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Chapter VIII: Then, Methought, the Air Grew Denser

Dean was torn between the need to tend to Sam and the animalistic urge to kill Underhill. Finally logic won out – killing Underhill would probably snap whatever he was doing to Sam and then he could sort Sam out in peace.

With a final pat to the shoulder, he let Sam go.

Underhill was too fast for him, though. He was already at the door – Dean hadn't even seen him move, but he'd been focused on Sam's raspy breathing – and out. The door slammed shut.

And now Dean was agonizing.

He should go after Underhill – he should. Whatever was going on, he was sure the creepy son of a bitch had something to do with it. But he couldn't leave Sam alone. He had to keep Sam awake, keep him conscious, keep him talking.

"Bluetooth," Sam mumbled.

"What?"

Sam nodded in the direction of the non-weapons equipment duffel. "All those earpieces we got from Frank. They're still in there. Take one and keep it connected. That'll leave your hands free and I'll be able to tell you right away if something's wrong." Dean hesitated, and Sam added, "You know you have to go after him, Dean. And I'd go with you but I'd probably be more of a hindrance right now."

"But what if something happens?"

"You'll hear it."

"I won't be here."

"You can come back." Dean wasn't convinced. "Come on, Dean. It's not like we have a lot of options here. Look, I'll keep myself awake – finish the research – and you see if you can track Underhill down. It's the only way we're going to end this."

"Yeah." Dean didn't like it, but he had to admit Sam was right. "Yeah, OK."

But it was a year and a half since he'd had Sam back like this, had not just Sam but Sam's total trust and their ability to practically read each other's minds and… And there was a part of him that couldn't bear the thought of leaving Sam alone and vulnerable. Not even if that was the sensible thing to do.

He felt a flare of anger against whatever or whoever was causing this. This was supposed to be a routine research job. There wasn't supposed to be any danger.

Sam's head wasn't supposed to be resting on Dean's ribs like he didn't have the strength to hold it up anymore.

Sam fisted a handful of his shirt.

"I know," Sam said, dewy eyes looking up at him. "I know. Just go get him, Dean."

My dear Robert,

Virginia and I were delighted to see you and Marguerite at dinner last night. Marguerite appeared in excellent health. The new treatment must suit her.

Virginia tells me that Marguerite is not entirely pleased with the new regimen. While I understand your decision, I do sympathise with her. To see a proud and fierce spirit like hers brought low by such an insidious enemy… Poor Marguerite! If there were only something we could do to ease her suffering.

I was most interested in what you said about Unwin Place. As you know, I have long been fascinated by the mysterious and the macabre. Do you truly believe that Unwin Place – the home where you grew up, the home where generations of your family grew up – has developed independent will? It would not surprise me if that were the case. How many secrets must have been whispered into pillows! How many have loved and lost! If any house were to live, it would be Unwin Place.

But we shall discuss that in more detail when next we meet.

Until then I remain,

Your affectionate friend,

Edgar

Sam sighed and put the letter aside, trying to ignore his drowsiness and throbbing head. It made sense, the dates fit, and he had most of the story now. All he needed to do was find out where Robert was buried. Because, if he was right, it couldn't be in the crypt. No, Robert had to be the one Unwin buried outside the family vault.

And then, suddenly, he knew.

Dean must have heard his sharp intake of breath, because his voice crackled in Sam's ear. "Hey. You OK?"

"Fine," Sam said. "You find Underhill yet?"

"He's nowhere in sight. You think he's…"

"Supernatural?" Sam asked. "I don't know. It felt normal enough every time he touched me, except for his hands being that cold. He could be. It would make sense." He rubbed his head again. "But… I think I know who,Dean. But I don't know why."

"You'll get there," Dean said confidently.

"Yeah, I guess… And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell Lou we're going to have to do some damage to his property."

Dean's cackle was evil glee. "Now you're talking."

Sam smiled. They were almost done. But he still needed confirmation, so he pulled the bottom letter from the pile and spread it out to read.

Dean was doing a floor-by-floor walkthrough with the EMF detector. He didn't think they'd need it, but Underhill was nowhere in sight, and this was the best way Dean could think of to track him down. If he was supernatural.

Dean had figured out that the Edgar in the letters was Edgar Allan Poe, he wasn't stupid. But he also wasn't a geek whose only action in high school had been with his AP reading list. And Underhill, even if he was a ghost, obviously wasn't Poe's ghost. So Dean didn't know exactly what was going on, but he trusted Sammy to be right.

On the third floor, the EMF detector started to hum.

Dean frowned, walking slowly down the corridor. The hum grew louder and louder, and by the time he reached the last room down, it was going crazy.

Dean could hear voices – or at least a voice – on the other side of the door.

He considered knocking, changed his mind, and kicked the door open. Lou was only going for the look of colonial architecture, not for the actual solidity. The door splintered with a satisfying crack.

Lou West was on the other side.

The letters were starting to blur in front of Sam's face. He rubbed his eyes, and it helped for a moment, but it wasn't long before it all merged together again.

And what was with people in the nineteenth century anyway? Why couldn't they use normal handwriting instead of absurd loopy scrawls that no normal person could decipher?

Sam squeezed his eyes shut when a stab of blinding pain hit.

He didn't want to open them again.

He forced himself to, forced himself to look at the words on the page in front of him. He lasted through a couple of lines before he had to shut his eyes again.

Crap. He wasn't going to be able to hold out till Dean came back.

Then he heard Dean's voice crackle over his earphones. It was a moment before he realized that Dean wasn't talking to him.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled. "What the hell is going on? You've been behind this all along? Have you been playing us?"

"Dean." Lou smiled, but there was something else behind it, and it didn't reach his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what the hell I'm talking about, douchebag." Dean stepped into the room, into Lou's space, forcing him to take several quick steps backwards. "Sam's sick. My little brother is sick. Did you have anything to do with it?" He pocketed the EMF meter and seized Lou by the front of his shirt. "Did you? Tell me the truth, because if you lie to me about my brother, I will know, and I promise I will make you regret it for the rest of your very short life."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean shook him. Hard. "I'm giving you one last chance. What have you done to Sam?"

"Dean! I haven't – nothing. I've done nothing to him, I swear."

"What's –" Dean stepped fully into the room and stopped short. It was cold in here – frigid. The carpet had been pulled back, and the floor underneath painted with a pentacle surrounded by rows of runes and lighted candles at the four corners. Dean didn't know what it meant, but he was willing to bet it wasn't just Astra's made-up crap. "What are you doing in here?"

"N-nothing, I –"

"Listen, you son of a bitch," Dean hissed, lifting Lou by the front of his shirt. Lou let out a squeak, which Dean ignored. "Sammy is sick, and right now it looks a lot like you're the reason. So if you don't want me to kill you painfully, tell me what the hell you think you're doing."

"Please – I'm not doing anything wrong. It's harmless."

"Who?"

"The ghost. I don't know, he – it – never gave me a name. But it's been here for weeks and it's never hurt me. Please. I haven't done anything to Sam."

"You expect me to believe that a ghost has been here for weeks and you didn't tell us?" Dean was struck by a sudden thought. "Did you tell Garth? Because if you did and he didn't tell me, I'm going to salt and burn his ass and then resurrect him so I can do it again."

"No – no, I didn't! I couldn't! I knew you wouldn't understand, hunters can't understand."

"Understand what? That ghosts need to be laid to rest?"

"Dean, please –"

"Dean."

Dean stopped short. He'd definitely heard his name twice, and he was pretty sure Lou had only said it once, so that left –

"Sammy?"

"Dean, please," Sam's voice rasped in his ear. "I can't fight it."

"I'm coming. Hang in there, Sammy. I'm on my way."

"Dean," Sam mumbled, consciousness obviously fading.

Dean dropped Lou and ran down the corridor, though something was telling him he was going to be too late.

Sam came to awareness slowly.

It took him a while to open his eyes. The world stayed pitch-black. He had a moment of panic, and then realization came.

The crypt. He was back in the crypt. The thing under his back this time was bumpy, so whatever had brought him here had probably dropped him on top of one of the marble cherubs.

Sam drew a deep breath. It was surprisingly musty. He knew it was an old vault that had been locked for well over a hundred and fifty years, but it smelt even mustier than it had last time. It smelt like death.

Sam shivered, and he thought he felt something move under him.

His brain wanted to panic again, but he forced it to calm down. This wasn't the time to go crazy. This was the time to remember that he'd been to this crypt twice, he knew how to get out, and now that his head was clear again – apparently that was one of the attractions of the crypt, it got rid of headaches and drowsiness – he could go back and find Dean.

He started to sit up.

He banged his head on something hard, falling back with a yelp. The thing under him shifted again with a sickening crack.

That was when Sam realized he wasn't lying on a carved cherub at all.

He was lying on a human skeleton.

No.

He wasn't squeamish about bodies, he couldn't be with the lives they led, but that didn't mean he wanted to be lying on top of a skeleton in a –

He moved his hands out to the sides and encountered cold hardness.

A coffin.

He was in a coffin.

He was with a skeleton in its coffin.

Without thinking beyond the need to get out get out get out Sam put both hands on the hard thing – one of those stupid marble coffin lids above him – and pushed.

It didn't budge.

He tried again, putting his back into it, every last ounce of the muscle that Dean liked to tease him about. It had to work, God, it had to, he went through the whole freaking exercise routine and put up with Dean's cracks about his biceps and now his muscles had to get him out of here or what the hell use were they?

But when it came to Sam Winchester against centuries-old marble, marble won.

And the air was getting thin.

Sam choked back a terrified sob, letting his hands run down the surface above him looking for a weakness – a flaw – anything he could exploit.

There was a crack running breadthwise about halfway down. As soon as Sam felt it he knew where he was. He was on the same slab he'd been on earlier, but this time he was inside the coffin.

Marguerite's coffin.

The crack wasn't letting much air in, though. It might give him a little more time, but not a lot. He had to find his way out. Or hope that Dean found him and managed to break him out before he suffocated.

"I warned you," a female voice said sadly.

Sam jerked in shock, hitting his head on the marble lid again. He gasped and slumped back.

"I warned you." The voice was coming from all around him. "I warned you not to sleep. They take you when you sleep. They put you down like a dog."

"Stop," Sam begged.

"No. Not like a dog. They are kind to dogs."

"Stop. Please."

Sam forced himself to keep tracing the coffin lid, up, up –

There was something. Something long and shallow scored into the marble. Sam traced it, found another mark next to it, and another next to that –

Sam couldn't hold back the sob.

Nail marks. That had to be it. Nail marks. From the same ghost that had left footprints burned into the stone floor. Nail marks from a ghost trying to claw its way out of a coffin just as its living self had been doing.

"He abandoned you." Marguerite didn't sound smug about it, only sad. "He left you to choke on your own final breaths. Alone."

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