A/N: Thanks for the reviews! More are definitely welcome! :)

Disclaimer: Don't own SPN or Clue.

Chapter 3: Blood Trail

"Where do you think it leads?"

Dean stares into the impenetrable darkness, wondering the same thing himself. "No clue," he says. "But we're gonna have to find out. Hand me that flashlight over there on the desk."

Sam does, but even with a source of light to lead the way, the passage doesn't look all that inviting. Anything could be down there.

" 'kay then," Dean says, casually depositing the flashlight in his brother's hand. "You go first."

Sam scowls, but obeys, smiling as he takes the wooden stairs downward. Who's scared of the dark now, Dean? he wonders silently, remembering all the times his sibling had made fun of him for being afraid as a kid.

Dean follows behind, carefully placing his feet before taking another step.

There's a loud snap, followed shortly by a crash. The light vanishes.

"Sam?" Dean calls tentatively. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam replies. "Step broke, flashlight quit working. That's all."

"What step? Which one?"

There's a pause in which Sam jiggles the flashlight. "Third from the bottom, I think."

"Gee, Sam, that really helps." Dean rolls his eyes. He's glad Sam can't see him. "Hey, you down there already?"

"Yeah, come on. Hurry up, Dean."

"All right, all right! I'm coming, Samantha."

Dean can almost feel that familiar heated glare directed right at him.

Light once again returns after several bangs against the wall. Sam holds the flashlight at eye level, illuminating as much of the passage as he can.

The walls and floor are made of gray stone. An unnatural chill sweeps through the space almost constantly, accompanying the creepy feeling that everything is closing in around you. Dean instinctively reaches into his pocket to retrieve a gun, only to feel the soft fabric of his yellow suit. Oh, right. He's not a hunter. I'm monkey food.

About five minutes later, Dean steps in something that makes a disgusting splat noise. When he attempts to lift his foot, a sickening squelching sound fills their ears, and Sam turns to his brother.

"What the—?"

"What is it?" Sam asks.

"How the hell should I know? You got the flashlight, genius."

Sam focuses the beam of light downwards . . . and drops the flashlight in shock.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean curses.

"Shut up" is all Sam can say as he crouches to find the flashlight. As his hands curl around it, he can feel the empty compartment, the springs that had kept the tool's source of power in place. "The batteries fell out."

Dean throws his hands up. "Great, just great."

"Can you quit complaining and help me out here?" Sam growls, irritated and scared out of his mind.

"Whatever." Dean's hand closes over something solid. "Here, I think I found one."

It takes a minute to find Sam's hand in pitch black darkness. Sam squeezes the object, then frowns.



Sam holds up his hand, even though Dean can't see it. "This isn't a battery."

"Then what—?"

"It's a rock." Sam sighs. "Dean, would you please quit fooling around? This is serious!"

Dean puts up his hands—showing Sam he'll back off, though he can't see it. "Okay, sorry. Just trying to help."

They find the batteries and restore light to the passage. Sam once again lowers the flashlight, revealing the substance on the floor.

"Whoa, is that . . . blood?" Dean asks, crouching to get a better look.

"Yeah, sure looks like it."

The pool of blood continues all the way to the second set of stairs they come to, which look a bit more sturdy. Sam shines the light on them, and a glint of light reflects back to them from some sparkling material, which Dean moves toward.

Sam opens his mouth to warn Dean not to touch it, but the older sibling puts a finger to his lips, suddenly hearing muffled voices floating down to them from above.

"I told you," a woman was saying. "I'm tired of being overlooked and not getting my fair share. It's time you did some of the work for once."

"In case you haven't noticed," another female voice replies, "after all this, the only way it'll get done right is to do it myself. The only thing you've managed to prove to me is how stupid and childish you really are."

"We agreed on a price, Eleanor," comes the angered whisper.

"Now, now. No need to worry, my dear Diane. I will see to it that the money comes through for us."

"It doesn't matter," Diane says. "With or without it, my day will come, one way or the other."

And with that, a pair of footsteps crosses the floor and exits the room, shortly followed by a second.

Dean climbs around the bloody knife on the steps, then inches open the loose piece of floor.

"Dean!" Sam whispers. "What're you—?"


Sam waits while Dean scans the scene, but not for long. "What do you see?"

"Did you know this leads back to the kitchen? Convenient, right?" Dean asks, smiling.

"Are they gone?"

Dean shrugs. "Guess so."

They climb out of the dark tunnel and into the kitchen, lowering the square door quietly. Dean is amazed by how it completely disappears from view. Perfect camouflage.

"Did you recognize the voices?" Dean helps himself to food and drink in the fridge.

Sam thinks hard. "One, I think. Peacock."

"And the other?" Dean asks through a mouthful of cherry pie.

"Well, we know it wasn't Scarlet . . . so it has to be White."

Dean chews and thinks. "White and Peacock? Working together? Really?"

"What else could they have been talking about, Dean? White brought up the cash. Peacock told her how childish she was, how only she could get the job done. Sounds like a pretty open and shut case to me."

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, but . . ."


"It's just, well . . ." Dean shrugs. "It's never that easy. And we don't even know why we're here to begin with. I mean, who did this to us? Who thought it would be funny to chuck us here, have us become two of the characters, like pieces in the game? Not that I'm complaining, or anything. Sure, Scarlet's great and all, but I don't—"

Sam waves his hand, cutting Dean off. "I think I know who we're dealing with."

Before Dean ask who or what is responsible, a gusty wind passes through the room, knocking a few papers on the counter to the floor. He holds the pie protectively.

But the tan trenchcoat and piercing blue eyes can only belong to one angel they know.