Cheyenne, Wyoming -- 1993
"Salt and burn didn't take," Dad's voice was grim as he cleaned his shotgun at the motel table. "Something's still binding Sarah Whitaker to that house."
I looked up from my research notes, careful to keep my expression neutral. At ten years old, I was finally being included in real hunts, but only because this one had proven more complicated than expected.
Other times, I hunted, were when I needed to come along because of various reasons that I couldn't remain alone in the motel.
"You're sure you got the right grave?" Dean asked, loading salt rounds.
Dad's expression darkened. "Burned her bones myself two nights ago. Didn't stop her from throwing Marcus Collins down the stairs yesterday. Man's in intensive care."
I flipped through the original police reports I'd carefully requested from the library. "Says here she was murdered in her study. Her business partner, James Morrison, killed her over financial discrepancies."
"We know all that, Sammy," Dean started, but Dad held up a hand.
"What else?"
I swallowed, measuring how much to reveal. "The reports mention she was clutching something when they found her. A leather-bound ledger. But it disappeared from evidence lock-up in '57."
Dad's eyes narrowed slightly, contemplating my words.
"That's our target then," he decided. "Ledger's probably got her blood on it, binding her spirit. We find it, burn it, this ends."
Thunder rolled outside our motel window, though the forecast showed clear skies. Dad's gaze flickered to the gathering clouds, then back to me. Another pattern he'd noticed over the years.
"Dean, gear check."
"Rock salt shells, iron rod, lighter fluid, matches." Dean's response was automatic, practiced.
"Sam?"
I held up my shotgun, smaller than Dean's but just as deadly. "Salt rounds loaded. Extra shells in my pocket. Salt pouch and lighter secure."
Dad nodded, but his expression was serious. "This isn't a training run. Sarah's killed six people over four decades. Even without her bones, she's dangerous. You follow orders exactly. No heroics."
"Yes, sir," Dean and I answered in unison.
The Impala's headlights cut through growing darkness as we approached the Whitaker house. Three stories of Victorian architecture loomed against the sky, the widow's walk a skeletal crown where Sarah had often waited for her partner's return.
"Dean, take point," Dad ordered as we geared up at the trunk. "Sam, you stay between us. We sweep the study first – that's our best bet for finding the ledger."
The back door opened silently under Dean's practiced touch. EMF meter whined immediately, its lights flaring red.
"She's here," Dean whispered unnecessarily.
The interior felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain. Dust-covered furniture loomed like sentinels in the dim light. The air felt charged, heavier than natural.
"Temperature's dropping," Dean warned, his breath visible. "She knows we're here."
The grandfather clock in the hall struck nine, each chime echoing through empty rooms. I gripped my shotgun tighter, remembering the reports of Sarah's victims. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. One death in '82 that was ruled an accident.
"Study's upstairs, west wing," Dad directed. "Move carefully. She'll be strongest near the ledger."
The main staircase creaked beneath our careful steps. Family portraits lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow our movement. The EMF meter's whine grew stronger as we ascended.
Second floor was worse. The air felt like molasses, charged with potential energy. Moonlight through grimy windows cast strange shadows across faded wallpaper.
"Study's at the end," Dad whispered. "Dean, watch our six."
A door slammed somewhere behind us. Dean spun, shotgun raised, but the hallway remained empty.
Then Sarah appeared.
Her form flickered like bad reception, the business suit she died in still stained with decades-old blood. But her eyes – they were sharp, intelligent. They fixed on me with sudden, disturbing interest.
Dad fired. The ghost dispersed, but reformed almost instantly.
"She's stronger here," Dad growled. "The ledger must be close."
Sarah's scream cut through the air. The sound vibrated through my bones and picture frames exploded off the walls.
"Study, now!" Dad ordered.
We rushed the room. Books lined every wall, leather-bound volumes gathering dust. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating dancing motes in the air.
"Split up, search everything," Dad commanded. "Dean, cover the door."
I moved to the massive oak desk, trying to ignore how the temperature kept dropping. Old papers crackled under my fingers as I searched.
"Check the walls," Dad called out. "Look for loose panels, anything that could hide—"
Sarah materialized directly above the desk. Dean's shot went through her as she dodged, impossibly fast. Then she turned to me.
Our eyes met. Her form flickered strangely, head tilting like a curious bird..
Thunder cracked outside, rattling the windows.
"Sam, down!"
I dropped as Dad swung an iron rod through Sarah's form. She dispersed, but not before I felt it – a connection, a resonance between her supernatural energy and whatever emptiness lived inside me.
The sensation sparked something. A memory, maybe, or an instinct. My eyes were drawn to a section of wall paneling that looked slightly different from the rest.
"There!" I called out, spotting the edge of leather binding behind a loose panel. "It's in the wall!"
Dean covered me while I pried the panel free. The ledger was pristine despite decades hidden away, its pages stained with something dark.
Sarah's shriek shook the windows. She reappeared, more solid than ever, reaching for her precious ledger. Papers flew around the room in a supernatural windstorm.
"Burn it!" Dad ordered, dispersing her again with another shot.
My hands shook as I quickly salted it and flicked the lighter. The ledger caught quickly, old pages curling in the flames.
Sarah appeared one final time, inches from my face. Her form wavered, and at that moment, I saw something in her eyes – not only rage but fear, not towards death, no, It felt like something deeper, something directed at me, as if she could see past my flesh and bones.
Then she was gone, leaving only the storm outside and the smell of burning paper.
"Good work, Sammy," Dean clapped my shoulder, but his eyes held questions. Questions about how I'd known where to look.
Dad was already examining the wall cavity where the ledger had been hidden. His flashlight beam revealed dark stains on the wood – blood from the night Sarah died.
"Pack it up," he ordered, but his voice held that tone I'd learned to recognize. He'd noticed something. Added another piece to his growing puzzle about his youngest son.
The storm followed us back to the motel, thunder rolling across otherwise clear skies. In the rearview mirror, I caught Dad watching me, his expression unreadable.
Dean fell asleep quickly once we returned, but I stayed awake, adding to my mental journal:
'First official hunt. Spirits can sense something wrong with me. With this body. The hollow space inside responds to supernatural energy. Need to be more careful.
Weather still responds to heightened emotions. Dad's noticing more patterns.
Note: Research binding objects. Could be useful later for [here I wrote in code] containing Lucifer?'
A particularly loud thunderclap made me jump. I quickly hid the written journal that I was rereading in its usual spot, trying not to think about how Sarah had looked at me at the end. Like she'd seen through all my careful masks to what lay beneath.
To what this soul was like
"Sam?" Dad's voice made me freeze. He sat at the small motel table, cleaning weapons by lamplight. "Want to tell me how you knew about that panel?"
I'd prepared for this question. "The wallpaper was slightly different there. Newer. Someone must have replaced it after hiding the ledger."
Not a lie, but not the whole truth. I hadn't actually seen any difference in the wallpaper. I'd felt it – felt the resonance between that hollow space inside me and the supernatural energy tied to Sarah's ledger.
Dad nodded slowly, but his eyes said he wasn't fully convinced. "You did good tonight. But Sam?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Next time something feels... different. Strange. You tell me. Understood?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
Another lie to add to my growing collection. Because how could I tell him that everything felt strange? That this body itself felt wrong, felt empty, felt like it was waiting for something terrible and bright?
That sometimes, in my dreams, I heard wings and saw a cage so deep in Hell it made my soul call out.
"Get some sleep," Dad said finally. "Early start tomorrow."
I curled up in bed, listening to the storm outside. One hunt down. Countless more to go. And somewhere in the future, events I had to change, destinies I had to break.
But for now, I just had to keep my secrets. Keep playing the role of normal Sam Winchester – or as normal as any hunter's kid could be.
Keep pretending I didn't feel that hollow space inside me growing with each passing day.
Keep pretending I didn't know exactly what it was waiting for.
The thunder finally faded as I drifted off to sleep. But in my dreams, I heard something else: the sound of feathers rustling in the dark, and somewhere, deep below, the echo of archangel wings beating against the bars of a cage.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! How did you guys find the hunt?
Also, how do you find the references to Lucifer in the chapters? I hope its not repetitive, but I wish to establish the connection they have since I wish to focus more on the lore of being a vessel, made for another, two halves of a whole.
Dean will have his own special characteristics soon enough as well. Different from Sam, but still special.
So yeah, do please comment and review, and I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)