A/N: Preseries. You can guess their ages. And, okay, this is WEIRD, I know. I don't have the first clue where this story came from. It just kinda popped into my head and I rolled with it.

WARNING: The language is pretty vulgar. Gotta love Dean.

How to Catch a Ghost

"Power's out."

I can't hold in the snort. "Ya think?"

I hear Sam shift, hear a little bitch-sigh. Then, "Dean?"

I weigh a jerk-answer verses a sleepy-answer verses a patient-answer and come up with a relatively benign, "What, Sammy?"

"Blue."

I laugh into the darkness. It's been ages since we've played this game, but I've got an answer ready. "Balls."

"Dean!" Sam hates when all my word-association answers are R-rated.

"Awesome," I answer, as if 'Dean' were his prompt.

After a minute, he takes 'awesome' as my prompt. "Sucks." I can't help but laugh. Trust Sammy to pick up on, and remember, and point out the fact that I usually only say 'awesome' when things are at their worst.

"Balls," I say again, and laugh into the darkness at his bitch-sigh.

"Gym," he says.

"Pastor," I say, which is one hundred percent without a doubt the cleanest answer I've ever given in word association.

"Hymn," he says.

"Her," I say.

A tiny laugh. Which is a better answer than my little brother's usual response to being plunged into total darkness in a motel that may or may not be haunted.

"Mom," he says, and I think about how sad it is that he doesn't know any other girls to think of when he hears a female pronoun.

"Dad," I say, which is about fourth on the list of things I actually associate the word Mom with, after demon and fire and dead.

"Hateful," Sam says.

"Knock it off."

"It's true." Sam and Dad are on the outs again. I hate it. I huff a bitch-sigh of my own and wait for him to repair his answer.

A long, mad sound. Then, "Hunter."

That's easy. I grin into the night. "Winchester."

A quick volley back from Sam with, "Gun."

"Muscle," I say.

"Car," Sam says, because I've taught him well.

"Baby," I say.

Sam laughs out loud. "For real?"

"Heck yes," I say. Dad may be the one driving the Impala at this particular moment, but she is definitely my baby.

"Fine," Sam says. "Cry."

"You," I snort.

"Shut up. I do not cry."

"Oh, really? Was that not you boo-hooing when you got your little feelings hurt the other day?"

"Shut up, Dean!"

I do, only because I'm sort of enjoying our pitch-black pass-time, a game we haven't played in almost a year, since the time that weather demon called up a blizzard and we got stuck in the car under the snow. This is a lot warmer than that, and also more comfortable because Dad's not here and Sam's not crammed on top of me in the back seat.

"What was the word?" Sammy asks after a minute.

I think backward through the game. Remember. "You."

"Sheep."

I laugh. "Sleep."

"Rare."

"Steak."

"Vampire."

"Hey, now, don't go mixing up fact and fiction, Sammy."

"Fine. Tomato."

"What does a steak have to do with a tomato?"

"'Cause you use a stake for it to wrap around so it can grow right."

"How do you know this stuff?"

"I read, Dean."

"About gardening?"

He huffs. "About a lot of stuff."

"Sammy –"

"The word is tomato, Dean!"

"Fine. Rotten."

He cackles. "You."

"Sheep," I toss back.

"Goat."

"Ritual sacrifice."

There's a half a beat of quiet. Then, "Does it ever strike you as depressing that we live in a family where the word 'goat' makes us automatically think of ritual sacrifice?"

"Nope."

"Fine. Magic."

"Fingers."

Long-suffering sigh. Then, "Toes."

"Socks."

"Filthy."

"Rowr."

Huffy sigh. "Lion."

"Tiger."

I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Bear."

Together we shout, "Oh, my!"

Somebody pounds on the far wall. "Keep it down!"

"It's the TV!" Sam hollers back, which cracks me up because the power's out. Sometimes I think I've been a bad influence on my brother. Here we are, holed up in a better-than-usual motel specifically because there's a chance it might be haunted, and Sammy's totally chill, just annoying the neighbors. I'd never tell him, but I'm pretty damn proud of this kid.

"What's the word?" Sam asks.

I can't remember, so I make up a new one. "Dark."

"Light."

"Heavy."

"Metal."

For the third time in the space of half an hour, I realize Sam spends entirely too much time with me. "Sammy," I say. "Makes me proud." I wipe away an imaginary tear, knowing that even though he can't see me, he knows I'm doing it.

"Shut up," he says, more embarrassed than annoyed. And repeats, "Metal."

"Iron."

"Ghosts."

"Salt."

"Burn."

We both freeze. This last word was not in either of our voices.

"Uh … Dean?"

I'm already reaching for my gun. "I got it, Sammy."

The room begins to glow from the light of the ghost we're here to find. But the first thing I see in the new light is Sammy, rumpled from sleep, gun in one hand and iron blade in the other. Focused and ready.

Yeah. He's definitley spending too much time with me. And I'm definitely proud.

As we square off with the ghost, Sam says, "Burn."

"Bones," I say, moving in closer to the spirit.

"Muscle." He aims.

"Car." I fire.

"Drive." He fires.

"Road."

"Horse."

"Sheep."

"Goat."

Together we cackle, "Ritual sacrifice!"

Shoulder to shoulder, we battle evil, associating hunting with brotherhood.