Title: No promises

Summary: The story starts on Christmas Eve when Dean and Bela end up stuck in a haunted house, which Dean goes to investigate on Missouri's request. Injured Dean. Snowstorm. Bickering. Strange visions. Dean has got only 6 months left.

Spoilers: Season 3 only. NO Season 4 spoilers

Characters: Dean, Sam, Bela, mentions and probably later appearance of Missouri. Can't say for sure now.

Pairings: Dean/Bela (um… who else?*wink*)

Disclaimer: One for all story! Do not own anything or anyone. The story was written for entertainment only.

Author's Note: I had serious problems with defining the timeline for this story as I'd like it to take place after "Fresh Blood" so that Dean and Bela were sort of enemies again after her joke with Gordon, and yet it was supposed to be Christmas time, which means it was sort of making "A very Supernatural Christmas" non-existent. I love this ep but I'm going to severely ruin the plot of S3 after 3x07. Play with me here, okay? It's just a fic after all.

Anyway, completely AU after "Fresh Blood". Dean's deal in, Bela's deal out. Supposedly, we don't know about it. I'm not going to mention it one way or another. Not in this story at least. Well, that's my initial intention.

Okay, now that all precautions are made… One more – it's just a try. Hope it's gonna work. I've been writing this one for quite a while already and I wasn't planning on positing it actually. It was just a way to keep my-sleepy-self occupied when I couldn't sleep well. So, we'll see…

Chapter 1

Bela pulled the car over to the shoulder in front of a century old iron fence covered with ivy and cut the engine. The sounds of Gloria Gaynor's inspirational "I will survive" died away together with soft purring. The air was fresh and cold when she got out. Her breath was coming out in small white puffs.

The house was exactly what Bela expected it to be. Obviously non-inhabited for quite a while and definitely not cared of, it still looked like what a queen dressed in shabby clothes would look like. There was unseen dignity about it, nobleness even. Something that would never allow anyone speak about it like about any other abandoned place.

From where she was standing Bela could see only the second floor – faded paint on the walls and white curtains on the windows – and a squeaky weathercock on the roof. It was rocking from side to side in the light breeze emitting dreadful sounds.

She straightened her jacket and tipped her chin high as if she really was a member of a Historical Heritage Society, or whatever was there indicated in the ID she took just in case her car drew unnecessary attention, and pushed the gate open. Rusted hinges attempted to resist not really wanting to let her inside but gave in at last. The gate wasn't locked, which didn't surprise her much. Reputation of the place was a much better security than any locks.

Steady staccato of her heels on the paved walkway was muffled by the thick layer of dry leaves that no one bothered to clean. For decades by the looks of it.

Wood stairs to the porch were not squeaky to Bela's surprise. And the front door was locked in spite of her hopes. It wasn't a big problem though. As a member of Historical Heritage Society, whatever it was, she had a key.

Once inside, Bela hovered near the door for half a minute to give her eyes a chance to get accustomed to the semi-darkness of the hallway. The electricity was cut off, first of all because no one was paying the bills, and then, of course, as a safety measure to avoid accidental fire or something else nasty, although a lot of people claimed that they were seeing lights in the windows every now and then, which only added mystery to the dark past of the house.

Bela had a flashlight but she decided to use it only in case of emergency lest she be mistaken for the ghost. Right at the moment she didn't need it to see antique furniture, bronze girandoles and redwood panels on the walls anyway. Rich beauty and grace of the end of the XIX century.

The air was pretty musty but except for it nothing reminded of the extended emptiness of the place. The furniture wasn't cased and neither was it dusty, surprisingly. Probably because there was no way dust could get inside with all windows shut and only a few visitors in years, Bela guessed.

The house had been built in the late 80s of the XIX century and then slightly modified in the early XX century. That was all that Bela knew for sure so far, from documents and archives. Other than that… rumors and legends that no one ever proved. She was aware of most of them. And she didn't care much. She had a task to do and it was all that mattered.

Her lean fingers ran along finely carved railing of the staircase that led to the second floor.

"So, Mrs. Charleston, where do you keep that magic locket of yours?"

***

Sam pulled the car up at the backyard gate and stared thoughtfully at the red-tiled roof visible over the ivy-covered fence.

"Here?" Dean asked rather skeptically looking out the windshield. "You sure?"

Sam shrugged and reached into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a piece of paper with the address scrabbled hurriedly on it. He checked the name of the street on a faded metal plate and the number of the house, and nodded.

"That's the address Missouri gave me."

Dean shifted uncomfortably on his seat. His clenched teeth and unnatural paleness made Sam frown.

"Just the address?"

"Yeah, she asked to check it out and then we were disconnected. But that's… Missouri, you know. She never called before, and if she did now," Sam shrugged, "then it should be something, don't you think?"

Dean nodded slowly conceding his point. The place looked creepy nonetheless. He could barely see anything through the fence but the whole scenery – late afternoon, not dark yet but the sun was gone already; cool air that smelled like winter and trouble; abandoned manor; naked trees – reminded him of a horror movie with bad ending. Everything seemed empty and silent, although Dean decided that he wouldn't have been surprised to see a hundred of crows sitting on the knotty branches. That would so fit in with the overall picture.

Besides…

"You're not going to leave me here, dude, are you?" He turned to Sam, obviously panicking.

"I'll be right back, Dean," Sam promised patiently. Again. And then sighed with regret. "You're in no condition to ride," voicing the truth they both knew.

"Aw, come on!" Discomfort and foreboding of something not so bright didn't let Dean give up just like that anyway. "It's Christmas Eve tonight!"

"Exactly! Christmas!" Sam pointed out firmly. Left out the part about the last Christmas and only six months left, and how really stupid it was to screw it all now. What was the point if they couldn't change anything now anyway? Besides, Dean's eternal damnation had become a forbidden topic for conversations lately. Family holidays were a forbidden topic for as long as Sam could remember. Unspoken agreement. And yet… "Not Halloween. You can't show up anywhere bleeding like that." He nodded towards Dean's shoulder making him wince. The jacket was hiding the wound but they both knew that it looked nasty. "Couldn't find a better time to get shot?"

Dean gasped. "The bullet ricocheted!" He exclaimed defensively. "It was an accident. And it's just a graze."

It wasn't just a graze though, he knew it. It felt worse, much worse but, firstly, he didn't want to make a fuss of it. It wasn't the first time he got shot after all, and probably not the last. And he knew he could handle it without fishing James Davidson's insurance from his backpack and coming up with some crappy "hunting accident" story in the local hospital. And, secondly, he didn't want to give Sam unnecessary reason to worry. The kid wasn't dealing all that well with the prospect of his bro's trip to hell in not so remote future.

But, seriously, the place was freaking him out, especially assuming that it was most likely occupied by only God knows what. Why would Missouri ask for their help otherwise? Not a single phone call in two years. She must have had a good reason to contact them now.

And, okay, as much as Dean hated to admit it, Sam was right. He was in no shape for any trips, no matter how short they promised to be.

"Get out," Sam ordered with feigned annoyance and then gave Dean a concerned once-over. "I'll only take our things from the motel and be right back, I promise."

"Whatever," Dean grumbled dragging himself rather ungracefully out of the car.

He hesitated to slam the door behind him though. Once cold air hit his face, the place became even less appealing. Dean watched it warily, listening intensely to the sounds that might come from inside, like howling of a hungry werewolf or blood-chilling moans of suffering souls trapped in that house for eternity for the sins Dean didn't want to know about.

Throbbing pain in his shoulder brought him back to reality, and suddenly the place lost its dark aura. If it hadn't been for Missouri's call he'd never suspect anything was wrong with the house. Anyway, his attitude was quickly replaced with the wish to get inside and take care of his wound before it drove him crazy.

"Dean?"

Wincing all the way through, Dean dove into the Impala and over the front seat to get his backpack from the backseat wondering how he managed not to pass out when he started seeing spots before his eyes, caused by nearly insufferable pain mainly. Yet, when he looked at Sam before slamming the door, a crooked smile was back on his lips.

"You know what?" He threw a quick look over the shoulder, "I wish it was Halloween. The decorations and everything… doesn't look like Christmas."

"Take care, man," Sam chuckled starting the car. "I'll be back soon."

"Grab some food!" Dean shouted after the Impala trying to sound casual. And anything but stumbled through the gate when dizziness suddenly overtook him.

Maybe it was not so bad idea to send Sam off so he could take care of himself without being nursed like a baby by his little bro and his sweet habit to take things worse than they really were, Dean thought. He wasn't a fragile little flower after all, and if he was going to die soon…

The train of his thought trailed off here.

He needed to take painkillers. Now! Knew he had something in the backpack but, hell, couldn't remember where or what it was. The pain in the shoulder dulled slightly, meaning it was no longer concentrated in one particular spot spreading gradually all over his body, which was now pulsating slowly. Dean could clearly imagine hundreds of little hearts instead of one, beating in unison in every part of him. The image made him sick and he shook his head to wave it away.

Walking through the back yard with blistering cold air biting at his cheeks made him feel better, cleared his thoughts considerably. It was interesting to look around. Back yard was back yard only by definition. In reality it turned out to be an orchard of some sort, or so it looked, and quite a big one, too. But then this house wasn't just an ordinary house in an ordinary suburb after all, so everything fitted just fine.

He paused half way to the house and glanced up to have a better look at it.

It didn't seem welcoming, but not quite hostile either. The sun was down, true, but Dean could have sworn that he could catch glimpses of last rays of light on the metal form of a weathercock. He wondered again, with curiosity now, what kind of a vision could Missouri possibly have being several hundred miles away from here, but nothing decent came to his mind, unless of course it was another poltergeist again. And, fine, it would have made sense if the place was inhabited. But it didn't look like anyone lived here for a while, so why bother then?

Dean hoped it wasn't a vengeful killing-oriented spirit because – face the truth! – he was a too easy prey himself at the moment. Actually, all he could think of was falling somewhere that wasn't cold ground and dozing off for a week or two, or more. It was something too luxurious to even start hoping for, but one was allowed to dream, right? It was Christmas Eve after all, the best time for wishes and miracles. So chances were that Santa would drag his fat self through the chimney and award Dean with strong tranquilizers for being good boy and helping old ladies cross the streets. He wasn't even going to brag about his other honors.

Slowly and carefully he descended down several rather steep stone steps to the backdoor, which was obviously leading to the basement or something else similar. Old lock, probably rusted, did not give in easily but Dean was persistent. Once inside, he groped his was through the room, tripping over one thing or another – it was dark to say what exactly these things were – and cursing silently under his breath. Dim light coming through the only small and unbelievably dirty window was far not enough to make his task easier.

The only good thing about it was that mental debating whether or not he should try and look for a flashlight distracted him from his pretty uncomfortable state. Not that he cared much, but he was curious to some degree. Wanted so badly to see what was there around him. But first things first. Right at the moment the first thing was to make sure he wouldn't faint from pain, or blood loss, or both within five minutes. His t-shirt that was quickly getting soaked with blood started bothering Dean a long time ago, as much as anything could bother him at all with his thoughts too cloudy and muffled to concentrate on something particular for more than half a minute.

He climbed upstairs, stumbling and holding on to the wall, and sighed with relief when he found himself in a relative safety of the hallway.

Dean dropped the backpack to the floor and the sound of it landing onto the wood boards broke eerie silence. He leaned back against the wall then and exhaled loudly through his nose, feeling dizzy and unstable on his feet. But being inside sort of excluded the possibility of freezing to death somewhere in the middle of a backyard of what seemed to be the least visited place in the area, and wasn't it the best reason to cheer up a little bit?

Strangely loud thump of something onto the floor, or elsewhere downstairs gave Bela a start. She put jewelry box back to the shelf where she found it and tiptoed to the door, gun clutched tightly in her hand. Someone was down there. Bela could hear him – her? them? – moving around the living room, supposedly, muttering something that she couldn't make out even in utter silence of the house.

She started making her way down as soundlessly as she could hoping it wasn't trouble in the flesh.

The footsteps down the staircase were impossible to miss even if whoever was the source of them was doing their best to move quietly. Dean, who was in the middle of going through his backpack in search for painkillers, strained himself and reached carefully for his gun, lest his movement be too noticeable. He kept on muttering something with frustration under his breath pretending he was absolutely unaware of a company. Hoped with all his heart – at strange as it was – that it truly was only a ghost. Dealing with it didn't require actual fight, which was way beyond his capability right now.

The steps were closing in, very human steps to his disappointment.

Dean counted to five in his mind praying not to pass out shamelessly any time soon and whirled around taking upright position, gun up and aiming right at the intruder's chest.

Bela stepped around the corner, eyes fixed on the dark form of a person standing on his knees near the couch in the living room. It wasn't a police-man like she half-expected, meaning trouble wasn't out of agenda. And it surprised her that there was something vaguely familiar about the figure although she couldn't say at once what made her think so.

The man was on his feet before she could blink. Soft cling of his gun, followed closely by the cling of hers, sounded almost deafening.

And then…

"You," they breathed out simultaneously: Bela – with surprise, Dean – with unmistakable annoyance.

To be continued…

Comments are welcome now :))

Hope you all had a fantastic holiday season!