Title: Raise the Dead
Rating: G (Gen)
Disclaimer: Not my boys! No money made!
Spoilers: Set early season 1
Summary: Dusty house meets Sammy’s nose.
Raise the Dead
Dean’s shoes left footprints in the inch of dust coating the floor of the old house. Sam was out scouring the yard for anything that might look like an obvious grave, but given the dilapidated state of the house, all evidence of burial was probably long gone. The sound of a door creaking open made Dean jump. “Sammy?” It had to be Sam; ghosts didn’t have to use doors.
“Nothing outside!” Sam called back. “Find anything?”
“Done the upstairs!” Dean checked the last closet, kicking the walls to make sure there were no fake panels. He headed through the hallway and down the rickety old wooden staircase. Sam was checking the kitchen, avoiding touching the knives strewn about the floor in either a warning from the ghost or in indication of how this spirit had been ushered off the mortal coil. “She’s probably in the basement.”
“They’re always in the basement,” Sam replied, equally not thrilled.
The door to the basement cellar was just off the kitchen, and both men got their flashlights out. They’d need to pick up a better flashlight now that Sam was on the hunt again. Dean had to hit the backup flashlight a couple times against the wall for the bulb to blink on. But he took the lead down the stairs, creaky stair by creaky stair.
Cold air rushed up at them, which wasn’t unusual for an underground cellar. But they both noticed the smell of sulfur in addition to mold and stale air. Dean’s flashlight flickered, not unexpectedly, and their footfalls in the soft dust still echoed through the dark, empty room.
Dean knew better than to call the ghost forth, but if this was her resting place, it would help to have some direction to go in once they reached the bottom. His flashlight beam didn’t extend far enough to see beyond the stairs, and he resisted the urge to shiver. Instead, he ended up losing his footing and skidding down the last two stairs as a loud, angry sound caught him entirely off guard.
He reached the bottom, sawed-off up, ready to shoot. “What the fuck was that!”
Sam raced down to Dean. “That was me,” he said, words muffled as he scrubbed his forearm back and forth across his face. “All this dust is getting to me. Sniff!”
Dean stared at him, incredulous. “What?”
“Just a sneeze. Couldn’t help it. Allergies, remember?”
Dean remembered. He remembered Sam having an allergy attack at some cheap motel that had feather pillows. He remembered Sam having a sneezing fit while they were interviewing a crazy cat lady. He remembered Sam hopped up on Benadryl, snuffling in the backseat of the Impala, his head in Dean’s lap. But he didn’t remember Sam’s sneezes sounding like that. “No, your sneezes are quiet little things. Like…” He made a sound, deep in his throat, almost like a gulp.
Sam shook his head, which made his nose rub more against his forearm. His eyelids fluttered closed and he bent forward. “HEYY-ETCHARHHHHH!”
Dean jumped again. He couldn’t help it. “Holy shit, dude! That’s so not how you sneeze.”
“It is, actually.” Sam snuffled into his arm as Dean dug out his bandanna and handed it over. Sam blew his nose into it, wiped his watering eyes. “You don’t remember my fourth birthday?”
Dean stared. “How do you remember your fourth birthday?”
“Dad was drunk. He got pissed at me for sneezing too loudly. I couldn’t help sneezing, he knew that. But he told me that wasn’t how men sneeze. He said if I was going to sneeze, I’d better learn to do it quietly. Sniff! But that’s not how I…” Sam’s eyes closed again. He wavered, trying to fight it for a second. Then the sneeze exploded from him, only slightly muffled in the bandanna. “EHH-HERTSCHHHHH!” Sam sniffed and pried his eyes open. Then he lunged forward, tackling Dean to the ground. The ghost sailed right through where they had been standing.
Rolling as he hit the ground, Dean fired a shot at the ghost, missed, and fired one that hit.
As it vanished for the moment, Sam picked himself up from the dusty floor. He was wheezing. Coughing. Snuffling. Pointing in the corner with his flashlight at a pile of bones.
“Go,” Dean told him. “Get some fresh air, sneezy. I’ve got this.” As Dean salted and burned, he jumped again as another sneeze boomed down the stairs, echoing so that it sounded even louder.
Having to balance his burger on his lap instead of keeping it on the passenger seat of the Impala. Having to get a new flashlight. Having to shell out for rooms with two twin beds instead of one. There was a lot Dean was going to have to get used to now that Sam was back on the hunt with him. It was good to have someone who had his back, though. Even if that someone’s sneeze was loud enough to raise the dead.