Childhood's End, 10/11
Title: Childhood’s End, 10/11
Author: reading_is_in
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Pre-series, casefic
Rating: PG-13
Warning: teenagers in bad situations, violence, horror
Summary. Sam (14) and Dean (18) go undercover at a children's home to investigate what appears to be a revenant.
Dean drew his pistol and fired. The salt round scattered the ghosts momentarily, but they quickly re-gathered.
“Sam’s gun!” he shouted at Wertheimer. “Where is it?” The old woman started to pat her apron a little vaguely.
“Here!” Lori opened a desk drawer, grabbed a box of small magnets, and scattered them over the floor. The ghosts vanished. “Iron,” she explained.
Wertheimer produced Sam’s gun at last. Dean opened it and emptied the clip.
“Hey!” Sam objected, but Dean used the salt to chalk a thin circle on the ground.
“Stand in that,” he directed Wertheimer. “Don’t get out, whatever happens.” He caught Sam’s eye, vaguely conciliatory. Sam huffed. But it was best to keep her out of the way - he had to admit that much.
“The old store room,” Dean said, and he and Sam ran for the staircase to the second floor. Lori was right behind them. The store room was crowded with boxes, a stepladder, and an old couch with some of the springs poking through along one wall.
“There!” exclaimed Sam - in one corner, an old trunk with the word TOYS singed into the wood gathered dust. As he opened it, one of the ghosts flickered back into his existence. It was a girl - maybe eight or nine - and her eyes widened as he opened the lid, reaching in excitement for its contents. Her arm went right through him. Sam gasped, overcome with the freezing of pain of it - it felt like an icicle had plunged directly into his chest. He was dimly aware of Dean shouting something, and a clang, and he came back to himself just in time to see the remains of a ragdoll singe and crisp on a copper plate.
“Sammy,” Dean was bending over him, holding his face in his hands, looking terrified.
“Okay,” Sam wheezed, pushing himself to his feet: lingering cold shuddered through his body, but he didn’t appear to have any lasting ill-effects. Dean steadied him.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” he shoved Dean lightly. “Gettoff me.”
“Christ,” Dean ran a hand over his face. “Okay. One down, four to go.”
“There’s nothing else in the trunk,” said Lori.
A scream from downstairs resounded. They met each other’s eyes and pounded back down the staircase. Two of the ghosts had converged on Wertheimer, creeping close to the edge of the salt circle. By the wall, Peter had flickered into existence, face mostly obscured by the clown mask.
“I have nothing for you!” Wertheimer was wailing at the two ghosts. “Get away!”
Peter’s mouth opened in an expression of anguish. He reached backwards towards the wall. Dean fired salt at the ghosts and they dissipated, Peter too.
“Look!” exclaimed Lori. Where Peter had been standing, a crack ran the length of the wooden slats. “It’s a panel!” she exclaimed.
“Peter’s little house,” whispered Wertheimer longingly, and Dean and Sam ran up to move the panel away.
“No - we would have seen it,” Lori shook her head.
“It’s probably not there all the time,” Dean reminded her. Behind the panel was a short, curving wooden staircase, unlit and cobwebbed. Dean put an arm in front of Sam to let him go first, drew his flashlight, and started down the steps.
The stairs curled around to open out onto a basement room. It was larger than one of the bedrooms, but smaller than the communal areas. A wooden desk sized for a child was set along one wall, a chair beneath it. The stone wall behind the desk was covered in drawings, paper curled and yellow with age. The drawings were mostly of childish stick figures, triangles for dresses and smiling circles for heads. One of the figures wore a clown mask.
Boxes were scattered around the room, and dust was thick over everything. Along the far wall was a a single bunk with a curtain drawn across it.
“Oh God,” said Lori, and her hand went to her mouth. She took a step towards the bunk, then stopped. “I can’t,” she said.
“You uh, might want to look the other way,” said Dean gruffly and reached for the curtain. He looked at Sam, and Sam shrugged, wide-eyed: no clue. If there was a body down here, not to be delicate - well, they would have smelled it.
“Mama?” said a voice from behind the curtain.
“Melinda!” Lori screamed and ripped the curtain back: a pale, wild-haired teenage girl sat up in the bunk, pushing musty covers down as though she had been sleeping. She looked sickly - as someone who’d lived in the darkness for a long time - but there was no mistaking her for the girl from Lori’s photographs. In her arms she clutched a collection of toys: a ratty teddy bear, a second rag-doll and two wooden soldiers. Lori grabbed the girl and clutched her, sobbing.
“Where is Peter?” the girl asked, her voice high and childlike. She blinked over her mother’s
shoulder, dazed.
At that instant, Peter and the other ghosts flickered into being around the room.
“Burn the toys!” shouted Dean. Thankfully, the floor was stone, and it was a matter of seconds for Sam to gather the toys into a pile - Dean emptied the last from his salt gun on top of them, then sparked his lighter and threw it on top of them. The ancient fluff and cotton went up immediately, and Peter and the remaining girl ghost vanished. Wertheimer screamed. The wood took longer to catch, flames licking and singing the edges of the soldiers as Sam and Dean held their iron blades out in front of them. The boy-ghosts hovered uncertainly, advancing a little on Wertheimer before flickering and retreating. The toy soldiers burned and crumbled, and they vanished too. Wertheimer collapsed, weeping, and Melinda cried out in distress.
“My Peter,” sobbed Wertheimer. “You sent him away.”
“He was already gone,” said Dean.
“You’ve been here this whole time,” Lori whispered to Melinda.
“I was playing with Peter,” said Melinda, wide-eyed. She sounded shocked. “His mom looks after us.” She stared at Dean. “You broke the toys. You - why did you do that?”
“It’s….kind of hard to explain,” Dean said. “We had to. Sorry.”
“We’ll get you new ones,” Lori promised, still clutching her daughter. She stared at Wertheimer, uncomprehending: “You took her.”
“All he wanted was a friend,” Wertheimer said from her heap on the floor, and buried her face in her hands. “You of all people should understand.” Then, suddenly, she sprang up, snarling, “Why should you get to keep yours?” and drawing a fine peeling knife from the folds of her apron, launched herself at Melissa. She grabbed the girl, raised the knife, aiming for her throat, and Lori shouted,
“No!” shoving her forcefully back off the bed. The back of Wertheimer’s head cracked hard on the stone floor. Her glasses fell off, bent, and a trickle of blood ran from beneath her thin hair. The glazed film of death came immediately over her pale eyes. She lay still.
“Oh,” Lori looked like she might be sick.
“You had to,” said Dean quickly. “It was an accident.”
“What - what are we-…?”
“Sam, go to the kitchen and get more salt,” Dean directed quietly. Sam nodded. “There are kilns in the coal bunker, yes?”
Lori nodded.
“You take care of Melinda. We’ll salt and burn Wertheimer. She won’t come back. You did what you had to do, Lori.” He held her gaze for a minute, and something passed between them that Sam couldn’t read. He went for the salt.
Sam had seen several things die in his life, and more move on to the next plane. He had never seen a human die though. Never smelled flesh burn. He and Dean stood by the open kiln, lit for the first time in decades, and watched the earthly remains of Ingrid Wertheimer flicker and glow to ash.
“It’s sad,” Sam said quietly. “She didn’t deserve - that.”
“You think Melinda did?” Dean snapped.
Pause.
“Besides…” Dean said.
“What?”
“They’re together now. Her and Peter. Or, they both don’t exist. Whatever. It’s for the best.”
Pause.
“Yeah,” Sam said.
They both stared into the flames.
Part Eleven
Author: reading_is_in
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Pre-series, casefic
Rating: PG-13
Warning: teenagers in bad situations, violence, horror
Summary. Sam (14) and Dean (18) go undercover at a children's home to investigate what appears to be a revenant.
Dean drew his pistol and fired. The salt round scattered the ghosts momentarily, but they quickly re-gathered.
“Sam’s gun!” he shouted at Wertheimer. “Where is it?” The old woman started to pat her apron a little vaguely.
“Here!” Lori opened a desk drawer, grabbed a box of small magnets, and scattered them over the floor. The ghosts vanished. “Iron,” she explained.
Wertheimer produced Sam’s gun at last. Dean opened it and emptied the clip.
“Hey!” Sam objected, but Dean used the salt to chalk a thin circle on the ground.
“Stand in that,” he directed Wertheimer. “Don’t get out, whatever happens.” He caught Sam’s eye, vaguely conciliatory. Sam huffed. But it was best to keep her out of the way - he had to admit that much.
“The old store room,” Dean said, and he and Sam ran for the staircase to the second floor. Lori was right behind them. The store room was crowded with boxes, a stepladder, and an old couch with some of the springs poking through along one wall.
“There!” exclaimed Sam - in one corner, an old trunk with the word TOYS singed into the wood gathered dust. As he opened it, one of the ghosts flickered back into his existence. It was a girl - maybe eight or nine - and her eyes widened as he opened the lid, reaching in excitement for its contents. Her arm went right through him. Sam gasped, overcome with the freezing of pain of it - it felt like an icicle had plunged directly into his chest. He was dimly aware of Dean shouting something, and a clang, and he came back to himself just in time to see the remains of a ragdoll singe and crisp on a copper plate.
“Sammy,” Dean was bending over him, holding his face in his hands, looking terrified.
“Okay,” Sam wheezed, pushing himself to his feet: lingering cold shuddered through his body, but he didn’t appear to have any lasting ill-effects. Dean steadied him.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” he shoved Dean lightly. “Gettoff me.”
“Christ,” Dean ran a hand over his face. “Okay. One down, four to go.”
“There’s nothing else in the trunk,” said Lori.
A scream from downstairs resounded. They met each other’s eyes and pounded back down the staircase. Two of the ghosts had converged on Wertheimer, creeping close to the edge of the salt circle. By the wall, Peter had flickered into existence, face mostly obscured by the clown mask.
“I have nothing for you!” Wertheimer was wailing at the two ghosts. “Get away!”
Peter’s mouth opened in an expression of anguish. He reached backwards towards the wall. Dean fired salt at the ghosts and they dissipated, Peter too.
“Look!” exclaimed Lori. Where Peter had been standing, a crack ran the length of the wooden slats. “It’s a panel!” she exclaimed.
“Peter’s little house,” whispered Wertheimer longingly, and Dean and Sam ran up to move the panel away.
“No - we would have seen it,” Lori shook her head.
“It’s probably not there all the time,” Dean reminded her. Behind the panel was a short, curving wooden staircase, unlit and cobwebbed. Dean put an arm in front of Sam to let him go first, drew his flashlight, and started down the steps.
The stairs curled around to open out onto a basement room. It was larger than one of the bedrooms, but smaller than the communal areas. A wooden desk sized for a child was set along one wall, a chair beneath it. The stone wall behind the desk was covered in drawings, paper curled and yellow with age. The drawings were mostly of childish stick figures, triangles for dresses and smiling circles for heads. One of the figures wore a clown mask.
Boxes were scattered around the room, and dust was thick over everything. Along the far wall was a a single bunk with a curtain drawn across it.
“Oh God,” said Lori, and her hand went to her mouth. She took a step towards the bunk, then stopped. “I can’t,” she said.
“You uh, might want to look the other way,” said Dean gruffly and reached for the curtain. He looked at Sam, and Sam shrugged, wide-eyed: no clue. If there was a body down here, not to be delicate - well, they would have smelled it.
“Mama?” said a voice from behind the curtain.
“Melinda!” Lori screamed and ripped the curtain back: a pale, wild-haired teenage girl sat up in the bunk, pushing musty covers down as though she had been sleeping. She looked sickly - as someone who’d lived in the darkness for a long time - but there was no mistaking her for the girl from Lori’s photographs. In her arms she clutched a collection of toys: a ratty teddy bear, a second rag-doll and two wooden soldiers. Lori grabbed the girl and clutched her, sobbing.
“Where is Peter?” the girl asked, her voice high and childlike. She blinked over her mother’s
shoulder, dazed.
At that instant, Peter and the other ghosts flickered into being around the room.
“Burn the toys!” shouted Dean. Thankfully, the floor was stone, and it was a matter of seconds for Sam to gather the toys into a pile - Dean emptied the last from his salt gun on top of them, then sparked his lighter and threw it on top of them. The ancient fluff and cotton went up immediately, and Peter and the remaining girl ghost vanished. Wertheimer screamed. The wood took longer to catch, flames licking and singing the edges of the soldiers as Sam and Dean held their iron blades out in front of them. The boy-ghosts hovered uncertainly, advancing a little on Wertheimer before flickering and retreating. The toy soldiers burned and crumbled, and they vanished too. Wertheimer collapsed, weeping, and Melinda cried out in distress.
“My Peter,” sobbed Wertheimer. “You sent him away.”
“He was already gone,” said Dean.
“You’ve been here this whole time,” Lori whispered to Melinda.
“I was playing with Peter,” said Melinda, wide-eyed. She sounded shocked. “His mom looks after us.” She stared at Dean. “You broke the toys. You - why did you do that?”
“It’s….kind of hard to explain,” Dean said. “We had to. Sorry.”
“We’ll get you new ones,” Lori promised, still clutching her daughter. She stared at Wertheimer, uncomprehending: “You took her.”
“All he wanted was a friend,” Wertheimer said from her heap on the floor, and buried her face in her hands. “You of all people should understand.” Then, suddenly, she sprang up, snarling, “Why should you get to keep yours?” and drawing a fine peeling knife from the folds of her apron, launched herself at Melissa. She grabbed the girl, raised the knife, aiming for her throat, and Lori shouted,
“No!” shoving her forcefully back off the bed. The back of Wertheimer’s head cracked hard on the stone floor. Her glasses fell off, bent, and a trickle of blood ran from beneath her thin hair. The glazed film of death came immediately over her pale eyes. She lay still.
“Oh,” Lori looked like she might be sick.
“You had to,” said Dean quickly. “It was an accident.”
“What - what are we-…?”
“Sam, go to the kitchen and get more salt,” Dean directed quietly. Sam nodded. “There are kilns in the coal bunker, yes?”
Lori nodded.
“You take care of Melinda. We’ll salt and burn Wertheimer. She won’t come back. You did what you had to do, Lori.” He held her gaze for a minute, and something passed between them that Sam couldn’t read. He went for the salt.
Sam had seen several things die in his life, and more move on to the next plane. He had never seen a human die though. Never smelled flesh burn. He and Dean stood by the open kiln, lit for the first time in decades, and watched the earthly remains of Ingrid Wertheimer flicker and glow to ash.
“It’s sad,” Sam said quietly. “She didn’t deserve - that.”
“You think Melinda did?” Dean snapped.
Pause.
“Besides…” Dean said.
“What?”
“They’re together now. Her and Peter. Or, they both don’t exist. Whatever. It’s for the best.”
Pause.
“Yeah,” Sam said.
They both stared into the flames.
Part Eleven