God, I hate having to repeat myself. Can't you all just take this disclaiming business for granted?

AN: By no means a sequel, but this story does hark back to my earlier fic "High Fidelity" if you're puzzled by the reference to a certain Led Zeppelin song.

Crystal Ship

The downsides of being Dean Winchester are far too numerous for you to ever want to list them verbally or on paper, but the most obvious of them seem to have settled their differences, formed an unholy alliance and jumped you, all at once, about five minutes ago.

There's reasons you hate haunted houses, and the murderous vengeful spirits that can be found in them have nothing to do with it. No, it's the shoddy workmanship.

Take this one, for example.

It's in a small town in Maine, on the coast. Been abandoned for a few decades now; the last owner was an Army Major who died in 'Nam, and the daughter hated the place so much she just packed up and left it to rot.

Turns out she hated it because Daddy beat her Mom to death in the kitchen one night while she was locked in the hall closet, just outside, for being "naughty".

More than any other case, this sort of thing makes you sick to your stomach. No demon destroyed this family, no supernatural creature tore their lives to shreds for the fun of it. No outside, unpredictable evil killed that poor woman, stole her daughter's childhood. Instead a man who should have loved and protected them destroyed both their lives.

Demons, you get. People are just crazy. There's so much evil in the world already, but they always have to go and make more.

Anyway. Where were you? Oh, right. Seems Mom wasn't too happy about her untimely death, either. She's been killing anyone with… violent tendencies… who steps foot into the house ever since. Last week it was a kid – no older than Sam – just back from Iraq who'd come here with some friends to wallow in nostalgia at the scene of several high school parties.

Judging by the way the bedroom floor just gave out beneath you, dropping you onto the rickety couch about two hundred feet below, you're on the list as well.

Nothing seems to be broken, but you hurt all over, and the left leg of your favourite pair of jeans is getting slowly wetter. It's a little hard to tell how bad the wound is, because your legs are trapped under a pile of plaster and dry, rotting wood. You want to move, to sit up, but every time you try your head starts to spin.

Oh yeah, and you lost your shotgun. It fell right over there, just outta your reach.

Terrific.

Smoke on the Water is playing somewhere close to you. It's rather comforting, to be honest. Not as good as Metallica, but beggars can't be choosers. And if wishes were horses, they would ride, too. The last time you rode anything even remotely resembling a horse, you were four, and Mommy and Daddy had taken you to the mall to get new shoes. Sammy cried all the way there... you told Mommy it was because he agreed with you, you didn't need new shoes, but she just laughed, and kissed your forehead.

Focus, Winchester. Vengeful spirit, bent on killing you? Ring any bells? If Dad could have seen inside your head just now he'd be flaying you alive for not paying attention.

No small part of you wishes he could have, and were.

Ah, the star of the show arrives. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting this week's vengeful spirit, materialising as we speak by Dean Winchester's buried feet.

She moves towards you with that flickering, jerking movement all ghosts share, and bends over you, close enough to touch, except, ya know, spinning head if you try to move too much. The way you're feeling right now, you wouldn't rule out pea soup, either. Her breath smells like an open grave, and you know all about those.

Ghosts have breath?

"You are a man of violence," she says, and her voice echoes as though from far away, just like Moms did back in Lawrence, all those months ago.

Was that a trick question? There's no denying it, after all. The jerk of the Colt in your hand, the wet thud you could almost hear the bullet make as it entered the man's temple, the way his body collapsed… you'll never be able to erase those images from your mind, never. You're a killer. And you're not even counting the countless creatures you've killed both before and after.

Since Lenore, you can't even tell anymore if they really did all deserve it.

"It's my job, lady," you tell her. You came to terms with it a long time ago. It's what you are, and though you may regret it, there's no point trying to change it. Too late for that.

You do wish you could have managed a slightly snappier comeback, though.

She jerks her head to the side, and you could almost think that look on her face is puzzlement, if vengeful spirits can be puzzled.

"No," she says, "it is the means with which you do your job."

And she straightens, still with that odd look on her face, drawing away from you, what the hell? and – disappears as the bang of a shotgun fills the room. Rock salt raining down on your face and chest, quick heavy footsteps across the floor, warm hands on your shoulders, lifting your torso, supporting you.

"Dammit Dean," your little brother's voice says, choked with fear and worry and relief, "what happened?"

You struggle to balance on your elbows and keep your head on straight at the same time as he moves to your legs and starts pulling the debris away.

"Dropped me," you rasp, surprised at how hoarse you suddenly are, how difficult it is to talk at all.

"Dropped you?"

"Made the ceiling collapse."

Pressure on your wounded leg, a comforting hand warm and heavy on your shoulder; it feels oddly familiar.

"Dad?" you ask, darkness gathering at the corners of your eyes for a moment, clutching at his hand as he pulls it away.

A choked, dry sob of laughter answers you, accompanied by the sound of tearing cloth.

"Not exactly. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

With an effort you force yourself to focus, to concentrate, feeling a twinge of embarrassment and irritation. You're the one that's supposed to be doing this for him. Not that you wish he were the one hurt, but…

"Sorry, Sammy," you manage, more for lack of anything else to say than any real need to apologise. It's a dangerous gig, and sometimes you just get unlucky.

He flashes you a tight grin in reply. "I'm used to it," he says. "Let's get out of here, come on."

Pain. Jolting, burning pain, running up your leg like tongues of fire. The Impala's headlights hurt your eyes, but the relief of sliding into the seat, the familiar smell of home that surrounds you! Then, a moment later, the deep purr of the engine starting up. As always, it seems to reverberate in your bones, soothing the pain, calming you. Music drifting out of the speakers, Stairway to Heaven filling the car. Shut your eyes, and if you listen very hard… you can almost hear the echo of her voice, singing the words as she closes your bedroom curtains and turns on the nightlight.

"Dean? Not the best of times to pass out, man. Stay with me for a bit longer, OK?"

Sammy. Right.

You open your eyes, but the darkness still creeps back into your vision. What were you doing in there anyway? You knew her victims were all men like you.

Not that any of them could ever be compared to Dean Winchester.

Even in your head that sounds unbearably arrogant. No wonder Sammy gets so annoyed sometimes. Maybe you should try and cut back a little on the outrageous comments.

Nah.

Suddenly, you remember something.

"Didn't try to hurt me," you tell Sam.

"What?" Dude, come on. You're about to pass out, can't he listen?

"Spirit. Think she was movin' away when you shot her. Said I wasn't a man of violence." It's quite an achievement, and a testament to your self-control, that even in your current state you can inject a healthy dose of scorn and all your disbelief into those last words, adding a layer of puzzlement over the top.

But as you slip into unconsciousness, Sammy says, "Dean – you're not."