Again, I would like to thank mi amiga Jessie for helping me brainstorm and thanks to everyone who posted reviews they are appreciated. Okay so here's the next chapter.

Chapter 5

Sam felt like he had been sitting in that God-forsaken chair for an eternity. The silence didn't help either. After Dean had left he had tried to keep track of time, a crappy way to entertain himself. Since he couldn't see the clock, he had resorted to counting the seconds and then totaling the minutes and hours in his head. Somehow he always managed to space off, his mind drifting back to the horrible last moments he had spent yelling at his brother. This isn't going to work.

Sam racked his brain for something, anything to distract him. He decided that the TV was his best option. This he thought would kill two birds with one stone. He could use it for referencing the time, and it would provide a steady output of sound. However, that idea presented him with the difficult challenge of actually finding the remote, yet another simple every day thing that yielded a gigantic problem--in his mind anyway. He thought about just finding the TV and sitting in front of it, hitting the buttons, but decided against it when his phone rang. Where did I put it a minute ago? The coffee table!

Sam got up as quickly as he could; he knew the table was close. Closer than I thought, Sam yelped as he swung his guiding hand into the wood. The ringing stopped. All that pain for nothing. Sam was about to turn around and get back to his chair where he was safe, when the phone sounded again. What the…?

Sam swept his hand gingerly across the table top, his hand brushing the computer and Dean's scattered array of papers. His hand hit something small, and running his fingers around the edges, realized he'd found it. Finally. He ran his hands along until he found the keys. Leave it to me to have the most complicated phone on the planet. A great sense of accomplishment washed over Sam as he hit the answer button, followed by a wave of apprehension.

"Sammy, hey, man, I'm on my way back. Should be there in an hour or so."

Before Sammy could reply, he heard the deafening click. Sam stood stock-still. Why didn't he just leave a message? Sam knew the answer to that question and it frightened him. He wanted to make sure I knew he was coming. Sam was slightly thankful his brother had given him the heads up. At least now he could prepare himself for the beating to come. He didn't sound angry. Maybe he doesn't know I called Dad. Yeah, Dad never returns our messages.

Sam knew that wasn't true. There was no way in hell his father would let Dean off the hook for what'd he'd done. He's gonna kill me. Ugh, why did I do that? Sam sighed, he did it 'cause he was scared. All he wanted was a fight, an outlet to vent his pent-up anger, but he had bitten off far more than he could chew. He had pushed Dean too far, and his older brother had walked out without a word and just left him. Not like I didn't deserve it. But still his brother had issued a low blow, and seeing as how Sam was already upset, it was nothing for him to kick his brother when he was already down. The truth was, he really wasn't too sorry for doing it either. What's really gonna suck is that I won't even see the first blow coming. Or the next for that matter.

Sam set the phone back down on the table, the movement causing him to come into contact with another item. Sam knew what it was the moment he touched it, he could feel the creases in the worn leather and the uneven edges of the old pages. He smiled, Dad's journal.

Grasping the book, he began trying to find his way back to the chair. He took a wrong step somewhere and ended up with his face in a pile of messed up sheets. At least it wasn't the floor. He worked to position himself comfortably on the bed, and when he was settled, cracked open his father's most prized possession and began flipping through it. He turned each page slowly as he ran his fingers along the pen impressions and drawings, trying desperately to crack the code and force the images to appear in his head. It wasn't working, and Sam was getting frustrated. How many times have I stared at this freakin' book? I should be able to do this!

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Dean tried to focus on the road. He had managed to cool down enough to call Sammy. more like warn him. Dean smirked, he could just picture his little brother getting all worked up waiting for him. He's probably armed, I would be. Dean reached to find another tape, and noticed that he needed gas. He took the next exit and pulled into the station.

As he got out of the car, he couldn't help but notice the women on the other side struggling to get the machine to read her credit card. Her light brown hair shone in the afternoon sun, her red and blonde highlights accenting her piercing sky blue eyes perfectly. She was tall, almost as tall as him and appeared to be around his age. She turned her head towards him and smiled. God, she's beautiful. Dean smiled back and then quickly averted his gaze kicking himself for not saying anything. He didn't know why he didn't, he normally would. But he didn't have the time to flirt, he had an ass-whooping to take care of. Sammy's gonna pay big time for this one!

He's cute. Jessie thought, the smile creeping back onto her face. She found herself giving him the once over, paying particular attention to his left hand. Single and hot, what more could a girl want? Jessie knew she could have him if she wanted, she always got what she wanted, not because she was a rich spoiled brat, but she was simply "gifted" as her mother would say.

Jessie and her mother had moved to the parish when she was thirteen years old. Her mother had found a small plantation home that had been abandoned for decades and since the historical society had opted not to restore, the house provided a cheap buy. Jessie loved that house, absolutely everything about it--the chipped white wooden exterior, the red door, the long ornate halls, the narrow windows found in every room that caused the morning sunlight to dance on the walls. But thing Jessie loved most about the house was the stories that surrounded it. She clung to every word that the natives of the area would tell her about the former owners of her new house, of witches, murders, and ghosts. Their stories were more than just legend to Jessie, they were a history, a window into a past she longed to know.

Out of all of them, the legend of Lady Toliver had captivated her the most. It seemed no one in town really knew what had happened to her. Some said she was a witch and her evil magic had gotten the best of her, others that she had hung herself and others still that Sir Toliver had killed her, and hidden her body in the attic. Jessie's avid curiosity was one thing her mother loved most about her daughter, but when Jessie had started keeping library books, asking the library to make copies for her, and bugging every neighbor and resident of the parish she came in contact with, her mother had had enough.

Jessie couldn't explain it with words, when she tried it never came out right. It was more of a feeling she had, Lady Toliver was still in the house. She knew it, and her mom's feeble attempts to deter her progress only served to strengthen her efforts. One of the books had said that if the person was murdered brutually, their spirit could continue to reside and haunt the very place of the horrible act. So, late at night, when she was sure her mother was asleep, she would climb up into the attic and try to talk to the former lady of the house. She talked about everything, school, her mom, her search, the legends that people told her, her father. Thought she never heard a reply, she felt the lady's presence and that was enough to satisfy.

Jessie's mother had managed to catch her after 4 consecutive weeks of her nightly ritual. Jessie was furious when her mother had bought a lock for the attic and told her she never wanted to see anything pertaining to Lady Toliver in her house again. So Jessie started to go and sit by the attic door during the night and continue to talk through the door—just to spite her. Jessie often found herself staring at the lock and wishing it would just break, and one fateful night it did. The hard metal simply twisted and snapped loudly. Jessie was confused, she hadn't touched it. At first she thought the Lady had done it, but as time went on she soon discovered that that Lady had done more just listened to her rambling, she had rewarded her for it. From that time on, with only one thought, one desire, Jessie could change the outcome of any situation, the thoughts and actions of any man.

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Dean snapped the gas tank closed, and started to grab his keys from his jacket, when a hand softly grazed his shoulder. He turned slowly, and noticed the women he had drooled over moments before less than a foot away.

"Hi, my name's Jessie." her voice was gentle, and had a certain sweetness about it that Dean had never heard before.

"I'm Dean" he replied quickly.

"Nice to meet you, Dean. Where are you headed?"

"Back to the hotel to pack." Jessie was taken back by the bluntness of his statement. Is this his idea of hard-to-get. No, something's bothering him. I bet I can take it off his mind.

"Do you want a get a drink before you leave? I know a great pla—"

"Thanks, but, no. My brother's waiting for me." Dean opened the car door and started to get in. Oh, Sammy, you are so dead, man.

Jessie was getting tired of Dean's "game". Okay, what's his problem? He was clearly interested two minutes ago. I guess I'm just gonna have to convince him. You're thirsty and tired, Dean, you're brother can wait.

Jessie smiled as Dean cocked his head. "On second thought, my brother can wait. I haven't had a good drink in a while. Especially one with a hot girl."

Before long, Dean was sitting in the passenger side of Jessie's mustang staring at her, she had suggested it would be easier than him simply following her would. Dean silent hoped that the night wouldn't just end with a drink, and he knew it wouldn't. Excitement grabbed him, he never had scored with a chic like her. He had a nagging feeling there was something he was supposed to be doing, something important, but he couldn't recall it right away, so he just quit trying and went back to staring at the beauty to his right. All thoughts of Sam had faded into oblivion, the only clear thing now was Jessie. She had penetrated every piece of his mind making every other thing see pointless and unimportant.

Jessie broke her attention from the road, turning her eyes toward the tan, chiseled face of the man before her and met his gaze. I have you right where I want you. We are going to have the night of our dreams, Dean, I promise you that.

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Sam sighed. His head was starting to hurt. He had flipped through his dad's journal ten times, rotating or flipping it each time because he couldn't tell if he had it the right way or not. The routine didn't help. He still couldn't interpret the scribbles or sketches. Where's Dean? Sam tried not to panic as the thought hit him. He realized he couldn't be sure, if an hour had passed, his sense of time sucked at the moment and couldn't be trusted. But still.

He stretched out his arm to find the nightstand and set his father's journal down. He started letting his mind wander, he thought about Jess and what she looked liked. He smiled, he could still see her in his mind. She'd always had the best smile.

The image of the girl he lost disappeared rapidly, and Sam found himself outside an old wooden house. He had fallen asleep.

The chipped white paint was tainted by water damage and covered with ivy. The red door before him challenging him to enter, and before he could reach to open it, it flung wide and a voice escaped from it's now looming chasm.

"Where were you Sammy?" Sam felt his throat tighten and a sickening feeling crept into his stomach.

"D-dean?" Sam ventured, his voice shaky, as entered the house cautiously. As he turned down the first corridor, his sneakers slipped on something wet, and he threw his hand out to catch himself. All that hunting training for nothing. His mind assured him it was only water, until he brought his hand to his face and his eyes saw red. Blood, fresh blood. "DEAN!" His knees buckled and he reached out intending to use the wall to brace himself, until he was met with a flood of red dripping in streams down the wall. Sam lurched, he could feel his stomach betraying him. He turned to break free of the image before him, but only to be met with it again as the opposite wall once white, was now stained red. Sam was running now his feet slipping as the once wooden halls became seas of red. He had to get out. And then he saw it, a door. His breathing slowed, and he reached his escape only to be jarred from hope by what was laid before him. There was his brother laying in a sea of red, and a women over him slashing what was left of his brother's once strong, but now mutilated body. Sam stared at his brother's face. His eyes, once so alive, were dull but seemed to pierce through Sam still. "Why didn't you save me Sam?"

"DEAN! DEAN! YOU ANSWER ME! DEAN!" Tears poured down Sam's face as the frantic screams escaped his lips. Nothing. Just the darkness and silence Sam had learned to loathe over the last few days. He couldn't let his brother die, he wouldn't let him die. Why did I fall asleep? The thought brought fresh tears, and Sam raised a shaking hand to brush them away.