Prologue: The Hill

Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill or Supernatural! Also, the line about "the rattle of sleep" is taken from Arthur Golden'sMemoirs of a Geisha.

Notes: I don't ship any Supernatural slash pairings.

Sam's fingers moved across the keyboard easily; how he had managed to get an internet signal out in the middle of nowhere was beyond Dean. Either way, it got them the information they needed.

"From what I can tell," He said finally, glancing over at his brother, "This place always had some issues. There are reports going back as far as the mid sixteen hundreds. Everything from unexplained disappearances up to entire massacres."

"The usual bat-shit crazies?" Dean asked, his eyes scanning the dark and desolate road ahead of them.

"Think crazier." Sam said, "We even have evidence of occult activity complete with human sacrifice. Hell, I mean, a ship even disappeared on the way across the lake. They never even found any debris."

"What's our timeline like?"

"According to dad's journal and Bobby's research, in 1989, there was a string of female burn victims between the ages of six and thirteen. The hospital records indicate there were no survivors. The last one was a girl named Alessa Gillespie, age seven. There was an investigation into her death because her teacher, a Ms. K. Gordon, thought she was being abused. It never went to court, though, because she disappeared."

"That's not suspicious at all." Dean remarked.

"Yeah. And get this, even though her observation journal, which detailed some of her concerns, was found, it was never admitted as evidence. It's like the entire thing was swept under the rug. And that's not even the end of it. I would be here for hours going over every murder, disappearance, and freak occurrence."

"Well, it certainly sounds like it's in our jurisdiction."

"Tell me about it." Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Get some sleep, bitch." Dean smirked at him.

"Jerk." His brother replied instinctively even as he closed the laptop and slid it back into the case at his feet.

"Wanna crawl in the back?"

"Way ahead of you." Sam replied as he undid his seatbelt, pushed past Dean's shoulder, and slid into the backseat. He stretched out with a groan, turned his face toward the back of the seat to block out the meager light of the moon, and pulled a raggedy green blanket over his legs.

Dean listened to him over the purr of the engine, and in only a few minutes in breathing was even and deep with the rattle of sleep in it. He couldn't really fault him; the guy had been up since they had left Florida.

The case had been a small one-garden variety poltergeisting in an old hospital. It was hardly anything new to the hunters. It had been a quick in-out job. Rather refreshing considering that as of late their jobs had consisted of averting the Apocalypse, ganking Horsemen, and icing some seriously fucked up angels.

'Not,' He thought to himself just in case Cas was listening, 'That all angels were fucked up dicks.'

"I appreciate the sentiment."

To his credit, Dean only hissed through his teeth at the sudden flutter of wings and rush of air. He didn't even curse.

Cas didn't bother apologizing, naturally. It was kind of part of the dynamic: he showed up, freaked the hunters the fuck out, gave some cryptic message, and then disappeared again.

"So, how are things in Heaven?" Dean asked quietly in an attempt to make small talk.

Cas was silent for a moment before replying, "Chaotic."

"Glad to see we're still managing our fucked up status quo." He shot an impish glance at the angel, smirking, "I really shouldn't curse in front of you. I'm a bad influence."

"I believed your logic on the matter to be somewhat more liberal."

"You're entirely too literal, Cas." Dean replied.

"My apologies."

The older Winchester resisted the urge to beat his hands against the steering wheel and remind the angel that he didn't need to take everything he said so…well, literally.

"So, what brings you to our corner of the world?" Dean asked, tracking the road in front of him.

"It is very…fractured in Heaven." He replied.

"Hey," Dean turned to him, pinning him with his green eyes, "You don't need an excuse to roll with us. Ever. You got that?"

Despite the obvious recklessness of the situation, he waited for the barely-there dip of Cas' chin. For a fraction of a second, there gazes locked, and when he was sure he saw understanding flash in those blue eyes, he turns his own back onto the road.

They sat in comfortable silence for several miles before the angel told him with only a shadow of reluctance that he had duties to attend to.

"Drop back in soon, 'kay?" Dean replied, tilting his head towards the angel.

"I will." Cas told him. The statement was punctuated with the splay of feathered wings and the splash of interrupted air.

The hunter nodded to himself as he peered into the dark road that stretched in front of them. It seemed like it had been hours since he had seen so much as a mile marker. He had hoped to eventually pull over and grab something to eat, maybe find a motel to sleep in, but he knew that, no matter how much it sucked, he was good to drive for a least a few more hours.

With his free hand, he reached over and grabbed the styrofoam cup in the holder. The coffee was cold; the standard kind of greasy spoon sludge that tasted faintly like burnt plastic even when it was fresh. But it was caffeine. It would hold him until he found a dive. Hopefully, he thought to himself as he forced a mouthful of it down, one with pie…

He sighed as he dropped the cup back into the holder and planted his hands firmly on the wheel. Nothing to do, he told himself, but to keep his eyes on the road, his foot on the accelerator and his mind on the task at hand. Not that there was much to it…

With miles of open, unmarked road ahead of him and hours without having so much as glimpsed another car, he let his mind wander a bit. He would have liked some music, but he didn't want to wake Sam. The guy had been up for almost two days straight, holed up in a library somewhere pulling files and records. So he went through their aliases, instead.

It had been a while since they'd used Wilson and Donavan. Not that he really thought it would matter. Small towns tended not to double check the names and numbers, and even when they did, nine times out of ten, Bobby intercepted 'em. It was a good system, he thought to himself.

He wasn't sure what it mattered this time around. The case seemed about as vanilla as it got when your life revolved around a shadowy war that was the theme of any number of horrifically inaccurate and fanciful movies, games, and shows. He was pretty sure it would be the standard "daisy chain of events" scenario. Old crap hanging around, getting nastier by the day, pulling more crap in. It wasn't the first time they'd seen it, probably wouldn't be the last. He was betting some angry spirits had decided to hang around and reap their vengeance where they could. The standard salt-and-bake kind of job. Hardest part about that was finding the damn bodies.

Despite himself, he was almost grateful for it, though. It reminded him of a simpler time. When they weren't constantly under the threat of angelic possession, for example. He smirked, chuckling to himself quietly. He could remember the days when their biggest problem was the annoyance of a rogue wendigo.

"No use dwelling in the past." He told himself low under his breath.

The edge of his peripherals flashed gray and he caught the old writing on the weathered sign as he thundered past it.

He almost laughed at that. How much more cliché could they get? Hell, it might have been worse than 'Lake Placid.' It was almost as bad as 'Sunnyville.' It was the kind of name that told any movie buff that shit was going down. Or that they had just stepped into a field of rainbow puppies and sugar kittens.

"What the hell kind of name," He wondered to himself, "is 'Silent Hill.'"

TBC