Hello everyone! Dudewheresthepie here! Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been having writers block and just plain old creativity loss ;-; I'm also sorry cause I feel like the writing could have been better here but I just can't write good lately! ALSO, I finished Supernatural on Netflix and that made me sad ;-; BUT ANYWAY! Thank you to the first three reviews I got! They meant SO SO SO MUCH to me! They were my first FF reviews ever ^u^ So thank you guys you are awesome! I hope this chapter meets your expectations! Please review!
Sorry it's not as long as the last chapter but I think my chapters are gonna be a bit shorter from now on :3
(Forgot this last time ;-;) Disclaimer:
I DO NOT OWN SUPERNATURAL OR SHERLOCK! Sadly...
Enjoy:
CHAPTER 2
Sam watched the wall absent-mindedly as Dean snored away limbs dangling off his blankets like a group of thin pale waterfalls. Sam's thoughts drifted this way and that, he was almost positive a witch was involved in this hunt but her kidnapping was so random, it didn't make sense.
Sam shifted his weight on the lumpy bed. The cheap, motel provided mattresses were stuffed with pointy springs that dug into your back and were spotted with tiny lumps that looked like white anthills. He sat up straight and placed his head carefully a top his cupped palms, letting his mind wander once again.
There was something... Off about the story he had researched. Something important that he had missed.
If it was a witch, were there hex bags? There had to be right?
"Think, Sam!" He scolded himself under his breath.
Ah ha! The reason Patricia was hanged, is a good place to start! She was accused of witchcraft because the family was extremely wealthy and they were never caught stealing or working.
Sam rocked back and forth sending the springs beneath him into a cacophony of loud squeals.
Seemed like a stupid reason to accuse someone of witchcraft... But then again people weren't the brightest back then. What if...
Sam sat up straight his limbs tense and excited. An idea had struck him, a perfectly plausible idea!
"Dean! DEAN!" Sam grabbed his brothers limp shoulder and shook him mercilessly. "Dude! Wake up!"
Dean moaned and turned further onto his stomach. He clutched his pillow and pressed his face down hard. Sam grabbed Dean's wrist and dragged him upwards.
Facing Dean's pissed and drowsy features Sam launched into conversation. "Dean we have to investigate Berkley Square! No more dragging it out! I have a theory but I need to test it."
Sam nudged Dean towards the door. Dean however, smacked Sam's hand away. "Dude! I gotta get changed first"
Sam inwardly groaned. "Ok fine," he mumbled, "but hurry up!"
Dean stumbled into the bathroom with his clothes for the day slung haphazardly over his shoulder. He teetered before slamming the door behind him.
Sam paced back and forth, over and over like a broken wind-up toy. His mind was twirling and dancing filled with theories and ideas about Berkeley. He quickly sat down because his little laps had begun to leave stains and scrapes in the floor. Sam knew his theory was a rough guess but like when answering a multiple choice question that you don't know the answer to, you just got to estimate.
The sound of the bathroom door unlocking shoved Sam to his feet and into conversation. "Dean!" Sam grabbed the now wide awake Dean by the shoulders and pushed him towards the door, "Let's go!"
Dean brushed Sam's hand off as if it were merely lint on a leather jacket. "Dude. Calm down." Dean scolded while pulling the door open and sending light crashing through. He lifted his car keys from his pocket and whistled Metallica while strolling forwards.
Sam followed light-footed and anxious behind Dean, he was annoyed by the slow pace but didn't want to get Dean in another one of his moods by yelling at him. They both entered the car that they loved so much, their only true home, and sat down. Sam snuggled into his seat, Dean turned on the music, and they both hummed along to Hells Bells as if they were performing a daily business routine.
The car kick started and soon enough the impala was on the road.
"Sam." Dean started after a few minutes of relaxing quiet.
"Mm?" Sam mumbled.
"So what's this theory you're so worked up about?" Asked Dean.
"Well... I don't know if it's true or plausible..." Sam stuttered.
"So... What is it?" Dean countered.
"...Or if it could've happened so long ago..."
"Sam answer the god damn question! You sound like a friggin politic..."
"Ok! Ok." Sam stated. "Well you know how the townsfolk accused Patricia Hinn of being a witch?"
"Yeah."
"Well." Sam continued, "what if she was?"
"Dude. You're not makin' any sense. She died right? One thing we know about witches is they wouldn't let a bunch of mortals kill 'em. So not a witch, end of story." Dean scoffed.
"Humph." Sam puffed angrily, "we'll see about that!"
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
"John!" Sherlock repeated his flat mates name over and over. "JOHN!"
There was no response.
Sherlock had scanned the area multiple times. Here, no, maybe there! John! John! JOHN!
"Slow down..." Sherlock commanded his own thoughts out loud. "Having a wild mind palace isn't going to help..."
But Sherlock couldn't help it. His mind palace was writhing and thrashing in his skull, it's walls crumbling due to the sudden force. John. HIS John. Was gone. Injured possibly, and Sherlock couldn't rest until he heard John's grunts of annoyance when Sherlock show boated or his gasps of amazement when Sherlock quickly deduced a trivial question once again.
But Sherlock pushed all his worry to the corners of his mind. He was Sherlock and he didn't care about such petty things...
"Ok, so... There's no blood. That's good. Actually there's no traces of John at all. That's not good." Sherlock muttered to himself, "Berkeley Square... The backstory of this strange place must have to do with Johns disappearance!" The absurdly rude detective instincts kicked back into to Sherlocks system and pumped through his blood vigorously.
"Yes, yes! That man on the phone will know about Johns kidnapper!.. Assuming he was kidnapped." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Ah ha! I can find the mysterious man on the phone and-..." Sherlock trailed off. What was he thinking? Getting help from the insane? No way. That man was a new species of crazy, talking about ghosts and hauntings. Pfft. Ghosts. Yeah right.
"Ok new plan!" Sherlock announced airily to himself. "Look for more clues..."
Sherlock stood up straighter and scanned the empty town before returning to a slumped position with a sigh. What exactly could give him clues about John?
Sherlock vigorously deduced the objects around him hoping to find an answer to Johns vanishing act. The newspaper crumpled by his shoes, fifty one years old, printed with haste. Written by an old scholar, two kids no wife. Ink from India- no Brazil?...
"What does it MATTER!?" Sherlock screeched and grabbed at his hair. A newspaper wasn't going to bring John back, it was a stupid newspaper that got them in this mess in the first place! Sherlock grabbed the old parchment and ripped it to shreds with as much gusto that a child would possess when digging into a wrapped Christmas gift.
"Creak..."
Sherlock dropped the paper and perked his ears. What was that?
"Creeeaaak." A quiet, thick screech came from the nearby destroyed houses. Was it the wind? Or was it just what Sherlock was looking for?
"John!" Sherlock whispered as loud as he dared. No response.
Sherlock got on his knees and moved gingerly towards the noise like a toddler almost at the walking stage. He grasped a rock within arms reach and armed himself.
There. An outline of a head shone through the window casting a suspicious shadow that sent excitement coursing up Sherlocks spine like ice. It certainly wasn't John, far to tall. This could be Johns kidnapper!
Sherlock watched as the man circled round the house and out the door muttering inaudible sentences with a fierce expression that painted his face red. His hair was slightly tufted and was a light-dark brown color. He wore a beaten up leather jacket with a plaid shirt underneath and he had boot leg jeans to cover his lower half. He looked menacing enough to be a kidnapper. But Sherlock could tell he had just recently left a motel, No place to hide a body. Sherlock could also tell he took a fancy to alcohol, women, and had a sibling. Also the man (obviously judging by his fingers) knew how to work a gun.
Actually... Maybe this man had hurt John.
Sherlock felt something push through his veins like medicine being squeezed out of a syringe. With a jerk his fists clenched tighter and he gripped the rock he held with surprising force. Sherlock didn't know what this feeling was. It wasn't rage, because he was Sherlock. He didn't "feel" emotions for anyone... Even John. Yes. Not rage. Of course.
The man turned towards Sherlock and squinted through the shadows.
With a quick jump and a spider-like crawl backwards Sherlock returned to a safer, more secluded position.
The man had begun to strut closer... And closer...
Sherlock aimed his rock at the man's head. Judging by the rugged appearance this man shone, Sherlock knew one rock wasn't going to take him out. So he threw it in the opposite direction.
"Bang!- Crash- pit..." The stone had landed right on target. Knocking a garbage can right off its feet and creating a loud enough diversion.
"SonofaBitch!" The man breathed as if cussing was a second language to him and he turned to check on the culprit of the noise.
Sherlock watched him leave and dusted his coat off gently before returning to a standing stance. He didn't want to let the man get away, but it was clear that man was trained in almost every essential fighting tactic. He was most likely trained by a drill Sargent or a Commanding officer. It could have been his father... But Sherlock assumed from the looks of this man it was someone of greater authority.
Never mind that. Sherlock had better things to worry about.
Sherlock crawled, ducked, and maneuvered his way after the man. Quickly jumping behind a fallen building whenever the suspicious character happened to turn around or dodging broken glass and shattered pottery in hopes of not creating an alarming noise. Sherlocks feet were beginning to grow tired.
Soon the man stopped at an abandoned gravesite. Most likely the burial grounds of the people who once roamed these streets. It was an extremely small graveyard...
"Here we go." The man muttered away searching through the faded names of the deceased, "Patricia Hinn."
Sherlock scanned the writing that decorated the tomb from behind the mans shoulder. "PATRICIA." It read, "FALSELY ACCUSED OF WITCHCRAFT."
Interesting.
Sherlock tried to read further but the man's muscular torso shielded his view. Like a cat stalking a mouse Sherlock slunk forwards and dove this way and that trying to get a closer look at the tomb. But as soon as Sherlock saw what the man was doing, the gravestone didn't matter much anymore.
The man pulled out a shovel stained with week old blood and dusted with a thick haze of dirt. Almost as quickly as the shovel was whipped out, it was shoved underground, smack where the bones of Patricia should be resting.
Grave robber? Sherlock questioned thoughtfully as the man ripped away at the soil in front of him.
But no. The man had no intention to rob at all. Instead as soon as the skeletal remains of poor Patricia were revealed, the man whipped out a lighter and quickly flicked open the cap as if he were merely lighting a birthday cake.
The mans short hair glistened with sweat and his knuckles were a mixture of white and red as he pulled out lighter fluid to go along with his fire. He poured the fluid over the bones that were caked in dirt and lit a small match.
Sherlock watched in awe as he cremated the ancient Patricia with a simple smile. The flames thirstily slurped at the air around them and belched cracks and creaks out of its fumes. It slowly ate away at the last remaining proof that Patricia had ever walked this earth until there was nothing left to be seen.
Sherlock was left dumbfounded. This mystery was getting better and better!
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Sam sighed.
Leave it to Dean to make his brother, (who was MOST excited about this hunt!) in charge of watching the impala. Normally they would go together but Dean was afraid of anybody hurting his baby. It was a shady looking area. Besides, Dean had told Sam, I'll only be a couple minutes.
Dean had left earlier to take care of Patricia's bones. "Roast 'em till they were nothing but the useless pile of remains they were meant to be." Dean had said.
Sam the kicked dirt beneath his feet curtly and quickly sending puffs of pale brown smoke into the air. Berkeley was a mess. With barely any grass just simple dirt to coat the ground and ugly eroded piles of muck that Sam assumed used to be considered houses. It stank too.
Sam whistled Carry on my Wayward Son to himself while rocking himself on Deans "baby." He knew Dean HATED it when Sam (or anybody) leaned on the impala but since Sam was still miffed about Deans cruel decision to leave Sam behind he pressed his entire torso roughly against the cars side. Take that Dean.
Huh?! Sam pushed himself off the impala and within seconds was alert and reaching for his gun that was strapped across his jeans. He could've sworn he heard a plea for help.
"Hhellp..." A slurred, muffled cry came from a destroyed home that lay abandoned and crumbling. It looked as if a dinosaur had sat directly on top of it.
Sam rushed towards the distress call, climbing over rubble and nearly tripping over a few stray rocks. "I'm coming!" He yelled assuredly.
"Help!" The person clearly had heard Sam and their screams filled with relief and strength. "Help!"
Sam started pulling at an old piece of wood. He could see blood and hair underneath it and once again heard a "help!" From below.
However it was one of the houses main supporting beams and it weighed an impossible amount. He gripped it firmly and yanked with all his might but nothing budged. "Hold on!" Sam cried.
"Help... Please." It was a woman Sam could tell, repeated again.
"I'm... Trying...!" Sam gasped, his hands still scrambling for purchase on the strong piece of wood. He pulled out his gun. "Don't be alarmed!" He assured the woman, "I'm just trying to make things easier!" Sam scurried to the middle of the beam and pressed his fingertips underneath, making sure the girl wasn't directly below this section of the plank. His fingers couldn't find flesh so he announced this area safe. He cocked his gun and loaded it with a swift "click." Sam aimed at the middle.
"BANG!" Part of the already rotting wood splintered to bits as a bullet entered its side with surprising force. Sam could hear muffled screams of terror coming from the poor woman but he has to get her out and this was the only way. "BANG!" Again wood showered around Sam like confetti.
"BANG! BANG! BA-CRACK!" With one last thundering shot the beam split in two and the woman's legs became visible. They seemed fine other then a few cuts and bruises, nothing broken. Sam tucked his gun away and tried to quiet the ladies cries, "Hey, hey!" He soothed, "it's okay now! I just had to use my gun to break the wood that was pinning you!" The screams quieted to shuddering breaths mixed with sobs.
"You-you're CRAZY!" She choked out as Sam gripped the beam once again.
"Yeah," Sam grunted, "I get that a lot!" Sam yelled as he slowly pried the plank off the woman's body. "Hhhgn..." He gently lifted the wood over the ladies back, careful not to hurt the spine and flipped it over her torso. With an earth quaking "THUD" the beam was out of range and Sam quickly turned to check the ladies wounds.
Except there was no lady.
She was gone.
Sam stared at where she lay sobbing and bleeding a few seconds ago and whipped out his gun. "Hello!?"
The air grew cold and Sam hoped Dean would come back quickly.
"Thank you." It was barely a whisper but Sam knew he heard it. "Thank you so much." Sam shook his head there it was again. Someone was thanking him, and that someone sounded a lot like the woman he just saved...
That someone just tapped him on the shoulder... Sam spun around gun still trained on the spot in front of him. He was face to face with the woman who lay battered beneath the beam a few moments ago.
"Woah-" Sam stuttered, she was beautiful. Plus, all her injuries were gone. She was gorgeous. Amazing.
"Put down your gun, sweetheart." She sung out.
Sam dropped the gun almost instantly. Her voice was like diamonds sparkling and wonderful but sharp and strong.
"What's your name?" Sam drooled out the question.
"Patricia Hinn, baby." She stroked Sam's cheek.
"What a great name." Sam muttered.