This is a bit different, rather long and probably boring. Read it if you like and feel free to tell me what you think!! I don't own Sam or Dean but Lily and her mother are fair game. I made up the place, the legend and most other things!!
Nothing much happens in our small village. Most of the population are over 60 and not long for this world. The young ones, like me, are counting down the minutes and hours before we can actually get on a train and leave here, head for the big city and have some excitement in our lives.
My mother was baking. We were expecting a new priest, the third in as many months. I suppose that it is because the priests they send us are old and wizened and talk in a scratchy voice about hell and damnation. They talk a lot about heaven too, which is a good job, because most of them end up there pretty quickly given their age and constitution.
We always house the priest and I'm used to it now. Used to the fact that my mother bakes them scones and whips up cream, serves up weak tea and puts the milk in the best jug. I washed our finest pots and laid the table and my mother smiled at me, "Can you go and fetch him love," she glanced at her watch and gave me a longing look, "I know it is late notice," she added and I sighed.
I only passed my test a few weeks ago, but there is so little traffic here that it is easy to do. As I drive down the bumpy roads to the station, I don't pass another car, another van, even a bike. There are only a handful of people who live here and very few drive. I grin as I pass the local school. In two months I will have passed my A Levels and then it is away to University. At 19, I will finally be free.
The station is as tiny as the rest of the village. There is only one platform and only two trains a day. One in and one out. The nearest town is over fifty miles away, the nearest City one hundred. Life in rural England can be boring, lonely and isolated, but you learn to live with it. At least our village has a tourist attraction.
They call it the Blue Pool. Hidden away in the depths of the forest, it is barely even enough water to drown in but plenty of people have lost their lives there and an air of mystery surrounds it. It is said to be bottomless, a gateway to something evil and no one ever went there alone. In the summer we got a lot of visitors, all awed and open mouthed, gazing into the deep blue water and wondering what made it that colour, what made it ripple and glow like a sapphire, even in the darkness of the forest.
There were two people on the station platform and I headed towards the first one without a second glance. He was old and bent his face a road map of wrinkles and liver spots. His eyes were rheumy and I wondered how old he actually might be.
"Father Murphy?" He stared at me, confused, fingers laced in his suitcase handle. I coughed and bent forward, ready to speak again, when the other person on the platform spoke out, loud and clear, in an accent that was alien and exotic.
"Hey, I'm Father James Murphy, if it is me you are looking for."
I swallowed hard and blinked once, twice, wondering if I might be seeing things. The man before me was the tallest man I had ever seen, towering over the station sign, head framed by the rapidly setting sun. I stared for a moment and then flushed, embarrassed at staring. The man grinned, cheeks dimpling and I flushed again, realising, for the first time, just how young he was.
He was probably only a few years older than me, his skin tanned beneath his clerical collar. His hair was long, touching his shoulders and, what the older people here, might call uncouth. Slanting cat-like eyes, speckled hazel, stared down at me and I shifted, shuffling my feet, feeling suddenly hot and out of sorts.
"I've – um – come to fetch you – my mother sent me," I was aware of sounding stupid and I bit my tongue to try and get my mouth back on track, "my name is Lily – my mother is Annabelle Rose, she always houses the priests."
"Of course," Father Murphy smiled, showing dimples and clean, white teeth, "pleased to meet you Lily," a large, bear like paw came up and enveloped mine and I stared at it, watching in fascination as his hand clasped around my own, firm and friendly.
"You – you don't come from the city," it was a statement, not really a question and Father Murphy smiled again.
"No, I'm from Kansas originally – but I've done my fair share of travelling," he smiled again, "shall we go and meet your mother," he said and I smiled, finally and led him to my car.
He squashed his body into my passenger seat, knees almost around his ears. He didn't say much as we drove and I resisted the temptation to stare at him, however surreptitiously. He didn't smell like a priest, no scent of incense, stale tobacco and dead flowers. He smelt clean and fresh, of mint and cologne, so young and so different it was hard to believe he was a man of the cloth.
My mother's face was a picture and I wished that I had my camera on me to capture her look of amazement as I introduced her to Father Murphy. The young priest was all politeness and charm, sitting at the table and eating the scones forced upon him, drinking coke instead of tea and licking the cream from his fingers.
I apologised for his room, dark and badly furnished as it was and he shook his head, laying back on the bed, eyes closed in complete bliss. I wondered what sort of accommodation he was used to, but I was too shy to ask and, finally, I wished him goodnight, leaving him alone to unpack and settle in.
There was standing room only in church on Sunday and even those people, who hadn't been in the house of God for decades, took a pew. Father Murphy was a soft spoken priest, his sermon about the cleansing of the soul and the fact that good should always triumph over evil. He seemed quiet and unsure, his voice faltering, his eyes bright when he talked about the importance of saving your soul and avoiding the demons that plague us.
Afterwards we all sat in the freezing cold vestry that adjoined the church and drank weak tea and ate stale biscuits. Father Murphy seemed astonished by the crowd and, it made me smile, to think that he wasn't the only one.
"Tell me about the Blue Pool," Father Murphy sat down opposite me and smiled, opening a can of coke and swigging it back, sighing contentedly.
I was doing my homework, reading about Macbeth and giving myself a headache. I was almost relieved to have some sort of distraction and I stretched my neck cracking.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything, anything," his voice was gentle, soft and I looked up at him, wondering why his eyes seemed so tired, so sad.
"The legend is that it is a door – a portal maybe – to hell." I shrugged, "it is rumoured to be bottomless and some tell tales about the devil himself climbing out of the water and running amuck in the village."
"Do you believe it?" Father Murphy frowned a little, pinching the bridge of his nose, "the legend I mean?"
"I've been down to the pool, with friends you know, and it is kind of spooky. Nothing lives down there, no birds, no plants, nothing," I shuddered, remembering, "the pool is so blue, even in the shadows and there are no ripples, the thing is so still, it never wavers, not even in the windiest of weathers."
"So you do believe it?" Father Murphy smiles, slightly, his eyes bright, "can you take me there?"
"If you want," I shook my head, puzzled as to why a man of the cloth was so interested in something so bizarre and commercial as our local legend, "but I want to go when it's light, ok?"
Despite the brightness of the day, the forest was dark, damp and cold and I wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm. Father Murphy wore an old leather jacket over his clothes; it looked vintage and a little too small for him on the arms, but big and baggy across the chest and back. He carried an old duffle bag and I wondered what was inside but afraid, somehow, to ask.
It had been years since I had seen the pool, but nothing had changed. It was still deep and fathomless, still and bright, no movement on its surface, no sound surrounding it.
Father Murphy moved closer, reaching out his long fingers and letting them dangle in the water. I stood back, swallowing hard, as he wriggled his fingers, letting the water ripple across his knuckles. I felt odd, strange and my body was shaking, not just with cold.
For a moment, it was as if the world froze and everything stood still. Father Murphy bent forward and, before I could say or do anything, he plunged, head first, into the pool.
I may have screamed, hysteria flowing through my veins like liquid heat. I couldn't comprehend what I had just seen, unable to believe what the priest had done.
When my courage returned, I bent over, peering into the pool, searching, wondering.
Father Murphy had gone.
The village police had no explanation for it. They searched to forest, the nearby area, the fields and even the church yard. They did not and would not go near the pool.
My mother cried and sent a letter to the city. Another priest would be dispatched they reassured us. I wanted to ask why a priest, a man of God, would want to kill himself like that, would want to drown in a pool that was nothing more than a tourist attraction. No one gave me any answers and I gave up asking.
My mobile rang in the middle of the night and I groped for it, my mouth dry. The voice on the other end sounded distant, fuzzy, but I recognised it instantly and my heart rose to my throat, thumping desperately.
"Can you come and get us," Father Murphy said, "Please, Lily, I need your help."
I didn't question him, ask him where he had been these past few weeks; didn't want to know why he was suddenly ringing me, didn't ask why I had to go and pick US up, not just me.
I got into the car and drove deep into the forest, the bumpy path not made for cars played hell with the suspension, but I wasn't walking and I felt safer in the confines of the driver's seat.
The moon offered enough light to turn the clearing silver. I got out of the car, my nostrils twitching at the smell. Rotten eggs, singed flesh the sickening scent of blood. My stomach roiled but I took a deep breath and moved forward, my eyes fixed on the hunched over figure of Father Murphy, my heart beating painfully in my chest.
The young priest looked as if he had been in a fire. His hands were red and blistered, his face black, his hair singed. He was holding another man over his knees and this man looked in an even worse state. His skin was bright red, his hands almost purple. His hair was nearly burnt away and he was gasping, thin, laboured breathes that made me feel sick inside.
The Blue Pool was no longer still. It bubbled and rippled like a cauldron over a raging fire. The water no longer shone sapphire but bright red and, if I looked hard enough, I swore I would see the flames of hellfire.
"Father?" He looked up, his hazel eyes tortured and pain-filled. Relief lit up within his poor burnt face and he forced out a tiny smile.
"Thank you – Lily," he said.
The other man moaned then and he rolled over, puking onto the scrubby grass. "Sam," he choked out and Father Murphy shushed him, stroking long, tender fingers across his face, "Sammy."
Father Murphy (Sam?) lifted the man into his arms "Is there a hospital Lily?" he asked, gently.
"A small cottage one about 10 miles from here, we can go in my car," I couldn't comprehend what was happening; maybe I didn't want to or need to. I helped Father Murphy with his burden and gently laid the man in the back of my car, apologising as I had to bend his legs to fit him into the back seat. Father Murphy was crying freely now, his hand rubbing across the other man's face, urging him to hold on, to stay with him.
I climbed into the driver's seat and Father Murphy (Sammy?) got in alongside me. We drove in silence for a while, only the harsh breathing and rattling of the man in the back seat breaking through the cloying stillness.
"You're not a priest are you?" I turned finally, studying the young man's face, watching him sob softly, wiping at his eyes with a trembling hand.
"No," he swallowed hard, "Jim Murphy was my friend, he – he died a long while ago – I guess he wouldn't have minded – I needed a cover story – one that would work, one that would get people to trust me."
"The Blue Pool," I knew that what I was about to say would sound completely insane, "the legend was true? You went through the portal to hell – why?"
"To bring back my brother," he turned to look at me, his eyes suddenly steely and hard, "to get him out of hell."
"I don't understand."
"My brother sold his soul for me – went to hell for me – the least I could do was get it back."
"It – it doesn't make any sense – hell – hell really exists?"
"You believe in heaven don't you?" He smiled again, leaning over the seat to look at his brother, to reassure himself, "why is it so difficult to believe in hell?"
"You must really love him," I followed his gaze, let my eyes drift over to the back seat, to the man who lay there, a man who had, apparently, crawled out of hell.
"He's my brother," the young man said, as if that were enough, "he's all I have."
I dropped him off at the hospital gates, helping him to load his brother on a stretcher, listening to him talking to the medics, the lies running off his tongue like honey.
"I won't see you again will I?" I said, as I followed him to the doors of Accident and Emergency. He shook his head, soft hazel eyes expressing everything. "Let me know if he is ok," I added, with one final look at his brother, "let me know that everything is alright."
"Good luck with your new priest," he said, with a grin, dimples deepening, "I think his sermons might be better than mine."
"I doubt if we will get as many people in that church as we did on that Sunday," I said and reached out, gently squeezing his hand, "take care of yourself, Sam,"
I watched till the doors slid shut and then I turned and went back to my car.
Nothing much happens in our village and now we have even lost our most popular attraction. The Blue Pool dried up, mysteriously, one autumn night and no one has an explanation for it. Some older residents say that the devil himself climbed out that day and closed the portal behind him. My mum hung a cross over our door and I didn't even chide her for it.
Our latest priest is old and smells of moth balls. His sermons are boring and long and not many people go to church anymore. My mother still bakes him scones and pours out weak tea but I keep a can of coke in the fridge just in case.
Sometimes I watch the news on satellite and sometimes I surf the net, looking for something I don't quite know how to find. One winter evening my search throws up something and I stare at my computer, a smile cracking across my face, nostrils filling with the long forgotten scent of sulphur and fire.
Two brothers, Sam and Dean Winchester, were awarded the key to the City of New York by the grateful mayor. They had done him an undisclosed service and, in doing so, had saved the city from certain disaster. There was a picture of both brothers, standing in front of, what looked like, an old, black muscle car, both of them smiling and healthy and happy.
Sam's brother was a looker, all green eyes and warm grin. Sam looked much the same as he did last time I saw him, minus the dog collar and the sensible clothing. I wondered what they had done for the Mayor, what strange, evil creature had passed through the city. I wondered if it were a demon or maybe even the devil himself.
I would never really understand what happened over those few enchanted months, only that the woods were quiet now and that birds sung in the clearing and, by springtime, there were blossoms in the woods.
I often thought about Sam and his brother and prayed that they would always be together, always be happy and always save each other.
And when I leave here, leave this place, I'm thinking of a new career.
After all, there are plenty of evil things out there and it might take more than two men to catch them all.
End