This is a crossover with Friday the 13th, based on the released photo of Jared riding a motorcycle. I know very little about the movie, but I tried to incorporate all of it here.
Warning: there's a character in here that a lot of people don't like, please keep reading once you reach her name! She was included for a reason! LOL
Thanks to geminigrl11 for her editing skills, as always. Reviews welcomed.
Sam hated camping, always had. It might have had something to do with the time his Dad had taken them out hunting for a ghoul, or those two nights he'd spent at age nine, huddled in a freezing cold tent waiting for Dad and Dean to come back from a banshee hunt, with only his then-new .45 to hang on to. Whatever the cause, Sam just plain hated camping.
Which made the case he was currently on particularly uncomfortable: he was checking out a string of violent murders a Camp Crystal Lake, outside of Blairstown, New Jersey. The police had no leads, but the killings followed a regular pattern--nearly always teenagers, all visitors to the camp, all within a ten-mile radius of the lake--and the few traumatized survivors had all described an "unstoppable monster."
The odd thing was that all the killings, while equally brutal, were quite often different in method. Some of the teens had been impaled, some had been beaten to death, some had their heads crushed...the only M.O. that was even remotely consistent was the frequent use of machetes. That wasn't much to go on, and Sam had exhausted every research angle he could think of and come up empty-handed.
He wished Dean was there to help him, but his brother was--
The sound of sirens cut off his line of thought. He glanced over his shoulder on the motorcycle he'd borrowed from Bobby's. It had been years since he'd ridden, borrowing friends' a couple of times at Stanford when other transportation wasn't available. Joshua had been the one to teach him to ride when he was sixteen. Over his Dad's and Dean's objections that motorcycles were too dangerous.
He pulled off the road, and waited for the sheriff deputy to approach him, noting the wary look on the older man's face. Locals PDs often distrusted strangers on sight.
"New around these parts, son?"
Sam put on his most congenial face. "Yes, sir. Was heading out to the lake."
"You have business out there?"
"Well," Sam hesitated, unsure which way to go with his cover. Dean was usually better at this part. "I, uh…."
"When did you come into town?" the deputy interrupted. "We've had some…trouble around here recently. Murders."
"Murders?" Sam asked incredulously. The deputy didn't look impressed. Sam made a show of relenting, dropping the kick-stand on his bike and killing the engine. "Okay."
The deputy visibly stiffened, so Sam smiled and shook his head, putting on his most earnest expression. "I'm looking for my sister."
"Yes, sir. Amanda Miller. She's missing," Sam added, knowing Amanda was still on the missing person's list after the latest string of murders. The lie had the desired effect, and the deputy relaxed.
"I thought her father had already come and gone?"
Sam snorted, drawing on years of experience in estranged familial relationships for his next lie. "Heh. My father is all too ready to write Amanda off. I'm the one who's been looking out for her."
The deputy's expression shifted, and Sam knew he was in. "He was a bit of a jerk."
Sam felt a pang of loneliness at the mention of "jerk," but shrugged it off. Dean was--
"So, what are you doing here, Mister--?"
"Oh, Clay. It's just Clay," Sam said, flashing his newly minted fake ID confidently. "I don't really use the family name, you know? I was hoping to look around, maybe find something about Amanda."
The deputy frowned, though his body language gad softened considerably. "You think you can find something that our people couldn't? Or the State Police? Or the FBI?"
Sam smiled faintly. "She's my little sister, I have to do something."
Almost true. Amanda was only eighteen. Sam watched the deputy roll the words over, and come to a decision.
"Well…the owners of the camp aren't coming up until next week, so there shouldn't be anyone there. The Feds have packed up and left. I'd suggest staying out of any area that's taped off. Just stay out of trouble, okay, Clay?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The deputy tipped his hat, then walked back to his car. That was too easy, Sam mused, his fake smile slipping. Setting the thought aside for the moment, Sam started the bike and resumed his trip.
Camp Crystal Lake looked like any one of a thousand similar summer camps across the country, with the generic log cabins, small canoes by a dock, an old barn apparently for storage and a main cabin with a reception area.
The buildings had been remodeled several times, and Sam had discovered during his research that every time a string of murders occurred here, the owners just renovated the whole area and erased all evidence of the deaths. The result was a hodge-podge of styles and construction techniques, with brand new log cabins sitting on decade old foundations over stone basements. The main cabin was two-stories in its current configuration. The barn was the oldest structure, and seemed to have changed the least. He wondered how long it would be before the owners descended on the area and started covering up the crimes this time. What kind of people would keep the place open at all?
Sam couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been here before, though he knew for a fact he had not. Heck, he and Dean had never been camping when it wasn't a hunt or survival training, and John Winchester preferred to conduct both of those activities in remote areas away from prying eyes. So, Sam had never been to this camp, he was certain.
He shook off his discomfort and parked the motorcycle near the entrance on the main road. Police tape was stretched around several places, linked by trees and sign posts. Sam stepped over it, adjusting the weight of his shoulder bag. All of the identified bodies had been taken to the local coroner, but three of the kids were still missing, leaving only their belongings and the reportedly psychotic ravings of the one girl that survived the killings.
She'd described a large man, wearing some kind of mask, who was nearly unstoppable. She'd only gotten away by driving an axe into the man's head, and even then, he'd kept going for a few moments.
That hadn't helped Sam much, since none of the eye witness reports from the previous cycles matched up. The first survivor in 1980 said it was a woman, the next few claimed a man. The reports of the male killer were more common, even though the descriptions grew more incredible, distorted and grotesque as the years passed. Sam didn't know much beyond the fact that he was looking for something that looked human and seemed male.
Yeah, that's helpful….
Sam circled the perimeter of the camp once, scanning for EMF, then headed toward the lake. The lake had figured prominently in most accounts, though the details were confusing. The water looked natural enough, but looks could be deceiving.
The small wooden dock was old, but stable enough to walk on. As he reached the end, the EMF meter in his hand went crazy, emitting a constant whine, the needle buried. The red lights lining the top of the device, normally flashing, were burning brightly. Whatever was going on here, the lake definitely seemed to be at the center of it. The readings were off the scale. The last time it had acted like this was when Dean had found that pagan god in Indiana. The memory made Sam wish his brother was here with him, but Dean--
The EMF meter clicked off so abruptly that he flinched. That's never happened before…. He tapped the side, then shook it. Nothing. The batteries were good. Sam frowned. It had apparently overloaded. Sam stared at it for a moment, before pocketing the now-useless device.
He crouched down, staring into the murky water. It was a calm day, and Sam could see his reflection in the mirror-like surface. He reached out and dipped his hand in. It was chilly, even on a warm day like this, but Sam left his hand in and tried to open himself up. He hadn't tried it very often, but occasionally, his psychic abilities let him feel bad vibes. It was worth a shot, at least.
Sighing, Sam withdrew his hand, wiped it on his jeans and walked back toward the main entrance. He was getting nowhere fast. He wasn't keen on staying overnight in a place like this, it creeped him out. Sam had held out a small hope of getting this job done during the day, but that no longer seemed like an option.
He moved resignedly to the entrance, and rolled the motorcycle through the small chicken wire gate. He'd store it in the barn and set up shop in one of the cabins. There was nothing else to do except wait for nightfall, and see what crazies came out to play.
The main cabin, despite its rustic exterior, was quite modern inside. The first floor had a large living room-style reception area and up-to-date television, stereo, and DVD entertainment center. A glassed-in cabinet nearby held a small collection of DVDs, CDs and books. A short hall led to a well-stocked kitchen and dining area, which might have been more appealing had there not been police tape and the outline of a female body near the stove.
Upstairs were three bedrooms, a large bathroom, and another den.
Sam settled in on the second floor, in the bedroom directly in front of the stairs. It didn't appear to have been touched by the recent bloodshed. Sam used every protection he could think of to fortify the room, not knowing what he might need to shield himself against. He laid salt lines by the door and windows. Drew devil's traps on the floor. Laid cats' eye shells at the four corners. Even set up a trip-wire at the door frame, hooked to a shotgun mounted at the foot of the bed.
John Winchester did have good ideas.
Once everything was set up, he lined up his weapons on the floor and pinned up his research, keeping the laptop and a sawed off shotgun on the bed. He might as well brush up on all the evidence while waiting for…whatever. Sam just hoped this wasn't a wild goose chase.
The articles and reports looked the same as they had hours earlier. Nothing new jumped out at him as he scanned over the words for the tenth time. Night had finally come, and the camp became eerily quiet. The birds that chirped incessantly while the sun was up were gone, and even the insects were still. Nothing moved outside. Sam switched off between sitting on the bed in his moonlit room, and standing watch at the window.
Sitting on the bed, while restful for his feet, didn't do much else for him. He was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. It felt like he hadn't slept in days. Honestly, he was so tired but he could barely remember this morning, let alone the past few days. That bothered him for some reason, made him uneasy, but he couldn't place any reason for the feeling.
Not that sleeping was that attractive an option in this place, anyway, with an amped-up serial killer on the loose.
He sighed and pulled out his cell, scrolling down to Dean's number, but hesitated over the button. Sam hated feeling needy, but sitting on a bed in an empty cabin in the middle of the woods made him feel lonelier than ever. He didn't understand why Dean couldn't have come with--
A scrape on the stairs caught his attention. Dropping the phone back in his pocket, Sam grabbed the sawed off and headed to the door silently. Another scrape. Someone or something coming up the stairs. Sam flattened himself against the wall. The hallway was lit--as were all the cabins, being on a main circuit. Sam had turned down the lights that he could, leaving most of the upstairs and the living area below cloaked in darkness.
There was little point in a stakeout when the bad guys could see you.
He watched the light beneath his door, and saw a shadow form as whatever it was approached. When the shadow came close enough, Sam pounced.
Flinging the door open with his foot, Sam shoved his gun at his potential attacker--and stopped short. He found himself staring down the barrel of a chrome-plated 9mm. His eyes tracked up the arms to the face. Sam frowned, and found himself gaping.
The English woman arched an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised. "Sam. Fancy meeting you here. Do you mind?"
Sam blinked for a moment, then got what she meant and reluctantly lowered his shotgun. It took all the restraint Sam had to keep from clocking her with the butt of his shotgun. She was still at the top of the Winchester Shit List for…something.
Sam frowned. He should remember why he was so mad at her. What the hell was wrong with his head today? He shook off the confusion and tried to focus on Bela.
"What are you doing here?"
Bela smiled at him, too sweetly. "I could ask you the same thing, handsome."
Sam frowned at her elusiveness, but shook his head. This was going to blow his cover. They needed to get back into the--relatively--safe bedroom. "Get in. Were you followed?"
He received an annoyed frown in return. "I think you know me better than that…"
As soon as the door was shut, he wheeled on her. "What are you doing here? You're not a hunter."
"Stunning analysis, Sam," she smirked. "You're right. I am not, in fact, a hunter."
"I'm looking for something. I have a buyer very eager to own a certain occult artifact he believes will bring him power. More importantly, he's paying me a great deal of money to find and deliver this item."
Sam cocked his head in confusion. He didn't recall any kind of evidence left behind, besides the survivors themselves, that was related to the killer. Anything left behind had been collected by the authorities after each incident. Apart from a few dozen dead bodies and a swath of destruction to the camp buildings, there hadn't been much.
Bela was watching him, smiling smugly. "Why, Sam Winchester, have you not done your homework?"
He pointed to the piles of evidence he'd collected and sniffed haughtily. "I've looked over everything they had in the local news. Checked all the databases I could get into. I didn't see anything about occult artifacts being involved."
"Then you overlooked something," she cooed, pulling an envelope from her jacket. "Here."
Sam took the proffered envelope and dumped it on the bed. There were newspaper clippings from about thirty years before, very sketchy reports of a young boy, Jason Voorhees, drowning in the lake in 1957, and his grieving mother Pamela blaming the teenage camp counselors.
"I've seen these," Sam mused. "They explain the rumors that the first murders seemed to be committed by a woman, presumed to be the mother. They also lead me to think the other murders might be a vengeful spirit, but the EMF readings aren't right for that, and there are no reports of the usual electrical disruptions or EVP."
"Yes, all true," Bela nodded, stepping up beside Sam and uncovering the last item from the stack, a classified police report. "But, if you read this, you'll see something interesting."
Sam scanned the report. He hadn't seen this. "The first murders, in 1980…yeah, the girl cut Pamela Voorhees' head off with an axe, I--"
"Uh, police on the scene…whoa. The woman's head and some of her clothes were never recovered, apparently having been removed after the victim left the scene."
"Exactly," Bela said. "The head is still out here somewhere. And my client believes that it has a serious degree of mojo attached to it."
Sam listened, but kept reading. There was another report from a few months later. The victim who had killed Mrs. Voorhees was attacked by a large man with a sack on his head, but she got away from his shack in the nearby woods by-- Sam grimaced. "She got away by donning the clothes and pretending to be the man's dead mother?"
"While hiding the severed head behind her back," Bela finished. Sam looked up at her, the last part clicking.
"You want the head."
Bela smiled. Sam stared at her incredulously. "You don't seriously believe that head is still out here in the woods after all this time. At best it's only a skull by now."
She shrugged, "The skull will work fine."
"What does this buyer think owning the head--skull, whatever--will do?"
"I don't ask that many questions, Sam. I simply take the money and do the job."
"Great," Sam snorted. "So, you have no idea if it's even out there, no idea what it does, but you've already cashed the check."
"You seem to be on top of things," Bela smiled sweetly and started unpacking her bag on the chair beside the bed.
"Doesn't it ever bother you?" Sam asked, watching her. It wasn't worth mentioning that he never invited her to stay with him. Anger stirred within him at her nonchalant attitude. "You sell these things without any concern for how dangerous they are or who gets hurt."
She seemed to sense his growing hostility, "Look, Sam. I know we've had our differences--"
"You shot me!" he blurted out. The intensity of the outburst surprised even him. She had shot him over that damned rabbit's foot of all things. Sam would have every right to boot her out into the woods and be done with it.
"I grazed you," she snapped. "There's a difference."
Sam just glowered at her. Bela dropped her bag and sighed.
"You're right," she admitted. "I'm sorry."
Sam huffed, going through his line of defenses again to make sure they were all in place. He could feel her eyes on him while he moved.
He ignored her. Dean was right; you just can't forgive people when they shoot you. The thought of his brother made him pause. Dean wouldn't be happy if--
"Sam? Please. Look, we both have hunts to finish here, against something big and deadly. There's no reason we can't put aside our differences for one night, is there? Two heads are better than one, aren't they?"
Sam finished double-checking the trip wire, then sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I-- I guess so."
"Good," Bela smiled at him, dropping her coat at the foot of the bed and sitting by it. "I can take first watch, if you want to sleep."
Sam looked up at her skeptically, the desire for sleep warring with his better judgment, which was telling him not to trust her in any way. She read his hesitation easily enough.
"Unless you prefer passing out to sleeping, of course. Sam…you look exhausted."
He couldn't argue with that. "I'm just-- I'm so tired and I don't know why. It's like I haven't slept in days, but I know I have. I must have."
"Well, just lie down. Maybe tonight will be different."
Sam stared at her for a moment, then let the drowsy part of him win. He nodded, stripped down to his t-shirt and climbed onto the bed. He paused before his head hit the pillow.
"Wake me up if you see or hear any--"
"I have done this before, Sam," Bela sniffed in that superior way she had. "Besides, if this killer is half of what all those reports described, believe me, I have no wish to go up against it alone."
Sam nodded, accepting that, then let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh. Maybe tonight….
He stayed there, eyes shut, and was dismayed when sleep didn't come immediately. Sam relaxed his muscles, tried to regulate his breathing, hummed Metallica…nothing. A general sense of unease settled over him, and his eyes snapped open. The culprit was right there.
Bela was staring at him. Frowning, Sam shut his eyes again, thinking about how much fun leaving her in the woods would be after this was over. The room was quiet. He listened to his own breathing for a few moments. The pull of sleep still didn't take him. And that sense of--
He opened his eyes. Sure enough, Bela was still sitting there, still staring. He growled.
"Okay, what's the deal?"
"Hmm?" She sounded honestly confused.
"Why are you staring at me?!"
Bela smiled again. There was something predatory about it. "You can't blame a girl for gawking, Sam…."
Sam just blinked at her. "What?"
She slithered up the bed, coming to rest by his side, her hand sliding up his bare arm before squeezing his right bicep. He jumped at the unexpected contact.
"We can be adults about this, Sam. I've seen you looking, when you thought I wasn't…."
Sam stammered, trying to think of something to say. "Um-- I-- Uh, Bela--"
Bela moved closer, her hand moving off of his arm and sliding under his shirt. By the time his brain caught up with what was happening, she was tracing invisible patterns along the center of his chest.
"You're embarrassed, and that's incredibly endearing, Sam, but I really don't want to wait anymore."
"Wait?" Sam asked, struggling to focus even as the blood raced away from his brain. "Wait for wha--?"
Her lips attacked his, cutting off any further conversation. Sam was baffled at first, until his latent libido kicked in, and then he just went with it.
Sam blinked. He was pretty sure he hadn't fallen asleep, but things had changed. The moonlight had shifted across the room, the shadows were deeper than before. It was as if time had accelerated for a little while. Frowning, he sat up on the bed, looking around foggily.
He hadn't taken his shoes off, nor his jeans, thought they were open and pulled down and…he was shirtless-- Um…. More importantly, so was Bela. Sam's eyebrows shot up. Had they--?
Trying to pull his thoughts together, Sam just stared at Bela's bare back. After all, she was attractive, and he was attracted to her, and even though he was still mad at her for-- He couldn't remember what Bela had done that was so wrong. What the hell was wrong with his brain?
And he was certain he hadn't fallen asleep. One minute he'd been kissing Bela, the next he was…like this.
"Bela?" he said softly, reaching out and touching her shoulder. She roused easily, and rolled over, giving Sam a pleasant look…and a show. Sam looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Yes, he'd looked. Hell, he'd even had a few dreams, but--
"Bashful, Sam? You weren't so modest earlier."
"Bela-- I-- Did we--?"
That was as far as his bewildered questioning got before the door to the room was torn from its hinges. The person--thing, being, whatever the hell it was--standing in the door frame was more horrific than the police reports indicated, and Sam fought off a surge of panic.
The "man" was a little over six-foot-five, in Sam's judgment, not much taller than Sam himself, but huge in every other dimension. He--it?--appeared more than capable of tearing Sam in half, which from its general demeanor, was exactly what it wanted to do.
A dull, pock-marked and burnt old '80s-style hockey mask was strapped tightly to the bald and scarred head, obscuring the face and eyes, but Sam didn't need to see its face to know its intentions. Sam was scrambling to retrieve the sawed-off from the foot of the bed when the intruder moved forward.
Fortunately, what the man-creature had in sheer intimidation ability, it lacked in night-vision ability. It walked right into Sam's trip-wire, and the shotgun mounted between them fired with both barrels.
The blast caught the attacker square in the chest, sending it flailing backwards. Sam quickly hefted the sawed-off, lunged off the bed and fired two more rounds. The creature was sent flying, smashing through the banister of the stairs and falling to the first floor below.
Sam shared a quick glance with Bela, who seemed speechless for once.
She glanced back at him, mouth hanging open. "I hope so. If there's anything larger in these woods we are in serious trouble!"
Sam readjusted his jeans and donned his discarded shirt as quickly as humanly possible, all thought of whatever had transpired with Bela earlier forgotten. He dropped the shotgun, grabbed two Glocks off the floor and started for the door. He heard Bela scrambling to follow.
The banister was in pieces, and Sam stopped short of the edge to look down into the living area. Debris littered the floor and sofa, but there was no body. Frowning, Sam raced down the stairs, Bela hot on his heels.
Nothing. The room looked empty. Sam scanned the darkened room, keeping his guns up and ready.
"Where did he go?" Bela whispered next to him.
Sam shook his head. Even given Jason's bulk, it seemed unlikely that he could have recovered from four shotgun shells and a fall like that so quickly.
Moving forward slowly, Sam headed into the center of the room, close to where Jason obviously landed. There didn't appear to be anything down the short hall leading to the kitchen. Sam couldn't fathom it.
He reached the entrance to the hallway, then stopped, deciding to head back and hit the lights first. He heard Bela yell as he turned.
Sam turned, coming face to face with Jason. Fuck me! The beastly man was right on top of him! Too close to fire the guns, Sam tried to lurch backward, mind still processing how Jason could have gotten that close to him without making a sound.
There was no time to think about it though, as Jason snagged Sam by the collar and his jeans and lifted him like a rag doll. Sam had the presence of mind to fire off a round into one of his attacker's legs, but it made no difference. Jason rammed him forward in a surprisingly fluid and powerful motion, slamming Sam face first into one of the glass doors of the entertainment center.
He hit with such force that the glass shattered immediately, driving shards of it into Sam's forehead and bloodying his nose. Sam struggled to bring his guns around, but before he could squeeze off a shot, he was slammed forward into the other glass door.
Dazed, his grip loosened and one of the guns slipped from his hand, the other dangled uselessly. He felt glass in his scalp this time, and impact with the shelf-edge broke his nose. Dizziness clouded his perceptions, and he was only vaguely aware of gunfire in the room. Bela, his muddled brain supplied. She must have been firing on Jason, trying to prevent Sam from getting beaten to death.
The world swung again, and Sam tried to brace himself for another collision with the furniture, when the blast of a shotgun deafened him and sent the room into a spin. Sam landed in a heap against the wall. Another blast exploded in the room, followed by two more in rapid succession. His ears were beginning to ring.
There was a thud, and then a pair of hands grabbed Sam's arm and began to drag him across the floor. Sam was losing his battle with consciousness, unable to put up even a token resistance. He felt the strong urge to retch every time he moved.
Concussion, he realized.
The hands shifted and Sam was hauled to his feet. Expecting to see that battered hockey mask again, Sam was surprised to see instead a normal, skin-covered face.
"Dean?" Sam sputtered. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings. It would have been a lot easier if everything hadn't been spinning. Fighting the urge to vomit, Sam turned back to his brother's concerned gaze.
"What are--?" Why was Dean there? Where had he been to begin with? "Dean?"
His brother, though, was looking Sam's body up and down, then Bela's. He turned back to Sam with a disbelieving glare. "You slept with her? Jesus, Sam, you've seen horror movies before. You never have sex! It makes you a target."
Sam blinked. "What? What're you talking about?"
Dean half-pushed, half-carried him out the cabin door. "Come on, we need to get some distance between us and him."
Sam wanted to ask again what was happening, but it was so difficult just to walk in a relatively straight line that he couldn't spare the extra brain power to speak. Instead, he focused on not falling on his face. Dean's arm helped a lot with that part.
The Impala appeared in their path, and Sam blinked again. He could have sworn that just a moment before the road had been empty save the motorcycle he rode in on. Where had the car--?
"Seriously, Sam…a motorcycle? You're not that cool, bro," Dean admonished with a note of teasing in his voice. Sam frowned. Weren't they running for their lives? Dean frequently laughed in the face of death, daring the bad guys to do their worst, but something about his brother's attitude here was off. A little too casual. A little too amused. What the hell was going on?
"In the car, Sam. I'll fill you in, I promise. Just get in the car," Dean interrupted briskly. The tone of Dean's voice had changed, a little more worried, so Sam resisted the urge to ask any more questions and let Dean guide him into the car. Through the windshield, Sam saw Jason Voorhees standing in the door of the cabin, a machete in his hand.
Great, now he's armed.
Dean slid into the driver's seat, while Bela piled in the back, grumbling about leaving her clothes in the bedroom. Sam noticed that Dean was completely ignoring her, which was odd. As the car started to move, Sam looked back at the cabin, noting with dismay that Jason was gone.
They were speeding down the gravel road toward the main gate in seconds. Sam fought off another wave of dizziness and tried to focus on his brother. Something still didn't seem right. Besides the being hunted by an unstoppable killer wearing a hockey mask thing.
"Dean…where were you?"
His brother kept his eyes on the road, steering with one hand and loading his shotgun with the other. "I just got here, dude, when you were getting your face rearranged."
Sam shook his head, immediately regretting the motion when his vertigo turned to nausea. "No-- No, I mean today. Where have-- I mean--"
He trailed off, spurring Dean to glance at him. "Wanna buy a vowel there, Sam?"
Focusing was harder than it should have been, but Sam frowned, pulling his scrambled thoughts back together. "I can't remember anything before I got here on that motorcycle. Every time I tried to remember where you were, I couldn't. I kept getting distracted."
Dean huffed in apparent amusement, but with an edge he couldn't identify. "Yeah, well, there's a good reason for that. Sam, you--"
"DEAN!" Bela shouted from the back, pointing ahead. Sam followed her gesture. Jason was standing in the road directly ahead, about fifty yards away. He braced himself, preparing for when Dean hit the brakes. It didn't happen.
Dean was accelerating.
"Wanna play chicken?" Dean exclaimed, flooring the gas pedal. Sam watched as the Impala surged ahead, plowing into the masked man. Jason flailed on the hood before recovering and swinging the machete he still held forward. The hilt of the weapon struck with enough force to shatter the windshield, spraying Sam and Dean with glass.
What the hell is this guy?
Dean wasted no time bringing the shotgun to bear, firing point blank and catching Jason in the chest. He slid down the hood. Dean slammed on the brakes at that moment, flipping Jason off of the car and back onto the road. Once he was clear, Dean gunned it again, running over their attacker and continuing down the road.
"Woo-hoo! That was fun!" Dean howled. Sam just stared at him, incredulous, muttering about insane brothers and their questionable tastes. The sudden shift in Dean's demeanor caught his attention, though, and Sam turned back to the road.
The road that was leading into the camp. Again.
Sam twisted in his seat, glancing out the back window. They'd just left the camp, and the road wasn't curved at all….
"Dammit!" Dean hissed. "It's not going to let us leave."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked, glancing behind them again. What the hell?
He didn't get an answer. Dean hit the brakes and jerked the car into park. He glanced at Sam warily as he reloaded the shotgun. "Okay. You're gonna have to get us out of this, Sam."
Frowning, Sam turned to him. "Huh?"
Dean grimaced. "Sam, listen to me, man. Do you trust me?"
"Trust--" Sam repeated dumbly. "Do I trust you?"
"Answer me, Sam."
"Of course," Sam nodded, not following but somehow getting that Dean was serious. "I trust you, Dean."
"Okay, then listen to me. You're dreaming, Sam."
Sam stopped short. "What?"
"You're dreaming. Don't you remember? We're in Virginia, hunting a dream weaver. It got you, Sam. I've been trying to wake you up ever since."
As Sam tried to process what he was being told, the back window shattered. Bela screamed as Jason's rotted hands shot in and grabbed her, dragging her out through the broken window. Sam moved to help, but Dean's hands gripped his head, holding him still despite his attempts to help.
"Sam! Ignore it. It's all a distraction. None of this is real!"
"Look at me," Dean pleaded. Sam complied, mostly because he'd rarely heard Dean sound so worried before. "Sammy. We were watching Friday the 13th the other night, remember? The third one where he got the mask. Think, please! If you don't get us out of here we're both going to die!"
That got Sam's attention, he ceased struggling and looked Dean in the eyes. He sensed no deception, just honest concern and fear. His exhausted and abused brain began to digest what he was hearing.
"Dreaming? I'm dreaming…."
"Yes," Dean nodded vigorously. "And you can end it if you just take control. Wake up."
"Dream weavers," Sam muttered, wheels turning in his mind. It was getting easier to think, now. "They won't let you wake up…how am I supposed to wake us up?"
"Got that taken care of," Dean replied smoothly. "With luck it'll be dead any minute. That'll leave the way clear for you to work that Shining of yours."
Sam frowned, but focused on waking up, as Dean directed. At first nothing happened. He saw Jason approaching through the driver's side window, but calmed again when Dean instructed him to close his eyes and keep them that way. He complied wordlessly, imagining himself waking up. He wasn't sure what else to try.
The sound of a window being smashed startled him, as did Dean's yelp and the subsequent blast of the shotgun.
"Hurry up, Sam!"
Sam grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut and focused. Wake up! Dammit WAKE UP!
Sam shot up, almost bending double in the bed. He gasped, heart pounding like a jackhammer against his sternum. He blinked a few times, trying to comprehend the suddenly different scenery.
Instead of a dark forest, four off-white walls with light green trim surrounded him. Instead of the Impala, he was on a hospital bed. Instead of an unstoppable killer outside the room's small window, there was a tree and bright sunlight.
All of that registered in seconds, until a sharp intake of breath from beside him drew his eyes. Dean was sprawled out over an uncomfortable looking chair, gasping awake much as Sam just had.
Frowning, Sam opened his mouth to speak, but the only sound to come out was a croak that sounded nothing like his brother's name. It worked, though.
Dean blinked a few times, finding his bearings, and then turned to Sam. A distinctly relieved expression spreading across his face as he took in Sam.
"Christ…man, don't ever do that again."
Sam just stared dumbly, mind still trying to adjust to I'm-not-in-the-woods-anymore and not grasping Dean's words. His brother rose, and held up three fingers.
"How many, Sam?"
Sam blinked, then deliberately looked down at his own hand, raised it and shot Dean the bird. "Just one?"
Dean grinned, punching Sam lightly in the shoulder. "Smart ass. You're fine."
Levity aside, Sam was still trying to catch up. "What happened?"
Sobering, Dean settled on the side of the bed. "Dream weaver sank its claws into you. You've been unconscious for the last five days."
Five days? Sam shook his head. It hadn't felt like five days, but he was only getting flashes of the dream now…there was no telling what the weaver had put him through. He struggled to put his thoughts in order.
"Richmond. We're in Richmond," Sam muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I was in a warehouse…."
"Yeah, it got the jump on you before I could circle back," Dean confirmed, fumbling with his phone.
Dean dialed a number and waited. Sam watched, trying to piece together the rest of his real memories. Dream weavers were good at making you believe your nightmares, no matter how outlandish. The longer one was under their influence, the harder it was to separate the dreams from reality. He tuned in and listened to his brother.
"Bobby, Dean. Did you get it? Yeah. Good. Yeah, he's fine. No. No, we got it in time. Yeah. Thanks, we owe you. Yeah, bye."
"He killed it? Bobby?" Sam asked. At Dean's nod, he tried to remember if Bobby had been there from the start, but his thoughts turned to someone else. "Bela. Dean did--"
His brother's expression soured. "Yeah, I was gonna ask about that. Bela? Seriously? What the hell, man?"
Sam frowned, his brain turning over. Oh. Yeah. Sam remembered now. Bela was dead. She'd made a deal with a crossroads demon, like Dean, only it had come due before Dean's. Sam blushed under his brother's incredulous scrutiny. He had never spoken of his brief infatuation with the late underhanded thief.
"I-- I never, you know…acted on it. It was before she stole the Colt," Sam mumbled sheepishly.
Dean was shaking his head. "What was it? The accent? The hair? Come on, even I wasn't into her that way, and that's saying something."
Sam glared at him, embarrassment coloring his face. "It's not like it matters now."
Dean's frown morphed into something akin to a smirk, and Sam cringed inwardly. He knew he wouldn't live this down any time soon. He shook his head and tried to change the subject.
"So, how did you…come after me?"
"Dream root," Dean replied, yawning as he rose and stretched. "There was still some in the trunk from last time. Bobby told me it was a bad idea--said I might get trapped in there with you--but I figured you might need some help."
Sam listened carefully, hearing the note of worry and relief that was mixed with the words. Dean would never admit to it, so Sam took solace in hearing the brotherly concern for himself.
He got little reaction past a brief nod, his ever-uncomfortable-with-emotions brother busying himself with finding the remote for the television.
"I'm gonna watch some TV before Bobby gets back, you should sleep."
Sam scoffed. "I slept for days, why would I--?"
"Being trapped in a nightmare for five days isn't sleep, Sammy. You look like crap."
He couldn't argue with that, since his reflection in the room's small mirror looked as if it had seen better days. His head was pounding, and despite the lack of any physical sign, it actually felt as if he'd been rammed head-first into that furniture. Judging by how he felt, his body should have been a mass of bruises.
"Don't worry," Dean interjected, "as soon as the docs make sure you're okay, we'll get outta here."
Sam sighed, leaning back on the pillows, fingering the IVs that were hooked in his arm. He looked over at Dean and tried to keep the distress out of his voice. "You're gonna stay here, right?"
Dean yawned again. "Uh-huh. Hey, maybe their playing Friday the 13th again. I fell asleep before the end the other night."
Sam groaned and pulled one of the pillows over his head. Dean's snickering followed him into a peaceful sleep.