"I still don't understand why we're here," Dean mutters. He rubs his arms, his breath puffing out in white clouds.
"Ghosts aren't just in America." Sam hits the EMF detector in his hands. "There's too much interference."
Sam shrugs and throws the small box into his backpack. "I don't know. I can't get a clear reading on the house."
The house is alone, on the edge of a town, surrounded by a rotting fence and piles of white snow. The windows are boarded; some glass can be seen through cracked slats. The door is a gapping maw from where Dean kicked it in.
"Would have been helpful if the locals would talk to us," Dean gripes. He steps through the door, following his flashlight and shotgun.
"Yeah? Well maybe you shouldn't have started the conversation with, 'Hail to the mother country.'"
Dean's mouth and brow thin, and he glares at Sam. "Shut up."
Sam doesn't say anything more, and when he accidentally trips Dean, he just smiles.
They search the house in silence, clearing each room, finding nothing out of the ordinary. The furniture is broken, the upholstery ripped, but animals probably made that damage. There are deep claw marks along the floor in one of the bedrooms to support that theory.
They meet again by the front door.
"I thought you said this place was haunted!" Dean scratches his back with the barrel of his gun.
"I thought it was." Sam casts a look out the door, but only sees their footprints in the snow. "It's supposed to be the most haunted house in Britain."
"Then we wasted a trip," Dean says. He stomps his feet as he walks out the door. "I miss my car."
Sam looks around one last time, taking in the dangling chandelier and the door barely hanging by its hinges. Perfectly natural damage caused by time, disuse, and wild animals. He closes the door firmly behind him and pulls a checklist from his pocket. He scratches off the entry at the top of the list.
"So much for the Shrieking Shack."