Disclaimer: Dumdididumdida. I think you get the drift.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing! I have been replying, just in case it isn't just my email thingy not working. And every word is much appreciated! This next chapter is for you all!
Chapter 7: Separated
The officers left after five minutes of explaining some of the things they knew. To Sam it was a time of quick thinking, and of ignoring what Holtz had to say. He had already figured most of it out anyway.
After the cops left, Hayden turned to Sam. "Why'd he get taken? Why'd I get attacked? What the hell is happening, Sam?"
He still sounded scared, whereas at that moment Sam felt numb. Dean had been taken. This could be bad. He couldn't even get back to the motel to get all his stuff to research… hell, he couldn't even research. He couldn't use the computer, or read their father's journal, or anything. Besides that… he needed Dean. He was blind. And even after two months of it, he couldn't walk properly, or at least, not without walking into anything without a consciousness.
"Sam!"
Hayden's voice cut in, and the young hunter realized he had been ignoring the man.
"Sorry, I was thinking. What did you ask?" Sam tried to get his mind back on the job. He had to find Dean. Again, he thought somewhat ruefully. Dean could never again call him the damsel. At least this time his brother hadn't been taken because of him.
"Why'd your brother get taken?" Hayden asked, carefully scrutinising the younger man.
"I think because he's a good person. I mean, after what you described tonight, I'm guessing is that this spirit is luring people by pretending to be broken down on the side of the road. Nice people stop, she attacks them."
She. So, not Jeff Wain. It had to be one of his victims. He needed to see… have someone read to him that victim list. The one that was back at the motel. The motel he couldn't reach.
"So, why? Why's she doing it?" Hayden asked next. Sam just shrugged.
"I'm not really sure. I think she was one of the victims of Wain. The guy back in 1976, who kidnapped all those people," he added, seeing Hayden's blank face. "And she's re-enacting his past crimes. What I can't figure out though, is why. And why she started now, years after she was killed. It doesn't make any sense."
"Are spirits supposed to make sense?" Hayden asked dryly. Sam nodded.
"Always. More so than humans."
"So what are you going to do about it? I mean, I'm assuming you and Dean are… ghost busters of some kind, after you made her disappear tonight. Are you going to stop these attacks?"
"I will, because stopping them gets Dean back." Somehow, he had to do it. By himself. This was going to be difficult.
"What if Dean's already… what if Steve…" The man couldn't complete the question, suddenly so forlorn that it could have broken Sam's heart if the thought of being too late hadn't already.
"No, they'll be alive. The survivor of Wain, Ella Fitzgerald? She wasn't found until months after she disappeared. So Wain kept them alive, and this spirit will too." He said it firmly, desperately needing to believe it himself.
"Doing what to them?" the older man asked with horror.
"I don't know," Sam admitted quietly. "But they're alive, nothing else matters."
"So, what do we do?"
We? Sam smiled with relief at the insinuation, having realized he would need help for this, and that Hayden was the only one in town to believe him after what he had experienced.
"When they release you from here, we need to get back to mine and Dean's motel room. And we need to get the car back. It's got some… stuff that we'll need. When are you getting out of here?"
"Not until tomorrow morning," Hayden told him dejectedly. "Man, I hate hospitals."
"Welcome to the club," Sam retorted, standing. "I have to go. Besides I think that nurse is getting a bit anxious about me in here. I'll see you tomorrow morning." He gave the man directions.
"Are you going to be right to get back?" Hayden asked cautiously. Sam just nodded and left.
Dean was never sure how long he had slept for. All he knew, for a long while, was the darkness of sleep, of unconsciousness.
Some time later he began to wake. Slowly, very slowly, noticing small things one at a time. The first thing Dean was aware of was the thumping in his head. It was dull, but painful, and he felt himself wincing at the rhythmic drumming on his brain.
That was the first thing. Next he noticed the cold. It was freezing, wherever he was. It was cold, and dank, and he felt himself shivering.
He gave a groan and moved his head. It was then he realized he was lying down on cold stone. It wasn't smooth, and it was so cold it almost felt wet. And he had no clue why he was lying on it.
As a matter of fact, he didn't have much of a clue about anything. That was the next thing he realized. He strained his head, trying to remember, but that made the beat of the drums in his head become faster, and he quickly gave it up as the pain increased as well.
He still wanted to know where he was. And why. He groaned again, rolling over. His awareness was becoming sharper as he clawed his way into consciousness. He opened his eyes.
Or he thought he did. He blinked, making sure his eyes were actually open. But the intense darkness remained, boring into his eyes. He rolled onto his back, stifling another groan as he moved his head. But he ignored the pain, made himself ignore it, as he lifted his head and waved his hand in front of his eyes. Nothing. He couldn't see it at all. He moved his hand closer to his eyes, but still, there was just nothing there.
He felt the first flitters of panic. He blinked again, slower, more forcefully, but the pitch black surroundings were still there. Swallowing, he waved his hands around, but the darkness wasn't due to small confines.
"Hello?" he called out, softly, not realizing that he was worried about calling attention to himself. He had no idea what was out there. Or where out there was.
He swallowed again, then called out again, louder this time. "Sammy? Sam? Anyone?"
There was nothing. He stilled his heavy breathing, trying to relax. And then he listened. The world was so quiet that the silence seemed to press in on him. He listened for as long as he could bear, until the silence threatened to burst his eardrums. And then he began breathing again, long, deep draws of air, stale air that he hadn't noticed was stale before.
There was nothing in the room with him. "Hello?" he called out again. The bounce confirmed to Dean that he was in a small room, made of stone, like the floor in all likelihood.
He sat up, wincing as his head pounded viciously. He put a hand gently to the back of his head; it came away wet, and sticky. Blood. He winced, this time not from pain, but from expectation. Something had hit him hard, in the back of his head. Twice, if he remembered correctly.
Ah yes, now it was coming back to him. The crowbar to the back of the head. The ghost pretending to be broken down on the side of the road. The ozone. He couldn't believe he hadn't smelled until just before the ghost had jumped him. He couldn't believe the ghost had jumped him at all.
He groaned as he put a hand to the back of his head again. Whether or not that crowbar had been real, it had hurt like hell. If he was bleeding, he had to have done some damage.
His hand paused as an unwelcome thought crossed his mind. Who knew what damage it had done. Maybe…
Maybe that was why he was in the dark. Maybe it wasn't the room. Maybe it was his eyes. Or his head. But maybe…
Maybe he was blind.
The thought sent another thrill of fear through him. He swallowed heavily, getting to his feet slowly. He kept his hands above his head, unsure of where the ceiling was. He managed to stretch to full height without touching it. If he stood on his tiptoes, his fingertips just scraped the stone roof.
He swallowed his fear and let his hand drop. And then he began to stumble forward, hands out in front of him like a mummy in a movie, walking with a jolting step. Five steps later, his hands ran into the wall.
For some reason that calmed him slightly, though he had to close his eyes tightly to stop the darkness boring in on them. Then, shaking his head, he opened them and began to trace his way around the room. There had to be a way out of the darkness.
Only five minutes later he had gone around the room twice, and there was nothing. No cracks, no door, no break at all in the unrelenting black stone. He swallowed, feeling yet more fear. There was no way out.
I know, short chapter. Thanks for reading!
