I live in the countryside and those of you who live there too, well then you know what I was doing… the grass ain't gonna cut itself, right!? LOL But I'm back now and this chapter sucks but it had to be written. It's short, but that means that I have the next chapter all written down but something is just not right about it, so… I'll try to update soon. I'm sorry for all the grammar and spelling mistakes you're gonna find here, but I really wanted to post this today, because I was gone for so long. Thank you for reading!

Enjoy…

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"Dean!"

Sam yelled into the black hole, illuminating Dean's body with his flashlight, seeing Dean lying on the floor. There was blood running down the side of Dean's head as much as Sam could see in the shaky beam of the light. There was wood all over his brother; wood on wood on Dean.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

Sam thought 'probably not', but there's nothing wrong with a little bit of hope.

"Dean?!"

He called again, wanting Dean to wake up and say ''m fine, come down here' or something like that, but… Dean didn't make a sound.

"Damnit…" Sam swore under his breath and raised his eyes up from the hole into the room that was slowly becoming alive with sunlight. The day was in full swing now; it was seven 'o clock on a sweet April morning and the woods outside were becoming alive. Birds, other animals, wind, a distant sound of an airplane… but Sam never felt more alone. Dean was down in the hole, lying with injured God knows what and Sam was standing like a statue in the middle of a dust covered room, with a horses tongue licking his back.

"Dean!!!"

One more try, that got him no response. Not even a groan.

Taking one more look at the hole, he saw that there was no way that he would be able to get into the basement the same way Dean did. There was just no way, that he would be able to climb through the hole and get down there. He had no idea how far it was to the floor and he had nothing that he could use as rope. He needed to find another way down. Another safe way down.

He needed to get to his brother, because this house felt all kinds of wrong and the thought of leaving Dean out of his sight for just one second… hurt and made all kind of alarms go off in his head. Sam thought for a brief second that this is how Dean must feel all the time; alarm bells going off in his head… all the time.

But leaving Dean down there, alone… was worse. He needed to get to him, he needed to take him out, out of this house, out of this constant feeling of loneliness.

"There has to be a door somewhere, right?" He said to Dean and got nothing in response. But it felt natural to tell Dean his plans. It felt… he felt… not so alone.

This house…

He walked around the hole, carefully, not wanting to go down himself too. That would be awkward, to say the least. He had a strange feeling that the house would have a field day if he would go down like his brother did.

He listened to every sound, every little noise that would tell him he was in trouble; the weeping of the wood, any groans from his brother, any noise that would tell him that something was about to happen.

Stepping around the hole, he walked into the hallway. He needed to find a way to the basement. Somewhere. Somehow. He just did.

Every room he checked had nothing even close to a door that would even make him think that it might lead to the basement. There was nothing, nowhere. Just nothing. Just spider webs and creaking floorboards and dust and sun and the smell of rotting wood.

But no door, not even a hidden door behind book shelves. Oh, he checked, he ripped the shelves off the walls, but all that got him was a ripped Shakespeare, a moldy Frost, and a dust of Poe. He checked every closet he could find, every crack, got a nice little heart attack when a rat almost jumped into his face…but there was no door…anywhere.

And after running through every room on the floor, after chasing dust and hope, after hitting his toes on broken wood and furniture, after watching how seven o' clock became seven thirty, after stumbling from room to room, throwing old books off the shelves, after checking every mouse hole and crack… he got nothing. There was nothing… no doors… nothing. Nothing, but dust and sunrays bleeding into the house.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, his eyes on the line of smeared blood that ran along the wall… Peter's blood.

Peter…

The image of the boy, lying bleeding to death in his arms… chocked him. He needs to find out what happened, he needs to put Peter to rest. Somehow.

He breathed deeply and slowly, getting some dust in his throat. His heart was pounding in his chest, his eyes stinging and there was this odd feeling of failure rising up his throat. Maybe he should've just jumped into the hole and pray to God that the floor isn't as far down as it seems.

He felt so alone, standing in the middle of the dusty hallway, with Peter's blood and crooked pictures all over the walls… even with the sun shining at his right side, even if he felt how warm the sunrays were… he felt alone.

This house…

He slowly turned around and looked into the room Dean made a hole in and coughed. He made one step closer to the hole in the middle of the room and stopped when his eyes landed on something. He coughed again and the cough turned into an uncontrollable laughter.

Sam laughed, a deep, genuine laughter, a laughter of a mad man, who just realized that he was caught by the police.

He stood in the middle of the hallway, in the middle of a dust storm, that came from the last room he raided, laughing his heart out. The laughter travelled around the house, making a spider retreat to his hiding place, a mouse run a little faster over the cracked floorboards, a big, black fly flew into the basement through the hole and Sam's eyes were becoming watery. He couldn't tell if it was from the dust in his eyes, the laughter or the sheer stupidity that ruled in his head.

He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and stepped into the room. He sidestepped the hole carefully and came face to tongue with the horse on the fireplace. He laughed at his own stupidity. All those mystery books he's read, all those stupid movies Dean made him watch, all the years of hunting evil things, taught him nothing.

He smiled when he reached his hand towards the horse's tongue: "Don't drool on me," and touched the cold silver tongue.

The horse's eyes were bulged out, his tongue had all these dents and cracks in it and to Sam it felt like he was touching the real thing minus the drool and warmth. He was touching cold silver… death.

He tried pulling the tongue down, but it didn't move. He tried shifting it left then right and when that did nothing he pulled the tongue up, up towards the horses teeth… and that made a groan escape the back of the horse's mouth.

Sam let go of the horse's tongue so fast, he didn't even acknowledge the moving of his hand. It was as if the thing burned him. He glanced behind himself to see how far away he can step back without falling into the hole. Not very far, but he made a step back anyway when the back of the fireplace, a huge, thick block of stone started to shift forward right in front of his eyes.

It didn't make a sound. Not even a squeal, nothing. It was as silent as a mouse creeping to take the cheese. But it was a slow process, stone turning and moaning and chiseling its way into the open. But in silence. No noise. Nothing. It seemed odd to Sam, an old house, a big fireplace, years of no one to use it, but still… the back of the fireplace opened as silently as if it was well taken care off and oiled regularly.

And when it was done, when the back stony door opened, a cloud of dust and stone covered Sam from head to toe making him turn around and spit pebbly dust out of his mouth.

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TBC…