Chapter Text
Oak floorboards creaked and shuddered under the weight of heavy footsteps that pounded across the lower deck of The Painted Lady as Sam Winchester barrelled down the hallway. Chest heaving for air, he glanced over his shoulder every now and then to check if his pursuer was still hot on his tail.
There had been reports of mysterious deaths upon The Painted Lady, a 17th-century vessel that had become a tourist attraction for a small coastal town in Massachusetts. The unexplainable deaths had piqued the interests of Sam and Dean Winchester, the abnormal indicators in the newspaper reports pointing to something that would never be solved by normal law enforcement.
After poking around with the assistance of their fake FBI badges, some help from the local library and interviewing various people linked to the deaths, they had concluded that the deaths were caused by one of the vessel’s former employees. Greg Harper, a character actor for the tourist attraction, had had a falling out with management, which led to his immediate dismissal. In a fit of madness, he’d hung himself in one of the cabins, too attached to the ship and his job to handle a life without it.
And now his ghost haunted the vessel, seeking revenge on those who had wronged him.
What should’ve been a simple salt and burn had ended up a much lengthier task. After finding out that Greg had been cremated, the Winchester brothers were left with no other choice than to search The Painted Lady to find the item that Greg was attached to and dispose of it.
It was not an easy feat, considering The Painted Lady was a sizeable ship boasting of three separate levels, with numerous passageways and rooms to accommodate at least thirty families.
Dean had been against the search in the beginning, stating it was too dangerous for them to be in such a confined maze, though he had relented when Sam pointed out they couldn’t exactly set the whole ship on fire, and so Dean begrudgingly followed his younger brother up the dock as soon as it hit midnight and darkness had shrouded the town.
Yellow crime tape had been crudely plastered over the gate that secured the gangway, though it didn’t take long for Sam to successfully pick the lock. With their guns loaded with rock salt bullets and flashlights to guide their way, the two brothers headed up to the deck to begin their search.
Sam explained that Greg had hung himself in a cabin on the second floor of the west wing, which had been where they kept the costumes, reeling off the information he had memorised from their earlier investigation, and leading Dean to the doors of the west wing.
The brothers had gathered that Greg’s profession was to play as a pirate, but neither of them could predict that Greg believed he was a pirate until his ghost appeared in front of them in full costume, laughing manically and brandishing a sabre. Neither of them had thought that ghosts could wield swords until that night, as Sam and Dean were split up and chased around by a crazy pirate ghost.
Sam skidded around the corner of the corridor he was being chased through, maniacal laughter sounding behind him as he continued his desperate attempt to escape his pursuer, as well as find the costume room so they could be rid of this damned thing.
Scanning the nameplates on each of the doors, Sam continued to push himself forward, long legs carrying him down the corridor until the fates finally had pity on him and he spotted the costume room. Flying to the door like a bat out of hell, Sam burst through the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a small leather pouch and began shaking out the contents into a line over the threshold.
However, his attempts to seal the room with rock salt were in vain, as a sudden force and gust of wind propelled him backwards and into the adjacent wall with a crack. Spluttering for breath and shaking the stars out of his eyes, Sam sat for a moment in a daze until the ghost was above him, holding his sword aloft and ready to bring it down. Instinct kicking in, Sam rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet.
Growling like a feral dog, the ghost turned to Sam, who reached to his belt for his gun. When his hands felt nothing but leather and denim, his stomach sank. He must’ve carelessly dropped it somewhere as he was trying to escape. Whipping left and right, looking for something to defend himself with, Sam noticed the hilt of a sword poking out from behind one of the costumes hanging on the rails.
Without a second thought, Sam grabbed the hilt and drew out a long steel rapier, holding it out in front of him. At this sight, the ghost threw back his head and let out a long, strangled laugh before launching himself at Sam, slashing wildly at him.
Before Sam could even think, he brought his rapier up to block the hit, parrying to the left and countering several more attacks deftly. Snarling, the ghost began to quicken his pace and push Sam backwards, but Sam didn’t falter, leaping backwards out of the way of one slash when Dean appeared at the door.
“Dean! The costume!” Sam yelled, ducking from another blow, and jabbed forward in response, almost catching the ghost in the arm. He gave out a cry of anger and raised his arm in one final attack. Before he could swing, he let out a shrill scream and exploded into a ball of flames.
Sam heaved out a sigh of relief as the flames died and disintegrated into nothing, dropping the rapier on the floor, and bending over double to regain his breath.
“What the hell was that all about?” asked Dean as he leaned against the doorframe.
“I dunno. Dude must’ve really loved his job,” Sam responded with an incredulous chuckle.
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about that,” Dean pointed to the rapier on the floor. “When the hell did you learn how to sword fight?”
Now that he was able to think, Sam looked to where Dean was pointing and furrowed his brows. He’d just acted on instinct, but just how had he known how to counter so effectively?
“Oh,” A memory came flooding back to him, crashing to the forefront of his mind. “Evie taught me when we were kids.”
“Evie? As in, snot-nosed little brat Evie Attwood?” Dean reeled.
Narrowing his eyes, Sam nodded and straightened up. “Her dad used to make her take lessons. Whenever Dad went off hunting with her parents she used to make me train with her.” He explained, a sudden solemness taking over him.
It had been a long time since he’d thought of Evie and her family. Even now, after all these years, it still stung.
Dean, sensing the change in his brother's mood, offered him a sympathetic sort of smile. "I still have the scar from where she decked me that one time." He said, reaching to tentatively brush a hand over the white mark above his eyelid.
Sam snorted. "Yeah, you deserved that." He said, and the two brothers began their journey to the Impala, keen to put this whole situation behind them.