Gah! I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter finished. Sam's POV was being a major bitch. I do hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you thought of it. And I want to thank each and every reviewer out there for giving me the encouragement to continue. Thank you! Thank you! And also a huge thanks to my beta Carrie.

Part Five

Sam paced from one end of the cell to another, stopped, chewed his thumbnail and then resumed pacing. He paused long enough to glance through the bars at the redheaded deputy lounging in a reclining desk chair, sifting through the brothers' most prized possession: John Winchester's journal.

Rolling his eyes, and helpless to stop Hoots from snooping, Sam sat down on the cot, elbows on his bent knees with all ten fingers plowing through his hair. He sighed and rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes; fatigue settling and giving him a headache. The journal wasn't the only thing confiscated from the Impala – the sawed-off shotgun he had brought along with him, including his cell that lay on the desk. Fortunately, the stash of weapons in the trunk box remained locked and hidden inside the spare tire compartment.

Time was running out; he didn't know how to get his brother back, and end this hunt on a lighter note that didn't involve kidnapping, arrests, and human sacrifices. Nothing ordinary followed the Winchesters, so he wasn't very surprised with the outcome of this particular hunt – but it still set him on edge. Considering that he had no idea where Dean could be, or if his brother was okay.

God, he hoped so.

The thought of Dean almost caused Sam to pace again, but he held back the urge and tried to think of a way to get out of the cell – to find someone who could help him locate the remains of Sheridon and get rid of her for good. Then find Dean. However, the idea caused problems when he couldn't rely on the locals. Many weren't helpful in the first place, besides Betty, but she hesitated enough for Sam to understand that she had done her good deed for a while. He was alone on this one.

Hoots straightened, making a sound of surprise, and Sam drifted from his thoughts to look up. He slapped the leather bound book on the desktop, and looked at Sam incredulously. "Demons, reapers…Latin verses? What is this stuff?"

Sam tightened his jaw, angry with the fact that the deputy had taken the liberty to look in the journal in the first place, but he couldn't find it in him to fuel that emotion. The deputy was only doing his job, most likely naive and oblivious to the Sheriff's shortcomings. No doubt that most of the townspeople fell under the same category: a small community trying to keep itself together despite the amount of death that consumed it. They were only doing what they thought best to keep their families safe, but they still should've listened to Sam. At least he knew what the town faced and how to get rid of the problem, or so he hoped. Now, all he had to do was think of a way to get out of jail to complete the job.

"It's nothing," Sam answered finally. "Just something my brother and I are putting together for a book."

Hoots didn't look convinced. "This is some serious stuff…"

"It's called research," Sam snapped. "Now do you mind not looking through it anymore? It's kind of personal."

"I'd say…" the deputy said with a low whistle, his gaze on the shotgun. He touched the handle, hesitant, observing as if he expected it to go off like a hairline trigger. "Do you always carry this around with you?"

Sam rubbed at his temples and clenched his eyes shut; the headache was getting worse. "No, only when I when have these homicidal urges to blow heads off…" he said with sarcasm dripping from his words.

Hoots snorted a laugh, but his comment was lost in the midst of stars exploding before Sam's eyes and the blood roaring in his ears.

When the vision came, it wasn't a welcoming experience. He hunched over, gasping as pain overwhelmed him. In a matter of seconds, his vision turned white and blinding – before the cell quickly reformed into the interior of an old shack, deformed and aging, barely able to hold itself together. The room was dark, save for the dying moonlight peeking through the broken windows and holes in the roof. Dean lay on a bed, cuffed to the rusted, steel frame with Sheridon's spirit on top of him, straddling his waist. A look of horror crossed Dean's face, and the house shook as if an earthquake had just passed, causing the wooden structure to lose some of its support. Shutters and doors repeatedly opened and closed by an invisible force; the ghost gave an ear-piercing shriek, her head tilted back and her mouth yawning unbelievably wide. Her face distorted, fluttering and jerking while rivers of blood poured from a deep wound across her throat. Dean turned his face away from the gore, and cried out Sam's name before the house collapsed in on itself, taking Dean with it to the ground.

"Dean! No!"

Sam jerked back to the present with the feel of hands on him, steadying him, and he opened his eyes to see Hoots in his line of sight. He was on the floor, the deputy kneeling next to him with wide eyes filled with horrified concern. "Are you alright? You-you were crying out," Hoots stammered. "I didn't know—"

It's now or never, Sam… Just do it.

The after effects of the vision still grasped Sam in a nauseating daze, and he wasn't sure the right uppercut to Hoots' chin would do the trick. Evidently, it did enough as the deputy reeled from the unexpected blow, knocking himself out by hitting his head on the edge of the cot.

"Sorry, so sorry," Sam mumbled as he bent over the deputy's sprawled form, detaching the cell keys from his belt. He retreated from the cell, locking the door behind him, and left the keys on the lobby counter in passing, but not without snatching up his belongings – including the journal.

Sam stopped short outside the station. To his surprise, he found the Impala parked next to Hoots' squad car, not expecting to see it there. It suddenly occurred to him that they were going to release him – most likely getting him out of the way to keep him from ruining their plans for Dean. He seethed walking back into the building to search for the keys to his brother's car, at least thankful that Dean wouldn't have to kill him if anything had happened to his 'girl' while he was arrested.

If Dean lived through this— Sam immediately tried to push the dread aside before he could dwell on it further, but he couldn't seem to dissuade his heart seizing in panic. What if he was too late? Trapped alive underneath the pile of termite-infested lumber, Dean could already be crushed – or worse – dead.

Focus, Sam, focus!

Shaking his body as if to get rid of a sudden chill, Sam tried to remember what the archive papers had written on where Sheridon was buried. Then it dawned on him; Oaklawn Cemetery, lot thirteen. Sam snatched the Impala's keys from a hook inside the Sheriff's private office with sudden determination. Gathering the rest of their belongings from the cabin, and destroying the remains became the best option then he could worry about getting his brother back.

----

"Help! Can anyone hear me? HELP! Son of a bitch – somebody!"

It was a futile attempt to scream, Dean knew, considering the abandoned village was on the outskirts of town with little chance of anyone in hearing distance, but he couldn't just lie there feeling useless. He didn't like it. However, Larry and Addison had made it nearly impossible for him to escape with both hands and feet chained to the frame of the bed. No matter how flimsy it had looked upon first glance, the damn thing still held strong after numerous attempts to shake it apart. The effort only resulted in chaffed wrists, trembling, overexerted muscles and a splitting headache on top of disrupting insects and other creepy crawly critters skittering about the shack. He cursed, giving the cuffs around his wrists another fruitless tug before allowing his body to relax.

"I need a damn vacation," he muttered, eyes scanning the warped ceiling with detached interest.

Then… more sounds – something scratching along the dusty, wood floor, coming closer to the bed. His body tensed, eyes growing wide. Ghosts, demons or even hungry werewolves he could handle, but not rats. He hated rats. Stretching his limbs beyond their limit, he peered over the side of the mattress, eyes searching through the darkness.

"Awww, shit," he groaned when he caught glimpse of a dark shape – the largest rat he'd ever seen scurrying under the bed. Groaning again, he straightened and tugged on the cuffs with renewed vigor, biting his lower lip. Metal clanked against metal, mingling with the foul words spilling from his mouth. Without a doubt, he was going to kill someone if he ever got free.

"Damn it… Sammy!"

Silence responded, but not what Dean expected after calling out his brother's name. The air grew cold, still and not even the crickets outside continued their song. Suddenly, the mattress dipped from the weight of a body sitting on the edge, causing Dean to roll slightly into the middle toward the unwanted visitor. He knew who it was without looking, and he held his breath, his eyes moving slowly to stare at the spirit's back – waiting, listening, but she didn't move nor speak.

Dark red hair, almost black in the dim lighting was a stark contrast against the cream linen of her night slip. Dean could've sworn she glowed, giving the appearance of an ethereal being instead of a spirit hell bent on revenge. She turned her face to the side, her profile in view with the barest hint of a smile upturning the corner of her mouth. It was an endearing gesture, one reserved only for the person she loved – her husband. Who, at the moment, Dean had been officially dubbed by the townspeople and most likely the spirit as well.

Just great...

"Did I wake you?" She finally spoke, her voice soft, youthful. It echoed as though not part of this world entirely, but her presence was tangible; Dean could feel her against him, her skin lightly brushing against the side of his jeans where her hand lay on the mattress. He eyed her fingers warily as they began to move until they rested on his thigh, causing his body to tense even more – taut like an overly stressed wire.

He wondered if he should reply, to play along, but he decided against it when she sighed deeply and moved again – her body flush with his own. One arm draped over his stomach, his muscles clenching tight and he sucked in air, holding it in. Chilled breath tickled the side of his face and neck, causing a wave of gooseflesh to spread across his skin, and he shivered – but not only from the cold.

"I went to see Josephine tonight..."

Dean remained still, breathing in and out evenly though he refused to allow his body to relax. Not until the dead bitch was off him and gone. There was nothing he could do as her hand lowered again to stroke his leg, while the other left tantalizing, prickling trails along the nape of his neck and through the short ends of his hair – the sensations causing ripples of unwanted pleasure to pump through his veins where it reached other body parts he did not want it to go. Clenching his eyes shut, he counted to ten, forcing himself to stay calm as he slowly moved his leg away as if he was just shifting his body into a more comfortable position. It seemed to work as her hand didn't follow his subtle movement, though her other one continued to massage the base of his neck.

"I wanted to talk to her about keeping you late on the farm these past few weeks. I've missed you… it's dreadfully boring without you here, Jonathan – so quiet."

Licking his lips, Dean replied, hoping he wouldn't regret it soon after, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Kathryn's spirit said, snuggling closer to Dean and sighed contently. "It won't happen again." There was the smallest hint of guilt in her voice, but Dean couldn't tell for sure. Sometimes spirits felt things that the person actually didn't experience in life, when he suspected he was stuck in the middle of a reenactment of a conversation that had occurred over a hundred years ago.

"How did you convince her?" he asked, his voice strained and sounding feeble even to his own ears. He couldn't help but admit he was scared – never had he been this close to a spirit before, and a vengeful one at that, especially in such a touchy-feely, seductive way. It was all wrong, on so many levels.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan… I hope you won't be upset with me?" She sounded like a child about to be scolded for disobeying the rules. He half expected to see her sucking her thumb and canting wide eyes filled with innocence toward him. Good thing he wasn't looking at her – the ceiling becoming particularly interesting as of late. "I know I promised I wouldn't go back to my old ways. I tried, but I couldn't stop…"

Jesus…a psycho bitch. This is not good. Damn it, Sammy you better get your ass out here soon or I'll haunt you for the rest of your life!

"It all happened so fast. She said so many hateful things, Jonathan. Her words hurt. Our baby – she cursed our baby, calling her a hell child. Please, tell me she was lying," she cried, her hands suddenly fisting in Dean's shirt along with the raw emotion of her words. "I know it can't be true."

He didn't know what to say, and even if he did he wasn't sure he'd voice it. So many twists and turns in this town… Where did the lies end and the truth begin? Did Kathryn actually kill Josephine? Then why accuse her husband instead? Why didn't Kathryn confess? Maybe she was trying to protect her child… But then she had killed herself. What had happened to their child?

"Will you forgive me?"

Dean jerked out of his thoughts, gasping when she climbed over him, straddling his hips. The fabric of her skirt rode up her legs to expose pale thighs, and Dean forced his eyes up to stare at her through the fall of her hair, gauging the spirit's intentions even when her body language exuded sex. There was no denying her beauty, and the unavoidable sensations of lust snaring Dean into its trap. He tried to push it aside, reminding himself that she was dead, but with a woman on top of him, touching him, his body didn't want to listen.

When her hands reached underneath his shirt, lightly scraping her nails up his torso toward his nipples, Dean lost all sense of coherency, but he struggled to bring himself out of his euphoria enough to try and distract the spirit by talking. "Wh-what… nnnn… Why would she say that about the baby?"

"Because of what I am," she said bitterly, her nails digging a little deep to emphasize her words, but she didn't break skin. It only caused Dean to feel more aroused, light-headed and trembling. Then she pulled back, straightening to rub her belly with a tenderness only an expecting mother would show. A small smile reached her lips, one filled with pride and love then it turned haunted, angry when she returned her gaze to Dean. "She thought our child would be the same. I refuse to believe it – do you?"

In that small moment of rage, he actually caught a glimpse of her true self, and it wasn't pretty – rotting flesh, throat slit from ear to ear, and blood coated her skin and the front of her gown. The image immediately caused Dean's state of arousal to dwindle to nothing, and he gagged as a sudden stagnant odor permeated through the air: a combination of mold and death. He also felt the house shudder, the wood groaning and shifting, and years of dust unsettling from the cracks. Did she just do that?

"No… no, I don't," he stammered, his eyes cautiously watching the ceiling for any other movements, but nothing happened.

He swiveled his gaze back to Kathryn when she leaned closer, her breath grazing across his nose and eyelashes to leave a trail of ice in its wake; his eyes closing as his heartbeat thundered in his chest. When she pressed her lips to his, he tried to turn away only for her to grasp his jaw to force him to face forward again, her tongue seeking entrance. Nimble fingers rose and dug through the short spikes of his hair, nails scratching, and he gasped aloud as new sensations spiraled within. Her tongue delved deep, exploring, flirting and dominating in one quick motion. Dean arched his back, his entire body suddenly giving in – the bulge in his jeans true testament of his lack of self-control. He made a countermove, while his tongue sought for victory in the game of dominance as the kiss grew deeper. It barely entered his mind that a spirit was the cause of this, kissing him, rocking her hips against him like a woman desperate for release.

"I love you, Jonathan," she purred, her words floating through the room and through Dean, touching things and stirring up new desires that he didn't even know existed.

Then he snapped when her hands ventured down, past the waistline of his jeans. Immediately, he shook his head and bucked his hips to throw her off, shouting in indignation. He glared at her with as much anger he could possess despite the state of his arousal. The look on her face was raw, like an open wound festering with the reality of his rejection, as if he had just slapped her. However uneasy the reaction made Dean feel, he wasn't going to apologize to a spirit for trying to get into his pants. There was a line drawn while dealing with the supernatural, and undoubtedly, Dean had already crossed it. He had to bring himself back on the other side before it was too late.

"You want this…" she said, though it sounded like she tried to convince herself more than Dean. "You need this. I know you do."

"Look, lady…" He tugged on the restraints, frustrated. "I don't want this, and I certainly don't want you. You're not even my type. I prefer blondes, but thanks for the invitation."

Suddenly horrified, Dean watched, eyes wide, as her appearance changed in an instant, anger consuming her features into a grotesque image of decay and blood. Her hair rose around her head, giving the effect of floating strands of seaweed while her face fluttered and jerked; much like an image on a television screen, deformed and going out of focus. Red dripped in endless streams from the slash across her neck, and he suspected that she had inflicted the wound herself – the final blow in her downward spiral into madness; ending not only her life, but the life of her unborn child as well.

"Uhhh…" he stammered when the house shook again, his body tightening, alarmed.

Wood creaked as if bearing a heavy weight, and moaned against the invisible force. Then the shutters along with the doors began to open and close of their own accord, repeatedly slamming. Bricks cracked and fell from the fireplace, the stone structure finally losing its support, and it crumbled in a large cloud of dust. Dean jumped, straining against the handcuffs, away from the swirling mist of ash and dirt. Soon, the windows shattered as the house tilted and warped, as if it was losing its hold in this world.

Then she gave an ear-piercing scream, her head tilted back and her mouth open wide, stretching beyond its limit like a dark chasm leading into hell. Her wail continued; the sound of fingernails scratching down a chalkboard, and it penetrated his skull, causing his eardrums to burst and bleed, and a wave of gooseflesh washing over his skin. The crimson flow seeped from his ears, barely noticed as he screamed with her, pain-filled and terrified. He was going to die! She was going to drag him down to hell! Why didn't he just say he liked redheads, too?

"SAM!"

The house shuddered once more before collapsing, and the last thing Dean remembered was a heavy weight landing on his legs and the faint scent of smoke – something burning. Her cries never ceased; even as his consciousness faded, and he floated on a blissful sea of darkness, gliding across the waves – wondering what hell had to offer in its fiery depths.

TBC...