This was written for the first ever SPN Eldritch Bang, for which I'm also a moderator and co-creator! I had a lot of fun writing this, spooky stories are my favourite to tell. My artist this year was Artherra and she made some really gorgeous, atmospheric illustrations. To see them, head over to her tumblr. It was her first big bang ever so make sure to give her lots of love! Also, thank you to monicawoe for being my beta, and thank you winchesterpooja for always being there for a chat.
Enjoy the story!
Beyond the thick canopy of the forest, the sky begins to turn grey. The clouds swell, heavy and eager to burst. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye, his arms swing at a steady rhythm, each note ending in the deep crack of wood splitting.
He pauses, muscles aching, and eyes his growing pile of wood. Overhead, the sky rumbles in warning. Dean wraps up the logs in a plastic sheet and hauls them over his shoulder.
Out here in the woods there are no foot trails except for the ones Dean has made himself. His boots are caked in mud and crisp fallen leaves. He retraces his steps through the trees. This deep into the forest, even someone like Dean might get lost. The trees stand silent and identical, spread out so far that Dean can see nothing in the distance but trees, trees, and more trees.
The first drops of rain fall as soon as he has the cabin in his sights. He avoids being drenched under the forest's cover and dashes for the front porch. It shouldn't be dark this early in the day. Dean misses the sun, sometimes. He misses civilisation. He misses his Baby most.
"I told you a storm was coming," Sam says softly, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. For such a big guy, Sam is an expert at popping up unnoticed. Dean didn't notice him sitting on the porch. The kid is wrapped up tight in a brown blanket, camouflaged amongst the wood walls and pillars and floorboards.
"You think it'll be a big one?" Dean asks.
Sam nods, staring out at the trees. His forehead is creased. Whether it's his trying to figure something out crease or his something's not right crease, Dean can't tell. He waits for a moment to see if Sam says anything more, but he doesn't.
Dean doesn't bother asking. Troubled is Sam's near-constant state, these days. He gets to work filling the large tin box on the porch with logs to keep them dry, saving a few for the fire. Their cabin is a small one. Cramped might be the word Dean would use. There's only one room, the kitchen consists of a small gas-fuelled hob and two wood stools on either side of a tiny wood table. There's a couch, handmade of – you guessed it – wood, barely softened by the stained cushions and scratchy wool blanket.
Dean cleans out the fireplace, scrapes the ashes from the bottom, and tosses them outside. Sam finally comes inside once Dean has the fire going, it lights up the entire cabin in warm orange flickers, the snap, crackle, pops echo around the entire room.
"What time is it?" Sam asks. From the kitchen, Dean can only see Sam's hunched back as he faces the fire.
Dean checks his watch. "A few minutes to six," he tells him. "Almost time for dinner."
Their pantry – the rickety shelf above the stove – is packed with tin cans and dried pasta. There's no electricity this far out, nothing to plug a fridge into, or a TV, or even a lamp. They live by candle light.
Dean heats up the first tin his fingers wrap around. Three bean chilli. He finds the last of a bag of rice to go along with it.
"We could do with a supply run," Dean says, idly stirring the chilli. They don't really need a supply run, not yet, Dean's just itching to get out of this cabin, out of this forest, out of the county, even.
The cabin is eerily quiet.
"Anything you want when I go into town tomorrow?"
Nothing.
"Sammy?"
The crack of a deadweight hitting the hardwood makes Dean jump, boiling water splashes his hand. He hisses and spins around. Sam's not on the couch anymore, he's on the floor, curled in a ball, rigid, hands clamped tight against his skull.
Dean's a pro at this by now. He steps quietly, crossing the short distance to the couch and plucks up a couple of pillows. Even with his gentlest touch, Sam still hisses through his teeth as Dean slides the pillows under his head.
Dean leans forward and peeks at Sam's face. His eyes are half-closed, eyelids wavering. His teeth bite into his lower lip, small spots of blood well there. He stays that way a second more before every muscle in his body is pulled taut, his entire body straight like there's a string being yanked from head to toe.
Sam chokes and stops breathing. His fingers scramble at his throat, his heels dig into the floor. Dean's heart races, his chest heaves, he wants so badly to look away, but being here, witnessing this, is all he can do for Sam.
It lasts an uncomfortable few minutes. Almost six and a half. Once it's done, Sam sucks in a great lungful of air and promptly pukes all over Dean.
Sam gasps and scrubs his wet mouth with his hand. He blinks lazily around the room, at their hard couch and crackling fireplace, the pitch black, glossy windows, and finally at Dean, drenched in vomit.
Sam swallows and makes a sour face. "Sorry," he mumbles. His voice is raw, barely there, like someone choked it out of him. Before Dean can ask him any questions, Sam frowns and sniffs the air. "Is – is something burning?"
"Oh fuck," Dean yelps, and dashes back to the stove.
He manages to save half of the chilli, the rest of it burned black and cemented to the pan. The rice has to be tossed out, once he can scrape it from the pot. Once Dean has washed and changed his clothes, and Sam has brushed his teeth for a solid five minutes, they sit at the table for a meagre helping of overcooked chilli.
Sam shuffles his around the plate with his fork, focusing instead on prodding his bitten lip with his finger.
Dean tries not to stare. Tries not to look as worried as he feels. Sam gets pissed when Dean fusses over him, so Dean pretends to enjoy his dinner and says, "What did you see?" like he's asking about the weather.
Sam clears his throat, sounds like he's scrubbed it with sandpaper. "A woman," he says. His fingers rub at his perfectly unmarred neck. "Strangled to death. In, um. There was some mail on the table… I need to think."
He drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter and gets up. Dean doesn't follow him out onto the porch, he knows by now it's best to let Sam stew. He finishes his dinner, every bitter mouthful, and cleans his plate and returns it to the rack.
Sam still hasn't returned inside by the time he's done, but Dean can see his shadow flicker outside as he paces the porch deck. Things are better than they were, those words have become Dean's mantra at times like these. Once, Sam was having visions multiple times a day. It almost killed him. But Dean wasn't going to fucking let that happen, no way, José. He packed Sam up in the Impala and drove them far away enough that they were miles from any cell phone signal.
It could be Armageddon out there, but all Dean knows is this forest and this cabin and Sam. Well, his infrequent trips to the nearest town – a couple hour drive both ways – for supplies have let him know that the human species has yet to go extinct, at least.
Sam's untouched dinner turns cold on his plate, but Dean leaves it where it is. The crickets chirp outside, the last of them still sing their songs before autumn floods in. The sky rumbles deeply, Dean feels it through to his feet, and outside flashes blinding white. Sam's silhouette prints itself on the back of Dean's eyelids, and he sees both Sam and his shadow as he comes back inside, his hair softly damp with rainfall.
Thunder cracks the sky open again, followed by another flash of lightning that fills the whole cabin with white. Sam grins at him.
"Michigan!" he says. "She's in Michigan." He squeezes his eyes closed and punctuates each word with a stab of his finger in the air. "Detroit, Michigan. There was a zip code."
Sam shuffles around. He grabs the bible from the shelf above the fireplace and scribbles something down on the first page. He holds it out to Dean.
"This is where she is. I don't remember a house number, but I'm sure we can find her."
Dean nods. "I'll head into town tomorrow and call Bobby."
Sam furrows his brow. "No. We might not have time. We've got the Impala, let's do this ourselves!"
Dean grips the bible tighter in his hand and flips it closed. "Detroit is a long drive away. And it's a long walk to Baby."
"And tomorrow morning she could be dead!" Sam yells. His chest his heaving, skin shiny with sweat. The rain drums against the roof so hard Dean wonders if it might cave in on them. Sam shakes his head, lips curled unpleasantly, and he marches to the back of the room where their cots are neatly folded. Dean watches him pull an empty duffel from underneath and unzip it.
"What are you doing?" Dean asks tiredly.
"Going to Detroit," Sam answers, shoving his only other clean shirt into his bag. "I'll find this woman, keep her safe."
Dean sighs. "Do you know how many people are in Detroit?"
"About 800,000," Sam says with a shrug. "I've got her zip code, that should narrow the search way down."
"I'm not worried about whether or not you can find her, Sam," Dean says. He rubs his eyes wearily. "You know why I'm worried."
Sam pauses briefly before fishing a pair of socks out of the drawer and tossing them into the bag. "Yeah, I know. I'll be fine, but this woman won't be fine if I sit on my ass here, twiddling my thumbs."
"I told you, man, I'll get Bobby on it. Don't worry about it, okay?"
Sam's jaw clenches, the vein in his neck twitches. "I am tired of you bossing me around, Dean! Stop treating me like some little kid who needs help crossing the street!"
The door swings open and bangs roughly against the wall, rattling the windows. The wind rushes in eagerly and snuffs out all the candles, the fireplace flickers and the flames shrink. Dean gets spat on by the rain in his rush to close the door again, but it doesn't click closed, the lock has been bashed to uselessness.
The wood couch is heavy and Sam wordlessly takes the other end; between the two of them they manage to bar the door closed.
"I'm sorry," Sam mutters, head hanging low. "I – I didn't mean to do that."
"I know you didn't," Dean replies. He retrieves the matches from beside the stove and relights the candles. "But I can't let you go to Detroit. And I can't leave you here alone – "
"Christ, Dean. I'm not a goddamn child."
Dean ignores that. "I can't leave you here alone," he repeats. "Besides, there's no way either of us are going out when it's pissing down like this. Not while it's pitch black."
"Dean – "
"First thing in the morning, I'll head into town and call Bobby," Dean says, no room for protest. He nods his head at Sam's untouched plate. "Now, eat your dinner."
The morning brings clear pink skies and a leak in the ceiling beside the fireplace. Dean is ice cold, skin prickling over every part of him. The fire went out during the night, the wood floor is soaked. He places a bucket beneath the dripping and listens to the tinny tap tap tap of droplets hitting the can as he cracks eggs into a pan to fry.
The leaf-littered ground is shiny with dew outside. It rained all night long, the sound of it on the roof and the whistle of wind through their barely closed door kept Dean up most of the night. Sam had an episode in his sleep, not bad enough to wake him up, but still bad enough to freak Dean out. They always do.
As the eggs sizzle and turn white over the heat, Dean peeks over his shoulder at Sam, hair over his eyes, face buried in his pillow. He leaves him that way until the eggs are plated up on the table, rousing him with a gentle nudge to his shoulder.
Sam's face scrunches up and he lets out a discontented sigh, eyes closed all the while.
"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," Dean sing songs.
"What time's it?" Sam mumbles, smacking his lips. Weird, Dean thinks, how Sam used to be the morning person.
"It's about seven," Dean answers, checking his watch. Before, Sam would have already been on a run, showered and picked up coffee, all while Dean remained cocooned in his motel sheets.
Sam drags himself upright and kicks the thin, tangled sheet off his legs. He looks a mess, hair sticking up in all directions, paler than egg whites, the only colour on his face being the purple under his eyes.
"I had a dream," Sam says.
"Oh yeah?" Dean replies, heading over to the table to be sure Sam will follow. Sam shovels in a mouthful of eggs before continuing.
"Wasn't anything we can help with," he says. "Old woman died of natural causes. Just slipped away in her sleep. Not sure where. Not even sure what her name was."
This morning, it's Dean's turn to poke at his food. There's a question he hates to ask, but he asks it anyway. "Did you feel it?"
Sam nods, scraping up the last of his meal with his fork. "Always do."
"How did it feel? Dying?" Dean asks. Dean died once, or nearly did, but he doesn't remember a thing. And then Dad died, and Dean didn't have time to dwell on his own problems.
Sam ponders for a moment, his mouth quirks up at the corner. "It felt peaceful."
.
Sam Winchester spends most of his time thinking about death. He watches an old man drown in his bath after Dean leaves for town. After, Sam coughs up a lungful of water into the kitchen basin, but the steel sink remains dry. His throat hurts, but it's not his pain. He feels like an intruder witnessing these deaths.
The tiny cabin seems twice its size when Sam is left alone. He cleans up their plates from breakfast and fetches some firewood from the bin on the porch. He burns his finger lighting the kindling and thinks about the seven people who burned to death in their home last week.
Sam knows what it feels like to die in every way possible. Dying doesn't hurt, it's the part that comes before he's afraid of. The feeling of death, finally letting go, is something he hates to admit looking forward to.
The breeze filters inside, gently rattling the broken door. He examines the lock, or lack thereof, and swallows. There's a toolkit under the sink and Sam spends his morning doing his best to fix what he broke. Once the new lock is fixed in place, Sam feels himself breathe easy for the first time since it was damaged.
The look on Dean's face. He was afraid.
Dean doesn't return by midday and Sam decides to make use of himself. There's an apple tree close by, the season is ripe for picking. He feels naked, outside of the cabin, alone for miles but never feeling completely alone, not out here.
He collects some of the fruit, cradling the apples in his shirt. He hears nothing but the rustle of leaves. A twig snaps.
Sam stumbles, apples fall from his grip with dull thuds. He glances around, sees nothing but trees. A fox, or a deer, perhaps. Something far more scared of him than he is of it. He rescues his bruised apples, now dusted with mud, and carries them back to the cabin.
He locks the door.
.
Dean returns with a triumphant rattle of grocery bags. He settles them on the kitchen table and tosses Sam a candy bar. Sam puts it in his pocket to forget about later.
"Did you call Bobby?" he asks.
"Yeah," Dean answers, not looking up from his task of unpacking. He hands Sam a couple of tins, which he replaces on the shelf.
"So, someone's going to look into what I saw?" he asks, just to double check.
"Yes, Sam. Don't worry about it."
Sam continues to worry, but decides to shut up about it, anyway. Dean eyes the tap-rinsed apples in the sink and tears open a packet of dried meat. Sam watches him chew and chew it, pictures it getting stuck in his teeth, immediately feels nauseous.
"Where'd the apples come from?" Dean asks. "Don't tell me a creepy old lady gave 'em to you, just know I won't kiss you better if you fall into an apple-induced coma."
He laughs at his own joke, so Sam laughs too, just because.
"I picked them from a tree," he says.
Dean pauses. "What?"
"I picked them."
"Yeah I heard that. Why did you go out?"
Sam blinks at him, unsure if he's hearing things – because it certainly wouldn't be the first time, hearing things is his day-to-day – but Dean's got that look on his face, that intense look that makes his eyes appear even bigger than usual.
"Because… I wanted to go out," Sam answers.
Dean shakes his head. "Sure. Yeah. Just, wait until I'm here next time, okay?"
Sam can't think of anything to say, his mouth stutters uselessly. Finally, he manages, "Why? Dean, I'm a big boy. You don't have to worry about me so much."
"Well," Dean replies with a shrug. "I do. What if you have a vision or something while you're out and I'm not there, huh? What if something happened to you?"
Sam scratches his head. He hates when Dean makes sense. "I didn't go that far. I'm sorry."
"No, man, I'm sorry," Dean says. "I don't mean to smother you." He pauses, perks up suddenly. "Sorry!" Dean exclaims. "I love that game. You know what? I think we might have it here somewhere."
The conversation, Sam supposes, is over.
.
Sam is twitchy. Dean watches him over the game board.
"It's your turn, dude."
Sam blinks back into the room. "Right," he mutters. He takes the dice from Dean and gives them a half-hearted roll. He shakes his hair out of his face, bites his thumbnail, both tell-tale signs that Sam is thinking too much about something.
"What's the matter?" Dean asks.
"Nothing," Sam says. He's quiet, it puts Dean on edge.
"Vision?" Dean guesses.
"No," Sam sighs. "Dean, just – it's not a big deal. Nothing's wrong. Can we just play this stupid game, please?"
Sam passes over the dice and Dean keeps them clamped in his palm, held hostage. "We can quit playing this," he offers. "I figured we could do something nice. Like normal people."
Sam's face falls. "I'm sorry. It feels a bit weird. We never play boardgames. Last time I played a boardgame was in college, and I was drunk."
Dean grins. "Oh, yeah? Good to hear you weren't a total nerd."
Sam taps the arm of the chair, brow furrowed in thought. "I guess I'm just on edge a bit. And I've been thinking… we should take on a case. Just a small one. If I manage it, maybe we can think about going back to work."
"No."
"Dean, what – "
"I said no." Not with Yellow Eyes out there with a target on Sam's back, not with Sam walking around with death in his head, not with Dad's bullshit last words still ringing around Dean's brain.
"I don't think this is a long-term solution, Dean," Sam says in that stupidly reasonable way of his. "I – we can't stay here forever. We have to learn to deal with my… abilities. Because I don't think they're going anywhere."
Sam's face is open, pleading, if he carries on like this any longer, Dean will cave. He digs up the words he knows will be most effective to get Sam to stop.
"You're not ready, Sam," he says. "You could get hurt, other people could get hurt." He takes a breath. "Like Bobby."
Sam pales, his eyes drop to where his hands rest on the table. Dean lands his pawn on the same square as Sam's, knocking it back to start.