.
This wasn't how it was going to end. Not for them. Not today.
Dean, sprawled on his back with nails dragging along the skin of his abdomen, was having similar sentiments. "Fuck this noise!" He sent his fist flying into the closest one's face and started breaking dirty fingers, kicking and clawing and cursing as he looked around wildly. Somewhere on the ground there were two unfired shots and he knew just the home for 'em.
The white handled pistol winked at him flirtily in the dank lighting from under a table five feet to Dean's left.
He reached out-
A hand clamped down on his throat and Dean gagged around it in shock, his hand reeling back as he attempted to dislodge the heavy fingers.
"Don't fight it," A wide shouldered man rumbled, sharp teeth bared in a toothy grin as he leaned over Dean, his hot breath hovering over Dean's neck, sinking in between his thick fingers. "You're just making it worse, son." His smile was saccharine sweet. Dean pushed off on the slick tile floor with the heels of his boots, writhing and grimacing in pain, one arm flailing spastically for help as the other hand attempted to pry the oppressive force off of his throat.
"Don't," He growled around his harsh grip on his airways, gasping wetly. "Call me 'son'."
The Smarmy had a moment to look mildly amused by the conviction in Dean's tone before the hunter brought his arm, now complete with Sam's pistol and leveled it right between his eyes. With a shit eating grin the trigger was pulled, sending a shower of pulverized Smarmy-mist spraying through the air.
The heavy body went limp on top of him, a useless sack of meat now. In fact, the only real purpose Dean could see for it was pissing him the hell off and being heavy, pinning him to the ground as he gasped the gasoline and gore flavored air down his raw throat. Kicking a kneeing at the limp flesh bag, Dean continued to push himself backwards, toward the kitchen doors and away from the final few Smarmies, who had worked themselves into such a frustrated frenzy they frothed a little at the mouth. But, for the moment, they kept their distance, rethinking the best approach to finding out what cooked up Dean tasted like.
"Sam?" He called, back striking the wall next to the kitchen door, his eyes still warily stuck to the limping, growling, drooling few in front of him. "You dead yet?"
"Bite me." Sam growled, coughing on the gas as he was pressed to the wall on the opposite side of Dean in a very similar situation.
"How much time we got?" Dean wheezed around the thick stenches contained in the small room.
"Thirty seconds?" Sam shrugged with one shoulder.
Dean's brow hardened. "Bring it."
They both hurled caution into the window and abandoned the 'Protect The Vital Organs' game they had been playing in favor of a 'Get The Hell Out Of Dodge' one.
I'll get to the demon rejects who analyze relationships next chapter!
But, please please please tell me if this is in any way suck-tastic. It's my first Supernatural fic and I wanted to take baby-steps... and then I started to actually write the damn thing and my baby steps became leaps and bounds and crap. If nobody likes it, I'll spare no time in taking it down and pretending this nonsense never happened.