Member No.: 1,267
Joined: 12-January 06
OK, so I read spoilers. I got this idea in my head and for two weeks it WOULD NOT LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!! So here I am, with nothing better to do, writing out how I think the season should end. Yes, there IS some spoilery involved, but I don't think it's enough to casue alarm. Anyway, probably one-shot, not too detailed, but at least it's not bugging me anymore. Please reply!
“Poor baby,” Meg taunted, circling him, “little bro’s trapped inside. There’s no way into the warehouse, at least that you know of.”
“Shut up,” Dean growled, “I’m not like other boys, you know. I’m not scared to hit a girl.”
Meg laughed, a high-pitched, mirthless sound that hurt the hunter’s ears and heart. “Face it, Dean,” she smirked, “we got him. Little Sammy’s gonna die and you’re powerless to stop it. Unless you find a way in. But I doubt that possible. The place is made completely of concrete, the doors have been sealed and covered by walls of brick. You can’t save him this time.
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. There’s got to be a way inside. How else would you have gotten him in there?”
“Daddy and I have our ways, Dean. Speaking fo fathers, I do believe that yours is here, too. Inside. He’s very disappointed in you, Dean. You let him down. You let Sam down. You can’t save them. Unless, that is, you can walk through solid concrete, which I seriously doubt.” Still smirking evilly, the blonde woman disappeared before his eyes. She was right. He’d let everyone down.
Dean stared at the warehouse. It was an impenetrable mass of brick and concrete. How Sam had even been captured in the first place, dean would probably never know, but he should have been there. Being here now was no help. He turned sadly back to the Impala, which was parked near the warehouse, waiting patiently for him.
Unless you can walk through solid concrete. Nothing corporeal could do that. Corporeal was a Sammy word. College boy.
Dean trudged toward his car, defeat weighing heavy on his heart. He slid in behind the wheel, staring blankly through the windshield. Sam had sat in the same seat when he’d been attacked by the woman in white. She had gone right through the car, solid as it was. Ghosts could do that. They weren’t corporeal.
Suddenly, he understood. It was all a trap. Maybe not for Sammy of dad, at least not now, but for him. She’d found his weakness. Meg and her ‘father’ had given him no choice. Dean knew what he had to do.
Taking a deep breath to steady his rattling nerves, he started the car, caressing its steering wheel one last time. His father would be all right, could take care of himself, but Sammy needed help. Before he got a chance to talk himself out of it, Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.
The Impala careened forward, growing increasingly closer to the concrete wall of the warehouse. The front of the car connected suddenly with the side of the building with a sickening crunch as its only passenger made the ultimate sacrifice.
Sam sighed loudly. He’d never imagined his life ending like this. He’d wanted to die an old man, fast asleep in his bed, his wife by his side. Instead, he found himself tied to a pole in a dimly lit warehouse in Sacramento. And he was alone.
From his spot in the middle of the large room, Sam had heard a scuffle earlier that day. He had assumed that Dean had been trying to save him, as always, but a familiar female voice had distinctly said the name John. So his father was there, too. Beaten, bruised, just like he was, dad was somewhere in the concrete enclosure, probably already dead.
Sam turned his head to see his brother come running toward him. “Dean? How’d you get in here?”
“That’s not important,” Dean muttered, untying his brother, “what is important is that we get you out of here.”
“Dad’s here, too,” Sam said, standing up and rubbing his rope-burned wrists.
“He can take care of himself. Come on,” Dean urged, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him out of the warehouse’s main room and up a ladder to the darkened catwalk above, “there’s a door up ahead. With luck, it’ll be open.”
He pushed Sam down the shadowy hall, yelling at him to run faster, faster, always faster, as he followed. Crates marked ‘fragile’ and ‘caution’ flashed by as Sammy ran toward another ladder. He passed it with ease, barely out of breath, and kept running for the promised door out the dank and dreary place he’d been held captive in for so long.
“Sam!” the voice rang out through the warehouse, stopping Sammy in his tracks.
“Dad? How’d you find us?” he panted, turning to the older man who climbed slowly up a ladder from the floor below, “how’d you get away?”
“I had a couple of tricks left up my sleeve. We won’t have to worry about that girl anymore. Now, what do you mean by ‘us?’”
“Dean and I,” Sam replied, gazing around the catwalk, “he was right behind me. He’s the one that untied me.”
His father gave him a worried look as something below them banged loudly in the still darkness.
“We have to get out of here,” John mumbled worriedly, grabbing Sam’s arm and pulling him to the ladder.
“Dean said the door was that way,” Sam said, breaking free from John’s grasp and walking toward the door, “he wasn’t sure how we’d get out, though.”
John pushed past his youngest son and pulled open a large door that had previously been hidden by shadows. He found himself staring at a brick wall.
“Damn it!” he hissed, searching his pockets for anything that could get them out of the mess.
Something fell by Sam’s feet and he picked it up. “Dad,” he whispered urgently, a smile spreading slowly across his face, “look. It’s dynamite. The crates along the walls are filled with explosives! We can get out.”
Without a word, the older man grabbed a heavy wooden box and pried it open, revealing the explosives he needed. He grabbed two sticks of dynamite from the box, set them by the wall where the door should have been, and lit them.
“Get down,” he shouted, running to Sam and pushing him behind a far-off group of crates. An explosion shook the warehouse.
“Won’t it follow us?” Sammy asked as he ran after his father into the bright sunlight, turning in time to see a shadowy mass of darkness flowing up the ladder from the main floor of the warehouse.
“It can’t stand the sunlight,” John yelled triumphantly as he and Sam descended the stairs that led from the doorway to the parking lot below, “we’re safe now, Sammy, for a while, at least.”
“What about Dean?”
“He couldn’t have been in there. There’s no way he could have gotten away without that thing knowing it. No way he could have gotten into the warehouse. He probably hasn’t even noticed that you’re gone.”
“Yeah,” Sam nodded as he and his father rounded the corner to the back of the warehouse. He stopped dead, staring at it. The car. Dean’s car.
“Sam? You OK?”
It had been totaled. Sam took a tentative step forward, toward the smashed pile of black metal.
“Sammy? What is it?” John turned to look in the same direction as his son and automatically wished he hadn’t. The Impala.
Sam broke out in a sprint toward the car, stopping suddenly when he reached his brother’s prized possession. There was a bloody arm hanging out of the crushed driver’s side window. Without thinking, Sammy wrenched open the door and reached inside.
He grabbed what he assumed was Dean’s shirt, now tacky with blood, and pulled. His older brother’s limp body fell to the ground by his feet.
“Sam,” John muttered, approaching the scene. He had known something like this would happen one day. He’d been prepared. Sammy obviously hadn’t. “Listen.”
“How?” Sam asked, dropping to his knees and cradling his brother in his arms, “how? How could he lose control like that?”
“I don’t think he did,” the older man said silently, “look at the tire tracks, son. He meant to do it. He never stopped. It got him into the building. You said yourself that he untied you.”
Sam just buried his head in his brother’s blood-soaked shirt, refusing to believe that Dean was capable of suicide. Not his brother, his protector. Not ever.
He listened to the stillness in his brother’s chest, the alck of a heartbeat. His tears mixed with Dean’s blood. If he concentrated hard enough, Sam found that he could convince himself that his brother’s heart was still beating. That his chest was laboriously rising and falling.
Sam sat up straight, watching Dean’s body carefully. He was breathing, somehow. Slowly, the younger leaned close, holding his breath. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat was there, though faint.
“Dad,” he said quietly, tears of joy welling in his eyes, “call 911. Dean’s alive.”
The spirit's hazel eyes narrowed in confusion. He looked at his hand, semi-transparent, flexing his fingers. "How the Hell?" he wondered aloud, though his brother and father didn't hear him.
I dunno. I have a little bit more, but I'm not sure about writing it. What do you think?