Author's Note: Cross-posted from AO3. My second SuperPhantom fic! I'm very pleased the first (Salt and Iron) has gotten so much approval, but it will not be continued. Neither will this! If you really want to see a continuation of either, feel free to write it yourself. Just let me know about it so I can enjoy it too. :)

Every door is slammed in their faces, and it's a quick lesson to learn the locals are skittish of strange men in suits. Those that talk mostly just make the usual tut-tuts about how terrible it is, oh those missing kids, oh those poor girls, who would do such a thing, blah blah blah. But something's off with the whole town's mentality. Sad, sure. Scared, yeah. But they're not worried.

Sam's the one to point out the difference. Half a dozen teenagers go missing, two girls get their throats ripped out walking home from afternoon band practice. A close-knit community like this has every right to be terrified out of their gourds, wondering if it's serial killers or wild animals or drugs or God-knows what else. The cops should be up to their asses in parents phoning in every time little Stevie is five minutes past curfew. Instead, it's almost… spooky, how normal everyone acts. Like they're used to death, to stuff that goes bump in the night.

While Sam fills up the Impala, Dean heads inside the gas station to pay and stock up on beer and snacks. Nobody ever likes it when they come into a store after a hunt. People see a little blood and they go straight for 911.

The attendant, an older guy with a hell of a mustache, gives Dean some side-eye over his gun magazine when he walks in, but doesn't say anything until he walks up to the register with his arms full.

"Going camping?" the old man asks.

"Somethin' like that," Dean replies.

"I'd be careful if I were you," he warns, voice gaining a creaky edge. "There's some folks out near Lake Eerie kickin' up a fuss."

"That so? What kind of fuss?"

The old man peers at him from under bristly gray eyebrows. "Rowdy bunch come in most evenings for a beer run, heard 'em say they're shacking up in a farmhouse not far from the lake. Most times they're already drunk, and once they came dragging some poor local kids around with 'em. You've probably seen the news; one of the missing boys was with 'em."

"Heavy stuff." He scans the gum rack at his waist, keeping his face disinterested. Just more bad news in a bad world, right? "You tell the cops all that? I'm sure they'd appreciate the info."

"Pfah! What good're cops in a town like this?" The old man waves dismissively. "Nah, Phantom'll take care of things, same as he always does."

Dean pauses in fishing out his wallet. "Phantom? Who's Phantom?"

But the gas station attendant only laughs. "Must be from out of town, eh? Well you'll see him soon enough. Boy always makes a show of things. That'll be fifty-eight fifty."

He pays and takes his plastic bags bulging with six packs and off-brand cheese puffs.

"Hear anybody talk about some guy calling himself Phantom?" Dean asks once he's at the car. Sam, arms folded on the roof of the Impala, raises his eyebrows.

"What, like Phantom of the Opera?"

Dean shrugs. "Beats me. But the old guy in there said some guy named Phantom'll be the one to take care of whatever's been snatching up kids."

"One guy against a whole vampire nest?" Sam laughs. "Must be a hell of a good hunter."

Dean's mouth thins as he opens the car door. "Yeah, but why's everybody know his name?"

Dean wants to grill the locals about Phantom, but daylight's burning and Sam figures the guy'll still be around tomorrow while somebody else might be taken tonight. After some bickering, Dean turns the Impala north, towards Lake Eerie. On the way out they pass by City Hall and Sam points out a large white statue on a steel pedestal-some skinny guy holding up the world with one hand. Town founder, probably, although the globe's kind of pretentious in Dean's opinion. This is just some little Midwestern city, not any kind of cultural hub. Sam laughs and says he'll look it up later.

It's just after four o'clock when they pull off the road, just in sight of the only barn for miles. They hide the Impala in the underbrush about a twenty yards into the forest that'd sprung up almost as soon as they'd left city limits. Two hours til sunset. "Plenty of time to gank some vampires," Dean says with a grin.

The plan is this: Sam'll sneak around the perimeter and go through the back, try to find where they're keeping the missing kids. Dean will bust through the front doors and cause as much as hell as he can. Messy, but there isn't enough time to really scope the place out before the vampires wake up and head into town. Sam worries they might be running into more than they can handle, but Dean laughs. Like that's anything new?

He watches Sam creep away, keeping to the treeline just in case the vamps were smart enough to post a lookout. It's a decent-sized property; Dean'll give him ten minutes, fifteen max. In the meantime, he props the Impala's trunk open and preps a couple syringes of dead man's blood. Jug's running low, he notes; they'll have to get some more before the next vamp hunt.

"Wow, this isn't suspicious looking or anything."

He jumps, bangs his head on the trunk, whips his machete out of his belt and through the throat of whoever just spoke. There should be a panicked gurgling and the all too familiar thud of a head hitting the dirt, but instead his attacker just belatedly jumps back with a surprised "Whoa!"

Blade up, stance solid, Dean retreats a few feet to get a good look at who-or what-he's dealing with. A guy-no, practically a kid, he's easily ten years younger than Dean-in jeans and a white T-shirt has his empty hands up. Pale eyes, dark hair, built like he might tear his sleeves if he flexes too hard. Even in the poor afternoon light, Dean can see his open palms are rough with callouses.

"Easy, Mister-Heavily-Armed-Dude-Lurking-In-The-Woods-By- The-Spooky-Abandoned-Farmhouse-Full-Of-Hungover-Th ugs-That-May-Or-May-Not-Have-Something-To-Do-With- The-Recent-Kidnappings-And-Murders-Of-Several-Loca l-Teenagers," the kid says with a relaxed grin and no pause for breath. "I come in peace."

Just because Dean can't see fangs doesn't mean there aren't any. He risks a glance at the sharp edge of his machete. Wisps of gray smoke rise from it, scattering in the light breeze. He looks back at the kid and carefully says, "You should be dead."

The kid smiles. "Y'know, it's funny how often I hear that."

"So what are you, the guard?"

"Guard? I was gonna ask you the same thing. I guess you aren't with those guys then?"

"Nope."

"Huh. Well that begs the question of what's going on with that murdertrunk of yours, now doesn't it?"

Dean grins. "Hunting trip."

The kid's eyebrows nearly touch his hairline. "You and your boyfriend are driving around the city with an arsenal of antiquated hunting gear in your trunk and you thought nobody'd notice? Jeez, you guys are a couple of greenhorns."

For all the times they've been mistaken as together, he can't even muster up the energy to be irritated. He just says, "He's my brother."

"Oh, my bad." The kid looks left, towards the old barn. "Why'd he run off on his own?"

"Uh-uh. My turn for questions." Dean smirks when the kid's eyes narrow back onto him. He can appreciate that kind of laser focus. "Only two reasons why anybody'd be up here now, so I wanna hear your story, kid."

"My story?" For whatever reason, the kid chuckles. The way he glances down at the forest floor fills his eyes full of sunlight. "Well you see, it all started with this great big flash of light-"

A twig snaps behind Dean and he whirls, machete up to meet the throat of the vamp that's snuck up on him, but everything is suddenly an awful, hot green that sears his eyes. He shouts hoarsely, crouches low to keep himself a smaller target, aims for the legs of whoever-whatever-is coming at him, but he misses and misses and misses.

It's a long minute before his eyesight comes back to him. By then, the kid's gone. The mulch where he'd been standing doesn't even have an indent of footprints, and Dean has enough time to think ghost before there's a woman's high, terrified scream, coming from the barn. He swears, grabs the two syringes he'd filled before the kid had appeared and bolts for the barn.

Halfway there his brain catches up with the rest of him and he arcs right, towards the growing shadows, and slips up against the peeled paint wood. Carefully he peeks around the corner and spies a big chicken coop made of corrugated metal. Through a window made of splintery wood and chicken wire he sees movement. One, no-three people inside, with two more at the door. One of the two snarls, classic vamp noise, makes the hair on Dean's arms stand on end. The vamp gets the second guy by the throat and tosses him bodily into the coop with the rest of the captives. The same woman screams again, and the vamp yells at her to shut up, he's too hungover for that noise.

There's movement at the edge of the woods, about thirty feet behind the vamp. Sam. Dean can see the glint of his machete. One vamp? Sammy can take one vampire, easy. That leaves the rest for Dean to handle. Sounds like a good time to him.

"Psst, hey!"

Dean looks up, and balks. The kid is leaning over the edge of the roof, casual as anything and apparently unconcerned about gravity.

In a stage whisper the kid asks, "So what's the plan?"

"What the hell was that?" Dean whispers back.

"What was what?"

He gestures roughly, back towards the Impala. "Your little vanishing trick back there."

The kid shrugs, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. "Is now really the best time to grill me?"

"You-"

"These thugs have captives locked up in the back. Your brother's going to save them, right?"

Dean blinks. "Uh. Yeah?"

"Then we're on the same side." The kid's lost his easy grin, and even though he's near twenty feet above him, Dean can still see his green eyes burning. "Dunno if you watched the local news, but two girls are dead and these guys are my only lead."

Local crazy out for some good old fashioned vigilantism or some other thing going bump in the night, Dean knows that look, knows it'll take more time than he's got to give to calm the kid down. So he just says, "What do you know about vampires?"

He laughs. "You're kidding."

"Those girls that died, their throats were torn, right? Looked like an animal attack?"

There's a pause. Then, "You take the floor, I'll get the loft."

"Hey wait-!"

This time he actually sees the kid disappear, blip out like a goddamn blown light bulb. Dean growls out a few choice words about ghosts and bad luck and why the hell can't it ever be just vampires or just ghosts, why's it gotta be both, ah shit.

The hinges of the barn door are old and make plenty of noise when Dean hauls it open. Good; the more attention on him the better. Before the vamps have a chance to stand he's emptied a clip into the three nearest. It won't kill them, but it'll slow them down, give him some time to take care of the others.

The second three, all male with shorn hair and big tattoos, explode into action. Their secondary sets of needle teeth extend as they rush him, but Dean's the one to strike the first blow. Vamp on the left gets a full syringe of dead man's blood between two ribs and is shoved bodily aside in time for the second vampire to get Dean's machete through his throat. It's a good hit; the head flies off into some old farming equipment, still snarling. Dean hears it hit something metallic but doesn't spare a second to look.

The third manages to get a good kick in, right to Dean's gut. He flounders and wheezes, all the air knocked clear out of him. He swings once, twice, missing both times and flinging fat drops of blood everywhere. The vampire reels back to punch, but Dean's third swing slices his arm off just above the elbow. The vampire spits and hisses, retreating as old blood spurts sluggishly between his crabbed fingers.

The first three vampires circle to take his place.

This is where Sam is supposed to make his entrance. He doesn't, so Dean swallows pain and keeps swinging. A second head sails off into a pile of old hay. Vamp number five gets the second syringe of dead man's blood jammed in his thigh, but there's barely time to press the plunger before vamp number six throws Dean against the wall. He loses his machete and syringe both. Dizzily, he sees vamp number five collapse, but number six only has a bullet hole in her shoulder. She's on top of Dean before he can even slide to the dirt. She shoves him down, straddles his waist, digging her boots into shins hard enough to bruise. Her hands are iron bands squeezing his wrists, her teeth are inches from his sweaty throat, he's screwed if Sam doesn't show up right now—

Neon green light bursts against the vamp's back and she screams, fierce and shrill, and slides off. Dean sucks in air that tastes like a mouthful of old pennies left out in the sun. He rolls, snatches his machete from where it had fallen and hauls himself to his feet, but the vamp's turned and gone after whatever blasted her. Her back is a wreck, burnt black and blistering. She smells like a hot grill. Dean doesn't know what the hell could have done that but he doesn't waste any time. Her head makes a grisly thump against the dirt, neck spouting blood as her corpse cants right.

Vamp three makes a comeback despite being down an arm. What a champ. Too bad his balance is all out of whack. Dean gets blood down his front, but the vamp won't be sucking any humans ever again.

That just leave the two pumped full of dead man's blood, and it'll be awhile before either of them get up again. Dean gives himself a minute to catch his breath, gingerly flexing his hands to sooth the pain in his wrists. He looks up at the loft, but it's too dark to see anything. If there were vamps up there, the ghost kid must have taken care of them.

There's a thud on the far side of the barn, and burnt orange sunlight streams in through a crooked doorway.

"Sammy?" he rasps, wincing. He clears his throat and tries again. "Sammy, you ok?"

"Not really?" Sam steps through the doorway, walking in a stiff and awkward crouch with his empty hands splayed. A forearm as big as his thigh is wrapped around his shoulders and his own machete is at his neck, pressed there by a wild-eyed vamp built like he's spent his immortality benching dumpsters.

"Oh come on, man!" Dean cries, exasperated. "Where did the Hulk come from?"

"He's quiet for a big guy," Sam tries to chuckle but is silenced by the blade digging against his Adam's apple. From where he's standing, Dean can't tell if the blood smearing across his taut neck is vamp blood or his own.

"Shut up!" The vamp's got a voice to match his build, a growl that drives into Dean's like a punch. This guy would set off red alerts anywhere; the fangs scant inches from Sam's ear are just icing on the holy shit cake. "Shut up! Damn hunters, we weren't doin' nothin', we weren't making any noise, why'd you come-oh god-" The vamp's finally noticed the bodies all around Dean, and Sam stiffens as the vamp's huge hand twists on the machete's grip . "Oh god you killed 'em, they're all dead, why-"

"Because you bastards have been kidnapping teenagers," Dean retorts. "And two girls died last week with their throats ripped out. Lemme guess-new recruits still a little wild?" He focuses on Sam; tense as piano wire and yeah, that is definitely his own blood staining the collar of his T-shirt now, but he's still okay. Still alive. "Sammy, did you get them out?"

"Yeah."

"Not for long," the vamp snarls, dragging the machete up the soft meat under Sam's jaw. Dean can hear it catch against his stubble. "We'll round 'em up quick enough, just as soon as I'm done with you."

"You and who else?" Dean drawls. He gestures at the carnage around him, baring all his blunt human teeth in a wide grin that makes the vamp flinch. "We just ganked your whole nest."

"Not all of 'em!" He's shrieking now, throat tight with terror. "There's still some you missed, and they're just waitin' for my signal!"

After a beat Sam asks, "Well? Where are they?"

But the vamp doesn't answer. Instead he goes stiff, like he's grabbed a live wire. The machete drops, and Sam twists out of his arms, lunging out of reach. But the vamp doesn't make a grab for him. Instead, he retracts his fangs and does this huge, whole-body shudder, scrunching up his face like he's just sucked a lemon. When he opens his eyes, they're a luminous green.

"Oh wow," the vamp says in a strangely pinched voice, licking his teeth. "This guy's got some seriously bizarre stuff going on with his mouth."

"What the hell?" Sam says to nobody specific. It's just one of those general 'what have we gotten ourselves into now' questions. Dean's wondering the same thing.

"If you were wondering about his backup," the vamp-no, the possessed vamp-continues in that same pinched voice, "it was four people in the loft and I can confirm that they were pretty terrible backup."

Weakly, Dean asks, "Kid?"

"Hey, I'm old enough to drink." The vamp shudders again, eyes dimming, and he falls bonelessly to the dirt. Floating in his place is the ghost, looking a little put out. "We can't all look like we've been through a wood chipper."

Sam thumbs his throat clean. "Uh, Dean? Wanna fill me in?"

"You kiddin'? I don't have a clue either."

The kid's dirtier than he was before and there's a bloody scratch on one forearm Dean's positive wasn't there before. His eyes have lost that strange bright gleam, looking almost blue. He picks Sam's machete up and twirls it between his hands with an ease that makes them both take a step back. No hint of strain like any newer ghost would show, but he doesn't look like he's about to attack them either.

"So," the kid says, "Actual vampires. That's a new one for me."

"What are you?" Sam asks.

"I'm more of a 'who,' actually." He lands in front of him and holds out his machete, handle first. "Here, you dropped this."

"...Thanks." Sam takes it, gingerly avoiding the kid's fingers.

"Nah, I should be thanking you. You're the one who got those captives out. Plus, you both led me here in the first place, so." He shrugs. "Thanks!"

"Wait," Dean steps closer. "You followed us here?"

"Well, yeah?" The kid scratches the back of his head. "I didn't have much luck til yesterday finding some info on these guys. I thought they were just some homeless jerks hopping from town to town, but-"

There's a snarl and a flash of movement from above, and then a female vamp is-somehow-sinking her fangs into the meat of the ghost's shoulder. His eyes blaze, but it's the vamp that screams. She lurches back, mouth popping free with a bright squirt of blood. She falls to the ground and doesn't get up again.

Sam's the one to rush to the kid's side, hauling him out of reach of any vamp still plus a head, looking shocked he can touch him at all. But the vamp bit him somehow and the kid's leaking plenty, so he must be some kind of alive, enough to have a pulse at least.

He claps a hand to the wound, hissing. Blood seeps between his fingers. "Ow, gross."

"Y'know," Dean says, "Normally people have a little more to say after getting chomped on by a vampire than 'gross.'"

"Hey, I said 'ow' too!" He looks at his red hand, grimaces, and puts pressure back on the wound. "Sorry about that. I coulda sworn she was out."

"Well she sure as hell is now." Sam lets him go, curling his fingers as if he's lost feeling in them. "But, what'd you do to her?"

The kid jerks his chin towards Dean. "Hey Scruffy, what was in those needles?"

"Dead man's blood," Dean replies. "Fastest way to down a vampire without killing him."

"Huh." The kid chuckles, then outright laughs. "Guess vampires don't like ghost blood either."

Dean glances at Sam and is glad to see his brother looks just confused as he feels. "Ghost blood?"

"C'mon, couple a hunters like you guys don't recognize me?" He strikes a pose, feet apart and his unbloodied hand held aloft. "Danny Fenton. Half-ghost, superhero, saved the world once or twice. Ringing any bells?"