He hides.
Alone in the darkness.
Praying that someone will find him. Praying with all his heart that something won't.
A second runs the course of a lifetime and he can feel prickles of cold sweat breaking out on his brow and the back of his neck. He's trying to breathe shallowly, evenly. Listening for the telltale shuffle but unable to hear anything above the sound of his thumping heart. And then he hears.
Metal on stone. The sound an axe might make if it were being dragged across the floor. The exact same sound.
He resists the urge to pat down his pockets in the hope of finding a weapon; he already knows they're empty. Now he regrets tossing the broken torch away in temper, even a small blunt object might have made the difference between dying a hero and living to fight another day.
He can smell ethanol and cloves, and his own fear, which smells like bitter lemons. His right arm, his fighting arm, is busted and his trousers are wet with blood, from a deep gash across his right thigh. It's only the fact that he hasn't passed out yet, that he knows it's not an arterial bleed. Small mercies.
Then the voice comes from without the door, and within his head. It sounds mushy and slow, as if the speaker has a mouth full of oatmeal and broken teeth. The word bubbles wetly from the speaker, and it rips his heart apart, "Sammy."
Exasperated, Sam throws the map into the foot-well, "I give up."
"We're lost?"
"We're not…lost. I'm just not sure where we are."
"Admit it little brother, you'll feel better."
"And you'll feel superior."
"If you've got it…"
Sam turns his head to stare out of the window. Half-dead sun-baked trees and parched grass stretch as far as the eye can see. Every now and then a small decrepit, derelict building appears, as bereft of life as the surrounding fields. He half expects to see the picked-clean gleaming white skeleton of a cow lying by the side of the dirt road they are travelling along.
"I know where we are," Says Dean "We are in the ass-end of nowhere."
"We're supposed to be in Allington."
"Well you were the one reading the map."
Sam sighs and retrieves the crumpled map. He smoothes it out on his lap and squints at the lines and then looks out at the passing landscape. "I don't think this road is even on the map. Did you see a signpost anywhere?"
"Did you see me see a signpost?"
"We need to stop and ask directions."
"You think?"
Without warning, Dean suddenly swings the Impala off the main road, if it could even be called that, and down an even smaller and dirtier track. "Dare I ask?"
Dean sniffs "You see any signs of life back there? Anyway I saw a sign."
"You saw a sign?"
"I saw a sign."
"I didn't see you see a sign. What kind of sign?"
"The kind that points the way to directions."
The car bounces its way along the track for many minutes, any sign of life seeming as remote now as it had on the main road and then, "Cows." Sam points out of the window.
"Well done Sammy. Can you see a horsey too?"
"It a sign of life wiseguy. Cows mean farmhouse."
"Why do you think I turned down here?"
"Lucky guess."
The imposing farmhouse is as dilapidated as every other building they have driven past on the way here. Scrawny looking chickens are running around in the yard and Dean avoids running any of them over as he pulls up alongside a knackered car that looks like it might have once belonged to the Toyota family. Scrawny chickens and scrawny cows, he wonders if Sam might've spoken too soon when he classed it as signs of life. Sam folds the map up and slips it in his back pocket as they alight from the vehicle. "Hello? Anyone home?" Dean hollers.
Sam walks across the yard, scattering chickens as he does so, and climbs the few wooden steps that lead up to the front door. He raps sharply on the door. Faded green paint is peeling away from the wood and the frame looks as if one weak kick and the whole thing will fall apart. Dean walks around him and along the porch and presses his hands up against a window and peers inside. Too much orange dust on the outside, and the grimy yellow nets that hang on the inside, prevent him from seeing anything.
There's something in the air that Sam can't put his finger on, a sense of foreboding, as if somehow they shouldn't be here. If ever he actually wanted a vision, now would be the time for one. Dean tries the front door and it opens wearily. "Hello?" he calls out again and takes a step inside.
"Dude?" Sam puts a warning hand on his shoulder.
"What?" Dean turns and lifts an eyebrow at him "I just want to use the bathroom." Sam raises an eyebrow back, "Seriously, my kidneys are getting ready to pack up their things and move out."
Sam reluctantly follows his brother inside and casts his eyes around in the gloom. It's as if the bright light of day cannot penetrate inside here. The air is thick and oppressive and the faint scent of something sweet hangs off it. Sam can't quite place it but it is familiar to him and not, he feels, in a good way. Here and there, a shaft of sunlight breaks its way through the occasional hole in the ragged net curtains and motes of dust dance away from them as they walk into what once might have passed for a sitting room. Furniture is ancient, moth-eaten and crumbling. Faded books line up on a worn bookshelf and Sam knows if he touches them, they will fall apart in his fingers.
"Dean, I don't think anyone lives here now."
"But what about the cows?"
But they both know that the cows look underfed, that they haven't seen proper feed for months. All the signs are there, and yet they both ignore them. Every moment of trepidation is just an adventure they haven't started yet.
"We should go." Suggests Sam, and then there is a thump from upstairs.
Dean grins, that wide shit-eating grin of his, the one that tells Sam that the adventure is about to start.
The stairs look downright dangerous, and Sam believes they might just be taking their lives in their hands by venturing up them. But up them they go, Dean in the lead, Sam doggedly following in his wake. They reach the landing and are confronted by five closed doors. "You pick." Offers Dean.
But before Sam can reply, another thud reaches their ears. It's coming from the far end of the corridor. Sam reflects that it's always the very last door. The very last place you're going to look.
Dean marches straight ahead and raps sharply on the door. "Hello? My brother and I are lost. We're wondering if we might use your bathroom and get some directions?"
There's no reply. Neither of them is surprised. Dean taps the door again and tries the handle. It turns smoothly. He pushes the door open and enters the room.
Everything happens so fast that Sam scarcely has time to draw breath.
The figure lunges from the back of the room and sinks its teeth into Dean's neck. Sam hears the sound of skin tearing, and grabs for his brother who is being pulled into the room. Dean has no time to comment, no time to think. His jugular is severed before he even realises what is happening. Sam grabs at thing biting on Dean and tries to pull it off. It releases its grip and Dean slumps to the floor. It turns to face Sam.
It may once have been a man, the tattered clothes that cling to its decomposing body attest to this fact, but now it has dead eyes in a long dead face. Teeth still gnawing on a chunk of his brother's flesh, arms outstretched, reaching for Sam. From somewhere deep in the back of its throat, through vocal cords long decayed, comes an unearthly moan. It is a moan of longing, of necessity. Of wanting. And it wants Sam.
Sam punches it hard in the head as it approaches him. It's like knocking the air out of dough when making bread and the head scarcely wobbles on its neck. He high kicks it in the chest and gets behind it, pushing it out of the door and away from him and Dean. He slams the door shut. There is a key in the lock, and it turns.
Safe for now, he turns his attention to his heavily bleeding brother. "Oh God, Dean."
He turns him over. The eyes are closed, breathing ragged. The wound in his neck gapes open, his life blood pumping its way out of his body. Sam presses his hands against the wound. Got to apply pressure. Stop the bleeding.
The blood seeps between his fingers, soaks into his jeans as he kneels on the floor. His hands are slippery, making it hard to apply pressure. He lets go and pulls his t-shirt off over his head, bundling it up and pressing it against Dean's neck. The white shirt blossoms with flowers of red and in seconds it is soaked through, but it is easier to grip.
The eyes flutter and open. Dean opens his mouth but he can't speak, his vocal cords are flooded. A viscous red bubble forms in the corner of his mouth, pops, and sprays Sam with his dying brother's blood. He has blood on his hands. His face. His chest. It's everywhere and yet still his brain is refusing to make the connections that will allow him to believe that Dean is dying.
He doesn't have the time or the wherewithal to think about what the thing outside the door might be or whether it's still there, whether it's going to suddenly force its way back into the room. At some point he knows he going to have to come up with a plan. A plan to get Dean out of here and safely to the car. And then find help. And by help he thinks hospital. He already knows that a little blood can go a long way to making a lot of mess. But this is a lot of blood, and when it starts to slow alarm bells start ringing in his brain. And he looks, really looks, at his brother.
Dean is dead.
It could have been seconds, it may have been minutes. It feels like hours before his brain finally lets him register the fact that his brother has stopped breathing. How long? He panics. How long was it until he noticed? He releases his grip on the blood-sodden shirt and places his hands on Dean's chest. He pumps hard, and feels and hears a rib snap under the pounding. He tips the head back and opens the mouth. Wiping away the blood from the mouth with bloody fingers seems pointless. He clamps his lips over his brother's and blows hard into his lungs. The chest rises and falls and he blows again. He resumes his compressions, tasting salt and metal in his mouth. This is the essence of his brother and it is on his tongue and coating his teeth, and he cannot give it back.
He pounds and breathes, and Dean just lies there like a lifeless, broken doll. He thumps hard on the chest "Come on, breathe dammit." But no matter how hard he wills it, nothing is changing. Time is continuing its slow steady march and no matter how hard he tries, or pleads, or cries, nothing is going to change this one ineffable fact:
Dean is dead.
Sam falls backwards, away from the body. He can't think; he can't speak. He can feel hot tears tracing a path through the blood on his face. His chest hitches, once, twice and then the sobs come.
His brother
His protector
His friend
The one thing that made him a better a person is gone. And it no longer seems to matter how he is going to get out of here.
Dean's eyes snap open.
At first Sam doesn't notice; his head in his hands, blood and tears in his eyes.
And then Dean sits up, and this time Sam takes notice and gets to his feet as his previously deceased brother gets to his. "Dean, my God. You're okay?" he moves forward as Dean turns his head and snarls.
And Sam gets it first time.
Blind eyes. All colour gone from the iris, all signs of life, gone. The flame that burned inside his brother is long extinguished.
Teeth bared. A wet guttural growl rising from within it.
This. This thing. This is not his brother.
It lunges hard at Sam who dodges left and avoids the incoming blow. It stumbles, but regains its ground with surprising speed and agility. It reaches an arm out to grab him and Sam tries to block it. It grabs his arm and Sam twists away, trying to get it to relinquish its grip. Instead of stepping into Sam's movement, the thing pulls backwards and up and there is a sickening snap as Sam's right arm breaks. He cries out in pain and fear and slams his body back into Dean.
He still thinks of it as Dean. As his brother. Even though he knows this is far from the truth. The truth is in another country. His mind is telling him what this thing is, but he refuses to listen. After all the things he's seen, that he knows about, he still refuses to entertain the possibility that he knows what this thing is. He cannot bring himself to even think the word. It is beyond reason. Beyond ridiculous.
His brother is sick. He knows this is a lie even as he thinks it. Dean is possessed, or under a spell. He draws a little comfort from these fictions he is weaving for himself. If it is sickness, if it possession, if it is magic, then there is a cure. He pretends he doesn't see the dead eyes, that he doesn't hear the blood lust in its moaning.
Dean staggers back from his blow and Sam races for the door. His fingers fumble with the lock, and after what feels like an eternity, it clicks back and the door is released. He yanks it open, pausing only momentarily, to check for the other thing that he pushed out here. The landing is empty and he runs for the stairs, not even turning to look behind him to see if his brother is pursuing.
He races down the stairs, clutching his damaged arm to his chest for support. He hits the hallway running and turns and runs for the front door. He takes only a second to register the fact that the door is closed, hadn't they left it open? He skids to halt in front of it and wrenches it open.
Two of them. Male. Moving slowly at this moment in time. Their cognitive processes all but destroyed, it takes them a while to understand what they are seeing with their milky-glazed eyes. Decomposition has already taken quite a toll on their features, skin hanging slackly against bone, breaking open like parchment and leaking suppurating body fluids. Teeth bared in bloody mouths and arms reaching ever out in the hope of finding flesh. Sam's flesh.
Sam starts to charge them, prepared to use his shoulder to shove them out of his way. That is until he notices the knife. The creature lashes out him, the knife low in its grasp and it slices like butter, midway across his right thigh. Sam grunts as he feels denim and skin split and separate. He can't feel the blood from the wound seeping down his leg since his jeans are all ready soaked through with that of his brother.
He slams the door shut in their dead faces and turns. Dean is just taking the first step at the top of the stairs. Sam limps along the hallway; running is no longer an option. He enters what he supposes was once the kitchen. Flies hover over a large table in the centre of the room. The table is covered with rubbish and rotten food. He can't identify the food, and he doesn't want to.
He hears the front door fly open and bang back against the wall. He crosses the room and pulls open the door in the far wall. Steps lead down into murky darkness. He enters and pulls the door closed behind him. He takes it a step at time, slowly. Because of his leg, and because he is waiting for his eyes to adjust to the poor light. He is optimistic that there will be another way out of here. He has to be optimistic because dying is not an option. He has to save his brother. His poor dead brother.
The basement is large and cold. There is wall to wall shelving but there is little stacked on it. He spots what looks like a torch and reaches for it. He presses the button, but nothing happens. He shakes it violently; it flickers feebly and then dies. He tosses it aside and starts looking for a way out.
There is a door, behind some boxes which he hurriedly pulls aside. He opens it reluctantly; already he knows this will not be the way out. The door at the top of the stairs creaks painfully as it is opened and Sam steps inside.
The toilet is barely big enough to contain him but he pulls the door shut and tries to gather his thoughts. The thumping from his heart fills his ears and he wonders if Dean's heart is still beating. He hears Deans voice in his head "What are you going to do Sammy, die on the toilet?"
Metal on stone.
"Sammy."
He braces himself against the door and when he is convinced that Dean is stood directly outside he charges.
Dean falls backwards, away from the door, away from Sam. The axe falls from its hand and Sam barely has time to wonder where he got it from before it is moving again and trying to get to its feet.
Sam runs as fast as he can up the stairs. He ignores the pain in his leg; speed is of the essence now. He has a plan. Well he has the inkling of a plan, but he wonders whether he has the capacity to see it through. His favoured arm is broken and his favoured leg is injured, all in all things could be going better for him. There is a window in the kitchen, and he intends going through it.
The scene plays out something like a bar fight in a western.
Something dead is in the room with him. Sam kicks at it, hard, with his good leg. The creature's right leg cracks and splinters, its bones as fetid as the rest of it. It falls to the ground, hands scrabbling for purchase. Sam feels its fingers scratching at his ankle, still trying to grab hold of him. He aims a hard kick at its head. The weak skull explodes on impact, black blood and brains spray his leg and the ground. He doesn't have the time to feel nauseous. He scrambles onto a work surface and shielding his face, he jumps through the window.
He lands, hard. Tangled in the dirty nets, and glass splinters in his hair and pricking at his bare chest and back. He runs, dragging his leg slightly, around the side of the house. He's heading for the Impala. Or rather he's heading for what's in her trunk.
It dawns on him after an age, as he reaches the car, that the keys are in Dean's pocket.
He glances around, looking for something he can use to force the lock on the trunk with. Somehow he doubts that kicking at it is going to cause it to pop open. He yanks open the door of the abandoned car that they parked next to. It's full to overflowing with crap. He rummages around, trying to find something he can use. For the first time today, the Gods smile on him. He comes up with something that looks a little like a rusty crowbar. He grabs it and heads over to the Impala.
He braces the bar against the lock and forces it with all his body weight. The lock creaks and moans and is finally popped out of place. He opens the trunk and grabs the shotgun. Somehow he doubts rock salt shells will work on these things, but a good old-fashioned shotgun shell to the head will pretty much drop anything he reckons. He just prays that he can aim well enough with his left arm.
He walks slowly back towards the front door, which is now hanging from its hinges. He raises the gun as a figure comes into view in the hallway. He's relieved to see that it's not his brother. The long dead thing shambles towards him and Sam winces in pain as he pulls the trigger.
Its head explodes. It rains a meat shower over the walls and floor. The body stands still momentarily and then collapses. He is about to step over the body, to walk back into the heart of darkness, when a hand grips his shoulder tightly.
Sam turns on the spot and fires instinctively.
He watches in slow motion as his brother's features are torn apart.
He knows, deep in his heart where reason and logic still have residence, that his brother was dead, long before he fired the weapon. That Dean died on the dirty floor, of a dirty room, without a fight, without a chance to defend himself. Without a chance to be the hero he was.
Sam knows he is not a hero, and he howls. It is the howl of a defeated man, and he falls to his knees, and the shotgun falls to the ground.
It is over.
Everything.
Is over.