Okay, forage into fan fiction! Here we go...

A Supernatural Ghost Story

Synopsis: She couldn't remember ever seeing Sam's skin not darkened and marked by bruises and scrapes. Or fingers rough and red from washing the blood out of his clothes at night, before perching on the edge of his bed and watching him sleep. If only she could touch him…just once, then her life would be complete. But then, since when had anything even remotely associated with the Winchester Brothers ever resulted in a happily ever after ending? For that matter, since when was life something she had to worry about anymore?

Warning and Disclaimer; I do not own the Supernatural universe. The characters, story, setting and scenery are all the products of the much more talented and creative minds, more specifically the clearly wonderfully twisted brains of Kripke and Singer. I'm just borrowing them to play with for a few hours, I promise they'll be returned in reasonably the same condition…okay maybe a little more ravished than originally! (Fair warning…*evil grin*)

A/N; Bet you thought that I was coming back to Dean again huh? Well I'm an equal opportunity ravisher and after everything I put Sammy through in the last story, I figured it was about time he got some too. ;) Truthfully, I've been waiting forever for another story to hit me—much like this one has in the middle of the night—and as much as I'd like to do that sequel to "A Supernatural Quickie" I've been promising, it'll have to wait just a little bit longer. Gives me more time to figure out things to do with Dean in the dark doesn't it? Lol

A Supernatural Ghost Story: Ch. 1;

Sam suppressed a groan as Dean swerved the impala into the motel parking lot, taking the turn just shy of a speed that would have made the wheels squeal and skid on the wet pavement. His brother liked to take chances, pushing things to the edge of their endurance like that and then pulling back right before the breaking point; Sam knew that but even still he couldn't help the feeling of resentment that welled up in him, even after all this time, as his injured arm was banged against the door with the turn.

"Sorry," Dean mouthed, parking the car and leaning in to check the blood that dripped down Sam's arm and onto the floor despite the heavy bandage, hastily made out of the sleeve of his shirt and wrapped tight around his forearm. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said, clenching his teeth and nodding. He knew that Dean's concern was just as real as his need to get out the restless energy that has caused him to forget about how fast he was driving in the first place. "Just get us a room, and I'll grab the gear."

Dean cast him one last searching look, before pushing out of the car and jogging quickly over to the motel office; brightly lit in defense against the darkness of the night and the particular brand of customers this area of town usually catered to.

Sam leaned back into the seat for a moment, resting his eyes and trying to breathe through the pain—it was an old trick a hunter learned early; sometimes if you could hyper oxygenate, get enough air into your system, it would help deal with the pain…something about the release of endorphins or adrenalin…but then biology had never been Sam's strength, even when he was at school…

He jerked his eyes open and pushed open the door of the car, getting out quickly and feeling his head spin slightly with the fast movement. The cool air was a shock on his skin, but he welcomed the distraction. If he wasn't careful thoughts of school and classes, coffee shops and professors would lead back to blonde hair shining in the sun, or the look of her skin, bare and smooth against their dark sheets…

It had been years but still, even after all this time and all the different faces and places in between, nights like this his mind would wander back to Her. Jessica was probably the first woman he'd ever loved…the first person--other than Dean-- who he felt loved by in return…but in the years since her death, even after the driving quest to kill the yellow-eyed-demon that had killed both her and his mother was finally over, she'd come to mean something more to Sam. Jess was everything normal and good and innocent in the world; she represented the sum of a life that he was never going to be able to have. A decent and paying day job with all the frustrations and paperwork that it involved, a home to come back to at the end of the day and grass that needed mowing or garbage to be taken out…..someone waiting for you who will hold you in their arms all night long; a nine-to-five life.

Sam opened his eyes, body automatically tensing at the sound of shoes smacking against the wet pavement behind before relaxing at the familiar rhythm of Dean's gait. He moved around the car, trying not to too obviously favour his right side and opened the drunk. Dropping in his gun, for once not caring if it wasn't concealed in the hidden compartment, he hefted his bag over his shoulder and grabbing Dean's in his good hand, moved towards the door.

Dean met him before he'd even taken two steps, pulling both bags out of his hands. "What do you think you're doing Sammy?" Dean eyed him skeptically, jingling the keys up in front of his face until Sam's hand closed over them. "You're getting blood on my favorite duffle."

Sam smirked, used to his brothers' particular way of showing affection and concern. "Sorry," he said, "Wouldn't want to mar the oil stains."

Dean swung the bag—ever so gently—to brush against Sam's left leg in a mock blow while he fumbled with the keys at the door. Finally it swung open and a particularly hideous shade of green shag carpet met Sam's eyes as he stepped inside, flicking on the light and then moving out of the way so Dean could maneuver himself and the bags inside the narrow doorway.

Sam heard the door slam shut as he collapsed onto the nearest bed, cradling his arm and beginning to pick at the edges of the knot that held the makeshift bandage on.

"So just your average werewolf hunt, huh Dean?" he asked, pulling the knot free and working at uncoiling the cloth slowly.

"How was I supposed to know that the police reports were actually for a rabid dog and there was really a hell hound in the area?" Dean replied, dumping out Sam's bag and rifling through the clothes and books until he found the small metal first aide kit. "It sounded like a nice good old fashioned simple hunt…I thought after everything, well, we could use something simple and straight forward. Too good to resist you know?"

Sam grunted uncommitted-ly as he finally pulled the last loop of fabric off and saw the deep punctures and slashes that ringed his forearm…if Dean had been even a few seconds slower with that shot gun he might have lost his hand…and most of the arm that it was attached to.

"Come 'ere," Dean grabbed a towel from the bathroom and came over, kneeling before Sam on the bed. "Let's take a look." He carefully rotated Sam's arm, checking each wound and steadfastly ignoring when Sam winced. "It's not that bad," Dean proclaimed, hating the way his stomach lurched as it always did at the sight of his baby brother covered in blood. "A few of these gashes could use stitches, but I'll patch you up and you're lucky you know…"

Sam gave Dean his most withering incredulous look, as his brother wiped off what blood he could and threaded some dental floss onto a needle.

"If it had been the dog that bit you instead of the hell hound you'd have to be getting some pretty painful rabies shots right about now."

"Great, you always manage to find the bright side Dean," Sam said sardonically then swore as the needle dipped into his skin and Dean started the first stitch of many.

It was late, or very early depending on how you thought about time, and the sky was that dull grey that meant that dawn was coming but wasn't quite here yet. A last signal for anything lurking in the shadows that they should soon find a dark place to wait out the day. If there was anything still waiting in those shadows that was. It had spread like wildfire, or the juiciest of gossip in a small town, that the Winchesters had killed one of the devils' hell hounds in town earlier that night. Everything else had basically took that as a good sign that it was time for them to move on; anyone who would mess with hell hounds was generally not someone they wanted to get to know. And for those few who were still neutral in this battle between heaven and hell over the dominion of the earth, it didn't matter if that insane person was the devil themselves or just a pair of mortal brothers who had somehow gotten mixed up in angelic wars.

But to one person it mattered very much.

She waited in the shadows…it seemed sometimes like they were all she'd ever known, that gray darkness before the dawn, and the shadows she saw in Sam Winchester's eyes. They defined her as surely as the name and life that was beginning to get so hard to remember.

She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand absentmindedly moving in the air over the coverlet near his feet and watched as he slept. Dean was a motionless lump from the moment his head hit the pillow at night to when the sun started creeping around the edges of the blinds. But Sammy was another story; tonight he tossed, rolling restlessly as if trying to escape something even in his dreams. There were fresh bruises on his skin, a new bandage over his arm….she'd heard the whispers about the hell hound, had been afraid for him.

She longed to run her fingers through the lengths of brown hair that fell forward into his eyes, to brush it gently off his forehead and smooth the worry lines that appeared there even in sleep.

She'd tried once, long ago now it seemed. Sam had been younger then, his hair shorter and something innocent about him still. That was before his father died, before he knew about the demon blood and that there was any such thing as angels or hell. Before he'd lost his brother to a promise made at night on a cross-roads. That very night she'd tried, watching the tears roll down his face in the darkness and feeling her heart that she couldn't remember beating break with his pain…all she'd wanted was to be able to hold him and tell him that it was going to be alright. Her hands and shimmered through him, the air where his body was growing thick and dense but she couldn't actually touch him.

So the desire was something that she'd grown accustomed to, like the gray shadows of her days, and Sam's eyes; constant and unchanging.

Didn't make nights like tonight any easier though. Sometimes she thought that if she could just touch Sam, just talk to him once then somehow, magically, everything would be alright again. Silly fantasy she knew, but some part of her that still believed in happily ever after endings couldn't quite shake it.

So she stayed. She watched Sam as he slept, praying for something else to take away the worry lines from his forehead, to brush away his tears and ease the pain of his body and heart.

Who ever heard of happily ever after for ghosts anyways?

Sam winced as the sheet pulled at the bandage wrapped around his arm, the pain bringing him momentarily closer to wakefulness while still dreaming. He heard the sound of Dean breathing quietly in the bed beside his, and the sound as old as memory itself was comforting and familiar and he felt himself drifting off again, eyes barely opening as he turned over. In the grey light of pre-dawn he thought he glimpsed a girl standing at the end of his bed…she looked so sad and he wanted to ask her why, but before the thought even fully formed in his mind he was drawn back into dreams of coffee shops, long nights studying and golden hair in the sunlight.