#whahahah

“Oh mother of pearl,” Dean muttered, stepping into the rancid-smelling, long-abandoned Chuck E. Cheese. The air was heavy with mold, burnt cheese, and straight-up regret. Rain slammed the windows like a pissed-off banshee, and the flickering fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like they were on death’s payroll.

“Okay, this place is already giving me the creeps,” you whispered, ducking under a warped “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner dangling from the ceiling. “Why does it smell like expired pizza and childhood trauma?”

Sam shot you a look over his EMF reader. “Because it is expired pizza and childhood trauma. Five kids vanished here in the ’90s. On their birthdays. No suspects. No bodies. Only witnesses said the mouse smiled at them.”

You blinked. “Okay, that’s creepy as fuck.”

Dean grunted, scanning the arcade. “Let’s just torch this cursed-ass hellhole and bounce before a singing animatronic starts twerking.”

⸻

You split up. Which, of course, never goes well.

The arcade lit up like it’d been waiting for you. Neon lights buzzed overhead as dusty machines came alive one by one—BEEP. BLIP. BUZZ. Skeeball balls rolled on their own. The claw machine clawed at nothing. A DDR pad started blaring music and lighting up like it wanted to dance-fight you.

Then, every machine turned on at once.

You swerved as a flying basketball flew straight for your head.

“Fuckin’ hell!” you yelped, diving into cover behind the air hockey table. A second later, it slid forward on its own like it was trying to crush you.

Meanwhile, Sam made it into the kitchen. Old pizza crusts, broken fryers, something gross in a mop bucket. But tucked behind the supply rack, he spotted a vent.

He let out a huff, “great.” He pried it open and crawled inside, flashlight clenched in his teeth, muttering, “Why is it always vents?

The metal box led to a hidden back room, and that’s where the real nightmare started.

Animatronic parts. Heads. Torsos. Broken limbs. All still wired. What looked like gasoline or maybe even blood stained the floors.

Suddenly, a spotlight flicked on by itself.

And every animatronic head turned. One by one. Two by two. Each one eyes turning on, and letting their eyes blink slowly.

“Shit,” Sam hissed, backing away slowly, but he was too late - the vent door dropped open.

⸻

Back in the cursed-ass ball pit, you were crawling like a rabid ferret trying to escape the mouse’s song. “Happy birthday to you…”

“NOPE. NO. NO THANK YOU!” you shrieked, thrashing plastic balls out of your way like it was a damn ocean. You grabbed something soft— Could it be? Could it be the limited addition golden Labubu?!?

You pulled it out quickly to see your discovery, and low and behold its a

human hand. Cold. Pale. Still wearing a birthday bracelet.

You screamed so hard you swallowed air.

And then something or more like someone fell from above.

You flailed and screamed again as dust clouded the air. Out popped a human, “did you leave you hand here?!” is what you wanted to ask but before you could - you sneezed.

“Bless you.” Never mind, you thought. Its Sam. Covered in dust, scratches, and what looked like wires.

“They saw me—they fucking saw me—” he panted.

And then?

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

The ceiling vent ripped open and rained down a twisted, rusted version of Chuck E. Cheese and his demonic-ass crew.

Dean exploded in from the hallway, shotgun in one hand, fire extinguisher in the other.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I JUST FOUGHT A POSSESSED BIRTHDAY CAKE!” he roared, slamming the extinguisher into the animatronic dog’s jaw.

You tackled a bird animatronic trying to grab your leg, smashing its beak off with a Skee-ball.

Dean hurled the shotgun aside and grabbed an animatronic guitar off the wall, swinging it like a battle axe. “FUCK this haunted-ass daycare center!”

Sam grabbed the shot gun and shot multiple rounds at the psycho rat. “Who lets their kids celebrate anything here?!”

“Makes me thankful we didn’t have any birthday parties at all,” Dean grunted as the weird purple dinosaur threw him across the room. “Where’s a meteor when you need one.”

You crawled out of the ball pit, blood pumping, chest heaving, adrenaline so high you could see sounds. The clown was now drowning in the ball pit with no hands or legs - just his 360 turning head.

Dean grabbed the gasoline from his bag, flicked open the can with a wicked snap. “Let’s barbecue these birthday bitches.”

Sam tossed a match onto the soaked carpet.

The place went up like it had been waiting to burn.

⸻

Outside, soaking wet and panting, the three of you watched the building go up in flames. Orange fire lit the sky, casting long, warping shadows over the parking lot.

You leaned against the Impala, shivering. “…I think I left my soul in the ball pit.”

Dean blinked at you. “Same.”

Sam just stood there, thousand-yard staring. “There was a… clown. With no arms. Crawling with its teeth.”

You all stood there in silence for a beat.

Then Dean said, “New rule—no more hunts involving children’s entertainment, rodents, or fucking animatronics.”

You raised a hand solemnly. “Amen.”