Post by corvette1710 on Dec 24, 2015 22:37:30 GMT
Spoilers for Supernatural Season 10 up to episode 22 below. If you don’t want that season spoiled a bit, I suggest either watching it on Netflix right now, voting blindly, or ignoring this match.
*****
Silent Hill, 2 mi.
Dean roared past this road sign in pursuit of an expensive, old Oldsmobile. His hands were white-knuckled on the wheel and his foot was to the floor to chase the last of the Stynes.
The Mark of Cain on his arm burned almost as brightly as the flames of his rage, hungered almost as wistfully as the voracity of his vengeance. The Stynes were paying the ultimate price for what they did to Charlie.
Even thinking about how her corpse had been left, mangled and crushed like a helpless doll, lit a fire behind his eyes. The Impala whined under his dominion. He was pushing her harder than he ever would have under any other circumstances.
He slowed as the mist became denser, and he saw a broken chain wrapped around the parted, swinging doors of a chain-link gate. He could see the remnants of gold paint from the Oldsmobile marring its dented form, the steel rebars that had once formed the backbone of a barrier, now destroyed, with the chunks of concrete elsewhere.
He drove carefully through the wreckage, and could see the Oldsmobile had careened into a ditch. Its driver was nowhere to be found. The final Styne was nowhere to be found.
The ground was covered in a layer of snow, and footprints leading from the Oldsmobile toward town confirmed that his quarry was Silent Hill-bound. Why he’d chosen this dump in Whocares, Pennsylvania, Dean wasn’t sure.
What he was sure of was that Silent Hill had a curious history. Cases were reported out of here in the nineties and early two thousands; Dad had always left him back in Centralia rather than bringing him into the town, however. Dean had always been told never to even consider entering Silent Hill, that it was chock-full of vengeful spirits, revenants, and wraiths.
As is, it didn’t matter now. Dad’s rules didn’t bind him, hadn’t bound him for years now.
Dean shook his head. He had to get back on track. All that mattered was Claude Styne. He didn’t have the First Blade, but he’d taken Charlie’s Fairy Blade with him, and it seemed to work plenty well in killing the surgically enhanced Stynes.
The further he drove, the more he realized how far behind this Styne he’d been. The footprints, he could see, had already entered a town blanketed in fog.
He must’ve caught up, for now he could see a lone figure scrambling through the mists heading for what looked to be an old cast-iron gate.
He gritted his teeth and sped up in an attempt to run the Styne down.
The Impala jolted and went airborne in an instant, flipping in the air and depositing Dean and Baby firmly sideways against the brick wall to the left of the gate. Styne was long gone now.
Dean groaned, sore from his crash landing. He crawled out through his window, dragging himself over Baby’s roof and crumpling to the ground below. He lay in a heap for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He rolled to his feet as he heard the radio in the Impala crackling.
He narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t see more than twenty feet in any direction—even the gate the Styne had disappeared through was hardly visible. What he knew was that he hadn’t had the radio on. Electric devices acting up had to be ghosts or something similar. He quickly cracked open the trunk and grabbed the salt shotgun.
Holstering his pistol, he cocked the shotgun in its place. He leveled it, looking around with an expert eye.
There wasn’t anything that could kill him, as far as he knew, nearby, but at the same time, he felt inexplicable unease, as though a presence were here that meant to kill him—a feeling that was far from unfamiliar, but not usually so explicit in its intent.
What Dean felt now was dread as he walked slowly closer to the heavy, black, iron gate. A sinking feeling in his stomach made his steps feel heavier, and it seemed as though some great weight were pressing down on his shoulders.
He braced himself against the iron as he pushed it through. New strength filled his veins with all the Stynes he’d killed. The doors nearly flew off their hinges with horrible creaks, but the mist swallowed the sound like a great spongy beast.
It was now that Dean held onto his fury, steeling himself against the cold, dank, wet mist that now surrounded him, and the silhouettes he could see approaching through it. His stare burned holes in the mist and probably would’ve dissipated it were it not so thick and prominent.
The figures made no sound but for the shuffle of their feet on the pavement. Their arms were connected to their bodies, the skin from their chest to their head fused into some sort of hood-like visage. The skin itself was distinctly mottled, with varying shades of black, brown, and red denoting some harm had come to them.
Whatever they were, they seemed somehow… familiar. Recognizable in some way he wasn’t sure of.
Their legs were awkwardly splayed, their necks contorted, and their heads tilted dangerously to one side… and then Dean realized.
They were in the same form Charlie was in in the bathtub. The position Eldon Styne had left her in—one of the images Dean could never, ever hope to scrub from his memory.
His jaw tightened and his eyes would’ve watered if he hadn’t willed them not to. In reply to the images in his head, he fired the salt shotgun at these things.
They’re not Charlie. No one will ever be Charlie.
They screeched as the salt burned them, sizzling on contact with their epidermises but not dispelling them. If anything, the salt aggravated their assault.
Dean snarled when they wouldn’t be put down, drawing his own ivory-gripped pistol and shooting them in what he could only assume to be their heads—one shot each putting them down. They squirmed on the ground a moment afterward until finally laying still.
His lips formed a hard line as he walked on, looking for Styne’s footprints in the frost on the sidewalk. He knew they could be differentiated by their orientation compared to whatever had just attacked him. They’d be in a line, at least, not erratic and lurching.
He located them after a brief time, large footprints made by expensive shoes. They lead toward an apartment complex labeled Wood Side Apartments.
The more he looked around, the more Dean could see the town was in shambles and disrepair. No one, it seemed, was tasked to the upkeep of the city, and it looked to be inhabited completely by rat-sized cockroaches and Charlie-esque shufflers.
Both of which were easily dispatched by a round (or two at most) from his pistol. The footprints stopped just outside the fence and resumed on the other side. Dean sighed. The Styne had clearly jumped over. It wasn’t exactly a feat that was within his capability, so he used the next best thing: The open gate a dozen feet to the left.
That said, Dean couldn’t blame the Styne for not seeing it. The fog was especially dense here for some reason undiscernible to Dean.
The door to the apartment complex had been left ajar, no doubt courtesy of Styne. He carefully pushed his way inside, watchful for a trap set by his devious prey.
Dean entered the building without incident—wherever this Styne was, he wasn’t looking for a fight.
Dean pulled out his flashlight and shone it at a staircase. Just past the mouth of the staircase was a door—it wouldn’t budge when Dean tried to open it.
He heard a whimpering from upstairs, and some sort of a scraping sound.
Dean hurried upstairs in a not-so-silent fashion. His boots made heavy thuds against the steps, which echoed throughout the stairwell.
“No! Please!”
Dean stopped at a door where the number plaque had been torn off. The pleading was coming from the other side.
“Oh God…”
A sick crunch and a grunt were what Dean heard next, and in that instant a massive piece of metal erupted from the door, sending splinters and shards of wood over the balustrade.
Dean stumbled back as a massive, lumbering figure lurched through the door, surprisingly quick yet deliberate.
In its hand was a sword as big as Dean. Skewered on the sword was the Styne man. He’d been a brute, but nothing compared to this one. On its head was a rusty metal pyramid, marred by dents from bullets far larger than the ones Dean’s pistol was packing.
Dean was going to charge at it until he saw something he never thought he’d see: On its chest, just under its collarbone was the same tattoo Dean sported that disallowed him being possessed.
It wasn’t Sam, it was much, much bigger.
He could see, though, something on its arm.
The Mark of Cain?
He backed away in confusion even as the gargantuan thing swung its sword at him.
Off came the skewered Styne, barreling toward him with a gurgle. Dean hit the floor to dodge the cadaver, rolling to avoid the oversized knife.
It came at him again, destroying the ceiling above itself with an overhead cut. Dean backed away, trying to discern how best to kill this thing.
*****
Okay, so if you couldn’t tell, this is Dean after he kills all the Stynes in Shreveport, he hasn’t gone back to the bunker and beaten the shit out of Castiel yet (or shot Eldon and Cyrus). He has the Mark but not the First Blade, just the Fairy Blade that Charlie had when she died.
electricferret.freeforums.net/thread/4587/pyramid-head?page=1&scrollTo=23468
Pyramid Head is a manifestation of Dean’s guilt concerning Charlie’s death. It doesn’t have an oversized First Blade either, just the same knife as in Silent Hill 2. Its strength and speed are proportionally enhanced to Dean’s level (extrapolated from the level it was on while hunting James in SH2).
electricferret.freeforums.net/thread/297/dean-winchester
Dean has to kill Pyramid Head somehow (gun, knife, his fists, etc.) and Pyramid Head has to kill Dean (once while he’s human and then again after he turns into a demon. For the sake of the match we’ll say that Pyramid Head’s sword can kill/banish Dean. Fucking sue me).
Who wins?
