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White Picket Fence

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coverart made by geckoholic*

Story written by geckoholic; podfic recorded by applegeuse.

15 minutes, 8 seconds

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mp3 (8.9 MB) or m4b (7.6 MB)

ETA 10/25/13: Also available for download at the audiofic archive here.

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Ginny Myers is the perfect suburban housewife. Really. You can ask anyone. No other house in the neighborhood is decorated with as much taste. Her garden is the prettiest in the whole district. At school bake sales, her cakes are the first to go, because they're that delicious. Her two young daughters are the cutest and the best behaved, and her husband Michael is both desirable and devoted to her. The insurance company he works for promotes him at least every other year. His father is the mayor, with ambitions for more. All her friends and neighbors are jealous, but she's so nice and obliging that no one dares to say a bad word about her. So, seriously. If there were such a thing as an official ranking of the best housewife in the States, Ginny Myers would be right on top of it.

And, you see, it's very, very important to Ginny that it stays that way.




The everyday life of the Myers family is structured. Not quite down to the minute, Ginny knows that would look like they're trying too hard, but there's a schedule that has to be bowed to. Their calendar is full of appointments that can't be missed, weekly and monthly events for all four of them. Every Tuesday at the same time, for example, Ginny goes to the hairdresser. It's less about getting her perfect, long, gently flowing hair taken care of – Ginny knows how to do that herself – and more of a social thing. The suburban housewife equivalent of a weekly business dinner, if you will. A get-together of their secret society. No one talks about it like that, and there are no invitations or notices, but those who ought to be there usually are.

Today, things are cut short. Gretchen Bower, the handmaiden to Ginny's queen, has a dentist's appointment with her son. Of course, Gretchen's lying about that; they're actually seeing a shrink. Ginny doesn't know; she wouldn't care if she did. Someone like Ginny doesn't have friends. She's got admirers. No need for honesty and full disclosure, as long as there's respect and a healthy dose of fear.

But, either way, that's the reason why Ginny's home half an hour early. It's a bright, sunny afternoon, and as she gets out of the car and sashays down the driveway, she whistles a song she heard on the radio in the hair salon. The children are still at daycare. The maid's already gone, wet laundry drying on a clothesline in the backyard. Michael isn't supposed to be home until after 5 PM. Ginny expects to have another hour to herself, at least: time to take care of a little project that's waiting for her in the basement.

She's in a good mood. She wouldn't be if she knew what was going on upstairs.

While Ginny checks on the chicken she set to marinate in a wine sauce that morning, Michael's busy peeling Bridget -- their neighbor from across the street and newly divorced -- out of an outrageously expensive negligee. While Ginny walks back outside to check the mailbox, he licks a long stripe down Bridget's perfectly sculpted, twenty-one year old belly. By the time Ginny's done with sorting the mail and finally turns her attention to the herbs in the basement, Michael's lips are dripping with the wetness from between Bridget's legs.

Fate has it that Ginny's done and coming up the stairs the exact moment Michael kisses Bridget goodbye in the hallway.




There's some yelling, and some name-calling, but Ginny gets bored of that fast. She tells herself that it isn't her feelings that are hurt, it's her pride, and that's not fixed by making a huge scene. All that would do is add insult to injury.

Michael spends the next few days with his tail between his legs. He's sorry, truly. A divorce would mean seeing the kids less, giving up the house, and paying for his frigid trophy of a wife for the rest of her life.

Yes, Michael regrets the choices he's made in life daily. He has for a while. Pretty women are his weakness, and his judge of character has never really been up to par. But he's a politician's son, and he's been raised to ride out what he started. Ginny's his wife, however she managed to coax him into that. She's the mother of his children, and he'll stick with her, no matter how unhappy it makes both of them. He has plans to step into his father's footsteps one day, and divorcing on the grounds of his own infidelity won't exactly help him with that.

But for the time being, life in the Myers household goes on as usual. No one knows. There are no loud arguments, no fighting in front of the kids, nothing to put a visible crack in the perfect facade.

Until Bridget-the-neighbor decides to spill the beans to one of her gossiping friends, that is. The Sunday after that, at a garden party a few houses down, everyone is talking about poor Ginny and that cheating asshole Michael, never thought he would do such a thing. The two of them leave after fifteen minutes, and never in her life did Ginny feel more humiliated.

That's when she decides to hatch a plan, put her little collection in the basement to good use and exact some payback.




The thing is, Bridget doesn't hate Ginny. She doesn't even dislike her. She just didn't care. Michael's cute, and he was interested, so sue her, she wanted to get laid and took her chance. Michael being married was an obstacle, but no reason to back off.

When she sits in her garden chair on Wednesday morning, mojito in one hand and her cell phone in the other, she doesn't have any regrets. She doesn't feel bad, except for the fact that he won't even look her way anymore.

The pain doesn't register until the third or fourth sip, but then it hits her hard. Her throat feels like someone set fire to it, and soon she coughs up blood. Acid, the doctors will tell her later, and no one will have any idea how she got it mixed up into her drink. It burns her throat. Her vocal cords will never fully heal.

In the basement across the street, Ginny smiles to herself. One down, one to go.




People say it's some sort of justice from above when Michael gets attacked by a rabid dog on his morning run that weekend. The animal zeroes in on his crotch, with a bloody and nasty result that settles the Myers' family planning once and for all. When Ginny visits him in the hospital for the first time, he's peeing through a catheter, and the doctors tell her he might have to do that for a good long while.

She has a hard time keeping the smile off her face when she walks out of the room.

The case hits the tabloids a few days later, after some reporter from the Weekly World News stumbles upon the connection between the cheating husband and the sexy, easy divorcee that he fucked.

Another week passes before the headline catches Dean Winchester's attention when he and Sam are grocery shopping. He raises his eyebrows in a lewd gesture that he knows will make his brother groan or roll his eyes, but when he picks up the paper to read the article, his professional curiosity is piqued. After another set of dutiful eyerolls and the muttered assumption that Dean just wants to see for himself exactly how sexy the sexy divorcee really is, Sam agrees to check things out.

They have their theory worked out before they climb in the car. Sam says it. Dean nods, trying to convey that, hey, he's already worked that out, way ahead of you little brother.

It's a witch, for sure.




Ginny's no dilettante. She learned her craft from her mother, who learned it from her grandmother, and so on. Her family already hexed their way onto a ship to the new world. She grows all the herbs she needs for her hexbags herself, and she buys the more exotic ingredients from old family acquaintances instead of some new age idiot on the internet.

When the two guys in cheap, ill-fitting suits come to her house and flash their photoshopped Animal Control badges, she knows they're hunters. She's been warned about them from an early age. Cautionary tales, some sort of reversed version of Grimm's Fairy Tales passed on over generations. It probably says something about how well she was taught, raised to lay low and be careful, pick her battles wisely and not draw too much attention, that she never met a hunter in person before.

And these two? No match for her, Ginny's sure.




Just as quickly as Ginny recognizes them as hunters, the Winchesters have her down as the witch they're looking for. Sam counts as many as three hexbags casually lying around as part of the carefully picked floral decorations. There's a painting in the hallway that contains rather flimsily disguised arcane symbols. Absolutely no doubt they found their angry witch, he tells Dean on their way to the car. No doubt at all.

While they sit in the hotel room to have a rerun of their tried-and-true argument about witches and how to handle them, Ginny hits her own books.

There are no second chances for killing a hunter. Her mom drove that one home. Do it quickly and efficiently, or don't do it at all. And, well. Ginny might have hexed her way to the top of the social ladder, but she never killed anyone. Not once. Ever. Neither did her mom, or her grandma. They're not that kind of witch. Her great-grandmother had once buried a man in a miniature landslide, but that was different. It was the civil war, and she had three small children to protect.

The alternatives to killing them, as Ginny has been taught, are distraction or deflection. They're probably onto her by now, Ginny suspects, so the latter is out. That leaves distraction. Ginny flips through her old hex books nervously, skimming and discarding spell after spell, until she finds one that might just work.




Neither Winchester is in favor of killing Mrs. Myers. A year ago, there might have been arguments, with Dean insisting she's evil and she's got to go, and Sam advocating for the contrary, but not anymore. Sam is glad about that , which he doesn't say, and Dean hates it. In his book, a job like theirs is much, much easier to do with a clean, black-and-white view of the world. But their lines had been smudged when they met Gordon and the peaceful vampires a few months ago, and once that happens, there's no going back.

They're still busy not talking to each other about anything related to case or conscience when Dean feels an itch between his shoulder blades. He absent-mindedly scratches himself, which prompts Sam to suggest a shower. Dean scowls at him, shrugs, and they go back to reading research they can already recite in their sleep.

The itch persists, and Dean scratches himself a few more times before he decides to man up and ignore the uncomfortable sensation starting to pull on his shoulders too. That works until Sam goes to the bathroom, comes back into the room and yelps.

Dean's inquiry as to what the fuck he's on about is met with incomprehensible stuttering and a finger pointed at Dean's back. With an educational glare -- unprofessional, that kind of behavior -- Dean gets up and goes to inspect his back in the mirror, see what Sam sees.

What Dean sees makes him admit that, yes, maybe in this case stuttering and pointing were an appropriate course of action. After all, it's not every day that a Winchester grows wings.




Ginny calls the hospital to ensure that Michael's going to stay there for a couple more days, deposits the kid's at Gretchen's place, and waits.

She doesn't have to wait long. About two hours after she cast the spell, the shaggy-haired one appears on her doorstep, knocking furiously. She doesn't bother to get up, lets the door click open with a wave of her hand. She allows herself a smug smile when he loses his balance and almost falls over due to the sudden lack of resistance.

Sam re-evaluates the decision not to kill her immediately, but he knows that if he loses his patience, Dean might be stuck with fluffy, white pair of wings until his dying day. He takes a deep breath, rights himself and builds himself up to his full height, chest puffed out.

Ginny's unimpressed, scowls, asks him if he's done playing hardass and suggests negotiation. The wings come off if they let her go. If they don't, she's got more nifty decorations for his partner planned. Sam corrects her -- brother, not partner -- and doesn't bother pointing out how this isn't a negotiation, it's blackmail. He expected as much. It's why he insisted on coming alone.

She performs the counterspell in his presence, isn't surprised when he calls his brother to confirm the wings are indeed gone, before he delivers a few token threats and leaves her be.




The Winchesters are out of town and already on a new case when Ginny writes a note for Michael a couple of days later. She's going to take the girls and disappear. She loved him, still does, but she can't be around him anymore, it says, which is less of a lie than she'd like it to be. She knows he's going to be pissed, and she understands, but it's in all their best interests if he doesn't try to find them. The letter is signed with her name, and sealed with a kiss.

And even if he does try, he won't find anyone, neither her nor the kids. Ginny Myers' life as a perfect housewife is over. But that's alright. It wasn't her first one, anyway.