Chapter 14: And Light It Up Forever

Someone stop me.

Reid heard the words, his own, circling in his head. And a part of him wanted them to be spoken aloud. Wanted Morgan to catch up in time to grab him and push him away from the house. Wanted to find the front door to be locked, a family to be inside, enjoying an evening at home and completely confused by the bleeding mess of an FBI agent on the porch.

But he twisted the brass door knob, and it turned, a wide, darkened foyer meeting him at the entrance of the too quiet house.

He was right. He knew he was right about this being the place, but he also knew he should shout out, announce his presence. In fact, he shouldn't have taken that first step inside at all. Already, he was re-writing the moment in his head, determining what he'd put in his report, that he had heard a shout. That there was real cause for him to enter, real cause beyond people who couldn't exist throwing him into a wall or cold spots or...

Then, as if someone were reading his mind, a scream sounded through the house, a thick, guttural cry, preceded at once by a loud thud from high above. A body falling, Reid thought, irrationally, and swallowed hard.

Footsteps sounded up the porch, Morgan pleading something at a whisper when he reached the open front door's threshold, but Reid ignored him, running up the foyer stairs to the second floor, a part of him still hoping his teammate was right behind him.

A quote circled his thoughts, Joseph Conrad. "The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary. Men alone are quite capable of every wickedness." He could hear himself saying the words, knew he had, in the past, and for the first time, he considered that he might not be able to say them again, not without thinking of this moment.

Maybe they existed, other forms of wickedness, ones lying in wait, just beyond the shadows. Or maybe, Reid had to consider, he was simply wrong about what he had and hadn't seen. He resisted the urge to reach up, touch the wound at his head again, assuring himself there was a reason he was dizzy and his thoughts were scrambled. Maybe the quote was correct, and he was simply traumatized.

"That's what the gun's for," he answered himself, at a whisper, and barely resisted the urge to laugh at the situation. Now wasn't the time for hysterics.

He gripped the iron rod in his hand a bit tighter, trying to focus, and found himself down a new hallway, at the end of which was a narrow, twisting staircase, too tight to lead to a proper third level. A dim light from above brightened the steps - the entry above was propped open. But there wasn't another scream to guide his way, and he felt suddenly unsure of himself.

He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Morgan, but found the hallway was empty, no sign that his teammate had followed him inside. No back-up then. He let out a shaky breath and leveled himself at the steps. They were almost smaller than his long shoes, barely more than rungs off a wooden ladder. The first step squealed at the weight of his foot, announcing his presence to whoever was waiting above.

He watched the small opening and cautiously took another step. Another squeal. Then he saw it in the yellow light, the hint of a shadow moving against the high cross beams above. Someone was in the attic, watching, waiting. He scrambled for his other weapon, lining the handgun up against the metal rod as he raised them both and glanced over the edge of the ceiling door, looking into the attic space.

Dean was sprawled out on the floor below the attic's meager light, but his arm was raised, fingers clinging to his short hair as if he were cupping his head in pain. Reid wanted to shout out to him, but the name died on his lips when he remembered the movement he'd spotted. If Dean was the one on the floor, then it hadn't been him walking past the light. He turned sharply, expecting to find someone lurking in the sloping corners of the attic, but there was only a clutter of boxes in one corner, building supplies haphazardly strewn about on the other side from some abandoned attempts to turn the space into something livable. Reid wondered when the last time the actual owners of the home had been up here, and if they were still alive to ever finish the project.

Reid took a few more steps, finally finding solid footing on the bare chip-wood flooring. He swallowed hard, then tried again, the chill in the stale, open space leaving his voice quaking slightly.

"Dean?"

Dean flinched at the sound of his name, jerking up onto one elbow. Reid could see the exhaustion on his pallid features, hear the shallowness of his breaths, and wondered what had happened in the short time it had taken them to get to the house. He opened his mouth to ask, then hesitated when he saw the dark look in Dean's eyes, the man's gaze directed at Reid's side.

The chill Reid had felt was suddenly not so figurative, but solid, like an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt. His knuckles whitened on his weapons, but he hesitated to turn.

"He's got nothing to do with this, asshole," Dean growled.

Reid let out a breath through his teeth, bracing himself as he slowly shifted to glance over his shoulder.

There wasn't anyone behind me.

An echo of a thought, a justification that he hadn't been able to voice to Morgan for a second time, ran through his head. Only it wasn't exactly true. Just because someone was dead, didn't mean they weren't there.

Reid knew the man at his side. A teenage boy, really, with lanky features that never quite filled out, and skin so pale, it was practically transparent. Reid knew, would have known even if he hadn't had a chance to look at the meager file on the Trapp brothers, that this was Glenn Trapp, deceased but somehow standing with a scowl on his petulant face. The expression was aimed at Dean, but the words that left the ghost's mouth seemed to be for Reid.

"I don't remember inviting you over."

Ghost, Reid thought, and wasn't sure if he wanted to shout or collapse or run, because he'd wanted to be proven wrong about what had happened in the hallway almost more than he'd wanted to be proven right. He wanted to feel foolish. Wanted someone to be surprised by his lack of logic. Wanted to be teased for ever letting a delusional criminal like one of the Winchesters get to him.

And yet.

"You're dead," Reid said. "You're Glenn Trapp."

For once in his life, he felt his mind go blank, not a reasonable response left in his head.

"We're kind of in the middle of something right now," Glenn said, with fake politeness, "but if you'd like to join us, come on in. I'm sure it'll be a scream."

Reid felt the shove, cold fingers at his shoulder, even though the ghost had only moved his head, turning a hard stare on the agent. One foot caught the edge of the attic opening, and Reid stumbled, landing hard on his arms and feeling the scrape of the coarse wood tear through one sleeve. His fingers opened instinctively, the gun clattering to the floor, but he regained his hold on the rod against his sweaty palm. He winced, but recovered quickly, rolling onto his back with his weapon raised. On instinct, he swung out, catching Glenn through the chest with the iron.

The metal passed right through, the man's image flickering as he scowled and disappeared.

Reid shuffled to his feet quickly, almost stumbling further into the attic, toward Dean, but he kept the metal rod raised high and at the ready.

"Spencer, get the hell out of here!" Dean snapped.

Reid wasn't sure if he wanted to argue, if he should reach back and grab the man's hand to help him or dash to the attic door. He didn't have a chance to decide. A cold hand grabbed the back of his neck, squeezing hard enough to silence the cry trapped in his throat. Reid swung his arm back wildly, hoping the rod would hit its mark, and the ghost released him with a hard shove.

Whatever relief Reid felt was short-lived as he skid across the flooring, one shoe finding something soft and sinking under its sole. It took him a split second to realize he'd stepped off the solid floor and into the billows of insulation, and he shuffled forward at the sudden descent, trying to find his footing. A crack sounded beneath him, and before he could cry out, the slats at his feet crumbled, swallowing him whole.

Morgan had known this sort of stillness before, in other dark, strange places. He couldn't remember exactly the last time he'd encountered such a heavy silence, but it was with him now, embracing him like an old friend. And threatening to suffocate him. He didn't want to call it fear, because there was nothing to be afraid of. He was the one holding the gun, ready for the villain of the piece to make himself known.

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, annoyed at the slight whistle it left in the air, and felt a tremor in his arm that shouldn't have existed. Stilling his hand, he took another step forward, deeper into the foyer, closer to the staircase.

The moonlight from the open door behind him lit his path, but he didn't see any sign of life ahead of him. Even though he was sure, seconds ago, when he was still standing on the porch just outside the front door, that Reid had headed toward the staircase.

He opened his mouth slightly, ready to shout out for Reid, but he knew what he'd be doing if he did. If Reid was right, if Trapp was here, then calling out would give his position away, and maybe Reid's as well. Morgan grimaced at his lack of options and used his free hand to fish his phone back out, but a quick glance down showed him he didn't have a signal inside the house.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a reflection of headlights dancing through a nearby window, probably the back-up they'd called in, the rest of the team headed their way. Instinctively, he took a step back, and felt a cool rush of air, a breeze from the door. A split second too late, he realized it was from the front door sweeping shut.

Morgan swung around, gun trained in front of him, but even without the extra light, he could see that he was still alone in the foyer. He reached out, trying the door knob and found it locked. His brow wrinkled in surprise and he fiddled with the dead bolt but it wouldn't budge.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Someone had locked him in. They must have circled from the back of the house somehow, jammed something in the door frame. Maybe Reid had been right about there being another unsub, a team working together to trap their prey.

A cold sweat settled on his forehead as he turned his attention back to the rest of the house. Reid wasn't the stealthiest of people; Morgan was certain he should have heard some sign of him by now. Something was wrong.

A grunt sounded and Morgan froze a split second, trying to determine its location. He ran right of the stairs, hearing another harsh thud, and a crack, the sound of something breaking. It was muffled, too far away.

From the back yard, maybe, he thought, before realizing his feet had brought him to another conclusion. He'd moved past an old galley kitchen and found himself at a narrow doorway, the short plank door ajar. It could have been a towel closet or a pantry, for all he knew, but that heavy stillness settled over him, dread whispering its answer in his ear. A basement.

The noise had come from the basement.

"You probably shouldn't have stayed gone so long, Ricky."

It was a constant companion, the anger, and it left him trembling now. When people met him, he could show them the person he wanted to be, calm, gentle, soothing. He could put on a friendly face better than Dean had ever managed, but Sam wondered if it hadn't always been there, the anger just beneath the surface, part of the parting gift the demon had left behind that night in his nursery.

It could be used, that's what Ruby had been trying to show him, but it shouldn't be, a voice deep inside constantly warned.

Sam hated the person in front of him. Hated what the man had done. Hated what had turned Ricky into a killer. But he couldn't let that anger loose, not on this guy, not on a human, even if he was a despicable excuse for one. There were other ways to deal with this sort of monster.

Sam saw it, the moment Ricky processed the statement, the moment he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. And Sam lunged forward before the man could reach out for the gun on the table.

The table legs snapped on impact, collapsing as Sam tumbled into it as he reached for Ricky, fingers clawing into the other man, assuring that they were going to hit the floor together. Sam winced out at the blow to his shoulder, but the cry of pain came from Ricky as Sam pinned one of the man's arms beneath his body. Sam rolled over, slamming a fist into the guy's face before he could sit up. Blood oozed down Ricky's nose, but he was still blinking wildly, shocked by the sudden change in their positions.

Sam took advantage of the moment, reaching for the lump of metal around the man's neck and yanking it free with a snap. He pushed up off of Ricky, dizzy from the movement, vertigo clawing at his senses. Sam almost collapsed back down but stayed on his knees, growling in frustration at the stark reminder of the injuries he'd sustained. Of the show the Trapp brothers had put on.

He felt more than he saw the other man scrambling behind him, trying to get to the other side of the table.

The gun, Sam remembered, and instinctively kicked out one leg, sending Ricky sprawling back toward the other wall. The man hit hard and stayed down.

Sam spun around, trying to find where the weapon landed when the table collapsed, but his eyes found his bag instead, propped next to his boots, just a few feet away. He half-crawled there, not trusting his damaged feet, and pulled it to him, tearing the zipper in his haste to get inside. It was sitting on top, untouched, a canister of salt, a small tin of lighter fluid beneath. The Trapps probably hadn't even realized their purpose, when they'd dug through the bag. Sam scoffed at the thought. For all the time the bastards had spent looking for victims, they hadn't bothered to find out what their own weaknesses were… Leave it to the dead to think themselves invincible.

Sam dropped the prize clasped in his other hand and the ring landed on the heap of its own broken chain, a gaudy, cheap looking thing, ornamented with symbols and initials on either side of its smooth, oval gemstone. It was a class ring.

They had wondered how the spirit of Glenn Trapp had traveled so easily, and Sam was sure the answer was right in front of him, a ring passed down from a dead brother to a living brother. Sam wondered which one of them slipped it onto their victims' fingers before Glenn played house in their bodies.

The smell of the fuel burned at his nostrils before Sam had even realized that he'd already buried the ring in a small pillar of salt, a stream of lighter fluid raining down on it. He dug back into the bag for his spare lighter, and found it with a grimace. His thumb scraped against the wheel.

He hoped to god he was right about the ring.

"FBI, drop the weapon!"

Sam froze, eyes wide when he realized there was another man at the top of the basement stairs, his feet spread wide as he braced himself on the top two steps, a handgun trained on the floor below. On him. Sam opened his mouth, wanting to explain, wanting to tell the stony-faced agent that he only had seconds to act. That there was another danger in the house. That it had his brother.

"I can't," Sam said instead, turning his focus back to the tiny blue flame burning the tip of his finger.

He opened his hand, and a shot rang out.

Dean watched the fear on the young agent's face shift to blind panic as he stumbled. A warning died on the tip of his tongue as Reid dropped, his feet disappearing out from under him as a piece of the ceiling below collapsed. A cloud of dust rose in the air, but Dean could see the other man still, and his heart retreated back into his chest. Reid was folded forward, trapped at the waist, his arms outstretched to the two closest beams, fingers clasping desperately to them to keep himself from slipping down any further. The thin planks around him groaned at the weight, threatening to snap and widen the hole.

"Hold on, Spencer!"

Dean scrambled to his feet, crossing the short distance between them in a second's span. He took a knee at the edge of the flooring, bracing himself across one of the supports, his arm outstretched. Reid gave him a doubtful look, but released his grip, holding one hand out for Dean.

Their fingers never reached.

Dean felt the ghost's presence, an icy body flush against his back, and tried to shift his weight, roll out of Glenn's grasp, even if it meant falling through the unfinished flooring himself. But it was too late. Hands pressed flat against Dean's head, pushing at his temples, the pressure in his skull unbearable.

His mouth opened to let out a scream, but it came out a strangled protest instead, and it took Dean a moment to realize it was Reid's cry he was hearing, not his own. It sounded too distant, and Dean couldn't quite open his eyes to see if the other man was further away than he had been a second earlier. Glenn's voice, however, was uncomfortably close.

"I'm not going to need the ring for this, am I?" Glenn said. "It's becoming a bit of a crutch, if I'm honest. Makes things almost too easy, and to be frank, I don't like the way my baby brother thinks it keeps me in check."

Dean could feel the ghost's icy fingers slipping under his scalp, straight into his skull, and his whole body tensed at the intrusion. He latched on to the pain, trying to bury it down, trying to ignore the whispered promise of relief if he just let go of it entirely.

"Quit fighting me, Dean."

Glenn's voice wasn't deep. It was soft, pleading. It reminded Dean of a kid. It made him think of Sam as a teenager, begging Dean to let him go out with his would-be friends.

"There we go…" Glenn coaxed, the words loud, like an echo bouncing off bone walls. "Just let me help. Think about it, Dean."

"Dean! You need to listen to me."

There was another voice, somewhere, far away.

"You let me take over, and we'll handle the law enforcement together," Glenn offered. "We'll get them out of the way, get out of this place, go where they can't find us anymore."

"You're in control, Dean, and I know you. You wouldn't hurt us."

Glenn's fingers curled. "Wouldn't that be good, just us and our brothers, just family… We need to protect our family, don't we?"

"You protect people, Dean. You protected me and Penelope, remember? You save people."

"It's the only way," Glenn said, almost sadly. "It's the only way to protect our little brothers. That's our job. We can save them."

"We can save Sam."

The gunshot sounded. Distant but distinct enough for Dean to recognize it. He pushed at the pain, pushed at Glenn, screaming inside his mind in a blind rage.

A kick to the lungs, that's what it felt like, the air rushing out like it had been exorcised from his rib cage, and Dean found himself gasping to get it back. He rolled onto his back, a delay between the movement and the realization that he was on the floor again, moved to his old spot beneath the yellow light bulb. Something heavy was in his hand, cool and smooth, and he lifted it lazily: the gun Reid had brought with him into the attic.

Did I use it? A chill ran over Dean at the thought when he remembered hearing a bang. Oh, God, Spencer...

"Guess you're not ready yet," the ghost sneered. "Don't worry, you will be when we finish with Sam." Glenn hovered over him, rage and confusion twisting his face into something ugly. His expression shifted, as if frozen by some stray thought. Then his eyes widened in panic. "Ricky?" he whispered. His bottom lip trembled in worry. "Ricky, help me! Ricky, I can't hold on!"

The ghost screamed his brother's name as the skin blackened around his face, decay overtaking every inch of his form as he faded into the shadows of the attic.

Dean laid still a moment longer, his heart hammering his chest hard enough to leave him quaking. He waited for the ghost to return, but when it didn't, he rolled up onto his side with a groan, letting the gun clatter to the floor. He was almost afraid to look, but when he did, Reid was staring at him, mouth agape, fingers white knuckled from holding onto the wooden beams. And decidedly not shot.

Dean scrambled over to him, grabbing his wrist just as the younger man slipped a few inches down into the hole. With a pained groan, Dean pulled Reid back up another foot, until the man was able to heave himself onto the chip board flooring.

Reid pushed himself up onto his elbow, gently raking away the disheveled hair sticking to his head wound so he could meet Dean's eye. "What just happened?"

Dean stared down at him with a shake of his head. He wasn't sure, but he answered anyway.

"Sam."

The flames danced over the ring, bright orange over the salt beneath. Sam doubted it would burn hot enough to destroy it beyond repair, but he'd seen enough cursed and haunted items go up to know that the purification, the disfiguring, the ritual itself was usually enough to lift a spirit's hold. At least, he hoped so.

He let out a shaky breath, and dared to look away from the fire, down at himself, still kneeling on the cement floor. It took him another moment to realize the FBI agent's heavy footsteps had moved right past him. Sam glanced over his shoulder, lips parted as he watched the agent kneel over Ricky Trapp's immobile form.

The agent brushed a hand over Ricky's body, pulling free the gun dangling loose from his fingertips and tucking it safely away. It was, Sam realized, the gun Ricky had apparently found while Sam had been setting the ring on fire. The gun he had probably been aiming at Sam's back, if the fed had felt it necessary to shoot.

The agent looked up, as if he felt Sam's eyes on him and pointed a threatening finger in his direction.

"Sam Winchester," he snapped, "you do not move an inch, do you hear me?"

Sam nodded mutely, wanting to mention that he doubted he had the strength to move two inches. He kept his mouth shut, instead, staring at Ricky. Blood seeped out of the man's chest, but Sam had seen enough bullet wounds to know it wasn't necessarily fatal, depending on the angle. But Ricky was sick, already weak, and Sam wondered if he'd even regain consciousness. A part of Sam hoped he wouldn't.

The agent jerked up all of a sudden, back rigid and gun in hand. Sam heard it too, the banging from upstairs. It sounded like the house was falling in on itself. A strangled cry for help sounded from somewhere high above, and Sam tensed.

"Dean," he muttered.

A gunshot rang out, so short and muted by walls that it almost sounded harmless, but Sam knew better. He felt a chill run through him. Had burning the ring even helped? Was Glenn still up there? Or was it the cops flooding in, finding Dean, finding a reason to shoot Dean.

"Reid…" the fed whispered.

Sam was so caught up in listening, that he barely noticed that the FBI agent had grabbed his wrist, cuffing him low to the bottom rail of the staircase. He expected a threat from the other man, but when he looked, the fed's expression was one of concern, his dark eyes trained on the ceiling above.

The agent's mouth tightened, like he was holding back something he wanted to say to Sam, or maybe just to himself, but he let it out with a gruff sigh, and took to the stairs, running up them two at a time. Sam blinked after him, surprised to find himself alone. He had a feeling this wasn't exactly FBI protocol, but whatever was happening on the floors above had spurred the fed into action.

Sam tugged at the cuff around his wrist, testing the give of the rail, then looked over his shoulder. Ricky was still down, unmoving, the flames from the ring retreating without the fuel to keep it burning. There was a trail of his own bloody footprints crossing the room to the empty shelf brackets. Sam's back had been to the wall, and he hadn't seen what was above, flush against the ceiling and blanketed by a layer of cobwebs. It was a strip of white, fogged glass from a narrow vent window.

He gave the wooden stair rail a rueful look and went to work.