Challenge: The picture challenge

WARNING: No warnings, takes place in the spring of season 3.

1000 words (per MS word counter)

Clinging to the Past

by Swellison

The Impala glided to a halt as Dean parked across the street from the site of their next hunt. He took in the crumbling, three-story deserted house with its two-colored red brick façade. The darker bricks were eerily close to the color of dried blood. That thought left Dean unaccustomedly unsettled and he scowled. "Why'd you wanna see this in the daylight, anyway?"

"Couldn't get a good view from Google Earth," Sam said, studying the decaying old mansion through his binoculars. "This is late 1800's Victorian architecture, with gothic influences. The brickwork alone must've cost a fortune, even back then."

"Didn't you say Old Man Whatsis' was one of Cleveland's robber barons? He had plenty of money, so he threw some of it into his house—to impress everybody. After all, a man's home is his castle—and he's got the turret to prove it."

"Yes, but it's more than that. Monroe Whatley didn't build his mansion in Shaker Heights, or one of Cleveland's more fashionable neighborhoods. He built it on the wrong side of the tracks—well, river in this case. And my architecture professor said that circular rooms are the most impractical rooms you can build."

"You took a class in architecture? Was that before or after the art history class, Samantha?" Dean teased.

Sam lowered the binoculars and glared at him. "After, jerk."

"I've seen enough," Dean declared, turning the key and putting the Impala into drive. "That's gotta be the cheapest chain link fence I've seen. I could knock it down with one hand tied behind my back. The demolition company must've been in a helluva hurry to put it up."

"Wouldn't you be, if three of your crew were inexplicably killed on the job within four days?" Sam asked. "Besides, it's not a demolition crew, it's a construction crew. Somebody's gonna renovate this place, not tear it down."

"Renovate this?" Dean questioned sharply. He snorted. "Somebody's got more money than sense. As you pointed out Sammy, this wasn't a great neighborhood to start with and it's gone downhill a lot since then."

"You're right. And that's why we've got to do more—"

Dean groaned. Not the dreaded R word.

"—research on the land and the owner, before jumping in guns blazing."

"You're just wanna visit Cleveland's main library." Sammy had a thing for libraries. Dean suspected that Stanford had only increased his brother's appreciation for libraries. "Okay, Sammy. Tomorrow, you'll hit the library and I'll check out the public records office. Meanwhile, we need to eat and get a motel room."

SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN

Sam stared back at the Impala parked under the closest tree to the Whatley estate, half-hidden from the moonlit night. He followed Dean as he picked the lock on the flimsy gate and strolled into the estate's overgrown grounds. Sam mulled over his research results while they hunted for a gravestone or marker among the rampant weeds. Whatley's mansion had been completed in 1893, just months before the arrival of his son, Samuel Monroe Whatley. Unfortunately, Mrs. Whatley had died in childbirth and Samuel Whatley had died in France at the tail end of the war to end all wars, World War I. Monroe Whatley had become a recluse after that and died sometime in the mid-1930's—Sam couldn't produce a more accurate date than that. Dean hadn't found Monroe Whatley's name on any of Cleveland's cemetery records, either.

Whatley must have been buried somewhere on the estate's grounds. The construction crew's activities had disturbed Whatley's spirit and it had killed three men before the construction was halted. So they were dealing with a salt and burn. Sam hefted the duffel, which held their shotguns, gasoline and salt. Simple.

Except it wasn't, of course. After two hours of tramping around the grounds, Dean admitted defeat. "There's no grave here."

"Then he's buried in the basement." Sam sighed, eyeing the abandoned mansion. He really didn't want to go in there; a stiff breeze could topple the dilapidated structure.

Dean kicked out a basement window and they slipped through it, dropping silently onto a dirt floor. He clicked on his maglite and spotted a couple of shovels leaning against one wall. "That's promising." Dean grabbed a handy shovel.

Sam turned on his flashlight, running it over the walls. Thick sigils covered one wall."Holy crap!"

Dean's flashlight illuminated the dirt underneath the sigils, and he started digging. Sam placed his flashlight on the ground, grabbed the other shovel and joined Dean's excavating efforts. Fortunately, it was a shallow grave, and they soon had the bones exposed. While Dean poured salt and gasoline over the remains, Sam wondered why his spider senses were tingling. He watched the flames licking at the bones and suddenly knew. "Dean! This isn't Monroe – the skeleton's too long!"

"Shit, Sammy!" Dean snatched up his shotgun as voice boomed "SAMUEL!"

The spirit of Monroe Whatley was reaching for him, face contorted into an insane grin. "I had you carted back from France, and buried here. I tried so hard to raise you...It worked! It finally worked!"

"HE'S NOT *YOUR* SAM!" Dean bellowed, eyes blazing as he blasted the spirit with his shotgun.

The spirit dissipated and Sam scrambled for his flashlight, casting it hurriedly over the ground, searching for the second grave. He found it in the basement's far corner. "Here it is!" Sam shouted as Dean yelled, "Drop, Sammy!"

Sam dropped and rolled towards Dean, hearing Dean's shotgun go off again. Snatching his shovel, he raced to the far corner, pushing the shovel into the ground and digging double-time. He had to drop three more times while Dean fended off Monroe's spirit before his shovel struck the top of a casket.

Dean was instantly beside him as Sam broke through the wooden lid. Sam took the shotgun, keeping watch as Dean slopped gasoline and salt over the bones. Dean's match fell into the grave, igniting the bones. His triumphant "Burn in hell, bitch!" was more comforting than Sam would ever admit.

A/N: Whew, I did it. I started out thinking I'd never reach 1,000 words, and ended up having to chop almost a drabble's worth of words out of this to make it picture-length;-)