Stupid plot bunny bit me at 1:00 a.m. Luckily I had a pad of paper by the bed so I could jot this down and get back to sleep. Please read, and especially please review. As always, you can head to my website where I answer all reviews and generally express my obsession with SPN. (Whee, it's Thursday!) And BTW, the boys aren't mine.
They never even saw it coming. I was close enough to see their little white faces, but they never even looked my way. That in itself makes this whole thing even sweeter, that those three humans who prided themselves on always being in control had no idea what even hit them…well that's just icing.
I can hear their radio blasting as I stalk toward the car. I'm still trying to get used to this body, fat and hairy, so I take my time, looking over the car, watching for danger. As I get closer, I catch the song that's blaring and want to laugh. Bad moon on the rise, indeed. They had no idea how bad.
As I get closer, I can see a body in the front seat, blood-covered and still.
John Winchester. What a pain in the ass. I bend to look at him, to take in the sight of his body, soaked in blood, pierced with glass. How is it that one human, one measly little sack of flesh, could be so much trouble? Could kill so many of us? At any rate, he doesn't look so dangerous now. Not dead yet, no, but broken and well on his way to dead. At least if I have anything to say about it.
The one in the back, the little mean one, looks to be dead already, judging from the amount of blood on his shirt and face. What a coup, to be the one to take out the oldest Winchester boy. Lots of demons will sleep better now that the Boogeyman is gone. His father, possessed with the idea of revenge, raised the little bastard up, trained him and honed him like a weapon. And after it all, he ended up surpassing his old man in terms of sheer balls. Now look at him. Pathetic that such a great warrior would end up twisted like a rag doll in the back of a crushed old car.
That left only the young Winchester. I see his corpse in the front seat, chin flung back, blood already drying on his face. Used to be we laughed at him, at his floppy hair and his big-ol' puppy eyes. But under all the emo-boy-bullshit is a cold, hard killer. It was His fault, though. Killing the girl turned the boy from a harmless nuisance into a dangerous wild card. You'd think He would've known better. Ah well. Even the best laid plans, and all that.
I take hold of the car door and wrench it from the hinges. This fat old trucker will be feeling that in the morning. Probably more work than he's done in an age. I would smile at the thought, but as soon as the door clears the frame I see it.
The Colt.
Pointing at me.
I meet the gaze of the young one. His eyes are bleary, one of them swelling shut, but I can see the danger in them. I've worn enough bodies in my time to recognize how fear feels, and the twisting little fist of ice in the belly of my host is just that. Strange, though, that the one Winchester that we all laughed at would be the one to cause me fear.
"Get back. Or I'll kill you, I swear to God." His voice is unsteady, thick with pain, but his hand is rock-solid. The barrel of that damn gun never wavers.
"You won't. You're saving that bullet for someone else." My voice sounds sure, but I'm far from it.
"You wanna bet?" He pulls back the hammer and raises the barrel toward my face, a challenge in his eyes.
And somehow, looking at his blood-painted face, I believe him. I've heard enough about these Winchesters to know that they'll do anything to protect their own, consequences be damned. And frankly, I'm just not willing to bet the farm on this young pup. He's damn unpredictable, and I sure as hell don't want to spend my last moments trapped in the doughy body of a redneck trucker that smells of tobacco and whiskey.
I leave my host, listening with grim satisfaction to his screams as I rip my essence from his. I did what He asked me. With the Warrior-Son gone, the family is broken, and it will be easy now to finish the job. But it isn't my fight. It's His.