Lessons: 3/?
Third chapter has arrived. I wanted to do a lot more with this chapter but it just stretched on for too long so I had to end it at 5000 words and resign myself to the fact that this story is going to have a hell of a lot more chapters than anticipated, lol. This chapter is more an 'in-between' so I promise more plot revelations (and college encounters!) in the next chap.
Title: Lessons 3/?
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Cateory: Gen
Timeline: After 'Provenance' but before 'Dead Man's Blood'
Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing.
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.
Edit 19/7/06: Thank you so much to
chaneen for an amazing beta job!!
Chapter Three
Sam’s eyes snapped open. He tried to pull himself up but his hand slipped on the edge of the cushion and only instincts kept him from tumbling off the couch and landing in an embarrassing heap. That’s when he remembered where he was - sleeping in the common room, using the couch as a makeshift bed. Alone out here while Dean was alone in there.
Something had woken him. Sam’s eyes slid toward the bedroom door and he quieted his breath, listening. There were no sounds of struggle or movement or anything to indicate trouble.
Sam removed the jacket he’d been using as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the couch. Why did he feel as if he needed to be somewhere or that he was forgetting something? Sam looked around the small room, eyes instantly traveling to each shadow that slanting across the floor. They hid nothing but dust balls.
Another noise. Sam tensed. It sounded like someone laughing. He walked over to the window and tried to squint through the shadows that blanketed the street. In the distance was a small group of students who, if their swaying steps were anything to judge by, were coming back from a night out. That’s what woke him. It must have been.
Sam turned from the window to look again at the bedroom door. It stood closed, a white rectangular slab that almost taunted with the question of what it hid. Realizing that regarding a door as taunting was a sign that he was either overtired or going crazy, Sam nonetheless found himself wishing that Dean snored.
Sam pushed away from the window and walked to the door, the vague beginnings of panic weaving through his stomach. He knocked. “Dean?” No answer. Sam called a little louder, “Dean?” Still nothing. The panic began to creep into Sam’s chest - Dean rarely slept through any noise, let alone his own brother calling for him. He rapped against the door, not caring if he woke up the whole damn floor: “Dean! I swear to god you better not be in trouble, and you better not be ignoring me.” He tried to push open the door, but an invisible force slammed it back shut. Sam frowned. He pushed it open again, harder this time, but again it slammed shut. Sam’s eyes widened and the panic exploded. “No! Dean!” He grabbed the knob with both hands and leaned with his entire weight, muscles straining and bare feet sliding on the carpet as he pushed. It wouldn’t budge. “No!” He rammed his shoulder into the door, again and again, ears peeled for that fatal sound of a body - Dean’s body - smacking the ground outside.
He beat his shoulder against the door until the sound started to remind him of the solemn beats counting down in his dream. He pushed away from the door, running his hands through his hair. He scanned the room for something to force the door open. He turned in circles, the panic growing each time the couches and desks and other doors whipped past his vision. There was nothing here to use! All his weapons were in that room. “Dammit!” Trust Dean to get in trouble right after an argument!
Sam was annoyed at himself, annoyed at Dean-scared for Dean-annoyed at that fucking girl and his fucking dreams and at everything that had led to him being stuck out here while Dean was stuck in there. He let the frustration build, let it feed off his panic until it eclipsed reason and he found himself backing up, eyes trained on that stupid, taunting door. Then he charged, rushing for it and turning at the last second so that his shoulder collided with the door. It sprang open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Sam tumbled inside, arms flailing to keep his balance. He skidded to a stop, shocked by the sight of the girl from that morning standing right in front of him. She was staring with an expression that almost matched his own; he guessed she hadn’t expected him to break through. Then Sam noticed the cracked wall and shattered window. His eyes slid toward the ground and everything froze at the sight of Dean’s crumpled body.
“Dean!” he tried to shout, but the word was caught in his throat as the girl flicked her wrist, slamming the door shut and flinging Sam against it. Then she was in front of him, and Sam found that his arms and legs wouldn’t move.
“What did you do to him?” Sam spat, growing more worried with every second that Dean just lay there, unmoving. She ignored his question, reaching up and softly trailing her fingers over his collarbone. Sam jerked back from her touch. Her fingers weren’t cold like he’d expected; they were warm and solid. “What the hell are you?” Sam asked, wanting nothing more than to push her away and help Dean. His movements were too slow, though, like his body was lost in a trance that his mind was excluded from.
She cocked her head and watched him, her dark eyes boring into his. Then she smiled. A slow, cold smile like the one in his dream. Her lips parted and her voice floated toward him. You’re cute…Then she was gone, her laugh bouncing off the walls before it too disappeared.
Like an invisible weight lifting from his shoulders, Sam found he could move again. He stumbled to Dean’s side. “Dean?” Sam reached out and shook Dean’s shoulder. Some shards of glass fell from him with the movement, but Dean remained unresponsive. “Dean? Come on, man.” Sam hated the way his voice caught with tears he wouldn’t let fall: you cried for the dead and Sam wasn’t ready to do that yet. Not again. He started to brush off the remaining bits of glass, worried they might cut Dean, but his hand found something warm and sticky instead.
Sam sprung up to switch on the lights. He gasped. Blood covered his hand. Sam’s gaze flung back to his brother and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out - the back of Dean’s head, where he’d hit the window, was covered in blood. More worrying, though, was the blood that ran from Dean’s eyes like tears, leaving red trails down his cheeks. Sam quickly returned to Dean’s side and shook his shoulder, harder this time. “Fuck, Dean, come on. Just open your eyes. Please!”
Sam ran a hand through his hair, the one not covered in his brother’s blood, and tried to swallow the panic. Dean was hurt, he was injured, but that didn’t mean he was dead; it didn’t mean Sam was allowed to break down and forget his training. What was the first thing you did when someone was hurt? Check for a pulse. Dammit! Why hadn’t he done that yet? He pressed his fingers against Dean’s neck and held his breath. Then he felt it. A beat. A pulse. Dean was alive. Sam let the relief wash through him before springing into action. Phone, he needed to find the cell phone and call for help.
A low groan traveled up from the floor and Sam’s attention whipped back to Dean. “Dean?” Dean’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted up at Sam, looking confused. “Hey,” Sam said gently, a smile breaking through the concern. “Are you okay?”
Dean continued to frown at him. “You’re not a hot blonde.”
Sam snorted, smile widening. “No, can’t say I am.”
Dean groaned again and with slow, careful movements, pulled himself into a sitting position. “Which means I didn’t just wake up with a massive hangover.” He winced and reached for his head. Sam stopped him.
“No, but you did wake up with a massive bump. Be careful.”
Dean glanced at Sam and sighed. He hesitantly touched the back of his head, wincing as his fingers made contact. He glanced at the shattered glass sprinkled all over him and the floor and then carefully turned to look up at the broken window. "That's just great," he muttered. "Between people being pushed out and me being thrown in into 'em, I'm going to develop a window phobia."
“So you remember what happened?” Sam asked.
Still wincing, Dean pointed at the door, then to the opposite wall and then to the window. “Dead chick, me thrown into wall, thrown into window, then waking up to your ugly mug. Yeah, I remember.”
“Okay, good, I’ll be back in a second, don’t try to move.” Sam knew he needed to get a wet cloth for Dean’s head, but he hesitated at the door. Dean had a deep frown etched in his face and was already trying to get up off the floor despite Sam’s warning. Sam smiled and made sure to push the door wide open before hurrying out to get the cloth.
Dean pulled himself onto the bed and waited until Sam disappeared from sight before shutting his eyes and slumping forward. He was too sore and tired to support his own weight, especially now that his head felt ten times larger. He could almost feel that scream still echoing through his skull. He rubbed his hands over his face to try to block out the memory, but felt something slick and sticky meet his fingers. Frowning, Dean forced himself off the bed. He looked at his reflection in the small mirror attached to the outside of the closet door. His frown deepened: there was blood on his face. He reached up with his thumb to try and wipe it away, but the blood had already dried. Realizing why his mouth tasted like copper, Dean bared his teeth. He knew what to expect, but it still startled him to find a bloodied grin staring back at him. “Well, that’s attractive,” he muttered.
“She really did a number on you,” Sam said, coming back into the room with a damp cloth. He reached out to press it against Dean’s head, but Dean flinched and moved away.
“Dude, ow.” He grabbed the cloth from Sam and gingerly pressed it against the back of his head. The movement pinched his shoulder and he glanced at it absently. His eyes widened. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, startling Sam. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing his arm. “Son of a bitch!”
On his upper arm, the skin around it bright red and swollen, sat a glistening tattoo of a spearhead.
“Oh, that’s just swell. She fucking tattooed me!”
“Jesus,” Sam said. “It’s not just a tattoo…She branded you.”
Dean tried to smudge the mark, but the action only stung his shoulder more. Then Sam’s words sunk in and his head snapped up. “She what? Like a cow?”
“Uh…” Sam frowned. “I guess.”
“What’s she want to do, make boots out of me?” Dean sighed and slid back on the bed, his movements feeling ridiculously slow and sluggish. “This is going to be one of those hunts where I get beat to hell, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, sitting across from Dean and handing him the cloth he’d dropt.
Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Dean shifted slightly to try and hide his injuries. “Window Bitch is after me specifically,” Dean answered, pressing the cloth against his head again before pulling it away to check how much blood came with it. Thankfully, not as much as he'd expected with his head pounding like it was. He pressed it back against the gash anyway. “I don’t think she just thought I’d look good in a tattoo, or, you know, splattered on the ground. The chick hates my guts.”
Sam frowned. “Why?”
“She keeps saying she knows what I did and she won’t let me do it.” Off Sam’s look, Dean threw up the hand not holding the cloth. “I know! Someone needs to tell her that what’s done is done and you can’t stop someone from doing it if it’s already been done.” Dean frowned, thinking over what he’d just said. “Or that she sucks at grammar.”
Sam’s frown deepened. “Okay, so how’s this fit into what we already know?”
“That competitive students from the same class are committing suicide.”
“Okay, so…it doesn’t. Do you know what you did?”
“Nothing! Kill her kind for a living? How the hell am I supposed to know. I was kinda too busy getting strangled to ask.”
Sam’s eyes slid to Dean’s neck. “Jesus, Dean.” Sam reached out to feel the welts, but Dean pushed his hand away.
“Dude!”
Sam smirked. “Are you okay?” he asked, still smiling.
“I’m breathing, aren’t I?” Dean attempted to glare at Sam while adjusting his shirt so that it hid the marks. “She’s after you too, you know,” he added, hoping the remark would startle Sam enough to make him stop staring at his injuries. “It’s not just a one brother deal. She said we were screwing up her plans, or something. Both of us. You and I together.”
It worked. Sam frowned. “I’m starting to feel like a ghost detective. Why can’t ghosts just fly around rattling chains like they’re supposed to?”
“Too clichéd.” Dean carefully removed the cloth from his head and tossed it on the bedside table. The pounding in his head was finally beginning to recede, but his newly tattooed skin pinched with every movement. He glared at the black spearhead marring his skin. “Did Dead Bitch say anything interesting while you were rescuing my ass?” Dean cringed. “God, it’s a sad day in Dean Land when I’m playing the damsel in distress. You’re supposed to be Rapunzel.”
Sam looked reluctant. “Um, yeah, she did say something actually. She said that I was cute.”
Dean raised his eyebrows, forgetting his injuries as a grin spread onto his face. “Come again?”
“Dean.”
“No, no,” Dean said, cupping his ear and leaning forward. “Seriously, didn’t catch it, what did she say?”
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She said, ‘you’re cute’ and then disappeared.”
“That’s weird,” Dean said.
“I know, not usual ghost behaviour.”
“No, I mean usually the ladies are all over me. If it’s you the ghost’s crushing on, I’m willing to admit there’s something not so normal about this hunt.”
“She wasn’t crushing on me!” His eyes betrayed his amusement.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Sammy, the dead chick thinks you’re cute. Who wouldn’t with those puppy dog eyes.” Dean reached out to tousle Sam’s hair.
Sam laughed and pushed Dean’s hand away. “You’re an ass.”
“But it’s your ass she’s pining over.”
“So you are willing to admit there’s something…off…about this case?” Sam asked, ignoring Dean’s remark.
Dean shrugged. “Sure. I mean, you get strangled, I get flung. It’s how it works. When I start getting the neck treatment too, you know something’s not right.”
Sam smirked. “Your logic is unique, Dean.”
“I’m all about the uniqueness.”
“And arrogance.”
Dean shrugged. What could he say? Noticing a red light from the corner of his eye, Dean turned to find his cell peeking out from under Sam’s bed. Uncurling his legs and carefully stepping over the shards of glass sprinkled across the carpet, Dean scooped up the phone and checked the time. “We have to be in class in a few hours. Great.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Hell yeah,” Dean answered, setting the phone down on the bedside table. “Dude, this is our only lead. I’m willing to endure some boring professor talking about boring shit if it means I get to kick some ass afterwards.” He ran a hand across his face and looked at the blood that came off on his fingers. “I’m taking a shower; I look like the clown of death.”
Sam instantly stood, his face a mix of worry and guilt. Dean sighed and waited for it.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Taking a shower?”
“You’ll be alone. You could get attacked again.”
“Dude, you are not keeping me company while I shower. That is beyond creepy.”
Sam gave Dean a dry look. “That isn’t what I meant.” He walked over to his bed and from beneath it pulled out a duffle bag. He rummaged through the clothes piled on top to conceal the artillery and pulled out a canister of salt, chucking it at Dean who caught it with one hand. “Make sure you salt the whole bathroom, okay? And…” He disappeared under the bed again, surfacing with a large, long sports bag and lifting it carefully onto the bed. He unzipped it and plunged a hand inside, holding the bag taut with the other, yanking until a shotgun emerged. He gave it to Dean.
Dean looked from the canister in one hand to the shotgun he held upright in the other. “Thanks, Mary Poppins.”
Sam grinned, tossing the bag back under the bed. “I didn’t have time to pack properly. I found this old gym bag and just squeezed the shotgun in there. Be careful, Dean. I mean it.”
Dean smiled tightly. “Way to freak out a guy before showering.” Eying the salt and weapon, Dean turned and started down the hall toward the bathrooms. He was just glad it was the middle of the night; he had no idea how he’d explain away the salt and gun as a showering habit
Sam watched from the door as Dean disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom. He was worried about the way Dean was rubbing his chest and taking longer, slower breaths than usual.
He’d be okay, though: Dean was a good hunter and rock salt warded off most supernatural beings. He’d be okay.
Sam let himself slide down the doorframe, releasing a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He sat still for a second, watching the closed bathroom door. Then he knocked his head against the frame in frustration. Why the hell did he have just left Dean alone in that room? They knew this place was bad news and that the girl had already come to Dean once before. Jesus, it could have killed him! Would have killed him had Sam been a heavier sleeper. How could he be so stupid. Now Dean was branded, his brother was fucking branded for execution because Sam had left him alone. He’d had that vision of Dean in trouble - he’d fucking heard his own voice screaming Dean’s name yet he still left. Because of what? A fight? A stupid, childish fight? He had just assumed that since he was only a room over that his instincts would keep his ears peeled for trouble. Only one fucking white door had separated them and they’d both survived much longer distances.
Or maybe he’d just assumed he was the one Dean needed protection from. Isn’t that what his dreams were trying to tell him? Sam sighed and continued to watch the bathroom door. That dream was the reason Sam had grown so agitated and careless in the first place. The reason he’d left Dean alone. Out of guilt or fear or anger, it didn’t matter; he’d left Dean alone and Dean had almost died. Sam’s hands were still shaking and he didn’t think his mind would ever erase that image of Dean crumpled on the floor. At least Sam now knew with absolute certainty that his dream was wrong. Or a trick. He’d never do anything to replicate that image. Never.
Dean wiped the steam from the mirror and glanced at his shoulder and the unwanted tattoo that sat there. “A spear, of all things,” he muttered, shrugging his shirt back on. The bathroom was quiet, an echoing sort of quiet that seemed to have snuck up on Dean after he’d shut off the shower. He glanced at the salt circled around the room and then quickly checked under the sink to see if the gun was still propped there. You know, just to be safe. Dean glanced at himself, but the steam was already beginning to fog the mirror, distorting his image and making it shiver in and out, almost as if he himself were the ghost.
Dean sighed heavily and leaned his weight against the sink, the cold ceramic beneath his hands reminding him of the cold that had run through his body as that thing screamed in his head. He shut his eyes and tried to stop his memory from swinging back to her hands around his neck and the realization that he might die before he could warn Sam. Though the pounding from his head kept bringing the memory forward, faster than he could banish it. Annoyed, Dean grabbed a few Ibuprofens and swallowed them whole, grabbing the gun and striding out of the bathroom. He paused at the door, looking at the ring of salt but deciding to leave it. Colleges had janitors for that stuff, right?
He froze as a breeze hit his neck. He whipped around with the gun raised, but only the bathroom, glistening with moisture, stared back. He cautiously lowered the gun and backed out, shutting the door behind him. If he attempted to separate the pounding in his head from the snoring and muffled voices inside the other dorms, maybe he’d hear someone laughing from behind the closed door. But Dean didn’t try. Some things were better left in the dark.
Sam was sitting against their room’s doorframe. Dean smirked as Sam scrambled up, eyes large with concern. “You reading me a bedtime story, too?”
Sam grinned. “Hey, man, if you want me to.”
“Shut up.” Dean threw his wet towel at Sam.
Sam caught it and grimaced as water dripped down his arm. “You’re even a messy showerer.” He tossed the towel onto the back of a chair and followed Dean.
Dean flopped backwards onto his bed but cringed as the impact jostled his bruised body. “Dumb move.” He pulled himself up and gingerly felt the back of his head. He rolled his shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension, the tattoo again catching his eye. “And I always wanted a mermaid,” he muttered, “want to know what it’d do when I flexed?”
“No.”
Dean smirked and glanced at the time on his phone. “Well, four hours is better than one. Hit the lights, Sammy.”
Sam reached to turn them off but hesitated. He took a visible breath and scuffed the carpet with his toe. “Hey, Dean? I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t mean what I said-”
“I know,” Dean cut in. “Forget it, okay? You rescued my ass; we’re even.”
“But Dean, if I hadn’t left you in there-”
“Dude,” Dean cut off again. “I don’t need a babysitter. Seriously, you gotta let it go: I’m getting these twisted visuals of you following me around everywhere like a freakin’ six foot tall puppy dog.”
Sam smiled slightly and nodded, turning off the light. “I’m just going to do a bit more research; I’ll wake you before class.” Sam grabbed the laptop and leaned against the headboard.
Dean sighed and watched as the blue light from the screen bathed Sam’s face and deepened the lines already present. “Sammy, man, hit the sack. I don’t want you to watch over me. I survived fine for those three years too, you know.”
Sam’s eyes flickered in Dean’s direction. “I’m not tired.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude.” He rolled onto his side and pulled up the sheets. Though his body demanded sleep, Dean stayed awake for a while, listening to his brother clicking away, browsing for some answers or clues or whatever he was searching for. Dean wished he knew what to say to alleviate his brother’s guilt. But, hell, he was never too great at convincing Sam of anything.
Wake up…
Dean startled awake. His breath was coming in cold bursts - the room as swathed in an icy chill thanks to the broken window. Dean frowned and listened: there was a scratching noise coming from somewhere, like branches against a window, only their room was on the twelfth floor. Dean turned his head slowly and looked at the window, or what remained of it. Floating on the other side of the glass, skin glowing in the moonlight, was that damn girl. Dean jumped up. She was scratching her nails against the window.
Kneeling on the bed, body tensed and breath coming quickly, Dean risked a glance at his brother, who had fallen asleep with the laptop still open. “Sam,” Dean whispered, cautiously reaching for the shotgun placed beside his bed. “Sam,” he whispered again. Watching the ghost to make sure she was still busy tracing whatever the hell she was tracing into the foggy pane, Dean slowly reached for his pillow and threw it at Sam. The pillow hit Sam’s face and he snorted awake, the laptop falling to the ground with a loud thump.
Sam blinked. He frowned and looked down at the pillow lying next to the upturned laptop, then up at Dean. “What was that for?” He noticed the gun in Dean’s hands and stood. Dean gestured at the window and Sam whipped around, gasping when he saw the girl. Her eyes swiveled toward his. She smiled and then vanished.
Dean waited a second before lowering the gun.
“That was weird,” Sam said.
“Weird? Weird was the first thing that came to your mind, not creepy?”
“That too.” Sam bent over to scoop up his pillow and laptop.
“Be less subtle next time,” Dean said, lowering the gun next to his bed. “You scared her away before I could get in a shot.”
Sam paused in his examination of the laptop. “I scared away the floating, glowing, controls with the power of her mind ghost?”
“Well, you made enough noise startle her.”
Sam grabbed his pillow and flung it at Dean.
“Hey!” Dean objected, ducking out of its way.
“See? You try waking up quietly after having a pillow thrown at your face.”
Dean chucked the pillow back at Sam. “You’re such a grouch in the morning.”
Sam half laughed, half sighed. He looked back at the window and paled, his gaze caught by whatever she’d traced into the condensation. Sam scooted closer for a better look.
“What’d she write?” Dean asked.
Sam didn’t say anything. Dean frowned and checked it out for himself.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0
Go to Chap 4
Title: Lessons 3/?
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Cateory: Gen
Timeline: After 'Provenance' but before 'Dead Man's Blood'
Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing.
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.
Edit 19/7/06: Thank you so much to
chaneen for an amazing beta job!!
Chapter Three
Sam’s eyes snapped open. He tried to pull himself up but his hand slipped on the edge of the cushion and only instincts kept him from tumbling off the couch and landing in an embarrassing heap. That’s when he remembered where he was - sleeping in the common room, using the couch as a makeshift bed. Alone out here while Dean was alone in there.
Something had woken him. Sam’s eyes slid toward the bedroom door and he quieted his breath, listening. There were no sounds of struggle or movement or anything to indicate trouble.
Sam removed the jacket he’d been using as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the couch. Why did he feel as if he needed to be somewhere or that he was forgetting something? Sam looked around the small room, eyes instantly traveling to each shadow that slanting across the floor. They hid nothing but dust balls.
Another noise. Sam tensed. It sounded like someone laughing. He walked over to the window and tried to squint through the shadows that blanketed the street. In the distance was a small group of students who, if their swaying steps were anything to judge by, were coming back from a night out. That’s what woke him. It must have been.
Sam turned from the window to look again at the bedroom door. It stood closed, a white rectangular slab that almost taunted with the question of what it hid. Realizing that regarding a door as taunting was a sign that he was either overtired or going crazy, Sam nonetheless found himself wishing that Dean snored.
Sam pushed away from the window and walked to the door, the vague beginnings of panic weaving through his stomach. He knocked. “Dean?” No answer. Sam called a little louder, “Dean?” Still nothing. The panic began to creep into Sam’s chest - Dean rarely slept through any noise, let alone his own brother calling for him. He rapped against the door, not caring if he woke up the whole damn floor: “Dean! I swear to god you better not be in trouble, and you better not be ignoring me.” He tried to push open the door, but an invisible force slammed it back shut. Sam frowned. He pushed it open again, harder this time, but again it slammed shut. Sam’s eyes widened and the panic exploded. “No! Dean!” He grabbed the knob with both hands and leaned with his entire weight, muscles straining and bare feet sliding on the carpet as he pushed. It wouldn’t budge. “No!” He rammed his shoulder into the door, again and again, ears peeled for that fatal sound of a body - Dean’s body - smacking the ground outside.
He beat his shoulder against the door until the sound started to remind him of the solemn beats counting down in his dream. He pushed away from the door, running his hands through his hair. He scanned the room for something to force the door open. He turned in circles, the panic growing each time the couches and desks and other doors whipped past his vision. There was nothing here to use! All his weapons were in that room. “Dammit!” Trust Dean to get in trouble right after an argument!
Sam was annoyed at himself, annoyed at Dean-scared for Dean-annoyed at that fucking girl and his fucking dreams and at everything that had led to him being stuck out here while Dean was stuck in there. He let the frustration build, let it feed off his panic until it eclipsed reason and he found himself backing up, eyes trained on that stupid, taunting door. Then he charged, rushing for it and turning at the last second so that his shoulder collided with the door. It sprang open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Sam tumbled inside, arms flailing to keep his balance. He skidded to a stop, shocked by the sight of the girl from that morning standing right in front of him. She was staring with an expression that almost matched his own; he guessed she hadn’t expected him to break through. Then Sam noticed the cracked wall and shattered window. His eyes slid toward the ground and everything froze at the sight of Dean’s crumpled body.
“Dean!” he tried to shout, but the word was caught in his throat as the girl flicked her wrist, slamming the door shut and flinging Sam against it. Then she was in front of him, and Sam found that his arms and legs wouldn’t move.
“What did you do to him?” Sam spat, growing more worried with every second that Dean just lay there, unmoving. She ignored his question, reaching up and softly trailing her fingers over his collarbone. Sam jerked back from her touch. Her fingers weren’t cold like he’d expected; they were warm and solid. “What the hell are you?” Sam asked, wanting nothing more than to push her away and help Dean. His movements were too slow, though, like his body was lost in a trance that his mind was excluded from.
She cocked her head and watched him, her dark eyes boring into his. Then she smiled. A slow, cold smile like the one in his dream. Her lips parted and her voice floated toward him. You’re cute…Then she was gone, her laugh bouncing off the walls before it too disappeared.
Like an invisible weight lifting from his shoulders, Sam found he could move again. He stumbled to Dean’s side. “Dean?” Sam reached out and shook Dean’s shoulder. Some shards of glass fell from him with the movement, but Dean remained unresponsive. “Dean? Come on, man.” Sam hated the way his voice caught with tears he wouldn’t let fall: you cried for the dead and Sam wasn’t ready to do that yet. Not again. He started to brush off the remaining bits of glass, worried they might cut Dean, but his hand found something warm and sticky instead.
Sam sprung up to switch on the lights. He gasped. Blood covered his hand. Sam’s gaze flung back to his brother and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out - the back of Dean’s head, where he’d hit the window, was covered in blood. More worrying, though, was the blood that ran from Dean’s eyes like tears, leaving red trails down his cheeks. Sam quickly returned to Dean’s side and shook his shoulder, harder this time. “Fuck, Dean, come on. Just open your eyes. Please!”
Sam ran a hand through his hair, the one not covered in his brother’s blood, and tried to swallow the panic. Dean was hurt, he was injured, but that didn’t mean he was dead; it didn’t mean Sam was allowed to break down and forget his training. What was the first thing you did when someone was hurt? Check for a pulse. Dammit! Why hadn’t he done that yet? He pressed his fingers against Dean’s neck and held his breath. Then he felt it. A beat. A pulse. Dean was alive. Sam let the relief wash through him before springing into action. Phone, he needed to find the cell phone and call for help.
A low groan traveled up from the floor and Sam’s attention whipped back to Dean. “Dean?” Dean’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted up at Sam, looking confused. “Hey,” Sam said gently, a smile breaking through the concern. “Are you okay?”
Dean continued to frown at him. “You’re not a hot blonde.”
Sam snorted, smile widening. “No, can’t say I am.”
Dean groaned again and with slow, careful movements, pulled himself into a sitting position. “Which means I didn’t just wake up with a massive hangover.” He winced and reached for his head. Sam stopped him.
“No, but you did wake up with a massive bump. Be careful.”
Dean glanced at Sam and sighed. He hesitantly touched the back of his head, wincing as his fingers made contact. He glanced at the shattered glass sprinkled all over him and the floor and then carefully turned to look up at the broken window. "That's just great," he muttered. "Between people being pushed out and me being thrown in into 'em, I'm going to develop a window phobia."
“So you remember what happened?” Sam asked.
Still wincing, Dean pointed at the door, then to the opposite wall and then to the window. “Dead chick, me thrown into wall, thrown into window, then waking up to your ugly mug. Yeah, I remember.”
“Okay, good, I’ll be back in a second, don’t try to move.” Sam knew he needed to get a wet cloth for Dean’s head, but he hesitated at the door. Dean had a deep frown etched in his face and was already trying to get up off the floor despite Sam’s warning. Sam smiled and made sure to push the door wide open before hurrying out to get the cloth.
Dean pulled himself onto the bed and waited until Sam disappeared from sight before shutting his eyes and slumping forward. He was too sore and tired to support his own weight, especially now that his head felt ten times larger. He could almost feel that scream still echoing through his skull. He rubbed his hands over his face to try to block out the memory, but felt something slick and sticky meet his fingers. Frowning, Dean forced himself off the bed. He looked at his reflection in the small mirror attached to the outside of the closet door. His frown deepened: there was blood on his face. He reached up with his thumb to try and wipe it away, but the blood had already dried. Realizing why his mouth tasted like copper, Dean bared his teeth. He knew what to expect, but it still startled him to find a bloodied grin staring back at him. “Well, that’s attractive,” he muttered.
“She really did a number on you,” Sam said, coming back into the room with a damp cloth. He reached out to press it against Dean’s head, but Dean flinched and moved away.
“Dude, ow.” He grabbed the cloth from Sam and gingerly pressed it against the back of his head. The movement pinched his shoulder and he glanced at it absently. His eyes widened. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, startling Sam. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing his arm. “Son of a bitch!”
On his upper arm, the skin around it bright red and swollen, sat a glistening tattoo of a spearhead.
“Oh, that’s just swell. She fucking tattooed me!”
“Jesus,” Sam said. “It’s not just a tattoo…She branded you.”
Dean tried to smudge the mark, but the action only stung his shoulder more. Then Sam’s words sunk in and his head snapped up. “She what? Like a cow?”
“Uh…” Sam frowned. “I guess.”
“What’s she want to do, make boots out of me?” Dean sighed and slid back on the bed, his movements feeling ridiculously slow and sluggish. “This is going to be one of those hunts where I get beat to hell, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, sitting across from Dean and handing him the cloth he’d dropt.
Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Dean shifted slightly to try and hide his injuries. “Window Bitch is after me specifically,” Dean answered, pressing the cloth against his head again before pulling it away to check how much blood came with it. Thankfully, not as much as he'd expected with his head pounding like it was. He pressed it back against the gash anyway. “I don’t think she just thought I’d look good in a tattoo, or, you know, splattered on the ground. The chick hates my guts.”
Sam frowned. “Why?”
“She keeps saying she knows what I did and she won’t let me do it.” Off Sam’s look, Dean threw up the hand not holding the cloth. “I know! Someone needs to tell her that what’s done is done and you can’t stop someone from doing it if it’s already been done.” Dean frowned, thinking over what he’d just said. “Or that she sucks at grammar.”
Sam’s frown deepened. “Okay, so how’s this fit into what we already know?”
“That competitive students from the same class are committing suicide.”
“Okay, so…it doesn’t. Do you know what you did?”
“Nothing! Kill her kind for a living? How the hell am I supposed to know. I was kinda too busy getting strangled to ask.”
Sam’s eyes slid to Dean’s neck. “Jesus, Dean.” Sam reached out to feel the welts, but Dean pushed his hand away.
“Dude!”
Sam smirked. “Are you okay?” he asked, still smiling.
“I’m breathing, aren’t I?” Dean attempted to glare at Sam while adjusting his shirt so that it hid the marks. “She’s after you too, you know,” he added, hoping the remark would startle Sam enough to make him stop staring at his injuries. “It’s not just a one brother deal. She said we were screwing up her plans, or something. Both of us. You and I together.”
It worked. Sam frowned. “I’m starting to feel like a ghost detective. Why can’t ghosts just fly around rattling chains like they’re supposed to?”
“Too clichéd.” Dean carefully removed the cloth from his head and tossed it on the bedside table. The pounding in his head was finally beginning to recede, but his newly tattooed skin pinched with every movement. He glared at the black spearhead marring his skin. “Did Dead Bitch say anything interesting while you were rescuing my ass?” Dean cringed. “God, it’s a sad day in Dean Land when I’m playing the damsel in distress. You’re supposed to be Rapunzel.”
Sam looked reluctant. “Um, yeah, she did say something actually. She said that I was cute.”
Dean raised his eyebrows, forgetting his injuries as a grin spread onto his face. “Come again?”
“Dean.”
“No, no,” Dean said, cupping his ear and leaning forward. “Seriously, didn’t catch it, what did she say?”
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She said, ‘you’re cute’ and then disappeared.”
“That’s weird,” Dean said.
“I know, not usual ghost behaviour.”
“No, I mean usually the ladies are all over me. If it’s you the ghost’s crushing on, I’m willing to admit there’s something not so normal about this hunt.”
“She wasn’t crushing on me!” His eyes betrayed his amusement.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Sammy, the dead chick thinks you’re cute. Who wouldn’t with those puppy dog eyes.” Dean reached out to tousle Sam’s hair.
Sam laughed and pushed Dean’s hand away. “You’re an ass.”
“But it’s your ass she’s pining over.”
“So you are willing to admit there’s something…off…about this case?” Sam asked, ignoring Dean’s remark.
Dean shrugged. “Sure. I mean, you get strangled, I get flung. It’s how it works. When I start getting the neck treatment too, you know something’s not right.”
Sam smirked. “Your logic is unique, Dean.”
“I’m all about the uniqueness.”
“And arrogance.”
Dean shrugged. What could he say? Noticing a red light from the corner of his eye, Dean turned to find his cell peeking out from under Sam’s bed. Uncurling his legs and carefully stepping over the shards of glass sprinkled across the carpet, Dean scooped up the phone and checked the time. “We have to be in class in a few hours. Great.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Hell yeah,” Dean answered, setting the phone down on the bedside table. “Dude, this is our only lead. I’m willing to endure some boring professor talking about boring shit if it means I get to kick some ass afterwards.” He ran a hand across his face and looked at the blood that came off on his fingers. “I’m taking a shower; I look like the clown of death.”
Sam instantly stood, his face a mix of worry and guilt. Dean sighed and waited for it.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Taking a shower?”
“You’ll be alone. You could get attacked again.”
“Dude, you are not keeping me company while I shower. That is beyond creepy.”
Sam gave Dean a dry look. “That isn’t what I meant.” He walked over to his bed and from beneath it pulled out a duffle bag. He rummaged through the clothes piled on top to conceal the artillery and pulled out a canister of salt, chucking it at Dean who caught it with one hand. “Make sure you salt the whole bathroom, okay? And…” He disappeared under the bed again, surfacing with a large, long sports bag and lifting it carefully onto the bed. He unzipped it and plunged a hand inside, holding the bag taut with the other, yanking until a shotgun emerged. He gave it to Dean.
Dean looked from the canister in one hand to the shotgun he held upright in the other. “Thanks, Mary Poppins.”
Sam grinned, tossing the bag back under the bed. “I didn’t have time to pack properly. I found this old gym bag and just squeezed the shotgun in there. Be careful, Dean. I mean it.”
Dean smiled tightly. “Way to freak out a guy before showering.” Eying the salt and weapon, Dean turned and started down the hall toward the bathrooms. He was just glad it was the middle of the night; he had no idea how he’d explain away the salt and gun as a showering habit
Sam watched from the door as Dean disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom. He was worried about the way Dean was rubbing his chest and taking longer, slower breaths than usual.
He’d be okay, though: Dean was a good hunter and rock salt warded off most supernatural beings. He’d be okay.
Sam let himself slide down the doorframe, releasing a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He sat still for a second, watching the closed bathroom door. Then he knocked his head against the frame in frustration. Why the hell did he have just left Dean alone in that room? They knew this place was bad news and that the girl had already come to Dean once before. Jesus, it could have killed him! Would have killed him had Sam been a heavier sleeper. How could he be so stupid. Now Dean was branded, his brother was fucking branded for execution because Sam had left him alone. He’d had that vision of Dean in trouble - he’d fucking heard his own voice screaming Dean’s name yet he still left. Because of what? A fight? A stupid, childish fight? He had just assumed that since he was only a room over that his instincts would keep his ears peeled for trouble. Only one fucking white door had separated them and they’d both survived much longer distances.
Or maybe he’d just assumed he was the one Dean needed protection from. Isn’t that what his dreams were trying to tell him? Sam sighed and continued to watch the bathroom door. That dream was the reason Sam had grown so agitated and careless in the first place. The reason he’d left Dean alone. Out of guilt or fear or anger, it didn’t matter; he’d left Dean alone and Dean had almost died. Sam’s hands were still shaking and he didn’t think his mind would ever erase that image of Dean crumpled on the floor. At least Sam now knew with absolute certainty that his dream was wrong. Or a trick. He’d never do anything to replicate that image. Never.
Dean wiped the steam from the mirror and glanced at his shoulder and the unwanted tattoo that sat there. “A spear, of all things,” he muttered, shrugging his shirt back on. The bathroom was quiet, an echoing sort of quiet that seemed to have snuck up on Dean after he’d shut off the shower. He glanced at the salt circled around the room and then quickly checked under the sink to see if the gun was still propped there. You know, just to be safe. Dean glanced at himself, but the steam was already beginning to fog the mirror, distorting his image and making it shiver in and out, almost as if he himself were the ghost.
Dean sighed heavily and leaned his weight against the sink, the cold ceramic beneath his hands reminding him of the cold that had run through his body as that thing screamed in his head. He shut his eyes and tried to stop his memory from swinging back to her hands around his neck and the realization that he might die before he could warn Sam. Though the pounding from his head kept bringing the memory forward, faster than he could banish it. Annoyed, Dean grabbed a few Ibuprofens and swallowed them whole, grabbing the gun and striding out of the bathroom. He paused at the door, looking at the ring of salt but deciding to leave it. Colleges had janitors for that stuff, right?
He froze as a breeze hit his neck. He whipped around with the gun raised, but only the bathroom, glistening with moisture, stared back. He cautiously lowered the gun and backed out, shutting the door behind him. If he attempted to separate the pounding in his head from the snoring and muffled voices inside the other dorms, maybe he’d hear someone laughing from behind the closed door. But Dean didn’t try. Some things were better left in the dark.
Sam was sitting against their room’s doorframe. Dean smirked as Sam scrambled up, eyes large with concern. “You reading me a bedtime story, too?”
Sam grinned. “Hey, man, if you want me to.”
“Shut up.” Dean threw his wet towel at Sam.
Sam caught it and grimaced as water dripped down his arm. “You’re even a messy showerer.” He tossed the towel onto the back of a chair and followed Dean.
Dean flopped backwards onto his bed but cringed as the impact jostled his bruised body. “Dumb move.” He pulled himself up and gingerly felt the back of his head. He rolled his shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension, the tattoo again catching his eye. “And I always wanted a mermaid,” he muttered, “want to know what it’d do when I flexed?”
“No.”
Dean smirked and glanced at the time on his phone. “Well, four hours is better than one. Hit the lights, Sammy.”
Sam reached to turn them off but hesitated. He took a visible breath and scuffed the carpet with his toe. “Hey, Dean? I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t mean what I said-”
“I know,” Dean cut in. “Forget it, okay? You rescued my ass; we’re even.”
“But Dean, if I hadn’t left you in there-”
“Dude,” Dean cut off again. “I don’t need a babysitter. Seriously, you gotta let it go: I’m getting these twisted visuals of you following me around everywhere like a freakin’ six foot tall puppy dog.”
Sam smiled slightly and nodded, turning off the light. “I’m just going to do a bit more research; I’ll wake you before class.” Sam grabbed the laptop and leaned against the headboard.
Dean sighed and watched as the blue light from the screen bathed Sam’s face and deepened the lines already present. “Sammy, man, hit the sack. I don’t want you to watch over me. I survived fine for those three years too, you know.”
Sam’s eyes flickered in Dean’s direction. “I’m not tired.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude.” He rolled onto his side and pulled up the sheets. Though his body demanded sleep, Dean stayed awake for a while, listening to his brother clicking away, browsing for some answers or clues or whatever he was searching for. Dean wished he knew what to say to alleviate his brother’s guilt. But, hell, he was never too great at convincing Sam of anything.
Wake up…
Dean startled awake. His breath was coming in cold bursts - the room as swathed in an icy chill thanks to the broken window. Dean frowned and listened: there was a scratching noise coming from somewhere, like branches against a window, only their room was on the twelfth floor. Dean turned his head slowly and looked at the window, or what remained of it. Floating on the other side of the glass, skin glowing in the moonlight, was that damn girl. Dean jumped up. She was scratching her nails against the window.
Kneeling on the bed, body tensed and breath coming quickly, Dean risked a glance at his brother, who had fallen asleep with the laptop still open. “Sam,” Dean whispered, cautiously reaching for the shotgun placed beside his bed. “Sam,” he whispered again. Watching the ghost to make sure she was still busy tracing whatever the hell she was tracing into the foggy pane, Dean slowly reached for his pillow and threw it at Sam. The pillow hit Sam’s face and he snorted awake, the laptop falling to the ground with a loud thump.
Sam blinked. He frowned and looked down at the pillow lying next to the upturned laptop, then up at Dean. “What was that for?” He noticed the gun in Dean’s hands and stood. Dean gestured at the window and Sam whipped around, gasping when he saw the girl. Her eyes swiveled toward his. She smiled and then vanished.
Dean waited a second before lowering the gun.
“That was weird,” Sam said.
“Weird? Weird was the first thing that came to your mind, not creepy?”
“That too.” Sam bent over to scoop up his pillow and laptop.
“Be less subtle next time,” Dean said, lowering the gun next to his bed. “You scared her away before I could get in a shot.”
Sam paused in his examination of the laptop. “I scared away the floating, glowing, controls with the power of her mind ghost?”
“Well, you made enough noise startle her.”
Sam grabbed his pillow and flung it at Dean.
“Hey!” Dean objected, ducking out of its way.
“See? You try waking up quietly after having a pillow thrown at your face.”
Dean chucked the pillow back at Sam. “You’re such a grouch in the morning.”
Sam half laughed, half sighed. He looked back at the window and paled, his gaze caught by whatever she’d traced into the condensation. Sam scooted closer for a better look.
“What’d she write?” Dean asked.
Sam didn’t say anything. Dean frowned and checked it out for himself.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0
Go to Chap 4