Jackson, Iowa, present day.
Dean Winchester checked the salt rounds in the sawed-off, ejected the clip from his habitual ivory-gripped .45, tapped it against the side of the receiver in a tick that always irritated Sam, shoved it home, racked the slide and pushed it into his waistband. Behind him, Sam's eyes wandered over the dilapidated building, the last vestige of a condemned old boarding house. Even from the distance of the fenced-off parking lot, the structure was clearly a hollowed shell, scheduled for demolition.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
Dean spared him a brief glance and a quirked eyebrow.
"What's not to be sure about? Vengeful spirit - simple, black and white case. Body cremated, victim murdered here by a house-mate back when the place was still in business. Building gets scheduled for demolition, spirit wakes up, equals string of dared, and now dead, teenage trespassers. It's the only explanation makes sense, Sammy. We roll in, find and destroy whatever remains are tying the spirit here, end of story."
"Yeah, I guess."
Dean straightened up, thumping the Impala's trunk shut with a little more force than necessary. "You guess?"
Sam's eyes skittered off the old boarding house to catch on his brother.
"No, sure you're probably right. Adds up. It's just …"
"What?" Dean heard the bite of irritation in his voice, but couldn't do much about it.
Sam shuffled from foot to foot, deliberating.
"It's just something about this seems … stretched. This place is in the middle of nowhere, well outside town by now. It's fenced up, there's occasional security, it's only been scheduled three weeks. And now suddenly a steady stream of kids decide to go sight-seeing and end up killed by one convenient vengeful spirit that just happens to be here? It just seems … too convenient."
Dean rolled his eyes.
"You're making too much of it, Sam. It's no big deal. Simple, straight up and down job. We get in there, finish off the spirit convenient or not, then we go for a drink and try to make some cash for a change, okay? Great."
He gave Sam an insincere smile and skirted his brother, hefting the shotgun and stalking towards the fence, not bothering to check if Sam was following. He was annoyed, he admitted, and that was never a great way to start a hunt, simple or not. But the "vibes" routine was vintage Sam - making a big deal out of nothing, complicating what was sure to be a clean-cut sweep and clear and making Dean second-guess himself. Everything was always twice as complicated as it needed to be with Sam, always had been. Right now, it pissed him off.
He shook his thoughts out of his head and focused on the job at hand. The fence was in bad repair, as the place had been cordoned off for several months, and despite the mobile security that occasionally made a token patrol since teenagers had been sneaking in and ending up dead, there were holes all along the fence. Easy access. Dean crouched down, gave the immediate area a cursory sweep, then shuffled quickly through the broken chain-link. The scuffling sounds behind him signalled Sam doing the same, but he didn't look back. He pushed the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder, barrel angled down, and looked around them. The west wall of the old building was about fifty meters from them over open ground that had once probably been a garden, but was now barren stone and parched grey refuse and dirt. The four storey building was completely dark, the light of the half moon washing it a stolid grey. Several of the windows on the bottom storeys were smashed, and a sign proclaiming the building condemned and private property, forbidding entry, was heavily graffitied.
He gave Sam a glance, who nodded silently. That was enough for Dean. He moved out from the fence, up a slight incline toward the building. Access wasn't difficult with the condition of the place, and Dean intended to simply walk in the front door, which he knew was on the south face of the building. He flattened himself against the west wall, the slide of Sam's shadow out of the moonlight signalling his brother following his lead. That fact marginally lessened his irritation at Sam and his tendency to argue and make something out of nothing, but he let it go for the moment. He braced the shotgun, still angling the barrel toward the dusty ground, and carefully made his way toward the front entrance, Sam at his back. Despite insisting that this was a simple job, piece of cake, which it still was, Dean was nonetheless sensible of the fact that the spirit had already killed four people, and despite the relative ease of dispensing a vengeful spirit with an obvious place of anchor, he was a hunter, and he was careful with his brother's life.
He stopped at the corner and craned his neck around to the south face. Everything was utterly still and silent. He tilted his head toward Sam and nodded, both Winchesters making their careful way up the sagging front steps of the building and each flagging a side of the main doors. A thick chain with a broken padlock hung uselessly off one handle, and the other stood a few inches ajar. Inside, everything was pitch black.
Dean cast his eyes over Sam, who was palming his flashlight with one hand and settling his own shotgun in the other. Dean knew Sam had a lighter and fluid on him, as did Dean, his Taurus with iron rounds and the shotgun with backup salt rounds. Dean slid his hand into his coat for the EMF as Sam pushed the door open silently and clicked on the flashlight. Dean followed him, casting his eyes around the old common area. A sagging reception desk swept along one wall, behind it empty mail pigeon-holes, in front of it a pile of fallen debris from a caved-in roof. The wreck of a pool table, several chairs and tables and a rotted couch were the only things in the room. The fireplace was littered with empty beer cans, bottles of Jack and old camp-fire logs under the beam of Sam's flashlight. Their steps were partially muffled by threadbare carpeting cordoned off in brass, old style.
At the end of the room, a narrow flight of stairs curled up behind the reception to the upper storeys. The EMF silent in Dean's hand and Sam's inspection of the common room done, Dean tapped the backs of his fingers against his brother's shoulder and indicated the stairs. Sam nodded briefly, eyes moving past Dean and up the stairs. Dean took the lead, shotgun raised slightly, tight against his shoulder.
The stairs opened out into the second storey, a hall stretching away in both directions, doors to the old rooms both open and closed. Dean turned back towards Sam and was about to suggest they split up and take one direction each, when his eyes caught on Sam's alert expression, his sudden stillness, looking away from Dean and down the hall to his left. It was then Dean heard it, too, and wondered with fresh irritation how he hadn't before. A soft scuffing, like heavy boots on old floorboards. Silence, then more scuffing. It was coming from the hall, where it bent around to the left, back towards the bathrooms. Sam turned back to Dean, his eyes glittering in the sparse light of the downcast flashlight. Dean gave a curt nod, stepping in front of his brother and raising the shotgun parallel to the floor. He heard Sam's hiss of annoyance, but ignored him, creeping silently toward the corner of the hall just as the scuffing of boots came closer. It could be more of the same teenage darers who made up their list of victims, but Dean doubted it with the distinct absence of the giggling of teenage girls or the voices of teenage boys egging each other on. As far as they knew, the mobile security company who monitored the place did so from outdoors, so it was unlikely to be a guard. The EMF was silent now in Dean's jacket pocket, so it was unlikely to be their ghost. To be honest he had no idea what it was - it was an unknown, which was why Sam was deliberately behind him, annoyed or not.
He stopped just before the corner, eyes on the floor, looking for any sign of light or movement. There was neither. The scuffing sound had stopped on the other side of the corner at the same time as his own steps had. He licked his lips, trusted Sam to swing the flashlight up as soon as he made his move, and swung himself around the corner, shotgun raised - and right into the startled, pale face of the man aiming a similar shotgun at his. Sam's flashlight from behind him caught the stranger in the eyes, and he hissed, squinting, but didn't drop the barrel.
"Put it down," Dean demanded. "What the hell are you doing in here?"
There was a beat of charged silence - the stranger's shotgun still aimed at Dean's face - before the man in front of him raised his arm up in front of his face to shield his eyes from Sam's flashlight and enquire "Dean?"
That was a curve-ball. Dean snugged the shotgun butt against his shoulder, fingers itching against the trigger.
"Who the hell are you?" he snapped.
At his demand, the man in front of him deflated, dropping the barrel of his shotgun towards the floor, his breath leaving him in a rush of relief as he braced his other hand against the wall on his right, shoulders sagging.
"Jesus, Dean, you scared the living shit out of me!"
"Answer the damn question, pal," Dean advised in a growl.
The pale face tilted back up to him, spikes of black hair splintering into flat grey eyes, and some spark of recognition did start to itch at the back of Dean's memory.
"Ellis, Danny Ellis, from Hartford, Wisconsin."