Season Four

Episode Thirteen: No Second Chances

By Kittsbud

Part One

RAF Sutton Hallam Aviation Museum,
Wiltshire, England
Present Day

Harry Sedgwick let his ancient bicycle freewheel as he headed down the slope toward the old airfield. It was a dry, perfectly clear morning that reminded the old soldier of days when the base was still operational.

As he sped down the rutted lane, bike bobbing over potholes, he remembered the drone of engines that had been replaced by the whoosh of jet turbines, which in turn had eventually be replaced by the simple sounds of the country.

Sutton Hallam had been a bustling base during World War II, but now time itself was the enemy, and the old place was nothing more than a defunct site turned out to pasture – much like Harry.

Of course, Harry knew that things could have been a lot worse, both for himself and the old airfield. Most places like this ended up overgrown with weeds or turned into some industrious farmer’s next project for genetically modified crops.

At least Sutton Hallam was preserving the past. It was a museum now. A place dedicated to the airmen who had lived and died here over the years.

Harry felt his bike begin to slow and realized he’d been daydreaming again. He was almost at the main gate and would run into the wire fencing if he didn’t hit the brakes.

Tapping the levers lightly on the handlebars he brought the bike to a halt and hopped from its rusty frame more lithely than his years should allow.

Still life in the old soldier yet, he inwardly chuckled to himself as he leaned his trusty steed against the airfield fence and mopped his brow with his cap.

Harry looked skywards at the rising sun, noting that he was sweating already. It was going to be a glorious morning, and he needed to get busy before the tourists arrived.

Walking along the edge of the field towards the visitors’ center where he regularly volunteered to work, Harry began to ponder just what new adventures the day would bring.

Selling souvenirs to cheeky kids or less-than-understanding parents could sometimes be a tricky job – but someone had to do it to keep the museum going. The upkeep of the aircraft here cost thousands, after all.

As he approached the main hangar, Harry paused and took a breath, his chest wheezing. Perhaps all the cycling was a little too much for him after all. He took a moment to close his eyes and regain his composure, using the chirping of insects and abundance of birdsong to soothe him.

Eventually, his weary lungs calmed, and he opened his eyes again, expecting to see the broken concrete of the airstrip in front of him.

Instead, just in front of the lone remaining hangar, was a shadow.

Harry blinked, assuming his aging eyes were seeing things.

But they weren’t.

A figure in a USAAF uniform was walking across the runway, a figure that somehow looked faded, incomplete.

Harry’s chest began to heave again, and his heart joined in the frantic motion, thundering against his ribcage as he suspected, nay realized, what he was seeing.

There had been rumors of late. A ghostly pilot that haunted the field.

And now, Harry, a none-believer, was witnessing it too.

The old man’s hands began to shake, and it was all he could do not to drop the cap wedged between his left thumb and forefinger. And yet, he was still strangely compelled to watch the ghost.

As Harry stared, wide-eyed, the apparition began to run, and as the thing’s gait increased, it was joined by the droning sound of four Boeing engines.

Taking his gaze from the spirit just long enough to look further down the cracked runway, Harry could see the outline of a Flying Fortress bomber fading in and out of existence.

The ghost seemed to run towards the olive drab aircraft, and eventually appeared to clamber on board via a hatch under the front of the plane.

The engine sounds grew louder, as if the pilot was increasing the throttles ready for takeoff.

Harry could feel the thinning hair on his scalp blowing backwards as the phantom engines grew closer, roaring, propellers spinning wildly as they dragged the metal behemoth skywards.

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the plane and its ghostly cargo were gone.

Harry exhaled and leaned forward, hands pressing on his knees as he almost doubled over with fright.

Martha always said I shouldn’t have that tot of brandy in my tea in the morning, he told himself. But I need a little Dutch courage from somewhere on those darn winding lanes. A man could get knocked off his ride as easy as…

As easy as he could see things that aren’t there if he had a wee dram too many…

Harry straightened up.

Not because he had convinced himself he’d been delusional from the effects of alcohol, but because there was a new sound assaulting his tired ears.

More aircraft engines.

But this time, they weren’t in multiples of fours, they were single.

Fighters!

Harry shielded his eyes from the morning sun and instinctively looked up. He’d heard the sound of these particular engines before at re-enactments – they belonged to German Messerschmitts used during the war.

The blue ether above him was empty and Harry couldn’t help but blink, stretching his eyelids to convince himself what was happening.

Ghosts that appeared and disappeared, engine noises that had no source. None of it made any sense.

Harry was still trying to work it all out when the rebuilt conn tower to his left suddenly exploded in a hail of invisible bullets. The brickwork was torn open, and the wooden door was splintered so badly that it teetered and then dropped from its groaning hinges.

With his old military training taking hold, Harry made a dive for the ground as more strafing ripped into the earth around him. He rolled and rolled, his aging body screaming as muscles he hadn’t used in years were forced to work.

Tears streamed from the old soldier’s eyes as he tried to comprehend how or why he was being targeted.

Above him, the Luftwaffe engines grew closer and closer, until eventually, Harry couldn’t help but look up one last time.

And as his gaze locked on the diving aircraft, Harry realized he was looking directly into the eyes of the man who was going to kill him.

The German pilot fired one last time, the shells from his ME109’s guns tearing into Harry Sedgwick until the old man’s shredded body could sustain his life no longer.

Then, as quickly as it had come to pass, the phenomenon was gone, leaving a grieving Wiltshire countryside to mourn its dead as it once had before so many years ago….


Pacific Heights,
California

Dean pressed the doorbell for the fourth time and wondered just why he was standing on the porch of such a nice house when he could be hunting.

This place oozed money, and no doubt the owner had enough of the stuff stuffed in his wallet to make him a prize dick to boot. Not that Dean wouldn’t take some of that cash off the guy if he offered it up for spook-hunting services rendered, but that was unlikely to happen.

Rich dicks were usually also tightwads.

“Tell me again why we’re here, Sammy?” Dean groaned, stealing a glance across the road to where he’d parked the Impala.

“We’re here because the house’s owner called us up and asked for help,” Sam supplied. “And because said owner was a friend of Dad’s.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, well I don’t recall Dad ever mentioning any retired Airforce Colonels named Billy Woodward…” He poked his finger hard on the bell button again in annoyance.

“Right, because our dad is sooo talkative…”

The perfectly painted white door behind Sam finally moved and a gentle-looking old man, clearly in his eighties, greeted both brothers with a thin smile.

After taking a moment to appraise the pair before him, the graying Colonel offered up a hand obviously gnarled with arthritis. “John’s boys,” he visibly brightened. “I knew I could count on the Winchesters for this.”

Before Dean could ask what they were being counted on for, the old-timer vanished back inside his lavish home, leaving them to follow him.

The main passageway led off into several side rooms, and Woodward made a beeline for the third on the right, which turned out to be a small library.

He eased his frail body behind a desk and sank into a weathered chair that had the same texture as his craggy skin.

Dean and Sam pulled up a chair each from a selection that lined one wall and sat in front of their host as he poured them all a Glenmorangie.

“So, Colonel Woodward,” Sam began as he accepted the scotch. “What exactly is it we can do for you?”

Woodward took a sip of his own drink and gazed out of the window, apparently savoring the urban vista. Eventually, he took a deep, wheezy breath and began. “During the second World War, I served in England as a B17 pilot. Just recently, I’ve learned that my old base may be being haunted, and I’d like you two to investigate…”

Dean couldn’t hide his surprise and grimaced before his mind caught up with his facial muscles. “You want us to go to England just to gank a spook? Don’t they have hunters over the pond?”

Sam looked at his brother. “Actually, Dad knows some pretty good hunters in the UK.” His brow furrowed as he apparently realized this had a deeper meaning. “So why would Dad suggest us to the Colonel when there are perfectly good people closer?”

Woodward smiled, and, placing his tumbler down, leaned over to clasp his hands together on the desk. “I’ll tell you why, boys. Because this is no ordinary ghost.”

Dean wasn’t convinced – especially not when the prospect of getting on a plane was looming ever closer. “Oh yeah, so who is it, friggin’ Elvis?” he muttered slightly disrespectfully under his breath.

The Colonel’s smile faltered and his expression saddened, the creases of his skin seeming to increase a thousand fold until he looked like a taller version of Yoda. “No…the ghost is me!”

“Excuse me, sir, but..?” Sam questioned. “How can a ghost be of you when you’re…”

“Still alive?” Woodward shrugged. “I don’t know, but what I do know is that every witness who has seen the spirit identifies it as me – or at least me when I was about nineteen. And then there’s the plane.”

“The plane?” Dean dared to ask, abruptly wishing Woodward would fill up his suddenly empty tumbler.

Woodward nodded. “People don’t just see a ghost of me, they see a B17 – my B17. Every aircrew back then named their bird and mine was called “No Second Chances.” Me and the boys renamed her after we nearly bought the farm on our first rookie mission. You soon learned back in those days that you didn’t get any second chances in our line of work. One mistake, that was all it took, and you were snuffed out.”

“The witnesses are sure it’s your plane?” Sam pushed.

“Yes,” Billy sighed. “They’ve seen the name on the side of the ghost plane as it taxies down Sutton Hallam runway and then vanishes…”

Dean ran a hand through the spikes of his hair as he often did when something was puzzling him. “You have to know this is impossible, right?” he eventually suggested to the Colonel. “You’re either a spook, or you’re not. Maybe the plane we could fathom, but how can your ghost be haunting a place when you’re still in the land of the living?”

Woodward slid the top from the whiskey bottle and poured each of his guests another large drink, eventually stopping off at his own tumbler to do the same. “I don’t know how, that’s why I asked for the best – the Winchesters.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude.” Dean took a swig of the single malt he’d been given and savored it. “But why do you even care about something happening all those miles away? So the spook looks like you, why do you care?”

The old man’s sad look grew in intensity, his eyes almost blinking back tears of regret, and maybe something more. “Because in the last manifestation, someone died. Old Harry was a friend of mine who used to volunteer out at the airfield museum. Last week, he was cut down by what appeared to be a strafing run from none-existent aircraft. The local police, are, of course baffled.”

“But you think it’s all part and parcel of what’s happening there?” Sam was nodding as if the gig was becoming more and more like their kind of case.

Dean wanted desperately to nudge him and say it wasn’t, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to let Sam, or Woodward, down.

Because this was their kind of job, and if their dad had thought the Colonel needed them, who were they to doubt it?

So why isn’t Dad here himself? Dean’s mind questioned. This is his friend, his gig…

Except, of course, John was off doing something secretive again. Something even they weren’t privy to yet. And it was something big.

“So, do you think you can help?”

Dean heard Woodward ask the question, and was vaguely aware of Sam suggesting that they could.

With no argument to give, save for his fear of long-haul flights and utter dread at leaving behind the Impala, Dean simply nodded, wondering deep inside how he all-too-often let himself be railroaded by his younger sibling.

Damn, never mind him being a special kid, he was definitely some kinda hypnotist in another life…


Heathrow Airport
Avis Car Hire


Sam watched his brother circle the car they’d been given by the rental company for the tenth time and only just managed to stifle a grin.

Being cooped up on the plane had made Dean more than just a little wired, and anyone or anything he came in contact with for the next hour or so was going to find out just how much with more than a few choice expletives.

It wasn’t the little car’s fault, it wasn’t England’s fault, but Dean was going to vent anyway, and Sam knew it.

Dean leaned against the driver’s side window and squinted at the steering wheel as if it were an angry poltergeist. “Jeez,” he bemoaned. “I forgot we have to drive on the wrong friggin’ side of the road in Merry Old…”

He paced some more, nose puckering in disgust at the size, or lack of size, of the vehicle. “Sammy, what is this thing, a roller-skate? Hell, it’s so small I need one for each foot and then some.” Dean’s arms wafted skywards in defeat. “And what kind of a name for a car is a ‘Vauxhall Corsa’ for crying out loud?”

This time, Sam’s features did pucker into a grin. “Actually, it’s a GM…”

Dean’s expression changed from loathing to one of apprehension. “Great, just great, you’ll be telling me next it has a mind of its own, like those freakish things in Michigan!”

Sam shook his head, finding it hard to believe sometimes just how childish his ass-kicking brother could be. And it wasn’t even that Dean was mad at Sam for luring him over the pond – no, Dean was mad at himself for allowing it to happen, and for actually stepping onto the Boeing at L.A.X.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?”

Sam looked up first to see a thin, angular looking man with a well-trimmed beard approaching them.

The soft lilt to his voice said he hailed from Scotland, rather than Wiltshire, and his casual, but well dressed appearance suggested he was here on business rather than pleasure.

Before Sam could answer the man, Dean had stepped in front of the Corsa’s hood, arms crossed, looking more confrontational than civil. “Who’s asking?” He snapped, obviously still tetchy with jetlag.

The man didn’t seem to take offence and offered up a hand. “Alan Hamilton, I’m the owner of Sutton Hallam.”

Sam took the proffered palm and shook it. If Dean was going to be a rude ass, then he’d have to make up for it. “I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean. How did you know we were here?”

Hamilton shrugged. “Billy Woodward gave me a call and asked me to meet you here. He thought it best if I take you out to the airfield and bring you up to speed on what’s been going on.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but you two don’t look like the most likely of buddies there, Haggis.” Dean shot Hamilton an unsavory glance that suggested he had already taken a dislike to the man.

Sam squirmed. Dean’s intuition was rarely wrong, but being out and out offensive wasn’t going to get them the information they needed. Besides, this guy seems nice enough. Maybe a little up himself, but that’s businessmen for you…

Hamilton seemed to sense Sam’s pain and simply smiled at Dean’s remark. He was apparently a man who could control his emotions way better than a certain Winchester.

But did that immediately make him a suspect in whatever was going on out at the field?

Little realizing he was being scrutinized like an ant under a microscope, Hamilton continued to answer the brothers’ questions, although Sam couldn’t help wondering whether he actually did realize and was one step ahead of the game.

“Woodward was a friend of my father’s. They were both old-school pilots who wanted to leave Sutton Hallam behind as a legacy to those who died there. I barely know him, really. We talk on the phone occasionally, and Woodward makes the odd donation to help keep the planes we have flying…”

Dean clicked his tongue. “Figures,” he muttered. “Funny how most things always come down to greenbacks.”

This time Hamilton almost broke into a grin as he retorted. “Actually, pounds here, Mr Winchester.”

“Yeah, well, Haggis, you can take your pounds, and your midget-mobile cars and shove them right…”

Sam grabbed his brother’s shoulders, snapped open the Corsa’s door, and pushed his brother inside. Looking back to Hamilton apologetically, he could almost feel himself blushing.

The Scot seemed to appreciate the sincerity of the move and nodded good-naturedly. He pointed to a Land Rover Discovery parked a short distance away. “It’ll take a while to get back to the airfield. Make sure your brother keeps close. I wouldn’t want you to get lost on your first day here…”

“Oh I’m already wishing I could get lost on this pokey little island,” Dean muttered as he cranked the tiny vehicle into life. “Lost right on up to the nearest diner…”

Sam pulled a face. “Uh…I’m thinking they call them cafes over here, dude…or maybe chip shops?”

“Whatever,” Dean groused as he pulled out of the lot after Hamilton. “All I can say is, the food better be damn good, or I’m takin’ the first plane right on outta this joint tomorrow…”

Sam chuckled, then winced as his head bumped against the Corsa’s low roof. “I’m sensing some seriously negative vibes from you,” he sighed. “Especially with Hamilton. C’mon, man, what’s eating at you about him already?”

Dean shook his head. “I dunno, there’s just something off about Kiltboy, and I don’t mean because he’s not wearing his native skirt. Maybe it’s just a Brit thing…”

“You never did get over the Boston Tea Party, huh?” Sam chuckled some more.

Dean’s face contorted into a scowl, and he flipped someone the bird with his left hand.

Sam wasn’t sure if the gesture was aimed at him for being sarcastic, or at Hamilton, as the Scot sped down a one track winding lane that the Corsa struggled to traverse.

Maybe Hamilton was gaining a little sweet revenge, the younger Winchester pondered, as both he and Dean fought to keep their breakfast down over the myriad of potholes that littered the country backroad.


RAF Sutton Hallam Aviation Museum,
Wiltshire, England,
Present Day

Dean hit the Corsa’s brakes just a little too harshly as he pulled up outside the airfield’s main gates. He grumbled, slid the gear lever into neutral, and then killed the ignition before jumping out like his jeans were on fire.

“Man, I can handle a stick shift, but that thing is evil. Remind me to salt and burn the sucker before we fly home, will ya?”

Sam pried his gangly frame from the car and stretched, finally free from the vehicle’s cramped confines. “I’ll definitely supply the salt,” he agreed, rubbing at his apparently aching shoulders.

“And what’s with Brit roundabouts? Hell, I thought ours were weird, but these guys are plain suicidal at those things. Do the English like to be confusing just for the heck of it?”

Sam shrugged, then blinked when his eyes locked onto the tiny cottage they’d parked out front of. The place was white, with a thatched roof and climbing roses that made it look like something straight out of a fairy tale.

In short, it was stereotypically British to the extreme.

Dean noted his brother’s gaze and joined in the gaping. “Jeez, is there anything that isn’t creepy about this whacked out country?”

Sam opened his mouth wider to apparently respond, but a little old woman popped out of the cottage’s front door, halting his answer with her perfectly wizened features – she was a total match for the cottage.

The pensioner hobbled down a cobbled garden path, her grey bun bobbing and her hand-knitted cardigan flapping in the breeze. At the gate, she paused to look over her wire-rimmed spectacles in annoyance – right at Dean.

“Young man, don’t you have any notion of the Highway Code? You can’t park there, it’s blocking my right of way!” Her no-nonsense voice told both hunters she was in no mood to be trifled with, despite her age.

At her side, a minute Yorkshire terrier, complete with a red bow in its fur, decided to yap in agreement with its mistress.

When no one seemed to pay it any heed, it dived underneath the wooden gate and swiftly attached its razor sharp canines to the bottom of Dean’s jeans.

The dog tugged, growled and chewed its way into everyone’s attention.

“Hey, will you get this mutt off of me? What is it with this place? Midget cars and now midget dogs…” Dean’s expression suggested he’d rather be mauled by a pit bull, and the fact that Sam was laughing almost hysterically wasn’t helping his already irked demeanor.

The old woman sniffed, but seemed to realize things were getting out of hand. “Here Beth!” She called softly. “Don’t bite the young man, you don’t even know him!”

Dean huffed, and leaned over, gently trying to pry the snorting animal off. “Who’d have thought it, a junior friggin’ hellhound right here in Merry Old,” he muttered, sending the Yorkie on its way with a tap to its rear end. “And just who does that old biddy think she is anyway, Miss Marble?”

“It’s Marple,” Sam corrected, watching as the cheeky old lady skittered back into her cottage.

“Whatever, dude…”

“Are you two ready for a tour of the museum?” Hamilton had returned from unlocking the gates to the airstrip, and had been apparently watching and waiting at a short distance as the pensioner grilled them.

He was smiling now, the corners of his beard creased in amusement.

“After Miss Marble and her pet pooch,” Dean huffed, “I’m so ready for anything you and your mystery spook can throw at me.”

“Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war, eh?” Hamilton nodded and led the way back into Sutton Hallam, his pace quickening as if he were late for some unknown date.

Dean scrunched up his nose as he followed. “Is that a Scottish thing?” He mumbled, asking no one in particular.

“Julius Caesar,” Sam offered helpfully.

“Right, sooo never knew he was from Scotland…”

There was a look of mirth on Dean’s face as he walked away – whether he was truly ignorant of the quote, or yanking his brother’s chain, was anyone’s guess.


* * * *


Dean drank in the atmosphere of the old airfield with a strange sense of dread. Hamilton escorted them through the old conning tower, and then a hangar containing a vintage B17 and Mustang, offering the odd narrative about each item’s history.

There was little or no new information for them to really glean from the tour, but the air seemed to ooze something weird - like this part of England was somehow “off balance” with the rest.

Maybe it was the ancient smell of must assaulting his nostrils, oddly accompanied by a strong tang of aviation fuel from a nearby classic tanker.

Maybe it was just the thumping headache he’d had since landing, like pressure was building to some kind of crescendo in his skull.

Either way, Dean couldn’t help but wonder just why their father had sent the Winchesters here. It was obviously important to John – like he already knew about the off kilter ambience of the place.

Like Dad knew this place was important somehow – and not just because of its weird spook…

But if John had believed Sutton Hallam was special, then why hadn’t he been the one to investigate?

Because what he’s working on is even bigger, knucklehead, Dean chided himself.

Not that the self-rebuke helped him any.

Dean’s head still pounded until he wanted to snap at everyone he encountered. He wasn’t even sure why he’d taken a dislike to Hamilton, maybe that was just the jackhammer in his cranium, or perhaps his intuition was saying the Scot was bad news.

Hell, this whole gig is already so clichéd we could be stuck in a friggin’ episode of “Murder She Wrote” and I wouldn’t even be surprised…

“As you can see we’ve attempted to preserve everything here as best we can. Everything is original.” Hamilton was pointing to an old fire truck rather proudly.

“Everything except your ghosts,” Sam corrected. “From what we hear, you have the spirit of a man who isn’t even dead on site?”

Hamilton cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t really know about that. Not something I’ve been privy to.”

A none-believer. Dean had expected as much. That was probably why he thought the man was a dick from the get go.

Dean huffed at the idea, looking around for something to focus on rather than the annoying Scot. Eventually, he noticed a strangely interesting mound at the end of the potholed runway.

“So what’s Mount Rushmore over there for? Some kinda natural brake for planes overshooting the concrete?”

Hamilton appeared to find the idea distinctly amusing. “That,” he explained matter-of- factly, “that is an ancient barrow. You’ll find Wiltshire is full of them.” He was sounding like a smarmy school teacher now. “Don’t you two know you’re in Stonehenge country?”

“I know I’m in Asshatsville,” Dean mumbled, coughing slightly over the comment to hide the scorn in his voice.

Hamilton appeared amused by the mockery, his eyes sparking with something Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Anyway…” Hamilton droned, dragging out the word. “It’s getting time to open up, and without old Harry I’ll need to leave you awhile to man the office. We’re a wee bit short staffed.” He looked at his watch to make a point. “Perhaps you could retire to your rooms at the local? It must have been a long flight. You can always come back later if there’s more you want to see?”

Is this schmuck trying to get rid of our butts already? Dean’s mind was screaming at him, wanting him to put everything and everyone under suspicion. Were they being railroaded by the museum owner, or was something here putting him on edge so badly his cognitive reasoning was out the window?

Dean rubbed at his temples, wondering why the pressure there seemed so familiar – so frightening, almost.

He glanced at Sam, who had been even quieter than usual. Was he feeling something too?

“If you don’t mind there, Haggis, me and my brother would like to take another quick look around before we leave. But don’t worry, we don’t need a babysitter.”

Hamilton shrugged. “Fine. I’ll be in reception if you need me.” He blinked, looking both brothers over warily, as if they might suddenly get the urge to meddle with some of the display items.

After a second of deliberation, however, he strode quickly away from them, back towards the main gate and newer buildings that had been constructed there to sell memorabilia, tea and the odd assorted, and very British, cream cake.

“Is there a reason why you hate him so badly?” Sam asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Do I need one?”

Sam didn’t’ seem to have an answer to that question, so posed another. “So now what? I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen anything to suggest paranormal activity here.”

“Me either,” Dean conceded. “But something is wrong, I just feel it, Sasquatch. Something real big. And I don’t mean your over-sized butt.”

“Okay, so what say we try the EMF? If we’re really dealing with a spirit, we might get a reading near some of the old pilot’s gear, or maybe off the runway itself, where the phantom plane was sighted.”

Dean nodded, pulling his home-made meter from his pocket with a grin. It had been a little tricky explaining to airport security why his Walkman had been modified, but in the end, he’d been able to convince them it really wasn’t a terrorist’s jury-rigged bomb.

“I’ll take the runway,” Dean suggested quickly. “No way do I wanna get cooped up in those damp, smelly hangars again. I’ve had motel johns smell better!”

“Admit it,” Sam dared. “They creeped you out.”

“Man, this whole gig is making me feel jittery. And seriously, I don’t do jittery. You know that.”

Sam looked down at his own EMF, but the needle remained static. “I know,” he agreed without probing his brother for more. “I’ll take the conn tower and bullet holes near where Harry died…”

Dean spun around to head towards the barrow and then turned back. “Thanks.”

Sam bobbed his head in silent acknowledgement and then began to walk towards the damaged control tower.

Dean watched him amble away for a second and then resumed his own hike down the runway. As he walked, he scrutinized the cracks in the crumbling concrete, wondering how many aircraft had rumbled over them here.

The place felt like a graveyard, a shrine to something long gone – or perhaps, something still lurking in the shadows.

He looked up now as the morning sun appeared from behind a high bank of clouds. Peering out across the open vista of countryside, it would be easy to let the place charm him into carelessness.

Dean could see why England could be considered by some to be a quaint, old-fashioned country, but as a hunter, he knew, sensed, that evil lurked here just as much as in the States.

In fact, from the way the hairs on the back of his neck were reacting, maybe England – or this place at least – was worse than anything they’d encountered in the U.S.

So what is it I’m feeling? Spiritual? Demonic? Something else?

Dean squinted, shading the sun’s rays from his eyes enough to take a second look at the burial mound that sat innocently at the end of the airstrip.

It was just a lump of earth covered in grass, and yet something was drawing him here.

This isn’t right…

Dean glanced away quickly as he felt a sudden tug at his senses, like an unknown entity was invading his soul.

His eyes danced once again over concrete, and he expected to see encroaching weeds assaulting the runway, but instead, he caught a fleeting glance of an array of symbols.

Symbols that appeared oddly familiar, even though he was convinced he had never seen the likes of them before.

He moved to kneel, but before his legs would obey his brain, there was another sensation, yanking at him.

And this time, it was more than a mental jerk, it was physical in the extreme.

The world spun around him as the molecules in his body were yanked to infinity and beyond.

Day turning to night, night turning to…

…a familiar numbness that Dean Winchester had hoped never to feel again.

Continue...

Comment/Review the episode here

E-Mail the Author!

The Winchester Chronicles

Supernatural is ©2005 The WB Television Network. Other content is copyright the original owners. Original content is ©2005 Supernatural.tv/Virtual Season. This site is best viewed in IE (Internet Explorer) version 4.0 and up and Netscape 6.0 and up. Best resolutions 800x600 or 1024x 768.