Night at the Junkyard
E/O Drabble challenge, word: scavenge.
Summary: What might be a regular day in the book of any hunter would seem slightly disturbing to the eyes of an unvoluntary bystander.
A/N: Err, 1111 words on the dot, but let me explain this – it's just that I haven't noticed last weeks extra challenge and so I tried to catch up on it to warm up my cold fingers. Next week a hundred words, I solemnly swear. Enjoy :D
His pals had bailed out one by one after he'd told them where exactly he was going to scavenge for a new exhaust pipe.
Douchebags.
Jack swung over the chain-link fence and landed with a thump on the dusty ground, looking around nervously, a nearly full moon spending enough light to get his bearings.
"Haunted place my ass", he huffed.
But it was kinda creepy, sneaking through the maze of broken cars, some crashed und crumpled, lying in eerie silence while their misshapen shapes spoke of screeching metal and shattering glass and tires squealing in helpless protest over the blacktop.
He shuddered, slowly working his way around piles of scrap metal and heaps of tires searching for the right car. He recalled some older guys in high school talking about a huge black beast that had been watching the junkyard when they were kids, following them all the way along the fence and growling like a hellhound, but never barking. He only hoped the thing was dead and buried – not that he was afraid of dogs...
Ah, there it was, a Ford Mustang, probably from the late seventies. What a beauty she must've been in her heydays – the fiery-red now dull, rust blooming allover the dented hood, front window blind from dust.
Maybe this was his lucky day...
Jack kneeled behind the trunk, fishing the small torchlight out of his pocket to have a look at her exhaust pipe, his heart beating an excited rhythm at the treasure he had found. He was carefully laying out the tools when a deep rumble was cutting through the silence.
His stupid legs went from bone to jelly before his brain had a chance to warn him and he landed on his butt with a painful bump, desperately trying to stifle a cry.
God, the dog – it had heard him, it was coming and he'd end up a torn up chewing toy, and nobody would ever...
Wait, that wasn't a dog, it was... it was a muscle car, approaching far to fast for his liking, and there was another sound, not as elegant, a pick-up probably.
Shit! The owner. Oh, he'd heard stories about the creepy old grump, weird stories. And sure as hell the guy would be thrilled to find someone plundering his junkyard in the middle of the goddamn night.
He crawled under the Ford, the gravel cold and spiky where his shirt had rucked up at his hasty retreat. He felt like a rabbit in its hole, ducking away as the beam of the headlights hit his hiding place. For a moment he was blinded, then the car passed and stopped, headlights still on. A creaking door opened and closed, then a second one. Tossing gravel in every direction, the pick-up followed and came to a shuddering halt beside the first car.
Jack slowly opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the light. He could make out three pair of legs, one slightly bowed, one seemingly endless and one caressed by an axe, an axe dripping withsomething he didn't want to think about, tapping at the leg in a disturbing way that indicated impatience.
Oh fuck, what the heck...
"I'm getting too old for that kinda shit," a voice growled, and the axe made "tap, tap, tap".
"That's what I was thinking when you were missing the little redhead by an inch," replied a second voice, deep and good-humored.
"Watch your mouth boy, I was trying to save your sorry ass from getting spanked by that pretty redhead."
"Guys, I'm tired, can we get over with the barbecue and call it a day?" Longleg, walking towards the waiting pick-up and dragging something from the truck bed, grunting with the effort.
"Yeah yeah, it's way past bedtime for our little princess. By the way: I'm first for the shower!"
"What? Dean, you've been first the last time, it's my turn."
"Whaddaya think this is – a friggin motel? When someone takes the first shower, it's me while you two shove a pizza in the stove. And now get busy, idjits!"
Something heavy hit the ground, followed by further thumps and grunts.
Jack tried to get a better look at the strange trio, wiggling forward a bit. He instantly wished he'd stayed where he couldn't see anything, remaining in blessed ignorance. Cause right in front of him, illuminated by the headlights like a stage for nightmares, was a pile of corpses, three or four, his brain was refusing to do the math, too busy with watching a dangling arm and a naked foot and as if that wasn't enough to process there was something wrong with the bodies – Hell, everything was friggin' wrong with that image, but...
As if on cue there was a suppressed curse and something was bouncing towards his hideout, rolling slowly into the shadow until it stopped only a few feet away, and when he recognized the hideous thing for what it was he tried to rise and run, run until his legs would give way and his lungs would fail, but since he was still stuck under a car he only managed to nearly crack his skull and he sagged back to the ground with a grunt, looking at the severed head in front of him, red curls now sticky and dusted with sand, eyes dark and glaring, the mouth opened to a last feral snarl, teeth... well, let's not go there, it can't be, there's no such thing as...
"You really have a way of making women lose their head," Longleg sniggered.
"Can't deny it, Sammy – it's a gift." Someone appeared and grabbed the head by the curls, suddenly bending down again.
"What's that?" the man asked suspiciously and picked up one of Jack's tools.
Ohgodohgodohnonono... Jack's mind whispered, and his whole body grew stiff as if frozen to ice.
"Bobby, 'that your stuff laying around or do you have some unknown guests?" the Dean-guy shouted.
"There ain't no unknown guests in my yard, nobody in town would be as dumb as trying to snitch from Bobby Singer. No come and light the fire, son, my shower's waiting."
He must've fainted, because when he woke up with his skull feeling like a pumpkin stuffed with hungry rats dawn was breaking. The yard in front of him was empty, apart from a black patch on the ground.
He crawled out from under the Ford, not interested in exhaust pipes or his tools or anything other than his bed. And while he stumbled home he wanted to laugh about being a batshit dumbass hitting his head and hallucinating the night away, never noticing the tears running down his face.
A/N2: I told my mom about the story and she berated me for not even let the poor guy get his exhaust pipe. LOL :-) Guess I'm just mean.