Fic: That's What Big Brothers Are For 2/9

[mizpah1931]

Title: That’s What Big Brothers are For
Season: 2
Category: General, Action, Horror/Demon
Warnings: Not really...
Tagline: Sam is plagued by multiple visions of Dean burning alive, leading the brothers into a dangerous hunt that could have dire repercussions for the young psychic.
Set just before the Season 2 episode Roadkill
Total Word Count: 52,676
Chapter 2 Word Count: 5644
Total Chapters: 9
Beta: ziggyuk
Story Banner: Chasidern
Awards Banner (SN.TV Best Horror/Demon 2008): Saiyuki

Here we are - chapter two. I will fix the links up later.

Jules

Chapter 2

Dean strode along the sidewalk, a paper bag of food swinging from one hand, two take out coffees balanced in the other, his eyes automatically scanning for threats as he neared the motel. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he walked swiftly across the parking lot. The early morning sunshine splashed across the asphalt in a golden shower, highlighting the gleaming black paintwork of the classic Chevy parked outside their room. Dean brushed his baby with his elbow as he passed, balancing the bag of food on top of the coffees as he fished the room key out of his pocket.

“Hey, I’m back,” he called softly as he pushed the door open with his foot. “Got blueberry pancakes…” Dean bit off the rest of his sentence as he spotted the lanky figure sprawled across the carpet. “Sammy!”

Sprinting across the room, Dean dropped the food onto the table and knelt at his sibling’s side. He gently turned the unconscious psychic over onto his back. “Sammy – Sammy?”

Sam came to with a heaving gasp, jerking into a sitting position, his eyes wild and unfocussed. He felt disoriented, confused, and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. All he knew was the comforting sense of a familiar presence beside him, and he flailed out, his hand connecting with a leather-encased arm and gripping it tightly.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy Sammy.”  Dean wrapped his free arm around his sibling’s back, holding him upright. “Just breathe, dude – take it slow.”

Sam’s body hitched, and he hunched forward as he threw up all over his jeans and the carpet.

Dean grimaced, holding his brother’s shoulders. “Ahh, Jeez, hope the maid’s due in today….”

“Sorry…sorry…” Sam rasped breathlessly, sagging back against his brother.

“It’s okay, just get your breath.” The elder hunter pressed his hand against his sibling’s forehead, clucking his tongue as he felt the heat radiating from Sam’s face. “Dude, I think you’re officially sick.”

Sam didn’t answer, closing his eyes as he struggled to get his breathing under control.

“So, another vision?” Dean frowned as the shaggy head nodded slowly. “Same thing?”

The psychic nodded again, leaning his head back against his brother’s collarbone. Gradually, his breathing calmed down, and the roiling nausea settled. He relaxed his fingers from their tight grip on Dean’s arm.

“Okay, think you can stand up?” Dean waited for his brother’s slight nod before getting to his feet and sliding his hands under Sam’s armpits, scooping the younger hunter up off the floor. “Okay, up we go.”

The room whirled sickeningly, and Sam staggered, his legs turning to jelly. Dean’s arm whipped around his waist, and he felt himself being half dragged, half carried toward the bathroom. The headache drilling its way through his skull threatened to black him out, and he slumped bonelessly as Dean lowered him down onto the closed lid of the toilet.

Dean kept a hand on his sibling’s shoulder, steadying the younger man as he reached out to turn the water on in the shower. He tested the temperature of the water with his hand before turning his attention to his little brother. “Okay, dude – shower time. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Sam blinked in confusion, staring at the running shower with half closed eyes. “I already had a shower…”

“Good, then you’ll remember how it’s done.” Dean stood up, keeping his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You want help, or can you handle it yourself?”

“I’m okay.”

“Sammy, you are so far from okay, man.” Dean’s critical gaze roamed over his sibling’s pale sweat-dappled face. “Wash your jeans off in the shower.”

Sighing softly, Sam nodded, being careful not to jar his throbbing head too much. Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed giddily for a moment, grateful for the strong hand gripping his upper arm as he made his way to the shower recess for the second time that morning. Dean let go of his arm, and he stripped off his sweat-stained tee shirt, dropping it on the floor as he stepped under the warm stream of water. The bathroom door was pulled partly closed, leaving a gap of a few inches so Dean could hear if Sam got into trouble. Sam couldn’t help but smile a little as he rinsed off his soiled jeans and peeled them away from his body.

Dean strode to Sam’s duffle, pulling out a fresh change of clothes and dropping them on the bed. He glanced across at the small puddle of vomit on the carpet, grimaced, and grabbed the damp towel lying on the end of the bed to clean up the mess. A frown wound its way across his face as he worked, and a tiny trickle of fear ran down the length of his spine. Dean had seen Sam’s post-vision sickness a dozen times, but none of the visions had left him this wasted. There was definitely something freaky going on. Hearing the shower shut off as he got to his feet, he wadded up the towel and turned to face the bathroom door.

Sam wrapped another towel around his waist, winced at the incessant headache, and slowly pulled open the door, letting his eyes adjust to the brighter light inside the main room. His gaze tracked to his big brother, who pointed to the bed. Following Dean’s instruction, Sam found his clothes laid out for him, although not in any way neatly. It was more of a haphazard pile, but the young psychic was far from feeling up to complaining about the maid service. “Thanks.”

“Gonna have to strap a bucket to your face if you keep hurling like that, dude,” Dean observed, grinning as he strode into the bathroom to dump the soiled towel in the shower cubicle.

“Nice – thanks, big brother. What would I do without you?”

“Well, you wouldn’t get blueberry pancakes, that’s for sure.” The elder hunter returned to the main room, grabbing the painkillers from the first aid kit and tossing the bottle to his sibling. “Here – see if you can keep some of that down.”

Sam nodded slightly, twisting the cap off the bottle and palming two of the pills. He popped them into his mouth; picked up the takeout coffee his brother shoved toward him, and washed the pills down. Sinking heavily onto one of the chairs, Sam glanced at his brother. “So, what now?”

Dean pursed his lips as he picked up his coffee. “So, I guess it was another vision?”

“Yeah.”

“Same thing as last night?”

“Kinda. It was different, but…” Sam shivered, and rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to ward off the sudden chill creeping over his flesh.

“Different, how?” Spinning the other chair around, Dean straddled it, resting his forearms across the seat back.

“It was – I mean – it…” Sighing, the young psychic ran a hand across his face. “It ended the same as before – with you…”

“Burning.”

“Yeah.”

The green-eyed hunter frowned. “But the rest of it was different? How?”

“I – I was in this – room – I don’t know where I was – and there was this – voice.”

“What did it say?”

Sam’s shivering grew more pronounced. “It said – ‘Come out and play, Sam’. And then – and then I saw you – pinned to the wall – burning.”

“Come out and play?” Dean’s lips twisted into a savage snarl. “Well, that’s not gonna happen, Sammy. Whatever this thing is – it’s not gettin' its freakin’ hands on you, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“So – was it the same guy? The one we exorcised in the first vision?”

The hazel-eyed hunter slowly shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as his headache spiked. “No – I didn’t see anyone. And the voice – I think it was different.”

“Huh,” Dean mused, resting his chin on his crossed forearms. “Come out and play.”

“Yeah.”

“This thing’s trying to lure you out, maybe.”

Sam shrugged, and sipped his coffee. “Maybe.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face, his fingers pressing against his temple. “Nothing else makes any sense. I didn’t get any clue to where we were, or who it was.”

“Yeah, well, we just gotta keep searching. And be extra careful. If there’s another demon hunting your ass, I’m not letting you out of my sight until we send its ass back to hell.” Dean frowned as his brother grimaced. “Don’t you even think of arguing with me.”

“What about the Roadhouse? Maybe Ash…” Sam fell silent as his sibling let out an impatient snort. “What?”

“Not really an option for us these days, dude.”

“’Cause of what I did to Jo,” the young psychic muttered bitterly. “Right.”

Dean groaned softly. “No, it’s not that. Would you just get that through your freaky head once and for all? It wasn’t your fault – it was the demon. Jo knows that.”

“Then what else could it be?”

The elder Winchester swallowed, cleared his throat, and scratched the tip of his ear. “Nothin’.”

“That’s crap, Dean. If it’s got nothing to with what happened while I was possessed, then what the hell is it?” Sam waited for a few tense moments, his intense gaze locked on his sibling’s face. “Dean!”

“It’s…” Dean sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Okay – it’s not just Jo – it’s – Gordon, too.”

Sam reared back in his chair, shock blasting the pain of the post-vision migraine to second place in his current list of priorities. “Gordon!”

“Gordon – told me – when he had me tied to that freakin’ chair back in Lafayette – that he had his Roadhouse connections too. That’s how he found out about you and your visions – and the connection to the demon.”

“You don’t think Ellen…”

“I don’t know what to think.” Dean shrugged at his brother’s disbelieving stare. “All I know is – we told Ellen, Ash and Jo about your freaky visions, and next thing I know, that psycho Gordon’s comin’ after you with a rifle. You’re the college boy – you do the math.” Despite the fact that Dean had called Ellen when Sam had been taken by the Meg demon, he was still wary of the roadhouse people, and of their intentions concerning his brother, especially since the demon’s attack on Jo. But there was no way Dean was going to tell Sam that – it would only add to the guilt the gentle psychic was feeling over what he’d been forced to do while he was possessed.

Running his hands through his hair, the psychic stared into space as his mind whirled giddily. “No – it couldn’t be Ellen…”

“I don’t know if it was or it wasn’t. But I’m telling you – until I find out for sure, you’re not goin’ anywhere near there.” Dean’s expression hardened into a cold mask. He’d never voiced his suspicions to his little brother before this, about where Gordon got the idea to hunt the young psychic down like he was some kind of monster. But he’d wondered for a few weeks now, whether the leak had come from Jo.

Dean remembered the shocked look on Jo’s face in the bar in Duluth, when she’d asked Dean if Sam was possessed. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, as he’d been about to leap through the broken window and go after his possessed sibling. But after he’d got Sam back in one piece, and had time to review what had happened, he’d found her reaction a little strange – almost as if she’d been surprised to find out it wasn’t really Sam turning evil, but the demon inside him.

Trouble was, all Dean had was supposition. Given the tenseness of the situation at the time, he could easily have misread Jo’s reaction. After all, his possessed brother had just held her hostage at knifepoint, and Sam had since told him what the demon had said to her about her father’s death. Nothing was certain. She could even have mentioned it to Gordon with the best of intentions – him being a friend of her father’s and all. The hunter pursed his lips, and tapped his fingers on the back of the chair, feeling his brother’s gaze drilling into him.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“You don’t really think – that it was Ellen – do you?”

Dean’s frank gaze met his little brother’s worried one. “Dude, I don’t know. Probably not – it was probably just some random chance. But – let’s just stay away for a while, huh?”

“All right.” Sam cast one final, uncertain glance at his sibling, before picking up his coffee and swirling the lukewarm liquid around inside the cup. “So, what do we do now?”

“Now?” Dean slapped his hands on his thighs as he stood up and reached for the neglected bag of food on the table beside the laptop. “Now, we eat. I’m starving.”

The green-eyed hunter watched his little brother surreptitiously as they ate. Dean had seen the gamut of emotions flit across Sam’s expressive face, reading every one like the page of a book. Sam hadn’t wanted to believe that someone he considered to be a friend could do something that amounted to a betrayal. That was the thing that frustrated him the most about his baby brother – the fact that Sam still trusted people, even after all they’d seen and been through.

If Dean was honest with himself, he had to admit that it was also one of the things he loved about his baby brother. Sam had such a big heart, and it shone through his eyes when he spoke to people. Dean had never hesitated to play that card when fishing for information – he slipped easily into the bad cop role, letting Sam be the good cop. People warmed to his brother, and that was fine with Dean. Dean was more comfortable with keeping folks at arms length – a safe distance. No ties, no attachments. The only tie Dean had, the only tie he wanted, was sitting right in front of him, toying with his breakfast.

He glanced at his brother again, watching Sam push his pancakes around on his plate. The shaggy haired psychic was trying his ‘distribute the food so it looks like I’ve eaten something’ trick, but it wasn’t working. “Dude – you need to eat something.”

Sam jumped guiltily, and his troubled hazel eyes flicked to his brother’s face. “I’m eating.”

“No, you’re making it look like you’re eating. Load up that fork and stop playing around.”

Sighing heavily, the young hunter rolled his eyes, flicked another lightning glance at his elder sibling, and reluctantly shoved a forkful of the fluffy pancakes into his mouth, chewing in an exaggerated manner.

Dean smirked at his brother’s petulant antics. “And don’t think you’re leaving this table until it’s all gone.” He almost choked on his food as Sam’s eyes flew wide in disbelief. Forcing down the laughter that tried to bubble up from his chest, the elder brother concentrated on his breakfast.

The meal continued in silence for a few minutes, and then Dean laid down his fork across his empty plate and pushed it aside. He checked his sibling’s meal, frowning as he saw that Sam had gone back to pushing his food aimlessly around the plate again. “Dude…”

“Not hungry,” Sam murmured softly, shoving his barely touched breakfast aside. He kept his gaze directed toward the table.

Sammy,” Dean began quietly, clicking into big brother mode. “We’ll figure it out – we will. Okay?”

Sam glanced at his sibling, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Thought I was supposed to be the Psychic Wonder.”

“Hey, maybe it’s rubbing off. Think I could get this weeks’ Lottery numbers?” Dean grinned as his brother rolled his eyes. Doesn’t take freaky psychic powers to read what’s going on with you, little brother. I know you better than anyone. “So, want to catch a nap for a few hours?”

“A nap?” Sam’s eyebrows rose. “I’m not five, Dean.”

“No, but you had two visions within hours of each other, and you passed out after both of them. You’re hammered, dude. And you look like crap.” Dean studied his brother’s face, noting the pallor under the tan. “Okay, second choice – how about we go out for some fresh air?”

“Sounds good.” Sam pushed his chair back as he rose to his feet.

Dean watched his brother pull on a long sleeved shirt and a jacket, catching the slight wince as Sam turned his head. “Still got that headache?”

Sam huffed. “When haven’t I got a headache?” He shrugged at his brother’s concerned look. “It’s not that bad. Maybe the fresh air will clear my head.”

Nodding, the elder brother led the way out of the motel room, determined to keep himself between his baby brother and whatever evil son of a bitch wanted to take a swing at him. Whatever was trying to get at Sam, be it freaky psychic kid or demon, it would have to get past Dean first. And the elder hunter vowed to make damned sure it wasn’t going to get its wish.

*     *     *     *     *

Elizabeth Logan crushed the sodden handkerchief in one slender hand as she stared at the embarrassed cop, her growing frustration boiling over into outright anger. “What did you say?”

The young cop spread his hands in apology. “Uh – your fiancé hasn’t been missing long enough to file a missing persons report.”

“But – he’s been gone all night – and it’s now mid-morning – he hasn’t showed up for work – Geoffrey’s never late for work…” The red haired girl’s breath caught on a barely suppressed sob. She knew deep down that something had happened to her fiancé. He hadn’t come home, he hadn’t called, and she’d paced the floor all night, worried out of her mind, before finally relenting not long after dawn and calling the cops.

“I’m sorry, ma’am – it’s just – well…” The uniformed young man’s face flushed red as he scuffed the toe of his boot into the carpet. “He could have – um…”

Elizabeth drew herself up to her full height, anger blasting through her at the implied slur against the man she loved. She threw back her head, craning her neck to look the young cop in the eyes. “Geoffrey wouldn’t do that! He’s not having an affair, or in trouble with work, or any of those other things you’re implying! He went to meet someone after work about a plan for his future, and he didn’t come home! Something’s happened to him, I just know it!”

“Okay – do you know the name of this man he was supposed to meet?”

“Um – no.” The girl frowned, trying to recall every detail of the previous night. “But Geoff was – kind of off – he was nervous…” Realising how that sounded, Elizabeth fell silent, glaring at the cop as she silently dared him to make his accusations again.

“Right – so, do you know where he was to meet this guy?”

“No.”

“So, you don’t know the man’s name, you don’t know the place – you don’t know if – the meeting was real, or if it was just…”

“I know Geoff!” Elizabeth bit out. “He told me he’d see me at home later. Why would he say that if he didn’t plan on coming home? He’s missing – he could be hurt, or…” Swallowing convulsively, she trailed into a tense silence, not wanting to voice the alternatives.

Shaking his head, the cop put his notebook away in his pocket and made his way to the front door. “I’m sorry, but we can’t file a report until the person’s been missing for at least twenty four hours. It’s policy.” He turned at the door, his hand on the frame, and looked uneasily at the now fuming girl. “Look, if you haven’t heard anything by tonight, give the station a call, and we’ll file it, okay? You – uh – have a nice day, ma’am.”

The door closed, and Elizabeth threw the wadded up handkerchief at the wall. “Have a nice day!” She paced angrily through the small but comfortably furnished apartment, her thoughts whirling through her head, her anger and worry growing by the second. Finally, she came to a halt in the middle of the living room, her tear-filled eyes locked on a photograph of her and Geoffrey, taken on a skiing trip to Colorado the year before.

Picking up the phone from the small side table beside the overstuffed couch, Elizabeth sank down onto the edge of the single armchair flanking the couch and the low coffee table, her fingers dialling the number of the bank from memory. As the phone began to ring at the other end, she drew in a deep, unsteady breath.

“Bree? It’s – yeah, it’s me again. Has he….no, huh? Well, if he….yeah, thanks, Bree. No, I’m – I’m okay….okay, honey. ‘Bye.” Elizabeth slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle, and curled her hands into fists, her long nails digging painfully into her palms, leaving tiny red crescents against her fair skin. “Geoff – where are you,” she whispered brokenly.

*     *      *      *      *

There was a drum concert playing inside his skull, and they definitely weren’t in tune. Geoffrey Simmonds groaned softly, and tried to raise a hand to his aching head. His arm wouldn’t move, and the young bank clerk frowned in confusion, dragging his eyelids open and blinking rapidly to focus his blurry vision. He found himself in a small, gloomy room, the only light source coming from a tiny, dirt encrusted window set high up in one wall. Trying once more to move his arms, he discovered he was tied hand and foot to a heavy wooden chair.

Geoffrey groaned again, and pulled in growing desperation at the heavy ropes binding his limbs. Gazing around his prison, he studied the layout, and decided he was in some sort of cellar, but he had no recollection of how he had gotten there. No sound came from the floorboards a few feet above his head, and the only noise he could detect inside the dank room was his own ragged breathing.

Without warning, the cellar door at the top of a rickety flight of stairs was flung open, blinding the young clerk as late afternoon sunshine slanted into the dingy room. Squinting against the sudden glare, Geoffrey made out the silhouette of a man in the doorway, and his eyes tracked the figure as it made its way down to the cellar floor.

“Well, well, well – look who’s awake at last.” The middle-aged man from Scanlon’s Bar smiled smugly as he came to a halt a few feet from the chair and rested one well manicured hand on his hip.

“Who – who are you? Where am I?” Geoffrey fought to keep the panic out of his voice as the man loomed closer. He gazed up at the glittering, obsidian eyes in the bland, forgettable face. “What are you...”

“Tsk, tsk – so many questions. One at a time, if you please.” The enigmatic stranger walked slowly around the chair, smirking as the young man whipped his head from side to side to try to keep him in view. “Who am I – well, that’s not important right now. Where are you – in a place of my choosing, safe from – interference. What am I – I am one of the keys to your future. A future filled with endless possibilities.”

Geoffrey licked his dry lips. “Key? I thought this Sam Winchester guy was the key.” Panic rose in him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. His eyes widened in fear as the man loomed closer, and his nose caught a faint, sour smell, like rotten eggs.

“Little Sammy Winchester – he’s a means to an end. Someone who can help you – hone your gifts, shall we say. You’ll meet him soon enough.” The man laughed sarcastically. “You two will have lots to talk about.”

Swallowing nervously, the young clerk turned his face away. Shivers began to wrack his frame, and he couldn’t stop the feeling of utter helplessness welling up inside him. Desperately, he fought to bring his fiancée’s face to the forefront of his mind. He had to find some way to get out of this – for Elizabeth’s sake as much as his own. “What – what do you mean?”

The demon strode across the room, picked up a chair from against the wall, and carried it back to the panicked bank clerk. He swung it around, straddling the seat and leaning his forearms on the backrest. He smiled at the struggling young man. “Now, Geoff – can I call you Geoff?”

“Let me go!”

Raising his hand, the demon wagged an admonishing finger at the bound man. “All in good time. Now, how about we have a little chat about your – special abilities, hmm?”

Geoffrey pulled ineffectually at the ropes, wincing as the rough hemp abraded the flesh on his wrists. “What are you gonna do to me?

“Do to you? Do to you?” The man pursed his lips in speculation, and laced his fingers together as he leaned forward slightly. “No, no – do for you. You see, Geoff – you have so much potential – just waiting to be unlocked. And I’m going to show you how to unlock it.”

Geoff’s terrified gaze fastened on the man’s face. He pressed back against the hard seat of the chair as the demon rose to his feet.

“You and me, Geoff – we’re going to make a great team.”

*     *     *     *     *

Three days later

Dean loaded the shotgun with rock salt, and handed it to his lanky sibling. “This one should be easy – no digging.”

“We still have to break into the crypt, Dean,” Sam cautioned as he hefted the weapon. He leaned down, picked up the can of gasoline from the trunk, and turned to face his brother. “And don’t tempt fate by saying it’s gonna be easy, all right?”

“Me? Tempt fate?” Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief. Nudging Sam back with his shoulder, he grabbed the weapons duffle and closed the trunk. “Not me, little brother.”

The shaggy haired psychic shook his head and huffed in amusement as he followed his sibling along an overgrown, broken path through the oldest part of the cemetery. “Hope you got a lucky rabbit’s foot or somethin’, to break the curse you just put on us.”

Dean snorted. “Rabbit’s foot – yeah, right. Dude, if you believe in lucky rabbit’s feet, then I got some swamp land in Florida to sell you.”

“I’m just sayin’, Dean, every time you say it’s gonna be easy, we end up pickin’ our asses up off the ground after some pissed off spirit’s used us for a chew toy.”

The elder Winchester opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, and then shrugged one broad shoulder as he continued to trudge through the unkempt, weed choked grass.

Sam grinned at his brother’s back. “What, no smart ass comeback, big brother?”

“I’m thinkin’,” Dean muttered. He tossed a quick look over his shoulder, pleased to see his brother smiling. The last two days had been relatively quiet for the two hunters. Sam’s visions, and his mysterious fever, had stopped as suddenly as they had begun, and the brothers had hit the road again, taking on this hunt out of sheer boredom.

Some local kids had reported seeing a spectral figure hanging around the gates of the cemetery at night. One night, a couple of braver, or more foolhardy, older boys had given chase, tracking the spirit to a crypt in the oldest part of the cemetery. One of the boys had never come back.

The other kids had been questioned, and one of the boys had told the sceptical cops that the spirit had come at them from the darkness, bowling them over like ninepins. When they’d picked themselves up off the ground, they realised that one of their number had disappeared. They’d seen nothing, and heard nothing, to give them a clue as to where he’d been taken, so they’d hightailed it out of there, figuring that he’d already run off home. It was only when he failed to show up for class the next morning that the other boys realised he was missing.

The police found the missing boy’s body a week later, locked inside the crypt, his neck broken, with bruises in the shape of a handprint across his throat.

Sam had tracked down the identity of the murdering spook, and the exact location of the body, so here they were, ploughing through knee high weeds and grass, nimbly avoiding broken bits of old headstones, half buried beneath a sea of nodding weeds. The wind rustled the grass, and shook the branches of a nearby oak tree, and Dean paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the surrounding darkness. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he moved on, hearing the comforting thud of Sam’s footsteps following right behind him.

The cracked and pitted path turned to the right a few feet beyond the oak tree, and the elder hunter glanced up, seeing the crypt looming over them in the dark. He nudged his sibling, who nodded, stepping to the heavily padlocked door as he slid his lock pick set out of his jacket pocket.

Dean dropped the weapons bag to the ground, and hefted his own shotgun, keeping watch while Sam picked the lock. After a few seconds, he heard a soft snick, and then a metallic rattle as the chain was slid to the ground. The hunter swept the weapons bag back onto his shoulder, and followed his sibling into the pitch-black crypt.

Sam clicked on his flashlight, directing the beam in a sweeping path across the floor of the crypt. The bright swathe of light illuminated a raised concrete platform in the centre of the cramped space, and the young hunter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What the hell is that?”

Moving down the two stone steps to the floor, Dean walked slowly around the stone coffin sitting on the concrete slab. “Dude – it’s like the Flintstones or somethin’.” He winked at his sibling. “Hey, wonder if it’s gonna be Wilma or Betty.”

“Knowing our luck, it’ll probably be Dino,” Sam muttered as he helped Dean slide the heavy stone lid to the floor. He grimaced at the musty smell of decay that wafted from the coffin, and glanced at the petrified remains. Sam heard a soft thump as Dean dropped the weapons bag to the floor, and he grabbed the can of gasoline. As he straightened up, a trickle of sweat wound its way down the side of his face, and he wiped it off with his shirtsleeve.

“You wanting to start up that crap again about getting a pet?” Dean picked up the salt container and began to sprinkle the pure white granules liberally over the desiccated corpse. “First you talk about a chew toy, and now Dino? Seriously, dude, you know we can’t have a dog, so get over your fixation, okay?”

“Bite me.” Sam rolled his eyes and frowned at his sibling as the older man chuckled. He twisted the cap off the gasoline can, and raised the plastic container, just as the temperature in the crypt plummeted.

“Crap, here we go,” Dean murmured as he scooped the shotgun from the floor beside the weapons bag. Cocking the weapon, he scanned the tiny space as Sam swept it with the flashlight beam. “You see her?”

“No – wait.”

Dean frowned as the beam stopped moving. “Sammy?”

Sam trained the flashlight beam on a section of wall to the left of the door, seeing a tiny flicker of movement. The powerful light revealed nothing, and the young hunter blew out an aggrieved sigh. He turned to his left, and gasped, stumbling to his knees as a blinding pain hammered between his eyes. The flashlight fell from his numb fingers, the beam bouncing crazily as it rolled across the floor.

“Sam!” Dean started forward, only to be jerked back as icy, unseen hands grabbed him by the throat. He struggled futilely as he was hoisted off his feet and flung across the width of the crypt. A winded grunt left his lips as he collided with the crypt wall and slid to the floor, the shotgun spinning from his grasp. The cocked weapon clattered to the floor, its load of rock salt discharging harmlessly at the ceiling, as the spectral murderer leered at the winded hunter. Dean cursed breathlessly and struggled to his feet as she floated toward his baby brother. “Sammy!”

The young psychic remained on his knees; his eyes wide open, staring blankly into space, his hands hanging limply by his side, oblivious to his impending danger. He made no move toward the dropped shotgun a few feet away, or the canister of salt near his foot, and Dean realised with growing horror that his brother was in the throes of another vision.

The ghost drifted to within a foot of the shaggy haired man, a look of evil delight on her translucent, wasted face. She glanced over her shoulder, favouring the elder hunter with a grin of triumph, and then she bent down, wrapping her hands around Sam’s unprotected neck.

“Let him go, you bitch!” A sickening feeling rose in the pit of Dean’s stomach as he realised he wouldn’t get to his little brother in time. He surged forward, desperate to get to Sam before the spirit could do her dirty work. Before he could take more than two steps in his brother’s direction, the ghost plucked Sam off the floor and threw him toward the far wall. Dean’s horrified gaze tracked his brother’s flight across the crypt. The psychic’s tall frame hit the unyielding brick wall with almost bone crushing force, and fell to the floor, sprawling haphazardly across the cold stone like a broken doll. “Sammy!”

*     *     *      *     *

 

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