disclaimer: uh-uh

a/n: hey all people that are reading this story. umm, this chapter has a lot of explaining in it-- a lot of description and backstory. like i said, this is going to be a fairly long story, and so i need to draw you in to it, and make sure you'll understand clues and things like that. just keep that in mind as you read this-- chapter two... enjoy!

Dean rolled over and mumbled at the bright light. The warmth of the light gave clue that it was the sun shinning in through the window situated between the beds, and Dean smiled as his dream replayed in his semiconscious state. A beautiful woman, the Jamaican beach, margaritas and… Sam? Sam!

Dean shot up in bed and looked around. The bed beside him was empty, and the smell of recently brewed coffee in their half kitchen gave indication that not too long ago the bed wasn't as unoccupied. His eyes feeling they got far less sleep than the rest of his body, Dean struggled to find his watch and read the time; a quarter after ten. A new set of panic was just about to set in again as he glanced at the empty bed beside him, when the sound of the shower entered his ears. To this a soft sigh of relief came from Dean.

"Coffee," instead the elder Winchester mumbled the word any person could utter after a mere five hours of sleep.

The warm, satisfying liquid was just massaging its way down Dean's throat when Sam walked out of the bathroom; water dripping from his less than combed hair.

"Hey Dean," Sam spoke, eying his brother and seeing what type of reaction he'd get.

"Hey," Dean responded, himself not sure what types of feelings he harbored towards his little brother, "Leave any hot water?"

"Some," Sam joked.

The exchange of conversation was small and experimental, but in it Dean realized that the best bet for the previous nights events were to forgive and forget. Dean knew, at some point in the future, he'd do something that would piss off Sam, and figured he now had a get out of jail free card. Sam moved over and sat at the small table, and, after a moment, grabbed the notebook.

"So," Sam paused, "Did you get a chance to look at this?"

Dean sat across from his brother; cup of coffee still in hand, "I just woke up. What is it?"

"It's what I was talking about last night," Sam responded, trying to jog his brothers memory.

Dean struggled to think about anything Sam had said less than six hours earlier. The older brother had to admit, he'd been somewhat preoccupied by the anger that was now threatening to creep back up in him. Instead of admitting this, however, Dean settled for leaving a lingering silence in the conversation.

Sam handed Dean the book, "It's what I found out last night about the case in Surrgate."

The name immediately rang a bell, "Dude, tell me you're not talking about the Walsh family and the case that Bobby told us not to go digging into."

Sam refused to make eye contact with Dean, but instead became deeply involved with fingering the rings on the scribbler.

"Sam!" Dean barked.

"Yes, ok?" Sam looked up, "I thought maybe if I could prove to you that sometimes I can be right too that you'd give me a little more benefit of the doubt sometimes."

Dean pause, not sure what to make of what his brother just told him, "Sam… where did that come from?"

It was Sam's turn to wait on a response, "I don't know."

Dean didn't know whether it was that he felt sorry for Sam, or because he didn't want to argue, but he found himself reaching over and taking the notebook. The previous morning the brothers had been reading through the local newspaper; a ritual they did at every place they stopped at in a slim hope of finding something interesting. That morning, however, showed their efforts sometimes paid off as Dean read the headline of 'Destruction of Walsh Home in Surrgate Postponed Due to Discovered Body'. The large headline was posted above a just as large picture of an old looking, three story brick building.

The article had little information on the background of the house, just stating that the demolition, which was to be happening that week, had been put on hold when one of the workers found a partially decomposed body in the attic. It was when Sam had typed in for information on the Walsh house in his laptop that they got the full story. The home was built in 1897 for an Adam Walsh. The first tragedy happened two years later when his four year old daughter tumbled out of a third story window in a horrific accident one summer evening. 1919 saw the second ill fated day when a fire broke out in the kitchen further killing Adam Walsh's wife and ten year old boy. Still, two girls and three boys joined Adam in living many more uneventful years. The eldest son; Elliot Walsh, married in 1935 to an Elizabeth Rose; the eldest daughter of the mayor in Surrgate. Things were rough from the beginning as soon after moving into the old Walsh home, Adam Walsh died in his sleep at the age of sixty. The remainder of the Walsh children moved away on their own, and Elliot started a family of his own.

Rumors broke out almost immediately in the small town in the way that Elliot treated his wife; believing her to be nothing more than one of his meager possessions. The forties gave them ten children and the rumors soared even more. Elliot was an angry man, and was often seen beating his wife, or calling her cruel names; though the money the Walsh family earned in their name hushed these claims to no more than murmurs in the back of peoples conversations. In 1956 Elizabeth became ill and was forced into the hospital with a sever case of pneumonia. This left Elliot in a state of panic as he began a time of trying to force his children off to anyone who would come near the man that was so greatly feared by now. What remained of Elliot's siblings rarely came to see their nieces and nephews, and though Elliot now began to treat his children the same way he treated his wife, the eldest; fifteen year old Rose Walsh, was too fearful to stand up to the man. Elizabeth returned home in the winter of 1956 and, so it seemed, the atmosphere appeared to calm in the now over half a century old house. Which is why is came as such a shock when the events of June 1st, 1957 came around.

It was said that Elliot hadn't shown up for work for nearly a week in his esteemed position as head of production at the local saw mill. When phoned, he stated simply that the family was going through a spout of illness and he was forced to take care of them. This in itself sent shouts of red flags through the community, and after several tries at contacting the Walsh family on the late spring day of 1957, police were dispatched. What they found was their fears brought to realities. In the attic of the old Walsh home was the murdered bodies of all ten children and of Elizabeth Walsh; each having their throats cleanly sliced to the spinal cord. Upon further investigation they found Elliot Walsh laying at the bottom of a particularly steep staircase; his neck cleanly broken. Many speculations went about as to what could have happened, but most figured that Elliot had murdered his family and then, perhaps, ironically fell to his own death while trying to escape the scene of the crime.

After the gruesome murder, the house was cleaned and quickly sold to a new family; though the standing name of the 'Walsh House' remained. Things began to go bad immediately as any family that moved in was met with tragedy and heartache. By 1971 the house was turned into a museum of history for the town of Surrgate, and sought after by tourists as a house of pain and suffering; urban legends sprouting that whoever stepped foot in the attic would never leave the house. As urban legends went, this one seemed to strike a freakish amount of continuity. The first being in 1976 when a teen boy broke through the boundaries of the third floor and escaped to the attic. It wasn't even known that the teen was missing until his body was found on the ground bellow the back porch and the attic window broken above. He lived only long enough to utter out 'nonsense' about something pushing him out the window before the sixteen year old died from internal injuries. Similar things happened throughout the seventies, whether it was a wandering child, later found suffocated in the attic, or, on one grisly occasion an innocent man found the victim at the bottom of the stairs where Elliot himself was found dead. 1980 found the end of the museum, and the beginning of three years of more tragic accidents by people tempting the fate of the Walsh House. It wasn't until 1983 when everything stopped; the, by that point, infamous Walsh House became nothing but memory of bad luck and a collector of cobwebs.

In the late year of 2005, it was declared by the town of Surrgate that the century old house would be destroyed and replaced, instead, with a duplex. Some of the town argued against this act, and others; many the survivors of the innocent victims of the house, agreed that it should be torn down. It didn't take long for the bill to pass and the plans for the demolition to take place. It was at that time, however, that the bodies began to show up. Not many; only three in the time since, but all of them were the same. Each body had no name, and no missing persons matched them. As well, each corpse seemed have been sitting in the house for some time, and yet the workers went through the place nearly daily.

And thus the Winchester hunters became increasingly interested in the case. Dean didn't give it a second thought, but felt the need to call their family friend; Bobby Singer, to see what he knew of the place. Surely a house with so much tragedy had to of been flagged in the books of the expert hunter. Dean had no more mentioned the name of the town Surrgate, when Bobby warned harshly not to go near the Walsh House with no more information than there was nothing there for them to worry about. The conversation was short, but final; don't go near Surrgate.

And now Dean had in his hands a notebook, showing that his brother was not only willing, but eager to do just that.

"Sam," Dean didn't open the notebook, "I don't know man--"

"Just read it, please," Sam insisted.

Dean opened the book, and read the less than one page of jotted notes. His brother was never one for thoroughness when taking notes from people, and this time was no different. A name: Becky Rose was written at the top, along with a phone number, address and year: 1945. The notes hardly seemed worth all the pleading done by Sam, and Dean looked blankly up at his brother.

"So?" Sam looked expectantly.

"Ok, so I now know who took after Dad's writing abilities," Dean tossed the book on the table, "There's a name, address, phone number and a year Sam. Not exactly a 'Murder She Wrote' explanation."

Sam sighed, "Last night while I was--" he paused to look at Dean, "out, I ran across some guy at the local bar. We were chatting and I mentioned that I'd read that the Walsh House was being torn down."

"Subtlety at your best Sammy," Dean commented.

"Yeah well he gave me this name," Sam opened the book and pointed to the paper, "Becky Rose."

"Ok," Dean still wasn't catching on, and wished sincerely that his coffee cup could magically fill up without him having to get up at all.

Sam sighed dramatically, "Becky Rose is Elizabeth Rose's sister. Apparently she had moved away at a young age, but moved back to Surrgate in 1945 when Elizabeth started punching out her kids."

"A way with words Sam," Dean grinned, "But I still don't get how this could help with anything. This lady must be what?-- ninety years old?"

"Eighty-six," Sam supplied.

"Perfect," Dean got up to get himself some more liquid gold, "I think you've been watching the Titanic too much there Sam. People that old rarely remember their names, never mind what the hell happened half a century ago."

"That's not true," Sam gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Dean handed him, "According to this guy she's very much with it still. She owns a small bakery in Surrgate and lives with her daughter Alisa in a small house just off main street."

"So," Dean nodded, "Let me get this straight. You met some random dude at a bar, and he told you that some eight-some-odd year old lady not only remembers, but can tell us about some things that happened fifty years ago in a case, let me remind you, that Bobby told us to stay away from? That about it Sherlock Holmes?"

Sam took a long drink from his cup before replying, "Yeah."

Dean ran his hand across his face, "Sam, Bobby said to stay away from that place."

"I know," Sam held out his hand in defense, "And we will stay away from the house. We can just talk to Becky, and if nothing comes of it, I swear I won't push it any further. Bobby said to stay away from the Walsh House, and we will. Becky and Alisa's house is nowhere near the Walsh House."

Dean thought about this a moment before caving, "I swear man, if you pull anything I will leave your ass in Surrgate."

Sam grinned and stood to his feet, "Scouts honor."

"You were never in Scouts," Dean accused as Sam shoved some of his cloths and belongings away in his bags.

"Yeah, but I dated a Brownie once," Sam shot back with a smug look on his face.

"That's horrible Sam," Dean sputtered through his sip of coffee.

Dean followed Sam's movements in gathering up his belongings. He figured the two showers he had the night before more than made up for him lacking one that morning, and instead wanted to get the trip out of the way. The sooner Dean could convince Sam that there was nothing happening in Surrgate and to listen to Bobby's words, the better.

...to be continued...