Summary:  Sam and Dean take a minivacation, and stumble on their next gig. An old, abandoned house with recent renovations. Did the construction activity awaken an angry spirit, or are they simply normal accidents?
A/N:  A big thank you to Jubilea (formerly accredited as the delightful Ms. M) for agreeing to be my secret Beta.
Disclaimer:  I don’t own the Winchesters, the metallicar, or anything else related to Supernatural. I only wish I did.

“The lady at the counter said Crater Lake is amazing this time of year,” Sam stated as he opened the passenger door. He was juggling Chevron’s version of a latte the size of his head, a bag of chips, two sandwiches, and some type of candy.

“What ya got there?” Dean asked ignoring Sam’s plug for sight-seeing at Crater Lake.

“Twizzlers,” Sam replied a wide grin cracking his face. “They make mouths happy.”

“I let you watch entirely too much t.v. when you were a kid,” Dean grumbled snagging the bag of chips from Sam’s grasp.

“Whoa,” Sam exclaimed frantically rearranging the remaining food in his hands trying not to drop anything. “Could you wait a sec?” He folded himself into the passenger seat, set his latte on the dash, and handed Dean one of the sandwiches. “I have a map.”

“Grab that latte, Sam,” Dean responded. “If you get any coffee on my upholstery…”

“I know,” Sam interrupted, unfolding the map. “You’ll banish me forever to the passenger seat. I’ll never be the driver. I’ll never get to choose the music we listen to, or…wait…that IS what you’ve done.” Sam unfolded the map to the section showing the route to Crater Lake.

“I’m serious,” Dean responded with a growl. “Grab. The. Coffee.”

Sam snagged the coffee from the dashboard. It had created a foggy spot on the windshield from the steam, and left a small amount of condensation on the dashboard from steam droplets falling back to the dash. Sam hastily wiped up the water droplets with the sleeve of his jacket, chancing a glance in Dean’s direction. Dean seemed preoccupied with un-wrapping his sandwich, and had not noticed. Sam repressed a sigh of relief. “So, it’s only about forty-five minutes from here – thirty the way you drive.”

“What?” Dean asked. He looked up from his sandwich.

“Crater Lake,” Sam replied with a sigh. “It is only about forty-five minutes from here, supposed to be beautiful this time of year, remember?”

“We’re not going to Crater Lake,” Dean stated, the conversation obviously over before it even began.

“Why not?” Sam asked. “We are so close to it.”

Dean looked over at Sam, who was flashing him those little brother, puppy dog eyes. “Sam,” Dean said exasperated. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered to put up a fight.

“Dean.”

“Fine,” Dean replied sarcastically. “But, after we look at the big, pretty lake, you find us our next gig.”

“Deal,” Sam replied with a small grin. “Turn right out of the gas station, and stay on the highway until you see the signs for Crater Lake. I don’t think we can miss it. There’s nothing else out there.”

Dean pealed out of the station with a little more speed than necessary, causing the tires to squeal, and black smoke to billow up from the pavement. It may not have been necessary, but it sure as hell felt good.

Sam wrapped his fingers around his mug of hot cocoa, complete with mini-marshmallows courtesy of the grandmotherly receptionist in the lodge lobby. He was sporting a small grin, as he stared into the fire thinking about the impromptu snowball fight he’d started with Dean earlier.

They had been snowshoeing around the rim of the lake, which Sam had to admit, really was beautiful, when he had slipped and fallen face first into the powdery snow. It took quite a bit of effort and three tries, to stand up with the cumbersome snowshoes on, and only one good hand. He had glared at Dean when he had realized Dean was laughing at him so hard, he could barely catch his breath. Sam had thrown the first snowball. The shocked looked on Dean’s face had been worth it. In the end, Sam had ended up pinned face first in the snow, with Dean shoving snow down his coat collar.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen Dean be just Dean,” Sam thought. “It was definitely worth the wet jeans, and a face full of snow.” Sam felt his eyelids growing heavy, and he gave in to the feeling.

Sam jumped when he felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder. Dean was obviously unaware Sam had drifted off to sleep, and Sam struggled to catch up to the conversation.

“If you tell me where it is, I’ll go get it,” Dean offered.

“What?” Sam asked.

“The map, Sammy,” Dean replied sporting his cocky half-grin. “Am I going too fast for you, kiddo?”

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam replied frowning. “It’s upstairs in our room, on the bedside table.”

“I found our next gig, and it’s right here in Oregon,” Dean stated grabbing the now cold cocoa from Sam’s hands, and taking a sip. He frowned at the temperature. “It tastes like crap, no wonder you didn’t finish it.”

“It was fine before,” Sam defended.

“Uh-huh, I’m going to hit the shower while I’m up there,” Dean replied. “We can head out in the morning.”

As Dean turned to stand, Sam popped off, “Use the shower mat. I wouldn’t want you to slip.”

Dean whirled around, and shot him the patented Dean Winchester death-stare. “Dude, shut up,” Dean retorted.

Sam sat back into the over-stuffed armchair with a satisfied grin on his face.

“Shish bath in Mefrd,” Dean said, his mouth full with a breakfast burrito.

“Mind repeating that?” Sam asked grimacing in disgust. “Do you have any table manners?”

“Technically, we’re not at a table,” Dean intoned. “And, we’re in MY car, Mr. Etiquette.”

“Nice,” Sam replied, “That certainly makes it okay.”

“Glad you see it my way,” Dean remarked. “I said, it is back in Medford.”

“Back the way we came?” Sam asked. “How’d you even find out about it?”

“Two old geezers talking in the lobby,” Dean said. “They were talking about the old Drumsfield house, and the recent accidents. A few questions later I had the whole scoop.” Dean attacked his burrito again with gusto.

Sam gazed out the window at the heavily tree-lined highway. The fog was drifting low to the ground between the trees, and the sky was dark gray. It looked like the type of area people purported to see Big Foot. Of course, it was logically explained by Wendigos, werewolves, and so on. “Logically,” Sam thought. “Just goes to show how twisted my life is, when werewolves are the logical explanation.” He snorted softly at the thought.

“What?” Dean asked turning his attention from the road back to Sam. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing,” Sam muttered, and attempted to change the subject. “So, back in 1927, the Drumsfield’s threw a dinner party no one attended. They were so offended, they sent away the servants, and just left? It seems a little extreme to me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not some uptight little society bitch, either,” Dean replied. “Apparently, everyone attended the mayor’s dinner instead, and she had a breakdown over it.” Dean slowed down as they passed through yet another small town. It was never a good idea to speed through a small town. The police did not have much else to do besides watch for speeders. Now that Dean was on the federal list it was an unnecessary risk, and his car was visible enough as is.

“But, you’re not buying it?” Sam asked.

“Maybe, until the accidents started happening,” Dean replied. “It was quiet until it was sold recently, and the new owner started renovations.”

“Disturbing a spirit,” Sam interrupted.

“That’s my theory,” Dean continued. “I’m guessing one or both of them were killed, and now something is awake, and pissed off.”

Twenty minutes later Dean pulled to a stop at a small locally owned gas station. “I’m going to talk to that guy, and get some directions,” he stated getting out of the car.

Sam stretched carefully, and walked around the car to pump gas. He had no sooner picked up the nozzle, when the aforementioned man came walking out of the station house, and yelled at Sam.

“Hey!” he shouted. “You from out of state?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied hesitantly.

“Thought so,” the man replied ripping the nozzle from Sam’s grasp. “Can’t pump your own gas, son. It’s illegal in Oregon.”

“You’re kidding me?” Sam replied incredulously.

“Nope,” the man replied straightening his cap. “Plus side is, we don’t have sales tax either.”

Sam nodded, and threw a glare in Dean’s direction. Dean just smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Jerk,” Sam thought. “He must have known. He was the one who filled the tank before.” Sam headed out to find the restroom hoping they were not illegal in Oregon too.

Five minutes later they were back on the road. “I got it,” Dean stated.

“How?” Sam asked tersely. He was still upset about the gas incident.

“Hey, I’m charming as well as smart and handsome,” Dean cracked, his moss-green eyes flashing, and the cocky half-grin making another appearance.

“Modest too,” Sam replied sarcastically.

“Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble, when you’re perfect in every way,” Dean sang in a twangy country voice.

“Ah man,” Sam moaned. “That song is going to be stuck in my head all day now.”

“Remember the first time we heard that song?” Dean asked. “We were staying with Bobby for a few days while dad was hunting? We were playing hide and seek in the garage, and there was Bobby, singing off-key, his crack half-way out of those blue mechanic’s pants he always wore?”

“Great,” Sam complained. “Thanks for reminding me. Now, I have a mental image to go along with the song in my head.”

“I like to share the pain, bro,” Dean replied laughing. With a quick flick of the wrist, Dean turned on the stereo, and Metallica thumped through the speakers.

Two dirt roads, three deer, and a flock of wild turkeys later, they were weaving their way along another tree-lined country road uphill towards the Drumsfield mansion. As they pulled into the drive, Sam noticed there were heavy construction equipment, scaffolding, and tools in the yard. The only thing missing was the workers.

“Work is halted through the weekend,” Dean stated apparently reading Sam’s mind. He pulled the Impala to a stop, and turned off the lights. Dean stepped out of the car, and walked around to the back. He started rifling through the trunk.

Sam joined Dean at the trunk where Dean was stuffing the weapons bag with his favorite shot gun. “You pack the rock salt?” Sam asked.

Dean gave Sam a quizzical look, “You serious? I packed enough to pickle the old guy.” Dean picked up his EMF, and slammed the trunk lid closed. “Let’s hit it,” he said.

Dean easily picked the lock, and he and Sam stepped into the old mansion. Sam hit the light switch, and asked, “Do you want to start upstairs, or downstairs?”

Before Dean could reply, the lights flickered for several seconds, and went out. A gust of cold wind blew down the stairs, and between the Winchesters slamming the door shut behind them. Sam and Dean looked back towards the door, and then back to each other. “Well, that can’t be good.” Dean remarked.

The brothers stood near the door for several long seconds. Dean back-handed Sam on the chest, and stated, “Let’s go, Sam. I’ll take the upstairs.” Dean took out a couple of flashlights, and tossed one to Sam. He fired up his EMF, and started up the long spiral staircase along the far back left corner of the great room.

Sam hesitated a moment, and proceeded to the living room on his right. Painted portraits of what Sam assumed were family members hung on the gold-painted walls. The hardwood floors sported a fresh coat of sawdust that had made its way through the heating ducts. The red velvet furniture was covered in almost eighty years of dust. A cold breeze shot past Sam, and the fireplace came to life with a bright orange spark. The decades old wood immediately caught fire. Shadows danced along the walls, chased by light as the fire crackled in the hearth. Sam glanced around the room, but other than the mysteriously starting fire, nothing else seemed out of place.

Sam continued towards the dining room. The breeze shot past him again, causing the hair on his neck to stand on end. The lights in the dining room came on, and Sam squinted into the sudden brightness. The long ornate table was covered in an elegant once-white lace tablecloth. The table was set with twelve fine china place settings. Sam caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked, nothing was there. He turned to leave the dining room, but was stopped short by the apparition in the doorway.

A woman in a twenties’ style white dress stood in the doorway. Her brown hair was carefully coifed, and a perfect diamond necklace accentuated the deep plunging neckline. The woman’s blue eyes sparked in anger. “You’re late!” she shouted raising her hand, and pointing a finger at Sam.

Sam was pushed backwards into a chair by such a powerful unseen force that the hard-backed chair slid across the floor, and hit the wall. Bright flashes of light popped in front of Sam’s eyes for several seconds. He shook his head, and blinked several times in an attempt to clear his head. The woman approached Sam as the French double doors slammed shut.

Dean walked down the dark hall. He entered the master suite, and swept the room with his EMF scanner. The scanner did not emit so much as a beep. Dean started to poke around. He looked through several cabinets before he spotted the dresser tucked in the corner near the closet. Dean sifted through the items in the undergarment drawer. He thought he saw something near the back. Dean held up a girdle by the straps with one finger to take a closer a look in the drawer. There, nestled between the unmentionables of the day, was a red book held closed with a brown leather strap. He grabbed the book with the same hand holding the flashlight, and for the first time took a look at the garment is in his right hand. Dean raised one eyebrow, cocked his head, and muttered, “This is not what I imagine, when I fantasize about going on a panty raid.”

Dean opened the book, flipped it open to a random page, and began to read. After reading for a few moments, Dean realized it was Margaret Drumsfield’s diary. He tucked the book into his jacket, and headed back down the hall.

As Dean passed a small bedroom on the left, he stepped back for a closer look. He pushed the door open, and shined the flashlight around the room. It was a nursery. For a moment, Dean thought the worst, but here, as in the rest of the house, it was simply abandoned. Other than an inch of dust covering yellowed curtains, the furniture, and a creepy porcelain-faced doll, it looked as if the former occupant could return at any time. Satisfied, there was nothing to find in the nursery, Dean continued on down the hall.

As Dean rounded the corner to head downstairs, the EMF scanner went off.

Margaret Drumsfield traced her finger along the side of Sam’s face, down his neck, and around his shirt collar. Sam took deep labored breaths as the chill of her touch seemed to burn his skin. He could not move, or call out to Dean for help. Sam could feel a rush of panic rising from the pit of his stomach due to his helplessness, but he squashed it down with a skill honed by years of practice. Margaret ran her fingers through Sam’s hair pulling his long bangs away from his eyes. “You don’t look like one of my guests,” she said at last. “They are all well-bred, sophisticated members of society. None of them would dare show their face in public with hair as ill-kept as yours.”

Margaret stepped away from Sam. He sucked in several large breaths, trying to get enough air into his oxygen starved lungs. His eyes were watering from the effort, and he could barely make out Mrs. Drumsfield’s shape. It was then he realized she was flickering in and out of existence.

Margaret stepped closer to Sam again, and gave him an appraising look. “You are a big, strapping young man,” she stated. “Did David hire you to help with the party?”

Sam tried in vain to respond, but his body would not cooperate. He was not sure what she was doing to him, but it was not good.

Margaret seemed to take his lack of responsiveness as an insult. “Speak up!” she shouted poking Sam in the chest. An icicle of sharp pain shot through his sternum, and into his lungs.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but the only sound he made was a horrible wheezing.

“You,” Margaret stated leaning in closer to Sam’s face, “are very rude.” She raised her hand to slap Sam in the face when a loud pounding sounded on the doors. Mrs. Drumsfield turned, and looked towards the doors.

“Sam!” Dean called. “Are you in there?”

Sam’s hazel-brown eyes reflected the relief he felt at the sound of his brother’s voice. Margaret turned back towards Sam. “Are you, Sam?” she whispered with a tight smile.

Something in Sam’s eyes must have given her the answer she was looking for. “Let’s not be rude. Invite your guest in to dinner.”

Margaret disappeared, and as suddenly as the lights had turned on, they went out. The French double doors swung open. Dean stumbled into the room, at the sudden loss of resistance to his shoulder ramming the door. He could hear Sam’s wheezing breaths, and shined his flashlight that general direction. Sam was sitting in a hard back chair pulling at his hair, and struggling to catch his breath.

Sam felt Dean’s hand rest on the back of his shoulder. He could not help the slight involuntary shudder that coursed through his body. His head felt like it was made of lead, but he lacked the strength to raise it, and meet the gaze he felt burning into him. He took deep shuddering breaths feeling the pain dissipate quickly now that Mrs. Drumsfield was no longer present.

“Sam,” Dean asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam whispered breathlessly. He took several deep breaths, and looked up at Dean before continuing. “I found Mrs. Drumsfield.” Sam paused to catch his breath. “Well really, she found me.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Dean asked grabbing Sam under his arm, and helping him stand. “Can you make it to the car?”

“I’m fine,” Sam replied a little more believably. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

Slowly they made their way out of the house, and to the Impala without incident. As Dean started the engine, Sam leaned his head back, wincing as his head made contact with the seat.

“Does your head hurt?” Dean asked not missing Sam’s reaction.

“I hit my head on the wall,” Sam replied, and he closed his eyes. He was so tired, he couldn’t fight it. Within seconds, despite the blaring music emanating from the stereo, Sam fell asleep.

As Dean pulled away from the house, he never noticed the woman standing at the window.

Dean pulled to a stop outside the Harvey Motel office. The sign to the motel had a large rabbit on it. It seemed familiar somehow, but Dean could not put his finger on it. After he procured a key, and pulled around to the side, Dean tried to roust Sam.

“Sam,” Dean said shaking Sam’s shoulder. “Time to wakey, wakey.”

Sam slapped Dean’s hand away. “Just a couple more minutes,” he replied sleepily.

“I’m not hauling your ass in there,” Dean stated. “Come on.”

Sam peeled his eyes open, and noticed they were at a hotel. He caught sight of the motel sign, and sniggered. Dean was already standing at the opened passenger door, holding the duffle bags. Sam winced as the bruise on his back pulled tight when he stretched to stand. He grabbed his duffle bag from Dean, and made his way to the motel room.

Dean hung back about half a pace behind Sam. Close enough to help if Sam needed it, but far enough away that he was not hovering. It was a balancing act sometimes. Needing to help, needing to be sure Sam was safe, but leaving him enough space to be a man, to be Sam. Dean opened the motel room door. He swung his duffle on to the first bed, claiming it as his own.

Sam dropped his duffle on the floor next to the other bed, and continued on to the bathroom without missing a step. He turned on the shower water as hot as he could stand it, and climbed in. The hot water helped relax his sore muscles. He could not suppress a small groan when the water stream hit the spot on his back he was sure was bruised from hitting the chair. When the water started to run cool, Sam stepped out of the shower. He shrugged on a t-shirt, and his boxers, and exited the bathroom.

Steam followed Sam out of the bathroom, and filled the room. Sam grabbed the laptop from near his duffle. He glanced over at Dean, and was surprised to see him reading a book. He had seen Dean read magazines, newspapers, comic books, and even ancient Latin texts. But, seeing Dean read a book was a rare sight.

“What are you reading?” Sam asked sitting down on the bed. He propped a pillow against the wall, and carefully leaned back. He fired up the laptop, and started looking for information on the Drumsfield house. He realized, belatedly, they should have done more research before heading up there in the first place.

“Margaret Drumsfield’s diary,” Dean replied looking up at Sam from over the top of the book.

“You really have a thing about snooping in dead women’s diaries, don’t you?” Sam remarked.

“You can learn more about a woman from five minutes with her diary, than you can from five years of living with her,” Dean quipped.

“And, you’re basing this on your vast experience with committed relationships?” Sam replied sarcastically.

“Committing to one woman, would be a crying shame,” Dean smirked.

“For her,” Sam mumbled.

Dean smiled, and then abruptly changed the subject, “Where have I heard the name of the motel before?”

“Harvey is a six-foot rabbit,” Sam replied scanning a website he had found about Medford’s history.

Dean looked over at Sam, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Say what now?”

“A six-foot rabbit,” Sam replied again with a sigh. He glanced down at his t-shirt, and started fumbling with the front of it, looking for something. “I, I, I seemed to have misplaced my button hole,” he stammered.

In an instant, Sam felt a hand on the back of his neck pushing his head down, while fingers probed his scalp. Sam hissed as the bruise on his back pulled tight. Dean was now in front of him, both his hands on Sam’s shoulders, concerned green eyes scanning his face.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean said. “How hard did you hit your head?”

“Dude, get off me,” Sam replied giving Dean a small shove. “It’s a quote from the movie. ‘Harvey,’ was an old black and white movie starring Jimmy Stewart. There was a big, six-foot tall rabbit that only he could see. I think we watched it with Pastor Jim.”

“Ah, ha, yeah,” Dean replied. “I remember now. That’s why the sign seemed familiar.” Dean made to stand, but he grabbed Sam’s neck, and pushed his head down again.

“What the hell?” Sam protested. He felt his t-shirt lifted.

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re hurt, Sam,” Dean snapped examining the large, rectangular bruise. “Morticia left a calling card on your back.”

“Oh, like you’re so good at that,” Sam defended. “It’s just bruised, Dean.”

Dean shoved Sam’s t-shirt back in place, and released his grip on the back of Sam’s neck. He moved to his bed, and flopped down. Dean turned on his side to face Sam, and asked, “What have I told you about staying away from the crazy chicks?”

“The same thing I’ve told you about not pissing off the already angry spirits,” Sam retorted.

Dean mouthed Sam’s words back, mocking him. He picked up the diary, and started to read again.

Sam turned back to the laptop, and they continued researching.

“I think I found something,” Dean said an hour and a half later. “Margaret was not the proper lady she wanted everyone to believe.”

“How so?” Sam asked not looking up from his article.

“It seems, Margaret was having an affair with one of the hired help,” Dean stated. He started to read from the diary in a sotto voice, “Young Joseph is a vivacious lover. He never tires, he never ceases to amaze me, and best of all he never expects a commitment.”

Sam paused his reading, and looked up. “Does Joseph have a last name?”

“Not that she mentions,” Dean replied. “But, she did talk about his long legs, and his wild brown hair.” Dean grinned and added, “Guess we see what attracted her to you. It wasn’t just because you’re a supernatural freak magnet.”

“Somehow, that’s not very reassuring,” Sam replied.

“Yeah, and it seems Mr. Never Expects a Commitment, did expect one,” Dean said. “Margaret was not pleased, and she sent him packing.”

“So, maybe Joseph came back?” Sam theorized. “Maybe, he killed her?”

“Or, maybe they fought, and it was an accident,” Dean said. “Or, maybe Mr. Drumsfield found out, and he killed her. We still have too many possibilities, and not enough answers.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied rubbing his eyes. “I’m not finding anything either. No record of David or Margaret Drumsfield appears anywhere after 1927. Of course, one or both of them could have changed their name. It was much easier back then to assume a new identity.”

“Well, the only real question is; where are the bones?” Dean asked.

“Now that,” Sam replied. “I may have an answer to.” He motioned for Dean to come over.

Dean came over, and stood behind Sam’s right shoulder.

“Here’s an article from April 17th, 1927,” Sam said. “The Drumsfield’s were high-society, and their parties made the local paper. Here’s a picture from the party.”

Dean examined the picture of the Drumsfield’s with ten other people in front of a large rose bush by a Jack and Jill fountain.

“And, here’s a picture from the investigation on May 28th, 1927,” Sam said pointing to the same fountain in the next picture.

“Where’s the rosebush?” Dean asked.

“Maybe it died,” Sam offered.

“Maybe, you found Margaret,” Dean stated.

Two a.m. found the brothers back in the Impala headed to the Drumsfield mansion. The sky was dark and cloudy. The misty clouds on the foothills surrounding the town spoke of rain. Dean had the radio tuned classic rock. He glanced over at Sam who was lightly rubbing his chest. “You okay?” Dean asked.

“Fine,” Sam replied. He was a little sore where Margaret had poked him. He’d noticed a small red spot similar to a burn on his chest when he was getting dressed.

Sam sipped his latte. His one request before heading out had been for a coffee, a real coffee, none of that cheap motel crap masquerading as coffee. He was afraid they would not be able to find an espresso shop in the small town, but the ubiquitous drive through kiosks were on virtually every corner. They were lucky enough to find one open.

“Ah,” Sam sighed. “Nectar of the gods.”

“Careful there, Tantalus,” Dean remarked.

Sam threw a surprised look in Dean’s direction. Sam knew Dean was intelligent. He had a way of figuring things out, of piecing together small clues and coming to the right conclusion. He could sift through the bullshit, and find the kernel of truth while others could not. Sam also knew he never gave Dean enough credit for his ‘book smarts,’ and it surprised him when Dean popped off with the reference.

“You’ve already banished me to the passenger seat for eternity,” Sam retorted. “How much worse could it get?”

“Well now that question,” Dean replied with a grin, “Is just begging for trouble.”

As Dean pulled into the drive, the rain started. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean groaned.

Dean through the car into park, and killed the lights. He swiveled in his seat to look at Sam, and asked, “Ready to do a little digging?”

“Pfft,” Sam puffed. “Even if we can dig down to her remains in this rain, we’re going to have to use a gallon of lighter fluid to burn her bones.”

“You say that, like it’s a bad thing,” Dean replied.

Sam rolled his eyes, and they both exited the car. Gathering up the industrial size tin of salt, and the lighter fluid Sam started off towards the area of the fountain.

Dean followed a ways behind Sam with the shovels, and the weapons bag. He was stopped short by the sight of a man in a dark raincoat exiting the mansion. The man turned towards the direction Sam had headed. Dean took a quick glance at the construction company sign before stashing the shovels nearby, and hurried to catch up to the man.

“Hey,” Dean shouted. “What are you doing out here?”

The man turned slowly, and gave Dean an appraising look. “What’re you doing here?” the man asked.

“J.B. asked me to come out here, and get some measurements before the crew comes back Monday,” Dean answered. “He never mentioned you’d be out here.”

“Maybe he didn’t expect you to be here at 2:30 in the morning,” the man replied. “J.B. you say?”

The man obviously was not buying Dean’s story.

“Private joke between the boss and me,” Dean smirked. “Long story, saved his ass once in a bar fight once.”

The man smiled now, “As in his construction company, and his favorite drink. That’s clever. My name’s, Ed.”

Ed was a big man, with wiry gray-brown hair and beard. He spit a wad of tobacco out near Dean’s boots. Ed smelled a little of both tobacco and cheap beer. “I just finished my once through, and I was headed home,” Ed stated. “I could stay, and help if you need a hand.”

“Nah,” Dean replied. “I have it covered.”

“Maybe, I should stay,” Ed insisted. There was still a glint of distrust in Ed’s eyes.

Dean leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke in a hushed tone. “Truth is,” Dean said, “I was supposed to get this done last night. I kind of headed out early to have some drinks with the guys. I’d rather J.B. didn’t find out about this.”

Ed laughed, and slapped Dean on the shoulder. “Good enough, kid,” He said. “I’ll see you around.”

“That’s if my wife lets me out of the house after tonight,” Dean replied.

Ed laughed again heading for his truck, “Can’t help you out there, buddy, but I won’t tell ‘J.B.’ I saw you out here this morning unless he asks.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean replied giving him a small wave, “I owe you one.”

Dean waited until the lights from Ed’s truck were no longer visible between the trees before retrieving the shovels, and heading over to Sam. When he caught up to Sam, he could hear him muttering, and cursing.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asked.

Sam looked up, and shot Dean a chilling glare. “Other than the rain, and the ground being torn up from the construction, and having to wade through this sticky clay they call soil around here?” He lifted his foot and waggled it in front of Dean. It was twice its normal size due to all the mud stuck to it. “I think my boots weigh ten pounds each.”

Dean raised one eyebrow, and pointed at Sam’s boots. “Dude, you are not getting back in my car with those things on,” he reprimanded.

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam snapped. “The real problem is the fountain is gone. We’ll have to guess where it was.”

Dean looked around at the large property. “Any guesses?” he asked.

Dean looked at Sam, who was again muttering quietly. Sam started walking back towards the back porch. Sam had that look on his face. The look of intense concentration he wore, when he was figuring out the puzzle. “Sam?” he asked.

Sam looked up at Dean as if he had forgotten Dean was even there. “Sorry,” Sam said. “I think I can make a pretty good guess.” Sam paced off the distance from the porch to a spot a little over thirty feet from the corner. “Right here,” he said.

“How do you know?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “It’s just a guess.”

“Based on?” Dean asked handing Sam one of the shovels.

Sam deposited his burden on the ground, and took the proffered shovel. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t,” Dean replied.

“The picture,” Sam stated as if that explained it all. He grunted as he hefted a shovel full of heavy, wet clay, and dumped it on the ground to the left. He looked up at Dean when he realized Dean had not started digging yet. “What?” he asked.

“What about the picture?” Dean asked.

“Well, it must have been taken before the party,” Sam explained adding another shovel full of mud to his growing pile. “The Drumsfield’s hosted dinner parties.” Another shovel of mud joined the pile. “So, since the shadows were long, and they were behind the guests, everyone was facing west.” Sam elicited another grunt, as he scooped both clay and rock in the next shovel full. “I based the length of the shadows off Margaret’s approximate height. From there, I could extrapolate how far the porch was using the shadows as a guide.” Another scoop of mud was added to the pile. “Doing the math, I’d say it was just a little over thirty feet southwest off the back porch. Of course, it’s all guesswork as I’m going from memory.”

Sam looked up at Dean when he realized Dean had not even started to dig. “You are planning to help me, aren’t you?” he asked a little annoyed.

Dean was just standing there, looking at Sam dumbfounded. His brother’s attention to detail, memory, and analytical mind were truly amazing at times. “He would have made a great lawyer,” Dean thought. However, what he said was, “Your level of geekness is truly amazing. You know that, Sammy?”

Sam huffed, and pushed his rain-slicked hair out of his eyes. “Geekness?” he asked. “Is that even a word?”

“Way to prove my point, little brother,” Dean said with a smile, and started digging.

An hour later, both brothers were soaked despite the abatement of the rain. Each was exhausted from shoveling the water-logged clay mud, but neither would ever admit it to the other.

Sam’s aching arm muscles were protesting. He was about to suggest his guess was wrong, when his shovel connected with something solid. He hit it twice more with his shovel, hearing the delightful sound of metal meeting wood.

Dean reached for his flashlight, and shined it at their feet. Sam cleared away some of the mud. It was definitely a wooden crate.

“Whoever killed her was thoughtful enough to put her in a box before burying her in the back yard,” Dean said sarcastically.

A few more shovels full of dirt, and they were done. Dean shined his flashlight on the crate where Sam was wiping away some of the mud. He could barely make out the words that appeared on the box. “Infante lettino” was stamped in black letters on the wooden crate.

Dean jumped out of the hole to grab the salt and the lighter fluid. Sam stayed behind to pry the lid off the crate. Sam removed the lid, and peered inside. Although not white, Margaret had died in the same dress she had been wearing in the dining room. There was little left of the dress, and even less flesh left on her bones. Sam noticed some small bones partially inside Margaret’s ribs. He shined the light over them, and bent down to inspect them more closely.

As recognition of what Sam was seeing registered his horror grew. “Dean!” he called his voice full with emotion. Sam scrambled backwards out of the makeshift grave.

Dean whirled around at the sound in Sam’s voice to see him scrambling out of the grave. Dean rushed to his side in an instant. Sam was standing next to grave, his head hung low.

Dean hunkered down next to him trying to get a look at his brother’s face. Sam’s damnable long bangs hung down in wet ropes, hiding his eyes from Dean. “Sam?” Dean asked green eyes flashing in concern.

Sam looked up at Dean, his hazel-brown eyes filled with emotion. “I’m okay,” he said. Sam shined his light in the box drawing Dean’s attention to Margaret’s remains.

Dean looked down into the grave, but he did not see what elicited such a strong response from Sam. He straightened up and looked over to Sam who was staring at the bones.

“Margaret was pregnant,” Sam said quietly.

Dean looked back to the grave. Margaret’s remains seemed to have more flesh on its bones then it had only moments before. Dean crinkled his brow in confusion. Shrugging, he turned to pick up the salt tin. “We still gotta do this thing,” he said.

“I know,” Sam replied. He was still gazing at Margaret’s remains, and let out a gasp of surprise when her eyes suddenly popped open. Margaret’s spirit rose out of her bones, and floated up out of the grave.

“Dean!” Sam yelled in warning.

Dean barely had a chance to turn towards Sam when an unseen hand pushed him with tremendous force. Dean flew nearly fifteen feet until he connected solidly with an old black walnut tree. He slid down the trunk, and lay motionless on the sodden ground.

Margaret Drumsfield advanced on Sam. Her blue eyes flashed angry sparks, and her face contorted into a scowl of hatred. “Joseph, you should not have returned,” Margaret said.

Sam tripped over the salt tin in his hasty retreat backwards, knocking it over and spilling some onto the ground. He could feel Margaret’s pain and hate as a palpable force. He struggled to breathe. Already the power of her anger was overwhelming him. It was much stronger out here than it had been in the dining room. Sam’s flashlight flickered out, leaving him in almost total darkness.

Margaret was on him in a heartbeat. Her icy fingers burned into Sam’s shoulders as she locked on, and pushed him backwards. Sam fell to the ground with a thud; knocking what precious air he had left out of his lungs. He wheezed desperately trying to draw in a breath.

“I don’t know what possessed you to think you were more than a plaything,” Margaret said. “You were a diversion, Joseph, not a part of my life.” She ran her fingers through Sam’s hair causing sparks of pain to shoot through his head. Margaret no longer seemed confused about Sam’s identity. She believed he was Joseph.

“I’m not,” Sam managed to squeeze out. He fumbled his hand over the ground searching for the weapons bag. It had to be near him somewhere.

“You’re not, what?” Margaret sneered. “Surely, you aren’t trying to sweet-talk your way out of this?” Margaret rested her hand on Sam’s stomach, and leaned closer to Sam’s face.

Sam’s world exploded in pain. “Aaaagh!” Sam could not hold back a cry of pain.

“What’s the matter, Joseph?” Margaret asked. “It is nothing compared to the pain you caused me. No matter what you thought, the baby was David’s. He was my husband. We were a family.” Margaret pushed against Sam again.

This time, the pain was too intense. Unable to draw in a breath, Sam could not manage a sound. He fisted his hands into the ground beside him. It did not feel like clay. Sam’s mind registered the feel of the fine salt granules, and he threw a fist full into Margaret’s face.

Margaret fell back screaming, her hands covering her face. She paused for just a moment, before the expression of anger returned. She gave Sam a small, tight smile. “That was not very nice,” she hissed. “I see your manners have not improved. Perhaps, another lesson is in order.”

Sam heard two loud pops, and Margaret disappeared in a swirling mist of cold air.

Sam looked over in the direction of the noise. There he saw Dean, still sitting at the base of the tree. His knees were bent, and his arms were resting on his knees to support the weight of the gun. Dean met Sam’s gaze. “You okay?” He asked.

Sam could not catch his breath to answer, but he gave Dean the o.k. sign. He wanted to just lie there, and not move. Sam wondered briefly if Margaret had somehow burned him on the inside, as she had burned him on the outside. Cradling his stomach with his arm, Sam struggled to sit up. Dean’s hand appeared in his field of vision, offering him silent help. Sam grabbed Dean’s hand, and heaved himself out of the clay prison his backside was ensconced in.

“Thanks,” Sam said. He took in Dean’s appearance. Dean too, was muddy from grave digging, and the landing after his flight on Drumsfield Airlines. His eyes looked tired, and his entire countenance spoke of weariness. Dean wore that expression frequently since their father’s death. The weight of years of responsibility was a burden Dean shouldered easily. However, the addition of their father’s share, and his own guilt left cracks in the foundation of Dean’s soul. Sam looked forward to the day Dean would allow him to pick up his share, and help carry the load.

The blood dripping from Dean’s hairline, down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his coat was new though. “You’re hurt,” Sam stated.

“I’m fine,” Dean insisted. “Let’s finish this before Casper the not-so-friendly ghost returns.” Dean turned to grab the lighter fluid, and caught a glimpse of Sam who was bending over to pick up the tin of salt. Sam was caked in mud, and sprinkled generously with salt. He looked like he had suffered through the Winchester version of being tarred and feathered. Dean could not stop a chortle of laughter from escaping.

“What?” Sam asked with annoyance, wheeling around to face Dean.

“Nothing,” Dean lied.

Sam shook his head. Sometimes Dean’s sense of humor confused him. Sam poured the salt over Margaret’s bones. He avoided looking too closely at the small bones nestled inside. Sam hoped the black-hearted Joseph had received his proper retribution.

Dean finished dumping the lighter fluid on Margaret’s bones. He held a flaming lighter in his hands, and was about to toss it on the grave when it suddenly blew out. The now familiar cold breeze shot between the brothers, and they whirled as one to face Margaret.

The apparition in front of them was not Margaret. The spirit was a short man wearing a neat white suit, and small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. It was David Drumsfield.

David glided towards the open grave, and peered down at Margaret. His form flickered several times, and he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

Dean looked at Sam, and shrugged his shoulders. Once more he lit his lighter. He was just about to throw it into the grave when the heavens opened up, and the rain started again.

“Oh, come on!” Dean shouted.

One. Two. Three times Dean tried to restart the lighter.

“Dean.”

Four.

“Dean.”

Five.

“Dean!”

“What?!” Dean shouted looking over at Sam.

Sam was holding a lighted match he was protecting from the rain with his other hand. He raised his eyebrows, and gave Dean the half-shrug, Dude-you-should-listen-to-me gesture.

Dean returned the gesture with one of his own.

Sam smirked at Dean, and threw the match into the grave. Despite the rain, with the amount of lighter fluid Dean had poured onto the bones there should have been an instant fireball. When nothing happened both Sam and Dean looked down into the grave. The match was out.

Sam reached into his coat pocket for another match. The air around him chilled, and he knew without looking that Margaret was back. Looking up quickly he was not surprised to find himself face to face with Margaret’s angry blue eyes. “Why can’t this ever be easy?” Sam thought.

Margaret reached out a hand to Sam, but this time he was prepared for her. He stepped away quickly enough to avoid her grasp. He drew his gun out of his waistband, and took aim at Margaret.

Dean realized the best way to help Sam was to finish the burn before things escalated out of control. Desperately, Dean tried the lighter again, and this time it started. He stepped closer to the grave when David reappeared in front of him.

“I left her once. I can’t leave her again,” David intoned.

“So, go with her,” Dean replied.

“I left her once. I can’t leave her again,” David repeated. He reached out a hand towards the lighter, and it went out.

Sam fired the gun, but Margaret disappeared in the same instant. Margaret reappeared behind Sam, and grabbed his upper arm that was holding the gun. “Shooting me once wasn’t enough for you?” she spat at him.

Sam’s fingers went numb, and he struggled to maintain his grip on the gun. One part of Sam’s brain pondered Margaret’s question. Most spirits, even angry ones did not seem to realize they were, in fact, dead. However, Margaret not only seemed to grasp she was dead, but also how it had happened. The other part of Sam’s brain was screaming at him to take action. This side of Sam’s brain kicked his body into gear with an instinct born from years of hunting.

Sam twisted out of Margaret’s grasp despite her claw-like grip on his arm. Spinning around, he easily dodged her attempt to regain a hold on his arm. Margaret lashed out at Sam, her pale arm sweeping past his face only inches from his eyes. Sam ducked quickly, and brought his gun up to bear.

A loud whooshing sound was accompanied by a bright flash of orange flames. Sam looked over towards the grave in time to see David wink out of existence. He looked back to Margaret, but she too was gone. Sam headed towards Dean.

Dean was kneeling on the ground near the grave, his arms covering his head, protecting his face from the flames. He stood up quickly when the flames went from ten feet above ground, to a relatively low-burning flame.

“You got it started,” Sam said staring into the fire.

“Thank you, Mr. Obvious,” Dean replied with a nod, sparing a glance at Sam. “She’s not coming back, Sammy.”

Sam nodded in response. He bent low, and scooped up both shovels in one hand. He flung the weapons bag over his other shoulder. Sam grunted in response to the pain in his stomach when he straightened back up to his full height. He did not miss the look of concern that Dean tossed his direction at the sound. Knowing Dean would be in full mother hen mode in less than five seconds, Sam used the only weapon at his disposal – distraction.

“Margaret knew she was dead,” Sam stated.

“What?” Dean asked momentarily confused by the change in his thought pattern.

“Margaret knew she was dead,” Sam repeated. “And she blamed Joseph for shooting her.”

“She didn’t necessarily die right away,” Dean said. “If she had time to realize she was dying before it happened, that may explain it.” Dean picked up the empty can of lighter fluid, and the salt tin.

“It doesn’t explain David’s appearance,” Sam shot back. He tapped his flashlight against his forearm twice, and it flickered on. He started walking towards the Impala.

“Sam,” Dean started.

“Dean, we need to finish this tonight,” Sam insisted.

“Sam,” Dean chided, inwardly acknowledging the battle to check the extent of Sam’s injuries was lost. “It’s morning.”

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam sniped. “Keys?”

Dean tossed Sam the keys. He caught them easily with his free left hand, and opened the trunk. He knocked as much of the clay off the shovels as he could, and tossed them into the trunk. They were quickly joined by the salt tin, and the empty can of lighter fluid.

“Margaret first appeared in the dining room,” Dean conceded. “We should start there.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed slamming the trunk lid closed. “Let’s go.”

Once more Dean easily picked the lock into the mansion. Stashing the pick set into one of his coat pockets, Dean pulled out the EMF scanner out of another. Sam slapped Dean’s arm, and headed to the right towards the living room. Dean quickly caught up to Sam, and stopped him.

Dean pretended to be checking the settings on the scanner. “What happened in there?” He asked nodding towards the living room.

“Not much in the living room,” Sam replied shining his flashlight into the large room. “A fire started by itself in the fireplace.” The light from Sam’s flashlight glinted off one of the painted portraits on the far wall. Sam was beginning to really dislike the décor in the mansion.

Dean nodded in response. Pulling out his flashlight from yet another pocket in his green coat, he stepped into the living room ahead of Sam. Dean gave a cursory glance at EMF scanner on his way to the fireplace. “Anything happen before the fire started?” Dean asked.

“Ah,” Sam stopped walking, and stood by the fireplace beside Dean. “I think I felt something?”

Dean looked up at Sam. “Was that a question?” he asked.

“Not really,” Sam replied sheepishly.

“Care to be a little more specific?” Dean asked.

“Just a cold breeze,” Sam replied with a shrug. He looked away from Dean, and back towards the fireplace. Sam wiped his wet bangs off his forehead, and brushed them back with one hand.

There was the ‘tell’ of Sam’s classic evasion technique. “It’s no wonder I always beat him at poker,” Dean thought.

“And?” Dean prompted.

Sam sighed heavily, and mumbled something intelligible.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” Dean replied.

“I said,” Sam started with a quiet tone. “It didn’t feel the same as Margaret.”

“Jeez Sam, don’t make me drag this out of you one sentence at a time,” Dean said exasperated. He did not like pushing Sam, but he did not have time to coddle him right now. They had less than an hour before sunrise, and frankly, Dean was sick and tired of the Drumsfields.

Sam looked back at Dean with a look of apology in his eyes. “You know,” Sam said. “It didn’t feel like the same presence. It wasn’t angry. It was more like an overwhelming sadness, and guilt.”

Now Dean understood Sam’s reluctance to share. Anything that brought Sam’s abilities to the front and foreground made Sam uncomfortable. Dean knew it was not the abilities themselves that made Sam hesitate, as much as it was the possible ties to the demon. Dean rested his hand reassuringly on Sam’s shoulder for several seconds before returning to the task at hand.

“That could have been David,” Dean suggested. “He felt guilty for killing Margaret.”

“Or, not stopping Joseph in time,” Sam finished softly, remembering Margaret’s words to him earlier. His hazel-brown eyes regained some of the haunted expression they had worn for months last year.

Dean did not answer. Dean did not feel he could lecture Sam about letting go of the guilt he felt for Jessica’s death anymore. He still believed Sam should not feel guilty, but to say anything now seemed too hypocritical. That was Dean’s classic evasion technique; simply ignore that which you don’t want to talk about.

Dean was spared any more of the awkward silence by the sudden, shrilling beeps emitted by the EMF scanner.

Dean’s flashlight flickered out followed closely by Sam’s. As the brothers stood adjusting to the near complete darkness, a gust of cold breeze shot between them out of the chimney. The half moon chose that moment to break away from the cloud cover it had been hiding behind all evening.

A small shaft of silver light illuminated the wall and floor near the far window of the living room. Hovering partially in the shadows was David Drumsfield’s spirit. Without hesitation Dean pulled out his gun, and stepped between Sam and David. Whatever else happened here tonight, the supernatural entities roaming this estate were done messing with his little brother.

David’s form was only loosely formed. His edges were soft, as if someone had partially erased a charcoal sketch. He flashed, and disappeared. Seconds later, he reappeared marginally closer than before. Another flash, he was gone. Two beats later, he appeared a few steps closer to the brothers. Dean tightened his grip on the gun, and solidified his shooting stance. He pulled back slightly on the trigger.

“I left her once. I can’t leave her again,” David said.

“She’s gone,” Sam replied.

Dean cast Sam a quick, incredulous look. What did Sam think he was doing? Trying to reason with a ghost?

David flashed out again. When he reappeared he was standing inches from the barrel of Dean’s gun. He looked directly at Sam completely ignoring the threat Dean posed.

“I left her once. I can’t leave her again,” David repeated.

“Oh man,” Dean complained. “That is getting old.”

David turned slowly to look at Dean then turned his attention back to Sam. He moved slightly in Sam’s direction and two loud pops from Dean’s gun later, David was gone.

Dean whirled around, and walked the short distance to the fireplace. He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve the flashlight he had discarded in favor of his gun. Pocketing the gun, he switched on the flashlight, and was rewarded with a strong beam of light. “At least the flashlights are working again,” he said.

Sam watched as Dean walked towards the far window where David had appeared, pointing his light on the ground, apparently looking for something. Sam had no idea what Dean may be looking for now, but he hoped it would mean they could wrap this up, and head out. He was chest and stomach ached from Margaret’s attack. He could feel the weariness he had experienced last time settling on his bones, and he knew he would not be able to keep up the pretense of being fine much longer.

“Here,” Dean said. He kicked up the edge of a tasseled throw rug with the toe of his muddy boot. Sam looked where Dean was shining his flashlight. A small, faint, brown mark marred the hardwood floor. “This is where it happened.”

“David was killed here?” Sam asked.

Dean did not look up, but continued to sweep the floor, as he headed for the dining room. He looked back once to make sure Sam was following him, but resumed his scan of the floor immediately. Dean continued into the dining room, and walked around behind the long dining room table leaving a trail of intermittent muddy footprints in his wake.

Sam hovered hesitantly in the doorway briefly before joining Dean in the dining room. “Dean, what are you looking for?” Sam asked.

Dean ignored Sam’s question, but moments later responded, “And here.” Dean pulled one of the high-backed chairs away from the table and shined his light on the chair’s upholstered seat. More difficult to see on the chair than even the hardwood floor, was a brown stain that blended with the floral patterned upholstery.

As if that explained it all, Dean pushed in the chair, and breezed past Sam on his way back out to the living room.

“Dean, wait,” Sam said. He was having trouble following Dean’s logic with the pounding in his head. “What happened?”

Dean stopped, and gave Sam an appraising look. He had not missed the pinched sound in Sam’s voice. Opting to ignore it for now in favor of wrapping up this whole ordeal, Dean pointed his flashlight into the dining room.

“Margaret was obviously getting ready for the infamous no-show dinner party,” Dean stated. “She and David probably had an argument because David found out about the affair, and he left. Joseph and Margaret then argued, and Joseph shot Margaret in there.”

Dean walked over to the spot where he had flipped up the throw rug and continued, “I think Joseph stuffed Margaret in that shipping crate, and buried her shortly after he shot her. By the time David returned, Joseph was headed out. David confronted Joseph, so he shot David.” Dean kicked the corner of the throw rug back over so the blood stain was barely visible on the floor.

He walked towards the fireplace, as a puzzled Sam followed. “Joseph was tired, and he’s getting a little worried that the guests, or the hired help are going to start showing up, so he opted for a quick stash n’ dash.”

Dean stooped low, and pulled the remnants of blackened wood from the hearth. “The cops thought the snooty Drumsfields pulled up stakes because they were humiliated by the failed party. They didn’t have the know-how to find the clues left behind, and they didn’t believe there was anything to find in the first place,” he theorized.

Dean shined his flashlight up the chimney, and craned his neck upwards. “So, no one found the stinking, rotting corpse stuffed up the chimney.”

“The bones should have fallen out of the chimney as the body decayed.” Sam stated attempting to peer around Dean. “He could not have possibly jammed it up there tight enough to keep it up there all this time.”

Dean was now standing in the fireplace, half his body hidden in the chimney. Sam could hear Dean’s muffled cursing, and in a puff of soot and clanking bones, David’s remains fell out of the chimney. Dean emerged from the chimney, coughing. After a few moments, he straightened, and wiped a sooty hand along his sweaty face leaving a trail of grime across his forehead. “His ribs were stuck in the mortar,” Dean explained.

After a brief heated discussion about the importance of not splitting up, Dean arranged David’s bones in the fireplace, while Sam went out to the Impala for the salt tin and the lighter fluid. The need to move quickly, and avoid a third appearance from David out-weighed the risk of a lone confrontation during the brief separation. Dean hated sending Sam outside to retrieve the supplies when he knew he was hurting, but if David was going to reappear, Dean felt it would be in the house.

Dean inwardly sighed in relief when Sam arrived carrying the salt tin, and the back-up can of lighter fluid. He could tell Sam was favoring his mid-section, and he looked exhausted. He returned his thoughts to the task at hand, and grabbed the salt tin from Sam’s grasp. “Let’s get this done, and get going,” he said. “I’ve had enough of these two for one night.”

“Morning,” Sam corrected with a stifled yawn.

Dean grinned at Sam, and grabbed the can of lighter fluid. He did not want Sam to fall over before he could get him back to the Impala. Sam was thin, but he was tall, and all muscle. Dean had carried Sam before, but Sam was no light-weight. It was better to get this done quickly, and be done with it.

Sam shivered; he was freezing from being out in the cold air. The temperature must have dropped at least ten degrees between the last burn, and this one. The wet clothes sticking to his skin did not help matters either, and he shivered again.

This time when Dean started the lighter, no spirits appeared.

Sam was so surprised at the lack of activity that he shined his flashlight around the room looking for anything out of place. “Are you almost done there, Dean?” Sam asked.

Dean started David’s bones on fire in reply. He picked up the salt tin and the lighter fluid, and turned towards Sam. “Let’s go,” he said not stopping on his way out of the mansion, and to the car, knowing Sam would follow.

Sam stopped with Dean by the trunk of the car. “Think we can catch a few hours of sleep at the hotel before we head out?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean replied with a grin. “If that gi-normous cup of coffee you drank on the way up has worn its way out of your system by now.”

Sam threw him a weak smile, and climbed into the front of the Impala. “I could sleep through a train wreck,” he said.

Dean sat down behind the wheel, and pointed at Sam’s boots. “What did I say about not wearing those things in my car?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replied closing his eyes. He leaned his head on the cool side window, and folded his arms across his stomach. “Something about something, and not doing something else. It’s hard to say, you tend to talk about your car a lot.”

“Don’t,” Dean chastised severely. “Joke about the upholstery.”

Sam only smiled slightly in response. Within moments, he was well on his way to sleep.

With a roar of its engine the Impala made its way down the tree-lined hillside as the sun slowly rose from behind the mountains.

Sam lay on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting protectively across his stomach. He had not even bothered to pull the covers down, and instead opted to lie directly on the blue-striped bedspread. Dean had insisted that Sam use the shower first. Now, Sam found he could not get back to sleep. Not even the steady drone of the shower in the artificially darkened room seemed to help.

The shower stopped abruptly, and moments later Dean emerged clad only in boxers, with a towel wrapped around his neck. Dean glanced over at Sam, but proceeded to his bed, and started rummaging in his duffle for his gray t-shirt. Shrugging on his shirt, Dean sat down on the edge of the bed facing Sam.

“What?” Sam asked after a few moments.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me,” Dean replied.

Sam turned his head to look at Dean a puzzled expression on his face. “What?” He repeated.

Dean sighed, and walked over to Sam. He met Sam’s gaze with a quiet intensity reflected in his green eyes. He could wait until Sam confessed. Sam was stubborn, but the Winchester stubborn streak did not start with Sam. Dean knew he could outlast him.

“I’ll show you my boo-boo’s, if you show me yours,” Sam sniped. He was hoping sarcasm would be an effective tool to dissuade Dean. If Dean saw the deep, purplish-red handprint on his stomach, Sam doubted he would be able to distract Dean from hovering this time.

“How about,” Dean replied. “You let me see where you’re hurt, because I’m the oldest and I said so?”

“That’s not how it works,” Sam protested.

“Sure it is, Sammy,” Dean said. “It’s in the big brother handbook.”

Sam huffed in response, but moved his hand and lifted his t-shirt. “It’s just a bruise. I’m fine.”

Dean sat down beside Sam on the bed, and pressed gently, but firmly in the area around the bruise. Sam grunted in pain when Dean hit a tender spot.

Dean’s eyebrow shot up, and he remarked, “Just a bruise, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam defended. “But, uh, a deep one I guess.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean said obviously not buying Sam’s story entirely. “How’s the head?” He pulled Sam’s t-shirt down, and made towards Sam’s head.

Sam brushed Dean off. “Dude, I’m fine,” Sam insisted.

“Okay,” Dean acquiesced. “But, if you are still hurting this much tomorrow, we’re getting you checked out by a doctor.”

“And you’ll be explaining the handprint, how?” Sam asked.

“You know me,” Dean replied returning to his own bed, and flopping down on his back. “I’ll come up with something good.”

“And embarrassing, no doubt,” Sam complained. He draped his free arm over his stomach again, and closed his eyes.

Dean smirked, but said nothing. Sam would be fine, but it never hurt to give him a hard time. That too, was in the big brother handbook.

Dean awoke three hours later to find Sam already seated at the small table reading through the local paper.

“Find anything interesting?” Dean asked.

Sam looked over across the paper at Dean. “The featured local area hike takes you past an old mining shack to the only mechanically operational Big Foot trap in existence,” he said.

“Funny,” Dean replied sarcastically.

“No, really,” Sam replied with a smile folding the paper. He tossed the article to Dean, who read the section Sam had pointed out.

“Man,” Dean said. “I can hear the banjoes playing from here.” He stood up, and walked over to the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined Sam at the table.

“Hmm,” Sam answered not really paying attention to what Dean was complaining about. “I was checking out the map, and regardless of where we head from here we have to go north or south.”

“Do you have a sudden aversion to east or west?” Dean asked.

“No, I mean, we can’t go east or west,” Sam replied with a small laugh. “The only way to really get out of this state from here is to get on the Interstate, and go north or south. I think it’s some kind of evil triangulation between Timbuktu, No Man’s Land, and B.F.E.”

Dean ran his fingers through his short, dark blonde hair, and scrubbed one hand down his face. “Placing us directly in the middle of no where,” he grunted in delayed response.

Sam headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth before they left. His mouth tasted like clay. Sam did not remember his face ever coming into contact with the ground, but the sticky mud had been everywhere. It probably came from his hair when he took a shower last night. Wherever it had come from, the coffee he drank that morning had not been able to wash away the taste.

With another sip of his coffee, and a large stretch Dean was ready to hit the road. Well, almost ready. Clean clothes and breakfast were definitely on this morning’s agenda.

“Be ready to hit the road in fifteen,” Dean called out to Sam.

“I’m ready now,” Sam replied looking at Dean from the bathroom mirror. He walked out of the bathroom, and shouldered his duffle bag. Grabbing the car and the room keys off the table he said, “I’ll go check us out.”

“You’ve read that menu three times front to back,” Dean remarked. He sipped his water, and started chewing noisily on an ice cube.

Sam set his menu down on the table. He shot Dean a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “That’s really annoying,” he said.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, I’m hungry,” he defended. “Decide already.”

Dean watched Sam surreptitiously for several moments. If Sam wasn’t hungry, maybe he was hurt worse than Dean had previously thought. He flagged down the waitress with a slight head nod.

The waitress was an older woman in her fifties, with frizzy gray hair, frumpy clothes, and sensible shoes. It did not stop Dean from gracing her with one of his heart-stopping, charm the bees away from the honey nest, smiles. “Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” the waitress said, returning Dean’s smile. “My name’s Cecille, and I’ll take your order when you boys are ready.”

“I’ll have the special. But, uh, I’m not sure Sam here is hungry,” Dean said casually.

The truth was, Sam was not feeling very hungry. He was still tired, a little nauseous, and more than a little sore. He knew, however, that despite the tone Dean’s comment was anything but casual. It was a fishing expedition, and if Sam was not careful, he would be caught.

“Me too,” Sam replied not bothering to check what the special was.

“Ah, Sammy-boy,” Dean thought his green eyes flashing. “You are so busted.”

Meeting Dean’s gaze, Sam did not need any special abilities to read his brother’s mind. He knew he was trouble.

To his credit, Sam did a decent job of putting away the logger’s special of a three-egg scramble, ham, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast. He was surprised once he started eating, just how hungry he actually was. He wadded up his napkin, and tossed it on the plate over his remaining food to cover up the evidence.

Sam had an idea of where he wanted to head from here, but he had not been able to think of any reason to get Dean to agree to it. If he could not trick Dean into going, he’d have to resort to the truth. And the truth, would earn him a razzing from here, back to Kansas.

“So, if it is all the same to you, I’d like to head north when we leave,” Sam said. He took a sip of his coffee, and watched Dean over the top of his cup for a reaction.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dean replied. He examined the bill before taking out a twenty, and tossing it on the table. “Why?”

Dean stood up to leave, and Sam followed suit. “Powell’s,” Sam replied as if it were self-explanatory.

“Who’s?” Dean asked walking out the door.

Sam walked to the Impala, and stood at the passenger door. He leaned over the roof, getting his jacket sleeves a little wet. “It’s not so much a who, as it is a what.”

Dean turned to face Sam before climbing into the driver’s seat. “So, what is Powell’s?”

“A bookstore,” Sam replied sheepishly.

“A bookstore,” Dean repeated. He shook his head at Sam, and sat down behind the wheel. He turned to look at Sam who had joined him in the car. “A bookstore?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied excitement creeping into his voice. “It’s in Portland. It’s the size of a city block, and three stories high. There is an attached coffee shop, with WiFi too. We could do some serious research to find our next hunt.”

He caught the stunned expression on Dean’s face. “The lady in the motel office told me about it when I checked us out,” Sam finished lamely. He turned to look out the side window to hide the blush that was creeping up his neck, and into his face.

Dean smiled, and turned the key in the ignition. The Impala started to life with a satisfying roar. Dean patted Sam condescendingly on the shoulder. “Okay, little brother,” he said with a smirk. “Who am I to deny you a trip to the Geek Mecca?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he replied. Inwardly Sam smiled, and chanced a look at Dean out the corner of his eye. “Gotcha,” he thought.

A/N:  I couldn’t help, but indulge myself, and give poor Sam and Dean a mini-vacation after the angst filled season 2 they’ve endured thus far. It wasn’t an action packed beginning, so I hope I didn’t lose anyone due to the lack of exciting adventure. The supernatural stuff is coming next chapter, I promise.
The brothers were in Oregon, supposedly near Crater Lake (per Sam’s vision) in the episode, “Croatoan.” Crater Lake seemed like a convenient location to take the guys on a quick road trip.
The house is real. The couple really did disappear one night after a failed dinner party. Everything was left in the house as if the owners would return at any time. Reportedly, they moved back east, but it was never verified. It was recently sold and renovated, but no problems arose. It seemed like an ideal place to put an angry spirit to me. Bg.
Also, there really isn’t sales tax in Oregon, and it really is illegal to pump your own gas.
Go figure.