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Just a rambling whumpy thingamajig that's the closest I got to fic for H/C Bingo.
Warnings: Dean's potty-mouth and a carefree disregard of the evils of run-on sentences.
/Son of a bitch./
And really, there's not much else to say when you've hiked a good two miles out to the 'Old Kennedy Place' expecting a bog-standard haunting, and your first pass of the basement lands you face to face with something straight out of a Cthulhu source book - all teeth and eyes and tentacles - tentacles, for god's sake - dozens of them, too many to keep track of, writhing towards you out of the shadows.
Dean takes one look and knows that the salt-shot rifle's not going to help him here, and backs hurriedly towards the steps, half tripping over the bottom one, yelling "Sam! Get out! Now!" and hoping Sam, elsewhere in the house, hears him.
He doesn't have a chance to find out, though, because something wraps around his ankle and yanks. He goes down hard, his head cracking painfully on a step, his flashlight dropping over the edge of the stairs into the dark, and it takes him a precious few seconds to recover enough to fight back. He's kept his grip on the rifle, and uses that for what it's worth, firing point-blank at the tentacle that's got a solid hold on his ankle. From off in the dark, the thing lets out a high-pitched shriek, and the tentacle loosens enough for him to regain a little lost ground, and he scoots back up a couple steps, but then has to grab a railing to resist as it tightens again and tugs hard. He kicks back at it, but it's got a few more loops around his leg, and he's pretty sure that his grip (or his knee) is gonna give way before it does.
"Dean!"
Sam's silhouetted in the daylight at the top of the stairs. His flashlight lands on Dean, and he moves to help, but Dean yells at him to get axes, grenades... something BIG. A rocket launcher would be good. Or a nuke. He's pretty sure that's what it's gonna take. In the light from Sam's flashlight, he can see more of the things trying to reach him, and the last thing he needs is Sam coming down here without some way of fighting back.
"Hold on!" Sam says, and then he's gone before Dean can give him the irritated "No duh!" that's the only clever comeback he can manage just now.
Tall, dark, and gruesome down there isn't going to make hanging on easy, though.
In the darkness below, shadows are shifting obscenely and the sound of slithering tentacles has been joined by a sort of squelching dragging noise that Dean, trying to hold on with one hand and grab for his belt-knife with the other, really does NOT want to think about - but he catches a glint of light off of eyes that are much closer than they should be, and finds himself suddenly kicking away two or three more tentacles that had seemed too short to reach before, and /oh shit, Sam where the fuck are you, because I am *not* gonna be eaten by a goddamn tentacle monster today!/
He gets ahold of the knife just in time to slash at one that's coming up over the side of the steps now, reaching for his arm. He lands a solid hit, cutting off a good foot of grabby tentacle, and it thrashes away for a minute, black blood spattering Dean's face and /shit shit SHIT, that burns/. It also *REALLY* pisses off the squid-monster-thing, which is really not good for Dean, because while he's busy clinging for dear life and blinking monster blood out of his eyes, it's stopped playing slow and he's suddenly got tentacles coming at him from everywhere at once - and fast, too damn FAST. One grabs his wrist and wrenches with whiplash-like speed, and the knife falls from suddenly nerveless fingers. Another wraps around the bicep of the arm holding the railing, and SHAKES - hard. His fingers slide loose, and he has time for one shouted "SAM!" before he's thumping down the stairs and getting slammed against a wall so hard it knocks the breath out of him, breath he can't get back because there's another one around his throat. He scrabbles at it, but it's hard as iron, slick with something oily and foul, and he's being pulled in four directions at once. He can't get a firm grip, can't keep ahold of it, can't concentrate, can't /BREATHE/.
He hits something hard again - not sure anymore if it's a wall or the floor - and what little visibility he's had starts to dim as his vision clouds over. He has just enough awareness to think that at least he'll be out cold when the thing eats him, and then nothing.
*********
He wakes up to someone pounding on his chest and Sam's voice shouting in his ear, and Dean wants to tell Sam to shut the hell up, but there's something wrong with his lungs... and then he really hears what Sam's yelling - "Breathe, damn it! Just breathe! Come on!" - and his body convulses in a huge gasp of air that turns into a coughing fit. Dean curls reflexively onto his side, struggling to suck in air, even as his body seems determined to hack it all back out again. There's something sour and acrid and slimy in his mouth, and a wave of revulsion spurs him to hands and knees to empty his stomach of everything he's eaten just about EVER. And when THAT's over, there's still spare adrenaline to burn, so he's pushing himself up, trying to get to his feet and get AWAY AWAY AWAY, but he only manages to stagger a few steps before his ankle gives out with a white-hot flare of pain.
He's dimly aware of Sam catching him amid the OW OW OW PAIN! and then everything whites out for a bit until Sam's voice gradually pulls him back. He sounds calmer now, soothing - "Easy, you're ok. It's gonna be ok." - and he's rubbing reassuring circles on Dean's back, like Dean used to do for Sam when he was curled up on the bathroom floor during whatever bout of flu or virus had taken him out. Dean keeps his eyes tight closed for a few minutes - lets Sammy soothe away the pain - then gathers his shredded dignity and bats away the touch with a cranky groan. Sam backs off, but stays right there, squatting beside Dean as he rolls onto his back and just lays there, getting ahold of the moment and remembering where they are and why the hell he feels like he's been through a meat-grinder.
He remembers.
Exhales a heartfelt "Son of a bitch."
"Yeah." Sam agrees, sympathetic.
The hillside beneath him is surprisingly comfortable, and Dean's tempted to leave things at that and sleep off the worst of this, but there's a goddamned tentacle monster still to deal with, and...
And Dean's starting to notice other things, too. Like how Sam doesn't seem particularly concerned about the tentacle monster... The smell of smoke and sulphur in the air, and the strange, distinctive crackling sounds coming from behind them up the hill. Dean rolls his head back and stares up at the Old Kennedy Place. There's a shifting glow of flames starting to show through the windows and a line of smoke drifting up into the sky.
He pushes himself onto his elbows and looks back to Sam.
"What did you do?"
Sam shrugs.
"I'm not sure. I made a molotov cocktail out of the bottle of whiskey in the first-aid kit, and whatever that thing was, it went up like a Roman candle when the flames hit it."
Dean remembers the oily coating the thing had and pictures all those tentacles flailing and thrashing as it went up. Nice.
"Think you can walk?" Sam asks. "We're a ways out, but that smoke's going to attract attention."
Dean glances back at the house again, and sees that Sam's right. The smoke is getting thicker now, billowing out the broken windows, and they really ought to be gone before anyone comes to check it out. He grunts a noncommittal assent and reaches out to use Sam's shoulder to pull himself up. Sam goes one better, ducking under Dean's arm to shoulder some of his weight as they rise, and Dean's grateful for the support when his weight comes down on the injured ankle that he's somehow managed to forget about amid all the other aches. He hisses through his teeth, leans heavily on Sam for a few moments, then tries shifting his weight again. It hurts like hell, but the leg doesn't buckle this time, and he's able to stand on his own while Sam grabs their gear. A few limping steps later, he's finding the pain tolerable, and he's able to wave off Sam's offer of support.
He lets Sam carry his gear, though. His ankle may be sound, but the rest of him still feels like shit, and it's going to be a long walk back to the car.
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Said it before and I'll say it again... you should write and post more often, dude :D
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