Snippet: SPN, gen, pg-13 "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Pure indulgence, and for the amusement of those who figure out who the guest stars are. 1200 words of a hunt that wasn't.
Hint: consider this a wishverse for stunt casting, in relation to certain spoilers about S3.
***
"Look," Dean was saying, "It's just not safe to be out here by yourself. So why don't you let us give you a lift, and you can come back and get your truck in the morning?"
He was still trying for charm - Sam knew he was still trying - but the edges were starting to wear and there was something about the way Dean stood by the SUV's door that made Sam think his brother was on the verge of jerking the door open and dragging the woman out of her vehicle and down the road, and not even asking her if she wanted to be helped off this dark and freaky stretch of highway or not.
The woman behind the wheel might have been thinking the same thing. She smiled - bright white teeth showing in a grin that didn't make it to her eyes - and said, "I appreciate the concern, but I'm not alone, I'm waiting on my friend, and if you don't mind, I don't need your help." She started to roll the window back up, and stopped. "And if you touch this car, I will be pressing charges, and your friend over there is going to have to carry you off, because you won't be walking. Clear?"
Her voice had gone from politely humoring the strange guy to colder than the snow trickling down Sam's back. He reached for Dean's arm, but his brother was already backing away, arms high.
"Fine. Have it your way." Shrugging off Sam's hand, Dean abruptly spun and stalked off, up the road to where the Impala waited, half-off on the shoulder. Sam glanced back once at the woman in the SUV, flinging up a hand as the headlights abruptly flicked to high beam. Blinded, he stumbled, only to come up against Dean's arm.
"Fucking civilians." Dean was already moving again, barely waiting for Sam to find his footing before jamming his hands back into his coat pockets and going on. "You know, Sam, I'm getting pretty tired of being treated like Ted Bundy every time we try to bust our asses to help someone out." Still stomping forward, his boots grinding into the snow, Dean muttered under his breath.
Sam followed, the length of his stride putting his footsteps out of sync with Dean's, both sets of footprints sinking like black pits into the snow. "Just trying to help, but no, she doesn't want that..."
And she looks too much like Cassie for you to let it go, Sam thought, even though the woman in the truck had at least six years on Dean's old girlfriend, and an air that said she had twice the common sense as well. But Sam wasn't going to say that to Dean. And if Sam was lucky, they'd be done with this hunt - civilians or no civilians - and over the state line before Dean realized why a woman with cafe-late skin and a won't-back-down attitude made him twice as protective as Dean normally was.
"And she's in the goddamn way. Car stinks like...like freaking flowers and grass and..." Dean stopped, turned around. So did Sam.
"...wolfsbane," they said together.
"And angelica," Sam added, because that was the second smell, the one he hadn't been able to place, but Dean had already taken off, feet slipping and sliding in the mush, even as Sam stretched his legs to catch up, and a gunshot went off in the woods off to the left.
Sam didn't know how they had gotten that far from the woman in the car, but they had, obviously, because when a dark figure lopped out of the trees and onto the road, they were still too far away, the figure was right on top of the SUV -
- "HEY! UGLY! Get your undead ass away from there!" -
- and even though Dean had his pistol out and three .45 iron rounds at the ready, he wasn't going to get a good shot, not with the SUV's lights in the way. Sam stuck a hand in his pocket, fumbled for his gun, and then his right foot hit a slick spot and he was going down and it was all he could do to not drop the semiautomatic or throw it into a snowdrift.
When he came up on his knees, gun by some miracle still in his fist, it was to find Dean standing stock still, hands in the air, and the SUV lady standing half-in, half-out of her vehicle. On the woods side, another woman was briskly climbing in the passenger door.
" - Don't have to make this more than it is, boy. Just go on your way, and stay out of ours." Her voice was hard, but the shotgun in her hands probably had more to do with Dean's immobility than her tone.
"Got it," the other woman said, and her voice was no happier than the driver's. "We should go before any other tourists show up to 'help'."
She's not from around here, Sam thought, still dazed from the tumble and the headlights. England, maybe?
"Start the engine," the first woman said, her eyes still on Dean and neither the shotgun's muzzle or her stare wavering.
"Hey! We're not the - it's not what you think!" Dean was indignant, as if he honestly believed there was more than one way to interpret wild-eyed men running at you with drawn firearms. Sam sighed and stood up the rest of the way, tucking his gun away.
"Dean -" Maybe if he could get Dean to back down, they could talk to the women, find out if they'd seen anything.
"Tell it to the Marines, boy," the woman said, over the snarl of the cranking engine. Then she stepped neatly inside the vehicle, handing the shotgun to the other woman as she did, and slammed the door.
Dean made as though to step closer to the SUV, only to stumble back again as it pulled out, chains digging into the slush. Sam had a glimpse of an ivory pale face and something that looked suspiciously like a spear - silvered edges and darkness that gleamed red in the dashboard lights - before the vehicle was speeding past, throwing icy water as it went.
"Fuck!" Dean cursed and danced backwards. "What the hell!"
Sam came up beside him, staring after the disappearing taillights. Dean stamped his boots away, shaking the wet ends of his jeans.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. This situation is fucked, though."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, five bucks and a double cheeseburger says that we go fifty feet in there -" Dean pointed at the trees, where the narrow trail that led to an abandoned cabin could barely be made out - "and we find a very dead ghoul, with fifty grains of witchhazel-soaked wrot iron shot through its right eye. Dammit," he said, stomping his feet again. "She got ice in my damn boots, Sammy. We aren't getting paid enough for her to steal our hunt and get ice in my boots."
Hint: consider this a wishverse for stunt casting, in relation to certain spoilers about S3.
***
"Look," Dean was saying, "It's just not safe to be out here by yourself. So why don't you let us give you a lift, and you can come back and get your truck in the morning?"
He was still trying for charm - Sam knew he was still trying - but the edges were starting to wear and there was something about the way Dean stood by the SUV's door that made Sam think his brother was on the verge of jerking the door open and dragging the woman out of her vehicle and down the road, and not even asking her if she wanted to be helped off this dark and freaky stretch of highway or not.
The woman behind the wheel might have been thinking the same thing. She smiled - bright white teeth showing in a grin that didn't make it to her eyes - and said, "I appreciate the concern, but I'm not alone, I'm waiting on my friend, and if you don't mind, I don't need your help." She started to roll the window back up, and stopped. "And if you touch this car, I will be pressing charges, and your friend over there is going to have to carry you off, because you won't be walking. Clear?"
Her voice had gone from politely humoring the strange guy to colder than the snow trickling down Sam's back. He reached for Dean's arm, but his brother was already backing away, arms high.
"Fine. Have it your way." Shrugging off Sam's hand, Dean abruptly spun and stalked off, up the road to where the Impala waited, half-off on the shoulder. Sam glanced back once at the woman in the SUV, flinging up a hand as the headlights abruptly flicked to high beam. Blinded, he stumbled, only to come up against Dean's arm.
"Fucking civilians." Dean was already moving again, barely waiting for Sam to find his footing before jamming his hands back into his coat pockets and going on. "You know, Sam, I'm getting pretty tired of being treated like Ted Bundy every time we try to bust our asses to help someone out." Still stomping forward, his boots grinding into the snow, Dean muttered under his breath.
Sam followed, the length of his stride putting his footsteps out of sync with Dean's, both sets of footprints sinking like black pits into the snow. "Just trying to help, but no, she doesn't want that..."
And she looks too much like Cassie for you to let it go, Sam thought, even though the woman in the truck had at least six years on Dean's old girlfriend, and an air that said she had twice the common sense as well. But Sam wasn't going to say that to Dean. And if Sam was lucky, they'd be done with this hunt - civilians or no civilians - and over the state line before Dean realized why a woman with cafe-late skin and a won't-back-down attitude made him twice as protective as Dean normally was.
"And she's in the goddamn way. Car stinks like...like freaking flowers and grass and..." Dean stopped, turned around. So did Sam.
"...wolfsbane," they said together.
"And angelica," Sam added, because that was the second smell, the one he hadn't been able to place, but Dean had already taken off, feet slipping and sliding in the mush, even as Sam stretched his legs to catch up, and a gunshot went off in the woods off to the left.
Sam didn't know how they had gotten that far from the woman in the car, but they had, obviously, because when a dark figure lopped out of the trees and onto the road, they were still too far away, the figure was right on top of the SUV -
- "HEY! UGLY! Get your undead ass away from there!" -
- and even though Dean had his pistol out and three .45 iron rounds at the ready, he wasn't going to get a good shot, not with the SUV's lights in the way. Sam stuck a hand in his pocket, fumbled for his gun, and then his right foot hit a slick spot and he was going down and it was all he could do to not drop the semiautomatic or throw it into a snowdrift.
When he came up on his knees, gun by some miracle still in his fist, it was to find Dean standing stock still, hands in the air, and the SUV lady standing half-in, half-out of her vehicle. On the woods side, another woman was briskly climbing in the passenger door.
" - Don't have to make this more than it is, boy. Just go on your way, and stay out of ours." Her voice was hard, but the shotgun in her hands probably had more to do with Dean's immobility than her tone.
"Got it," the other woman said, and her voice was no happier than the driver's. "We should go before any other tourists show up to 'help'."
She's not from around here, Sam thought, still dazed from the tumble and the headlights. England, maybe?
"Start the engine," the first woman said, her eyes still on Dean and neither the shotgun's muzzle or her stare wavering.
"Hey! We're not the - it's not what you think!" Dean was indignant, as if he honestly believed there was more than one way to interpret wild-eyed men running at you with drawn firearms. Sam sighed and stood up the rest of the way, tucking his gun away.
"Dean -" Maybe if he could get Dean to back down, they could talk to the women, find out if they'd seen anything.
"Tell it to the Marines, boy," the woman said, over the snarl of the cranking engine. Then she stepped neatly inside the vehicle, handing the shotgun to the other woman as she did, and slammed the door.
Dean made as though to step closer to the SUV, only to stumble back again as it pulled out, chains digging into the slush. Sam had a glimpse of an ivory pale face and something that looked suspiciously like a spear - silvered edges and darkness that gleamed red in the dashboard lights - before the vehicle was speeding past, throwing icy water as it went.
"Fuck!" Dean cursed and danced backwards. "What the hell!"
Sam came up beside him, staring after the disappearing taillights. Dean stamped his boots away, shaking the wet ends of his jeans.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. This situation is fucked, though."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, five bucks and a double cheeseburger says that we go fifty feet in there -" Dean pointed at the trees, where the narrow trail that led to an abandoned cabin could barely be made out - "and we find a very dead ghoul, with fifty grains of witchhazel-soaked wrot iron shot through its right eye. Dammit," he said, stomping his feet again. "She got ice in my damn boots, Sammy. We aren't getting paid enough for her to steal our hunt and get ice in my boots."