‘This…really…sucks…’ he thought with emphasis. And then a sharp crack of thunder preceded a heavy downpour of frigid rain, and the sixteen year old knew he now had no choice. He was going to have to move.

Shivering against the cold, he braced himself, started to move and then promptly threw up.

‘Crap.’

That had hurt.

Chapter 4

As soon as Joe felt the first fat raindrop he knew he had to hurry.

A small creek, nestled at the bottom of a rocky-sloped gully, cut a winding path through the adjacent countryside, and that is where he was hoping to find Sam.

However, the increasingly heavy rain complicated things and augmented the danger as that same gully ran through the Mortons’ farmland, and Joe knew from experience it was subject to flash flooding.

So if Sam was there, he needed to be found, quickly.

Picking up his pace, Joe raced against the storm.

OoooooOOOOOOoooooo

“You have got to be kidding,” Dean grumbled as the first rumble of thunder heralded a cold, driving rain. He pulled the collar up on his jacket and glanced over his shoulder at Frank.

Solemn-faced, the dark-haired eighteen year old looked just about as pleased as Dean.

“I hate rain,” the hunter continued. “It makes things…wet. And not in the way I like ‘em,” he added with a chuckle.

Frank snorted softly but said nothing.

Pausing long enough to call out to Sam again, Dean continued traipsing through the dark, and now increasingly wet, brush.

“I hate the cold too,” Dean felt like sharing as he shivered slightly before pulling his jacket closed. “And the dark.”

“Is there anything you do like?” Frank finally asked. He couldn’t help but think that this guy liked to talk just to hear himself speak. Kinda like Joe actually, which is probably why it wasn’t bothering him as much as a few other things about Dean did – like that handgun he was still carrying.

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Dean turned and smirked. “I like sex. Actually, scratch that, I love sex!”

Frank’s eyes widened in shock at that rather personal comment and he felt the beginning of a migraine coming on. This night just kept getting longer.

Seemingly oblivious to the young detective’s discomfort, Dean continued, using the gun to push the wet tree limbs out of his way. “Oh, and my car. I love my car. And this jacket.” He suddenly just stopped and turned around slowly to give the other boy a very good look. “This jacket has charisma. I love my jacket.”

His smirk widened, “It’s a good ‘getting laid’ jacket.” He scrutinized Frank then and added thoughtfully, “you might want to consider getting one…I got a feeling a guy like you could use any edge he can get.”

Frank’s jaw actually dropped open. He gaped, too indignant to come up with a reply for a moment.

Dean shrugged, turned around and continued on along the trail. Behind him, Frank worked very hard not to pick up something and bash the other man over the head with it…

‘You couldn’t have just run over him, huh, Joe?’ the teen mentally groused as he continued to follow Dean, encasing his increasing worry with irritation.

Pausing to do up his coat, Frank shivered and then hurried to catch up. He scoffed at Dean’s observation. “Like I need a ‘getting laid’ coat,” he griped. “I do just fine without one, I’ll have him know.”

In front of him, Dean heard the comment and chuckled. For some unexplainable reason, he loved tormenting Frank. It was like having a Sammy-substitute or something…

Sammy…

Swallowing hard as he thought about his brother, Dean narrowed his eyes in determination and continued walking. ‘Hang on, Sammy,’ he thought, ‘I’m coming.’

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

‘Bruised ribs’, Sam decided when he had finished retching, letting his hurting body slump back onto the ground, ‘are a bitch’. He didn’t think any were broken but they certainly did hurt, driving slivers of pain through his body with every breath. And heaving against them had been something he’d just as soon never experience again. The pain had almost been bad enough to drive him into unconsciousness again.

Sam didn’t think he was concussed. Sure, his head hurt, and he had just thrown up, but he’d had enough concussions to be pretty confident that he didn’t have one now. However, he did hurt, and in more places than he cared to admit. His whole body ached and right now he was unable to narrow it down anymore than that.

Taking a moment to compose himself before trying to get up again, Sam stifled a groan. Dean was going to kill him. Yup. Life as he knew it would be over.

And his father…

Sam closed his eyes; his cheek pressed against the cold and wet ground. He sighed heavily. His father was never going to let him go on a hunt with just Dean again.

“This sucks,” he whispered, sniffling and moving his hand to wipe at his wet face. Man, even his hand hurt.

The sixteen year old had just resigned himself to a second attempt at getting up when a cold, familiar feeling prickled at the hair on the back of his neck.

Sam knew this feeling, and urgency flooded him as fear forced adrenaline past the pain. He had to get up. And he had to do it now.

The boy was being watched.

But before he could get any further Sam felt a sweeping chill brush against his face, burning as it touched. He tried to jerk away but the touch, hot against his skin, curled around his chin and gripped tightly, forcing him to look up.

Sam tried to cry out, to scream, to do something but he couldn’t. He could hardly even breathe.

The wraith was here.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.