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Apr. 13th, 2008 10:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adiva_calandiaA snippet of what I spent today working on instead of reading Antony and Cleopatra, or anything else academic-related. *shifty*
Upstate New York. March.
Sam hadn't wanted to stop for the haunted house -- not when there were bigger things to worry about than spirits -- but Dean had insisted that as long as they were passing through, there was no harm in looking.
Dean had three and a half months left.
Sam let himself be persuaded, ultimately; partly to get Dean to shut up and stop playing the indulge my every whim, I've got three months left to live card, and partly because, well, Dean had three months left to live, and there wasn't any harm in looking.
They went in just after sunset with flashlights, EMF detectors, and sawed-offs loaded with rock salt, just in case. They were barely inside the house before Dean put out a hand, signaling Sam to freeze and stay quiet. Sam stopped, frowning, and listened.
A moment later, he gave Dean a sharp look. There -- a faint, muffled chanting from upstairs, filtering down the grand staircase in the entryway. Sam couldn't make out the words, but they made his head buzz. Whatever was going on up there was the real deal, and it wasn't pleasant.
Dean motioned forward, and they advanced, taking up positions on opposite sides of the staircase. As they crept upwards, the voice became clearer, and the buzzing in Sam's head increased. The language was unfamiliar -- definitely not Latin, maybe Hebrew, or Aramaic.
They reached the top of the stairs and crept towards the door hanging ajar at the end of the hallway, Dean in the point position and Sam in the rear. The flicker of candles spilled out onto the bare floorboards of the hall. The chanting began to crescendo. Dean sped up, moving faster.
Three things happened so quickly it was almost simultaneous. A floorboard creaked noisily under Dean's feet; the voice broke off; and a CRACK like a car backfiring echoed through the house as the candlelight guttered and died. Dean swore under his breath, and they both ran forward.
Sam caught confused flashes of images in the flashlight beams as they charged into the room: a pentacle chalked on the floor, blacked-out windows books and papers scattered around the room as if a high wind had blown through, a man ducking through another door. Judging by the clatter of feet as the door banged shut behind him, it led to a stairwell. Dean yelled and followed.
Sam started after him, but stopped at the door when something shifted in the dark room behind him. He whipped around, gun and flashlight coming up, and scanned the room.
And stopped, staring.
"What the hell--"
Dean returned a minute later, breathing hard. "Son of a bitch got away. Wouldn'ta thought he had the wind, but the guy could run like--"
"Dean, we've got bigger problems."
Frowning, Dean brought his flashlight up -- and blinked, taken aback. Sam was crouching behind a decrepit bookshelf that had apparently been moved to make room for the pentacle. Sprawled on the floor next to him was a teenage girl, unconscious; the trickle of blood on her forehead matched a smear of red on the edge of the bookshelf.
"Who's she?" Dean demanded, coming over to add his light to Sam's.
"I don't know. I heard her move a minute ago, and she's breathing--"
The girl let out a soft moan and shifted again. Both men started; Dean's grip on his gun tightened as Sam sat up straighter.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
She startled weakly at the touch, opening her eyes and squinting into the flashlights. "Wh--"
Sam pulled his hand back. "It's okay. You hit your head pretty hard."
She blinked a few times, focusing blearily on Sam, then Dean -- then her eyes widened as Dean's gun gleamed in the light. She sat up with a gasp and scrambled backwards, throwing up one hand and blurted out a phrase in a language Sam didn't recognize. Sam's concern vanished in automatic, cold defense as both of them jerked back and brought up their guns.
After a few seconds, it was clear nothing was happening. The girl's eyes went wider, if possible, and her hand shook as it dropped.
"It didn't work," she breathed, and then cringed back. "Don't shoot, don't -- it wasn't an attack--"
"Yeah?" Dean asked, shooting a glance at Sam. "What was it, then?"
"Just a shield spell -- I-I -- why didn't it work?" She looked up at them. "Where am I?"
Sam glanced back at Dean. "Hempstead. New York."
"Hemp-- that -- that can't be right," she stammered desperately. "Are you sure?"
The question sounded like she knew how stupid it sounded. Dean snorted. "Sure as shit, sweetheart. Now how 'bout you tell use who you are and what you're doing here."
She looked back and forth between the barrel of his gun and Sam's impassive face, and took a steadying breath. "I'm Nita Callahan. I don't -- I don't know how I got here."
Her voice broke. "I think I'm in the wrong world again."
Part two.
Upstate New York. March.
Sam hadn't wanted to stop for the haunted house -- not when there were bigger things to worry about than spirits -- but Dean had insisted that as long as they were passing through, there was no harm in looking.
Dean had three and a half months left.
Sam let himself be persuaded, ultimately; partly to get Dean to shut up and stop playing the indulge my every whim, I've got three months left to live card, and partly because, well, Dean had three months left to live, and there wasn't any harm in looking.
They went in just after sunset with flashlights, EMF detectors, and sawed-offs loaded with rock salt, just in case. They were barely inside the house before Dean put out a hand, signaling Sam to freeze and stay quiet. Sam stopped, frowning, and listened.
A moment later, he gave Dean a sharp look. There -- a faint, muffled chanting from upstairs, filtering down the grand staircase in the entryway. Sam couldn't make out the words, but they made his head buzz. Whatever was going on up there was the real deal, and it wasn't pleasant.
Dean motioned forward, and they advanced, taking up positions on opposite sides of the staircase. As they crept upwards, the voice became clearer, and the buzzing in Sam's head increased. The language was unfamiliar -- definitely not Latin, maybe Hebrew, or Aramaic.
They reached the top of the stairs and crept towards the door hanging ajar at the end of the hallway, Dean in the point position and Sam in the rear. The flicker of candles spilled out onto the bare floorboards of the hall. The chanting began to crescendo. Dean sped up, moving faster.
Three things happened so quickly it was almost simultaneous. A floorboard creaked noisily under Dean's feet; the voice broke off; and a CRACK like a car backfiring echoed through the house as the candlelight guttered and died. Dean swore under his breath, and they both ran forward.
Sam caught confused flashes of images in the flashlight beams as they charged into the room: a pentacle chalked on the floor, blacked-out windows books and papers scattered around the room as if a high wind had blown through, a man ducking through another door. Judging by the clatter of feet as the door banged shut behind him, it led to a stairwell. Dean yelled and followed.
Sam started after him, but stopped at the door when something shifted in the dark room behind him. He whipped around, gun and flashlight coming up, and scanned the room.
And stopped, staring.
"What the hell--"
Dean returned a minute later, breathing hard. "Son of a bitch got away. Wouldn'ta thought he had the wind, but the guy could run like--"
"Dean, we've got bigger problems."
Frowning, Dean brought his flashlight up -- and blinked, taken aback. Sam was crouching behind a decrepit bookshelf that had apparently been moved to make room for the pentacle. Sprawled on the floor next to him was a teenage girl, unconscious; the trickle of blood on her forehead matched a smear of red on the edge of the bookshelf.
"Who's she?" Dean demanded, coming over to add his light to Sam's.
"I don't know. I heard her move a minute ago, and she's breathing--"
The girl let out a soft moan and shifted again. Both men started; Dean's grip on his gun tightened as Sam sat up straighter.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
She startled weakly at the touch, opening her eyes and squinting into the flashlights. "Wh--"
Sam pulled his hand back. "It's okay. You hit your head pretty hard."
She blinked a few times, focusing blearily on Sam, then Dean -- then her eyes widened as Dean's gun gleamed in the light. She sat up with a gasp and scrambled backwards, throwing up one hand and blurted out a phrase in a language Sam didn't recognize. Sam's concern vanished in automatic, cold defense as both of them jerked back and brought up their guns.
After a few seconds, it was clear nothing was happening. The girl's eyes went wider, if possible, and her hand shook as it dropped.
"It didn't work," she breathed, and then cringed back. "Don't shoot, don't -- it wasn't an attack--"
"Yeah?" Dean asked, shooting a glance at Sam. "What was it, then?"
"Just a shield spell -- I-I -- why didn't it work?" She looked up at them. "Where am I?"
Sam glanced back at Dean. "Hempstead. New York."
"Hemp-- that -- that can't be right," she stammered desperately. "Are you sure?"
The question sounded like she knew how stupid it sounded. Dean snorted. "Sure as shit, sweetheart. Now how 'bout you tell use who you are and what you're doing here."
She looked back and forth between the barrel of his gun and Sam's impassive face, and took a steadying breath. "I'm Nita Callahan. I don't -- I don't know how I got here."
Her voice broke. "I think I'm in the wrong world again."
Part two.
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Date: 2008-04-14 04:11 am (UTC)*hugs Nita* *so much*
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Date: 2008-04-14 07:08 am (UTC)Hempstead, though, is about 20 minutes from where my father works, which is incredibly incredibly downstate. Waaaay south NY. Just FYI. :|
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Date: 2008-04-14 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 07:14 pm (UTC)Hmm -- someplace old enough to conceivably have classic haunted houses, and populace enough to have worldgate potential?
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Date: 2008-04-14 05:41 pm (UTC)On the other hand, Hempstead is on Long Island, and therefore not upstate. ¬_¬no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 07:23 pm (UTC)*grins*
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Date: 2008-04-14 11:37 pm (UTC)*grabbyhands* More pls.