The Pummeling Pom-Pom
Seasonal case-fic, slight crack. It's entirely the fault of insane-songbird, and she knows why.
The worst part, Dean decided later, was that the cheap fake fur was so scratchy.
Sam and Dean had had to leave Kentucky in a hurry after the last hunt involved getting a little too close to the police. They stopped to sleep near Evansville, Indiana, and were planning to move on right away, until they stopped at a diner for breakfast and heard three men in the next booth discussing some peculiar happenings.
"And Ned swears no one was there."
"It was probably some dumb kids playing a prank."
"Ned says the room was locked."
"Ned ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. That's probably why he got stuck wearing the Santa suit this year after the corporate guy quit--again."
"Still, something gave him that bruise."
"He probably walked into the coat rack."
"Whatever, Frank. We gotta be on the floor in twenty minutes, and you still gotta put on your fairy suit."
"Elf suit!"
"Whatever."
The men got up to leave, and Dean raised a hand. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but my nephew's in town. Where did you say the Santa display was?"
"Macy's."
Which is why they found themselves inside a closed department store some 15 hours later, breaking into Santa's dressing room.
"So, you really think it's this Shelby guy?"
"Well, he was murdered there four years ago, and the mall has had trouble keeping Santas ever since. He was cremated, so there's probably something keeping him here, something left behind."
"Okay, Sammy, let's check it out."
Dean finished picking the lock and flung the door open, but the only horror awaiting him was a full red suit hanging on a hook.
EMF meter held in front of him, Dean stepped into the room.
Sam followed, shotgun held at the ready.
"Room's been remodeled very recently, new paint and carpet. I really hope we don't have to rip up carpet, I hate that."
The EMF lit up as Dean pointed it at the suit. Suddenly, the hat flew off its perch, pom-pom first, and slammed into Dean's cheekbone.
It seemed impossible that such a light and fluffy object could sting so badly.
The hat swung around and punched him again, this time in the jaw, snapping his head up. It felt as though a large man's fist was inside the hat.
Finally, the possessed garment flew up, landed on his head, and pulled itself down over his eyes, pom-pom still bouncing wickedly.
"Shoot it, Sam!"
"It's on your head!"
Sam dropped the shotgun and grabbed the salt canister. "Close your eyes!" he warned as he shook it toward the late Shelby's hat.
Oh. Dean's eyes were probably closed already, what with the evil hat covering them.
As the salt covered the red hat, the pom pom lay down, and Dean yanked it off.
"Gasoline! Quick!"
They lit up the hat, then tossed it into an empty sink. A faint impression of a man appeared, then flamed out as the hat was consumed.
The hunters looked at each other, panting for breath. Dean's face was red where the hat had abused it, and salt covered his shoulders, with a bit pooling in one ear.
"Huh." he said.
The worst part, Dean decided later, was that the cheap fake fur was so scratchy.
Sam and Dean had had to leave Kentucky in a hurry after the last hunt involved getting a little too close to the police. They stopped to sleep near Evansville, Indiana, and were planning to move on right away, until they stopped at a diner for breakfast and heard three men in the next booth discussing some peculiar happenings.
"And Ned swears no one was there."
"It was probably some dumb kids playing a prank."
"Ned says the room was locked."
"Ned ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. That's probably why he got stuck wearing the Santa suit this year after the corporate guy quit--again."
"Still, something gave him that bruise."
"He probably walked into the coat rack."
"Whatever, Frank. We gotta be on the floor in twenty minutes, and you still gotta put on your fairy suit."
"Elf suit!"
"Whatever."
The men got up to leave, and Dean raised a hand. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but my nephew's in town. Where did you say the Santa display was?"
"Macy's."
Which is why they found themselves inside a closed department store some 15 hours later, breaking into Santa's dressing room.
"So, you really think it's this Shelby guy?"
"Well, he was murdered there four years ago, and the mall has had trouble keeping Santas ever since. He was cremated, so there's probably something keeping him here, something left behind."
"Okay, Sammy, let's check it out."
Dean finished picking the lock and flung the door open, but the only horror awaiting him was a full red suit hanging on a hook.
EMF meter held in front of him, Dean stepped into the room.
Sam followed, shotgun held at the ready.
"Room's been remodeled very recently, new paint and carpet. I really hope we don't have to rip up carpet, I hate that."
The EMF lit up as Dean pointed it at the suit. Suddenly, the hat flew off its perch, pom-pom first, and slammed into Dean's cheekbone.
It seemed impossible that such a light and fluffy object could sting so badly.
The hat swung around and punched him again, this time in the jaw, snapping his head up. It felt as though a large man's fist was inside the hat.
Finally, the possessed garment flew up, landed on his head, and pulled itself down over his eyes, pom-pom still bouncing wickedly.
"Shoot it, Sam!"
"It's on your head!"
Sam dropped the shotgun and grabbed the salt canister. "Close your eyes!" he warned as he shook it toward the late Shelby's hat.
Oh. Dean's eyes were probably closed already, what with the evil hat covering them.
As the salt covered the red hat, the pom pom lay down, and Dean yanked it off.
"Gasoline! Quick!"
They lit up the hat, then tossed it into an empty sink. A faint impression of a man appeared, then flamed out as the hat was consumed.
The hunters looked at each other, panting for breath. Dean's face was red where the hat had abused it, and salt covered his shoulders, with a bit pooling in one ear.
"Huh." he said.