Disclaimer: See chapter one.
Authoress Notes: Thanks to all who reviewed! It means a lot to get feedback and to know the story is being enjoyed, I appreciate that very much. ^_^ I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter, and I hope that you will like this one as well! Ooh FYI, 'La Danse Macabre' means 'Dance of the Dead', or 'Dance of Death', whichever way you see it I suppose. I should have put that in the first chapter, but it slipped my mind. :) This story was inspired by the picture named 'La Dance Macabre', by Michael Wolgemut.
Here is a link to see it: ... or not, it won't let me put up the link so just go search on Google for La Danse Macabre, by Michael Wolgemut. Yeah, it's pretty much awesome. lol
Summary: Cemeteries are a dangerous place to be when the sun goes down. What was supposed to be a simple salt and burn has turned into a fight for life. The Brother's are separated and injured with time running out and an angry spirit on the loose. Will the brothers be able to face down the Dance of the Dead? Read and find out.
"La Danse Macabre"
Chapter Two
"Sammy!" Dean had been searching for his brother for the last five minutes with no luck.
After being thrown into some underbrush he thought he'd seen the ghost reappear further down the cemetery. He made chase, only for the thing to smile its half rotted lips at him and blink out, disappearing into the stormy night again.
Worry had followed when he realized his baby brother was not behind him and began nipping at his heals. He had turned back, making his way to the grave and peaking in to see the thing still alight with flames. Annoyance shortly made itself known from the apparent 'slow burn' route the corpse was taking.
Dean's constant calls weren't doing much, and his cell phone call to Sam's phone was a pointless one when he saw the thing light up where Sam had been thrown several minutes before. A few expletives followed as he began walking around his immediate location.
The older Winchester brother cursed the unpleasant weather for not being able to hear anything over the clapping rain and whipping winds. It also didn't help that the visibility was about ten feet in front of his face. He was really beginning to hate Willowfield not to mention Ernest Sheridan.
"Sam, can you hear me?" Dean waited, walking slowly and cautiously through some undergrowth, rock salt-filled gun positioned tightly and aggressively in his grip. "Where are you little brother?"
As if a Godsend, a bright rod of lightening snaked out across the night filled sky illuminating the outline of something in the distance that appeared in Dean's line of sight. "Sam!" And Dean was off and running towards the figure, shotgun still in a protective hold next to his body.
Dean's military sanctioned work boots did well at gripping the wet grass and mud as he made quick work of weaving calculatedly through the trees and bushes that blocked his path. He ignored the tiny stings made by the droplets of rain slamming into his face, and kept his attention on the spot he'd seen the outline before the lightening had disappeared and the light source vanished, allowing the veil of darkness to once again descend.
As he got closer another bout of lightening flared up the sky, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Standing over a hole and looking down, head tilted to the side, and what Dean imagined to be a curious expression was Ernest Sheridan. His throat dropped into his stomach and he could feel his insides turning as he quickly put two and two together.
Sam. Sam was down in that hole.
Years of training battled against his big brother sense and won out as his brain subconsciously factored in the many different possibilities and his brain shifted to deadly hunter mode. He crouched, awkwardly putting one foot in front of the other while making sure he was covered by the thicket that outlined the new clearing of gravestones.
The sky lit up once more, seemingly on Dean's side of this melee. He could clearly make out the robotic jerking form of Ernest Sheridan not far off in the distance. He took a few more cautious steps, getting closer but remaining under the cover of the bushes.
Cold and calculated, Dean watched like a lion stalked its prey.
Dean wrapped his hand around the throat of the stock, gently placing his finger on the trigger, and moving his other hand to grasp the forearm. He once again cursed the weather as he gripped the gun firmly; the rain was going to be a hindrance for him reaching his target. But all of that pointless worry melted away as he watched Sheridan's form stoop down as if to slide down into the grave after Sam.
"Fuck," he whispered knowing his window of opportunity, and Sam's luck was quickly running out.
Dean braced the butt of the gun against his shoulder and zeroed in on the figure. The gun snapped into place and he put the correct amount of pressure on the trigger.
POP!
The sound floated through the night and vanished as the sound waves faded under the sound of the rain.
Dean was already running as he heard the tell-tale screech as his shot met its mark and disappeared into a cloud of dust. "Sam!" he called, heart thudding angrily against his sternum. He had no idea what he'd find; all he could do was pray his brother was still alive.
In seconds he was standing over the deep hole. "Sam!"
Beneath him was his little brother, lying deathly still, covered in muddy grime.
Dean could make out the blood on his little brothers head, dripping across his temple before it mixed with the rainwater, turning pink before sliding into the dark earth that surrounded him. His brain shifted to autopilot after that, and he quickly bent his knees and dropped down into the hole.
"Sam?"
Big brother Winchester grasped Sam's slack face in his hands and with one hand loosely cradling the back of Sam collar, carefully rotated his neck until Sam would be staring straight up into the stormy night sky. He sighed as he felt the comforting pulse beneath his brother's skin and began studying the injuries that stood out on Sam's pale face.
"If you didn't have bad luck Sammy," Dean mumbled, relief flooding through him.
Dean appraised Sam, recognizing the signs of the sure concussion his brother had, as well as his dislocated left shoulder. He wouldn't be able to get any further until he got Sam out of that godforsaken hole and back into the Impala and then back to their motel in the next town over.
The older Winchester could feel his time running out; the spirit would undoubtedly be showing up again any second to try and finish them off. He could smell the burning corpse in the distance and wasted a few seconds wondering why the damn spirit hadn't fucking dissolved into nothing and gone off to meet his maker.
"Sam," he turned his attention back to his brother. After no answer, he lightly tapped Sam on the face, trying to elicit some sort of reaction. "Come on Sammy, up and at 'em. We need to get the hell out of here before our friend comes back to make us permanent residents."
Running out of options, Dean fisted his hand and rubbed it roughly against Sam's sternum on the opposite side of his dislocated shoulder. "Wake up dammit."
A low moan rose to meet him.
"Thank God!"
Dean continued the rough treatment until hazel eyes barely poked out beneath the slightly cracked lids and rain matted hair. "You with me Sammy?"
The eyelids opened wider and Dean winced at the dilated pupils starring dazedly up at him. Shit.
Sam's vision swam, and he saw his brother leaning over him. The pounding in his head made itself known, and he felt as if it was the size of the moon. "Bah," the sound moved breathlessly past his lips. "Mmmm," he moaned as the rest of his body woke up and pulsed angrily with each heart beat. "Hr'ts."
Dean let out a chuckle and pulled his soaked brother up into an awkward hug. "I bet you do Sammy."
"Happened?" Sam slurred the question.
"I think the rain caused an empty crevice in the ground to collapse when you walked over it. It couldn't support your weight," Dean guessed and explained. It seemed logical enough anyway. "I fucking hate the rain by the way."
"Makes two of us," Sam said breathlessly, slur still prominent in his voice. "Damage?"
"Your shoulder, and possible concussion," Dean informed. "Maybe some ribs too."
"Great," Sam groaned.
Dean suddenly felt the hair rise on his leather clad arms. "Shit."
"What?"
And suddenly Ernest Sheridan was down in the hole with the two Winchester's.
Both brother's eyes widened and Dean scrambled, trying to cover Sam protectively while leaning for his shotgun. He didn't get the chance to grab it as he was thrown quickly against the side of the hole, back slamming painfully into outcropped twigs and sharp rocks.
"Dean!" Sam rolled to his side as quickly as his battered body allowed, vision swimming and pain flaring. He saw the gun lying next to him and grasped it as Sheridan advanced on his brother. It was in his hands and his brain flipped to autopilot as he took position with the gun braced against his good shoulder and aimed the gun at the spirits back while it lifted Dean off of his feet by the neck.
"Go to hell," he proclaimed weakly.
The shotgun popped of its round and Ernest was gone again, dropping Dean to the ground.
Dean was heaving, coughing as he pulled air into his injured esophagus. "What the fuck is it with that guy? How the fuck is he even still here?"
Sam dropped the gun, body falling back against the muddy ground. "Did the rain put the fire out?"
"It was still going a few minutes ago. You think we got the wrong grave?"
Sam shook his head, whimpering softly as Dean helped pull him up. "Why would he be protecting the grave of someone else?"
Dean got Sam to the edge of the opening, standing behind Sam. "I'm going to boost you up Sam; you're going to have to crawl out using your good arm, okay?"
Sam nodded even though he was unsure about his strength with his head swimming the way it was, his shoulder pulsing, and the fire in his belly. "I'll try."
The older Winchester locked his fingers together and allowed Sam to step into it before using all of his strength to lift upwards. "You got it Sammy."
The sudden change in altitude had nausea bubbling in Sam's stomach; it was all he could do to keep from vomiting all over the wet grass. He reached with his good arm, fisting the long tufts of grass and pulling himself upwards, knee resting against the surface before he rolled himself over until he was staring up into the darkness.
"Atta boy Sammy," Dean praised, following after his brother seconds later.
Sam rolled his head to the side and saw an orange glow in the distance through the foliage, his brow crinkled in confusion. "It's still burning, Dean." He could sense his brother turning his head towards the light.
Dean cursed. "What the fuck is going on?"
"Protection spell?"
"Maybe," Dean decided. He moved over to where Sam was lying and gave him a once over. If it was even possible, Sam's face appeared to be paler than it had down in the hole. "We need to get the hell out of here Sam."
"What about Sheridan, Dean?" Sam frowned. "Tomorrow the grounds keeper is going to see the desecrated grave and we won't have another chance."
Dean could feel his anger flaring at his brother's insistence. He was injured but the little shit still wanted to see this damn thing through, and Dean was all for finishing hunts but this was his baby brother. "What do you suggest college boy?"
"Holy water and word rites of passage."
"Nerd," Dean teased good naturedly.
"Help me up," Sam asked after getting his nausea under control. "We don't have much time before he's back again."
Dean and Sam made quick work of getting back over to the fire-lit grave. It looked strange, blue flames mixing orange, yellow, and red ones. "Somebody has definitely messed with this thing." Dean then helped Sam sit down, close by, and handed him the shotgun Sam had lost earlier in the night. "You got my back, right?"
Sam managed a smile as well as a roll of his eyes. "You know it. Like Bert and Ernie."
"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."
"Riggs and Murtaugh."
Dean grinned mischievously at Sam. "Thelma and Louise."
Sam snorted, holding his aching ribs. "Seriously?"
"What? You're sexist now?"
Sam motioned back to the grave. "Get back to work Thelma. I'm freezing my ass off and this rain isn't letting up."
Dean turned back to the grave with a grin and squeezed the bottle of holy water, allowing it to trickle down into the eerie fire. "I'd totally be Louise; she's the one in charge and drives the car off the… you know."
"Whatever floats your boat, Dean."
Dean began speaking the passage rites over the grave, lifting the supposed protection spell from the grave.
Ernest Sheridan chose then to appear before them once more.
Sam wasted no time firing off rounds into the apparition. He wasn't going to let the skeleton get the upper hand again; they'd already paid for their mistakes tonight. "Rot in hell."
The rotted form of Ernest Sheridan shrieked as the protection was lifted from the bones and fire engulfed the gas covered clothes and dehydrated skin like dried leaves. Both brothers witnessed as fire engulfed the body standing before them, slowly eating away until there was nothing left along with the bones in the casket within the grave.
"Finally!"
Sam let out a breath at the realization that Ernest Sheridan was gone for good. His adrenaline ran out about then, weakness spreading through his injured body just like the fire that had consumed Sheridan's corpse.
"Sam," Dean watched his brother's upper half fall back against the wet ground. He dropped to his knees beside him. "Alright Sammy, let's get the hell out of this place before you decide to join 'em."
Sam nodded, pain flaring in his shoulder and brain pumping like an orchestra was playing in his skull. "That would be good."
Dean grabbed the weapon duffel, quickly throwing the two shotguns, small gas can, and zippo into it before zipping it up and thrusting the strap over his shoulder. He moved back over to his brother and wrapped his hand around Sam's good forearm. "On three."
Sam nodded and swallowed back the acid creeping up his throat.
"One… two… three!"
Sam was pulled upwards, trying to help as much as he could, but failing remarkably as his legs had apparently turned into giant wet noodles. His vision swam and bile burst up his throat and out of his mouth. He could hear Dean curse as Sam, down on all fours, paid tribute to the gods with 'Pinkys' grilled cheese.
As Sam finished he realized Dean's hand was resting comfortingly against his back. He was grateful for the simple contact and the reassurance it brought with it. "M'good."
"You sure?" Dean asked skeptically.
"Dean, I just want to get the hell out of here," Sam moaned, sick of being in the damn rain, wind, and in the perfect position to be struck by the lightening. This hunt had sucked donkey dick.
"Fine."
Sam was on his feet again with Dean holding on to him, trying to be as nonabrasive as humanly possible, but sucking notoriously at it when Sam had stumbled so often.
Soon they were back at the retaining walls of the cemetery, and Dean was practically holding Sam up. It was tricky, and Sam had to psyche himself up for the quick climb. Something that would have only taken about thirty seconds if in good health, had taken Sam about fifteen minutes, and with even less energy than before.
"We're almost to the car Sammy, just hold a bit longer." Dean coached. "Soon we'll be back in the cozy motel room where you can get out of those wet clothes and into the shower. I'll fix you up, feed you some soup, and you will be as good as new."
If Sam had had the energy, he would have snorted at his brother. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to take a shower, their motel room was a nasty little shack with bad heating, he was almost certain his stomach would revolt against soup, and the 'fixing up', was going to be hell.
He felt like dying.
But true to his words, Dean had gotten them back to the Impala in record time. Dean hadn't even bitched about their soaked clothes that were going to be saturating the leather seats. Sam realized his brother must be pretty worried about him if that was the case.
Dean flipped the heater to full blast after he'd tossed all of the equipment into the trunk. He'd made sure Sam was strapped in with the seatbelt before taking off, going as quickly as possible without spinning out from the rain covered roads.
"See Sammy, piece of cake."
When he received no answer, he glanced at his brother, seeing that Sam's eyes were at half-mass. His heart sped up and he reached over, shaking Sam slightly. "Uh-uh Sam. Not yet buddy, I need to get you back to the motel before you zonk out on me. I need to make sure your brains aren't trying to imitate scrambled eggs."
Sam could hear his brother speaking to him, but it almost felt like his ears were filled with sand. He tried saying something; he figured it couldn't be a good thing that his ears were filled with sand. He wondered how that had happened, he didn't remember being anywhere near the sand…
His body felt leaden, and he realized his limbs wouldn't move on his command. It didn't matter too much, because he could still hear Dean talking to him. His big brother would take care of it, would fix it, and make it all better so he wouldn't have to deal with it. He was tired, and he decided a nap would be a nice reprieve from the pain he couldn't quite remember getting in the first place.
Dean would fix it, it would all be okay. He just needed to rest for a while.
Darkness swaddled him, taking him in and allowing his graying vision to cloud into blackness.
TBC...