Chapter One: Into the Mist
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Silent Hill or the line about the Abyss, which is pulled from Friedrick Nietzsche.
A/N: I've decided that the best way to pursue this particular fanfiction would be the mix-and-match method of character selection. Silent Hill often leaves a lot of room for interpretation in what occurs to certain characters, especially between games. Any and all character mixing and matching will be explained at some point in some way.
Dean pulled the Impala off of the highway and swung a lazy arc into the hotel parking lot. He sat for a long moment with the light dimmed scanning the darkness. Something about the place gave him the willies. Then again….if you stared into the abyss long enough, the abyss stared back…
He shook his head as he killed the ignition. Reaching into the back, he gave his brother a gentle shake and handed him the keys. "I'll be back in a minute, Sammy."
The man in question grumbled a response, but opened his eyes and sat up.
Reasonably certain that no demon would get the jump on his brother, he exited the car, threw a jacket over his shoulders, and walked towards the dimly lit entrance. The door creaked when he opened it, but the proprietor didn't look up. He was eerily still and pale beneath the gloomy yellow light that oozed from the bulbs above him.
"Hey, umm…" He trailed off uncomfortably, "Excuse me. I would like to rent a room for the next three nights."
The man acknowledged him with an upward flicker of his eyes. He pointed to the sign with the rates on it, and Dean counted out exact change. As he slid the bills across the counter, the man pushed a key at him. He was half tempted to ask him where the nearest place to eat was but decided it was too much trouble.
He walked back out through the door, swapped keys with Sam, and told him he's be back with dinner. Sam nodded, shambled up the stairs, and disappeared into a room. He watched the light flicker on behind the tattered curtains and watched the door close before he gunned the engine and drove out of the parking lot.
It was almost midnight by the time he found anything; there wasn't even a fast food joint in the area. As it was, the dilapidated diner was almost beneath his standards. He figured that had to be worth an award of some kind…But he was too hungry to start giving a shit.
He flipped on his signal, spun the wheel, and slid into the first available parking space. Locking the door, he pocketed his keys and walked in.
It looked somewhat more appealing past the door, he thought to himself. It had an old-timey kind of feel to it, with white and red tiles and red leather booths arranged in a rough semicircle around a white counter. Behind it, a woman was drying glassed with a white towel.
She looked about thirty, wearing a short-sleeved pale top, black skirt, and white apron, brownish blonde hair raked back into a ponytail. Some pieces were already falling down around her face and the back of her neck; her hair, combined with the stains on her apron and the gray of her eyes, gave her an appearance of exhaustion.
"Hey there, stranger." She smiled at him, "What can I get you?"
Dean smiled despite himself, "Let's get four burgers, some fries, and a couple of vanilla shakes. To go, if you don't mind."
"Coming right up." She smiled, her pen scribbling across a ticket. As she turned to clip it to the wheel and spin it around to the cook, she asked, "Any dessert?"
"How about some pie?"
"Lemon, apple, or cherry?"
"Let's get two apple and a cherry."
"Slices?"
"Pies."
Her eyebrow lilted up and she tilted her head just to the side as her eyes traveled down from his to his shoes and back up again.
"What can I say?" He smirked, "I'm hungry."
Her eyes traveled down from his to his shoes and back up again as she sized him up with all the knowing of a practiced mother trying to figure out how much her boys will eat that night. Her lips pulled up and she laughed to herself, "You are a big guy."
Her hands worked at something underneath the counter and a moment later she pushed a plate towards him. Sweet, gooey cherry filling oozed from the sides of a golden crust.
"Have a slice on the house." She said as she retrieved a white and red bottle and proceeded to cover the top in whipped cream.
"That's awfully generous of you."
She smiled, "A side effect of being born in a rural town."
She slid open the glass cabinet beneath the counter and started boxing the pies. As she tied off the first one with a length of brown twine, she told him, "We don't get folks like you around here often."
"And what would you mean by that?" Dean responded.
She glanced over her shoulder flirtatiously, "Handsome. Strong."
"You forgot 'mysterious.'" He winked at her.
She laughed as she turned back, stacked the boxed pastries on top of each other, and packaged his burgers and fries into styrofoam boxes. She was just slipping his shakes into a cardboard holder as he finished his slice.
"That was some damn good pie." He told her.
"House specialty." She replied as she passed him his neatly packed food, "We also do breakfast, if you're gonna be in town that long."
"Count on seeing me." He said as he walked through the door with a wave.
Sam peeked around the curtains and confirmed it was his brother before he opened the door.
"Hey." He said, "What's for dinner?"
"Good old greasy American." Dean smiled, "Burgers, fries, shakes, and pie."
Sam rolled his eyes good naturedly. "And you tell Cas he's going to get fat."
Dean chuckled to himself as he passed a foam box to his brother. "I even got you one, Sammy."
"You…sharing pie? That might constitute an apocalypse all its own."
"Don't be a smartass."
"Aren't you going to call me a bitch now?" Sam asked.
"Not tonight." Dean replied as he kicked his feet up on the worn old table by the door.
"It really is the end of the world."
"Shut up and eat."
Sam straightened his tie and pulled his jacket in to button it. Smoothing the lapels, he grabbed for a small black leather wallet on the bed stand and flipped it open. He couldn't remember having used the alias in the last six months and figured it was good enough.
"I'll start down at the Sheriff's Office."
"I want to check out the cemetery." Dean replied as he knotted his silk tie, "Just in case we need to do some barbequing later."
The office of the Sheriff was, unsurprisingly, dead as could be. There were three desks packed into the tiny room that, based on the dimensions, was probably an old school house they never really bothered to remodel. Only one of them, however, was occupied.
She was a woman, mid-thirties or early forties, probably, with brown hair cropped into a practical chin-length bob. She wore the standard issue uniform: khaki top, olive drab pants and tie. A leather jacket was thrown carelessly over the back of her chair and her hat sat next to her outdated computer.
"How can I help you, young man?" She asked, swiveling in her chair to face him.
"I'm agent Brian Wallace, FBI." He replied as he flashed his badge.
"FBI? What the hell do the Feds want with us?"
"We've reopened the Walter Sullivan case," He told her simply, "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about it."
"By all means." She said, motioning for him to take a seat.
He nodded in thanks to her and flipped open a small note pad, "What can you tell me about the murders?"
"Nothing you probably haven't heard before." She replied, "The first ten were brutally murdered, had their hearts cut out and a series of numbers carved into them. Something about some cult numerology bullshit. They finally caught the bastard and then he sliced his own damn throat."
"And the next set?"
"Last I heard, that was ruled a copycat murder." She pinned him with her suddenly severe eyes, "Unless that's changed."
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case at this time." Sam replied.
She didn't seem to take offense, "As far as I'm concerned, that's the end. I don't believe any of that "Round Two" bullshit."
"Can you tell me anything about Henry Townshend?" Sam asked.
"I don't know much. I heard something about a brush with 'Walter,' but if you ask me, he was probably just as fucked up from a different angle as the real deal."
"What makes you say that?"
"His report just screamed psychiatric head case." She told him as she opened a filing cabinet that sat behind her and rifled through the tabs. She fished a particular one out and slid it across the desk to him. "You can keep that one. I've got the original in storage."
"Thanks." Sam replied. "So, it sounds like you didn't trust this guy. Was he ever arrested?"
"As much as I wanted to, this case was a bit outside my jurisdiction. Ashfield PD made a call. I really can't even blame 'em for it. Those murders sent that poor town into a five year panic. I read something that said the psych clinic doubled its patient volume, and the suicide rate shot sky high. When it was all said and done, I think they were as exhausted as everyone else."
Sam nodded, more to himself than her, and stood up. Extending his hand, he thanked her for her time and the file, and walked out. He waited until he rounded the corner to flip his cellphone and key in a number. It rang once before a gruff voice on the other answered, "Yes?"
"Hey, Bobby," He began, "I just got some more information on the Sullivan case. Would you mind looking into some of it for me?"
"What can I do you for?" The older hunter asked.
"I'm wondering if there are any rituals that use ten human hearts or nineteen sacrifices or if there's any significance to the numbers carved into the victims."
"That's a tall order, Sam, but I'll see what I can pull up."
"Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it."
"Don't mention it." He responded before he clicked off the line.
Dean pulled a jacket over his shoulders and popped the collar over his ears. The fog had started to roll in just as he turned on to County Road 73 and just got thicker and thicker. At one point, he even considered pulling over and waiting it out. But it was already getting late and he didn't want to be out after dark in a potential demon activity zone without back-up.
As it was, with his Winchester luck, he'd trip over a grave, break a leg and wind up zombie bait or something…
Sighing to himself, he took a cautious step forward and trained his gaze into the shifting gray. It didn't take him long to pin down the rows. Cemeteries were always arranged in neat, orderly lines. Once you got that pattern down, the only thing to surprise you was an angry spirit or mourning human.
That wasn't his main issue, though. Silent Hill might have been a tiny, middle-of-nowhere town with only a few thousand people and a handful of bloodlines, but that didn't make tracking down individual graves any easier. He had hoped going in that, like most isolated towns, families would be buried in sectioned off plots. No mixing the Smiths and the Joneses.
But, even if it proved to be that straightforward, it didn't mean that it'd be any easier to find an individual grave. A couple hundred years of settlement tended to build up some impressive death counts.
"God damn it…" He hissed as he glanced around and suddenly realized he had no idea which way was north anymore. Cursing under his breath, he pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket and flipped the switch.
Nothing.
"Piece of shit…" He beat the flashlight against his palm. It flickered for a second, wavered, and flashed for a second before dying again. He hit it again, harder, and it sputtered again. He checked the bulb, flicked the switch, and jarred it one more time. The light blinked rapidly several times, but steadied a second later it evened out. Not that it mattered much, of course…the fog was still as thick as pea soup…
'Just turn around,' He told himself, 'and get back to the car.'
He pivoted hard on his heel with care, reached out into the milky white out, and felt along the rows of gravestones. The last one, however, tripped him up. He caught his ankle, fell forward, dropping the flashlight in a desperate attempt to catch himself, and face planted into the side of his car.
Muttering obscenities under his breath, he retrieved his key, got into the car, locked the door, and checked the damage; a bloody nose. It wouldn't feel great, but it was hardly even an injury. Satisfied that he didn't look like an assault victim, he twisted the key into the ignition, eased the accelerator down, and started to pull out.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he thought he saw something…shadowy shift in the mist. But just as quickly as he thought he saw it, the fog had rolled in over it. He shook his head, convinced he needed either more sleep or more caffeine, and took off.
He somehow made it back to the hotel just as the sun was beginning to dip down low into the horizon. He figured he'd let Sam grab dinner and told him as much when he got into the room, adding for good measure, "I get first shower, bitch."
TBC