Disclaimer: Christmas came and went, and Santa did not bring me the Winchesters. I guess we know which list I'm on.

As always, thank you, Jubilea for the beta work.

Hell Hath no Fury

Before Dean could reply, the lights flickered for several seconds and went out. A gust of cold wind blew down the stairs, and between the Winchesters slamming the door shut behind them. Sam and Dean looked back towards the door, and then back to each other. "Well, that can't be good." Dean remarked.

The brothers stood near the door for several long seconds. Dean back-handed Sam on the chest, and stated, "Let's go, Sam. I'll take the upstairs." Dean took out a couple of flashlights, and tossed one to Sam. He fired up his EMF, and started up the long spiral staircase along the far back left corner of the great room.

Sam hesitated a moment, and proceeded to the living room on his right. Painted portraits of what Sam assumed were family members hung on the gold-painted walls. The hardwood floors sported a fresh coat of sawdust that had made its way through the heating ducts. The red velvet furniture was covered in almost eighty years of dust. A cold breeze shot past Sam, and the fireplace came to life with a bright orange spark. The decades old wood immediately caught fire. Shadows danced along the walls, chased by light as the fire crackled in the hearth. Sam glanced around the room, but other than the mysteriously starting fire, nothing else seemed out of place.

Sam continued towards the dining room. The breeze shot past him again, causing the hair on his neck to stand on end. The lights in the dining room came on, and Sam squinted into the sudden brightness. The long ornate table was covered in an elegant once-white lace tablecloth. The table was set with twelve fine china place settings. Sam caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked, nothing was there. He turned to leave the dining room, but was stopped short by the apparition in the doorway.

A woman in a twenties' style white dress stood in the doorway. Her brown hair was carefully coifed, and a perfect diamond necklace accentuated the deep plunging neckline. The woman's blue eyes sparked in anger. "You're late!" she shouted raising her hand, and pointing a finger at Sam.

Sam was pushed backwards into a chair by such a powerful unseen force that the hard-backed chair slid across the floor, and hit the wall. Bright flashes of light popped in front of Sam's eyes for several seconds. He shook his head, and blinked several times in an attempt to clear his head. The woman approached Sam as the French double doors slammed shut.

Dean walked down the dark hall. He entered the master suite, and swept the room with his EMF scanner. The scanner did not emit so much as a beep. Dean started to poke around. He looked through several cabinets before he spotted the dresser tucked in the corner near the closet. Dean sifted through the items in the undergarment drawer. He thought he saw something near the back. Dean held up a girdle by the straps with one finger to take a closer a look in the drawer. There, nestled between the unmentionables of the day, was a red book held closed with a brown leather strap. He grabbed the book with the same hand holding the flashlight, and for the first time took a look at the garment is in his right hand. Dean raised one eyebrow, cocked his head, and muttered, "This is not what I imagine, when I fantasize about going on a panty raid."

Dean opened the book, flipped it open to a random page, and began to read. After reading for a few moments, Dean realized it was Margaret Drumsfield's diary. He tucked the book into his jacket, and headed back down the hall.

As Dean passed a small bedroom on the left, he stepped back for a closer look. He pushed the door open, and shined the flashlight around the room. It was a nursery. For a moment, Dean thought the worst, but here, as in the rest of the house, it was simply abandoned. Other than an inch of dust covering yellowed curtains, the furniture, and a creepy porcelain-faced doll, it looked as if the former occupant could return at any time. Satisfied, there was nothing to find in the nursery, Dean continued on down the hall.

As Dean rounded the corner to head downstairs, the EMF scanner went off.

Margaret Drumsfield traced her finger along the side of Sam's face, down his neck, and around his shirt collar. Sam took deep labored breaths as the chill of her touch seemed to burn his skin. He could not move, or call out to Dean for help. Sam could feel a rush of panic rising from the pit of his stomach due to his helplessness, but he squashed it down with a skill honed by years of practice. Margaret ran her fingers through Sam's hair pulling his long bangs away from his eyes. "You don't look like one of my guests," she said at last. "They are all well-bred, sophisticated members of society. None of them would dare show their face in public with hair as ill-kept as yours."

Margaret stepped away from Sam. He sucked in several large breaths, trying to get enough air into his oxygen starved lungs. His eyes were watering from the effort, and he could barely make out Mrs. Drumsfield's shape. It was then he realized she was flickering in and out of existence.

Margaret stepped closer to Sam again, and gave him an appraising look. "You are a big, strapping young man," she stated. "Did David hire you to help with the party?"

Sam tried in vain to respond, but his body would not cooperate. He was not sure what she was doing to him, but it was not good.

Margaret seemed to take his lack of responsiveness as an insult. "Speak up!" she shouted poking Sam in the chest. An icicle of sharp pain shot through his sternum, and into his lungs.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but the only sound he made was a horrible wheezing.

"You," Margaret stated leaning in closer to Sam's face, "are very rude." She raised her hand to slap Sam in the face when a loud pounding sounded on the doors. Mrs. Drumsfield turned, and looked towards the doors.

"Sam!" Dean called. "Are you in there?"

Sam's hazel-brown eyes reflected the relief he felt at the sound of his brother's voice. Margaret turned back towards Sam. "Are you, Sam?" she whispered with a tight smile.

Something in Sam's eyes must have given her the answer she was looking for. "Let's not be rude. Invite your guest in to dinner."

Margaret disappeared, and as suddenly as the lights had turned on, they went out. The French double doors swung open. Dean stumbled into the room, at the sudden loss of resistance to his shoulder ramming the door. He could hear Sam's wheezing breaths, and shined his flashlight that general direction. Sam was sitting in a hard back chair pulling at his hair, and struggling to catch his breath.

Sam felt Dean's hand rest on the back of his shoulder. He could not help the slight involuntary shudder that coursed through his body. His head felt like it was made of lead, but he lacked the strength to raise it, and meet the gaze he felt burning into him. He took deep shuddering breaths feeling the pain dissipate quickly now that Mrs. Drumsfield was no longer present.

"Sam," Dean asked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam whispered breathlessly. He took several deep breaths, and looked up at Dean before continuing. "I found Mrs. Drumsfield." Sam paused to catch his breath. "Well really, she found me."

"You're sure you're okay?" Dean asked grabbing Sam under his arm, and helping him stand. "Can you make it to the car?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied a little more believably. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

Slowly they made their way out of the house, and to the Impala without incident. As Dean started the engine, Sam leaned his head back, wincing as his head made contact with the seat.

"Does your head hurt?" Dean asked not missing Sam's reaction.

"I hit my head on the wall," Sam replied, and he closed his eyes. He was so tired, he couldn't fight it. Within seconds, despite the blaring music emanating from the stereo, Sam fell asleep.

As Dean pulled away from the house, he never noticed the woman standing at the window.

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