#Or the nerds keep them locking in their room with studying yuck

[my-love-of-books]

I need a Eddie x reader song fic with cigarette daydream UGGGGGGGG

[mrswhozeewhatsis]

Syruped and Feathered

Summary: There’s nothing normal about this hunt.

Pairing: I intended Sam x Reader, but nothing really happened.

Warnings: None.

Word count: 1147 words

A/N: This is for the @spnfanficpond‘s SPN Season 14 Weekly Episode Writing Challenge Week Five, and I ended up using two prompts: #3. “That thing that I killed died weird,” and, “That’s what everyone says. Except him.” To paraphrase a friend, this is not beta read because I’m a savage.

You walked back into the main room of the farmhouse, machete swinging idly by your side and a puzzled expression on your face. The Winchesters were still on the lookout for an attack from one of the other directions, but they glanced your way when they heard the floorboard creak. Their glances turned into stares when they got a look at you.

“What the hell?” Dean asked quietly, his eyes going over your form, again and again, his eyebrows raising with each pass.

“What… are those…?” Sam approached you, eyebrows furrowed, but eyes very wide.

“Ummm, yeah,” you said. “Feathers.” You nodded. “And, in case you’re wondering, what’s keeping them stuck to me like this is maple syrup.”

Dean tentatively touched a feather-free spot on your body with one finger, then drew it to his mouth. “Yup. Definitely maple.”

“Ewww,” you groaned, grimacing. “It might be maple syrup, but that’s what he was bleeding as he died, Dean. Whatever he was, he was full of it.”

Dean’s face changed comically from puzzled to disgusted and immediately began spitting and trying to wipe off his tongue. “Yuck. Blech. Whydja let me lick it, dammit?”

“I didn’t think you were that stupid, jackass!” you retorted, resisting the urge to stick out your tongue. The whole situation was really juvenile enough.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, he bled maple syrup... but where did the feathers come in? And why did it take so long? You were in there for like, five minutes!”

Your eyes rolled so hard it almost hurt. “So I went in there, and hacked at him with the machete, and got him pretty good, and instead of fighting me or cursing or something, he just grabbed the arm I hit and started wailing like he was dying.”

The squints and head tilts you got from the brothers were positively angel-worthy.

“I’m telling you guys, that thing that I killed died weird. I hit it once, and, well,” you motioned to Sam, “remember that godawful dinner theater we went to in Dubuque?”

Sam nodded, still looking confused and distressed, and not sure if he should still be on alert.

“He died like that one guy in the play. The one we couldn’t stop laughing at. It was all, stab,” you made the stabbing motion with your machete, making Dean do a quick jump away so you didn’t nick him, “and then, ‘Oh! Woe is me! I am killed! I shall cease to be and the world will know my light no longer!’ I mean, he just kept going on, and on, and on, and on, AND ON, just making these wild motions that were kind of like attacks while he’s moaning, bleeding maple syrup. So, I started really going at him, if only to shut him up, you know? And the syrup is flying, and he’s not going down, not even really fighting me, just spraying syrup all over me and the whole room, until I finally cut off his head, right? But instead of him just falling to the ground, he caught his own head and said, ‘Alas, I die!’ one more time, from his detached head which was really spooky, and then exploded into a shit-ton of feathers, which all flew everywhere around the room, which is why,” you motioned to yourself, “I look like Big Bird.”

The three of you stood around, watching the syrup drip off of you, taking a couple of feathers with it. Matching unhappily puzzled faces looked back and forth between you. The house was ridiculously quiet while you all stood there, considering the facts of the case. Yes, the reports that had drawn you to the house were all vague and weird, but this was weirder than you were expecting by about a county or two.

Deep breath in. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this was--”

“Gabriel,” Dean finished for you. “It’s trickster to a T.”

Sam shook his head. “It can’t be. I watched Michael kill him. Dean, you watched Michael kill him.”

Dean nodded. “I know! But, Sam! Look at her!!” he exclaimed, waving at you wildly.

Dean and Sam both stared at you again in silence. Grateful for the distraction, even if it was another monster to kill, you turned to the doorway when the floor creaked and saw Cas, who’d been outside to catch anything that got past the three of you. When he saw you, however, he stopped dead in his tracks, squinted, and tilted his head to the side as he looked you up and down.

You shrugged and gave him the rundown. “Monster led me into the other room. I attacked monster. Monster bled maple syrup, then melodramatically monologued his way into pissing me off enough to cut off his head, at which point he exploded into feathers, covering me and the entire room.”

Cas nodded, but the squint and head tilt remained. After a moment, he took a deep breath like he was about to say something, then closed his mouth again and continued squinting. Finally, he said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Gabriel.”

You threw your hands up in the air in defeat. “Exactly! That’s what everyone says! Except him!” you exclaimed, pointing your machete at Sam.

Cas approached you, studying the mess covering you, and put out a finger to touch you.

Dean grabbed his hand and pulled it away. “Don’t taste it, man. It’s really maple syrup, just trust us.”

Cas nodded and shrugged off Dean’s hand, his eyes never leaving you. Another minute of you all just standing there, stumped, and a line of syrup dripped down the back of your neck, sliding into your shirt and making you shudder.

“Well, whatever this is, can we consider it back at the motel after I have a shower? I’m beginning to stick to myself.” You pulled one arm away from your body as an example, your flannel sticking to the arm like some kind of wing.

Dean pointed to you and declared, “You’re wrapping up in a blanket before you get into my Baby.”

Rolling your eyes, you headed for the door. “Of course, Dean. I’m not a heathen.”

The four of you trudged out of the farmhouse, got into the car (you dutifully wrapped like a burrito in a blanket), and drove away, none of you looking behind you as you left.

Standing on the porch was a petite woman with shoulder-length light brown hair and amber eyes wearing boots, dark jeans, a grey henley shirt, and a black leather jacket. She took a lollipop out of her jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it in her mouth, the wrapper disappearing without a trace. With a twinkle in her eyes and a smirk on her lips, she saluted the car as it drove away, then snapped her fingers, vanishing.

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