Until the Curtain Falls

by circleofstars

Dean and Sam find themselves adrift in the mad world of the theatre, where Dean finds himself in competition with an insane genius, and must work out what's happening before he gets his neck stretched.

1. Act One

Until the Curtain Falls

Chapter One

Stranger than you dreamt it

'Who was that?'

'You'll never believe… it was a job. Someone who got our number from a friend of a friend of a friend…'

'And…'

'At a theatre. Some ghost leaving notes, singing in the shadows. Dropped some scenery on a woman halfway through a rehearsal of Hannibal and nearly killed her'

'Of what?'

'Hannibal. In the middle of a third-act aria.'

'Huh?'

'It's an opera, Dean.'

Dean seemed to absorb this for a few seconds, and then shook his head. 'No, I'm not going. What else have we got?'

'Why the hell not?'

'Sam, they're actors. So they're all insanely superstitious and over-dramatic, and they're probably making it up.'

'Come on, Dean! You've been driving me crazy. You're restless: you need a gig to keep your mind occupied. There's definitely something going on in this theatre.'

'But… opera? Come on, Sam, don't even pretend you're not out of your depth here…'

'Why don't you want to check it out? You were crying out for something to do, half an hour ago…'

'Well, I don't want to do this.'

'Dean, it's not going to require any knowledge of opera. Anyway. We know about ghosts…'

No response.

Sam sighed wearily, and tried another tack. 'Have you seen… her?' he asked softly, turning the laptop around to show the picture which accompanied the article he had pulled up while they had been talking. 'She's a witness. Maybe she'll be attacked next, and think what a waste that'll be to the world…'

The girl in the picture was a Swedish soprano, with delicate features and thick, dark curls. Her wide eyed innocence was threaded with a dangerous passion which seemed to shine out of her eyes with all the dramatic intensity of the theatre. Dean's eyes went wide.

He tried to sound as reluctant as possible. 'Yeah... all right then. I suppose… couldn't hurt to take a look…'

Sam raised an eyebrow. 'Yeah, I bet,' he responded wryly.

00000000000000000000

Why have you brought me here?

The theatre was like none other that either Winchester had seen in their lives. It was vast and gaudy, wildly ornate, in milky stone, curled and fashioned into elaborate scrolls and serene angels. The building's impressive façade dominated the small square it opened onto, and it seemed to be an import from a previous age. The Impala looked strangely incongruous, parked in front of such a building.

Inside, it was no better. Dean glanced awkwardly over at Sam and was satisfied to notice that his little brother didn't look any more at ease than he himself felt. He hovered in the doorway, taking in the golden staircase and plush scarlet carpets with a dismayed expression.

'Monsieur Winchester? Thank goodness. I thought we were going to have to cancel…'

A small, moustachioed man in a flamboyant maroon suit hurried down the stairs towards them. Despite the monsieur, his accent had only faint traces of French in it. He was accompanied by a tall, thin man, also moustachioed, who towered above him comically. They made quite the double act.

'I am Claude André, and my companion is Michel Firmin; we own the theatre. I assume you are here about our… opera ghost,' the small portly one breathed the last words in a ridiculous stage whisper, hunching his shoulders slightly as though he was imparting some great secret.

Dean blinked, smiled, and nodded with what he hoped was polite enthusiasm.

'It's caused us terrible trouble. Insists that we cast a young chorus girl as lead soprano… completely mad, of course, we can't do that. But then he goes and attacks Signora Giudicelli, and then she refuses to sing. Fearful for her life! We'll be ruined!'

Nod and smile…

'And this is… a spirit?' Sam asked, with every semblance of professionalism. Dean was drifting along with the uncomfortable feeling of being stuck in a play where he was the only actor without a script.

'Oh, yes, indeed. Signora Giudicelli is very upset.'

'Because the ghost thinks the other chick sings better than her?' Dean hazarded, trying to regain his grasp of the conversation.

'Well, quite. She has threatened to leave altogether… And then last night Miss Daaé disappeared, too. I don't mind telling you, Monsieur, I thought we'd have to cancel for a moment there. Ruined!'

Sam, he's insane, let's escape while we can!

'Miss Daaé… is she the chorus girl you mentioned?' Sam asked, in such an efficient voice that Dean glanced over to see whether his little brother was taking notes.

'Yes, yes, indeed. Of course, she's returned, just this morning. And won't tell a word of what happened! It's all a complete mess, but we heard on the grapevine that you were the men for the job, where ghosts are concerned.'

Sam smiled politely, and Dean attempted to school his features to a similar expression, but his wide eyed confusion gave his grin a manic cast. The outspoken little man seemed to pepper his conversation with theatrical jargon and dramatic exclamations, so that the sense of what he was saying was difficult to decipher.

'This evening is the opening of a new opera, Il Muto,' the madman continued. 'Signora Giudicelli has agreed to sing the lead role, that of the Countess, and the scenery is secured. Our lighting engineer, Joseph Buquet, will remain in the Gods throughout the performance to make sure we don't have another disaster. But if you two could find and dispose of this spectre, we'd all be much obliged, and we can return to business as usual. Which, in Monsieur Buquet's case, involves whisky, seducing the chorus girls, and rarely bringing the lights up at quite the correct time.' He grinned, as though that explained everything.

'Do you know anything of the nature of the ghost?' Sam asked, in his note-taking voice.

'Only that he sings, and has a strong attachment to Mademoiselle Daaé,' shrugged André. 'I suggest you search the theatre. Speak to Miss Daaé. But I would appreciate it if you would be… discreet.'

'Of course,' Sam replied. Dean glared at him, irritated that his brother could so easily pretend to understand every word uttered by the insane theatre manager.

André grinned widely and nodded, satisfied. 'If you need anything…' he offered, waving a hand vaguely as he swaggered off, followed by the quieter, and clearly worried, Firmin, wringing his hands as he went.

The Winchesters were left blinking in the extravagant hallway. They exchanged glances, and Dean was pleased to confirm that Sam was, indeed, as lost as he was himself. Also to his satisfaction, Dean was the first to recover.

'I'll speak to the chorus girl, you can search the theatre,' he said quickly, in a tone which wasn't going to allow any contest from Sam. He grinned at his little brother's lack of response, and disappeared.

Sam watched him march away and sighed. He wondered how Dean managed to walk as though he knew exactly where he was going.

00000000000000000000000000000000000

Angel of Music

Dean slipped through the velvet and gold-plate corridors, cat-like and quiet, guided by instinct and guesswork. The chorus girl in question, he imagined, would be found backstage, and he concluded that the easiest way to find 'backstage' had to be by going via the stage. The auditorium was well signposted, both with actual signposts and a vast door, even more elaborate than those which heralded the other rooms.

Feeling somewhat intimidated by its excessive size, Dean cracked one portal open just enough to slip through and closed it silently behind him. He hurried between the rows of plush red seats and found stairs at one side which took him past the pit full of chairs and strangely shaped orchestral instruments. He glanced over his shoulder, and suddenly felt dizzy, a feeling like vertigo, but caused by looking up into the red eyes of a thousand luxurious seats. Shaking off the feeling, he dodged around the heavy crimson curtain, and found himself in another world entirely.

The reverse side of the flowing curtain was faded and frayed, patched and inexpertly sewn, grubby with sweat from a thousand ballerinas' nervous hands. The wood of this hidden part of the stage was scuffed by their shuffling, tremulous feet in the tense seconds before stepping into the lights. The space beyond was dimly lit, plain, untidy, cluttered with makeup, and fragments of broken costumes, whose jewels and colours looked cheap and gaudy close up in this cold light.

Dean walked carefully along the scruffy corridor, marvelling at this building which seemed so grand, which in reality was superficial, worn out and crumbling beneath its shiny gold plating. Slender creatures were flitting around in the half-light, nervous and insubstantial, dressed in drab colours, their eyes darkened with the tired, greasy remnants of last night's makeup.

Dean wasn't expecting one of the shadows to step out and confront him, but when she did he wondered why he hadn't noticed her immediately. It was the girl from the picture, and although she was dressed in drab jeans and a grey shirt, the hot embers in her eyes would have been visible a mile off. They shone out from rings of theatrical makeup, under a curtain of dark curls which crowned her head and flowed down her back. Her eyes fixed on him slowly, as though surfacing from faraway thoughts.

'Miss… Daaé?' Dean asked awkwardly, hoping he had the right one.

She frowned, then nodded.

'I'm…' Some mad impulse made him decide to go with the truth, straight out. 'I'm Dean Winchester. The managers of this place hired me to investigate the… ghost. Could I talk to you?'

At the mention of the ghost, her eyes flared with intensity. He couldn't tell whether it was fascination, fear or love, but whatever it was, it was fierce. She blinked again, and nodded mutely. He opened his mouth to form a question, but her hand shot out and gripped his upper arm with slim fingers, steering him forcefully into a side room. It was tiny, and sparsely furnished. She sat on the only chair, so Dean perched on a cabinet.

'Something terrible is going to happen tonight,' she said, staring at him with eyes that seemed to pin him to the spot. Her voice was sharp and pure; even now she seemed on the point of breaking into song.

'What? Why? What do you know?' Dean whispered urgently.

She paused. Her stare was beginning to make him uncomfortable, but he didn't look away. 'My naem is Christine. I don't know why, but I'm going to trust you. Maybe you remind me of someone from my childhood.' She smiled, but Dean wasn't sure whether the strange comment was intended as a joke. 'The ghost has been speaking to me through the walls of my room… it sounds mad but… he taught me to sing.'

'You live here, in the theatre?'

'This opera house is massive. A lot of the chorus live in the rooms at the back. It doesn't pay very well; most of us can't afford to rent an apartment.'

'How long…?'

'A couple of months. But now he's started… he wants me to sing tonight, but Carlotta is going to sing instead. And I'm afraid of what he will do…'

'Carlotta?'

'The lead soprano. Carlotta Giudicelli.'

'Oh.'

'He's… starting to scare me. I thought he was harmless, but…'

'Why didn't he scare you in the first place? A voice, in the walls of your room? Most girls would go out of their heads…'

She scowled at him for the slight on her gender, but her face quickly relaxed into concern. 'You'll think I'm crazy. He reminded me of my father, a bit, then.'

'But, now…'

'He's violent. I think he's in love with me… And, what scares me the most… is that, when I'm with him…. I feel like I'm in love with him.' She had a melodramatic turn of phrase which probably came from living in a theatre.

'What…?' That feeling of being out of his depth was creeping back. There was something mad, dramatic and poetic, something intense going on to which he couldn't comprehend because it belonged to the mad, dramatic, intense, poetic world of opera.

'When he sings… it's like he's an angel. I could get drunk on his singing… It's… I can't even describe it, but when he sings I can't think straight. And it scares me. He's powerful.'

'I don't…'

'I know. You couldn't understand. But if you heard him, then you would.'

Dean severely doubted that statement, but he said nothing.

'Will you be there, tonight?' she asked suddenly. Those eyes had him held prisoner again.

'Yes,' he promised, not without some misgivings.

'Something's going to happen. When Carlotta starts singing… none of us will be safe until the curtain falls.'

000000000000000000000000000000000

Poor fool, he makes me laugh

Sam wandered through the gilded corridors, directionless and completely lost, out of place in these halls which had never once aspired to normality. In the middle of the day they were deserted, and seemed weird: it seemed a place which would come alive at night, but was sleeping, dormant, in the daytime. It occurred to him that he shouldn't really be surprised that it was haunted. A building like this would be incomplete without a ghost.

The EMF meter he held, trying to be inconspicuous, clutched against his jacket, was silent, however. He sighed in resignation: he knew this charade well. Perhaps this evening, the supernatural activity would be livelier.

The building was like a shining, colourful labyrinth, and Sam's navigation of it was based entirely on guesswork. He realised he was lost quite early on, but wasn't willing to admit it to himself, or to any passer-by who might have been able to help him.

He decided eventually that he would investigate the levels above the stage from which the scenery had fallen the previous day, causing all the uproar and intrigue in which the theatre was currently submersed. By his reasoning, that must be upwards from where he was now, so he ascended every set of stairs which presented themselves.

As he climbed past the highest of the signposted 'circles', which he took for levels of seating, he began to notice that the golden plating was peeling off the walls, and a strip of dusty flooring was visible through the carpet in the centre of the corridor, a gulley worn by hundreds of hasty feet. This was the part of the theatre inhabited by the underworld creatures who lived here by veiling reality on a stage, not to the affluent public who thronged here every night in their fur and diamonds. The difference was palpable.

At the end of the narrow corridor, a door led Sam out into a dark space full of wires, pulleys ropes and narrow, precarious walkways which swung dangerously above the void. Down below, the polished boards of the stage shone brightly, reflecting the vivid artificial lights directed down on them from up here. The Orchestra pit was visible as a bizarre aerial picture, and the first few rows of the stalls. Looking down at the scene from such an angle made the world sway around Sam's eyes.

Ahead of him, rolled canvases suspended on ropes indicated that this was what he had been searching for: the 'Gods' from which the scene backing had fallen in yesterday's rehearsal onto Signora Giudicelli's outraged head.

A figure hulked out of the shadows. 'Who are you?' it demanded, in a rough voice edged with the slurs of whisky.

'Sam Winchester,' he replied.

The apparition scowled. Apparently that wasn't sufficient answer for his question.

'André and Firmin hired me and my brother to sort out your… uh…' He wondered how best to phrase it.

'Opera ghost,' supplied the man, his voice softening slightly, although Sam wasn't sure whether this was caused by friendliness or inebriation. It seemed to be a mixture of the two. The man held out a wavering hand and announced, 'Joseph Buquet.'

Sam shook. 'Can you tell me anything about the ghost?' he asked, hesitantly. He quickly regretted asking, realising that the mildly inebriated Joseph Buquet was a gossip, and a lover of gothic intrigue.

'Well they say his skin's like… old yellow parchment. A great black hole serves him as the nose that-,' he lowered his voice dramatically '-never grew. You must be always on your guard, young Monsieur Winchester, or he will catch you with his… magical lasso.'

Sam wanted to laugh, but schooled his face to neutral interest and nodded soberly.

'You'd be well advised to keep your hand at the level of your eyes when you're around the theatre at night. Means the damn thing can't tighten round your throat.'

Sam nodded politely.

'He's a consummate musician, and he hopes to revive this place, at any cost. And he's in love with young Mademoiselle Daaé. But then, who wouldn't be?' He laughed, and Sam shuddered at the thought of this old man's fantasies concerning the singer. 'Have you seen her?' He blew out air through his cheeks, shaking his head at Sam as if in awe of Miss Daaé's beauty. Sam had only seen a picture, but he had seen enough to know that she was stunning.

'So you think he's just trying to shock the theatre into… improving?' Sam asked, trying to keep the doubt out of his voice.

'Yes, he thinks it's lost its edge,' Buquet agreed. His tone had changed: earlier, he had seemed to be speaking of a monstrosity, now he sounded like he was explaining the opinions of an old friend and drinking companion.

'Right…'

Buquet nodded seriously.

'Well, Mr Buquet, my brother and I will be here tonight to see how it stands... we'll be grateful if you can keep an eye out.'

'I'll be up here all the way through. It makes a great viewpoint.'

Sam glanced down again at the stage, a vertigo-inducing distance below their feet.

'Thank you.'

0000000000000000000000000000000000

Prima Donna

Dean itched awkwardly at his overly formal attire as he stepped into the box which André had arranged to leave empty for him and Sam to watch the performance in private. It had a shiny number five nailed to the door, and its interior was spacious and was decorated, like the whole 'front of house' area of the theatre, in red velvet and gold plating. It was like a small room with a missing wall: a balcony looking out into the auditorium.

Neither of the Winchesters had ever been to the theatre before: a lifetime's hunting had left little time for pantomimes and Peter Pan, and sitting in the opera house felt a little like being dropped into this mad world at the deep end: surely, as newcomers to theatre, they ought to start off with a Miller play, or a Broadway musical: something a little less incomprehensible than opera.

Dean was in a bad mood: he claimed that he couldn't concentrate on hunting when trussed up in what he termed 'stupid damn clothes', and despite Christine's attraction, he wasn't looking forward to the opera. Sam was, or at least seemed, a little more comfortable with the situation, but he was restless. André and Buquet had shown such a flair for all things dramatic that he suspected their belief in the ghost was just wishful thinking.

The lights dimmed without warning, and the orchestra, hidden in their pit, struck up a lilting melody. Dean grimaced, wondering how long he'd have to listen to Metallica to recover from two hours of classical music.

The heavy curtains swooped gracefully upwards, revealing an elaborate set and a tall woman, heavily made up and extravagantly dressed, who opened her mouth to emit a wavering, high pitched shriek, which was followed by the orchestra down a scale until it became apparent that this was intended to be a tune. The brothers exchanged glances. It was going to be an interesting evening.

The woman, whom they assumed must be the infamous Carlotta Giudicelli, was joined on stage by a trio of manically grinning singers, dressed in pastel-coloured Georgian costumes, and a slender young man, also in period costume, who was apparently playing her lover.

Frowning, Dean looked more closely at the young man, and it occurred to him that the long, dark ponytail hanging down his back and the graceful curving shape of his body were familiar. Then he turned, and he realised that it was Christine. He felt a surge of irritation that the stunning young woman had been cast as the silent pageboy to Carlotta's warbling countess. Then, as his anger subsided, he realised that the ghost's attack had been for precisely this reason.

A booming voice interrupted his thoughts, and he realised with a jolt that it did not belong to the performance. The music altered and died, and Carlotta and Christine stared upwards as the voice filled the auditorium.

'Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty?' it demanded. Dean felt a chill, and rose halfway to his feet. The voice faded, and after a few seconds, the orchestra gathered their frayed nerves and struck up again, joined quickly by Carlotta's piercing voice.

Not being an expert on opera, Dean couldn't really tell whether she sung well or badly, but Carlotta's voice was loud and clear, covering what seemed a vast range of notes. However, she filled her song with trills and extravagant additions of her own. She hit a high note, and her voice swelled to a shattering crescendo, but then abruptly faded into a deafening croak. Dean frowned, and glanced at Sam, next to him, who shrugged. Carlotta's face told them that the croak had not been intended. Suddenly looking nervous, she opened her mouth again to sing and produced only a hoarse cry. She stared around the stage, horrified, her narrowed eyes glaring suspiciously at Christine, who kept her frantic eyes on the ceiling, searching for something only she would recognise.

Carlotta's golden throat emitted one final croak, and then she wilted, and gave out a moan of horror as she fled the stage in hysterics. Somebody, probably the ever-helpful Buquet, had the presence of mind to release the curtains, and they swung down to hide the chaotic scene. The Winchesters exchanged glances, wondering if they had witnessed a childish practical joke, or an action of the opera ghost.

André and Firmin, with their matching moustaches, appeared from between the curtains, looking harassed. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' André announced, with a flourish, 'the performance will continue in a few minutes time, when the part of the countess will be played by Miss-,' he reached an arm between the curtains and yanked Christine into view '-Daaé! In the mean time, we shall be giving you the ballet from Act three of tonight's performance.' He grinned nervously at the audience, and threw a grimace towards Sam and Dean, who shrugged. He then glared dangerously down in to the orchestra pit. 'Maestro,' he added, sotto voce, 'the ballet. Now!'

The curtains swung open to reveal a group of young women, swaying and leaping in time to gentle music. The audience settled down into their seats, sighing. The Winchesters leant forward in their seats, searching the theatre desperately with their eyes for some sign of the ghost. On stage, the dancers spun and leaped faster and faster.

Leaning out over the edge of the balcony and twisting round to look upwards, Sam caught a glimpse of movement up in the Gods, Buquet's kingdom of swinging ropes, wires and pulleys, and precarious walkways, far above the stage.

'Dean,' he whispered. 'There's something up there… I'm going to look. Can you find Miss Daaé? I'm not sure it's a good idea to go on with the show.'

Dean nodded, and together they slipped out of the box, hurrying off in different directions.

Dean sped down the corridors towards the wings at the side of the stage, and collided with André, who was waddling in the other direction at great velocity.

'Mr André?' he said breathlessly. 'Sam saw something above the stage. We're not sure it's safe to go on with the show…'

'Monsieur Winchester, clearly you are not a regular patron of the theatre. The show must go on. Buquet's got it all under control, I made sure. He's not even been drinking tonight…'

Unsatisfied, and concerned for the safety of the fascinating Christine, Dean elbowed past the puffing theatre manager and hurried on.

000000000000000000

The Phantom of the Opera

Sam took the stairs three at a time, swallowing them up under his long legs, followed by the escalating sound of the music, which seemed to be getting faster and faster, more and more frantic. He burst open the door which led out into the space above the stage, and suffered another rush of vertigo, looking down at the whirling shapes of the dancers.

Before he could take in the picture before him, something moved rapidly, and a resounding shriek killed the lilting music below. Sam looked down in horror to see the bald top of Joseph Buquet's head, suspended from a rope and swinging out over the stage, among the horrified dancers. The first rows of the audience were beginning to empty as people fled in terror from the hideous sight. Sam raised his eyes to his own level again in time to see a dark shape disappear into the back of the theatre. Gaping, he looked down again, clinging white-knuckled to the doorframe to quell the rising nausea in his throat. Looking down at the knot at the back of Buquet's neck, he felt guilty for laughing at the old man earlier, when he had mentioned the magical lasso.

00000000000000000000000000000

Hello! Thanks for reading the first chapter - first of two or three if this is a success. I hope you enjoyed it. This story is a change for me, and I honestly don't know how well it will work. If you hated it, let me know and I won't do it again! I'll go back to writing relatively sensible stories. lol. Whether you liked it or not, please let me know your thoughts.

Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me, and neither does The Phantom of the Opera. And it may turn out that filching from both of them at the same time is a very silly idea.

circleofstars

xXx