Supernatural: Chucky and Tiffany

  The Triplets’ Mansion, Upstate New York

  The Impala’s headlights cut through the wrought-iron gates of the Belmont estate, a massive Victorian mansion resting on acres of isolated land. The night sky loomed dark and starless, the wind whispering through the skeletal trees that lined the driveway.

  Sam and Dean rumbled up the driveway, its headlights illuminating a cement truck parked near a half-finished patio renovation. Construction equipment lay scattered, and fresh cement glistened under the moonlight.

  Dean Winchester frowned. “Please tell me rich people don’t just randomly pour concrete for fun.”

  Sam flipped through his journal. “They’re getting work done. Something about new walkways and reinforcing the basement foundation.” He glanced toward the truck. “That’s a lot of concrete.”

  Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, eyeing the rest of the property. “Rich people, man. Every time we deal with them, it’s either cults, ghosts, or some weird freak show.”

  Sam, flipping through his journal, shook his head. “Yeah, well, this one’s all of the above. Ronald Belmont bought bones from an underground auction, and guess whose remains were on sale?”

  Dean smirked dryly. “Lemme guess—Bonnie and Clyde of the murder-doll world?”

  “Bingo. Chucky and Tiffany’s human bones,” Sam confirmed, sighing. “We saw the bids, but we weren’t the only ones tracking them. If Ronald’s got those bones, you can bet Chucky and Tiffany know about it too.”

  Dean cracked his knuckles. “So, what’s the plan? We torch the bones, give Barbie and Ken the holy eviction?”

  Sam exhaled. “Not that easy. We need to use a full exorcism with their bones, otherwise they’ll just keep hopping into new dolls. Until then, we trap them.”

  Dean grabbed his gun, checking the rounds. “Let’s hope these freaks haven’t already rolled out the welcome mat.”

  They stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they approached the front porch.

  They stopped suddenly just as a massive Rottweiler barked from inside, glass windows showing its physique.

  Sam tensed. “Looks like someones got security.”

  The Rottweiler, a 150-pound brute, growled, teeth bared.

  Dean eyed it. “Yeah, not gonna lie, I don’t wanna go near that thing.”

  Before Sam could respond, the front doors creaked open. A slender woman in a silk robe stepped out, clutching a black Persian cat in her arms.

  Sandra Belmont.

  She stared at them with curiosity rather than concern. “Who the hell are you?”

  Dean flashed a fake badge. “FBI. Mind if we come in?”

  Sandra scoffed. “ Yes, I do. Doesn’t really look like I have a choice though do I?”

  As she stepped aside, the Persian cat yawned, stretching lazily before leaping from her arms and slinking into the house.

  “Heel Brutus.” She ordered the dog whom just huffed at her before running deeper inside.

  Dean muttered under his breath. “Great. Just what this place needed—killer dolls, and creepy pets.”

  Inside the Mansion…

  Here is our hosting room. I’ll have my brother Donald come speak with you. Feel free to have a drink while you wait. She says before closing them in.

  The Belmont triplets were an unusual bunch. Rich, eccentric, and deeply disturbed.

  Donald Belmont sat in his den, scrolling through his Serial Killers Through History collection, admiring old crime scene photos like they were fine art. His private collection of serial killer memorabilia displayed like museum exhibits around him. The prized centerpiece? A genuine knife once wielded by Charles Lee Ray, aka Chucky, the Lakeshore Strangler.

  Ronald Belmont, meanwhile, lounged in the ballroom, sipping whiskey with a fluffy white lapdog, Priscilla, curled in his lap, a predatory smile on his lips as he stared at his tablet, scrolling through a website for making contact with paid escorts. He went through picture after picture taking special notice of the ones featuring sexy little dwarf women.

  Sandra, the youngest, was in her personal doll room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with pristine, glass-eyed dolls, including dozens of Good Guy dolls and Bella the Bride figures. Each one lovingly cleaned and maintained.

  She had no idea that two of them weren’t empty.

  As she admired her collection, one of the Good Guy dolls twitched, ever so slightly.

  Its plastic fingers flexed.

  A second later, one of the Bella dolls shifted in its rocking chair.

  A giggle.

  Sandra froze.

  She turned slowly, her eyes darting from doll to doll.

  Nothing.

  Then—

  “Hi, I’m Chucky. Wanna play?”

  A tiny pair of hands grabbed her ankle. Sandra shrieked as she was yanked off her feet, slamming into the hardwood floor. The air was knocked out of her lungs.

  Her black Persian cat hissed and swiped at Chucky, clawing his face.

  Chucky scowled. “Ow, you little—”

  Suddenly another doll jumped down from the shelf dashing with surprising speed to kick it in the ribs, punting the cat across the room.

  “Don’t you dare hurt my Chucky! I’m the only who can do that!” She yells almost jealously.

  Sandra barely had time to scream before Chucky grabbed her by the hair pulling her head back, a blade stabbed down, piercing deep into her throat.

  She gurgled as Blood pooled beneath her.

  Tiffany smiled at Chucky, admiring the kill. “A little messy, but effective.”

  The Persian cat lay motionless.

  Chucky held the weapon up admiring the blood dripping from his blade. “Three rich brats, three beautiful kills. And we get our bones back. Ain’t symmetry fun?”

  Sam and Dean looked around the room, immediately tense.

  Dean wrinkled his nose. “Why do all these places smell like furniture polish and bad decisions?”

  “Place is too quiet,” Dean muttered. “You think the dolls got here first?”

  A scream echoed from upstairs.

  Dean sighed. “Yup.”

  They booked it out of the room and sprinted up the grand staircase, weapons drawn. Sam kicked open the door to Sandra’s doll room just in time to see a Good Guy doll, grinning from ear to ear, wiping a bloodied knife on his overalls.

  “Hey, boys,” Chucky greeted, voice dripping with amusement. “Long time no see.”

  Dean raised his gun. “Haven’t we killed you before?”

  Chucky shrugged. “You just can’t keep a good guy down.”

  Sandra lay motionless on the ground, her throat slit.

  Dean raised his gun. “God, I hate dolls.”

  Chucky smirked. “Aw, c’mon, Deano. We had some good times, didn't we.”

  Sam gritted his teeth. Then he looked over at the white motionless fluff ball. “You even killed the cat?!”

  Tiffany, standing on a bookshelf, pouted. “Aww, don’t be like that. We were just having fun.”

  Chucky chuckled. “Don’t worry, Sammy. We always save the best for last. You'll get your turn.” He said, showing off the bloody blade like it was a trophy.

  Dean fired aiming at the dolls face.

  Chucky moved just in time only taking it in the shoulder, sending him flying back, but he was already scrambling back to his feet.

  “Okay, that actually hurt,” Chucky growled. “Are those blessed bullets? Not a fan.”

  Tiffany leaped from a shelf, her knife slashing toward Sam’s face. He barely ducked in time, stumbling back as she landed gracefully on the floor.

  Dean fired. The bullet hit Tiffany square in the chest, sending her flying into a wall.

  Sam fired at Chucky, but he moved fast—crazy fast—darting between his legs and slashing the back of his shin.

  “Ahhh.” Sam yelled, falling forward.

  “Back off him, Doll!” Dean yelled pointing the gun but as he squeezed the trigger—

  Click.

  His gun jammed.

  Chucky grinned. “Bad luck, pal.”

  Before Dean could react, one of the chandelier chains snapped above him, swinging in his direction.

  CRASH.

  The massive light fixture slammed into him, knocking him to the floor.

  Sam lunged at Chucky, tackling the doll and grabbing his knife. Chucky fought back hard, grabbing Sam around the throat and squeezed, far stronger than his tiny frame should have allowed.

  Tiffany rushed Dean, giggling. “Deanie got a boo boo? Well I got more where that came from.”

  Sam was able to tear Chucky off of him and toss him.

  She raised her knife to stab— when Chucky landed hard on top of her.

  Chucky winced. “Ouch. That’s gotta hurt.”

  Dean shook his head, trying to reorient himself.

  Sam ran forward kicking Chucky in the chest and across the room. Tiffany staggered to her feet, dazed.

  “You guys are no fun. This is why you never get invited to parties!”

  The dolls bolted each in different, disappearing into the air vents.

  Dean groaned. “I really don’t like dolls. But I hate, those dolls.”

  Dean reloaded. “Great. Now they’re scurrying around like evil rats.”

  Dean exhaled. “They already murdered one. Where are the other two?”

  A gunshot rang out downstairs. Barking can be heard immediately after.

  “Guess that answers that,” Sam muttered.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Donald Belmont was in his den, revolver shaking in his hands, as he pressed his back against the wall.

  His Rottweiler, Brutus, barked angrily.

  The Good Guy doll sat across the room, swinging his legs like a kid on a swing set.

  “C’mon, Donny wonny,” Chucky taunted. “I thought I was your favorite.”

  Donald wiped sweat from his forehead. “You can’t be Charles Lee Ray!? Hes a genius. A master in the art of murder. Your just one my sisters stupid good guy dolls!”

  “While I appreciate your enthusiasm for my work. This is who I am. I now I’m gonna kill you and take my bones back.”

  “Brutus attack!”

  But fate had other plans.

  Brutus’s paw caught on the rug, his legs tangled, and he crashed into a bookshelf instead of Chucky.

  At the same time, Donald fired.

  Chucky hopped off the desk—just in time.

  The bullet struck a solid bronze globe, ricocheted off a steel lamp, deflected off a silver picture frame—

  —and slammed into Brutus’s skull mid-bark.

  The big dog dropped in a heap, tongue hanging out of his mouth. Instantly dead.

  Donald’s eyes widened in pure horror.

  “Brutus…? Bru-Brutus!?” His voice cracked as he collapsed to his knees, scooping the dog into his arms. “No, no, no—”

  Chucky burst into laughter.

  “Oh, man! That was beautiful! Did you see that?!” He clutched his stomach, gasping between giggles. “Didn’t even know our luck curse worked on animals! Wait ‘til I tell Tiff!”

  Donald’s hands trembled, tears welling in his eyes. “You—you monster!”

  Chucky wiped an imaginary tear from his plastic cheek. “Buddy, you shot him.”

  Donald’s grief twisted into rage. He snarled and raised the gun again—

  Chucky threw his knife.

  The blade sank into Donald’s chest, piercing his lung.

  Blood bubbled up and out of his mouth before he collapsed onto Brutus. Blood from both bodies quickly began to spread out onto the floor.

  “Theirs nothing quite like the relationship between a boy and his dog.” Chucky said cackling evily just as Sam and Dean kicked down the door.

  “Why are there so many damn rooms in this place? There's only three people living here!?” Dean yelled as he noticed Chucky and pulled the trigger—

  The floorboard creaked beneath his foot, right as Dean stepped into the pool of blood and slipped.

  His ankle twisted.

  The bullet went wide.

  Dean crashed sideways into the fireplace mantle, groaning in pain. The fireplace activated, a small fire immediately igniting to life.

  Chucky, grinning ear to ear, grabbed the fireplace poker from the stand.

  “You know, you guys really suck at this. Or maybe I’m just really great at it. Either way you’re gonna die”

  He rushed at Dean, poker over his head as Dean was holding his leg.

  Sam rushed forward as he fired again and again—

  Chucky dodged, rolling out of the way.

  Sam expected this and intercepted him, tackling him to the ground.

  Chucky scrambled up, swinging the poker like a club. The metal rod slammed into Sam’s ribs once—then twice.

  Sam grunted in pain, falling on his back.

  Chucky lifted the poker again—

  Sam, through sheer determination, kicked the tiny bastard and hurling him backwards.

  Chucky’s small body soared through the air—straight into the automated fireplace.

  The moment he hit the back wall, the fireplace sensors detected motion. But nothing organic. Just a doll.

  With a loud mechanical click, a grate-like fence slammed down over the opening.

  The fireplace roared to life. Flames erupted inside.

  Chucky screamed.

  Dean, still on the floor, eyes widened in horror. “Oh, shit!”

  Sam staggered toward the fireplace. “We gotta get him out of there!”

  They both rushed to the controls, frantically looking for a way to override the system.

  Inside the flames, Chucky thrashed, his plastic skin melting, his synthetic hair catching fire.

  His screams were inhuman, a mix of pain. Then it changed. Chucky was laughing.

  “Damn, boys,” Chucky coughed through the agony, grinning even as his face burned away. “Even when you kill me, I still win. Because I’m just gonna come back more pissed off.”

  Dean pounded on the fireplace controls. “Come on, come on, COME ON—”

  Chucky’s eyes locked onto them through the flickering flames.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Winchesters.” His charred lips curled into a ghoulish smile.

  “…I’ll be back real soon.”

  Then, with a final, agonizing screech—

  His body collapsed into the fire, plastic bubbling, melting into black sludge.

  The room went eerily silent.

  Sam and Dean stared in disbelief.

  Dean groaned from the floor. “Tell me we didn’t just kill him.”

  Sam exhaled. “You we did just kill him.”

  Dean pushed himself up, wincing. “Dammit! I was trying to capture the little bastard!”

  Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah? Well, now he’s just gonna respawn in another doll.” Sam shook his head. “We were supposed to trap him, Dean.”

  Dean gestured to the fire. “Yeah? Well, tell that to my ankle! How many of those good guy dolls do you think are in this place?

  Sam shook his head thinking. “From what I saw in the doll room, about six collectors items. Maybe more normal quality ones tucked away somewhere.”

  Dean groaned. “Oh, for freak’s sake.”

  As if on cue—

  From somewhere else in the mansion—

  A doll began to stir. It’s eyes shooting open. “Hi, I’m Chucky. Wanna play?” In an adorable voice.

  Ronald’s Wedding

  Ronald Belmont stood in the grand ballroom, dressed in a tuxedo, a deranged smile plastered across his face.

  In front of it, Ronald Belmont stood, dressed in a tuxedo, gripping a wedding ring with trembling fingers.

  His tiny white lapdog, Priscilla, sat beside him, wearing a matching veil.

  Tiffany, the Bella Bride doll, looked utterly unimpressed.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me, that’s the ring?” she scoffed.

  “It’s cost $15,000. It was all I could do under such short notice.”

  “Is that all I’m worth to you?” She said irritatedly.

  “I—I paid a fortune for your bones. I love you,” Ronald whispered.

  Tiffany blinked. “Yeah, of course you do. I’m amazing. But your just weirdo with a freaky pedo fetish.”

  Ronald swallowed hard, his breathing growing erratic. He turned to Priscilla, stroking the tiny dog’s head. “She’s just nervous. That’s all.”

  Priscilla yapped.

  Tiffany smirked. “No, I’m really not, and this feels sexual harassment. I wanna speak with HR!.”

  She jumped from the altar, slashing Ronald’s cheek.

  He gasped, stepping back, blood trickling down his face.

  Ronald’s lip quivered. “Please—”

  Tiffany sighed. “No means no buddy! Y’know, I could kill you, but honestly? I’m so insulted, I wanna torture you for awhile first.”

  Ronald’s expression darkened. “If I can’t have you, nobody can.”

  He reached for a gun tucked in his waistband.

  Before he could pull it—

  BAM!

  The doors slammed open as Sam and Dean stormed in, guns raised.

  Tiffany leapt from the altar, onto a table to flee but Sam fired.

  Tiffany staggered as a blessed bullet struck her back sending her toppling off the table to the floor.

  Dean aimed, but his injured ankle buckled before he could fire.

  Tiffany cackled, running and hiding behind furniture.

  Dean stood at the entrance limping, looking around at the ceremony and confused by what he was seeing. “Aren’t you married already?! And dude, you know she’s a doll right!?”

  Sam snuck up and tackled Ronald to the ground, pinning him before he could pull out the gun. “Where are the bones, Ronald!?”

  Ronald gasped. “Uhhh what bones? I don’t know anything about that.”

  Dean limped forward. “We know you bought ‘em, we know Chucky and Tiffany want ‘em. They will kill your to get them. You wanna live? Tell us where they are.”

  Ronald panted, terrified, as Tiffany darted at Dean, slashing wildly with her knife. “They’re our bones!”

  Dean barely dodged, then swung the fireplace poker knocking her in the side of the head. She quickly retreated behind a chair.

  “Only a coward would hit a lady Dean!”

  “You’re a puppet damnit!” Dean yelled.

  Ronald shrieked as Sam shoved him harder against the floor.

  “THEY’RE OUTSIDE! The bones are outside—near the cement truck! We’re—we’re having a mausoleum built to house them!”

  Dean’s eyes widened. “Son of a bitch.”

  Ronald coughed, desperate. “Please, I told you! You said you’d protect,”

  A tiny shadow darted from the doorway.

  Sam barely had time to react before—

  SLICE.

  Ronald’s throat split open.

  Blood sprayed over Sam’s hands and face as Chucky stood behind him, grinning, knife dripping.

  “Well, that was easy,” Chucky quipped. “Thanks for getting him to spill the beans and the blood, boys.”

  Dean raised his gun again, but Chucky pushed over a chair, knocking it into him.

  Tiffany grabbed Priscilla and tossed the yapping dog straight at Sam’s face.

  Sam stumbled back, catching the dog.

  By the time they recovered—

  Chucky and Tiffany were gone.

  Dean clenched his jaw. “They’re going for the bones.”

  Sam wiped Ronald’s blood off his face using his sleeve, his expression disgusted. “Then we better get to it first.”

  The night was eerily still as Sam helped Dean hobble his way outside.

  The cement truck rumbled in the distance, its mixing drum rotating slowly beside a partially built mausoleum.

  One of the dolls must have turned it on.

  Stacks of cinder blocks, shovels, littered the area and pickup truck full of cement bags was parked.

  Sam scanned the site. “Where the hell are the bones?”

  Dean hobbled toward the pickup truck, opening the back hatch. Before he noticed a small crate with, delivery labels all over it and a large red stamp saying “Fragile.”

  “They have to be—”

  A knife sliced through the air.

  Dean barely ducked, the blade embedding into the metal hatch beside his head.

  Tiffany landed on top of the pickup up holding a crowbar, and giggling.

  “Did you miss me?”

  Sam fired.

  Tiffany jumped off the truck, using her unnatural speed to dart behind a big tree.

  Chucky appeared from the shadows, shoving a lawn mower straight into Dean.

  Dean toppled over, his ankle twisting worse.

  Chucky grinned. “Man, you’re just falling apart, huh?”

  Dean pointed his gun up at Chucky but the doll jumped on him trying to wrestle the gun away. He slashed Deans hand causing him to drop the gun as a Tiffany ran over and began tearing the crate open with the crowbar.

  Sam grabbed a shovel, swinging at Chucky knocking him off Dean but now Chucky had the gun.

  A sharp loose rebar rod stuck out from the unfinished mausoleum—

  Chucky plummeted, spearing straight into the rebar, piercing his tiny arm.

  Dean grunted from the ground. “Nice shot, Sammy.”

  Chucky howled. “Oh, come on!” He aimed the gun using his other hand and fired at Sam. “Tiff get over here!”

  Sam ducked behind the cement truck for safety.

  Tiffany dropped the crowbar and rushed to Chucky, yanking him free.

  They both bolted for the pile of bones in the wooden crate.

  “Move and Dean dies.” Chucky yelled pointing at the injured Winchester.

  Sam grabbed a bag of dry cement and tossed it—slamming it into the ground between Dean and the dolls.

  Cement dust exploded into the air causing a thick cloud of cement dust to engulf the construction site.

  Dean coughed, rolling onto his side, his hand still bleeding from Chucky’s slash. His twisted ankle throbbed, but he ignored the pain. “You okay, Sammy?”

  Sam emerged from the dust, shovel still in hand. “Yeah. But we need to move—now.”

  “I’m working on it.” Dean said wincing.

  Through the dust, small shadows darted.

  Chucky and Tiffany were on the move.

  The cement truck rumbled, still running, its mixing drum rotating slowly beside the pickup and the partially built mausoleum.

  Sam squinted through the dust. The dolls were seconds away from reclaiming their bones.

  Sam made a break for it.

  Chucky spun, firing Dean’s gun—

  BANG!

  Sam dropped behind a stack of cinder blocks, barely avoiding the shot.

  Tiffany grabbed the crowbar and tore at the crate, ripping it open.

  “Finally! Took you long enough.” Chucky yelled.

  “Well your not much help Chucky!” She yelled back.

  Chucky winced from his injured arm. “Yeah, yeah. Just get the damn bones!”

  Tiffany open a white silk bag, lifted one of her own ribs, giggling. “Man even my bones are sexy.”

  Sam leaped over the cinder blocks, swinging the shovel.

  Tiffany dodged at the last second, snatching the bag of bones with her, but Sam’s shovel struck the bag knocking into the air and near Dean.

  Chucky cursed. “Hey you jackass! Watch it!”

  Tiffany got up from the ground. “ Thanks Chucky.”

  “What? No I wasn’t talking you. I was talking about my bones.”

  Dean, gritting through his pain, turning on the cement trucks release causing wet cement to spill out.

  “Hey, assholes!” he yelled.

  Chucky and Tiffany turned.

  Dean grabbed the bag and held it over the wet cement.

  “Nooooo!” Tiffany yelled.

  Chucky pointed up the gun. “The to die short bus.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  Click was all they heard.

  Sam and Dean both looked at each other smiling.

  “Yeah we’ve been counting your shots. And you’re all out.” Sam said smirking. “Better luck next time, Chuck.” Then he dropped the bones.

  “My beautiful bones!” Tiffany screamed.

  “You stupid bastard!” Chucky yelled.

  They both ran full speed at the falling bag.

  Wet cement spewed from the truck’s chute.

  Chucky and Tiffany fell onto the bag just as a wave of thick cement crashed over them.

  Tiffany shrieked as the thick, wet cement engulfed their tiny bodies.

  The concrete slurry thickened slowly, weighing them down.

  Tiffany thrashed, clawing at the edge of the foundation, her once-perfect nails snapping as she tried to pull herself free.

  Chucky’s tiny arms struggled against the sludge, his legs kicking wildly. “You gotta be freaking kidding me! This is how you're gonna do it? It’s not even creative!”

  Dean, still bleeding and hobbling, limped closer to the mixer controls.

  Sam watched as they struggled.

  Tiffany screamed, gurgling as the mixture coated her entire body.

  “This is ruining my hair! I’m gonna kill you for this!?” Tiffany yells. “I’m gonna cut your scalps off and wear em like wigs!”

  Chucky snarled, eyes burning with fury. “You think you’ve won? I’m fucking Chucky! You think this can hold me?!”

  Dean smirked. “I know it will. You're not going anywhere for a long time.”

  The wet cement bubbled, hardened, and settled.

  The last thing they saw was Chucky flipping them the bird before his hand was covered up by the mix.

  Then—silence.

  The brothers stood there, panting.

  The only sound was the distant rumbling of the cement truck and the wind blowing through the trees.

  Sam exhaled, turning the mixer off and wiping sweat from his forehead. “It’s finally done.”

  Dean, sitting on the ground clutching his injured ankle, glanced at the solid block of cement now covering the dolls and their bones. “Damn straight it is.”

  Sam looked at the mixer drum. “You think we should uhh-”

  turn it back on? Just to be sure?”

  Dean raised an eyebrow. “Turn it back on? Just to be sure? Love the way you think Sammy.”

  He yanked the control lever.

  The drum roared back to life, churning the fresh concrete one last time, then he hit the release.

  If either of the dolls were still conscious, they sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere.

  Dean finally collapsed against the side of the truck, groaning. “You know this still isn’t finished though, right?”

  Sam nodded, exhausted. “Yeah.”

  They both stared at the cement block, knowing that somewhere in the world, another Good Guy or Bella Bride doll could be waiting for their spirits to jump into it if they did die.

  This was just a temporary fix.

  “Why don’t we just torch all the dolls inside. Less chances for them to resurrect that way.” Dean says.

  “Well not so fast. Think about it Dean. Somebody out there is gonna have another one of these Dolls.”

  Dean sighed. “Well, at least we’ve got time.”

  Sam smirked. “Yeah. And a hell of a lot of cement. But until we can get the bones out safely and perform the exorcism we should keep at least one of each Doll with us. Locked up. That way if they resurrect into it we’ll already have them captured.”

  “Goddamnit. So now we’re collecting creepy dolls too?” Dean says annoyed.

  The cold night air was thick with the smell of burning plastic as Sam and Dean stood outside the Belmont estate, watching the pile of Good Guy and Bella Bride dolls go up in flames.

  They had dragged every single one out of the mansion—every creepy, grinning Good Guy doll, every Bella Bride with its soulless glass eyes—and stacked them in the open field near the construction site.

  Now, the fire roared high, melting their cursed little bodies into nothing but blackened sludge and smoke.

  Dean, still favoring his injured ankle, used a shovel as a crutch. “Well, that’s one way to clean house.”

  Sam nudged the two remaining dolls with his boot—one Good Guy, one Bella Bride. The only two left.

  Dean eyed them warily. “You sure we wanna do this?”

  Sam sighed. “Until we exorcise their bones, they’ll keep looking for a way back. If they do jump bodies, at least they’ll be trapped in one of these.”

  Dean exhaled. “Good. ‘Cause I was real sick of their voices. ”

  Dean picked up the Good Guy doll and tossed it into the Impala’s trunk. Sam followed, placing the Bella Bride doll beside it.

  Dean slammed the trunk shut and let out a long breath. The fire crackled behind them, the last of the dolls burning to ash.

  Sam and Dean climbed into the Impala, battered, bruised, and exhausted.

  Dean turned the key, the engine rumbling to life.

  As they pulled onto the road, Sam glanced back at the concrete slab.

  Hopefully nobody gets curious and breaks them out.

  Dean scoffed. “Guess we’ll find out.”

  The Belmont estate shrank in the distance, nothing left but the smoking remains of Chucky and Tiffany’s backups dolls.

  And deep inside the cement tomb, the trapped killers waited.

  For now, playtime was over.

  But Sam and Dean knew—it wouldn’t stay that way forever.