KEEPING WATCH
AN: Thank you again to Caroline, for taking time out of her busy day to help me with this. Much needed! And much appreciated! Thank you, my friend!
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Dean gulped hard at the air as he ran, his over-shirt flapping in the wind. He sure as hell wasn't happy about leaving his hunting partner behind, but the purification bags were their only defense. Someone had to go back for them so they could Scooby Doo the hell out of this place, and he was the closest to the staircase, and not the jinx/ klutz his brother apparently was. He went as fast as he could. Backtracking. Taking the one hundred and seventy-six steps, two sometimes three at a time. He darted out the lighthouse keeper's quarters, through the archway of the peeling, red painted door. Hand over hand, he climbed up and over the chain link fence. Dropping straight down, to the other side, he hit his full stride. Running back across the rocky break wall, hoping he remembered the spot where his clumsily brother had fallen into the stupid hole.
The condition of the break wall had become more dangerous to navigate. The night tide sloshed and slapped up upon the pitted surface, and the dark, dangerous rocks all looked the same. He was too far away from the lighthouse now to hear the boom of the sawed-offs. Gunfire meant his brother was still standing, still holding his own. Not knowing what was going on up in that tower scared the living hell out of him, yet, Dean kept his cool. Keeping a vigilant eye out for potholes, his legs moved in rhythm with his fast beating heart, boots slipping across the rock, his jeans soaked to the shins in water. The star speckled sky and moonlit water seemed to join together so that Dean felt like he was suspended in mid-air or perhaps swimming in a giant black cauldron.
He was tired, his legs cold and cramping, but he stubbornly ran faster until he stumbled and nearly fell. Puffing out of breath, Dean shined the flashlight's beam down into a cone shaped hole. Looked like the same hole his brother had fell in.
"Come on, come on." His grip tightened around the casing of the flashlight as his hand began to shake strongly with anticipation. What if the pouch had been washed away, or damaged by lake water.
He forced himself to concentrate, moving the beam slowly as he searched along every crack, crevices and smallest of crannies.
"Ahoy thar, matey," he drawled, eyes widening with excitement when his flashlight's beam landed on the pouch not far down, damn it, he was on lucky bastard. Hide a needle in a haystack, he'd find the bitch every time, so why couldn't he win that lottery. He played often enough.
After a quick phone call to Sam letting him know what was going on, Dean belly dropped, and reached a hand down. He groped along the rock, inching his body a time or two a little further over the craggy edge, until his fingers finally came in contact with the pouch. He had to tug and pull a minute to free the string that had gotten hung up on a jagged piece of the rock, but he had it.
Everything would be okay, now, he kept telling himself. He'd get back to Sam before the kid ran out of ammo. They could blow this taco stand.
But everything wasn't okay.
A funny feeling came over Dean. Not funny, hysterical, or funny crazy, but funny like electricity just shot right through him causing his heart to skip a beat.
Pouch in hand, Dean turned to look over his shoulder, his gaze automatically rising to peer up at the lighthouse tower. Out of the darkness shot a strong beam of light, tracking back and forth. "What the," he muttered in shock.
The supposedly useless lamplight was lit, bright points of illumination cutting through the shadowy fog. Inside the beam of light appeared to be several ghostly figures, human in form - traveling toward the lighthouse - almost as if they were being drawn in. Crossing into the unknown after death was a confusing thing. Unsettled spirits often misread and misinterpreted the universe around them - the world they knew no longer existing. Going into the light, after one had died was a charming theory - one Dean never believed in.
"Stupid ghosts," Dean murmured.
No wonder there were so many spirits up in that damn tower. Dean blinked several times, there was something else.
Something that crippled his breathing and pumped him full of fear. He bit down on his lower lip until it bled. Was he seeing things?
He looked to the rocky base of the lighthouse, then drug his eyes back upward. There it was again, the flicker of a familiar silhouette against the overly bright light. Long, willowy legs swung in the breeze, the shadow struggling, hanging helplessly off the side of the tower. Even from this distance he knew what/who it was.
"Sammy," Dean gulped in a bubble of air, crap he wasn't seeing things. "Son of a bitch." A sickening thing spurred him deep in his gut.
Dean scrabbled back across the rock, very aware of the slickness beneath his feet. The evening tide had come in, splashing white-capped waves up higher crashing over the break wall. He was forced to slow, planting each footfall securely and firmly to the rock. No way he could risk a header into the churning lake, Sam needed him now. "Damn it," Dean swore, dividing his attention between where he was stepping and his helplessly dangling brother. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Dean cursed, blundering his way back, losing his footing more than once as he went.
Sam was in trouble. Sam was going to fall. Smash into the jagged rock below. God, if that happened, Dean wouldn't even recognize the kid. Sam would be an anvil- shaped lump, like the coyote was in his all time favorite Loony Tunes episodes.
Dean hated that episode. Why couldn't the coyote ever catch a break? Dean guessed for the same reasons he and Sam couldn't - they were cursed. Well, curses be damned. Dean wasn't going to watch his brother hurtle face first into the rocks and smash like a hollowed out pumpkin full of chili.
There was no more time for caution as Dean poured on the speed.
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Everything was suddenly quiet, a little too quiet. Sam deftly moved toward the staircase, but the moment he did a volley of objects shot his way. He dropped and rolled away from the steps, alternating fire and picking off two ghosts as he went. He came up to his feet panting, standing in the middle of the room, and all was quiet again. Damn ghosts weren't going to let him leave, and with his inured leg he'd never be fast enough to really try.
Sam checked the weapons, he was almost out of ammo. He felt like a gunslinger in a black and white movie, double fisting the sawed-offs, but he was no hero, he didn't save people, he got people killed. A scratching sound came from behind and Sam whirled, the tip of his firearm pointing right, the tip of Dean's, left, ready to send another hail of salt into any spirit that dared show.
Just another rat.
Sam sighed and eased off the trigger as the rodent scurried away.
Dean should be over the fence and on the break wall by now. Sam peered down at his torn jeans, his leg hurt, but not as much as his pride. Damn him for breaking dad's rule. Once upon a time, breaking dad's rules had been Sam's only goal. But being caught unaware, slipping into that hole, losing the protection bags - it was unprofessional and stupid. How could he have been so stupid?
His mind was always wandering; he just couldn't stop dreaming about Jess. Dreaming? Hell! Awake or asleep or on a hunt - didn't matter anymore. She was everywhere. Always there. He felt like he was losing his mind. He'd see her standing in the checkout line at the grocery store. Peering in through a laundry room window. Standing on an overpass as the Impala drove under. Always in her white night gown - the one she liked to wear when they were about to make love. Always silent, never moving. Always just staring at him with no emotion on her face. As if she was trying to figure out just what kind of monster he really was.
And he was a monster.
The worst kind. He could have stopped her death. He dreamt about it for weeks before it happened, but he ignored the slap in the face. Why couldn't he have been burning and bleeding on the ceiling - he wouldn't have cared. He was angry, could feel the hatred slowly taking him over. He didn't want justice, he wanted payback.
God help him, he couldn't tell Dean. Bad enough he couldn't keep his burning flesh and leaking blood nightmares from his ever watchful brother. Dean probably already thought he was one fruit loop shy of a bowl; if he only knew how Jessica's ghost haunted him - even before her death - he'd lock Sam in a closet and stand guard over the door.
Speaking of Dean, Sam frowned. No way his brother was going to find the lost bag. The break wall was no eighteen-hole mini-golf course - a bullet-riddled hunk of Swiss cheese had less gaps. Dean could be poking around on the uneven rock searching until the cows came home, and Sam was fairly certain he hadn't seen a cow anywhere - in months.
"So much for Scooby Dooing the hell out of this taco stand," he mumbled, taking a chance and heading toward the staircase once more.
"You killed her," a totally pissed-off ghost whispered in his ear.
"Eh." Sam froze, Damn ghosts, he hated when they did that - reading his soul as if it were little more than bathroom graffiti - for all to see.
Sam whirled as a foggy mist seemed to pass right through him; an overpowering, burning push deep inside. Then it was gone.
Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something glowing. He swung around, ready to fire again, but there was nothing there but the broken beacon that once kept watch, steering ships away from the deadly rocky shore.
"Dean, where are you?" Sam whispered to himself, feeling vulnerable and out in the open - and wasn't he.
Ironically his cell phone rang.
Sam propped his gun between his legs. Freeing one hand he rushed to answer, not even looking at the caller ID. "You find it?" he demanded.
"Ahoy, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam snapped, "Stop screwing around."
"We won the lottery, dude, just call me Mr. Lucky from now on."
"Yeah, well, Mr. Lucky better get back to Mr. I'm Almost Out Of Ammo, and fast." Sam heard a grating noise coming from the lantern itself, pointing Dean's rifle in that direction.
"It's a little ways down on a ledge. Take me a minute. Just hold tight."
The grating noise had stopped and the lantern itself gave a small flicker.
"Hurry." Sam flipped his phone shut, and exchanged it for his weapon.
The lantern flickered again, this time brighter. "Oh, crap." Sam blanched knowingly. He raised an arm to cover his eyes, but was too late as a brilliant burst of white light shot forward, like a cluster bomb going off, the lamp in the lighthouse tower lit.
"Gah," Sam cried out as if the sun itself had dropped from the night sky and dangled on a string before his eyes, burning them out of their sockets.
Sam stumbled backward, nearly dropping both guns. He was completely blinded by the light, his senses knocked for a loop and whirling in confusion and pain. Up was down and down was up, left circle, right circle - and there was no side-to- side. Everything at first was white-washed then dotted black; Sam had lost all sensibilities.
But he didn't need to be all that aware to understand he was sailing through an open window. Splintering shards of glass snagged at his clothes and cut into his right arm on the way out. He landed on his side with a heavy thunk to the grated metal catwalk that circled outside the lighthouse tower. The sawed-offs flung from his hands upon impact and judging by the sound of nothing - had gone over the edge- far from reach.
"Ugh." Sam scrambled to his knees, hard pressing both hands to his eyes.
He was weaponless, backup less, and blinder than a bat - not a good combination
"Nuh," he cried in pain, quickly wrapping his left hand tightly around the burning pain in his right arm. He grimaced, at the warmth of blood seeping out between clinched knuckles. A heavy weight plowed into him - a ghost - sending Sam toppling over the rail of the catwalk. Instinct alone brought his hands up, flailing and grabbing for anything he could get a hold of to stop his fall. He just barely snagged the bar with his uninjured hand, stopping him from crashing to the rocky ground far below - legs swinging in open air.
He was high. Much too high. If he fell, he'd be little more than an anvil- shaped lump.
'Don't look down. Don't look down. Just don't look down.' Sam chuffed at his stupid inside voice. He couldn't see shit. What did it matter where he was looking? Deciding to go with what his brain was telling him anyway, he tilted his head far back, desperate to see something anything, even seeing the ghost bitch leering down at him would have been a delight.
Sam shuddered intensely, somehow managing to pull himself upward. His boot tips barely found purchase as he balanced on the extreme edge of the catwalk.
"Ooof." Sam belly-bent over the rail, gripping the rusted bar with both hands tightly. He became very aware of being watched, one or all of the ghosts was nearby, enjoying themselves, causing the skin on the back of his neck to prickle as static electricity brought the tiny hairs to stand on end. Sam tried to lift a leg up and over, but he was shaking so badly he couldn't manage to bring himself the rest of the way to safety back onto the lighthouse catwalk. "D'n, hurry," he mumbled, allowing his other senses to take over.
The wind whistled in his ears, and blew through his fly-away hair, causing his heart to quicken its pace. More blood bubbled out of the crook of his arm, tacky and dribbling down to coat his hand, taking away from his already precarious fight with gravity. Why hadn't the ghost attacked again? He took in a deep breath and just as he managed to get one leg up and over the top of the rail, a hand stopped him cold, pushing him back over. He must have had an angel on his shoulder as he somehow found himself dangling, holding onto the rung again.
Blood ran in rivulets down the length of his right arm and trickled, drop-by-drop off the end of his fingertips, probably dotting the rocks below. A small precursor of the larger bloodspot to come.
"Gaw damn." His sweaty hand slipped on the cool, rust-corroded banister. Knowing how much pain it would cause, he reached up with his cut arm and grasped the edge of the catwalk.
A ghost cackled, taunting, every now and again brushing a finger across his knuckles.
"I'm not afraid of you," Sam growled, trying once again to pull himself up, but the pain in his arm cut through every nerve ending in his arm and he nearly let go his hold all together.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, hoping to see the ghost, but all he saw was a lake of black, below, more of the same - both up and down fused together in a blur of blind panic. Sam could only hang there, legs freely flinging around, and kicking outward. The points of his boots hit the granite wall, but the soles of his feet found nothing but air. He wanted to scream for Dean, but his lungs were too busy ballooning in and out, with the fear of falling. Seeing nothing but darkness magnified everything else. His heart was slamming in his head, had the lamplight melted his brain, sending his liquefied wits out his ears. It was hard to breathe, the air up here thin, smelling of dead Carp, the lake air inhibiting his panicked breathing further. For some forsaken reason his nose itched - incessantly.
Don't scratch, don't scratch, don't scratch - his inside voice yet again speaking to him.
TBC::::
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