Dean twisted the
knob, letting the door swing open so he could peer inside
without stepping over the threshold. The house lay dark and
quiet; his breath fogged in the cold air.
“Dean! Are we
going in?”
Dean jumped at
Sam’s shout so close to his ear. The idiot could walk quieter
than a fox, but could he shut up? He turned to glare at Sam,
but the 15 year old stared into the house, bouncing on his heels
in anticipation.
“Shut up, Sammy!”
He slapped his brother on the back of the head to emphasize the
warning.
Sam ducked away
from him, baring his teeth as though he’d bite Dean’s hand if it
came close enough.
“Bitch.”
Sam beamed at him
and stepped inside, crossing the hall to peer into the room on
the right. Dean stepped over the threshold, tangled his boot in
the loose carpeting just inside, and flailed his arms wildly,
searching for something to break his fall. Sam spun at the loud
thump he made when he hit the floor.
“Dean! We need to
be very, very quiet. We’re hunting poltergeists!” Sam hissed
all this in his best Elmer Fudd imitation, his voice echoing
down the empty hall.
Dean stared up at
his brother and counted all the ways he could kill him right
now. Then he thought about all the ways his father would kill
him later and quashed his homicidal impulses.
Sam grinned at him
and slipped into the living room. Dean flipped him the bird
behind his back and pushed to his feet. He followed, one eye on
the room, the other on his brother, as Sam wandered into the
room beyond this one, because God knew Dad would string him up
if Dean let anything happen to him.
“You sure we’re in
the right house, Dean?” Sam called, sticking his head back
around the doorjamb. “Because this place should be trashed if
there’s a poltergeist here and well… it’s not.” He jerked one
thumb over his shoulder to emphasize the statement.
A thump from
upstairs drew their gaze and Dean smirked at Sam. “Maybe it
just likes the upstairs.” He pushed past Sam, stared at the
decorative plates on the walls and the china in the cabinets,
and shook his head. Who the hell put plates on a wall?
They climbed the
back stairway, guns drawn and held low. On the landing, they
stared around at the mess. While the bottom floor had been
pristine, this one looked like a category four hurricane had
struck.
He stepped
forward, cautiously pushing through the outlying mess until he
stood in front of Sam. The whole house was silent.
The pinch startled
him and he leaped forward, squeaking. He spun around, putting
his back to the wall. “Sam! What the fuck?”
Sam stared at him,
eyes wide. “What?”
“Why’d you pinch
me?”
Sam’s forehead
folded into that cute little crease it got when he was
confused. “I didn’t pinch you. I haven’t moved!”
And yeah, Sam’s
hands still hung at his side. Sneaky bastard.
Sam’s eyes widened
and an unholy grin lit up his face. “The poltergeist pinched
you, didn’t it?”
Dean narrowed his
eyes and pushed off the wall. “You,” he pointed at Sam, “shut
up.” He started to turn, then froze when invisible fingers
tugged at his belt buckle. His eyes widened and he batted
frantically at it, stumbling away until his back hit the wall.
“Let go!” he yelped, trying to grasp the formless hand.
Sam stared at him,
then at his independently moving belt buckle. He sagged back
against the railing, howling with laughter.
“Quit laughing and
help me, Sammy!”
Dean fumbled for
his gun, not that it would do him any good – not like he could
shoot himself. He looked over just in time to see Sam reach
back for the railing, unable to hold himself up while giggling.
His brother’s eyes widened comically when his hand missed the
railing and he tumbled back down the stairs, unable to stop
laughing the entire way down.
Dean stopped
batting at the hand when it let go of his belt, then reached out
frantically, trying to grab anything weighted down when the
poltergeist grabbed him by the back of the pants and pulled,
dragging him down the hall. It tossed him in one of the rooms,
throwing him almost gently onto the bed.
He tucked his
shoulder and rolled off the other side, landing on his feet.
Oh shit. He launched himself over the bed when the door
began to shut on its own. He made it back out into the hall,
but invisible fingers reached into his pants pocket, copping a
feel before extracting his keys and flinging them into the mess.
“Oh, screw this,”
Dean muttered, and dove for the stairs.
Sam lay at the
bottom, tears running down his cheeks from laughing so hard.
“Let’s go, Sammy,”
Dean growled, grabbing Sam under the arm and dragging him down
the hall until Sam quit laughing enough to get his feet under
him and follow Dean to the back door on his own.
Sam slid down the
icy back steps and staggered around the bushes to where they’d
parked the car, still laughing like a loon. He sagged up
against the Impala and pointed at Dean. “She likes you!”
he hooted.
Dean glared. “How
do you know-?” He froze. No way was he asking Sam how he knew
the poltergeist was a girl. Just…no. He wouldn’t give his
brother that much ammunition. He shoved Sam upright. “Just
get in the car, dipshit.”
++++++++++
“Dad’s going to
kill you.” Sam’s voice sing-songed from the back seat. Hushed
giggles floated forward every so often.
“Shut up.”
He’d been the good
brother, the generous brother, giving Sam the backseat so
he could stretch his freakishly growing legs. Dean hated to
admit it, but at the rate Sam was growing, he was going end up
taller than him or Dad. It really wasn’t fair.
“He’ll be pissed
if you don’t call him and we stay out all night.” Sam kicked
the back of the seat for emphasis.
“Shut up!” Dean
grated. “Or I’ll sell you to the circus where the clowns
live.” He twisted in the seat so he could swat Sam in the
stomach. Sam shrieked like a girl and Dean settled back down,
crossing his arms over his chest for warmth. Dad didn’t let him
out on his own very often much less let him take 15 year old
Sam. There was no way he’d call Dad to tell him he’d lost the
keys to the Impala to a rampaging poltergeist that had tried to
molest him. Especially since the poltergeist was still in the
house.
Damned persistent
things. Though he had to admit this one was more talented than
most, plucking the keys from the inside pocket of his jacket and
flinging them somewhere in the maelstrom it had made of the
house.
“We’ll go back in
the morning, find the keys and banish the damned thing,” Dean
continued.
Sam just grunted
at him and rolled over on the seat to face away from Dean.
At least this way
Dad would only be able to kick his ass for keeping Sam out all
night. One thing for certain, though. Dean was going to have
to get Dad to teach him how to hotwire the car.
Sam started to
snore, curled up smaller than Dean would have thought possible,
hands tucked into his armpits for warmth. He reached back and
draped the ratty army blanket Dad kept in the footwell over
Sam. The silence made him itch, staring at the blackness of the
house. The house's blank, darkened windows stared back at him.
Dean tapped fingers on the steering wheel in irritation before
slouching down in his seat and drifting off to sleep.
A jolt woke him
and he bolted upright, gun in hand. He looked around, but the
house was silent and nothing was near the car that he could
see. When he felt it again, he growled, reached back and
swatted Sam. “Quit kicking me, Sammy.”
“Matt, not now,”
Sam mumbled before subsiding back to stillness.
Dean raised an
eyebrow and smirked. This whole incident was worth it for how
much leverage that one line had just given him over Sammy.
He tried settling
back in his seat again, but it was too cold and his shivering
kept him awake. Screw this,” he muttered, and slipped out of
the car. He winced as the door creaked, but Sam never stirred.
“Gotta pay more attention than that, Sammy.”
He slipped back up
the gravel path towards the back door.
++++++++++
Dean sauntered
down the gravel path, whistling and twirling his keys. When he
reached the car he grinned at his sleeping brother, flung the
door open and dropped heavily into the seat.
He grinned,
watching in the rearview mirror when Sam bolted upright as the
car rocked wildly under Dean’s weight. His arms flailed at the
blanket covering him, batting it away as though it had attacked
him. Dean grinned at him triumphantly from the front seat and
cranked the ignition.
“Dean?” Sam
rubbed his hands across his eyes. “How’d you get the keys?”
Dean smirked and
threw the car into reverse. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”