Thank you for your reviews, and to all those who read Chapter one. I hope you enjoyed it, and here's part two, which is where things start to happen…

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Becoming by Accident

Chapter Two

The week-old physics assignment was still preying on his mind as Sam entered the half-collapsed house later that evening. His teacher was about as reasonable as a rhino, and as accommodating as steel, and would mar Sam's clean disciplinary record with a detention unless a really good excuse could be found.

'Sam? Sam!' John snapped his fingers impatiently in front of his youngest's dazed face, bringing him harshly back to reality by shining a flashlight into his eyes.

'Yes, sir,' Sam grunted sullenly.

'I'm going to head upstairs to look for the notebooks. You boys can take the ground floor and the basement. Toss a coin or something.'

'Be careful, Dad,' Dean said seriously. 'Floorboards look pretty rotten; we don't want you to bypass the stairs on your way back down.'

John nodded impatiently. 'Find them, torch them… and we can all go home and forget about the whole thing.' He disappeared up the stairs, which groaned loudly under his weight.

Dean looked sideways at Sam. 'Home sweet home, huh?' he said, waving an arm vaguely at the rancid interior of Eddison's house.

'Well, it's probably cheap. Our sort of place,' Sam replied, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

'No noisy neighbours, either.'

'Shame about the serial killer ghost, really. Otherwise, perfect.'

Sam wandered idly across the room and skimmed a finger along the top of the mantelpiece. He studied it: it came away completely black. He heard Dean laughing behind him.

'Look at you, Sammy. You just can't wait to put on your frilly apron and give this place a good spring cleaning.'

Sam lurched at his brother, smudging the black dirt from his finger across Dean's cheek. Dean danced aside. 'Could be your dream home, Sammy. Wife, two point five kids, little house in the woods… pet rat like the one behind you right now…'

Sam yelped and spun on his feet.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. 'Made you look.'

Sam growled angrily at his brother, but the attempted dangerous glare looked comical on his open, youthful face.

Dean glanced around the room. 'Right, well, I guess we better find these papers so we can get the hell out of here. You want to take the basement?'

'Are you kidding? Where do you think the rest of the rats are hanging out?'

Dean made a face, and nodded. 'Point taken. We'll toss a coin. Call?'

'Heads.'

'Tails.'

'No way – let me see!'

Dean showed him. Sam scowled, certain that he'd somehow been cheated.

'Enjoy the basement, Sammy.'

Sam sighed, and turned towards the stairs.

'Sam –.'

He looked back. Dean's eyes were suddenly serious. 'Be careful, okay. If there's any weirdness – yell.'

'I will. You, too.'

Dean nodded, and bent to open the drawer of the desk.

- - - - - -

Sam was relieved to find that the stairs down to the basement were solid and concrete. The floor was hard stone too, rendered slippery with a few inches' depth of water, and green algae grew several feet up the walls, suggesting that the basement had been more severely flooded in the past. Sam swore under his breath as the damp seeped into his sneakers. The smell of mould was almost overpowering down here. Sam advanced slowly, holding one hand over his nose and mouth. It seemed fairly unlikely that the original manuscript for Robert MacIntyre's most famous novel would be stored in this basement.

A cupboard by the far wall turned out to contain rotting blankets and towels, and the crate balanced precariously on top of it bore a pair of hiking boots, a broken clock, a few empty wine bottles and a map of the area: limp with moisture and torn down the middle. There was a spade leaning against the wall behind the cupboard. A pile of books turned out to be an OED, a copy of Alice in Wonderland, and a reporter's notebook, which was blank except for the words 'becoming' and 'by accident' written in black ink of the first sheet, with a few other phrases which damp had made illegible.

Out of boredom as much as dedication, Sam burned the notebook, soaking it with lighter fuel to make the soggy paper catch, and letting the ashes crumble into the water at his feet.

- - - - - -

Above him, Dean was faring no better. The drawers of the desk were bursting with papers, which he searched laboriously, finding only junk mail, bank statements, letters from publishers, newspapers, catalogues and magazines. Evidently Eddison kept his creative papers somewhere else. As he pushed the last drawer back in to the desk, one of its supports broke, and the desk lurched sideways, clattering down at a wild angle. Dean staggered back quickly to save his feet from being crushed under the broken furniture.

He wandered over to the mantelpiece to look through the heap of papers balanced there.

The spirit's inactivity was making him tense, wondering what, exactly, it was waiting for.

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After a cursory search of the little hallway at the top of the staircase, John moved on into the bedroom, directly above the study where Dean was. He paused in the doorway, looking at the dark timbers of the floor. Dean's warning about the floor boards had been well-founded, his every step elicited a loud protesting creak from the old, neglected and rotting wood.

There was a desk in the far corner, stacked with an untidy pile of ring-bound notebooks and loose pages coated in dense, slanted handwriting. The desk was nestled in the alcove between the bulge of the chimney and the eastern corner of the house.

John stepped out gingerly into the room, taking care to put down his foot flat, minimising the pressure exerted on the boards. The creak was fairly quiet. John was encouraged – perhaps the rot hadn't set in so deeply in this room as it had nearer the front door. He took a few quicker steps. He was in front of the chimney. Something gave beneath him, and he was falling.

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Sam stood for a long moment watching the ashes swirl and separate in the water, alone with his thoughts. He thought about the teenagers who'd died a gut-wrenchingly horrible death here: they'd been thirteen like him, or a little older. He thought about how immune to death he felt, at thirteen, and how they must have felt, unaware of all the dangers and fears which filled Sam's life. He thought, even if the spirit's threat were eliminated tonight, they'd still be cold and dead. He reflected that nearly every hunt they came to began with an obituary. We're always trying to save somebody. But we can never save them all.

He heard a muffled crash, above him, which invaded the silence of his meditations. He sighed, wondering if Dean had lashed out against the furniture in frustration. Sam felt about the same. Evidently there was nothing useful down here.

Before he could decide to give up, a second crash echoed through the basement, bouncing off the hard bare walls and the wet floor. Above, Dean's voice yelped 'Shit!' and something else that he couldn't make out, drowned out by the clattering and thuds of things hitting the floor, and a heavier sound – thud – and a softer impact, too, all swallowed up in several seconds of cacophony, assaulting his ears.

Sam stood petrified to the spot, shell-shocked, for the few seconds' hollow silence which followed. Then, a gasp, a groan and a small, strangled cry. Then, 'Sammy! Sammy!'

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Galvanised into action, Sam sprinted for the stairs, slipped and skidded on his knees across the floor, soaking his jeans in frigid water and grazing the palms of his hands on the uneven surface.

He scrambled to his feet and took the stairs two at a time, exploding out of the door at the top like a greyhound off starting blocks. Then stopped abruptly.

He took in the sight in horror, backing up against the wall in denial. John was sprawled unconscious in front of the cold fireplace, bleeding from his head, right arm at an awkward angle.

Dean was lying on his stomach on the floor, pinned down by a massive wooden beam across his back, his legs obscured by lumps of plaster. He was trying to get up; trembling hands clutched at the wooden boards in front of him, spasming with pain. He could barely lift his chin an inch off the ground. Blocks of ice seemed to freeze in Sam's stomach when he noticed the rusty five-inch nails protruding from the heavy beam, and that one of the had gouged a bloody hole in his brother's back.

Both palms flat on the floor, Dean pushed his shoulders up enough to crane his neck and meet Sam's eyes. There was a look of raw desperation on his face which frightened Sam; he'd never seen Dean look like that before.

'Sammy?'

Sam gaped, flailing in confusion for the right words. 'Oh- oh, my God. My God, Dean. What- ? I – Oh, ohmyGod. Shit. Help…'

Sam's back was pressed hard against the wall, and he was staring horrified at his brother as though Dean were some hideous mirage which Sam refused to believe.

'Sam…' Dean tried again, grunting with effort and pain as he tried to push himself up. 'Don't zone out on me, man. You can deal with this.'

'I – can't – nonono….Dean-.'

'Calm down – Look at me, Sammy. We're going to be fine. Right now, I need you to take a deep breath – go on. Good. Okay, now check on Dad for me.'

Sam shuffled away from the wall and took miniscule steps towards the pool of carnage on the floor, keeping eye contact with Dean until his brother couldn't hold his head up far enough any more.

Sam Winchester had seen and done a lot in his short life – monsters, injuries, and dangerous situations – but always with an indestructible and fearless father or brother to lean on and follow when disaster struck. But this, now - this was different. This was new. Sam wasn't sure if he could do this.

He pressed two fingers against the side of his father's neck.

'Pulse?' Dean prompted.

'Yes…'

'Breathing?'

'Yes. He's bleeding from his head, though…'

'Scalp wounds bleed a lot, Sammy. Does it look deep?'

'Not really… Hell, Dean, I don't know!'

Sam threw his arms up in desperation.

'It's okay. Deep breath – focus. Anything else?'

'I don't – I think maybe his arm's broken. Shit, Dean, I – you -.'

'Is that all?'

'I – yeah. I guess he's just knocked out.' Sam pressed his palms over his eyes, hoping everything would just slow down.

'Any chance you can lift this, Sammy?' Dean asked quietly, sounding doubtful.

Sam emerged from behind his hands and looked at the beam. His instinct was no, no chance at all, but he had to try. However –

'Dean, there's a nail…'

'Yeah, Sammy, I… I'd noticed,' Dean conceded weakly.

Sam seized the beam and heaved with all his strength. He felt like the muscles of his arms and back were stretched and snapping – he lifted it maybe two inches and it slipped from his grasp.

Dean cried out, screwing up his eyes, as the beam slammed down on him and the nail dug a deeper furrow into his back. It took him a full minute to get his breathing under control, and Sam watched him, horrified.

'Try again,' Dean gasped, finally.

'Dean, no way, I'll break your spine or something…'

'Sammy, I-.'

'We got to wait for Dad to come round. I can't…'

'Sam -.'

Dean was white, staring past Sam at some new threat. Sam spun, and fell backwards in recoil at the sight of the pale, bearded man, grinning at him and wielding a vicious set of shears. Sam rolled over and slapped frantically at John's impassive face.

'Daddaddaddadcomeoncomeonpleasepleasewakeup.'

Dean's gaze locked on the salt-loaded shotgun which he had left leaning against the desk. It was out of reach, but only just. He stretched his shoulders and back, reaching desperately across the floor, straining against the beam pinning him for a few essential inches' freedom.

Eddison leered down at the three Winchesters, each helpless for their own reasons. 'Scream for me…' he hissed, raising his weapon.

'Sam!' Dean screamed, the tip of one finger brushing the shotgun handle.

Sam looked up, startled out of his blind panic, and finally saw the gun. He threw himself sideways towards it, landing on Dean's outstretched arm and snatching the weapon, then rolling. He fired up into Eddison's face, and the spirit shattered.

The brothers relaxed; Sam let his head fall back onto the wooden floor with a loud sigh.

'Sam… you got to get those books…' Dean whispered.

'There wasn't anything in the cellar.'

Dean shook his head. 'Not here either.'

'Upstairs? But, the floor…'

'Keep as close to the walls as you can. Floor should be better reinforced there.'

'But, Dean, if he comes back…'

'Give me the shotgun.'

'You can't – Dean, you can't really aim it...'

Dean met his eyes, and Sam saw something like fear or even resignation in his brother's green gaze. Wordlessly, he reloaded the gun and handed it to Dean.

'So hurry.'

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