Not much to say. I suck at life AND at updating. Sorry for the wait.
Dean's vision was framed by the eyelets of the kitchen curtains, but his view was clear enough as he watched the two police officers frogmarch a handcuffed Sam toward their patrol car. "Shit," he hissed. Sam was steadfastly refusing to look at the house, eyes forward, face blank. "More problems."
Kathleen stood on tiptoes to peer over Dean's shoulder, and he could smell both the scents of her perfume and her charred skin. "Dammit. Frying pan to the fire." She huffed once, drawing her palm along the curve of her jaw, trying to think around the throbbing in her shoulder.
"Well, get out there and clear it up," Dean whispered, jerking his thumb toward the door.
Kathleen pulled a face. "So I get to explain why we burned down the Benders' barn and broke into the Franklins' house? Terrific." She frowned, then shook her head. "We'll have to deal with it back at the station. I'll pull some strings, tell some stories."
Dean scowled, anxiety bubbling like acid in his stomach as he watched the younger officer lean Sam chest-first against the car and pat him down. "They're not taking him back to the station. He's got murder warrants, for Christ sake."
Kathleen opened her mouth to argue but was cut off by a sudden howl of agony and the sharp reports of gunshots. Not even taking the time to curse, Dean bolted for the front door, nearly knocking Kathleen down, and he darted out into the snow with her close on his heels.
The police sergeant was sprawled out on the ground, his blood spreading through the snow like a flash flood, eyes staring wide at the sky, their life-spark already gone. His throat was torn open in a gaping wide maw, his spine glinting white through the gore. The other officer was stumbling backward, pistol in hand, staring wild-eyed as the shadow flashed toward him, but it passed him by, slamming into Sam and knocking him sideways.
Sam landed awkwardly, knee torqued beneath the bulk of his weight, and he roared at the pain of a tearing pop, deep inside the bones and ligaments. He tumbled forward, face first, and got a mouthful of snow, unable to catch himself what with the goddamned handcuffs and all, Dean, help!!
He heard, rather than saw, Dean fire several shots, howling, "The hell you will!" The shadow flashed away from Sam, away from the sting of bullets, flitting up into the tree branches where it perched like a giant, hunching black crow. Just watching, waiting. Kathleen raised her own pistol one-handed, and two more shots sent the spirit dancing back into the trees, where it disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
"Sam!" Kathleen ran toward the car after Dean. The young police officer whirled to stare at her with wide, frightened eyes. His blond buzz cut did nothing to soften the harshness of his hawk-like nose or his hooded eyes, but the fear was clear on his face and he looked oddly like a little boy. Sam was on his face in the snow, still handcuffed, struggling like an overturned turtle as he tried to right himself. The officer bent and grabbed at Sam's arm, hoisting him to his feet and half-dragging, half-carrying him back behind the car. He dropped Sam back down to the ground and Sam curled up, groaning and clutching at his leg.
Dean and Kathleen skidded up to him, and when the young man saw the pistol in Dean's hand, he immediately brought his gun to bear between Dean's eyes. "Drop it, now!" he roared, the strength of command in his voice a surprise given the shaking of his hands. "Drop it!"
Kathleen immediately slapped the man's hands down, barking, "No, Gamble," and she knelt next to Sam. "We have to get out of here."
"But the Franklins, and the Sergeant…" protested the young officer, but Sam cut him short.
"They're dead." The words came out more harshly than Sam intended, but the pain in his knee was more than he could force politeness around. "And we will be too if we don't get out of here."
Kathleen stared down at Sam with shock in her eyes. "Wait, the Franklins?"
Sam immediately regretted blurting the news out, but he just gestured toward the barn. "In there. They've been dead for a while now." A spasm of pain creased the skin on Kathleen's brow and she closed her eyes for a moment, fighting back a swell of panic.
"What the hell is that thing?" gasped Gamble in a tone that implied he was losing his battle with hysteria. He didn't holster his gun, but he didn't look again at Dean, apparently trusting to Kathleen's judgment. Instead he stared into the trees, eyes darting to and fro as he searched the darkening woods.
"In layman's terms?" Kathleen glanced at Dean. "A ghost."
Gamble shot her an incredulous look. "Come again?"
"That's what she said," muttered Dean. He quickly dropped the clip out of his pistol and slapped in a fresh one. The action snapped shut with a click that seemed to echo in the winter air and he felt immediately more secure now that he had a full magazine in the gun. "You okay, Sammy?"
Sam grunted as he shifted, sending another bolt of pain shooting from his knee and up his thigh. "No. Knee is fucked." He found that he was shivering, both from cold and from pain, and he tried hard to still his body, to regain control.
Kathleen turned back to Sam and reached for his leg, but she was startled by Gamble's sudden, sharp intake of breath. She whirled just in time to see the shadow darting to envelop her.
The spirit hit her like a freight train, sending her tumbling back with ragdoll arms and legs. She landed hard, knocking her wind out in a pained ooph, and found to her panic that she couldn't draw in another breath. A crushing weight settled on her chest, pinning her into immobility. Pitch blackness swirled across her vision, obscuring the trees and the snow and the sky, until she was blind to all but the darkness. A gust of hot, sour wind brushed her face, startling her, then terrifying her as she realized what it was. A breath.
As she struggled for air, for escape, the darkness before her suddenly began to change, shift, coalesce and brighten until she could see it. She could see him.
His rotting, tobacco stained teeth jutted from pitted, blackened gums like the pillars at Stonehenge. A bullet hole drilled a tunnel right between his eyes, and maggots lingered there, nibbling at the shredded tatters of gangrenous skin and brain matter that ringed the wound. His eyes were clouded, seemingly sightless. Kathleen cringed away from his fetid breath and he grinned, his tongue glistening through the gaps in his teeth. Kathleen tried to gasp, to scream, but the paralyzing shadow was smothering her, silencing her.
"Oh, you're a pretty one," breathed the spirit, stirring the hairs that curled around the lobes of Kathleen's ears, and she would have shivered if her body would only cooperate. "I'ma enjoy you, yes indeed." The face leaned close, cracking lips nearly brushing her cheek, and she felt his long, ragged fingernails rake slowly across her throat. "You're gonna scream for me."
The sudden concussion of a large caliber pistol nearly shattered Kathleen's eardrums, and she suddenly found she was able to add to the noise with a shrill scream. The crushing weight lifted from her body and she gasped a loud, desperate breath into her empty lungs. She felt strong hands grip her under the arms and drag her backward and she screamed again as the fingers squeezed her burned flesh. The swirling darkness receded from her vision and she found that Gamble was kneeling behind her, his forearm wrapped protectively across her chest. He had his pistol in his other hand, finger inside the trigger guard.
"Jesus Christ," hissed Gamble. "What the fuck is this?!"
"Time to run," Dean barked. He hauled Kathleen to her feet and gave her a shove toward the woods. He turned to Sam's side and slung an arm around his waist. Gamble ducked under Sam's other shoulder, and the three of them took off in an awkward five-legged gait, stumbling and slipping, tumbling and tripping, through the snow into the deeper words, dodging fallen snags and broken limbs, trying to keep up with Kathleen.
For her part, Kathleen ran like she never had, as if she could outrun the memory of his rotting fingers and his rancid breath and his maggot-eaten visage and the hate in his eyes. She ran until her legs and lungs burned, unaware of the briars catching at her jeans and tearing them. Her battered ribs seared in her guts, stabbing pain that throbbed in unison with her pounding heartbeat. She ran until her legs failed her and she caught her toe on a stump, and she went sprawling into the snow in a small clearing.
Dean nearly tripped over Kathleen and had to awkwardly vault her, letting go of Sam and skidding to a halt. He doubled over, sucking frigid wind into his burning lungs. Kathleen was on her hands and knees in the snow, panting, retching. Gamble eased Sam to a seat against a tree, and then dropped to a knee at Kathleen's side. "You okay?"
Dean and Sam were both on high alert, scanning the trees with pistols in hand, but Dean's eyes consistently flicked back to Kathleen. "Kathleen," he called in a low voice. "What is it?" His heart clutched in his chest, both with fear and with pity, so clear was the pain and fear in her face. Don't let it be. Come on, cut us a break, for god's sake…
Kathleen hiccupped a cough, almost unaware of Gamble awkwardly rubbing small circles on her back. "It's him," she sputtered, her breath catching in a near-hysterical gasp. Her gaze found Dean and he was shocked by the look in her eyes. "Dean, it's him…"