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The Silver Lake camp ground off of I40 in East Tennessee was the brain child of a horror movie fanatic, created to let people experience what it was like to spend the weekend dealing with ghost filled woods, being chased by knife wielding maniacs, or encountering the occasional demonic possession.
But with the murders of six people over the last two months, business had dropped dramatically. No one wanted to stay in a place where guests were actually being massacred.
So far their investigation hadn’t turned up anything. No trace of sulfur, no EMF; the bodies were slashed open—long cuts that could belong to a knife or a claw—but no organs were removed.
He and Dean had split earlier in the afternoon; Dean going to question current and past employees of the camp, Sam off to explore the surrounding woods, looking for anything out of the ordinary….which, really, was this whole case. He was beginning to think they weren’t looking at a supernatural cause.
The woods were thick for early spring—leaves bursting overhead in a canopy that turned the sunlight green—and filled with the scent of sweet rot, new growth. They were also full of cobwebs. Sam ran his hand over his face, brushed the ephemeral touch of the webbing away.
The deeper into the woods he went, the worse they became. Light, silken brushes against his face, the static charge tingle of something crawling through the hairs on his arm. A cool puff of air against his throat raised the hairs on the back of his neck. But it was the invisible weight, like the curve of a hand, pressed against his crotch that had him swiveling, knife in hand.
“What the hell?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his knife was ripped from his hand, embedding itself harmlessly in a nearby tree, and he was on his back in the leaves, the zip on his jeans sliding down and the button popping open, invisible hands spreading the fabric and—
“Hey,” the word came out a strangled growl and not nearly as threatening as he’d hoped.
“Relax, Sammy.” The disembodied voice, the familiar snicker that accompanied it, had Sam dropping his head to the ground, breath rushing out in a relieved whoosh. “It’s a haunted camp ground, I’m just playing the part.”
Sam was certain he heard chains rattling and then there was nothing but the rush of blood in his ears as a warm, invisible mouth slid over his cock.
Keyed up from the shock and surprise of invisible touches, senses still on high alert for whatever might be lurking in these woods (aside from a nefarious, perverted archangel), it didn’t take long before he was spiraling toward orgasm, the green and blue web of sky above him whiting out as he came, clutching dead leaves and trying not to shout.
When he opened eyes he didn’t remember closing, Gabriel was sprawled, on his belly, between Sam’s legs, tongue flicking, cat-like, along his lips.
“You—“ Sam started, “You are—“
“Stupendous? Magnanimous? Sexy? Studly?”
“Unbelievable,” Sam finished.
“Aw, c’mon, Sammy. You’ve got to learn to relax.”
“I’m on a case.”
“Oh,” Gabriel said, one shoulder raised in a shrug. “That.” And he snapped his fingers.
Sam, clothes reordered (thank God) and knife back in place, found himself just inside the Silver Lake lodge. In the center of the room were three uniformed cops and a woman who Sam recognized as the office manager; she was wearing a Silver Lake t-shirt that had seen better days, her hands were cuffed behind her back and one of the officers was slipping a hunting knife into an evidence bag.
Across the room, Dean, in his Fed suit, holding a fork in one hand and a coffee mug from the local café in the other, blinked owlishly at the scene, then scowled. He shoved the out of place items onto the fireplace mantle as one of the cops drifted over to him.
“Thank you, gentlemen. It looks like we’ve got everything we need. Blood, fibers, prints.” The officer frowned. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen one this sloppy.”
“Ah,” said Gabriel, appearing at Sam’s elbow in a pair of cargo shorts and a tie-dyed Silver Lake t-shirt. “And she would have gotten away with it, too. If it weren’t for us meddling kids.”
Sam watched as the officers marched the woman out the door and into a squad car. Dean followed behind them, glared at Gabriel and muttered something about Sam needing to “have a word” with his “boyfriend,” as he headed back toward the Impala.