Haunted: Chapter 6
I'm no longer happy with this story! Why? Not because of the plot, but the way I'm writing it! Can people just suddenly forget how to write well? If there hasn't been a documented case in the past, well now there is one. I've somehow created a unique disease that steals away people's talents...it'll be named after me...Monica-itis...I'll be feared and abhorred, relegated to a small iron shed in the middle of the outback where I can't spread my disease any further...Okay, or maybe it's just 'coz I've been writing these last few chapters pretty late and running on a nightly average of 4-6 hours of zzz's. Being tired can hinder fanfic-ing abilty, right?
In other news, an essay I wrote back in first year (before this attack of the Anne Rice) has been accepted for publication in Watcher Junior: The Undergraduate Journal of Buffy Studies. Woo! So, you know, if you're bored or a Buffy fan I'll provide the link once it's made available. First, the pre-publication revisions need to come into play (Yep, I'm the one person who'd give themself homework on the holidays). Hee..."pre-publication revisions" - my life away from the real world, steeped in the comfy chair of academia, begins...
But, for now, here's Haunted: Chapter Six.
Haunted: Chapter 6
The door swung open and Jamie’s mother stood there, gaping at Dean.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, young man, beating against my door like that. Are you a cave man?” she said angrily.
Dean pushed past her, striding into the house - a dangerous expression darkening his face as he scanned the room, silently willing the spirit to leave his brother alone and come get him instead. He’s the one that thing wanted.
“Excuse me!” she said loudly.
Dean turned to look at her, plastering a smile onto his face. “I’m here to finish off those rats, ma’am. They’ve chomped on their last cheese slice.”
He stalked to the wall and started banging on it with the hand holding the gun. Jamie’s mother gave a startled gasp when she saw it.
“You’re going to shoot them!”
“Don’t worry, I wont wreck your decor,” Dean answered absently, walking around the room, eyes peeled, “This here is reserved for one especially big rat.”
Eyes widening further, Jamie’s mother hitched up her skirt and strode past Dean. “I’m going to get my boys!” she yelled at him angrily.
“You do that, lady,” Dean muttered at her retreating back.
“Come on…” he whispered into the silent room once she’d left. He’d been rude enough, why wasn’t it showing? He banged the wall again. “Brad, honey, I’m home!” he called out. Hell, if Dean knew anything, he knew how to taunt things into getting mad. And that’s exactly what he intended to do. He needed to lure Brad’s spirit away from Sam.
The open front door suddenly slammed shut, followed by what sounded like every window shutter in the house.
“Bingo,” Dean whispered, a smile sliding onto his face. He lifted his gun and aimed it in front of him, circling the room slowly as the lights began flickering and a cold breeze ruffled his short hair.
Keeping one hand firmly on the gun, he reached into his bag, quickly pulling out the video cam. He aimed it and switched on the night vision - it showed a glowing mass directly in front of him.
Before he could react, something collided into him with such force that he was thrown backwards, slamming into the opposite wall. Dean fell to his knees, winded, but had enough sense to lift his gun and pull the trigger, scattering the spirit before it could grab him again.
Springing to his feet, Dean rushed to his bag while he still had the chance - while Brad was temporarily stung - and grabbed a few spare cartridges of rock salt. He tucked them into his belt just as he felt those all-too-familiar icy fingers grip his neck. Dean froze at the touch, gulping as he felt himself lifted from the ground and thrown carelessly across the room. Dean instinctively lifted out his arms as he plowed into the family’s stereo system - a sharp pain spiking through his wrist as he landed in a heap.
“Hope that wasn’t expensive,” he grunted as he struggled to withdraw himself from the rubble.
Ignoring the pain in his wrist, Dean swung the gun forward and shot at Brad’s spirit, again scattering it. But it gathered itself instantly and propelled towards Dean, yanking the gun from Dean’s hands - his grip weakened by his sprained wrist. “Ah crap,” Dean muttered, watching as his gun slid out of reach, just before he felt Brad grab his hurt wrist and use it to haul Dean across the room.
Dean cried out as he landed back against the wall, the pain in his wrist shooting up his arm and sparking his adrenaline.
The ghost flew at him faster that Dean thought possible, but acting on instinct Dean tucked into a roll and ducked just in time, sliding towards his gun and scooping it up. But it was torn from his hands almost immediately. Brad’s shadowy spirit materialized in front of Dean, it’s dark eyes glowing menacingly.
With a sound like clapping thunder, it shot a bolt of electricity from the palm of its hand, sending it straight towards Dean’s bag, connecting with whatever gun powder was in there and blowing the bag up in a blaze of fire - not large enough to damage the house, but enough to make Dean jump out of the way as the flames licked at his body.
“How’s that playing fair!” Dean raged, watching as the fire dissipated, leaving a charred, black heap where his bag of weapons used to be.
The ghost answered by flying up to Dean and shoving him to the ground. It watched as Dean scrambled backwards, apparently happy to take its time now that Dean had no way to defend himself.
Dean gulped. He hadn’t really thought this plan through. He had to admit that.
Slowly, tauntingly, the ghost lowered itself and grabbed Dean’s head. Dean cringed, waiting for the inevitable.
But nothing happened. Dean opened his eyes to an empty room. A dark room.The lights had stopped flickering and turned themselves off. Cautiously, Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, half expecting to be shoved down again. But nothing happened. Not even a cold breeze.
Dean grinned, bending over and resting his arms on his knees as he forced his breathing to return to normal. “Sammy, you sure did take your sweet time,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket to call his brother.
But he dropped the phone as something slashed his face, creating a long cut from his cheekbone to his chin. It stung like hell.
“Dammit!” Dean yelled, “I forgot to knock on wood.” He noticed his gun still laying on the floor, and scrambled across the ground to grab it. “You forgot to do that Darth Sidious mojo on my gun. Big mistake,” Dean yelled out, firing randomly.
The spirit flickered in front of Dean who quickly fired again, scattering it, but it reappeared almost instantly. Instincts taking over, Dean fired, over and over. But the ghost kept reappearing. It was circling Dean, flickering in and out of existence randomly, forcing Dean to fire shot after shot, wedging rock salt in every wall of that living room.
So much for the décor.
Bet you’re sorry now, it whispered in Dean’s ear before trying to wrap its fingers around Dean’s neck. But the instant Dean felt those cold fingers graze his neck he fired again, scattering it once more.
“For what!” Dean yelled at the empty space were the ghost had been, exasperated. “Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
Bet you’re sorry now, it whispered again from somewhere across the room.
“No,” Dean replied, a sneer emerging from beyond the sweat and soot on his face, not caring what Brad meant by that, “can’t say that I am, bitch.”
The ghost hissed and Dean’s head whipped to the side as another scratch materialized next to the first one, this time deeper - Dean could feel the blood seeping from it and trickling down his face.
“Oh, I’m going to kill you so badly!” Dean raged. “If that leaves a scar, so help me…”
A scream tore through the living room. A girl’s scream. It came from upstairs. The ghost vanished the instant the scream stopped. Dean held his breath, listening intently for its next move.
But it didn’t come. Dean stood still, listening, waiting. He couldn’t tell you for just how long.
He was brought out of his attentive stance by a ringing. His phone. Finally lowering his gun, Dean quickly grabbed his torch. Clicking it on, he shone it across the floorboards until the beam landed on his phone. He grabbed it and answered, keeping his finger on the trigger the whole time.
Sam’s shirt was soaked through with sweat, his breath was becoming labored, and his arms felt like they were about to fall off. But he kept digging - clump after clump of dirt, willing his arms to move faster, to dig deeper. He had to get to those bones and burn them before Brad got to Dean and, well, killed him.
Sam cringed at the thought, the worry and panic fueling his strength and speed.
He should never have called Dean. He should’ve known Dean would go and do something crazy. Something stupid. Like use himself as bait to lure that ghost away. Like put himself in danger to pull Sam away from danger.
“After this is over, we’re having a little chat about that hero complex,” Sam muttered to himself, taking a second to wipe his brow.
“Woah!” he jumped backwards, having just noticed that he was no longer alone. Floating nearby was another ghost -gray like the first, its figure also distorted and billowing in the breeze, but with different eyes. They were calmer, sadder.
Sam slowly backed out of the hole he’d dug, staring at this new ghost while his mouth opened and closed, trying to work out what to say.
“…Bret?” Sam finally asked, the realization dawning and cutting through him like a knife.
The ghost didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to float and stare at Sam sadly.
I’m sorry…it finally whispered, the words dancing along the breeze until they reached Sam’s ears. It’s not his fault…
Sam’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what this meant. “You keep saying that,” Sam said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice - the fear and the anger. “But your brother is going to kill my brother if he isn’t stopped.”
Sam waited for the ghost to respond. Clung to some irrational hope that this thing would help Sam. Help Dean.
But all it did was turn away. Red…it whispered again before vanishing.
“No!” Sam yelled, diving after it, though he knew it was useless.
No, no, no, no, Sam thought, fumbling for his phone and dialing Dean’s number. Dean picked up almost instantly.
“Dean!”
“Dean!” Sam yelled through the phone, making Dean wince and move the phone away with a frown.
“I’m not deaf,” Dean complained. “Well, actually, now I might be.”
“Listen -” Sam began, but Dean cut him off impatiently.
“Dude, did you spend this time baking a cake? How long does it take you to burn some bones?”
“I haven’t yet,” Sam said.
“What!” Dean yelled. “Then what the hell are you doing calling me. Dig, dammit.”
“But, Dean - ” Sam tried to interject.
“Listen to your big brother, Sam,” Dean again cut off, “Before your big brother gets pulverized. Brad’s gone for a potty break, but he’ll be back soon. And I’d really prefer we didn’t have another play date.”
“Burning them wont work!” Sam blurted out before Dean could cut him off again.
“What?” Dean asked. “Why not?”
“Because I just saw Bret’s spirit.”
“What!” Dean practically yelled, switching his phone to the other hand so that his uninjured one could hold the gun. He gripped it tightly.
“Yeah, exactly. It was just here talking to me.”
Dean was growing more perplexed with everything Sam said. “You were having a chat with the psycho killer’s brother?”
“No,” Sam snapped, his voice sounding strained. Dean could practically hear the stress creases forming on Sam’s face. “It said it was sorry and that it wasn’t his fault. I guess he meant Brad. But Dean, that’s not important. What matters is that we burnt Bret’s bones and he’s still here, so it’s very likely burning Brad’s bones wont get rid of him either. They must be getting their energy from somewhere else.”
Dean’s jaw worked silently as he tried to absorb this information. “No, that’s impossible. You burn the bones, they die. End of story. There isn’t meant to be an epilogue!”
“Well in this case there is. You gotta get out of there, Dean. Now! I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Dean mumbled, running to the door. He tried to yank it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Frowning, he backed up and kicked it.
“Ow!” he yelled, hopping up and down. “Son of a…” He backed up again and tried to ram it with his shoulder. He only managed to bruise his shoulder. The door remain steady.
“Dean?” Sam questioned through the phone.
“Uh…” Dean replied. “The door won’t budge. I’m kinda stuck in here.”
Sam was quiet for a moment. “Well did you try the windows, other doors?”
“Gee, aren’t you full of good ideas,” Dean replied sarcastically. He was getting mighty annoyed by this whole freakin’ situation. “I doubt the evil telekinetic homicidal ghost bitch forgot to lock the back door!”
“God, Dean, why did you go there in the first place!”
Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead, silently scolding himself for letting his panic break through like that. It was only making Sam panic in return.
Dean shrugged, despite Sam not being able to see it. “You were stuck with a dangerous spirit. I had to get it away somehow. Coming here was the fastest way. It was a plan.”
“Getting yourself trapped in the house where it lived, died and now haunts is a plan? Especially after I told you it didn’t want to hurt me. And after it’s attacked you twice already?”
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair before using it to tug at the window shutters. “Okay, so maybe I was a bit rash,” he admitted.
“A bit…?” Sam trailed off, obviously unable to deal with Dean making light of this whole thing. “And what about the Palmer family, Dean? How did you even get them to let you in?”
“Eh…” Dean gave up trying to yank the shutters open and began searching through cabinets instead, not really knowing what he was looking for.
“You just barged in, didn’t you?” Sam said in a deadpan voice.
“Pretty much.”
“Dean…” Sam said wearily, but Dean could hear the smile lacing through Sam’s voice.
“Come on, Sam,” Dean replied, “they know what’s going on. They have to. They’re probably the reason we can’t destroy the brothers - they want to keep ‘em as pets or something.”
“The axe!” Sam said suddenly.
“Okay…random,” Dean frowned, standing up from where he’d been crouching to search through some drawers.
“Open the door with the axe! You brought it with you, right?”
Dean sighed, really not wanting to crush the hope coming through Sam’s voice.
“Yeah, I did. But… it’s no longer with us.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, growing more exasperated.
“Brad kind of…blew it up. Along with the rest of my weapons.”
“…You’re joking.”
“No…no. Not really my kind of ha-ha.” Dean spotted those darn little unicorn statues and chucked them against the wall, one by one, feeling strangely satisfied as they shattered.
A noise from upstairs made him stop mid-throw - ears pricked, eyes alert, gun at the ready. Someone, or something - most likely the latter - was scampering around up there.
“Hey, Sammy, I gotta call you back…”
“Dean? What is it?”
“I’ll call you back, Sammy. Just…burn the bones anyway. Just to be safe.”
“Dean…” Dean could hear the unsaid concern pouring through that single word.
He smiled slightly. “I know, Sam. I owe you a coke.”
Sam chuckled softly. “You better make good on that deal.”
Dean hung up, pocketed his phone and crept towards the stairs, adrenaline pumping through his veins. If he was stuck in this goddam haunted house, he wasn’t going to sit pretty and wait to be attacked again, that was for sure.
Placing his foot down carefully on the first step, testing to see if it would creak and give away his presence, Dean began slowly climbing. Once he reached the second floor he shone his light along the hallway. He paused when it landed on the Palmer’s little girl. She was crouching in a corner, back against the wall, knees pulled up tightly. Her head was buried in her arms, but muffled sobs escaped nonetheless. And she was shaking.
Dean quickly moved and crouched down in front of her. “Sweetheart?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong. Did something hurt you?”
At the sound of his voice, she jumped up, startled, backing away from him quickly. Tears stained her distressed face.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean soothed, backing up. “I don’t want to hurt you, okay? I want to help.”
She stopped backing away, but still stared at him with distrust shining in her wet eyes. Her chest was heaving and Dean could hear her struggling to take in breaths between her panic.
“Pinkie swear,” Dean said, smiling at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Her panic was unnerving him, but he had to get her to trust him. Had to work out what was wrong.
Her shallow breaths were the only sounds filling the empty hallway. She looked at him quietly. “Are you the bad man?” she asked, voice trembling.
Dean was at a loss for a moment, before quickly wiping the frown from his face and forcing a grin to replace it. “No, no, I’m the good one. See this face? I’m too pretty to be bad.”
She seemed to mull that over, walking up to him cautiously. She tugged at his sleeve and, surprised, Dean let her pull him down to her height.
She leant forward and whispered into his ear: “Then why does he want to kill you?”
Dean’s eyes widened slightly, and he looked back at her carefully. “Who? Brad?”
She burst into tears again, startling Dean. He looked at her, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do to get her to stop crying.
“Is Brad…” he stopped, uncomfortable with her tears. “Uh…sweetheart, can you stop crying for a moment. That’s a good girl. Now listen to me, this is important. Is he trying to hurt you?”
“No,” she gasped, looked aghast at the notion.
Dean frowned. This was all getting too much for him. “Then what’s wrong?”
Her loud crying stopped, replaced with silent tears that ran down her cheeks. She looked at Dean, distress filling her features. He waited for her to answer, not noticing that he was holding his breath.
“I’m DEAAAAAAAD!” She screamed, her voice reaching an unnatural pitch, vibrating the doors and windows around them, her face distorting and stretching to accompany the scream, her body instantly turning transparent, while the tears sliding from her cheeks instantly sizzled out of existence once they hit the floor.
“Woah!” Dean yelled, jumping back, slamming against the wall - his heart racing, his mouth turning dry. He lifted the gun and aimed it at her. Her image had returned to normal and now she just stood there, crying silently, meekly.
Dean hesitated. Taking a deep breath, he aimed it again…but just couldn’t pull the trigger. He skirted away from her and bolted down the stairs instead, chastising himself for turning so soft.
Heart pounding from the shock, Dean grabbed his phone and dialed Sam as he bounded down the stairs, almost tripping a few times in his haste to get away from that girl. Okay, he was unnerved. Who wouldn’t be!
“Dean? You okay?” Sam’s worried voice came through the phone.
“No, I’m not okay! I’m stuck in a freak show!” Dean reached the landing and skid to the front door, trying again to open it, yanking at and rattling it with all his strength.
“Dean, what happened?”
“The whole family’s dead, that’s what happened! The whole freakin’ family! That’s why burning the bones didn’t get rid of the ghosts. The Palmers are the ghosts! We’ve been digging up the wrong graves.”
Dean gave up on the door. Looking around anxiously, his eyes landed on the photographs manning the mantelpiece. He strode up to them. There was a row of family portraits, taken year by year. In the last photograph the family looked the same age as they did now.
“What…no, that can’t be right. Bret’s spirit responded to that name. And Brad’s spirit had a gunshot wound in his head. I mean…” Sam faltered, obviously not knowing what to say. Or think.
“Well, maybe Jamie killed himself too. But he’s dead. And I can guarantee you so is his sister.” Dean grabbed that last photograph off the mantle and tore the photo from it’s frame, turning it over to check the date. Ah ha - 1990. “Go find the Palmer’s graves, Sam. And dig faster this time.”
Dean hung up before Sam could answer. Angrily, Dean chucked the photograph against the wall. This was goddam crazy.
“Don’t do that,” a voice said from behind him.
Dean whipped around to find Jamie standing there, a ghost of a smile etched onto his features.
“Dean,” he said, almost in greeting.
“Dead-boy,” Dean responded, glaring at Jamie.
Jamie just smiled, a black shadow passing through his eyes as the lights began to flicker. His fingers twitched as small bolts of electricity began to surge through them.
Dean’s face hardened, an anger bubbling up inside his chest, replacing his earlier shock and fear. “You’re the one who’s been attacking me and my brother all along.”
“Not Sam,” Jamie said, almost gently. “I like Sam.”
Dean felt a chill run down his spine. For some reason Jamie liking Sam was creepier than if he had just plain old wanted to kill him. “What? And you don’t like me? Is it an alpha male thing?” he joked, covering up how disconcerted he felt.
“Not even close,” Jamie almost snarled. Almost. The kid displayed scary little emotion.
“Well if you like my brother so much, why’d you try to trap him in the graveyard?” Dean spat.
Jamie half smiled again, eyes still locked unwaveringly on Dean. “I needed to get you away from him. Away from that salt circle. Back here - to me. And it worked. Here you are. See, you’re not that bright, Dean.”
Jamie’s fingers began to spark with electricity.
Dean laughed hollowly, though he kept a weary eye on that hand. “Says the guy who chose to spend his afterlife living at home with his parents instead of following that light into the land of eternal bliss.”
Jamie’s eyes darkened again and he began to raise the hand crackling with leashed energy. Dean quickly raised his gun and fired. Jamie’s eyes widened and he ducked to the floor, covering his head as the rock salt wedged itself in the wall behind him, raining bits of debris onto his back.
Jamie sprung up, glaring at Dean. He began to turn transparent, his figure contorting into the ghostly one now so familiar to Dean.
He must be weaker when in human form, Dean realized, shocked by the sight of Jamie ducking to the floor instead of vanishing from the room like he’d expected.
“Hey! Freakazoid,” Dean shouted, knowing that he needed to get Jamie to stay in his human skin if he wanted even a chance of remaining alive while Sam found and burned the Palmer’s bones. “Did I scare you? Running to hide behind your invisibility cloak, huh? Typical. All you dead things are the same - you’re all cowards.”
That seemed to do the trick. Jamie’s figure folded back in on itself and he became Jamie again. “You’re not going to make this easy on yourself, are you? You want to go out in a blaze of fire? I can arrange that.”
He stretched out his arms and began drawing in the energy from the lights.
Dean looked around at the flickering fixtures anxiously, but his face hardened when his eyes met Jamie’s dark, cold ones.
“Fuck. You.”
Jamie curled his fists, stopping the energy flow. “Or maybe you just want to go out like the thug you are. I can arrange that too.”
He let the energy fizzle out. “Answer your phone,” he commanded.
Dean frowned. It wasn’t even ringing!
“For his sake,” Jamie stressed, staring Dean with pure, undiluted hatred. “I’ll let him say goodbye. He thinks he loves you. I know better, but I’ll let him say goodbye. Then you’re mine. And you’ll finally be sorry. Just like all the others.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Dude,” he finally said, “You’re a nutcase.”
But then his phone rang.
Go to Chapter 7
In other news, an essay I wrote back in first year (before this attack of the Anne Rice) has been accepted for publication in Watcher Junior: The Undergraduate Journal of Buffy Studies. Woo! So, you know, if you're bored or a Buffy fan I'll provide the link once it's made available. First, the pre-publication revisions need to come into play (Yep, I'm the one person who'd give themself homework on the holidays). Hee..."pre-publication revisions" - my life away from the real world, steeped in the comfy chair of academia, begins...
But, for now, here's Haunted: Chapter Six.
Haunted: Chapter 6
The door swung open and Jamie’s mother stood there, gaping at Dean.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, young man, beating against my door like that. Are you a cave man?” she said angrily.
Dean pushed past her, striding into the house - a dangerous expression darkening his face as he scanned the room, silently willing the spirit to leave his brother alone and come get him instead. He’s the one that thing wanted.
“Excuse me!” she said loudly.
Dean turned to look at her, plastering a smile onto his face. “I’m here to finish off those rats, ma’am. They’ve chomped on their last cheese slice.”
He stalked to the wall and started banging on it with the hand holding the gun. Jamie’s mother gave a startled gasp when she saw it.
“You’re going to shoot them!”
“Don’t worry, I wont wreck your decor,” Dean answered absently, walking around the room, eyes peeled, “This here is reserved for one especially big rat.”
Eyes widening further, Jamie’s mother hitched up her skirt and strode past Dean. “I’m going to get my boys!” she yelled at him angrily.
“You do that, lady,” Dean muttered at her retreating back.
“Come on…” he whispered into the silent room once she’d left. He’d been rude enough, why wasn’t it showing? He banged the wall again. “Brad, honey, I’m home!” he called out. Hell, if Dean knew anything, he knew how to taunt things into getting mad. And that’s exactly what he intended to do. He needed to lure Brad’s spirit away from Sam.
The open front door suddenly slammed shut, followed by what sounded like every window shutter in the house.
“Bingo,” Dean whispered, a smile sliding onto his face. He lifted his gun and aimed it in front of him, circling the room slowly as the lights began flickering and a cold breeze ruffled his short hair.
Keeping one hand firmly on the gun, he reached into his bag, quickly pulling out the video cam. He aimed it and switched on the night vision - it showed a glowing mass directly in front of him.
Before he could react, something collided into him with such force that he was thrown backwards, slamming into the opposite wall. Dean fell to his knees, winded, but had enough sense to lift his gun and pull the trigger, scattering the spirit before it could grab him again.
Springing to his feet, Dean rushed to his bag while he still had the chance - while Brad was temporarily stung - and grabbed a few spare cartridges of rock salt. He tucked them into his belt just as he felt those all-too-familiar icy fingers grip his neck. Dean froze at the touch, gulping as he felt himself lifted from the ground and thrown carelessly across the room. Dean instinctively lifted out his arms as he plowed into the family’s stereo system - a sharp pain spiking through his wrist as he landed in a heap.
“Hope that wasn’t expensive,” he grunted as he struggled to withdraw himself from the rubble.
Ignoring the pain in his wrist, Dean swung the gun forward and shot at Brad’s spirit, again scattering it. But it gathered itself instantly and propelled towards Dean, yanking the gun from Dean’s hands - his grip weakened by his sprained wrist. “Ah crap,” Dean muttered, watching as his gun slid out of reach, just before he felt Brad grab his hurt wrist and use it to haul Dean across the room.
Dean cried out as he landed back against the wall, the pain in his wrist shooting up his arm and sparking his adrenaline.
The ghost flew at him faster that Dean thought possible, but acting on instinct Dean tucked into a roll and ducked just in time, sliding towards his gun and scooping it up. But it was torn from his hands almost immediately. Brad’s shadowy spirit materialized in front of Dean, it’s dark eyes glowing menacingly.
With a sound like clapping thunder, it shot a bolt of electricity from the palm of its hand, sending it straight towards Dean’s bag, connecting with whatever gun powder was in there and blowing the bag up in a blaze of fire - not large enough to damage the house, but enough to make Dean jump out of the way as the flames licked at his body.
“How’s that playing fair!” Dean raged, watching as the fire dissipated, leaving a charred, black heap where his bag of weapons used to be.
The ghost answered by flying up to Dean and shoving him to the ground. It watched as Dean scrambled backwards, apparently happy to take its time now that Dean had no way to defend himself.
Dean gulped. He hadn’t really thought this plan through. He had to admit that.
Slowly, tauntingly, the ghost lowered itself and grabbed Dean’s head. Dean cringed, waiting for the inevitable.
But nothing happened. Dean opened his eyes to an empty room. A dark room.The lights had stopped flickering and turned themselves off. Cautiously, Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, half expecting to be shoved down again. But nothing happened. Not even a cold breeze.
Dean grinned, bending over and resting his arms on his knees as he forced his breathing to return to normal. “Sammy, you sure did take your sweet time,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket to call his brother.
But he dropped the phone as something slashed his face, creating a long cut from his cheekbone to his chin. It stung like hell.
“Dammit!” Dean yelled, “I forgot to knock on wood.” He noticed his gun still laying on the floor, and scrambled across the ground to grab it. “You forgot to do that Darth Sidious mojo on my gun. Big mistake,” Dean yelled out, firing randomly.
The spirit flickered in front of Dean who quickly fired again, scattering it, but it reappeared almost instantly. Instincts taking over, Dean fired, over and over. But the ghost kept reappearing. It was circling Dean, flickering in and out of existence randomly, forcing Dean to fire shot after shot, wedging rock salt in every wall of that living room.
So much for the décor.
Bet you’re sorry now, it whispered in Dean’s ear before trying to wrap its fingers around Dean’s neck. But the instant Dean felt those cold fingers graze his neck he fired again, scattering it once more.
“For what!” Dean yelled at the empty space were the ghost had been, exasperated. “Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
Bet you’re sorry now, it whispered again from somewhere across the room.
“No,” Dean replied, a sneer emerging from beyond the sweat and soot on his face, not caring what Brad meant by that, “can’t say that I am, bitch.”
The ghost hissed and Dean’s head whipped to the side as another scratch materialized next to the first one, this time deeper - Dean could feel the blood seeping from it and trickling down his face.
“Oh, I’m going to kill you so badly!” Dean raged. “If that leaves a scar, so help me…”
A scream tore through the living room. A girl’s scream. It came from upstairs. The ghost vanished the instant the scream stopped. Dean held his breath, listening intently for its next move.
But it didn’t come. Dean stood still, listening, waiting. He couldn’t tell you for just how long.
He was brought out of his attentive stance by a ringing. His phone. Finally lowering his gun, Dean quickly grabbed his torch. Clicking it on, he shone it across the floorboards until the beam landed on his phone. He grabbed it and answered, keeping his finger on the trigger the whole time.
Sam’s shirt was soaked through with sweat, his breath was becoming labored, and his arms felt like they were about to fall off. But he kept digging - clump after clump of dirt, willing his arms to move faster, to dig deeper. He had to get to those bones and burn them before Brad got to Dean and, well, killed him.
Sam cringed at the thought, the worry and panic fueling his strength and speed.
He should never have called Dean. He should’ve known Dean would go and do something crazy. Something stupid. Like use himself as bait to lure that ghost away. Like put himself in danger to pull Sam away from danger.
“After this is over, we’re having a little chat about that hero complex,” Sam muttered to himself, taking a second to wipe his brow.
“Woah!” he jumped backwards, having just noticed that he was no longer alone. Floating nearby was another ghost -gray like the first, its figure also distorted and billowing in the breeze, but with different eyes. They were calmer, sadder.
Sam slowly backed out of the hole he’d dug, staring at this new ghost while his mouth opened and closed, trying to work out what to say.
“…Bret?” Sam finally asked, the realization dawning and cutting through him like a knife.
The ghost didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to float and stare at Sam sadly.
I’m sorry…it finally whispered, the words dancing along the breeze until they reached Sam’s ears. It’s not his fault…
Sam’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what this meant. “You keep saying that,” Sam said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice - the fear and the anger. “But your brother is going to kill my brother if he isn’t stopped.”
Sam waited for the ghost to respond. Clung to some irrational hope that this thing would help Sam. Help Dean.
But all it did was turn away. Red…it whispered again before vanishing.
“No!” Sam yelled, diving after it, though he knew it was useless.
No, no, no, no, Sam thought, fumbling for his phone and dialing Dean’s number. Dean picked up almost instantly.
“Dean!”
“Dean!” Sam yelled through the phone, making Dean wince and move the phone away with a frown.
“I’m not deaf,” Dean complained. “Well, actually, now I might be.”
“Listen -” Sam began, but Dean cut him off impatiently.
“Dude, did you spend this time baking a cake? How long does it take you to burn some bones?”
“I haven’t yet,” Sam said.
“What!” Dean yelled. “Then what the hell are you doing calling me. Dig, dammit.”
“But, Dean - ” Sam tried to interject.
“Listen to your big brother, Sam,” Dean again cut off, “Before your big brother gets pulverized. Brad’s gone for a potty break, but he’ll be back soon. And I’d really prefer we didn’t have another play date.”
“Burning them wont work!” Sam blurted out before Dean could cut him off again.
“What?” Dean asked. “Why not?”
“Because I just saw Bret’s spirit.”
“What!” Dean practically yelled, switching his phone to the other hand so that his uninjured one could hold the gun. He gripped it tightly.
“Yeah, exactly. It was just here talking to me.”
Dean was growing more perplexed with everything Sam said. “You were having a chat with the psycho killer’s brother?”
“No,” Sam snapped, his voice sounding strained. Dean could practically hear the stress creases forming on Sam’s face. “It said it was sorry and that it wasn’t his fault. I guess he meant Brad. But Dean, that’s not important. What matters is that we burnt Bret’s bones and he’s still here, so it’s very likely burning Brad’s bones wont get rid of him either. They must be getting their energy from somewhere else.”
Dean’s jaw worked silently as he tried to absorb this information. “No, that’s impossible. You burn the bones, they die. End of story. There isn’t meant to be an epilogue!”
“Well in this case there is. You gotta get out of there, Dean. Now! I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Dean mumbled, running to the door. He tried to yank it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Frowning, he backed up and kicked it.
“Ow!” he yelled, hopping up and down. “Son of a…” He backed up again and tried to ram it with his shoulder. He only managed to bruise his shoulder. The door remain steady.
“Dean?” Sam questioned through the phone.
“Uh…” Dean replied. “The door won’t budge. I’m kinda stuck in here.”
Sam was quiet for a moment. “Well did you try the windows, other doors?”
“Gee, aren’t you full of good ideas,” Dean replied sarcastically. He was getting mighty annoyed by this whole freakin’ situation. “I doubt the evil telekinetic homicidal ghost bitch forgot to lock the back door!”
“God, Dean, why did you go there in the first place!”
Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead, silently scolding himself for letting his panic break through like that. It was only making Sam panic in return.
Dean shrugged, despite Sam not being able to see it. “You were stuck with a dangerous spirit. I had to get it away somehow. Coming here was the fastest way. It was a plan.”
“Getting yourself trapped in the house where it lived, died and now haunts is a plan? Especially after I told you it didn’t want to hurt me. And after it’s attacked you twice already?”
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair before using it to tug at the window shutters. “Okay, so maybe I was a bit rash,” he admitted.
“A bit…?” Sam trailed off, obviously unable to deal with Dean making light of this whole thing. “And what about the Palmer family, Dean? How did you even get them to let you in?”
“Eh…” Dean gave up trying to yank the shutters open and began searching through cabinets instead, not really knowing what he was looking for.
“You just barged in, didn’t you?” Sam said in a deadpan voice.
“Pretty much.”
“Dean…” Sam said wearily, but Dean could hear the smile lacing through Sam’s voice.
“Come on, Sam,” Dean replied, “they know what’s going on. They have to. They’re probably the reason we can’t destroy the brothers - they want to keep ‘em as pets or something.”
“The axe!” Sam said suddenly.
“Okay…random,” Dean frowned, standing up from where he’d been crouching to search through some drawers.
“Open the door with the axe! You brought it with you, right?”
Dean sighed, really not wanting to crush the hope coming through Sam’s voice.
“Yeah, I did. But… it’s no longer with us.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, growing more exasperated.
“Brad kind of…blew it up. Along with the rest of my weapons.”
“…You’re joking.”
“No…no. Not really my kind of ha-ha.” Dean spotted those darn little unicorn statues and chucked them against the wall, one by one, feeling strangely satisfied as they shattered.
A noise from upstairs made him stop mid-throw - ears pricked, eyes alert, gun at the ready. Someone, or something - most likely the latter - was scampering around up there.
“Hey, Sammy, I gotta call you back…”
“Dean? What is it?”
“I’ll call you back, Sammy. Just…burn the bones anyway. Just to be safe.”
“Dean…” Dean could hear the unsaid concern pouring through that single word.
He smiled slightly. “I know, Sam. I owe you a coke.”
Sam chuckled softly. “You better make good on that deal.”
Dean hung up, pocketed his phone and crept towards the stairs, adrenaline pumping through his veins. If he was stuck in this goddam haunted house, he wasn’t going to sit pretty and wait to be attacked again, that was for sure.
Placing his foot down carefully on the first step, testing to see if it would creak and give away his presence, Dean began slowly climbing. Once he reached the second floor he shone his light along the hallway. He paused when it landed on the Palmer’s little girl. She was crouching in a corner, back against the wall, knees pulled up tightly. Her head was buried in her arms, but muffled sobs escaped nonetheless. And she was shaking.
Dean quickly moved and crouched down in front of her. “Sweetheart?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong. Did something hurt you?”
At the sound of his voice, she jumped up, startled, backing away from him quickly. Tears stained her distressed face.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean soothed, backing up. “I don’t want to hurt you, okay? I want to help.”
She stopped backing away, but still stared at him with distrust shining in her wet eyes. Her chest was heaving and Dean could hear her struggling to take in breaths between her panic.
“Pinkie swear,” Dean said, smiling at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Her panic was unnerving him, but he had to get her to trust him. Had to work out what was wrong.
Her shallow breaths were the only sounds filling the empty hallway. She looked at him quietly. “Are you the bad man?” she asked, voice trembling.
Dean was at a loss for a moment, before quickly wiping the frown from his face and forcing a grin to replace it. “No, no, I’m the good one. See this face? I’m too pretty to be bad.”
She seemed to mull that over, walking up to him cautiously. She tugged at his sleeve and, surprised, Dean let her pull him down to her height.
She leant forward and whispered into his ear: “Then why does he want to kill you?”
Dean’s eyes widened slightly, and he looked back at her carefully. “Who? Brad?”
She burst into tears again, startling Dean. He looked at her, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do to get her to stop crying.
“Is Brad…” he stopped, uncomfortable with her tears. “Uh…sweetheart, can you stop crying for a moment. That’s a good girl. Now listen to me, this is important. Is he trying to hurt you?”
“No,” she gasped, looked aghast at the notion.
Dean frowned. This was all getting too much for him. “Then what’s wrong?”
Her loud crying stopped, replaced with silent tears that ran down her cheeks. She looked at Dean, distress filling her features. He waited for her to answer, not noticing that he was holding his breath.
“I’m DEAAAAAAAD!” She screamed, her voice reaching an unnatural pitch, vibrating the doors and windows around them, her face distorting and stretching to accompany the scream, her body instantly turning transparent, while the tears sliding from her cheeks instantly sizzled out of existence once they hit the floor.
“Woah!” Dean yelled, jumping back, slamming against the wall - his heart racing, his mouth turning dry. He lifted the gun and aimed it at her. Her image had returned to normal and now she just stood there, crying silently, meekly.
Dean hesitated. Taking a deep breath, he aimed it again…but just couldn’t pull the trigger. He skirted away from her and bolted down the stairs instead, chastising himself for turning so soft.
Heart pounding from the shock, Dean grabbed his phone and dialed Sam as he bounded down the stairs, almost tripping a few times in his haste to get away from that girl. Okay, he was unnerved. Who wouldn’t be!
“Dean? You okay?” Sam’s worried voice came through the phone.
“No, I’m not okay! I’m stuck in a freak show!” Dean reached the landing and skid to the front door, trying again to open it, yanking at and rattling it with all his strength.
“Dean, what happened?”
“The whole family’s dead, that’s what happened! The whole freakin’ family! That’s why burning the bones didn’t get rid of the ghosts. The Palmers are the ghosts! We’ve been digging up the wrong graves.”
Dean gave up on the door. Looking around anxiously, his eyes landed on the photographs manning the mantelpiece. He strode up to them. There was a row of family portraits, taken year by year. In the last photograph the family looked the same age as they did now.
“What…no, that can’t be right. Bret’s spirit responded to that name. And Brad’s spirit had a gunshot wound in his head. I mean…” Sam faltered, obviously not knowing what to say. Or think.
“Well, maybe Jamie killed himself too. But he’s dead. And I can guarantee you so is his sister.” Dean grabbed that last photograph off the mantle and tore the photo from it’s frame, turning it over to check the date. Ah ha - 1990. “Go find the Palmer’s graves, Sam. And dig faster this time.”
Dean hung up before Sam could answer. Angrily, Dean chucked the photograph against the wall. This was goddam crazy.
“Don’t do that,” a voice said from behind him.
Dean whipped around to find Jamie standing there, a ghost of a smile etched onto his features.
“Dean,” he said, almost in greeting.
“Dead-boy,” Dean responded, glaring at Jamie.
Jamie just smiled, a black shadow passing through his eyes as the lights began to flicker. His fingers twitched as small bolts of electricity began to surge through them.
Dean’s face hardened, an anger bubbling up inside his chest, replacing his earlier shock and fear. “You’re the one who’s been attacking me and my brother all along.”
“Not Sam,” Jamie said, almost gently. “I like Sam.”
Dean felt a chill run down his spine. For some reason Jamie liking Sam was creepier than if he had just plain old wanted to kill him. “What? And you don’t like me? Is it an alpha male thing?” he joked, covering up how disconcerted he felt.
“Not even close,” Jamie almost snarled. Almost. The kid displayed scary little emotion.
“Well if you like my brother so much, why’d you try to trap him in the graveyard?” Dean spat.
Jamie half smiled again, eyes still locked unwaveringly on Dean. “I needed to get you away from him. Away from that salt circle. Back here - to me. And it worked. Here you are. See, you’re not that bright, Dean.”
Jamie’s fingers began to spark with electricity.
Dean laughed hollowly, though he kept a weary eye on that hand. “Says the guy who chose to spend his afterlife living at home with his parents instead of following that light into the land of eternal bliss.”
Jamie’s eyes darkened again and he began to raise the hand crackling with leashed energy. Dean quickly raised his gun and fired. Jamie’s eyes widened and he ducked to the floor, covering his head as the rock salt wedged itself in the wall behind him, raining bits of debris onto his back.
Jamie sprung up, glaring at Dean. He began to turn transparent, his figure contorting into the ghostly one now so familiar to Dean.
He must be weaker when in human form, Dean realized, shocked by the sight of Jamie ducking to the floor instead of vanishing from the room like he’d expected.
“Hey! Freakazoid,” Dean shouted, knowing that he needed to get Jamie to stay in his human skin if he wanted even a chance of remaining alive while Sam found and burned the Palmer’s bones. “Did I scare you? Running to hide behind your invisibility cloak, huh? Typical. All you dead things are the same - you’re all cowards.”
That seemed to do the trick. Jamie’s figure folded back in on itself and he became Jamie again. “You’re not going to make this easy on yourself, are you? You want to go out in a blaze of fire? I can arrange that.”
He stretched out his arms and began drawing in the energy from the lights.
Dean looked around at the flickering fixtures anxiously, but his face hardened when his eyes met Jamie’s dark, cold ones.
“Fuck. You.”
Jamie curled his fists, stopping the energy flow. “Or maybe you just want to go out like the thug you are. I can arrange that too.”
He let the energy fizzle out. “Answer your phone,” he commanded.
Dean frowned. It wasn’t even ringing!
“For his sake,” Jamie stressed, staring Dean with pure, undiluted hatred. “I’ll let him say goodbye. He thinks he loves you. I know better, but I’ll let him say goodbye. Then you’re mine. And you’ll finally be sorry. Just like all the others.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Dude,” he finally said, “You’re a nutcase.”
But then his phone rang.
Go to Chapter 7