Chapter Two: In Shadowy Depth

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Silent Hill!

A/N: Please note that there is a lot of confusion regarding Cybil Bennette and her ultimate fate in the games. Right now, the canon contradicts itself. So, I've decided to roll with it.

"Coming." Henry said simply in response to the knock at his door. He pushed his chair away from his desk after a cursory tidying of the papers there, and padded across the hardwood floor. He peered through the glass peephole and, realizing for the millionth time that Walter Sullivan was dead and had been dead for some time, opened the door.

"Henry Townshend?"

He eyed the man for a moment: despite the black suit and the red silk tie, there was a certain…gruffness to him. A sharp contrast to the neatness of his clothing and posture.

"That's me. How can I help you?"

The man reached into his jacket and retrieved a rectangular leather fold. He flipped it open to reveal a badge, "I'm agent Daniel Wilkes. FBI. I had a few questions about the Walter Sullivan murders."

Henry felt an icy chill run down his spine. He stepped back inside, hand on the doorknob, as he replied, "I'm sorry, but this really isn't a good time…"

"Perhaps I could come back in the morning?"

"I…I have an appointment."

"Son," Bobby said seriously, "I don't have time for games."

Henry swallowed hard, glancing around, before he pushed open the door and motioned for him to come.

"Take a seat." He said as he closed the door, bolting it.

"I just have a couple of questions." Bobby said as he pulled out a pen and pad.

"I thought…I had been cleared of suspicion." He said as he sat down.

"You have been."

"Then why are you here?" He asked.

There were two ways he could do this: he either needed to elaborate on a complex lie, or he needed to be honest. Years of hunting had given him one thing, at least, and that was intuition, he thought to himself. He knew a bleeding heart when he saw one.

"What if I said I believed your report?"

"I'd say you were either a liar or insane."

"So, are you lying? Or are you just crazy?" Bobby asked.

Henry shook his head, "I can't blame normal people for not believing it."

"I wouldn't exactly call myself normal." Bobby said, "We have a bit of an interest in your encounters with Walter Sullivan. Did he ever say why he wanted you or Eileen Galvin dead?"

"I don't really feel comfortable speaking about this."

"Let's talk off the record, then." Bobby said.

Henry eyed him for a moment, then nodded, "He mentioned something about twenty one sacraments. He said he wanted to wake his mother up. At first, I thought he was another mental patient. The area didn't have a great reputation, and I wasn't surprised. I didn't think he'd actually try anything, at first."

"These…sacraments. Did he say anything about them?" Bobby asked.

"Not to me." Henry replied, rising from his seat on the sofa and walking over to the desk, "But…this is going to sound strange."

"Try me."

"Joseph Schreiber did, or, at least, his ghost did."

Bobby glanced up at him, "That was never in your report."

"Can you blame me?" Henry responded.

"Can't say that I do."

The young man shook his head, "He said that he was trying to complete a ritual. He told me and Eileen that if we wanted to live, we needed to kill Walter Sullivan."

He looked up at Bobby, fear shimmering behind his otherwise emotionless mask, "Am I being charged with murder?"

"No."

"Are you here to cart me away? Do you think I'm dangerous?"

"I'm not here to do anything to you, son."

"Then why are you here at all?"

Bobby sighed, "Because I believe you."

"I don't believe myself," Henry whispered, as if to no one in particular, "Every day I wonder if I'm crazy…"

"Crazy people don't think they're crazy." Bobby responded lightly as he rose from his seat. He crossed the gap between them and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, "You aren't crazy. You and that Galvin girl survived everything you think you did."

He withdrew his hand suddenly, thanked the young man, and slipped out through the door. He passed an attractive young woman on his way out, who met with Henry Townshend on the balcony of the apartment. He watched them embrace in his rearview mirror as he pulled away.

The bathroom didn't prove to be much. If anything, Dean almost regretted being the first one in there. Sam might have been a bit of a bitch about showering, and had a frustrating habit of using up all the hot water, but the bathroom always looked better for his OCD-like ministrations.

Sighing, he stripped down, stepped into the tub and tried hard not to look too closely at the fuzzy green patches littering the porcelain. He stayed in long enough to wash his hair and that was it. He didn't even bother shaving.

Wrapped in a pitifully thin towel, he walked into the central room, dug a pair of shorts and a t-shirt out of his bag, and changed as quickly as he could. He settled down on top of the comforter, pulled a pillow over his face-trying hard not to think too much about where it had been or how long it had been since it was last washed-and closed his eyes.

He wasn't sure how long past, but eventually he was woken up by the sound of the lock whining as the door was opened. He sat up, raked his fingers through his hair, and asked Sam what he had wrangled for dinner.

The younger hunter didn't answer as he turned and set the plastic bag down on the table by the door. His eyes were downcast and his hair was draped over them.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" He asked, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I'm going to shower." Sam replied with eerie calm as he shuffled into the bathroom.

Dean shrugged, wrote it off as another night of sleepless research, and went for the cardboard box of food. Unthinkingly, he opened it as he peered into the other bag for a fork. He turned back, and suddenly felt the entire room spin.

He jumped to his feet, reaching for his gun. Licking his lips once, he swallowed hard in a desperate bid to keep bile down.

Sitting in front of him, neatly arranged, was Castiel's severed head. Blue eyes stared back at him, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

"You should have just said 'Yes,' Dean."

He spun hard on his heel, training his gun on Sam. The young man was wearing a white suit, covered in blood, and smiling viciously. He took a step forward, Dean pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed high into the air.

"Would you like me to humor you?" Sam smirked despite the smoking hole in his forehead, sounding eerily like…Lucifer…"Tell you it stung?"

It was like his hands had a will of their own: he dropped the gun, backing away, groping blindly for the door handle.

"It's too late, Dean." Sam, or Lucifer, smiled, reaching up. Nails bit into Sam's throat, blood gushing down the front of the already destroyed suit, "He can feel it all, you know. He's screaming now, begging for it to stop." He ripped his hand away, tearing flesh with it, "All you have to do to stop it is say one little word. Just say 'Yes.'"

A hand came down hard on his shoulder, and he gasped as he bolted upright. He nearly flung his younger brother, who, thankfully, had the presence of mind to push the gun Dean habitually kept by his right hand away before he tried to wake him.

"Dude," Sam told him, "Take it easy."

Dean exhaled long and slow, nodding.

Sam glanced at him once, to check for infected wounds or signs of fever, and, seeing none, didn't say anything else. They both had nightmares, and through some kind of intuitive mutual avoidance of the subject agreed that silence was the best way to handle it.

"Are you hungry? We have Italian."

He nodded, more out of pride than hunger, as he accepted the box Sam passed him. He opened it, and had the sudden urge to puke. But he couldn't let Sam see him shaken up…he's probably start in on some lecture about sleep or feelings or some bullshit…so he gritted his teeth and forced it down.

Sam, to his credit, didn't push it, even when he saw Dean swallowing without chewing and chasing every bite with warm beer. He kept his eyes on his screen of his laptop, peering over the top occasionally when he saw Dean's eyes flicker in a different direction.

"So," Dean eventually asked, "What did you get out of the Sheriff?"

"Nothing, really." He replied, "She seemed pretty skeptical about the whole thing."

The older of the two shook his head; he never understood how people could be so blind to the truth when it was literally lurking behind them, claws stretched towards their backs, screaming into the night.

"I called Bobby and asked him to do some research for me."

"Well, I guess we'll hang tight for a few more days, then." Dean said.

"I think we should check across the lake, too." Sam pushed his laptop towards his brother, "They've had some pretty weird crap going on over there, too."

"Weird how?" He asked as he pulled the machine into his lap.

There were three tabs open on the screen, and all of them were electronic journals. The first one was by a girl named Elle, and in his cursory glancing of it, it looked…annoying. The kind of e-journal that angsty tween girls wrote about. But as he scrolled down to the entries Sam had highlighted, he realized something strange was happening across the lake.

"They're all like that. And it gets even stranger: Deputy Wheeler was never heard from again, Elle Holloway moved into the southwest, and Alex Shepherd is being held in a mental institution. "

"Which one?"

"Brookhaven."

"Isn't that on the edge of town?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"I say we pay him a visit in the morning." Dean reached for his gun, checked the chamber, and reloaded it.

TBC