I don't own the Winchesters or Mr Finn, and am not using them for financial gain. No copyright infringement is intended
Thanks to Neichan for the betatwo
Dean ducked as the creature took a swing at him, cursing the unpredictable nature of his job. No, it was much more than a job, but not quite his whole life; that honour was reserved for his younger brother Sammy. It was Sammy’s idea to come to this carbon copy town to hunt a run-of-the-mill poltergeist. Routine, Sam had called it although both of them new that routine did not really exist in their lives. They did not have that luxury, and the creature he was fighting now was certainly a testament to that, Dean thought, believing that this was in actual fact their alleged poltergeist.
With the creature off balance from having missed its strike, Dean saw his chance, pointing his trusty sawed-off at the creature’s heart, he fired. Both fell backwards, but only Dean got up again. He looked at the prone body of the demon; larger than human, vaguely humanoid, with shrivelled brown skin. Its eyes had been a piercing amber when alive but were now a drab grey. Dean bent down to get a closer look at the large claws to which he nearly became a victim. They were a good eight inches long and razor sharp.
“Some poltergeist you turned out to be,” he said as he dusted himself down. “Sam really got it wrong this time.” As he turned to make his way back to his car, he was startled to find his younger brother stood right by him.
“Jesus Sammy. Don’t creep up on me like that!” He saw the wry smile on his younger brother’s face.
“Why? Scare you?” he could see Sam was amused at this thought. Dean tried to think up something to say, to save face, but he couldn’t. He simply mimicked his brother’s grin.
“We still have that poltergeist to deal with,” Sam said.
“Really?” Dean asked, a little startled by this. He thought the demon he killed was their target.
“Yeah,” Sam said softly, nodding his head towards the carcass of the demon as he continued. “That thing was just a bonus.”
Few people could describe something else that nearly kills you as a bonus, thought Dean, as he only half listened to the results of Sam’s research; something about floaty objects and a few fatalities over the years, implying a pattern. There was always a pattern, he mused, wondering why nobody in these towns ever figured that out before they arrived.
Regardless, a simple spell was needed with only a small amount of Latin involved, and apparently their father was thoughtful enough to write it phonetically in his book. Sam made some comment about how that was one of his few thoughtful acts. Dean chose to ignore it. He hated fighting with Sam; it tore him up when they rowed, and talking about their father almost always led to an argument.
A short car journey later and the pair were standing outside a large detached house. It was bigger than their childhood home, but made Dean think of it none the less; the garden, in fact pretty much everything, was similar. He recalled that
night, much colder than it was now, but with a conscious effort, managed to force his memories back into the box in the furthest depths of his mind. He could ill afford to be distracted with painful memories; that could cost him and Sammy their lives.
The house had been abandoned for several weeks, Sam had told him. Apparently, their children had been injured because of poltergeist activity, so they’d moved. Dean looked through the window and guessed they’d left in a hurry. Many of their furniture and belongings were still there.
Dean hated this world and how demons and ghosts destroy people’s lives. This family, whoever they were, wanted the normal family life, bought the home to match and did nothing to piss this spirit off, other than move in where some guy happened to die and was all pissed about it. The supernatural were petty and spiteful and vengeful and that angered him.
“Dean,” Sammy called as loudly as he dared, and nodded at the window he’d managed to open. As Dean made his way over to him, Sam climbed in; Dean followed and the two stood in what once was a living room. Shelves lined one wall and still had books and knick-knacks, but were now covered in a thin layer of dust. There were some boxes packed with tape, along with empty ones too.
“Let’s do this and get outa here,” said Dean bitterly. Sam pulled out a small jar containing some orange powder; sand, brick dust or something like that. There’s always powder, Dean mused as he used it to draw a triangle on the floor, followed by small circles at each point.
Sam stepped inside the triangle and read from their Dad’s book. It was only a short spell compared to some they’d used, but it was enough to garner quite intense paranormal activity. Books hurled at Sam as he read, glass shattered and the newspaper that had been used for packing was strewn about the room, but all that ceased when Sam had finished.
“Let’s go,” he said as he picked up his bag.
Sam climbed out of the window first as Dean paused to take one more look at the house; it was a little messier than when they arrived but would make a good home now. He hoped they’d move back and have the life they wanted and he’d decided that he’d try to contact them, to tell them it was safe. Suddenly a noise outside got his intention, followed by the chilling sound of his brother screaming.
“Sammy,” he called as he vaulted out of the window. His brother was on the floor, with blood pouring from a large wound across his chest. The demon he shot earlier was standing above him. He reached fro the gun from the waistband of his jeans and fired, emptying the weapon of all twelve bullets, all into the body of the demon, where he assumed, hoped its heart would be. It staggered backwards and then fell to the ground.
Dean reached into the window, pulling a white sheet that was covering a chest of drawers. By the time he reached his brother, he had already torn the sheet in two. He folded one piece into quarters and placed it on his chest.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, fighting the tears that were building up. He tore the remaining fabric again into strips and as carefully as he was able, he slid it under his brother’s body and wrapped it round his chest. He then ran back to the window and took hold of a roll of packing tape, which he used to hold his makeshift bandage in place. Each move Sam made caused him to cry out in pain and Dean felt each cry as it pierced his heart. With as much care as he was able, Dean slid his arms under his brother’s body and lifted him, carrying him to the car.
He managed to carry Sam into the motel room but with some difficulty. Sam cried in agony as he was moved. Dean laid him gently on the bed. He cursed himself for not watching out for his younger brother, and lashed out at the furniture. He realised this was distressing his brother so ceased and crouched at his brother’s side.
“I’m gonna get some supplies,” he said, laying his hand on Sam’s cheek as he spoke. “You wait here okay Sammy.” Sam nodded.
“Okay, he uttered, gasping as he spoke. Dean stood and left the room. After he closed the door behind him, he leaned against it and allowed himself to cry. He gave himself five seconds before he wiped his eyes and started walking.