Here we go, folks. This is going to be a monster of a fic; already I've outlined half the story and it's going to be at least sixty chapters. This first chapter is probably going to be shorter than most because I want to put it out as a sort of tester or pilot.
Summary: It's always been the two Winchester brothers; Sam and Dean, together through thick and thin. There's absolutely no room for anyone else, no matter who it is. That is, until a bushy haired girl comes along and the brothers are forced to make space for three in the Impala.
Warnings: Nothing excessively graphic or disturbing, only occasional gore and your usual Winchester profanity.
Without further ado, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.
Sticky.
The lukewarm blood matting Sam's hair was the first sensation he was aware of as he opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness. Goosebumps rose on his arms at the drafty air that was blowing through the room.
Fear crept up his spine as he lifted his head, squinting through the darkness to see where he was. It was some kind of cellar, with dank, hard concrete floors and the distant sound of dripping water.
At this point, waking up in a strange place with his head pounding was becoming a typicality, he reflected wryly, feeling in his pocket for his weapons. His gun was no longer there, but his small jackknife remained deep in the coat of his jacket. The feel of the small knife in his fingers gave him some comfort, and he pulled it out just in case.
Sam had absolutely no idea where he was.
He remembered investigating a house in the suburbs for a witch that they were hunting. He and Dean had driven down the street… it was lined with budding birch trees, and the rain had been pounding on the Impala's roof… they had broken into the home of the witch, climbing in through the back window… Dean had tripped over the curtain, and Sam had laughed at him… then… a muddled, black hole, devoid of any memory whatsoever of what had happened. The very last image he could remember was Dean's irritated face as Sam made fun of him for falling on his face, courtesy of a floral pink curtain.
Sam cautiously raised his hand to the back of his head and cringed at the flare of pain that electrified his head as he brushed the wound with his fingertips. The edge of it was raised, and it was covered in viscous, drying blood. At least it wasn't flowing blood, he thought dully, dropping his arm. Now he only hoped Dean had escaped unharmed.
Oh, God. Where's Dean? Sam sat up all the way now, pressing a hand to his temple as nausea roiled through him. "Dean?"
"Sammy?"
The sound of his brother's voice, intact and sounding relatively unharmed, made him release a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. He turned his head and could barely make out the silhouette of Dean.
"You good?" Dean got up from where he had been sitting and made his way over to Sam.
"I'm fine," Sam said. His head throbbed painfully as though to remind him that he wasn't exactly feeling fine. "Just a bump, that's all. Nothing we haven't gone through before."
"It stopped bleeding about half an hour ago. You owe me another new flannel, Head Injury Boy."
Sam glanced at the bloody, ripped flannel on the concrete next to him. "At least I don't trip over curtains."
"Shut up. How's your head?" Dean asked, stooping next to Sam and helping him to sit up.
There were currently two black figures of Dean next to him, a double vision illusion manifested thanks to the sticky lump on the back of his head. Sam focused on the figure on the right - it seemed a bit more solidified than the blurrier figure on the left - and leaned against the wall behind him, exhaling slowly. Dean was okay. They would be okay. It was the reasoning that he would never tell his brother, but always kept him sane whenever what they were hunting got the upper hand.
"Okay. Concussion test," Dean said, and with a jolt Sam realized he hadn't answered Dean's previous question. That'll make me look as fine as I say I am.
"Dean, we can worry about me after we kill the witch-" he began, but Dean interrupted him.
"What's the day?"
"It's…" Sam rummaged through his mind, trying to recall the last time he'd seen the date. "April… 12th."
"It's the 13th." Dean reached out towards the back of Sam's head. Sam gritted his teeth, determined to not make a sound as Dean's fingers gingerly touched the wound. "You feeling dizzy?"
"A bit. I'm fine, Dean."
"Is your vision good?"
"Even if it was, we're in a pitch black cellar."
"Who's the coolest big brother on the planet?"
"Not you," Sam said automatically, pulling away. "Really, Dean. We can worry about this later."
Dean sighed. "We're getting that checked out, though. It feels bad. Got it?"
"Yeah, whatever," Sam said distractedly, unsteadily pushing himself to his feet and gripping the wall as the cellar seemed to tilt to the left dangerously. Dean grabbed his shoulder.
"You took one hell of a hit to the noggin. Stay sitting."
Sam ignored the last bit and began to run his fingers over the wall, searching for any gaps or loose bits of cement. "How are you? She must've knocked you out too, or you wouldn't be here."
"The bitch hit me with some sort of voodoo spell," Dean said, and Sam could clearly hear the sour disdain in his brother's voice at having been taken out by magic. "She'll regret it once we get out of here and waste her ass."
Sam lifted his eyes up, ignoring the ensuing dizziness. There was a large wooden trapdoor in the center of the ceiling. "So, we in a dungeon or something?"
"Not sure." Dean went to the wall. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "That kid says we're probably in an abandoned manor that's on the outskirts of town."
"Kid?" Confused, Sam swung his gaze around the room, until his eyes landed on a small figure in the corner that he hadn't even noticed yet. She was watching them quietly, hugging her knees. Her hair was bushy and long, but it was difficult to tell the color in the dark lighting.
"You okay?" Sam asked. She couldn't have been older than sixteen. It was one thing for him and Dean to be trapped in this cellar, but now that he knew there was someone else… it made the situation ten times more dire.
"Yeah," the girl said, her voice empty of anything that suggested she was fine.
"Witch took her hostage too." Dean shrugged. "I checked on her already. I think she's a bit freaked." He turned to address the girl. "Don't worry, kid. Sam and I know what we're doing."
"Don't worry?" the girl repeated. "How are you two being so calm about this? We're going to die. In a cold, wet cellar, in pitch blackness." She said the phrase again as though she didn't believe it. "We're going to die."
Sam made his way over to the girl and crouched next to her. "No one's dying. We're going to get you out of here and home, I promise."
"This ain't our first rodeo," Dean said from several feet back. "You stay out of the way and behind us, and we'll get you out of here."
"Behind you? We're locked in a cellar," the girl said, her voice trembling. "There's no way out. We're trapped."
"Not for long. We'll figure something out," Sam said, making direct eye contact with her. "We'll keep you safe."
The girl looked down, wringing her hands. Her small face was taut with apprehension, but she nodded slowly at the floor. Sam got back to his feet. He returned to the trapdoor and ran his fingers along the edge. A wave of wooziness made his vision tunnel and he swayed slightly, fighting down the sickening feeling that came along with the movement.
"Sam?" Dean was at his side instantly.
"I'm good," Sam said, closing his eyes and then opening them. "I'm fine. Just a bit dizzy."
"Yeah, bleeding out of the back of your head because of an egg-sized lump there is peachy. Just a bit dizzy, my ass."
"Shut up." Sam moved away from the trapdoor. There was no knob, no keyhole, nothing that they could use to open up the door. He felt the walls of the cellar, pausing at the side. "What are these?"
"Vents, I guess," Dean said, coming up beside him. "But I can't get them open."
"Did you try kicking them in?"
"No, I sat here and poked them gently with my index finger."
Sam sighed. "Then what's the plan?"
"That's what I've been trying to figure out while you were taking your little nap on the floor."
"I was bleeding from the head, you jerk."
"That doesn't stop me," Dean said, grinning. "Besides, the last hunt we were on, I was bulldozed by that chupacabra and you were the one to-"
"There's footsteps!" the girl suddenly said, her eyes widening with fear as she glanced up at the ceiling.
She was right. Sam hadn't even heard them at first, but there were creaking, soft footsteps above them, of someone moving slowly and quietly. Dean pushed him back to the corner of the cellar, blocking the girl from whatever was about to come through the trapdoor.
"When it opens, I'll go first," Dean muttered, just as the trapdoor swung open. A pale, wrinkled face appeared in the light above. Dean moved quickly, Sam right behind them, and for a moment he was sure that his brother would scale the trapdoor before the witch could do anything, until she opened her palm and a spark erupted from it.
"Auferetur!" she cried out, and an invisible force knocked Sam back, throwing him against the wall. His ears rang; the inside of his head felt like soup that had been sloshed about. He tried to roll back to his feet, but the force was keeping him pressed against the wall. Dimly he was aware of Dean shouting obscenities at the witch and the girl in the corner hugging herself even tighter, her head buried in her knees.
The witch clucked at them. "You're lucky you're not dead yet," she said in a wispy, thin voice. "I like my meals to have the chance to say goodbye to one another before I toast them."
"Brilliant," Dean muttered from across the room.
"Toast them?" Sam asked, the words difficult to enunciate with the raging thunder clapping in his head. He pressed his palm to his scalp; it came away sticky and wet. "You're... a cannibal witch?"
"That's what everyone says." The witch pursed her lips. "It runs in the family, I guess. My parents ate males only. My sister liked humans to taste a bit sweeter. That's why she lured them with gingerbread houses and all of those other nasty sugary foods. I like my meals to be healthier, with a nice hot toasting in the oven first."
The concussion in Sam's head won and his stomach finally revolted. He retched, spitting bile out onto the floor. He could feel Dean looking at him with concern but he refused to make eye contact, keeping his chin up and standing as tall as he could while being pressed against the wall.
"Oh, come on. Don't vomit. I don't want you to taste bitter," the witch said, shaking a thin finger at him.
"You the sister of the bitch that tried to eat Hansel and Gretel?" Dean asked.
"The one and only. Sarah is my name," the witch said, smiling widely. "Say your goodbyes. I'm turning the oven on now."
"Wait!" Sam said, staring at what he hoped was directly at the witch, though he wasn't completely sure because of the two witch figures blurring in and out of one another. You need to kill time. Now. Improvise something, anything. A small voice in the back of his head that sounded vaguely like his father's tone was the only thing that kept him from passing out.
"I... thought your sister only ate children. That's why she went after Hansel and Gretel," he said. "Why don't you?"
He half-expected her to ignore his question, but she didn't.
"Oh, I don't have a preference," she said cheerfully, and then added as an afterthought, "I do like siblings, though. I don't eat meals that aren't related. It makes the blood taste inconsistent."
"Then let her go," Dean said instantly. "Let the girl go. She's not related to us. Take me and my brother instead."
Sarah laughed; it was a chilling raw chuckle that might have passed as a violent cough. Goosebumps crawled up Sam's arms again, but this time it wasn't because of the cold drafts.
"I'm not stupid," she said. "I can smell all three of you. Don't try to trick me."
"She's not related to us," Dean said, staring her down from his position against the wall. "Let her go, or I swear to God I'm going to rip your ribs out from your chest and then stab you with them until-"
"Oh, stop with the violence." Sarah pulled her head out of the trapdoor. "I've been eating siblings for centuries, and my nose has never misled me. Your lies aren't going to do anything to save your sister." With that, she slammed the trapdoor, and Sam fell down as the spell released him from the wall.
There was a stunned silence in the cellar. Sam turned to the girl sitting in the corner, unsure of whether he was still frozen against the wall because of the witch's spell or her words.
Your sister. The words echoed in his mind but he couldn't comprehend them. Your sister. That girl, sitting silently in the corner, her puffy hair making her look as though she'd stuck a finger in an electrical socket, couldn't be their-
Before he could say anything, or even make eye contact with Dean, a fiery hot blast of air scalded his back. He stumbled forward and fell hard into the center of the room, gasping as pain flared across his head and back.
They weren't in a cellar, Sam realized, as the vents on the walls of the room glowed a bright orange, burning air permeating from them.
They were in an oven.
I'm grateful for any and all reviews! Thanks for reading; I plan to update as soon as possible - I'm aiming for this weekend!