comment fic: Creepy-Ugly
title: Creepy-Ugly
words: 800w
prompt: Sam now has a Thing about cages. A jail cell is a cage.
a/n: written for mercuryblue144 in ohsam. I am creeped out.
Dean kept imagining cages where there weren't any, that or Sam had purposely situated himself in one of those domed junglegyms, raising his arms up, trying to help a little kid who'd gotten her jacket stuck around a bar. This wasn't even a case, Dean had just wanted a hot dog from the cart and Sam had taken off running across into the playground without a word.
He watched as Sam put the kid on the sand, patted her on the head and gave her one of those heartbreaking smiles. Dean shook his head, not able to look away. After the kid had wiped her tear-streaked face on the heels of her hands, she hugged Sam around the knees and then sprinted slowly to her siblings by the slide.
"You can come out, now," Dean hollered.
Sam reached to touch the top of the hexadome and swung a few times, doing ten or so pull ups until Dean walked away and just left him there. Story of his friggen life.
Sam would wander into jail cells when he didn't need to, when he could of sat down like a normal person while Dean broke into the drawer of police files. Other things, too, notable times being a mess of piping that he crawled into and got stuck in, and the haunted bouncy house incident, when he leapt in and across the pillowy floor to shoot the ghost with rock salt. He could have just burned the remains outside with Dean, and hoped it was fast enough that the hipsters got out unscathed.
"Seriously?" Dean said the first few times, and Sam just gave him that look, like Dean was the crazy one, so now Dean just rolled his eyes and jerked Sam out of places by the front of his shirt.
Never touch a angel sigil, that went without saying, unless of course said sigil was made by Cas, and even then....Sam looked at this one closely, breathing across it, blood slicking down the wall and drying where it spread thin, and Dean was there watching his ass. Back. It was an expression.
There were fifty bodies scattered and mangled in the dark warehouse. The smell of carnage still provoked a guttural urge to vomit on his shoes, but Dean could withstand it just fine after a few deep breaths into his jacket sleeve. He carefully didn't look around them, had to see what Sam had found and then high tail it outta there before demons or, worse, rogue angels, came to clean things up, see what the fuss was about.
A small ray of blue light shot out from the center of the sigil.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, but Sam waved a hand to hold him at bay, even though Dean had only surged forward a step, equally transfixed by the light.
"I hear something," Sam breathed.
"What is it?"
"It's like...." Sam squinted, tilting his head close to the mark. Dean held his breath.
"Maybe we should call Cas," Dean said.
"Let's wait, he said he'd be right back," Sam said. He put a hand on the wall, flat, near the mark but not touching it. Kid always tempted fate.
The ceiling dripped on Dean's shoulder. The light was fading now, the mark not sinking into the wall or collapsing in on itself, just going dull once more.
"Oh, no," Sam said. "I think it's just an echo, sorry. Warehouse, you know."
"Guess we didn't fully activate it," Dean said. "Don't touch it, just fucking step back, will you?"
"Alright, yeah." Sam didn't budge.
"Sam."
"You know, maybe I do hear something," he said. "It's like, I'm thinking maybe there's something on the other side."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean had goosebumps running up his arms, the hairs standing up on their own. Scariest things were the unknown, what was on the other side. It was worse and worse, every time.
One Saturday when Sam was thirteen and Dean was almost legal, they'd both completely ignored the existence of one, retrospectively important school play. Dean hadn't made out with any of the chicks in the drama department, so he hadn't even been aware of the play. Sam, at least, had read the first scene of A Midsummer Night's Dream at their old school, but he'd left the library copy in their rented trailer when Dad woke them up at 5am and told them to pack their bags, they were getting gone. The night the play happened, he'd been doing his homework, laying the groundwork for his Big Escape.
Neither had the proper reference material, that play within the play, to plant the idea of this specific chink in the wall. Things always ended up real literal, when it came to their lives.
"It sounds like my own voice," Sam was saying, unaware that he was Thisbe and Pyramus both.
Lucifer was still an angel in essence. Dean kept seeing Sam in cages, and, putting an eye to the gap in the wall, this time Sam saw it too.
words: 800w
prompt: Sam now has a Thing about cages. A jail cell is a cage.
a/n: written for mercuryblue144 in ohsam. I am creeped out.
Dean kept imagining cages where there weren't any, that or Sam had purposely situated himself in one of those domed junglegyms, raising his arms up, trying to help a little kid who'd gotten her jacket stuck around a bar. This wasn't even a case, Dean had just wanted a hot dog from the cart and Sam had taken off running across into the playground without a word.
He watched as Sam put the kid on the sand, patted her on the head and gave her one of those heartbreaking smiles. Dean shook his head, not able to look away. After the kid had wiped her tear-streaked face on the heels of her hands, she hugged Sam around the knees and then sprinted slowly to her siblings by the slide.
"You can come out, now," Dean hollered.
Sam reached to touch the top of the hexadome and swung a few times, doing ten or so pull ups until Dean walked away and just left him there. Story of his friggen life.
Sam would wander into jail cells when he didn't need to, when he could of sat down like a normal person while Dean broke into the drawer of police files. Other things, too, notable times being a mess of piping that he crawled into and got stuck in, and the haunted bouncy house incident, when he leapt in and across the pillowy floor to shoot the ghost with rock salt. He could have just burned the remains outside with Dean, and hoped it was fast enough that the hipsters got out unscathed.
"Seriously?" Dean said the first few times, and Sam just gave him that look, like Dean was the crazy one, so now Dean just rolled his eyes and jerked Sam out of places by the front of his shirt.
Never touch a angel sigil, that went without saying, unless of course said sigil was made by Cas, and even then....Sam looked at this one closely, breathing across it, blood slicking down the wall and drying where it spread thin, and Dean was there watching his ass. Back. It was an expression.
There were fifty bodies scattered and mangled in the dark warehouse. The smell of carnage still provoked a guttural urge to vomit on his shoes, but Dean could withstand it just fine after a few deep breaths into his jacket sleeve. He carefully didn't look around them, had to see what Sam had found and then high tail it outta there before demons or, worse, rogue angels, came to clean things up, see what the fuss was about.
A small ray of blue light shot out from the center of the sigil.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, but Sam waved a hand to hold him at bay, even though Dean had only surged forward a step, equally transfixed by the light.
"I hear something," Sam breathed.
"What is it?"
"It's like...." Sam squinted, tilting his head close to the mark. Dean held his breath.
"Maybe we should call Cas," Dean said.
"Let's wait, he said he'd be right back," Sam said. He put a hand on the wall, flat, near the mark but not touching it. Kid always tempted fate.
The ceiling dripped on Dean's shoulder. The light was fading now, the mark not sinking into the wall or collapsing in on itself, just going dull once more.
"Oh, no," Sam said. "I think it's just an echo, sorry. Warehouse, you know."
"Guess we didn't fully activate it," Dean said. "Don't touch it, just fucking step back, will you?"
"Alright, yeah." Sam didn't budge.
"Sam."
"You know, maybe I do hear something," he said. "It's like, I'm thinking maybe there's something on the other side."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean had goosebumps running up his arms, the hairs standing up on their own. Scariest things were the unknown, what was on the other side. It was worse and worse, every time.
One Saturday when Sam was thirteen and Dean was almost legal, they'd both completely ignored the existence of one, retrospectively important school play. Dean hadn't made out with any of the chicks in the drama department, so he hadn't even been aware of the play. Sam, at least, had read the first scene of A Midsummer Night's Dream at their old school, but he'd left the library copy in their rented trailer when Dad woke them up at 5am and told them to pack their bags, they were getting gone. The night the play happened, he'd been doing his homework, laying the groundwork for his Big Escape.
Neither had the proper reference material, that play within the play, to plant the idea of this specific chink in the wall. Things always ended up real literal, when it came to their lives.
"It sounds like my own voice," Sam was saying, unaware that he was Thisbe and Pyramus both.
Lucifer was still an angel in essence. Dean kept seeing Sam in cages, and, putting an eye to the gap in the wall, this time Sam saw it too.