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Why is it so cold?

That was the first thought that wove its way through the thick fog in his head. He could feel something hard and sharp pressing into the back of his head, a dull ache spreading out from the place as the pressure refused to give out. His eyes felt raw and dry, despite the fact they were glued shut, and his limbs were leaden. And it was cold. Really cold.

Sam winced and cracked his eyes open. He could see thick dust motes floating in the air above him, and a dry, grey ceiling. He blinked a few times, wondering if he was just imagining it all. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright, lifting a hand and rubbing the back of his head. Turning, he could see that the thing that had been pressing into the back of his head was a small, jagged piece of plaster. He frowned at it for a few moments before turning his head to look around him.

"Dean?"

His voice sounded strangely small and alone in the emptiness. He narrowed his eyes, taking in the room in more detail.

It was, to say the least, a wreck. Everything was some shade of grey and covered in a thick layer of dust. The room was square, with a wooden floor and what-was-once-white painted walls. A sofa stood against one of the walls, stuffing leaking out from its cushions. Against another wall was a large bookcase. The wall behind him was taken up by a large window, curtains drawn, and the final wall had nothing but a closed door in it. A large, faded rug covered the floor. For a few moments, Sam wondered where the plank beneath his head had come from. Then he realized that there was a small hole in the ceiling, and that the plaster had clearly fallen from there.

Sam crawled to his feet, coughing as dust blew into his face. His eyes were still aching and he rubbed them in an effort to relieve the feeling.

"Dean?" he called again, this time knowing that he would not get an answer. He had no idea where he was, but he was sure that Dean wasn't near him. Still, he tried again.

"Dean?" Then, "Anyone? Hello?"

Nothing. Sam frowned, replaying his last few moments in the motel. He had been looking at the photo album, he'd found the shop girl, he'd closed the book… and then he couldn't breath and everything was white. And now this.

Sam turned in a full circle, studying the room around him. Was it even real? A vision of the Trickster flashed into his head, and he shivered. Was this his work? He took a long step forwards which brought him to the bookcase and touched the books on the middle shelf, wondering if his hand would pass through it. It practically did: the books crumbled beneath his fingers and fell to dust. Sam pulled back, blinking.

Enough, his brain screamed at him. Get out. Find Dean.

He walked quickly over to the only door and pulled at the handle. The door rattled, but didn't open. Locked. He tried it again. Nope, still locked. Scowling, he let go and turned, deciding that he could try the window. And the room shook.

Sam stumbled back against the wall, taken by surprise. The room shuddered again, and then a thin crack appeared on the ceiling. Sam stared up at it, watching as it widened and then raced towards the opposite side of the room. The room shuddered again, and a small chunk of plaster dropped from the ceiling and hit the floor, dust trailing behind it like stardust. Then the reality of what was about to happen hit Sam head on. The ceiling was going to collapse.

Urgency leaping into him, Sam ran to the window and pushed the curtains aside. Outside, he could only see pitch black. He tried to open the window without success, and then drew back and kicked it hard. A spider-webbed-crack appeared in the glass, and then vanished almost instantly. Sam stared at the place where it had been.

"Oh, shit," he muttered.

He span around and sprinted back to the door as a second large chunk of plaster dropped from the ceiling, narrowly missing him. He threw himself at the door, ramming his shoulder in it. With a lurch of triumph, he heard the old lock groan. He attacked it again, painfully aware that plaster dust was raining down on his head from the crack. How long did he have? Ten seconds? Five? With a sudden scream of splintering wood, the door gave in and burst open and Sam made a dive for the other side just as the ceiling behind him collapsed in on itself.

"The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later. The number you are calling is–"

"No its not, damn it!" Dean yelled at his mobile. "Put me through to him right now!"

"…try again later. The number you–"

"Argh!" Dean threw his mobile down on his bed, where it continued to explain to his pillow that Sam couldn't answer him.

Dean strode over to Sam's bed, where the photo album was still lying there open. He stared at it, his eyes wild with panic and fury.

"What do you want me to do?" he snarled. "What do you want?"

Mrs. Hartford smiled sweetly back at him. Dean scowled furiously and turned his gaze on Sam, still lingering in the background of the photograph. His brother's face was so blank, so lost that it sent a shudder through Dean. It didn't look like Sam. It looked like a corpse dressed as Sam. Dean swallowed hard and then turned away, running his hands through his short hair.

He had to do something. It had been a full ten minutes since Sam had vanished, and all he had done so far was panic and phone a mobile which wasn't working. He had to help Sam somehow…

Bobby.

The name pierced his mind like a dart. He lunged across the room for his mobile and snatched it up. He dialled Bobby's number and pressed the mobile to his ear.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring…

"Damn it, Bobby, pick up!" Dean hissed. "Son of a–"

"Hello?"

"Bitch!" Dean finished, his voice rising sharply with relief. "Finally!"

"I don't know if you've made a mistake callin' or somethin' but 'Bitch' is not my name," Bobby said in his gruff voice.

"Bobby, Sam's missing."

"What?" All annoyance in Bobby's voice vanished, replaced by concern. "How?"

"I dunno, I think he's been cursed."

Quickly, Dean relayed the events of the past few hours to Bobby who listened quietly. When he had finished, Bobby remained silent for a few moments.

"Well, this is some serious crap you boys have wandered into," he said at last. "You're dealing with the worst kind of vengeful spirit. See, for some of them it isn't enough to just kill people. They want to take their victims into their own world and terrify them first."

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean said, his eyes narrowing. "Back up. Sam's in Hartford's world? Well, how the hell do we get him out?"

Bobby didn't say anything. Dean went cold.

"Oh, no. No way."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I've only ever destroyed these things, I've never had to get anyone out. I mean, once they're in we just… have to give them up…"

"No." The word was short and cold, almost an order. Dean's eyes flashed as he stared at the photo album, his hands trembling. "No. We are not just gonna 'give him up.' You hear me? I'm not."

"I know." Bobby sighed. "Okay, don't do anything. I'll come down and see what I can do. Where are you?"

"Minnesota."

"I'll be there in a few hours."

Dean nodded. "Thanks, Bobby. But there's one more thing I don't understand. Why was it Sammy who got sucked in? As far as I know, that thing's only supposed to take its owner."

"Who took the book from the shop? Who picked it up?"

Dean thought. "Sammy."

"Well, as far as the spirit is concerned, that makes him its next owner."

Dean closed his eyes. Damn it, Sam…

"I'll be there soon, Dean. Bye."

"Bye, Bobby."

Dean sat down on his bed as he lowered his mobile. But he was far from comforted. What if Sam couldn't hold out for 'a few hours'? What if they were too late? Dean swallowed hard. Then he stood, crossed to his bag, and began to load his rifle full of rock salt. When Bobby arrived, he would be ready.

Sam picked himself up off the floor, wiping himself down. He took a moment to look behind himself at the ruined room, acknowledging that he could be buried beneath the rubble at this moment. Shuddering, he turned back to face the front. The room he was in now was some sort of kitchen, a large rectangular table in the centre and an old-fashioned cooker at one end. Small cabinets lined the walls, and there were three more doors and a staircase leading off from the room, a door for each wall (including the one behind him). Again, everything was in some sort of grey, and dust floated in the air.

At least now he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. The destruction that had just occurred was clearly the work of a violent spirit. Harry Hartford, probably.

So I'm the new owner of the album. Great…

But that still didn't explain where he was. Frowning, he took a few steps forwards. He recognized this room. Where had he seen it before? Sam ran his hand over the smooth wood of the table, leaving thin rivets in the dust. Was everything going to be dusty in this place? He brushed his hand on his jeans, grimacing. His eyes fell on one of the chairs at the table, and he froze. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place in his mind. Sam walked to the base of the stairs and turned to face the room, lifting his hands to form a square in front of one eye.

The view he was looking at now matched one of the photographs in the album exactly, minus Mrs. Hartford and her cake. Sam lowered his hands, dread setting in. Somehow, he was in the Hartfords' old house.

"Great," he muttered. "Just great."

He ran his hand through his hair, dislodging some of the plaster dust there in the process.

And an ear piercing scream ripped through the air, erupting from somewhere above him like a volcano.

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