Summary. . . . . . A hunt that was supposed to be easy, turns bad as Dean fails to listen to Sam's doubts.
Disclaimer. . . . . . Just enjoying my time playing in Kripkies sandbox.
Blue Peanut M And M's notes. . . . . . . Well darksupernatural came up with this amazingly crazy idea to gather a group of writers together off of the site to create a series of one shot's with two differences: 1, each writer was to come up with a scene before passing it along to another to finish: And 2, they had to be as descriptive as possible. This one shot contains the original scene that she wrote to promote the idea, which she rather graciously passed my way- okay, okay I begged her for it- happy now? I hope I have done justice to what you first wrote, and I'm curious, did I take it the way you would have? Thanks to everyone who has taken time to read the chapters before this, and for perusing this one too. Also thanks to the rest of the WSS gang, for the laughs and the support, I can't wait to read the rest of these amazing stories. Catch you later!!!!!
No matter how hard he tried, Sam never ceased to be amazed at how little Dean trusted his judgment at times. As his body was slammed viciously into the splintering, decaying timber, his thoughts went back to earlier, and to how he had stated, quite clearly he might add, that he had "a funky feeling about this one." How true had those words now become? He had known deep down that this wasn't just a simple salt and burn, he didn't know how but something insisted inside of him that there was more holding the spirit here within the cabin's wooden borders then his dry and dusty, partially burnt bones, but Dean had refused to listen, insisting they separate, Sam searching the cabin, Dean the grounds and barn outside, to get the job done quicker as soon as they had gotten here, with instructions to call if either of them encountered something, or found the final resting place of the cabin's former owner. That plan had escaped out of the broken windows soon after, as Sam had met with the decidedly unhappy spirit; said spirit leaving him no time to shout out a warning before attacking.
He grunted in pain as miniature spikes embedded themselves deep within his skin, only to be ripped forcefully back out as he was thrown once again like a rag doll about the confines of what was once the cabin's small bedroom. A scream escaped his throat, sounding shrill and harsh in the otherwise silent room, as he landed awkwardly his fibula snapping and tearing through the soft flesh of his calf, leaving him panting in agony and exhaustion on the dusty paper strewn floor, yet the ghost of Jacob McQueen refused to allow him respite, picking him up by the throat as though he were a twenty pound toddler and not a two hundred and twenty pound hulking behemoth. The ghost's glacial hands burned the skin around his neck as their grip gradually became tighter and tighter, effectively cutting off Sam's supply of air. His own hands rose and batted at the obstruction to his oxygen supply, but his body was becoming weaker and weaker, and his efforts were at best minimal.
As dark spots encroached on his vision, Sam remembered the small sachets of salt obtained from that mornings greasy diner, that now lay nestled safely deep within the confines of his pockets. Forgetting his struggles to remove Jacob's hands, he dug his own into his jackets pouches, his heart sinking as his fingers graced paper packets that were damp and useless; the rain water that spilled through the broken window having drenched his side when he had unceremoniously landed. Defeat threatened to take hold of him, his sight almost now totally blind, his body shutting down, yet a spark still lurked; a spark that knew if he allowed Jacob to win, somebody else would get hurt, Dean, and no matter how much he was pissed at his brother's recklessness right now, now matter how much he was annoyed at being ignored again, Sam could never allow Dean getting hurt to happen.
Reaching deep within himself, he sort out an answer, a small chink of relief sparking a small burst of energy within him as he remembered a spell that Joshua had once spoke of, the incantation wouldn't last, wouldn't defeat Jacob, but it would give him some time to recover, or at least give Dean some time to find him. As he gasped and rasped out the words he realized the huge mistake he had made almost immediately; he hadn't counted on the Jacob's anger. As the charms words began to take effect, so did Jacob's efforts to silence him, his hands clenching tighter around a throat that was slowly being crushed, but Sam still struggled on, enraging the ghost all the more until he couldn't hold that rage back any longer smashing Sam's face and head against the uneven edge of the broken sill, the last word of the incantation being spoken at the same time as unbearable pain and discomfort erupted within Sam. As the spirit dissipated, Sam dropped boneless to the floor, his body splattering the pool of water that rested beneath him, creating patterns in the dusty drier parts of the room, before becoming still and silent, his clothes and hair gradually getting drenched by the moisture that still lashed through the broken glass.
Rain pummeled him as Dean burst through the cracked and rotting door, a set of boot treads breaking through the wood that had drawn damp over years of being exposed. The old, burned out cabin shuddered and groaned as the door flew open on rusted hinges before the pin keepers snapped and the rotted wood fell into the cabin with a clatter. Dean coughed and blinked as dust and ash rose to irritate his eyes and lungs. Having found the bones and burnt them to ashes, he had returned to the cabin wondering why Sam wasn't answering his calls. The dust cleared enough to allow him to see, through the doorway that led to the back room, a crumpled, jacket and jean clad heap against the far wall beneath a broken out window that allowed the heavily falling rain inside the cabin. The smell of mildew and old smoke made Dean cringe as he ran to his brother's side.
"Sammy?!" Dean cried, gently reaching for his brother who was soaking wet. "Oh Sam." Dean gently turned Sam over and picked his unresponsive sibling up to hold him against his chest. He pushed Sam's sodden hair back from his closed eyes and took in the bruise that mottled Sam's forehead. Dean felt the rain water slowly working it's way through his spiky hair to drip down his forehead to his cheeks, making him feel like he was crying.
"Come on kiddo. Gotta getcha outta the rain." Dean shifted to his feet, remaining in a crouch as he tugged Sam up by the armpits. Sam's head lolled, water dripping from his locks to strike the soggy dust on the floor, spreading the gray, gritty mud as Dean dragged Sam backwards onto a dry part of the floor. Sam's jeans became snagged on a splintered floorboard, slowing Dean down as the fabric hitched and then finally gave way, the back of his calf exposed through the soggy denim. Dean cringed again, before he fell to his knees and laid his brother's head gently in his lap. "Come on Sammy, you gotta wake up, need to know where the sonuvabitch is that did this to ya."
"Don't need him to tell ya, boy." a gravelly voice sounded out in the room at the same time the short hairs on Dean's neck prickled.
"Sonuva…" Dean trailed off, his breath fogging the air in front of his face. He raised the shotgun, his aim steady even as he changed his posture to protect his unconscious little brother. The ghost materialized in front of him.
"Dude," Dean smirked, "Anyone ever tell you that you're one fugly…" Dean looked over the spirit as it turned corporeal, seeing his features for the first time, his stomach turning somersaults at the sight that befell him.
Standing a couple of inches taller than Dean himself, a couple of inches shorter than Sam, and twice as wide, Jacob McQueen made for an eerie, disturbing spectacle. Dressed in a dirty, stained, charred in places, vest and dungarees, one strap hanging loosely down his back, the bib folded over on his chest, working boots on his feet, scuffed and worn throughout the years, one sole flapping noisily every time he moved as it's bindings rotted and broke loose. If Dean had stopped there, he would have thought the ghost was little more than an average Joe, but he didn't and the rest of the ghostly apparition was the reason his lunch, that he had so enjoyed, was threatening a repeat visit. The skin on the mans hands and face was blistered, shriveled and raw, his hair burnt, gone completely in parts, gathered in gelatinous clumps in others where the skin of his scalp had melded with it. The whole left side of his face was caved and grotesquely misshapen, the result no doubt of the beating the man had taken before his cabin had been set alight. It was the man's eyes though that caused Dean to gag; eyes that burned with rage, stared at him from lidless sockets, fibrous vessels only just keeping them there.
Forcing down the vile fluids that rose in his throat, determined not to lose focus, knowing that Sam's life was in his hands, Dean shot off a blast hoping that by doing so he would have time to maneuver himself into a better, stronger position. As the spirit dissipated, he moved, pushing Sam off him and to the side, no time to worry about the pain the move would cause Sam, before rising and planting his feet securely; his stance shouting out one thing, protect Sam. He mentally accounted for all his weapons as he waited for the inevitable reappearance, his blood pumping as his heart raced. The cold chill returning, turning each breath he made into a steady plume of steam, had Dean tense and raise the shotgun once more. Every inch of his being poised and ready to do anything and everything to keep Jacob from harming Sam. His eyes darted about the gradually darkening room, scanning, inspecting every nook and cranny for signs of movement; his ears alert, focused, intent of hearing even the slightest sound. The attack though when it happened was swift, precise and painfully accurate, Jacob's hands grasping an unsuspecting Dean from behind before launching him across the room, his body cruelly colliding with the decaying wood, molding his frame within the lumber like some form of modern day art, before he fell winded to the floor.
He rose on unstable rickety arms, shaking his cob webbed head in an attempt to clear the fuzz that had descended, as his eyes adjusted he spotted something lying in the accumulated mess that littered the floor, his baffled, battered brain not immediately recognizing it for what it was, thinking at first that it was the decaying remains of a rodent, or some other small animal. Turning away from the repulsive sight, he sort out his brother once more, his eyes bulging in horror as he witnessed Jacob once again turn his attention back on Sam. The ghastly apparitions eyes though blatantly stared his way as though in silent mocking, as his hands clamped forcefully, securely, lethally around Sam's neck again, the icy fingers blistering yet more of the fragile skin as they continued their deadly constriction.
Dean looked frantically around for his shotgun, or any weapon that would be of help to Sam now, finding the sawed-off lying uselessly at the far side of the room, too far away to be of any help. He attempted to rise, crashing back down to the floor as his ankle protested the weight pressed upon it. He cried out in anguish, endeavoring to bring the ghost's attention his way, anything to stop the deadly assault on his sibling; but the hands gripped tighter, and the sardonic smile grew. He searched again for anything to help, and even offered up a prayer hoping for some sort of divine intervention; choking back a laugh as a sudden thought entered his head. Maybe those rotten remains weren't a rodent after all, maybe they were what were holding the restless, ruthless spirit here. He crawled slowly over to where they lay, pulling old yellowed papers with him as he went. Using a piece as a barrier he picked up the remains, his stomach rolling as the putrid smell of decomposition hit his senses. Breathing through his mouth, he brought it closer as his still foggy sight, and the diminishing light made recognizing the remains harder; a smile gracing his lips as his assumption turned out to be right. Gathering the tattered paper remains into a pile he place the palm sized piece of hair covered skull on top and quickly grabbed his lighter he flicked the lid, the flint catching first time, the small pyre soon blazing.
He dropped the still burning lighter, his hands covering his ears, as a piercing, screech emanated from Jacob McQueen's ghost, reverberating harshly around the cabins small confines. The icy temperature increased and then receded as stormy winds battered the room until with a blinding flash of white, everything calmed. Dean dropped his hands from his ears, his eyes seeking out Sam before slowly crawling his way over to his stricken sibling, his mind so focused on Sam he failed to see the danger lurking behind them. His fingers frantically searched for a pulse point, relief flooding him for a second as they found a steady beat, before leaving as he realized Sam's breathing was at best labored, the life giving air struggling to break past a slowly swelling throat. He needed a hospital, he needed a hospital now. Dean's thoughts broke away from Sam as his senses were alerted by a noise coming from behind them. Turning around, he cursed Winchester luck as his eyes fell onto the fire that was spreading quickly, consuming the dry rotten wood greedily, it's flames already climbing the wall and blocking the only door that led back into the main part of the cabin and the only exit to the outside. Thinking sharply, Dean knew they had no other choice, they would have to go out of the window, guilt crushing him as he knew the drop would hurt an already agonized Sam all the more.
Gently placing his hands beneath Sam's armpits he started the short drag across to the broken out window, wincing as the icy water that still billowed through the broken glass struck and stung his face. Once in place he hoisted Sam's deceptively heavy frame up holding it in place with one arm before using the butt of his gun to break away the few remaining pieces of glass. Once done he whispered a silent apology before scrappily heaving Sam up and over the sill, keeping hold of his sibling as long as possible before, with arms shaking from the exhortation, he was forced to drop him unceremoniously to the winter hardened floor. Quickly clambering out himself, as the fire raged and burned behind him, Dean landed at Sam's side, nearly crashing into his sibling as his ankle gave way beneath him once again.
He stayed still, breathing deeply as he rode out the pain, until it had abated enough for him to move. Grabbing hold of Sam once more he hurried as much as possible away from the burning building, aiming for the comfort and safety of the Impala, never before being so pleased to see his baby. By the time he had maneuvered a still lax and silent Sam to the car, Dean was sweating profusely, and trembling in exhaustion and pain. He quickly opened the back door, not caring about the pristine interior as he hauled Sam's grimy, dirt covered body onto the seat, carefully positioning his broken leg so as to cause his brother the least amount of pain. He took off his own soiled jacket, turning the fabric inside out before placing it gently underneath Sam's battered head, brushing back a few strands of saturated hair, before backing out of the vehicle, ready to climb into the drivers seat, gun the engine and drive a quickly as possible away from this hell hole.
He stopped as a sound caught his attention, ears alert as he fought to catch it again, dropping to his knees in order to get closer to Sam when he finally realized his brother was attempting to talk to him; the sound barely audible as it fought to get past his damaged throat. Putting his ear close to Sam's mouth he waited, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as Sam whispered. "Maybe next time you'll listen to me." As he gave reassurances that he would, Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Sam was seriously hurt, in desperate need of hospital attention, but he was going to be okay, those few words told him so, and that was all Dean needed to know. Closing the door, he climbed in the front and with the rain still pelting down, pinging off the cars exterior, sounding out a tune that both brothers always found calming, he repositioned the rear view mirror, took a quick glance at Sam and placed the car in drive. Sam might be okay with time, but right now he needed that hospital.
Two days later and both boys were leaning against the hood of the Impala, Sam's leg cast, his crutches placed to the side of him. Gauze bandages could be seen poking above the neck line of the black hoodie he had worn from the hospital; bruises covered one side of his features, stark against the paleness of his face, his eyes sunken and hooded, dark circles eminent beneath them; a soft sheen of perspiration gracing his top lip and brow, evidence of how much pain he was still in. If Dean had of had his way, his still weak brother would even now be lying in a hospital bed, but both brother's knew that a certain Dalton Radley's credit card would not last very much longer, that it would be better if they left before their scam was found out. He had wanted to keep going, to leave this town behind, to travel the deserted open highway until Sam required them to stop, or the car ran out of gas, but Sam had insisted they return to this place, insisted they needed to go back; and so he had acquiesced, anything to take that haunted look off Sam's face.
The fire Dean had created had finished the job that had been started years before, the cabin now razed to the ground. Smoldering embers could still be seen in places as they ate away at the last of the timber floor, curls of grey smoke spiraled and swirled in the slight breeze that the early morning was producing. He shivered slightly as the early dawn air found it's way past the layers of his clothes to tease the skin underneath, his mind concerned, if he was feeling the cold, was Sam too? He looked over at his injured sibling, his face portraying the sympathy he felt as he noticed the tears that were threatening to fall.
"He didn't deserve that, Dean. He didn't deserve to die that way, that horrifically." Dean didn't know how to respond so he kept quiet and allowed his tired and emotional brother to continue. "He was innocent, Dean. He did nothing wrong, but they killed him anyway. Why? Because he was a loner? Because he was different? Because they thought he was a freak? He sounds like me Dean, does that mean I should be accused of any thoughtless crime that happens around here? I just don't get it, I just don't get humans! Why did he have to die? Why did they stop looking for the real criminal?"
"I don't know why, Sam. I can't answer you."
"Do you think I'll become like him? You know, when my time comes?"
"What are you on about, Sam?"
"People think I'm a freak, I'm not outgoing as you, I have these freaky powers. Do you think somebody will do the same to me that they did to him? I mean he didn't hurt anyone, and yet they beat him and set him on fire. What's to stop people doing that to me?"
"Me Sam! I will hurt anyone who ever comes near you, I promise you." He looked over at Sam again, knowing that his words would take a while to sink in, that Sam would carry this hunt in his head for days, weeks to come. "I might not know what you are thinking, might not feel how you feel, but I do know we did good here, I do know that because of us, Jacob is now at rest. You should take that to heart." Pausing he clapped Sam on the shoulder before adding. "C'mon, lets get the hell out of here."