Story line: Dean and Sam finish a difficult salt and burn and then go looking for a hunt. What they encounter in a small community confuses everyone until Dean engages that wonderful memory of his.
Spoiler: None
Author's Notes: Here I go… my first attempt at multiple chapters and a totally original story line….My thanks to my dear Terry for being my guide and mentor as well as beta and to Kelly for her great suggestions…… Hope you enjoy!!
Lowell Busbee's haunted estate"C'mon, Sammy!" Dean barked, voice edged with just a smidge of panic. "C'mon, for God's sake, hurry up!"
Sam moved with practiced speed and efficiency. Casting smaller things aside, he took the time to inspect and move larger antique pieces as he searched. He'd found no background on the haunted mansion despite extensive research. Not knowing whether he was looking for an entire body or not made the quest even tougher.
The attic reverberated as something large crashed into the wall, followed instantly by Dean's pained yelp of "Sam!" Dean caught momentary sight of Sam over one of the haphazard heaps of junk in the far corner of the attic and shot him a desperate, pleading look.
Sam responded with renewed intensity, throwing things with nearly as much speed as the spirit.
Dean doubled over with an explosive "Oof!" as he was struck in the stomach by a well-aimed metal coach lamp. Feeling as if he'd been kicked by a mule, he lowered his guard for a mere fraction of a second allowing the vicious creature an opening to strike again.
A large wooden picture frame slammed into his already bruised and dented shins, Dean flinched, hunching lower over his Remington, trying to figure where to plant the next round. The attic rafters shook from the double blast as Dean spotted the soft gray haze, forming once again into a more distinct shape. The ghost responded with a screech from hell.
As Dean paused to reload, he caught a barely perceptible glint from a corner near Sam. Moving into position as he closed the breech, he raised the shotgun once again. Something instinctual made him duck just as he triggered the first barrel.
Like a Frisbee thrown at blinding speed a three-foot tall raw-edged mirror flew from the distant wall and one corner embedded itself a solid two inches into the wall exactly where Dean had been standing. A myriad of shards showered down on him, cutting his cheeks and scalp. As the realization struck, that had he not ducked, he would have been decapitated, the look on Dean's tense face darkened.
Jumping to his feet, reloading as he moved, he screamed, "Sam! Now, dammit! Do something. Find that bitch!" glaring in Sam's direction for added emphasis.
The massive explosive boom from the flying mirror and shotgun blasts caused Sam to fall backwards toward a huge pile of old quilts and movers' pads. Instead of the soft landing he'd expected, the expression on his face quickly changed to one of surprised pain, as his head cracked hard on something solid, buried beneath the nondescript heap and his back was gouged by something beneath him.
Momentarily seeing stars, he rolled onto his side, struggling to get a foothold in the tangled mounds of fabric. Deciding hands and knees would have to do, he began frantically clawing his way through the moldy, musty mess the sounds of continued devastation raining down around them. Finally his long fingers hit the edges of an old steamer trunk as he ripped away the last of the quilts.
Damn it! Stupid friggin' thing's locked. Oh, no! Lock picks in the car! That damn bitch will kill Dean before I can smash this stupid piece of shit open!!
Suddenly remembering the cause of the bruised feeling on his back, Sam jerked his Glock from the back of his waistband, thumbed the safety and blasted the locks off of the trunk.
There was another resounding crash as the spirit sent a large, ornate armoire across the floor, slamming into Dean pinning him to the fireplace chimney. "For God's sake, Sam. Now!" Dean yelled.
Kicking the lid of the trunk open, the fetid odor exuding from a veiled shape in the container told Sam his search was done. "Got it, Dean! Just let me get the salt and gas!" he shouted triumphantly.
With an ear-splitting screech the spirit moved towards Sam, who was scrambling on all fours to get through the quicksand of material and reach his supplies. A loud report and Sam snapped his head towards Dean's position. He was relieved to see Dean with his shotgun squirt out from behind the armoire, flashing those beautiful pearly whites. "
"Rock and a hard place, eh, Sammy? Do your stuff, man, I got your back." He cracked the double-barrel open, removed the spent shells and reloaded almost too quickly for Sam to follow.
A few minutes later, Sam had completed the 'salt and burn' process. The spirit disappeared with a piercing screech and a few minutes later Sam victoriously kicked the lid shut on the trunk once the flames had done their job.
"Damn, Sam, I wish we had a bloodhound we could pull out of our bags at times like this. One of these days, a search is gonna kill one of us." Dean leaned against the wall and mopped his face with his free hand.
Sam winced at the thought, knowing it was a real possibility. The idea caused his stomach to clench, knowing that Dean always put himself in the undesirable role of decoy just to be certain Sam was in as little danger as possible. Even presenting his best college debate tactics, Sam was never able to convince his older, protective sibling to let him play target once in awhile. Sam sighed, knowing it was a losing battle.
Between the two of them, the hunters grabbed their equipment and lugged the trunk down to the garden. Tossing it into a hole left open after the recent removal of an old septic tank, Dean used the little Bobcat tractor in the yard to bury the sucker.
While Dean played with his over-sized Tonka toy, Sam dug his cell phone from his jacket pocket, making a quick call to let Lowell know that the property was now a ghost-free zone. He hung up just as Dean finished up and killed the motor.
"So who do you think it was, Dean?" Sam queried, nodding his head towards the burial spot.
"Don't know, Sam. Don't care. It was evil and now it's history. End of story."
Sliding his phone into his pocket, Sam grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Hey, man, that was Lowell on the phone. Man's a saint! I got a little perk I want to show you."
Sam moved across the expansive green yard followed at a short distance by Dean whose badly bruised shins and hips, slowed his progress considerably. They were headed towards what looked to be a never-ending wall of tall shrubbery.
"Come on, Sam. This is so not the time to play Follow the Leader. I'm tired, sore and dirty and all I want to find is a motel with hot water" Dean whined.
Sam paused at an opening in the six-foot wall of greenery and bowing at the waist, he extended an arm with a flourish, grinning. "Check this out, Dean. Lowell says the key to the place is under the planter on the porch. It's ours for a week!" Beyond Sam sat a neat little guest-house.
"Whoa, Sam. Awesome, dude! Seriously?" Dean grinned at the little stucco cottage. "You know maybe you should check me for a concussion. 'Cuz I think I'm hearing things, Francis, and seeing things." Absolute boyish delight glazed his eyes 'til the oozing gash on the back of his head brought a twinge of pain.
"Yeah, man, Lowell says there's a hot tub out back, plenty of food in the fridge and… cold beer and ….as a plus… five hundred bucks on the TV as a thank you. He also said he'd understand if we rejected the offer."
Dean grinned like a kid on Christmas. "Yeah, right! What's that saying? Never look a gift 'house' in the mouth?" He didn't even argue as Sam helped him up the stairs with a supportive arm around his waist.
"C'mon, Dean, let loose of the car keys and I'll get the car and our gear while you hit the shower. Lowell says there's a little service road back here." Sam snatched the keys and then concern fogged his voice. "Dean, hey, better wait on the hot tub 'til I check out that gash. The chimney was pretty jagged." With a glance at the back of Dean's head, Sam was gone.
Climbing from the shower and toweling himself off, Dean paused to glance around the handsomely done bath. He was so used to those dumpy little motel shaving mirrors that he was a bit stunned to see his naked image head-to-foot reflected on three walls done in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. As the steam cleared, he stood there actually giving his body a thorough once over for the first time in a long time. His body looked as he'd expected as far as shape went, thick muscular upper arms and forearms, wide shoulders with a broad chest also nicely muscled, and of course his pride and joy, washboard abs over smooth, narrow hips and a tight rounded butt over strong well-developed legs. None of this surprised Dean, with all workouts he and Sam got hunting, of course they were in top shape.
What did surprise him was the almost universal appearance of scars and bruising that covered the majority of his flesh like a roadmap. A normal everyday guy would have used that viewing as motivation to change his line of work. But Dean, frowning as his beautiful green eyes studied his bruised, scarred form, thought back in time to how those major scars were acquired – the possessed Sam who'd shot him in the shoulder, the car crash before his father was taken from him, a werewolf attack at age 17 that had almost gutted him, being thrown and bounced off numerous walls, rocks, or cliffs by many angry spirits, Wendigo claw marks on his back. He was a soldier, hunter, protector who fended off the many faces of darkness. In his mind's eye he also saw snapshots of the hundreds of people they had saved.
The muscles rolled and tightened in his handsome face, thick lashes closed momentarily over his weary eyes and when he looked once more at his image, he grinned a typical Dean Winchester award-winning grin, arched an eyebrow at 'that guy' in the mirror and issued a direct order, "Suck it up, dude," wrapped a towel 'round his hips and went looking for Sam, and clean clothes.
After Sam's shower, some quick stitches in Dean's scalp and some awesome roast beef sandwiches, washed down with a couple cold beers, the hunters slid into the life restoring waters of the hot tub…with audible sighs.
Bristol, Wisconsin Late afternoon
Coming back from Frank's, Dylan Waters trudged robotically up the asphalt driveway, skirting around the truck and motorcycle parked midway up the drive. Pushing the heavy garage door upward, he entered the sunlit garage paying no mind to the fact he had gashed his hand open on the broken bottom, bump strip. He mindlessly sidestepped his mother's car and headed deeper into the big garage.
Bleeding rather heavily, leaving a bright red trail back to his father's welding equipment, he un-strapped the portable-sized, full tank of acetylene from its dolly and, hefting it onto his shoulder, moved towards his younger brother's Mongoose bike.
Locating a carpentry hammer he shoved the handle down the front of his jeans and then moved on to the heavy bungee cords on the workbench. Laying the Mongoose on its side, he laid the tank on top of it and, using the bungee cords, strapped it to the bike frame with the valve and neck extended behind the seat. He stood his creation upright and started to shuffle a step backward. The top-heavy bike immediately crashed onto its side once more and in the process crushed Dylan's right sneaker beneath the heavy unyielding tank.
He grunted but registered no real pain. Using his injured and still heavily bleeding hand, he pulled the bike to a standing position and guided it awkwardly out of the garage, seemingly oblivious not only to the large jagged scrape he left down the side of his mom's beloved Lexus, but also to the several bones in his right foot that were now broken.
Maneuvering the bike with its homemade fuel tank down to the dock at the rear of their lakefront property was no easy task. The grassy ground was soft and somewhat bumpy and he had to exert great effort to keep the bike moving and upright.
At last, after a solid fifteen-minute struggle, Dylan clumsily guided his vehicle onto the wooden dock. Limping and not in total control of his injured hand he somehow managed to lower the bike and bulky tank into his small johnboat, scrambled in after it and punched the electric start on his trolling motor.
Steering the craft with his good hand he managed to pull the boat alongside the lake's stationary ski-ramp. He off-loaded the heavy bike and tank with difficulty and scooted himself onto the ramp as well, as the boat idled away unnoticed, motor still running.
Onlookers from other properties tried shouting to get his attention, but Dylan seemed to hear nothing.
Standing the bike up, he straddled it with great difficulty, the added weight and girth of the tank making it unwieldy. It was nearly impossible for his feet to get a decent purchase on the pedals, especially the broken foot.
Aiming the front wheel up the ramp, Dylan dragged the hammer from his waistband, swiped his hand 'round behind him and with two mighty blows knocked the valve and neck from the tank. The resultant thrust from the expelled acetylene gas propelled him so quickly that no one from other boats or on the shoreline could even react.
The entire contraption pin-wheeled, striking Dylan solidly as he was thrown like a ragdoll into the lake, drowning long before the first boat ever reached him.