Hi there.
This is my first attempt to publish my story on an English website. I'm not really a native speaker, so if you find my English too horrible, please let me know (Don't worry - I'm not that bad)
I like to warn you all, not knowing about your feebleness: The Winchesters are grown ups. Awfully good-looking grown-ups. They behave like grown-ups. Including sex. Not yet, though. I'll warn you. Promise. Also, there will be violence (it IS Supernatural - it's supposed to be violent). And a little hurt!Dean. Just a little - couldn't resist.
It is set in season 4 after "Family remains". Soilers for everything until then.
Now, down to business:
Disclaimer: I don't own Sam and Dean Winchester, the Impala or their arsenal. I like to say I borrowed them for a little while. Since I like them, I make sure they come back healthy. I do own the story around the Texan town and I do own a dog. And a car. That's about it...
Now, concerning reviews: I like them. Would be thrilles to find some here.
Since my first chapter is a little short, I'm posting two today.
Have fun
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„No way!"
„Believe it."
„You've got to be kidding me! How the h… fuck did we end up in this crappy motel? I mean, even for our low standards, this is the pits."
"Well, if you had let me stay at the poker-table yesterday, we had been able to afford a little more luxury!"
Sam opened the door and stepped out. "So all the other motels are more expensive??"
"Well, that's the other thing; all the others are booked out."
"Great"
Muttering under his breath, Sam decided to never, ever again take a job where a StarTrek Convention was held. During their drive they had seen so many Datas, Vulcans and Klingons, he wasn't even sure if they were real or costumes. He had made a game of trying to find similarities between the Trekkie-costumes and real-life monsters. Probably his dreams would be about hunting blue beasts with white hair and antennae.
Though the motel was old and mouldy, the room was not that bad. The interior was boring and the design seemed to suggest that this had been a hospital once. White walls, white sheets, whitish curtains – a picture with flowers above the beds.
But the mattresses were ok and the sheets were – though thin and slightly threadbare – clean and smelled faintly of fabric softener.
The bathroom consisted of a sink, a toilet and something resembling a shower head.
"Cool, you can actually use the toilet while taking a shower! But where do you store the paper??"
"Well, at least you can take a shower – guess it's something. Speaking of which: you should definitely take one. Now, Dean."
"So what are we hunting here?" Dean asked, towelling his hair which was still damp from the shower.
"I don't know yet. But the thing is six people have died in the last six months. They don't seem connected, coming from different social backgrounds and totally different parts of the town." Sam was sorting through a stack of pictures on the bed.
"Three are white, one Latino, two black. All are of different age, ranging from early thirties to middle sixties. We have:
- A woman from the lower middle-class
- A construction-site worker
- A caretaker
- A banker
- A rich lady from the „best of the local families" and …
- A pimp."
"Really, a pimp? Never had one of those between our victims. Why is that, what'd you think?"
"Maybe because no one would bother hunting something that kills scumbags?"
"Good point." Dean grinned sheepishly. "So what do they have in common? I mean, how did they die?"
He took hold of one picture, the woman in fine clothes with a haircut that was probably more expensive than the whole motel. Next to it was the picture of another woman, stringy hair and the look of too much alcohol plainly written in her face.
"They were all ripped to shreds." Sam was watching his brother from the corner of his eye. Was there a twitch? Did his face fall – just a bit? He couldn't tell.
Raising his eyebrows and cocking his head, Dean said "Not a nice way to go – a werewolf?"
"….No, the lunar-circle doesn't fit. And there were no organs missing. Well, except parts of them."
"Hmm."
"Anything else but "Hm", Dean?"
"Well, they don't look like they had much success – at least four of them didn't. Maybe this banker – Carl Borroms – and this Martha Grayle. But the others… If they made a deal, it was a pretty shitty one. So we can rule out hellhounds, right?"
Yep, he was definitely avoiding eye-contact. Sam had gotten pretty good at "Dean-reading" since his brother had been returned from damnation. There were small signs – not always visible, but if you knew where – and when – to look, you could spot them.
"Selling your soul is not the only reason for an encounter with a hellhound Dean."
"Man, I so don't want to hear abouthellhounds!"
***
"So, what do we need to know about these things? Except that they rip your soul out and drag it kicking and screaming down to Hell?"
Sam looked up from his laptop. He had known his brother would eventually get curious about why they were here, but he hadn't expected it so soon.
Dean raised himself on his elbows.
"I mean, we know they take sinners and people so desperate they sell their souls. But there is no way to stop them – certainly not for us."
"Yeah, right. But somehow, this doesn't look like the typical hellhound-situation here. I mean, you said so yourself: most of these victims didn't make a deal. There are way too many deaths, way too short after each other to be coincidence. And they all seem to be connected to the same part of the city: Look," Sam passed the laptop over to his brother's bed "all of them died in this area."
"Huh. So, let's check out the corpses and then look at the crime-scene. Time for the FBI to 'help with the inquiry'."
The Winchesters rose from their position in search for their boots. While Sam went to the bathroom-thingy, he heard Dean mumbling something under his breath. He couldn't hear all of it, but there was definitely something like "bitchy beasts from hell" in the muttering.
Sam couldn't help smiling to himself.
