Sorry about the delay!

It didn't take Dean long to reach the first turn off on Garland's directions. He slowed the Impala, sitting forward in his seat to look over its sand-dusted hood. "Am I imagining things, or is this about where we picked Sammy up last night?" He looked across to his brother and raised a brow.

Sam nodded. It had been pretty dark, but the distance from the motel and a few other roadside landmarks left little doubt. "This is it," he affirmed. "I remember that rusted out Pontiac over there."

A few hundred yards away, the hulk of a long-dead 54 model coupe sat eerily in the desert. It leaned to the South, its eroded metal frame reminding the younger Winchester of a fleshless skeleton.

Dean inhaled. Something wasn't right, he could sense it. He looked again at the notepaper Garland had given them, and then gently tugged his Chevy off the main road and onto a desert track. "We needed a Jeep for this…" He scowled, hating to make his classic do the job of a modern 4x4.

Sam ignored his brother's protests and squinted, looking ahead into the sun at where they were headed. On the horizon, he could see what looked like a dilapidated metal-constructed building, and yet more rotting cars to its rear. "I think your car will be right at home with those…" He smiled a little. "In fact, isn't that an Impala I see there?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but was actually glad of Sam's light-hearted distraction. The place they were going may look like a breakers yard, but it had seen much more than car bodies be dismantled in its time. "Yeah, well, maybe I'll grab a few spares." He retorted, pulling his own car up just short of the crumbling shack. "Shall we grab a few tools of the trade before we start the party?"

Sam nodded and hopped out first, wanting to get first choice of what was in the Impala's trunk. A variety of weapons awaited them, but this time it was hard to know what to choose. They had one definite ghost it was true, but Sammy wasn't the real problem. He eyed the plethora of implements. "I think I'm gonna go with a good old fashioned hunting knife and a forty-five. I really don't think our perp is going to respond to rock salt this time…"

Dean grinned as he joined his brother. "Just because Garland isn't a manifestation, doesn't mean good old rock salt won't knock him on his butt till the cops get here if he tries anything." He grabbed the shotgun and a handful of cartridges. "Do you think he'll even show up?" Dean cocked the barrel and loaded it as he spoke, but then paused as something hit him- something cold.

From nowhere, an icy breeze enveloped him, bringing a shiver to even the hardened ghost hunter's body. The chilly zephyr whipped past him with such force the nearby rotting Impala began to creak and groan with the gust's intensity. The metallic groaning sounded almost like a human wail. And then it came- so faint only Dean perceived it.

"Don't go…" It was Sammy's voice, weak, but compelling, as if not carried by the breeze, but by the mystical energy of the dead. "He will take you…"

Dean swallowed hard and looked across to his brother. "Did you hear that?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but I felt it." He pointed with his automatic to the still rocking carcass of a car before them. "And I sure as hell saw that. What did you hear?" He asked, knowing Dean was definitely spooked by the expression on his face.

"It was Sammy, or something that sounded a hell of a lot like her. She was warning us that someone will take us…"

Sam shook his head. "I don't like this." He glanced around at the desolate yard and shack. "We've never dealt with anything like it before…"

Dean shrugged but grabbed his jacket from the rear seat of the Impala, suggesting the chilly breeze had done more to his confidence than he was admitting. Once it was in place, he rested the shortened barrel of his weapon on his shoulder and moved out. "I'll take the yard, you take the shack," He prompted, eyeing the now still Chevy in front of him warily.

Sam nodded, but didn't speak. Instead, he focused on the crumbling shack before him. The sheet metal walls had corroded in several places, and the rust that had formed had left orange red streak marks from the rare rain showers the desert succumbed to. To Sam, the streaks looked like garish blood trails, as if the building had wounds that could never heal. Perhaps in its own way, it did.

He moved on, pushing the thought of a possessed shack from his mind. Places could be haunted, yes, but Garland was no spirit, and he was the evil at work here. "I hope…" Sam muttered under his breath.

"Death will find you here…"

Sam whirled around as he entered the structure, his own shadow in the doorframe casting the light until it appeared he was not alone. The voice didn't come again, but it didn't have to. Sammy was with him somewhere here. He had heard her now too.

Sam gulped and let the cool metal of the knife in his hand reassure him that he was in control of the situation. Then, he moved further inside the shack.

Light cascaded through the holes in the walls and half-illuminated the scene. From what Sam could see, the shack had once been a garage of some kind, but that had been a long, long time ago. The calendar on the far wall was dated April 14th 1967, and from the remains of an ancient car lift that still inhabited the building, Sam decided it hadn't been used since.

"Like what you see, Boy?"

Sam turned, but was surprised to see the face behind the voice. It was Garland, but his accent was different now- almost guttural. He stood with his arms folded, blocking the exit. "I don't 'see' anything." It was an honest answer. There was no sign of any altar, or any other place of death.

Garland sneered and stepped closer. Once he moved from the sunlit doorway, Sam noticed his eyes seemed blank, dead even. All the color appeared to have left them until he looked almost like an albino. "You all know what happened here. You were part of it, just like the others, but they've paid. They'll all pay. I sent em to hell, and they screamed for the master's mercy."

"You sent them?" Sam probed, wondering just who he was really speaking with, because it sure as heck wasn't Garland. In body maybe, but definitely not in soul.

"They deserved nothing less. All that family were the same, always…" Garland moved forward again, this time with unnatural speed.

Even if Sam had been expecting it, there was little he could have done to avoid the move. Garland was in front of him in a millisecond, lashing out with the back of his hand so quickly his arm was nothing more than a blur. Expertly, the mechanic- or whoever he now was, snapped back Sam's left arm and removed the hunting knife from it.

Sam yelped with pain, but still managed to aim the forty-five in his still free hand. Squeezing back hard on the trigger, he let out three rounds point blank at Garland's skull.

Part of Sam's subconscious expected an explosion of bone and flesh as the slugs hit home, but it didn't happen. Instead, Garland let out a manic cackle and swiped the weapon from the younger brother's hand. "I died a long time ago, Boy, and Pete here," He pinched his own chest. "Well, Pete done sold his soul to the devil awhile back, and the master just happened to lend me the shell…"

Sam felt his body being lifted as Garland pinned him to the rusty wall with just one hand. His feet dangled from the floor, and he saw the hunting knife being raised ready to plunge into his heart. "If you're not really Garland…who are you?" He struggled to choke out the words, "Why kill all those girls…"

Garland's white eyes danced, but it was obvious he had no intention of playing Sam's game. He was out here for the kill, and that's what he was going to do. The blade twisted in his grip, and he started his lunge with a malicious grin across his features.

Sam closed his own eyes and began to pray, but for some reason the icy sensation of steel cutting into his body didn't come. He dared to look up. Garland had paused mid-thrust and was staring back at the open doorway. Sam couldn't hear a thing, but he guessed someone was coming. Dean! I have to warn him!

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Garland looked back, sensing the brother's fear. Garland liked fear. With one swift move he slid the hunting knife around in his hand, slamming its hilt into his captive's skull. Sam fell unconscious and limp in the possessed man's grasp, unaware of what grim future now awaited his brother.

Dean walked through the abandoned yard, taking care where he walked for fear of traps. He didn't usually deal with human killers, but he had crossed a few half-humans in his time, and maybe Garland was one of them.

A creaking, scratching noise erupted from his left side, and he turned, placing his shotgun in front of him before moving forward towards the new sound. There was nothing to see. Rotting hulks of long-dead vehicles lay atop one another, but not even the wind stirred them. Where ever the clatter had come from, it was gone now.

"Rats…of the non-earthly persuasion…" Dean muttered to himself, and then licked his lips, wondering how his brother was doing back inside the shack. He stole a glance backwards towards the structure, wishing he had the ability to see through walls.

There was no sign of Sam, or of the man they pursued, Garland. Dean swallowed and again continued his sweep of the area. Someone, or something could be hiding in the decaying cars, but it wouldn't be easy to spot them without getting too close for comfort.

As the thought left his mind, a swatch of color danced before his eyes behind a slate grey Pontiac, and he tensed- the colors matched what Sammy had been wearing when they had picked her up.

"Sammy?" Dean strained his eyes, but the blurry, formless thing he had momentarily glimpsed was gone. He shuddered at having to call a ghost his brother's name and changed tactics. "Samantha? I know who you are, what you are. I know what happened and I can help…if you let me…"

A soft, cold hand brushed the uncovered flesh on Dean's right arm, making the tiny hairs on his skin stand to attention. He instinctively spun around on one foot, his boot kicking up the loose desert sand. The yard was empty, but the breeze from earlier was back. This time, the current of air was far more intense.

"He will take you as he took me, as he took the others, and as he took Peggy Lee…"

Dean owned the voice. It was the same as before- Sammy. "Who took you? Pete Garland?" He raised a brow, not afraid to speak with the dead. "Who's Peggy Lee? I don't recognize her name as anyone killed on this route lately?" As he talked, he headed for the epicentre of Sammy's haunting tones.

She seemed to be drawing him further away from the shack. "Peggy Lee was the first…the catalyst…He will take you…beware…" This time, the words faded and did not return.

Dean frowned, annoyed that he had been given another small piece off the puzzle, and it only made things more intriguing.

From the shack, a clattering broke further thought, and the elder brother turned once again. There was no one in view, but now things were getting really interesting. His Impala's trunk was closed, but someone had just emptied most of its ghost-hunting contents out onto the harsh grainy ground. To what end, Dean had no clue, but he intended to find out.

Heading straight for the jet-black vehicle, he remained poised for action, his finger caressing the shotgun's trigger ready to pull hard back. "Sam?" This time, he wasn't aiming his words at the spook, but his brother. "Sam? That you?"

There was no reply, and he really hadn't expected one, but it was always better to ask before risking knocking a sibling on his ass. Dean moved around the car cautiously, and was surprised to see the trunk still locked. I have the only set of keys…

He looked down at his prize collection of weapons. "Something is gonna pay for ruining my rig…"

"Ruining? I haven't even begun with it yet!" Garland appeared from nowhere. His waxen pupils flashed like hell's white-hot fire, and his limbs moved faster than the speed of light. His left arm grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and deflected its aim away from his body.

Dean pulled the trigger reflexively, but the rock salt simply spattered the shack's side wall harmlessly. "You…hell-spawned bast…"

The thing that was Garland didn't allow him to finish. Whipping out the hunting knife it had taken from Sam in one hand, he seized Dean's throat with the other and forced his upper body down on the Impala's trunk lid.

Dean grabbed at Garland's wrist with both hands, trying to free his iron-clad grip as he choked, but the evil one was just too strong.

"I think it's time for you to stick around while I prepare myself." Garland purposefully let his captive see the shiny blade was his own brother's before he plunged it down hard into his victim's flesh.

Inside the trunk, the rocking motion from outside had finally begun to make Sam stir. He blinked, blurry-eyed, and then winced at the pain bombarding his skull. Carefully, he managed to place a hand on where he'd been struck. It felt wet and sticky, confirming the crack had been as hard as he remembered.

The Impala rocked again, and Sam squirmed in the cramped area in which he'd been placed. For a moment, he thought he even heard Dean's voice. "Dean!"

There was no reply, but just as the word had left his mouth something rammed through the metal of the Chevy like a jousters lance. Sam couldn't see what it was in the darkness, and frantically began hunting around in the black void with his hands for where he knew dean kept a tiny penlight hidden.

It took only thirty seconds, but to Sam it seemed longer. Twisting the end, the trunk suddenly became illuminated with an intense yellow light. Sam felt a thick lump rise in his throat. Piercing the Impala's classic body panel was the tip of a hunting knife- his hunting knife. And as he watched, mesmerized, a trickle of dark red blood began to seep through the edges of the entry hole and drip onto his jacket. There was no place to escape, and no way to know if he was being covered in his own brother's life's blood.

"Dean!" Sam's fearful yell permeated the long dead vehicle yard and dissipated into the desert, unheard except by the thing that now possessed Pete Garland…

Tbc..