Huge hugs to Cerdo Volador, sendintheclowns, sammygirl1963, Thorny Hedge, Poaetpainter, supernaturalsammy67 and Skag Trendy for their kind reviews.
Chapter 2
The inside of the house is as dilapidated as the exterior. Most of the furniture appears to be broken and covered with a thick layer of dust. The wallpaper is faded and peeling away from the walls. There's a general stench of decay in the air which reminds Dean of death, as though the place died years ago and nobody could be bothered to bury the remains. There's a record player crackling somewhere in the distance, playing some operatic shit (well it sounds like a lady wailing her lungs out anyway) but Dean's not certain because it sure ain't rock.
Dean goes down the hallway and to the first door which he pushes open. He let's out a relived sigh when he sees Sam's in there and he looks unharmed although he's knelt on the floor with his eyes closed and his head resting in someone's lap. Dean raises his gun and circles around the large armchair in which that certain someone is sitting. Dean's incredibly disappointed because it's an old lady, a frail old lady and he really did want to kick the crap out of something but that's beginning to look less and less like it's going to happen.
She's stroking Sam's hair with a wrinkled prune hand and Sam's face is peaceful, acquiescent with a look of pure bliss. A look very similar to the one Dean gets on his face when he opens a box of doughnuts and realises that Sam has saved him his favourite (sprinkle topping with gooey chocolate filling – if you wanted to know).
She spots Dean for the first time and knows what he's come for. "He's my Sam." She hisses.
"No! He's my Sam." Dean snaps back not quite believing he's actually having this conversation. Dean clears his throat and tries again. "No! He's my brother." She doesn't look impressed; as though Dean's claim on Sam had more impact the first time round.
"Do you know how long I've waited for someone like him?" She's asks fixing Dean with a steely gaze.
This is getting old fast and Dean's bored now there's nothing to shoot. Except he probably could still empty a cartridge into the old dear, he badly wants to, but it would probably mean he'd have to suffer through Sam's endless bitching about how he'd shot a feeble old lady. Dean really doesn't want to give Sam an excuse to get himself in a state because Sam will get whiny, Dean will get crabby and it'll all end in tears (Sam), scowling (Dean) and hugging (Sam…with Dean's hand patting his brother's back a little but that totally doesn't count as a hug).
"Look lady, I'm not interested in why you've got my brother on your lap…like…like some poodle but I want you to undo whatever you did to him, now!" Dean would like it pointing out that he's normally way slicker than this but he's wet, cold, hungry and did I mention seriously pissed off? So you'll have to forgive his lack of high quality retort.
"Oh, you're not getting him back. I'm keeping this one."
This one? Dean doesn't want to know how many men the old lady has got through but he's got a bad taste in his mouth which makes him appreciate that it's probably a lot. Dean's had enough; his cup of patience has run dry. "Right, I'm tired of being civil." Dean growls and raises his gun to point at the lady.
"Sam." She says and as quick as a flash, Sam's on his feet, felling Dean like a tree with one quick sharp punch to the jaw. Dean knows he can kick Sam's ass from here into next week so Sam must have took him by surprise this time and was probably on his blind side, yes that's definitely what happened.
The old lady gets out of her chair and seems surprisingly nimble for someone who must be at least, maybe a hundred. She steps over Dean and goes to a cupboard, picking up a framed picture which despite the layer of dust covering everything else in the house, is clean as a whistle, polished until the glass sparkles so much it hurts to look at it. But Dean has to look, hasn't got much choice, because she's lent over him shoving the picture in his face.
The photograph shows a young woman, obviously the old lady back in a time before she resembled something ready for a salt and burn, holding hands with a young man. Dean's jaw hurts like hell and he's so smacking the crap out of Sam when Sam is 'Sam' enough to appreciate it. But the more Dean looks at the picture the more the man in the photograph starts to bare a resemblance to Sam. Not completely, Sam's sort of unique but there's something there in the man's face, in his puppy dog eyes and too long hair which screams Sam. Dean's about to comment on it when something kicks him in the face and as his world goes dark, Dean's remembers noticing it was Sam's boot doing the kicking. Oh yes, Sam's getting a smacking all right.
SNSNSNSNSNSN
When Dean wakes up it's dark, or at least wherever the hell he is, is dark. He's uncomfortable too because there's something sharp digging into his ribs so Dean reaches a tentative hand to probe underneath himself and…oh it's bones, he's laid on a pile of bones, wonderful.
Dean turns his aching head to the side and whilst the movement causes an angry midget to start hammering on his brain he's more concerned with the fact he's face to face, face to bone, with a human skull. Dean scrambles backward on his bum like a demented crab not because he's frightened at all, oh no not frightened at all, but because the skull is vomit inducingly gross. There's still some skin and hair hanging off it so the head is decomposing yeah but clearly hasn't been here years, more likely only a few months. There's an awful smell too which Dean recognises as what he smelt wafting through the house earlier and Dean vaguely wishes he had a cold so at least his nose would be blocked up some.
Dean reaches out a hand into the darkness and touches cold iron, iron bars to be precise. It doesn't take a Sam, for Dean to figure out that he's locked in a cage. He shakes at the bars; they rattle but don't give an inch, strangely enough iron's kind of strong like that. Dean sits there for a moment wondering if his day can really get any worse as the faint sound of opera starts to float through the air from somewhere above him. The endless screeching in Italian (or whatever) is making Dean want to saw his own ears off and then Dean's day really does get worse, much worse. He suddenly begins to notice a drop in temperature and can feel little goose pimples emerging on his arms. Whilst the inexperienced amongst us would put it down to a strong draft, Dean knows different. He shuffles himself round in the cage and sees the flickering image of a spirit sat looking directly at him, perched on the skull like a make-shift chair. Oh crap.
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So I thought 2 chapters but it's going to be 3...please review and let me know if you want to read more. Oh and there may well be limpness before this story's through (a girls gotta dangle a carrott somehow)