Good Morning!
So, this story (like oh so many before it) was supposed to be a short, sweet little (Halloween) treat. It grew to three chapters (oops). Hope you won't mind! I'll be posting ch 2 tomorrow, and ch 3 for Halloween. :)
This is set in Season 10, somewhere mid-season-ish when Dean's somewhat got a handle on the Mark of Cain.
Chapter One
"Dude! Flickering lights, spooky creaking floor, wind rattling the windows," Dean listed off, "it's like a haunted house!"
"This is a haunted house." Sam stared at his brother as lightning flashed, illuminating his grinning face.
"Well, yeah. But you have to admit, it's pretty spooky."
"Yeah. Because it's a haunted house." Sam hefted the shotgun and asked, "Can we just do this job and get out of here?"
"You have somewhere to be?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"No."
Dean's grin widened. "Aw, Sammy, were you planning to go trick-or-treating?"
"It's two in the morning." Rolling his eyes, Sam ignored him and walked into the next room. "A little early for trick-or-treating, don't you think?"
"I'll take you trick-or-treating tonight," Dean offered, trailing behind him.
"How about we just salt and burn the ghost and get out of here?"
"You are so crabby." Dean elbowed past him, glancing down at the EMF that was still silent. "Maybe if you actually slept at night like a normal human, you wouldn't be such a Debbie downer about everything."
Sam opened his mouth, but closed it before he said anything. He was too tired to deal with a full-blown argument. Another one. Their arguments had been frequent and petty lately and he hated it. He also hated that they were bothering with this job when there were more important things they needed to be doing.
This was a routine salt and burn. A haunted house that was abandoned and mostly ignored. The ghost had never hurt anyone as far as they knew. Dean had found a brief mention of the haunted house on a blog dedicated to "real life hauntings." The only reason they were even here was because Dean had lit up like a kid at Christmas at the prospect of visiting an actual haunted house on Halloween. He'd been so thrilled with the idea that Sam had finally caved and here they were.
Sam followed Dean up the stairs as the few remaining pictures rattled against the walls with the rolling thunder. Glass crunched under his feet and the floorboards were suitably creaky. Lit only by their flashlights and the bright bursts of lightning, the hall at the top of the stairs was eerie. It wasn't Sam's first haunted house, not by a long shot, but it was sending the occasional shiver down his spine anyway.
He wanted to get this over with, get a hundred miles away, and go back to trying to figure out how to get the Mark off his brother's arm.
Maybe he was crabby.
He knew he needed sleep. It was a little difficult to sleep, though, when all he could do was picture Dean looking at him with ink-black eyes filled with hatred. When all he could think about was that it could happen again if he didn't fix this. The Mark had to go or he was going to lose his brother all over again.
"Sam?"
Dean's voice was too loud and too close and he flinched.
"Hey, easy." His brother took a half-step back. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Fine." Sam blinked, eyes burning with fatigue.
"Damn it, Sam." Dean shook his head, his voice softer now. He took a slow breath, calming himself, then asked, "You gonna be able to do this?"
"I'm fine," Sam snapped.
This time he was the one elbowing past his brother. He ignored Dean's heavy sigh and pushed one of the bedroom doors open with his boot, shotgun at the ready. Part of him regretted dragging the mood down. Dean had been so upbeat and so like his old self all day. For whatever reason, though, it just made Sam worry.
Everything made him worry these days.
Lightning flashed beyond the shattered glass of the single window, revealing the emptiness of the room. Dean was breathing down the back of his neck; not so subtly trying to push him forward. Resigning himself, Sam stepped into the room and looked to the right while Dean went left. They worked their way around the room, checking the walls carefully.
"Oh, Miss Everett," Dean sing-songed, tapping the wall as he walked. "Come out, come out wherever you are."
Sam bit his tongue to avoid reminding his brother that antagonizing a ghost - however harmless she was purported to be - was usually a poor life decision. Of course, they were no strangers to poor life decisions. Regardless, he would be happier (or at least a little less crabby) if Dean would shut the hell up.
An unexpected boom of thunder made Sam jump. Shaking his head, he asked, "Why are we even here? We haven't had the chance to do any investigating in town yet, or check out the newspapers or town records. You know, legitimate sources."
Dean huffed, yanking a closet door open and searching inside.. "So the blog was a little vague. Doesn't change the fact that she's tied to this place. Gotta figure her bones are here or she's bound to something, right? What better place to start?"
"The library," Sam shot back, kicking a moth-eaten rug aside and stirring up a cloud of dust.
"Kill joy."
Sam sighed and reviewed what they had learned from the blog.
Fifteen year old Abigail Everett had gone missing nearly ninety years ago, during a bad storm just like the one happening outside right now. According to the blog, her uncle, Hugo, had been accused of her murder. He'd been caught trying to wash blood off of a butcher's knife with bloodied pieces of her dress still clutched in his hands. He'd sworn he was innocent, insisting that he'd just found the items, but the jury had believed otherwise.
According to the rumors, he'd been convicted and executed for her murder and taken his motive - as well as her final resting place - with him to the grave.
Her widowed father, Stirling, had passed away of heartbreak only a month later
The house was hidden deep in a copse of trees, far from town, and abandoned since her father's death. It wasn't until the 1970s when some teens out for a joyride had happened upon the house that anyone even realized the place was haunted. The teens had ventured inside on a dare and run right out again after seeing a ghost.
Since then, only a handful of people had gone near the house. No one had ever reported being harmed by the apparition that floated from room to room, but the sight of a butcher's knife sticking out of the ghost's chest was an excellent deterrent to further exploration.
"There's been no report of the ghost being vengeful or angry," Sam said, breaking the silence.
That had been his original argument against investigating this case in the first place. Why waste time going after a peaceful ghost in an abandoned house far from civilization when they had more important things to deal with? They could have called someone else to handle this while they worked on the pressing issue of the Mark.
He shook his head and added, "I think Abigail is as lonely in death as she was in life."
"That's actually kind of sad." Dean even sounded sad. For a heartbeat. Then he went back to the taunting. "Miss Everett, you've got company. Come out to visit."
Sam gritted his teeth, pausing to stare out the window at the storm. The yard was overgrown with weeds, the trees unkempt and bowed under the strain of the heavy rain. A tragic picture.
He listened to the floorboards groaning as Dean moved back toward the door, ready to search another room.
"You coming, or gonna stand there staring outside like a puppy that has to pee?"
With a sigh, Sam turned from the window. Dean was standing by the door, impatiently waving the EMF meter toward the hallway. His words had been teasing, but he looked concerned which was not good. Dean wasn't acting like a psycho at the moment and Sam regretted not trying harder to keep up the lighthearted atmosphere. He needed to shove his near-frantic worry deep down and find a way to get through this hunt.
So he nodded and followed his brother into the hall, not quite able to force a smile.
Twenty minutes later, they'd found nothing of interest. The house was almost entirely empty; anything of value had long ago been removed or stolen. Outside, the wind was wailing, tree branches bashing against the wall somewhere and creating an unsettling thump thump thump.
"EMF's been quiet." Dean frowned, sidestepping a growing pool of water under a significant leak in the ceiling. "So, attic or basement?"
"We haven't even searched the ground floor yet," Sam said, ready to take the easy route. In all honesty, he was hoping the ghost didn't show up and they could just write it off and leave.
"Scaredy cat." Dean grinned, already taking a step toward the attic stairs. "No one buries a body in the kitchen or the parlor -"
"Parlor?" Sam raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, Sam. Parlor. That's what they called them back in the day." He started up the stairs, saying over his shoulder, "They bury people in the attic or the basement. Maybe in the walls upstairs."
"Assuming she's buried here at all," Sam muttered.
"Even if she's not, when have we ever come across a ghost chillin' in the kitchen with a six pack? Or whatever people chilled with ninety years ago."
"Fine. Attic it is."
The staircase to the attic was narrow and the ceiling was low. The sounds of the storm were somewhat muffled and there was an unsettling stillness in the cramped space. With every step closer to the attic, the air grew more stale and heavy; almost like a thick blanket had settled over them. A sense of foreboding pressed down on Sam, making it difficult to breathe. Dean moved cautiously on the aching old stairs. They groaned with each step, but the sound was muted.
Sam's breathing sounded too loud and too fast even though he was trying to regulate it. It was ridiculous, but he wanted to leave. Like right now. Wanted to grab Dean's arm and pull him away from the attic door before he opened it. Wanted to get as far away from this place as he could because evil was so palpable he thought he could reach out and touch it.
An unholy cry split the silence, sending his heart into overdrive.
He stumbled backwards a step and hit the wall, his flashlight beam bouncing frantically as he searched for the threat. And then Dean's laughter broke through the rush of his pulse pounding in his ears. Jaw dropping, Sam stared at him, too stunned, too angry, to speak.
"You are way too tense, Sammy," Dean said, struggling to rein in his laughter. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
His brother started laughing again and if Sam hadn't just nearly had a heart attack, he might have found the gag a little more hilarious. Instead, frustration and fear boiled up inside him and he opened his mouth to lash out.
Icy coldness touched the back of his neck before he could say a word and the EMF reader went crazy. The chill seemed to flow through Sam as if it had flooded his veins.
Dean's expression changed from amusement to shock as the temperature around them plummeted. Sam didn't have the chance to do anything before frigid arms closed around his chest and he was yanked off his feet. Falling backwards, he heard Dean shout his name and the blast of a shotgun.
He had a moment to experience the disturbing sensation of flying and then an explosion of pain threw everything into darkness.
"All these years," Dean muttered, crouching next to his brother, "and she doesn't touch anyone. You must not be her type, Sam."
"Why?" Sam asked, trying to get his eyes open.
"That's what I'd like to know." Dean paused his damage assessment when he realized Sam was talking to him. "Hey, you with me?"
Blinking, Sam focused on him. Or at least mostly focused. He still looked out of it.
"Sam?" Dean prompted, tapping his cheek.
"What…" He tilted his head, then flinched.
"She pulled you down the stairs," Dean answered the question Sam hadn't been able to verbalize. "I tried to stop her, but you were in the way. Couldn't get a clear shot off until after you fell."
"Sorry." Sam pressed his hand to his eyes. "Where's she now?"
"Dunno. She hasn't been back. Anything broken?" Dean started checking Sam's head for any obvious injury.
"Nothing's broken. Stop."
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Dean asked, not holding up any fingers. He was too busy running his hands over Sam's chest looking for breaks.
"Stop it. I'm fine."
Sam started struggling to push himself upright, but Dean pinned him down with a firm hand on his chest. The gesture was met with a glare, but Dean ignored it.
"It's not like you fell off of a stepstool," he said, worry bleeding into his tone. "That was a pretty good hit you just took."
Sam relaxed and took a deep breath, then said, "Really. I'm ok."
Dean backed off and Sam pushed himself upright.
"How long was I out?"
"About a minute," Dean answered. Felt longer.
He gripped Sam's shoulder and glanced around the hallway. Rain was still pounding on the roof and lightning flashed beyond the windows but the EMF had been quiet since he'd blasted Abigail. Standing up, he offered his brother a hand.
Sam accepted the help to get to his feet, then said, "She hasn't been angry or violent before."
Dean handed him his flashlight and shotgun. "Yeah, she did seem to take offense at us checking out the attic, didn't she?"
"Maybe no one has ever tried to go up to the attic?" Sam grimaced as he rubbed the back of his head. "You'd think a bunch of idiot kids on a dare would've tried to go upstairs and check out the creepy attic, though, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know." Dean peered up the staircase into the dark attic. "I was never an idiot kid."
Sam snorted.
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking something."
"Hey," Sam caught his arm before Dean could start up the stairs, "maybe we should have a plan before we race right back up there?"
"I have a plan. Shoot the damn ghost."
"Well, yes, but-"
"She threw you down a staircase."
"Hadn't noticed." Sam smiled. "Look, I'm just saying, we need to be a little more prepared now that we know she's here and doesn't seem to want company in the attic."
"So get that shotgun ready and let's keep our eyes open." Dean hesitated a moment longer, doing a quick visual assessment before asking, "You sure you're alright?"
"Yes."
"Ok." Dean nodded.
This time, they both ascended the stairs with their backs pressed to opposite walls; Dean watching ahead, Sam preparing for another possible assault from the rear.
Dean was three steps from the landing when the temperature dropped. Lifting his shotgun, he stared into the darkness, knowing Sam was watching his back. Chills ran down his spine but he didn't see anything. He inched up another step, Sam doing the same.
"Hello, again," Dean muttered, then fired his shotgun.
The apparition at the top of the stairs vanished in a burst of rock salt. A second later, they were both in the attic, backs to the wall, surveying the room.
The room was more spacious than he'd expected. It apparently hadn't just been used for storage either. It had been a playroom.
To the left was a large, ornate dollhouse. A rocking horse stood nearby. Ahead of them, a wooden train appeared perfectly preserved on its little tracks. An assortment of other toys littered the floor and some shelves. The rest of the room was filled with the typical hodge podge of boxes and other paraphernalia that inevitably wound up in attics everywhere.
Regardless of the banal nature of the attic's contents, the room seemed charged with electricity; with anticipation. His skin was crawling from the perceptible malevolence surrounding them.
"Dean."
"You feel it?" Dean glanced at his brother.
Sam nodded; his face pale in the glow of the flashlight. Tense. Focused. They both returned to their survey of the room.
"Feels different than downstairs," Dean whispered, taking a cautious step forward. He shone his flashlight on the shelves. "Abigail's very angry."
While he searched the room, Sam covered him, in case Abigail showed up again.
"This is the only room in the house that hasn't been picked clean," Dean said, his voice low as he examined a kaleidoscope.
"She didn't want us coming up here. Maybe this is where she was murdered, or she's tied to something up here?"
Dean nodded, setting the kaleidoscope back on the shelf. He walked past a window, and lightning flashed, casting shadows around the room. One of the shadows seemed to stretch toward him and Sam called out a warning just before firing the shotgun.
Dean backed up a step, his own shotgun raised, and pressed up against the shelf, only to have the whole thing collapse.
They both jumped at the sound.
"Thanks," Dean said, then glanced at the fallen shelf. Leaning down, he shone his flashlight on the spilled contents. Picking through the toys, he said, "We could just burn the place down."
"We could," Sam agreed, taking a cautious step forward. "But what if her body's not here or she's tied to something on the grounds instead of the house? We might be burning down our only chance of ever figuring out how to end her."
Dean shrugged, sifting through a pile of toy soldiers. He grabbed a handful, then jerked back with a muttered curse.
"What?" Sam hurried forward. "What happened?"
"Just cut my finger on a bayonet." Dean shook out his hand, shining his light on it.
"A toy bayonet?" Sam smiled. "You poor thing. Need a bandaid?"
"These are tin toy soldiers," Dean said, glaring at him. He glanced at his bleeding finger and added defensively, "They're not plastic like ours were."
Sam nodded, his attention wandering now that he knew his brother was alright.
Dean followed his gaze around the room.
"There wasn't anything mentioned about her having a brother, was there?" Sam asked.
"Not that I saw." Dean frowned. "Maybe the toy soldiers and the train belonged to her dad or uncle?"
"Could be. Or maybe this family had more to hide than just Abigail's body."
While Sam stood guard, Dean searched a few other boxes. A disconcerting feeling of being watched followed him around the room. He was about to suggest they leave when the temperature fluctuated again.
This time it wasn't Abigail.
Dean called out a warning at the same time as Sam.
They fired their shotguns simultaneously.
It was only after the echoes of the blasts had faded away that Dean realized Sam was looking in a completely different direction, shotgun still at the ready. Sam glanced at Dean, then did a double-take.
"Ok, I just shot Abigail," Sam said, frowning, "but who did you shoot?"
"I don't know."
Dean shook his head, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he remembered the ghost he'd just shot. It had only been a split second, but pure evil had been staring at him from pale, dead eyes. The ghost's white shirt had been splattered with blood, his arms bloody as he'd reached out for Dean.
"What did you see?" Sam asked.
"A boy. Maybe ten or eleven."
"So now we've got two ghosts." Sam backed toward the stairs. "We need to get out of here."
"Wait." Dean kicked the rest of the toy soldiers out of the way and scrambled to pick up the scattered papers and books that had fallen from the shelf. A quick scan had him tossing most of the books back to the floor, but he saved all of the papers. "These look like personal letters and maybe a journal. They might be useful."
"Great. Let's go."
Sam led the way down, remaining on guard lest Abigail or the mysterious boy attempt to stop them. Dean watched the rear, the image of the ghostly little boy with the evil eyes seared into his memory. He'd been around plenty of evil beings in his lifetime and that ghost had definitely been evil. Neither the boy nor Abigail reappeared, though, and they made it out to the Impala without incident.
Dean got behind the wheel and tossed the papers and the journal onto the seat between them. He started the engine and said, "We've got about twenty hours to figure this out."
"Twenty hours?" Sam picked up a few of the letters, frowning. "I didn't know we were on a deadline."
"I want this done today. It's Halloween, man." He grinned, flipping on the windshield wipers. "I want to end a ghost on Halloween."
Sam just sighed.
They returned to the motel and laid the journal and all of the letters out on the table. Sam sat down and started shuffling through the mess while Dean went to make a pot of coffee. The storm was easing outside although the rumble of thunder could still be heard in the distance.
They'd picked up on the case late and gotten to town late. Going out to the house at two in the morning hadn't been the preferred plan, and Sam was feeling the fatigue now. Even so, he looked up in surprise when Dean sat back down with one cup of coffee instead of two.
"Hey." He motioned to the cup. "Where's mine?"
Dean shook his head. "None for you, my brother."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means no coffee for you because you are going to get some sleep."
"I thought you wanted this ghost ganked today." Sam flipped a page in the journal. "I'm not going to bed yet."
"I don't even remember the last time you were near a bed, let alone actually slept."
"Dean-"
"Not a discussion, Sam."
"I don't need you to tell me what I need to do."
Dean snorted, yanking the journal away. "Is this going to become one of those you're not the boss of me arguments we had when you were ten?"
"You're not the boss of me."
"Here we go again. It is just like when you were ten." Dean pointed at the bed. "You can't watch my back if you can't keep your eyes open."
"I watched your back just fine in there," Sam argued, not willing to retreat. "Besides, you've been up as long as I have."
"I'll take a nap later. Just made a cup of coffee." Dean grinned, pointedly taking a sip. He set the cup down and said, "A couple hours. All I'm asking. This case isn't urgent. No one's been killed or even hurt. You're the only one in ninety years that Abigail didn't like."
"Funny." Sam shook his head, his resistance fading. He was tired, his head ached, and he was beginning to feel all the bruises from his fall.
Dean didn't say anything else, just took another sip of coffee. Obviously, he already knew he'd won.
Jerk.
Giving up, Sam pushed himself to his feet. He unbuttoned his flannel, tossed it over the back of the chair, then pulled off his boots. Deciding that he could at least take a couple minutes to close his burning eyes, he slid under the covers.
Sleep would be very unlikely considering how his mind never shut down anymore. Even in the brief moments he would try to sleep, the problem of the Mark would torment him until he was tossing and turning. It did feel good to lie down, though, and it was comforting to hear Dean flipping through the papers they'd found. It was a just a simple salt and burn. Maybe they'd get lucky and Dean would find something.
Ten minutes later, he was cursing himself for being so stupid to think there was such a thing as a simple salt and burn.
He'd managed to actually, unexpectedly, fall asleep only a few moments after closing his eyes. Like losing consciousness after Abigail had yanked him to the floor, he'd been out. Not drifting slowly into sleep, but blanked out almost instantly. He probably could have slept for twelve hours straight if not for the shocking interruption to his blessed unconsciousness.
Something shattered and he came awake instantly. Heart pounding in his ears, he sat up only to flounder backwards when the headrush sent his vision straight to black.
"Crap. Hey, calm down. It's fine. Sorry, sorry."
Dean's words were rushed and maybe a little panicked and did little to reassure Sam. Struggling to get his eyes to focus, he didn't try to sit up again, yet. Something had happened and now that he was awake, Sam needed answers.
"Dean?" he asked, his voice muddled and slow. Vision blurry, he rubbed his eyes and finally focused on his brother.
"Sorry, man. Just dropped the coffee pot." Dean was standing at the edge of the bed like he'd rushed over when Sam had sat up. "Sorry I woke you."
Sam would've dismissed the apology - might even have just given in to the pull of exhaustion again - but something was wrong. It wasn't just his gut telling him. Despite his foggy brain and bleary eyes, he could see something was off.
Struggling to sit up again, he leaned back against the headboard and asked, "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Nothing, just dropped the pot. Sorry." Dean turned around.
"Wait." Sam got his feet on the ground and reached out fast enough to halt Dean's movement. Holding onto his brother's sleeve, Sam frowned. "What's wrong with your arm?"
He watched the play of emotions on his brother's face. Dean wanted to dismiss it. To lie. To cover up. But it was difficult to cover up an arm that was twitching. Badly.
"Dean, what…" Sam yanked his brother closer, staring at his left arm.
"I don't know." Dean sounded apologetic.
Sam pushed Dean's sleeve up, shocked to see scratches and redness up and down his arm.
"It just started itching." Dean reached over and scratched viciously.
"Stop." Sam knocked his hand away. He pulled his brother down to sit next to him on the bed as he continued looking at the scratches. "When did it start itching?"
"Uh...well, it was kind of itchy on the way back."
Sam hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but he did remember his brother distractedly scratching his arm a few times after they'd first returned to the motel room.
"It got really bad a few minutes ago." Dean started scratching again. "Maybe I should take an antihistamine or something?"
"You think you're having an allergic reaction?" Sam pulled his hand away again to stop him from scratching and met Dean's gaze.
"I don't know. Allergic reaction doesn't exactly explain this."
They stared down at his arm as it twitched disturbingly.
"What the hell?" Sam muttered, shaking his head. "Anything else I should know about?"
"I used up the last of your shampoo."
"I already knew that. I'm talking about right now. Any other symptoms you want to tell me about...or don't want to tell me about?"
"Well..."
Sam didn't like the sound of that.
"My arm's actually kind of numb."
Obviously Dean didn't like admitting it any more than Sam liked hearing it.
"Numb?"
"Yes. Numb. As in, I can't really feel it. Other than the itching," Dean said, his right hand moving to start scratching yet again.
"Don't." Sam smacked his hand away. "When did the numbness start?"
"About the time I picked up the damn coffee pot."
"That's why you dropped it?"
"No. I dropped it because I thought it would be hysterical to tear you out of the best ten minutes of sleep you've had in the last six months." Dean was trying to be funny, but the regret bled through every word.
Sam looked up from his analysis of Dean's arm and asked, "Can you move your fingers?"
"It just feels like I slept on it wrong." Dean wiggled his fingers. "I can move it but it's like it doesn't belong to me. It's just weird."
Determinedly not looking at Dean's right arm where the Mark continued to haunt them both, Sam said, "We should get it looked at, Dean."
"You're looking at it. I looked at it. What's a doctor gonna do?"
"A lot of tests."
"No." Dean wrenched his arm out of Sam's grasp and stood up. "I'm not having a stroke or something. Ok?"
How do you know? Sam's throat was too tight for him to get the words out. He watched Dean cross the small space back to the kitchenette. Is this something to do with the Mark? It's on his left arm, but it's probably related, right? What else could it be? It doesn't seem like an allergy if his arm's numb...
"Sam?"
"What?" He watched Dean drop some pieces of the coffee pot into the trash.
"Just go back to sleep. It's fine. Seriously."
"It's not fine." Sam hated that he sounded like a pouting child. Worry was bubbling in his gut like a volcano about to erupt. Lethargy, though, was weighing him down; making it hard to think clearly.
Dean was suddenly in front of him, shoving him backwards onto the pillows.
"I'll get something for the itch, ok?" Dean said, planting a hand on his chest to keep him from sitting up. "And if anything else goes numb or gets weird, I'll wake you up. Ok? Promise."
"You better."
Sam could barely keep his eyes open. They slid closed without his permission and he heard Dean moving across the room again. Despite Dean's assurance and his own exhaustion, there was no way he would be able to go back to sleep now. For a few minutes, though, he'd try to stay still. Allow his brother to think he was getting some sleep. Sam could problem solve just as easily with his eyes closed as he could with them open.
Itching, twitching, and numbness.
The symptoms were weird. The onset fairly rapid. No discernible cause. A true mystery. Sam didn't like mysteries when they involved his brother. There had been too many mysteries and secrets and nightmares all tangled and twisted up between them along with lies and half-truths and stupid decisions.
If they could never be honest with each other, how could they ever trust each other?
Dean slumped into one of the chairs and rubbed his arm as he watched his brother. Shaking out his numb hand, Dean cursed himself for having dropped the coffee pot. It had been a surprise when Sam had fallen asleep in the first place, but it was going to be a miracle if he managed to fall back to sleep now.
This was supposed to have been an easy hunt. A fun hunt. Something to distract them both. A little ghost hunt in an actual haunted house on Halloween. Salt, burn, then indulge in some of the candy he'd stocked up on just for the occasion.
Good times.
Except nothing was good. Nothing at all. Instead of celebrating a successful hunt, they were back at square one. Instead of eating candy corn till he was sick, he was trying not to scratch his left arm raw. Instead of a distraction, all he'd done was give Sam something new to worry about.
Staring at his brother, he was surprised to realize he had fallen asleep again.
Dean sighed, a little tension easing out of his shoulders. He was tired just thinking about how tired his brother was. Despite Sam's occasional insistence to the contrary, Dean wasn't stupid. He knew the issue of the Mark was tearing his brother to pieces. Sam never went to bed before him and was always up first in the morning. The random times Dean had been awake in the middle of the night, he'd always found his brother awake, too. Still searching through endless piles of nothing, desperately hoping to find an answer.
Dean honestly didn't think there was an answer.
He stared at his right arm, running his fingers over the raised Mark. Jaw tight, he knew he was in trouble. They both knew it was affecting him, but only he knew exactly how bad. There was no way he'd tell Sam how hard he was fighting every day to avoid giving into the pull. The temptation.
It was getting worse, too.
Tugging his sleeve down, he rubbed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the itchy sensation of his left arm. It sucked, but an itchy, numb arm was a lot less awful than one branded with the Mark of Cain. Itchiness wasn't going to kill him or turn him into a demon. Itchiness he could deal with. Itchiness he could fix. Quietly pushing himself to his feet, he all but tiptoed across the room.
They had a beat up bottle of a cheap, store-brand antihistamine rolling around in the med kit. He'd picked it up after a case had involved a few too many cats and his allergies had kicked in big time. Grateful now that he'd kept it, he tapped out a couple into his palm and dry swallowed them. A quick glance at his brother showed that his pill rattling hadn't disturbed Sam's sleep. Relieved, he put the pill bottle back, cast a sorrowful look at the coffee-maker he could no longer use, and sat back down at the table.
Frowning, Dean closed his eyes and brought back the memory of the spooky little ghost kid.
Nothing had been said about a little boy haunting the place but obviously someone had missed something. Which, of course, begged the questions of when the kid had died and why hadn't anyone missed him? Whoever he'd been, he'd died back when knickers were still in style. Which could easily put his death around the same time as Abigail's. Had he been killed because he'd witnessed Abigail's death? Wrong place, wrong time? Or was his death completely unrelated? A pure coincidence?
He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the wall, trying to remember as much detail as he could about his encounter with the boy. Beyond the ghost's retro get-up and the bloody arms, the main thing that had stuck with him was what he'd felt.
Evil.
Dean shook his head.
Nothing made sense. There'd been no mention of a second ghost in any eye witness account that had been complied on the blog. Admittedly, the lore left a lot to be desired, but every witness agreed on one thing. The ghost had been a girl in her late teens with a ghastly butcher's knife sticking out of her heart. She hadn't hurt anyone, just scared them off.
Her actions tonight made no sense given her previous behavior.
He clenched his fist and forced himself to focus on the journal in front of him. After about fifteen minutes, he'd read more than he'd ever wanted to about life in a tiny village in the 1920s. Stirling Everett must have been a man of few words if his sparse journaling was anything to go by.
Patience wearing thin, he tried to ignore the way his stomach was beginning to twist uncomfortably.
The itching on his arm had died down a little, or maybe he just wasn't noticing it as much since nausea was becoming a far more pressing issue. He broke out in a sweat and closed his eyes, trying to breathe through it. Swallowing hard and telling himself he wasn't going to throw up wasn't quite the magic fix he'd hoped and he found himself rushing for the bathroom. After a round of vomiting, he splashed some cold water on his face and went back to the journal.
Over the next thirty minutes, he revisited the bathroom several more times and started getting suspicious this was a little more serious than just an upset stomach. He couldn't figure out how the itchy/twitchy arm could be in any way connected to his sudden bout of stomach upset, but did it really make sense that they weren't connected?
Coincidences don't happen coincidentally.
His head throbbed from the vomiting and from his insane thoughts.
Nothing made sense.
Settling back at the table after a more mild spell of vomiting, he realized he wasn't the only one in distress.
Sam was no longer sleeping peacefully. Shaking his head against the pillow, he was still sound asleep, but clearly in the throes of a nightmare. His hands were fisted in the bedding and he was whispering something too quietly for Dean to hear. Never a good sign.
For a few minutes, Dean just watched and waited. Most of the time, the nightmares would either run their course, or Sam would wake up gasping. Dean didn't intervene as much these days, but that didn't mean he didn't want to or that he didn't keep a close eye on the situation. They both had plenty of reasons for nightmares but it had been a long time since he'd witnessed his brother having one this bad.
When the nightmare passed the five minute mark and there were no signs of it diminishing or Sam waking up, Dean decided it had gone on long enough. He pushed himself up from the table and then nearly jumped out of his skin when Sam shouted his name at the top of his lungs. Heart pounding in his ears, Dean was almost to the bed when Sam went completely limp.
Dean's stomach hit the floor.
"Sam!"
Sam jerked awake with a gasp at the sound of his brother's shout. Dean was leaning over him, face pale, and Sam was hit with a blast of terror so harsh it squeezed the breath right out of his lungs.
"Breathe, damn it!" Dean coached, shaking him by his shoulders. "Hey, come on focus!"
It took a moment before Sam could follow either of those directions. A moment filled with confusion and panic and remembered fear. His eyes went to Dean's right arm and he hated himself for needing to check to see if the Mark was glowing like it did in all of his dreams. But the Mark looked no different than it usually did and Sam remembered there was something wrong with Dean's left arm.
Looking back up at his brother, he asked, "Are you ok?"
"Yeah. I'm great. You about gave me a heart attack."
"Me?" Sam frowned, running a hand through his hair. His skin was warm and damp as if he'd just run a mile.
"You had a nightmare." Dean took a deep breath, sitting down on the other bed across from him. "Scared the crap out of me."
Sam didn't remember any specifics, but he'd had enough nightmares recently that it didn't take a lot of guesswork to know what it had been about. He took a shaky breath and said, "I don't remember falling asleep."
Everything was mixed up in his brain. Dark, fluid, confusing. Frightening.
"You basically passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow."
"How long?" Sam struggled up onto his elbow, trying to get a glimpse of the clock.
"An hour." Dean did not sound happy about it at all. "What the hell were you dreaming about?"
Sam swallowed hard against a rush of nausea so strong he was afraid he was going to throw up on the dirty carpet right then and there. He would never be able to put into words what he'd dreamed even if he could remember the specifics of this nightmare. He'd gotten Dean back from being a demon only to live under the constant threat of what the Mark was doing to him. To live under the constant threat of what would happen if Dean died again.
Inky black eyes filled with hatred haunted him every time he tried to sleep and taunted him during every waking hour.
"Sam?"
"Nothing." He managed to force the word out.
Lightheaded, he pushed himself to sit on the edge of the bed; hands planted on the bed, steadying himself. Once the sparklers faded from his vision, Dean's worry - bright in green eyes - was all he could see.
Clearing his throat, he said, "Sorry."
"You gotta get past this, man." Dean shook his head, features tight. "I'm fine, ok? Not going dark side again. Not dying anytime soon."
The words themselves were strong. Confident. The look in Dean's eyes, though, was anything but. And that's what scared Sam.
He licked his lips, mouth dry as hot pavement on a summer afternoon.
Dean sighed when he didn't say anything. He got up and went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water.
"Here." Dean nudged him in the shoulder with the bottle. "You look like you're gonna be sick."
He accepted the bottle of water and took a cautious sip.
"You haven't had one that bad in a long time," Dean said softly, sitting back down.
Not that you've noticed, anyway, Sam thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "You're the one who made me go to bed."
Dean shook his head but didn't comment.
Sam capped the bottle, memory coming back as the fog cleared from his brain. He looked at Dean's arm. It was trembling although Dean was trying to hide it by making a fist every few seconds. At least he could move his hand.
"Did you take something?" Sam asked.
"Yeah. It's not so itchy." Dean rubbed his hands together. "Still feels weird."
"What else?" Sam prompted. He frowned, noticing that his brother was sweating like it was a hundred degrees in the room.
"Nothing else."
There was something else. Something Dean didn't want to tell him. If Sam's heart hadn't already been pounding, it sure was now.
"Dean. What else is going on?"
Shifting uncomfortably, Dean said, "I dunno. I feel off."
At the surprisingly easy admission, alarm bells blared in Sam's head.
"Off how?" Sam set the bottle of water aside, fully alert.
"Just little stuff." Dean shrugged. "Feel a bit dizzy. Sick to my stomach."
"How sick?"
"Threw up a few times."
"A few times?"
"Yeah, Sam. A few. It's not a big deal." He sounded testy now. "Probably coming down with the flu or something."
Sam would have been more likely to agree to that possibility if it weren't for Dean's itchy, numb, and still twitching arm. Something else was going on. Dean was pale and sweaty. He also looked drowsy and Sam decided he might be able to help with at least one symptom.
"Ok. How about you try to get some sleep now?" he asked, preparing for an argument. "I'll look through the research for a bit."
Instead of arguing, Dean just nodded and settled back on the bed. He rested his right arm over his eyes; his left continued to twitch disturbingly at his side. His breathing was even and easy, though. If it hadn't been for how simple it had been to get him to lie down, Sam might have been more likely to pass the whole thing off for what Dean had suggested.
The flu.
But he'd seen Dean down with the flu; both mild and severe. In neither case did he ever give in so easily. And never once had his arm twitched the way it was right now.
Sam stared at his brother's arm, his sluggish brain trying to come up with a reason. An explanation. Nothing presented itself, though, and it was getting more and more difficult to sit on the edge of his bed without wanting to fall back into it.
Prepared for the head rush, Sam cautiously pushed himself to his feet. He crossed the room and was relieved to find there was still a little coffee in his brother's cup. Maybe it would be enough to keep him going until he could make it to a diner for some more coffee and breakfast. Turning, to look at his brother, he drained the cup in two sips.
Before he'd even finished the second sip, Dean was pushing himself upright.
"Dean?"
Face sheet white, he waved a hand to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, swaying slightly, sweat beading on his forehead.
"You gonna be sick?" Sam took a step forward.
"Just need to use the bathroom," Dean mumbled, getting to his feet. "Don't make a big deal out of everything."
Sam raised his eyebrows as Dean made his way unsteadily to the bathroom. He was staggering, right hand out as if to catch himself if he stumbled. Holding his breath, Sam prepared to go to his brother's aid if needed. But he made it without incident and pulled the door closed behind him.
With a sigh, Sam went to the table and started looking through the papers again. He was tempted to make the executive decision that it was time to throw everything out, and let someone else worry about damned haunted house. Neither of them were up to this. Hadn't been even before they'd gotten here, but now things were taking a definite turn for the worse.
He looked up a moment later as the bathroom door opened.
Flu or not, Dean wasn't looking good. He took a step forward and wavered like he was drunk.
"Hey, take it easy." Sam hurried to his side.
"Sam," Dean reached out a fumbling hand.
"What?"
"I...I can't remember...what happened."
"What happened when?" Sam guided him back to the bed. Dean was close to panic so he had to stay calm. "Dean, what don't you remember?"
"What happened. I can't remember what happened. Am I sick?"
"Yeah, you are." Sam nodded. Sick enough I think a hospital visit is in the very near future.
"I feel weird." He flopped backwards, one foot still on the ground.
"Weird how?"
Dean frowned, staring up at the ceiling. His left hand was still twitching but he didn't seem to notice. "Feel like I'm floating."
"You're flat on the bed."
"Feel like I'm floating," Dean insisted, squinting as he tried to focus on Sam's face. "Am I high?"
"Honestly...I don't know."
"You look like you're freaking out."
"I am not." Sam was shaking, his mouth was bone dry, and he was totally freaking out.
Dean laughed. It sounded a little hysterical.
Sam frowned. "Hey, I need you need to focus."
"Can't focus." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's arm, pulling him down into a crouch next to the bed. "Do you not hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"That noise."
"Why are you whispering?" Sam asked, his own voice a matching whisper.
Dean shook his head, his eyes unfocused. He was listening. To what, Sam wasn't sure.
After a minute, Dean blinked hard and said, "Sam. I'm going crazy."
"Dean-"
"I'm hearing things. I know I'm hearing things." Dean tightened his grip on Sam's arm. "I know I'm going crazy. What's happening to me? What are you doing to me?"
"What am I doing to you?" Sam tried to overcome the whiplash Dean's scattered thoughts were giving him. "I'm not doing anything to you."
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Sorry. I know." Dean squeezed his eyes closed. "Everything's...Can't think straight."
Before Sam could say anything, Dean released his grip, shoving himself to the far side of the bed. He stood up only to stagger into the wall. He turned around, back to the wall and started sliding to the floor. Sam rushed around the bed in time to slow his descent.
"Sammy," Dean said, reaching out, his eyes wide as he sat down on the floor. "Sammy, I feel so floaty. And…"
His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted around the room.
Sam frowned, fighting the urge to follow his brother's gaze. There wasn't anything to see. That much Sam was sure of. Whatever Dean was seeing was something only he could see.
"Dean. Look at me. What's wrong? What are you seeing?"
Slamming his eyes closed, Dean groaned, both his hands fisting in Sam's shirt. "It's like that guy….that guy...the guy who painted."
If the situation wasn't so terrible, Sam would have laughed at that description.
"Oh man, oh man, Sammy you gotta stop it. You gotta help me."
"Hey, hey, calm down, I'm right here. Calm down and tell me what you're seeing. What guy who painted?"
Dean still had his eyes squeezed closed. He tightened his grip and yanked Sam closer until his head was resting against Sam's chest. He whispered, "Go. Go. Go."
"Go where? Dean?"
"Not go." Dean started laughing. "Gogh. Van Gogh."
"You're seeing Vincent Van Gogh?"
Dean laughed again. "No. Don't be an idiot. It's just… everything looks funny. Like it's blurry and melty and...ah!"
He broke off and shoved Sam so hard he fell onto his butt.
"What the hell?" Sam asked, jaw dropping as his brother stared at him with a horrified expression.
"Sam, Sam, make it stop!" Dean was laughing even as he cowered against the wall. "Oh man, you're so damn gory. You're melting. I can't...I can't look at you. I can't look at anything. I'm going to float away and that buzzing won't stop!"
A second later, Sam had an armful of big brother. An armful of honest to goodness crying big brother. He was still laughing, but he was crying, too, and Sam didn't know what to do about any of it.
Taking a deep breath, Sam shoved the panic deep down. Switching the terrified little brother off wasn't easy but he did it anyway.
"Dean, I know you're not feeling well but I need you to try to help me out here." Sam put one hand on the back of Dean's head, trying to make him feel safe, even as his own hands were trembling with fear. "You're hearing things. And you're seeing things-"
"I'm not crazy!" Dean mumbled against Sam's chest.
"No, you aren't," Sam assured him, not even remotely interested in teasing him. "But something is affecting you. Giving you all these symptoms. You think it could be related to the case? Ghost sickness maybe?"
"Don't say that. Don't! I already had that. I should be immune right?" He lifted his head, eyes beseeching. "Please tell me I'm immune!"
"I don't know."
"I don't want that again. I don't want ghost sickness!" His gaze drifted around the room. "Why do ghosts do this to me?"
"We don't know that -"
Sam didn't get to finish his statement because Dean shoved him away again. Too stunned to react, he watched in shock as Dean lunged for the nightstand where his gun was sitting. After grabbing his gun, he positioned himself between Sam and the door.
"Get back, Sammy, I've got this."
"Got what?" Sam's heart was in his throat. He was getting whiplash from the changes in Dean's moods. "What are you doing? Do not fire your gun. There's nothing there."
"Sam." Dean was panting, one hand on the edge of the bed. He was wavering where he knelt. "I'm seeing things, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you are. Uh...what are you seeing right now?"
"They're all alive. They look like...they look like they're all alive…"
Sam inched forward. "What looks like they're all alive?"
"The stuff. The dresser...the chairs… stuff that shouldn't be alive." Dean sounded close to tears again. "Sam, they're not real, right? They're not alive, right? Please tell me I'm not crazy."
"You're not crazy." Sam cautiously reached for the gun. "What you're seeing isn't real. How about you give me the gun?"
Dean nodded, slouching back against the bed. He didn't release the gun yet, though. Sam held his breath and watched his brother. There was an internal struggle going on, that was obvious. Sweaty, shaky, eyes too wide, he looked like he was losing his mind.
Sam slowly reached out and took the gun from his brother's hand.
Dean released it easily and said, "I feel like crap."
"Hey!" Sam barely had time to set the gun on the bed before he found himself with an armful of big brother again. "Dean?"
Nothing.
Dean slumped bonelessly against him, eyes closed.
Sam wondered if now would be an appropriate time to have a nervous breakdown.
to be continued...
Hope you enjoyed! :)