I am officially back to two handed typing! The hand is still a little sluggish, but at least that annoying cast is gone. Playing bass still sucks though.
Thanks for reading and reviewing! All the praise is making me blush.
Enjoy!
A beam of light will fill your head…
"Sam, where the hell are you? Are you okay?"
"Dean, I…" A deep breath, almost a gasp. "You have to help me, there isn't much time."
Dean clutched his phone tightly. "What happened?"
"The spirit I was hunting…"
"The ghost of Alan Gilbert?"
Sam didn't even sound surprised that he knew. "It wasn't him. It was…." Static buzzed in Dean's ear.
"Sammy?"
"I'm okay…" more static. "… her victims alive for five days."
Dean swore under his breath, adding the days up in his head. "That means you've got 'till tonight. Why the hell didn't you call me before?"
"Couldn't. He would find me first." Three guesses as to who 'he' was. "Needed to give you time."
Dean yanked the trunk of the Chevelle open and started rummaging through the trunk for Sam's research. "Do you know where you are?"
"Locked in…" static filled the line again. Sam's voice was barely audible now. "…city… bones are… so many…hurry…"
The last word was almost a plea.
"Sam, are you still there?"
Nothing.
"Sam!"
With an abrupt click, the line went dead.
Dean swore loudly. He only had half a day left to find Sam. And he had no idea how long it would take Randall to trace Sam's phone. With trembling fingers he started sorting through the stack of research. He had barely read any of it when he took it of the wall, mainly because Sam's handwriting sucked. But Sam's work was so organized and meticulous, it took very little time to sort out the basics of the case.
And all of a sudden Alan Gilbert wasn't such a pillar of society anymore.
Fifty years ago, a girl had disappeared from a small house on the edge of town. She was never seen again. Although the police did everything they could, they never found out what happened to her. She was taken by force, they knew that much, but they never found out who did it. Probably, because they weren't looking too hard. The girl's father had been arrested two weeks later for trying to sneak into city hall with a gun. Apparently, he was on his way to kill mayor Alan Gilbert. The man was carried of to jail, screaming like a madman. Shouting that Gilbert would never be forgiven for what he had done to his little girl. Her name was Jane Gaskell. Her body had never been found.
Dean put the pile of papers down in the passenger seat and stared ahead. Sam had already burned Alan Gilberts bones. And he spoke of the spirit as 'her'. That left only one possibility. The girl. Sweet little Jane Gaskell. She took people at exactly the time she had been taken. And if she kept them alive for five days, that was probably how long she had lived.
But her body had never been found. There were no bones to burn. And more importantly, where the hell had she taken Sam?
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what Sam had said on the phone.
Something about 'bones', and 'city' and a plea to hurry up. Hurry up… How was he supposed to do that if he had no idea where to start looking?
There had to be something…
Sam's research was extensive and impressively complete, but frustratingly enough he had adapted some sort of shorthand that was completely illegible. Hunting alone, he never had to worry about anyone else not being able to read it. As it was, the short scribbles left Dean with quite a few unanswered questions.
For example, why would the spirit of Jane Gaskell suddenly start taking people after fifty years? Something had set her off. Something that just might give him a clue to where Sam was. Instinctively, he pulled out his cell and started swearing loudly when he realised he couldn't call Bobby. He couldn't call anyone. And if he didn't find Sam in time… He got in the car and closed the door, swearing at himself.
Calm down. Don't panic, just calm down and think!
Jane Gaskell had died violently fifty years ago.
Her bones resting somewhere nobody had ever found them.
Bones…
Sam had said something about bones. If she had taken Sam, he was probably in the place where she had been taken herself. Her bones were probably there with him. And all the corpses of the people she had taken in the past few weeks.
Dean shivered involuntarily. That couldn't be pleasant.
Now all he had to do was figure out where Alan Gilbert had taken Jane Gaskell fifty years ago. Yeah, that was going to be easy.
Dean shuffled through the pile of papers again and pulled out a map of the town. Sam had marked all the places people had disappeared from. There was no clear pattern, but all the victims had been taken from the older part of town. The part of town that had already existed fifty years ago. Her hideout had to be in that circle somewhere. It wasn't much to go on, but at least it was a start. His fingers traced the narrow streets on the map. There had to be something there. What was he missing?
Alan Gilbert's house was marked on the map, with a small note from Sam.
'Dem '86.'
Dem was probably demolished. Nothing to lock people up in then.
There was another cross on the map. Something was scribbled beside it in Sam's illegible shorthand.
'AG off, loc?'
After that there were several exclamation marks and the word 'rec'.
No idea what all that meant. But Sam knew something about that place, and that was reason enough to go there. When in doubt, trust your instinct. Or you brother's.
It wasn't hard to figure out which building Sam's little cross on the map referred to. Dean parked the car by the side of the road. Sam was a genius.
City hall. Former workplace of Mayor Alan Gilbert. And judging from the large pile of building material near the gates, it was undergoing some serious reconstruction. Serious enough to disturb the ghost of Jane Gaskell.
City…
Sam had tried to say it on the phone, but the ghost cut him off. Dan could only hope his brother's cry for help hadn't pissed her of too much. As inconspicuously as he could, he picked up his old shotgun from the trunk. It felt strange, yet familiar. The grip was completely adjusted to his hand. The shotgun was still an extension of his arm, despite the fact that it had been gathering dust in the trunk for two years.
Inside the large building, it was fairly quiet. The top floors were filled with the sound of hammers and power tools, but that wasn't where he was going anyway. The most logical place to hide a young girl for five days was the basement. It was the best place to start. With his shotgun safely hidden beneath his jacket, he slowly made his way through the building, avoiding the builders as much as he could. The stairs to the basement were hidden behind a door marked 'private'. As soon as he put his foot on the top step, the EMF in his pocket started wailing loudly. The smell drifting up was gruesome and horribly familiar. The smell of death. Dean quietly closed the door behind him and pulled out his shotgun. The basement was only illuminated by one small light bulb. The corners were hidden in the shadows. Bags of cement and other building equipment was piled up against the walls. The EMF started wailing even louder. Definitely in the right place. But where the hell was Sam?
"Sammy?" he whispered.
No answer.
"Sam!" a little louder this time. Still no answer.
The small light bulb started flickering above his head. The EMF was wailing loud enough to make his ears hurt.
"Come out, you little bitch!"
Jane Gaskell may have been an innocent little girl once, but hurting his brother definitely qualified her as a bitch.
In a flash, the ghost appeared before him. Before he could react, she sent him flying across the room. He hit the wall hard, the old bricks shifting a little under his weight. With a grunt, he pushed himself up and grabbed his shotgun. He started when a pale face appeared only inches from his own.
"He is mine," the girl whispered. She couldn't be older than twelve. "He will suffer. You will not take him."
"Watch me," muttered Dean, and he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the basement. With a screech, the ghost vanished and suddenly the half-dark basement was completely silent.
Except for one small sound. Scraping, tapping. Like rats walking over the pipes, but different. Very regular and very familiar somehow. It took him a few seconds to identify it.
Metallica.
Someone was tapping a Metallica song on one of the heating pipes protruding from the brick wall behind him.
"Sam!" with the barrel of the shotgun he banged the pipes twice. There was a pause on the other end. Then his signal was repeated.
Cursing loudly, Dean started looking around the basement for something to attack the old wall with.
She locked Sam in…
She locked him in with five ripe corpses.
That bitch was so dead.
In the corner of the basement, a big sledgehammer rested against the wall. Dean picked it up and weighed it in his hands. The bigger the problem, the bigger the hammer. That philosophy applied to anything in life. With all his strength, he swung the hammer around and slammed it hard against the fragile wall. He stumbled and nearly fell when the hammer shot through the wall.
"Dean?" the voice from the other end was weaker than he would have liked, but it was there.
"Sit tight Sam, I'll be right through."
The stench coming from the hole in the wall was enough to make him gag. He could hear Sam coughing and gasping. The air in there had to be almost impossible to breathe.
The light above his head started flashing again. Without hesitating he picked up his shotgun, turned and fired in one fluent motion. The ghost screamed again and vanished in a flash.
"Dean, we need to burn her bones." Sam's voice sounded stronger this time.
"You think?" Dean picked up the sledgehammer again. "Get away from the wall."
He could hear Sam shuffling around on the other end. Without hesitating any longer, he slammed the hammer into the wall twice more. The old mortar crumbled easily, leaving a hole big enough to fit his shoulders through. He pulled out his flashlight and shone into the hidden chamber. What he saw nearly made him vomit. In one corner, a pile of dead bodies was stacked against the wall, their throats slit so deep the heads nearly came rolling of. The smell of decay was overwhelming. At the bottom of the pile, some clean bones were visible.
And in the other corner was Sam. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his eyes shut tightly against the sudden light. There was blood on his face and in his hair and he looked paler than the ghost.
"Dean, the light," he muttered.
Dean quickly lowered his flashlight. "Sorry, you okay? Can you come this way or do I have to climb in?"
" 'm okay," Sam slowly pushed himself up to his knees and steadied himself against the wall, his eyes still closed. "Keep an eye out for the ghost."
With one eye on the basement and one eye on Sam's slow progress, Dean calmly reloaded his shotgun. This ghost chick was toast.
The hidden chamber was so low that Sam couldn't even stand upright. He had one hand on the wall and he was blinking against the light coming in through the hole. He held something tightly in his free hand, squeezing it so hard his knuckles were white. Dean reached into the hole and grabbed his shoulder. "You think you can get through?"
"Do I have a choice?" whispered Sam hoarsely. His muscles were tense underneath Dean's hand. He looked at his little brother with raised eyebrows. Sam was even more muscular than he remembered. It was definitely going to be tight fit.
But Sam really wanted to get out of there. Before Dean could offer breaking away another piece of the wall he was already climbing out, apparently not noticing his bare arms scraping over the bricks. Dean struggled to help him without letting go of his shotgun. Sam leaned heavily against him.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Dean smiled vaguely. He knew Sam was thanking him for so much more than just helping him out of a hole a wall. Those two words said thank you for finding me and thank you for coming for me.
Thank you for not abandoning me.
"Anytime Sam," he whispered.
"How touching," said a cold and very familiar voice from the top of the stairs. "You miss me, Dean?"
Dean raised his shotgun, his finger tense on the trigger.
"Jenny."
It's not exactly Monday anymore… It's been Tuesday for 2 hours around here. This chapter was really hard to write. I've been tinkering with it for hours. Watching speed skating while writing doesn't help either. Hope it came out a little decent.
