10 – Eraser

Dean and Ellen had just started down the hallway when they heard the rumbling outside. For a second, Dean thought it might be thunder, but no, it was a more regular, down to earth noise: a big truck. It sounded like it was right outside.

Too bad there were no obvious windows, or if there were, they were boarded up so well not a single speck of light got in. Combined with the fact that none of the light switches seemed to work, Dean was starting to think this thing, whatever it was, was allergic to light. He made a mental note of it, and when they hit a landing on the staircase and Dean saw boards that he knew were covering windows, he started prying them off. Probably meant nothing, but he felt like he should make a show of defiance if nothing else. And he got a sliver in his finger for the trouble, but that made him think maybe this was reality. Maybe he was awake. Ellen gave him a weird look at first, but eventually helped him. The window underneath was spray painted, but imperfectly. Light could still get through. Too bad there was no light to get in at the moment.

Every door they came to, they looked inside for Sam or a bad guy. Even though they were both looking to fight and burn off some of this frustrating energy, all the other rooms were empty. Sam – and whoever the bad guy was – didn't seem to be here. How was that possible?

The house they were in was not only dark, but had been empty for some time. Empty houses had a special scent of dust and mold and pests that was impossible to replicate. Something had to be ignored, neglected, to pick up this odor. No one had been here for some time, and no one was here now. He never thought they were dealing with a person, in spite of what Ash said about the drug cult, but now he knew there were no humans involved whatsoever. Humans came with their own assortment of smells, of associated cluttered and mess that even the neatest person couldn't avoid. If a person had been here recently, there would be traces, hints, clues. This was a monster of some kind. He still had no idea what, but something that hated the light worse than vampires.

They made it to the ground floor, not running in to anyone, but not finding any adequate weapons either. They could get makeshift ones, but they both understood that conventional weapons might not work, even if it wasn't a dream or hallucination or whatever.

The doors out were sealed. Again, it wasn't clear how, but Dean's attempts to break it down were unsuccessful this time. Whatever was holding the doors closed in this house had a much looser hold on the interior doors than the exterior doors.

After Dean nearly dislocated his shoulder, Ellen said, "Help me with this." She started pulling boards off a window in the living room, and he helped her. Once they uncovered a big enough patch of window, both he and Ellen grabbed furniture. She grabbed what was probably once an end table, and he found a metal bottomed lamp with a stripped cord. Whatever was holding the doors shut was holding the windows, but not as well. The glass finally cracked, spider web thin lines radiating from points of impact, and it shattered, letting in cool night air and big fat drops of rain. They could also see the truck now, which was idling in the front yard, and its headlights were on, so they couldn't make out more than a shape. Someone got out of the cab, and started walking towards the house, but only when the light caught the person's hair did they know who the driver was. They were blonde. "Jo?" Ellen exclaimed.

"Mom!"

They hugged through the now empty frame, and Dean felt a pang of jealousy. At least they were okay. Sam … he didn't know. Could he be held somewhere other than here? Why? "Oh honey, I was so worried," Ellen told her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Good. What's with the big truck?"

Jo sighed, and stepped back. "According to Ash, we're fighting the nightmare god himself, Phobitor."

"Shit." Although in retrospect, Dean should have guessed god. The biggest dicks seemed to be gods. "What kills him?"

"He wasn't sure, but his best guess was light."

Ellen nodded. "That tracks with all the covered windows."

That was when Dean understood what was on the back of the truck. That was a great idea. "I don't suppose you have any portable lights, do you?"

"Yep. I stopped back at the hardware store." She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and slid it down to her arm. She pulled out a big flashlight, and handed it to Dean. "Brightest one they had. I also got these from the Impala's trunk." She pulled out a flare, and handed one to him. Dean could have kissed her.

That was when they heard the cocking of a shotgun.

A lumpy shape moved from out of the shadows of the truck, and he said, "Hands where I can see them, girly girl. Don't make me blow away that beautiful ass."

Dean recognized the voice as belonging to that beardo from the bar, and he wanted to break his arm for that comment about Jo. But considering the look Ellen was giving him, Dean was his best shot here. She looked like she wanted to rip his balls off through his eye socket.

Jo kept her hands up, but she was sharing a look with Ellen that Dean recognized as silent shorthand, kind of like what he and Sam had. Maybe Ellen didn't want Jo to be a hunter, but they'd already established a tacit language that was an advantage in the field. Since Jo was blocking the bartender's view of Ellen, he couldn't see her reaching for the gun Jo had tucked in the waistband of her jeans. Dean decided to make sure he didn't see.

"You asshole," Dean snapped. The anger wasn't faked. "Why the hell are you working for this monster?"

Like he thought, the bartender turned his attention towards him. "He's not a monster. Not to me anyway. I had night terrors, I have since I was eight, and he took them away. Look, I'm not crazy about drugging people, but come on, man, people are shit."

Weirdly enough, Dean wasn't going to argue with him on that point. "They're killing people. Don't you care?"

He shrugged, and that's when Jo ducked to the side, and Ellen shot him.

She got him in the shoulder, which wasn't a kill shot, but it made him stumble back and drop his gun. He'd barely landed on his ass on the muddy lawn by the time Dean had jumped out the broken window and grabbed the shotgun. The bartender started reaching for it, and Dean slammed the butt of it in his face, knocking him out.

"I knew he was a skeeve," Jo said.

Dean handed her the shotgun. "See if you can't find a crowbar or something to pry the door open. Short of that, uncover all the windows and bust 'em. We need to make sure we can flood this house with light."

Both Jo and Ellen gave him an eerily similar skeptical look. It also pointed out that Ellen was kind of hot in that Sigourney Weaver way, and he really didn't need that thought right now. Or ever. "And what are you doing?"

"Looking for Sam, and hopefully acting as bait for Phobtitor to show his ugly face."

Ellen frowned. "We checked the house, we didn't find him."

"Did we look for a basement?" He jerked his head towards the kitchen. The headlights from the truck were illuminating it now, and they could now see there was a door next to the old fashioned refrigerator. It was recessed, and seemed designed to be barely noticeable. Perfect place for basement access, and why wouldn't you have a basement, especially if you were a creep who hated light with a vengeance? It was probably his base of operations. Which begged the question why he had separated Sam from the rest of them and took him down there. What the fuck was he doing to him?

"Shit," Ellen said. "I'm coming with you."

"No. Stay here, clear the windows, and get ready. I may come running with hell on my heels, so I need you both ready to hit him with all the light you got."

She fixed him with a look so maternal he could have hugged her, but he knew better than that. "You may need help."

Dean shook his head. "He's my brother. Death itself couldn't stop me from getting him." He meant it too.

Ellen didn't like it, but she knew he was serious, and simply nodded. "You need help, shout."

"Yeah. Just be ready." He squared his shoulders and approached the door with a flashlight in his hand, and a flare tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. It felt weird not to have a knife or a gun, but if only light would work, they'd be useless. Hell, light might be useless. They were just working on faith now, which Dean hated. But he didn't have much of a choice.

He hit the door once, twice, and it felt like it wasn't going to give, but Dean was furious, and it filled him with some good old, spite fueled adrenaline, and finally some of the old wood gave way on the third hit. He caught the edge of the jamb, so he didn't fall.

The broken door swung open on a narrow staircase that seemed to descend straight into Stygian blackness, something shapeless and somehow darker than black. Nothing good was down there. His skin got goosebumps for no reason, and then he realized something in him was recoiling. His lizard brain was screaming at him to run. Phobitor radiated bad intent; he created a miasma of fear that you reacted to, even with the lack of other stimuli. No wonder he needed the drugs to help bring people to him. They might not be able to bear being in his presence otherwise. He could feel his legs start to tremble.

Dean swallowed back his rising gorge, and told himself no. He wasn't leaving without Sam. Bottom line. Let the bastard throw all the fear at him he wanted. Dean had spent his life shoving aside his feelings and just doing what he had to do. This was no different.

He switched on the flashlight, which seemed insufficient to penetrate the gloom, and took his first step into Hell.