This was written for a horror meme over on livejournal, the prompt was: The people of Burkettsville, Indiana will stop at nothing to save their town, and the professor knows that they can bring the Scarecrow back to life in a new body. All they have to do is crucify the man who killed him.
Warnings: Gore, violence, death, sacrifice, disturbing imagery, skewed religious metaphors, general unpleasantness and horror.
Disclaimer:Don't own
The orchard is silent as the sun sets behind the dying trees. It looks like the dead of winter, the apple trees stripped of their leaves, just bare, dying branches that resemble phantom skeletons curling out of the earth.
"Bring them." Professor Carl McNulty motions with as much authority as any pastor or priest. In their mother's arms the children whimper tiny sounds that penetrate the quiet stillness. The sky is a vibrant, fiery orange and on any other night he'd stop and take time to admire a rare glimpse of beauty in his dying, decrepit town.
Nika Larsen is the first. She walks to him, pale face eerily calm, the Larsen's oldest and only daughter, thirteen-years-old and pure. She stands at the charred remnants of their sacred tree, arms outstretched like a bird about to take flight, and she squeezes her dark eyes tightly shut as he drags the blade across her throat quick and swift. She gurgles, blood staining her lips red as the summer apples that used to grow, and he waits for the next child to come forward.
When he finishes his hands are covered slick with cooling blood. The ground around the blackened stump of the tree is drenched; squelches as he spins on his heel, regret working a slow shiver of horror up his spine. Six virgins on the sixth sunset of the sixth month, a last ditch effort to appeal to their old god. The girls lie clustered together, ritual white dresses soaked dark. The tribute ihas/i to work. They've got no hope left, just half a dozen little girls dead in the barren orchard, air thick with the iron and salt stench of blood.
Carl goes to the orchard in the morning. The sky is a washed out, faded gray, a nice reprieve from the blistering heat that kills all the foliage it touches because the summer rains won't come. Soon, he thinks, the fields will be nothing but a wasteland. This is something from the old biblical plagues, each and every crop turning to dust, the top layer of soil bleached light brown. The god's cross stands empty, as abandoned as it was the evening before. Nothing's changed, their town is still dying.
Carl picks up the blood drained corpse of his niece, waves the flies that have gathered on her face away, and heads home to think.
His oldest books, the ones passed down through the generations, from his great-great-grandfather onwards, smell of their homeland. The pages have accumulated a musty odor, but underneath it lingers the scent of the earth that bore their apple tree; that bore their god. His Old West Norse is rustier than it should be, but most of the town has forgotten the language. The children know only snatches of words used by their grandparents. To them the language is only strange sounding swear words and affectionate nicknames murmured by their grandmother as she smoothes their hair.
He finds what he's looking for thirty pages in, scribbled into the margin in fading ink. To bring back the god you must supply him with fresh flesh. His more recent corporeal form abandoned, he requires a new one; more specifically, the body of the man who put him to rest. It's a fitting death for the hunter, irony at its finest. Dean will help to welcome a new age of prosperity for their town and he'll seal the deal with his own skin. Carl closes the book gently, smiling so wide the grin feels as though it will split his face in two. Their god is coming back and this time he is coming back to stay.
It's easy enough to draw Dean and his brother back in. Carl writes the article for the newspaper himself. He includes snapshots of each of the young girls, makes sure to include the replica scarecrow they made up in the background, hanging from the god's cross. He sows the seeds for impending deception and in the meantime the town feasts in celebration, drinks what remains of the cider made with last year's apple harvest. It's a time to rejoice he tells them, standing on the town's creaky stage, the wood has begun to rot and swell with moisture; fall apart.
"Don't be afraid." His voice carries loudly, ringing sharp with conviction. "After tomorrow, our trees will never go fruitless again."
The crowd cheers and the mothers who still have children clutch them close to their hearts.
They split the boys up so that they can take Dean first. He sends the Erikson twins screaming in opposite directions, bird blood splashed across their chests. Dean is easy enough to subdue, all he has to do is press a blade to Cassandra's neck, trail it down to her chest, nick her just enough for her to give off a convincing scream. Dean drops his gun like it burns him and after they've tied him up Cassandra beams up at him and laughs. She's spared from being used in the sacrifice, as promised, which means it is her sister Elena who will have the honor.
It's difficult to attach Dean to the cross. The nails used in the ritual are wide and thick, flat and dull on the bottom. It takes incredible force to get them first through the bones in Dean's wrists, then into the wood. Dean's wrists are bloody messes, steadily leaking blood as the muscles in his arms twitch and tremble. He screamed himself hoarse hours ago, sometime after they had finally managed to pierce the unyielding bones of his shins.
"What'd you do with Sam?" Dean can barely speak; his words slurred and weak. "Where's my brother?"
"You should know the sacrifice takes a man and a woman."
If Dean had more strength Carl is sure he'd have struggled at the news, as it is, Dean sluggishly leans forward, as though he hopes his weight against the nails will help slide him free. "Don't worry." He picks the last nail from the box, unlike the others; this one is filed to a point, polished glossy, over eight inches long. "You're going to save us all."
The nail pierces Dean's forehead with a sickening crunch, but then it's over. Dean is done, his eyes frozen wide, wet spot darkening the front of his jeans. His body reeks of urine and blood and sweat.
He steps back to admire his work, pleased to see that Dean's skull stays pinned to the cross. He can't bring himself to care that he has Dean's blood on his sleeves.
"You've returned to us." Carl whispers, sinking to his knees, hands clasped together as he gazes up, eyes fixed on the long, lean line of the Dean's clothed back.
The Vanr turns to face him and Sam Winchester's blood drips from his skin, impossibly shiny in the moonlight. Where the blood hits the ground, blades of grass begin to grow, the first specks of green on the bleak landscape. "Thank you." He says, careful not to flinch as the god picks up his blade. "Anything you want from me." Carl tips his head back to give Dean's possessed body better access to his throat.
The sky is clear and bright, smudged perfectly with stars, and he can't think of a lovelier night to die.
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