Fear is not real, it is a product of thoughts you create.

Someone really smart told me that once.

I am not normal, never was. But just when I thought I could get on with the curse life had pitched at me, fate threw me another curve ball in the form of Dean Winchester.

And seconds after we touched for the first time I realized I'd never be normal again.

The first time I remember my soul leaving my body was when I was fourteen. And although I didn't know it yet, there was reasoning beyond what my mind and body were capable of putting faith in.

One moment I was sleeping. The next I was standing outside my bedroom door as my body laid behind on the bed. The first rational thought that sprang to my mind was that it was a dream.

But looking back I knew that explanation didn't fit. I don't dream. I never have. Sleep for me is peaceful. Silent.

My body didn't appear to be moving, or even breathing. I had to look away. All I expected to feel never came to me. I was numb to fear.

Every step was as if I weighed nothing at all. Every movement loose and uncaptivating. Everything was conceivable, everything was weightless.

At that moment when the world held my body at bay, I finally felt free. The only thing I could think of was to run, so I did. I moved my limbs faster into the night as if the world was at my heels chasing me down. I ran into the woods, floating on and on as if every leap I took wouldn't return me to Earth. I didn't want to go back, if this was real or if it was a dream I didn't care. Every single piece of me belonged to the air, was solid with the Earth, as it had never been before. I could fly if I tried.

So I ran faster. In the next instant I felt a harsh pressure at my back. At first it was soft, it could have been my imagination for all I knew. Then it turned almost painful. Unexpectedly my stomach flipped on its side and I could feel my lungs burning for breath. I sat up in bed pressing my cold hands against the agonizing beat of the heart in my chest. It felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else.

I closed my eyes and cried. I still can barely remember the moment my soul returned. It happened faster than flight. But the only way I can explain it, is that it's like being caged. Confined inside yourself so deep there is no hope for escape.

I never quite escaped again after that.

People don't really know what a burden bodies can be, they can imagine it sure, but the feeling of it will never compare to the mind's creation. Imagine being that free, that light, never feeling the weight of your heart against your ribs, never having to sleep, never being tired or sick, never wanting for anything. Just being outside of everything that pushes you into yourself, being truly free.

Then have that ripped away from you in one painful second. I remember it clearly each time now. Every time I leave my body it hurts more and more to return.

But I didn't try and stop it. I couldn't. The power was addictive, and I was insatiable.

But despite the urges to roam I convinced myself I was in control. Hope is a tricky thing though, it can strengthen as well as kill.

The day I pulled someone's soul other than mine, I decided to pack my bags and never turn back to my old life. My Dad didn't say a word, I think he knew why I left. My best friend begged me not to go. She never knew at all.

I thought so many times of telling people that came and went from my life about what I could do. But after March 13th of the year I turned twenty-one the part of me that froze when I had tried to talk about it roared up inside of me. It knew so well, even before I did, of what I was capable of.

I hate to think of what that day turned me into. But there is no point in lying to myself. I know I killed him.

His name was Dean Winchester, born January 24th 1979, survived by his loving brother Sam Winchester. I read that in the obituary section two weeks after I left town. He was in a coma for a whole week before his organs finally gave up and failed. I suppose his actual body died a horrible death, suffocating slowing without its soul. Just withering away.

But then again he never really died. He's still out there somewhere, wandering around, getting lost through time, probably not even knowing he is dead. Maybe he thinks he's just dreaming.

I can still remember the look on his face the very moment it happened. I wonder now if I ever looked like that. It's weird that I never even knew his name, but the moment we touched I could feel everything he did. I knew his thoughts, his fears, I connected to him in a way no two people ever could in mortal bodies alone.

We share our thoughts with other people but we portray them the way we want them to be heard, not how they really sound inside our minds. We grasp at each other searching for just a moment of peace in each others arms, but it's just bodies colliding.

It all means nothing.

His name was a label someone had given him, and I don't even know why I cared to know it. But I did.

Maybe I had known him in his last seconds deeper than anyone had ever known him and a part of me needed to put a name to the soul I had abandoned. I can still feel him at the tips of my fingers, straining against my hands.

For a time I had no idea where he ended and I began.

I closed my eyes when he passed through me yet I still saw him.

I knew him. Hell, for a moment in time I was him.

When his body collapsed to the sidewalk I did the first thing that came to mind. The only thing I could do.

I ran like a coward.

I never knew why it happened, there was nothing specific about the way we touched, it was a casual passing on the street. A quick bump we shared, an "Oh, excuse me!" soon to be on my lips. Still for some reason his soul touched my fingers and just wouldn't let go. Maybe he wanted to go. Maybe it was meant to be.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I hate that word now, it is everything that could be, yet it isn't anything at all. No answers come from the word maybe, just more questions.

A part of me used to believe that I was the only one in the world that could do what I do. Now I know how ridiculously naive it is to think that way.

I couldn't be the only soul puller. Lost souls are everywhere.

And if you have never believed in ghosts before I suppose now is a good time to start.

I should know firsthand. Because I help make them.