Supernatural: In Order Of Importance (Mature)

[Mizpah]

For Swellison – winning bidder in the Support Stacie April author auction, and posted here with her kind permission
Based on a throwaway line from a story called Zombie Joyride, by the great K Hanna Korossy, and expanded upon with her prior consent
It was originally meant to be a 2500 word minimum...but it sort of grew....

An evil spirit and a small town’s indifference forces Dean to consider what’s really important
Set in Season 1, after the episode Shadows

Piper’s Point, Connecticut
September 2006

Steven Dunning’s pale grey eyes widened in horror as the ephemeral shape emerged from the body of the fifty-something male lying on the floor of his wine cellar. Struggling desperately against the rough hemp rope securing him to one of his own heavy dining room chairs, he flicked a panicked glance at his daughter, seeing the same horror reflected in the eyes identical to his own. He fought to give a word of comfort to the terrified young woman, but couldn’t force a single sound past the thick gag bound tightly across his mouth.

Meghan Dunning reared back against the carved back of the chair to which she was securely tied, watching the fog-like entity swirl in mid-air for a moment before arrowing straight towards her father. Strangled cries bubbled from under her gag as she tried to wrench herself free, but the ropes only tightened cruelly around her wrists and ankles, cutting off her circulation. She could only watch helplessly, tears trickling down her too-pale cheeks, as the ghostly shape flowed over her father’s chest before merging with the futilely struggling man.

Suddenly, the forty-eight-year-old banker’s muscular body bent like a bow, snapping the thick ropes as if they were mere pieces of twine. The chair tilted, teetering precariously on its back legs as he ripped the gag from his mouth and let out a guttural scream, his tall frame convulsing. A bright globe of light spewed from his lips, quickly rising to the ceiling of the cellar before disappearing with a tiny pop of displaced air.

Steven’s body slowly calmed, sweat beading on his waxen face before rolling down to soak into his wrinkled white business shirt. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times to bring his blurred vision into focus, and pushed himself off the chair to stand swaying for a brief moment. Filling his lungs with the slightly musty air, he finally turned towards a dark shape standing in the deeper shadows. He held out a hand and smiled.

“Come, daughter. Your new body awaits.”

Meghan screamed; the sound muffled by the gag as her former father turned to face her, his now sapphire blue eyes gleaming in triumph.

* * * * *

Hartford, Connecticut
October 2006

“Dude, you gonna eat that?”

Sam Winchester bit back an exasperated sigh. Sliding his virtually untouched plate of cheese fries across the table, he kept his gaze on the laptop screen as his brother dug into the greasy yellow-coated concoction.

“Why’d you order if it you weren’t gonna eat it?” Dean arched an eyebrow at his sibling.

“I didn’t order it.” The younger man flicked a wry glance from under his shaggy bangs. “You did.”

“Huh.” Shoving a handful of fries into his mouth before leaning across the table, the green-eyed hunter peered at the laptop screen. “You go’ ’nyfing?”

Sam reared back, his face scrunched in disgust. “Dude, do you mind?”

“Nowp.”

This time the sigh couldn’t be held back, and was answered with a gleeful smirk.

“Seriously,” Sam continued, shaking his head in wonder. “I don’t know how you can eat so much.”

Dean patted his washboard stomach with one hand while the other scooped another serving of cheese-coated fries from the plate. “I’m a growing boy.”

“Yeah, and if you keep eating crap like that, I know the direction you’re gonna be growing in.”

“Ah, bite me.” Dean mopped up some dressing with one of the fries before popping it into his mouth. “So, you got anything?”

“Nah – it’s all quiet.” The shaggy-haired Winchester sat back on his chair, letting his gaze wander idly around the diner. Spotting a discarded university newspaper on a nearby table, he got to his feet and snagged it, scanning the front page as he sat back down. Even after almost a year on the road with his brother, Stanford was still fresh enough in Sam’s mind that he was eager for campus news – any campus news, just to get a taste of normal.

A comfortable silence fell between the brothers; the elder one concentrating on his purloined meal, and the younger man perusing the paper. Finally Sam let out a soft grunt and folded the pages back with a flick of his wrists.

“Look at this.”

Dean looked at the article indicated by his brother’s tapping forefinger. “ ‘Local banker turns hermit’? You serious?”

“Keep reading,” Sam muttered, snatching a fry from the plate and chewing distractedly while his sibling studied the news report.

“Piper’s Point businessman Steven Dunning’s strange behaviour….quit his job….pulled his daughter out of college…shunned his friends….” Dean suddenly paused, his eyes widening. “Says here that two of his oldest friends have turned up dead in the last month, under mysterious circumstances. But it’s all just speculation – the cops aren’t talkin’, and neither are the townspeople.”

“Yeah.”

“So – what – possession, maybe?”

“Could be.” Sam pressed a knuckle against his lower lip. Demons were still fairly new territory to the Winchester brothers. And still very unknown territory, despite the fact that a few months ago, they had dealt with one causing planes to crash forty minutes after take-off. “You think we should call Dad?”

The hunters exchanged a long look, the same thought uppermost in both their minds. They could call, but so far their father hadn’t responded to any of their requests for help except for one – when they thought the demon who had killed their mother was involved. Dean finally tilted his head in a silent acknowledgement of his sibling’s more obvious frustration.

“Let’s check this out first – see whether it’s anything supernatural.” The elder Winchester glanced at the front page of the small newspaper. “‘The Hartford Informer.’ What’s this – some college rag?”

“Yeah, actually, it is.” Sam pulled the laptop closer and tapped out a rapid sequence on the keyboard. “Piper’s Point’s only about an hour away, on the coast.”

Dean shot a glance at the heavily overcast sky. “Figures. It’s gonna be freezing near the water.”

“Maybe the next job will take us to Florida.” Sam shrugged as he packed up the slim silver computer and slung the strap of the carryall over one shoulder.

“Since when did you become Little Miss Sunshine?” Dropping a few bills on the table to cover the cost of their meal, Dean snatched up the last of the fries before following his little brother to the exit.

* * * * *

Piper’s Point, Connecticut
One hour later

Dean let out a whistle that was one part awe, and three parts frustration. “Well, this is gonna be easy,” he muttered, bringing the gleaming black Impala to a halt on the crest of the hill overlooking the little hamlet of Piper’s Point. Resting his hands on the steering wheel, he stared at the multi-storey homes nestled on huge sprawling grounds and surrounded by high fences and security gates. “Jeez, it’s like some kinda Millionaire’s Row. Can you smell the money?”

Taking a breath of the cold sea air, Sam nodded in agreement. “Standard disguises aren’t gonna work here, Dean. We gotta come up with something different.” He rested an elbow on the window frame and chewed absently on his thumbnail. “And they’re gonna notice strangers a lot more easily here.”

“Yeah.” Dean pursed his lips, studying the layout of the town from their lofty vantage point.

The road ran past the front of the Chevy to curl down the slope, disappearing from sight around a bend about two hundred yards away. It reappeared at the entrance to the town and became the main street, flanked for a few blocks by a handful of modest businesses before sweeping towards the coast and the larger houses with their private beaches and double storey boathouses. The road finally dead-ended at a cliff, with a huge mansion on one side and a small, grassy park on the other. From the hunters’ position, they could make out a few cars on the streets and a scattered handful of pedestrians.

It might as well have big-ass gates right across the freakin’ road and a fifty-foot sign sayin’ ‘Keep Out’, the elder Winchester thought ruefully. How the hell are we gonna get in there?

“Reporters,” Sam interjected from the passenger seat, almost as if he’d read his brother’s mind. “College students.”

“Huh? You givin’ me a choice, here?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No, college reporters – journalism majors working for the college newspaper. Checking up on the facts from that article.”

“Yeah, that could work.” Dean glanced down at his comfortable tee shirt, button-up and jeans. “At least we won’t have to dress up in those monkey suits you like so much.” Rummaging around in the glove compartment, he withdrew a couple of ID’s and scrutinised them for a few seconds. “You still got your Stanford ID?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Good – we need to find a copy store and do some modifications.” The green-eyed Winchester dropped the ID’s into his brother’s lap before starting the Chevy down the long, curving slope towards the town.

* * * * *

Dean shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, letting out a sigh of frustration as he watched his brother weave his way through the scattering of pedestrians. Tilting his body back to lean against the outside wall of a pawnshop, he studied Sam’s face, noting the down-turned corners of the younger man’s expressive mouth and the defeated sag to his shoulders.

“Hey.” Sam came to a halt at Dean’s side, turned and leaned against the wall, his arm brushing his brother’s. “So, I got nothin’.”

“Me, neither. No one’s talkin’. So much for freedom of the press, and all that crap.”

“They won’t talk to you,” a gravelly voice intoned wryly from behind the brothers.

Spinning around, Dean moved to cover his sibling, sensing Sam move into his usual flanking position behind his right shoulder. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the owner of the voice, quickly assessing the threat potential of the newcomer.

The man was short, barely reaching Dean’s shoulder. His once-powerful build was withering with age; muscles sagging and flabby beneath his neatly pressed white shirt and black vest. Sparse iron-grey hair topped a noble forehead, shadowing bright black eyes that gleamed with intelligence and a wry humour. Gnarled hands were wrapped over the knob of a hand-carved walking stick, the knuckles and fingers swollen and twisted with arthritis.

“Come again?” Dean queried, a note of warning in his tone.

“I said, they won’t talk to you,” the old man replied, stepping from the pawnshop doorway onto the sidewalk. “There’s only one language these folks understand, and that’s a language you two kids obviously don’t speak.”

“And what’s that, sir?” Sam asked politely, giving his brother a cautionary glance.

“Money. That’s all these people understand. Money talks, especially in Piper’s Point.” The old man grinned, revealing badly fitting false teeth. “If you got the dough, you’re in the know.”

Chuckling wheezily at his own witticism, the stranger raised the cane and poked the tip at Dean’s belly.

The shorter hunter easily dodged out of the way, a scowl forming on his face. “Funny,” he growled, shoving Sam back a pace.

“What’re you two doing here, anyway?”

Sam manoeuvred around his over-protective big brother, ignoring Dean’s muttered warning and the elbow that tried to push him back. “We’re journalism majors from Hartford University – just doing a follow-up on a story.”

“Huh.” The elderly pawnshop owner’s shrewd gaze raked over the two tall hunters. Finally he nodded, and resettled the cane on the ground, leaning forward slightly to rest his weight on it. “Well, boys, guess your research is a bust – there’s nothin’ newsworthy around here, unless you’re doing the financial report.”

“Oh, yeah? Rumour has it your nice little town’s had two mysterious deaths in the last month,” Dean put in, stepping in front of his little brother once more. “I don’t know about you, but I’d call that pretty newsworthy.”

The local man froze for a brief moment, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Let’s see some ID,” he finally barked, taking a step closer to the Winchesters.

Sam dutifully held out the recently updated student card, hoping that his big brother’s forgery skills were up to their usual high standard. Finally the old man let out a soft grunt, and Sam let out an inaudible sigh of relief. “So, can you tell us what the theory is about the deaths?”

“People die.” Abruptly, the shop owner turned and shuffled back inside his store, leaving the brothers alone on the sidewalk.

Dean pursed his lips, his mind racing. Turning his head, he encountered his brother’s puzzled gaze, and shrugged one shoulder. “That was weird.”

“There’s somethin’ going on here, Dean.”

“Yeah.” The elder hunter glanced around before herding his sibling towards the Impala parked two blocks away. “Let’s go find a motel and dump our gear. Then you hit the library, and I’ll scope out the local bar – there’s gotta be someone in this freakin’ town who’ll give us a lead.”

Sam nodded, falling into step behind his big brother. Suddenly a cold hand ghosted down his back and he spun around, his eyes narrowing as he searched the surrounding streets.

Dean felt his brother’s absence at his shoulder and stopped to glance back. “What?”

The younger Winchester shivered, feeling the skin between his shoulder blades prickle in uneasiness. “I don’t know – it kinda….”

“Kinda what?”

Sam slowly shook his head. “For a minute, it felt like someone was watching us.”

Dean scanned the area, but failed to turn up anything suspicious. “You still feel somethin’?”

“No. No, it’s gone.”

With one last look around, Dean motioned Sam to his side with a nod of his head, and resumed his interrupted walk to the Chevy, his hunter’s senses on full alert. Just in case.

* * * * *

In the house high on the cliff, the young woman sighed tiredly as she released her shaky hold on the telescope. Letting the device swing away from the window, she blinked the sweat from her eyes and sank back against the well-padded chair, pulling at the rug over her knees.

Heavy footfalls made her glance up, a small smile lighting her pale, waxen face. “Father.”

“My daughter. How goes the search?”

The entity inside the body of Meghan Dunning let the smile broaden. “The search is at an end, Father. I have found my new vessel.”

His sapphire-blue eyes dark with regret, the former Steven Dunning reached out to caress his daughter’s cheek. “If only I’d known that your vessel had a fatal illness…”

“Don’t, Father. It’s all right. We still have a little time before this body wears out.”

The man gave a regretful sigh before straightening to his full height. “And you say you have found a new body?”

“Yes, Father. A fine one, too. But…” Meghan bit her lip, her pale blue eyes widening in a silent plea as she glanced up at her parent. “A male body this time, Father.”

“Male?”

“Tall and strong – young. Beautiful. And a stranger to this community. He won’t be missed.” The girl sighed softly, thinking of the young man she had studied through the telescope lens. “I will have a long life in that body. And for that, I will be happy to be a son instead of a daughter for this season. With your blessing of course, Father.”

Dunning smiled fondly. “Let me see this new body of yours.” Bending swiftly, he trained the telescope on the town and scanned the smattering of people on the streets. “The one in the leather jacket?”

“No, the other one. The taller one.”

“It shall be as you ask, my daughter. By midnight, you will be my son.”

* * * * *

Piper’s Point Municipal Library
Later that evening

Sam pulled his grey jacket tighter around his shoulders as he stepped out of the warm, brightly lit library into the chilly, damp night. Thick fog had rolled in while he’d been inside, curling and twisting through the streets as if it was alive, muting the steady pounding of waves against the nearby shoreline.

The youngest Winchester took a deep breath of the heavy, salt-laden air as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Wishing he had donned his thick brown hooded jacket and a pair of gloves, Sam fought down a shiver and began the short walk to the motel.

He failed to detect the dark, powerful figure that silently emerged from the deeper shadows by the side of the building. The fog seemed to thicken around the entity as it swiftly moved to catch up with the shaggy-haired man.

A hand reached from the roiling mist, snagging the tall hunter’s jacket and spinning him around. Sam let out a startled grunt, snapping his right hand into a fist as he brought up his left forearm in a sweeping arc to break his attacker’s hold. His wrist thudded against a corded, unyielding arm and he grunted again, rearing back as a second hand wrapped around his throat.

Lifted off his feet, Sam kicked desperately at the well-built man’s fog-shrouded body, feeling an icy finger of fear stroke down his spine. None of his blows had the slightest effect; the stranger merely smiled smugly as he tightened his hand, cutting off the hunter’s air supply. Sam wheezed hideously, clawing at the man’s wrist as black spots swam in front of his eyes.

Suddenly, the young man’s body went limp, his head lolling against the constricting hand. The entity lowered the younger Winchester until Sam’s feet once again touched the ground, relaxing his grip as he brought his other hand up to grasp Sam’s shoulder.

Immediately he felt the crushing grip around his throat begin to ease, Sam exploded into action, whipping up his right leg in a savage kick aimed at the man’s belly. His sneaker-clad foot thudded against its target with sickening force, but the attacker merely gave an annoyed grunt and launched a left hook that snapped Sam’s head to one side and brought him crashing to his knees. Bright lights exploded across his vision, rapidly fading to black as the hand returned to his already bruised throat. Lifted to his feet before being suddenly released, Sam could only teeter groggily as the man followed up the punishing left with a right cross. Sam was spun halfway around before collapsing limply to the cold, damp sidewalk. His cell phone fell from his jacket pocket and skittered across the pavement.

The man gave a cautious look around, his smug grin returning when he failed to detect any witnesses to the little altercation. He bent swiftly, scooping up the well-built young man with effortless ease. Draping Sam’s unconscious form over one shoulder, the assailant retreated into the fog with his prize.

Unseen by the entity, the cell phone came to rest near the base of the lamppost at the edge of the sidewalk. A few minutes after the burdened stranger had disappeared, the device began to ring, the soft blue glow from its keypad shining like a beacon in the darkness.

* * * * *

“Come on, Sammy, pick up,” Dean muttered irritably, dialling his brother’s number for the second time since leaving the bar. He leaned against the side of the Impala, squinting into the thick roiling fog as he listened to the phone ring eight times before diverting to voicemail. With an exasperated sigh, he ended the call without leaving a message and slid behind the wheel of the Chevy. “Probably too busy getting his geek on.”

A few minutes later, he pulled up outside the library and strode inside. Giving the thirty-something librarian his patented lady-killer grin as he passed, he made short work of searching the confines of the single storey granite building, but failed to find his sibling. He returned to the Impala, flipping his cell phone open to try one last time before heading to the motel.

This time he was rewarded, although not in the way he wanted. Hearing a shrill ringing nearby, Dean turned, his cell in his hand, to scan the fog-shrouded night. His keen eyesight quickly picked out the faint, pulsing blue glow on the ground a few yards away and he strode swiftly to the lamppost to scoop up his brother’s lost phone.

“Son of a bitch!”

They’d obviously aroused some suspicions with their lines of inquiry. Maybe their cover had been blown, or their snooping around had rung some alarm bells, given the fact that they were investigating a possible possession and murder. They’d pushed in the wrong direction, and now it seemed, given his brother’s sudden disappearance, that someone had started pushing back.

Which meant someone – or something – had taken Sam.

Dean felt the fury build in his gut. Hurrying back into the library, he pulled out his wallet and extracted the photo of his brother he’d kept tucked inside after Sam had left for Stanford. The hunter reached the front desk and leaned over it, thrusting the photograph under the librarian’s nose.

“This kid was in here tonight. What time did he leave?”

The woman reared back in shock, her gaze flicking from the snapshot to Dean’s coldly determined face. “I – don’t rememb–”

“Don’t you give me that!” Dean loomed closer, his eyes glittering in anger as he raised one hand level with his chin. “I’ve had it up to here with this shithole town and its dirty little secrets! That’s my little brother, and he’s in trouble, and I’m not leaving until I get some answers. And if I don’t, I swear to God I’ll start tearing down your stuck-up little town and everyone in it until I find him.” He bared his teeth in a snarl as he stared into the woman’s frightened eyes. “Starting with you.”

* * * * *

Consciousness returned, and Sam let out an involuntary groan, blinking rapidly as he raised his aching head. He found himself in a poorly lit basement, tied hand and foot to a heavy wooden chair, and his heart sank. Obviously someone hadn’t liked the Winchesters nosing around. Tugging experimentally at his bonds, he felt the ropes tighten and instantly relaxed, flexing his fingers and toes to stave off the tingling sensation that came with restricted circulation.

Movement from the shadowed stairs leading to the ground floor drew his attention and he stiffened, recognising the vague shape as his mysterious assailant. The man slowly descended, revealing himself to be human – on the surface, anyway. The young hunter raised his chin and stared defiantly at his captor. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

The former Steven Dunning smiled grimly. “My name doesn’t matter – it no longer has any meaning for me. As for what I want…” Turning back towards the stairs, he held out his hand.

Sam’s eyes widened as a young woman around his age made her way down to the basement floor, moving in the slow, hesitant way of someone extremely ill or weak. She smiled at Sam before taking the man’s hand, allowing him to lead her to the bound hunter.

“What I want,” the stranger continued, smiling fondly down at the dark head nestled against his shoulder. “Is your body, a new home for my child’s essence.”

The tousle-headed Winchester strained desperately against his bonds as the girl stepped to one side and closed her eyes.

“Come, daughter, your new vessel awaits.”

Meghan Dunning’s lifeless body fell to the basement floor and a fog-like mass emerged, swirling for a brief moment as if stirred by a light breeze. It coalesced into a glowing orb before shooting across the intervening space towards the horrified hunter. Impacting against his upper chest, it quickly melted into his body, causing his back to arch like a bow and snapping the ropes that held him to the chair.

Icy tendrils wrapped around his heart and pushed up into his brain, and Sam let out a guttural scream before everything went black.

* * * * *

Piper’s Point
One hour after dawn the next day

Dean rubbed a hand across his gritty eyes, forcing down his growing fear and frustration as he headed back to town. He’d been searching for Sam the entire night, to no avail. No one had seen or heard anything – same old story. A search of the Dunning home had revealed nothing apart from a suspicious looking pile of ash on the basement floor and a small spike on the EMF meter.

The young hunter had burned enough bodies to recognise the remains as human. And there had been enough ash for two bodies.

He’d also found fibres scattered across the floor – shredded remnants of what looked like heavy rope. And he’d begun to put together a pattern. But he needed more intel before he could confirm his theory.

First, and more importantly, he needed to find his brother.

Blowing out a heavy sigh, Dean pulled up on the main street and scanned the businesses. Only two were open at this early hour – the coffee shop and the newsstand. Neither was doing much in the way of brisk trade. The green-eyed Winchester ditched his student ID in favour of a US Marshall’s badge and exited the car, pulling his leather jacket tight against the early morning chill as he headed towards the newsstand.

Five minutes later he was back at the Chevy, his frustration growing into outright rage. Yet again he’d hit a brick wall; the proprietors of both establishments giving him blank stares and negative headshakes in response to his questions regarding Steven Dunning, his daughter, the two mysterious deaths, and Sam. He’d almost dragged the newsvendor from behind the counter when the man had suggested that maybe Dean had gotten the wrong town and should try farther down the coast for his juicy little scandal.

The steady thump of a cane against the pavement dragged the young hunter from his dark thoughts. He spun around, coming face to face with the elderly owner of the pawnshop. The old man’s wary gaze flicked from Dean to the empty car and back as he came to a halt a few feet away.

“You still here?”

“I’m not leaving.” Dean drew himself up to his full height, towering over the much shorter man. “One of your buddies has got my brother, and I’m not goin’ anywhere until I get him back.”

“Your brother?” Frowning, the businessman drew back a step. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Someone knows. But I’m betting that all of you know somethin’ – you’re just too yellow to speak up.”

The old man’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Watch your mouth, boy.” He resumed his interrupted walk towards his store, his stiffened, slightly bent frame radiating anger.

Dean moved swiftly to cut off the local’s escape. Slamming a hand against the lock, Dean stood firm as the old man tried to push past him. “Just tell me what you know, and where my brother might be, and I’ll go.”

“I told you, there’s only one language anyone around here understands,” the pawnshop owner ground out, tightening his grip on his cane.

“You sons of bitches!” Dean paced away from the door, running a hand through his short brown hair in agitation. Swallowing rapidly, he pulled out his wallet and extracted the handful of notes nestled inside, thrusting them towards the gnarled figure. “Here – that’s everything I got.”

The businessman glanced witheringly at the small pile of greenbacks. “Not enough.” He threw a speculative look over his shoulder at the gleaming black classic parked at the kerb before turning to face the young hunter. “That car of yours, though – she’s a real beauty.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. He stared at the Impala for a long moment in brittle silence, unable to speak. The sheer audacity of the guy floored him. Not that he had all that great an opinion of his fellow man, but the people in this community had made that opinion sink to an all-time low that would be hard to beat.

But the bottom line was that Sam was missing, probably in deep crap, and he had no other option. He swallowed convulsively, taking one last look at his baby and weighing up everything she meant to him – the connection to his parents, his travelling family home, storage place for his childhood memories, his ticket to freedom, his refuge from a world full of pain and darkness and death. Losing her would be like losing a limb.

But it couldn’t compare to losing Sam.

Reluctantly, Dean faced the patiently waiting pawnshop owner and cleared his throat. “How much?”

* * * * *

Darkness clutched at Sam with icy fingers. Wrenching himself away, he stumbled, falling heavily to the cold, muddy ground, a winded grunt torn from his lips. The young hunter pushed himself to his feet and resumed his shambling run, trying to find a way out of the maze he found himself trapped in.

The ground gave slightly underfoot, his sneakers squelching in the cloying mud that threatened to trap his feet and drag him under. He had to keep moving, had to find a way out.

Vines dripping with moisture and stinging sap lashed him as he passed, writhing like snakes. Sam flinched, covering his face with one arm to protect his eyes. Keeping his focus on the ground ahead, he strained to see in the dank, foggy twilight. Shapes appeared from the mist, twisting around the shaggy-haired Winchester to pull at his clothes or shove him off-balance. Giving vent to a wild yell, Sam swung his arms, trying to knock them away, but his blows had no effect on the ghostly images.

A low growl from behind drove the hunter faster, his heart pounding in his chest in sudden fear. Something was coming – something big and bad, and it was coming for him. Forcing his exhausted body to the limits of its endurance, Sam tried to stay ahead of the thing, frantically searching for a weapon or a place of safety.

He ran on, his breath rasping in his burning lungs, hearing the muted thuds of pursuing feet underscored by the rapid thudding drumbeat of his own heart.

* * * * *

Steven Dunning looked down at the young man splayed out on the cold basement floor. The hazel-eyed hunter twitched uncontrollably, sweat running freely from his pores to soak into his clothes and hair. Shaking his head, the ancient entity marvelled at the boy’s inner strength. But he had no doubt that his child would win out over the young human. They had played this game many times over the centuries, and it always ended the same – the soul was ejected from the body, allowing the new inhabitant to take over and live out the host’s normal life span.

He merely had to be patient, and await his daughter’s – no, his son’s – victorious emergence.

* * * * *

“Kid.”

The sudden voice had both men spinning around. Dean looked in confusion at the tall, lean newsstand vendor as the man came to a halt a few feet away and folded his arms defensively.

“I know where your brother is.”

“Lucius –”

“Shut up, Ezra.” The newcomer refused to meet Dean’s eyes. “Take the cliff road –”

“Lucius, you know what –”

“I know, all right? I know, and it’s just not worth it any more, Ezra!” Taking a deep, shuddering breath, the newsstand owner continued. “Right at the end there’s a three storey stone house hidden by trees. You’ll find your brother there – if there’s anything left of him to find.”

Dean felt a shiver run down his spine. “What do you mean, if there’s anything left?”

Lucius Potter grimaced. “It may be too late. Your brother may not be your brother any more.”

The hunter sprinted for the Impala, his heart pounding.

* * * * *

Sam stared in dismay at the sheer cliff face. The muddy, overgrown path had led to a dead-end, and there was no way out. He heard a low huff, followed by a faint burst of mocking laughter, and spun on his heels to face the beast that had been pursuing him relentlessly through the fog. With his back against the damp stone cliff, he peered into the darkness, trying to penetrate the charcoal grey mist that swirled and eddied across the path.

Finally a shape emerged slowly from the fog, and Sam stiffened, clenching his hands into fists. The seven foot tall bear-like creature loomed over the shorter hunter, venom dripping from razor-sharp fangs as it roared its triumph. Raising its fur-covered arms, it brought them crashing down, only to howl in pain when the huge fists connected with the unyielding stone instead of soft human flesh.

Sam rolled between the creature’s legs and lunged to his feet in a sprinter’s start, fear sending a burst of adrenaline pumping through his system. The monster’s enraged roar almost shattered his eardrums and he flinched, veering off the path to crash through a stand of young pine trees. The ground shook as the creature pounded after him in hot pursuit.

* * * * *

Dean shut off the engine and let the Impala coast along the narrow, overgrown drive, wincing at the sinister whisper of long grass scraping under the chassis. Finally the Chevy came to a halt about fifty yards from the house and he carefully opened the door, slipping out into the cold morning mist without a sound. He approached the huge stone mansion, salt gun clutched tightly in one hand as he studied the sweeping front entrance.

A pain-filled scream shattered the almost oppressive silence and Dean froze for a second, his blood turning to ice in his veins. The voice was his brother’s. Galvanised into action, he sprinted up the wide stone steps and slammed into the huge oak front door, only to rebound from the thick wooden barrier.

“Son of a bitch!” Fishing in his pocket for his lock pick set, Dean bent swiftly and shoved the two narrow metal rods into the keyhole. He felt resistance at first, then a faint click sounded as the tumblers finally slid back. Wasting no more time, he wrenched the door open and threw himself inside, the salt gun coming up to cover the massive foyer. Sam screamed again, and Dean took off running towards the source of the sound – the huge stone-flagged kitchen at the rear of the house.

Skidding to a halt just inside, he quickly scanned the room. He found the entrance to the basement in the far corner and slipped through the partly open door, descending the worn wooden steps on silent feet.

“Fight him, daughter. End this, before you damage your new body.”

Dean’s upper lip lifted in a snarl as he heard the unfamiliar voice. He got to the bottom and took in the scene in a sweeping glance - the white-shirted stranger standing over his brother’s writhing body, the pale corpse-like form of a young woman lying a few feet away. Bringing the salt gun to bear, he lined the twin muzzles on the centre of the broad back and curled his finger around the trigger. “Hey!”

Steven Dunning spun around, his jaw dropping in shock. Before he could do more than lift his hands in protest, the shotgun boomed and he felt a hammer blow to his chest. The salt round tore the flesh to shreds and sliced through the ancient entity housed within the human body. With a gut-wrenching scream, the former banker dropped to the floor as the spirit was ripped from its host, and lay unmoving beside Sam’s weakly flailing form.

Dean re-cocked the firearm, his heart pounding in his chest. “Sam!”

Sam’s eyes flew open. Rolling shakily onto his side, he blinked at the elder man lying next to him, his face crumpling in grief. “Fa-ther! No!”

The shorter Winchester sucked in a shocked gasp. “Where’s my brother?”

Pushing himself to his knees, Sam swayed groggily for a moment, his eyes a dizzying swirl of hazel and pale blue. “In – here,” he gasped, raising a trembling hand to tap his temple as he clambered to his feet. “Let – us – go. His – body – mine – now. Too – late.”

“Let him go, bitch.” Dean levelled the shotgun at the entity.

“Won’t – shoot – hurt – him,” the spirit replied choppily, a hint of triumph in the breathless voice.

“It’ll hurt you more than it will him.” The green-eyed hunter gritted his teeth. “Sorry, Sammy.”

The entity screamed as the salt round slammed into Sam’s chest, forcibly ejecting the spirit from his body. Flung from his feet by the impact, the younger Winchester sprawled onto the floor like a broken doll. Sam’s chest hitched, and then stilled, his head lolling to one side.

“No, no, no! Sam!” Tossing the empty weapon onto the floor, Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother, his fingers frantically pressing against Sam’s sweat-slicked neck. “Don’t you do this, you hear me? Don’t you do this!”

* * * * *

A clawed hand grasped his ankle, hoisting him clear of the ground. Struggling futilely, Sam saw the horizon swim dizzily before his eyes as he was swung against the trunk of a nearby tree. A rib cracked on impact, and a scream was torn from his lips. Sobbing for breath, he tugged desperately at the beast’s fur-covered fingers. He managed to wrap both hands around one thick, sharp claw and wrench it back, eliciting a howl of protest from the creature. Suddenly he was in free-fall, the ground seeming to rush up to meet him. He landed heavily on the sodden ground, what little breath he had driven from his lungs as another rib fractured.

A fiery brand ripped through his shoulder, forcing another scream from his throat. Sam rolled, feeling the hot rush of blood flowing down his arm. Pushing himself to his feet, he tottered unsteadily between two massive oak trees, attempting to hide behind their sturdy trunks. He could feel the beast’s hot breath stirring his hair as it tried to force its head through the too-small gap.

With a roar, the thing slammed a meaty fist against one of the trunks, ripping the tree out of the ground and exposing the injured hunter. Sam hastily backed away, one arm across his ribcage, the other reaching to snap off a nearby branch to use as a weapon. He swung it like a club, smashing the monster’s fingers against the ground. The beast howled again and Sam backed away, brandishing his makeshift weapon as he gasped for breath.

Suddenly the entity stiffened, its saliva-coated lips moving silently. Feral, glowing red eyes narrowed, then opened wide in shock, and the creature let out a human-sounding shriek as it exploded into a million tiny white sparks. A handful shot towards the stunned young hunter, slamming with brutal force into his chest and flinging him off his feet.

Sam’s breath stuttered in his lungs as the searing pain radiated through his whole body. He hit the ground flat on his back, his mouth open in a soundless scream, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision.

“Dean,” he thought desperately, before the darkness swarmed over him, smothering him where he lay.

* * * * *

“Come on, come on!” His gentle touch belying the panic clawing at his chest, Dean tilted Sam’s head back, pinched his nostrils closed and grasped his chin, taking a deep breath before clamping his mouth over the younger man’s cold blue lips. Dean blew two breaths into his brother’s still chest, muttering a silent prayer as he watched the blood-spotted shirt for any signs of voluntary movement. “Don’t do this, kiddo, don’t you let go.”

At the ninth compression, Dean heard a stealthy tread on the steps and snapped his head around to encounter the worried face of the newsstand vendor. Automatically counting the beats, Dean puffed another two breaths into Sam’s lungs before darting another glance at the unexpected visitor. “What – do you – want?”

“I – I can help.”

“Not – touching – him,” Dean rasped, dropping his gaze to his sibling’s pale, lax face. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”

Lucius waited for Dean to straighten up again. “What else can I do, then?”

“Three, four – load shotgun – six, seven – salt rounds – jacket pocket – eleven, twelve…”

The lanky vendor scooped the shotgun from the floor and broke open the breech with the familiar ease of someone used to handling weapons. He bent down, slipped a hand into Dean’s pocket and grabbed two salt rounds before reloading the gun. “Okay, what now?”

“Stand guard,” Dean growled. “Five, six, seven…” Catching a hint of movement in his peripheral vision, he glanced to the left, seeing the amorphous shape of the spirit coalescing out of the gloom. “Ten o’clock! Shoot it!”

Lucius swivelled in the direction the hunter indicated, firing from the hip without hesitation. He blinked in shock as the spirit let out a high-pitched shriek and vanished, leaving the cloud of salt powder to drift gently to the floor. “How the hell…”

“Salt deters spirits – fourteen, fifteen.” Dean breathed into his brother’s body. Turning his head to watch Sam’s chest rise and fall, he was rewarded when a ragged cough wracked the younger man’s frame. “Thank God!” He quickly sat up and gathered his sibling into his arms, cupping Sam’s lolling head and bringing it to rest against the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I gotcha, I gotcha. It’s okay. Just breathe, Sammy. I gotcha.”

Sam’s eyelids fluttered weakly before slitting open, revealing twin slivers of glassy hazel. Dull recognition gleamed for a second before the pale lids drifted closed again.

Dean kept one hand pressed to his brother’s sweaty cheek. “I gotcha. You’re gonna be okay.” He darted a look around the basement before locking gazes with his timely benefactor. “Who the hell are they?”

“Jonathan Hart, and his daughter Agnes. This was their house.” Lucius swept a hand towards the stairs. “They founded the town.”

The green-eyed hunter grunted softly. “They buried here?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Come with me.” Getting to his feet, Dean carefully draped Sam’s lax frame across his shoulders, taking care not to put too much pressure on his brother’s blood-speckled chest. “Hope you’re as good with a shovel as you are with a shotgun.”

Lucius followed the burdened hunter up the stairs and through the house to the waiting Impala, his confusion growing.

“Where are the graves?” Dean barked tersely, gesturing for the newsstand owner to open the front passenger door. He eased Sam down onto the seat, folding the younger man’s limbs inside and wadding up a spare jacket to use as a pillow.

“Around back – the drive goes around to an old coach-house – the family plot’s not far from there.”

“Get in.” Sliding behind the wheel, Dean lifted Sam’s head and rested it against his leg as he steered the Chevy along the weed-choked driveway. He pulled up before the sagging, dilapidated couch-house, got out and popped the trunk, pulling out two shovels, a can of gasoline and a bag of salt. Closing the trunk, Dean propped the shovels against the rear fender while he poured a thick ring of salt around the Impala. With the protective circle completed, he leaned into the front seat, resting his fingers briefly against Sam’s neck to check his pulse.

Satisfied that his brother was in no immediate danger, Dean scooped the shovels off the ground and handed one to the puzzled local man as Lucius slid from the rear seat. Hefting the salt and the gasoline in one hand, he rested his shovel on his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Lucius picked his way through the waist-high grass, heading east, shielding his eyes from the glare of the early morning sun. About a hundred yards from the end of the drive, he came to a half-rotted picket fence surrounding a handful of cracked headstones. “This is it.”

Throwing a quick glance back at the Chevy, Dean drew in a deep breath before smashing his way through the remains of the fence. He put down his equipment, drew his bowie knife from the sheath at his belt and slashed at the grass to reveal the names carved into the weathered stones, quickly locating those of Jonathan Hart and his daughter. Luck was with him for a change – the two had been buried in the same grave. “Start digging.”

“What? Why?” Lucius frowned as the young hunter drove the shovel blade viciously into the soft ground.

“You want to get rid of the spirits? Start digging. And put your back into it.” Dean fell to his task with renewed vigour, determined to get the job done quickly and get back to Sammy.

* * * * *

Sam awoke to a series of confusing, but strangely familiar, sensations – the scratchy/soft feel of denim under his cheek, the rumbling, rocking motion of the Impala, a soft warmth wrapped around his chilled body, a concentrated hot spot near the base of his throat. And a voice, deep and soothing, coming from somewhere just above his head. He strained to hear the words being repeated over and over in an endless loop.

“….gotcha, I gotcha Sammy, gonna be okay, you’re safe, I gotcha…”

Sam drifted, lulled by the familiar litany. The hot spot on his upper chest began to move in a slow circle and he focussed on the sensation, trying to work out what it was and why it felt so comforting.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

The shaggy-haired hunter’s brow wrinkled in a slight frown. Slowly, he peeled his heavy eyelids open. A sinewy hand came into view, gripped tightly around the leather steering wheel cover. The soft sunlight spilling through the windshield illuminated a series of tiny abrasions on the knuckles.

“I’m so sorry.”

Sam saw the hand flex, caressing the wheel briefly before tightening once more.

“But you gotta understand – as much as I love you – if the choice came down to hocking you, or losing him…”

Hocking who? Sam blinked slowly, confusion making his head spin. The pressure on his chest increased slightly, and he realised it was a splayed hand, mate to the one gripping the steering wheel.

“I can’t – I can’t lose him, baby. I’m sorry – but – Sammy comes first. He always comes first. I can’t….”

He was gonna hock the Impala? For me? A tiny grunt of surprise left Sam’s pale lips. The hand immediately increased its soothing motion, rubbing across the top of his sternum in gentle, even strokes. He felt his eyelids drift closed as the movement of his brother’s palm lulled him back into oblivion.

“It’s okay, Sammy, I gotcha, I gotcha. You’re safe now, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

* * * * *

Budget Inn
Burlington, New Jersey
Late afternoon

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled Sam’s nostrils and he breathed in the comforting scent, wincing as his chest twinged in pain. A thousand tiny needles dug into his tender flesh and he let out an involuntary gasp, wondering what the hell had happened to him.

A warm, calloused hand cupped his cheek before pushing his hair away from his eyes in a familiar gesture.

“Hey, hey, hey! Take it easy, okay? Just breathe shallowly for a while, dude.”

Sam peeled his eyelids open and stared groggily up at his sibling as Dean settled onto the edge of the bed. “Wha – Dee – mmm….”

The elder hunter’s lips twitched into a faint, embarrassed grin. “Rock salt. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a couple of days, but you’re gonna be okay. We’ll take some time off – hole up here until you’re feeling better.”

“Uh.” Sam frowned, trying to process his brother’s statement. “Um…”

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. “Me.”

“Oh.” The younger Winchester blinked owlishly at his brother.

“No, it wasn’t payback. A spirit possessed you – it was the only way to get the bitch to let go. She was tryin’ to drive your soul out of your body so she could take it over.” Dean shrugged, getting to his feet and strolling across the room to fetch a glass of water. “Although why she picked you – sometimes there’s just no figuring out dead chicks.”

Sam grimaced. “Huh.” That explained why he felt he’d gone twenty rounds with Mike Tyson, followed by a sprint from Kansas to California to throw himself face down on a bed of nails.

Dean slipped a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, gently easing his head off the pillow. “Small sips, and don’t you hurl on me or I’ll make you clean it up,” he growled as he held the brimming glass to his brother’s lips.

The hazel-eyed man sipped gratefully at the cool liquid, giving a heartfelt sigh as it slid down his parched throat. As he drank, he detected a second aroma and scrunched his brow in confusion. It smelled like…

“Chicken broth. If you’re a good boy, you can have some.” Dean chuckled at his sibling’s eye-roll. Taking the almost empty glass back to the counter top, he put it in the sink, filled a mug from the pot on the small hotplate and brought it back, setting it on the nightstand. “You want to try sitting up a little?”

“Yeah.” Sam grasped his brother’s forearm, gasping in pain as he tried to lever himself further up the bed.

“Don’t do that,” Dean admonished. “Jeez. Hold on to me.” Stretching his arm across Sam’s chest, he slid the other hand behind his brother’s back and gently tilted Sam towards him. “Hold tight.” He adjusted the pillows behind his sibling’s shoulders. “Okay, let go.”

Sam sank back against the soft cushions with a sigh. “Tired,” he muttered hoarsely.

“I bet you are.” The elder Winchester slid the warm mug of soup between his brother’s trembling fingers and guided it to his mouth, wrapping his own hands around Sam’s to help the younger man hold it steady. “You went a few rounds with that freakin’ spirit before I got it out of you – held your own against it, too. All the other victims died. You did good, kiddo.”

“What happened?” Flicking a glance at his brother’s skinned knuckles between sips of the hot, thick soup, Sam frowned in concern. “Your hands…”

“Ahh, it’s nothin’. Me and daddy spirit went a few rounds, too – just not in the same body.” Dean shrugged at his sibling’s puzzled frown, knowing that Sam wouldn’t rest until he knew the full story. “Jonathan Hart and his lovely daughter Agnes. They founded the town of Piper’s Point back in the eighteen hundreds. Brought a group of their rich buddies with them to settle the area. Daddy dearest got into some pretty dark stuff – black magic and shit like that. When his daughter got thrown off her horse and broke her neck in the fall, he went postal – refused to bury her, fired all the servants, wouldn’t answer the door. Finally he held the funeral about two weeks later, but he’d changed. Turns out that he’d consulted a witch, and that she’d put him onto some pretty heavy spell work to get his daughter’s spirit back. Only thing was, she needed another body, so they got into the whole body-snatching business so they could stay together for eternity. They’d take some poor son of a bitch and his child, always around the same age as Agnes and Jonathan at the time of her death, push the souls out and live in the vacated vessels for the rest of the hosts’ natural lives. Once one host body started to wear out, they’d go shopping for a new set.”

“Steven – and Meghan?”

“They were the latest victims – or were supposed to be. The Harts didn’t pick their marks very well this time – Meghan Dunning had acute myeloid leukaemia – her doctors were trying to find match for a bone marrow transplant. She would have been dead in a year without it. The spirit possession sped up the progression of the disease – burned out the body before her time.”

Sam shivered. “God…”

“Yeah.” Dean freed one hand to tug the blankets higher around his brother’s shoulders. “So, Agnes had to find another body – and she picked you. Must have been those sappy eyes of yours. Or the hair.”

“Bite me.”

“Anyway, Daddy Jonathan – in Steven Dunning’s body – must have got the drop on you when you left the library. I found your cell phone on the sidewalk. He took you to the Hart mansion and handed you over for his kid to wear like a freakin’ party dress. They’ve been doin’ this stuff for years – and the people in the town knew about it. That’s why they kept their mouths shut. The two buddies of Dunning’s who were murdered were gonna bring in the FBI – spill the beans on their cushy little body-stealing business. If they could get anyone to believe their crazy story, that is.”

“But – if they all knew, then Steven…” Sam let his head sag back against the pillows as Dean took the empty cup from his hands.

“Steven Dunning was an outsider. The Harts always took outsiders – new people to the area. Never the descendents of the original settlers. Dunning and his daughter only moved to Piper’s Point about four months ago – relocated from Hartford. Meghan loved Long Island Sound, so Steven decided to make her last year as pleasant as possible, just in case the doctors couldn’t find a suitable donor. He found the house on the market, bought it, and they moved in a week later.” Dean shook his head sadly. “Poor bastard.”

“But – why? What did they get out of it?”

Dean snorted in disgust. “Money. Prosperity. Old Jonathan was a hell of a businessman in his day. He put his skills to good use, bringing in the descendants on lucrative investments paying a high dividend – buying their silence. So they buttoned their lips and raked in the money.”

Sam nodded tiredly. And then a memory surfaced, and he struggled to make eye contact with his sibling. “But – how did…”

The elder hunter shifted uneasily, fiddling with the blankets to cover his embarrassment. “One of the locals decided that this wasn’t what he fought in ‘Nam for, so he spilled his guts. Told me where to find you, then followed me to the house. He even helped me dig up the graves and salt and burn the bones. And the house,” he added wryly.

“The house? Why?”

Dean flexed his fingers, studying the bruised knuckles. “Turns out Jonathan kept a few little mementos – locks of hair, fingernail parings, some of Agnes’ hair ribbons and his watch chain. So even though we torched their bones, they were still tied to the property. Jonathan couldn’t get to you, ‘cos you were in the Impala with a salt ring around her, so he came after me. Well, he tried. So, I kept him occupied outside beating the crap out of his borrowed body, while Lucius spread gasoline through the ground floor and torched the place. When the spirits moved on, we dragged Steven’s body clear, then we booked before the cops came to investigate the fire.”

“The Impala?” Sam queried fuzzily, remembering the one-sided conversation Dean had had during Sam’s brief few moments of consciousness in the car.

“What about her?”

The younger Winchester blinked in confusion. He felt sure he’d heard something about Dean hocking the Impala. A quick glance at his brother’s face revealed nothing – Dean was looking back at him with a bewildered frown. And then the penny dropped. Dean didn’t know that he had heard the muttered confession.

“Sammy?”

Sam’s mind raced. “Uh – the – fire.”

“Dude, she was well away from the house. There was no chance of the fire getting her. You really think I’d risk my baby?”

“Not even for me?” Sam teased, giving his sibling a faint grin.

“Definitely not for your sorry ass.” Dean took the mug back to the sink and returned to the bed, easing the extra pillow out from behind Sam’s head. “What the hell are you thinkin’?” His face lost its sarcastic smirk for a fleeting second as he straightened the blankets over Sam’s bandaged torso. “Now go back to sleep, and don’t bug me for a few hours.”

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the bed depress as Dean sat back down on its edge. Curling slightly towards the solid warmth of his brother’s muscular frame, he let his battered body relax as he drifted off to sleep, Dean’s little secret locked safely away inside his head.

Dean waited until Sam’s breathing evened out into a deep rhythm before resting a hand on the tousled head. He checked for signs of a fever, satisfied to find his brother’s skin warm but not overly so. Running his fingers through the tangled mop of chestnut hair, he quirked a fond grin as he studied Sam’s sleeping face.

The green-eyed hunter stood up, tucked the blankets a little more securely around his little brother’s shoulders and strode to the other side of the room, settling himself down in front of the laptop open on the small table. With one last look at Sam’s slumbering form, Dean turned to the computer and resumed his interrupted game of Solitaire.

End.

[SPN247]

Hi Jules,
Thank you so much for writing this fabulous adaption of my little plot bunny. I am so happy that you chose to ignore the word limit and cruised on by, like Dean in the Impala. In Order of Importance has everything - banter, danger, Injured!Sam and BigBrother!Dean - it just hits on all cylinders for me. And that's about the extent of my car metaphors: when it comes to automobiles, I'm like Sam, definitely an end-user (ie driver) only. Thanks again, this is awesome and I hope posting it here will entice some more readers to discover both the wonderful Winchester Universe and your terrific writing.
Sue