When Darkness Calls

Chapter Six

Sam sat, nervously drumming his fingers against the steering wheel of the Chevy Cavalier he'd stolen from the motel parking lot. Dean had better find the note I left for him in the Impala or I'm so screwed. He squinted to get a better look at the turn-of-the-century whitewashed farmhouse, he'd parked in front of. Yeah, this definitely ranks up there as one of the dumbest things I've ever done. Dean is so gonna kick my ass.

Thick grayish-brown vines snaked the walls of the dilapidated home, fresh snow clinging to the dark green ivy. Tattered curtain remnants poked through the broken windows, and were held aloft on the stiff breeze. Broken shutters swung back and forth in the wind, banging against the farmhouse.

Yep, leave it to a psychopathic killer to pick the creepiest, most remote house possible, to torture his victims in.

He climbed out of the car and carefully shut the door so as not to alert Charlie of his arrival. Raising his gun, Sam cautiously headed for the house, trudging through knee-high snow. Slowly walking up the stairs, Sam reached the landing of the large deck encompassing the farmhouse. Sam pushed open the old rickety door, and cocked his head to the side to get a better look inside.

A thick layer of dust covered the old plank floors, and although Sam could see scurrying tracks left behind by mice, there was no sign a human had been in the house for many years. He looked to the left and saw an old stone fireplace in what he assumed used to be the livingroom at one time.

Taking a tentative step inside, Sam heard the floorboard's creek ominously, and felt the rotting wood give way underfoot. Dust particles scattered through the musty air and filled Sam's lungs. Coughing hard, Sam braced himself against the doorframe, gasping for breath.

Sam wiped his hand across his fevered brow, trembling as the coughing spell dissipated. This was so not a good idea. He turned and walked back down the stairs and headed for the backyard. There has to be a better way into the house, one that doesn't involve me falling through the floor and breaking my neck.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Dean sat in the Impala, rereading Sam's note for a third time, noting the coordinates Sam left for him and scowled. What the hell was he thinking? I'm so gonna kick his ass for this.

Snatching his cell phone from his pocket, Dean jabbed the button to call Sam again. You'd better damn well answer this time.

After the second ring, Sam answered.

"Dean?"

"Sammy, get your ass back here now!" Dean shouted into the phone.

"He's not here, Dean," Sam said, ignoring Dean's order. "I've almost finished searching the whole damn place, and can't find any sign of him."

Dean cocked a quizzical brow, puzzlement warring with immense relief. "I don't give a rat's ass if he's there or not, you get back here now . . . and if you ever pull a stupid stunt like this again, you won't have to worry about some crazed lunatic cause I'll kill ya myself."

"Can't Dea — " Sam stopped speaking abruptly, and Dean could hear his deep racking cough from the other end of the line. When Sam spoke again, his voice was weak and trembling. "There's an old barn out back. Just gonna check it out before I leave."

"Wait for me, Sam, we'll search the place together." Dean turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared. "I can be there in about fifteen minutes."

"I can't Dean, Charlie warned if he saw you, he'd slit Frankie's throat before we ever had a chance to save him."

Dean scrubbed his hand across his face, growling in frustration. "Damn it, Sammy. Can't you see, it doesn't matter what you do, Charlie is still gonna murder Frankie? Don't get yourself killed trying to save him alone — "