Notes: Legends Resort is a real abandoned place (my grandmother worked there as housekeeping when it was still the Playboy club), though the haunting and homeless community there are all made up. :3
Warnings: Brief description of torture in this chapter, but really it's SPN, there's tons of it in cannon so IDK if needs a warning?
Dean wasn't having much luck with his case. It took an entire day to figure out kayak dude's real name, only to discover that he was a European tourist who was cremated before being shipped home in a cardboard box. In the time it took Dean to uncover a single name, Sam had successfully torched the bones of Gingerbread Castle's original owner. He had since moved on his next case, a possible cursed object in the neighboring town of Sparta. Dean yawned and snapped Sam's laptop shut. He had spent the entire day at the library, hoping to figure out his next step. He'd have to break into the water park part of Mountain Creek, but he wasn't sure how much good it would do. The man-made river where the victim had gotten fried had since been filled in and built over. ...Which brought him back to one of his first theories – recycled wiring. It seemed like the only way to put the spirit to rest would be interacting with it, and knowing what it wanted to hear. To do that, he would probably have to summon it.
Dean got up from the table by the window, and searched the motel room for the usual crappy notepad with their logo on it. He found it in the bed stand drawer – next to the obligatory dusty bible. He scribbled a note for Sam to do his thing, and hack into the lodge's bank accounts. If he could find something from around the time of the lodge's construction a few years back, maybe he would have a lead. If parts were recycled from the old theme park, it might be something for the spirit to latch onto. Momentarily, he thought that he should get some sleep, but decided on a couple cups of shitty motel coffee and a trip to the dilapidated remains of the old Playboy hotel. Well, Legends Resort it was called. The Playboy club had closed and sold the hotel several years before it was actually abandoned.
Sam would probably be pissed that he went alone to a squatter infested, haunted hotel alone at night, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care. Sam would be fine; he had that rust-bucket piece of shit pick-up truck that he managed to talk the police chief into letting him borrow from impound. It was easier to cover ground with two vehicles, considering how many cases they had on their hands. Besides, Dean needed the distraction. If he kept busy, he kept his thoughts away from Castiel and the morass of guilt and fear inside his head. He couldn't even talk to Cas. He felt like shit for almost letting Michael in, and was downright terrified of telling Cas how he really felt. The angel wouldn't want to hear it anyway – not that Dean even knew how to put it to words other than 'Hey, I think I'm in love with you, you feathery dick'. Dean would have to build up to it slowly, but how? He would have to get Castiel to actually spend some time with him instead of running off on his own. What he really needed, was a good night's sleep, but with sleep came the nightmares. Were they really worse than being awake, though?
Dean parked Baby in an empty church lot down the road from the hotel. He pocketed an EMF detector, slipped an iron dagger inside his boot, and tucked his pistol into the waistband of the dirtiest, holiest jeans he owned. He checked that none of his other various concealed weapons were visible through the threadbare green flannel he had on, and locked the trunk. He hoped he made a convincing hobo; he doubted the fed suit would get him far with the locals.
"All right," Dean said and slung a well-used duffel bag full of other useful ghost hunting tools over his shoulder. "Let's do this."
Dean wasn't expecting as large of a homeless community as he found in the husk of the old hotel. It was surreal, really – Everything from the swimming pool full of stagnant water and frogs, and the half caved in structure looming out of the darkness. Near the entrance, a group of drifters were gathered around a small bonfire that they had lit in the middle of the overgrown parking lot. It was something Dean might have expected to see in the bowels of Detroit, not in the middle of the boonies. He checked that his gun was easily accessible, and approached the motley group near the fire. They eyed him warily as he approached, and Dean wondered if it was really the ghosts he needed to worry about.
"Hey, nice weather tonight," Dean said awkwardly.
"Where are you from, stranger?" An older man with long silver hair tied into a ponytail asked. He was an old school biker type – ratty leather jacket, covered in tattoos with half a cigaret hanging out of his mouth.
"Lawrence, Kansas," Dean answered. "The name's Dean."
"I'm from Arkansas myself – little town called Marshall," Biker dude answered. "I go wherever the wind takes me these days. Call me Rocky. They've got a pretty nice thing goin' here, but I wouldn't stay long if you're on the run. Cops come by pretty regularly."
"Thanks, man. I'm just passing through. Anywhere I can crash for the night?" Dean asked, thinking that it would be useful to blend in with the others as best as he could.
"There's clean beds set up in the banquet hall," A young woman with frizzy, matted, blond dreadlocks piped up. "They'll cost you, though – barter or cash. If you don't have anything to trade, you can sleep upstairs. Most of the old hotel rooms still have some furniture that's better than nothing, but we usually stay downstairs. I'm Liz, by the way."
"They've got a sort of trade store in the old gift shop, and Ed here used to be an army medic if you need patchin' up," Rocky added, pointing at an elderly man near him with his thumb. "Really, though. Stay in the banquet hall if you can; you don't want to go upstairs."
"How come you guys don't go upstairs much?" Dean asked.
"The place is haunted," Ed said in a gravely tone, finally looking up from his wrinkled hands that he had been warming by the fire. "I've seen it with my own eyes. It's killed people. Two drifters a month or so back. Buried 'em both out back. It had to be the ghost, anyway. Nothing human could've done 'em like that."
"So, a murderous Playboy bunny?" Dean said incredulously. "That sounds kind of hot, to be honest. I'll take my chances. I like a little S&M sometimes."
Rocky laughed heartily and slapped Dean on the shoulder. "This one, I like. She's no bunny, though. I saw her a few nights ago, exploring the upper floors; I'm an urban explorer of sorts, so I had to take a look at this old place. Anyway, it's a little girl in a pink dress, soaking wet like a drowned rat."
"According to the stories, she was a maintenance guy's granddaughter. She was the only family he had, so he took her to work with him because he couldn't afford a babysitter," Liz explained. "One day, some crazy nabbed her and drowned her in a bathtub on the third floor. It was three days before they found her body."
"She's not the only one, though." Liz took a sip from the obviously reused Styrofoam coffee cup in her hands. "There's a man I saw on the second floor. He chased me down the hall, but I ran like hell and he couldn't follow me into the stairwell for some reason. He kept yelling something about some guy stabbing him for drugs, and that he was gonna 'put a cap in his ass'. I know it sounds nuts, but I swear to God the dude's intestines were hanging out and kind of dragging on the ground behind him."
"How long have you guys been here?" Dean asked curiously.
"Ed's been here almost fifteen years," Liz replied. "He's like a father to me, and brought me here about four years ago – found me on the street strung out on heroine. I'd be dead otherwise."
Rocky shrugged. "About a week, but like I said, I'm a wanderer. All I need is my Harley, and the tent I keep folded up on my bike. I've been photographing the abandoned parts of the hotel; it's a hobby of mine."
"Well, thanks for the help, guys. I think I'm gonna call it a night," Dean said and headed inside.
He bypassed the lobby that had been made into a sort of bar/casino with makeshift card tables, and a worn pool table they must have pulled out of the hotel somewhere. He decided to have a look at the upper floors, and rent a bed later when he was ready to crash. The elevators, obviously were out of commission, so he headed for the stairwell. Once he closed the door behind him on the second floor, he couldn't hear any of the chatter from downstairs. He was alone in the dark, with only the sound of his own breathing to keep him company. Dean didn't normally get the creeps on a case, but something about this place was different. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and it was several degrees colder than it should have been for a summer night. He really shouldn't have gone alone, but it was too late to turn back – or so he told himself. He pulled his flashlight out of his duffel and headed for the first doors in front of him as he resigned himself to a sleepless night. There was a lot of ground to cover. He got out the EMF detector, and started down the hallway, pausing near each door to see if he got a read.
Most of the doors were open, or missing entirely – probably re-purposed into something else by the squatters downstairs. The rooms were mostly intact, with rotting furniture, but ransacked for anything useful. Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, but the EMF detector was silent. He nearly squealed like a girl when his phone went off. Swearing under his breath, he fished it out of his pocket.
"What?" He said quietly, having seen that it was Sam's number.
"I got nothing on the bank accounts. But, I did find you something. It's a cursed object you're dealing with. I did some digging, and I found out that when the case was under investigation, the cops took the kayak the guy was using as evidence. It sat in the impound lot forever, and eventually one of the cops took it home but never used it. The cop's son took it, and just went kayaking on the Delaware with it last weekend. It's the same guy that got cooked at the lodge," Sam explained, so quickly Dean barely caught all of it. "Anyway, It was in the cop's garage and he let me have it since his kid said it kept flipping over on him, and he's smart enough to hate the thing considering the way his son died. Anyway, I'm about to light this mother up, but I figured I would tell you."
"You're going to burn a kayak?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows as the EMF detector finally caught a weak signal.
"It's wood, actually. I'm surprised it's in such good shape for as old as it is," Sam replied. "Where are you?"
"Uh, playboy hotel. I've got faint EMF on the second floor, and the, uh, locals filled me in on the back story. Little girl drowned in a tub, and dude stabbed to shit in a drug deal that went south," Dean explained.
"Dean," Sam complained, and he could almost hear the bitch face through the phone. "We agreed to do that one together. It's not safe alone."
"Yeah, if I get in any trouble I'll call Cas," Dean lied. "It's fine. Probably just a salt and burn, or two. The squatters here know to stay out of the upper floors. I guess downstairs is safe, but shit gets real if they come up here. Oh hey, I got something."
"What is it?"
Dean aimed the EMF detector at the closed door in front of him. It lit up red. "I think I found the room the drug dealer got ganked in," Dean said and knocked on the door. "I'll check in later. See if you can find graves for the people who've died here."
Dean knocked again. There was no answer. He pocketed the EMF detector and kicked the door open. The half-rotten wood gave easily and it fell off the hinges entirely. He pulled his sawed-off loaded with rock salt out of his duffel bag, which he left on the floor beside the door, and headed into the room.
"Alright you son of a bitch," Dean said, glancing around the room. "Come on out."
Nothing happened. He stepped further into the room, and felt the air go cold. Dean narrowed his eyes and kept his finger on the trigger. Nothing caught his eyes, until he saw something sticking out from under the mangled remains of a bed – a human hand. Cautiously, Dean moved forward and the hand shimmered out of existence. Maybe if he hadn't been so sleep deprived, he might have seen or felt the ghost materialize behind him. Or, at least had the reflexes to shoot the fucker. Instead, everything went black.
Hell. He was in Hell. Again. Dean struggled against the leather cuffs holding him to a blood soaked rack – soaked, probably, with his blood. He writhed in agony as he tried to slip his hands through the bindings. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but only retched at the pungent scent of rotting flesh and old blood that hung heavy in the air. He had to get out. He wasn't dead, was he? He couldn't remember much, just the moment he hung up the phone after talking to Sam at the Playboy hotel. Still alive, he had to be. He hadn't met a reaper, after all. And, as far as he knew, he hadn't made any new demon deals to earn him an express ticket to the pit.
"Dean, Dean, Dean..." Oh, no. He knew that voice.
"Fuck you," He retorted and spat blood at Alistair, who responded by stabbing him in the leg with a rusty dagger.
Dean grunted and bit his lip until it bled. He would not scream. He would not cry out. Alistair wasn't going to get the satisfaction, not from him.
"What's the matter, Dean? Didn't expect to come back here, did you? Well, that's too bad. It looks like you're stuck with me, and there won't be any pesky angels coming to... 'Grip you tight and raise you from perdition' this time," Alistair told him, trailing the tip of his dagger across Dean's inner thigh. "You've lost your touch, I'm afraid. I'll just have to retrain you, from the beginning."
"God I hate your voice," Dean whined. "It's so fucking annoying. Listening to you talk is worse that anything you can do with that pig sticker."
"Is that so?" Alistair purred. "I'll be the judge of that." He placed the dagger against the zipper of Dean's jeans and sliced the fabric open.
"Oh come on," Dean moaned. "Really? You aren't going to buy me dinner first?"
"You're right, we'll save that for last," Alistair replied, and drove the dagger into Dean's chest, burying it to the hilt, maybe half an inch from his heart.
Dean let out an involuntary gasp as Alistair pulled it back out and blood ran down his bare chest.
"We don't need that either," Alistair commented, and slowly flayed the skin off Dean's chest where his anti-possession tattoo was.
Dean's head was spinning from blood loss. It took everything he had to stay awake, to keep breathing. He knew Alistair wouldn't let him die. He'd just break him apart, and put him back together as many times as it took for him to snap. He didn't even notice that his head had fallen down onto his chest until Alistair lifted his chin up with the blade of his dagger.
"Look at you. Pathetic. I have a lot of work to do. I guess It'll be the toes next..."
Dean couldn't help it anymore, as Alistair started slicing, he started screaming – screaming for Cas to save him, shouting that he loved him and begging him not to leave him there.
Dean jerked violently as he woke up, panting for breath. He ached all over, still able to feel every cut Alistair had given him. Someone was holding him down. Instinctively, he tried to punch them, but his wrist was caught in a grip far stronger than his own. He struggled to escape, but whoever – whatever – was holding him only tightened their grasp.
"Dean!" A familiar voice called to him.
Castiel? Why was Cas in hell? He had to escape. The angel needed his help, probably.
"Dean!"
Dean's thoughts came to a screeching halt as the familiar, tingly feeling of Castiel's grace touching him brought him back to reality. Dean blinked several times, and looked up in confusion to see Castiel holding him with his head in his lap. Castiel had his fingers tangled in Dean's hair, and Dean's wrist gripped tightly in his other hand.
"Cas?" Dean asked in a broken whisper. "What happened?"
"You let your guard down and the spirit attacked you from behind with some sort of blunt object. I have healed the damage, but had I arrived any later, you most likely would have bled out. Your skull was smashed in from the back," Castiel explained, without letting go of him. "I heard you calling out to me, so I came and found you unconscious."
"But I was..." Dean frowned, and really wished Cas would let go of him. Having his head in the angel's lap would have been awkward enough, pathetic pining non-withstanding. "Can you hear me 'pray' for you in a dream?"
"Apparently," Cas said and finally released his hold on Dean's wrist. Dean struggled to sit up, but Cas held him down. "We do share a –"
" – Profound bond, I know," Dean quipped. "What does that even mean, Cas?"
"It means, I know every inch of your soul. I put it back together, after all – piece by piece," Castiel explained and finally allowed Dean to sit up slowly. He almost passed out as he did. "When an angel takes a vessel, a bit of their grace is always left behind. While I never possessed you, you do have a bit of my grace in you; you always will. Which is probably why, even in a nightmare, I could hear you."
"Uh... Okay," Dean replied. "Maybe we should, you know, get out of here."
"Of course."
Dean barely blinked his eyes, and they were back in the motel room. Sam, who had been taken by surprise, tripped over himself and face-planted into his laptop as he reflexively tried to get up and grab his gun. When he saw it was Dean and Cas, he sighed and flopped back into the chair.
"I told you not to go alone," Sam Chastised Dean. Dean ignored him and shrugged off Castiel's light hold on his shoulder. Cas just managed to catch him, as he almost became more intimately familiar with the shitty motel carpet than anyone in their right mind would want to be. He let Cas half carry him to his bed, and the angel nearly threw him into it.
"I'm fine, Sam." Dean picked a bit of dried blood out of his hair.
"Shut up, Dean. Cas called me, and told me the state he found you in," Sam snapped angrily.
"I have to go back in the morning. I can -"
"Cas and I will go back in the morning. You're on research duty until further notice. You can't handle this alone. You aren't sleeping, you're drinking like a fish, and jumping at shadows. I'm not blind, Dean. Something's wrong, and until you work out your bullshit you aren't going near a hunt," Sam ranted.
"Are you done, Mom?" Dean quipped.
"Shut up," Sam and Cas said in unison.
"Cas, I'm going to go light up that God damned kayak. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," Sam said, angrier than Dean had seen him in a long time. Castiel sat on the edge of Dean's bed and sighed wearily.
"I'm not sorry," Dean hissed.
"I wouldn't expect otherwise." Cas helped him out of his coat and threw the blankets over him. "Get some sleep. I barely managed to save you; you will be fatigued for some time."
"I don't... I'm not tired," Dean lied.
"Go to sleep, Dean." Whatever protest Dean was about to make was silenced as Cas pressed his hand to Dean's forehead and he more passed out than fell asleep.
