Shortz

The Man, his Baby, and his Blade

On the thirteenth day of the month, as the sun vanished beneath the horizon, the black beat-up Chevy Impala, Baby, as Dean lovingly called it, pulled into the side of the now deserted street and stopped abruptly. Refusing to budge even an inch, it asked for food.

As the middle-aged man got out of the car, his eyes drifted over to the nearest house. The house, like the ones he had seen before, looked abandoned (but he knew it wasn't), had a perfectly manicured garden surrounded by a white picket fence, boasting a large cross at the center of the silver-colored entrance.

"Close enough." He muttered under his breath; closing his eyes, he recalled the words his now domestically bound brother, Sam, had told him, 'Dean, I did some research, and get this, there is this town where on the Thirteenth of every month it is said that the monsters take to the streets. No one dares to witness it, though, so I can't tell you what kind you will encounter there. You interested?'

It was going to be a long, tiring night.

Looking around, Dean pulled out his blade. It was long, pointed and celestial: a gift from his now departed friend.

Presently, the air around him grew colder, and the stench of sulfur filled the air, almost making him choke. "Will I never fudging get used to it!?" He muttered, turning the blade in his hands, warming up.

The next moment, 'the parade' came into his line of sight. Not the one to wait, he sprinted towards the source of the stench, with his blade ready, and soon, the air filled with ear-piercing screams of the undead. As the hoard became aware of the intruder, they tried to attack with all they had: their power to possess and drain souls who dared to look into their soulless eyes.

Unfortunately for them, neither did Dean stop slashing at them with accuracy, nor did he have to look at their condemning eyes. All he needed was his weapon: the blade created by God for his Angels to carry out his will. A weapon no mortal should have held. And yet, Dean was holding one; he had been doing so for a while.

Minutes turned into hours as the man and the hoard battled it out till the only one standing was the mortal with his celestial blade. He looked up as the first rays of sun reflected in his deep green eyes; he pulled out a worn piece of blood-stained cloth from his jacket and cleaned his blade before returning it to his hidden jacket pocket.

He stood there for a few moments, letting the warmth return to his body and calm return to his soul before walking back to Baby and pulling out an empty canister. Patting its hood, Dean smiled, "Sorry for making you wait, Baby. I will be back with our breakfast right away."

{Word Count : 492}