A Haunting part three
At the stop of the staircase, John paused at the landing to glance down at Dean. The young man had a death grip on the curve of the banister as though it was the only thing holding him up. It most likely was. That and the teen's tenacity. Half-closed doors lined an open circular landing that followed the curve of the two staircases. Shredded streamers of the faded flower and vines wallpaper curled downward toward the rose-patterned carpet. Everything on the second floor was quiet and dark.
John entered the closest room to his right and concluded from the gigantic dark wood bed and masculine furnishings, that this was the master bedroom. If the structure kept with the tradition of the era the estate was built in, the rest of the family's rooms-the wife's quarters and a nursery and children's room would all be in this same wing, possibly connected, with guest rooms on the other side of the upstairs living quarters.
Crossing through the musty room, John yanked open one of the far doors, finding a large marble in-laid wash room with a Victorian claw-foot bathtub taking center stage. Behind the second door, John found the Mistress of the House's adjoining quarters.
Dorthea Truman's own personal sanctuary. John took in the layers of dust on the frilly bed. He picked up an ornate silver brush from the feminine dressing table, running a thumb across the stiff bristles. Fat little cherubs were frozen in flight around looping vines and roses within the faded wallpaper. Keeping with the cherub theme, small little sculptures of pudgy faces were carved within the decorative wall borders near the ceiling line. What kind of secrets rested in the shadows here? What would push a woman who seemingly had everything over a chasm so deep she took the lives of her own children?
And what had her ghost done with his son?
"EGO peto vox per aer ingravesco." Soft voices murmured around John's body like sighing leaves lifting and falling in a scattering breeze. "Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram. EGO eo in aer."
The words tickled his senses like a whispered prayer. Latin. "Unus per vox peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram eo in aer." John leaned forward on the balls of his feet, concentrating on the words, the meaning. Travel within the ether . . .
A hard cold stone plunged to the bottom of John's stomach. Not a prayer. A spell-a ritual. Something moved along the wall. John's gaze snapped up. The wallpaper, the cupids . . . stirred. Every one of their head's turned to stare at the molded plaster of a lamb's face in the center of a wall.
John gasped. Not a lamb's face. A goat's head . . .
"Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram. EGO eo in aer." The murmurs picked up again, floating all around him, gaining speed with the rhythm of a horrible chant.
A grating sound raised the tiny hairs at the back of John's neck. Molded plaster eyelids blinked. The cupids near the ceiling stared down at him, lips moving. "in quinque cuspis per is cruor constrictum vos . . ." They sang of blood. Sacrifice. Binding.
Every vertebrae in John's spine stiffened. He should have known all along. Should have seen the clues all around him. They had never been dealing with just a ghost. Dorthea Truman was a witch and from what he could make out of the Latin, she had performed a blood ritual that cast her into another dimension.
But what that had to do with her being here in this mansion now and murdering children, John couldn't guess. Nor did he have the time to figure it out . . . because ghost or witch or something in between, the bitch was going to pay for going after John's sons . . .
ooo000ooo
The knife tip slid into the heavy quilt. Sam's terror was so thick it stilled everything inside him.
A little child giggled. "Maid was in the garden . . . hanging out the clothes."
Sam's eyes snapped open. The knife lifted a fraction. Dorthea no longer looked down at him, but across the bed where a very young girl blinked innocently up at her and curtsied, making fat blond ringlets bounce around a pointy little chin.
"Play with me, Momma." The girl lifted her small palm and the knife flew from the witch's hand and into the child's. Grinning impishly the little kid spun on her heel and dashed out the door. Delighted laughter trailed after her like fluttering hair ribbons.
Scowling, Dorthea planted her fists on the sides of her thin waist. "Elizabeth, you come back with that right now. Momma needs it."
"When dow--nn came a black-ack bird . . ." the melody rippled along the walls like fog.
"I am not playing." Dorthea's features twisted in fury, the pretty masquerade slipping, giving Sam a true glimpse of the blackened soul beneath. "Elizabeth!" Glaring, the witch stormed forward, vanishing into the air, leaving behind curling streamers of smoke.
"Demmmnnnn!" Sam flailed on the bed, jolting when a teenage girl appeared, kneeling at his side and shoved at him.
Sam rolled off the mattress, falling to the worn rug in a tangle of loosened quilt, coughing. His teeth felt like they'd been ripped from his gums when the quilt was dislodged, but moving his jaw proved otherwise.
"Come on!" The girl grabbed Sam's hand and ripped him off the floor, pulling him out of the room with her. They ran through a large marbled washroom and into an adjoining bedroom where she slid across the wood floor on the knees of her jeans as she ducked under the large bed, dragging Sam down with her.
Huddled on his stomach, Sam strained to see the girl through the darkness, her cold hand clasped tightly in his.
"Are . . . are you Missy?" he whispered the name of the girl who had disappeared earlier this month after being dared to go inside the abandoned estate. It was her disappearance that first attracted the attention of his dad to a possible hunt.
"Shhhhhh."
"Where have you gone, my little darling?" Dorthea's voice cascaded along the shadows like honey and Sam instinctually knew she was calling out for him. Shuddering uncontrollably, his hand tightened within the spirit's."Hide and seek, is it? Come out come out wherever you are."
A large armoire in the room started shaking, carved lion paw legs rattling, shimmying scratches on the floor. Above them the bed frame shook. Sam crawled backwards, ready to bolt out the other side. Cold fingers pressed against his lips and in the gloom, the teen gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Dorthea appeared near the doorway. Peering out, Sam could see the bottom part of her gown. The hem flowed around her pointy boots as though caught in a breeze. He also had a perfect view of the knife she dangled between long fingers down by the side of her leg.
Sam shivered in fear. Stupid stupid hiding place. Everybody always looks under beds. The rattling bed frame inched across the floor.
Heeled boots clicked on hardwood as Dorthea walked toward the bed. Curling ends of the witch's long hair swept along the floor as she bent over. Sam swallowed around the seizing muscles of his swollen throat.
A small gray ball rolled beneath the bed in front of Sam's fingertips.
"Momma momma momma, play with us," a young boy' s disembodied voice squealed with delight. Small feet pattered across the floor.
Dorthea's skirts swirled around her ankles as she straightened.
"Play with us play with us."The small blond girl joined in. "Please Momma please."
Sam heard more footsteps run across the room, though he couldn't see anything besides the bottom portion of Dorthea's flowing dress.
Suddenly several childish voices rang out in laughter and giggles, curling within the darkness. The laughter seemed to be all around him, moving about the room. The tread of small children clattered on wood.
Hands circled around Sam's ankles, jerking him back out from under the bed. His cry was cut off by a pair of hands covering his mouth.
Another teenage boy in a Motley Crew T-shirt warned him with his eyes until Sam nodded his understanding.
Flickering, the boy vanished and reappeared, sitting back on his folded knees. Eyeing each other for only a moment, they both turned to peek over the bed.
The spirits of the four nineteenth century children were skipping around in a circle, twirling and dancing with Dorthea in the midst of them. The witch kept moving to step away, but the children laughed, holding hands in a chain, almost as though they were holding the woman inside.
"Ring around the rosies . . . pocketful of posies . . . ashes, ashes . . ."
Dorthea's eyes snapped up, met Sam's across the bed. The corners of her lips turned up in a smile. "There you are."
Flinging out her arms, the dancing children dispersed like water through Dorthea Truman's hands. Eyes glittering in the half-light, she moved forward, her slender frame passing right through the bed. The tip of the knife loosely held snagged across the quilt.
The boy shoved at Sam, spurring him toward the far door. Smiling, Dorthea reached for him, the pads of her fingers grazing Sam's shoulder and the psychic boy suddenly appeared, standing between them.
The last thing Sam saw before he was jostled out of the room was the psychic's arm thrown up to shield himself and Dorthea's raging, "You can't keep him from me!"
ooo000ooo
Forehead pressed firmly on the iron-wrought banister, Dean held on, trying not to tip over. Sure, the pain that flowered across his chest from any kind of pulling movement was nowhere near pleasant, but he'd dealt with worse before. It was the dizziness that was doing him in. Whether from blood loss or from the earlier header smack in this very banister he now gripped in a sweaty-palmed death-hold, who could say?
All he knew was that he was standing here useless when that reeking skank of a ghost was doing who knows what to his younger sibling.
Dean climbed to the next step, gritting his teeth against the sudden wave of nausea while his shaking fist curled more tightly around the railing. One stupid flight of stairs was not going to kick Dean Winchester's ass. Even if those steps were heaving up and down beneath his boots.
Footsteps thumped across the floor. Dean stilled, less than midway up the staircase. He tried to see anyone on the dark landing above. Nothing stirred. The urge to call out for his brother and father settled like a loud taunt on his shoulder, insistent with urgency, but he knew the danger of throwing attention towards them.
More footfalls ran across the floors, accompanied with the echo of children laughing, playing. A small voice sang out, "We all fall down." Chills brushed along Dean's skin.
Something heavy crashed. More running steps. What was going on up there?
Pushing through the wooziness, Dean pulled himself up those steps, his muscles and the wounds on his chest thrumming in pain. Didn't matter.
By the time he reached the landing, everything was quiet. Sweaty and lightheaded, Dean leaned over, hands on his knees, waiting for the floor to stop swaying.
"Dean?"
He jerked his head up at his dad's voice. Crud, too fast. His vision seesawed across his dad's legs who was exiting one of the rooms and walking toward him.
"Thought I told you to stay downstairs." John's palm clamped onto Dean's arm, steadying him.
Dean pinched his forehead together, hoping for some relief. Squinting, the room finally righted itself. "Heard a racket up here." Which was enough of an explanation.
His dad's forehead lowered into a frown.
"You didn't hear anything?" Dean's fear notched up at the slight shake of his dad's head.
"It was loud, Dad. Things falling. Kids running all over the place."
John's hand slipped away. Dean could tell by his expression his dad was troubled. John had found something bad. Dean's stomach
clenched. Please, no, don't let it be evidence that Sam had been hurt. Or worse."Dad, what is it?"
The Adam's apple in his father's throat bounced. Hard. "Dean. We're dealing with witchcraft."
ooo000ooo
"Olly olly oxen free."
Sam trembled, tucked tightly within a little alcove behind a large vase. The tall plant had long since turned to dried-out brittle leaves blooming with dusty cobwebs. The two recently deceased kids had crammed Sam in between them, knees drawn up as they watched Dorthea drift through the room, lifting couch pillows and making the heavy curtains plume inward with a flick of her finger.
She was going to find him any second. He knew it. She already found him twice and both times the children intervened, running behind her back, stomping, making noise, pretending to be him, taking her attention away long enough that the boy and girl could race him out of there and shove him into a new hiding place.
They were playing a deadly game of hide and seek to save him and Sam didn't understand why or how long they could possibly keep it up. Anytime one of the kids got near, the witch dispersed them with a toss of her hand as easily as if she flung salt at them.
The youngest girl skipped past Dorthea, tugging at her mother's skirt, making her turn away from Sam's hiding place, then streaked away in a flutter of air.
Dorthea's hands cinched up into fists. "Enough of this, children. Your game's at an end. Momma's tired." She smiled sweetly and Sam cringed farther back into the corner, shaking in terror.
"I know you're near, child. You can't keep this up for-"Her head tilted, eyes flicking toward the doorway as though listening to something in another room. Without another word, she faded away.
ooo000ooo
They were close to Sam. John could feel it. Something floated within the shadows, making the air shiver. Walking along the curved hall, John swiftly searched every room while Dean kept guard near the doorways. Nothing was going to get past them. Sam was up here and they were going to find him.
He rested his hand at the back of Dean's neck, a squeeze of reassurance as they moved toward the next door. Dean nodded, in sync, even though the pinch at his eyes betrayed how hard the young hunter was fighting just to stay on his feet. John wanted to tell him to hang back, take it easy, but he also desperately wanted Dean within eyesight. He wanted both his sons within eyesight.
They came to the next door. John gave the nod that he was going in and stepped inside to make a quick run through. Please be in here, Sammy. Let me know where you are. John scanned the room, some kind of sitting room with dust-coated parlor sofas, small tables and lots of ancient dead plants in large vases. He turned to go, making brief eye contact with Dean in the hall, then stopped, turned back, his gaze roaming over the pillows scattered across the floor-or more specifically at the disturbance in the dust the pillows had made.
His eyes tracked slowly around the room, trying to spot any crannie or hole or misplaced line in the wainscoting that would indicate another hidden room the witch could have secreted a fourteen-year-old boy away in. His heart beat rapidly, sensing he was close to finding him.
He stared at one of the large planters, peering into the black corner behind the thick cobwebs, took a step . . .
Dean shouted. A gun shot barked out. John spun and saw Dean's legs flying backwards out of sight from the doorway, followed by the witch crossing fluidly after him.
Pulling his own gun because that's all he had, John barreled into the hallway as the witch bent over Dean. John shot three rounds into her back before she even bothered to look over her shoulder at him.
Arching delicate brows, she turned, shaking her head in disapproval as though he was a wayward child.
He shot her again.
To which she pushed out a palm and John flew into the wall, sliding down to the floor as his gun skidded across the rose-patterned carpet.
"Stay put," she whispered and thorny vines lashed out of the crumbling wallpaper, snaking around John's arms, his chest and pulling him back. He yanked, he pulled, and found no give.
Laughing, Dorthea turned away, back toward Dean who was struggling up to his hands and knees.
"Get away from him!" John screamed. The wallpaper vines forced him harder against the wall, constricting his airflow. They looped across his mouth, gagging his voice.
Like he weighed nothing, Dorthea flipped Dean onto his back. Kneeling, her hands sank deep into his hair. "Oh don't be afraid. Mother will take care of everything."
"You're not my mother!" Dean's tone held so much venom even John stilled momentarily in his struggles.
The witch's lips twitched. "I'm not without mercy, child. I only need one." She leaned in close to Dean's lips. "Tell me where the little one is and I'll let you go."
A gasp rose to John's throat. He watched every muscle in Dean's body go lax as he made the same connection. The bitch didn't know where Sammy was. She didn't have him. John heaved in a relieved breath.
"I prefer your brother, much younger, much more innocent, more power to pour into my ritual," Dorthea cooed. "But you'll do."
Dean turned his face to the side, smugly ignoring the witch. She was insane if she thought either of his boys would ever make a bargain like that. Dorthea stared down at Dean, apparently coming to the same conclusion as she shifted back, calling out to the air instead.
"Boy," her voice hummed, whisper-soft, but filling every space. "Playtime is over. Come out now. I have your brother. He wants to play."
John flinched. No, Sammy, don't. He shouted around the paper vines, flexed his arms.
Dorthea flicked out her knife, pressed it to Dean's flat stomach. John's soundless roar echoed in his ears.
ooo000oooSam tried to lunge out from behind the plant, but the two kids pushed him back, both clamping frigid hands over his mouth to keep Dorthea from hearing his screams.
She has Dean! She has Dean!
The witch's voice caressed his cheek as though she were right next to him. "My blade is pressed to his flesh." He felt Dorthea's resigned sigh like fingers tickling across his skin.
Sam shoved against the kids and they shoved him right back. Much stronger than him, they held Sam in place easily with hands on his shoulders.
No, no, he screamed against their palms covering his lips. It's my brother. Let me go. I have to go. Pleaaaase! Dean! Chest rising hard, Sam strained against them. They didn't understand. He couldn't let the witch kill Dean.
"I'll make you a promise, sweetheart. Come out and I'll spare your brother. I only need one of you."
Of course she was lying. Sam knew that, but he also couldn't take a chance, not with Dean.
Sam bit into the closest hand pressed to his lips, but being a ghost, the girl only shook her head.
"Be quiet," she hissed. "We're trying to save you."
Then save my brother, he wanted to scream at her, tears streaming between their cold hands and his cheeks. He pushed against them, wiggling his hand into the front pocket of his hoodie, fingers scrabbling onto his little shaker of salt.
ooo000oooDean glared up at the witch. If she thought she was going to use him to lure Sam out, she had another thing coming. He was going to end her. Just as soon as he could figure out how to get her to take away that knife from his stomach.
He was barely breathing, taking tight shallow breaths to keep his stomach from raising any closer to the tip of that blade. If he could only push her away from him, but damn the woman was strong. And stupid. She kept looking up like she expected Sammy to materialize out of thin air and let her just start carving on him. Like Dean or their dad would ever let that happen.
They just had to figure something out. Dean's vision flashed gray, a bout of dizziness washing through him. He swallowed, pushing it down. Not now. He had to stay coherent. Tingles shot up his limbs. Dean blinked, a weird feeling of lightheadedness swamping him.
Dorthea's lips pursed together. "I'm very sorry. I guess your brother isn't coming."
Dean felt the icy blade touch his skin, saw his dad's legs kicking on the floor, his body arching away from the weird-ass vines holding him, and heard his brother scream, "No! Don't!"
ooo000oooSam's palm still cupped the salt shaker. It had gotten him free of the ghosts holding him back, but he knew it wouldn't work against Dorthea. She wasn't a ghost. He didn't know anything that could reach beyond the dimension she was part of and kill her.
It really wasn't fair that she could reach through and kill them. Except for trapping her within the boundaries of the large pentagram, the psychic kid's binding spell was worthless.
Sam stood halfway out of one of the rooms, holding onto the doorjamb. He couldn't control the tremors coursing through his body, was barely managing to stay upright.
His dad sat up against the wall, nearly his entire body encircled with painted vines that seemed to have crawled right off of the wallpaper. His father bucked, screaming behind paper vines.
Dean was on the floor, the witch kneeling over him, the sharp point of her knife grazing his brother's stomach. She was going to stab Dean!
Without thinking, Sam stepped away from the doorway.
Straining with rage and fear, John snapped the vine on one of his wrists free. Sam paused, hopeful. His dad could save Dean. He always took care of everything.
Smiling in triumph, Dorthea extended her hand out to Sam in invitation. "It won't hurt, I promise, darling. I won't make you suffer."
"Sammy, get out of here!" Dean screeched.
Sam drew back. He could run. The ghost kids would help him hide again.
Dorthea smoothed a hand along Dean's rib. "I only need one."
Dean latched onto her other wrist, and started forcing the blade back down. "Then you kill me! You kill me!"
The air seemed to suck right out of the room, a breath frozen in time. Sam's heart wrenched so tight in his chest he thought it might splinter in two. Maybe it did.
"Nooooo!" Sam stepped fully into the hallway. The blood coating Dean's chest made him want to vomit.
It all came down to blood.
Unable to steal what is freely sacrificed.
The psychic boy used his own blood to weave a spell and bind the woman to the in-between.
Sam took another step closer and Dorthea disappeared from Dean's side to reappear in front of Sam. He flinched.
The coolness of her blade touched his stomach, chilling him to the bone. He was shaking so hard, he wasn't sure if it was her pushing in, piercing through the first pinch into his skin or if he had inadvertently pushed outward. His face tilted up toward hers, eyes large and wet, feeling the icy prickle as the knife slid into his body.
ooo000oooJohn rammed his elbows against the wall, over and over, cracking plaster and giving himself a little leeway before the vines tightened their hold.
Sam gasped, just a soft little intake of air and John's head wrenched up, seeing the witch's blade slide hilt-deep into the side of his youngest's abdomen. Every muscle in the teen's body seemed to clamp rigidly around the intruding piece of metal and a fist punched through John Winchester's world.
"Sammy!" Dean bawled, crawling weakly across the floor.
Shuddering, Sam's young body went completely lax. Dorthea pulled him toward her, stroking his hair.
"Shhhhh, there, there, sweetheart. Now that wasn't so bad. Momma has you." She yanked the blade out and Sam wobbled. It shone glossy red.
Sam slipped downward. His cheek pressed into the witch's arm. Around them, several children appeared, watching somberly from the shadows.
John's chest heaved up and down, his vision smeared behind tears that he blinked away because he had to see, had to let Sam know he was there, that he wasn't alone.
Sam's eyes slipped lower, his forehead scrunched as though he fought it. John willed him to fight, even as he struggled against his bindings. His free hand clawed at the vines on his other arm, tore them from his mouth.
"Sammy," he cried. "Hang on. Daddy's here, I'm coming. You hang on."
Dorthea kissed Sam's temple. Blood soaked into Sam's jeans.
Clenching his face tight, Sam started whispering. "Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago . . ."
John froze.
The witch cradled Sam close, oblivious to the boy's spell casting. Or too arrogant to worry.
"Ago in q-quinque cuspis . . ." Sam shuddered in a great gasp. Fighting through it, Sam pushed the words out. "Per is cruor ut solvo vos . . ."
John squinted. Sam said the words wrong. It was different. John's pulse roared to life, understanding dawning. Sam changed a word, just one little word that changed the phrase's entire meaning. He wasn't binding Dorthea to the other world. He was letting her go.
John didn't understand why Sam would do such a thing, but he trusted his child. If there was an answer to be found, Sam would ferret it out.
Except Sam's words were slurring. His hands hung limply. The witch was the only thing holding him upright. "Is cruor ut . . . solvo . . ." Sam's eyes fell closed.
John squeezed his own eyes closed, weeping, and screamed out what his son couldn't finish, "Per is cruor ut solvo vos. EGO signum super vestry caput capitis! I seal upon you! Be free and damn you straight to hell!"
Dorthea gasped, her slender body arched and rolled like a cat taking a stretch. Light and energy crackled around her. She let go of Sam and he dropped to the floor in a boneless heap. Of no more consequence to the witch, Dorthea stepped over him, heading to the stairs.
Her body pulsed with fluid light. It poured from her fingertips. John could feel vibrations coming off her in waves, stronger than anything he'd ever come up against before. With that kind of power, she was formidable. Eyes glittering with delight, Dorthea stretched her arms wide . . . and her head rocked back, then snapped upright again, shock pinching her features-a bullet hole darkening her forehead.
From the floor, Dean held John's gun still pointed at the witch, steaming, its muzzle following her down as she dropped. "Welcome back to the real world, bitch, because my little brother just made you mortal."
The witch's body began shaking, slender arms flopping, spikes of light tore through her flesh, spearing outward.
With the witch's hold gone, John tore free of the vines, leaving them fluttering to the floor like the paper they were. He scrambled across the carpet to Sam.
Dean crawled over just as quickly. "Dad, is he . . .?"
"Get down!" John shoved his other arm over Dean, trying to shield both his children as the building wave of power roared into them, shrieking and wailing with the force of thousands of demons unleashed. The pressure buffeted into John, sliding him on his knees across the floor, but he kept his arms anchored around his boys, bringing them with him.
The thundering energy flew across the ceiling, down into the foyer, shooting out in a million tendrils of zipping light that ducked and wove into the five corridors. Peeking between the iron banister, John saw the pentagram now, grotesquely lit up above the chandelier just before the crystal rocked, pulled from its mooring and fell, shattering on the floor below.
Abruptly the mansion went still.
Dean shoved out from under John's arm. "Sammy! Is he?"
John's gaze snapped to Dean. He pushed off his youngest child. John's fingers flew to Sam's neck. Dean's to Sam's wrist, though there was no need. Sam's chest lifted and fell in shallow breaths. But, God, there was so much blood. "We've got to get him out of here." John tore off his own T-shirt, wadded it up to press against the wound in the boy's abdomen. Sam didn't stir from the pressure.
"Is it okay to move him?"
John glanced at Dorthea's spent body, then the children quietly watching. He shook his head. "Too much to explain. We'll call from the road. Get him the quickest help possible."
"Yeah, okay." Dean didn't take his eyes off his brother. "He's going to be okay, right?"
John swallowed around the scream clawing its way up his throat and nodded tightly. Truth was, he didn't know. That blade had gone in all the way. No telling what damage had been done and the blood loss was significant. And Sam was so still, his young face already too pale.
"Sammy." John pushed down on the T-shirt, frightened at how more blood soaked up into it.
"Sam!" Dean tried a less gentle approach. "Sam, you wake up."
No response and John wanted to punch the floor. They were losing him and John was helpless to stop it. He was losing his son.
"Dad, make him wake up."
John's gut constricted at the plea. "I . . ." They needed towels, needed to keep pressure on the wound, stop the gaddamned bleeding, get Sam down the stairs, into the car. They just needed to keep him alive long enough to get him help. He could do that. He could do that.
John Winchester stomped down on his fear. He had a son-two sons-to save.
Pulling on every reserve he had, John brought the marine to the forefront.
"Can you get down the stairs on your own?"
Dean nodded.
"Good," the marine praised, gearing up to carry Sam down the stairs when Sam suddenly moaned, his head rolling to the side, and marine be damned, the father in John clamored past him. "Sammy?"
Thick lashes fluttered up, revealing glossy eyes, too bright around the shadows lining Sam's lean face.
"Dad?" Kid's voice was too breathy.
"I'm here." John's voice came out husky, strained with tears. "I'm here. Gonna fix you up. Just . . . just . . . stay with us, Sam. Okay, just stay with us."
Sam didn't respond to that. His eyelids sank, but didn't close.
"Hey, hey," Dean whispered, twining his fingers through Sam's. "You heard Dad. Don't go anywhere."
"Not," Sam gasped, and John couldn't help smiling at the underlying determination.
"Ready?" John said to Dean, and shifted one arm beneath Sam's knees and his other across the kid's back. Sam cried, features clenched tight when John shifted him into his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know it hurts." He kissed Sam's hair, just holding him there until the pain subsided and then carefully got to his feet.
He carried Sam slowly down the stairs, painstakingly feeling each placement of his foot, keeping an ear out for Dean's progress behind them. The kid was barely on his feet, but Dean was tough. And with the urgency to get Sam out of this house, he'd roll down the staircase if that was the only way.
They stepped over shards of the broken chandelier and made it to the large front doors when the oldest kid, the one who showed them how to get out of the walled-in room, appeared in their path, arms folded, blocking their way.
His son didn't have time for this.
The other ghost children appeared, watching.
Dean pulled his bag of salt from his pocket. "Want me to get rid of them?"
John glanced down at Sam, out cold in his arms."No." He looked at the ghosts. "I'm taking my boy out of here. He needs help I can't give him. But I promise, we'll be back to set things right for you."
The oldest boy glanced around at the others, and then faded away. They all faded away. The giant doors swung inward.
With no further invitation warranted, John carried Sam out into the cool of night and straight toward the Impala.
ooo000oooSam woke to Dean's blurry face hovering inches above his own, puffs of breath flowing like whispers over his skin. ". . . to be okay we're almost there I got you you're going to be fine I promise I promise Sam we're going to fix this . . ."
They were in the back seat of the Impala-he'd recognize the feel and smell of that car without looking-his head resting on the hard planes of Dean's thighs. The low rumble of the car must have lolled him to sleep. He couldn't remember where they were going.
He felt really funny, floaty, like if he started flapping he could soar away, except something was wrong with Dean. His brother was crying and speaking so fast Sam could barely understand him. Dean never cried so Sam stayed where he was. He was tired anyway. Sleepy. He'd try flying another day. Besides Dean was crying and Sam wouldn't leave him like that. He let his head press more heavily into Dean's lap, letting him know he was here, he was still here. He felt safe in the car anyway . . . protected . . .
Until the Impala hit a bump and an icy slash of pain splintered through his stomach, vibrating across his entire body and he clawed to get away from it.
"NonoSamno Dad something's wrong SamSammy . . .come baaaack . . ."
The next thing Sam knew he was on pavement, staring up at the stars, something cupped over his mouth and nose, trapping his noisy exhalations in cloudy vapor.
"Pass him onto the gurney. One. Lift . . ."
Sam floated away, carried along a bobbing current of blissful darkness and snatches of moments he didn't remember happening. Bright lights streaked overhead above hazy unrecognizable faces, wheels squeaking beneath as a sharply lit ceiling rolled by.
He fell from the sky, streaming through the air beside angels that fell with him, wings bursting into purpling flame, trailing smoke and misery that wafted to the earth like dark feathers on a gentle breeze, until he settled softly on a cushion that smelled of antiseptics and sweat. Voices echoed over a steady beeping.
". . . watch him, but at his young age, the spleen still retains the ability to repair itself . . ."
His eyelids felt gooey and glued closed. It took more effort than Sam had to slide them open so he gave up and went chasing fireflies along a darkening path where paper vines wound along the ground and satyrs and cupids leaped about between trees and doorways.
The next he awoke, he was in the car again. It was quiet and unmoving. Stars filled the little patch of black sky he could see through the rectangle of the rear window. The entire back seat had been transformed into a bed of pillows, sheets and blankets, and Sam smiled, sinking sleepily into warmth and comfort and safely.
A breeze filtered through the open door, bringing the scent of smoke, fire.
Worried, Sam sat up and hissed at the sharp lance at the side of his belly.
Immediately the Impala rocked and Dean was there, poking his head through the open door. "Sammy? Oh, hey, you shouldn't be trying to sit up." Dean came inside, one knee resting on the seat between Sam's legs. "Come on, let's get you laying back down."
"I don't want to lie down." Sam yawned. "What's going on?"
Dean froze, staring as though he hadn't seen him for years even though it was really too dark to see that clearly. Dean's palm lifted to Sam's cheek, a gesture he usually reserved for times when Sam was sick. "You with me this time?"
Sam rubbed at his eyes. "Have I been sick?" Is that what was going on?
"Sick?" Dean looked a little stunned. He cocked his head. "Bit of an understatement." He smiled and backed out of the door. "Dad. Sam's awake. Really awake this time."
Footsteps carried on gravel and suddenly their dad's larger frame occupied the space Dean had just been in. "Sammy?" Leaning closer, John placed the back of his hand across Sam's forehead, feeling for fever. His features were ragged, the way he looked after an extremely long and difficult hunt when it took several days of sleep for the deep lines to smooth from his face.
"How are you feeling, kiddo?"
Actually a little freaked out by the way Dean and Dad were acting. Sam wrinkled his nose, not sure what he was supposed to say. "My stomach hurts a little. When I move. Have I been sick?"
John looked behind his shoulder at Dean who was still hovering close. Their silhouettes wavered slightly in front of a crackling fire several yards away.
Dad's calloused hand moved from Sam's forehead, but didn't leave, instead sliding into Sam's hair. "Do you remember the hunt?"
Pursing his lips together, Sam concentrated. He remembered vines and cupids and falling angels. Pentagrams and murdered children and a witch who crooned kind promises while a silver blade brought fire and agony inside his stomach.
Sam flinched, his hands dropping to the side of his belly where he felt thick gauze and tape beneath his T-shirt. Eyes wide, he nodded and started shaking.
"Hey, hey." Somehow his dad was closer, a large comforting arm wrapped tightly around Sam's back. "It's been a scary couple of days, but you made it. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
Sam nodded, feeling about as far from okay as he could get. The witch had stabbed him. But his dad was here and Dean was here and they were safe, which made him safe.
"I'm glad you woke up," John said. "Might help to see it through."
"See it through?" Sam was surprised at how quiet his voice came out.
"The hunt." Dad had his other arm beneath Sam's knees and was sliding him out with him. Once they cleared the car John cradled Sam against him like a baby. It was kind of embarrassing, but Sam's stomach hurt and his whole body felt weird, tingly and weak. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand on his own.
Fortunately his dad carried him over to the front of the car and set Sam down on the hood, keeping one arm around him to steady him. Dean sidled next to Sam, leaning back against the car, close enough that it seemed natural when Sam edged forward to rest his shoulder against Dean's.
The large mansion loomed in front of them, quiet and shadowy, the two front wings ready to enclose them at the slightest provocation.
Though uneasy, Sam was unafraid because nothing bad could happen while he sat between his brother and dad.
He glanced toward the flames rising up from a large hole in the weeds that must have once been a manicured lawn. "Is that her?"
"Nah, Sammy," Dean answered. "We took care of the witch at the back of the house. Didn't feel it'd be right to the kids to lay them to rest in the same place as her."
Sam nodded, his throat closing around what he didn't really know how to say anyway and let his head rest against Dean's shoulder and felt the steadiness of his dad's arm at the small of his back and when he looked back to the fire, the ghost of the pyshic boy stood there. The kid nodded once and then melted away.
FIN
Go see the pretty art
John entered the closest room to his right and concluded from the gigantic dark wood bed and masculine furnishings, that this was the master bedroom. If the structure kept with the tradition of the era the estate was built in, the rest of the family's rooms-the wife's quarters and a nursery and children's room would all be in this same wing, possibly connected, with guest rooms on the other side of the upstairs living quarters.
Crossing through the musty room, John yanked open one of the far doors, finding a large marble in-laid wash room with a Victorian claw-foot bathtub taking center stage. Behind the second door, John found the Mistress of the House's adjoining quarters.
Dorthea Truman's own personal sanctuary. John took in the layers of dust on the frilly bed. He picked up an ornate silver brush from the feminine dressing table, running a thumb across the stiff bristles. Fat little cherubs were frozen in flight around looping vines and roses within the faded wallpaper. Keeping with the cherub theme, small little sculptures of pudgy faces were carved within the decorative wall borders near the ceiling line. What kind of secrets rested in the shadows here? What would push a woman who seemingly had everything over a chasm so deep she took the lives of her own children?
And what had her ghost done with his son?
"EGO peto vox per aer ingravesco." Soft voices murmured around John's body like sighing leaves lifting and falling in a scattering breeze. "Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram. EGO eo in aer."
The words tickled his senses like a whispered prayer. Latin. "Unus per vox peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram eo in aer." John leaned forward on the balls of his feet, concentrating on the words, the meaning. Travel within the ether . . .
A hard cold stone plunged to the bottom of John's stomach. Not a prayer. A spell-a ritual. Something moved along the wall. John's gaze snapped up. The wallpaper, the cupids . . . stirred. Every one of their head's turned to stare at the molded plaster of a lamb's face in the center of a wall.
John gasped. Not a lamb's face. A goat's head . . .
"Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago in quinque cuspis of pentagram. EGO eo in aer." The murmurs picked up again, floating all around him, gaining speed with the rhythm of a horrible chant.
A grating sound raised the tiny hairs at the back of John's neck. Molded plaster eyelids blinked. The cupids near the ceiling stared down at him, lips moving. "in quinque cuspis per is cruor constrictum vos . . ." They sang of blood. Sacrifice. Binding.
Every vertebrae in John's spine stiffened. He should have known all along. Should have seen the clues all around him. They had never been dealing with just a ghost. Dorthea Truman was a witch and from what he could make out of the Latin, she had performed a blood ritual that cast her into another dimension.
But what that had to do with her being here in this mansion now and murdering children, John couldn't guess. Nor did he have the time to figure it out . . . because ghost or witch or something in between, the bitch was going to pay for going after John's sons . . .
ooo000ooo
The knife tip slid into the heavy quilt. Sam's terror was so thick it stilled everything inside him.
A little child giggled. "Maid was in the garden . . . hanging out the clothes."
Sam's eyes snapped open. The knife lifted a fraction. Dorthea no longer looked down at him, but across the bed where a very young girl blinked innocently up at her and curtsied, making fat blond ringlets bounce around a pointy little chin.
"Play with me, Momma." The girl lifted her small palm and the knife flew from the witch's hand and into the child's. Grinning impishly the little kid spun on her heel and dashed out the door. Delighted laughter trailed after her like fluttering hair ribbons.
Scowling, Dorthea planted her fists on the sides of her thin waist. "Elizabeth, you come back with that right now. Momma needs it."
"When dow--nn came a black-ack bird . . ." the melody rippled along the walls like fog.
"I am not playing." Dorthea's features twisted in fury, the pretty masquerade slipping, giving Sam a true glimpse of the blackened soul beneath. "Elizabeth!" Glaring, the witch stormed forward, vanishing into the air, leaving behind curling streamers of smoke.
"Demmmnnnn!" Sam flailed on the bed, jolting when a teenage girl appeared, kneeling at his side and shoved at him.
Sam rolled off the mattress, falling to the worn rug in a tangle of loosened quilt, coughing. His teeth felt like they'd been ripped from his gums when the quilt was dislodged, but moving his jaw proved otherwise.
"Come on!" The girl grabbed Sam's hand and ripped him off the floor, pulling him out of the room with her. They ran through a large marbled washroom and into an adjoining bedroom where she slid across the wood floor on the knees of her jeans as she ducked under the large bed, dragging Sam down with her.
Huddled on his stomach, Sam strained to see the girl through the darkness, her cold hand clasped tightly in his.
"Are . . . are you Missy?" he whispered the name of the girl who had disappeared earlier this month after being dared to go inside the abandoned estate. It was her disappearance that first attracted the attention of his dad to a possible hunt.
"Shhhhhh."
"Where have you gone, my little darling?" Dorthea's voice cascaded along the shadows like honey and Sam instinctually knew she was calling out for him. Shuddering uncontrollably, his hand tightened within the spirit's."Hide and seek, is it? Come out come out wherever you are."
A large armoire in the room started shaking, carved lion paw legs rattling, shimmying scratches on the floor. Above them the bed frame shook. Sam crawled backwards, ready to bolt out the other side. Cold fingers pressed against his lips and in the gloom, the teen gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Dorthea appeared near the doorway. Peering out, Sam could see the bottom part of her gown. The hem flowed around her pointy boots as though caught in a breeze. He also had a perfect view of the knife she dangled between long fingers down by the side of her leg.
Sam shivered in fear. Stupid stupid hiding place. Everybody always looks under beds. The rattling bed frame inched across the floor.
Heeled boots clicked on hardwood as Dorthea walked toward the bed. Curling ends of the witch's long hair swept along the floor as she bent over. Sam swallowed around the seizing muscles of his swollen throat.
A small gray ball rolled beneath the bed in front of Sam's fingertips.
"Momma momma momma, play with us," a young boy' s disembodied voice squealed with delight. Small feet pattered across the floor.
Dorthea's skirts swirled around her ankles as she straightened.
"Play with us play with us."The small blond girl joined in. "Please Momma please."
Sam heard more footsteps run across the room, though he couldn't see anything besides the bottom portion of Dorthea's flowing dress.
Suddenly several childish voices rang out in laughter and giggles, curling within the darkness. The laughter seemed to be all around him, moving about the room. The tread of small children clattered on wood.
Hands circled around Sam's ankles, jerking him back out from under the bed. His cry was cut off by a pair of hands covering his mouth.
Another teenage boy in a Motley Crew T-shirt warned him with his eyes until Sam nodded his understanding.
Flickering, the boy vanished and reappeared, sitting back on his folded knees. Eyeing each other for only a moment, they both turned to peek over the bed.
The spirits of the four nineteenth century children were skipping around in a circle, twirling and dancing with Dorthea in the midst of them. The witch kept moving to step away, but the children laughed, holding hands in a chain, almost as though they were holding the woman inside.
"Ring around the rosies . . . pocketful of posies . . . ashes, ashes . . ."
Dorthea's eyes snapped up, met Sam's across the bed. The corners of her lips turned up in a smile. "There you are."
Flinging out her arms, the dancing children dispersed like water through Dorthea Truman's hands. Eyes glittering in the half-light, she moved forward, her slender frame passing right through the bed. The tip of the knife loosely held snagged across the quilt.
The boy shoved at Sam, spurring him toward the far door. Smiling, Dorthea reached for him, the pads of her fingers grazing Sam's shoulder and the psychic boy suddenly appeared, standing between them.
The last thing Sam saw before he was jostled out of the room was the psychic's arm thrown up to shield himself and Dorthea's raging, "You can't keep him from me!"
ooo000ooo
Forehead pressed firmly on the iron-wrought banister, Dean held on, trying not to tip over. Sure, the pain that flowered across his chest from any kind of pulling movement was nowhere near pleasant, but he'd dealt with worse before. It was the dizziness that was doing him in. Whether from blood loss or from the earlier header smack in this very banister he now gripped in a sweaty-palmed death-hold, who could say?
All he knew was that he was standing here useless when that reeking skank of a ghost was doing who knows what to his younger sibling.
Dean climbed to the next step, gritting his teeth against the sudden wave of nausea while his shaking fist curled more tightly around the railing. One stupid flight of stairs was not going to kick Dean Winchester's ass. Even if those steps were heaving up and down beneath his boots.
Footsteps thumped across the floor. Dean stilled, less than midway up the staircase. He tried to see anyone on the dark landing above. Nothing stirred. The urge to call out for his brother and father settled like a loud taunt on his shoulder, insistent with urgency, but he knew the danger of throwing attention towards them.
More footfalls ran across the floors, accompanied with the echo of children laughing, playing. A small voice sang out, "We all fall down." Chills brushed along Dean's skin.
Something heavy crashed. More running steps. What was going on up there?
Pushing through the wooziness, Dean pulled himself up those steps, his muscles and the wounds on his chest thrumming in pain. Didn't matter.
By the time he reached the landing, everything was quiet. Sweaty and lightheaded, Dean leaned over, hands on his knees, waiting for the floor to stop swaying.
"Dean?"
He jerked his head up at his dad's voice. Crud, too fast. His vision seesawed across his dad's legs who was exiting one of the rooms and walking toward him.
"Thought I told you to stay downstairs." John's palm clamped onto Dean's arm, steadying him.
Dean pinched his forehead together, hoping for some relief. Squinting, the room finally righted itself. "Heard a racket up here." Which was enough of an explanation.
His dad's forehead lowered into a frown.
"You didn't hear anything?" Dean's fear notched up at the slight shake of his dad's head.
"It was loud, Dad. Things falling. Kids running all over the place."
John's hand slipped away. Dean could tell by his expression his dad was troubled. John had found something bad. Dean's stomach
clenched. Please, no, don't let it be evidence that Sam had been hurt. Or worse."Dad, what is it?"
The Adam's apple in his father's throat bounced. Hard. "Dean. We're dealing with witchcraft."
ooo000ooo
"Olly olly oxen free."
Sam trembled, tucked tightly within a little alcove behind a large vase. The tall plant had long since turned to dried-out brittle leaves blooming with dusty cobwebs. The two recently deceased kids had crammed Sam in between them, knees drawn up as they watched Dorthea drift through the room, lifting couch pillows and making the heavy curtains plume inward with a flick of her finger.
She was going to find him any second. He knew it. She already found him twice and both times the children intervened, running behind her back, stomping, making noise, pretending to be him, taking her attention away long enough that the boy and girl could race him out of there and shove him into a new hiding place.
They were playing a deadly game of hide and seek to save him and Sam didn't understand why or how long they could possibly keep it up. Anytime one of the kids got near, the witch dispersed them with a toss of her hand as easily as if she flung salt at them.
The youngest girl skipped past Dorthea, tugging at her mother's skirt, making her turn away from Sam's hiding place, then streaked away in a flutter of air.
Dorthea's hands cinched up into fists. "Enough of this, children. Your game's at an end. Momma's tired." She smiled sweetly and Sam cringed farther back into the corner, shaking in terror.
"I know you're near, child. You can't keep this up for-"Her head tilted, eyes flicking toward the doorway as though listening to something in another room. Without another word, she faded away.
ooo000ooo
They were close to Sam. John could feel it. Something floated within the shadows, making the air shiver. Walking along the curved hall, John swiftly searched every room while Dean kept guard near the doorways. Nothing was going to get past them. Sam was up here and they were going to find him.
He rested his hand at the back of Dean's neck, a squeeze of reassurance as they moved toward the next door. Dean nodded, in sync, even though the pinch at his eyes betrayed how hard the young hunter was fighting just to stay on his feet. John wanted to tell him to hang back, take it easy, but he also desperately wanted Dean within eyesight. He wanted both his sons within eyesight.
They came to the next door. John gave the nod that he was going in and stepped inside to make a quick run through. Please be in here, Sammy. Let me know where you are. John scanned the room, some kind of sitting room with dust-coated parlor sofas, small tables and lots of ancient dead plants in large vases. He turned to go, making brief eye contact with Dean in the hall, then stopped, turned back, his gaze roaming over the pillows scattered across the floor-or more specifically at the disturbance in the dust the pillows had made.
His eyes tracked slowly around the room, trying to spot any crannie or hole or misplaced line in the wainscoting that would indicate another hidden room the witch could have secreted a fourteen-year-old boy away in. His heart beat rapidly, sensing he was close to finding him.
He stared at one of the large planters, peering into the black corner behind the thick cobwebs, took a step . . .
Dean shouted. A gun shot barked out. John spun and saw Dean's legs flying backwards out of sight from the doorway, followed by the witch crossing fluidly after him.
Pulling his own gun because that's all he had, John barreled into the hallway as the witch bent over Dean. John shot three rounds into her back before she even bothered to look over her shoulder at him.
Arching delicate brows, she turned, shaking her head in disapproval as though he was a wayward child.
He shot her again.
To which she pushed out a palm and John flew into the wall, sliding down to the floor as his gun skidded across the rose-patterned carpet.
"Stay put," she whispered and thorny vines lashed out of the crumbling wallpaper, snaking around John's arms, his chest and pulling him back. He yanked, he pulled, and found no give.
Laughing, Dorthea turned away, back toward Dean who was struggling up to his hands and knees.
"Get away from him!" John screamed. The wallpaper vines forced him harder against the wall, constricting his airflow. They looped across his mouth, gagging his voice.
Like he weighed nothing, Dorthea flipped Dean onto his back. Kneeling, her hands sank deep into his hair. "Oh don't be afraid. Mother will take care of everything."
"You're not my mother!" Dean's tone held so much venom even John stilled momentarily in his struggles.
The witch's lips twitched. "I'm not without mercy, child. I only need one." She leaned in close to Dean's lips. "Tell me where the little one is and I'll let you go."
A gasp rose to John's throat. He watched every muscle in Dean's body go lax as he made the same connection. The bitch didn't know where Sammy was. She didn't have him. John heaved in a relieved breath.
"I prefer your brother, much younger, much more innocent, more power to pour into my ritual," Dorthea cooed. "But you'll do."
Dean turned his face to the side, smugly ignoring the witch. She was insane if she thought either of his boys would ever make a bargain like that. Dorthea stared down at Dean, apparently coming to the same conclusion as she shifted back, calling out to the air instead.
"Boy," her voice hummed, whisper-soft, but filling every space. "Playtime is over. Come out now. I have your brother. He wants to play."
John flinched. No, Sammy, don't. He shouted around the paper vines, flexed his arms.
Dorthea flicked out her knife, pressed it to Dean's flat stomach. John's soundless roar echoed in his ears.
ooo000oooSam tried to lunge out from behind the plant, but the two kids pushed him back, both clamping frigid hands over his mouth to keep Dorthea from hearing his screams.
She has Dean! She has Dean!
The witch's voice caressed his cheek as though she were right next to him. "My blade is pressed to his flesh." He felt Dorthea's resigned sigh like fingers tickling across his skin.
Sam shoved against the kids and they shoved him right back. Much stronger than him, they held Sam in place easily with hands on his shoulders.
No, no, he screamed against their palms covering his lips. It's my brother. Let me go. I have to go. Pleaaaase! Dean! Chest rising hard, Sam strained against them. They didn't understand. He couldn't let the witch kill Dean.
"I'll make you a promise, sweetheart. Come out and I'll spare your brother. I only need one of you."
Of course she was lying. Sam knew that, but he also couldn't take a chance, not with Dean.
Sam bit into the closest hand pressed to his lips, but being a ghost, the girl only shook her head.
"Be quiet," she hissed. "We're trying to save you."
Then save my brother, he wanted to scream at her, tears streaming between their cold hands and his cheeks. He pushed against them, wiggling his hand into the front pocket of his hoodie, fingers scrabbling onto his little shaker of salt.
ooo000oooDean glared up at the witch. If she thought she was going to use him to lure Sam out, she had another thing coming. He was going to end her. Just as soon as he could figure out how to get her to take away that knife from his stomach.
He was barely breathing, taking tight shallow breaths to keep his stomach from raising any closer to the tip of that blade. If he could only push her away from him, but damn the woman was strong. And stupid. She kept looking up like she expected Sammy to materialize out of thin air and let her just start carving on him. Like Dean or their dad would ever let that happen.
They just had to figure something out. Dean's vision flashed gray, a bout of dizziness washing through him. He swallowed, pushing it down. Not now. He had to stay coherent. Tingles shot up his limbs. Dean blinked, a weird feeling of lightheadedness swamping him.
Dorthea's lips pursed together. "I'm very sorry. I guess your brother isn't coming."
Dean felt the icy blade touch his skin, saw his dad's legs kicking on the floor, his body arching away from the weird-ass vines holding him, and heard his brother scream, "No! Don't!"
ooo000oooSam's palm still cupped the salt shaker. It had gotten him free of the ghosts holding him back, but he knew it wouldn't work against Dorthea. She wasn't a ghost. He didn't know anything that could reach beyond the dimension she was part of and kill her.
It really wasn't fair that she could reach through and kill them. Except for trapping her within the boundaries of the large pentagram, the psychic kid's binding spell was worthless.
Sam stood halfway out of one of the rooms, holding onto the doorjamb. He couldn't control the tremors coursing through his body, was barely managing to stay upright.
His dad sat up against the wall, nearly his entire body encircled with painted vines that seemed to have crawled right off of the wallpaper. His father bucked, screaming behind paper vines.
Dean was on the floor, the witch kneeling over him, the sharp point of her knife grazing his brother's stomach. She was going to stab Dean!
Without thinking, Sam stepped away from the doorway.
Straining with rage and fear, John snapped the vine on one of his wrists free. Sam paused, hopeful. His dad could save Dean. He always took care of everything.
Smiling in triumph, Dorthea extended her hand out to Sam in invitation. "It won't hurt, I promise, darling. I won't make you suffer."
"Sammy, get out of here!" Dean screeched.
Sam drew back. He could run. The ghost kids would help him hide again.
Dorthea smoothed a hand along Dean's rib. "I only need one."
Dean latched onto her other wrist, and started forcing the blade back down. "Then you kill me! You kill me!"
The air seemed to suck right out of the room, a breath frozen in time. Sam's heart wrenched so tight in his chest he thought it might splinter in two. Maybe it did.
"Nooooo!" Sam stepped fully into the hallway. The blood coating Dean's chest made him want to vomit.
It all came down to blood.
Unable to steal what is freely sacrificed.
The psychic boy used his own blood to weave a spell and bind the woman to the in-between.
Sam took another step closer and Dorthea disappeared from Dean's side to reappear in front of Sam. He flinched.
The coolness of her blade touched his stomach, chilling him to the bone. He was shaking so hard, he wasn't sure if it was her pushing in, piercing through the first pinch into his skin or if he had inadvertently pushed outward. His face tilted up toward hers, eyes large and wet, feeling the icy prickle as the knife slid into his body.
ooo000oooJohn rammed his elbows against the wall, over and over, cracking plaster and giving himself a little leeway before the vines tightened their hold.
Sam gasped, just a soft little intake of air and John's head wrenched up, seeing the witch's blade slide hilt-deep into the side of his youngest's abdomen. Every muscle in the teen's body seemed to clamp rigidly around the intruding piece of metal and a fist punched through John Winchester's world.
"Sammy!" Dean bawled, crawling weakly across the floor.
Shuddering, Sam's young body went completely lax. Dorthea pulled him toward her, stroking his hair.
"Shhhhh, there, there, sweetheart. Now that wasn't so bad. Momma has you." She yanked the blade out and Sam wobbled. It shone glossy red.
Sam slipped downward. His cheek pressed into the witch's arm. Around them, several children appeared, watching somberly from the shadows.
John's chest heaved up and down, his vision smeared behind tears that he blinked away because he had to see, had to let Sam know he was there, that he wasn't alone.
Sam's eyes slipped lower, his forehead scrunched as though he fought it. John willed him to fight, even as he struggled against his bindings. His free hand clawed at the vines on his other arm, tore them from his mouth.
"Sammy," he cried. "Hang on. Daddy's here, I'm coming. You hang on."
Dorthea kissed Sam's temple. Blood soaked into Sam's jeans.
Clenching his face tight, Sam started whispering. "Peto vox per aer ingravesco unus per vox. Per suum ago . . ."
John froze.
The witch cradled Sam close, oblivious to the boy's spell casting. Or too arrogant to worry.
"Ago in q-quinque cuspis . . ." Sam shuddered in a great gasp. Fighting through it, Sam pushed the words out. "Per is cruor ut solvo vos . . ."
John squinted. Sam said the words wrong. It was different. John's pulse roared to life, understanding dawning. Sam changed a word, just one little word that changed the phrase's entire meaning. He wasn't binding Dorthea to the other world. He was letting her go.
John didn't understand why Sam would do such a thing, but he trusted his child. If there was an answer to be found, Sam would ferret it out.
Except Sam's words were slurring. His hands hung limply. The witch was the only thing holding him upright. "Is cruor ut . . . solvo . . ." Sam's eyes fell closed.
John squeezed his own eyes closed, weeping, and screamed out what his son couldn't finish, "Per is cruor ut solvo vos. EGO signum super vestry caput capitis! I seal upon you! Be free and damn you straight to hell!"
Dorthea gasped, her slender body arched and rolled like a cat taking a stretch. Light and energy crackled around her. She let go of Sam and he dropped to the floor in a boneless heap. Of no more consequence to the witch, Dorthea stepped over him, heading to the stairs.
Her body pulsed with fluid light. It poured from her fingertips. John could feel vibrations coming off her in waves, stronger than anything he'd ever come up against before. With that kind of power, she was formidable. Eyes glittering with delight, Dorthea stretched her arms wide . . . and her head rocked back, then snapped upright again, shock pinching her features-a bullet hole darkening her forehead.
From the floor, Dean held John's gun still pointed at the witch, steaming, its muzzle following her down as she dropped. "Welcome back to the real world, bitch, because my little brother just made you mortal."
The witch's body began shaking, slender arms flopping, spikes of light tore through her flesh, spearing outward.
With the witch's hold gone, John tore free of the vines, leaving them fluttering to the floor like the paper they were. He scrambled across the carpet to Sam.
Dean crawled over just as quickly. "Dad, is he . . .?"
"Get down!" John shoved his other arm over Dean, trying to shield both his children as the building wave of power roared into them, shrieking and wailing with the force of thousands of demons unleashed. The pressure buffeted into John, sliding him on his knees across the floor, but he kept his arms anchored around his boys, bringing them with him.
The thundering energy flew across the ceiling, down into the foyer, shooting out in a million tendrils of zipping light that ducked and wove into the five corridors. Peeking between the iron banister, John saw the pentagram now, grotesquely lit up above the chandelier just before the crystal rocked, pulled from its mooring and fell, shattering on the floor below.
Abruptly the mansion went still.
Dean shoved out from under John's arm. "Sammy! Is he?"
John's gaze snapped to Dean. He pushed off his youngest child. John's fingers flew to Sam's neck. Dean's to Sam's wrist, though there was no need. Sam's chest lifted and fell in shallow breaths. But, God, there was so much blood. "We've got to get him out of here." John tore off his own T-shirt, wadded it up to press against the wound in the boy's abdomen. Sam didn't stir from the pressure.
"Is it okay to move him?"
John glanced at Dorthea's spent body, then the children quietly watching. He shook his head. "Too much to explain. We'll call from the road. Get him the quickest help possible."
"Yeah, okay." Dean didn't take his eyes off his brother. "He's going to be okay, right?"
John swallowed around the scream clawing its way up his throat and nodded tightly. Truth was, he didn't know. That blade had gone in all the way. No telling what damage had been done and the blood loss was significant. And Sam was so still, his young face already too pale.
"Sammy." John pushed down on the T-shirt, frightened at how more blood soaked up into it.
"Sam!" Dean tried a less gentle approach. "Sam, you wake up."
No response and John wanted to punch the floor. They were losing him and John was helpless to stop it. He was losing his son.
"Dad, make him wake up."
John's gut constricted at the plea. "I . . ." They needed towels, needed to keep pressure on the wound, stop the gaddamned bleeding, get Sam down the stairs, into the car. They just needed to keep him alive long enough to get him help. He could do that. He could do that.
John Winchester stomped down on his fear. He had a son-two sons-to save.
Pulling on every reserve he had, John brought the marine to the forefront.
"Can you get down the stairs on your own?"
Dean nodded.
"Good," the marine praised, gearing up to carry Sam down the stairs when Sam suddenly moaned, his head rolling to the side, and marine be damned, the father in John clamored past him. "Sammy?"
Thick lashes fluttered up, revealing glossy eyes, too bright around the shadows lining Sam's lean face.
"Dad?" Kid's voice was too breathy.
"I'm here." John's voice came out husky, strained with tears. "I'm here. Gonna fix you up. Just . . . just . . . stay with us, Sam. Okay, just stay with us."
Sam didn't respond to that. His eyelids sank, but didn't close.
"Hey, hey," Dean whispered, twining his fingers through Sam's. "You heard Dad. Don't go anywhere."
"Not," Sam gasped, and John couldn't help smiling at the underlying determination.
"Ready?" John said to Dean, and shifted one arm beneath Sam's knees and his other across the kid's back. Sam cried, features clenched tight when John shifted him into his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know it hurts." He kissed Sam's hair, just holding him there until the pain subsided and then carefully got to his feet.
He carried Sam slowly down the stairs, painstakingly feeling each placement of his foot, keeping an ear out for Dean's progress behind them. The kid was barely on his feet, but Dean was tough. And with the urgency to get Sam out of this house, he'd roll down the staircase if that was the only way.
They stepped over shards of the broken chandelier and made it to the large front doors when the oldest kid, the one who showed them how to get out of the walled-in room, appeared in their path, arms folded, blocking their way.
His son didn't have time for this.
The other ghost children appeared, watching.
Dean pulled his bag of salt from his pocket. "Want me to get rid of them?"
John glanced down at Sam, out cold in his arms."No." He looked at the ghosts. "I'm taking my boy out of here. He needs help I can't give him. But I promise, we'll be back to set things right for you."
The oldest boy glanced around at the others, and then faded away. They all faded away. The giant doors swung inward.
With no further invitation warranted, John carried Sam out into the cool of night and straight toward the Impala.
ooo000oooSam woke to Dean's blurry face hovering inches above his own, puffs of breath flowing like whispers over his skin. ". . . to be okay we're almost there I got you you're going to be fine I promise I promise Sam we're going to fix this . . ."
They were in the back seat of the Impala-he'd recognize the feel and smell of that car without looking-his head resting on the hard planes of Dean's thighs. The low rumble of the car must have lolled him to sleep. He couldn't remember where they were going.
He felt really funny, floaty, like if he started flapping he could soar away, except something was wrong with Dean. His brother was crying and speaking so fast Sam could barely understand him. Dean never cried so Sam stayed where he was. He was tired anyway. Sleepy. He'd try flying another day. Besides Dean was crying and Sam wouldn't leave him like that. He let his head press more heavily into Dean's lap, letting him know he was here, he was still here. He felt safe in the car anyway . . . protected . . .
Until the Impala hit a bump and an icy slash of pain splintered through his stomach, vibrating across his entire body and he clawed to get away from it.
"NonoSamno Dad something's wrong SamSammy . . .come baaaack . . ."
The next thing Sam knew he was on pavement, staring up at the stars, something cupped over his mouth and nose, trapping his noisy exhalations in cloudy vapor.
"Pass him onto the gurney. One. Lift . . ."
Sam floated away, carried along a bobbing current of blissful darkness and snatches of moments he didn't remember happening. Bright lights streaked overhead above hazy unrecognizable faces, wheels squeaking beneath as a sharply lit ceiling rolled by.
He fell from the sky, streaming through the air beside angels that fell with him, wings bursting into purpling flame, trailing smoke and misery that wafted to the earth like dark feathers on a gentle breeze, until he settled softly on a cushion that smelled of antiseptics and sweat. Voices echoed over a steady beeping.
". . . watch him, but at his young age, the spleen still retains the ability to repair itself . . ."
His eyelids felt gooey and glued closed. It took more effort than Sam had to slide them open so he gave up and went chasing fireflies along a darkening path where paper vines wound along the ground and satyrs and cupids leaped about between trees and doorways.
The next he awoke, he was in the car again. It was quiet and unmoving. Stars filled the little patch of black sky he could see through the rectangle of the rear window. The entire back seat had been transformed into a bed of pillows, sheets and blankets, and Sam smiled, sinking sleepily into warmth and comfort and safely.
A breeze filtered through the open door, bringing the scent of smoke, fire.
Worried, Sam sat up and hissed at the sharp lance at the side of his belly.
Immediately the Impala rocked and Dean was there, poking his head through the open door. "Sammy? Oh, hey, you shouldn't be trying to sit up." Dean came inside, one knee resting on the seat between Sam's legs. "Come on, let's get you laying back down."
"I don't want to lie down." Sam yawned. "What's going on?"
Dean froze, staring as though he hadn't seen him for years even though it was really too dark to see that clearly. Dean's palm lifted to Sam's cheek, a gesture he usually reserved for times when Sam was sick. "You with me this time?"
Sam rubbed at his eyes. "Have I been sick?" Is that what was going on?
"Sick?" Dean looked a little stunned. He cocked his head. "Bit of an understatement." He smiled and backed out of the door. "Dad. Sam's awake. Really awake this time."
Footsteps carried on gravel and suddenly their dad's larger frame occupied the space Dean had just been in. "Sammy?" Leaning closer, John placed the back of his hand across Sam's forehead, feeling for fever. His features were ragged, the way he looked after an extremely long and difficult hunt when it took several days of sleep for the deep lines to smooth from his face.
"How are you feeling, kiddo?"
Actually a little freaked out by the way Dean and Dad were acting. Sam wrinkled his nose, not sure what he was supposed to say. "My stomach hurts a little. When I move. Have I been sick?"
John looked behind his shoulder at Dean who was still hovering close. Their silhouettes wavered slightly in front of a crackling fire several yards away.
Dad's calloused hand moved from Sam's forehead, but didn't leave, instead sliding into Sam's hair. "Do you remember the hunt?"
Pursing his lips together, Sam concentrated. He remembered vines and cupids and falling angels. Pentagrams and murdered children and a witch who crooned kind promises while a silver blade brought fire and agony inside his stomach.
Sam flinched, his hands dropping to the side of his belly where he felt thick gauze and tape beneath his T-shirt. Eyes wide, he nodded and started shaking.
"Hey, hey." Somehow his dad was closer, a large comforting arm wrapped tightly around Sam's back. "It's been a scary couple of days, but you made it. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
Sam nodded, feeling about as far from okay as he could get. The witch had stabbed him. But his dad was here and Dean was here and they were safe, which made him safe.
"I'm glad you woke up," John said. "Might help to see it through."
"See it through?" Sam was surprised at how quiet his voice came out.
"The hunt." Dad had his other arm beneath Sam's knees and was sliding him out with him. Once they cleared the car John cradled Sam against him like a baby. It was kind of embarrassing, but Sam's stomach hurt and his whole body felt weird, tingly and weak. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand on his own.
Fortunately his dad carried him over to the front of the car and set Sam down on the hood, keeping one arm around him to steady him. Dean sidled next to Sam, leaning back against the car, close enough that it seemed natural when Sam edged forward to rest his shoulder against Dean's.
The large mansion loomed in front of them, quiet and shadowy, the two front wings ready to enclose them at the slightest provocation.
Though uneasy, Sam was unafraid because nothing bad could happen while he sat between his brother and dad.
He glanced toward the flames rising up from a large hole in the weeds that must have once been a manicured lawn. "Is that her?"
"Nah, Sammy," Dean answered. "We took care of the witch at the back of the house. Didn't feel it'd be right to the kids to lay them to rest in the same place as her."
Sam nodded, his throat closing around what he didn't really know how to say anyway and let his head rest against Dean's shoulder and felt the steadiness of his dad's arm at the small of his back and when he looked back to the fire, the ghost of the pyshic boy stood there. The kid nodded once and then melted away.
FIN
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