#// the number of exorcisms he has gone through probably makes him unable to take them seriously anymore

[voraxiia]

Edax during his nth exorcism :

* falls to the ground , writhes and contorts his body in a screaming , hissing fit , finally drops limp after an hour or so * * opens his eyes , gets back up *

" so anyway , "

[supersleepygoat]

Glass Houses: Part Two

Pairing: Sam x Sister!Reader, MOC!Dean x Sister!Reader, Styne Family

Summary: After you left the bunker, you take on a few case. You get some experience under you belt but let overconfidence lead you into a dangerous situation that would be better left for your brothers. Set in Dark Dynasty (10.21).

Word Count: 6,042

Warning: Angst. Violence. Mention of Character Death. TW: Mentions of Rape. Nonconsensual Blood Play. Nonconsensual Knife Play. (No Explicit Smut)

Part One

Masterlist

You had just gotten off the phone with your boyfriend, Nathan. You had left the bunker and pulled off to the side of the road. You needed to talk to him. Talking to him always puts you at ease. But as soon as you hang up the phone, that ease morphs into dread.

You curse yourself for being unable to let him go. It is selfish and you know it. He will always be in danger as long as he is in your life. But you love him. In a different world, you know without a doubt he would be your end game. He would be the one to save you. He would give you the apple pie life you know you should want. But that’s not who you are. You will never be the girl who could walk away from her family to start a new one.

No matter how your brothers make you feel about yourself, Nate always grounds you. He tells you how special and capable he thinks you are. And for a moment, you believe him. So, in a perfect world, he would be who you are driving to right now. But, instead you are headed out of town and seeking out danger. You are a Winchester. There is no apple pie life waiting for you. Everyone knows how the game really ends for a Winchester.

As much as it killed you, you had to lie to Nate. You had to tell him your brothers took you out of town and you’d be gone for a while. You know you have to end it with him when you get back. But you don’t have the strength to burn that bridge right now. That bridge holds a view of hope, so you’re not ready to watch it burn quite yet.

Besides, Nate deserves for you to explain yourself in person. But if you show up now with this bruise on your cheek, he’ll only go on a testosterone induced rampage. He has always hated the fact your brothers push you aside. He hates that they treat you like a second-class Winchester. So, if you tell him things have escalated to a physical level, he’ll only see red. He won’t listen to a word you say. And, you need him to hear you. He needs to understand that he will always be the best thing that ever happened to you.

But, your destiny is to pursue the family business. Whether your brothers like it or not, for you there is no getting out of this life. You want to fight alongside your brothers. It’s what you’ve always wanted. So, it’s not safe for Nate to be attached to you or this life. You need to let him go before he ends up like Jessica or Lisa. He deserves better than the danger that comes with being with you. He deserves better than you.

You started small. You left your brothers only three weeks ago but you already have two solo cases under your belt.

The first was a simple salt and burn. Unfortunately, the ghost’s human body had been cremated. But, it wasn’t hard to figure out that the jilted lover’s spirit was tied to her wedding ring. Her unfaithful husband still wore it on a chain around his neck. Little did he know, he was carrying around a beacon for pain. You burnt the tarnish silver symbol and moved on.  

The second case was a step up. Your first demon. You didn’t have the demon knife or an angel blade so you had to rely on an good old-fashioned exorcism to get rid of the thing. It worked out because you were able to save the meat suit, or Shannon as she preferred to be called. She was shaken up but grateful you were able to spare her.

After you prove your point and you return home to your brothers, you may have a talk with them. You will remind them that they tend to forget that the meat suits are really people. They use the demon knife and angel blade as if the quick solution is the only solution. But there is another way. Maybe they could learn something from their useless baby sister after all.

You are running on a string of highs. Are you getting a bit cocky? Perhaps, but you feel as though you are finally doing something useful with your life. You are no longer waiting at home for your brothers to get back from a hunt. You are no longer living vicariously through their stories of heroism. You are the one who is living now. You are the one making a difference.

You know what you’re doing is dangerous. If you had a clear mind, you would realize your luck is bound to wear out eventually. But you are misguided by the illusion that Winchesters always come out on top. You are starting to feel untouchable. If your brothers were here, they would be able to teach you that arrogance is a leading cause of death among hunters. But, they aren’t here. That is lesson you will have to learn for yourself.

One more. You decided one more hunt will do the trick. If you can close three cases all on your own, your brothers will have no choice. They will have to acknowledge that you are a capable hunter. You have enjoyed being on your own but it’s gotten a little lonely.

The whole reason you wanted to start hunting was so you could spend more time with your brothers. You want them to include you in their lives. You don’t want to hunt just for the sake of hunting. This little trial period of solo hunts is merely a means to an end. The end goal will always be to be accepted by your brothers. You are doing this so you can fight with them, not against them.

You may want their love and approval, but that doesn’t mean you’re not still pissed at them, especially Dean. But like any other set of siblings, your best revenge will be to make them feel like shit for ever doubting you. You can’t wait to stroll back into the bunker and throw Baby’s keys back at Dean. He’ll see you were responsible enough to take good care of his favourite girl. There’s not a scratch on her. Then, you’ll tell them every gory detail of your hunts. They’ll realize just how much of a badass you are.

They’ll be mad, Dean may even kick your ass again. But they’ll be proud of you, they have to be.  But if they are still unwilling to acknowledge you, then at the very least you have proven to yourself that you are a legitimate hunter. You will just continue going at it alone until they let you in. You won’t give up.

For your last case, you found something a little odd. It’s not a classic monster like a ghost or a vampire. But rather, it is something that is just too gross to not be your kind of case. You going to prove that you can handle even the weird cases.

So, you’re headed to Omaha, Nebraska. A woman was reported to have her throat slit and her eyes gouged out. Not to mention, the guy who done it jumped out of a third story window and ran away without so much as a limp. Definitely your kind of weird.

Your best guess is that he may be another Doc Benton. Sam and Dean told you all about that creep. Plus, you read about someone like him in your dad’s journal. These types of monsters were once human. But they harvest the organs of young and healthy people to remain immortal. You assume that’s why he only took the victim’s eyes. Luckily, John’s journal told you that if you burn them alive, they will stay dead.

You were in a nearby town when you caught the case. It didn’t take long to drive to the scene. By the time you and Baby pulled up to the office building, the victim’s body was still inside. The janitor who found the girl and saw the killer’s great escape wasn’t very helpful. He was too shaken up to tell you anything more than what you heard over the police radio.

The building manager shows you security footage of the man’s three-story jump. Either than the fact he walked away without even a scratch, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the man. He looked human. But you know looks can be deceiving in this line of work. At least now you know his face. You know who you are looking for.

The manager gives you all the information he has on his murderous renter. You know it is all probably fake names and bogus addresses, but you have to start somewhere.

“More FBI?” The building’s landlord asks Sam and Dean as they each flash their badge.

“What do you mean more?” Dean asks with slight irritation. He hates when the real feds intrude on their cases. They always get territorial over their jurisdiction. Dean doesn’t have the patience right now to get into a pissing contest. He has a job to do and prefers to do it without interference.

“Yeah, an Agent Hart was here yesterday. That girl looked like she was barely out of diapers. You guys are recruiting them young now, aren’t ya?” The man asks.

Sam and Dean share a knowing look. Sam’s eyes widen as Dean’s narrows. You always used to babble about what fake FBI names you would use. Agent Hart was always at the top of your list. The brothers lost count of how many times you made them watch Miss Congeniality. So, they would know that name anywhere.

“Is this her?” Dean asks while showing the man a picture of you on his phone. The picture is of you sitting on Dean’s lap while you force him to smile for the camera.

“Yep. That’s her,” The land lord confirms. “You two close? Luck man,” he gives Dean a coy smile.

Dean does not return that slimy smirk. Instead, he clenches his jaw and holds himself back from punching the man. He hates the idea of anyone sexualizing his baby sister. You’re better than that.

Sam reads Dean’s reaction and steps between the two men. “Did she leave a phone number for you to reach her?” Sam asks with hope in his voice.

“Uh, yeah” the man says while he searches his wallet for your card. When he goes to hand it to Sam, Dean reaches over and snatches it away. Dean is about to leave the room when the man interrupts him. “Don’t you want to see what I showed her?” He asks reminding the agents why they were there in the first place.

The brothers crowd around the man’s tablet. He plays the security footage of the perp’s miraculous escape.

“Wait, freeze there. Zoom in,” Sam directs. The footage clearly shows the man is sporting a distinctive tattoo on his right forearm.  

“Same ink as the Styne’s,” Dean says what both brothers are thinking.

In a panic, Sam pulls Dean away from the other man’s earshot. “Dean, if this is the Stynes, and Y/N is working this case, then she doesn’t know what she’s walking into. She left the bunker before Charlie called us about the Book of the Damned! She doesn’t know anything about what the Stynes are capable of or how hard they are to kill!” Sam informs his brother.

Dean’s teeth grind together. Before Sam can blink, Dean’s fist collides with the nearest piece of drywall. He shakes his now bloodied knuckles. “Son of a bitch!”

Sam looks back at the horrified landlord. “You can send the bill for repairs to head office,” Sam says with a sheepish smile. He hurries his brother out of the room before Dean snaps again.

Dean pushes his brother’s guiding hand off of him. “We need to find her, Sammy! Now!” Dean barks.  

Over the past few weeks, Dean’s sole focus has been on finding you. However, Sam has split his attention between finding you and trying to find a way to remove Dean’s mark. But now, his missions have collided. Now more than ever, both brothers are feeling the urgency. You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into.

Dean and Sam get into the crappy car they have been forced to use since your departure. Dean slams the door shut behind him. “How could she be so stupid? I raised her better than this. She knows better than to…” Dean is too infuriated to finish his train of thought. You’re going to get yourself killed trying to prove a point to your brothers. The fear inside of Dean is morphing into uncontrollable anger. “I am going to kill all those Frankenstein sons of bitches if they so much as lay a finger one her!” Dean grips the wheel and peels out of the parking lot.

“Agent Hart,” you greet into the receiver of your phone. You love pretending to be professional.

“Y/N?” You hear Sam’s soft voice and your stomach drops.

“S-Sam?”

You hear shuffling on the other end of the phone. The next voice you hear makes you heart stop. You thought you were over it. You told yourself you that what Dean said and did to you was driven by the mark. That wasn’t your brother. You thought you were over it. But even hearing his hardened voice makes fearful tears pool in your eyes. Your bruises have long since healed but all the sudden you can feel your cheek sting again right where he hit you.

“Where the fuck are you?” Dean growls at you. Your eyes widen. You knew he would be mad that your left. You knew he would be pissed about you taking Baby. But, you thought his rage would have eased in the three weeks he has had to cool down. “You know what, it doesn’t matter,” Dean stops you before you can respond. “Get your ass back to the bunker, now! You have no idea what you’re dealing with, kid!”

Your anger rises to match Dean’s. He still refuses to acknowledge you. He still insists on treating you like a child. Apparently, you still have something to prove. You’ll take care of this weirdo all on your own. Then, you’ll rub it in his condescending face.

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with! A freak who has been harvesting people’s organs so he can live longer. I even know his name, Eldon Styne. Plus, I know where to find him,” you inform your brothers. You’re proud of all the information you have been able to dig up in such a short time. This guy left more a paper trail than you were expecting. He’s kind of sloppy.

“No, Y/N! Don’t you dare! It’s more than that! That ‘freak’ and his family aren’t something you can take on alone! These aren’t amateurs you’re dealing with, Y/N. So, they can’t be taken down by an amateur!”

In Dean’s misguided mind, he thinks he actually doing a good job in convincing you to back down. But, all he is doing is riling you up. Before, you had something to prove. Now, you feel like closing this case out of spite.

“I can do this! I may be new at this but I’m not an idiot. I am careful and I am capable. Back off, Dean!” You bite at your brother before hanging up on him. As if beating you down wasn’t enough. He always has to pour salt into your wounds by making you feel inferior.

You turn your phone off and pull out the battery. You have a long drive a head of you. You don’t need your phone ringing incessantly. Nor do you need your brothers tracking you down through GPS. You pull the map out of Baby’s glove compartment and find your route to Shreveport, Louisiana.

“Here’s how you redeem yourself. First, clean up your mess in Omaha. Next, you will track down these Winchesters who murdered your brother Jacob and who may now have in their possession the Book of the Damned” Monroe Styne instructs his son.

“It will be done,” Eldon responds with fearful obedience. He knows his father is not one to make idle threats. If he fails to deliver again, he will lose his position as heir and will become the family lab rat.

Eldon and his goons leave his father office on a mission.

Just then, you pull up to the cute yellow house. The mouldings scream southern charm. But the two armed men guarding the front door, tells you that you are exactly where you need to be. You did a little research on the Styne family. Their history isn’t as developed as you first assumed it would be. They seemed to have popped up in the 1800s out of nowhere and have been causing trouble ever since. If you had access to the bunkers library, you may have been able to learn more. But for now, all you need to know is that they kill people to harvest their body parts. Which means they fall under your jurisdiction.

You sneak around to the back porch and slip into the house through the kitchen. You are armed to the teeth. But so far no one has gotten in your way.

The further you slip into the house, the faster your heart starts to race. You see a group of men discussing something in the hall in front of you. To stay hidden, you slip into what you think is an empty room.  

You close the door behind you. You jump out of your skin when you hear a throat clear from across the room. You raise your gun and point it in the direction of the sound.

The man looking down your barrel doesn’t seem phased in the least.

“And who might you be?” Monroe asks you with a curious smile. His southern drawl would be charming if he didn’t look like evil incarnate.

“I’m the girl who’s going to kill you,” you inform him. You try to match his threatening persona but can’t help but feel like you’re failing miserably.

Monroe laughs a genuine laugh. He gets out of his seat. “Drink?” He raises a pitcher of sweet tea in your direction.

You narrow your eyes at him in confusion. You’re not in the mood for small talk. So, you pull your trigger you land a shot straight in his heart. He doesn’t fall. He barely even flinches. 

The gun shot didn’t kill him. But, it did alert the house to your presence. Within minutes, the door is kicked open and all the men from the hall barge into the room. Every shot you land hits their mark dead on but these men do not fall. It is as if the bullets barley leaves a sting.

It doesn’t take long for you to be surrounded. Your gun is kicked out of your hand and you are stripped of all your weapons, except they never find the knife in your boot. You are pushed onto your knees as your own gun is pointed at your head. You recognize the man holding you down as the man from the video, Eldon.

“Shall we try this one more time, girly? Who are you?” the grey-haired man asks you again.

You debate your options. Sassing him will only get you killed faster. So, you decide to try a little honesty. “Y/N Winchester. And I’m guessing you’re the patriarch of this little band of killers. You must be so proud,” you feign a smile up at the man. You told yourself you weren’t going to sass the man with a gun to your head but you just couldn’t help yourself.

“I have my moments. But tell me darling’, Winchester? Any relation to Sam and Dean?” the older man asks you.

You shift on your knees. “Y-You know my brothers?” You hate how shaky your voice comes out. But you’re starting to realize Dean may have been right. He may have warned you about this family for reason. You thought he was just being an asshole who thought you couldn’t handle any situation. But you’re starting to understand he was referring to this specific situation as being above your paygrade.

“They killed my eldest boy,” all charm is gone from Monroe’s voice. He steps forward so he is towering over your kneeling and helpless form. His lips fall into a hard line. He contemplates what to do with you. You can see his wheels turning against your favour. He is no doubt imagining the most painful way to kill you or which parts of you to harvest. That thought makes a shiver run down your spine.

“Daddy, the girl may be useful.” Eldon interrupts his father when he sees the murderous glint in his eyes. “If she really is their sister, I think they’d be willing to make a trade. We give them her and they give us the book. Those Winchesters seem just stupid enough to think it would be a fair trade.” Eldon offers a solution.

Monroe considers his options for a moment. “No,” he states with finality. “We do not barter with animals. That is beneath us. We will get the book back on our own terms. They stole from us and we shall not negotiate.”

“Then what are we to do with this one?” Eldon nudges you with his knee and you stumble off balance.

“She is a Winchester. You know as well as I do the power of Winchester blood. The Winchester lineage is a lot like ours in many ways, special.”

“So, what do you want to do, bleed her out?” Eldon asks slightly confused.

Now you think is a good time to clarify a few things. “I am only their half-sister! I don’t have any of that special sauce you are talking about. I’m just a-” a firm back handed slap across your cheek cuts you off.

“Don’t be stupid, boy. Think bigger. She may only be a half breed Winchester but she is still a Winchester. And Winchester blood will mix well with our own. It will add a certain potency to our linage. Strengthen the family tree so to speak. I’ll tell you what, we’ll make a deal. Cousin Eli seems to think you are incapable of handling your assignment on your own,” Monroe addresses his son. “prove him wrong. Kill that little redheaded who stole my book and I’ll give you the girl as a reward. She can be yours.”

“To do what with, exactly?” There is a glint of hope in Eldon voice that makes you shudder. But Eldon needs to clarify his father’s meaning before he lets his hopes run wild.

“You expect me to spell it out for you! You are my son and heir! That means you too will need an heir one day. Breed your new bitch. I don’t care how it happens. Marry her or simply lock her up in the basement and breed her when she’s at peak fertility. Like I said, I don’t care. But, you will mix our bloodlines.”

“Yes, Daddy!” Eldon beams with excitement. He reaches down to pick your stupefied body off the ground but Monroe slaps the back of his head to stop him.

“What the hell you doing, son?” Monroe shouts. “I said she is you reward for you fulfilling your duties! You have already disappointed me today. You have not earned your reward yet. You don’t get her until the job is done. And, if you fail… she will go to the man who can follow orders.” Monroe’s eye travels from his son over to his nephew Eli. A little familial completion is guaranteed to get the job done, especially since the incentive to succeed is so sweet. “You boys better get going. But leave her with me.” Monroe turns his attention to you. “We have some things to discuss. She will be well prepped in her expectations for your return.”

You are pulled off the ground. The feeling of someone touching you pulls you out of your shocked state. You fight against their manhandling with all the strength you have. But they drag you along like your violent efforts mean nothing. You are knocked around like a ragdoll. You can’t help but feel the same way you did at the bunker. Dean kept knocking you down so easily. You should have listened to him when he told you that you weren’t ready, you weren’t strong enough. Now, your overconfidence in your own abilities has condemned you to a nightmare.

Eldon tries to strap you to a wooden chair but your limbs refuse to comply. You scratch at his face and make his job as difficult as possible.

“Control your broodmare! If you cannot handle her now, how can I trust you to handle the breeding process?” Monroe shouts at his son.

Your eyes widen in fear but a full fisted punch to your temple knocks the fear out of you. Your mind goes hazy and your muscles go limp just long enough for Eldon to tie you down. You are brought back to reality when he leans in and kisses your temple. He puts his lips right over where his fist just landed. “I promise not to mark up your face anymore after this. It was just this once. But don’t think that the rest of you isn’t fair game,” he smiles against your skin. You pull on your restraints as tears pool in our eyes.

“Enough! Get to work. She’ll be waiting here for your successful return. Do not come back without that redhead’s blood on your sword,” Monroe threatens his son one last time.

Eldon nods and leaves the room without another word.

The throbbing in your head is dulled by the disgust bubbling within you. “If you know my brothers, then you know they will kill you. They’ll find out I’m here one way or another. Then, you are all dead!” You spit your venom at the patriarch. You hate the idea that you are relying on your brothers to save you. You want to save yourself. But right now, that isn’t an option. You only hope you didn’t cover your tracks as well as you thought you did and Sam and Dean find you before it’s too late.

“Time for a history lesson, girly.” Monroe says ignoring your every threat. “By the time school is out of session, you will understand the full power of my family… excuse my rudeness, our family.” He offers you a wicked smile. “We have been funding destruction for centuries. We cannot be taken down by the likes of your brothers. So, you may as well settle in. You are one of us now, sweetheart.”

“I will never be a part of your twisted family! You can take your egomaniacal self-indulgence and shove it up your-” a firm hand closes over your throat and blocks your words from coming out.

“This is a goddamn privilege! Baring Styne children is a gift. You will be grateful or will not like what happens next!” The pure rage in his eyes is more threatening than his words.

The forceful hold over your throat is causing your vison to blacken. Monroe loosens his grip and stands up straight. He walks back over to his desk and takes a seat. All he does is stare at you while he waits for you to choke the air back into your lungs.

“You finished? We have a lot of ground to cover.” Monroe says as he leans forward in his chair and interlocks his fingers.

After your family history lesson, you were left to sit alone in Monroe’s office. He didn’t seem to have an issue leaving you alone. He says he trusts his new daughter to behave then left. It feels like you have been sitting here for days on end. Although the agonizing cuckoo clock on the wall tells you it has only been a few of hours. You struggle against your restraints to reach the knife still in your boot but the ropes are too tight. You have to wait until someone comes to untie you.

The hours tick by but no one comes for you. No one comes to feed you or let you go to the bathroom. Exhaustion takes you over and you drift to sleep. You don’t know how long you were out for but you are awoken to the study door bursting open. You jolt awake and try to ready yourself for a fight, but then you remember you are strapped to a chair.

To your surprise, it isn’t Monroe but rather Eldon who comes through the door. He drops his bloodied knife onto his father’s desk. He turns to you with a triumphant smile. “I held up my end of the bargain. Father says I can play for a while before I go find your brothers. He says it is important to reward small victories. It prompts motivation for further success.”

He takes a step toward you. “Touch me and I will rip your lungs out!” you threaten the man using Dean’s best line.

Eldon clenches his jaw before crossing the room and punching you in the stomach. If you weren’t restrained you would have doubled over in pain. He is a man of his word, you have to give him that. He didn’t touch your face.

“I thought Father taught you your place here, bitch? You don’t get a say in what happens to you. Your body is mine and your womb belong to our family now. Get in line or I’ll have to put you there,” Eldon threatens you. “I earned you. I am entitled to my reward,” he says as if you are bartering over gold stickers and not your body.

“You didn’t earn shit! Your father is not in charge of when I spread my legs! You can go fuck yourself but leave me out of it!” You spit at the man in front of you.

“You got a mouth on you, girl. No wonder your brothers sent you into the lion’s den all on your own. They were probably itching to get rid of you and that smart lip. I am probably doing them a service taking you off their hands and putting that tongue to better use.”

Before you can correct him, Eldon lunges forward and claims your mouth in bruising kiss. You struggle against your restraints and try to jerk your head away. But a firm hand grasps your hair and holds you in place. You bite his intruding tongue but that earns you another punch to the stomach.

Eldon pushes away from you and walks back over to his father’s desk. He picks up his bloodied and discarded knife before coming back over to you.

“Do you know whose blood this is?” He asks you as he crouches down to your eye level.

You shake your head because your swollen lips are too afraid to part.

“I believe you know her. Apparently, she is a family friend of you Winchesters.” Eldon licks some of the blood off his knife and your cringe with disgust. “Charlene… Caroline…” Eldon struggles to remember her name.

“C-Charlie?” you squeak with utter dread.

Eldon’s wicked smile of affirmation is his only response. You heart drops into your stomach as violent tears stream down your cheeks. You had no idea Charlie was the redhead they were talking about earlier. Why didn’t you make that connection? Why didn’t you kill them when you had the chance? Now, Charlie is dead because you couldn’t handle them on your own. She is dead because of you.

Your head is hung low but Eldon hooks his finger under your chin. Your watering eyes meet his empty ones. He licks his blade again. Then, he kisses you again. You can taste Charlie’s blood on his tongue and you sob into his mouth.

He cuts you free of your restraints and throws you over his shoulder. You kick against him and let out a string of curses as he carries up the stairs to his bedroom. He locks the door behind him then throws you onto his bed.

“Strip,” to him it is such a simple demand.

You start by taking off your boot. The second it is off your foot you reach inside the lining and pull out your knife. You swipe it across his face and leave a nasty gash. He doesn’t even wince.

There is no pain in his eyes, only rage. He grasps your wrists and bends it back until the bone snaps and you let go of your little knife. You whimper in pain but he pays you no mind. He picks up your knife and pushes you onto your back. He hovers in over you and holds the knife to your throat.

“Kiss it better,” he orders you. When you refuse to move he presses the knife into your skin until it draws blood. You debate whether you should let him kill you, it would be better than being his bitch. But, you know he won’t let you off that easy.

You lean forward and kiss his cheek, right above the bloody cut you left there. That simple act causes bile to rise in your throat. 

“I’m sure you can do better than that. Let me show you how it’s done,” Eldon says as he takes the knife and cuts along your collarbone. A line of blood appears and you bite back your cries of pain. He lowers his mouth onto you wound. He sucks and kisses the cut until there is no more blood dripping down your chest. “Just like that,” he says when he’s finished. “Your turn!” he leans his cheek closer to you. 

You refuse to reciprocate.

He clenches his jaw. “Fine then. I guess I’ll just have to keep going until you get the memo.” He rips open your shirt and starts cutting into the skin along your chest and stomach. You writhe in pain as it is a never-ending pattern of cutting and sucking. He holds you down with his inhuman strength and forces you to endure his confusing torture. The knife hurts but his lips heal.

His trail ends at the hem of your jeans. But soon he takes them off you and cuts your panties off you too. You have been naked in front of a man before but you have never felt so exposed. He keeps your legs spread as he places the cold blade against your core.

“Please don’t,” you beg him through the tears. You are starting to realize just how bad he could make this.

“Shh, baby girl.” He crawls back up your body. “I would never cut you there… unless you asked me nicely. No, I plan on ruining your pretty little pussy in a different way.” He smiles at you and you hear him unbuckle his slacks.

You kick, punch, scream, and beg. But you are no match for him. You have a broken wrist and mere human strength. He will have his way, whether you like it or not.

He takes you. You try to close your eyes and pretend it is Nate splitting you open but Eldon forces you keep your eyes open. He wants you to watch as he lays his claim. He owns you now and each brutal thrust seals the deal. You push Nate out of your mind.

Soon the Styne’s seed will paint your walls. You stopped fighting him. You figure this is your punishment for being unable to prevent Charlie’s death. You deserve all the pain, violation, and humiliation.

At some point during the night, you stopped wishing your brothers would find you. You don’t want them to see how quickly you broke, how quickly you crumbled under Eldon’s forceful hand. You don’t want them to see how weak you are.

You don’t want them to say I told you so.

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[sunflowerseedsandscience]

X-Files Fic: What Was Taken, What Was Lost- Chapter Three

Previous Chapters: One | Two

The library, it transpires, is a converted guest room in exactly the same shape as their own, a floor above, complete with its own bathroom and balcony.  But instead of a bed, dresser, and vanity, this room is full of wall-to-wall bookshelves, with a love seat, coffee table, and two wing-back chairs on an Oriental carpet in the center.  The wooden door that divides all of the other hotel rooms is absent here, replaced by a set of handsome glass doors, which are unlocked, though no one is in the library at the moment.

"Is this all hotel history?" Mulder muses, following Scully into the room.  She shakes her head.

"Looks like fiction on this wall," she says, gesturing to the space between the bathroom door and the corner, where the balcony is located.  Sure enough, Mulder can see some fairly recent releases, surrounded by well-worn paperbacks and older editions of classic works.  He crosses the room, to the expanse of shelving to the right of the balcony.

"Nonfiction over here," he says.  "Lots of history... lots of books about the history of New York State, in particular."  He turns around and grins.  "Jackpot," he says, returning to the wall that holds the door to the hallway.  The books on these shelves are older, less uniform in their sizes.  He and Scully scan them, looking for something helpful.  Mulder's eyes fall on what looks like a three-ring binder, and he pulls it down, flipping open the cover.

"It's a scrapbook," says Scully, as he pages through the assembled photographs and newspaper clippings.  "Of the hotel, when it was a sanitarium."  Mulder nods, and together, they page through the binder.  There are brochures advertising the sanitarium, though none of them name it as such, or even call it a hospital.  Clearly, the facility had been an exclusive one, a place for the wealthy to rest and recover without the public embarrassment of admitting that they, too, could suffer from the same diseases as the lower orders.  The scrapbook ends with a newspaper article from the local paper, detailing the sale of the building to the Catholic Church in 1931.  Mulder closes the scrapbook and replaces it on the shelf, then reaches for an identical one right next to it, opening it.

"Another scrapbook," he says.  "From when the place was a home for wayward girls."

"It's all very interesting, I'll give you that, Mulder," Scully says, stepping back and continuing to scan the books on the shelves, "but I'm not sure what it has to do with our investigation.  Shouldn't we be trying to get more information from the employees?  Finding out if they've seen anything suspicious, if anyone's been acting strange?"

"You've heard all the employees we've talked to so far, Scully," Mulder points out.  "They're all under strict instruction not to reveal anything to the guests."

"Damon seemed like he could be persuaded to talk," Scully muses, pulling a tall, unlabeled book from the shelf in front of her.

"True," Mulder concedes, "but he's only been on staff for a few weeks.  Plus, he only works evenings, so it's not like we can head down there and pump him for information while we have lunch."  He continues paging through the scrapbook.  "And anyway... whatever it is I saw last night, I'm almost positive that that's what's responsible for what's going on here.  And if the hotel is haunted, what better way to figure out why than by learning about its history?"

"And what, exactly, do you suggest we do if it is haunted, Mulder?" asks Scully.  "The FBI is not qualified to perform exorcisms."

"Maybe the ghost wants something," says Mulder.  "Maybe there's something she needs to know, something she needs to see, before she can be at peace."  Scully rolls her eyes, opening the book in her hands.  Mulder frowns down at it.  "What have you got there?"

"It looks sort of like a guest book," Scully says, paging through it carefully.  The paper is old and fragile, but she's right: it looks like some sort of a log.  Along the left-hand side is a list of names- women's names, Mulder notices.

"I think these are the names of the girls who stayed here," he says, bending over Scully's shoulder for a closer look.  "They've written down the date of arrival and the date of departure... and look, underneath that."  He wraps an arm around her to point out a third date, underneath the other two.  "After they arrived, but before they left.  What do you think?  Date they gave birth?"  Scully leans back against him, seemingly unaware that she's doing it.

"Probably," she says.  "Looks like some of them stayed for quite awhile after their babies were born, though."  Mulder looks back at the scrapbook, where his attention is caught by a photograph of what looks to be a nursery.  Scully follows his gaze, and nods, as though what she sees makes perfect sense to her.  "They most likely had the mothers nurse their babies, at least for awhile," she observes.  "See, you can see the nuns standing around the nursery-" she points at the photo, and Mulder follows her finger to the severe-looking older women in their black and white habits- "but the ones holding the babies, they're not nuns.  They look like teenagers, most of them."  She's right.  The women standing over cribs, seated in rockers with infants in their arms and at their breasts, are very young, girls, really, all dressed in the same drab, shapeless dress.

"Did they take the babies home with them when they left?" Mulder asks, and Scully shakes her head.

"I don't think many of them did," she says, returning her attention to the guest log in her hands.  "Look at the annotations here, next to the dates their babies were born.  Each date has a letter next to it, and I'm willing to bet that 'A' stands for 'Adopted.'"  Sure enough, when Mulder looks closely, there's a long line of A's scrawled next to the dates.  He frowns.

"What does 'K' stand for?" he asks... and then a truly horrible thought occurs to him.  "You don't think they-"

"No, no," Scully cuts him off.  "I think that probably stands for 'Keep, or 'Kept.'  I'd imagine at least a few of the girls couldn't be talked into giving up their children.  Whether or not their families would accept them back was probably another matter... but I can understand it, making the decision to keep their child, even if it meant losing everything else they had."  Her posture is suddenly stiff against him, and her voice is indescribably sad.  He berates himself for exposing her to this.  If he’d only taken the time to research the hotel’s history before accepting the case….

“I’m sorry, Scully,” he murmurs against her ear.  “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, taking this case.”  Scully shrugs him off, stepping away.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she says, her voice tersely professional once again.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” he says.  “You know that, right?  If you need to talk about it, I’m here.”  She doesn’t look at him.  “In fact, I think we could both benefit from talking-“

“Both?”  Scully’s voice and eyes are icy cold.  “This is something that was done to me, Mulder, and I am dealing with it just fine.”  Her tone makes it perfectly clear that the subject is closed as she carries the guest book across the room, sitting down on the love seat without looking at him.  Mulder bites back any number of angry retorts he could make, sensing that none of them would help at the moment.

He does need to talk about it.  He’s needed to talk about it since the moment he’d held that vial of her ova in his hands, the moment he’d considered its implications.  The idea of Scully being infertile hadn’t been nearly as upsetting then, when most of his mind had been occupied with the simple matter of her survival, of discovering a cure for her cancer.  But once the threat had passed, once she’d gone into remission, the worry had once again resurfaced.

“I’m sorry, they’re not viable,” the fertility specialist he’d gone to had told him, his face full of sympathy.  “I have some information here on using a donor egg, if you’d like to take them home to your wife.”  Mulder had shaken his head, his heart and his hopes plummeting sickeningly.  “And, of course, I can dispose of the ova for you, if you’d like.”

“No!” Mulder had cried out, and the doctor had frowned, confused.

“Mr. Hale,” he’d said patiently, “The ova you’ve brought to me are not salvageable, not by any medical technology yet in existence, or even in development.  Now, I understand the desire to use your wife’s eggs, but with the cost of continuing to store them being what they are-“

“Cost is not a problem,” Mulder had stated firmly.  “I don’t want them destroyed.”

The doctor had relented, and Mulder had returned home dejected.  And then, barely two months later, Scully’s hopes had been re-ignited by the discovery of Emily… but Mulder, certain as he had been of the little girl’s origins, had cautiously tempered his excitement, and had tried his best to temper Scully’s as well.  He had never wanted to be proven wrong so badly in his life, but when it had turned out that he had been right, when he’d seen how badly Emily had been suffering, he’d found himself unable to do anything but support Scully in her decision to allow her daughter’s pain to end.

It’s not, Mulder thinks as he cautiously takes a seat next to Scully, that he’s ever really had his heart set on becoming a father.  In fact, if he’d been asked about it prior to meeting and falling in love with Scully, he would have said that having children was not and never would be a part of his life’s plan.  And it isn’t as though there had been a lightning-strike moment where he’d suddenly become desperate to have children with her.  It had been a slow dawning, not unlike the gradual awareness he had felt when he had realized that he was in love with her.  And by the time it had become clear that Scully would never have the chance to be a mother, he had known enough to be certain that that meant that he would never be a father.

He’s grieving, as well.  He just doesn’t know how to tell her that without making it seem as though he’s making light of the grief that she’s experiencing.

“There are so many names in here,” Scully murmurs, jerking him back to the present.  “They had girls coming and going all the time.”  Mulder glances at the register that Scully is flipping through, then looks back at the binder is his own lap.  He turns past an article in the New York Times praising the home for helping so many families in need, past photographs of babies in cribs, toddlers at play, nuns supervising the mothers’ time with their children.  There are letters, as well, some from adoptive parents thanking the home for bringing them together with their children, some from the mothers’ parents, thanking them for their discretion.  He stops to peruse one letter in particular that catches his attention, and Scully leans over his shoulder, reading it aloud.

“’Our daughter has communicated to us, in her last letter, her desire to keep her child and to raise it herself,’” Scully reads, “’but we, as her parents, feel strongly that this would be unwise, both for the child’s sake, and for hers.  Her reputation would be destroyed, her chances of marrying gone, and the child would be forced to grow up with the stigma of being a bastard.  Let him be adopted by someone who can give him an untarnished life.’”  Scully frowns down at the letter.  “This is awful,” she says.  “Listen to this, Mulder: ‘We give you permission to do whatever is necessary to free both our daughter and her child of the burden of notoriety, even if it means being dishonest with her.  Better she believe her child lost, so that she can grieve and get on with her life, than have her entire life destroyed for its sake.  Though dishonesty may be a sin, we believe that in such a difficult case, the greater sin would be to blight the life of an innocent child because of his mother’s stubbornness.’  They wanted the home to lie to their daughter, to claim that her baby had died, and allow someone to adopt it.”  Scully shakes her head.  “I can’t imagine them putting their daughter through that kind of pain, that kind of grief, all for the sake of their reputation.”

“Well, having a baby out of wedlock was a much bigger deal back in the nineteen thirties than it is now,” Mulder says.  “Especially if the mother came from a wealthy society family.  Her parents probably thought that it was the kindest thing they could do for her.”  Scully suddenly closes the guest register with a loud snap and jumps to her feet.  She replaces the volume on the shelf.

“I think we should split up for awhile, Mulder,” she says.  “I’m going to go see if I can’t convince any of the employees to talk.”  Mulder stands as well.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asks, and she shakes her head.  He gets the message, loud and clear: she needs some time alone.  That’s fine.  He can give her that.  “I’m gonna stay here a little longer,” he says.  “Meet you later this afternoon?”

“Sure,” says Scully.  Before she can object, Mulder closes the distance between them and kisses her cheek, once, softly.  She manages something close to a smile.  “See you later, Mulder.”

-----------------------------------

Mulder doesn’t see Scully at lunch, and he decides to give her some space and not go looking for her.  It’s close quarters, this case, and Scully has always been a very private person, so it doesn’t surprise him that after over thirty-six hours of being together nonstop, she might want a little space.  He goes back to the library after he eats and picks up the scrapbook again, reading through more articles and letters, looking at more pictures.

More and more, he’s convinced that this haunting has its roots somewhere during this period in the building’s past.  It’s unlikely that the spirit is someone who had died here during its stint as a hospital- Scully had explained to him that a place like this likely sent its worst cases elsewhere towards the end, preserving the illusion that most of those who checked in had been cured by the time they had left.

But during the Catholic Church’s ownership, these walls had clearly borne witness to more than their fair share of pain.

Some of the letters pasted into the scrapbook are from the mothers of the children born in the home, begging for details of who had adopted their babies, so that they might find them again and know that they were all right, that they were happy.  The desperate tone of these missives tears at Mulder’s heart.  One particular girl had written on three separate occasions, her grief and heartbreak mounting with each subsequent effort to find what she had lost.  There are articles, as well, detailing the deaths of several of the girls.  Some had died in childbirth… but some, their deaths listed as “sudden tragedies months after recuperation” had clearly been suicides.

As evening comes on and the room darkens around him, Mulder finally closes the scrapbook and replaces it on the bookshelf.  His eyes are burning from too much reading in low light, and he decides to go up to their room before dinner and splash some cold water on his face.  When he opens the door, the first things he sees is Scully, fast asleep on the bed, snoring softly.

For a moment, the sense of déjà vu is strong, and Mulder half-expects to see the ethereal form of the woman in black hovering over her, watching her sleep… but there’s nothing, no one.  He glances at the mirror, but there’s no shadow there, either.  Wherever the spirit has originated, it seems to prefer coming out only at night.

Mulder sits on the bed by Scully’s hip and gently strokes her shoulder.  He bends close to her ear.

“Scully,” he says softly, “time to go have dinner.”  She stirs and rolls onto her back, blinking sleepily up at him.  She’s so damn adorable that for a moment, all Mulder wants to do is to lie down beside her and hold her close.  But before he can do more than contemplate it, she’s sitting up, stretching and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“I had a headache, and I decided to lie down for a little while,” she says, sitting up.  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.  I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mulder says, reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ear.  “It’s after seven o’clock, though, and I thought you might be ready for dinner.”  Scully whirls to look at the clock on the bedside table.

“That late?” she exclaims.  “Oh, Mulder, you should have come and gotten me sooner.”

“I didn’t even know you were up here,” he says, amused.  “And anyway, you didn’t miss anything except me reading my way through the rest of that scrapbook.”  She raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“You read that whole thing?”  He nods.  “Anything helpful?”

“Potentially,” he says.  As they get ready and walk down to the dining room together, he tells her of his findings and explains his theory on the origins of the hotel’s haunting.

“That’s all very interesting, Mulder,” Scully says, as they cross the lobby, “but since we have absolutely no evidence that this supposed haunting has anything to do with the deaths that have taken place here, I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“First off, Scully, I can promise you that this is more than a supposed haunting,” says Mulder.  “I know what I saw last night.  And other people have seen it, too.  And I’m telling you, Scully, whatever or whoever that spirit is, one thing is certain: it’s absolutely filled with hatred.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” says Scully firmly, as they enter the dining room.

Damon is their server again tonight, but Mulder’s hopes of pumping the young man for more information are dashed almost immediately.  Gregory Pekarcik is making the rounds, talking to one couple after another, and Damon is clearly unwilling to have his boss catch him airing any of the hotel’s dirty laundry.  The food is just as good as it had been at the previous evening’s dinner, but the atmosphere at the table is strained.  Mulder is annoyed with Scully for continuing to insist that he had been hallucinating the spirit he had seen over her, and she, in turn, is irritated with him for “wasting” an entire day reading up on what she considers to be completely irrelevant information.

As Mulder and Scully are finishing their dessert, Gregory Pekarcik approaches their table.

“Having a pleasant meal, Mr. and Mrs. Foster?” he asks, smiling genially.  They both nod.

“It’s excellent, again,” says Scully.

“Did you enjoy your first day with us?”

“We did,” says Mulder.  “We met some other couples over in the common room, and your desk clerk directed us to the library.”  Mr. Pekarcik’s face lights up.

“Ah, the library!” he says.  “It’s my pet project.  I’ve been adding to it since I bought the place.”

“Was it you that compiled all those scrapbooks?” Mulder asks.  “On the building’s history?  They were fascinating reading.”

“Yes, that was me,” says Mr. Pekarcik, nodding proudly.  “The workers found boxes and boxes of stuff in the basement and attic when I was renovating the place.  They wanted to just throw it away, but I made them leave it so that I could go through it.  I confess, I have a passion for history, no matter how obscure or inconsequential.  Whether it’s the history of an empire or the history of a family, I love it all.”

“Pekarcik is an interesting name,” Scully comments.  “Where’s it from?  With an interest in history like that, I imagine you must have your whole family tree mapped out for hundreds of years.”

“My parents’ family tree, yes,” Mr. Pekarcik says with a sigh.  “They were Romanian immigrants who came to America in 1929.  I was adopted sometime after they had established themselves in this country.  It was a closed adoption, so as to my own ancestors….”  He shrugs.  “I suppose that’s the root of my interest.  I don’t know my history, so I like to read about everyone else’s.”

“That’s understandable,” says Mulder.  “In any case, I found the scrapbook on the Catholic girls’ home especially interesting.”

“Oh, yes,” says Mr. Pekarcik, his blue eyes shining.  “You know, we still get people coming to look at the place, people who were born here and adopted out who are trying to trace their heritage.  Unfortunately….”  He sighs regretfully.  “We don’t have much to tell them.  The archdiocese took all of the adoption records with them when they sold the building to protect the privacy of the families who had paid a great deal of money to protect their reputations.  The concept of ‘open adoption’ as we know it was still a good distance in the future… otherwise, I would know a lot more about my own heritage than I do!”

“You were born here?” asks Mulder, surprised.

“I was, indeed,” says Mr. Pekarcik.  “One of hundreds of babies born in this building.  My parents were very supportive of my desire to know where I had come from, but unfortunately, there was only so much they could tell me.  They knew nothing about the young woman who gave birth to me, and the home would certainly not tell them anything.  I tried to get more information myself, when I was older, but…”  He shakes his head.  “The Church was not very forthcoming.  But when it came time to retire, and I heard that this place was going to be torn down if something didn’t buy it?  It seemed like a sign.  I couldn’t not purchase it.”  He gazes around at the dining room, smiling like a proud father.  “No matter where I’ve lived, I’ve always felt such a strong pull to this place.  I’m meant to be here.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job with it,” Scully says warmly.  “We’re enjoying our stay very much.”  Mr. Pekarcik beams.

“Very pleased to hear it,” he says.  “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, no matter the hour.  My own apartment is on the first floor, right at the very end of the left-hand hallway, so please, anything at all, don’t hesitate to come knocking!”  He bids them farewell and moves on to the next table.  Mulder turns back to Scully, eyebrows raised.

“The plot thickens,” he murmurs, and Scully frowns.

“I don’t see what his being born here has to do with anything, Mulder,” she says.  “Are you ruling him out as a suspect?”

“Well, unless it’s for insurance money- which, according to the guy’s bio, he doesn’t need because he’s absolutely loaded- I can’t see why he’d sabotage his own hotel.”  He leans back in his seat.  “And anyway, I’m already relatively certain our culprit isn’t even human- at least, not any more.”  Scully rolls her eyes.  “Just wait until tonight, Scully.  We’re staying awake until she shows up again.”

“You can stay awake if you want, Mulder, but I fully intend to get a good night’s sleep.  By all means, wake me if your ‘visitor’ makes a second appearance… but I’m warning you, if you wake me up to an empty room, I’m taking the car and you’re walking back to the airport.”

——————————-

It’s not the cold that wakes him this time.  It’s the voice.

He’s dreaming- or, at least, he thinks he is- of his childhood home, of his sister.  It’s the weekend, Saturday morning, and he’s trying hard to sleep in, but Samantha won’t stop calling him.  She’s jumping on the bed, trying to wake him up, and he rolls over, stubbornly, ignoring her.

“Go ‘way, Sam,” he mumbles.  “M’not ready to get up yet.”

“Come on, Fox,” his sister whines.  “There’s no one to play with.  I’m bored.”  He swats a hand in her general direction.

“Go play by yourself,” he says.  

“FOX.”  Samantha’s voice is suddenly unnaturally deep, and Mulder goes cold all over.  He wrenches his eyes open, taking in the sight of the shadowed hotel room ceiling, the antique furniture.  Looking to the right, he sees Scully, fast asleep beside him.

A dream, then.  Certainly not an unusual occurrence; dreams of Samantha have been plaguing him for years.  But somehow, this one feels different.

“Fox!”

The voice, as improbable as it is, is coming from outside, from beyond the French doors, which, tonight, have remained tightly closed against the storm that has still been raging at bedtime.  Now, however, Mulder cannot hear the sound of the wind, and outside the window, he can see only sunlight.  Has he slept the whole night through?

“Fox, I’m waiting!”

Samantha’s voice.  Again.  Coming from outside.  Dreamlike, Mulder sits up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing.  He feels curiously light, as though the soft carpeting under his feet were buoying him up, as he walks slowly to the French doors and throws them open.

Outside, the sun is shining, and it’s not the grounds of Whitehall Manor that greet his eyes, but the sunny, grassy backyard of his childhood home.  And standing in the middle of the yard, smiling up at him, her hair in pigtails….

“Samantha!”  He cries out her name before he remembers Scully sleeping across the room, but when he turns to look, she hasn’t stirred.  Looking back out the window, over the balcony with its empty flowerpots, he sees Sam, still standing there, waving up at him.  The sun is warm on his face, and the breeze is sweet with the scent of fresh-cut grass, tangy with the salt of the nearby ocean.  It’s the sort of summer day every kid lives for, and he suddenly feels that he’s wasting it, shut away up here in this dark room.

“Come down, Fox!” Samantha calls.  “Hurry up!  I need to show you something!”  Mulder turns from the window without another thought, without stopping to wake Scully, and heads for the door.  He glances at his shoes, lying against the wall… but no, the sun-warmed grass will feel good on his bare feet.  He and Sam hardly ever wear shoes in the summer, anyway.

The hallway is dark and quiet, and he nearly stops, confused.  How can it be so sunny outside, and so gloomy in here?  But there’s no time, Sam is waiting for him, and so he shakes off the thought and runs quickly down the stairs, through the deserted lobby, and into the elegant ballroom at the back of the building.  The wall of windows that give out on the grounds leading to the lake seem dark… but as he approaches, they brighten, and he sees, once again, the backyard, Sam standing in the middle, her hands on her hips, waiting.

With his hand on the glass door leading outside, he stops.

The sunlight from outside isn’t shining through the windows, somehow.  Outside, it’s a bright and beautiful morning… but the ballroom is every bit as black and shadowed as one would expect it to be in the middle of the night.  Frowning, Mulder turns to see if he can see the sun from the windows on the other side of the room.

“Fox, are you coming or not?” yells Samantha, and Mulder finds that he cannot resist his sister’s voice, not after so many years of not hearing it.  He yanks the door open decisively and rushes out onto the grass.  His sister beams up at him as he approaches.  “I thought you were never gonna wake up,” she tells him.  She reaches out, grabbing his hand in hers, and tugs him towards the edge of the yard.  “Come on, you’ll never believe what I found in the woods!”  Mulder follows after her obediently.

“Sam, how did you get here?” he asks as they near the trees.  She looks back at him over her shoulder, smiling bemusedly.

“You’re silly, Fox,” she says.  “I’ve always been here.”

“But you were gone,” Mulder protests.  “You were gone for so long….”  Sam shakes her head impatiently and continues to drag him onward.

“Are you teasing me?” she asks.  “Because Mom told you to quit teasing me so much.  I’ll tell if you don’t stop.”  Mulder opens his mouth to reply, and discovers that he’s shaking.  Shivering, really; his teeth are chattering so hard that it hurts.  There’s a strange pain in his feet, as though he’s walking on sharp rocks… but when he looks down, it’s only dead leaves under him, nothing that should cause pain like this.  His face stings terribly, as though he’d been in the sun all day without any sunblock, even though he knows he’s only been outside for a few minutes, not nearly long enough to get sunburnt.  His nose is running and his eyes are streaming.  He tries to stop, but Samantha pulls him onward.

“S-s-s-am,” he stutters, fighting to get the words out through his chattering teeth.  “S-s-s-ome… s-something is wrong.”  His lungs are burning like he’s been running for hours.  Every breath is agony.  “I-I c-c-can’t… I c-c-can’t keep g-g-g-going. Stop.”

“We’re almost there, Fox!” Samantha says, continuing to yank on his arm, and he follows, helpless, until at last, they reach a clearing in the woods.  Mulder looks around, completely confused now.

A graveyard.  They’re standing in a graveyard.  One that he knows, for certain, is nowhere near the house where he and Samantha had lived as children.  It’s not very large- no more than two dozen graves- and the headstones are small and modest.  Mulder glances own at Samantha, who points earnestly at a stone directly in front of them.

“There,” she says, and Mulder staggers forward, the pain in his feet almost unbearable now, to see what it is that his sister wants to show him.  Dimly, in the back of his mind, he remembers learning that a person who is dreaming will not be able to read anything he sees in his dream, and so he is fully prepared to see nothing but blurred gibberish on the headstone… so it’s with great surprise that he finds that he can read the name “Olivia Westphal” as clear as day.

Mulder turns back to look at Sam… and she’s gone.  Vanished.  Gone, too, is the warm, green grass, the smell of the sea… and the sun.  Looking around, Mulder can scarcely see anything in the black night pressing in on all sides.  He is still in a graveyard- that much was no dream- but now, it’s the middle of the night, the snowstorm is howling around him, and he’s up to his knees in snow.  Barefoot.  Wearing nothing but his pajama pants and a t-shirt.

Mulder has never been this cold in his entire life.  His knees are weak, he’s dizzy- sleepy, almost- and he sinks slowly down against Olivia Westphal’s gravestone, unable to hold himself upright any longer.  His eyes scan the trees around him desperately, wondering if there’s a windbreak that he could drag himself under, somewhere that the snow isn’t as deep, where he could huddle up away from the bite of the wind until he can summon the strength to get back to the hotel.

Under a tree at the edge of the clearing, there’s a shadow, a darker patch in the blackness of the night, as though someone is standing just out of sight under the branches.  Mulder squints, trying to make out who it is through the whirling snow.

“Samantha?” he calls, his voice weak.  The figure under the tree begins to move towards him, and he sees immediately that it’s much too tall to be Samantha.  “No,” he moans, understanding dawning as he recognizes the black dress, the flowing hair bleeding like ink into the air around her.  He remembers, with a terrible lurch in his stomach, the woman who had frozen to death within sight of the hiking trail, the man who had wandered out onto the lake in the middle of the night and had fallen through the ice.  “No.”

Heedless, she approaches.  As she leaves the shelter of the trees, her face begins to take shape.  Her torn black gash of a mouth turns upward in a cruel smile.  Red eyes regard him pitilessly.  

The last thing Mulder hears, as he slips into unconsciousness, is her snarling growl of a laugh.