So You Think You Have the Shining Too?, a tv x-overs fanfic

"So what's the story?" Dean asks, leaning against the hood of the Impala, sipping slowly from his coffee. It's the second or third for him, so he's allowing himself to savor it. "Poltergeist, right?"

"Apparently," Sam nods, resting the newspaper he's reading next to Dean, spread out so they can both read the article. "Seems like one's MO, at any rate. It wouldn't have made it into the newspaper except..."

Dean makes an abrupt slashing motion across his throat, grinning as Sam glares at his distastefulness.

"Yes," he intones dully. "That."

"Pays the bills, Sammy," the older Winchester announces, leaning over to inspect the hood of the car for ink marks from the newspaper.

Sam snorts. "I thought pool hustling and credit card scams did."

Dean mutters something insensible in a non-committing way before gulping the last of his coffee down. "So where to?" he wonders, sliding back into the driver's seat as Sam walks back to his side, eyes still locked on the paper.

"Think we should get a better look at the house," he comments, tapping one finger against the page thoughtfully. "But not right now."

Dean nods, seeing that it's barely twilight right now. They're used to sitting in their hotel room or driving around towns until it's a good time to "sneak in" buildings to explore crime scenes.

"C'mon Jules!"

"Shawn, the chief doesn't want you on this case. Can't you just leave it at that? I can't involve you in this one, we have everything handled. It was ruled an accident." With an exasperated sigh, the blonde detective walks away to check on her partner, Carlton Lassiter.

Shawn turns to his best friend, eyes wide like they get when he's brainstorming. Gus hates that look, dark eyes narrowing as he stares him down. "Shawn, whatever you're thinking, stop it."

"Oh, come on, Gus! We need a new case! Aren't you bored?!" his best friend pleads, a whining note to his voice.

"Hardly," he huffs, turning away from Shawn and walking towards the door. "I have a very important client coming in really early tomorrow morning, and I can't stay up half the night because of you trying to force us onto another case, Shawn! Especially one ruled an accident. Not every case has to be murder, you know!"

"But Gus! My psychic abilities--" he whines, trailing after his friend and hanging onto the door handle as it swings back and forth, taking him with it.

"Don't even, Shawn! I'm not falling for that!" the dark skinned man yells back at him, already half way to his car.

Shawn grumbles and releases the door, letting it shut with a reverberating bang as he watches Gus leave. "Fine... I'll go check it out on my own." He looks like a kicked puppy as he walks down the steps. "I'll get all the credit too." His expression brightens considerably at the thought. "Gus'll hate that he missed this!"

"Accident," Dean huffs, as he lays on the most uncomfortable bed he's felt in quite awhile, which is saying something, considering some of the dumps they've stayed in recently due to money being even tighter with the FBI watching for anything suspicious. "Why are police so blind?"

"Because they have guys like us to notice things beyond the ordinary?" Sam grumbles, used to hearing similar comments at least twice a case that the police get involved in in any shape or fashion. He's not sure why Dean hates the police so much, it really gets tiring after awhile though.

Whatever his older brother mumbles, Sam can't hear over the radio Dean turned on almost as soon as they entered the hotel room. He thinks it's a good thing, judging by the look on his face. He's busy anyway, looking up news articles online to make sure nothing else is posted about the 'accident' that contradicts the article they're basing the whole case on.

Except for the rapid typing coming from Sam's side and the music from the radio, silence descends upon the room, as Dean rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, falling into a half doze while "Iron Man" wraps around him like a cocoon. He's awake almost instantly as Sam huffs vaguely, slapping his laptop shut. Peering around the pillow at him, he asks, "What'd the laptop ever do to you?"

"Nothing," he mutters, scrubbing his hands across his face agitatedly. "I think it's about dark enough. You done with your little cat nap so we can get going?"

His big brother radar pings slightly, but Sam looks so... bitchy right now, he drops it, deciding to give him some time to mope as they drive to the house and take it from there. "Yeah, sure, just let me grab a couple things, eh?" When Sam pauses, he grins disarmingly and waits until he's outside, heading for the car.

He drops his duffle on his brother's bed before shifting so he's blocking the view from the window, flicking the laptop open. It doesn't take too long to start up, considering it's a refurbished laptop, so he's looking at web history within two minutes (learned how to do so so he could delete it, to ensure that people like Pastor Jim wouldn't yell at him too much for looking at adult websites while on the church computer) and finds Sam's last accessed webpage. He's well aware of the minutes ticking past, however, so he does little more than skim the article, quickly finding the problem. "Crap."

Sam's glaring angrily out the windshield when he finally exits the hotel room, and he steels himself for a shouting match but nothing comes, so he sighs and starts the faithful Impala up without a word spoken. That's fine for him; he has a few things to prepare for mentally.

Shawn is lurking outside the ex-crime scene, a pineapple smoothie in one hand, the other wrapped around the gate chained to keep people out of the house leering down at him in the darkness. He's about to look for another way inside when headlights begin sweeping down the street. Careful not to drop his refreshing drink, he slips easily behind some shadowy bushes and waits, eyes locked on the dark car inching down the street.

He watches as it speeds up and drives past him, an inky blur in a black night. Even by the three second long glance he gets of it, he can tell it's a well-taken care of 60s Impala, and can't help but whistle in appreciation to himself.

As soon as it's gone, he turns back to the gate and has just slipped out of the bushes when a hand clamps down on his shoulder, not tight enough to hurt but definitely enough to stop him. He's unarmed, as always, so he doesn't make any sudden movements just in case.

"Who're you?" a deep growl asks right by his ear as the hand tightens enough to spin him around, so he can see the two men now holding him against the bush he had been hiding behind barely ten seconds ago.

He squeaks slightly, stammering automatically. "Shawn Spencer!" When the second man stiffens, dark eyes flashing in the dull moonlight, the first one's grip tightens.

"We know 'im?"

"Heard his name in an article to do with a prior murder case from around here," is all the taller man grumbles.

"Yes!" Shawn exclaims, hoping this man's a believer of his... talents. "I'm a psychic detective with the Santa Barbara Police Department! Can you let me go now?" He whimpers in a manly way when the shorter man's grip tightens upon his shoulder.

"What did you say?" his voice is low and dangerous, eyes hard as he glares down at Shawn.

Warning alarms are going off repeatedly in Shawn's head, but there's not much he can do without Gus around while these two are surrounding him, decidedly tense. "I, er, I'm a psychic--"

Before he can finish that, the man pinning him turns to the other one. "Is he one of--?" As soon as the man shakes his head angrily (what he's disagreeing with, Shawn's not sure), he softens his grip just slightly. "What do you mean, Sam?"

"He's a fraud," this "Sam" announces, almost spitting the words. "He fakes psychic visions so he can solve cases and get the credit."

Shawn's jaw drops as non-Sam raises an eyebrow. "You read all this on a news article?"

"No, Edwards here has a group of fans online with blogs and such dedicated to him. They describe what he goes through during a vision. Dean, it's basically Ace Ventura like happenings here."

Dean huffs. "You mean he mimics Jim Carrey? That's lame, man. What are you doing here?" he asks, shaking Shawn a bit. "You realize this is a crime scene?"

Shawn frowns, raising his free hand up in what he hopes is a non-confrontational manner, since he's not sure what weapons these two are hiding. "Can I explain? I--"

"Only if it's the truth," Sam says, and geez, Shawn's not short, but this guy's like towering over him, and it's hard to tell if it's really size or just intimidation, but whatever it is is making the faux psychic feel about five inches tall right now.

"It will be!" he mutters, hoping that his arm doesn't fall off before he finishes talking-- this Dean guy has a grip like steel, and it seems to be getting tighter the more agitated Sam gets. Taking a deep breath, he begins explaining how he's a consultant who uses his heightened observation skills to solve crimes before the cops can. "I pretend to be a psychic because it's the only way they don't think I'm involved in the crimes myself." It's the first time he's told his secret to anyone in awhile, and it feels really good, almost freeing. "I'm here because I don't think this was an accident."

"Do you believe him?" Dean mutters out of the corner of his mouth and Sam falters a moment.

"Maybe," he finally responds, an unhappy frown on his face. "I mean, he's definitely not a ..." His words taper off, and he waves his hand around awkwardly in a motion that means nothing to Shawn, but apparently makes sense to Dean, because he drops his hand from Shawn's shoulder, a warning glare on his face.

"Don't even think about moving," Dean warns, stepping back slightly as Sam shifts on his feet, suddenly looking a little less intimidating and a lot more tired.

Shawn's eyes slide from man to man, taking in how both appear weary, how scars of different sizes and depth scatter across both of their foreheads in twisted crisscrosses. "Now you know why I'm here... what are you doing here?"

The two exchange glances, and he knows immediately they're blood-- brothers, probably, if that split second glance was enough to go by, and Dean shrugs minutely. Sam steps forward and begins to talk. "Heard about the accident over here, and just thought we'd drive by and see. We know someone who lives nearby, and just wanted to make sure they were ok."

Shawn told them the truth, and it's blatant now that the favor's not being returned-- Sam's "story" has no ring of honesty in it at all, even though his eyes are locked on him, and to most people, that would be a hint that the story's trustworthy. But there's just something about his obviously forced relaxed stance, even how his lips are curled, that tells Shawn Sam's not the best liar of the two. He decides to play along for now, however. "Oh yeah? Where do they live?"

Dean takes point, and motions down the street. "Down there, the house on the corner. We parked down there, but saw you lingering around so thought we'd come check it out."

Sam nods, and Shawn sighs. They're pretty good at working off of the other, corroborating each other's stories and if he was just any other guy, he might believe them. But his dad made him watch for little cues like these as a hobby when he was a kid. "Ok, well, now you know so... can I go?"

Another glance is shared between the two, and Dean nods this time. "Yeah, just don't act so shifty next time, huh?"

The fake psychic walks away, heading for his bike. His pineapple smoothie is disgustingly warm now, so he tosses it into the nearest garbage bin, silently bemoaning the lack of delicious flavor. It's not that Gus would've done much more than scream like a little girl in that situation, but Shawn truly misses his best friend as he kicks his motorcycle to life.

Dean stays silent as he and Sam walks slowly down the street to the Impala. Shawn doesn't seem that bad to Dean, but he can see it from his little brother's point of view, how it would suck to have someone mimic psychic abilities when your whole life is spent in fear of similar powers. They're at the doors when Dean stops, taps the handle impatiently and looks over the top of the car at his brother. "You ok?"

"Never better," Sam grumbles, ignoring his brother's piercing gaze. "Can we go now?" He doesn't feel like investigating the house any longer and could use a nice, hot (well, as hot as the motel they're staying at can get it) shower, and somewhat clean sheets for the next fifteen hours.

"Yeah, sure," Dean mutters, sliding inside the car and starting it up almost before Sam even gets in. His mind's going in annoying circles, ricocheting between the case and the psychic wanna-be who's bothered his little brother.

Sam feels bad for brushing his brother off, but idiots like Shawn Spencer really get to him. Why pretend to be something that has the potential to destroy so many lives? For one day, Sam would give anything to be normal, and here's a guy with the opportunity to be just that, and he acts like a psychic just for fame? Money? It's inconceivable.

The further they travel, the stormier Sam's face gets, so Dean is beyond relieved when they reach the hotel and he parks the car carefully not far from their door. When Sam doesn't move, Dean twists to look at him. "Home sweet home," he singsongs, jerking his little brother out of his thoughts. "C'mon, Sammy, you don't want me to get the first shower, do you?" he smirks, trying to cheer him up.

When Sam doesn't respond beyond a distracted shrug, Dean knows even he can't pull him from this funk.

"Your loss," he says, quickly opening the hotel door and waiting until Sam's inside to enter as well. "Put salt down." It's stupid to say it now, Sam's been on the road a year with him, but old habits die hard, as has ignoring his younger brother's annoyed eye roll that accompanies nearly every other thing he says.

He comes out ten minutes later, brushing a towel through his short hair, causing it to stick up in even more original ways, to find Sam spread across his bed, typing listlessly at his keyboard. He knows his brother has his reasons for moping, but sometimes it wears at him... would it hurt for his brother to be happy for one day? "Finding anything?" he asks nonchalantly when the typing peters out and he can sense Sam's stare boring into him even though his back's turned as he digs through his bag for fresh clothes.

Sam huffs slightly, before shifting and slapping the laptop closed. "What'd you think of that Shawn guy?" His voice is a little plaintive, tentative, and something in it reminds Dean of when Sam was six years old, and came to him for the answers to the simplest questions a lot.

"Eh, I dunno. His story was believable. Didn't you think?"

"Well," Sam mutters, voice dropping into a thoughtful tone. "Yeah... but that's not what's bothering me."

'Here we go,' Dean thinks quietly, still digging through the pile of clothes, even though his concentration is fully on his brother. "What then?" He thinks he knows, but when it comes to Sammy, it's usually better for him to get it out there than just bury it.

"He pretends to be a psychic," Sam finally confesses, looking down at his hands. "It just doesn't make sense to me. Why would anyone do that? Why would anyone want to do that?" For a minute, he sees the broken body of Max Miller, Ansem Weems and Ava Wilson's fiancée, Brady, and shakes his head when he notices Dean's turned towards him now, a worried look on his face. "Just, why?"

"I dunno, Sam." His voice is soft, as if he thinks if he talks at his normal level, Sam'll shatter into a million pieces. Maybe he's right. "People are screwed, you know this. I don't know what to tell you."

Sam nods, accepting this. "Yeah. It's just..."

"Too close to home," Dean finishes the sentence, grimacing slightly. "I get it, man."

Sam doesn't answer, simply rolls over and presses his face against his pillows. There's nothing really to say, so Dean sits on the edge of his bed and flicks on the TV, hoping that something would be on to distract him from his brother's racing thoughts. He's not very surprised when it doesn't work.

"Gus! Gus!"

"Ugh, what is it, Shawn?" the more sensible member of Psych groans into his cell phone, half asleep and grumpy after the ear shattering ring tone (that Shawn had totally insisted he use...) had blasted through his peaceful apartment not even ten seconds ago, nearly causing him to have a heart attack.

"I really need your help with this case!" Shawn exclaims, voice nearly as loud as the ring tone. "There were these two guys and--"

"Shawn." It's not often that Gus can get his friend to stop and just listen, but he's angry now, and the emotions seep into his tone enough to cause his friend's voice to stutter to an unhappy end.

"What?"

"What did I say about tonight?"

Shawn wracks his brain briefly before huffing tiredly. "That you had an important client coming in tomorrow and couldn't help me tonight. But Gus, listen, I swear this is important--"

"So is my other job, Shawn! Which, by the way, I've been neglecting because of all these side projects! People are talking, and I don't want to get fired!" Gus expels a deep breath, closing his eyes tiredly. "I'm going back to bed. I'll call you tomorrow."

"But," Shawn starts to whine, just to find he's talking to dead air. "Oh, fine."
--

The next morning, Sam's up earlier than Dean, which is no big surprise, considering his general sleeplessness, and Dean's daily dead-to-the-world impersonation, so he gets the coffee and the first shower and comes out to Dean sitting blearily on the edge of the bed, a cup held reverently in his hands. "Morning, sunshine," he offers, sitting across from his brother.

A grunt is his response, as Dean inhales the coffee and rubs at his eyes. After a few moments of this, some life seeps into his older brother and he stirs groggily, blinking at Sam as if it's the first he's seeing of him. "So what's the agenda today, Sammy?"

Used to this by now, Sam takes a quick bite from a donut he bought and brushes through his papers. "I was thinking we could look up more info on that Shawn guy."

"Eh? Spencer?" Dean asks around another jaw-cracking yawn. "Seemed harmless to me..."

"So did Andy," the younger comments, bitterness welling up in his voice once more. He never holds it against his fellow psychic, but the fact that he had killed always grates on his nerves, even though he logically knows it's not the stoner's fault... He had just hoped one of them could get away without being a murderer, and to have his hope washed away so easily left him feeling empty.

"If he's to be believed, then he's just faking it anyway, so why watch him?"

"Wouldn't that be the perfect cover though? Be a mass murderer or-or something, and hide behind a psychic title while doing who-knows-what?"

Sam's questions stop Dean in his tracks as he heads for the bathroom. "Are you serious?" he asks, a little surprised at his sibling's odd thoughts.

"Yes, Dean!"

Dean stares at his brother for a moment, disbelief tingling down his spine like cold fingers. This fake psychic thing is bothering Sam more than he realized, and for a minute he feels like a failure. "I didn't get that crazy, have-an-agenda vibe from him though," he counters. Sam may be the sensitive of the two, know what to say and when to say it, but Dean can read people, figure out when danger's looming and when people are just being normal. This Spencer person was more freaked out than anything when they snuck up on him... unlike when they did something similar to the very f-ed up Gordon Walker, who remained in control basically the whole time they had him against the wall.

"So? Can't you just listen to me once? I think we should watch him-- we don't know what he's capable of!" Sam's heading down the puppy dog route right now, and Dean's not in the mood- not when they're talking about stalking some dude who's harmless and probably letting the real threat sneak past them without a word.

"I listen to you all the time, Sam," Dean says, not flinching when his younger brother looks crestfallen at the sharpness in his tone. "I'm not gonna hunt some random guy off the street just because his faking being a psychic is hitting too close to home for you."

Sam stiffens, obviously gearing himself up for one last showdown on this. Dean knows the stance well- whatever he has to say'll be the last argument he has for following Shawn around. "Then why was he at the crime scene last night? If the police are ruling it an accident, why is he alone creeping around there? He never solves these things alone-- this, ah, Burton Guster is always around, he's mentioned in a lot of articles in conjunction with Spencer, and co-owns the psychic detective agency they have--" The words tumble off his tongue as he forces himself to act like it's any other case he's researching, knowing if he acted normal and sane, Dean would perhaps listen to him more.

"Sam!" Dean exclaims, interrupting the explanation tiredly. Even though he's exasperated, his voice softens half way through the name, becoming consoling. "Listen, I know you want to think the worst of this guy on principle alone, but I think you're grasping at straws. He's solved how many cases by now? Maybe he knows something we don't, maybe he has a gut feeling. Who knows. I think he's just trying to figure this out without knowing it's so far out of his league, it's not even funny." The last bit of his sentence he mutters, eyeing the knife handle that's poking out of the side of his pillow. He's sick of protecting police officers and detectives who can't just mind their own business when things obviously supernatural in nature are happening all around them. His eyes lock back on Sam's. "How many times have we done something stupid because of a gut feeling?"

Sam winces at that. "I don't like this," he mutters, slumping back down. Dean silently agrees.

The day's fresh, crisp-- like all California days should be. Sun's shining overhead benignly, not enough to blind, warming everything in front of it. He swings his arm slightly, smiling as the case full of forms and medicines rattles in time with his movement. It's a perfect day, or rather was, two seconds ago, before he looks up to enter his car. "Shawn," he greets his best friend with a healthy amount of annoyance.

"GUS!" Shawn cries out dramatically, arms stretched out like he wants to glom onto, and never let go of, the unfortunate Burton Guster and wrinkle his freshly laundered jacket, smudge up his nice and shiny case, and ruin his day even further.

"Don't even!" the dark skinned man cries, stepping back with a fearful, pinched look on his face. "Do you even realize how much work goes into getting everything just right, Shawn?! The clothes, my supplies, all messed up because you want to--"

"Hug?" Shawn interjects, a boyish grin spreading across his face as Gus groans and closes his eyes, arms still flapping protectively, creating a human shield between himself and Shawn.

"Not today, Shawn. You know this day's important to me! Why do you always do this?" he demands before diving around the scrawnier man quickly in an obviously well-practiced move. He breathes a sigh of relief when he gets past with no damage done to his person.

"Because we're BFFs! I can be annoying to you, you can be annoying to me! It always works out!" Shawn exclaims, jogging alongside his friend in his hyperactive way.

"Sometimes I hate you."

"Ok fine," Shawn mutters, stopping as they reach Gus' faithful blue car. "Anyway," he continues, as if the last slight didn't happen at all, clapping his hands together joyously. "Are you ready to help me with this case yet?!"

Gus pinches his nose in annoyance, before huffing out another breath. "Later, Shawn, ok? Later. I have to go to work right now."

Shawn apparently has no come back to that as he watches Gus wave awkwardly, his gaze stiff and a bit guilty, as he climbs into the car, and drives away. "Fine," he mutters emptily. "I get to have all the fun." Not really though, because having his best friend by his side always was half the fun...

"So what do you want to do?" Sam asks, coming to the decision not that long ago to just do as his brother suggests unless the idea's truly ridiculous, because he knows his emotions are too close to the forefront right now, and he doesn't want to screw this case up any further. He really just wants to leave, which is an odd sensation seeing it's California, and he used to love California, but since Jess and abilities and fake psychics, his head aches with the pressure of it all. He just wants to finish this case and put some distance between him and his former home.

Dean half grimaces, half snarls before running a hand over his face in annoyance. He knows Sam won't like this suggestion, especially after the disagreement from this morning, but oh well... "I think we need to do some babysitting." In the silence that follows, he gazes over at the house. It looks peaceful in the late morning sunshine, glinting off of the windows and throwing the bright paneling into relief.

"...What?" Sam asks, pulling a face of his own as Dean turns to look at him, one hand resting on the Impala's steering wheel as if bracing himself. "Babysitting? Please don't tell me Shawn."

"Ok, I won't," Dean mutters, turning back to the side window to glance back at the house they're scouting.

"Dean, dammit, you've gotta be kidding me!"

"Ok, fine, you watch the house, and I'll watch for Spencer and we'll all be happy, right?" Dean snarks, an annoyed, pinched look crossing his face.

Sam knows their jobs are to watch out for innocents but something about Shawn rubs him the wrong way-- his attitude, his lies, his acting... everything, anything that could be misconstrued as pot meet kettle considering their own way of living but at least they save people with their lies and roles, this guy acts like what he does is for his own entertainment. Shooting a halfhearted glare at his brother, he resumes brooding as he pokes at his laptop, looking up the articles about the house again, stubbornly ignoring the mentions of Shawn that knocked him so far off course just yesterday.

Dean half huffs, half sighs, the weight of everything falling on him with the speed of an anvil, and peers out at the house, which still looks way too calm in the mid-morning light.

"Hey," Sam mutters softly suddenly, kicking his brother out of his funk.

"Find something?" Dean's still a bit too annoyed at everything and anything to look his brother in the eye, so he keeps tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, blatantly not looking at Sam.

"'January 14th, 2007--" Sam intones, a finger brushing down the laptop screen as he reads aloud from it. "Police were called to the corner of Madison Street in the early morning due to vandalism... The house," he pauses long enough to glance up, as if Dean needs confirmation of which house he could possibly mean, "had been broken into but nothing had been found missing. The case is currently unsolved." He gazes at the side of his brother's head and waits.

"So maybe someone wandered in and placed something? Or drew something... God, you don't think it's another Tulpa, do you? I hated that thing..."

Sam smiles slightly. "No, I doubt it's a Tulpa. I think it's something else... I just have a feeling..."

Dean's immediately all business, a frown on his face. "A feeling feeling?"

"No, not like that," he comments slowly, thinking about it. "It's just... a vibe, not a vision or anything." He sighs as Dean relaxes minutely. "We need in that house..."

Dean nods slightly, glancing around. It's early afternoon, and the house's been completely dead since they arrived. "Too early, still. Neighbors could see."

Sam nods as well, a pinched look on his face. "I know."

They stare at each other for a moment before examining the house a bit longer. Nothing happens so they slowly pull out to find something else to do.

"LASSIE!" Shawn calls loudly, chasing down his favorite detective through the SBPD hallways.

The tall man stops, the grimace on his face exactly how Shawn pictured it as he turns around, one eyebrow twitching in annoyance. "What, Spencer, what?!"

It always makes Shawn feel so good to annoy Lassiter early in the day. "Have there been any breaks on the murder case?" he asks in what he hopes is a disinterested tone of voice.

"... Why would there be? It was ruled an accident!" Huffing at the psychic's stupidity, he marches off the other way, ignoring him even as he trails him like a dog after a bone.

"Really? My abilities were saying--"

"Nuh uh! Don't even start," Carlton says, turning just enough to wave his finger underneath the man's nose. "I'm not falling for your abilities, so go bug O'Hara or something. Some of us have work to do."

As he stomps off again, Shawn pouts at his back. "Hey I do work too!" He turns back around, heading for the door. "First I have to guilt Gus into helping me..."

"I can't believe you guilted me into helping you," Gus whispers later that night, dark eyes gleaming angrily in the soft glow of streetlights.

"Hey," Shawn mutters, tugging on Gus' sleeve in the most obnoxious way possible. "I gave you today-- which is more than I should've... Isn't Psych important to you any more?" Even in the dark, his pout is blatant, and Gus rolls his eyes, tugging his arm free.

"Stop acting like a five year old," he grouses, stepping closer to the gate surrounding the house. "What are we doing here anyway?"

"Since someone wouldn't talk to me," Shawn explains in a quiet murmur, "I never got to tell you." As he goes into the story of meeting Sam and Dean, Gus' eyes widen.

"Those guys sound insane, Shawn! Why didn't you tell the chief about them?!"

"Because I don't think they were there to hurt me or anyone else... I think something else is going on, Gus!"

His best friend sighs. "Like what?" Usually he doesn't regret being Shawn's best friend, but on nights like tonight, when he's slumped down on dewy grass, getting his pants soaked, and staring up at a house where a man died not even a week ago, he sometimes wonders what it'd be like with a normal friend. Boring, he decides as always, and pushes the thoughts away, listening as Shawn rambles off into one of his dramatic explanations.

"It had to have been a murder, and maybe Sam and Dean are FBI and will be on-hand as we come to the rescue and discover who the murderer is... they'll be so pleased, we'll be promoted from being the SBPD's Psych to being the FBI's Psych, and then little Psych branches will spring up all over America and--"

"Do you ever shut up?!" a third voice breaks into the diatribe, sending both Shawn and Gus down into the bushes, hearts racing in their chests at the shock, both whimpering as they wait to be killed. Nothing happens.

Shawn pops up first, his eyes glazed over as he peers up into Dean's glowering face. "...Hello?"

Hands grab their collars and pull them back up onto firmer ground, neither Sam nor Dean being overly gentle. "Who're you?" Sam asks, glaring down at Gus, who's gaping like a fish out of water.

"He's my best friend, Burton Guster!" Shawn rescues him, as Sam looks about ready to shake the paralyzed man. "We work together on these cases!"

"Ain't that the guy you mentioned--" Dean mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," Sam interrupts with a grumble.

"What're you idiots doing here?" Dean demands, loosening his hold on Shawn's shirt as he moves to get some space between the four of them.

Shawn puffs up slightly, now that he's free and a little ways away from Dean. "I work for the SBPD, so--"

"That doesn't mean you belong here," Sam interjects, his hackles back up.

Shawn frowns at him, taking in how tensely he's holding himself. It's like something about him bothers the younger man personally but he'd never done anything to him... A lot of things to do with this aren't adding up, and it's bugging Shawn, because his job is to analyze everything and come to a solution but this here is confusing him beyond belief.

"And you do?" Gus asks, somehow regaining his voice before Shawn can respond. "Who are you anyway?"

"None of your business," Dean responds blithely, raising an eyebrow at Gus. "It's time to go, kids. Some of us have things to do."

Sam nods and begins working with his brother to usher Shawn and Gus out, but the two seem to come to an agreement at the same time and dig their feet in, stubbornly grabbing at roots and bushes and anything that'll stall their forward motion.

"What the--?!" Dean grunts, as his shoulder impacts with Gus' back. "Move it!"

"What if we don't want to?" Shawn grins in a way that annoys both Sam and Dean equally, which is a true gift, and pulls on Gus' sleeve, till he too turns and they both stare the Winchesters down.

"We're police detectives, you're not, so maybe you should be the ones to go," Gus suggests with obviously more bravado than he's feeling as Sam and Dean exchange glances and he ignores Shawn puffing up with pride next to him.

Dean smirks in a non-impressed manner and stares at Gus like he's nothing more important than a stain on the bottom of his shoes. "I don't think so--"

Before he can say anything else, Sam cuts him off and stalks closer to Shawn, an unhappy, bitchy grimace on his face. "Listen, you're way over your head here. I know you think with your 'psychic' abilities that you can handle anything, but you can't. Not this."

Gus frowns at this. "We've handled plenty of cases just fine! Why should this one be different?"

Shawn smirks at his friend's abrupt defensiveness and nods in agreement. "Gus is right. We've solved--"

"Millions of hundreds of cases, yeah, yeah, good for you," Dean interjects, holding a hand up in annoyance. "Listen kids, I'm only sayin' this once."

Sam steps back as Gus and Shawn exchange exasperated, angered looks, deciding to let Dean handle story hour. He turns back to the house, letting his brother's voice draw over him as something jitters at the corner of his mind. This whole case has felt wrong since they arrived here, but he can't put his finger on it. Shawn and Gus' stupidity distracted him briefly but now the feeling's back, times a thousand, and he just wants to grab his brother and get Hell out of dodge but Dean wouldn't go for that any sooner than he'd go for a vow of celibacy so...

Dean's eyes move from Shawn to Gus to Sam before he sighs in aggravation and talks slowly, eyes locking back on Shawn and Gus' annoyed faces. Sam's acting weird and he hates babysitting amateurs (The hellhound idiots from Texas had made him hate it ten times more...), especially when he thinks keeping an eye on little brothers who are obviously nervous and anxious is more important, but he has a job to do so he shuts up and does it, however reluctantly. "The murderer you're huntin' ain't human." He says it easily, a bit annoyed that it's so easy, almost like it's a practiced speech by now.

Shawn and Gus share another glance and the fake psychic asks, "A pet?" dark eyes gleaming curiously in the faded light from the moon overhead.

"What?"

"A pet," Gus reaffirms, and Dean raises an eyebrow at the two reading each other's thoughts like that. "Did an animal kill the guy?"

Sam glances over just in time to see the look on his brother's face and quirks his lips up, trying not to be too mirthful and add himself to Dean's hit list but unable to stop the humor from showing briefly.

Stopping himself from outright clunking both of these guys' heads together until they get some sense, the older Winchester takes a deep breath and attempts to relax. It doesn't work too well. "No! Geez! We're not sure what it is, but we think it's something supernatural."

Silence takes over, for so long that crickets begin chirping again, along with other normal sounds from resident insects. Finally, Gus spins towards Shawn and hisses, "Ghosts, Shawn, GHOSTS! I told you they were real! Murderous frickin ghosts! Get me out of here," he whispers breathily, spinning around in a circle as if looking for an exit and not sure where to begin.

Shawn slaps his palm against his face as Dean shifts, looking like he's about to knock Gus out just to shut him up. "GUS!" he exclaims as loudly as he dares, eyes darting around worriedly. "Do you remember Wilting Flower?!"

This stalls Gus' freak out, as he whips around to glare at his best friend. "That was just cruel."

It's Sam and Dean's turn to share a lost, irritated glance as the Psych detectives argue quietly amongst themselves. Finally they part and turn back to the brothers. "Fine," Shawn starts, blatantly not believing a word of this. "How do you figure this?"

Sam speaks up now, voice low and automatic, and Dean nearly flinches because now that's become a well-practiced speech too and frick, what happened to the easy hunts? "Our father started it-- hunting demons, ghosts, anything you've been told is fake-- when we were kids." Mentioning John brings up a ton of bad memories but both squash the feelings for now and focus on telling their story and getting the goofs before them out of their hair so they can wrap this hunt up and leave already. "We thought originally the house had a poltergeist-- the signs all pointed to one, including the murder-- but now we're not so sure. So we need you out of here so we can focus."

Dean nods, proud of his brother and how easily he told that story, without giving too much info and yet sounding just forewarning enough that anyone with sense would go running in the other direction.

Gus, in fact, looks more than ready to bolt right now, be it from the big bad haunted house or the two freaks who think ghosts and demons walk the earth-- and he doesn't even know the half of it-- but Shawn is standing his ground and Dean growls quietly to himself.

As he said, anyone with sense.

"Look, I somehow doubt you two are from around here, which means this is our home. So you have no right trying to kick us out," Shawn announces with a brilliant smirk spreading across his face, visible even in the spreading darkness.

Dean grimaces and turns away from him, eyes pinched in annoyance. "He's not understanding this, Sammy."

"I see that," the youngest Winchester comments blandly, meeting Dean's eyes briefly. The discussion that follows is completely silent to both Gus and Shawn, who have no siblings to share a similar bond with, outside of each other.

"Alright, Sam, you stay out here with Dumb and Dumber, and I'll scope the house out," Dean offers, taking a step forward.

"Oh, no way," Shawn, Gus AND Sam say all at once, before shooting glances at each other, all brimming with annoyance and desperation to get inside that house and unravel the mystery before the others.

Dean groans and turns back to his brother. "Sam..."

"No." He's been fairly quiet recently but now it's obvious he's gearing up for a fight as Gus grabs Shawn by the sleeve and drags him away from the two brothers who look ready to throttle each other.

"What are you doing, Gus?! It's just starting to get good!" Shawn cries, flapping at his best friend's hands angrily, wanting to witness the brothers' argument.

"Shawn!" Gus exclaims in a stage whisper, shaking his friend until he shuts up. "They're fighting; this is our chance! We can go in now!"

The fake psychic finally drags his eyes away from the arguing brothers and examines Gus in the semi-dark. "Really?" As Gus nods, Shawn's face lights up like a child's. "Then what are we waiting for?! Let's go!"

Taking turns in peeking at the arguing brothers, the two members of the Psych detective agency sneak through brush and trees to the gate.

"Now!" Shawn hisses, as a shadow falls over them. They use it to run to said gate, and Shawn quickly hoists his best friend over.

Gus pulls Shawn up and over till they both land in an unmerciful heap in some bushes but they quickly spit out leaves and twigs and regain their feet, running for the house. It's closer and closer now-- they can see the light from the streetlamps glinting in the window. They're almost there when something heavy and powerful slams into them, knocking the wind out of them and leaving them wheezing.

"GAH!" Shawn yelps, disliking the face full of grass he's suffering now as Dean's elbow digs into his neck. Gus is having no better a time, as Sam presses his knee into the man's ribs, incapacitating him.

"We give!" "Uncle!" both men cry, panting from the pain as finally both Winchesters release them and push away, equally angry looks on their faces.

"Nice try, idjits," Dean comments, kicking Shawn in the side slightly. "We can fight and baby-sit at the same time, y'know."

Sam rolls his eyes before nudging Gus in the chest. "Get up." The two begrudgingly make it to their feet and glare as the Winchesters examine the house. "Go back over the gate and wait where it's safe, would you?" Sam asks, voice low and impatient.

"No," Gus says, acting the role of the petulant child now, arms crossed, pouting just a bit as Shawn watches on with an equally as immature look on his face.

Sam and Dean exchange a quick look that's just full of un-happy emotions, and the best friends smirk quickly before schooling their faces back into pouting visages.

"Sam, if I ever complain about your puppy dog eyes again, please remind me of this moment." Dean scowls at them for a short period of time before turning away.

"You're not seriously considering going in?" Sam hisses, dashing forward so he can cut his brother off at the pass. "They'll follow us and get in the way! Do you remember the Hellhound guys?! This'll be ten times worse!"

"Hey I heard that!" Shawn yelled after him.

"Who're the Hellhound guys, Shawn?" Gus mutters as lowly as possible.

"No clue, just go with it," his best friend returns, an impatient roll of his eyes following the command.

Ignoring both men, the brothers are still arguing quietly, taking it in turns-- when Sam turns away, Dean's eyes lock on Shawn and Gus; when Dean rolls his eyes and glances towards the house, Sam stares at the two. It makes escaping impossible, and freaks the two out at the same time.

"What do we do now?!" Gus hisses after a few minutes of this, nudging his best friend.

"Why do I always have to think about the next step?!" Shawn returns, nudging him back with a pinched look on his face.

"Because you're always the one who gets us into these messes?!" is Gus' return, which leaves Shawn looking like a fish gulping for air.

"No way!" he finally squeaks out, eyes wide even in the darkness. "There was that time when... uh..." He stops, staring to the side of Gus, a confused look on his face.

"Don't strain yourself, Shawn," his best friend warns, turning to stare at the brothers not far away.

After a few moments, the fighting stops and the brothers step forward, both glaring at the Psych detectives.

"Alright, children," Dean announces, voice low and angry. "Here's what's gonna happen. We're gonna go inside and look around. Neither I nor my brother believe you can stay out of trouble, so you'll be coming with us. Either of you take even one wrong step and we will knock you out, understand?"

Shawn nods quietly as Gus lets out a low whimper, before nudging his friend angrily. "Why do I let you get me into this crap, Shawn?!"

Before he can answer, they're shushed angrily as Dean and Sam get into position for some quick lock picking, Dean watching the street and the two tag alongs as Sam attacks the doorknob with a spastic frenzy. "Ok," he hisses as the familiar click click sound of the lock failing strikes their eardrums. "Go, go!"

Dean pushes Shawn and Gus into the house, following them quickly. Sam is last in, shutting the door stealthily behind him after one last scan of the neighborhood. "Ok, what first, Sam?"

"Look for anything strange; we know the place was vandalized before the murder, maybe some idiots put a sigil somewhere without realizing what they were doing. Have fun," he calls after Dean, who drags Shawn off with a pinched, unhappy look on his face. He loses a bit of his mirth as he turns to stare at Gus, who looks distinctly out of place in the dark doorway. "Let's go," he sighs, leading the quieter man out through a doorway to the side, flashlight trailing everywhere that there may be sigils hiding.

"So you're a wanna-be psychic, eh?" Dean asks quietly, as he examines the room-- dining room, by all the cabinets around-- critically.

"No, I'm a psychic detective. There's a difference," Shawn grouses automatically, following him with a twitchy gaze.

"Sure there is," Dean drawls, tapping the flashlight against the paneling of the furthest wall.

The search of the room takes longer than either expects, and Shawn's shuffling in boredom, wishing something would happen, but when Dean walks to the wall nearest the room they left Sam and Shawn in, he only takes a couple steps when he stops abruptly, hand held out to the wall.

"Something wrong?" Shawn asks as he takes in a sharp breath, his hand slapping against the wall loudly.

"Sam..." he groans out, before slumping bonelessly to the floor, the flashlight sweeping away from him and sending arcs of light across the room, stopping at Shawn's feet as the man stares blankly ahead, uncertain what just happened

Sam takes his eyes off Gus for a split second, peering behind a desk in case something is hiding there when he hears a thump. Highly trained instincts and such send him spinning directly towards it, gaping at the downed man who had been fine just seconds before. "What the..." He's running towards Gus when sounds of rapid footsteps give him pause.

"GUSSSSSSSS!" Shawn cries overdramatically, skidding to a stop at the doorway, looking around for his best friend.

Sam growls a bit, rubbing his head. He knew bringing these two along would be nothing but trouble. "What are you doing here? Where's Dean!"

"Sam!" Shawn exclaims, deciding to overlook that the taller man dislikes him for the moment. "He passed out, do something!"

"Dean?" Sam asks, voice steely. "What happened?" He keeps the fake psychic from seeing Gus, who hasn't moved this whole time. A feeling of dread passes over him.

"He was searching the room, and reached the wall over here--" before Sam can stop him, he turns and waves an arm at the wall his friend is sprawled out in front of. A very long moment passes. "GUS!" This time Sam does stop him, holding him bodily back from the wall. "Let me go!"

"No! You tell me what happened to Dean, he was by this wall in the other room and passed out?!"

"Ye-yeah," Shawn mutters, eyes still locked on his unmoving best friend. "What's wrong with him?"

Ignoring him, Sam leans over, peering at the floor around Gus. There are weird markings spread from a point just in front of Sam's feet to the wall in proportionate shapes, and he shakes his head. "Stay away, Spencer," he orders quietly, toeing around the lines himself. He connects the dots quickly, considering every sigil he's ever seen in the nearly twenty years he's been researching the supernatural, and immediately dislikes where his brain goes. "Dammit, Dean."

"What was that?" Shawn asks, hovering behind him.

Without answering, Sam regains his footing. "We need to get these two out of here," he finally says, frowning down at the sigil.

It takes a fair amount of careful maneuvering and hissed arguing that makes Sam even more desperate to get this straightened out and Dean back in the land of the living, but finally they get Gus and Dean away from the sigils and in the same room.

"What's the deal?" Shawn asks, poking his best friend repeatedly. "Why aren't they waking up?"

Sam digs his fingers through his hair and grimaces, before tugging the duffle over to him. "I think we need to take them to our hotel..." While Shawn is distracted with annoying his unconscious best friend, Sam pulls out the flask of holy water and liberally douses his brother with it. Nothing happens. He flicks it at Gus and watches closely as his clothes stick to his chest, but also, nothing happens.

"He's gonna be mad at you for that," Shawn says in a singsong tone. "What's with the water?"

Relieved that neither man seems possessed, Sam actually answers in a civil manner. "The water is holy water, if they're possessed, it would've hurt them but they didn't even react, so..."

"Wait, wait, possessed? Like, by a demon? Why would you think that?" Shawn demands, his eyes as wide as saucers. He doesn't even believe in ghosts, and now this weird guy is expecting him to believe in demons?!

"The markings on the floor are a sigil," Sam explains, a flash of disgust spreading across his pale face. "To a pretty powerful demon. The wall of the house grew and separated the sigil, but it's true. Someone summoned a demon here. This is why we need to get out. It's probably still here."

"Is that what caused Gus and Dean to collapse?" Shawn asks, eyes locked on his best friend. "What do we do?"

"Only thing we can do, find out its weakness, and try to exorcise it," Sam mutters. "Which is why we need to go to the hotel, so I can research the demon and its sigil."

"... So we have to carry them out of here?"

"What, do you plan on leaving them here?" Sam snarks tiredly, leaning over to check on his brother one last time before motioning Shawn to lift Dean's legs. "Of course we're carrying them out of here." You'll be fine, Dean. I'll fix this...

Amazingly, Shawn and Sam get both Dean and Gus to the cars without injury, despite the fact that Gus has to be sat up just to fit into his own backseat, which causes Sam to smirk slightly as he eases Dean into the Impala's nice and spacious interior. "I'll fix this," he allows himself to murmur softly to his brother, since Shawn is still over at the other car with Gus. "I promise..."

Pulling himself away from him is harder than he figured on, but finally he straightens and returns to Shawn. "You know where the hotel is?" he asks, handing over the business card that he always grabs so they know cheap places in every town just in case. His collection is huge, even though he's only been on the road again a little over a year.

Shawn quickly scans the card, implanting the address in his memory. "Sure, it's just off the highway. Could probably find it in my sleep."

"Good," Sam returns. "If we get separated and you don't hear from me, go there and call this number, tell him you met us, he'll help you out."

Another card is thrust into Shawn's hands, and he sees the header says "Singer's Salvage Yard", but he reacts only with a raised eyebrow and stows the card in his jeans pocket. "Alright." Sam's heading away, back to the Impala when Shawn's bravery rises again, and he calls after him. "Hey!"

Sam doesn't answer, but turns and stares at him as he walks backwards, an unhappy twist to his lips at the interruption. He just wants to get to the hotel so he can do his thing.

"You're sure we can fix this?"

Sam keeps walking backwards, eyes locked on Shawn's face, an unreadable look in them. "We have to." That said, he turns and enters the Impala like he goes through this regularly.

Shawn turns and stares at Gus through the back window. If he ignores the odd stillness, he could pretend he's just asleep... "What'd I get us into this time?" he finally mutters, before getting in the car and following the speeding Impala.

By the time Shawn reaches the cheap-looking motel with a completely unlit sign so he's not even sure of the name, Sam is settled in at a table with what looks like ten pounds of books and a laptop, clicking away quickly. "You have wireless internet here?" is the first thing he thinks to ask, as he examines Dean, who's lying on the bed furthest from the door, looking paler than he had before, if that was even possible.

"Something like that," Sam coughs, following him outside to collect Gus.

Shawn just chuckles, as he sits next to his best friend once they have him settled on the second bed. This place doesn't look good enough for dial up, much less wireless. He listens quietly as Sam clicks away speedily, before his curiosity gets the better of him. "So..."

"Yeah?" Sam sounds resigned to a question and answer session, which makes Shawn think Dean is a little like him. An odd thought. Means Gus is like Sam, just ... less serious, he supposes. Or maybe just because Shawn's known Gus nearly forever, his level of seriousness is easier to handle, but Sam's grates on every one of his nerves.

"That sigil you saw... What demon's it for?"

Sam makes a face, and drags out a huge book from the pile, at least four times the size of most of the others scattered around the laptop. "The Book of Solomon has all demonic sigils in it. The one we saw at the house was the sigil for Malphas. Really, when you think about it, it makes sense. Malphas can build strongholds and destroy enemies' realities easily. But he sounds kinda fickle, if the person who conjured it offers him a sacrifice, he'll accept it, but then deceive the person. Maybe that's what happened after the vandalism... and why there was a murder there."

Shawn swallows. "You think he was in the house when we were there...?"

"I'm sure of it. Dean and Gus both collapsed when they stepped on the sigil. He may have caused it, or it may have been residual power lasting in the sigil. Something..." Sam trails off, a finger resting on the sigil. "How old did that house look to you?"

Shawn pauses, envisioning the house with his picture perfect memory. "Ancient," he says thoughtfully. "The gate was rusty. It looked kinda... abandoned."

Sam nods. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. If Malphas can create 'strongholds', who's to say he didn't just create this house and someone knew and vandalized it, and he killed them?"

Shawn looks uncertain. "But who would be stupid enough to vandalize the house just to meet a demon?" Sam stares at him warningly for a few awkward, lingering moments before he coughs. "Present company excluded...?"

Sam rolls his eyes, wondering why he always gets involved with people so similar to his brother. At least when it's Dean, Sam can let it go... His eyes drift over to his too-still brother and he scrubs at his face, the coma too fresh in his mind to go through this again. He shifts awkwardly before gazing back at his computer. I have to figure this out... I have to... His gaze returns to Dean, however, minutely shifting to Gus every once in awhile. Both look peaceful, if pale, but he can't help but feel like they need to hurry.

This isn't reality; at least he's sure it can't be. Everything's faded, like an old movie that's damaged. Colors are muted, sounds are vague impressions. When he moves, everything blurs together so he's stuck in this unknown place, closing his eyes whenever he tries to walk blindly forward. The only thing that looks normal is a dark bird nearby-- crow, maybe, or a raven... he never could determine one from the other-- staring at him with a beady eye. He thinks it's appraising him, but that's just ridiculous.

All he wants is a beer, and his brother to get him the hell outta here. Not exactly in that order.

He can't see anything. He opens his eyes, everything's dark. He closes his eyes, no change. He wonders briefly if he's blind and deaf, dumb and limbless like that guy from Johnny Got His Gun-- oh Lord, did that book screw with his psyche for a long while...--, but just as he's about to lose his mind, a loud noise comes from nearby. After his ears readjust to the sudden sound, he can understand. It is a voice.

"You, worthless human, have invaded my stronghold. You, pathetic vermin, thought it amusing to grind my name into the dirt. You have paid for your disrespect. You shall never escape this place..."

The voice drones on and on, until Gus is shouting in his mind for Shawn to help, Dean, anyone, please, please, please, but no matter how hard he thinks, the voice cannot be ignored.

"What do you think's happening to them?" Shawn asks after awhile of Sam clicking away on the computer like it's a lifeline. He's sitting next to Gus' bed, arms cushioning his head as he stares at his best friend. He hasn't moved from the spot for about fifteen minutes, and Sam is surprised by it, since Shawn seems like one of those hyperactive types.

"No idea," Sam sighs, slapping a textbook shut as he stands to check on Dean. "They could just be unconscious..."

"Or?"

He doesn't want to consider the other ideas-- the last time we were involved with demons, he almost died...-- so he doesn't, settles instead for resting his hand on his brother's chest, monitoring his breathing, which is easy, to Sam's relief.

Sam's silence does nothing to aid Shawn, who finally gets up and begins wandering around the room. Dean's energy is usually burnt off in darts, food, pool, women, or hunting-- he's organized chaos. Shawn's a different kind, almost frantic, as he wanders around the small hotel room, eyes darting all over as he seemingly examines everything in the room.

"What are you doing?" the youngest Winchester asks, moving his hand away from Dean.

Shawn stutters to a stop, his eyes locking on Sam. "Er. Examining the room's theme," he finishes lamely, looking around once more quickly.

"Right." Sam opens the laptop once more and watches for a moment as Shawn wanders around again. "Alright," he murmurs. "We have the sigil, we have the name ... I wonder if burning the house down would work..." He taps a finger against his lips thoughtfully. "But if it's just an illusion Malphas created, then that'd make as much sense as shredding a picture..."

"What would we do to get rid of him?" Shawn asks after a few moments of silence.

"Awhile back, we dealt with something like this... a sigil was painted on this old house, and we had to burn the place down to get rid of the thing it summoned. Considering this is a demon, I'd be surprised if it'd work the same way."

Shawn's eyes shift to boring a hole in the back of Sam's head. "How long have you two been... hunting things like this?"

"Well, I've been doing it off and on for about ten years," Sam says, voice lowering thoughtfully. "Dean's been at it a few years longer."

Shawn hums thoughtfully before joining Sam. "So there are really ghosts."

"Yep." He's been waiting for this conversation for awhile now, it usually always comes up whenever a person gets too close to not be brought into the know-- it's an unfortunate state of affairs.

Shawn chuckles humorlessly, eyes traveling back to his best friend. "Used to always tease Gus-- made him think the spirit of an Indian had been communicating with him for years. Freaked him out... not that that's hard," he mutters, picking at his fingernails anxiously. "To know they're real, though..."

"Puts everything in a whole new light, eh?" Sam asks, poking a few more times at the laptop as Shawn sighs. "I think I have all the info I can get here," he says after a few more minutes. "I don't want to leave them alone, though. Stay here and watch them, alright?"

Shawn's jaw drops in a near comical manner. "What do I do if something goes wrong?!" he demands, standing up as Sam starts collecting things. Before he can yell at him, a flask of liquid is slung into his hands.

"Use this-- it's holy water, it'll repel any demon. Make sure you don't screw up the salt lines by the door and windows. You'll be fine. If there's any problem, call me right away. If I don't answer, leave a message. If you STILL don't hear from me in, say, thirty minutes, call the number on the card I gave you. He'll help you."

"Who?" Shawn asks, as Sam leans against Dean's bed, hand on his chest once more. Whatever he whispers, Shawn doesn't make out.

"You'll be fine," he says louder before heading for the door.

"Wha- what? Wait! Sam!" Shawn yells, but it's too late-- the door's shut and Winchester's gone, with a duffle bag full of supplies and a purposeful glitter in his eye. "... This sucks."

Every time he steps forward, the black bird seemingly follows, its beady eye locked on him as if it wants to swallow him whole. He unfortunately can only keep an eye on it half the time, since the world likes to meld together into one huge ocean of colors swirling blindly whenever he does move, which leaves his eyes a watering mess whenever he accidentally leaves them open. The attack he expects, however, never comes, even when he stomps a foot at the bird.

It doesn't even flinch.

Gus has come to the horrifying conclusion that, not only can he NOT sense in this world, he doesn't have a physical form here. How he survives like this, he's unsure, but it's for real because he's tried touching his ears to see if they're still there-- or his eyes-- and nothing happens. No movement, no sound, nothing.

The voice echoing in his mind continues however, and now he knows why he can't get away from it. He's nothing.

Sam glances around, checking that the nearby houses are still silent and lifeless when he returns to the illusion. Nothing moves so he quietly enters through the door, which they had left unlocked when they collected Dean and Gus and made a speedy exit barely an hour ago.

It always feels wrong to hunt without Dean, no matter how many times he does it. He breathes quietly in and out before returning to the sigil to double check. Confirmed that it is indeed Malphas', he turns back to the book of Latin before him and reads it through once more.

Soon as he's done, he pulls out the holy water and sprinkles it over the sigil, watching as it wavers in the soft gleam coming from his flashlight. "That's a new one," he mutters, envisioning his brother's commentary in his mind, and missing it. "I'll fix this..." More water splashes across the sigil, and it begins smoking. Burning from the inside, like it's an actual demon. Sam steps away as his flashlight dies. "Damn."

"Two of you were not enough?" a deep, menacing voice asks, echoing around the silent house. "You wish to join your brother?"

Sam jerks a bit, spinning towards where the voice appears to be coming from.

He sees nothing.

"You humans, so suicidally curious... What must I do to keep you from this place?" the voice continues, seemingly coming from different parts of the room as Sam spins in an attempt to spot something, anything he can fight beyond the still smoldering symbol at his feet. "As if that human who summoned me wasn't enough..."

"That guy they found dead here? He summoned you?" Sam asks, the pieces falling into place quickly. "And you killed him."

"Ah you hunters, with just the right prompting, you CAN understand things. Amazing," the demon says lowly, and Sam can almost picture the creature smirking, his tone sounds so cocky and sure.

Sam's not sure what to say to this, demons are blood-hungry, usually no point in trying to figure out why they do what they do. Find their weak spot, be it Latin, holy water, salt, or all three, and kill them as quickly as possible, he remembers Dean saying once not long after the car accident, a dangerous glint in his shadowy eyes. Don't have the colt anymore, but for most demons, y'won't need it. "Dean," he breathes shakily, raking a hand through his hair as he turns once more, watching for anything odd in the dull light from the still-flickering symbol at his feet.

A low cackle sounds right in front of him, causing him to jerk. "Dean," the demon murmurs. "That is one of the men who stepped on my sigil, correct? The second hunter. He is a fighter; he waits for you. Trust... such a gullible emotion," he comments, as the sigil finally burns out. Sam is disheartened to find the lines in the wood are untouched, although the surrounding area is marked and scorched, bubbling like acid was poured onto it. "Ah, that attempt didn't work?" Malphas continues, a low chuckle following his words. "That is unfortunate."

The world doesn't change; the crow doesn't move. He takes to ignoring it, blindly wandering with his arms outstretched, every nerve focusing on the world around him. There is nothing to trip over, however. After too much time is spent wandering in circles, he comes to a complete stop and gingerly sits down. Opening his eyes shows the landscape still hasn't changed from its rainbow nightmare (and the stupid crow is still two feet from him, beady eye locked on him) so he covers his face with an arm and lays back to wait, all other senses on high alert. Sam'll be here soon. Hasta be.

Shawn will come. Shawn has to come. I need out of here. SHAWN! Please... please... I can't...

All Gus can do is think. Try not to lose his mind. Wait.

It's an empty, timeless existence.

Sam is still staring at the sigil when he thinks of something. If this house is an illusion created by Malphas, then this sigil isn't the original one... It's a copy, perhaps? He stands awkwardly, and slowly walks out of the house, waiting for something to happen- Malphas to do something. The silence is almost disappointing as he pulls his cell phone out and dials Dean's number.

"...Hello?" Shawn's voice finally asks, as Sam breathes out a relieved sigh. "Sam?"

"Hey, I need you to do something," he says quietly, pouring salt thickly around him on the grass just in case.

"Sure, what?"

"I need you to use the wireless, look up news-- see if anyone's seen anything weird, like, dug into the ground or something." He does some rough calculations. "In the last three weeks."

"It's California, Sam. Everyone thinks they see something weird out here. The alien believers--"

"Look anyway," he snaps, too annoyed to listen to Shawn's rambling.

"Fine, fine," the faux psychic mumbles, typing quickly."Ah, well, someone did report that this homeless guy kept digging symbols into his yard, but he covered them up--"

"What was the homeless guy's name?"

"Ezekiel Kroni."

Sam pauses, waiting to see if this is another of Shawn's jokes. "You're serious?"

"Yep. Anyway, so he kept covering them up, and one day they just stopped."

"Well, now we know who caused all this," Sam mutters, unable to stop the emotions-- if Ezekiel hadn't been killed all ready, it might be very tempting... He sighs and shakes his head, working to get the thoughts out of his mind. "Is Dean... ok? And Gus?"

He listens as Shawn gets up-- the chair squeaks tellingly-- and rustling is heard as he brushes his hands over one of the two. "They're hanging in, but Gus' breathing is getting weaker... You need to hurry."

"I'm trying. I'll call you back later." He hangs up and turns back to the house, more pieces falling into place. He doesn't like what they spell out, however.

Shawn brushes his hands over Gus' shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles like he would if he could, taking in his labored breathing once more. "Hold on. Just a little bit longer. Sam'll fix this." He tries to sit down but just sitting around, watching his friend struggle for each breath is beyond him, so he quickly takes to pacing again. "He has to." He digs his fingers through his short hair and breathes heavily.

Normally keeping his wits about him is easy, but a demon? Sigils striking Gus down? Him left behind to baby-sit two unconscious, barely breathing men?

He slides down the wall and slumps against the dirty carpet, scrubbing his hands furiously over his face in one fluid moment. It'll all work out.

Sam's scrabbling through the age-old information that's still relevant from the Key of Solomon, so relieved that Bobby let him have the book after the car accident. It's come through on quite a few things, and this is proving to be another as he finds the correct exorcism and a sigil to counteract the original of the one in the house.

It's a two-man job, he realizes as soon as he looks back at the house. Calling Dean, of course, is second nature. Calling to get ahold of Shawn Spencer is not.

The phone rings a few times before Shawn scrabbles off the floor and dives for it, answering just before it hits voicemail. "Hello!?"

"Where were you?" Sam snips back, voice brittle. In the three rings that it took Shawn to get up, he's envisioned all kinds of bad things happening-- to Dean, to Gus, even to Shawn.

"I... I, I'm sorry. I didn't hear the phone."

"Are. They. Ok?"

Shawn recoils at the anger in Sam's voice and nods, quickly. "Yes, yes, they're ok!" Dean's breathing is falling weaker and Gus' is barely there, but he's not about to make Sam angrier so he sugarcoats it and hopes for the best.

"Good," Sam snaps. "I need you to do something."

It takes some technological finagling, but finally Shawn has a cell phone-taken image of the new sigil on the laptop and is burning it into his memory so he won't have to waste time dragging the laptop with him. "Fine, so I dig this into the ground where the original sigil was at and you exorcise it and Gus and Dean'll wake up?"

"That's the plan," Sam says, sighing at how easy everything seems to a non-Hunter. An inexperienced person who doesn't understand...

"Ok, I'll call you when I'm done." When Sam doesn't argue, Shawn slaps the phone closed and leans over Gus, a rare uncertainty obvious in his very posture. "Hey, buddy. I, uh, need to go do something... you, you keep breathing ok? I'm gonna help fix this. I promise." He eyes Dean a moment, mutters, "You too," and pats Gus' shoulder once more before taking his leave, securing the hotel room as well as he can.

Sam is waiting just inside of the house, eyes on the sigil, keeping an eye out for anything, when Malphas talks again.

"Your plan will not succeed. I am too strong to be dissuaded by your sigils and chants."

"We'll see," Sam says dully, flicking some salt across the sigil on the floor, some Latin words spilling from his dry lips. The shattering roar that follows causes him to cover his ears but he's not enough of a newbie at hunting to block his eyes and open himself up to attack as a bright light stabs through the dreary house. When he can focus again, a tall, dark-haired man is standing before him, face pinched in uncomfortable anger.

"You dare force me back into this form?" he demands before surging at Sam, long, claw like nails aimed right at the hunter's neck.

Sam instictively ducks despite the spots still dancing in his vision and throws salt and holy water onto the demon, hissing as he gets just a little too close to the sigil in his avoidance technique.

"Watch yourself, Winchester," the demon says tauntingly. "You're not that desperate to join your brother, are you? Don't ruin my fun."

Before anything else can be said, Sam hits the ground, literally-- as the house glows red and then disappears around them.

"What?!" Malphas roars, voice crackling hoarsely as he surges at Sam once more, anger making him even faster. "What did you do, you foolish human?!"

Ignoring the question, Sam begins reciting the Latin from memory, ducking as Malphas dives past him once more and hits a barrier.

"NO!" the high powered demon screeches once, as he realizes he's on top of a devil's trap, expertly laid just outside of the house, waiting for just this moment.

Sam pauses just long enough in his chanting to smirk a bit, missing Dean's snark that would fit in well right about now, before finishing off the Latin.

This demon's exorcism is different than the others: Apparently he has not possessed anyone, because when the Latin is complete, he simply stares up at the dark sky, mouth open in a silent scream, and implodes, a cloud of black smoke fading up to the stars, before it too disappears.

Shawn is off and running as soon as Sam calls to let him know Malphas is gone. A quick car ride later and he's back at the salted down, locked up hotel room. Unable to wait to get inside, he glances through the window and smiles, pushing the door open completely. "Guuuuuuuuus!"

"Shawn..." his best friend grumbles, rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he sits up. "What did you get me into this time?"

"Would you believe me if I said this time it really was not my fault? ..." The two stare at each other silently, Gus frowning unhappily as Shawn's smile slowly fades. "No? Ah fine, be that way."

"Where's Sam?" Dean interjects, startling both Shawn and Gus as he sits up awkwardly.

"Oh, you're still here," Shawn says easily, leaping onto Gus' bed and jostling him nearly off the side.

"Dammit, Shawn!" he grumbles, correcting his balance and slapping at his friend.

"Where's Sam?" Dean's voice is lower, angrier, as neither man rushes to answer him.

"Oh, he was at the house last I heard from--"

"The house with the sigil?"

"Yeaaaah?"

"You left him there alone?!" Dean's anger is impressive, as he surges to his feet and searches for his cell phone, finding it on the bedside table. He's half way through dialing when a familiar engine pierces through the night sky, coming to a rattling stop outside of the hotel.

Sam's inside even quicker than Shawn himself was, one second standing at the door, the next, by the bed, squeezing Dean's shoulder tightly. "You ok?" he demands, looking a little winded and disheveled but all in all, unharmed.

"Yeah, sure," Dean says, eyeing his brother suspiciously like he's hiding a mortal wound, latching his own hand on his brother's upper arm. "How about you?"

Sam smiles, his face lightening for the first time since Shawn has met him. "I'm good."

"Good."

Shawn and Gus stand up then, both looking awkward. "Now what?"

The brothers exchange wary glances before turning back to them, unreadable expressions on their faces. A thrill of terror goes through both men.

Shawn shifts slightly as Gus kicks at the gravel-strewn parking lot. "They're weird, right? Just tell me you think they're weird!"

"Shawn," Gus hisses angrily. "They're like, five feet away, and these are paper thin motel walls. Don't you think they can hear you? Add in the fact they have an arsenal that rivals some in the SBPD and just... Shut up."

Shawn pouts briefly, before looking up as the Winchester brothers both leave the hotel, duffle bags in hand.

"So, the story?" Dean asks, bag in one hand while opening the trunk of the Impala with the other.

"Guy was homeless, and desperate for somewhere to live... long story short, he knew of Malphas and summoned him by digging the sigil in an abandoned house's yard. When the house was fixed up and sold, the sigil was covered. Malphas probably took offense to it and killed Ezekiel..."

"But what was with the vandalism?"

"Ezekiel's attempt at apologizing maybe? He probably got careless when entering, drew in the sigil that you and Gus stepped in, neighbors saw a ragged, homeless man wandering around a nice looking house, and called the police, but of course, nothing was stolen, so they just classed it as a vandalism."

Dean shrugs. "Works for me. So what about you two? What's your story on the events going to be?"

"My psychic powers reveal that the police were correct and it was an accidental death," Shawn says solemnly, despite the hand held up to his temple. "Further investigation won't be needed."

"Hey, what about the house?" Gus asks, squinting in the early afternoon sunlight. "Won't people notice it's gone and ask questions?"

"No," Sam says, leaning against the side of the Impala. "The house was an illusion made real by a demon-- once the illusion was shattered and Malphas exorcised, their memories of it should be gone as well."

"Huh. This is insane," he mutters, dark eyes crinkled as he considers it all. It truly goes against everything his parents ever taught him, but he still remembers the feeling of that world he was in, the bitter emptiness of being nothing, and knows it has to be true. "You live... this kind of thing... all the time?" he asks slowly, examining them.

"Yeah," Sam says lowly, glancing over at his brother. "It's hard, but saving people makes it... a little easier."

Dean remains silent as he digs through the weapons in the trunk, checking a couple of last minute things. "Ready to hit the road, Sammy?" he asks finally, slamming it shut.

"Yep."

"Alright." He turns to Shawn and Gus, an eyebrow raised. "No more stepping on sigils, right?"

"Right," Gus says sheepishly, a vague smile on his face.

"I'll keep him safe!" Shawn says, draping an exuberant arm across Gus' shoulders, almost knocking his best friend over.

"Oh boy, he's screwed," Dean mutters, scrubbing his face with a hand, before pulling the driver's side door open. "Ok, well, time to hit it. You two try not to get yourselves killed."

Gus looks uncomfortable as Shawn waves obnoxiously and a woman walking by gives them a weird look. Gus stares back, then remembers and slaps Shawn's arm off of him, attempting to stand taller as he smoothes off unseen wrinkles from his shirt. "Yeah, I think homicide's more likely," he grumbles unhappily, glaring at his best friend.

"You're such a kidder, Gus!" Shawn exclaims as Sam and Dean slam their doors closed at the same time.

They exchange looks as Dean pulls out onto the street leading to the highway, both waving quickly at Gus and Shawn.

Silence lasts for about two minutes before Sam speaks up. "And they say we're the weird ones?"

Fin