Supernatural Fic: Shades of Comfort 4/?
And here we go again...
***
The DeLanney Park Sanatorium was everything Dean hated in a site. It was spread out - seven old and decaying buildings on a twenty acre lot. The ground between them was overgrown and covered with a tangle of weeds and scrub trees. The buildings were marked by their shared history of illness, sadness, pain and grief. The feel of all those who had suffered was still in the air around the place, held in only by the rusty chain-link that was designed to keep people out.
The only thing that this place had going for it was that it wasn’t haunted. Not a peep. Not a rumor. Not even a sniff of a ghost story, even after seventy years. The place was just…dead space. Old, and sad, and completely nil on the supernatural level.
DeLanney Park, according to the quick bout of research Sam had done, had been commissioned in 1898 as a sanitary facility to house Tuberculosis patients. Back before the advent of antibiotics the infection had been rampant, and deadly. The only thing that the doctors had been able to do for TB sufferers was to lock them away where they couldn’t infect others. Mothers separated from children, children from parents, brothers, sisters, fathers, aunts… it was no wonder there was an air of lingering sadness to the place.
The facility had been closed in 1938. After that, it had been abandoned. No one wanted land that had held the contaminated for so long. And no one needed the buildings anymore. DeLanney Park had sat quietly and completely vacant for all the long years since. The place was empty and abandoned, even by the dead. No lingering spirits wandered its halls.
“So, if there are no ghosts, what the hell are the ghost-hunters doing here, dude?” Dean finally demanded as the two walked the fence.
Next to him, Sam shrugged. “Maybe they don’t know it’s not haunted? I mean, if you were going to pick one place around here to try and summon ghosts…”
“I guess,” Dean said, doubtfully. “But there isn’t even any EMF here. It’s a damned dead zone for the dead.”
There was a break in the fence just a few feet from the rusted and chained gate. Dean lifted the wire as Sam ducked through, and Sam did the same for him. It was as habitual and unconscious as breathing.
Once inside, they headed toward the cluster of buildings. Dean atomically checked his pistol. It and his knives were all he was carrying, since there were no spooks to deal with; just crazy-ass people - which was actually worse, in Dean’s opinion.
“So,” Dean said, pushing his clip home and holstering his pistol. “If you were a sad, pathetic little goth trying to summon ghost, which part of this maze would you head for?”
Sam gave him a look.
“Morgue,” they said at the same time.
As a hospital facility - one that catered to patients who had a terminal illness - a morgue had sort of been necessary. From Sam’s research they knew the basic layout of the place. The buildings consisted of three dormitories (men, women, and children), an administration building, a commissary, a dispensary (that doubled as the medical staff’s sleeping quarters), and a hospital ward. That one was the long, low construction at the back of the compound. It had been the last stop for most patients as they slowly choked to death on their own blood. The morgue was in the basement.
Sam and Dean approached the morgue carefully. Dim, distant sunlight found its way down, sneaking thorough holes and cracks in the foundations. As Sam and Dean slipped downstairs, that light had taken on the golden hue of early sun-set.
In front of them, the large double doors of the morgue had been pulled open, leaving fresh arcs in the dust. Light spilled out into the hallway. Both brothers slowed as voices echoed from the room.
“So, you’re sure this is going to work?”
Dean hesitated, taking up a place just beside the open door. Sam moved into position on the other side.
“Yes, Derek, this is going to work,” said a new voice, also male, but softer than the first. “At least it should work.”
“It’ll work, Owen.” And Dean frowned at the sound of a teary female. “It has to work! The spirits here are so restless. They’re in so much pain! We have to help them!”
Dean gave Sam an incredulous look. Sam rolled his eyes.
“Relax, Gillian,” ‘Derek’ said. “We have to set up the cameras first, in case this works.”
“It’ll work, damnit!” Owen snapped.
“Just hurry, Owen…. It’s so hard for me to be in here. I feel like I can’t breathe, there are so many spirits here! This is not a good place for sensitives. I shouldn’t have come!” She gasped dramatically.
“We needed three for the ritual, Gilly. We needed you. Hang on for just a minute more. Derek, get in your place. We only have one more thing to do.”
That was it. Dean had heard enough. This wasn’t a cabal of evil magic-users. This was just a group of dumb-asses.
Dean jerked his head toward the door, and Sam nodded. They pulled the guns. They had a quick planning session, using a flash of hand gestures, and then they moved - Dean sliding through the right door and into the left side of the room, while Sam crossed from the left door to the right side.
The three people inside froze in shock. On the dirty floor was a sigil drawn in chalk, one Dean didn’t recognize. Candles had been arranged along its edges. An older male in fashion jeans and a zip-up sweater was gaping at them from the far side of the room. Closest to them was a girl wearing crystals. At the head of the triangle, where the lines of the sigil spun into a nexus, was a scrawny kid in tight black pants and too much eyeliner. All of them were kneeling; the kid had a small brazier in front of him and a bunch of herbs in his hand. A small, brown book lay open on the floor where he could easily read form it. He frowned at them.
“Who the hell are you?”
**
Continued in Part Five