Chapter 1
"Dean, hurry up a bit, will ya?" A young man holding a shotgun called urgently as he backed himself up against a tall, granite pillar.
"Dude, I'm going as fast as I can," The man named Dean yelled to his younger brother Sam.
Dean's jacket swept across the soil as he lifted himself with the ease of someone who had done it many times before – from the gaping pit below. Then, he swung himself around to crouch awkwardly over the hole filled with piles of dirt, a few scuttling bugs and, oh yeah, a body. But to be fair, there really wasn't much of the body left. A few decaying bones lay side by side along with some abandoned pieces of rotted cloth that clung – like a trapped fly struggling in a spider web – to the crumbling ribs of the skeleton. The black holes, where the eyes of the skull should have been, stared blankly up at the scene above.
A large, black bag sat propped up against a rock beside the grave. Dean unzipped one of the pockets, pulling out a white, unmarked bottle containing small, white grains. The grass was wet and he could feel the cool water seeping through the fabric of his jeans as he kneeled at the edge of the pit. Reaching out, he turned the container upside down, spreading salt evenly over the length of the grave.
The sound of the shotgun exploded in to the night and barrelled through the graveyard to the nearby forest – rising up through the tress and spooking the birds and squirrels back into their hiding places. Sam felt the gun recoil in to his shoulder as the gun backfired. He held the gun in both hands and stood firmly on the ground, watching as the man in front of him flickered – like static from the television – and then continued forward with a thick scowl on his face. Another shot rang out but just as before, the spirit only flicked before starting again. Sam took a step back and felt the cold, hard stone of the pillar press against his back, nowhere to go. Unable to dampen the spirit's advance, Sam brought the gun to his side and took a deep breath, calling to his partner yet again.
"Dean!"
Dean picked up the pace: he unzipped the bag quickly, pulling out another bottle and fiddling with the cap. The moonlight crawled its way into the container to reveal a dark liquid swirling gently with in. With no time for pleasantries now, he lifted the bottle and swung it violently over the grave, splashing the fluid erratically over the bones. His arm thrashed wildly, even frantically, as he hurried to complete the routine process.
The man inched towards him, and then in one quick motion his hands lifted, reaching forward and snapping Sam's head back so that it collided with the hard stone of the pillar. He could feel the cold, dead hands wrapped tightly around his neck, pushing aggressively until his lungs were devoid of sweet air. His eyes began to tear and his vision blurred as he watched the corners of the man's mouth curl upwards into a sadistic smile. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead, plastering his thick, brown hair to his soft skin. He willed the pain away, and then suddenly, it was gone. The graveyard began to dissipate – the picture, slowly leaving his eyes – replaced instead with a peaceful, welcoming emptiness.
A sickening silence filled the yard as the sounds of Sam's protests disappeared. Dean's heart began to race and his stomach lurched, 'Why couldn't he hear Sam anymore?' He drew a match from his pocket and struck it, the flame mirrored in his concerned eyes. Dean tossed it into the grave and watched as it fell – flipping through the air, igniting on contact with the lighter fluid. He didn't stay to watch as the skeleton blazed, leaving only charred remnants of the man who was buried there. Instead, he got to his feet and turned just in time to see the dazzling sight that met his eyes.
At first, he had no idea what he was seeing. As Dean stared he was only able to make out the hand clasped tightly around his younger brother's neck, Sammy's head lay motionless, resting on his shoulders. But as Dean watched, the hand holding Sam's neck recoiled as if it had been unexpectedly burnt. With nothing to support him, Sam's body fell limp to the ground. A small light began to radiate from inside the spirit, pouring out from the centre to encompass its entire body. And then it was exuding a brilliant, almost blinding light. Dean covered his eyes with his hands and squinted as the spirit vanished in a final burst of flame.
"Sam!" He yelled, his feet crunching on small sticks and leaves as he ran to his little brother.
It felt as if a lead brick had settled in his stomach. His insides seemed to be ripping through him and a roar was hovering in his chest, waiting to be let loose. The wind brought the scent of sulphur brushing past his nose - as if the spirit were taunting him, satisfied with what it had done.
He leaned over, holding Sam's face in his hands. He didn't look good: his eyes were shut and his face was extremely pale.
"C'mon Sammy," Dean said desperately, lightly smacking Sam's cheeks in an effort to wake him up. He lowered his hand to Sam's wrist and checked for a pulse. Nothing. He sucked in his breath and the wind brought an icy chill down his spine (Was it the wind making him shiver?) Thump. He heard rather than felt the air escape his lips in a deep sigh of relief and then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"C'mon now, wake up!" Dean choked. He gently pushed Sam's hair off of his face. 'You can't leave me, not now, not with Dad gone too.' He felt his breath catch in his chest – almost as though if Sam couldn't breath, he shouldn't be able to either.
A few more agonising seconds passed before Sam let loose a dry, hollow cough. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open uncovering his tender brown irises. Dean bowed his head in a quick, silent prayer (something he would never tell Sam about) and laughed with reprieve as he leaned in, supporting Sam with his shoulder. Together they stood up, Dean stumbling a little under Sam's weight.
"You okay?" questioned Dean.
Sam nodded as he rubbed the back of his head and they continued to walk slowly towards the car – Sam gaining new strength with every step. As they passed the grave Dean swiped his hand down and his fingers caught under the straps of his black bag, he hoisted it into the air and over his back.
The Impala acted as their guidepost, glinting in the moonlight – like an old friend waving to them in the darkness – beckoning them forward to a safe place. As Sam carefully climbed into the passenger seat (he was still a little tender,) Dean walked to the rear of the car, flinging the bag haphazardly into the open trunk. He had to pause for a minute as a huge wave of gratitude washed over him – he didn't know what he would have done if he had lost Sam. He sniffed and swung the trunk shut. Then, whipping out a smile he made his way to the front of the car, sinking into the drivers seat.
"Dude, I can't believe you let that hippy take you out," Dean said, appalled.
"Well maybe if you had gone faster…" retorted Sam.
"You're the one that said you could handle him," Dean replied, holding up his hands in innocence.
"Just drive."
Dean chuckled and turned the key, the engine flaring. He flicked a switch and the radio hummed softly, playing a familiar tune. The sun was rising just behind the trees and a comforting rumble filled the Impala as he pressed on the gas pedal and pulled away from the yard.
I
finally see the dawn arrivin'
I see beyond the road Im
drivin'
Far away and left behind
The lone streetlamp shone down to the dark asphalt, trying its hardest to penetrate the cool surface but to no avail. The low sound of traffic on the outskerts of town was carried through the streets to the parking lot of the Barge Motel. The same motel where the Impala had just (only seconds before) pulled into a parking space. The engine died with a small purr – sounding a little tired but pleased with what it had accomplished that day.
Dean placed his hand on the roof of the car and pulled himself up from his seat. He eyed Sam mischieviously as he swung the door shut, a small smile on his face. He began walking towards the nearest room (wooden door with a miniture ship wheel nailed to the surface.)
"You sure your head's alright," Dean asked, his voice flushed with mock sympathy. "Because man, he really got you."
"You just won't let it go will you?" said Sam, with indignation.
Dean stopped in his tracks, hiding all humour from his face. A little confused, Sam stopped to stare at him.
"Okay," He said, now that he had Sam's attention. "Am I spinning?"
Sam scrunched up his eyes, a little puzzled, but then as Dean struggled to keep a straight face, it dawned on him and he narrowed his eyes, "Dude, enough."
"All right, All right" Dean replied, looking downtrodden. Then he perked up a bit, "Just tell me this, how many fingers am I holding up?" He shoved four fingers in Sam's face and waggled them. He snorted as Sam jumped back and then proceeded to swat the air, smacking his hand away.
Sam eyed him with a warning in his eye. Dean quickly held up his hands in complete innocence, "That was it, I swear." He didn't want to cross a line.
Dean stepped over the small, yellow painted curb and pulled the keys to the motel room from his pocket (a white key attached to a small key chain made to look like a life preserver.) God, this place was pansy.
The door unlocked with a small click and he pushed it open, following its motion and walking in to the room. This particular motel room was like no place they had ever stayed in before. First of all, there were matching Captains hats lying on each of the nightstands with a small note encouraging you to take 'em for a spin, if you're feeling fun! Second, both the curtains and comforters sported a very 'interesting' design (fish, dolphins and killer whales all swimming in a revolting blue-ish grey colour.)Dean tried to ignore the seashells – apparently some hellish form of decoration – spread haphazardly around the room, along with the cabin lanterns hooked carefully to the wall. The final touch was the fantastically tacky wooden paneling that enveloped the entire room – creating the feeling that you were trapped, confined to this small, deplorable space.
Dean entered the room – his boots padding lightly across the carpet – and sunk in to the nearest chair.
He was exhausted.
He propped his feet up on the chair beside him and crossed his arms behind his head, yawning, "So, we excorisized ol' Sally last week, then there was Chuck Hanson, and since our favourite flower child's just been wasted, what next?" He clapped his hands together eagerly.
Sam collapsed fervently on one of the double beds, "We just finished a job Dean. You're seriously already looking for something new to hunt?"
"Yeah well, I've got a good thing going and I wanna run with it," he answered.
Sam sighed, throwing in the towel, "Fine, but tomorrow we're stopping by The Roadhouse, we can say hello and maybe they'll have a case we can work."
Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam's accidental reference to a 'lady of the evening.'
Sam winced, "That sounded dirty didn't it?"
Dean just laughed and walked to the second bed. He stripped down to his boxers and dived under the covers – tossing and flipping until he found a comfortable position and the sheets were all screwed up. Dean flicked off the light before Sam even had time to move from his spot at the end of his bed. Sam didn't mind though, he just got ready in the dark and flopped down on his own mattress.
"So tomorrow? Roadhouse?" asked Sam.
Dean grunted in reply and rolled over, already half asleep.
