[Supernatural] "Witch City Sunrise" (PG)
Author's Note: Written for 
fic_promptly's Supernatural, Dean, daylight at last
A night of salting and then burning the bones of several angry ghosts, a family of what Sam would call troubled souls. Not your typical redneck torture family, but a family of Boston brahmins, buried in a fine mausoleum in a fairly new burial ground in Salem, Massachusetts. Not that holy ground should receive this lot, with the things they had done, trafficking in human souls like so many demons. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought they had crawled out of hell itself, instead of some tony penthouses on Beacon Street.
Great, a place crawling with witches. Contrary to the nice little printe tablets at the historical sites and the spiels of the tour guides, witchcraft had really happened here. The people captured by the Puritan witch hunts had no power or just played with spells and hedge craft, but real witches had worked their craft here, slipping through the Puritan dragnets and flitting off into the night. And for all the silly new age wannabe witches, real witches had found their way back to this hub of paranormal weirdness. Who knows what they might pull on him and Sam, as they sat out here, watching till the flames died down, sitting here in the darkness outside the mausoleum, a few brews at hand, watching the flames.
Sam kept looking over his shoulder, watching the road that lead into the graveyard, clearly keeping an eye out for any local smokies. And given Salem's track record for trouble, they likely had plenty of eyes watching for trouble.
"We should clear out of here before someone gets suspicious," Sam said.
"Nah, locals are probably used to wannabe magick users out here, playin' at Hollywood Satanists," Dean said, looking to the skyline, to the shadowy outlines of duplexes and brick buildings that made up the fringe of beautiful downtown Salem, the bridge over the railroad bridge heaving up against the dark sky. Beyond that lay the ocean and the horizon, and the sun would rise over it.
Something squealed in the depths of the mausoleum and something rushed out of the flames: a feminine form that should have burned away with the rest of the family. "Dammit! Lydia won't lie quietly," Dean growled, reaching for the shotgun at his feet. Sam grabbed the flask of holy water from the pocket of his jacket, spun off the cap and hurled the contents in the Sign of the Cross, hitting the figure, causing it to fall back. Dean fired a shot at the spectral figure. The creature screamed, flying apart in a hundred bits, falling away into ectoplasm.
"Dammit, daylight can't come soon enough," Dean growled, throwing down the shotgun.
Sam looked to the east. "Dean," he said. "Look."
Dean looked up. The light from the flames had died down enough that they could see the dark sky better. The city lights plagued the darkness, but he could see the east start to turn a paler shade of blue, forming a ring around the edges of the sky. A hint of pink showed on the windows of the courthouse and the MBTA station. "Daylight at last," he said, breathing easier. "Couldn't come soon enough."
fic_promptly's Supernatural, Dean, daylight at last
A night of salting and then burning the bones of several angry ghosts, a family of what Sam would call troubled souls. Not your typical redneck torture family, but a family of Boston brahmins, buried in a fine mausoleum in a fairly new burial ground in Salem, Massachusetts. Not that holy ground should receive this lot, with the things they had done, trafficking in human souls like so many demons. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought they had crawled out of hell itself, instead of some tony penthouses on Beacon Street.
Great, a place crawling with witches. Contrary to the nice little printe tablets at the historical sites and the spiels of the tour guides, witchcraft had really happened here. The people captured by the Puritan witch hunts had no power or just played with spells and hedge craft, but real witches had worked their craft here, slipping through the Puritan dragnets and flitting off into the night. And for all the silly new age wannabe witches, real witches had found their way back to this hub of paranormal weirdness. Who knows what they might pull on him and Sam, as they sat out here, watching till the flames died down, sitting here in the darkness outside the mausoleum, a few brews at hand, watching the flames.
Sam kept looking over his shoulder, watching the road that lead into the graveyard, clearly keeping an eye out for any local smokies. And given Salem's track record for trouble, they likely had plenty of eyes watching for trouble.
"We should clear out of here before someone gets suspicious," Sam said.
"Nah, locals are probably used to wannabe magick users out here, playin' at Hollywood Satanists," Dean said, looking to the skyline, to the shadowy outlines of duplexes and brick buildings that made up the fringe of beautiful downtown Salem, the bridge over the railroad bridge heaving up against the dark sky. Beyond that lay the ocean and the horizon, and the sun would rise over it.
Something squealed in the depths of the mausoleum and something rushed out of the flames: a feminine form that should have burned away with the rest of the family. "Dammit! Lydia won't lie quietly," Dean growled, reaching for the shotgun at his feet. Sam grabbed the flask of holy water from the pocket of his jacket, spun off the cap and hurled the contents in the Sign of the Cross, hitting the figure, causing it to fall back. Dean fired a shot at the spectral figure. The creature screamed, flying apart in a hundred bits, falling away into ectoplasm.
"Dammit, daylight can't come soon enough," Dean growled, throwing down the shotgun.
Sam looked to the east. "Dean," he said. "Look."
Dean looked up. The light from the flames had died down enough that they could see the dark sky better. The city lights plagued the darkness, but he could see the east start to turn a paler shade of blue, forming a ring around the edges of the sky. A hint of pink showed on the windows of the courthouse and the MBTA station. "Daylight at last," he said, breathing easier. "Couldn't come soon enough."