Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Damn.
Dirty Little Secrets
Chapter 1
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Left or right?
Left looked like the logical way to go; the path was brightly lit, the exit marked clearly before him. There were no doorways that any beasts could burst out of, no pillars or indentions they could spring out from behind. Maybe the word for the path wasn't logical; maybe it was safe. To most people, those two words could be used interchangeably, but to a Winchester, the difference was drastic.
A head turn to the right, and Sam was staring down the other hallway. The less "logical" one. In complete contrast to the left hall, this one was nearly pitch black after a few forward steps and at the end there was a corner, leaving what was behind it a mystery. A bit of dim illumination came out from around the bend, and the light- which Sam suspected to be from candles- danced on the dank cement walls. A medley of voices journeyed along with the glow, bouncing off the walls until they reached Sam. The voices, quelled by distance, had become whisper by then, taunting Sam to come and discover the ambiguity of their words.
Most people would have been bolting to the left route at first glimpse of the additional, but Sam wasn't most. Maybe it was all the years of baddy-killing, maybe it was just in his blood, or maybe it was his brother's voice in his head telling him to "not be such a little bitch", but Sam was tempted to go for the latter.
Before the brunette was able to finalize the decision for himself, however, the choice was made for him. The ground under Sam suddenly lurched to the right, sending him stumbling in to the dark hallway. Sam turned to look behind, to see what was the cause of the not-so-passive shove and found himself staring at a newly founded cement wall.
Sam reached out a hand and felt the barricade- solid and firm it blocked the left route. Well, now. That's alleviates the burden of choosing, Sam thought to himself, trying to ignore the new sense of dread that had built up in his chest.
Turning he's back on the wall, Sam treaded as softly as capable through the hallway, though the squeaking off his shoes still sounded deafening. The chanting was getting louder as he approached the corner and he could hear it clearly now. He couldn't quite understand what they were saying, but he could hear the words.
"Nostrum fidelitas nunquam inclino," it sounded like women's voices, "quod nos scisco vestrum, o valde unus, vindico nos ex is fantum."
Absently running a hand through his hair and biting at his lower lip, Sam searched through his mind. They were speaking Latin, he realized, recognizing the words "we", "you" and "one". Sam let the words sink in; maybe when he left this place he'd translate it all.
Sam warily stuck his head around the corner, but only enough that he could see:
The room couldn't have been bigger than a walk-in closet. Yet there were at least 15 women within, crammed like sardines, forming a tight circle. Each of the women wore a long, brown robe, the hood draping over to hide some of their faces; the apparel dimly reminded Sam of when he dressed up as a Jedi in the 5th grade.
Inside the perimeter of chanting women, dozens of candles formed a circle of their own. The flames wavered rhythmically with the chanting, adding to the already eerie atmosphere. And that which they encircled, appeared to be nothing but a massive pile of rags.
Well, scratch that. A normal person would first perceive the dirty lump as rags, but this was Sam. A Winchester. His eyes were trained to immediately take in the odd, almost oval, shape of the pile; and the gentle, nearly imperceptible rise and fall that occurred where Sam assumed was the chest area.
Oh, the feet sticking out from beneath helped too.
What to do? What to do? Such a simple question, a 3-sylable slip off the tongue; Sam wished the answer was as easy.
He could turn back and find Dean. Then together they'd figure a way to help the prisoner. There were a couple flaws with that plan however: one being that he couldn't quite remember where Dean went- it was strange he wasn't worried- and the other being he was afraid to leave the Rag person alone. What if something happened to him while Sam was off looking for his brother?
He also could just barge into the room, knocking over candles and women on the way but, he was outnumbered about 20 to 1, and they had a hostage. Sam didn't like those odds.
Sam's need to resolve this quandary suddenly increased drastically, when one of the women approached the prone figure. She was still chanting, as well as the others, but Sam's focus was one what she was doing with her right hand.
The dagger's blade glistened in the light of the flames.
Sam didn't hesitate when he realize what was about to happen next. With an angry war cry, Sam temerariously rushed into the other room.
However, in his haste he failed to notice the pale, elaborate chalk-drawn lines that bordered the separation between the rooms and the second his foot crossed his head erupted with agony.
His mouth contorted in a rictus of pain and his vision teetered between focusing and becoming a blur. A far off, dull thump - and the ceiling suddenly appearing in his field of vision- were his only acknowledgement he was on the floor. He shut his eyes as a new ripping wave tore through his skull and subconsciously rolled into a strained fetal position. His hands groped at his soft-brown hair, trying desperately to pull away the hurt.
The sound of the chanting seemed to surround him, steadily getting louder and forcing it's way into Sam's awareness. "Nostrum fidelitas nunquam inclino, quod nos scisco vestrum, o valde unus, vindico nos ex is fantum!" He strained his eyes open, taking up a lot more effort then such a task should, and tried to see if they were coming closer. It didn't seen like they were. His vision was fuzzy and everything was shrouded in a haze of red and orange.
Red and orange. Like the fire. Like the candles.
The flames of the candles were taller now, at least five feet. The prisoner and the women with the dagger were encased in a ring of fire.
"Nostrum fidelitas nunquam inclino, quod nos scisco vestrum, o valde unus, vindico nos ex is fantum!"
Sam blinked his eyes, and some of the burliness in receded. He fought to focus; he needed to help that person. He struggled to his knees, attempting to push aside the pain.
Inside the ring of fire, the woman tightened her hold on the dagger. Bending over at the waist, she reached down and removed the fabrics that were covering the person.
Sam gasped.
The person was Dean.
Thick straps of leather bound his brother's arms and legs tightly. He'd been stripped down to his boxers, and his body looked to be covered in a cuts and bruises, varying in levels of severity. Most of them appeared minor, but some of them look deep enough to require stitches, including the angry, profusely bleeding gash on near his brother's temple.
Sam wasn't given the luxury of wondering how his brother got in his current state of being.
The women knelt beside Dean and she drew back her right arm.
"Nostrum fidelitas nunquam inclino, quod nos scisco vestrum, o valde unus, vindico nos ex is fantum!"
Sam bolted towards them, forgetting his own pain, screaming and yelling, hoping to distract them.
But Sam wasn't fast enough.
And no one had noticed him.
The blade came down in a swooshing arc.
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Sam woke up screaming.
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So, how was it? I'm new to this so be gentle. However, well-rounded critics will also be greatly appreciated!