Disclaimer: Supernatural and its character are the property of Eric Kripke (we love you!) and the CW. No infringement intended. However, the story's plot and its original characters are all mine!
Spoilers: Story set between 5.14 (My Bloody Valentine) and 5.15 (Dead men don't wear plaid).
The Winchesters go investigate a series of deaths and disappearances that occur somewhere in Idaho, in the middle of the woods. Their lives in jeopardy, they will have, once again, to call into question every beliefs they had about what may be living amidst the forest, while dealing with the tension and distrust that didn't cease to grow between them since Dean's return from hell.
A/N: The story and its chapters are titled from the production music company of the same name. Their music inspire me a lot and it's while listening to it that I wrote down – or rather typed – these words.
Also, English isn't my first language. Therefore, I do apologize for any grammar or spelling slips that might make you want to tear your eyes off. But I promise you I will try and do my best to write this story – and the ones I'll write in the future – with as little mistakes as possible.
A/N II: I wanted to thanks alinoy and Colby's girl for reviewing the first chapter. I know it wasn't really entertaining and kinda written hastily, so thank you very much for taking the time to comment on it anyway. You rock!
Anyway, here's the next chapter!
TWO STEPS FROM HELL
Chapter 2
Dreams of dead
Idaho, somewhere on the road, seven days earlier.
He was running.
Trees were passing by, in variants shades of green and brown. He could feel the wind dancing in his hair, brushing against his ears, lashing his face. He could hear it hissing, howling around him. The night seemed to be falling, because the trees were less and less discernible, melting into a giant and sinister shadow threatening to engulf him.
He was running.
But there was no floor under his feet. Only emptiness and nothingness. Once he realized that, everything went darker and darker, until all became utterly black as ink. He then fell into this oblivion, the darkness swallowing him whole. He was falling, falling …
Sam woke up with a start, his whole body jerking slightly in response of the sharp sensation of falling it just experienced. In less than a second, he came to the awareness that he was sitting shotgun in his brother's car, a classy '67 Chevrolet Impala. The door's windows were open, allowing the wind to howl into the car and slapping the right side of Sam's face. Dazed, he looked around unseeing and yawning, trying to grasp at the remnant of his dream, which was already slipping away. Yet, he still sensed a feeling of uneasiness spreading over him.
"Hey, sleepy head!"
Blenching again, he turned toward his older brother, the wind still screaming inside the Impala's interior, and it – finally – hit him: no music. And he realized there hadn't been any music since… actually, Sam couldn't say for how long it had been missing. He should have noticed, he admonished himself. How many times did he complain about his brother's bad tastes concerning music? He gazed at his brother's features, and realized his sibling's words were far from matching those pensive, worried… tensed features. Jaw set, Dean decidedly stared through the windshield at the cemented road which was stretching in a straight line toward the horizon.
Sam sighed smoothly. "Where are we?" he asked around another yawn, looking through the windshield himself.
The sun was on his way to dusk, low and red in the horizon, playing hide-and-seek with some astray, milky clouds, beautifully painting the sky in pink and orange. The ground however, was covered in all shades of green. Green fields, hollow, were facing each other, the even grey road in between. Green conifer trees were standing up, menacing, right beneath the incoming twilight, ready to meet the rapidly advancing car.
"We just left a sweet little town named, ah … New Meadows. Stopped there for gas. You didn't wake up." With that last half statement / half question, Dean glanced at Sam, the setting sun's light briefly shining in his deep emerald eyes, and for a second they were not those dull, lifeless orbs that Sam had become accustomed to. They were alive, and filled with concern … for Sam. That impression disappeared as soon as Dean looked back at the road.
Sam cleared his throat. "Huh, yeah … I was tired. Guess I needed a nap."
Dean's nod was his only answer as the older brother settled in a heavy silence, his gaze still wandering outside the windshield.
Sam sighed again and stretched his legs as best as he could in the confined space, before leaning back into the leathery seat, lost in thoughts. His eerie dream was long forgotten.
xX - LARUTANREPUS - Xx
Dean yawned, then winced as the movement pulled at his aching ribs. He was tired. Well, to be honest, that was an understatement. He was truly exhausted. The night had fallen over an hour ago, calm and chilly. Trees were surrounding the road, their spires lightly waving along with the wind, overshadowing everything in the vicinity.
Their last hunt had been grueling. They had followed the trail of an ancient ghost that had leaded them to The Lilac City – Spokane, Washington. L'Esprit De La Dame Errante – as she was called – hadn't been an easy one to get rid of. According to Sam and his researches, this Lady had come from France in 1912 onboard the Titanic. She'd survived the shipwreck, arrived in New York – only to find out that her husband and their two sons hadn't been able to get on a lifeboat, and that the three of them had gone under along with the ship and over a thousand and five hundred other passengers. She then had traveled – mostly on foot, or on a bicycle, sometimes catching a car – to the other side of the country during the late fall of 1912. Wandering in Spokane (when the city's population and economy were in decline), she eventually died in a dark alley, alone and cold, the night after Christmas.
Her pain over the loss of her family and the overwhelming guilt survivor syndrome had become too great to carry along, and that had killed her more surely than the icy winter night induced hypothermia.
Then, of course, the dark side of her spirit and soul had remained behind, howling during the night, destroying, killing. It had taken them almost two weeks, a lot of bumps and bruises, a cracked rib and a sprain knee, the burning of her bones – and eventually the destruction of her pendant – for her to finally let go.
This case had completely taken its toll on both of them. They were physically and emotionally spent. Yet there they were, heading for a new hunt, because they just couldn't do nothing.
Since they had left Bobby's house, the apocalypse, the angels, the Devil and its black-eyed underlings had all been playing 'stand by'. All still around there, of course, but nobody bothered to pass by and say hello. Not that it so much as surprised them. They hadn't even heard from Cas. The rebellious winged-ass had simply took off, leaving both brothers with each others.
They hadn't exchanged a word about the events that took place around St Valentine's Day. Not one. They had just buried it, did as if nothing had ever happened. As if Sam's new withdrawal had never occurred, never leading to some blood consumption and mind-exorcised demons and horseman.
As if Famine hadn't said anything.
But Dean could still hear him. He could still read the words on those white cracked – lifeless – lips.
Inside, you're already …
… Dead.
Dean closed his eyes briefly, swallowing around the ever present lump in his throat. He wasn't a dead soul. He could still feel pain, sorrow, grief, … fear. He could still feel his heart beating painfully inside his chest, each throb threatening to bring him over the edge he was desperately hanging on to. Yet, that could only mean one thing: he was still here, feeling, suffering, alive.
However, even if that was true, even if there was still a parcel in him ready to stand up and fight, what would that fight be for?
Dean's mind wondered over the last few months. And he had come to this realization recently. Actually, right after Ellen and Jo's death and their failed attempt in killing the devil – that hopelessness and despair hidden behind terrified determination when he had said: "Here goes nothing", the oppressive wait when Sam had first approached the one that was doomed to eventually wear him as a meat suit, the profound hatred when he had pulled that trigger, the hope caught between sheer disbelief, doubts and deep anxiety when Lucifer had fallen, a bullet hole between the eyes; and finally, the overwhelming sensation of the world crashing around him as the worse and most dangerous enemy of mankind and humanity stood up, false hurt and smile plastered on his face. That was when it had struck him.
They had no chance.
Ellen and Jo had died for nothing. Those were the words that kept repeating themselves inside his head when he had watched their image burn in the fire lighting Bobby's fireplace, those months ago. He remembered the oversized lump that had threatened to suffocate him then. The one which was still here now. He remembered the tears that refused to fall, burning his eyes. Those were presently absent, along with the life which once lit his eyes.
There was no hope.
The Earth was going to serve as a field for a war that would destroy it, no matter the winner. The Earth was going to be tear down and apart by a bunch of selfish, self-righteous, winged holy (or horned and non-so-holy) asses who didn't give a damn about their "Father's Creation", and there was nothing they could do to prevent it.
They were helpless.
The world was doomed to end bloody, in pain and sorrow, and there was nothing they could do to prevent it.
TBC