Shadows From the Dim Hereafter

By: CoffeeManiac

Not Slash. Rated T for some mature content.

Warnings: Violence. Hints at sensitive subject matter. Lots of HurtSam. Some HurtDean. This story is not labeled as horror, however, towards the end, there are a couple of short, but fairly gruesome descriptions so, please be prepared.

Part 3

When Sam found consciousness again, he wished it had stayed away longer. He was nauseous with a blinding headache that forced him to keep squinting against the meager light. Something cool lay over his head and he felt hands rubbing his arm.

"Wake up, Sam. Come on, honey," a female voice cooed.

It only took a moment to understand that he wasn't with his family. The woman was June and she sounded worried.

"Can you talk to me?" she asked.

"I'm okay," he pushed out over a dry throat.

"I'm so sorry."

"Did you hit me?" Adrenaline surged up causing his head to explode in pain and he squeezed his eyes closed again.

"You wouldn't stop fighting. Derek…"

"…killed that girl," Sam said.

"No. I mean, yes, but it wasn't a girl. It was a shapeshifter, Sam. He was working."

"What? No, it was…she looked just like…"

"Well, they do, don't they? They look human but they're not. It had already killed that girl and taken over her life. Derek confirmed it beforehand, of course."

Before Sam could muddle his way through her words, Derek appeared above him wearing a weak smile.

"Hi there," he greeted. "How's your head?"

"You brought a monster home to kill?" Sam asked, disbelieving.

Sounding much less friendly, Derek asked. "You're still doubting me?"

Sam shifted on the bed in the guest room. He pushed himself up and the washcloth over his forehead fell to his lap. June snatched it away, folded it and put it in the bowl of water. Sam noticed peripherally but he was watching Derek.

"You don't trust me, Sam, is that it?"

"Why did she have a suitcase? Why was she holding your hand?"

"I had to get her here. She had to think I trusted her. And you're really telling me that you're a hunter but you couldn't see that she was a 'shifter? I mean, I know you're young, but do you pay attention to anything John teaches you?"

"Shapeshifters look human. There's no way to tell unless you cut them with silver."

"Okay, Sam, you're obviously the expert here."

"Derek, calm down," June said. "He thought he was helping."

"He thought I was murdering someone," Derek shot back and stomped out of the room.

Sam put his head in his hands. He figured he must have a concussion because the pain was so intense and his stomach kept rebelling. June nudged him forward and sat down just behind and to the side of him. She started rubbing his back with strong hands that soon moved lower. Sam sighed. The massage felt good and it was helping with the tension running through him. When her hand slipped under his t-shirt, her warmth touched him and Sam shifted when his body started having an inappropriate reaction. He pushed away from her, hoping the blanket covered his indiscretion.

"I'm sorry. Am I hurting you?" she asked, softly.

"It's okay, just, uh, I want to sleep for a little while."

She took her hand away from his skin and patted his shoulder. "Of course. I'll check on you in a couple of hours. I really am sorry for knocking you out."

Sam frowned at that. "Why did you?"

"You were attacking Derek," she answered simply.

"Yeah, but, all you had to do was tell me what was going on. He'd already stabbed the 'shifter. It wasn't going anywhere."

"Well, it all happened very quickly, didn't it?" She smiled as she slid her ponytail from around her hair then replaced it.

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded but he didn't feel any better about what happened. June patted his knee as she left him alone.

"Kind of touchy, feely," Sam said aloud then curled over on to his side to go back to sleep.

He woke some time later thinking he hadn't been sleeping for long but his head felt better and his stomach had settled. With his mind clearer, he looked up at the ceiling and wondered what Derek meant when he said that it was possible to spot a shapeshifter without running the silver test on it. He was sure he'd never heard of that before but Derek seemed sure.

He thought about what he had seen as he stood on the patio watching the girl and Derek. She had been smiling and clutching her suitcase. Derek had been smiling too as he took her hand. Sam hadn't noticed any behavior from either one of them that hinted at the violence that was about to happen. Sam could still hear her squeal when Derek drove the knife in.

The first stab had knocked it down.

He remembered when Dean stabbed one and missed the heart and it had reared up with a punch that sent his brother flying three feet. Sam wondered why this one had crumpled.

He moved gingerly from the bed to find his cell. Wearing just boxers and a white t-shirt, he wondered which one of them had undressed him. He decided not to think about it.

He wanted to call Dean and ask him about the shapeshifter, but the sweats he had been wearing were not in the room and he couldn't find the phone. He was confident he had left the phone in his pocket. Irritated, Sam went into the closet, pulled out his last clean pair of jeans and slipped them on. He opened the bedroom door and headed into the living room. He was surprised that it was dark outside.

He padded his way into the kitchen where he hoped to find June. He didn't really want to see Derek and, in any case, didn't think the other man would have his phone.

The plush carpet beneath his feet felt soft, much nicer than the flooring in hotels. He turned into the kitchen where his luck continued its spectacular run.

"Hi Derek," Sam said.

Derek looked up from the computer screen in front of him.

"I'm looking for my cell. Do you know where it is?"

"Now you think I'm a thief?"

Sam put his hands up reflexively. "Uh, listen, Derek, I'm sorry about before. I didn't understand what I was seeing and then just a, a, massive headache, okay? I never meant to accuse you of anything."

"You sure? Cuz your dad trusts me. A lot of other hunters out there think I'm pretty good at what I do."

"I'm sure. If we can just…start over, okay?"

Derek leaned back with his arms crossed.

"Yeah, all right, Sammy. I don't want to tell your dad that I'm mad at you. I just can't have you getting in the way during a hunt and making it sound like I'm a killer or something."

Sam bristled. He was getting tired of the threats from Derek about running to Dad with everything. Obviously Derek thought Sam was a rotten hunter and a worse son but he didn't need to keep mentioning it.

"We'll let it go for now," Derek said. "Sorry though, I don't know where your phone is."

Sam nodded, disappointed. He really wanted to call Dean.

"Do you want to use mine? We don't have the house phone connected anymore."

"Thanks. If I can't find mine, I'll take you up on it. Do you know where June is?"

"Went to the store. She'll be back in an hour or so."

"Thanks. Um, I'm going to take a shower and go for a walk. Maybe grab some food."

"It's almost nine o'clock at night, Sam. Too late for a minor to be wandering around the city. There's a plate for you in the refrigerator."

"I'll be fine. I'm pretty self-sufficient so…"

"I said 'no', Sam. Eat what June left for you and go watch TV or read a book or something. Nobody wants you lurking around outside again."

Sam had had enough of getting needled. "I wasn't lurking last night and I'm not under house arrest. Use your phone to call my dad and tell on me if you want but I'm going out."

Derek shoved away from the table, his face turning red as his mouth turned into a snarl. With hands clenched into fists at his side he took a menacing step forward. Sam stood still, planting his feet and preparing to defend himself. His heart pounded loudly as he wondered how he'd fare against a body-building hunter.

"Don't test me, Sam."

Sam cocked his head a little and clicked his tongue. He didn't want to give in. Every part of him wanted to push this and prove that he wasn't under the control of another person. But, then what? He couldn't help asking himself what he'd do after the inevitable fight. Pushing, not knowing when to back down is what landed him in this situation.

Schooling his emotions, Sam shook his head. Anger still pumped through him with a generous helping of resentment but he fought it back.

"Fine. I'll stay in," he said softly, barely able to get the words out since they went against everything inside him.

"Good choice," Derek said, danger hinting around the edge of his words.

Sam spun around to leave when he remembered his phone. Taking a guess that June would leave it in the laundry room where she probably took his clothes he headed in that direction. He half-expected Derek to call him back but that didn't happen. Sam looked around the washing machine and the shelves but didn't find the phone. Hoping he was wrong he opened the washer where he recognized his black sweats amidst a bunch of other things. He pulled them out, hearing the clatter before he checked the pocket with a groan. His cell was sopping wet and clearly ruined. Sam rubbed his forehead in defeat. There was no way he was going to ask to use Derek's phone and now he couldn't go out and replace the ruined one.

Clutching the dripping cell, Sam made his way back to the guest room. He had been spending so much time there he was starting to feel claustrophobic. And now that he was back, he remembered that he was hungry. He flopped back on the bed and hoped that his father and Dean would return to pick him up soon.

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Sam woke up disoriented. It took a couple of minutes to focus on his surroundings and remember where he was. The faint glow of street lights filtered through the sheer curtain in the room. When a car drove by outside, the headlights illuminated the ballerina nightshade and Sam remembered everything.

Still dressed and lying on his back, he felt the damp chill brought on by rain. He rubbed his eyes then glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was after two in the morning. His stomach had woken him, demanding to be fed. He sat up, shoved his hair out of his face and headed back to the kitchen. The trek back and forth seemed like the only thing he had been doing since his arrival.

June and Derek had bedrooms on the same side of the house as the guest room so Sam flipped the kitchen switch on without fear of waking them. He squinted as the room lit up. Keeping one hand above his eyes to protect them against the overly bright light, he opened the refrigerator door. Sitting on the second shelf was a foil covered plate. Sam pulled it out and set it on the counter. As his vision adjusted he pulled off the foil to find another old chicken thigh with aged white rice. There was no vegetable this time. Sighing he popped the plate into the microwave.

Setting it for two minutes Sam wondered if they kept any snacks in the house. He started opening cupboards hoping to find a bag of chips or something. But, all he found were cans and dry goods, nothing to munch on.

The microwave beeped so Sam retrieved his dinner and sat down at the kitchen table. He scarfed down the chicken first then polished off the rice. Both were mostly tasteless and he was still hungry. Remembering the loaf of bread they had used to make sandwiches, Sam snatched the bag out of the wooden bread box. He re-found the peanut butter and made himself two sandwiches. Then he poured some milk and ate the second round of dinner.

Sated and restless, he put his plate in the sink, swiped the bread crumbs off the counter and dumped them in the trash. He grabbed a can of pop out of the refrigerator and started back towards the guest room to read.

He made it two steps when he heard something. Unable to identify it, he stopped to listen. A moment later the sound came again. Soft and high-pitched, someone was crying. Sam's first thought was that June was upset. Sam walked slowly back towards the kitchen then after a few steps, hesitated. He didn't want to embarrass her but he was curious. And maybe he could help. He kept going, keeping his footfalls soft figuring he could check on her then decide what to do after that.

He made it through the door and peered across the threshold into the laundry room. He stopped, eyes widening and heart picking up with a jolt at the sight that greeted him. Standing in front of the patio door and fumbling with the slide lock stood a young woman. Her back was to Sam but he could see stringy hair hanging down her back. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders with bare legs visible beneath it. He gasped audibly and she made a squeaking noise as she spun around. She turned back quickly, scrabbling at the lock and crying harder.

Sam swallowed hard as he moved toward her slowly. He kept his hands out, one empty, one holding a pop can and tried to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I can help you," he said.

She didn't respond in words but her panicked sobs grew louder until she finally popped the lock open and shoved the glass door across its track. She spilled out on to the patio, falling to her knees with a grunt.

"Wait, its okay," Sam said, darting forward.

Derek's voice broke above the sound of the wind and the girl's crying.

"What's going on?"

"She…she needs help," Sam answered and pointed to where the woman was kneeling and staring back at them with liquid eyes and hitching breath.

She clutched the blanket around herself but didn't get up.

"Damn it, Sam," Derek said, then to the girl. "Don't move."

Confused but starting to catch up with events, Sam turned sideways to get both the girl and Derek into view.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Neither he nor the girl noticed June until it was too late. She must have come up the steps from the outside because when Sam saw her she was on the patio deck wielding a bat. Her swing was true and she hit the girl in the back knocking her flat.

"No," Sam yelled out before he felt an arm close around his neck.

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Dean shoved his phone back in his pocket with a scowl. He felt his father's eyes on him but didn't say anything. He could guess the reception he'd get if he said he was worried about Sam.

The kid had only been out of their sight for a day and a half and Dean had spoken to him within that time. There was no reason to worry just because his cell phone went straight to voice mail.

Dad would tell Dean to get his mind back on the job and not to think so much about Sam. He'd say the kid was safe with trusted people and if anything was wrong, either Derek or June would call. He'd say that Sam was nearly an adult and did not need to be hovered over.

Even though Dean hadn't given his father a chance to say any of those things, Dean was still irritated. After all, Dad was the one who put Dean in charge of keeping Sam safe. If his father didn't want him to do the job right then he shouldn't have assigned the task to him.

Night had fallen in Watertown and it was time to break into the estate and try to draw the ghost out. The lingering energy from an adolescent girl named Leslie Bartholomay was their most likely suspect. In 1885, Lesley had just hit puberty when she fell down the steps inside the estate and broke her neck. Some early coverage of the accident suggested that she had been pushed by her stepmother. The police never confirmed it or made an arrest but, the stepmother, Rebecca, insisted that Lesley's ghost had tried to kill her. Rebecca died two years after Leslie and legend said her heart had stopped from fright.

Leslie's father interred his young daughter's bones in a crypt on the estate property where he and other family members eventually joined her. Then in 1974 the Watertown Historical Committee arranged to have the estate and grounds protected and turned the whole thing into a museum. For this reason, Dad didn't want to burn the girl's body unless they were certain that she was the ghost. Destroying a city tourist attraction and inviting arrest was too big a risk if they were wrong about the spirit's identity.

Breaking into the house, looking around and antagonizing the ghost to draw it out were necessary actions. Destroying the mortal remains of a twelve year old wasn't, at least not yet.

Dad called to Dean who was lingering near the trunk of the car. He followed his father up the cobble steps to the front door then picked the lock while Dad stood watch. Getting in was easy and they'd already disabled the alarm. Now if they could draw the ghost out, identify it and escape without being killed, they'd be all set.

Dad entered first with his sawed off loaded with iron rounds. Dean followed him in with his own rifle. He had made it himself when he was a teenager and it still worked perfectly.

In 1998, a young couple named Gary and Angela Milan purchased the estate from the historical society with the understanding that they could renovate but not change the historic value of the property. The attacks started about two months into the remodel. First a carpenter lost three fingers when an electric saw flew at him from across the room. Then a plumber found himself skewered through the abdomen by a lead pipe that acted like a missile. The last victim was the new owner. According to Gary Milan, he was tossed head first down a flight of stairs. His pretty wife, Angela, told them that he'd been attacked when he attempted to move an antique grandfather's clock.

The clock had belonged to Leslie's father and after studying some old photographs taken during renovations, Dean pointed out that the clock hadn't moved in more than a hundred years. If they were right about Leslie then there was a good chance that she liked things left the way they were.

Dad told Dean he intended to move some things around until he got a reaction. Dean's job was to protect his father.

"You ready?' Dad asked at the base of the stairs.

"Yes, sir," Dean answered, lowering the shotgun into position.

His father led the way up the main stairwell. Beautiful maple banisters curved in a slight angle on either side of the covered steps. A flat, navy colored rug wrapped down the middle from top to bottom. Wallpaper of blue flowers swirled in gray and silver over a burgundy background surrounded them on all sides. The wood creaked and groaned under their weight until they reached the top where the grandfather clock stood. About seven feet tall and built of dark wood, it had a huge round face with gold numbers painted in a swirling pattern. Long gold pendulums hung in the center of the case. Dean whistled softly at the art and mechanics of it.

Dad glanced back at him, waited until Dean was off the steps and then pushed the clock towards the edge.

"I'm going to shove it down the stairs," he said.

Dean knew he wasn't planning to do that but they both figured the ghost would object to the destruction of the clock.

"Destroy it," Dean said. "It's just an old piece of junk."

His father pushed slightly harder so the base of the clock hung a couple of inches over the edge.

"Just a little further," Dad said.

Dean felt the air change, like the feeling just before a lightning strike. A moment later the temperature plummeted and he could see his breath in the air.

"Dad."

"I know."

His father moved behind the clock, away from the steps. Dean turned in a slow circle looking for the spirit. She appeared directly in front of him with a mighty scream that made Dean want to cover his ears. Instead, he fired into her image with an iron round and she dissipated with another anguished cry.

"It's her, it's Lesley," Dad said.

He pushed the clock back on to solid ground just as she came back. She didn't attack him though. She swept past him and barreled into Dean. Dean managed to pump out another round but not before she tossed him several feet down the hall. He landed hard with a jarring thump that knocked the shotgun out of his hands. He heard Dad's running steps just before his father grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet while Dean scrabbled to pick up his weapon. He managed to get it into his hands when they were both struck from behind. It felt like a gust from a hurricane-strength wind and sent them tumbling.

Dad recovered first, still on the floor, he spun towards the spirit and blasted her again. Dean gripped his arms as Dad gripped Dean and they both stumbled to their feet and ran towards the stairs. His father was in the lead and about halfway down when the spirit slammed into them again. Dean grabbed for the banister in an attempt to keep from falling. The spirit lifted him slowly and while Dean yelled out in frustration, she dumped him over the edge.

The six foot drop ended with a jarring thud. He only vaguely heard the next shotgun blast and his father calling his name. Ears ringing and shoulder throbbing, Dean struggled to get up. He couldn't get his limbs coordinated as he rolled on to his knees. Shaking his head, he tried to force himself up but knew he was moving too slowly. Then he felt his father's hand dragging him up again. He stumbled along as he was tugged out the front door and down the porch steps.

"Are you all right?" Dad asked but Dean wasn't sorting all the words. "Dean! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah," he pushed out, not certain it was true.

"Come on, son, shake it off. We have to burn her bones."

His father trotted off towards the mausoleum and Dean stumbled after him. Even with the alarms to the property disabled there was always the possibility of security guards, a stray police patrol or even an overzealous employee. Leslie might take exception to having her earthly remains incinerated too. In any event, he knew that Dad needed back up.

Head ringing and eyesight blurry, Dean just followed instinctively knowing that he would be able to take care of his aches and pains in a couple of hours.

His father popped the lock on the mausoleum door just as Dean reached him. They entered quickly and closed the door behind them to keep their presence secret.

"Here we go," Dad said.

The caskets were laid side by side by side and each one was labeled. Leslie had been the first to be interred. Since she still resided in her original box, it only took a moment to break through the rotting wood. All that remained of the twelve year old was rotting bones and a disintegrating dress. Dad sprayed her thoroughly with lighter fluid while Dean tried to concentrate on guarding him. His mind kept drifting though as did his vision.

When the cold air turned chillier and the energy electrified around him, Dean wasn't prepared. Like getting caught in a wind tunnel he felt the air hit him and he flew into the wall of the crypt. He felt the bounce and then the fall. He scrambled up to his knees, reaching for the sawed off that he dropped again. He heard the blast from his father's gun and then the flare as Leslie burst into flames, both her bones and her spirit. She screamed her anguish before she disappeared.

"What the hell, Dean," Dad chastised him.

Dean didn't respond. His mind wasn't willing to supply an answer.

Then he felt his father picking him up again, wrapping an arm around his waist and leading him back to the car. Dean thought he might be talking but whatever his father was saying, the words were lost in his garbled mind.

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