Act I

See teaser for details…

Sam floored the gas pedal of the Impala, the vibration making him feel powerful and alive as the car motored down the highway. They were 10 miles out from the bed and breakfast. He glanced over at Dean for a moment, who was asleep in the passenger's seat. He knew that Dean was hung over and possibly still a bit drunk when he had tossed Sam his car keys wordlessly. Sam had obliged and gotten in the driver's seat without question or comment.

Secretly, Sam had been thrilled. It felt good to be out in the world again, to have purpose. He had decided for himself that he wasn't going to let Lucifer or anything else get the best of either him or his brother. They had failed in Carthage and it had cost Ellen and Jo their lives. But Sam knew it was a price they had both been willing to pay, no matter how much he deemed the situation unjust and truly unfair. Their deaths coupled with Lucifer's taunting and fates threat of him ending up as the devil's vessel gave Sam the motives he needed to keep a clear head and to try to figure out a way to ultimately gank Lucifer and restore the world to its natural order. He was hell bent on redeeming himself, not only for God, country and himself, but for his brother as well.

Dean, on the other hand, didn't seem to share in his try and try again philosophy. He had seen his older brother down and out before, but never for this long and never this low. It was like Dean was holding himself personally responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to anyone in the entire world. He knew that Dean still considered himself expendable, even after all this time and everything they had been through. He knew it for certain on the night before the showdown, when Dean referred to his own possible death as merely the loss of a game piece. It still pissed him off that his brother could never assess any real value to himself except when it came to ridding the world of evil.

Which was exactly why Dean was taking this so hard. He had failed at the only thing that held any sense of self worth, which translated into Dean being a failure himself. What had happened with Lucifer had been like a sucker punch to his brother's gut. He could only imagine the thoughts whirling through Dean's head. That it was all of his fault. That he should've known better. That he shouldn't have put so many people at risk, that he got Ellen and Jo killed, that he should've been smarter…stronger. Sam wondered if Dean still had the voice of their father in his head, calling him out every time he screwed up. He was pretty sure that he did.

But all of these things weren't the thing that bothered Sam the most about Dean. Hell, he could excuse his brother for feeling out of sorts after the last few weeks. It had been hard for him to push through too. But it was the lost look in Dean's eyes that Sam didn't like. The pain there. The hopelessness. And the hole that Dean had fallen into seemed to be getting deeper and deeper every day. What was doing the drill work, Sam couldn't be sure, though he had his guesses. All he did know for sure was that if it kept up, Dean was going to lose himself. And Sam couldn't have it. Because he needed his brother. He couldn't save the world without him. And he didn't really want to.

So, Sam had poured over the internet, desperately searching for anything supernatural to hunt. His brother needed it to get back in the game, to feel like he had a purpose again. Once he did, Sam was sure this whole retirement notion would disappear as well. He just had to get Dean breathing again. Hopefully, everything would go smoothly.

He pulled the Impala onto Holmes Point Road and nudged his brother sharply in the shoulder. "Dude, wake up, we're here," said Sam as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the Holmes Point Bed & Breakfast

Dean jumped awake and for a moment, he looked like his old self. Then the light in his eyes faded away to a dull shimmer. He joined Sam in looking at the bed and breakfast, which looked more like a quaint cottage than a deadly haunted house. It was two stories with a white wash paint job, a blue roof and matching blue shutters on every window. It came complete with a brick pathway lined with rose bushes and a white picket fence. Several fat cats roamed around the grass of the front lawn.

"This place looks more Better Homes and Gardens than America's Most Haunted Places," said Dean as he and Sam both got out of the car.

An elderly woman with poufy grey hair and a pink robe guided an electric wheelchair down another pathway from a carriage house in the back of the property. She had a grey kitten sitting on her lap.

"Oh look, Rose Nyland's here," muttered Dean under his breath.

"Shut up," whispered Sam. He walked up to greet the woman. "Max? Maxine Gibbons?"

"Max, honey," she responded in a tiny voice as she checked out both the brothers. "Frank Poncharello and Jon Baker?"

"You can call me Ponch," said Dean.

The woman regarded them both oddly for a moment. "I'm sorry, but have we met before?"

"I don't think so. All of us hunters tend to look alike," responded Sam.

"I'll say," said Max. "I'm afraid I feel almost irresponsible even running my ad and my story. So many people have died."

"Well, we're not most people," said Dean.

"That's what all of them said," said Max.

"Max, can you tell us a little bit about the place? Were there ever any deaths or violent occurrences inside?" asked Sam.

"No, nothing like that," said Max, gently petting the kitten in her lap.

Dean stepped forward. "What about the land itself? Was the hotel built on a cemetery or maybe an ancient Indian burial ground?"

"No, this place has been here for years and years, and before that, it was all woods," answered Max.

"And this all started five years ago?" asked Sam. "Anything strange happen around that time? Significant?"

"No…it was like overnight, people just started dying. And it hasn't stopped," said Max. "Poor things."

Dean cleared his throat. "So what about the million dollars? How do we collect?"

"Survive the night," said Max. "If you survive, that means whatever's in there hasn't."

"Sounds easy enough," said Dean.

"No one's managed to do it yet, honey," said Max. She glanced towards the hotel for a moment. "Please excuse any messes you may find in there. Lately, it's been sort of difficult to get maid service."

"I can imagine," said Sam sympathetically.

"Well, I wish you both the best of luck," said Max. "Hopefully I see you here tomorrow morning." She smiled and then picked up her kitten, giving it a full on kiss on the lips. "Don't you just love animals?"

"I feel the same way about cars," said Dean, flashing Sam a what the hell look. "Believe me, if I could make out with…

Sam smacked Dean hard and he shut up. "Have a good night Max."

Max smiled pleasantly and gave her kitten another kiss before turning her wheelchair around and heading back towards the guest house.

"Great, we're dealing with crazy cat lady," said Dean.

Sam chuckled as he took out the keys to the Impala and used them to open the trunk. Dean lifted up the false panel, exposing all of their weapons. Sam began pulling random things out and throwing them into a duffel bag. "Wooden stakes, salt, shotguns, holy water, the knife, the Colt," said Sam.

Dean huffed. "Yeah, like that's gonna work," he said, eyeing the Colt with something almost akin to disgust.

"Dean, it's killed plenty of other things that go bump in the night," said Sam. "I'm bringing it."

"Whatever," said Dean. "Let's go kill us a ghost or a vamp or a damn leprechaun or whatever the hell's in this place."

An eerie stillness pervaded across the front entry way and a slight chill rang in the air. Suddenly, the innocent looking B & B looked a little darker than before. The brothers exchanged glances. "Here goes nothing," said Sam, slamming the trunk of the Impala.

****

Dean entered the small hotel first, his shotgun locked and loaded. The first thing that hit him as he stepped inside was the smell. The rotting flesh smell of death, the sharp coppery smell of blood, the too sweet overripe smell of sickness and the slight burnt electrical smell of faded energy all coupled into one waft of scent that told Dean's senses that something very bad had gone down in this place. It told his stomach that his nose didn't much like these smells after a night of Gentleman Jack therapy. He ran a hand unconsciously over his grumbling stomach. "I think they forgot to Febreeze the couches."

Sam dropped his bag and pushed the front door back, fanning the area. "I think they forgot to let any air in." Suddenly, the door ripped out of his hand and slammed shut, followed by a series of clicks that sounded like every window and door leading outside had locked.

Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother. "That's comforting."

Sam tried in vain to open the front door. "Guess we're in for the night, huh?"

"Yeah," said Dean, shivering slightly. The sick feeling in his stomach intensified for a moment before his hunter's instinct took over, forcing his body and mind into a place of calm and focus. He surveyed the space of the deceptively large B & B from his position at the foyer. Directly in front of him and Sam was a sitting area with a few comfy looking chairs, a couch, a few end tables, a busted TV and a fireplace. Vases of dead flowers sat creepily on the end tables.

In the middle of the room, was a wooden staircase, leading to three or four bedrooms. Beyond the staircase, towards the back of the house was a rundown kitchen and next to it, a windowless dining room with a rather regal looking wood table. To the left of the stairway, was a hallway that led to a large room that looked to be some kind of library or den. There was another room next to it with its door shut that Dean assumed to be either a bathroom or a closet. There was faded art on the walls and some nice looking rugs on the floor. Dean guessed that in its day, this place had been quite the hot ticket in town. But now, it looked like skeletal remains.

"Alright little brother," said Dean. "I'll take upstairs, you take downstairs."

Sam looked a little concerned. "Maybe we should do this together."

"Whaddaya scared? Come on Sammy, we've done this a hundred times. Hell, a thousand." He held up his gun. "Point and shoot." He pulled out the demon killing knife. "Slice and dice."

"Fine," said Sam uneasily. "Meet back here in twenty minutes. If you're not here, I'm coming up after you."

"Relax, dude," said Dean. "Piece of cake."

"Let's hope you're right," said Sam.

"I'm always right," said Dean.

"Says you," said Sam. He gave Dean one last glance and then headed down the hallway towards the library.

Dean watched him for a moment and then crept up the first steps of the wooden staircase, the wood creaking dramatically under his boot clad feet. The late afternoon light was fading, replaced by the twilight of dusk that would soon lead to night. The lack of light made differentiating the individual stairs difficult and Dean almost took a tumble several times as he stumbled his way up towards the second floor.

A pang of intense loneliness suddenly hit him as he climbed in the dark and he felt carved out and hollow inside. He resisted the urge to call out to Sam. Instead, he reached for his flask and took a healthy swig. The Jack burned his throat and warmed his gut, filling him up. He replaced the flask as he reached the top of the stairs and flicked on a large floor light that was just off the landing. It flickered for a moment and then clicked on, bathing the stairway and the hallway in warm light.

"That's better," said Dean, the whiskey hitting him, making his brain feel like it was tucked in comforting warmth. The light made things better too.

He saw there were four bedrooms down the corridor with what he figured was a bathroom and a master/honeymoon suite bookending the guest rooms. All the doors were closed. It was quiet. Peaceful. Still. If he listened hard enough, he could hear his brother clamoring about downstairs.

"Let's see what's behind door number one, Alex," said Dean as he stepped towards the bathroom. He took a deep breath as his hand reached for the doorknob, his shotgun ready. He twisted the knob and opened the door, forcefully pointing his gun into the room, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire, his heart pounding in adrenaline fueled ecstasy. He flicked on the light. Nothing but a fancy marble bathtub and matching sink. All quiet. All clear.

He left the light on and the door opened as he headed out of the bathroom and towards the next door. He wondered how his brother was doing downstairs and was then struck by a bite of nostalgia for the days when he and Sam would go in, kill the monster and save the day. No end of the world crap. No vessels. No deaths of friends on their heads and hearts. It was funny, but at the time, Dean remembered feeling so angsted out trying to find his dad, worrying about Sammy and trying to be the man in charge that he had missed how much he and his brother had accomplished in such a short time. They had saved so many people and had gotten rid of so much pure evil. It was disappointing to know that this was where all of that had lead. Instead of saving the world and saving their family, they had destroyed it.

Dean blew out a sigh and then forced open the door to the first bedroom, the door knob slamming harshly against the wall as he flicked on a light switch, his gun more than ready to go off. He was greeted with two twin beds, an old television and a huge chest of drawers. The scariest thing in the room was the dust bunnies.

He moved over to door number three, gripping the doorknob and opening it in one swift movement, his gun perched out in front of him eagerly. He flicked on the light and saw that room number two was notable for its very comfortable looking king sized bed. This was so his room for the night. In fact, if he could stay in that room in that bed for eternity, he'd be a happy man.

He backed out of the room and made his way over to door number four. He reached for the doorknob and twisted it. Locked. The temperature in the hallway slipped down a few notches. Dean's heart thudded loudly in his chest, the cold sensation sharpening his senses, the slight whiskey buzz and everything else forgotten as his brain honed in on whatever lie behind the door. He sucked in a deep breath of anticipation and then blew it out, the white wisps of his breath blowing lightly in front of his eyes. He held out his gun and kicked at the door with all of his might, grunting heartily from the force of it. The doorknob busted off easily and the wood of the door splintered as the door swung open from the power of Dean's kick. Dean flicked the switch, but no light came on.

He stepped into the room, which was black except for a sliver of moonlight. It was a carbon copy of the room next door with a big comfy bed and a huge television. Only this room had dark stains all over the carpet. While Dean couldn't see the red tinge in the dark light, he knew they were blood stains. His grip tightened on his weapon as he moved farther into the room. "Why don't we quit the game of hide and go seek, huh?" said Dean, searching wildly around the room for the spirit. "Come out and we can play a real game."

The room was silent, almost eerily so, as if it were mocking him. Dean felt like an ass, but he stepped to the bed and quickly lifted the sheet up, looking under it. Nothing. He turned and noticed a small walk in closet with its door ominously shut. He nodded slightly, his adrenaline kicking up a notch. He crept towards the closet in near silence, his years of experience as a hunter aiding in his stealth mode. He reached the closet a second later, readied his shot gun and then flung the door open, pumping shot after shot of rock salt into the small five by five space. But the shots found no purchase and simply collided against some old clothes and boxes before falling to their spent deaths useless.

Dean put the gun down, suddenly feeling very disorientated. His gut knew there was something here, but he just couldn't find it. Maybe the whiskey had dulled his senses. Maybe he was losing his edge. Maybe he had never had it.

There was a light tap on his shoulder.

Dean's heart shot up to his throat as his whole body flinched in absolute terror. He more jumped around then turned, his hands shaky, his legs wobbly. It was no wonder she was able to so easily push the gun out of his hand. Dean felt like he'd been punched in the stomach as his eyes landed on Jo Harvelle.

"Hey Dean," she said casually.

"Jo?" he whispered, swallowing convulsively. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this absolutely wasn't Jo. But his heart and his soul weren't paying attention. Neither were his senses. He could smell the vanilla based perfume she always wore. Before he could help himself, he reached out to touch her arm. He felt her skin…its softness, its warmth, its humanity. He abruptly stepped back. "You can't be real," he said, swallowing back a lump in his throat. "You died. You died saving my life."

"Yeah I did," said Jo, stepping towards him. "I'd do it again."

Dean swallowed hard. "Why?"

She gazed up at him with her warm brown eyes and he made the mistake of returning the gaze. He felt himself getting sucked in and suddenly, he was assaulted with visions of a life he would never have. He and Jo kissing…making love…getting married…having a baby…cheering their son at little league…Jo holding him in bed…Jo holding his hand as he died an old man, telling him how much she loved him.

Dean blinked his eyes hard and looked away from her. "It wasn't meant to be Jo."

She crossed her arms over her chest giving him her patent know it all bratty smirk. "Obviously."

"It's not…I wish…well, you'd probably be surprised what I wish," said Dean, fumbling for the right words.

Jo sauntered towards him then, backing him up against the wall, her body pressing against his in all the right places. He wanted her. He wanted her so bad. A shot of pure desire shot from his groin to his brain and he was pretty sure his whole faced flushed red. He reached a hand out and ran it through strands of her silky long hair. He pulled her chin up so she was looking up at him and then leaned down, kissing her soft lips ferociously, knowing all the while that none of this could possibly be real. But he didn't care. He needed this. He needed one moment of comfort shared with someone he truly did care about and who truly cared about him.

"Jo," he gasped, putting his arms around her and pulling her tightly against him, basking in her warmth and softness as he took full advantage of a chance he'd thought he'd never have again.

The brief moment of peace was lost entirely as Jo brought her knee up harshly into Dean's groin. The world spun and he saw stars as a nausea filled throb sailed through his stomach. He doubled over in shock and agony.

"How could you ever have your own family Dean? You can't take care of the one you got. Hell, you can barely take care of yourself," said Jo. She brought up her knee again, this time catching him in the jaw. The jolt sent him reeling to the floor. "Me and my mom are dead because of you! And you did a piss poor job of trying to kill the devil. We died for nothing!"

She stood over him, looking huge, her words hitting him like a guilt bomb that exploded in his heart, hurting him far more than any of her hits. He grasped for his shotgun with outstretched fingers, staring up at her as he did, mourning something he would never have the chance to have with her or probably anybody else. The feeling was accompanied with a deep sense of failure. Because in the end, he should've been able to protect her and Ellen. Bottom line.

She kicked at him viciously, catching him in the ribs and the back, the power behind the blows strong. His hand finally gripped the shotgun.

"Dean!" he vaguely heard Sam cry out in the distance.

Dean shakily grasped his gun and took one last look at Jo. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he pulled the trigger. She disintegrated in a puff of smoke and ash.

Dean lay back on the floor, gasping for breath.

"Dean," said Sam as he knelt down next to him. "You alright man? What the hell was that thing?"

Dean breathed hard as he slowly sat up, hugging his arms around his middle. "Couldn't you see her, man? It was Jo," said Dean, still trying to catch his breath. "It was Jo."

"What?" said Sam in a confused tone.

"It was her…swear to god…well, not her her, but her spirit or…something…you know what I mean," said Dean anxiously. "Damn it, didn't you see her?"

Sam shook his head slowly. "Dean, all I saw was this glowing figure of light attacking you... and then it was gone. It wasn't Jo."

Dean glanced around crazily, his pulse going wild. "What the hell's in this place, Sammy?"

TBC