I was twenty-seven when I died. Twenty-seven. That's way too young, if you ask me. It was an accident, really, but I died nonetheless. It was my husband's fault. We had been married for a year, and I thought things were going well, at least, until he told me about the affair. I got into a rage and starting yelling at him, saying all sorts of nasty things, mostly about how I wanted a divorce. I should probably mention that we lived in a rather large house with some elaborate furnishings. We were at the top of the balcony overlooking the parlor when we were arguing. Anyway, he reached out to touch me and try to calm me down. I jerked back and tumbled over the railing to the marble floor below.
The next thing I knew, I was looking down at a body on the parlor floor, surrounded by medics and a coroner. I was wondering what was going on. Why were all these people in my house? Why was my nearly hysterical husband sobbing and trying to talk to a policeman in the corner? And, most importantly, who was the person on the floor, with blood trickling from her head across the floor like wine spilled on a table? It was only when they flipped the body over that I realized what was going on. I was looking at my own body. I suddenly remembered the argument, the fall, the crash to the floor. I suddenly looked over to see an old man in a suit next to me, beckoning to me. I thought he was creepy looking, so I ignored him and continued looking at my husband, but the man beckoned more insistently, and I heard his voice, as though a whisper from across the room, even though he was right next to me.
"Come with me."
"Why? Who are you?" He didn't answer, just held out his hand for me to take. I didn't know what else to do, so I ran. I ran out the door, but as soon as I stepped outside, it felt as though someone had placed an anvil on my shoulders, and I collapsed to the ground, struggling, barely able to breathe. When I finally managed to pull myself back through the doorway into the house, I felt fine and could stand up again. The man was standing right in front of me when I looked up, still waiting for me to take his hand. I screamed, and I think my husband actually heard me because his head snapped up and he started looking around frantically, and I ran into the nearest room and locked the door. I backed up against the wall next to the fireplace and waited. A moment later the man appeared in the room and I grabbed the nearest thing I could use to whack him in the head. It just so happened to be the poker right next to the fireplace, and my hand burned with such agony that I thought I might die again. I screamed in a mixture of pain and fear and charged the man. He disappeared just as I was about to tackle him to the ground.
Part IIAfter that, things went to a sort of routine. My husband moved out immediately after my death, no doubt to live with his mistress. I didn't want to think about it. Tenants moved in, and promptly out after I haunted them for a while. I just didn't care anymore. I was just angry at everyone, angry at my husband for cheating, angry at the faceless mistress for making him cheat, angry at the world for being so cruel to me, and angry at every lying, cheating man that dared to step foot in my house. So far, thirty years after my death, I had killed four men who had been living in this house and had dared to do to their wives what my husband did to me. I saw each man as a horrible monster that didn't deserve the cushy life that he was accustomed to. Each man who I found out was cheating took a sudden trip down the same rail that killed me. It worked, too. The women learned about their husbands' deeds and finally saw them for what they were. Everything was working for me, until those two brothers stepped into my house. The house was vacant, so I was basically just wandering around, when I heard the front door open. In stepped two men, one was very tall and needed a haircut, and one was very good-looking. The crept into the parlor and set down the duffel bags they were carrying. The tall one took out a cylindrical container while the cute one stood guard, pointing his shotgun in every crevice, making sure no stone went unturned in the room. The tall one started shaking the cylindrical container on the ground, and a white substance poured out. I almost laughed out loud. Was he seriously pouring out salt? Did he really think condiments were his best option? I couldn't believe it. The cute one smirked a little and turned to the other one.
"Haven't done a case like this one in awhile, eh Sammy?" the tall one, apparently called Sammy, looked up and gave his a glare. The cute one laughed to himself and poked around the room. I didn't like him looking through my stuff. I appeared to them in visible form, and they both raised their guns at me. I lunged forward, and Sammy shot at me. I felt a white-hot pain and got disoriented. What was IN those shells? Normal bullets didn't work on me! I was already dead! When I finally got my wits back together, I appeared in the room again. I saw the cute one, and I threw a table at his head. He ducked just in time, then shot me again. I had no idea how he was doing that, but I was expecting it now, and managed to get back in one piece a little bit faster this time. I was expecting the gun this time, and managed to topple the bookshelf onto the man before he could shoot me. He struggled to get free from the heavy wooden trap, and I approached him slowly, cocking my head and examining him. Who was he? What did he want here? It didn't matter. He was an intruder, probably a scoundrel, and I wanted him dead. I threw the bookshelf off of him, picked him up and held his throat as I threw him up against the wall. I squinted my eyes as I stared into his face. He was looking around desperately, and called out "Sammy!" in a slightly panicked voice. I felt a slight burning sensation in my chest, but it died down and I threw him against another wall, and he fell unconscious. A moment later, Sammy came running back in, and he saw me lifting the unconscious man up, about to throw him again for the final time.
"Dean!" he yelled, but I slid a heavy desk across the room that pinned him to the wall. He was looking frantically at me and trying to push the desk away to no avail. I was about to throw the man and kill him, when I saw the look in Sammy's eyes. It was full of the most frantic panic that I'd ever seen, even when I'd seen my husband crying over my dead body, and when I'd seen my family crying for me at my funeral. He looked in my eyes and saw my hesitation.
"Please," he begged, giving up on pushing the desk and just looked at me intently, "please don't kill my brother." I wasn't sure what to do. I mean, these were both men for crying out loud. But this man, Sammy, looked so full of love for this man whom he called brother. My hands shook, and I couldn't decide one way or the other. He spoke again, and his brown eyes seemed to pierce my soul.
"Look, if you need to kill someone, kill me. Just please let my brother go. I deserve to die more than he does." I just stood there, frozen, trying to figure out this man before I made any moves. He continued, still not breaking eye contact with me. "I cheated. Look at me, I'm a cheater. I cheated on my fiancé with my family business. I made the business more important than her, and now she's dead because of it. It's my fault, and look at Dean. He's never cheated on anyone or done anything wrong. He's been to Hell and back, all because he tried to rescue me from death. Look at him, that's not the face of someone who deserves to die. Kill me, and let him go." I paused for about ten seconds, then let the man drop to the floor. I moved the desk so Sammy could move, and he ran to his brother's side. I broke down, and there was a moment where every window and vase and fragile thing in the house shattered to bits. Sammy covered Dean with his body to shield him from the flying debris, and when the dust had finally settled, I dashed to his side and grabbed his arm urgently.
"I… Can't… Let… Go..." Speaking out loud was as difficult to do as if I was face-down in a tub of molasses. I pleaded with him, but it was more with my eyes than with my words. I was so tired, so done with this… Well, not life exactly, but this existence. I should have gone with that creepy old man when I had the chance. He hadn't come back to the house since that day. I just wanted it to be over, but I didn't know how to let go of this life. Sammy couldn't figure me out for a moment, but I repeated my phrase more urgently this time. "I-can't-let-go." He realized what I was saying, and he looked at his near-dead brother and back at me.
"I can help you, but you have to promise to help Dean." I nodded, gripping his arm even tighter until he flinched. "Do you have any remains in this house, any part of you that you might have attached to?" I shrugged, not sure what he meant. "Any part of you still in the house? Any remains like blood, skin, hair, anything? You probably attached to something here, because your bones were just burned and you're still here." My eyes widened at his mention of hair. I nodded.
"Where?" I took his arm and ran up the stairs, faster than he could run because I ended up dragging him along. I took him to my old bedroom and knelt down on the ground, still gripping his arm. I ripped up a floorboard and picked up a small wooden hairbrush. It had a small cluster of my fine red hairs all tangled up in its bristles. Sammy took it and we ran back downstairs to the still-unconscious Dean and the duffel bags. Sammy put the hairbrush on the ground and sprinkled it with salt. I didn't question it, if it meant I could let go. He then took a lighter out of his pocket.
"You ready?" he asked me, and I nodded. He snapped the lighter on and was about to drop it, then he hesitated. "Wait," he said, turning back to me, "You have to help Dean first. Is he gonna make it?" I walked over to him and felt his forehead. I could feel his life force draining slowly from him. I had hit him a bit too hard. I shook my head, and Sammy clicked the lighter off.
"You have to save him." I put my hands up, the universal symbol for 'What?' or 'How?'
"I don't know, but I'm not saving you until you save Dean, that's the deal." I saw that he wasn't going to budge on the matter, so I started trying. I put my hands on him. As a spirit, I had a strong connection to anyone's life force, and I let my mind connect with his. His injuries weren't severe, he just hit his head a bit too hard. If he was dead, there would be nothing I could do for him, but he was only mostly dead. I concentrated hard on him, focusing his own life force on the injuries that it thought it couldn't handle. Life force is a strange thing. When it comes across one problem it can't handle, then it's game over for that person. There are no second chances. I let my shred of life force that kept me here connect with his life force, and I reversed its direction. I focused on the internal injuries, just kick-starting the healing process until I knew his own body could take it from there. Then I stood up, looking back at Sammy expectantly.
"He's going to be okay?" he asked, looking uncertainly at his still-unconscious brother. I nodded. "Good. You ready?" I nodded again, closing my eyes. I heard the lighter click, then drop. For a moment there was a white-hot flash, and then I was no more.
Part IIISam stayed with Dean in that dark, now seemingly lonely house for several hours. Eventually, Dean woke up. He sat up slowly, grimacing and rubbing his head repeatedly.
"Freaking spirits, man. They throw you around just enough to give you a concussion and probably internal bleeding without actually getting the job done." Sam said nothing, and Dean looked over at him. "Hey, what are we still doing here anyway? Didn't you burn the thing?" Sam nodded, looking intently at his computer. "Hey, what's going on with you, man?" Sam turned the screen around to show her obituary from a long time ago.
"Cara Stiles, age twenty-seven, lived in San Francisco. Married to Don Stiles, middle-aged businessman who struck oil and got rich a few years before their marriage. She enjoyed golf and the theater, and she volunteered at the animal shelter every third Thursday." Dean shrugged, still rubbing his head.
"Yeah, so? She's a ghost, Sam. She's gotta get burned, there's no question about it." It was Sam's turn to shrug.
"Yeah. I guess. It's just… she helped me, Dean. She wanted to die, for real this time, and she helped me do it. This one was different, and it wasn't fair for her to die that young and have no one remember her. I mean, according to the records, five people showed up to her funeral: Her husband, her mother, the manager at Brooks Brothers, her gynecologist, and her caddy. Hardly anyone remembers her, Dean, but she saved your life. And no one, including you, cares." Dean stood up and started getting their stuff packed up.
"Well, not everyone gets remembered in this life. I mean, who do you think is gonna show up to my funeral in a couple months, huh? Not a single person, that's who. Just you and Bobby and maybe Lisa. That's it. And you know how many lives I've saved? More than I can count." He paused.
"Is that what this is about, Sammy? Me leaving soon, unfairly, after everything we've done, with no one to remember me but you?" Sam looked up at his older brother.
"Well yeah Dean, maybe that's what I'm feeling right now. I mean after all, you're gonna die in just a couple months, unfairly, with no one to remember what you've done but me and Bobby, and it's all going to count for nothing! And I just can't…" his voice got a little lower and a little more raspy. "I can't watch you go through with this. I can't, Dean, I can't do it. I mean, you're gonna leave me alone in this world with nothing and no one and expect me to carry on and have a life without my brother? You're going to HELL, Dean, it's not like I can take comfort in the fact that you're 'in a better place' or some crap like that. I should be the one going to Hell, not you!" He threw the nearby container of salt across the room and out the window in frustration. Dean brought Sam to the couch, brushing aside some of the glass before Sam sat.
"You think this is all for nothing? You think what I'm doing won't matter? Because what I'm doing, my cause, is the only thing that matters. You are the only thing that matters to me, Sammy, and don't you ever think that I regret the decision that I made. If I could do it over again, I wouldn't change a thing. I'm not dying for nothing, Sammy, I'm dying for everything. I'm dying for the only life I've given a crap about. And don't you ever forget that, don't you dare say to me that you don't matter." Sam couldn't look at his brother, he was trying to keep his emotions in check. Dean stood up and grabbed the duffel bags.
"Alright, enough of this chick-flick crap, time to hit the road. After all, we've got Hell to beat." Sam stood up, and they both ducked into the impala, with the same old 80's rock music blaring through the speakers way too loud, driving way too fast, and Sam realized that this was his life. This was the only thing he'd ever known outside of college, and it would only be here for two more months. It made him want to run and scream and make deals, but he couldn't. He just sat back, let the music and the present company consume him and his thoughts, until he fell asleep.