A/N: This came to me one night in a fit of... I'm not sure I want to call it inspiration. Insanity is a better word. Yeah; let's go with that. Takes place around early Season Two, I think. I honestly have no idea. I hope you like it anyway.
My apologies to anyone who likes Kenny G.
Summary: Times the word 'up' is italicized: 2. Mentions of Kenny G: also 2. --Sam and Dean walk into a building...--
...And Here's the Punchline
Really, in the grand scheme of things, this probably wasn't the worst thing that would ever happen to him. Still, Dean decided, it was quickly becoming the most annoying. And frustrating. And, hell, at this point he could definitely use a shot of Jack. Or a whole bottle.
The lone window of the room he was in refused to open, refused to act like glass at all, in fact; wouldn't break when he hit it with his gun or the sturdy wooden chair from the corner. And he honestly didn't wanna find out if bullets bounced off the damn thing, 'cause knowing the Winchester Luck, he'd somehow find a way to accidentally kill himself trying to shoot out a fucking possessed window. He peered out into the hallway that looked suspiciously like every other hallway in the god damned building, tried calling out again.
"Sammy?!" His voice echoed, but that was his only reply. He dialed Sam on his cell, desperate for anything to work. The call ended before it'd even begun, which was stupid, 'cause the signal bars were all wonderfully present. Whatever supernatural thing was doing this (and he knew it was supernatural, because what the hell else makes glass from an old window suddenly un-fucking-breakable and perfectly working cell phones suddenly suck ass?) was going to die a horrible, flame-induced death if he ever found it. And he was gonna find it.
Just as soon as he found Sam.
0 0 0
Sam was currently in the basement, sawed off held in front of him, ready to blast any ghosties chock full a' rock salt should they choose to come near. Truth was, he didn't quite understand how he'd gotten down here. He and Dean went to check two different rooms, right across the hall from each other, and when he'd walked out... he'd walked out into this room.
There were stacks upon stacks of brown file boxes, creating an intricate maze that wound through the small room. He was surprised his tall frame actually fit through some of the tighter corners, and he was maybe just getting to be the tiniest bit claustrophobic. Possibly. Nothing to worry about, though. It totally wasn't like he was about ready to let out a whimper and curl up in a ball to wait for his big brother to save the day. Hell no! He was a badass with a gun full of rock salt and a stubborn streak a mile wide.
Blatantly ignoring the shaky sigh of relief that passed his lips when he finally found the other side of the damn room, he opened the door, and stepped out into a concrete hallway.
It was grimy looking, and damp. Well, more like wet. The kind of wet (and dirty and dimly lit) that makes you think of horror movies and psycho killers. But that was perfectly fine because his whole freakin' life was just one big, long horror movie anyway and, frankly, he was used to it.
Decidedly unimpressed, he made his way down to the end of the hall on his left, where there appeared to be stairs leading up. And right about now anything that led up was alright by him.
0 0 0
The gunshot cracked in the air, and the spirit dissipated. For now. Who the hell knew where the damn body was, if it was even buried. Though, from the amount of power it took to control all the doors and windows in the place (not to mention the fucking flying staplers; that had been just super), Dean had a feeling he was probably stashed somewhere in the building.
He had managed to get down to the fourth floor, though how he'd ended up above the second, he hadn't a clue. They'd been looking for the guy's office, but some of the number panels and name plates had been torn from the pristinely beige walls of the recently abandoned office building. They'd only split up to walk across a freakin' hall, and suddenly he was on the fifth floor in the middle of a hallway that looked remarkably similar to the one he'd just been in. And he didn't even really notice until he'd walked into the room opposite to find Sam very much not there.
Looking around cautiously, he made his way down the hall, opening every unlocked door and calling out his brother's name. And, sure, it wasn't a perfect plan. But with his phone down for the count, and none of the office phones working either, it was all he could realistically do.
The excited 'ding!' of a bell from down the hall caught him off guard. He instantly turned, shotgun up and ready to take out the ghost again, handgun tucked safely in the band of his jeans. Upon finding nothing, he moved stealthily toward the origin of the noise, to find... an elevator. An elevator which, to his knowledge, hadn't been working one floor up. He should know; he'd tried.
The doors were open, but no one (and nothing) was inside.
0 0 0
Sam let out something not quite a grunt, but not quite a groan either. This place was fucking diabolical, and he hated it so hard that he'd actually started mumbling the Rituale Romanum under his breath in hopes he could exorcise the building.
Seriously; what kind of sadistic architect designed this place? Who the hell makes stairs that go up, only to take you to a fucking sub-basement further down the hall?
He'd managed, however, to trace his way back to that stupid file room (though no way in hell was he ever going back in there), and now he was walking along the other hallway on the right, the one he'd ignored previously, because it had looked like a dead-end. Of course, once he reached the end, he actually physically thumped his head against the wall. Not enough to cause any real damage; just enough to jar his brain back into not-idiot mode. There, set into the wall that he couldn't have seen from the door of the file room, was an elevator.
He pushed the button, and watched the numbers above it light up as he waited.
0 0 0
In addition to being in the building from hell, Dean was now standing in the elevator in the building from hell. Normally he wouldn't dream of taking a creepy, previously broken, suddenly working elevator, but normally he wasn't pushed into said type of elevator by a whole lot of nothing.
Before he could right himself and turn around, the doors were closed and he was heading in the general direction of 'down'. He'd checked the access panel on the ceiling of the big metal box, but no dice. And of course, the minute he decided this wasn't so bad, because at least there was no shitty pseudo-jazz playing, what should come crackling through the speakers other than the man himself: Kenny G.
Two floors down, he started loudly humming some Metallica. By the time he'd reached his destination, he was full on singing Enter Sandman at the speakers kind of angrily, as if he could annoy the elevator back. His voice waned and died when the music finally stopped, but he'd been singing so loud that he hadn't even noticed the bell, or the woosh of the doors sliding open. Not until he looked up to find the familiar quirked eyebrow and grin of his little brother.
His stance immediately turned defensive. "What?" he said, belligerence clear in his voice. "It was Kenny G, dude. I had to do somethin'."
Sam rolled his eyes, but smiled, happy to finally be back in their comfortable madness. He stepped on the elevator with little trepidation, and Dean looked at him funny.
"What is it, Dean?"
"Did you actually call the elevator?"
"Yeah. Why, didn't you?"
Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between Sam and the elevator doors that seemed very intent on closing. "No. I mean, I tried before but it didn't work. It just opened, and some douche-y ghost pushed me in." He looked around when he mentioned said dead guy, like maybe he was in there with them and Dean could glare him into non-existence. He'd never tried, but he was pretty sure he could make it work. About ninety percent.
0 0 0
"Huh." Whatever track Sam's train of thought was about to switch to, it was derailed as the elevator came to a screeching halt. Which was a pretty weird sensation, when he thought about it later, stopping suddenly going up.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked back at Sam. The elevator was creaking like it was about to fall. They lunged simultaneously at the elevator doors, managing to get a grip and start prying them apart. After a few strained minutes of harsh breaths and swearing, they finally gave and slid fully open. With a cheerful 'ding!' the outer doors opened as well. The floor was at waist level, but Dean didn't spend much time thinking about it; he threw his gun onto the beige hallway carpet and pulled himself up and out. Sam followed him soon after.
Without a word, Dean reached down and yanked Sam's leg clear of the elevator just as it gave it's final death groan and plummeted like a stone to the bottom of the elevator shaft. Sam's face felt kind of numb, but he didn't say anything except for a mumbled "thanks" as Dean helped him up.
"At least we're back on the first floor," Sam said, gesturing to the large number 1 painted on the wall behind his brother's head. "Any idea where the hell his office is?"
"Nope," Dean said as he checked and rechecked that his sawed off was loaded and working, "but I think we can be fairly certain that Elvis hasn't left the building."
Sam snorted, started walking toward the foyer. "Lets find his office first. Maybe that'll give us some clues to where his body is."
"Hey!" The hand on his arm startled him, and he had his gun at the ready before he realized that Dean wasn't trying to warn him of impending danger. The look he was given by his older brother had him smiling sheepishly and lowering his weapon.
"No more wandering off by yourself, Samantha." And even though they'd both decided to split up, Sam decided to let it go. Just this once.
0 0 0
By the time they found the office, Dean was openly extolling the virtues of just burning the whole fucking building down.
It had taken two and a half hours to track down a damn list of the employees, and one with William Pilson's name on it before he died, and it turned out his office had been on the first floor. Near the east elevator. The elevator from hell.
Now they were looking through boxes of stuff, in a room that had been strangely padlocked from the outside and looked like it hadn't had a good dusting in a few months, trying to find clues as to where the hell Willy's body got dumped. Suffice to say, Dean was not having a fun time, and he didn't think Sam was either. Though, who knew? The kid loved research like Dean loved the Impala, and that was a whole lotta love.
"I'm serious, dude," he said, turning away from the cabinet door he'd just opened, "we only need enough salt for the body. A little gasoline goes a long way."
"Dean, for the last time, we are not burning down the building!" Sam turned back to one of the boxes, and Dean grumbled, glaring at him and reaching aimlessly into the cabinet. Imagine his surprise when he felt a harsh gust of cool air from the upper left corner...
The flashlight shone brightly, illuminating a hole in the wall where the cabinet backing had been removed. "Sam! Found somethin'." Dean Winchester was not a person who jumped for joy, not unless he was drunk or was about to give a very manly high-five that involved some extra effort, but right about now? If this turned out to be what he thought it was, he was willing to make an exception.
In the added glow of Sam's flashlight, he could see a seam in the wall, barely visible, outlining the inside of the cabinet. And then his little brother was gone.
0 0 0
Sam hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He gasped for breath, struggling to reach his gun where it lay a couple feet away, in front of the door. The oddly grinning, transparent countenance of one William Pilson loomed over him, leaning down slowly, extending one pale hand.
Rock salt blasted into the wall above Sam's head, disbanding the spirit and leaving powdered drywall dusting his face.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, turning to where the ghost had appeared again and aiming the sawed-off.
"On it!" Another gunshot sounded as Sam pulled himself forcefully to his knees and then stumbled to the cabinet.
He leaned back and kicked at the wall. Once, twice- there it went. Gagging at the scent of decaying flesh, he pulled the small bottle of lighter fluid from his jacket along with the container of salt. The sound of gunshots and various swears assaulted his ears, not to mention the seemingly endless whispered ramblings of the spirit as it kept coming back for more. As he covered the last bit of remains in the lighter fluid and struck a match, he heard a crash and a yelp from the corner of the room. He tossed the match, and turned just as the spirit, screaming, burst into flames.
0 0 0
Dean groaned as Sam pulled him from the wreckage of the cheap desk that he had been rather unceremoniously tossed onto. He wobbled unsteadily on his feet for a moment, glancing up at two very tall little brothers that seemed to be parting and merging like amoebas before his very eyes.
Figured either he hit his head harder than he'd thought, or the building was even more evil than the dead guy previously possessing it. Cause, really? One girl for a brother was more than enough. If he had to stumble around this place trailing the Lifetime-movie-of-the-week angst twins, he'd soon be slamming his head violently into a wall to get away. Not that he didn't love Sammy, but the kid was an emotional train wreck on the best of days, and it was painfully obvious.
"How many fingers?" Dean tried real hard to concentrate on the meaning behind those words, and got it after a few seconds' delay. Nodded his head as he stopped swaying in Sam's grasp, and looked at his giant hands. He saw six, so...
"Three." He grinned, and Sam grinned back.
"Well," he said, letting Dean steady himself against the nearby wall, "you can still do basic math, so I guess you're alright." Dean glared pointedly at the quickly coalescing Sams, aiming the deadly look at around where their noses were becoming one. It made him feel like he should be wearing 3-D glasses, and he couldn't help but snort as he bent to retrieve his gun from the splinters of wood at his feet.
0 0 0
"Hey, Sam?" Dean's voice sounded over the drone of the local evening news and the rush of water from the faucet. Sam quickly bent over the sink, spitting out foamy toothpaste and rinsing his brush.
"Yeah?"
"Did you remember to put the fire out?" It didn't take Sam long to figure out exactly which fire his brother was talking about, the hint of amusement clear in the older man's voice. For a moment nothing happened. The wallpaper remained the same dingy sea foam green it had been when they'd entered the motel room, the steady rhythm of the water continued to flow over his now-clean tooth brush, and the soothing voice of the newscaster almost casually mentioned something about arson and a recently abandoned office building.
And then Sam uttered the only two words he could think of at that moment: "Oh shit."
0 0 0
The bout of unrestrained laughter that followed echoed clear across the motel parking lot.