Wow guys, thanks so much for the kind reviews – they make me smile every time I read them! I know it's been way too long a gap between updates, but I've had a manic term at uni (Cambridge is a pretty pressurized environment...)

Still, hope you can forgive and stick with me, and that this chapter keeps you interested!

Just a quick note to ghostbehindyou – promise I'll give the boys a bit of a rest soon lol

Disclaimer info still just as true (and depressing) as it has been in the previous chapters.

Chapter 4

Silence once again permeated the house, and Dean tentatively lowered his arm to ensure it really was over. He cursed to himself, realizing that the lights had all gone out and he couldn't see any more than he had been able to with his eyes covered. But as he reached into his jacket and his hand closed around a pocket torch, a triumphant smile played across his face. There was really only one thought running through his mind at that moment, filled with confidence and a Sam-can-go-stuff-his-research sense of victory: Gotcha, you son of a bitch.

But suddenly, his moment of smug satisfaction was interrupted by the creeping sensation that something still wasn't quite right. Scratch that, something was still very wrong.

There was no physical change in the atmosphere of the room, there were no creepy unexplained sounds, no satisfying explanation that Dean could comfort himself with. But something was definitely still wrong - because Dean was afraid. It wasn't the hairs-raising-on-back-of-neck, oh-crap-it's-behind-me-isn't-it, alert kind of fear that Dean was used to experiencing with just a bit too much regularity on hunts. Not the nervous anticipation that came before a confrontation with the latest spirit, the little nagging voice that always reminded him this could be the one that gets one of us. Not that feeling he had in the moment before meeting his father's eyes after he'd messed up.

It wasn't any of those, because those were familiar feelings, ones that Dean could deal with, could usually control and hide pretty effectively. But this – this was panic. This was short, gasping breaths, feeling like a crushing weight had just settled on his chest, can't think straight, loss of control, terror. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that, in the literal sense, this wasn't rational. There was no reason, no explanation for this feeling. All he could come up with was am I having a freakin' panic attack? That thought, of course, only making him panic more. Because Dean Winchester didn't do that, it was just too dangerous. For him, and for everyone around him. Also, kinda wussy, so snap the fuck out of it!

Trying desperately to control himself, take deep breaths, stop his hands shaking, Dean reached down towards the floor to try and retrieve the axe he'd dropped earlier. He didn't know if it would actually help, considering there was nothing to fight against, but he hoped that at least being armed might help him to feel less vulnerable.

As he finally located the weapon and started to slowly stand back up as steadily as he could manage, he was confronted with a pair of glowing, blood-red eyes. And Dean froze. Completely. In the thrall of those eyes, half-concealed in the recesses of the hood of a dark cloak, the focus of his terror. His hunter's instincts screamed at him to move, to do something, dammit. But, for once in his life, he found his panic-stricken mind unable to force his body to obey. Paralyzed with fear, the axe slipping from his trembling fingers and dropping uselessly back to the floor, he watched as the cloaked figure slowly began to advance towards him.

xxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxx

As he finally rounded the corner to Julia's house, Sam felt a surge of relief on seeing the Impala parked on the driveway. Well, parked maybe not so much the right word. Judging from the tracks in the gravel, it looked like Dean had skidded the car to a violent and sudden stop. The urgency behind his brother's earlier actions was confirmed for Sam when he saw the demolished front door. Dean would have picked the lock if he hadn't felt the need for serious haste.

Sam jogged over to the car and placed his hand on the roof to steady himself as he took a moment to catch his breath. He ran his eyes over the front of the house, noticing immediately the eerie silence and the lack of illumination from behind the windows. A knot of concern mixed with disbelief settled in his stomach as he tried to figure out yet again what was going on, and what could have possessed Dean to come back here alone. If he's got himself in trouble just because he's too damn proud to deal with me after a stupid argument...

Part of Sam's brain was telling him to kick Dean's ass for being so monumentally stupid and stubborn. But, fortunately for his brother, the larger part just wanted to get this mess over with quickly and tell Dean what he'd seen, share the burden of the vision that was still making him feel sick to his stomach.

Pulling together the presence of mind to grab a torch and a gun from the trunk of the car first, Sam headed quickly into the house. The wrecked furniture illuminated by the torch's beam and the complete lack of activity quickly led him to the conclusion that the purifying ritual was done, the poltergeist gone. Thank Christ – or, you know, Dean – for that. For a brief moment, Sam imagined Dean's reaction if he ever found out his brother had just unintentionally compared him to Christ, and quickly resolved never to mention it – ever. He really doesn't need an even bigger ego than he already has...

By the time Sam had slightly freaked himself out with the oddness of that little thought process, he'd already completed a quick sweep of the ground floor of the house. No Dean in any of the rooms. Still grateful for the lack of supernatural disturbance, he headed swiftly up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Reaching the top, he began to call out his brother's name, desperately listening for a reply, for some snarky comment about a sleeping beauty or the please please please completely unwarranted concern that became clearer in his voice as he continued to be met by nothing but silence. The light of the torch revealed the upstairs landing to be even more of a wreck than downstairs, and Sam's breath caught in his throat as he noticed traces of red on the floor and glistening on the corners of some of the debris. Luckily, there didnt seem to be any consistent trail that would indicate a heavily bleeding injury, but for some reason that wasn't particularly reassuring.

Trying to ignore the anxiety steadily strengthening its hold on him, he turned to one of the doors leading off the landing and pushed it open, shining the beam inside.

xxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxx

Dean didn't see the door edging open, the beam of light finally lending some illumination to the room. All he saw, all he felt, was utter terror as the cloaked figure reached out, placing one hand on his cheek, the other on his chest. The hands were freezing, and as they touched him pain radiated from the contact points, causing violent tremors to wrack his body. He tried to scream, find some kind of release from the overwhelming horror of what was happening, but it was becoming a struggle even to breathe. His lungs felt constricted, like an icy hand was wrapped round them and squeezing hard. His throat and mouth were too dry, and all he could produce was a desperate, choking gasp, a feeble attempt to draw more air into his suffering lungs.

Sam felt a shiver of fear run down his spine as he saw the figure, cloaked in black, a black that seemed somehow even darker, definitely more threatening, than the shadows engulfing the rest of the room. But his focus went straight to Dean, held in the figure's grip. Sam saw his brother shaking violently, his face contorted against the pain, the strength in his legs giving way completely as he crumpled to his knees, the spirit? demon? what does it matter? following his descent, its grip unyielding.

It took no more than the space of a heartbeat for insinct to take over. One instant, and Sam had taken it all in, the torch was carefully placed on the floor, the pistol trained on the thing that was attacking his brother. Something so far beyond concern, beyond anger, driving him as he heard Dean's weakening struggle for air.

"Get the fuck away from him!" Channelling so much rage into the order had the desired effect, the cloaked figure leaning back and turning to face Sam as he pulled the trigger. A tiny moment of twisted satisfaction gripped the hunter as the rock salt projectile exploded on impact with the thing's chest and it released an unearthly howl. It was definitely only a tiny moment, though, because underneath that deafening screech he heard a weak, agonized cry from Dean.

The rock salt wasn't quite as fatal as Sam had hoped it might be. The figure lunged towards the window, melting completely back into the darkness as it escaped the torch's beam. Under many circumstances, Sam would have tried to track where it went – at least which direction it took once out of the window. But right now, all he needed to know was that it was gone.

Within two seconds of the thing disappearing, Sam was at his brother's side. Dean was now lying on the floor, staring intently at the ceiling, taking in deep, shuddering breaths, re-filling his tortured lungs. Sam mentally sighed in relief that his brother was at least awake and gently laid a comforting hand on Dean's forearm. He prepared himself to ask the inevitable question, the one that always made him feel stupid. Not only because the answer was usually pretty damn obvious whenever it was necessary to ask, but also because more often than not Dean would shoot back a reply that completely avoided answering the question anyway, usually managing to point out Sam's stupidity in the process. But it still had to be asked.

"Dean, man, you ok?" He didn't care that his voice trembled slightly, not really feeling up to trying to hide his concern.

Dean finally allowed his gaze to lock with Sam's as he rasped out a reply. "I... I don't know. My chest – hurts..."

Sam registered the rips in Dean's dark-coloured jacket and shirt, saw drops of blood on the floor. Realized that he really couldn't judge the extent of any injuries like this. "Oh crap... Dean, I'm gonna have to rip the shirt, ok? Check out how bad it is."

Dean nodded slightly and Sam grabbed the neckline of his shirt and ripped carefully downwards. After a quick examination, Sam sat back, basking in the relief for just a moment. It was obvious that Dean hadn't sustained any significant injuries from flying furniture – hadn't even winced when Sam had applied gentle pressure to his ribcage. So, a few bruises in the morning, but no serious problems. Dean's breathing had settled down as well. There was only one injury that seemed worth mentioning, the one that seemed to be causing Dean's discomfort.

"Erm... Dean... looks like it scratched you." The five shallow marks had already stopped bleeding, just looked like they must have stung like a bitch.

"What?" came the incredulous reply from his now much calmer, more lucid brother. "You ripped my shirt and it's just a scratch? You've got to be kidding me, Sammy!"

"Hey – not tonight. You officially lose the right to call me that when I save your sorry ass. Besides, I'm not the one who looks like they just lost a fight to a chick with a vicious manicure." Sam smirked at the resentful grunt that came from his brother at that one, glad that Dean was seeming much calmer and more responsive than he had been a few moments ago.

"What the fuck was that anyway?" Sam asked, checking the room over while reaching for the dropped shotgun. "'Cause I don't think its gone from the house."

As if to support his words, a shuddering groan came from what sounded like the next room.

"I have NO clue. Julia's out of the house, so I'm all for getting out while the getting's good. We need bigger guns or something. At least let's hit the books, find out what it is." Dean scrambled to his feet.

"What was it doing to you?" puffed Sam as they ran down the stairs. Dean was silent until they slammed shut the doors of the Impala, in unison as always.

"Long story." Sam saw the automatic closed-off expression cloud his brother's face and let the subject drop. For now.

xxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxx

A/N: There you go! Term's over now so next update will be loads quicker - I promise :)

Thanks again to ohmygodnotthecar for wonderful beta work xx