Author's note:

I am no stranger to writing stories like this, but it is my first ever Supernatural fic. I'm one of those types who caught a few episodes here and there from the show, but only got serious about watching it recently. I have just fully caught up on the show, though I could not watch every episode, as Youtube doesn't have all of them. So if I get something bluntly wrong that was a part of the story before, don't hesitate to correct me.

Also, Apocalypse is totally new ground for me, as I am planning a new writing style for it. Every update is not going to be my typical one-chapter-at-a-time thing. Oh no. On rare occasions it'll be a chapter, but most often, you'll find it is at least two long. My reasoning for this? Supernatural episodes are long and contain a lot of information. Plus, I'm going to have mini plots, just like the show.

But enough of me blabbering. Sorry for the long speech, but feel lucky cause I had a longer one lined up. With out further a due, here's Episode 2.

Episode 2: Lullaby

Part 1: Survivors

Part 2: Neptune's Song

Part 3: Darker waters (coming soon)

Summary: The papers have been reporting on a series of ship wrecks off the small town of Crate(Ka-Rae). Rumors have spread that malicious villains have been causing them. The testimony of a survivor only further muddles the case. The official word is "rough tides." But the brothers suspect a far more sinister, more ancient villainy. Little do they know, this case is far more than it first appears…

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Nor do I own Dean or Sam. But the plot is mine. As is the town of Crate and all its inhabitance.

The Impala pulled into the lot of an old, broken Holiday hotel that evening. As the last roars of the car faded, Dean eyed the place with pity. The lot was vacant, save a solo, deep green Ford Eclipse van. It was beaten up and a healthy coating of rust coated its steal frame.

The lot itself was broken. White lines, meant to frame the parking places, were faded, almost invisible. The lines all came in various shades of grey. The lot was spider webbed with cracks, the asphalt bumpy and torn. Random pieces of dead grass broke its wake.

And the hotel was in a similar condition. It was an old-styled type, making Dean feel like he had gone back in time again. Its mustard yellow paint was cracked and chipped in random places. The bricks on one corner had been worn off at some point, exposing worn-out foundation.

Dean shot Sam a glance and Sam looked away. A slight crushing feeling hit Dean. The two had not spoken since they had fought. He missed being able to tease his little brother. But no matter how he tried, it felt hollow to make a crack about something. The tension between them had become almost tangible.

The whole walk in, they still remained quiet. Dean kept his eyes low, watching the ground ahead. They both stopped as they reached the front door, unsure of who should go in first. After a long, awkward silence, Dean grabbed the handle. The cold metal was a wake-up call. The rusty door opened only when Dean rammed it, hinges screeching harshly.

Inside, the lobby was much like the outside. A rusty-colored paint covered the walls, obviously the only maintained part of the room. Cob webs covered the corners. There was one painting on the wall, tilted on its side. Even that was blurry and hard to make out. Spanning out the wall across from it was another door Dean guessed lead to the room. Kitty corner to that was the front desk where a tired-looking man sat. He was middle age, brown hair, brown eyes, thin metal glasses, well dressed, basically your average Joe. There was something written on his face though, a look which could not be erased. He barely glanced up at them as they approached the desk.

The rest was sort of a blur to Dean. They'd done this so many times; staying for days in hotels far worse than this one. It was rare that they got to stay in luxury. He handed the man a wad of cash and got the key to a room. It was nothing phenomenal. Nothing important. But then why did he get the feeling this was one of the last times he'd do this?

He sighed. Maybe it was just my imagination…He thought to himself.

Dean found himself staring at Sam, watching, searching, for any glimpse of the boy he once knew. Sam was going down a road Dean knew he would not, no, could not follow. He'd changed so much. No matter how hard Dean tried to deny it, Sam was no longer that little boy who'd tried to leave his past behind. Today, Sam had really made Dean worry. There was much to be desired in his claims of being "fine."

But this wasn't the first day Dean had felt there was something Sam had not told him. He was fading away. In the past few weeks, he'd eaten less. More and more Sam seemed tucked back, not himself. He slept less too. He tried to hide it from Dean, but every day Dean saw evidence of it.

In the corner of the room, Sam was changing slowly, his hands shaking, like he was fighting something. His breathing was always less steady now. It often seemed he was struggling to do normal things. His body seemed more town up, Dean noted as he pulled over his suit. Across his back, there was twice the number of scars.

He would often disappear at the most obscure times, returning covered in sweat or blood, often his own. He would claim anything from working out to being attacked by a rabid dog. But the look in his eyes said it all. Dean knew him too well to be fooled that easily.

Dean shook his head. Sam turned to face him, his hands fidgeting with the tie on his neck. His expression was almost emotionless as he straightened out his hair with his fingers and fastened on a false nametag. But hidden in those hazel eyes was a glimmer of something…something Dean didn't like.

He took a deep breath. "Sam. I need to talk to you…" Sam's eyes flashed, a subtle agitation in his face. "There's something going on with you. And you need to tell me." Sam turned away, not replying. "What? Are you afraid I'll be mad?"

"As I said its nothing." He replied coldly, moving toward the direction of the door. Dean was about to get up and stop him, till Sam turned. He stopped cold. There it is again! His eyes!

He'd though he'd seen it before but wasn't sure. He choked, trying to speak. The image had replayed, over and over in his head like a broken record. And now, it was there once more.

The irises were red.

It lasted mere seconds, but even that was enough to send a cold shiver down his spine. Sam did not wait to be stopped again. The door had slammed before Dean could say a thing. Sam's eyes had burned into his mind the first time, though this time he could see them far longer. They were not obvious to the untrained eye, the deep red of blood after sitting for a long time. And normally, Dean knew, demons had irises that always had different color. No one two demons had the exact same eye color. The only thing most had in common, in fact, was that their colors were always unholy, strange and variable.

But Sam wasn't a demon…

He may have demon blood, but there was no way he was a true demon. He and Dean had well equipped themselves against possession since that day, so long ago, when Sam had been possessed. The experience was not one Dean wanted to repeat. They had everything from blessings to tattoos, to the bags Bobby had given them, all against demonic possession.

Besides, in the car, the moment Dean had seen his glistening red irises, he'd splashed holy water on Sam in a fit of fear. There was no reaction. It had shocked him almost as much as his brother's convulsions. He'd chanted exercising rituals and tried everything he could think of, but nothing had worked.

He felt too weary to think much more, but it was still hours of counting dots on the ceiling before Dean had been able to sleep. Even them, visions of blood red eyes and Sam's convulsions haunted him, dancing in his head endlessly.

--

Sam hesitated for a moment before touching turning the doorknob. If this was what Sam and Dean thought it was, then they might even need back-up. Trouble was, Bobby was working on tracking down Lilith before she broke another seal and hardly any hunters could be relied on anymore. They always tried to kill Sam and because of Sam, Dean as well…

Sam took a deep breath and turned the knob. Inside, light flittered in the window, giving it the kind of glow the rest of the town lacked. At least the medical stuff was well cared for. The room looked like it could belong to a large city hospital. There were the usual ordainments, plants, paintings, chairs, the whole works.

At the center of a half a dozen machines lay a bed and it that bed was a man hooked up to the machines. Curled around his body, white hospital sheets starkly contrasted his rich black skin. He was fairly young, only a year or two from Sam's own age. And there was something about him Sam couldn't quite put his finger on. Then it hit him as the man's eyes flickered open.

Sam felt a deep pit in his stomach. He'd certainly known he might meet him someday. But in such an odd, sheltered place? The odds seemed unbelievable. But here he was, lying before Sam. It might be better, Sam reflected, to just have Dean deal with it. But with what had been happening recently, Sam wasn't sure he could find it in him to address such a delicate subject with him.

Sheldon opened his mouth to speak, but the moment he did, a fit of coughing took him.

Sam tried to think of what to say, but it seemed his tongue was tied. After waiting for Sheldon's coughs to die down, Sam had finally forced himself to speak. But before he had a chance, Sheldon let out a soft groan. He began muttering random, unconnected things off.

"Sheldon?" He said. Sheldon's eyes made contact with his. It took all of Sam's strength not to turn away as those piercing, all-to-familiar eyes met with his own. "I need to know what you remember. I'm here to investigate a possible case."

Sheldon raised a brow. "Hell's gates are guarded by one race or one race split to two." He mumbled. Sam shifted uncomfortably, wondering for a moment if Sheldon could possibly know who he was talking to.

"Please. Your testimony could help reveal valuable information." Sam said, his voice wavering. Sheldon did not seem to notice.

"The song can break your ears. Cover them well and guard your heart." He stammered. Sam realized Sheldon didn't even know what he was saying and heaved a sigh of relief. But his words troubled him. Sam knew when people said things, even barely coherent like Sheldon, most often, they were not sheer nonsense.

"Sounds like me and Dean were right…" Sam muttered to himself as he turned to leave.

"Dean, huh. My brother knew a Dean." Sam froze. "Someone told me he was there that night." Sam felt a cold chill go down his spine. He quickly exited, hoping Sheldon wouldn't put two and two together.

Before he was out, Sheldon finished what he was saying. "I'll make the bustard that killed him pay. I swear on his grave, he'll pay."

As Sam made his way out of the hospital, he pushed Sheldon out of his mind. Not that it would matter until he was well enough to be cleared out of the hospital, but still.

He heaved a great sigh, relieved to be outside and moving away from the hospital. They always made him feel uneasy; every time they went through the glass doors of the ER it always meant one of them was at death's door. Not once, even when they were kids, had going to the hospital been simply just a check up or such. Their father had insisted on doing everything himself so that their medical expenses would only be added to when one of them was damaged beyond normal care.

The fresh air did his head good. Although how fresh varied with each step. Sometimes the air was clear and clean as open country's. Other times, it carried the heavy scent of salt mixed with mildew and mold. Besides that, the air was much colder and wetter than it had been during their drive in the desert. Sam suppressed a shiver.

But once you got past the air, Crate was a rather quiet, quaint little town. There was very few people to be seen, most either staying inside or moved on. Many an old styled building had the same old sign hanging in the window, foreclosure notices and going out of business signs posted near or on the doors.

Most of the roads were tattered and torn up, median lines faded and weathered. Potholes large enough to take out semis dotted the asphalt. A few were filled up with water, breeding places for hoards of bugs.

To his left was an empty school yard, the windows boarded up and the name barely visible. Sam wondered if there were any kids in the town to go to school or if the funding for it just wasn't enough. Either way, the courtyard had turned into a field, a solemn, broken statue in its center.

The shipping yard was just as empty, not more than two, pitiful, small boats latched to its side. A light house on its far side sat, its beacon unlit. Waves crashed on the shoreline, making Sam believe with every crash they would take the whole town with them. The wood looked slick and slimy.

When Sam and Dean had found the stories on Crate's shipwrecks, it had been obvious the town was down on its luck. It wasn't even on a map, no matter how detailed. But it hadn't occurred to Sam that it would practically be a ghost town. Few of its people seemed to even acknowledge their presence.

But still, while he had been in the hospital, he'd seen a portrait on the walls, depicting a beautiful scene of a small town, children running this way and that, boats docking with healthy loads of fish, people lining the streets, happy expressions on their faces. Near the bottom, it was labeled Crate-1987.

But that portrait certainly looked different than the Crate lying before him. He couldn't believe they were the same town at all. Every person he'd met so far, from the doctors at the clinic to few people that passed him seemed to be nearly asleep, along with the town itself.

He took a step onto the dock, boards beneath him giving an alarming screech as they took on his wait. He could feel his danger sense rising and treaded with care, following his ability out onto the unsteady platform. Every step he take, the wood threatened to give way.

Out of no where, a piercing sound assaulted his ears. It was a single note, wordless and extremely high-pitched. Like nails across a chalkboard. Sam grabbed his head, holding it and covering his ears. It felt like someone had stuck a knife through his ear drum. The noise only got louder and louder.

He wanted to scream, to bash his head into ground. Anything to turn off the blasted noise! He looked around, hoping to locate its source. There was nothing, no one. A fog had started to set in, obscuring Sam's view of the rest of the town.

He fell to his knees, heedless of the wet wood beneath him. He clutched his head, pulling his hair. "Stop it!" He yelled in sheer desperation.

The sound cut off abruptly, as if following his command. Sam gasped, his mouth hanging open, gulping in sweet air.

Just as Sam realized his danger sense was on high alert, the dock gave way, failing under his weight. The crunch of the wood beneath him was so sudden, so surprising. The next instant, he felt his body plunging into the waters bellow.

As the icy water hit his skin, his nerves went on fire. His chest felt tight, compact from the freezing temperature. He tried to cry out but all he got was a mouth full of salt.

He kicked for the surface, but it was a feeble, half hearted effort. The longer his body was down there, the more the feeling changed.

He noticed how clear, how beautiful everything around him was. Every color seemed to be on fire. The waters tickled his skin, like rolling on a bed of down. The piercing sound of earlier had been replaced by a sweet, solemn note, soft and sad and beautiful. There were no words, but that did not make it any less beautiful.

Soon, Sam quit fighting, quit struggling. The waters were so soothing, so inviting, lulling him to sleep. He let his body drift, letting the current take him where it may.

A biting cold caught his shoulder and he reached up to try and brush it off. But it was firm. He started to fight to get away, but the voice, much louder this time, lulled him back.

With a surprisingly strong yank, he was out of the water, sprawled out on the ground. He lay there for a moment, clearing the salt water from his lungs.

"Stay out of the water." A firm female voice whispered rapidly. "Or your brother will be bringing you back in a coffin."

He let his eyes open, looking upwards toward the voice. A cloaked figure stood before him, her shape obviously feminine. Her hood was drawn, hiding her face from Sam's prying eyes Sam looked at her, puzzled. There was something a little off about her.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"You don't know me? Well, I know you Samuel Winchester. I've actually been waiting for you. But you go and almost get yourself killed the moment you get here." She sighed.

"For me?" Sam repeated.

"Yes, what are you, a parrot? Of course for you. I think you can help me." She drew her hood and Sam gasped. No wonder something had seemed off about her. She was a Siren!