AN: I really should have posted this earlier, since so much of it I just copy and pasted it from Whumptober but I got distracted so... For all of you who get to see the finale today, I'm jealous, but I'm also scared! (I'll see it tomorrow. *sniff, sniff*)

DearHart: It's coming! It's coming!

sfaulkenberry: It's a gift of theirs! And thanks. I don't watch horror movies…my imagination provides plenty of fodder without it.

Shazza: Aw, thank you! I like writing twists and turns, and always like hearing what people enjoy – and you comment so faithfully.

sylvia37: You catch those things a lot in my stories!

scootersmom: I'll choose to take that as a compliment. hehe

Janice: A Supernatural day – what a wonderful concept! I won't see the last ep until tomorrow and I can hardly wait.

Stormy: I always imagine that Dean has that sixth hunter's sense too! I'm glad you like the atmosphere I'm trying to create. It would be awfully nice if any wanted to pay me prodigious amounts of money for these stories (or anything else, pretty much)! But seriously, you're making me blush. You are so very gracious.

Sam had his flashlight out and on in half a second. It lit the marble floor, stained dark with blood. The walls were splattered too, the bottom third covered so thickly that it almost looked like it was painted. The plaques on the back wall caught the light next, A. Morrow prominently in the middle. That was all the time he had to see of the décor.

A specter whooshed into sight, right in front of her etched name. It vaguely resembled an old woman, but time or anger had warped her. Everything was elongated, disproportionate. In her right hand was a long knife that curved backward from the handle. No, not in her hand. It was her hand. Her left hand was normal, except the fingers were far too long, and tipped in four-inch claws. Claws and knife dripped ethereal blood that disappeared right before touching the floor.

Agatha smiled.

There was very little room to move in the dark, sweltering space, and Sam's only weapon was his knife, which would do nothing against a ghost. He ducked under what he expected to be a slash, but instead she grabbed the front of his suit coat, spun him around, and threw him against her crypt plate. The laughter floated around him again, not coming from her mouth but jumping eerily around the room.

Sam didn't entirely fall, only sliding down halfway. He pushed against the wall to straighten and realized that the plaque was loose, the entire corner damaged. Agatha advanced supernaturally fast, but he dodged her twice, then tried the door. As expected, it was sealed. Sam was quick and had great instincts, but was hampered by his bad ankle and lack of space. She grabbed him again and did exactly the same thing as before. She was definitely toying with him. Given the state of her name plate, she must do this to everyone.

Actually…

This time Sam waited for her charge, standing directly in front of her name. At the very last second, he dove to the side so her claws raked the plaque. Well, it was a little bit past the last second, as the claws caught his forearm. It was a glancing blow, barely cutting him. But the ease with which the claws went right through his suit coat, his shirt, and his skin made it clear just how sharp they were – and they weren't even her most dangerous weapon.

Agatha's blow had done what the impact of Sam's body could not – it had ripped the plate halfway out. Not that she gave Sam much time to appreciate that. He was crawling and dodging and ducking for his life for the next few minutes, the claws coming so close to him that there were rents in his pant leg and the front of his jacket, and he might have lost a small lock of hair. Still, he was mostly in one piece. The problem was, she had planted herself, figuratively anyway, directly in front of what he needed. Time to channel Dean. It was a ridiculous plan, unlikely to succeed. The odds were stacked against him and his opponent was overpowered. Might as well add some insults to make it a truly Dean moment.

"What's the matter, Agatha? Getting slow in your old age?" he taunted.

The voice that answered was deep, unearthly. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, hunter." She – it – charged, and Sam slid across the floor like he was sliding head first into home base. He flicked his lighter on as he went, and threw it into the open drawer. He didn't have any salt, he didn't have any accelerant. There was no guarantee the fire would catch in the small space, and it was highly unlikely that burning Agatha's bones would do anything permanent, especially since it seemed she was more than just the ghost of a sick and pissed off woman. But Sam didn't need permanent. He didn't need a sure thing. He just needed a chance. A little time. Because he wasn't alone. Dean would come looking.

The fire did catch, and behind him, blade raised, Agatha screeched like nails on a chalkboard, and disappeared into eldritch flames.

Sam laughed in relief. Then choked. He put his hand to his side and could feel warm wetness bubbling out. Guess he hadn't safely gotten to base after all. Still, quitter and Winchester were opposites, so he somehow clawed his way to his feet. He was pretty sure there would have been black spots in his vision except it was too dark to tell, as his flashlight was who-knows-where and the flames inside the drawer flickering weakly, but it didn't matter. Sam simply followed the wall, leaning heavily, and adding his own blood to the layers already painting it.

The good news was that the door was no longer sealed. The bad news was that he leaned on it to get it open, and ended up on the ground when it went easily. Everything went black after that.

"It's just horrible," Mrs. Jacobs, the second-grade teacher was telling Mr. Henson, who taught music. "I moved here to get away from things like this."

Like usual, the adults had forgotten that Sam was there. Every day, he had to wait for a ride from his big brother, who would drive over from the high school. The teachers at the small Jasper Woods middle school had grown tired of taking turns waiting outside with Sam, even though it was only 20 minutes, and had told him he could wait in the teacher's lounge. At first, they guarded their conversation, but the serious 12-year-old simply sat in the corner and read each day. Within a week, they completely forgot about him. Like today, when they were discussing the latest dead body to frighten the good denizens of the little town and confound the cops.

"It's probably some homeless guy from the city, strung out on drugs or something doing it. They'll catch him, don't worry," soothed Mr. Henson.

Mrs. Jelling, the first-grade teacher, leaned forward breathlessly. "But did you hear that even though there wasn't any blood on the ground, all the people have died of ex – oh, what's that word for blood loss?"

"Exsanguination."

Everybody froze, and Sam bit his tongue, furious with himself. He'd been listening to every word, knowing that the deaths were the reason the Winchesters were in town. He hadn't meant to say anything out loud, especially that. And now the adults were all staring at him. "Uh…I read Agatha Christie," he prevaricated. Yes, he'd read her books, but that wasn't why he knew that word.

"Why don't you read To Kill a Mockingbird," suggested his own teacher, Mrs. March, acerbically. It was their latest assignment, but she always assumed the worst of her students, and treated them with condescension.

"I've read it before," he admitted, again regretting his words as soon as they left his mouth. He used to be good at holding his tongue with strangers.

"And what did you think?" There was that condescension. She obviously thought he was lying.

Irritated, Sam answered honestly. "Scout is awfully naïve, but so is Atticus." He saw her lips tighten and knew she disagreed. "It doesn't matter what a few good people do. Most people will always find someone to hate, someone to call a monster." He realized all of the adults were staring at him again, and he winced. If there was one thing Dad didn't want them to do, it was be memorable. He heard a familiar rumble and all but jumped to his feet. "MybrothershereIgottago."

When Sam swam back up to wakefulness, he was cold and his stomach was hot and sticky. His head wouldn't settle, and his stomach seemed to agree. Blood loss. Don't want to die of exsanguination, Mrs. March. There are monsters everywhere.

Sam knew he had to either find his phone or get to the road to flag down help, and fast. He could feel the blood pooling beneath him. He lifted his head and tried to remember where his phone landed. It took too long to find what direction he needed to go. There. Okay. He could do that. Pull himself on his elbows, get his phone, call Dean. Don't bleed out.

He put his arms out in front of him and pulled himself forward. Then he did it again. And again. And again. His side burned, and he had to stop and turn his head to vomit. Stupid blood loss. He pulled himself forward again, and an unintentional groan surprised him. The movement had pulled on something, probably opening his wounds further. That was not good. He pulled himself forward another foot. Just use your arms. A little farther.

"Use your arms, Sam! Just a little farther!" Dean called out encouragement to the fourteen-year-old. Sam didn't mind Dad's weird obstacle courses much, but getting under the lower obstacles was much harder than it had been a year or so ago. Sam's elbows and feet kept getting caught on everything, and Dad was getting a little irritated at Sam's slowing times.

Actually, it was Sam getting irritated with his own times. Dad's response was to make him run it more often. Sweat dripped into Sam's eyes and he almost missed seeing the hand in front of his face. He shook his hair out of his way and lifted his eyes higher to his brother's grinning face. Sam had reached the end of the crawling portion of the obstacle course and Dean was offering him a hand up out of Dad's sight. Sam contemplated it for an entire half second, then took it and let Dean pull him up and over the log that made up the next barrier. It would definitely shave some time off.

Dad nodded when Sam's time had improved, but after they were back home, he said softly, "Your brother won't always be there to help you, you know."

But Dean caught Sam's eye behind Dad's back and mouthed, "yeah, I will."

Sam wished Dean were here now. It was embarrassing to need to be rescued, but there he was. The embarrassing one. The disappointing one. The…really tired one. Sam rested his forehead on his outstretched arm. He felt like he'd crawled for miles. In reality, he'd made it a good distance, maybe two thirds of the way. He just didn't know how much he had left in him. He could only pull himself a few times before stopping to rest now, and he was losing stretches of time. He was breathing hard, too, though shallowly. And he couldn't seem to get quite enough air.

Over the ringing in his ears, Sam heard the sound of a car engine. His heart rose, then dropped when he realized it was the wrong engine. He raised his head and his heart dropped even farther as he saw the decal of a police car. Please be anybody except Morrow. Anybody.

Naturally, it was Morrow.

Sam's concentration wavered and spots danced in front of his vision as he heard a car door slam. Not now not now not now…