By: Karen B.

Summary: Two shot. Written just 'cause. Sam and Dean are squatting in an old, abandon house. Two cups action. One cup adventure…mixed with a tablespoon of humor and a dash of hurt Sam, half-a-cup of Dean 'our mighty hero' Winchester -- to taste.

Disclaim: Dude, there's something nuts going on inside my brain…and I can't sleep until I write it down. I don't own any of the Supernatural characters…yet, they sure wrangle my ass to the dusty ground.

Rated: I don't know…'cause…I really don't know. Just some crazy story the muse said I had to write. I hear and obey. Shrug…

Sunshine always -- even in rain! Karen.


Rain pounded down on the hood of the Impala. The heavy metal music doing nothing to drown out the thunder rolling across the sky.

"Are we there yet?" Sam grumbled. A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the blackness lighting the car's interior. "Are we?" Sam glanced over at Dean.

"Dude," Dean grumbled back. "You tell me. You're the Map Quest, geek."

"Dean, I told you before, this road's off the chart."

They'd been driving down the makeshift dirt road for two hours and Dean's legs were starting to cramp, the extremely heavy downpour slowing them to a crawl.

"We should have been there by now." Sam cleared his throat, squirming in his seat.

"Out the window." Dean pointed a stern finger at Sam.


"I'm not pulling over in this shit, Sam. So, if you're going to be carsick…" Dean jabbed his finger in the air. "Out the window!" he said more forcefully. "And this time don't forget to roll the damn thing down first. Last time you sprayed your double cheeseburger without pickles all along the side of my door. Took me a week to pick the onions out of my babies crevices."

"Dean, I'm not going to be car sick."

"Sam…" A hail of ice bullets the size of eggs interrupted whatever it was Dean was about to say. "Sonofabitch." Dean smacked a hand to the steering wheel. "That better not leave a mark."

Sam sat forward trying to see out the front windshield. "I think it did."

"Did what?" Dean narrowed his eyes, trying to see better.

"Leave a mark."

"What? Where?" Dean leaned over the steering wheel.

"I'm kidding, Dean. I can't see a thing. I don't know how you can even see the road."

"Sam." Dean relaxed back into his seat. "Shut up, eat your Pork Rinds and drink your Smurf piss."

"You put what in my Gatorade?" Sam laughed out loud, glancing at the blue drink he held in his hand.

"Sam. One more word and I'll…"

"Turn around?" Sam smirked, downing the last of his Smurf piss and tossing the container in the backseat.

"Make you get out and walk," Dean snickered.

The hail had stopped, and Dean pressed on the gas taking them up to a whopping speed of twenty five. For another twenty minutes neither muttered a peep, both brother's grumpy from too many hours logged inside the Impala.

"Hey, turn off here," Sam broke the silence, pointing to his right.

"This better be the place. I gotta pee." Dean turned down a long graveled driveway, pulling up in front of a wrought iron gate, and put the Impala into park. "This is it," he sighed happily. "Home sweet home."

"Dean, of all the things that come to mind," Sam moaned staring out the passenger window. "Home sweet home is not one of them."

The enormous dark silhouette before them seemed to reach for the sky. The roof of the abandoned stone house disappearing into the gray, foggy night. The property had obviously been abandoned for sometime, windows boarded, gutters falling off. The grounds were barren, save the tall weeds and a near cracked in half oak tree that had obviously been struck by lightning one to many times. The house was surrounded by a rusted, wrought iron fence that matched the gate, and a coble stone stairway lead up to a large wooden door. A winged, granite beast loomed above the door as if guarding the entrance. The place really did look like a bona fide haunted castle.

"Dean, you actually want us to squat here?"

"Sam, we need the rest. After that last hunt you and I are both pretty worn. This place…" Dean gestured with a small toss of his head toward the stone house before them. "It's perfect. Set back in the woods. Long forgotten. No one will bother us here. We can squat for a month and not worry. Just hope I didn't ruin my babies shocks driving her through all that underbrush, and potholes, not to mention the paint job," he said, turning to Sam. "Let's go."

Gathering up their duffle bags, Sam and Dean piled out of the Impala, headed through the wrought iron gate and up the stairs to the front door. Sam eyed the gargoyle above the entranceway.

"Dean, this place is creepy, even for us."

"Damn it!" Dean snapped his fingers. "I left my lock pick in the glove box," he said about to head back to the car

Sam placed his hand on the heavy wooden door and pushed, giving Dean a cool smile when the door opened easily with a sinister creaking sound.

"Not locked." Sam shrugged.

Dean's eyes darkened. "Smart ass," he muttered under his breath, moving inside.

A chilly wind made Sam shiver and for a second he hesitated. Something was off, but he didn't know what. He was barely aware he had moved inward, almost as if a hand had pushed him through the doorway.

Sam stood next to Dean in the center of a large airy room, lit only by the beam of their flashlights.

"Good thing I picked up those candles, and that battery operated Cole lantern back in Iowa," Dean said, his flashlight beam searching out their new home.

The marble floor looked like a chessboard. The large black and white square tiles showing through a layer of dust. In front of them a spiraling staircase lead upward. To the left, an open door hanging off its hinges revealed a rickety staircase leading to what was probably the basement of the home. Thick cobwebs lurked in every corner. Both brother's beam of light came to rest on a painting above the fireplace. An old man, dressed in a dark suit, standing high up on a rolling ladder, and reaching for a book on the library shelf.

"That's just weird," Dean whispered.

"And the rest of the place is a palace, Dean?" Sam deadpanned, his flashlight's beam roving over the dingy sheets that covered what little furniture was in the room.

"Never a French maid wearing a g-string around when you need one. Ha!" Dean's voice echoed through the room.

"Don't forget the pink feather duster."

"That's my boy." Dean chuckled.

"Tsk." Sam rolled his eyes. "You know we passed a Motel Six, a couple hours back. Don't you think…"

"Sam, I told you, we're flat busted. It's pure luck I found this place on the net. What's with you, anyway?" Dean arched a brow. "It's not like we haven't stayed in worse places."

"Nothing." A cold wind groaned down the chimney and washed over them. Sam shivered as chilly fingers crept up and down his back. "It's nothing."

"Good. Let's map this place out. Then bunk down for the night." Dean dropped his duffle to a small round table, a puff of dirt exploding out from under the bag's weight. "I'll check the upstairs," he coughed, waving the dust from the air. "You check the basement and..."

"And you're bossy," Sam muttered.

"What'd you say?" Dean turned irritated eyes on Sam.

"Dean, why do you always get the upstairs?" Sam whined.

"Sam," Dean huffed. "Up. Down. Who cares which way…"Dean paused as realization hit. "You're joking, right?"

Sam shrugged.

Dean shined his flashlight's beam into Sam's face and laughed, "You still carrying that old adolescent phobia of yours?"

"Shut up." Sam tensed.

"Bro, your fear of clowns -- I get. But, basements?" Dean laughed harder. "Sam, there's no Frankenstein's laboratory down there. No crazy mad-scientist cloning clowns, and no spooky ghosts hiding under the stairs." Dean shook his head. "All you'll find in a basement, Sammy, is one big harmless cliché. Cobwebs, shadows, slugs, spiders and …"Dean cocked his head. "…A fourteen-year-old boy's imagination."

"It's, Sam. And I said shut up, Dean. Everyone's afraid of something."

"Not me," Dean stated in a cocky tone.


"You squeamish, little girl," Dean teased. "If you're so freaked out I'll take the creepy, damp, basement."

"Forget it, Dean." Sam wrinkled his brow. "I got the basement, boss man." With angry determination, Sam spun around, flashlight in hand.

"Sam," Dean called after him. "Sam, come on, man. I was teasing."

Sam waved a one fingered salute, wordlessly disappearing down the basement steps.

"Baby brothers." Dean let out a frustrated breath, trotting upstairs.


What ever Dean wanted to call the underground room, how ever he wanted to sell it -- Sam wasn't buying. Basements were creepy places. Full of nightmares, shadows, and forgotten souls -- oddly trapped upon damp stone walls. This basement was no different. Sam's memories ran wild eating at his mind. Remembering the time when he was fourteen.

He, Dean, and their dad had been checking out a supposed haunted house. Sam's job was to search the basement with the homemade, handheld E.M.F. scanner. Finding the levels high, he'd gone to tell Dad and Dean, only to find the cellar door had been locked. He'd screamed himself horse, clawing at the door and then the walls for his Dad and Dean to let him out. Shadows of evil zoomed around. Sam could do nothing but stuff himself into a corner, trembling and one hundred proof -- scared. For how long he was trapped, he couldn't be sure. The shadows galloped around. Words and voices in his head, spoke of his dead mother. Telling of children weeping blood, madness, death, a destiny full of terrible doom. Evil things Sam couldn't understand. All he really knew was something was there, in the dark, slipping inside of him. Wanting his soul. Something he couldn't escape, forever keeping him in the dark. He must have passed out, waking to Dean shaking his shoulders and scolding him for falling asleep on the job. When Sam had tried to explain to Dean what had happened, Dean had come up with a theory. That the high E.M.F. fields manifested Sam's paranoia and hallucinations -- either that or Sam was simply a girl trapped inside a wimpy boy's body. Dean had a good laugh over what was a traumatic event for Sam. They never did find the ghost and Sam could never go into a basement again without feeling disturbed and scared.

Finding nothing in this basement other than the cliché Dean had joked about, Sam traveled back up the stone staircase; reaching the top just as Dean had reached the bottom of the upstairs.

"So." Dean strolled across the floor.

"So what?" Sam leaned against the doorframe at the top of the steps, flashlight beam following Dean's every move as he tried to appear at ease.

"So, tell me about the creepy basement, girly man. Any blood sucking clowns?" Dean laughed, setting the Cole lantern on a table and turning the light on.

"You know what, jerk." Sam cocked his head.

"What, bitch?" Dean grabbed his duffle bag off the table, pulling out a water bottle.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"How come?" Dean asked smugly, uncapping the bottle.

"Just not."

"Just tell me." Dean took a long drink of water. "What was down there?" he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Just a bunch of cobwebs, empty crates, tin cans with no labels, and some old mason jar," Sam muttered.

"Full of what, bat wings, lizard tongues, and eye of newt?" Dean laughed.

"No." Sam curled his lip. "I broke the jar open by accident -- smelled more like grandma's hundred-year old prunes," Sam said, his annoyance evident. "What does that matter, anyway. I… " Sam shivered, glancing back over his shoulder down the staircase.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Don't know." Sam shivered again, the electricity in the air causing his neck and arm hairs to stand on end.

"Oh, come off it already, Sam!" Dean growled in annoyance.

"Dean," Sam turned to face him. " I got a strange feeling," he said, prickly fingers skittering up and down his spine.

"Above or below the belt?" Dean chuckled, capping his water.

"Grrrrr," Sam cleared his throat leveling an angry look at his brother.

"Seriously, Sam, heebee-jeebees are for civilians and little girls in pigtails not …"

Dean was shocked into silence, by a hand reaching out of the darkness behind his brother. Long, grayish fingernails gripped tightly to Sam's shoulder yanking him backward and dragging him down the basement staircase.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, nabbing the duffle bag and surging forward. "Sonofabitch!"

TBC -- two shot….second and completed shot to be posted very soon. Did that to force myself to finish writing the dang thing. Thank you for waiting.