Sam pushed the gurney through the double glass doors like he had a real sense of urgency. The cop at the front had to be convinced this was real. The only problem was Sam wasn't sure it wasn't real. He really didn't like the look of Dean. He actually looked unconscious.
The younger brother frowned, and was just about to covertly tug on Dean's jacket sleeve for confirmation, when Dean opened one eye briefly and winked.
Sam sighed with relief and carried on pushing through into the ER. "I can take it from here," he told the cop, who was looking pretty nervous now that he was getting close to a possible killer.
"Detective Johnson said…" The cop looked sheepish.
A doctor clad in surgical greens approached. He peered over his glasses to Sam and then the police officer. "I'm afraid he's right," he nodded to Sam. "The less people in here the better. I suggest you go on back to your fellow officers outside. Your SWAT people are in place on the corridor. There's nothing more you can do."
Inside, the cop heaved a sigh of relief. Outside, he appeared to think about it at least two seconds before he scooted back the way he had come.
The doctor turned his attention back to his apparent patient. "What do we have here?" He demanded of Sam, fully expecting a report on Dean's condition.
Sam opened his mouth to respond with a suitable lie, when Dean abruptly sat up on the gurney. He smiled waywardly at the surgeon, despite how much the puncture to his shoulder was hurting. "We have a knife wound, and a pissed off spirit. Right now, the spirit takes priority!"
The doctor gaped as Dean slid himself off the gurney and cradled his arm. "Did you bring the stuff?"
Sam nodded and gently teased out two holdalls normally used for medical supplies back in the ambulance. With a yank, he tugged down the zippers to reveal EMT equipment had been replaced with two pump action shotguns, and a whole bunch of spectre killing items.
Dean grinned. "You're a real life saver!" He plucked one of the shotguns from the first bag and cocked it. The motion jarred his shoulder, but he ignored the throbbing.
"Just hold it right there!" Sam and Dean looked up to see that two SWAT team members had converged on their position, weapons drawn. "Put the guns down, and place your hands on your heads, NOW!"
Dean ignored the order. "You might want to check with your boss before you screw this whole operation." He said emphatically. "My partner and I are about to go in there," he indicated the area where Garland was hiding, "undercover as civilians, and you're about to mess everything up!"
The Kevlar clad cop hesitated, but didn't drop his snub-nosed rifle. "You expect me to believe you're cops?"
Dean pulled a face and shook his head. "Nah, we're not cops, we're feds, and you're wasting valuable time!" He glanced over to Sam. "Show him our I.D."
Sam almost choked. Any fake identification they had was back in the Impala and Dean knew it. That meant one thing- Dean intended getting the cops out of the way, most probably with a punch. He hesitated, and then stooped to reach back down into the nearest holdall.
The cop beside him followed the motion with the barrel of his weapon, but Sam could already tell he was relaxing his guard somewhat. Dean was keeping the other cop busy with threats about time being of the essence, and that someone was going to lose their job.
Without warning, Dean cut off his sentence and yelled, "Now, Sam!" It was what Sam had been waiting for. As Dean disarmed one cop with the butt of his shotgun, Sam brought a wooden stake from his bag and used the blunt end on the other cop. Both officers didn't go down without a fight, but it was a fight the Winchesters knew they had to win.
The doctor looked on amazed as Dean, a once 'dying' patient, cuffed the cops to a gurney and removed any other weapons from their body armor.
Dean shrugged. "I guess it's true that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger…" He hopped back on his own gurney, stuffing the shotgun and one of the police rifles under the blanket close to his body. "Ready, Kildare?" He smirked at his brother.
Sam nodded and began to push as two more SWAT team members appeared. All the noise and commotion the two brothers had caused had soon alerted the cops that something was wrong. Now, Sam had to pull off a miracle. "Medical emergency here. I need to get him to the OR right now!" He zipped past the cops, straight into the corridor that led to the west wing and continued pushing the gurney like a mad man. "Hey, how come I get the donkey work?" He huffed.
"Because I'm the injured party, and because I got all that digging when we dealt with Joseph Cairns that time. Payback is a bitch, ain't it?" Dean was suddenly enjoying himself at the expense of his brother.
"Hey, hold it right there!" The two SWAT cops had realized they had been duped and were in pursuit. Sam only hoped they wouldn't shoot him in the back before he got through the next set of doors and out of sight.
"Keep going!" Dean kept his finger on the shotgun's trigger as they slammed through into the west wing. The cops behind stopped giving chase, but it wasn't really their presence he was worried about.
Sam spun the gurney around and wheeled it into a small side corridor store room and paused, panting. "I'm never playing nurse maid again," he cringed breathlessly. "Two more seconds and those cops would have had us." His shotgun magically reappeared from beneath the gurney, and he slid it under his stolen blue EMT's jacket.
Dean patted his brother on the back as he climbed off the gurney once again. "It's okay, dude, you won't be auditioning for 'House' anytime soon. Dean winked. "Maybe you'd manage a stiff on ER…" The jibe got him a mock punch, thankfully to his good shoulder.
"Come on, we have to be on our toes now. Garland could be anywhere." Sam grew solemn. It was time to face the devil, and they had no clue what he may have already done.
"Do you have dad's journal?" Dean took point, edging around the corner back into the corridor with his rock salt filled weapon at the ready, and the police rifle strung over his shoulder with the strap.
Sam patted his inside pocket and moved into the center of the passageway, following his brother's lead. He moved forward slowly, and then stopped dead as his ears picked up on something. He put a finger to his lips and then pointed towards another hallway to their left.
Dean nodded, moving so that his back slid along the wall up to the source of the noise. He didn't realize it, but as he skirted along the corridor, he left a smear of dark red blood behind like a snake's trail along the partition.
Sam grimaced, but didn't mention what he saw. Instead, he scooted across to the far side of the passage entryway and listened intently, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid. "I can hear Garland," he finally whispered.
Dean cocked his head, listening to the now familiar voice of a killer. Garland was threatening someone- no, a group of people. He sounded enraged, and when he didn't get the response he wanted, a resounding crack permeated the air as he let off both barrels of his weapon at the ceiling.
Both Sam and Dean flinched automatically at the booming sound, and then began listening again as Garland repeated his demands.
"Which one of you is Peggy Lee? I know you're here, slut, reincarnated in that bastard grandchild…"
The brothers heard a woman scream in fear, and more female voices, all refusing to answer a madman's demands.
Garland reloaded and began pointing his weapon at the group of nurses, one by one, letting the double barrel caress their skulls. "I'll kill each and every one of you if I have to. You may as well tell me which one of you is the little harlot, or you'll all meet my master…"
Silence abruptly filled the corridor, and Sam mouthed soundlessly to his brother, "He means it…"
Dean winced. They couldn't just barge in and risk more lives. Not until they could get a clear view of where Garland was in relation to his hostages. He was about to tell Sam as much, when Garland grew tired of waiting.
Another cacophonous blast filled the corridor, this time accompanied by a spray of blood that covered half the nearby wall. Some even strayed out into the corridor and splattered across Sam's cheek in an arc of crimson red.
Someone had died, and it was now up to Dean and Sam to prevent it happening again…
"You don't need to kill anyone else!" The voice was soft but urgent. The voice of a woman who was not afraid to face Garland. "I'm the one you're looking for."
Garland sneered reading the nametag on the young nurse's blouse. "Rebecca L. Johnson… you're just like her…"
"Like who?" The nurse cocked her head, still not realizing just who Garland really was. He may have the features of the local town mechanic, but the man she was talking to had been dead over thirty years.
"I' won't let you break any man's heart, and you will, just like Peggy did." Garland/Crenshaw moved around the small room until he faced Becky. He took her chin in his free hand and jerked her head around. "I bet the L in your name even stands for Lee, doesn't it? Just like her."
The nurse nodded. "Becky Lee Johnson, and proud of it!" She pulled her head free of his grasp, leering at him. "Dad named me after my grandmother."
Garland smirked. "A grandmother you never met, thanks to me." He dared to scoot to a nearby window, keeping low and peering through the half-closed blind at the cops outside. "Pity there will be no sacrifice with you, but the police aren't about to let me get out of here to my altar."
"Just who the hell are you? What have you got against my family?" Becky dared to stand, while the other nurses cowered on the floor.
Garland whirled back around, levelling his shotgun at the girl. "Crenshaw's my name. Ring any bells, lil darling?"
Becky gaped. The whole town had known who Walt Crenshaw was, and what he had done, but who the heck was this standing before her? Crenshaw had no living relatives. No one had gone to his funeral, and no one had ever tended his grave in Clairmount cemetery. "You're related to Walt?" She daren't to ask.
Crenshaw/Garland grinned before grabbing Becky by her hair and tossing her back to the floor with the others. "Know Crenshaw? Sweetheart, you're looking at him!" He rubbed at the stubble on his chin in thought. "Maybe I can make some kind of altar in here…" He looked around for something suitable to make his sacrifice upon.
Outside, Dean nodded to Sam. It was time for a full frontal assault, and they had to get it just right. Dean would go in first with the rock salt. Hopefully, he could get a clear shot and maybe knock Garland off his feet long enough for Sam to exorcise Crenshaw from his body. It was a long shot, because neither Winchester had faced an entity quite like this before.
Sam inhaled and pulled out their father's journal. It had a plethora of different types of exorcism rituals within its pages, and the younger brother could only hope he had chosen the right one.
"Now!" Dean yelled and stormed into the small opening with his shotgun at the ready.
As Dean barrelled through the corridor, Garland/Crenshaw turned at the sound of the brother's cry and brought up the shotgun of his own.
Crenshaw fired first, not caring who his buckshot hit if he was off the mark. Thousands of tiny lead pellets erupted from the shell as it blasted across the room. Some embedded harmlessly in the far wall; some went further astray, catching two of the nurse as they huddled together for protection.
Screams filled the west wing as all hell quite literally broke loose.
Luckily, Dean had expected Crenshaw's move and had hit the deck moments before the spook had pulled his trigger. He'd hit the carpeted floor hard on his bad shoulder, and for a second he'd been winded.
Dean huffed, but rolled over quickly before Crenshaw could reload, this time pulling his own trigger, and cocking the weapon to fire again twice in quick succession.
Crenshaw howled as the second blast caught him high in the chest, sending him reeling backwards through the air. While possessed, normal bullets had little effect on him, but the rock salt at least had the ability to knock him down.
"Now would be a good time, Sammy!" Dean pushed up from his position on the floor to see his brother settle on a page in their dad's journal.
Sam stood in the center of the room, facing off Crenshaw/Garland before he had time to recover from his position on the floor. He kept his voice low and in control. Never once faltering in his conviction as he spoke the Latin ritual. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei…"
Crenshaw howled as he realized what was happening. His spirit was being driven from Garland, and if Sam succeeded he would no longer have corporeal form. He struggled to his feet, looking down at where the rock salt had bit into his flesh. "I will finish the game!" He dived at Sam, but the brother continued unabashed, relying on Dean for protection as he finished the exorcism.
"…Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei Phil Garland, quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem…"
Sam finished just as Crenshaw/Garland was upon him. In the background, he could see Dean aiming his gun, but not wanting to fire unless it was necessary. Rock salt in the face wasn't good any time of day.
Crenshaw screamed as his hands curled around Sam's neck, trying desperately to pin him to the wall, but it was no use. Sam had picked the right ritual, and his spirit was now being torn from Phil Garland's body whether he liked it or not. His mind, his thoughts, all returned to their wraithlike state, trapped in limbo between this world, and the afterlife.
As Garland came to his senses, he backed away, aware of what he had done, but not having had the control to stop it. He began to shake uncontrollably, knowing that he had in a way brought this upon himself.
"Sam! Get down!" Dean yelled frantically to his brother, because although Crenshaw no longer had a body, he still hadn't finished the game.
Sam looked up just in time to see the ethereal presence of the killer floating towards him. He ducked, sensing an unearthly hand brush against his throat. Then, before Crenshaw could do any damage, Dean cocked his shotgun for the last time, tucking it hard into his frame before squeezing back on the trigger.
The gun's recoil hit him square in his wounded shoulder, as he knew it would, and he felt a jab of pain so intense he almost passed out. Across the room, the rock salt had a similar effect on his quarry. Crenshaw's disembodied essence dissipated in a roar of anger. He was gone- but only for a short while.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean teetered on his feet; fresh blood seeping through his shirt and jacket where the shotgun had tore at his wound.
Sam nodded and was about to answer when the police SWAT team thundered into the room. All the noise and weapons fire had been enough for Johnson to send them in before his superior arrived.
The team leader focused on Garland who still had two weapons tucked into his belt. "On the floor, NOW!" He was taking no chances after seeing one dead nurse and two injured on his way in.
Garland faltered. As far as the law was concerned, he knew he would be held accountable for all the murders, even though he had been possessed. At best, he could hope for a plea of insanity and live his life out in some sanatorium. Garland didn't want that. There was an easy way out- a way to make sure Crenshaw never returned to use him as some vessel for the devil.
"Hands on your head, and on the floor NOW!" The cop gave his order again, keeping his aim at Garland's heart.
"I'd rather not, thanks…" The mechanic reached to his belt for the knife he had stabbed Dean with, knowing what the cop's reaction would be.
Two seconds later, Garland lay dead on the floor with two hard nosed police issue slugs in his heart.
The SWAT team didn't loosen their guard, despite their target being down. "Everyone, hands on your heads!" The lead cop spoke to the group as if they were all offenders. After all, Dean and Sam had disarmed two of their number earlier.
Sam and the nurses complied. Dean, however, continued to sway on his feet, unable to keep balance if he did as the cop asked. He did drop the shotgun in his hands and was about to try to explain himself, when Detective Johnson rushed into the room.
The cop looked flustered, but then that was to be expected after his only daughter had been the target of a madman. "Becky, are you alright?" When the girl nodded, he continued into the room and made a point of heading for Sam and Dean. He addressed Dean first. "You accosted two EMT's, lied to me, assaulted two of my men, all to get in here. Why?" His tone was more than angry. He was demanding to know what the Winchesters involvement in the whole affair was.
Dean ignored the cop, focusing on his brother instead. There was very little time, and he had to make sure Sam got his priorities straight, because he knew no way could he be there to finish off Crenshaw. "Sammy, you have to find Crenshaw's grave before…before he can come back…again…" Dean's eyes rolled back until only the whites were showing and he collapsed forward onto the floor.
Detective Johnson wasn't impressed. "Sonny, you tried this one before, remember? It might fool a small town cop once, but not twice." Johnson reached back to his belt to unhook his cuffs.
Sam was just a little more concerned. Dean wouldn't pull the same stunt twice, would he? Dean's not stupid enough to think Johnson would fall for it again, which means…Sam panicked and kneeled, laying a hand on his brother's chest. It rose and fell painfully slowly, instilling a surge of panic in the younger Winchester.
Becky Johnson followed his move, pressing two fingers against Dean's neck. She didn't know what had just happened in the hospital for sure, maybe she never would, but she knew somehow that these two had just saved her. She owed it back to give them the benefit of the doubt.
"Dad," she looked up sombrely to Detective Johnson. "He's not faking…"
Sam floored the gas on the police cruiser he had just stolen and headed for the outskirts of town. The Impala would undoubtedly be in some police impound yard right now, and no way did he have time to covertly retrieve it. He had to get to Clairemount cemetery before Crenshaw manifested himself again. It had been Dean's wish, and he had to fulfil it.
At the thought of his brother, Sam flinched. What was happening to him right now? Sam had carried Dean into the ER personally before he'd absconded from the hospital. Becky Johnson had been at his side, bombarding him with questions. What was Dean's blood group, how long ago had he been wounded?
Sam had struggled to answer. He'd never seen Dean like this before- helpless…dying.
Sam shook himself and focused on the dark, tree shrouded road ahead. You can't die from a shoulder wound. He was kidding himself and he knew it. You could die from anything if you lost enough blood, and Dean had been bleeding for over two hours without any help. But Dean wanted me here, doing what we do. He didn't want me moping in some hospital waiting room while a killer had chance to come back from the grave…He shrugged off the thought and mopped his perspiring brow.
Becky had told him where to find Crenshaw's remains, and he was fast approaching the double wrought iron gates to the cemetery. He flicked off the cruiser's whirling lights that he had used to speed through throngs of night time traffic, and finally slowed the Ford.
The main gates to Clairemount were locked, but a smaller side gate allowing pedestrian access appeared to be still open. Sam shut off the car's engine and glanced around. Aside from a few small lights on the main footpaths, the burial ground was in complete darkness.
He sighed, and climbing from the car, he tugged out a police issue flashlight from its holder, followed by a small bag he'd brought with him. "Where the hell are you, Crenshaw?" Sam flicked the switch, illuminating his path as he cut through rows of headstones. The beam's stark glow was the only thing he had to find Crenshaw's memorial stone.
Something skittered behind him, and Sam turned about sharply, letting his light hover over nearby bushes until he was satisfied the sound had been from some wild nocturnal animal. He walked on, but then the sound came again, this time louder.
Sam licked his lips, sensing how dry they had become as his whole body tensed. He let the flashlight fan in an arc towards the source of the noise. There was still nothing, save for a headstone sitting on it's own in the corner. Sam closed in on it tentatively, kneeling as he finally reached the aged, pitted granite.
Sam swallowed hard. This was what he'd been looking for, but it had been just too easy. Someone, or something had led him here, of that he was sure.
Walter Francis Crenshaw
1938-1967
There was no real epitaph, but then he hadn't deserved one.
Sam felt the earth before him with his free hand, and then tugged out a small fold-up shovel. Opening it out, he began to dig furiously at the ground. Each mound of dirt he tossed with the spade, he thought about Dean and what Crenshaw had done to him. The anger spurred him on to dig even faster, and within thirty minutes his shovel hit something hard.
He brushed away the dry, loose dirt to reveal rotting wood. It was the remains of Crenshaw's casket. Sam nodded to himself, and then took a glance up from the hole he had dug himself into. If Crenshaw's spirit wanted to stop him, he'd make a move soon. So far, the cemetery remained deathly silent. Even the moon was hidden behind a high cloud bank, making it appear as the world had been pitched into the darkness of hell.
Sam wiped a grimy hand across his sweating forehead and then took the spade up one more time. With one downward plunge the metal cut through the mouldy wood to reveal Crenshaw's off-white skeletal remains.
The skull seemed placed at an odd angle, and it appeared to leer at Sam as he emptied rock salt into the hole he'd made. "This one's for Dean…"
Sam quickly climbed from the open grave and delved into his bag for a can of fuel. He undid the lid with one twist of his wrist and sprayed the contents into the now open coffin. Once he was sure the container was empty, he tossed it back into his bag and pulled out a box of matches. "Goodnight, Crenshaw…" I sound just like Dean…
"Oh, but I don't feel at all like sleeping…" Sam turned, but all too late. Crenshaw's disembodied spirit had already wafted the matches from his grasp with one flick of his ethereal hand. With a second motion, he tossed Sam into the air and held him there, hovering over the open ground below like a moth to the flame. "Would you like to know what it feels like to be put in the ground, Winchester?"
Sam grabbed for the sawn off shotgun he had concealed under his jacket, praying he could get off a clear enough shot to disable the ghost, but somehow Crenshaw's hold over him prevented him even doing that. His arms just wouldn't move. "I'm not going anywhere." Sam tried to sound defiant, even though he had no idea how to stop his foe.
Crenshaw laughed, allowing Sam to fall almost back to earth- but not quite. Then, he slammed the younger brother up against the nearest tree until Sam thought some of his ribs were broken. Crenshaw moved closer as his victim gasped for air after being so badly winded. "You might not be going anywhere just yet…but your brother? That's another matter." The spook let his decomposing features come close to Sam's face. "Did it never occur to you, that while you're here trying to dispose of me, your own brother is dying in some hospital?"
Sam still couldn't move, but suddenly Crenshaw had every bit of his attention. Dean's not dying…not dying…
Crenshaw nodded, reading his thoughts. "Oh, but he is, Sammy boy, and you could be there with him when he draws his last breath, but instead you chose to persecute me to the bitter end." His presence moved back slightly, watching for a reaction, and getting one in the flash of acceptance in Sam's eyes. "Feeling guilty yet?" He pushed further, "You should be, because when your miserable brother passes over, I'll be waiting for him, and so will countless others he's forced from this world. It won't be pleasant for him on the other side…"
Sam could take no more. Even though he should have known better, he somehow drew the strength to fire a right hook at the spectre. His fist hit Crenshaw firmly on the jaw and then kept going until it passed straight through his head. There was no longer and substance to his being, and there was nothing Sam could do to harm him.
Only one thing could kill Crenshaw now, and Sam had no way to reach it. As he drew back his fist, he glanced frantically at where the box of matches had landed. I have to do this for Dean!
Again, Crenshaw read his thoughts and began to manically laugh at the brother's pitiful attempts to thwart him. "Maybe you'd like to die thirst, so you can be in hell together…"
A small scraping noise made Crenshaw pause before he came out with more sarcasm. The sound was both familiar and frightening, even to him- the sound of a match being scraped along the side of the box to ignite it.
"Not everyone ends up in hell like you…"
Crenshaw turned to see who was addressing him, but from his position, Sam could already see. There was no one behind them- at least, not in body.
The flaming match and the box that it had been struck against danced in mid-air all on their own. "For everyone you have transgressed against, I send you back to hell, right where you belong!" The match flickered as it was invisibly tossed into Crenshaw's open grave, and combusted with the awaiting fuel.
Crenshaw screamed, and as his spirit began to burn he focused on his one last earthly act to choke the life out off Sam.
Sam struggled, trying desperately to tug away at Crenshaw's vile and rotting grip, but even now the murderer still somehow held onto his unearthly strength. Sam coughed, and his eyes began to close from lack of air. Darkness wrestled at the edges of his vision, beckoning to take him into unconsciousness.
More flames erupted from the grave beyond, and finally, Crenshaw's ghost began to lessen its hold on the material world. His fingers began to disintegrate into thin air as he watched in despair, and at last his body was sucked back into the darkness of oblivion.
The last thing that Sam heard before passing out himself was the cold, terrified scream of a madman being summoned back into hell.
Sam didn't know how much time had passed when he finally came too. It would probably have been hours if not for the soft, teasing voice calling him back to the real world.
"Sam, you have to wake up…"
He blinked, feeling at his throat where Crenshaw had attempted to strangle him. Then, he remembered Crenshaw's evil words about Dean and he jumped up with a start. As if to confirm Crenshaw's story, the teasing voice whispered through the darkness of the cemetery again.
"You can't save everyone, Sammy, but you did well tonight…"
It was the voice of the person who had struck the match- it was Samantha.
Sam glanced around frantically; needing to know more from the girl who had saved him, but there was nothing except for the same gentle breeze they had always felt in her presence.
"You must leave here now. You have other work to do…"
Sam spun around. "What about Dean? You know, don't you? Is he..?"
The breeze diminished as abruptly as it had come, and Sam was left alone in the graveyard desperately wondering if his brother was alive or dead.
His eyes began to water as he jogged back to the police cruiser and climbed inside, but he shrugged the emotion off. It would take at least an hour to get back to the hospital, and he had to stay focused. He quickly turned the key and fired up the Crown Victoria, slipping it straight into reverse to head back the way he had come.
Sam glanced back to Clairemount cemetery only once, and as he did his foot hit the car's brakes like a sledgehammer. For just the very briefest of moments, he was sure he had seen something behind the gates. Not one person, but a whole group of young girls, and at their front stood Sammy and a young and very pretty nurse.
"Peggy Lee?" As the words left his mouth, the almost transparent apparition faded, and the ghosts of those murdered on the highway could finally be at rest.
Sam shuddered, feeling an icy sensation fill the car's interior as if he had the climate control on. Then, as quickly as it had come, the chill was gone, and the spirits with it.
Tbc..