Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

Author's Note:

First off, massive thanks to all who read and especially all who reviewed my last fic, Talk Me Down. That had been a very unplanned effort for me, and I was very happy it was well received.

This is the long-promised Underworld, haha. I'm almost finished writing it, and it's been in this almost-done state for the longest time. I was just afraid to post it, because I felt like it was difficult text. By that, I mean it's a complex plot structured like a novel, with (arguably) over-indulgent descriptions, which is not my usual style for Supernatural fanfiction, and I feel that I haven't had a strong readership base in this fandom to have people trust me enough to read the entirety of it, haha, so I'm very afraid to be adventurous. As I was writing it though (especially Chapter 3), I had such a great time putting in twists and the action that I just thought, what the hell. I had a blast writing it, and I'd just have to toss it to the wind as to if people will like it or even bother to read it, haha... I guess this'll be one of those that are written for the sake of writing. Fics like these are so inconvenient, haha!

For those who read and enjoyed From Perdition though, Underworld is the fic where that scene was plucked from. From Perdition is a part of Underworld, and should reappear as an extended version somewhere toward the end of Underworld. Underworld is the case the brothers were working on that eventually drove Dean to drugs and alcohol to cope with his memories of hell.

Anyway, without further ado:

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The Subway System

New York, New York


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The train's headlights had an affinity for the gleaming silver rails of the otherwise dark, grimed tracks. The lights would hit the winding silver rail and follow it, crawling closer and closer toward the peopled platform, heralding the coming of the train itself.

This was the only gentle part of its arrival.

Everything else that followed had a sense of urban violence- heavy metal screeching to a halt, the grind of machines, the complaints of the aging doors that slid open, the hushed and hurried movements of the people who pushed their way forward, just trying to get somewhere else and get out of there. It was the same thing, everyday. Probably the same faces too, but none of them could tell because none of them really looked at each other.

He was one more face in the sea of faces of the wearily trudging evening rush hour. He had occupied a seat on the train, front-facing, window to his left, hoping no one would sit next to him. He leaned his head against the cool glass, and watched the vandalized pillars and sporadic light bulbs of the tunnel breeze by, rendered blurry and indistinct by the speed.

The train jerked, and then slowed down.

He didn't move, barely even blinked. The change in speed was as physically jarring as always, but hardly irregular. Trains stopped or slowed in the tunnels all the time, for a variety of reasons: traffic, track fires, sick passengers, electrical disturbances, equipment malfunction... happened enough for him to have tired of becoming pissed about it, especially at the end of the day, and even more so at the end of the work week.

The pillars and the lights became more defined, with he slowing of the train. He could even read the graffiti on the tunnel's walls and columns.

Look, someone had scrawled on a pillar, and there was a pair of eyes painted beneath it, surreal, because the work looked quite true to a person's eyes except the colors used were too bright, like house paint or neon spray, probably the only ones the artist could get his hands on. The outlines were black, and the iris was a light-catching white, like pedestrian paint.

Look, same thing, scrawled on the next pillar, with the same set of eyes.

He found himself wondering who may have drawn that. Who'd have risked life and limb putting stuff like that in the dark of a dank, rat-infested tunnel, standing directly in the path of oncoming trains. There was just no point, no point at all...

Look, written on another column, with another pair of eyes.

The train stopped moving altogether.

He was at that odd visual cusp, where the lights inside the subway train were just bright enough to show his translucent reflection against the window, and at the same time, still allowing him to see some of the features of the dark tunnels outside. It was like seeing two things at the same time, with the reflection of his eyes resting at the exact spot as the painted eyes on the column.

"What the hell-" he gasped, sitting back, and his ass pressed against the unforgiving plastic of the seat painfully. The freaking painted eyes fucking blinkedat him.

Palms sweaty, heart pounding, he pressed his face against the window, wanting to see better. The eyes stared back at him, as empty and open as they had been.

He caught his breath, laughed at himself a little.

I'm so fucking tired I'm seeing things.

He started to feel embarrassed. He glanced at the other passengers in the train, wondering if they were looking at him and thinking he was crazy.

No one was paying attention.

He was relieved, but he wasn't surprised.

"Weird," he murmured to himself.

He shook off the feeling, and settled back in his seat. He laughed at himself again, and at the same time, stared ahead and away from the damned freaky graffiti eyes.

He was just beginning to relax a little, when he was slammed from behind by a wave of pure, bright heat, and then there was nothing but total darkness, and nothing but total silence.

To be continued...