Summary: When a ghost isn't just a ghost… The normal methods aren't working for Sam and Dean.
Disclaimer: Not mine… Duh.
Dean moved forward, his gun at the ready, shoulder height. The pistol was hardly reassuring since he knew how little good it would do in this instance. Sam, a few feet behind him, would have better luck with the crossbow he was carrying.
"Remind me why I'm here again?" Dean whispered.
"Cause you're a humanitarian," Sam answered, barely paying attention to him. Dean could practically see his brother frowning in concentration as they continued to move through the house room by room.
"That's funny. I'm pretty sure you called me an anti-social bastard just yesterday." Dean held his breath and swung around a corner, letting it out again when he found the long hallway empty.
"Fine. You're a closet humanitarian."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"An anti-social bastard who helps people he can't stand. Now shut up or it'll hear us," Sam snapped.
"Like it matters. It can smell us before we get within 200 yards," Dean said, pausing while he glanced into one of the open doors along the hall and then moving toward the next.
They continued their slow search down the hall until it finally opened into the wide high-ceilinged central room of the home. An enormous fireplace stood along the back wall, a semi-circle of overstuffed sofas and chairs around it. In the center of the room stood a man, casually dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater, watching them almost dispassionately. He was tall and dark-headed with sharp features, vaguely GQ looking.
The man remained perfectly still as they moved into the room, their weapons trained on him, and Dean nearly snorted. Sam was half right. He was a humanitarian, but only in the sense that he didn't really like things that weren't human. And this guy, still watching them patiently from where he stood, he wasn't human.
They were staying at 'Pleasant Hollow Bed & Breakfast' because of a newspaper article saying the owner had been attacked. The man claimed to have shot the unknown assailant repeatedly, but only succeeded in frightening him away.
It had only taken Sam and Dean a few shots the night before to verify that the owner wasn't lying or crazy. And it had only taken a minute or two after that to figure out it was a vampire. For something their father had thought extinct, there did seem to be a thriving little population. The guy had quickly decided he'd wandered into the wrong rec room and run for it. He was back now though, looking cool and collected.
"I'm not here for you," the man said, his voice loud and echoing in the wide space.
"Don't really care who you're here for," Dean replied, still easing farther into the room. "Can't let you kill anybody. Just one of my quirks."
The man tilted his head to one side, studying them. His eyes traveled from Dean to Sam and then back to Dean. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Glad to hear it. I don't want to be hurt." Dean moved to the side, slightly separating himself from Sam, and the vampire's eyes tracked him instead of Sam. Interesting. Especially since Sam was the one with the crossbow. The guy had to be able to smell the dead man's blood on the bolt. Even Dean could smell the rancid stuff.
The vampire had yet to move even a muscle. There was something about the way he held himself though. Dean could tell he knew how to fight. More than that. Here was a hunter and not just because of what he was. He'd had training. Professional training. Great.
And the vampire was still watching him. Which meant he'd decided that even though Dean was only carrying a gun and not the poisoned crossbow, he was still the bigger threat.
"Where is Andrew? I know he's here somewhere. I can smell him," the vampire said, his expression one of distaste. He began slowly moving toward one side angling closer to them.
Andrew was the owner. He had hopefully locked himself in his room like they'd told him to as soon as they'd heard movement downstairs. Dean didn't know what the vampire had against the man, but he clearly wanted him dead.
To be honest, Dean wasn't overly fond of the guy either. In fact he was pretty sure Andrew was a real ass. Last night, he'd screamed and yelled at them to get out, called them crazy. Dean was certain he'd been about to punch Sam at one point. It was only after they'd scared the vampire off for him that Andrew had begrudgingly given them a room. Yeah, he was a real sweetie-pie, but that didn't mean they could let something kill him.
With less than a second's warning, the vampire threw himself to one side behind a sofa, falling lengthwise, the sofa blocking Sam's shot. He was strong as an ox and the jump had placed his outstretched hands right at Dean's feet. Dean managed to fire once, but as expected it had almost no effect and with one quick tug to Dean's ankle, the vampire brought him down.
Dean cracked the back of his head on the hardwood floor, but managed to hold onto his gun. He rolled to the side trying to get away. The vampire was faster and grabbed his wrist and twisted, hard, pinching the nerve and forcing Dean to drop the gun. Two seconds later, he twisted harder, using his other hand to block Dean's elbow so it couldn't bend, then simultaneously pulled as he twisted. Dean cried out, the pop audible when his shoulder dislocated.
Nearly blinded by the screaming pain, Dean jerked away, falling to the floor, knowing he only needed a second for Sam to get a clear shot. He heard the twang of the crossbow firing, followed by a short grunt. The vampire fell to the floor beside him, the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest, the dead man's blood already working its way through his system.
Dean fought back the stars he was seeing and used his good arm to push himself to his feet and away from the vamp. He swayed and felt Sam grab him to keep him from falling. Dean looked up and realized Sam was talking to him, but his ears were ringing and he frowned trying to make sense of it. Holy crap, but his shoulder hurt. His head too now that he thought of it.
"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?"
Dean nodded as his hearing returned and the world around him stopped moving. "Yeah… yeah, I'm fine," he said, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, trying to ignore his dislocated shoulder, his arm hanging uselessly. They'd have to go to the ER. This wasn't Lethal Weapon and he wasn't Riggs, not that he would ever admit it.
Dean moved to stand over the vampire who was struggling to his knees, fighting the weakness caused by the poison. Dean kicked his gun out of the man's reach and pulled the knife from the long sheath attached to his belt, sitting horizontally along his lower back. It was closer to a machete, heavy, razor sharp and just right for the job.
"It didn't need to be this way," the vampire hissed. "This is your fault."
"It always is." Dean raised the machete high and brought it down putting his full weight behind the blow.
The end… Just kidding! More tomorrow.