AN: Dean's turn! I'm sure everything will go his way…or not…

BitterSweetJoy: the comment that it's getting crowded in there made me laugh out loud and get yelled at for being too loud. LOL!

Sfaulkenberry: Aw, thanks! It does happen to poor Sam a lot, doesn't it? I read a story about the Wicked Witch's possession of Sam impacting his ability to come back to himself since Gadreel was already possessing him. It was good! I wish I could remember the name of it. Anyhow, hope you're still enjoying the story.

Previous chapter: Sam was watching for the ghost carefully, but he'd overlooked one important detail…

Dean was absolutely right that not everywhere he searched would be as pleasant as the first deck. He was walking down lower deck 2 when he noticed a place in the bulkhead where the panels didn't match up as closely as the rest. Making sure nobody was in sight, he pried his fingers into the space, wishing he had his knife to help it along. It moved quite easily so he could wrap his fingers around the edge. Just a little more work and the panel slid to the side to reveal a space between the walls. Dean sighed. The hidden space was all of five and a half feet high, and narrow enough that he'd have to sidle through sideways, and even then it would be a tight fit since he had to crouch. Probably spiders and rats and supernatural nastiness too. Sam so owed him one. He was probably still flirting with the hot nerd girls.

Luckily, the panel slid back in place easily after Dean eased his way inside. He blessed the decision to carry a penlight in with him and shone it first to the right, then the left. There seemed to be fewer cobwebs to his left, so he began to work his way that direction. The wall curved slightly as he went, but otherwise was undifferentiated, though the farther he went, the louder the engine noise grew until the walls vibrated slightly with it. Over that background noise, a few times he could hear the telltale scuttle of cockroaches and shivered, gritting his teeth. He was a hunter, not an exterminator. Crawling inside the walls with who knows how many bugs, and weaponless to boot, was not his thing.

The back of his shirt caught on something and tore, and he swore under his breath. To make things even better, he suddenly had the urge to sneeze. He pinched his nose, then realized that he was smelling something strange. It was oddly sweet and almost smoky, with an undertone of decay. Smells witchy.

Dean turned his flashlight off and moved more cautiously. He decided that if there were actual magic lamps, and he found one right now, he'd wish for his weapons, enough signal to text Sam, and death to all spiders. He would have had the last one involve Angelina Jolie, but a spider had the audacity to run across the back of his hand while he was thinking up his wishes.

The space widened ahead of him, and he could see flickering light indicative of fire. He inched to the very edge of the opening and peered inside. Jenga. It was a much larger space than he'd expected, maybe 15 by 20 feet, framed by wooden walls instead of the standard metal. It was so tall he knew the ceiling must be the top deck. And in the center stood a crude altar covered in candles and bowls and a bunch of small items he couldn't make out in the uncertain light. There were definitely some bones and one of the bowls was smoking, probably the source of the smell. There wasn't anyone in the room, which definitely made his life easier. He moved into the room, flicking the light back on to try to illuminate all the dark corners.

There were symbols painted over nearly every surface, only a few of which he recognized. He took a few hasty pictures of a few that seemed to be repeated the most and a word he saw but couldn't interpret: Vodník. He snapped another of the altar, then tucked the phone away and grabbed the bottom of the table that housed the alter. And froze. Literally. Every muscle seemed to turn to cement.

"Oh, Dean, were you going to tip over my altar? That's not very nice." He turned his eyes as far as they would go and would have groaned if he could use his vocal cords. Seriously. Michelle? "I heard stories, heard that I should keep my head down or Sam and Dean Winchester would come after me. They'd drive right up in their big black car and somehow, without any magic of their own, they'd kill me."

Keep monologuing, bitch, thought Dean. He was starting to wiggle his toes in his boots, feeling a little bit of control returning.

Michelle strolled in front of him like some Bond villain wannabe, obviously enjoying the sound of her own voice. "In fact, if I'm to believe my grandma's little diary here, somehow hunters took down the whole witch structure. Scared her so much she gave up witchcraft. She even went on to live a normal, boring, human life. She lived her last 100 years in hiding. Pathetic!" She practically spit.

"I'm so lucky mama didn't obey her wishes and bury this book with her. I've only known about magic for a few years, and already I've killed so many hunters, especially now with my new pet." She stroked a hand lovingly over a book that lay in the center of the altar. Dean was hardly listening, instead tightening and relaxing each muscle group in turn, trying to gauge how much control he had. Michelle reached as if she'd touch his face, and that was enough of that. Heaving, feeling like he weighed 400 lbs, and the table weighed a ton, Dean shoved the table up as hard as he could. It did not, as he'd hoped, tip over and take her with it.

But it did slide back, knocking Michelle off balance and most importantly, distracting her. For a second, he was free and he chucked a candle right at her face. She screamed, then he did overturn the table. Blood and other fluids splattered the wall, and a bowl disappeared completely. Confused, Dean saw that she had come up through a hatch in the floor that he hadn't seen, and a few things had fallen through it.

Michelle screamed at him like an alley cat, grabbing the book and cradling it like a baby. Dean kicked the table at her, wishing he had his gun and a full clip of witch-killing bullets. "Adhuc manere! Laqueum!" Michelle yelled, her lips peeling back in an animalistic snarl. Anger issues much? Dean's muscles froze up again, then a great force pushed him back until he was crushed against the wall. It was like fighting a great wind. It was strong, but not impossible. Dean pushed forward with everything he had and managed to lean forward at the waist, then take a step. "Laqueum!" she yelled again, and the pressure increased. "You can't fight me! I am a witch!"

She really was awfully childish, Dean decided. "Watch me," he ground out, pushing off the wall again. He broke completely free for another second, and tackled her hard to the ground. She scratched at his face, losing hold of the book in the process. She yelled her favorite crushing spell again, and Dean had an idea. Stretching as far as he could, he nudged the book with his knee while still trying to pin her arms and cover her damn mouth so she would stop yelling spells, but she was stronger than a regular human.

The fire from the candles had caught the floor and two of the walls by now, and Dean nearly rolled into it when Michelle suddenly tipped them over. But she had pushed him in the direction he wanted to go. With a herculean effort, he kicked the book through the trapdoor.

As he'd hoped, Michelle jumped up and broke free to run toward it. He had the feeling that she didn't know most of her spells by heart and would need the book for reference. Dean grabbed her ankle, still fighting the force of the spell, before she could get to the hatch, but she didn't go down. She kicked him in the face, then did it again when he didn't let go. "Laqueum," she said again, increasing the pressure until he swore he could feel his ribs creaking, and making that officially his least favorite word. Was it too much to ask to fight someone with just regular human strength? Or to fight without feeling like a giant foot was trying to squash him like an ant?

When Michelle kicked forward a third time, Dean rolled just enough to grab her leg so she fell across him, landing in the worst of the fire. He couldn't help but cry out as the force pulled his arm right into the flames. Luckily, a second later, the arm was dangling over open space. The smoke and heat had increased so much in the enclosed room that he couldn't see what had happened. Actually, he couldn't really breathe any more. But on the positive side, the spell stopped, so Michelle was either dead or also distracted by the fact that they were about to burn to death.

Dean was still under the lower half of Michelle's body and he tried to roll out from under her only to find his legs falling out over nothingness, and he finally realized what was happening. The wooden floor must be quite thin, and it was burning and falling apart beneath them. He had to find some sort of support beam, preferably metal, and hang on. But it was too late. The floor disintegrated, and he fell.

The Latin is taken from Google translate. Adhuc manere means stay still and laqueum means trap.