KEEPING WATCH

Chapter three

The six-foot tall rusted chain link fence was obviously meant to keep people out. That didn't work for Sam and Dean. They approached the barrier at a full on run. Like a high performance machine, all parts working in harmony, they climbed. Left foot, right foot, hand-over-hand, up-and-over, jumping down and landing sure-footed and bent knee absorbing the shock on the other side.

Dean dry brushed his hands together. "Easy enough." He glanced over at Sam. "How's the leg, jinx?"

"Fine, Dean, just stop looking at me all the time." Sam gazed down, his lower lip poked out further as he wobbled unsteadily on his well-scrapped up, bloody leg. "Driving me nuts with that."

Dean ducked his head, catching Sam's eye. "Awww, Sammy, you doing your Boo-boo kitty impersonation for me?" Dean playfully ruffled Sam's hair. "Was a cute look for you when you were all pimply and hormonal, wuss, now it's just plain weird."

"Dude, get off me." Sam smacked Dean's hand away.

"Hey," Dean backed off, hands raised, "Just sayin'." He swiftly turned and sauntered to the peeling, red-painted door that hung loosely from the entrance of the lighthouse. "Seriously, leg hurt much?" Dean asked.

"Little," Sam admitted softly, hobbling to stand in front of the heavy, slightly ajar door. Thanks for asking."

"Want me to cut it off?" Dean's way of saying suck it up.

"Yeah, that'd help." Sam swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, pout-lip disappearing like magic. "I'm fine, just lay-off."

"You're one facetious kid, Sam." Dean smiled at Sam.

"Big word for you, Dean. You think I'm clever and witty?"

"No, man, moody, unpredictable, like a chick on her monthly cycle." Dean reached over to tap Sam playfully on the cheek.

"Don't touch me." Sam rolled his eyes. "And I think you mean capricious, Dean."

"Whatever, Aunt Flow." Gripping the round iron handle, Dean pushed the door open the rest of the way. Its hinges protested, a high pitched creaking like an old woman's back. Cobwebs wisped about as they were caught off guard by the sudden breeze.

Sam paused, a tremor running up his spine.

"You waiting for me to carry you over the threshold, sweetheart?" Dean chuckled.

Sam huffed and strutted past, pulling a small flashlight from his pocket.

Sam knew what his brother was doing. Dean's strategies and tactics were fascinating - mess with, sidetrack, and totally piss-off your little brother to ground him into the here and now, keep him focused. Keep that galaxy far, far away look out of Sam's eyes.

It was stupid, but always seemed to work.

Sam searched the space. The cement floor of the octagonal shaped room was cracked, dusty, and full of spiders and scurrying rats. Graffiti covered the walls, empty beer boxes were scattered around along with buckets and buckets of nothing but scraps of fish bones, broken dishes, mold, mildew and an assortment of indescribable and unsanitary things.

"Homey." Sam muttered sarcastically as he let the flashlight's beam continue to shine about the musty room.

"Only if you're a rat," Dean truthfully muttered back.

"I think their kinda cute." Sam grinned widely. "That one likes you." He pointed down toward a small rat sniffing around the toe of Dean's boot.

"Gawddamn." Dean leapt back, frantically looking around.

"No chair to stand on, bro," Sam laughed.

"Shut up." Dean quickly moved through a small archway, Sam followed finding themselves in the attached lighthouse keeper's quarters.

A small kitchen adorned a rust corroded sink, an old wood burning stove that was coated in soot, a few iron pots, kettles, and torn flour sacks strewn about the broken blue tiled ceramic flooring.

They moved through another small archway slowly, noting what appeared to be three smaller door-less alcoves that were probably used as sleeping accommodations. One overturned, near useless cot lay on the floor, its mattress rat-chewed exposing springs and coils. Finding nothing more, they moved back out to the main lighthouse area.

In the middle of the square house, it was odd to see a round spiraling staircase looking more like a fire escape, looping upward.

"May as well check out the poop deck. It's where all the sightings have been right?"

"Crow's nest," Sam corrected.

"You got it?" Dean raised a brow.

"Course." Sam pulled the EMF reader from his jacket pocket.

"You got yours?"

"Always." Dean fished out a small, silver flask, untwisted the cap and took a drink.

"Dude." Irritated, Sam thrust his flashlight at Dean, "Here."

Capping the flask, Dean manned the flashlight.

Gripping the curving handrail, they started up the iron staircase, carting their duffel bags along with them, slowing their pace. The stairs were narrow and even with the bright, white light bouncing upon each step, it was hard to see. As they clanked their way upward to the lamp room, Dean thought about the life of a lighthouse keeper in the 1800's, before batteries, and Casa Erotica or twist-top beer bottles. Lighthouses were remote, solitary, lonely and forlorn places. Harsh days, harsher nights. Limited supplies. Weren't their keepers a lot like pirates? How'd they manage to stumble, their tipsy asses up all these stairs after downing several steins full of grog? Dean was operating at full capacity, and still was huffing and puffing as he gripped the handrail pulling himself upward.

"One hundred and seventy-six," Dean panted as they reached the top.

"One hundred and seventy-six, what?" Sam swiped the drops of sweat off his brow, passing the EMF over an empty sea trunk.

"Trombones," Dean snipped totally out of breath, "Steps, Sam, what'd you think?"

"You're lucky Cape Hatteras isn't haunted." Sam nodded at the flashlight in Dean's hand. "Don't need that."

Dean flicked the beam off and pocketed the flashlight. Moonlight gleamed in through the broken windows giving the room a pale, blanched look.

"And I suppose you know how many steps Hatteras has," Dean said sourly, circling the room, his boots stepping on an accumulation of bird droppings and shards of glass that crunched like peanut shells on the wooden floor.

"Two hundred and sixty-eight," Sam said, without a second's hesitation, taking in the array of junk that lay strewn about.

"Geek-bitch." Dean checked out the lamp in the center of the room, the lens was shattered and the copper tarnished from years of no use.

"Thanks." Sam turned over the skeletal remains of an old wooden barrel, guessing it was once used to store whale oil, the fuel of choice that lit the wicks in the 1800's.

Dean tsked, flipping open the lid of a metal toolbox and rummaged around, finding the usual trappings inside "Geek-bitch is not a compliment, Sam."

"Taken as one, Dean." Sam kicked aside an over turned chair, still waving the EMF around. He paused to stare out what was left of the lighthouse's storm panels that surrounded the room "You're right about this place not being used in years," he said, "Fresnel lens is as shattered as the windows."

"Fern what?"

Sam hiked a thumb over his shoulder. "Giant glass beehive you were looking at before."

"Oh."

"Nowadays, with GPS and modern navigation to direct passing ships away from rocky coves, there's not much use for these places. Most are either in disrepair, about to be torn down, turned into museums or…"

"Or hangouts for ghosts," Dean cut in.

The wind kicked up passing through Sam's hair. A wistful feel came over him. Jessica had been fascinated by lighthouses. To her, they were awe-inspiring. A symbol of safety, of sea-swept scenery, and the dreamy romanticism of painters and poets. As with Halloween - a holiday Jessica loved - Sam didn't share in her enthusiasm. There was plenty of not so awe-inspiring legend and lore behind almost every lighthouse he'd ever researched; ranking them high on Sam's top ten most unwanted list - Halloween, of course, being the first.

He pictured him and Jessica under the moonlight, outside on the catwalk. Their hands winding together, looking out over the star-twinkled blackened sea. The image was Jessica's dream, her vision. She once painted a picture in their shared art class of the romantic notion. Sam was going to have the artwork framed for her birthday, but like Jess, the painting and all their dreams had also gone up in a ball of licking, orange flames and evil blood-dabbled smoke.

"Hey," Dean called over to him, loudly.

"Huh?" Sam startled.

"What you see?" Dean asked suspiciously, there was that damn far, far away galaxy look again. Always putting Sam in a dead spin. Hunt or not, Sam needed to keep his head in the game, his back always against a wall. Dad had always thought that a good position, least you could see what was coming at you - head on. But Dean knew, Sam had seen too much, and it nearly broke the kid in two, maybe it still would.

"Nothing," Sam stated flatly, quickly turning away from the view and striding to the opposite side of the room.

"Except what haunts your dreams, bro," Dean whispered to himself, walking over to the window where Sam had been staring and wondering what exactly it was Sam was holding back from him.

"What'd you say?" Sam asked irately not able to quite hear his brother's whisperings.

"Nothing." The flesh on the back of Dean's neck prickled, standing the tiny hairs on end - his inner radar, like his brotherly instincts - on high alert. "Something's here," he turned slowly away from the window, "I can feel it. You?" He looked across the way at Sam.

"I feel it," Sam said, staring at the silent EMF. He knew Dean well. Hunting spirits and supernatural beings brought out the warrior in his otherwise chick ditching, pie eating brother - EMF be damned.

Dean stepped over. "Let me see that." He swiped the homemade machine from Sam smacking the side of the detector, repeatedly. "What's wrong with this thing? I know…" The detector screeched its protest to being manhandled. "Yo-ho-ho." Dean gave the thumbs up sign, watching the colored lights squeal back and forth across the handheld reader like a jukebox gone haywire.

Sam cocked his head. "How'd you do that?"

"Fonzerelli touch."

"What's that? An Italian dish?"

"No, man. Fonzerelli. Dude in a leather jacket, says aaaeeyyyy all the time, once jumped a shark on water skies."

Sam looked dumbfounded.

"Cool personified." Dean's brow arched high on his forehead.

Sam shrugged.

"Bro, do you ever watch anything other than Jeopardy?"

"I like Alex, besides I rather read than watch…"

Sam suddenly shivered as something unnatural glided past him. "Dean, over there." He pointed toward a hazy mist that began to form before his eyes.

"Son of a biscuit eater!" Dean yelled using his jolly pirate tone of voice as he moved to stand shoulder-to shoulder with Sam. A tangible shiver went down both their spines. Didn't matter how many times they ran into a ghost, the excitement and edgy fear was always there.

"Here we go," Dean growled, expertly dropping his pack and exchanging the EMF for his sawed-off he'd had hidden in his jacket.

Sam did the same.

The mist hovered and slowly took the shape of a woman. The draft of air floating through the panels howled about the lamp room, kicking up the debris on the floor.

The face of a leering woman in a white gown appeared before Sam, her head twisting in an unnatural way. "Why? Why did you leave me?" Her words a dagger stabbed to his heart. "Why did you? You left me to die," she spoke over and over again.

Sam was spellbound, the twist of the emotional dagger hindering any thoughts he may have had of pulling the trigger.

Bang!

Dean stood dutifully next to Sam, sawed-off held firm in his outstretched arm. "You going to go all Oprah on me, bro?"

Sam didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes." Dean shuffled protectively closer. "Sammy. You know better than to listen to that crap."

Sam cringed, turning to face Dean.

"You, okay?" Dean questioned.

"Think so."

"Good, you got the purification bags, let's keelhaul this bitch."

"Keelhaul, Dean?" Sam crouched, nabbing his duffle he frowned noting the bag was half- open, quickly he unzipped it the rest of the way.

"Yeah, keelhaul. You know, Sam, drag her barnacle-encrusted ass across the ocean floor."

"You're really taking this pirate thing too far." Sam dug deeper into the bag, almost frantic.

"Dude, what?"

Sam glanced up just in time to see an old man, with scraggly storm-gray hair and beard, wearing a heavy dark blue coat with brass buttons that shined to a polish, appear.

"Behind you, behind you," Sam shouted.

Dean spun around, instinctively aiming at his target and firing off a shot.

"Bye, bye, Captain Bligh." He turned back to Sam. "What the hell is drawing all this activity? Sam, give me the bags."

Sam stood. "I don't have the stupid bags. Shit!" He raised his gun and shot as the woman wearing the long, white gown reappeared.

"What do you mean, you don't have the stupid bags? Bitch!" Dean blasted a young woman, wearing a violet dress, and a yellow ribbon in her hair. "Damn, they're gathering here like ants at a picnic."

"The stupid bags," Sam panted, "They've gone missing." Sam's turn to smoothly peg Captain Bligh, sending ghost guts glittering outward like stardust.

"Missing? How? You packed them. I saw you put all four in your princess-purple Dungeons and Dragons cloth bag." Dean gapped at Sam in classic, WTF moment.

Sam, too distressed, and busy with target practice to make a smart ass comeback said, "It's gone, they're all gone." He ran a hand through his hair, then in a light bulb moment said, "Must have fallen out when I slipped on the rocks." Sam waited for Dean to rant and rave and say how bad he sucked, but he didn't.

Ghosts kept popping in one at a time. Dean and Sam taking turns firing, like some crazy carnival shooting gallery.

"Man, we're not shooting metal milk bottles here. Won't be long before they gather and start firing back." Dean heard tiny scratching behind him. He whirled and shot, nailing a rat, fur and intestinal track splattering the over turned box it was trying to crawl under.

"Dude." Sam titled his head. "You don't get bonus points for shooting everything that moves."

"Oops," Dean grumbled, whirling he took another shot, this time hitting the girl in white in the head, the ghost evaporating in a puff of fog. "Only one thing to do, Sam," Dean informed, "Iron staircase, they can't follow. One of us has to go back and try to find the hole you're jinx, klutz ass fell in, hope the stupid bags didn't get washed away."

Sam's protest was interrupted by a winter-white vapor that swept in like a tornado, spinning counterclockwise and noisily around the room. The mist savagely began to magnetically suck up everything off the floor sending the debris - and the ghosts, as well - circling above them in a mad rush.

"What the hell?" Dean bellowed above the force of the wind. "This some sort of piss-poor Wizard of Oz reenactment?"

"Dean, get down," Sam yelled as they were attacked by a bombardment of fast moving objects.

Throwing himself on Dean, Sam dropped them both to the floor, narrowly missing the hammer that would certainly have inflicted damage to Dean's head - if not killing him.

Sam and Dean lay pressed back-to-back on the glass-shattered floor.

"What to do?" Sam flipped to face Dean in a game-plan huddle. "Oh, no," Sam muttered, "I don't like that jacked up look you're wearing. What are you planning?"

"Let the good times roll." Dean shoved his sawed-off at Sam. "Here."

"Dean. No."

"Sam, they can't follow me, iron staircase."

Sam held fast to both weapons not liking where this was going, but go it would. He knew with his injured leg, Dean would be the faster runner, and they needed those bags.

"Blow the man down, Sammy."

"Wha'?"

"Just keep shooting."

"For how long?"

Dean shrugged. "Until you run out of ghosts or rock salt."

"Good plan, Dean," Sam said, dully.

"Thanks." Dean regarded Sam uneasily. "Hold 'em off, bro. I'll be back before you can say yippie-kay-yay mother fu…"

"Go!" Sam leapt to his feet, twin sawed-offs turned machine guns, smoothly unloading salt rounds at anything that moved. Left, right and left again.

Under the cover of his brother, Dean shoulder-rolled to the staircase. He took the stairs so fast he missed a few steps and nearly pitched over the side of the rail several times.

"Keep firing, Sammy, hold 'em off," Dean panted.

Bang, bang, bang.

The sound of his baby brother's gunfire faded with each step Dean took. Leaving Sam, scared the crap out of him but they needed the purification bags.

Necessity - the mother of everything suck-ass!

TBC…