#I reblog in spirit of John Brooke

[alleiradayne]

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part I - Are You Afraid of the Dark

Summary: The reader finds a case and brings it to Sam and Dean. Warnings/Tags: Talks of headless bodies, death, and other bodily harm. Choice language. Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Word Count: 1,397

Of all the things we had hunted together over the years, vengeful spirits had a special place in my heart. Whenever we got wind of a poltergeist or a lingering entity, I damn near begged Sam and Dean to take the case. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time they didn’t humor me. Hell, most of the time, they were equally eager. After all, that was the gig. Save people. Hunt things.

The family business.

Right?

"No, Y/N."

Dean's flat tone and even flatter stare brooked no argument. And yet, I persisted. "C'mon, man. This has gotta be one of the most well-known hauntings in the country. And now it's serious!" I brandished the stack of articles at him. "Look!"

Sam rounded the entry into the kitchen and asked, "Look at what?"

"These deaths," I said. He took the stack of articles from me. "Bodies found with their heads crushed. By cannonballs. Whip lashes all over, too. He’s never manifested quite like this before."

Sam flipped through the papers, his scowl etching deeper into his forehead with each page. He hardly glanced at the last one, then tossed the stack onto the table in front of Dean. "No."

"What?!" Incredulous, I gaped at both of them but neither spoke. "Are you freakin' kidding me right now? This is the hunt of a lifetime! We might not get another chance to take out one of the most renowned hauntings in America!"

Dean regarded the top article on the stack, then flipped to the second. "It's not real, Y/N."

“It’s not the most well-known haunting in the country,” Sam clarified. “It’s the most well-known urban legend. Kinda like Sasquatch.”

I gawked at Sam, then turned to Dean. When he shrugged, I said, “Y’all are trying to tell me that you hunted the Woman in White,” I started as I marked my index finger, “a wendigo,” I continued on the second finger, “Bloody fucking Mary,” I finished on my third finger, “and who the Hell knows how many other urban legends over the last fifteen years, but this one is fake?!”

Dean remained silent as he stared at the third article in the stack. I turned to Sam and he shrugged. “I know it’s a bummer, but think about it. We’re two weeks shy of Halloween. This sort of story always comes up this time of year from—”

“Sammy.”

The pit of my stomach plummeted. I had never heard Dean’s voice quiver with such intense fear. I turned to find his face whiter than the driven snow. Sam edged passed me for the table and looked at the article Dean held up to him. As his eyes scanned the page, the color drained from his face as if he had seen the most terrifying thing in his life.

No. Like he had just seen a ghost.

“Missed that one, huh?” Dean asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam choked. “We have to go, don’t we?”

Dean raised his chin, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you—”

“It’s fine,” he mumbled as he folded his arms across his chest.

A quick glance between them revealed nothing so I asked, “It’s clearly not fine, Sam. You’ve been bummed for months. There hasn’t been a single case since Chuck’s assholery that you’ve been remotely interested in. I thought a quick and easy win would help.”

“That’s just it, Y/N,” he started. “It won’t be a quick and easy win.”

He turned on his heel and heavy footfalls carried him from the kitchen before Dean or I could respond. Defeated, Dean’s head sank between his shoulders, forehead cupped in both hands. 

“What does he mean?” I asked.

Dean raised his head but said nothing. The longer he remained silent, the worse my fears grew. Something had deeply troubled both of them, enough that they had completely changed their minds about the case. But what had they seen?

I neared the table and slipped the article from the stack. The black and white image of two young boys and their father stared up at me. Beneath the photograph, a caption described the family:

Richard Philips (36) of Lawrence, Kansas and his sons John (11) and Thomas (7) pause in front of the  museum for a photograph while on a fall vacation road-tripping across America.

A million thoughts and none tumbled through my head all at once. My eyes snapped to the header of the article where I found the date, and gooseflesh raced along my arms as I read aloud. "October 21st, 1990." In a rush, I slapped the article onto the table and flipped through the rest of the stack. "That's not possible. I only printed articles over the last week. How the Hell…"

Dean simply stared straight ahead, glassy gaze unseeing. A moment of uncomfortable silence lingered until he spoke. "Look a little closer at that picture."

I dared not look away from him, but Dean's grave instruction left me no choice. I snatched the paper up from the table and brought it right beneath my nose. The father stood tall, broad shoulders pulled back and his hands on the backs of his two boys. John, the older boy, looked much like his father, square jaw, oval eyes, and a brilliant smile. Happy as clams, those two.

The younger son, however, appeared quite uncomfortable. He clung to his father's leather coat, and a forced smile curled his lips, but never touched his eyes. Fear hid there behind a mop of hair and a clenched jaw. What had scared that little boy so that he clung to his father for safety?

An unbidden gasp rent from my lips. Shock spasmed through my fingers, and the paper fluttered to the table. "What did I just see?! How does that article exist and how do I have it now?"

Dean plucked the image from the table. His eyes narrowed as he spun the paper about, then flicked it to me as he set it back down. "Maybe the question isn't how, but why."

"Okay, now you sound like Sam," I stated. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

He stood then and headed for the door. "Not enough time. We need to get on the road right now. It's a long drive to New York and we're on the clock."

With Dean through the door, I stood alone in the kitchen and… stalled. Hesitated. Something about the photograph drew me in once more. I needed to believe my own eyes, but what I’d seen a moment earlier flew in the face of reality. Then again, my reality had shattered ten years ago. I’d allowed the Winchesters to tear down everything I had once believed and they had built it back up with the truth.

Truth.

I picked up the photo once more. Despite my fears, my gaze slid to the left edge of the frame where a large, black horse stood so far away. Impossible. It should have been a small spec at that distance. Unless it was the size of a small house. But that was only the half of it. Though the clarity of the horse had drawn me in at first, it paled in comparison to its rider. A tall, imposing man sat astride the beast, clad all in black.

I knew it was going to happen, but I was still entirely unprepared. I startled again as the horse reared just as it had a moment earlier, and a large cannonball manifested in the rider's hand raised high over his head. Except he had no head.

But that wasn't the entire story, either. Sam and Dean had recognized something else about the photograph. And they had kept it between them. No matter how long I stared at it, the image offered up nothing else, not even a hint. I snatched up the stack of articles, whipping it off the table and stuffing it into the crook of my arm as I stomped from the kitchen.

The Winchesters had traded a few rounds with The Headless Horseman, of that I had no doubt. Not after what I had just witnessed. If they wanted to keep their secrets, fine. But I would bet my life on the fact that they thought they had wasted the son of a bitch.

Turns out some urban legends never die.

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