Disclaimer: I think these disclaimers are designed to make me depressed when I come to the cold realization that I don't own Supernatural. Oh yeah, I also don't own Advil or any of the guns listed below...in case you were seriously thinking of suing a poor 16 year old.
Betaed: Gina (We.Do.It.In.The.Dark.StageCrew), you rock. Thanks for taking on my "will you read this for me?" nagging with a heart. Your voice and continued support make this all worthwhile.
Summary: A vengeful spirit who kills by kissing it's victims finds a home in Applecreek, Ohio. What happens when it sets it's eyes on Sam?
Warning: This story is rated T for a reason. This chapter contains language.
modrocker423: Oh noes! I'm late...again! Ack, I'm truly sorry guys. I don't know what's gotten into me lately. I wrote this chapter in two parts, and for the life of me I could not get them to join together. But, I managed. It might have taken me like a week to figure out, but...hopefully it's worth it. Thanks to all the readers who have stayed with the story and have sent me reviews even though I'm persistantly late posting new chapters. Your support is A M A Z I N G!
"I give up!" Dean exclaimed irritably, pushing the large and dusty book entitled Grief: Coping With the Seemingly Uncopable away and leaning back in the wooden chair he was sitting in. He scrubbed a hand across his tired face before reaching for his cup of coffee and depressingly realized that it was empty.
"Quitting already? I didn't think you were the type to quit so easily, Dean," Sam mocked from his seat on his bed. He momentarily looked up from the blaring screen of the laptop to stare at his brother, who was leaning back in the wooden chair and tipping it precariously on it's back legs.
"Sorry that 700 pages of how to cope with grief isn't exactly riveting material for me," Dean grumbled. He righted the chair to it's normal four legs before getting up and stretching out his tight muscles.
"Apparently you've never been through college," Sam snarked, turning his attention back to the web page he was browsing.
"Thank you Captain Obvious," Dean retorted. He grabbed the duffle bag of weapons from the corner of the room and plopped down on his bed, laying the bag down in front of him. He opened the duffle and admired the mass of guns that needed to be cleaned. Without a moment's hesitation, he set to work.
Cleaning firearms was the second best way to relieve stress for Dean (the number one stress reliever being quite obvious). In a time where his life was far from simple, Dean relished in the fact that he could simply sit down and clean guns for half an hour. He looked forward to scrubbing off the dirt, gunshot powder, and blood that accumulated with ease on the barrels of the gun. Each firearm had a memory of some fight; when cleaned, those memories came back to Dean and granted him satisfaction for all the son of a bitches he and Sam had killed.
"So you finding anything interesting over there, college boy?" Dean asked, setting aside the now clean Beretta and picking up his M1911 Pistol. He disassembled it before swabbing the barrel with a cleaning cloth.
"I think so," Sam replied slowly, his brows furrowed in concentration. His eyes danced across the laptop screen as he continued to read an article.
"And when were you planning on sharing? After I read the 700 page novel?" Dean exclaimed indignantly, reassembling the M1911 Pistol and setting it aside.
"Maybe," Sam riposted, his mouth twitching slightly.
"Bitch. So what are you finding?" Dean questioned, setting to work on the sawed-off shotgun.
"Well, about six months ago Howard's wife, Marie, committed suicide. A first for Applecreek in over a decade," Sam stated, scanning further down the article.
"Does it say why?" Dean pressed, looking up momentarily from his cleaning to watch Sam and his search for answers.
"Yeah...she had her third miscarriage a week before the incident," Sam responded softly.
"No wonder she committed suicide. I mean, that's got to be rough," Dean muttered.
"Tell me about it. It says here that Marie took a shower before stealing her husband's razor and slitting her own wrists. Howard found her body when he returned home from work later that night," Sam said.
Cold realization started to settle in...
"Huh. So I guess we are dealing with a malevolent spirit," Dean stated, returning his attention back to the sawed-off shotgun.
"I don't get it though. Why would Marie want to seek revenge on her husband? I mean, it's not like he had anything to do with the miscarriages," Sam asked, rubbing his tired eyes.
"Maybe she felt that Howard did have something to do with the miscarriages...that it was his faulty genes or something," Dean suggested, finishing the sawed-off and moving to the Desert Eagle.
"Yeah, maybe," Sam replied, closing the laptop and looking over at the alarm clock on the bedside table, surprised that it only showed ten o'clock at night. It felt like he had been working far longer than just a couple of hours.
A low pulse of pain started to build up in Sam's head, making his skull feel as if it were on fire. His eyes ached from staring at the laptop screen for a long period of time.
Or so Sam thought.
A particularly nasty throb of pain brought his vision to a blur, the colors of the world morphing together. Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the oncoming vision, but it was to no avail. Snippets of the vision attacked him in a brutal assault that lasted less than a minute. First he saw a quick flash of a rifle, then another flash of a whisky bottle, and then darkness soon followed by the loud sound of a rifle being fired.
Sam froze, his muscles tensing with fear. Dean had been cleaning guns...what if he was careless and forgot to unload the ammo? But it was Dean, and he was never careless like that. What if the safety accidently switched off?
Sam didn't want to look...didn't want to ever open his eyes again. He was terrified of opening his eyes and finding the last remains that once made up his brother. He would not open his eyes, he just wouldn't.
"You ok?" Sam heard Dean ask, his voice sounding distant and muffled.
Relief swept through Sam faster than the speed of light. He opened his eyes and, ignoring the burn of the sudden light on his sensitive eyes, saw Dean staring at him concernedly as he methodically cleaned the Desert Eagle. Sam had to find his voice and clear his throat before saying, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little tired."
"Well, no time for beauty rest now, princess. We've got a grave to dig and a corpse to salt and burn."
Sam felt like shit. His head was under the assault of flashes of white hot pain, searing his brain with a vengeance. To make it all worse, he was already at the maximum amount of pain killers his body could healthily sustain.
Fucking Advil and their stupid overdose warnings...
Sam knew he should probably tell Dean about the flashes of the vision and the continuous headache, especially since more of the vision would surely follow. And just the general overall inability to shake this feeling that they weren't doing the right thing by digging up the grave.
The most sensible thing would be to tell Dean everything that was on his mind at the moment. And yet, he couldn't form the words to do so. It wasn't that he physically couldn't tell Dean everything; he just couldn't do it mentally.
Sam was raised in a world where sensibility often tied in with weakness, something their father never could really put up with. The only two sensible things to discuss were: what needs to be hunted and how to kill it. There was no time for emotional crap. It was all business, all the time.
Sam watched his brother from the corner of his eyes as he drove the Impala and mouthed the words to Blue Oyster Cult at the same time. Dean always seemed to be able to mask his uncertainty and fear with ease...to be able to hide it behind the layers of walls he had chosen to build.
Although it bugged the shit out of Sam to have to tear down those walls from time to time, maybe Dean had a good reason for building them in the first place.
Maybe it was time for Sam to start building his own walls...