Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter VI: For the Rare and Radiant Maiden

This time they went down fully equipped. Dean waited outside the crypt, as he'd said he would, just in case the heavy door swung shut – or was shut by a vengeful ghost. Sam walked through the memorials to the dead, playing his flashlight beam across carvings and inscriptions.

It didn't take him long to find the slab where he'd woken. It was right next to Geoffrey Unwin's monument. There was a closed marble casket lying on the floor next to it. The casket was blank, with no decorations and not even a name carved on the gleaming white surface. A crack ran down the breadth of the lid. Sam fingered it, feeling the tiny bump.

That was when he saw the footprints.

They were scored into the stone of the crypt floor as though they'd been etched in acid. They led away from the marble slab.

Sam knelt to examine them closely. It was difficult to be certain because the stone seemed to have melted around them, but they appeared to have been made by a woman. A barefoot woman walking unsteadily, maybe staggering, away from the slab.

He followed them with his flashlight.

They led to the door. At the door, they stopped.

Sam let out a breath. "Dean?"

Dean must have known from the tone of his voice that he wasn't in trouble, because it was a moment before he appeared in the doorway. "Yeah? Find anything?"

Sam pointed down.

Dean followed the direction of his finger, letting out a soft breath when he saw the footprints.

"Can ghosts do that?"

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like it before."

"Yeah, me neither. Where do they start?"

"The slab… The one where I woke up. There's no body there but there's a coffin next to it… Maybe it was on the slab and somebody shifted it?"

"Probably Lou," Dean grunted. "Sounds like the kind of stupid thing he'd do." He touched one of the footprints, rubbing his finger along the ridge. "Do you think it was her? The ghost woman you've been seeing?"

"Probably. Who else could it be? And the first time I saw her, I'd just climbed off the slab. Her slab, I guess."

"So this is – you!"

The ghost woman was back, and this time she looked angry. Sam sensed her target a moment before she attacked, and he quickly stepped between her and Dean.

"No," he said firmly.

Dean was getting to his feet. Sam reached behind him with one hand and grabbed Dean's wrist to hold him in place. He felt Dean trying to pull away and tightened his grip.

"She's not going to hurt me," Sam said, watching the ghost float towards them. "But she seems to hate you for some reason."

"Murderer," the ghost hissed, glaring straight at Dean.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sam said. "My brother isn't a murderer. I told you before – if you tell us what you want, we might be able to help you find peace. But you have to let us."

"You trust him?" the ghost asked Sam.

He was startled enough at the direct question that his grip on Dean's wrist loosened. Dean promptly pulled his hand free and moved to stand next to Sam, muttering about idiot little brothers who thought they had the right to play human shield like they had some kind of freaking death wish, the freaks.

"Do you trust him?" the ghost repeated.

"Yes," Sam said calmly. "Why?"

"Foolish boy." She stuck out a pale finger and poked Sam in the chest. He shivered. "You cannot see. He is waiting." She glared at Dean. "He is waiting to kill you. He wants to be rid of you. He wants you to die painfully, choking for air, alone, terrified." She backed away and pointed at Dean. "I know. You will put him living in his tomb and laugh while he dies. I know."

"Listen –"

"Do not sleep. He will kill you if you sleep."

"Who –"

"Marguerite." Her voice echoed through the silence. "Remember me. Remember. I am Marguerite."

"She said I was going to kill you," Dean said numbly. He couldn't make his mind move beyond that thought. "She sounded like she knew."

"She was lying. Or just mistaken." Sam pushed a mug at him, but Dean didn't move to take it. "Dean, come on. Drink. It'll make you feel better."

"She said I was going to kill you."

"So don't, and then she'll know she was wrong." The red ceramic touched his knuckles, and Dean moved his hands away. "Really, Dean? You want to do this the hard way?"

Dean gave Sam a half-hearted scowl. Sam responded with Bitchface Number Twenty-Three: Older Brothers Are Stupid (Version Twelve). Then he got up, came around the table, seized the mug and thrust it in Dean's face.

"Sam!" Dean protested.

"Drink."

Faced with choosing between drinking the freaking coffee and the humiliation of having Sammy force-feed it to him, Dean grabbed the mug and took a swallow. It burnt his tongue, but it made him feel surprisingly better.

Or maybe the feeling better was because Sammy had sat down on the bed, knee bumping his, and was watching him anxiously. Dean had all but forgotten what that was like.

"You OK now?" Sam asked.

"She said I was going to kill you."

"Are we still on that? She was a ghost, Dean. They say a lot of crap. You can't let it get to you. You're the one who taught me that, remember?" Sam patted his knee. "She doesn't know you. I do. I know you're not going to hurt me." He got to his feet and went back around the table. Dean couldn't help a momentary flash of worry – had Sam moved because the moment was over, or because he didn't want to be close to Dean? "I spoke to Stan. He said Wi-Fi should be up and running in a couple of hours. That gives us time to check out the cellar of the groundskeeper's cottage. There might be letters or journals or something helpful."

"I don't know," Dean mumbled.

Sam stared at him, and then nodded. "Yeah, maybe you should stay here." Dean couldn't help a tiny flinch, and Sam said, "Not saying I don't trust you, man. That isn't it. But you need to get some rest. And some food."

"I'm not tired."

"Dean. I was sick last night. When you woke up this morning some weirdo told you I was dead. Then I disappeared. And now the ghost has you freaked out. You've been frantic with worry for pretty much the last twenty-four hours. I'll stop by the front desk and ask them to send you something to eat – it'll probably suck, but it'll be better than waiting for someone to deliver from Baltimore. Eat it and then get some sleep."

"But – you – she said –"

"Look, even if she was right, she said I'm in danger if I go to sleep. I'm not going to sleep. I'm going to try to find a way to get into the cellar of Lou's haunted house, and if I can't find a door I'm going to take a hatchet to the floor. I'll be fine. You stay here and get some sleep and I'll be back before you're awake."

Dean sighed. He really was tired.

"Fine," he said. "But you take your phone and call me if there's any funny business. Are you getting a signal?"

"Not on my main phone, but my other cell and my other other cell have three bars now."

"Good. Take them both."

The second time Sam stepped inside the grounds of the haunted house, he was far more alert. This wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't just about making sure Astra hadn't accidentally drawn something that would summon Death when drunk teenagers inevitably broke in with scented candles and rituals they'd found on the Internet.

There was a ghost, a real ghost, and this was serious.

Sam walked around the perimeter. If it was an old house, it was more than likely that there was a second entrance to the cellar from outside the building. In that case there was a good chance it hadn't been plastered over when Lou had done the renovations.

He hit paydirt – literally – when his boot found something that felt smooth under the layer of topsoil. He dropped to his knees, making quick work of brushing off the earth to reveal a wooden trapdoor that was in surprisingly good condition for its age. It was worn around the edges, and the storm had caked soil into the cracks.

The rusty lock on the iron latch hadn't stood the years as well. Sam smashed it with the butt of his gun, and then he was pulling back the wood.

He shone his flashlight in. It was a short drop. Sam landed lightly, sneezing when his feet raised dust. He heard a squeaking sound, followed by something skittering into the shadows. Rats. Dean would hate this place.

He looked around. The room was big, probably extending under the entire building. There were four huge barrels stacked in one corner. He went to them and smelt the sharp tang of wine in the musty air. He considered prying the lid off one of them – from the strength of the aroma, Sam was willing to bet there was at least a couple of inches of very old wine in the bottom.

He shook his head. It was unlikely that the ghost was here for the alcohol.

He shone his flashlight around. The opposite wall was shelved. The shelves were empty now but Sam guessed they'd once held fruit, or maybe bottles of preserves.

It was when he turned the beam to the floor that he noticed the loose board.

It was old and rotten and it came up easily. Underneath was a flat parcel wrapped in oilskin. Sam pulled it out. The oilskin was stiff and cracking after years of being buried. He opened it carefully, revealing a sheaf of paper.

Sam just had time to notice that the top one was a letter. Then the pain hit.

It was blinding and immediate, pulsing through his head like someone was trying to drill through his skull into his brain. Sam just managed not to drop the oilskin bundle.

He pressed his free hand to his head. It didn't help with the pain but at least he felt able to think.

He had to get out. He had to get out, and maybe the fresh air would chase away the little men sitting inside his head with power tools, but even if it didn't, he could call Dean to come get him. Dean would come, but Sam had to get out first, because there was no way Dean would be able to lift him through that trapdoor.

Sam stuffed the parcel into his jacket and staggered to the little rectangle of light.

He barely made the jump. He would have made it easily if he'd been at one hundred percent. As it was, he just managed to snag the lip of the opening with his fingers and heave himself out.

The sunlight made it worse. He shut the trapdoor with his eyes scrunched tightly closed. Then he found his phone and hit Speed Dial 1.

Dean picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Dean?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "Sit tight, kiddo. I'm on my way."

Sam forced himself to stay sitting, but he couldn't keep from bringing his knees up and burying his face in them to try futilely to block out the sunlight.

Fortunately, he didn't have to try very long before there was a warm hand on his back. Sam relaxed into the touch, mumbling drowsily, "How'd you get here so soon?"

"I'm Batman." Dean didn't try to make him move, didn't do anything other than rub his back. Sam was unspeakably grateful. "What happened, Sammy? Something get you? You hurt anywhere I should know about?"

Sam turned his face into Dean's shoulder. It helped block out the sunlight, but it didn't do anything for Dean's worry. Sam let Dean triage him; that was easier than answering. When Dean had finally figured out that he wasn't physically hurt, his hand slid into Sam's hair.

"Headache?" Dean asked.

"Mmmph."

"Bad, huh? What happened? No, actually, never mind. We'll figure out what happened later. First we need to get you back inside. Come on." Dean's arm came around his shoulders. "I'm not carrying you when you're not dying, Gigantor. C'mon, Sammy. On your feet."

Sam let Dean pull him up. The next several minutes passed in a haze of pain and a world that kept sliding in and out of focus and Dean's voice hissing, "He's freaking fine, he just needs some rest. Now get out of my way before I make you."

Then there was a mercifully dim room, a pillow that smelt suspiciously like Dean's leather jacket, and a cool, damp cloth on his head.

Sam opened his eyes. Dean was a dark shadow perched on the edge of his bed.

"Hey," Dean said softly. "Better?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks."

"What happened? Did you find anything?"

"Yeah." Sam started to sit up, but Dean pushed him down firmly. "In my jacket."

"Wait. I'll get it." Dean disappeared from his field of vision. Sam heard fumbling, and then Dean was back. "This?" he asked, holding up the oilskin package.

"Yeah."

Dean peeled back the oilskin and lifted the first letter.

"Read it out loud," Sam mumbled.

Dean nodded, turning on the bedside lamp and shifting to block the light. "My dear Robert, I met Andrew at Mrs. Tafferty's luncheon yesterday. I was most distressed to hear about Marguerite."

Wide green eyes met Sam's.

"The same Marguerite?"

"Read the rest."

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