#i was too lazy to grab a tape measure and actually figure out how tall he was gonna be when I bought him.

[pepperpixel]

Hey! Turns out I was lied to about the estimated delivery time of my shockwave, and he actually got here a few days ago and I never even noticed! Luckily somebody in my house grabbed the box but like! Yeah!! He’s here! He didn’t get stolen or anything he’s here! So!!! Here’s… some stupid lil pics I took of him and my soundwave together… cuz.. I wanted. to take stupid lil pics of him and soundwave ghghggg-

[hirokari]

↠ plaster

pairing: jungmo x reader

tags: high school!au, play!au, clumsy!Reader, fluff

warnings: minor explicit language

— “um... does anyone know where i can find a plaster?” 

a/n:  ha! its a miracle! she’s updated with an imagine! :P n e ways i think my plan is too update with an imagine once every 1-2 months...? my writer’s block is horrible :’(

Senior year.

The year everyone had been dreading, just one more step until they're out of this hell hole. And yet, what seems like the most relieving thing in the world, it takes one play, one role to mess it up for him.

His brown irises skim through the pinned papers on the school's pinboard, hoping for his name to turn out in the 'extras' parts. But the more he scans fir his name, the more his stomach drops.

Until he'd found his name.

Jungmo groans, the tips of his eyes dropping in sync with his grimacing lips. His fist hits the wall hard, startling one of his classmates.

"Hey, what's up man... oh, you got the role lead! Bro, that's awesome!"

It doesn't help the fact that everyone's congratulating him for something he clearly didn't intentionally aim for. He'd actually slacked his audition, but maybe that's what got him the spoiled prince's role.

"A-Ah, please, it's... not that great." He stammers, rather out of frustration more than humbleness. He rubs the back of his neck in s repeated, eager matter, the endless praises ticking him off even more.

~

"Aw, come on, Mogu! Embrace the prince in you!" Minhee emphasizes into his mic, followed by a fit of immature cackling from himself and Woobin. Jungmo clicks his tongue of annoyance, "This senior play can suck my a-"

"Cheer up, Jungmo. You're the center of attention-"

"That's just it! Sure, I'd like the fame and stuff, but for a stupid prince role? Come on, dude. No thanks."

Jungmo sighs out of exasperation, slouching further into his seat. He mutters a curse followed by the younger's name, cracking a smirk when Minhee doesn't bother to hide his whimper mixed with the sound of him shuffling against his bed sheets.

"Right, my guys, I'm heading out. I'm tired from all this fame," He concludes with a yawn, stretching his arms in front of himself, nodding in content when he hears his bone sockets pop (or crack, if you say it like that).

"Alright, g'night, princey." Minhee snickers. Woobin chuckles, "Yeah, lights out for you, your highness."

Jungmo mumbles a few sleepy slurs under his breath, clearing his throat as he disconnects from the FaceTime. He's so frustrated that he'd clicked a button one too many times, and his phone lags aren't helping.

Tomorrow's rehearsals are going to be hell.

~

"Is this okay?" A girl— who Jungmo had just realized was looking at him suggestively— mumbles lowly, her voice probably raspy on purpose as she measures his waist down with a measuring tape. She licks her lips and nibbles on the bottom one, but it really looks like she's trying to find the stuck piece of broccoli between her teeth with her tongue.

He gulps thickly, finding the situation not to his liking. "...it's not okay?" He answers rather in a questioning tone. She laughs, obviously not taking his answer seriously and resting her hand to his chest, "You're really funny."

He's had enough. He's uncomfortable, and really, really hot in this stuffy room with other people in the play who wouldn't care about his sticky situation. He's close to slapping this girl. That is, until the door opens slowly.

Jungmo's attention strays from the attempting girl to whoever had just come in, realizing that from the door was the only natural light that illuminates in the room. He ceiling lights make him sleepy, maybe because of how boring and dull it was.

Seeing the first ray on sunlight since a while caused him to squint when it shone directly at his eyes, the air now smelling grassy from the field directly outside the dusty storage room the students had (for some reason) voted to measure for costumes in.

"Um... does anyone know where I can find a plaster?" You ask softly, but loud enough to catch everyone's attention. It's quiet for a brief moment, and you panic internally, as if you'd just interrupted a starved wolf's meal.

But one of your classmates wave over for you, to which you scurry over to with a relieved sigh.

Jungmo's eyes couldn't leave your figure. He admired the nice taste in clothes you've spent all morning picking out, and your messy hair tied into a lazy style. He watched you wrap on the plaster around your finger, your tongue sticking out a little out of habit.

He doesn't know why, he really doesn't, but it makes him smile, seeing you struggle with the sticky side of the plaster.

"Hey," Jungmo finally says to the previous suggestive girl, and he fights down the urge to just cringe when she bats her lashes at him while purring out a response. He gestures his head towards your direction, "do you know who that is?"

"Oh, the clutz kid? Don't even bother-- she's lame, and always clumsy with herself." The girl rolls her eyes, twirling the ends of her hair. "She's came in for another plaster— She's clearly only pricking herself for some attention while making the play fits."

She makes the play's outfits? By hand?

Jungmo's impressed, and intrigued. He won't let this chance slip.

~

  "Craaap," You hiss out, leaning your head back against the wall. It's the fifth time you've hurt yourself with the same needle. Yui snickers, "Should I get you another coke?"

"What? Why coke?" "...well, I'm getting coke, you want some?" "...yes please. I'll go look for some plasters... again."

She nods with a playful hum, dashing off to the vending machine all the way across the building. Sucking on the sweet, metallic tasting fluid from your finger, you slowly stand up, mentally preparing yourself for another trip for plasters.

That is-- until a sudden voice calls out a 'hey,'.

Turning around, your brows ride up in surprise when you see a tall boy clad in a black hoodie leaning on the wall you had been sitting against.

"Yeah?" You answer quietly, retracting your finger from your lips. The boy reaches up to scratch the back of his head with one hand as the other rummages into his hoodie's pouch.

"Well, uh, I noticed you were looking for some plasters a while ago, and um... figured you were clumsy. So I got you a pack," He reaches out, and you see a box of plasters.

Your chest tightens at his thoughtful actions. Stranger or not, he sure knew how to swoon people-- or at least, you.

"O-Oh! So it's obvious I'm pretty messy, huh?" You jest, accepting the box from his hand. He shrugs, "Eh, who isn't? Messy is good sometimes, right?"

"Right," You repeat, tearing the box open slowly. You spot more crimson seeping from your skin, which causes you to grab a plaster in a hurried matter.

Now, five minutes later, here you are back on the floor next to the kind boy who had bought you the pack of plasters.

"Thank you, by the way." You turn to him, a smile gracing your lips. The side of his lips quirks up, "Don't mention it, uh... I didn't catch your name."

"Y/N."

You extend a palm, and he grins at the amount of plasters it's covered in.

"Jungmo."

He envelopes your hand in his bigger one, a firm shake being the first step to a great connection.

[winchester-ofthe-lord]

Classic Winchester Adventures - Chapter 2

Square Filled: Having To Sleep In The Car

Rating: gen

Warnings: swearing, gore, blood, injuries, sass, serial killer stuff, vengeful spirit, language

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary:  What's supposed to be a short stop at a motel to finally get some well-deserved sleep and a shower turns out to be a new case

read on ao3 read from the beginning

A/N: this is the second square for @spnclassicbingo and chapter two in the series of classic supernatural case fics, so if you like it, leave a comment, feel free to reblog and stay tuned for the next chapters :)

They drive for two hours until they finally find a motel.

Which is approximately one hour and fifty minutes too long for Dean’s liking, since it’s already ten to seven in the morning. All he wants is a hot shower and a few hours of restful sleep in a decent bed, is that really too much to ask for?

“Hey Dean,” he turns his head and looks over at Sam while he pulls the Impala into the parking lot of the rundown motel, “Can I take the first shower? I got graveyard dirt in places where there should be no graveyard dirt.” The younger brother grimaces and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “Friggin’ ghoul.” He lifts his hand and fumbles at the dried blood on his temple, “Does this need stitches?”

Dean turns the ignition and takes a closer look at the cut, leaning over in his seat. “Don’t think so. Tape strips should do,” he suggests and gets out of the car, “There should be some left in the first aid kit.”

They grab their duffels from the trunk, cross the parking lot and enter the shabby motel. Which is, to cap it all, empty.

“Hellooo,” Dean hollers and looks around the unoccupied room, tapping his hand repeatedly on the bell on the reception counter. To be on the absolute safe side he keeps ringing it for another twenty seconds. Just for good measure. Until Sam stops him with an annoyed “Dean!” and an angry glare that starts at Dean’s face and ends at his hand on the bell.

“Right. Sorry,” the older brother clears his throat, removes his hand from the table bell and calls again for the absent desk clerk, “Anyone here?”

They wait another minute before Dean mutters a few angry and frustrated and also very tired swear words under his breath, running one of his hands over his exhausted face.

He’s just about to turn on his heels and leave the building, when he sees that Sam presses a finger on his lips while gesturing towards a door labeled ‘Staff Room’ with his other hand. A barely audible whimper can be heard through the closed door. Then silence again. A quiet gasp for air. Whimpering. Silence.

Dean draws his gun from the back of his waistband. A nod towards Sam signals for him to do the same.

They each stand on one side of the door, Sam with one hand on the doorknob, Dean holding up three fingers of his free hand, slowly counting down.

Three.

Two.

One.

One last exchange of looks.

A high-pitched shriek of fear bursts through the door when Sam pushes the handle down. The scream is muffled within the fraction of a second and he rattles the door once more.

Locked. Of course it’s locked.

Dean shrugs in response to the questioning look he gets from the taller man.

“Please,” the whimpering starts again, but gets interrupted by a quiet sob. “Please don’t kill me,” another trembling sob, “I don’t wanna die.”

Sam clears his throat and speaks to the door in a comforting voice, “We’re not here to kill you, Ma’am. We’re with the FBI. We want to help.” He glances over to Dean, raising his eyebrows as a sign for him to take over.

“Agents Page and Plant. Would you mind opening the door?”

The female voice remains quiet. Several seconds tick by, before Sam and Dean hear the clicking of the lock and see the door opening a crack.

A slightly shaking, middle-aged woman with a pale, tear-streaked face takes a hesitant step out of the staff room. Her short grey hair is tousled. The sunken cheeks and deep dark circles under her swollen eyes give her an almost ghost-like appearance. She flinches a little when she notices Sam’s gun pointing in her direction, but seems to steady down as soon as he lowers it towards the floor.

The woman throws a scrutinizing look at the tall man in front of her, at his disheveled hair and grime-stained clothes and face, at his neck and his temple, both still encrusted with blood. Her eyes flick over to Dean, giving him the once-over as well.

“You two don’t really look FBI, y’know?” she muses, her raspy voice slightly shaking at the words. She wipes the tears off her face with a trembling hand, hugs her own slender figure, tensely stroking over her arms in order to calm herself down.

The older Winchester stows away his gun, back in his waistband, as he starts a brief explanation. “Yeah, we just closed a case a few hours ago. Badges are in the bag over there - here, lemme show you.” He walks over to his duffel, rummages between his clothes and pulls out his FBI badge, flipping it open for the woman to see it.

She eyes it for a brief second and sighs with relief, her face and body visibly relaxing.

“Can you tell us what happened, Miss…” Sam prods, the corner of his mouth twitching into an almost grin.

“Groves,” she answers, her voice already a lot more steady than before, “But everyone calls me Debbie. Can we maybe talk outside? I could really use a cigarette now.” Debbie pulls a pack of Marlboros out of the pocket of her denim jacket and heads towards the door, both men following her outside.

“So, Miss- uh, Debbie, ” Dean starts as the woman lights her cigarette, “Why were you hiding in the staff room? Was somebody coming after you?”

She takes a drag of her cigarette and blows a cloud of dense, white smoke into the air with a huff, “You wouldn’t believe me… I'm not even sure if that actually happened or if I only imagined it. Hell, I don’t even know if I believe me.” Another stinking puff of smoke fills the air.

“How about you let us decide for ourselves,” Sam reassures with a set smile, “We’ve heard some really crazy stories in our line of work.”

“Oh yeah?” She snorts a humorless laugh, “So if I told you I saw a- a ghost… you wouldn’t think I’m totally nuts? Because-” she pulls on her cigarette again, “I definitely think I am nuts.”

Both Sam and Dean raise their eyebrows in surprise and surly frustration at the word ghost .

Dean fights hard against the urge to roll his eyes. A shower and sleep. That’s all he wanted. And what does he get instead? A friggin' ghost .

“You know what-” Debbie gives an irritable laugh. She seems to be trying to convince herself that there’s a logical explanation for all this, talking to herself, rather than to the two agents, “I think it was just in my imagination. Lack of sleep. I’m probably just tired. I mean... Tom isn’t even dead, he’s just-”

“Wait- Tom ? You know the ghost?” Dean interrupts her nervous babbling.

“Yeah, of course I know him, it was Tom, he- wait, you believe me?” she asks incredulously and taps the ash off her cigarette before taking the next drag.

When she turns her quizzical face towards Sam, he’s already smiling and gives her an affirmative nod, “Yes, we do believe you. Can you tell us exactly what you saw? Who’s Tom?”

Debbie still looks confused, shakes her head in disbelief, “I don’t- it can’t be real… his ear- and… god, I can’t-” A sharp breath leaves through her nose when she brings both her hands to cover her face, rubbing vigorously at her eyes.

The younger Winchester places a soothing hand on her arm, making her look up at him, “Please, it’s okay, just tell us what you think you saw.”

Sam’s soothing hand seems to be working, since Debbie inhales deeply and begins to talk, “Okay, uh, where do I start… So, Tom- sorry, his name’s Thomas Richards. He’s the owner of this motel. He… I haven’t seen him in four days now. Usually, he never leaves for more than two days, and even then he would’ve told me. So I was worried and reported him missing to the police. But they told me I should just keep going to work and I should call again if he doesn’t turn up within the next 48 hours. Lazy assholes.” She quickly glances over to Dean, “I’m sorry, no offense.”

“None taken,” he assures with a grin, “Local authorities can be kinda difficult at times.”

Nodding once, Sam agrees, “And the ghost you saw was Mr. Richards? When did you see him?”

“Yeah, this time it was him. I was working behind the counter, sorting through- uh, doesn’t matter. Anyways, Tom was suddenly standing right in front of me. I was so freaked out, I- goddammit, he had a friggin pen stuck in his eye. And his ear was… I think it was ripped off, and he was bleeding really hard. I asked him if he was okay, but he just- he kinda... flickered and then he was gone, so I thought I’d just imagined it.

“But when I turned around, he was right there again… and he had this- this creepy, evil- predatory smile on his face and then he chuckled, reached his hand out to me and said ‘You’re next’. And that’s when I ran and hid in the staff room. That was about twenty five minutes before I heard you ringing the bell.” She takes the last pull on her cigarette, before she flips it to the ground, grinding the heel of her foot into it until the smoke stops.

Sam and Dean exchange a brief, knowing look.

“I'm sorry to have to say this, Debbie, but Tom is most certainly dead,” Sam declares, “But, one more question. You said this time it was him. What did you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing- it’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like this whole place is haunted.”

“Haunted?” Dean chimes in, the anticipation in his voice anything but joyful.

“It’s just… sometimes I kinda see people, y’know?” Debbie admits, fiddling with her sleeve before she pulls the next cigarette out of the pack, “But they’re just standing somewhere in the corner of a room, some of them with bloody faces, some said things like ‘help’ or ‘please’, but they all disappeared again within a few seconds… I always blamed that on sleep deprivation and too much caffeine. Wait- are they real, too?”

Her shocked eyes snap back and forth between the two men. God, how Dean hates these conversations. Telling people that all the supernatural creatures from their darkest nightmares are real will never be easy.

“You don’t have to worry,” Dean tries to comfort her, “We’ll take care of it.”

The brothers cross the parking lot to get their rock-salt shotguns and their EMF-meter out of the car, and tell Debbie to stay outside of the motel until they’re back from checking the building for ghosts.

“They’re probably bound to the motel, so you should be safe out here. Are there any guests inside at the moment?” Sam asks the still frightened woman who pulls on her freshly lit cigarette.

Debbie puffs out a new cloud of smoke, “Only one room’s occupied. Room 6. Some trucker guy. Said he’d be checked out by eight.”

“Okay, that gives us about twenty minutes to look for our spooky friends,” Dean says and nods at his brother, both drawing their shotguns and ready to enter the building.

“These ghosts Debbie described sound a lot like Death Echoes, don’t you think?” Sam reckons as soon as they’re out of earshot, “You think that this Thomas guy had the proverbial skeleton in his closet?”

“I don’t know, man. But the EMF here’s going crazy .” The older brother holds up the wildly blinking and beeping device for Sam to see, before he puts it back into his pocket.

They scan the entrance hall, check the staff room again, survey the hallways. While the EMF-meter rather resembles a disco ball, neither of the brothers can see or hear anything but an empty motel.

They leave the building through the back door and split up. Dean is already halfway around it, peering at the thick wood right behind it when he hears his brother calling his name. He quickly jogs over to Sam who’s standing in front of a wooden hatch, similar to a storm shelter, at the back side of the house. To the surprise of both, it’s not locked but only pushed closed.

The room in which they find themselves after they climbed down the few steps, is dark and stuffy. Dean detects, thanks to the little sunlight that shines through the open hatch from outside, the light switch quite easily, flips it - and wishes it was dark again.

The initial stroboscopic flickering from the single fluorescent tube turns into an unpleasantly blazing, biting light. It's accompanied by the typical spine-tingling buzz and the brothers eventually see the room for what it really is:

A friggin' torture chamber.

The cold light reveals a metal desk with straps for arms, legs and the head in the middle of the squarish room. Various sorts of torture instruments hang on the bloodstained concrete walls, the metal parts flashing in every flicker of the lamp.

Neither of them dares take a breath. Lost in the eerie atmosphere, they let the realization of what they're faced with slowly sink in.

Several jars, filled with dubious liquids and other contents are carefully placed on a shelf on their left-hand side. Dean's not even sure he really wants to find out what's inside, but as always his curiosity prevails.

“Holy sh- that’s a- Sam, this guy has friggin ears in jars!” He writhes with disgust as he yanks his hand back from one of the opaque glass containers, “This is so gross. Who the hell was this guy?”

“Hell, if I knew…” his brother answers with a nauseated grimace, and walks over to the other side of the chamber, letting his eyes roam over the diverse saws, pincers, pliers, needles, knives, a butcher’s cleaver, scalpels and a bunch of other tools Sam really doesn’t feel the urge to examine in greater detail.

They leave the oppressive ambiance in uneasy silence, can only breathe freely again when they are back in the open air.

“Guess now we know where the Echoes come from… but what the hell happened to our creepo here? How did he die? Debbie said he had a-” Sam pauses, his frown so deep his eyebrows are almost merging into one.

“A pen,” Dean assists, a similar frown overcasting his face.

“Yeah, thanks… So, he had a pen stuck in his eye. And his- his ear was-”

“Ripped off, yeah…” The older brother lowers his fingers again after he used them for an awkward air-quotes gesture, “Means he definitely got killed. That’s not something you’d do to yourself.”

“Nope, on no account… But Dean, we need to find out what happened. We need to find his body- or whatever else holds him here. I mean, we know that the longer a ghost remains on earth the more dangerous and violent it becomes. Not for nothing that they’re called vengeful spirits… but this guy? He was already pretty dreadful when he was alive. I don’t even wanna imagine what he’d be capable of doing now.”

They get back to Debbie who is, once again, smoking a cigarette in front of the entrance. She seems a lot calmer now, though. Calmer and even more exhausted than before.

“Jesus, I thought you were gone for good,” she greets the two men with a relieved expression. “The trucker guy in room 6 already checked out. Please tell me the ghosts are gone.”

“How well did you know Tom?” Sam wants to know, ignoring her question entirely.

Debbie glances over at Dean, then back to Sam, “Hardly knew him at all, why? Did you find him? His- his body, I mean.” She almost forgets to take the next drag on her cigarette as she throws questioning looks at the men.

“No. We didn’t find him… but you probably shouldn't let any new guests into the motel for now. You should go home and get some rest,” Dean prompts and turns around to enter the building, “We’ll take one of the rooms, though. I really need a shower before I can put on my suit again.”

“Man, some police stations could really do something about their work attitude,” Dean grunts as he opens the Impala’s driver’s door and slips behind her steering wheel.

“Yeah, and this one in particular,” the younger brother agrees and slams his door shut, “But at least we got the address. Let’s go.”

The motor grumbles to life and the car rolls with its familiar gurgling from the parking lot in front of the precinct onto the street, headed towards Christopher Gibson’s house - presumably Thomas Richards’ last victim.

After they’d taken their respective showers in the motel, the Winchester brothers stopped at the local diner for a quick breakfast. While Dean had shoved a giant serving of pancakes alongside a, by no means less giant, side of bacon into his mouth, washing it down with at least four cups of coffee, Sam had used the free wifi to do some research on their case, consuming the same, if not an even higher amount of pure caffeine in the process.

Their next stop had been the police station, where they, thanks to the true rhetorical master stroke on behalf of former almost-lawyer Sam, eventually got the info they needed.

“I just don’t get how anyone can be that incompetent,” the man in the passenger seat complains, “I mean, they didn’t even realize that all these missing people in the area belong to the same case. It took me three minutes to get that connection, it was friggin' obvious.”

Dean hums in approval and adds, “Yeah well, apparently they’re too busy eating donuts and discussing the latest baseball game.”

He gets a snarky huff in response (maybe because he gladly accepted the donut one of the officers offered him as well, but who is he to turn down a free heart-attack in the form of a delicious circular pastry?) before his brother speaks up again. “Oh, by the way, when we were at the diner I tried it with a simple google search first. Found a ‘Haunted Motel’ two states over, some kind of tourist attraction.”

“Seriously?!” Dean sighs deeply and rolls with his eyes.

“There’s some really weird things going on - our kind of weird, I mean. But these accidents only happen once a month, always on the 13th, and today’s already the 19th, so we still got a little time in between for other cases.”

“Really, Sam? Really ?” The older brother throws a look of reproach at Sam before he focuses back on the street, “We’re already dealing with a haunted motel right now and you’re already planning to visit the next one? You know how much I hate having to sleep in the car! How am I supposed to get any shut-eye in that psycho killer murder house of this creepy Richards guy, huh? I don’t wanna visit yet another haunted motel, man.”

“Dude, you were sleeping while I was taking a shower earlier. Technically, you already got some shut-eye in a haunted motel, so stop making such a fuss about that.”

“First of all,” Dean holds his index finger right into his brother’s face for emphasis, “That was during the day! And second off,” he adds his middle finger, “I wasn’t actually sleeping! ”

“Mmh, sure, ” Sam snorts, grinning amusedly at Dean’s factitious excitement, “Y’know, we can sleep in the room as soon as we salt ‘n burned Thomas Richards’ body. I just hope that this way the Echoes will disappear too.”

Another shocked side glance towards his younger brother. He had almost forgotten about the damn Echoes. It could be days before they are gone as well.

“I’m not sleeping in the motel, Sam.” He vigorously shakes his head, “ Period! ”

Sam snorts again, “Whatever, Dean. You can take the car, I’ll take the bed.” He chuckles slightly at his brother’s pissed expression.

“Fine! ”

“Fine.”

“Mr. Gibson-”

“Chris. I said you could call me Chris,” the young man interrupts the long-haired agent, eyeing the white bandaid on his neck. Sam had patched up his ghoul bite mark as well as the cut on his temple as accurately as possible while Dean was taking his shower in the motel.

They’re seated in the living room of the severely beat up college student, all three men cradling a steaming cup of coffee in their hands.

“Chris, right,” Sam clears his throat and starts talking once more, “So, Chris, we know you told the local police that you got attacked four days ago. But you didn’t want to specify by whom, or under which circumstances?” He raises an eyebrow in question, takes a sip of his coffee.

“I already told the officers who interrogated me in the emergency room that there’s nothing to talk about. I don’t remember anything. I didn’t see the attacker. And I really don’t know what happened,” the young man scratches his chin and looks over to Dean, “All I know is that I woke up at the side of the road with a broken wrist. And then this nice soccer mom pulled her car over and took me to the nearest hospital.” Chris looks down to the cast on his left arm, traces the fingers of his other hand over its rough material, before he pinches the bridge of his nose, “I really can’t answer any more questions, I’m very sorry, agents.”

He’s about to get up when Dean pulls a folded piece of paper out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, “Well, Chris, no offense but-” he unfolds the paper and shows it to the insecure young man, “We think you’re lying.”

Chris gulps audibly, reaches out his slightly shaking right hand and grabs the photo, viewing it closely. He bites down on his bottom lip and glances up at Dean, nothing but fear in his eyes, speechless with horror.

“Look,” Sam says in a quiet, placating tone and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, “We know what happened. And we’re not here to arrest you.”

The young man presses his eyes shut, blinking away his unshed tears, before he focuses back on Sam, “We just need to know how you killed him and what happened to his body.”

“Who are you people?” he asks incredulously, his voice shaking just like his hand. He looks over to Dean again who taps his index finger on the photo of Thomas Richards in Chris’ lap.

“Chris, please. We need to know where he is,” the older Winchester stresses with a piercing gaze.

“Why? What good will that do, huh? He’s dead. That’s all that matters,” Chris huffs, an angry frown to his face, “If that’s all, then please leave my house now.” He wants to get up from where he’s seated on the couch next to Sam again, but a giant hand grabs his shoulder and pushes him back down.

“I’m sorry, man,” the taller man says emphatically, “But we can’t leave until you tell us exactly where he is.”

“I can’t believe he actually ripped off his ear,” Dean huffs a humorless laugh and lets his eyes roam over the trees and the leaf-covered forest floor. He and Sam are walking through the woods behind the motel, searching for the body of its deceased owner with an untypical hobby. While they’re trying to follow the directions they eventually got out of his last victim, they keep tripping over tree roots and fallen branches every now and then.

Luckily, it’s only early afternoon and therefore it’s still bright enough for them to see, even though they’re entirely surrounded by the dense forest.

Chris told them that Richards had tried to get him from his pickup truck to the storm shelter. But as soon as Richards had unlocked and opened the hatch, he loosened his grip on Chris a little, so he could break free and uncontrollably tumbled away. He was blindfolded at first, but so scared and in panic that he held on to the first thing he could catch hold of during their fight - Richards’ ear - and yanked at it as hard as he could. Then he tore the blindfold off his eyes, just in time to duck away under the wild, infuriated punch his kidnapper had thrown.

The young man said he had a pen in the back pocket of his jeans when he was kidnapped and apparently his attacker hadn’t found it. The second he had the chance to fish it out of his pants, he slammed it into his kidnapper’s eye and watched him topple over backwards, pen still in his eye, almost landing inside the open hatch.

In his panic he dragged the dead man into the forest and only then he noticed how much his wrist actually hurt after he’d tried to break his fall during the fight.

“That’s why I couldn’t drag him that far into the woods,” Chris explained. “But I covered him with twigs and leaves, so he should be halfway well camouflaged… On the other hand- I mean it was around two in the morning and pitch-black, so I don’t really know,” he admitted.

It takes them 15 minutes of randomly sifting through the undergrowth, but Dean and Sam finally find the bloody pen that must��ve fallen out of Richards’ eye when Chris dragged him over the roots.

“Can’t be that far away then,” Sam states and straightens himself to take a better look around. “Wait- what’s that?” he asks, pointing the tip of his shovel past Dean.

The older Winchester turns around and crouches down. He pulls a rather big branch away and reveals a right foot, “Bingo.”

With the next few twigs both his legs are freed, and leaf by leaf, twig by twig the whole body gets laid open.

Sam and Dean dig a hole to use as a makeshift grave, while the sun slowly sets - they don’t want to accidentally start a wildfire after all - and Dean uses his foot to roll the dead body into it.

It hits the floor with a muffled thud.

The thud Dean emits when he hits the tree, however, is not that muffled.

“EVERY. Damn. Time.” The mixture of a frustrated grunt and a pained groan escapes Dean’s throat as he pushes himself up to his knees in haste. He reaches for his shotgun and fires a round of rocksalt at the ghost, causing it to dissolve into thin air.

Goddamn sunset. And goddamn nocturnal ghosts.

“C’mon Sam,” Dean urges, patting the dust off his pants, “Today would be good, if that suits you.”

The younger Winchester, who has already covered the corpse in salt, pulls out his Zippo. As it always is with these useless lighters, it takes several attempts before the flickering flame lights up - just as the ghost of Thomas Richards appears right in front of him. The ghosty pen in his eye twitches awkwardly at Sam’s face when the spirit glares at him and snarls, “You’re next.”

Sam doesn’t give him the chance to make good on his threats though, drops the lighter and watches Richards burst into flames.

When Dean’s done with his second shower of the day, this time to get rid of tree bark, leaves, and mud, he grabs his duffel and heads towards the door of their motel room.

“Where are you going?” His brother throws a puzzled look at him, lifting his head from his pillow while he props himself on his elbows.

Dean pushes the door open, “I got a date with my Baby, remember?”

“You’re really sleeping in the car?” Sam asks with an amused grin.

“You betcha,” Dean answers, yawning loudly as he takes a step through the door, “You can deal with those Echoes, tell them they’re dead ‘n stuff. Imma get some way overdue shut-eye now.”

Sam shakes his head, smiling at his defiant, stubborn brother and lets himself fall back into his pillow as the door closes again.

Dean crosses the parking lot and climbs into the Impala. He makes himself comfortable in the backseat, stretching his legs across the upholstery and snuggling down in the smooth leather.

They can talk to Debbie tomorrow to let her know that everything’s cleared and that she can go back to work without worries. The Echoes will probably disappear sooner or later anyway… most likely. And maybe they should seal the storm shelter too...

“Y’know, baby,” Dean mumbles contentedly into her leather seat, “I didn’t mean it when I said I hate having to sleep in you. At least you’re not haunted.”

With these words, he finally drifts off to a, admittedly not very comfortable, but therefore very un-ghosty sleep.

read the next chapter

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