DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural, Volvo, or the Chevy Impala
A/N: This chapter is a little longer than usual, and I think it's the best so far. Please review.
"So, Sam…"
Gritting his teeth, Sam continued to stare out of the passenger window at the extremely tedious scenery. Hadn't they driven past this same field about twenty times already?
"Sam?"
God, but this was one of the worst car rides Sam had had the misfortune to go on. It easily topped the many rides in which the car was full of tension between Sam and his father, the air taught with too many words unsaid and too many feelings bottled up. The guy just. Wouldn't. Shut. Up!
"Hey, are you alright? Can't you hear me?"
Christ.
"Yes, I can hear you." He obviously didn't hear or decided to ignore Sam's decidedly irritated and slightly threatening tone.
"Oh, good." Crap, I've shown interest. There'll be no stopping him now. "We're here." At that, Sam sat bolt upright, whipping to face his unwanted companion. The small man chuckled at Sam's surprise as he slowed down, turning the car into a long dirt driveway. The small old Volvo gave a strange coughing sound as the British man (Sam had found out that his name was Albert) pressed down on the accelerator once more; the two of them shared a nervous glance. The car sounded as though it was about ready to give up.
After an extremely shaky ride down the long driveway, Albert pulled up outside a large old house. It was surrounded by overgrown grass, the windows grimy and covered with cobwebs both outside and in. The porch was sagging, the wood dark and water stained; it seemed to be littered with holes. Sam frowned. The house looked abandoned. Had Albert told him the truth? Where was this 'Joe'?
The car gave a shudder before the engine abruptly died down. Albert frowned at the steering wheel as Sam continued to study the house. The front door was wide open, and as Sam watched a small gust of wind made a rusty wind chime hung just inside the frame tinkle softly, swaying slightly before stilling once more. The eerie sound made the small hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. This place… it looked, felt, exactly like a haunted house. He didn't know if it was instinct or some sixth sense, but Sam could tell that the house was imbued with despair, soaked into the walls like a bloodstain.
"This is where your friend lives?" Sam's voice was doubtful as he turned to look at Albert once more. The man jerked a bit before he turned an earnest, worried gaze on the teenager.
"Well, yes," Albert frowned, anxiously chewing on his bottom lip. "I haven't seen him for a long while now, but I'm sure he hasn't moved…"
"I thought you said you were going to call him, tell him that we're coming," Sam stated, frowning at the old man. Albert shifted nervously in his seat, seemingly unable to meet Sam's eyes.
"Erm, I forgot… Let's just check it out anyway. Something must have happened to Joe!" And suddenly he was out of the car, near running to the house. Sam raised an eyebrow at Albert's retreating back. He was obviously hiding something, and Sam didn't know if it was serious or not. The guy struck him as a bit of a drama queen; perhaps he was just embarrassed? He didn't seem like he could do much harm. Either way, Sam would have to be cautious around him.
Sam followed Albert over to the house, wading slowly through the sea of waist-high grass. The closer he got to the house, the colder the atmosphere became. The feeling was familiar, and Sam was almost certain that this house was haunted. It certainly hadn't been approached by human beings for many years. Albert was standing by the front door, peering into the dark hallway, apparently scared to enter. Sam found himself studying him as though hoping he would see something that hadn't been there before, something that would tell him whether or not he could really trust his peculiar little man.
He was snapped out of his reverie when Albert turned and beckoned him into the house. He didn't know if it was just his growing mistrust towards the man, but was Albert looking rather – pale? Guilty? Ignoring his suspicions, both towards Albert and the house that he was sure was haunted; he walked in through the front door.
It didn't really come as a surprise when it slammed shut behind him.
Sighing in exasperation, he turned around and stalked silently back to the door before carefully laying an ear against it. Through the scratched, water stained wood he thought he heard – whispers? He frowned, pressing his ear against the door even harder. It didn't sound like Albert was doing the whispering – in fact, he doubted Albert was even there anymore. Bastard.
Scowling, Sam turned and crept down the dark hallway. Old, tarnished mirrors and paintings hung crooked on the damp walls, the reflective surfaces glowing softly in the slivers of light streaming through the cracks in the roof. As he walked further down the hall, further into the darkness of the house, the air became colder. He shivered and pulled his jacket more closely about him. He could feel it in the very foundations of the house; the anger, the despair. The stench of death (real or imaginary he didn't know) tainted the still air, and he desperately tried to hold back a cough. Desperately tried to keep from alerting… something to his presence.
He took another step, and then paused. An icy cold breeze ruffled through his hair and over his scalp. When he turned to his right he came face to face with a door. It stood ajar; only a little bit of the coldness inside able to seep out and brush against Sam's face, raising goosebumps on the sensitive skin. He shivered. Then, steeling himself, he reached out with a hesitant hand and pushed the door open. He gave a sigh of relief when he wasn't hit by the supernatural ambush he had been half expecting. The place appeared to be some sort of study or office, judging by the desk and chair that was set against one wall. The thing that drew Sam's attention, though, was the large wooden wardrobe. It was pitch black, sculpted from ebony, and it stood on the far side of the room, directly opposite to Sam where he was standing just in front of the doorframe.
He crept slowly into the room, doing his best not to disturb anything. The desk and chair were covered in cobwebs; Sam shuddered when he saw a huge, hairy black spider scurry into the darkness of its home, which was a cobweb constructed on the back of the chair. I'm not going anywhere near that chair. The only things that lay on the dusty desk were an exceptionally cobwebbed lamp and a single sheet of paper that was yellow and brittle with age. Curious, Sam leant over the desk (careful not to brush against any cobwebs) and peered down at the paper. Given the darkness of the room, he couldn't be sure of what he was seeing, but his heart leapt into his throat when he saw the drawing. It was a simple sketch of a dark figure. It appeared to be a large, bulky man, his figure obscured by a shadowy cloak. From under the brim of what Sam reckoned was the outline of some sort of hat, two dots of red pen posing as eyes glared up at him. The figure was surrounded by delicate tendrils of shadow, drawn as wavy lines with a black pen.
He was almost certain that this was a drawing of a shadow person. But who drew it? And where were they now?
Sam was jerked out of his musings by the sudden whistle of wind behind his back. He froze, his exhaled breath coming out as white steam in the suddenly freezing room, and turned around slowly, cautiously.
The spectre was one of a tall, bulky man who was built along the lines of a bear, complete with huge hands, feet and mouth and liberal amounts of hair. He wore an old, large, ripped trench coat and a wide brimmed leather hat. The eyes that glared at Sam were hard and cold, making the teenager shiver; there was a murderous intent in them. This ghost was looking for vengeance, and Sam didn't know if it would decide to take its bloodlust out on him.
For a few moments Sam stood perfectly still as the ghost studied him with those sharp eyes of his. Even as a transparent, colourless spirit, the man radiated power. There was something distinctly feral about him; Sam suspected that he was every bit as strong and wild as the bear he looked like. After what seemed to be an eternity of gazing into those sharp eyes, the man gave him a minute nod, as though giving the young hunter his approval. Sam watched, bemused, as the spirit turned to the desk, gliding over to peer down at the drawing. After a few more minutes of silence, Sam finally found his voice again.
"Did… did you draw that?"
The spectre turned towards him slowly, fixing him once again with an appraising gaze. Then he nodded, the movement just the slightest jerk of his head.
"Is it a shadow person?"
Another nod. Sam swallowed. This silent conversation was getting unnerving, especially when the guy was watching him with such an intense stare. Like he could see right into him.
"Are you Joe?"
Sam was surprised when he got more of a reaction then a nod. The man scowled, inclining his head slightly, and then gestured out of the tiny window situated above the desk. It was so dirty that it let no light in whatsoever, and as such, Sam hadn't noticed it. Frowning, Sam tried to peer out of the window, but to no avail. "Is something outside?" Joe tilted his head to the side slightly, and Sam imagined that he was saying guess again. "Or someone?" By the deepening of the scowl and the thickening of the air surrounding the spirit, Sam had hit the jackpot. He swallowed, trying to bring moisture to an abruptly dry throat. "Albert? He told me that you were called Joe. That you had a katana that can kill the shadow people. Was he telling the truth?"
Sam expected another nod or scowl, not Joe disappearing and suddenly rematerializing in front of the huge ebony closet. Caught off guard, all he could do was stare as the cupboard doors swung open, creaking slightly. He gagged, covering his mouth with his forearm, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes as his senses were assaulted by the stench of death. Blinking rapidly to dry his eyes, he peered into the closet, swallowing down a retch. A skeleton huddled at the bottom of the wardrobe, back turned to Sam. A huge black trench coat hung crooked on its bony frame and a leather hat lay clutched in a claw like hand. His eyes flicked to Joe and back to the skeleton, and the man nodded, answering his silent question.
"Albert did… that?" Sam winced when the closet doors slammed shut so hard that the whole structure shook. God, he killed his own friend. And yet, jaded as he was, it didn't surprise him. The knowledge didn't even make him angry; it just made him sad. Sad for Joe, who died at the hands of someone he trusted. Sad for himself, because shouldn't he care more? Stop it, he told himself. Being rebellious was what got you into this mess. Focus on the job at hand. "Do you know where the katana is?" Great. Totally insensitive. Dad would be proud.
Joe nodded and then frowned. Sam took that as a yes and a why?
"The shadow person, the one that smells like rotting cabbage -" Joe's gaze flicked to the drawing "- is that a drawing of him? He's targeting me – he's almost suffocated me a few times – and I think he's going after my family. You're a hunter?" A nod. "So are we. Me, my Dad and my brother Dean. But we haven't faced the shadow people before, and if this katana can kill them, I really need it. Please."
Once again, Sam found himself being scrutinised by steely eyes. He gazed back at Joe, expression earnest, hoping that the ghost wound find whatever he was looking for, see how honestly Sam needed the means to destroy the shadows.
It seemed he did find what he wanted; he gave Sam a nod before drifting over to the door and beckoning for Sam to follow. Once he was sure Sam was close behind him, he started to lead the teenager deeper into the dingy house. Sam gave a mental sigh of relief when they finally got out of the horrible room; why did it smell so much anyway? His body's already decomposed. Perhaps the reason for that was the fact that the house was abandoned; the still air hadn't been moved for years, and therefore the stench had had no chance to escape its prison.
The hall became steadily darker the further Sam followed Joe along it. The narrow space was filled with the smell of damp and decay, the wood rotting and mouldy. It never seemed to end; they had passed countless closed doors on their slow trek through the house. The floorboards creaked and moaned beneath Sam's feet, no matter how lightly he tried to tread. They sounded like they were close to giving way; Sam fervently hoped that there were no holes in the wood, as he would have no way of telling their location. The place was pitch black.
It had been what Sam estimated was ten minutes before the ghost finally stopped in front of a closed door. He briefly wondered how Joe could tell it apart from all the other identical ones along the twisting hallway. The sceptre turned to face the door; it drifted open, and he disappeared. When Sam pushed the door open as wide as it could go and stepped inside the room, Joe was waiting for him by an open cupboard. It was a small walk in wardrobe, covered in dust and cobwebs, the white paint on the double doors almost entirely chipped away by time. He crept closer and saw that a dusty old safe was set into the back wall of the closet, the metal door firmly locked. When the wardrobe was in use it would have been hidden by the hanging clothes.
As Joe proceeded to turn the dial, the scant light in the room started to dim even more. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickled; he turned around, looked over his shoulder. Nothing. He gritted his teeth when he saw a flicker of shadow in the corner of his left eye, determined not to let himself be distracted. As soon as that safe was open he would dive in and grab the katana. No shadow people were going to stop him. Joe was up to the third number; a shiver went down Sam's spine. More flickers, a mass of shifting shadow in his peripheral vision. The fourth number, and that was not the faint, far off smell of rotting cabbage. Was it?
The fifth number, and there was a feeling of dread creeping up Sam's spine, raising goosebumps all over his body. The smell of rotting cabbage had become a strong stench, but he was near impervious to it at the moment, with the memory of the odour of death etched vividly in his brain. Nevertheless, he pinched his nose shut and breathed heavily through his mouth, watching the dial slowly turn with the eyes of a hawk.
The last number. The dial turned at the speed expected of an exhausted snail; was Joe trying to give Sam a heart attack? And then there was the click of the lock opening, the door popping open by just an inch, and Sam was diving into the wardrobe, gripping the door handle –
And then suddenly he was on his knees (this was getting familiar), and he couldn't breathe, there was no strength in his limbs – but still he reached up with both hands, managed to find the handle again with his left but he couldn't see, his vision was going dark fuck he needed to get the fucking katana but his hand wouldn't goddamn grip – just clench your fingers damn you, is it that hard?! – and everything was going fuzzy and he needed oxygen –
And then he could breathe again – god he loved breathing – and his left hand was gripping the handle of the safe; he flung the door open and grabbed the katana inside. The blade appeared to be two and a half feet long, contained in a sheath of dark leather, and the hilt, which was three quarters of a foot long, was made of ivory bone. There were various symbols – Sam reckoned they were sigils – carved in the hilt and painted on the leather. The katana secured, Sam whirled around, and paused for a split second to take in the sight of Joe wrestling with his drawing come to life. He held in a sneeze as the stench of rotting cabbage continued to assault his nostrils; this shadow person, the hat man, was the one who had almost killed him.
Trying to be as silent as possible so the hat mans attention wouldn't stray from the furious ghost; Sam slowly drew the katana from the sheath, careful not to scrape the blade against the wooden interior of the thing. It seemed an eternity before he was finally gripping the katana in his right hand, point facing downwards. He shoved the sheath through the left side of his belt and brought the katana up over his head, ready to swing it down and cleave the hat man from shoulder to hip. As he crept closer Joe and the hat man continued with their match, oblivious to his presence. When he was as close to the hat man as was humanly possible, he brought the katana down, the blade singing through the air before it ripped through the shadow creature at the right shoulder, cleaving him in two.
As the blade dug into the shadowy shoulder the hat man turned two glowing red eyes on Sam. There was no expression in those demonic eyes, no expression on his featureless face, but Sam winced when he heard a high pitched keening noise coming from the thing, the cry as gut wrenchingly horrible as the death lament of a banshee. And then the katana was slicing down through the torso, emerging once again through the left hip, tendrils of shadow clinging to the silvery blade. For a moment the creature continued to stand there, suspended in thin air; and then the shadows whipped away, spiralling up like coils of smoke before dissolving into the atmosphere, leaving Sam standing in front of an empty space, gawping like a fool.
Shaking himself out of his temporary stupor, Sam brought the katana nearer to his face, looking closer at the now revealed blade. It was made of highly polished steel, the edge still razor sharp even after its time of disuse. It looked just like an ordinary katana, save for the sigils painted in black at the base of the blade, just in front of the hand guard. Silently thanking the beautiful weapon, Sam slid it back into its sheath and turned around to face Joe.
The ghost looked as intense as ever, but Sam was almost sure that there a sparkle of something like pride in his sharp eyes. Joe reminded him of someone; he just couldn't place who. He grinned at the ghost. "Thank you so much, Joe. For your help. I couldn't have done it otherwise."
For the first time since they had met, for the first time in what was probably years, Joe smiled.
Sam walked out of the front door of the abandoned house, squinting in the sunlight. He reckoned it was around four o'clock; they had arrived at Joe's house at ten to three. He held the katana in his right hand, gripping the leather sheath. He hadn't forgotten Albert; if the British man had been brave enough to hang around (which Sam doubted) the young hunter would interrogate him and then decide what to do. He was ready to knock him out with the hard hilt of the katana if he had to, though he hoped it wouldn't come to that.
He sighed in resignation when he saw that the old Volvo had disappeared. The cowardly little man was apparently long gone; probably because the hat man was defeated. Albert was probably in league with the shadow people, swayed by promises of what was most likely power or wealth. It was a shame; otherwise good people could be conscripted to the dark side so easily by such unimportant things.
Shoving the katana through his belt once more, Sam winced, rubbing at his temples as he was hit by a sudden headache. Expecting his head to simply throb uncomfortably, he was unprepared for the scorching pain that shot through his skull like a bullet. Giving a yelp of surprise, he collapsed to his knees as images flickered before his eyes, the quality that of a choppily edited movie filmed with a camera that had a very high resolution.
Fade in to an establishing shot. The Impala sat forlorn at the side of the road, locked and abandoned. The fuel gauge read half full, and both of the front tires were flat.
Dissolve to a mid shot of Dean, walking down a dusty driveway, an old colonial house looming on the horizon. He was muttering under his breath, every second word a curse, the others indistinguishable except for the name Sammy.
Cut to a long shot of Dean walking up to the front door of the dilapidated building, knocking and waiting. After a long while of silence broken only by Dean's continued mutterings, the hunter walked around the house, yelling for help and peering through all the windows. The whole place appeared to be empty, the nearby barn abandoned.
Fade out. A mid shot; it was midday, and Dean was back at the Impala, slumped against the drivers' door, staring unseeingly into the sunlight, a dark scowl etched onto his handsome features. Cut to a point of view shot; there were flickers of shadows gathering at the corners of Dean's eyes, bringing with them a feeling of dread, anticipation. A shiver went down his spine; he pulled his jacket tighter around himself, frowning in consternation.
Cut to a new scene, the camera positioned on the cars dashboard, lens facing the drivers' seat. It was late afternoon, and Dean was driving down a country road, the Impala rumbling beneath him, repaired at last.
Fade out to night time on the same day. A long shot of the Impala parked at the side of the road, empty yet again, all four tyres flat, seemingly slashed.
Cut to a mid shot of Dean, standing in the middle of the field the Impala is parked by. He spins around, eyes darting every which way. He's muttering again; you fucker, messing with my fucking car. Then he yells "Come out and face me, you coward! I saw you running away!" Flashback; Dean is driving the car when a dark figure speeds across the road in front of him. He curses, swerving, and then his eyes widen in horror as the screech of tortured metal instead of the sound of grating rubber reaches his ears.
Cut to an over the shoulder shot. Dean' still in the field, camera following as he whips his head around, searching for the tyre slashing culprit. There are flashes of shadows at the edges of the lens; they are pixelated, out of focus, and continuously darting out of view. The camera is unable to get a clear shot.
That is, until one such shadow being launches itself forward and wraps ethereal hands around Deans exposed neck.
"NO!" It was a panicked yell. Even before Sam was completely released from the grips of the vision he was stumbling down the driveway, blind with panic. If he was right, Dean was going to get attacked. Tonight.
But how on earth can I get there in time?
Note: I hope you can understand film jargon. Or work out what it means, at least.