Summary: A school ghost gives Dean a detention.
Notes/Warnings: An excuse for gratuitous Dean whumping. No redeeming features whatsoever. Unbeta'd.
"Sam!" Dean called as the ghost of the schoolmaster materialised in front of him, "In here!" He stepped forward, meeting the ghost's calmly stern face with a determined look of his own. And perhaps a bit of eager anticipation at nuking a symbol of the teachers he'd hated so much when he was growing up.
A quick blast of rock salt and Dean was prepared to examine the room, look for any further information on the ghost in the time he had before it regrouped and re-materialised. He was not prepared for the ghost to re-materialise almost instantly behind him. The first he knew was when the shotgun was ripped from his hand.
"Sam!" he called again, spinning to face the ghost and reaching into his jacket to retrieve whatever was to hand. He could see Sam's shadow approaching the door but it slammed shut as his brother arrived and he could hear Sam's pounding and shouts.
The ghost remained calm, merely flicking an arm at Dean, a small movement that had the greater effect of pushing Dean back with an invisible force into the wall, pinning him there and paralysing his limbs.
The ghost glided closer, and without actually touching it, motioned the bottle of holy water Dean had retrieved away, sending it skittering across the floor.
"You are invited to stay," said the ghost with mild amusement. "It is therefore only polite to take off one's coat."
Dean was unable to stop his jacket from sliding off his arms to be carelessly discarded. "Yeah, well I don't accept your invitation, bitch," he spat out as he fought against the ghost's hold. "So give me my jacket back and let me go."
"You don't have a choice, boy. And this is in the way, I think it can go, too."
"Hey!" Dean protested against his shirt sliding off, leaving him in the cold house with just his thin tee. "You're not getting my pants, you pervert!" Not that he would be able to stop the ghost, but he needed to make his objections heard and perhaps give Sam information he could use.
The ghost smiled humourlessly as the straps holding Dean's normally hidden weapons undid themselves and fell to the floor. "Unlike some of my esteemed colleagues, I have no interest in seeking sinful gratification with little boys."
"Aw shucks and here I thought we were going to be such good friends." The sarcasm rolled off Dean's tongue as he tried to find a way out of this mess. "So what, you're just going to throw me off the cliff to get your jollies? Or maybe a sweet piece of hanging? I'd prefer a bullet to the brain myself."
The ghost looked pityingly at Dean. "You are here because you've been bad. My role in this institution is to take recalcitrant boys such as you and teach them the error of their ways, punishing them for all the wrongs they have wrought. Unfortunately, some boys cannot live with the guilt of what they have done and the small punishments that I administer are insufficient to assuage that guilt.
"With a little help, I'm sure. So, do you have any particular wrongs in mind? Just to check we're on the same page and all?"
The ghost's mild countenance became cruel then. "I see you have many things that need addressing, boy. I do believe that this will be a very long detention."
The wall that Dean was pinned against suddenly moved and he found himself tumbling down a set of stairs with a yell.
Sam had only time for a quick glimpse of the ghost before the door slammed shut in his face. The spirit looked exactly like the illustrations they'd found in the library; a tall, thin, ascetic man with a certain cruelty about him, dressed impeccably in a mid nineteenth century black suit.
He tried to open the door, attempting to use his shoulder first, before taking trying to kick it in, which didn't quite work as well with his sneakers as it did with his brother's heavy boots. Calling out to Dean as he worked, mentally recording every word he could make out, Sam took the bullet filled pistol from the back of his jeans and tried to shoot the lock out.
When the door still failed to open, Sam considered running outside to see if he could gain entrance to the room through the window; it was after all on the ground floor, but before he could take more than a couple steps, Dean gave a startled cry and the door gave a quiet click as it gently swung open.
Shotgun poised to fire, Sam nudged the door open further and slid inside scanning for any activity in the room at all. It soon became apparent that there was absolutely none.
A pile of fabrics in one corner turned out to be Dean's shirt and jacket and probably most of his armoury, but of the man himself there was no sign. Sam called Dean's name, hoping but not expecting to hear anything in return as he examined the window. The catch had long since rusted shut and the window didn't seem to have been opened in decades.
If Dean hadn't left by the door or the window, then logically there must be some other egress from the room because unlike demons, ghosts could not transport anything solid through other solid objects. The EMF Meter was as silent as it had been when they had swept the building the previous morning, although Sam's camera thankfully didn't pick up any blood.
Searching the entire building and going back to search that room again, Sam did not give up looking for his brother until well past daybreak.
Only when the ghost had Dean where he wanted him, did Dean regain the use of his limbs. From the stairs he'd fallen down and the bumps and bruises he'd sustained marking every step, he was in a small sub basement with one other door aside from the entrance which was marked Water Closet.
The room was bare with just two desks and chairs facing each other. One was a heavy plain wooden table upon which lay bright against the dark wood, a heavy pale cane. The desk to which Dean was bound was an old fashioned tilted writing desk, complete with paper and pencil. Dean himself was seated on a stool before the desk, his ankles tied to the desks front legs and his left wrist tied over the top of the desk to the rear left leg. Shaking out the residual numbness after his fall from his free right hand, and with no sign of the ghost, Dean immediately set about pulling the knot at his right ankle free.
A loud crack made Dean jump an instant before sharp pain shot up his left arm. "Son of a bitch!" he tried to pull his abused hand towards him, but the rope prevented it. The cane came down again and Dean tried to block it with his right which met an invisible wall before it ever got close, and the cane hit the back of his left hand a couple of inches back from the first strike that already had his fingers already swelling.
"Jesus H! What th-!" And the cane came down again on his wrist, just behind the rope that bit into the flesh as he pulled harder against it, trying in vain to grasp the cane, the ghost, anything. "Bitch! Your ass is mine, I'll - !"
"Stop." The ghost was calm, yet commanding. "Unless you wish me to continue."
Leaning forward, his right hand trying to cradle his violently throbbing left, Dean bit back the abuse he wanted to hurl at the ghost, clenching his jaw with a grunt. He needed to learn about the ghost and find a way to finish it.
"You see?" said the ghost pacing between the desks. "You have remarkable self-control when you apply yourself. Now, boy, can you tell me why you deserved those three strokes?"
Not trusting himself to unclench his jaw, Dean shook his head. Instantly another crack reverberated round the room, and Dean was on his feet again over the desk, his adrenaline spiking as he tried to protect his abused arm. Except this time there was no blast of pain. The cane had simply hit the desk.
"I see we must establish the rules that I will enforce whilst you remain in this room. The first strike was for attempting to free yourself. You must realise that you deserve to be here. If you had not been so wicked, you would not be here. You will be freed when your lesson is learnt boy, and not a moment before. Is that clear?"
"Sure, whatever rocks your boat, man," Dean ground out, his hatred for this ghost already rocketing. Another loud crack as the cane hit the desk made him jump.
"Respect, boy. You will show me respect at all times. You will not use expletives, you will not speak out of turn, and you will address me as 'Sir'. Do you think you could manage all that?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but figured that he had to play the game for now at least. "Gonna be a tough one, but I'll give it my best shot. Sir," he said, though he couldn't prevent the insolence in his tone.
The ghost nodded slightly. "And will your best even come close to being good enough, I wonder?" he looked at Dean speculatively. "Still, do you know your Ten Commandments, boy?"
"Yes sir!" Dean grinned, thinking that the ghost probably wouldn't appreciate the reasoning behind John's lessons to his sons in theological and mythological texts.
"Stop!" the ghost said as Dean started to recite them. "I did not request a demonstration. You have been struck for blasphemy, and I will not hesitate to strike you again if you should blaspheme again. This rule applies to any of the first four Commandments. And I think, for your lesson, we shall examine the other six as they relate to you."
"Ah, this is such crap." Dean muttered, and the loud crack only made him flinch this time, right before the wave of pain hit him from where the cane had hit further up his forearm.