Sam stood, extending his hand and Dean used it to pull himself to a sitting position, but he didn't make any attempt to stand up. Immediately concerned, Sam squatted back down and retrieved the flashlight from his brother, shining it directly into Dean's face. Dean squinted and tried to move his head.

"Stop that," said Sam. "I need to check your pupils."

"I don't have a concussion, Sammy."

"Headache?" persisted Sam. "Nausea?"

"I am sitting in a puddle of blood after being thrown across the room by a pissed off dead chick. It smells like a slaughterhouse in here, man. Who wouldn't have nausea and a headache?"

Sam lifted a sceptical brow, and Dean held his hands up, placating.

"Okay, okay. I got tossed around pretty good back there, and yes, Sherlock, I still have one hell of a headache. Just give me a minute to pull it together, then we'll purify the place and get out of here. I'll get patched up back at the motel." To prove that he was ready to finish the job, Dean got slowly to his feet, trying to ignore the pounding sensation at his temples.

Sam noticed his brother's sluggishness, his mouth drawn down in worry. Then something occurred to him. "What threw you across the room, Dean?"

His brother looked confused, and Sam hoped it wasn't due to a concussion. "What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"Abigail was standing right in front of me when the circle gave way. I stepped back, you told me to keep reading, and then all hell broke loose."

Dean's eyes were wide. "You saw her?"

"Didn't you?"

"No, Sam. I felt the circle give, then that wind hit me, then something picked me up and threw me into that wall over there. I got off one shot, but I never saw anything. Maybe she decided to take me out first--you know how quickly spirits can move."

Sam was shaking his head. "No. When the wind hit I could still see Abigail in front of me. She was lifting the machete. For her to throw you across the room, she'd have to be in two places at once."

"Telekinesis?"

"Maybe." Sam didn't seem convinced. "Something's not right." He indicated the hole in the floor. "What made this hole?"

"Must have been me, I guess. I don't know. Everything got kind of fuzzy after I hit the wall."

Sam scanned the room again with his flashlight, then turned back to his brother. "I think we need to leave."

"Sure, Sammy, as soon as I stick these little baggies in the walls."

"No. We need to leave now. And not just the house. I think we need to leave Charleston."

Dean was sure that he'd be able to follow his brother's logic if his head wasn't throbbing, but as it stood, he was confused. They'd bound the spirit, right? So why did Sam want to run? Still moving carefully, Dean recovered the shotgun, his own flashlight and the duffel bag from where they had fallen, tucking the gun back into the bag. Then he turned to face Sam, focusing the flashlight beam on his little brother. Sam was still, his eyes unfocused and his head cocked slightly to one side as though he were listening for something.

Dean felt the familiar sensations of fear and panic beginning in his stomach. He'd felt this way too often in the past few weeks and he hated it. This was too much like Kansas, and with Sam looking like that, and saying they needed to leave, well, they were leaving. They were leaving right now. Dean didn't immediately discount the idea of coming back later to torch this stupid house, though, just out of spite.

Dean cleared his throat and stepped cautiously closer to his brother. "Sam?" he asked quietly. "Sammy?" Sam's eyes snapped back to Dean's and he seemed to come back to reality.

"Ready?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded, immediately regretting the movement. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. Sam reached out without saying anything and took the duffel from his brother, then started toward the front door.

The door was open, light from the full moon giving enough illumination for Dean to see by. At the threshold, Sam stopped abruptly and Dean almost ran into him. "Hey Dean?" asked Sam in a voice that sounded strangely distant.

"Yeah?"

"Is this loaded?" Sam turned to face his brother, the shotgun in his hand. Dean tensed, a sudden rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. He took a slow step backward, his grip on the flashlight tightening and his feet settling unconsciously into a fighting stance.

"One shot left, Sam," said Dean, searching his brother's face for any signs of rage or insanity. Sam was still again, listening. After what had to be the longest moment of Dean's life, Sam nodded. "Good." Dean watched as Sam spun suddenly to face the open doorway and fired at something Dean couldn't see.

"Run!" yelled Sam, moving to the side to let his brother pass. Dean ran, practically flying down the stairs, the pain in his head exploding into stars with every step. He heard Sam's long strides behind him, gaining, and forced himself to keep pushing across the soggy lawn.

"Keep going, Dean!" Sam was practically on top of him, but Dean could feel his energy flagging. "Just a few more yards!" Suddenly, Dean had the sensation of cold fingertips brushing across the back of his neck, searching for purchase. Sheer terror quickened his steps, and he looked up to see that the Impala was mere yards away. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, retrieving them just as he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder and spin him around.

Dean turned, tensed to swing at the attacker, but it was only Sam, who let go immediately and stepped back, doubling over to catch his breath. "We...can stop...now," Sam gasped.

Dean just stood still, breathing hard. Black spots moved in front of his eyes, and his throbbing head felt like it was much too big and heavy for his neck.

"Dean?" Sam's voice came from far away and was tinged with fear.

Dean held the keys up. "You drive," he croaked, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed.