Chapter 11: Ghosts

Death rode into town in a trench-coat, with a red bandanna on his head. Rode on a thundering black trike with Harley handles – all angular metal and roaring engine, vibrating under his seat. He pulled up at the traffic lights, engine retracting its audible claws to a resentful growling purr, eager to scream again, with a haze of fumes wafting around him like gathering storm-clouds, where he sat.

He turned his smoked-glasses wearing head to look at the car next to him... where a small child sat, saucer-eyed, in the back seat. He gulped as Death turned blank, dark eyes on him – reached out, tentatively, and popped down the lock on his door.

A deep line formed, like microscopic geography, on Death's cheek as he cracked a wry, rugged smile. He gunned the accelerator in his fist, making the engine lurch threateningly, excitingly – and the little boy smiled sheepishly across at him.

The child's mother, sitting in the driver's seat, blinked as she pulled out – for a second, she could've sworn the green light flickered black. Shaking herself, she turned on the radio as she took the turning for UMMS, and the spacey sound of a theremin playing, overlaid with bewitchingly slurred vocals, filtered out:

They choose the path where no-one goes, They hold no quarter, They ask no quarter...

'Luke, will you turn that bloody racket off!!'

'Racket?! It's Zeppelin, woman, it's practically culture!'

'Not at this time of the morning it isn't!'

Luke sighed disgustedly and poked the radio to a lower volume.

They were both getting tetchy, now, after a long sleepless night – and as usual, when he was hitting the Insomniac's Wall, he was feeling restless and fidgety. The very things which most annoyed Morgan when she was spacing out, too, and long overdue a bit of kip. Luke, in his hoodie and jeans, was stretched out on top of the covers of his bed, on his side, with one arm tucked under the pillow. He had cleaned Morgan's blood off his hands, now, so he fiddled with his pendant without worrying about getting it dirty. Blood-caked jewellery was always a dead give-away when you were trying to blend in. Sighing, Luke lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, and then tossed himself onto his other side – facing Morgan's bed.

She was gathering the small sample of their dismantled guns, out for cleaning and now dried, back into their gun-cases. They were blocky rich-wooden things, the gun-cases – all of them, with brass hinges and chunky green-felt lined interiors, sectioned off into pieces (beside the guns) for cartridges and shells. She also rolled up their brushes – looking like miniature chimney-sweeps or bulrushes, bronze wire brush to take out swarf, metal rods clinking, faded old rag for wiping the oil, bla bla – all the mundane stuff. Morgan shook her head at Luke's fidgeting, but said nothing as she finished her task – getting her own bed ready to sleep in, or on.

She was almost done, sitting on Luke's side of her own bed, dropping loose cartridges into the space inside one of the cases, which lay at her feet, when a blip in the muted music made her look up, thinking the radio was picking up static. It wasn't.

Standing on the other side of Luke's bed, regarding him, and her, in silence, was her dad. Long, thick, wild black hair, with wings of grey, just as she remembered it, black eyes – wide set, like hers – gazing out from under that thunderous brow. Wearing that old, dark-green, chamois-leather coat of his, the suede smooth one, which looked black at night, it was lined with plaid and guns, inside (she knew). She knew what the smell would be, even as it wafted to her – gunpowder, musk, suede, beer – and wished that he'd open his throat, let her hear that comforting rumble of a voice. Guiding her back to childhood with the swiftness of a missile. But he didn't. He never did. He just looked at her, so urgently. Trapped, she'd always thought. Just a tiny smile, maybe a nod of the head, and it would've been wonderful. But no. He was larger than life, and for good reason.

'Luke,' Morgan croaked out. 'Tell him to go away, Luke.'

'Go away, Luke,' he muttered, half in his sleep.

Malachi Enfield had never been one for orders. So Morgan curled a fist around the first thing which came to hand – which happened to be a knife – and hurled it across the room. It didn't hit Mal – it went straight through him, hit the wall behind where it shuddered to a halt. With no effect, until– Luke snorted awake, throwing up his hands over his head, and the ghost flickered, and vanished.

'Alright, alright!' Luke cried, at the knife which had just gone winging past. 'I'll turn it off! Jesus...'

He poked the radio into silence and curled back up into sleep, muttering about overkill with his back turned on her – utterly unaware that Morgan could've hugged him for it. Which was a lot, coming from her. As Luke started to gently snore, Morgan heard a crackle at her feet. When she looked down, all the thousands upon thousands of little hairs - which made up the green felt of the gun case - were standing on end. Morgan kicked it shut.

Several hours later, it was mid-afternoon, and Dean – having caught a well-deserved five – woke up with a long, languid grunt and rolled onto his back, stretching out with a smile in his no-longer-sleep. The rustle of papers nearby alerted him to the fact that Sammy, too, was awake, and Dean cracked open an eye to find him standing near the table, rearranging stuff. He was wearing a different set of clothes to the ones he'd fallen asleep in (plaid shirt, jeans), and was trying to put the red-wax fruit back in the bowl – now emptied of water – without making a noise. Dean smothered a stealthy grin at the thought that he'd caught the sasquatch out, and he hadn't even had the skills to avoid waking him. Heheh.

Sammy was also laying out a set of clothes over the back of the chair Dean had himself been sitting in – suit pants, a shirt, jacket and tie – which was the cue for Dean to groan. Sam turned automatically at the noise (face carefully blank of his guilt, because of what he'd been doing moments before) and regarded him.

'Hey, time to go,' he said.

'"Hey" don't let me stop you – have a blast,' Dean said sleepily, and rolled over.

'Dean?'

'Wh-a-at?'

'We have to start work on this case, Dean.' Persistent, a little anxious, as usual.

'Why?' Dean asked, dreading the answer and feeling a minuscule tinge of guilt for making Sam worry.

A rustle of paper again. 'Because of this.'

Dean peeked over his shoulder to see Sam holding up a newspaper, halved and folded flat to one of the pages.

'It's in the paper, today's edition,' Sam elaborated. 'There's been another case of the mystery illness, and, get this – the kid hadn't been anywhere near animals. Says here he's allergic.'

'Whoop-de-friggin-doo,' Dean said, barely containing his enthusiasm. 'How does that help us, Sam?'

'Well, you know how I picked out this motel, right?'

'Yeah. Which is one of the reasons it sucks, by the way.'

Lips pursing in a semi-smile as he swung the paper round to read, again. 'Well, I made sure we were real close to UMMS – the University of Massachusetts Medical School?'

Dean grunted. Of course he did. He was Sam.

'Figures.' He muttered, getting up. 'Alright, Matlock, watcha wanna do?'

'I want you to go over there, and-'

'Wow, wow, back up. Why me?'

Sighing that martyr's sigh again, Sam explained. 'Because I kinda have a few cuts and bruises right now, Dean. People aren't gonna believe I'm from the Center for Disease Control if I look like I just went twelve rounds with a cement block. And besides...' Sam shifted uncomfortably '...my... my Jerry Kaplan ID has "Bikini Inspector" on it, remember?'

Dean sniggered. 'Oh, yeah, now I remember. Ha!'

Sam rolled his eyes, and threw the suit and tie at him across the room...

Dean didn't realize it, but on a deeper level he was still giddy to see Sam upright and walking, talking... okay, maybe less with the talking, but locomotion on a slit throat was a definite plus. Anyway, they had a juicy little case all lined up, now – no vamps to complicate things – and if this thing still turned out to be a fuzzy problem, probably something good and big to waste at the end, too. Perfect. So he accepted the suit with pretty good grace, doubling over so he could take off his boots (still on) and go for a shower. Keeping an eye on him from across the room, as he scanned the newspaper article again, Sam was privately relieved that Dean was taking the upside to it all, not thinking about other children, in another hospital, in another time. Shtriga or no shtriga, apparently Dean could deal when it wasn't a ghost too.

'Alright, so, what am I doing?' Dean asked, getting off boot number one.

'You're finding the kid and interviewing him,' Sam said. 'And then I thought maybe we could go to check out that lone survivor, the old lady? Rowan Hemmingway?'

'Dude,' Dean stopped. 'Does that mean I gotta keep this friggin suit on all day?'

'No,' Sam said, eyes wide and innocent. 'No, it shouldn't take more than a coupla hours.'

'Good.' Dean grunted at his second boot, working it off his heel.

He gave their case some thought. 'Hey Sam?'

'Mmm?'

'I hate to be the buzz-kill, here, but aren't we overlooking something?'

'What?'

'How's about the contagious disease we're about to walk smack into the middle of?'

Sam beamed – he was about (Dean just knew it) to have one of his "hey, I'm a geek! Ask me how!!" moments.

'Way ahead of you,' Sam said, moving from the table (paper now tucked under his arm) to rummage in the duffel he had, laid out on his bed. After a second he drew out a pair of what looked like those little potpourri bags you sometimes found in the back of motel-room drawers.

'Gris-gris,' he explained. 'I took that old recipe Missouri used and added in some stuff, bound it all together with orris-root, so it's all locked in good.'

'Wow, Sam, I'm disappointed,' Dean said (Sam's face fell). 'You couldn'ta finished it off with a cute little ribbon?' He continued the teasing as he got to his feet. 'Huh? Maybe a bow?'

Sam huffed at him, caught out by the fun being poked at his geek skills.

'So what're you gonna do?' Dean asked, obviously resenting being made to do all the work.

'Well, there's no point in me coming, I'm just gonna stay here-' Sam began.

'What, so you can get abducted again? Like hell you are!' Dean snorted. 'Sorry kiddo, I'm not lettin' you outta my sight.'

'Dude, that happened one time-'

'Two times.'

'Two times.'

'Exactly! Sorry, Sammy – you're just gonna have to ride shotgun on this one.'

And with that shot Sam a cocky smile, slamming the bathroom door behind himself, before he could snark back. Sam still sent a little secret return smile at Dean's retreating back, though.

Yeah. Big bro was alright...

Luke awoke with the plan in his head as if he'd been thinking of it the whole time he was out.

He stretched out on his bed, back arching like a cat, and then threw himself upright with enthusiasm, bouncing to the foot of it and looking about for his trainers. When he glanced across, Morgan was lying on her front, asleep. One leg crooked up, mirroring the arms she had holding the pillow – which was folded in half, under her head, where she had punched it into place. There was a distracted little frown on her face, and Luke always thought she looked annoyed with herself for having fallen asleep, as if the inner-morgan-logue was muttering: "bloody sleep... what do I need sleep for? Waste of time... why am I asleep? I could be up, doing things... stupid body..." Ha.

He had decided to do the conscientious thing, and go to see what state Morgy had left her visit-ees in, last night. Absurd as it may have seemed to her, some people could get shaken up by little things like having random women pop up in their homes, shoot some people who refuse to act accordingly and then swan off again into the night. Morgan never really stopped to think of The People, in all this – which was invariably where he came in, smoothing out the bumps, unruffling the feathers, pretending the gunshots were a car backfiring. So Luke had made up his mind to go to – where had she ended up? Oh yeah, Hardwick – to check that last night's innocent standers by hadn't been Morganed.

Oh, the things he did for the dear sister. Really, if there was any justice in the world, he should've been a saint by now, if only those pesky people in Rome could forget about that unfortunate incident with the nuns, bless them...

Five minutes later, Luke emerged from his room – in a change of clothes, now wearing t-shirt and sleeves - closed the door on Morgan, and turned around to bump smack into Sam & Dean, one of whom was all dressed up.

Luke whistled. 'Christ, Dean – who died? Your tailor?'

'I wish.'

The two men acknowledged him with a nod.

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

'Where y'off to?' Luke asked chattily.

'The Hospital.'

'Oh, sorry.'

'Don't be, we're working our case.'

'Ah right.'

'Did you read about it in the paper?' Sam asked, as they turned towards the cars. 'This random unexplained illness going around?'

'O-hhh aye, yeah,' Luke said, eyes clouding as he recalled it. 'Yeah, me and Morg were going to look into that.'

At the mention of Morgan, Dean glanced over his shoulder to see if she was coming out, always ready for a glimpse of hot-chick.

'Speaking of, where is she?'

'Snoring her fat face off,' Luke answered, without a hint of hesitation or malice.

Disappointed at the dashed chances of showing off the impala in all her full-on sunlit glory, Dean changed the subject.

'So where're you headed?'

'Hardwick.'

'Hardwick?' Sam said in surprise.

'Yeah, why?'

'Well, that's where we're going, right after. We've gotta interview someone there.'

'Oh aye?'

'Yeah.' Sam shot a questioning glance Dean's way (and, when Dean tilted his head). 'Wanna hitch a ride?'

'Oh, yeah, t'riffic!' Luke said, beaming. 'Thanks lads. Hey, you don't mind if we stop off for lunch somewhere, in the process, do you? I'm wasting away here!'

'See that Sam?' Dean said, as he dropped from the sidewalk. 'This guy's got his priorities straight.'

Time-table agreed upon, the three hunters clambered into the impala with a screech of hinges, like a fanfare. Dean driving, Sam shotgun, Luke sprawled in the backseat as if it was a park-bench and he a gentleman of leisure. Dean flipped on the radio, and they must've been running a Zeppelin marathon, or something, cause Trampled Underfoot was playing:

"Greased and slicked down fine, groovy leather trim

I like the way you hold the road, mama it ain't no sin"

Dean grinned, drumming on the wheel to it. It was like the impala knew he'd been thinking about her. He squinted in the sunlight as they backed out of their parking-spot, the sun flashing over the impala's gleaming roof, and pulled out onto the road: and damnit if they weren't the hottest thing on it...

A few minutes later, they pulled into the vast parking-lot of the hospital, or research center, or whatever the friggin' hell it was signposted as. Dean spent several minutes scowling at an evil system which forced him to slow his baby to a crawl, winding through the knots of traffic inside before they could find a space. Embarrassed by his brother's incessant grumbling and unusual method of beating traffic ("hey, buddy?! Remove head from sphincter, then drive! Asshole...") Sam was surprised to see (when he checked the rear-view) that Luke was clapping, convulsed with silent glee, his head thrown back. By the time they'd found a space, Luke was chiming in with enthusiastic hand-gestures, and fervent cries of "yeah, and yo momma!" etc., before Dean realized he was being made fun of.

They finally swung into a space and Dean bounced out of his seat, on the left, straightening his jacket with a bad-tempered hunch of the shoulders.

'How do I look?' he asked.

'Like the defendant,' Luke replied, before Sammy could fit polite enough words around his impressions.

'What he said.'

'Perfect!' he barked, span on his heel and strode off to the nearest entrance like a caveman with a grievance.

'Hey Sam?' Luke said, watching him leave with his arms folded relaxedly on the back of the seat. 'I'm just taking a wild guess, here, but is Dean not a morning person?'

'It's afternoon,' Sam pointed out, gazing round the sunlit parking lot.

'You know what I mean, though – not good when he's just woken up?'

'Y-eah, he gets... cranky.'

'Ha! Now who does that remind me of,' Luke wondered sarcastically aloud, thinking of his sister.

Sam looked around as Luke's hand grazed his shoulder, thinking he was being tapped on it, but in fact Luke was doubled over the back of the seat, poking at the radio.

'Uh, dude, you might wanna leave that,' he said, watching him gingerly and not quite managing to relay in his voice exactly how close to suicide their new companion was now coming. 'Dean's a little... protective of his car.'

'D'worry about it, mun,' said Luke, casually disregarded his warning in British slang he couldn't fathom. 'I just want to see if they're still playin' Zeppelin.'

He was one of those people who flick through ninety channels in a second, snorting loudly and dismissing each in turn before he'd barely heard them, and Sam lost interest as he did so. Hey, it was his funeral – at least Dean was dressed appropriately. Luke span through several stations, snatches of everything reaching them – a woman asking "how ripe does a pineapple need to be before it bounces?" as if this was the key to the universe, what sounded like a Christian worship programme, and finally, the local news. Luke poked it off, sighed theatrically and slumped back into his back-seat like a bored child. Now who did that remind Sam of...?

'Hey Sam,' he said suddenly, 'has Dean got any tapes?'

'Uh, yes, and he also has a really big gun.'

'Ah, right. Point taken.'

Sam wondered whether Dean was getting the kind of intel they needed (really, he preferred to be there himself, working out the puzzle too). He was sure Dean would forget something. He also wondered how long it would take him, once he got back, to bring up the subject of bed-wetting. Sam sighed. How to get him back, that was the question – if Dean was in a good mood, he was fair game – but, damn, he'd long ago used up all his best pranks. If only he could- Sam had a sudden thought, and twisted round in his seat to look at Luke with an impish smile growing on his face.

'Hey-'

'What?' Luke asked.

'Luke, would you mind... helping me with something?'

'Fire away, mate.'

The receptionist was a woman, in her early twenties, named Tobey ("gosh, no way, that was my sister's name! But she, uh... sadly, she died when I was little, so... I've always felt this real connection with women, y'know?" - this last said with that far-away, wounded-philosopher look in his eyes). No, she hadn't had any work done - "seriously? You're kidding, right?"- yes, her hair really was naturally this color. Too easy.

So only a few minutes after he'd left the impala, one Mr. J. Vaughan strode jauntily from the information desk, with more than just directions in hand, glancing back to catch sight of her checking out his ass. Hah.

When he finally reached the pediatrics ward, and the right room, he found it was empty of children, and taped off. So he stopped a passing intern – African, stunning, lilac eyes, long thin dreads tied back in a bun – with a smile, and asked where he could find them. Apparently they'd been moved while the ward was cleaned out, just in case (she told him) because of the new patient. He asked where they, and he, had been moved, she told him, and Dean continued with his quest.

Damn, this place was like a maze. He hated getting stuck in hospitals – too many bad memories, for starters – because he could never shake off the feeling that the longer he walked, the further away he was getting from a fast exit. He also couldn't help wondering, with a hunter's cynical eye, whether there was a reaper, stalking around right under his nose. Creepy-ass things. As it happened, Dean's quest was in vain. By the time he reached the right place – it was too late.

He bumped into a doctor, emerging from his destination with a somber look on his face, turning to regard the patient he'd just left, through the glass.

Dean introduced himself ('Dr. James Vaughan, Center for Disease Control & Prevention"), shaking hands, but couldn't help his eyes from being drawn to the room beyond the window. Inside, a woman was weeping at a little boy's bedside, as all the people around her unhooked the monitors, the IV, put away the paddles. Holy crap, the little boy! What was visible of his face, his hands and little pigeon chest, looked blackened and charred, as if badly burned. The eyes Dean saw, staring desperately at the ceiling (before one of the nurses closed them) were bright, ruby red. What the hell?

Dean felt an unpleasant clenching in his chest, leaping in time as if memory had reached a giant hand down the hall and jerked him back there – to the last time he'd seen this little horror being played out. Time of death, 10:41am, a split-second which seemed to last forever, as he willed it, with every fiber of his body, not pass – and suddenly, there they were standing. Entirely alone, for the first time. Orphans. Dean had to struggle to keep his composure as one of the nurses, turning sadly to the window – sharing a glance with the doctor – shut the blinds.

'How did he die?' Dean managed to choke out, in something resembling his normal voice.

'Multiple organ failure,' the doctor standing beside him said, sadly. 'His heart-rate started to spike, after they brought him in, and we just- nothing we could do.'

'His skin-' Dean said, swallowing. 'What is that?'

The doctor sighed. 'We couldn't ascertain, as of yet, it's not a burn – his skin was fine when he came in. Then he started having trouble breathing, temperature rocketed, he had a break-out, until, finally...' He nodded, meaning the black skin.

'What could've caused that?' Dean asked.

'We won't know until we get the blood-work back... but, at least we can rule out chickenpox, now-'

'Why?'

'Well, you saw yourself – his hands? Palms and feet covered? That doesn't happen with chickenpox, which, besides, his records say he's already had. And it can't be measles, like we thought – because the conjunctivitis was too severe. Plus, the deterioration of the skin was too fast-'

'Alright, Doc, be honest,' Dean cut in, shrewdly, hands in the air. 'You think you have an idea what this is, don't ya?'

The doctor hesitated. 'Well, I don't want to cause a panic, if I'm wrong-'

'Off the record.'

He sighed. 'Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say it was-'

'...What?'

'Smallpox,' he burst, finally, making Dean's eyebrows shoot up in shock, freaked out. 'Yes, I know, I know. I... I could be wrong, I mean, we haven't managed to isolate a source, yet, and none of the victims of this thing seem to exhibit exactly the same symptoms. And, I mean, this boy's already been vaccinated – his mother informed us – so... if it is what I think it is, we might be dealing with a whole new strain...'

The man was clearly frightened, and, if Dean was honest, so was he. Freak medical stuff was out of their league – he hoped Sam had been right about this thing being their kinda weird.

'So far, we've only had one person recover from it,' the doctor was saying, half to himself. 'And she discharged herself. I wish we could get her back, do some more tests-'

Dean realized he must be talking about the old broad he and Sam were headed after. 'Hey,' he slapped the doctor on the arm. 'Maybe we'll be able to help y'out with that.'

'I hope so,' said the doctor. 'I really hope so. I think I'm gonna be seeing a lot more of you guys down here, soon.'

'Thanks for your time.' Dean nodded.

He tried to corner the mom, as she came out of the room, but took one look at her tear-streaked face, sobbing to the nurse who had her arm around her "he only had a fever! I only brought him in 'cause he had a fever!" being ushered elsewhere. Dean thought the better of it. He guessed he had the kinda info they needed – mystery illness was right, even the doctors were clueless. They had to get to this Hemmingway woman. Good mood vanishing fast, in favor of grim-faced determination, Dean turned on his heel and started back for the parking-lot...

Back in the impala, Sam was twisting round in his seat, eyebrows raised, jaw hanging, as Luke (sitting on the opposite side, behind him) was just finishing telling him the One About the Nuns, in a matter-of-fact voice, totally oblivious to Sam's amazement.

'So yeah, last thing I heard, Sister Emanuelle moved to Germany, and spends all her days wearing dungarees and black nail polish – and all I got for my troubles was a letter from the Pope sayin' if I ever choose to join the Catholic Church, I'll be automatically excommunicated! Can you believe that?!'

'No,' Sam said, with complete honesty. 'I can't.'

Who the hell was this guy?

Before he could call Luke on his (what he suspected was, surely, his) bullcrap, though, Sam felt something clamp onto his shoulder, and jumped out of his skin. A little boy was standing by the door, a harrowing look of misery on his crying face, hand clinging onto Sam's collarbone with incredible, desperate urgency.

'You gotta stop it!' he choked out, sobbing. 'You gotta stop it!'

'Wow, hey, hey – it's alright,' Sam said, instantly adopting his soft and mournful voice, engulfing the boy's tiny hand with his own, huge one. 'It's alright, what's wrong?' Behind him, Luke threw himself across the car, within reaching-distance, to see if he could help ("aye, what's up, little dude?") The boy couldn't answer, broke out sobbing again, heart-breaking little face crumpled up and blanching, slick with tears. He shook his head.

'I don't wanna go to Hell!' he whimpered, and that was when his hand broke away from Sam's shoulder, and both men gasped as the little kid's sobs echoed into silence as he vanished, in a flash of light.

There was stunned silence, in the car, until:

'A spirit!' They said, in unison, shaken up.

'Was it... was it warning us?' Sam asked, still staring frantically round the parking-lot in case there was some sign of its continued presence.

'B-limey...' Luke added, half to himself. 'Poor bugger!'

They got out...

When Dean reached the exit, the light above it flickered, and he spared it a frown in suspicion, and then hastily recovered with a weak smile in return of the receptionist's, as he left. When he reached the impala, looking up in surprise from his keys, it was to find Sam and Luke outside the front passenger-door. Sam was crouched on his haunches, touching the ground, and Luke was standing next to him, his hands on hips, shaking his head as he regarded the same spot.

'Hey,' Dean drew their attention to himself. 'Hey, Sam, it was a bust – the kid didn't make it-'

'I know,' Sam said, worriedly, getting to his feet. 'We saw him.'

'You saw him?'

'Aye,' Luke said, nodding with hair swinging. 'Bloody spirit popped up on us, all urgent, like.'

Dean's eyebrows twitched, checking with Sam, in a glance, that this was true.

'Yeah. Dude, check out the o-zone,' Sam pointed out, and Dean sniffed. Oh, yeah, there it was – definitely a spirit.

'What'd it do?' he asked, worried for a second that Sam might've been attacked, even though he'd dragged him along for the ride.

'It spoke to us,' Sam said, shifting uneasily.

'What'd it say?'

'"You gotta stop it, you gotta stop it, I don't wanna go to hell".' Sam recited, seeing when Luke nodded his head that he'd gotten it right.

Dean sighed.

'Great,' he grunted as he opened his car-door. 'This just officially got weird.'

'Aye, but, nothin' we can do here,' Luke said out loud, voicing the thought which was making Sam shuffle his feet, reluctantly. 'We may as well leave. Can't get to the body, do a salt n' torch job, can we? They'll be takin' the poor sod for postmortem and all that.'

Sam swallowed and glanced uneasily at Luke. 'Yeah,' he murmured, huskily, and opened his door.

'Let's hit the road,' Dean announced, clambering behind the wheel, as Luke, (never one to be reserved when he could be wild) got in too – by pushing off the roof and swinging his legs inside.

'Hey,' Dean's angry voice filtered over the sound of the growling engine as they picked up their snail-crawl round the parking-lot. 'Who the hell's been messing with my radio?'

When he looked at his two passengers, they were both pointing at each other.