EDIT: Again, just re-written. Plot explained a bit more in this chapter!

Chapter Four

John ran at full speed to the car, searching through every weapon he had looking for something to break down the door, he knew he couldn't face this ghost without more information, but he wasn't leaving Dean unless he was sure he was going to be ok. He couldn't leave without trying.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked up from where he was, throwing rocks at the windows of the house, venting anger. John tried to contain his surprise as one of them bounced back without damaging the glass, skittering across the gravel and landing at his feet. Keep calm for Sammy.

"Sam I need you to call Bobby and ask him if he can remember anything about where they might have buried this woman." Bobby had been helping with the research via the phone when he could, and John knew he'd at least have access to more information than they had with them here, in this empty place. Fewer witnesses had been a good thing before, now it meant less help. What if his son was hurt? He couldn't panic. Keep calm for Sammy. That's what Dean always told him. Dean. He could do this.

Sam nodded, taking John's cell phone and hitting the speed dial, still glaring daggers at his father.

Bobby picked up on the third ring.

"Hey Bobbie, it's Sam."

Hey Kiddo, watcha calling for?

"Dad screwed up."

Oh. It was apparent Bobby was well aware of the rift growing between father and son. Screwed up what?

"We're at that job you sent us on and now Dean is trapped in a house." Sam wasted no breath on blaming Bobby, he didn't need to. John turned back to the car, trying to choose between a shotgun for blasting through the door and an axe for hacking it open.

But this chick only goes after people who remind her of her husband, you know, that psycho that killed her.

"I can assure you, she went after Dean." Sam snapped, pegging another rock at the window. Like all the others, it bounced away from the protective supernatural shield that invisibly guarded its prisoner. John tracked its progress, wondering if that was the reason the house was still standing after all this time in disrepair. He didn't want to think about what that could mean if they killed the ghost before Dean got out.

But…why? Bobby sounded genuinely baffled, Sam looked angrier. Was that even possible at this point?

John remembered the task at hand, and decided a shot-gun and an axe couldn't hurt. He threw matches and salt into a bag – just in case.

OoOoOoOoO

"Doesn't matter why, where's she buried?"

Sam was growing sick of incompetent old people; they were all sitting there self-righteous and insistent that they were right. He didn't have time to sit down and thoroughly go through an hour long plan of attack.

Dean was in danger right now.

What Dean most certainly did not need was Bobby and John sitting down and analysing their mistakes over a cup of coffee, especially when at least three states separated them.

As far as Sam was concerned no mistakes should be made, and he fully meant to grill both John and Bobby if he got Dean back. No, when he got Dean back.

I don't know where she's buried Sammy. Bobby's voice replied, he was unaware of Sam's inner rant.

"Can you find out?" Sam asked, realised he had been a little rude to the one of the people who could help save his brother.

Maybe, I'll check it out, tell your dad to be careful. With that Bobby hung up the phone and Sam snapped the flip down on John's phone, pausing only to briefly wonder how on earth the man worked the damn thing, he still couldn't get the toaster incident out of his head or the particularly interesting expedition in which a poor unsuspecting hair dryer had met it's early end, followed by an electric razor and three microwave ovens that had really never been the same again.

He turned back to his father, silently approving of the heavy arsenal going into the bag.

OoOoOoO

She watched his chest rise and fall. Rise and fall.

Up and down.

It made her angry. How was it fair that he sound live and she should die? How could he? How could he do this to her?

The antique sword hovered beyond her reach, one of many that her husband had left lying around the house.

She looked back at her hostage. She'd tried to forgive him. Honestly, she had, but the more she thought about it, the more the remembered about his betrayal, the more she hated him. She longed to kill him, to watch the light die in his eyes.

She could almost hear his heart beating. It haunted her steps, drove her mad in the silence. She could never escape. Never escape?

The house felt so small, so lonely. He had left her here to die!

This was her justice.

If the world would not convict her true murderer then she would do it herself.

She ran a finger down the sharp blade, festering with anger when yet another rock pelted into her window. She sent her life force out, strengthening the glass so it wouldn't shatter, keeping the house upright.

She longed to plunge the sword right into his stomach, but she needed him awake first, needed him to feel that pain she had. She needed her revenge so desperately. It sustained her, kept her upright. It was her blood, her life, her everything.

So she gently leant forwards and ran her cold hands over his cheek, coaxing his tired eyes to open. She had done it a thousand times. Remembering those rainy days when those big brown eyes would follow her from room to room begging to be allowed into the storm made her feel sick.

She protected him! Held him!

He betrayed her.

He had to pay.

OoOoOoO

John fished around in the car some more before finding another item with promise, a hammer suitable for knocking down the door that was keeping his son in. If this didn't work they would have to return to the motel and desperately scour the internet for clues and help.

He nodded to his son, who dutifully relayed his conversation with Bobby to him, though he had heard most of it. Sam wasn't a quiet one at the best of times.

"Dad?" Sam asked as they returned to the door. It loomed ominously above them. John set his things down, and pulled out the hammer first.

"What?" His father grunted, hacking at the wood with vigour.

"What did you mean when you said you made a mistake before?"

"Well, I thought you boys would be safe because she was after revenge on her husband."He slammed into the door again, leaving no mark. "But what if…" He hit again, this time harder. "What if it wasn't her husband that killed her?"

His foot met the door with a loud thud but the door didn't budge. He relegated the axe to the 'useless' pile and picked up the axe.

Sam's eyes widened in comprehension. "What if she was after revenge on her son, or people like him…people like-."

"Dean." John finished his sentence before calling his son's name a little louder. The axe wasn't working either.

He sighed, maybe his shot-gun would come through for him.

OoOoOoOoO

Cold fingers brushed his forehead and he twitched, trying to escape the icy touch. His head throbbed and it felt like he was lying on the swaying deck of a boat. The world rocked beneath him.

"Wake...my..."

Was someone talking to him? His hearing was coming and going in sinusoidal waves of awareness.

"My son?" The voice made him shiver; he knew it wasn't his parents. If he was dead he wasn't with his Mother.

"Who...?" He asked, his eyes closed against the shifting realities the world around him. Colours were dancing behind his eyelids.

"That's it." The voice encouraged as he groaned. His head was killing him. Was he hit by a truck?

His eyes fluttered, a flash as silver danced across his vision. A knife? A sword?

His eyes drooped closed again, it was too bright outside. There was a loud pounding noise outside. He wished it would go away.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom!

Canons firing from a ship. The world was rocking. The waking world was sucked away from his dreamy beach like the ocean.

He didn't know it at the time, but when it crashed back again, it would bring a world of pain to his isolation.

- TBC -