Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, I just like to play with the characters. :)
Authoress Notes: I meant for this to be a one chapter story... but it didn't work out that way. Luckily all who like it, there will be more to come. ^_^ Ooh FYI, 'La Danse Macabre' means 'Dance of the Dead', or 'Dance of Death', whichever way you see it I suppose. It is by Michael Wolgemut. You can look it up on Google just by requesting in the images for 'La Danse Macabre', by Michael Wolgemut. :) Let me know what you think of the picture, please! :D It's the picture that inspired this story.
This is Wikipedia's ideas as to what the picture meant: "'La Danse Macabre' is a late-medieval allegory on the universality of death: no matter one's station in life, the dance of death unites all. 'La Danse Macabre' consists of the personified death leading a row of dancing figures from all walks of life to the grave, typically with an emperor, king, youngster, and beautiful girl—all skeletal. They were produced to remind people of how fragile their lives and how vain the glories of earthly life were."
Beta: I don't have one... so the mistakes are all mine. I apologize in advance.
Summary: Cemeteries are a dangerous place to be when the sun goes down. What was supposed to be a simple salt and burn has turned into a fight for life. The Brother's are separated and injured with time running out and an angry spirit on the loose. Will the brothers be able to face down the Dance of the Dead? Read and find out.
"La Danse Macabre"
Chapter One
The chipped formica table he was currently sitting at was a very ugly shade of puce, making his features twist in a dirty scowl. "Seriously?" he mumbled to himself. On top of the god-awful 60's impersonation the hole in the wall dive was trying to embody, the waitresses were missing teeth on top of other impressionable features.
"It's not that bad Sammy," Dean Winchester, older brother extraordinaire told his baby brother with a shit-eating grin.
The younger Winchester shot his big brother a glare and turned his head, so he was looking out the window and not at the disaster known as 'Pinkys'. "Remind me again why we have to stay in the next town over from the actual hunt we're supposed to be investigating?"
Dean shrugged, playing with the salt shaker that sat in the sticky table. "Safer this way. No record of us in their town makes us harder to track down if things go south."
"Aren't we paranoid?" Sam taunted his brother. "Usually I'm the one that shoots for discretion, not you, Conan the Destroyer."
Dean threw his middle finger up at his brother, smiling before going back to his menu.
"It's a simple salt and burn Dean, we've done this before," Sam shot back at if he was telling someone with half a brain. "Besides, Paul Lando gave us all the information we need. We even know where the body is located."
This time it was Dean whose face twisted into a glare. "I'm trying to be careful Sam; I thought you of all people would appreciate that since I apparently shoot first and ask questions later. Like a rookie," Dean spat out the last part with a bit of venom in his voice.
Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head.
They'd been having issues with each other lately. It was easy to start attacking one another when trapped in such close courters the Impala provided for longer than a week. The petty blows were on the rise since they'd entered the dilapidated town of Plainway. Sam had been sure that the name of the pathetic city wasn't a coincidence. They were actually supposed to be in the next town over, a fairly large, but quaint homely sort of place called, Willowfield.
"What can I get you handsome boys today?"
Sam looked at his brother to see him smiling charmingly at the buxom waitress, who was presumably in her forties, wearing way too much eye makeup and had pink lipstick smeared across her yellow teeth. Suddenly he wasn't so hungry, at least for the fare that this grease pit had to offer.
"Well Darla, I'd like the Big John Combo and a slice of that fantastic looking cherry pie," Dean told her with a giant smile.
The tone in his brother's voice made him sound like a charming and polite gentleman, but Sam recognized the tenor from a lesson his father had taught them years ago. If you're eating in a questionable restaurant, which was all of the time for them nowadays, then be exceptionally polite, because you never what they might do to your food.
"Sure thing sweetheart," Darla said to Dean with a wink from her fake eyelashes. She turned her attention then to Sam, who went immediately to puppy-dog-mode. "How about you hon?"
"Grilled cheese please," he said with an equally dashing smile. His father had taught them well.
"Coming right up." Darla took their menus and swaggered off through the swinging door that read 'Kitchen'.
"A storm is heading in tonight."
Sam glanced up at his brother, frowning slightly. "We get to dig up a mud pit then?"
"Hey, at least we know we'll be covered. Nobody will be able to hear anything over the rain and wind," Dean told him with a sour expression on his face. Sam knew how to push his buttons, complaining about the hunts or taking pot-shots at his intelligence. His was up for neither tonight. "Suck it up Samantha."
Sam ignored the comment and continued staring out the window, watching the dark clouds swirl overhead.
When their food arrived, they ate silently, content on not provoking each other any further.
Once they returned to their motel, the term Sam thought was used too liberally for the crapshoot they had been calling their home for the past few days.
"Get some sleep Sam; we're heading out at two to Willowfield. The quicker we get this over with, the sooner we can head to Bobby's."
Sam watched his brother head into the bathroom and sighed, sitting down on the lumpy, stain covered bed. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. The beginnings of a headache were beginning to curl into his temples. Maybe some sleep would do him some good.
The younger Winchester kicked off his shoes and crawled up the mattress, falling face first onto the mattress. Slowly sleep started tugging at him and he let it pull him in, the sound of thunder ushering him into his short rest.
"Wakey, wakey little brother."
Dean watched Sam's face wrinkle in annoyance as he disrupted his nap. "The siesta is over Sammy, we need to get a move on. I want to be at Bobby's by tomorrow afternoon."
"Five more minutes," the sleep ridden voice begged.
The older brother shook his head, hiding a small smile. For as many times that Sam proved to be nothing short of a pain in his ass, his little brother knew how to play him. "Fine, but if you aren't up by then I'm going to flip your mattress over."
Sam grunted and went quiet again, apparently agreeing to the terms.
True to the agreement, Sam was up in five minutes, sitting up on the edge of his bed and dragging his shoes on his feet. He yawned and wiped the remnants of sleep from his eyes. They needed to be alert if everything was going to go smoothly.
"You ready?" Dean asked pulling his leather jacket on and hefting his duffel over his arm and onto his shoulder. He watched his little brother, and could make out the tense lines around Sam's eyes, instantly recognizing the symptoms of a headache.
"Take these," Dean ordered as he threw a little white bottle at his brother, catching him in the head.
The sound of thunder broke the silence in the room. Pitter patters followed signaling the beginning of the storm.
Dean grinned. "Right on time."
Dean's attention turned back to his little brother, watching as Sam thumbed off the lid and letting four brown pills slide into his palm. He threw them back into his mouth and swallowed them dry, quickly popping the lid back in place and tossing them back to his brother.
"Let's go." Sam hefted his own duffel over his shoulder. He was just as eager to get this salt and burn done with. He could almost envision the slightly more comfortable mattress waiting for him at Bobby's place. At least he'd have someone other than his brother to talk to and have on his side in case a prank war ensued.
Dean had always had a strange way of unwinding.
The rain was dropping from the dark sky in droves, only being seen when a bright zigzag would light up the sky long enough to see tiny droplets descending from the sky by the thousands.
Willowfield was just fifteen minutes from Plainway, and the two Winchesters were parked behind the giant cemetery, in the woods, a few minutes thereafter. The large cemetery was surrounded by a small cluster of woods, hiding it from the naked eye.
They had scouted out the gravesite the day before. Finding its location had been the hard part, taking a better part of the day to track down. The cemetery covered 250 acres, and about 9 ½ miles of winding roads. This particular cemetery dated back before the Civil War, with many of its occupants having died from different wars and illnesses that had taken place over the last 200 years.
In short, it was old, and filled with a lot of tragedy, bad blood, and anger.
An old friend of their father had given them a call, explaining that he believed a spirit was causing illness to spread around the little town of Willowfield. Cholera was the diagnosed illness, scattering through the small town like the bubonic plague.
It dawned on Sam that maybe that's why his brother wanted them far from the small town. It made sense, and he was a little surprised he hadn't realized it earlier. Perhaps the many nights of not sleeping and migraines were beginning to weigh down on him.
Apparently the illness has confused and left many physicians in shock, because cholera is an illness that had become uncommon as healthcare has improved. And this disease can wreak havoc, being extremely contagious, spreading from person to person. From what Sam can remember, the doctor had told them some of the symptoms included diarrhea, vomiting, cramps, weakness, increased heart rate, coma, and death.
He distinctly remembered Dean's face turning a light shade of green at the rather detailed information.
The doctor also explained that if not caught within hours, and treated, this it is most certainly lethal. The disease dehydrates the body rapidly and causes the organs to go into shock from the dehydration. The illness was never typically so aggressive, but people from the town had started rolling in with severe symptoms, and unfortunately for some, the healthcare arrived too late.
Hence the Winchester's arrival. This wasn't typically the back story for one of their hunts, but the spirit connected with the up-cropping of illness was a menace and had taken lives. It was one that needed to be put to eternal rest.
With equipment in hand, both Dean and Sam made their way to one of the walls surrounding the cemetery.
"Watch your back Sammy; we don't know if this thing has friends."
Sam nodded and decided against telling his over-protective brother that he wasn't five and knew how to watch both of their backs.
Their research had shown that the security was not as up-to-date as they expected, and it was a small blessing that tipped in their favor. The rain was going to make the dig longer and harder for them to put the spirit to rest. They needed all of the blessings they could get.
The brothers walked, side by side through the rain, threading in and out of the many trees growing in the cemetery in search of the headstone they were searching for.
"This wasn't so hard yesterday," Dean shouted out loud, above the rain, wind, and thunder.
Sam looked at his brother and half-grinned, wiping back his rain-matted hair. "Maybe it has something to do with the million gallons of water being dumped on us."
Dean shook his head and shot back sarcastically, "Nah, it can't be that Sammy."
"Wait."
Dean came to a halt, half-turned to look at his little brother.
"This is it."
The older Winchester walked over, dropping the shovel and gas can. He clapped Sam on the shoulder and beamed at him. "You were always good at finding Waldo, Sammy."
Ernest Sheridan was carved into the giant headstone that lay before them.
The two wasted no time, grabbing their shovels and plowing into the ground. When the whole got too big for them to climb out unaided, they started taking turns.
It was the loud 'thwack!' noise that caused Dean to stop his furious digging.
"Bingo!" Dean shouted as he threw the shovel out of the deep grave. "Gas can, Sammy," Dean asked, nodding approvingly as the red container was passed to him.
"Dean?"
It was then that Dean could feel the shift in the wind and rain. He turned and looked up at his brother who was shining the light off into the distance, looking at something. "Sam, what is it?" And before Dean's eyes he watched as his brother was picked up by something he couldn't see, and thrown beyond his line of vision.
"Fuck!" Dean cursed turning back to the coffin and ripped the lid open to expose a hideous corpse. He dumped all of the accelerant on the dried corpse with one hand while pulling out his lighter with the other. The cap was flipped back and he flicked the gear until the flame was present.
It felt like the same moment that Dean had dropped the lighter, engulfing the body in flames, and slamming a foot into the soft mud, forcing his hands and feet to find purchase to get his ass out of the grave.
"Sam!"
It took just a moment for Sam to realize that he was in the presence of something that didn't want them there. The feeling crept over him like a veil, causing a shiver to run up his rain soaked back. In the darkness he saw something flicker and move. Shit.
"Dean?"
It was an instant too late. He hadn't even had time to raise the shotgun full of rock salt before the spirit had appeared right before him, skeletal hand wrapping around his throat and tossing him like a ragdoll. The breath was forced from his mouth and he had no breath to scream.
The impact jarred his entire body and caused a white hot pain to register throughout his back and head. Sam could dazedly make out his brother's worried voice call out to him, but his lungs still had yet to inflate before the angry apparition was in front of him again.
Sam's eyes widened at the gruesome remains of Ernest Sheridan and he tried bracing himself as a hand of inhuman strength wrapped around his forearm and lifted him off of the ground. Just then a pop sounded through the air, and Sam flopped to the ground. He looked up to see Dean heaving, smoking barrel of the shotgun pointed to where he'd just been standing.
"Are you alright Sammy?"
Sam nodded, not trusting his voice enough to give a verbal answer.
"Angry sonofabitch," Dean growled, quickly moving over to his little brother.
Dean could have sworn the gas had been enough to release the hold this guy had on the earthly realm, but he was sorely mistaking. And before Dean was even halfway there; Ernest reappeared slamming into Dean, throwing him backwards and disappearing in a puff of dust.
"Dean!" Sam was back on his feet in an instant, all pains either forgotten or buried deep down. He moved towards where his brother had been thrown, far away from Ernest's grave, and behind some thick foliage. "Dean?" Sam listened but he couldn't hear anything over the deafening drops of rain and howling wind. "Where are you?"
The younger Winchester could feel the panic rising in his chest as he realized he was unarmed and separated from his brother. "Dean?" he tried again, moving slowly and cautiously through the foliage being careful to memorize his surroundings.
It wasn't long before he'd entered a new clearing of headstones. "Damn," he cursed and turned back to head back to where he came. Where the hell could his brother have gone? Sure footed, Sam took a step to his left, a step that cost him dearly.
Sam felt the ground beneath his feet shift and before he could try to stop himself, he was swallowed whole by the wet cemetery ground. He felt disconnected as his body was free-falling down into the muddy hole. But he could feel as things impacted his body and forced his limbs to twist and catch on unknown objects. He even heard himself scream before his body slammed into something impossibly hard, his head bouncing off of an object he couldn't see.
Sam blinked, feeling droplets of rain splashing against his face. His body screamed in agony and his vision blurred, mixing into gray. Body going numb, Sam knew his consciousness was abandoning him and giving him reprieve from the pain that pulsed with his heart beats.
With his last bit of clarity, he saw a blurred shape standing above ground, peering down at him. Then the world tilted and his eyes rolled upwards, consciousness releasing its hold.
TBC... I'd love to hear what you thought. :)
