I promised this little story to the readers of The Devil You Know way back in June when that story was finished. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this together. I strayed into DA for a while, but I'm back now, at least, for the time being. I hope you enjoy.

This is a relatively short story of around 5000 words, but I wanted to post it in three parts because I think it works best that way. So, in three short sections – enjoy. : )

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Becoming by Accident

Chapter One

Sam stopped abruptly when the house loomed into view. He regarded it critically: it genuinely appeared to be on the point of collapse, each wall balanced precariously against the opposing weight of perpendicular walls in order to stay up, the roof sagging wearily under the damp, chipped tiles. Sam's expression said quite clearly, I'm not going in there.

Dean stopped walking just in time to avoid slamming into his brother's inert back. He followed Sam's gaze. 'Brings new meaning to the word 'tumbledown', huh, Sammy?' he commented wryly, shouldering his way past on the edge of the narrow path.

'Boys!' John's voice cut through the still cold air with startling clarity. 'Anytime today.'

Dean glanced up sharply at his father, then back at Sam before ducking warily into the house. Sam stood stubbornly frozen on the doorstep for a long moment, cursing his luck at being born into a family which spent its nights in such exploits. He could hear the low pitched growl of his father's voice, muffled by the brambles which clung to the walls. Sam sighed and wearily followed his brother into this latest haunted house.

There was mould on the walls and creeping surreptitiously across the cracked plaster of the ceiling, making the cold air heavy and stagnant with damp. What little furniture remained was splintered and dark with mildew. Ominous creaking sounds echoed off the walls, along with the quiet scratchings of rodents between the floorboards. Sam wrinkled his nose like an unimpressed potential buyer, scraping a finger along the desk and grimacing disgustedly at the grimy coating which gathered there.

Cigarette ends and litter scattered across the floor formed a grim epitaph for the teenagers whose violent deaths had drawn the Winchesters' attention to the place.

Even if I was a ghost, Sam thought petulantly, I wouldn't hang around in a place like this.

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Randal Eddison had been a popular writer of sensationalist thriller novels until his premature death. He'd been epileptic, and had apparently passed out and drowned after a seizure caught him in the bath. Apparently he'd rotted into the bathtub for almost a week before anyone found him. For all the unpleasantness of his death, Eddison didn't seem like 'vengeful spirit' material. However, a group of teenagers, taking advantage of his secluded and abandoned writing retreat to smoke and drink without their parents' knowledge, had been found horribly mutilated – they had choked to death on their own severed tongues – despite the fact that the only tracks in the thick, leafy mud surrounding the cabin were their own. The police – weren't they always? – were baffled.

And, although he was loathe to admit it, John Winchester had been similarly baffled. Randal Eddison had been nothing but ashes in his grave within eight hours of the Winchesters' arrival in the nearby town where he was buried. The following day, two police officers, dispatched by their frustrated superior to find any remaining evidence at the remote crime scene, had also died, their throats blocked up with swollen flesh and blood, their lips blue with oxygen deprivation.

Returning to the motel the next morning clutching a newspaper, John had slumped backwards brokenly into a hard chair. 'I don't understand,' he muttered.

Dean glanced up from his careful cleaning of the extensive Winchester shotgun collection, frowned and set down the piece he was holding. Sam flicked his eyes up from his book and rapidly back down again, determined not to take the bait. He was making a point of ignoring his father, having been forbidden to take part in a debating team competition because of the extended weekends' hunting.

Dean wordlessly picked up the newspaper. He only needed to glance at the headline, and the date. 'What the hell? I thought we torched this bastard.'

'I guess we had the wrong guy,' John offered wearily. This hunt was getting to him, the stomach-churning methods of this spirit put him on edge, and the teenage victims were a little too close to Sammy's age.

'But he died there, right?' Dean pressed, leafing through the other research papers on the desk. 'The guy we torched?'

'He did,' John confirmed. 'It wasn't murder, though. Not suicide, either. Doesn't exactly qualify for vengeful spirit status.'

Dean shrugged. 'Maybe he was just a psycho.'

Sam humphed quietly from his corner, and felt his brother's eyes on him.

'Sorry, Sammy,' Dean smirked. 'I mean, maybe he had a difficult childhood.'

John glanced between his sons fondly, but Sam pointedly looked away, and John sighed, turning back to the questioning eyes of his eldest. 'Well, apparently not. According to all reports, he was a nice, quiet, normal guy. Nothing weird, not aggressive… it doesn't make any sense.'

'It's the quiet ones you got to watch out for,' Dean put in.

John snorted softly. 'Guy was a writer. Quite famous, so I'm told.'

Dean raised his eyebrows, and rifled through the collection of old newspaper reports again. 'Randal… Eddison. Ring any bells, Sammy?'

Sam shrugged, shook his head and went back to his book, eyebrows drawn together in irritation at the interruption.

'Hang on,' Dean added suddenly. Sam looked up again with an exasperated grunt. 'He used a pen name. How about Robert MacIntyre?'

Sam frowned, sitting up straighter. 'Yeah. He wrote about, like serial killers, or something. I read one where this guy would cut out people's….'

He trailed off, wide-eyed as the realisation set in. 'Oh.'

'Oh,' Dean echoed. 'Is that even possible, Dad? Haunting by a fictional character?'

John was silent, frowning flicking the pages of his journal.

'It wouldn't be that the fictional character was haunting it… When you write, you put a part of yourself into each character, right? To make them real…' Sam theorised, too enthused to maintain his tantrum. 'So, it's like an aspect of MacIntyre came back to haunt the house as an angry spirit. Like, he pushed all his anger and frustration into this invented personality…'

Dean grinned. 'Whatever, Mr Empathy. I like my version better. Hey, you think the Empire State Building's haunted by the ghost of King Kong?'

Sam gave him a flat look. 'No. Idiot.'

Dean made an obscene gesture at his brother behind John's back. 'Nice theory, Sammy, but it falls down a bit considering that this writer guy was toast before those two cops died.' He folded the latest news clipping into a rough paper aeroplane and fired it at Sam; it hit him on the nose, he unfolded it scowling and read the headline.

'There must be some part of him that we missed,' John mumbled, still engrossed in the journal.

'Yeah- in thousands of bookstores across the whole country,' Sam replied, his voice dropping in awe as he considered the magnitude of it.

Dean was shaking his head. 'Drama queen. If that were true, the haunting wouldn't be confined to one place. I don't think the copies of the book would have any power… But if your girly Psych 101 theory is true then MacIntyre, or Eddison, or whatever, put in a part of himself when he made up the character. When he first made up the character…'

'The original,' Sam breathed. 'It must be in the house somewhere.'

Dean smiled slyly. 'Yahtzee.'

Both boys looked anxiously at their father for approval. John grinned. 'You know what? You might actually have something here.'

Sam's enthusiasm had depleted dramatically when John made it clear that the search for Eddison's notebooks would have to take place immediately.

'Dad, I've got homework.'

'Should've thought of that earlier, Sammy.'

'I'll get detention if I miss another assignment.'

'I'll write you a note.'

'School's important, Dad.'

'This is important, son – people's lives.'

'I'd rather be doing my homework.'

Dean looked up from his final checks on the shotguns. 'I'm not related to you.'

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The second part, in a rare stroke of organisation from me, is already completed, so will be up soon. I'd love to hear what you thought of the beginning. :D x