This is a Round Robin story started over at CWESS (check us out!!) for our Halloween rendition of Supernatural – and why Sam doesn't like it.
Authors are: TammiTam, BlueEyedDemonLiz, Rozzy07, and Vonnie836 (appearing in that order).
When the undead figures out a way to come to life, Dean has a problem with that … especially when the ghost chooses his little brother as a host!
Now would we start a story without some Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean?
Hey, the only things we own are the spelling mistakes! Kripke, you dog, you and the CW have full rights to the boys. Just don't mind us while we play awhile.
Dean could feel the glare of his brother, even before he looked over at him, but nothing prepared him for the hurt look that accompanied it.
"Ahhh, c'mon Sammy, it's not that bad."
"You're making me wait by the car, Dean, it is that bad."
"It's not my fault dad thinks you'd be safer."
"No, not safer, he's pissed because he thinks I messed up on that last hunt and…"
Dean sighed, a hand ran over his face before he faced his little brother – the same brother who, since he'd turned sixteen nearly six months ago had sprouted up like a weed, so much so that Dean hated to admit it, but he thought the kid might outgrow him and dad both. His mouth opened to say something, anything…. "DEAN! Hustle your ass!" ….but dad's deep growl said enough with the catering of Sam, so his brother got an apologetic look before he hurried after the mighty John Winchester, because Dean damn well knew he waited for no one.
But even as he left Sam standing there next to the Impala, he couldn't help the overwhelming feeling of guilt that had his shoulders hunching in an act that had nothing to do with the chill in the air, or the fact they were in a grave yard. Oh sure, Dean had been in them before, many a time – after all, it's hard to salt and burn something from a hundred feet away! But something about being in one just days before Halloween gave Dean the creeps.
So he shivered, though it wasn't just the heebie jeebies he was now sporting – something about leaving Sam behind when there were at least five reports of some ghost trying to snatch people. Well, that just didn't sit right with him.
"Sam. Now quit worrying about him."
"I just think it sucks out loud for Sam to be left behind…"
"I don't want him messing up on this hunt. The last one was bad enough! He nearly got you killed!"
Dean glanced over at his dad and just shook his head. True enough, Sam had wandered from Dean when they were hunting that werewolf, but what the great John Winchester failed to recognize was that Sam was lured away by the second one. All John saw was that Sam failed a direct order. Not that he was nearly mauled as well.
"You know it wasn't like that, dad."
"I know you were damn near werewolf chow! What if it had bitten you? What then? He gives a little, I'm sorry, Dean before he has to shoot you? I mean honestly….."
But John Winchester's rant about his youngest was cut off by Sam's scream. Not one of those girly I'm scared screams, but a painful, oh shit scream.
Dean didn't even give his father a second look before he was double timing it back to the Impala. He could hear his father's bootfalls behind him, but it didn't matter, none of it mattered all that mattered was…
He skidded to a stop as he glanced to the Impala … the empty Impala.
John nearly ran into him, only managing not to in a move that would have been hilarious had his little brother not been missing.
John's voice echoed out behind him as he finally dared to move forward. And then he was rushing in, circling the car as if Sam might be playing some sick game of hide and seek on the other side.
He looked over to his dad, and was horrified by what his father held – Sam's jacket, torn and bloodied – as if something had ripped him right out of it.
There were moments in Dean's life which he could look back on with fondness, not many of course but a decent enough handful of memories, like an old shoebox of Polaroids, which he kept stored away in his head. Reaching second base with Amanda Burton in the ninth grade, making his first sawn-off, the look in Dad's eyes when he nailed his first fugly, big nasty.
Finding Sam's jacket, the one size too small faded blue denim ripped and spotted with splashes of blood which were still damp and appeared more black than red in the dim glow of moonlight, was another type of Polaroid Dean kept locked away in his head. Those were the types of memories which haunted him, fed his nightmares and fueled his desire to hunt in the same way Mary's death set John's need for revenge ablaze.
"Sammy?" Dean tried shouting again and listened as his voice echoed so that it sounded like there were two of him. Both versions equally panicked and about ready to loose their lunch. He lifted his flashlight and cast the beam around. The yellow beam illuminated several crumbling granite gravestones, a group of elm trees and a mausoleum in the distance which looked big and ominous in the darkness—but no little brother. "Dad, where is he?" Dean asked as he turned back to face his father and finally let his flashlight fall so that it was hanging limply by his side.
John had run a short distance from the Impala looking for signs of a struggle, some track marks on the ground, anything but he couldn't find a single blade of grass which looked as though it had been disturbed. It was as if Sam had been Houdini'ed out of the graveyard.
John heard Dean's question loud and clear but didn't have an answer, not one Dean would want to hear anyway. "We'll find him, Dean." He said firmly, putting as much strength and conviction into his words as he could muster. Right there and then John decided they wouldn't leave until they'd searched every inch of the old cemetery.
"You stupid bastard."
"You've damaged him, he's bleeding."
"He put up more of a fight then I expected, darn pup. I didn't have much choice. Anyway I only cut him up a little."
"A little? He looks like he's lost a lot of blood. If he dies I will never forgive you. He was perfect and now you've damaged him…"
"Goddamit. Stop being so dramatic, he's not going to die from a few scratches."
The voices were hushed, stern. One female and one male but Sam didn't recognize either of them. He cracked his eyes open, which was difficult in itself because his eyelids felt like they were glued together.
But when he did finally manage the arduous task of opening his eyes, Sam realized that he was laid flat on his back on the cold hard surface of a metal trolley, which was terrifyingly similar to the dissection tables Sam had seen in morgues. Looking around he could see that he was in a small bare room. The only light source appeared to be from one single floor lamp which was angled so that the light was pointing down on him; it was so close that he could feel the low heat which emanated from the bulb and the light shining in his face was almost blinding.
His legs and arms were not restrained in any way but when Sam tried to sit up, he found—to his absolute horror—that he couldn't. If he concentrated hard he could roll his head from side to side but that was clearly all he could do. Sam tried and then failed to lift his arm, the same thing happened when he tried to move his leg and when he found he couldn't even so much as waggle his toes, Sam struggled to prevent himself from crying. A treacherous tear squeezed itself out of the corner of one eye and rolled down the side of his face, landed with a barely audible splash on the metal surface below him.
"Look who's awake." The woman's voice said suddenly.
Sam squinted against the lamp's dazzling light, trying in vain to see the faces of the two figures, who were standing in the shadows beyond it.
A hand reached out and touched his face lightly. A long fingernail ran the length of his cheek and Sam screwed his eyes closed, trying to jerk his head away from the unwanted contact. "I can't move." Sam whimpered. His throat was tender, painfully sore and felt like it was closing up. His words came out in short panted breaths.
"Don't fret child, the drugs we've given you will wear off soon enough." The woman finally decided to move the lamp away and slowly Sam's eyes adjusted enough so that he could see her and the man who was standing by her side.
Sam flinched when he saw the man. It was the same man who had taken him from the Impala. "No, nonononononono." Sam whispered when he saw the man was holding what looked to be a pair of sharp surgical scissors.
"Calm down, Abel here is going to stitch the mess he's made of your abdomen." The woman said and her voice was filled with kindness which seemed just plain crazy given Sam's current situation.
"Please…please let me go." Sam begged his eyes remaining fixed on Abel.
"Don't worry baby, this will all be over soon." The woman lent over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. As she lifted her lips away, her eyes were brimming with tears. "You really are beautiful. You look so much like Peter. I knew the moment I saw you that you'd be perfect baby, perfect."
The woman retreated then, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and Abel stepped forward. Sam's breathing grew fast as Abel drove a needle into the skin of his belly and the horrendous sensation of unbearable pain surged forward to engulf him before he sank into darkness.
It was the sour smell of his own vomit that roused him from his sweat drenched stupor. Although heavy limbed, the paralysis of earlier was thankfully gone, and he was able to roll onto his other side and away from the stench assaulting his senses.
A gasp escaped, the movement not welcomed by his abused abdomen. Pressing a hand over the wounds he sucked in long breaths, waiting for the pain to pass. He counted back in his head from a hundred to thirty before it lessened to just a burning throb.
Closing his eyes Sam would have willingly traded his soul for a glass of water to take the thirst away and the acidic taste burning the back of his throat. A couple of Vicodin would have been welcome too.
Sam took in the silence of room and cautiously lifted his head to find it empty of his captors, and he sagged back on the metal bed in relief. He didn't really feel up to going round two with the crazy woman and the giant of man she had called Abel.
Disjointedly, like an ill remembered dream, snatches of what had happened were slowly filtering back in all its glory. How his dad had left him behind. No doubt thinking that not even he, number one screw up son, could mess up such a simple task as waiting by the impala.
'Yeah, right,' thought Sam sourly to himself, 'way to make him proud of you, getting taken out of the game just minutes after being left alone.'
Being raised and trained by John Winchester, big bad ass demon hunter, he knew he would have been expected to stop his attacker in his tracks. Not let him cut through cloth, into skin and muscle, like a hot knife sinking into butter without resistance.
Sam still struggled to know clearly what took place. The attack had happened in a blink of an eye, difficult to process, so that even now it hardly seemed real.
Except, Sam admitted grimly to himself, that the pain was real enough, throbbing along his side and abdomen in a constant reminder.
Thinking on his dad's displeasure he knew that lying there doing nothing was no longer an option. He had to get up, seek a way out this mess. It took him a long agonizing minute to swing himself up into a sitting position and by then he was drenched in sweat, his bangs dripping salt water into his eyes.
"Suck it up," Sam demanded of himself, ignoring how every muscle in his body seemed to be trembling with the effort. He couldn't afford to continue playing the victim. Especially not when whatever had taken him out so damn easily could be doing the same to his brother and dad.
Abel hated it when she found fault with him. He had tried his best, gotten her the fucking prize she had coveted, and still she wouldn't stop her bitching. "Look it ain't my fault woman. Like I said I wasn't expecting him to fight back like that."
"You near gutted my precious boy. He'd better heal up Abel. I'll not take kindly to that sweet young thing going the same way our Peter did."
"Stop yer fretting, I stitched him up tighter than a drum. Kid seems made out of strong stuff - he's not gonna up and die on ya anytime soon."
The woman frowned, her task forgotten as she lay down her ladle by the bubbling pot on the industrial sized stove, "He's a hunter's son, Abel. You know what that means? I need them gone if I'm gonna bind him to us."
Huffing out his annoyance Abel shifted his weight on the table to draw a long blade across the whetstone with a grating sound. "So I guess I've got me some fresh gutting to do, eh Maude?"
"They'll take him from us if you don't," warned the woman.
"Yep, guess they'll try at least, keep sniffing around like pesky blood hounds, looking for their young 'un."
"He's not theirs anymore," spat back Maude, pushing back a strand of stringy hair behind her ear as she took up stirring the pot again, "Just you make sure you finish it quick. My boy ain't ever going back with them. Not ever."
"Sure honey. Nice and quick. Like always."
She smiled serenely content that the pretty young boy would remain hers. As Abel got to leave she called after him, "Bring back their heads to show the boy that they ain't ever coming back, then I can brew up a binding potion with them afterwards."
"Maude, you know how messy that gets…"
Ignoring his whining at the new task she demanded, "And their hearts too. Hunters always make good eating …"
Abel nodded, fingering his necklace of bone and teeth that afforded him some powerful protection. "Hearts, heads, got it."
Dean wanted to scream out his frustration as he watched his dad up ahead scanning the ground for any signs of what had taken Sammy. The urge to shake him hard and demand how he, they, had let this happen was a growing panic inside of him.
Keeping Sam safe was the most important thing in their lives and yet they had left him behind for something to sneak up and take him away from under their noses. Now the only solid connection to his brother they had left was the bloodied jacket his dad had found. That as unpalatable a truth as it was, whatever had taken Sam had hurt him. Hurt him bad.
A growl escaped as his fingers curled into fists at the image of his brother lying bloodied on the ground. Alone, no doubt terrified, without him or his dad around to protect him.
"I'll find you little brother," Dean whispered out loud his determination. "I'll find you and make the sick sonofabitch regret ever laying a hand on you."
John drew himself up and looked back at Dean. He had heard his words and his heart echoed with the same purpose. "Son, we'll track him down. Sammy will be okay, I promise."
Nodding mutely Dean blinked away the sting of tears. He had to have faith in his dad's skills, had to believe they would get his baby brother back. Alive.
John went to walk on when his eyes caught a glint of white. Pushing the spongy grass aside he picked up a large animal canine tooth. A hole had been driven through the crown and he huffed out a loud exhale in recognition. It had been worn as a protective charm, no doubt worn by the thing that had spirited away his boy.
A triumphant smile lit up his craggy features at he offered the tooth to inspection to his oldest. It was their first real clue into understanding what had taken his boy.
It took him several minutes to make it from sitting to standing, the pain in his abdomen hampering his progress. By the time his feet were finally on solid ground, Sam felt like he was ready to go horizontal again. Crunching his teeth together, he turned, still holding on to the metal table. The movement caused him to gasp again, as a stabbing pain seemed to rip him apart. He took several deep calming breaths, while wrapping his left hand protectively around his stomach. Blinking to clear his vision, he looked around until his gaze fell upon the door approximately ten feet from his position.
"Okay, you can do this!" He encouraged himself.
Letting go of the table, he stumbled towards the exit like a sailor on shore leave, holding on to the door knob, when he finally reached his target. Turning again, he rested against the door, at the same time clinging to the handle to keep himself upright. His vision wavered in and out of focus, making him want to sit down, yet he knew, if he did, he wouldn't be able to get up again.
After standing for some endless minutes, he finally felt ready to go on. Trying the knob, he was surprised, when it turned without resistance. He moved around and held on to the frame, while slowly inching the door open. Expecting to find it leading to somewhere inside the house, he was elated to see a yard with several trees in front of him.
Time was of the essence, because one or both of his capturers could come and check on him any minute, especially if they remembered, they didn't lock the door. So Sam made his way to the first tree, taking only a second to lean against it before going on to the next. Only when he reached the outer perimeter of the property and with it an area of thick brush, did he allow himself to take a break.
Sliding down to the ground, he noticed the warm wetness running out from below the hand still pressed against his abdomen for the first time. Moving it away from his injured area, he pulled his shredded T-shirt up to inspect the damage. Most of the stitches, not very expertly placed in the first place, had popped out and the largest wound, a slice running from right below his left rib cage all the way to the top of his right pelvis bone was gaping in several areas, exposing muscle and continuously seeping dark red blood.
Not for the first time Sam wished Dean, or at least his dad was here. Either of them would know how to fix this. Alone as he was, he struggled out of the two layers of unbuttoned shirts, feeling weak and dizzy by the time he accomplished the task. Unable to continue right away, he took a few breaths, before he fought through the pain and threatening darkness to regain a sitting position. Tying the shirt around his abdomen, he pulled it as tight as possible and knotted it in front, unable to contain the moan that escaped him.
His mind becoming more scrambled, thinking almost impossible, he felt shivers of cold running through him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Dean's voice, telling him to stay warm and something about going into shock. Almost instinctively he reached for his second flannel shirt, attempting to pull it back on, yet found his body didn't seem to listen to his commands any longer.
Tears of pain, frustration and loneliness rolled down his cheeks as he curled up into a fetal position in an attempt to preserve what little warmth he had left. Unable of a clear thought, his mind fleeing to the one he always felt safe with.
"Dean, please…" his whispered sob only heard by the harsh wind taking away what little heat was left in is body, before he slipped into a state between unconscious and wakefulness.
Maude walked from the main house over to the building where they hid her treasure, the boy, who was going to replace her Peter.
Peter, he had been her son, the one, who was murdered by hunters; those bastards, who didn't care about her kind. They were a despicable brood that killed without mercy, because they didn't understand why her people couldn't live without human flesh, who made her and Abel the last of their tribe. After Peter's death, she thought she could never feel joy again. That was until tonight, when she laid eyes on the beautiful human child.
As he leaned against the black car, his wild mop of dark hair blown into his face by the wind, as his long fingers repeatedly moved the strands away from his eyes, revealing a set of the most gorgeous hazel eyes she seen in the longest time, she felt love in her heart again. The lost look on his face, the slight quiver of his lips, the way his body looked like a young foal not quite ready to become the stud it was destined to be, yet already showing all the signs, he was perfect to give her back what she lost so long ago. Instantly she knew, she needed to have him, her pleading finally convincing Abel to give in and get him for her.
If only he would have been faster with injecting the drug, but the long high jump was off just by a little and Abel couldn't reach the boy before the child turned towards him. Instantly in fight stance, he delivered several blows to her lover, knocking the syringe out of his hand and driving him back. It was beautiful to watch as he pulled a knife out of the back of his jeans and with one fluid motion swiped at Abel. Needing to defend himself the other pulled out his own dagger and brought it up and down, slicing the kid's stomach several times and in turn driving him back.
A scream of pain escaped the child's mouth, making her fear for his life. He collapsed onto his knees, pressing his hands against his wounded abdomen and giving Abel the chance to pick up the syringe and push the needle into the exposed neck. Pushing the drug into the vein, it took only a few seconds for the boy to loose consciousness and another few for Able to pick him up and jump to the safety of the forest surrounding the grave yard before the other two hunters returned.
She was pulled out of her thoughts by the sight of the open door before her.
"Abel, you stupid idiot!"
She cursed, taking the few steps inside, although she already knew it would be empty. Turning, she looked around until she noticed the trail of dark red drops leading into the brushes on the outskirts of the property. Without further delay she made her way over to it. It took her only a second to discover her boy curled up into a fetal position, shivering violently in the cold night air.
She sank to her knees beside the kid, uncurling his body without difficulty, his resistance meaning nothing against the surprising strength of her hands. Seeing the blood soaked shirt, she cursed again. Able was such an imbecile at times. He just didn't realize how fragile humans could be. She waited two hundred years to find a boy perfect enough to replace her Peter. It had been a long time, way too long and she just wouldn't be able to do it again.
Running her hand down his soft cheek, she saw the terror in the glassy eyes, heard the whimper escaping his pale lips and her bright purple eyes took on a softer glow.
"It's okay my sweet boy." She cooed, "You are mine now, Maude is going to take care of you!"
She pulled him up into her arms, feeling his fear and relishing it, absorbing it, feasting on it. She would turn him and teach him everything she knew. Abel, he was keeping the loneliness away, but he was really just a servant and not smart enough to ever be anything more. This human would be what Peter was supposed to be, until hunters took him from her. It was ironic, now she took the son of a hunter away from his family to make him her heir.
Feeling his body go slack, she picked him up without any effort, taking him to where he belonged now, her home.
That earned him a glare from John Winchester, but Dean didn't exactly care at that moment. At that moment his brother was missing, hurt, and might even be … damn it, he so wasn't finishing that thought!
"It's not as bad as it looks, Dean…"
That certainly earned his father a glare back but John Winchester seemed to be in a mode where he didn't notice – or maybe he just chose to ignore his eldest's first sign of petulance. But hell, without Sam here, someone had to backlash their father when he so understated something.
"Not that bad?" Oh and John got a wave of hands as if to emphasize that he was obviously full of shit! "Tell me, Dad, what part of not that bad is there? We are dealing with some sort of ghostly vampiric leech who stole Sam! Now tell me, how can any of this be not that bad, hmmm?"
John was used to Sam mouthing off, in fact, it was almost like Mary's father came to haunt him in his youngest, sticking a damn thorn in his side every chance he got. But Dean … well, John was not used to him having such fire, at least when it came to him. Oh sure, Dean had a mouth, could put the biggest badass to shame with just a look, but he rarely, if ever, went toe to toe with him. Until now.
"Calm down, son, they couldn't have gone far." Despite Dean's irate behavior, John was already going into hunting mode with a scan of his eyes to the ground for any signs of his son other than the bloody coat. Dean, still grumbling was heading around the car – a silent witness to the mysterious disappearance of Sam Winchester, swearing under his breath the entire time. Later they'd have to discuss this recent fall from obediance, but after Sam was safe and sound.
After they salted and burned the son of a bitch that dared touch his baby.
"Hey dad, I think I …" But before Dean could finish that sentence, the temperature took a sudden nosedive … and Dean took up flying and sailed over his head to land on the other side of the Impala.
"Dean!" The shotgun lifted to send a deadly spray of salt toward the ghostly apparition that appeared, for that split second, to be male.
The shotgun was held at the ready as he rushed toward his fallen boy (man John, your son is a man now) and dropped to his knees on ground that was just beginning to feel autumn's chill. Not yet covered in frost, it wouldn't be long before Jack Frost painted the graveyard in crystallized white – a serene view if they were here for any other purpose but to lay to rest a spirit that should have already passed on. But, judging from the fact that this uncorporeal form stole his son, it had learned how to cross into this side of solid.
"Dean are you…"
John barely had time to twist and fire as the spirit zeroed in on him. "Damn, Casper can materialize fast."
"Must mean we're close … "
"Or a threat…"
A look was cast between father and son before another blast echoed out as Dean lifted his weapon to fire a spray just over his father's shoulder.
"Come on, this way…"
Dean rolled with a groan to his feet, another round echoing out as John fired at that bastard before the Winchester men were racing between the headstones, the rifle blasts following their trek across the grave yard.
Fingers of pain tugged at his side, twisting and tugging torn flesh until Sam took notice enough to groan out a protest. And just when that muffled sound escaped past all too parched lips, a chill drifted over his brow in the form of long since dead fingers.
His voice felt foreign on his own lips, sounded far off and distant, like he was listening to himself through someone else's ears … someone that was far enough away that he (the other he) was more of an annoying whisper. It was the darkness that lulled, that made promises tainted with relief – and it called to Sam in a way that nothing thus far had. At least until those frigid fingers brushed his brow once more, pushing strands of dark from his flesh with a whisper against his cheek that was more icy tendrils of evil than words.
"Don't worry baby, momma will make it all better…"
For a moment, just a split second in time where the pounding in his head made him forget where he was and why he was there, he forgot. Not just the hunt, not the fact that he was shivering and hurt; he forgot that he lost his mother before he ever had a chance to know her, that his father chased the elusiveness that was her killer, and that he and his brother were dragged into a life neither asked for … that often times he had to clean up the mess that a hunt left behind.
The cold came again, frigid tendrils that brushed his cheek, causing him to shudder as the cold seeped deep into his flesh, making him try and draw away from the icy touch. "Shhh, baby, momma's here…"
Hazels flew open with a gasp of surprise as well as pain as the cold became so intense his whole body shuddered and stiffened at the same time. "W-who … Dean?!" Sam was scrambling backward before he realized he was once more on that trolley. So intent on getting away from the overly attentive ghost, he reached the end before he realized it. With a look of surprise, and a wild wave of his hands, Sam hit the floor with a thud and a groan that damn near took consciousness once more.
The ghostly apparition wavered, flickered, then drifted close, causing the youngest Winchester to scramble away. "Get away from me!" He tried putting more fire in his voice than he felt, and hoped to God that his façade of strength was believable. But judging by the fact that she was still reaching out for him, those deathly cold hands brushing against already chilled flesh making Sam wince.
"Dean?" She flickered, wavered, and paused, her fingers barely grazing his brow where blood had crusted against his flesh from his run in with the other ghost. "Who is Dean?"
"My brother, you bitch! And when he finds you…"
The change was instantaneous … his very own Casper changing from maternal to deadly in a matter of seconds. "He is not taking you from me!"
Pain lanced up his arm as it was pulled from its socket in a rip that lifted him from the ground and sent him airborn across the room.
To be continued … and we absolutely ADORE reviews!!