Dean Winchester had gone no more than three steps before his own EMF reader, another busted Walkman, which in a pervious life had belonged to Sam and had been busted by Dean, began to hum and buzz and flash exceptionally.
He glanced down at it, sticking from his trouser pocket, and tightened his grip on the gun handle.
For a moment he thought about calling for Sam, after all if whatever this bad ass was, was down here, his brother didn't need to waste his time, when the buzzing stopped. Completely.
Now that was weird. There should at least be a background echo or something.
He paused, and after a minute when no sound returned, he shoved the small flashlight into his jacket pocket and pulled out the EMF meter. The lights were still flashing, high up in the red.
A full on frown of confusion crossed his face, tensing his handsome features.
He hit the end of the Walkman against the hilt of the gun.
Maybe a few connections have got loose. He thought.
There was a slight thump to his left, a thud, a sigh.
Dean spun on his heels, arm raised, feet spread, ready for an attack.
But there was nothing. Nothing but the shadows.
The room, presumably once being the dinning room, was dark, still a little light flooded in from the window, the echo of the dying sun.
The walls had coloured a dingy burnt orange. An ancient paper colour, the flower pattern on the wallpaper just visible.
"Jumpy…" He muttered to himself, dragging out the word. The hunter turned back to the way he was headed, arms still straight, gun still raised.
'Jumpy' maybe, but he wasn't stupid.
He slowly made his way towards the kitchen.
Sam Winchester had reached the top of the staircase, his heart hammering so loudly he could have sworn it had escaped his chest and was now taking up residence in his eardrums.
He exhaled deeply through his nose, unsure of why he was so anxious. So…
"Jumpy…" He muttered, choosing to go right and with gun and flash light still held high, began to edge down the corridor.
All of a sudden, the EMF meter stopped buzzing, ceased to make any noise what so ever.
Sam paused, frowning heavily. Now that was weird. He glance down towards the machine, the very top of it sticking out from his jacket pocket. Sam just managed to say,
"What the..?" When a full on force hit him in the chest.
The pressure dug down, bending his spine, he opened his mouth to let out a gasp of surprise as invisible tendrils slammed their way down his throat, cutting off any sound he might have made. It pushed through his ears, his nose, his eyes.
Paralysis bit sharp and strong down every bone of his spine, freezing his limbs in place.
An amazing weight lent down on him, Sam felt like he was being squashed, pushed down lower and lower, into the very heels of his shoes, through to the wooden floor boards. All he could see was a whitish red that somehow blocked and covered his vision.
It was like being deep under water, thousands of miles below sea level where surely the strain would kill. He tried to fight against it, to shove back but it was like a toddler trying to stop a speeding car, he just crumbled under the sheer weight, the dark blue vastness, the hint of raspberry to the tongue, mixed with something sharper, more metallic.
Blood. His own.
Like an ant under a shoe. Surely this pressure would kill him. His body couldn't take the stress, his blood vessels would burst his organs would explode, like too much air in a balloon, as the great mass of wisps filled every part of him, pushed into every cell.
Sam's mind screamed, every part of him pounded in pain, there was one thought, one cry.
Dean!
And then, then there was nothing. Just relief.
And darkness.
In the kitchen, Dean took out the EMF reader once more, the lights flashing the highest red, but no sound coming fourth. He scowled and shook it slightly, even held the contraption to his ear.
Maybe there's an electric mast around or something… He thought. A small voice in his mind answering. Do you really believe that?
Dean held his shotgun firmly in his hand, wondering what Sam would do when a force hit him in the back.
The shock and suddenness knocked all the air from his lungs. The pressure grouped up around his shoulders and upper back, thick and heavy sticking to him like goo. It ran and slid down the outside of his arms, freezing them in pace, seeming to mould around them like concrete, flowing like glue.
Dean snarled in pain, his fingers stiffening in place, not even allowing him to take even one shot. His crouched position contorted suddenly, a ear splitting shaft of pain slamming into him as his body was forced into a cross shape, stiff and perfect, his head falling backwards, his eyes staring at the ceiling but only seeing a whitish red, blood on snow.
His limbs were pulled by some demented puppeteer. It was like he was being stretched, pulled up as the invisible ooze like force dragged back, his ankles and wrists with it before slamming back into him.
A harsh nerve shredding sound filled his ears, it took his mind a minute to realise it was his own screaming.
The more the pressure wrenched and thundered back the more its shape spread and condensed, like moulded dough, into Dean's form, his shape, sending spikes and splinters of dark green agony through his senses.
He could taste apple blossom on his tongue, hear the echo of a far off and distance bell, smell nut meg.
Sweat broke out on his body, as the intensity stretched back once more, further than before, like some great sling shot, wrenching back his arms and pushed into him.
A part of his back gave way, he felt it piece through his flesh, a skewer rammed into his very heart, a needle realising its poison, as the rest of the mass of pressure followed, flowed through this pinprick of a hole. A hole so small that not even a drop of blood flowed.
It gushed like water through a broken dam. It spat through like lightening filling his heart with endless suffering, the clench and unclench of muscles and tissue.
Dean's yells caught in his throat, a deep paralysis spreading and biting into his spine. He was sure that this was the end, that his heart would burst, the mass of weight filled through him, pushing into every inch, stuffing every cell. The pain was sharp, rigid, unbearable, hot and fiery and salty.
Wetness ran down from his right eye, he could smell iron.
Dean's mind screamed, every piece twisted in pain, as millions of knives were forced through them. He yelled silently, his only coherent thoughts, Sam!
There was a pause, a strange second, were everything was normal, fine. He gasped out. Then there was blackness, swirls of it.
And nothing more.