Hi guys! I firstly have to apologise for the lack of an update on Horrors of the Frozen Aisle. Things have been pretty crazy over the past few months, but I hopefully should be updating the story over the next few days. Here is a story that I wrote a prologue for last summer, but didn't get around to completing. It is not beta'd, so any mistakes are mine. It does contain spoilers for season 6, so please do not read if you haven't got that far in the series yet!

I hope you all enjoy the story, and please feel free to leave a comment or criticism, it will be greatly appreciated. Happy reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural

CHAPTER ONE

If they were not in such a frustrating situation, Dean would have been impressed by the ferocity with which the poltergeist flung furniture around the cramped living room. He managed to duck down just in time as a wooden rocking chair was hurled at his face. Dropping to the floor, dust motes smoked up around him in a mushroom cloud, tickling his nostrils. Dean held back a fit of coughs, choking slightly under his breath.

"Not cool," Dean muttered through gritted teeth, silently thankful that he had been able to save himself a broken nose or black eye.

He hated dealing with poltergeists. The tricky bastards were typically more of a nuisance than ghosts, with their aptitude to turn any object into a weapon. Most frustratingly for Dean, the spirits rarely appeared in a tangible form, leaving him with the only option of fighting with the open air, in the hopes of hitting a target.

Luckily for Dean, Sam had figured out that it was the homeowner's antique urn that required a good toasting, after they bought it at an auction. In his research, the younger Winchester had unearthed a collection of articles that detailed a variety of cases ranging from house fires and vandalism to burglaries, all associated with the urn.

However, with the chaos created by the spirit that was currently wreaking havoc around the small room, Dean had been unable to reach the vase, which sat proudly upon the fireplace. Roses and carnations were painted along the porcelain sides, standing still against the pandemonium. Looking up from where he lay, Dean could make out his brother playing jump-the-rope with a wild lamp cord. The cord thrashed around like a wild snake, whipping and snapping at Sam's ankles, clapping against his calves.

Dean attempted to push himself up from the floor, but dropped back to the ground again as a coffee table shot out in front of him, careening madly around a woollen rug. He wanted to call out to Sam, to support him, still the chaos that swirled around them. However, his vision became obscured by a sheet of paper attaching itself to his face. In its rage, the poltergeist had teared up a bunch of novels. Books that once lined the walls had been reduced to words on scraps of paper, which now flew around the room in a self-contained twister.

Dean tore the paper from his face, vision clearing, to watch as another piece of paper planted itself across Sam's face. Slipping away as quickly as it appeared, Dean saw the look of confusion that crossed his little brother's face. Sam's nose wrinkled, his hazel eyes narrowing and scrunching reflexively against the paper.

In the midst of the distraction, Sam lost his footing, the lamp cord wrapping tightly around his ankles. The cord swiftly looped in a neat figure of eight, the fabric of Sam's jeans flaring out underneath the wire. The cord tugged and Sam fell headlong, his arms stretched out before him, waving in almost a cartoon-like fashion.

"Sam!" Dean called out, knowing that his warning was too late.

The older hunter watched as the scene played out before him, slowed down, as if seeing a film by a single shot at a time. Sam's arms did not break his fall, but instead a large wooden chest; his head crashed against the side of it, a dull thud booming through the room. Sam rolled off the side and landed heavily on the floor, his features that were once twisted in concentration relaxed, eyes resting closed. Before Dean had chance to react, the cord pulled again, dragging Sam out of the room, down a flight of stairs and out of sight.

Reminding himself that the job needed to be done, and reasoning that he would be no help to Sam until the poltergeist was dealt with, Dean stood and strode through the furniture and debris. The coffee table chased after him again, a sharp corner connecting with his knee. Dean cursed under his breath, his leg buckling slightly. He continued on, stomping on chips of wood and photo-frames that littered the floor. The thin glass encased inside of the frames shattered, crunching beneath the thick soles of his boots and spraying out onto the floor.

In closing the distance to the urn, the poltergeist seemed to sense Dean's mission. Like a notch being turned up to full power, a whistling crept from the corners of the room. The tornado of paper and ornaments picked up speed, almost howling in its fury, twisting towards Dean. The heavy furniture rocked on its footing, glass from the cabinets fracturing and falling out of their slots. All the utensils in the poltergeist's arsenal appeared to assemble, slowly levitating and setting aim for the hunter.

Hastily, Dean reached the fireplace, thankful that the firebox was full of bits of newspaper and wood. Flicking the catch on his lighter, Dean's hand shook as he attempted to light the pile. The flames eventually flowered, a red and orange blaze hesitantly reaching up to the chimney flue. Dean grabbed the urn, and without glancing over his shoulder at the objects that were currently targeting him, he threw the vase into the fire. The porcelain smashed as it hit the wood pile, the petals painted across its surface pulling apart. However, Dean still felt a piece of glass nick the back of his neck.

All of the objects and furniture launched at Dean, as the flames lazily lapsed over the porcelain. He wasn't even sure if the fire was having an effect on the urn. He covered his head with his arms in an attempt to protect himself, the fabric of his parka shredding as flecks of glass rained down on him. Looking up slighting into the fire, he saw that only the edges of the fragile pieces of china were browning into a sepia tone. Yet, he felt the fury of the poltergeist weakening, the items in the small room slowing in their movements.

Leaning up and inspecting the flames more closely, Dean saw beneath the broken crockery that a photograph was unfurling, the edges curling and burning away. Unrelenting all the same, the poltergeist seemed to have adopted Dean's mantra of not going down without a fight, and like a porcupine shedding its needles, it shot the remaining glass and broken bits of furniture at Dean. A chair leg smacked him in the back of his head, and as the glass shot at him, he covered his head once more, curling down on the floor, making himself as small as possible.

Everything went still. Hesitantly moving from his position, Dean glanced once more into the flames. The photograph now lay in a pile of ashes, blowing and swirling upwards to the chimney. Rising from the floor, back aching in protest, Dean surveyed the mess that was scattered around him. Splinters of glass had embedded themselves into the wood of the mantelpiece, cushions were ripped and strewn over the floor, bright white feathers blanketing the fragmented wrecks of furniture.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered, wondering what he was going to tell the homeowners about their trashed living room.

Crossing the room to where Sam had disappeared, Dean glanced down at the wooden chest. A gaping hole smiled up at him from the surface, cracks running out from the depression, stretching out like the spindly legs of a spider.

"Of course, it would be your giant head that would make a crater in solid wood, Sammy," Dean muttered, hands shaking and voice shuddering. He hoped that the stomach-churning snap that resounded when Sam hit his head had come from the chest, and not from his little brother himself. Approaching the top of the staircase, Dean stared down into the darkness, looking for the large form of his brother.

"Sam?" Dean called, treading carefully as he descended the wooden staircase into the basement. "Sammy?"

Reaching the base of the stairs, Dean stumbled slightly, his foot hitting a solid object. Grasping the rough wall beside him, Dean eventually found the light switch, flicking the bulbs to life. Looking down at his feet, he realised he had not tripped over an object, but his brother.

"Sam!"

Sam's face was bloody and bruised, violet marks blooming across his cheekbones and forehead. Dean supposed that, Sam being Sam, he had banged his head on his journey down the staircase and into the basement. Kneeling down and examining Sam's head, Dean felt past his little brother's dark hair, finding a deep wound that lined the side of his skull. Sam unconsciously winced and groaned as Dean's fingers skirted across the injury. The abrasion bled profusely, the warm red liquid running down his scalp, behind his ear and onto Dean's hands. He reached around his brother's wide shoulders, hoisting him up slightly, bending his knees in preparation to carry his heavy sibling.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, the words barely audible.

"It's OK, little brother, you're OK," Dean said, not sure if he was reassuring Sam or himself. "I'm gonna get you out of here, get you some help."

"No… no hosp-" Sam mumbled, shifting slightly against Dean's chest.

"No, I know Sam, no hospital. Just stay calm for me, Sammy," Dean interrupted, trying to calm his brother. "You're going to be fine."

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Carrying his brother out onto the porch and down the rickety steps, Dean glanced back at the old house, searching for any signs of unrest. The only sight he was met with was that of the plaster cracking and peeling from the walls, ivy and flora creeping its way up the exterior. Sam's dead weight was beginning to sit heavy across Dean's arm and shoulders, the younger Winchester's right arm and side draping across his left side. Dean had been praying to Cas from the moment he managed to haul his brother up from the floor, and yet the line still appeared to be dead.

Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped awkwardly down the stairs, supporting Sam's body by reaching his arm around his brother's back. He lifted Sam slightly so that only his feet were dragging across the ground. Freaking giant, he thought to himself as the muscles in his biceps strained and burned. Finally arriving at the Impala, Dean unlocked the back door and settled Sam inside on the backseat. He looked up to the night sky, watching as the clouds shifted around each other, parting to reveal white stars that dotted the darkness.

"Come on, Cas," Dean muttered under his breath, an aggressive desperation to his tone. "Answer me, damn it!"

All he got in return for his call for help was the sound of the breeze running through the leaves in the trees, his cold breath clouding out of his mouth and nose. A cool sweat glistened on his forehead, the winter night chilling his bones, making his legs and fingers feel numb. Digging his hand into the pocket of his ruined jacket, he retrieved his phone, scrolling through the speed dial to find Bobby's number. The dial tone rang dully for a few seconds before the hunter's gravelly voice spoke down the line.

"Dean?"

"Bobby," Dean began, not sure of what to say.

"What's wrong, Dean?" Dean could hear the worry in his voice, and in his mind he could see Bobby pacing around his living room, removing his worn cap and scratching at the thin hair on his head.

"Could you make up a few beds. Sam's taken a bit of a knock on a hunt."

Glancing into the Impala, Dean saw that Sam had not moved; he lay unmoving on the leather seat, his face pale in the moonlight.

"There are always beds ready for you. What time shall I expect you?"

"We're in Fairfield, Nebraska, so it'll probably take me three hours to get to you, four at most."

"Well, I won't keep you Dean. Will you need a first aid kit?"

"I think so, and possibly something for stit-" Dean listed, until he heard a moan sound behind. At first he thought the sound had come from the house, until he heard the groan again.

"Dean."

Looking back down at his brother, Dean saw that Sam was shifting on the seat. His long limbs flailed slightly, chest heaving and eyelids fluttering. Resting the phone down on the seat, Dean leant over his sibling, reaching out to check his pulse. Sam's skin felt clammy to the touch, his heartbeat jumping beneath his fingers. From underneath Sam's thick, flickering lashes, Dean could see his brother's hazel eyes swimming, darting back and forth in a dazed hysteria.

"Please, no- not Dean," Sam mumbled, his fingers dancing across seat and body shaking under Dean.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean said loudly, trying to make himself heard. "Everything's OK."

"Pl- please, not him, me in-instead."

Listening to Sam's ramblings, Dean felt a creeping suspicion of what was flooding Sam's unconscious mind. After all, it wasn't long since Sam had returned from the cage. Dean pushed down his thoughts, deciding not to linger on the cause of his brother's distress, and instead focused on providing comfort. Moving so that he was sat on the edge of the backseat, Dean grabbed his brother's hand and lifted it to his chest, so that his palm was flat.

"I will so kill you if you mention this to anyone," Dean said, knowing he was lying. "OK, now Sam, breath with me. Deep breaths, there's no need to panic little brother. I'm right here."

Taking in deep breaths himself, Dean encouraged Sam to slow his breathing, whispering reassurances against his sibling's ramblings. A few minutes passed before Sam's chest relaxed, his eyelids falling closed again. Sighing, Dean rested his brother's hand on the seat, examining Sam's resting form for any more signs of distress. For the moment, the younger hunter seemed calm and peaceful, as if he had merely fallen asleep.

"Dean? Are you there?" A small, tinny voice echoed in the quiet.

Grasping his phone, Dean held it to his ear, noticing how his hand shook against his head. "Sorry Bobby."

"Is everything OK?"

"I don't know. But I won't be long Bobby," Dean said, sending his brother another glance before heading around to the driver's side.

"See you soon, son. Drive safe."

"Always do," Dean chuckled humourlessly. "Bye Bobby."

Throwing the phone onto the seat beside him, Dean turned the key in the ignition, comforted by the warm growl of the Impala's engine. Pushing the pedal to the ground, Dean sped off, heading towards help and comfort.

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave me a comment, I would love to know what you think!