Carry On... Episode 8: All Along The Watchtower Part 2
Here is the second part of episode 8 of Carry On...
Episode 8: All Along the Watchtower
Original airdate: 2010.03.08.
Summary:
It feels like a stroke of luck when Sam and Dean are offered to stay in a former hotel in the middle of the woods outside of Cleveland. But the free lodging and the misleading peace turn into a trap when a mysterious storm all but takes them hostage. Now, of all times, the voices in Dean's head turn out to be more than voices after all.
Excerpt:
Sam was in his element and didn't miss a beat, diving into the research so they could figure this out. It felt good to have at least one constant in life even if it was Sam's geeky-ness.
Just as the thought crossed Dean's mind, a voice screamed in his head, the scream so loud that it echoed in his skull. He pressed his hands against his ears. Next thing he knew, Sam was by his side, holding him up and mumbling something.
"RUN!" Someone or something in Dean’s head yelled just as something heavy hit the roof above them, causing the lights to flicker furiously. Whatever it was it rolled down the roof as Dean lost his fight and surrendered to the blissful darkness.
Written by: annj_g80 and pinkphoenix1985
Artist: kiscinca
PART TWO
The first thing Dean was aware of was the soft mattress beneath him. The next was the noise that didn’t have anything to do with the unwanted voices in his head.
"Turn off the freaking hair dryer!" Dean mumbled and made a grimace when Sam answered.
"Dean! Are you okay?" His brother's tone was sympathetic enough.
"I'm fine Sammy. Sorry."
"Sorry? Are you kidding me?" He didn't sound very sympathetic any more and Dean rolled his eyes under still-closed eyelids.
"Stop rolling your eyes. What the hell happened?"
"Too much greasy hamburgers and salty French fries?" It was worth a try but Sam huffed. He didn't think it was amusing, obviously.
"Look, Sam. It's just a headache. Nothing worse. You should know what I'm talking about." Dean rubbed his temple for emphasis. "Mr. Migraine-guy."
"At least I don't do nose dives... at least not for a while now."
Finally, Dean opened his eyes and found himself still in the library. He was lying on the couch and that was something Dean was grateful for. Waking up on cold, hard floors so wouldn't have made things any better. Sam was half-sitting on the windowsill, his arms crossed in a distinctly impression of someone who had no intention whatsoever of letting go.
"What is going on?" Sam asked and made a wide gesture that included the room, Dean and probably everything from Dean's birth till his heroic ending. "First you decide to get yourself your own room? Then you avoid my questions and now you ...faint? "
"I didn't faint." Dean said, indignantly, and Sam just stared at him. "And did we marry while I was unconscious?"
"Something is going on with you and I'm worried. So, would you please be serious?"
"I am serious."
"Yes, seriously disturbed."
"Hey!" Dean exclaimed and regretted the fast movement with his head. He fell back into the pillow.
"How's your head?"
"Good."
"Liar!"
"Nosey bitch!" Dean smirked.
Still worry was shining in Sam's eyes and Dean put all his conviction into his next words. "I'm fine, I promise! Too little sleep, I suppose. So, what is this noise?"
"Looks like the storm is heating up." Sam explained and stepped closer to the window to look outside. It had gotten dark. Dark enough so that Dean could see his brother's face mirrored on the dark surface of the glass and Dean felt himself almost get sick by all the secret-keeping. It wasn't because he wanted to keep his brother in the dark. It was... he didn't know exactly what it was. He was stupid. The plain old stupid excuse and he knew it.
The wind buffeted the house with an unseen viciousness and the roof tiles and lose shutters were rattling and banging as if they sought entrance and shelter.
"You know, Dean," Sam began and Dean felt his stomach drop. He didn't like the tone of his brother's voice. Resignation and disappointment. "You know where to find me when you're ready to start talking."
Without another word, Sam turned around and left the room, leaving Dean behind who craved the unconsciousness he’d woken from to keep him from feeling like he had just betrayed his brother.
"Sam..." But he was already alone. "Sam, wait!"
The steps in the hallway stopped and returned slowly.
"What now? You want to tell me how paranoid I am? How obnoxious and..."
"You're right." Dean interrupted.
"With how paranoid I am?" Sam asked bitterly.
"No. I mean yes, but..." Sam was already on the verge of leaving when Dean propped his elbows against the cushions and sat up with a groan, willing his head to stay on top of his neck.
Sam made a worried face. "You want something against the headache?"
"No, I want you to listen."
"Okay." Mildly irritated, Sam came back into the room and did his best to look casual when he leaned against the door frame. "Talk!"
"How much do you take in an hour, Mr. Freud?" Dean joked and earned a raised eyebrow. "Okay, okay. You're right. There is something going on and I don't want you to freak out on me."
"Me? Freak out?" Sam huffed. “Freaking out is not in my repertoire.“
"I'm hearing voices."
Silence.
"Okay, I'm freaking."
Dean rolled his eyes again and swung his legs over the edge of the couch to sit up entirely.
"What do you mean, you're hearing voices? Voices like Cohen's Walk like an Egyptian? Like a... catchy tune?"
"Ha, I wish," replied Dean.
"You mean voices?" It wasn't really a question.
"Yes, voices."
"What do they say?"
"I don't know," Dean said. "Well, I'm not sure most of the times. Mostly they’re just murmurs and whispers. Like a bus station full of people and everyone is talking at once. I can hear them talk but I don't understand what they're saying."
Sam nodded, urging Dean to go on talking.
"Before I... before I..." Dean made face. "...took that nosedive, I'm pretty sure someone said run."
He looked up and watched Sam unfold his arms and knit his eyebrow. "Someone said run? Who?" And shook his head, bewildered. "And why?"
"Do I look like I would know?" The words came out more harshly than intended but Sam seemed not to care.
Dean was grateful for that. Diplomacy had never been his strength and his brother knew it. He listened to the roaring of the wind and the branches hitting against the glass. "I think it's the house."
Sam shook his head. "I don't believe that. This has been going on for weeks. Months even, hasn't it?"
Caught, Dean opened his mouth to deny it but a gaze from his brother brought him to his senses.
"Dude, don't insult me by trying to deny it, okay?"
Dean nodded. "Still, I think the house is making it worse." That, at least, was the truth and Sam accepted that.
"So, this house probably is haunted after all."
"No,” Dean said. "I searched it. The EMF didn't even hiccup."
"Then maybe..." Sam started saying and stopped again when Dean let his still-aching head fall into his hands, his elbows leaning heavily on his knees. "Maybe we should deal with this later. I'll get you something for the pain. Then you rest, got it?"
Dean nodded and made his way up to his room, where Sam found him a few minutes later with two pills and a glass of water. Dean swallowed all of it in one big gulp before falling back into bed.
"I'll do some research in the library, okay? Sleep. We’ll talk later,” Sam informed him and made sure the windows were shut and the salt lines intact before he left Dean alone in the dark room.
Dean huffed. "Yes, definitely married."
-o-
The fire in the library was dancing like it had a mind of its own. The flames were reaching out in all directions, licking at the rough stone wall that was black from years of ashes and soot. Little fire worms were rising into the air before falling harmlessly on the floor a few inches in front of the fireplace. Sam stared at it, fascinated by its liveliness. And troubled by everything else.
So, Dean was hearing voices.
Sam had expected a lot of things. But his brother was hearing voices? Seriously, that was kind of bizarre.
He had always known that he and his family were different. And that insight didn't even include his father’s turn to the dark arts. They had a different view on things, different priorities and remarkably different problems, that much was clear. So, why was it that Dean's confession hit him so hard?
The house around Sam groaned and shifted like it was a living being and with every new strong howling, the flames danced a little higher, projecting swaying shadows on the walls and book shelves.
Actually, it wasn't really the fact that his brother was hearing voices that made Sam cringe with apprehension. It was the fact that his brother hadn't felt the need to tell him about it. Hadn't trusted him enough to reveal that tidbit of information. "Oh, by the way I'm hearing voices that tell me to run. Could you pass me the butter?"
It hurt. Especially after last week, it hurt so much. Where was all that stuff about trusting each other and keeping no more secrets they had talked about after the latest incident with their father?
'Dean,' Sam decided 'is stupid.' and felt a little better after that thought. A small smile was playing on the sides of his lips and for a moment he felt good just standing close to the fire and warming his hands.
It wasn't late, not even nine o’clock yet, which meant he wasn't tired and should use the chance to do some research. Bobby's books were neatly piled on one of the tables, looking almost lost between the large shelves positioned along the walls. Countless books were resting there, covered with dust and almost hidden behind thick, fluffy curtains of spidery webs. Besides the smell of rosiny wood, there was a layer of moldiness. Old paper and stale ink. Knowledge and wisdom captured in words. Deeply, Sam breathed in and felt his nervousness recede. Assiduously, he made sure the room was safe by checking the salt lines. After one last, distrustful look at the EMF he was convinced that tonight they would be safe for a change.
A few seconds later, his curiosity got the better of him and he randomly grabbed a handful of books and immersed himself into the pages.
The first books were novels, some known, some unknown. Some Jack London, Bram Stoker and Emily Bronte. Sam had read them all in either high school or college and one by one he put them aside. The warmth of the room made his eyes droopy and he yawned when he reached for a book on top of another stack. A piece of paper fell out of it and he caught it before it could get to close to the hungry flames. It was an old newspaper article about the building. More articles appeared when he opened the book, and he recognized it as an old guest log filled with mostly illegible hand writings and signatures. Some had glued photographs into it, showing happy families. Women with huge hats big as tires, men with old-fashioned bowlers, little boys and girl in sailor style with striped suits and petite dresses with large bows at the front. Apparently the house had served as an exclusive inn before it had been turned into a youth hostel.
It felt strange to have the evidence of the house's eventful past in his hands. Almost like the building was real, human…an old grandpa who was telling about his long lost youth. About how he grew up surrounded by happiness and love. Sam smiled about entries gushing about warm summer nights and bonfires, happy birthday family meetings and adventurous trips into the surrounding area.
The entries were dated on the late 20's and early 30's and stopped in summer 1936 without any hints of foul play. No sudden deaths, no mysterious accidents. Just a hotel offering a few merry hours somewhere in the Cleveland woods.
He skimmed through the pages, looking for something that would grab his attention. Nothing did.
After discovering three different guest logs, he decided to use another tactic. On the mantelpiece lay some leather-bound notebooks and after he glanced at them he recognized them as accounting ledgers. They seemed to be from a foundation that had used the hotel as its headquarters after it was no longer a business.
Still, nothing unusual. Numbers and facts. Some contracts on faded paper and more news articles about the idyllicly situated location. Information stopped sometime during the late 60's when the headquarters was moved back into the city.
The amount of information was endless. Sam would have to dig deeper.
The ghost of a headache had started to build behind his eyes but he ignored it. The stack of looked-through books grew and grew while the flames got smaller and weaker.
A shiver ran through his body, making the little hairs on his arms stand upright and he finally looked up to realize that the storm had even gotten worse. Quickly, he stood up to put more wood into the fireplace. The flames hungrily assimilated the provided food and warmth returned in the small room. The wind outside was reaching new levels of noise and the wall vibrated under Sam's finger when he leaned against it to pull himself up. It was somehow disturbing but when he glanced outside the windows, he didn't see anything but the wind-whipped trees being tossed around like bamboo twigs in a hurricane.
Back on his feet, his gaze fell on a small box that was positioned on the outer rim of the mantelpiece and almost hidden behind and under more books and loose papers. Carefully, he took down the garbage before he took the box in his hands.
The blotched hard paper looked old and dusty and when he removed the lid, the smell of herbs rose into the air.
This definitely looked more like things Sam and Dean should know about. A small bag that was lying inside had the distinct similarity with a hex bag but when Sam opened it, all he found were the seemingly innocuous sources for the smell: benign herbs, some dried flowers and tiny pebbles with little engravings on them.
For a moment, Sam considered putting the bag into the fire, no matter how harmless it looked, but he put the thought aside and dove into the material telling him about the wild 60's when the house was apparently the site for a new age hippie commune. Some posed photographs showed at least a dozen men and women, unshaven, unkempt and with flowers in their hair. Their faces were relaxed and smiling and Sam snorted. He recognized stoned people when seeing them. He had studied in Stanford after all.
"Those were the days, huh?"
He kept reading, taking notes as he went. His stomach clenching as he did. Maybe their stay hadn't been such a good idea after all. Maybe he should wake Dean and...
A shiver ran down his back and he turned around, expecting to see his brother. But he could see no one. But he was sure he had heard something-or someone.
Outside, the storm raged on and the fire kept ring-a-ring-a-rosing around the glowing logs.
-o-
Listening was something Dean had learned and loved to do when he was a kid. He had listened for his brother's breathing when the little boy was lying next to him, curled up in a tight little ball. He had listened to his father cleaning the guns early in the morning, only minutes before leaving. And had waited to hear the familiar rumbling of the Impala when his father was out on the hunt late at night and was due back any minute. Now, the distant sounds of Sam's awful music and the howling wind from outside accompanied Dean into a light slumber and he rolled on his unmade bed for a few minutes before sleep overtook him and dreams started to take over his mind.
It was one of those dreams when Dean knew was dreaming. It had a strange texture, a surreal vibe that made Dean think he had gotten himself a role in a new Tim Burton movie. The only thing missing were stuffed animals winking their beady button eyes at him. And the fact that this was definitely not a movie.
On the contrary. It was his room in the hotel they were residing in. But the walls felt sturdier and the ceiling higher, the wallpaper darker, the light flimsier. A hostile atmosphere hung in the air like a bad smell. Dean looked around...and stared at himself lying in bed. He stepped closer, slowly, as if he was afraid of waking himself up. The sleeping Dean’s chest was rising up and down in calming regularity. So, obviously, he wasn't dead. Which really should have assured him but the new development did nothing to quell Dean’s confusion. Unwillingly, he reached out almost touching his own face. He could feel the other Dean's breath against his fingertips and all of a sudden he realized...
It was quiet.
Strangely so.
There was no rushing in his ears. No whispers, no voices in his head. Someone had turned off the water faucet of weirdness and now the newly found silence settled down around him like dust after an explosion. His ears and his head felt like they were filled with cotton.
"This is new,” he said, mostly just to see whether or not he had a voice here.
Even the sounds of the storm had receded to the background like waves crashing against a shoreline deep down on the coastline. He stood for a few more seconds next to himself, watching and trying to understand what he was seeing. And thinking he was really overdue for a haircut.
Slowly, he made his way around in the room, listening to his feet making hushed sounds on the parquet. He touched the cool walls, shadowed with light from the dim lamp that didn't seem to want to travel in these desolate surroundings. The window glass was icy under his fingers and when he watched outside, there was still a storm going on. Far away, he could see the trees bend violently in the face of the wind. The snowflakes, big and round as eyeballs, were spinning around and Dean regretted having chosen that special analogy to describe the natural spectacle outside. Because it amplified the strange feeling of being observed. Maybe not exactly by the snowflakes but... something else.
"Hello?" he asked, not looking at himself because if his sleeping body answered, it would seriously have freaked him out.
When no one answered he slowly made his way towards the door through which he could see the flickering light of the library's fireplace. The reddish glow was rippling over the wallpaper, creating little wave-like movements that made the wall look like it was alive and stirring.
He reached the library after a few more steps and was relieved when he could see his brother sit on the table, reading...what else.
"Sam?" he asked tentatively, not really expecting any kind of reaction of his brother. There was none, so Dean came closer and looked over Sam's shoulder.
He was reading a handwritten book and the lettering was hard to read. More like the tracks of a small snake that had bathed in ink and accidentally shooed over the blank pages.
"How can you read this, Sammy?" Dean chuckled and to his surprise, Sam's head shot up, looking around with alertness. He put down the pen he was taking notes with and stood up, walking towards the window and staring out with a worried frown. Dean came after him, taking up space right behind his brother's right shoulder and following his gaze outside where the same picture greeted him of snow and darkness. Until...
Gasping, Dean took an involuntary step backwards when a shape hit the glass from outside. He thought he had recognized human outlines, a gaunt face with sharp lines and long, braided hair with feathers stuck in. The wind howled simultaneously, as if it was giving a painful cry to accompany the voiceless cry of the creature.
"So much for the house not being haunted, huh?" Dean mumbled and was mildly disturbed when Sam obviously hadn't taken any notice of what he had seen. His brother was still standing at the window, frowning slightly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and Dean jumped out of the way to avoid being run down by his very corporeal brother who went back to the table.
Only then did Dean realize that the feeling of being observed had not receded. On the contrary, the feeling grew by the second and when a voice, clear and loud rang into his ears, he could not suppress a yell. A very manly yell but still a yell.
"Run!"
Dean waited for a few seconds but when silence returned he cleared his throat and asked, "Who's there?"
"You never listen."
"Who do you think you are? My wife?” Dean shoved a thumb towards Sam's direction, acting as casual as he could without giving away how amazingly freaked out he was. "Already married."
No answer. Now, Dean was really starting to get pissed.
The scratching of Sam's pen on paper. The crackling fire. The howling of the wind.
Nothing else.
Dean could taste the air on his tongue, breathing in and out, in and out. How was he breathing anyway when his body way lying in bed, sleeping the slumber of the insane?
"Who! Are! You!"
"You are one hard ass, aren't you?"
Great, so now his subconscious was getting snippy on him.
Awesome!
With great trepidation, he pinched himself in the inside of his left arm and he hissed when the sharp pain made his nerves tingle. Anything to wake him up.
"As you wish..." The voice announced.
And with a great gasp for air Dean sat up straight in his bed, this time for real.
"Whoa..." Dean made another gasping sound and the air rushed out of him like he was a balloon stuck with a needle. He was back in his bed. The bed covers lay heavily on his legs and he fought them off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up fast enough to send the room around him in a spiral. "Whoa..." he repeated, though this time more because of the resulting head rush. "That was stupid."
A sense of deja vu took over, a feeling so overwhelming that Dean's mouth went dry. The same light was trying to hush away the darkness. The window showed the same scene. Even the snowflakes were the same ones he had seen in his dream. And the voice... there had been a voice. Not one of those voices that hid behind static but a clear one. And it had told him to...
Already he was running out of the room and into the library where he expected Sam to be sitting hunched over a volume, immersed in its boring-ness.
At least one thing was true. Sam was still sitting on the table but his head was lying on his right arm, stretched out in front of him. Dean saw the steady rise and fall of his brother's shoulders, a sure sign of Sam's sound condition. Fast asleep.
"I told you these books were bad for you, Sammy,” Dean whispered, not intending to scare his brother awake. "You and your neck will thank me in the morning." He neared his brother and shook his shoulder slightly. Sam though, didn't wake.
"Sam?" Dean said, this time a little bit louder. "Come on, dude. I know these books are boring but that doesn't usually mean they can send you in a coma."
Still, no reaction, and worry started to blossom in Dean. The heat of the fire at his back turned pressing and little pearls of sweat appeared on his temple. Suddenly, the feeling of being watched returned. Dean staggered under its impact.
"Dean, he won't wake up." The voice replied. And this time it came with a body. The body of a man who stepped from a dark corner as if he had been standing there from the very beginning. "I made sure of it."
END OF PART TWO
Episode 8: All Along the Watchtower
Original airdate: 2010.03.08.
Summary:
It feels like a stroke of luck when Sam and Dean are offered to stay in a former hotel in the middle of the woods outside of Cleveland. But the free lodging and the misleading peace turn into a trap when a mysterious storm all but takes them hostage. Now, of all times, the voices in Dean's head turn out to be more than voices after all.
Excerpt:
Sam was in his element and didn't miss a beat, diving into the research so they could figure this out. It felt good to have at least one constant in life even if it was Sam's geeky-ness.
Just as the thought crossed Dean's mind, a voice screamed in his head, the scream so loud that it echoed in his skull. He pressed his hands against his ears. Next thing he knew, Sam was by his side, holding him up and mumbling something.
"RUN!" Someone or something in Dean’s head yelled just as something heavy hit the roof above them, causing the lights to flicker furiously. Whatever it was it rolled down the roof as Dean lost his fight and surrendered to the blissful darkness.
Written by: annj_g80 and pinkphoenix1985
Artist: kiscinca
PART TWO
The first thing Dean was aware of was the soft mattress beneath him. The next was the noise that didn’t have anything to do with the unwanted voices in his head.
"Turn off the freaking hair dryer!" Dean mumbled and made a grimace when Sam answered.
"Dean! Are you okay?" His brother's tone was sympathetic enough.
"I'm fine Sammy. Sorry."
"Sorry? Are you kidding me?" He didn't sound very sympathetic any more and Dean rolled his eyes under still-closed eyelids.
"Stop rolling your eyes. What the hell happened?"
"Too much greasy hamburgers and salty French fries?" It was worth a try but Sam huffed. He didn't think it was amusing, obviously.
"Look, Sam. It's just a headache. Nothing worse. You should know what I'm talking about." Dean rubbed his temple for emphasis. "Mr. Migraine-guy."
"At least I don't do nose dives... at least not for a while now."
Finally, Dean opened his eyes and found himself still in the library. He was lying on the couch and that was something Dean was grateful for. Waking up on cold, hard floors so wouldn't have made things any better. Sam was half-sitting on the windowsill, his arms crossed in a distinctly impression of someone who had no intention whatsoever of letting go.
"What is going on?" Sam asked and made a wide gesture that included the room, Dean and probably everything from Dean's birth till his heroic ending. "First you decide to get yourself your own room? Then you avoid my questions and now you ...faint? "
"I didn't faint." Dean said, indignantly, and Sam just stared at him. "And did we marry while I was unconscious?"
"Something is going on with you and I'm worried. So, would you please be serious?"
"I am serious."
"Yes, seriously disturbed."
"Hey!" Dean exclaimed and regretted the fast movement with his head. He fell back into the pillow.
"How's your head?"
"Good."
"Liar!"
"Nosey bitch!" Dean smirked.
Still worry was shining in Sam's eyes and Dean put all his conviction into his next words. "I'm fine, I promise! Too little sleep, I suppose. So, what is this noise?"
"Looks like the storm is heating up." Sam explained and stepped closer to the window to look outside. It had gotten dark. Dark enough so that Dean could see his brother's face mirrored on the dark surface of the glass and Dean felt himself almost get sick by all the secret-keeping. It wasn't because he wanted to keep his brother in the dark. It was... he didn't know exactly what it was. He was stupid. The plain old stupid excuse and he knew it.
The wind buffeted the house with an unseen viciousness and the roof tiles and lose shutters were rattling and banging as if they sought entrance and shelter.
"You know, Dean," Sam began and Dean felt his stomach drop. He didn't like the tone of his brother's voice. Resignation and disappointment. "You know where to find me when you're ready to start talking."
Without another word, Sam turned around and left the room, leaving Dean behind who craved the unconsciousness he’d woken from to keep him from feeling like he had just betrayed his brother.
"Sam..." But he was already alone. "Sam, wait!"
The steps in the hallway stopped and returned slowly.
"What now? You want to tell me how paranoid I am? How obnoxious and..."
"You're right." Dean interrupted.
"With how paranoid I am?" Sam asked bitterly.
"No. I mean yes, but..." Sam was already on the verge of leaving when Dean propped his elbows against the cushions and sat up with a groan, willing his head to stay on top of his neck.
Sam made a worried face. "You want something against the headache?"
"No, I want you to listen."
"Okay." Mildly irritated, Sam came back into the room and did his best to look casual when he leaned against the door frame. "Talk!"
"How much do you take in an hour, Mr. Freud?" Dean joked and earned a raised eyebrow. "Okay, okay. You're right. There is something going on and I don't want you to freak out on me."
"Me? Freak out?" Sam huffed. “Freaking out is not in my repertoire.“
"I'm hearing voices."
Silence.
"Okay, I'm freaking."
Dean rolled his eyes again and swung his legs over the edge of the couch to sit up entirely.
"What do you mean, you're hearing voices? Voices like Cohen's Walk like an Egyptian? Like a... catchy tune?"
"Ha, I wish," replied Dean.
"You mean voices?" It wasn't really a question.
"Yes, voices."
"What do they say?"
"I don't know," Dean said. "Well, I'm not sure most of the times. Mostly they’re just murmurs and whispers. Like a bus station full of people and everyone is talking at once. I can hear them talk but I don't understand what they're saying."
Sam nodded, urging Dean to go on talking.
"Before I... before I..." Dean made face. "...took that nosedive, I'm pretty sure someone said run."
He looked up and watched Sam unfold his arms and knit his eyebrow. "Someone said run? Who?" And shook his head, bewildered. "And why?"
"Do I look like I would know?" The words came out more harshly than intended but Sam seemed not to care.
Dean was grateful for that. Diplomacy had never been his strength and his brother knew it. He listened to the roaring of the wind and the branches hitting against the glass. "I think it's the house."
Sam shook his head. "I don't believe that. This has been going on for weeks. Months even, hasn't it?"
Caught, Dean opened his mouth to deny it but a gaze from his brother brought him to his senses.
"Dude, don't insult me by trying to deny it, okay?"
Dean nodded. "Still, I think the house is making it worse." That, at least, was the truth and Sam accepted that.
"So, this house probably is haunted after all."
"No,” Dean said. "I searched it. The EMF didn't even hiccup."
"Then maybe..." Sam started saying and stopped again when Dean let his still-aching head fall into his hands, his elbows leaning heavily on his knees. "Maybe we should deal with this later. I'll get you something for the pain. Then you rest, got it?"
Dean nodded and made his way up to his room, where Sam found him a few minutes later with two pills and a glass of water. Dean swallowed all of it in one big gulp before falling back into bed.
"I'll do some research in the library, okay? Sleep. We’ll talk later,” Sam informed him and made sure the windows were shut and the salt lines intact before he left Dean alone in the dark room.
Dean huffed. "Yes, definitely married."
-o-
The fire in the library was dancing like it had a mind of its own. The flames were reaching out in all directions, licking at the rough stone wall that was black from years of ashes and soot. Little fire worms were rising into the air before falling harmlessly on the floor a few inches in front of the fireplace. Sam stared at it, fascinated by its liveliness. And troubled by everything else.
So, Dean was hearing voices.
Sam had expected a lot of things. But his brother was hearing voices? Seriously, that was kind of bizarre.
He had always known that he and his family were different. And that insight didn't even include his father’s turn to the dark arts. They had a different view on things, different priorities and remarkably different problems, that much was clear. So, why was it that Dean's confession hit him so hard?
The house around Sam groaned and shifted like it was a living being and with every new strong howling, the flames danced a little higher, projecting swaying shadows on the walls and book shelves.
Actually, it wasn't really the fact that his brother was hearing voices that made Sam cringe with apprehension. It was the fact that his brother hadn't felt the need to tell him about it. Hadn't trusted him enough to reveal that tidbit of information. "Oh, by the way I'm hearing voices that tell me to run. Could you pass me the butter?"
It hurt. Especially after last week, it hurt so much. Where was all that stuff about trusting each other and keeping no more secrets they had talked about after the latest incident with their father?
'Dean,' Sam decided 'is stupid.' and felt a little better after that thought. A small smile was playing on the sides of his lips and for a moment he felt good just standing close to the fire and warming his hands.
It wasn't late, not even nine o’clock yet, which meant he wasn't tired and should use the chance to do some research. Bobby's books were neatly piled on one of the tables, looking almost lost between the large shelves positioned along the walls. Countless books were resting there, covered with dust and almost hidden behind thick, fluffy curtains of spidery webs. Besides the smell of rosiny wood, there was a layer of moldiness. Old paper and stale ink. Knowledge and wisdom captured in words. Deeply, Sam breathed in and felt his nervousness recede. Assiduously, he made sure the room was safe by checking the salt lines. After one last, distrustful look at the EMF he was convinced that tonight they would be safe for a change.
A few seconds later, his curiosity got the better of him and he randomly grabbed a handful of books and immersed himself into the pages.
The first books were novels, some known, some unknown. Some Jack London, Bram Stoker and Emily Bronte. Sam had read them all in either high school or college and one by one he put them aside. The warmth of the room made his eyes droopy and he yawned when he reached for a book on top of another stack. A piece of paper fell out of it and he caught it before it could get to close to the hungry flames. It was an old newspaper article about the building. More articles appeared when he opened the book, and he recognized it as an old guest log filled with mostly illegible hand writings and signatures. Some had glued photographs into it, showing happy families. Women with huge hats big as tires, men with old-fashioned bowlers, little boys and girl in sailor style with striped suits and petite dresses with large bows at the front. Apparently the house had served as an exclusive inn before it had been turned into a youth hostel.
It felt strange to have the evidence of the house's eventful past in his hands. Almost like the building was real, human…an old grandpa who was telling about his long lost youth. About how he grew up surrounded by happiness and love. Sam smiled about entries gushing about warm summer nights and bonfires, happy birthday family meetings and adventurous trips into the surrounding area.
The entries were dated on the late 20's and early 30's and stopped in summer 1936 without any hints of foul play. No sudden deaths, no mysterious accidents. Just a hotel offering a few merry hours somewhere in the Cleveland woods.
He skimmed through the pages, looking for something that would grab his attention. Nothing did.
After discovering three different guest logs, he decided to use another tactic. On the mantelpiece lay some leather-bound notebooks and after he glanced at them he recognized them as accounting ledgers. They seemed to be from a foundation that had used the hotel as its headquarters after it was no longer a business.
Still, nothing unusual. Numbers and facts. Some contracts on faded paper and more news articles about the idyllicly situated location. Information stopped sometime during the late 60's when the headquarters was moved back into the city.
The amount of information was endless. Sam would have to dig deeper.
The ghost of a headache had started to build behind his eyes but he ignored it. The stack of looked-through books grew and grew while the flames got smaller and weaker.
A shiver ran through his body, making the little hairs on his arms stand upright and he finally looked up to realize that the storm had even gotten worse. Quickly, he stood up to put more wood into the fireplace. The flames hungrily assimilated the provided food and warmth returned in the small room. The wind outside was reaching new levels of noise and the wall vibrated under Sam's finger when he leaned against it to pull himself up. It was somehow disturbing but when he glanced outside the windows, he didn't see anything but the wind-whipped trees being tossed around like bamboo twigs in a hurricane.
Back on his feet, his gaze fell on a small box that was positioned on the outer rim of the mantelpiece and almost hidden behind and under more books and loose papers. Carefully, he took down the garbage before he took the box in his hands.
The blotched hard paper looked old and dusty and when he removed the lid, the smell of herbs rose into the air.
This definitely looked more like things Sam and Dean should know about. A small bag that was lying inside had the distinct similarity with a hex bag but when Sam opened it, all he found were the seemingly innocuous sources for the smell: benign herbs, some dried flowers and tiny pebbles with little engravings on them.
For a moment, Sam considered putting the bag into the fire, no matter how harmless it looked, but he put the thought aside and dove into the material telling him about the wild 60's when the house was apparently the site for a new age hippie commune. Some posed photographs showed at least a dozen men and women, unshaven, unkempt and with flowers in their hair. Their faces were relaxed and smiling and Sam snorted. He recognized stoned people when seeing them. He had studied in Stanford after all.
"Those were the days, huh?"
He kept reading, taking notes as he went. His stomach clenching as he did. Maybe their stay hadn't been such a good idea after all. Maybe he should wake Dean and...
A shiver ran down his back and he turned around, expecting to see his brother. But he could see no one. But he was sure he had heard something-or someone.
Outside, the storm raged on and the fire kept ring-a-ring-a-rosing around the glowing logs.
-o-
Listening was something Dean had learned and loved to do when he was a kid. He had listened for his brother's breathing when the little boy was lying next to him, curled up in a tight little ball. He had listened to his father cleaning the guns early in the morning, only minutes before leaving. And had waited to hear the familiar rumbling of the Impala when his father was out on the hunt late at night and was due back any minute. Now, the distant sounds of Sam's awful music and the howling wind from outside accompanied Dean into a light slumber and he rolled on his unmade bed for a few minutes before sleep overtook him and dreams started to take over his mind.
It was one of those dreams when Dean knew was dreaming. It had a strange texture, a surreal vibe that made Dean think he had gotten himself a role in a new Tim Burton movie. The only thing missing were stuffed animals winking their beady button eyes at him. And the fact that this was definitely not a movie.
On the contrary. It was his room in the hotel they were residing in. But the walls felt sturdier and the ceiling higher, the wallpaper darker, the light flimsier. A hostile atmosphere hung in the air like a bad smell. Dean looked around...and stared at himself lying in bed. He stepped closer, slowly, as if he was afraid of waking himself up. The sleeping Dean’s chest was rising up and down in calming regularity. So, obviously, he wasn't dead. Which really should have assured him but the new development did nothing to quell Dean’s confusion. Unwillingly, he reached out almost touching his own face. He could feel the other Dean's breath against his fingertips and all of a sudden he realized...
It was quiet.
Strangely so.
There was no rushing in his ears. No whispers, no voices in his head. Someone had turned off the water faucet of weirdness and now the newly found silence settled down around him like dust after an explosion. His ears and his head felt like they were filled with cotton.
"This is new,” he said, mostly just to see whether or not he had a voice here.
Even the sounds of the storm had receded to the background like waves crashing against a shoreline deep down on the coastline. He stood for a few more seconds next to himself, watching and trying to understand what he was seeing. And thinking he was really overdue for a haircut.
Slowly, he made his way around in the room, listening to his feet making hushed sounds on the parquet. He touched the cool walls, shadowed with light from the dim lamp that didn't seem to want to travel in these desolate surroundings. The window glass was icy under his fingers and when he watched outside, there was still a storm going on. Far away, he could see the trees bend violently in the face of the wind. The snowflakes, big and round as eyeballs, were spinning around and Dean regretted having chosen that special analogy to describe the natural spectacle outside. Because it amplified the strange feeling of being observed. Maybe not exactly by the snowflakes but... something else.
"Hello?" he asked, not looking at himself because if his sleeping body answered, it would seriously have freaked him out.
When no one answered he slowly made his way towards the door through which he could see the flickering light of the library's fireplace. The reddish glow was rippling over the wallpaper, creating little wave-like movements that made the wall look like it was alive and stirring.
He reached the library after a few more steps and was relieved when he could see his brother sit on the table, reading...what else.
"Sam?" he asked tentatively, not really expecting any kind of reaction of his brother. There was none, so Dean came closer and looked over Sam's shoulder.
He was reading a handwritten book and the lettering was hard to read. More like the tracks of a small snake that had bathed in ink and accidentally shooed over the blank pages.
"How can you read this, Sammy?" Dean chuckled and to his surprise, Sam's head shot up, looking around with alertness. He put down the pen he was taking notes with and stood up, walking towards the window and staring out with a worried frown. Dean came after him, taking up space right behind his brother's right shoulder and following his gaze outside where the same picture greeted him of snow and darkness. Until...
Gasping, Dean took an involuntary step backwards when a shape hit the glass from outside. He thought he had recognized human outlines, a gaunt face with sharp lines and long, braided hair with feathers stuck in. The wind howled simultaneously, as if it was giving a painful cry to accompany the voiceless cry of the creature.
"So much for the house not being haunted, huh?" Dean mumbled and was mildly disturbed when Sam obviously hadn't taken any notice of what he had seen. His brother was still standing at the window, frowning slightly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and Dean jumped out of the way to avoid being run down by his very corporeal brother who went back to the table.
Only then did Dean realize that the feeling of being observed had not receded. On the contrary, the feeling grew by the second and when a voice, clear and loud rang into his ears, he could not suppress a yell. A very manly yell but still a yell.
"Run!"
Dean waited for a few seconds but when silence returned he cleared his throat and asked, "Who's there?"
"You never listen."
"Who do you think you are? My wife?” Dean shoved a thumb towards Sam's direction, acting as casual as he could without giving away how amazingly freaked out he was. "Already married."
No answer. Now, Dean was really starting to get pissed.
The scratching of Sam's pen on paper. The crackling fire. The howling of the wind.
Nothing else.
Dean could taste the air on his tongue, breathing in and out, in and out. How was he breathing anyway when his body way lying in bed, sleeping the slumber of the insane?
"Who! Are! You!"
"You are one hard ass, aren't you?"
Great, so now his subconscious was getting snippy on him.
Awesome!
With great trepidation, he pinched himself in the inside of his left arm and he hissed when the sharp pain made his nerves tingle. Anything to wake him up.
"As you wish..." The voice announced.
And with a great gasp for air Dean sat up straight in his bed, this time for real.
"Whoa..." Dean made another gasping sound and the air rushed out of him like he was a balloon stuck with a needle. He was back in his bed. The bed covers lay heavily on his legs and he fought them off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up fast enough to send the room around him in a spiral. "Whoa..." he repeated, though this time more because of the resulting head rush. "That was stupid."
A sense of deja vu took over, a feeling so overwhelming that Dean's mouth went dry. The same light was trying to hush away the darkness. The window showed the same scene. Even the snowflakes were the same ones he had seen in his dream. And the voice... there had been a voice. Not one of those voices that hid behind static but a clear one. And it had told him to...
Already he was running out of the room and into the library where he expected Sam to be sitting hunched over a volume, immersed in its boring-ness.
At least one thing was true. Sam was still sitting on the table but his head was lying on his right arm, stretched out in front of him. Dean saw the steady rise and fall of his brother's shoulders, a sure sign of Sam's sound condition. Fast asleep.
"I told you these books were bad for you, Sammy,” Dean whispered, not intending to scare his brother awake. "You and your neck will thank me in the morning." He neared his brother and shook his shoulder slightly. Sam though, didn't wake.
"Sam?" Dean said, this time a little bit louder. "Come on, dude. I know these books are boring but that doesn't usually mean they can send you in a coma."
Still, no reaction, and worry started to blossom in Dean. The heat of the fire at his back turned pressing and little pearls of sweat appeared on his temple. Suddenly, the feeling of being watched returned. Dean staggered under its impact.
"Dean, he won't wake up." The voice replied. And this time it came with a body. The body of a man who stepped from a dark corner as if he had been standing there from the very beginning. "I made sure of it."
END OF PART TWO