PART TWO

Days later and things weren't any better.

Sam jerked awake on his bed, wracked again with yet another bad dream.

Bad dream. That was such a … light term for what was happening. Sam's dreams were filled with images of hunger and cold and pain. He dreamed in shades of anger and fear, and woke exhausted and aching from half-remembered beatings that he knew he'd never suffered. He and Dean had talked about it after the first night, and it was pretty obvious to both of them that Sam was getting a nightly tour of the freaking spook's head. Dean had figured Sam was the focus because of the freaky ESP crap, which was yet another reason to hate the damned powers. At least this time he'd managed not to shout when he'd jolted awake. Automatically he glanced over, but Dean slept on, undisturbed. So he had one thing to be thankful for.

So far the ghost had been focusing most of its attention on him. Things fell over for no reason when he was in the room. There were odd noises that seemed to follow him. Food tended to rot when Sam was around, too. Not all of it – not even a lot since the dinner – but enough to be noticeable. It was pretty typical haunting activity for a powerful poltergeist, really. Dean and Sam could both recognize the signs, and these were almost textbook.

And then there were the dreams.

Bad dreams every night. Nightmares. Every time Sam closed his eyes, his head was filled with images of pain and hunger and desperation. And a desperate loneliness that felt so deep that he would drown in it. He was waiting… for someone….

Sam shuddered, shaking the lingering sensations off. It was almost a classic haunting. His father would be appalled at how a spook was running circles around them. And Sam sort of agreed. After three days of this, they were no closer to finding out who the spook was… no closer to getting rid of it.

Some hunters they were.

Sam felt like crap. He was tired and hungry and his back was killing him.

Sam stood, moving more stiffly than he should have been, and stretched. He could feel the now familiar dull ache in his back. He wondered if his mattress was bad, but this felt…less deep than a muscle ache. And it was hotter.

Shower. Showers generally helped him get moving now… and he had no intention of going back to sleep any time soon.

Sam shuffled into the shower, glad Dean wasn't awake to see how bad it was getting.

Two hours later, though, Dean knew how bad it was getting.

Dean was abruptly awakened when the bulb in his bedside lamp exploded, showering him with glass. He leaped from the bed, knife in hand, and pissed as hell.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean demanded, pacing the room. "We've never had a tag-a-long last this long before. It should have either burnt itself out or snapped back to home base days ago."

Sam could only shake his head. He was tired, almost exhausted, and his back was still aching – a constant, hot throb.

"We need to find out who it is," Sam said, trying to focus. "We can't find the remains until we know who it is. And we can't burn them until we find them. Without an identity we can't even use a stronger banishing spell." He rubbed his back.

"Well, what a sterling observation, Captain Obvious," Dean snarked, dropping into his own bed, careful to stay away from the glass. "But we can't even find a reason that place is haunted, let alone who followed us home. We're screwed."

Dean frowned, watching Sam rub at his back. "You okay? You don't look so hot."

Sam shook his head. "I'm fine. Just… running tired."

Suddenly Sam hissed, and jerked upright, arching his spine just a bit.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Sam said. "Just a Charlie horse."

"That wasn't any damn Charlie horse," Dean snarled, his eyes narrowed. "Don't think I haven't noticed what's going on with you. How you've been favoring your back these last few days. You want to tell me what's wrong?"

Sam sighed. He knew his brother meant well, but he really didn't want to contend with Dean's over-protective nature. He was too tired to deal with Dean right now. "I'm fine, Dean. Really. It's nothing."

Dean swallowed, his eyes darting away. "You're rubbing your back in the same place Jake's knife went in, Sam. Don't tell me nothing's wrong."

Sam felt his blood chill at the words, his hands jerking away from where he'd been unconsciously pushing against the dull ache. He'd been hiding the pain from Dean. Hell, he'd been refusing to deal with it, himself. It was … disturbing, that his injury still pained him. And not just for him. Dean looked unsettled. Sam knew his brother hated talking about that night… though the honest truth was that Sam couldn't remember much of anything about it. Just seeing Dean in the road, and then seeing Dean in the cemetery. And being tired. Bone deep tired.

Not completely unlike what he was feeling now.

"Can I check?"

The almost timidity in Dean's voice caught him, and Sam felt himself turning, offering his back without thought.

He felt Dean lift his shirts, heard him gasp.

"What?"

There was a pause. Then: "Jesus, Sam. Your back is covered in welts. You have bruises and scratches, too. How long has this thing been using you as a whipping boy? And why didn't you tell me?" The last words held a plaintive note.

Sam craned his head, trying to see. "I didn't know it was, Dean. I swear. I knew my back was bothering me, but I just thought it was…" Sam stopped, not wanting to stir up unpleasant things.

Dean's jaw clenched. "That it was a leftover from what Jake did to you," he said, finishing Sam's thought.

"…Yeah."

Dean shook his head, dropping Sam's shirts. "This can't go on. We need help."

Sam scoffed, tugging the cloth back into place and folding his arms. "Yeah, well, another hunter can't really help with this, Dean, until they have an ID – which, if we had, we wouldn't need another hunter."

"I don't have another hunter in mind," Dean said.

"Then who…?"

Dean held up a finger, having already pulled out his phone.

Sam could only watch him as he dialed; wondering what was going on in his brother's slippery brain.

-o-

There was a knock on the motel door.

Dean looked up from surfing the web on Sam's computer, catching Sam's eyes as he lay reading on the bed. So far today the blow-dryer, the floor lamp and Sam's cell phone had all died when he touched them. Sam figured that repairing whatever Dean did to his computer would be easier than repairing anything the ghost did to it, and so he had turned the machine over to his bored older brother.

Dean stood up and crossed the room to open the door. Sam didn't fail to notice that he'd closed all the open tabs on the computer before going to the door. Not that it would help him much with this guest.

Dean pulled open the door to find Missouri Mosley waiting on the other side. She scowled at him. "Well, boy, move aside so I can get in."

Dean stumbled out of the way as the grand lady swept into the room.

Dean arched a brow at her while Sam smirked.

"That's for coming so quick, Missouri," Dean started, but Missouri just gave him a disgusted look.

"I wish I'd come about two hours later. Then you wouldn't still be thinking about what you were watching on that computer screen. All those Asian girls are airbrushed, you know."

Dean paled and blushed, and Sam had to bite his lip to not laugh.

"How did you get here so fast, anyway?"

"It's called a plane," she said, looking around the room. Sam wished he'd straightened up a bit. "You boys should try it sometime. You gonna offer me a chair? Or do I just have to stand here?"

Sam grinned, keeping his back carefully turned, and fetched one of the two chairs for her. She nodded her thanks, seating herself with a delicacy that belied her nature.

"Thanks for dropping everything and rushing to our rescue," Sam said quietly as he stood next to her. "We would have come to you…"

"But you couldn't risk whatever it is tailing you all over creation. I understand." She reached out to pat his hand –

And froze, the look that filled her face had Dean reacting, crossing the room in seconds.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry." Her voice was almost raw.

Sam frowned. "For what?"

She shook her head, refusing to answer. She pulled her hand free of his touch. Dean shared a look with Sam, both of them confused and both of them worried.

"Okay, weirdness," Dean said, trying to shrug it off.

Sam leaned back, giving the older woman the distance she obviously wanted. He swallowed against the familiar wave of rejection and abandonment that welled up and shoved it aside, slightly surprised at himself. That was not like him, and way out of proportion to the exchange. What was going on with him?

"So," Missouri said, looking businesslike. "You boys got a ghost problem."

"Understatement," Sam responded, trying to shake off the lingering foreboding her apology had caused. "This thing's nasty. It's been driving people crazy for years… the ones it doesn't kill at least."

"This thing is driving us nuts, and we know what's going on." Dean said, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. "You can image what it's been doing to the civvies. It's almost classic poltergeist behavior, but we can't find a clue about who it might be."

"So you need a séance," she said.

"So we need a séance," Sam confirmed. "We find out who this is, and then we can stop this whole thing."

Missouri looked between them both, judging. Then she slapped her hands down on her thighs. "So let's get going and cast this spiteful spirit back into hell."

A couple of hours and a trip to the grocery later, and Missouri was set.

The room was dim, the lights – at least the ones that hadn't blown up over the past few days – were off. Missouri was seated at the table. A thin, bright silk scarf had been spread over the tabletop. Nine white candles glittered in a small circle near the center. Dean broke a small loaf of French bread into half and set it inside the wavering ring of light cast by the candles. Behind him, the motel microwave beeped and Sam brought over a bowl of hot tomato soup. It joined the bread at the center of the table.

"Not that I'm complaining," Dean complained, looking dubiously at the food. "But we want the ghost gone. Won't feeding it just mean we'll never get rid of it?"

"That's stray cats, Dean," Sam snapped.

Dean shrugged. "Same principle."

"The food attracts some spirits," Missouri said. "Especially if they died hungry. With what Dean told me about what happened at the dinner, my guess is it died hungry. Now sit down."

The boys sat, Dean looking less than thrilled.

"Join hands," Missouri commanded. "Clear your minds."

Frowning, Dean took Missouri's hand. Taking a deep breath, Sam took Missouri's left hand, and Dean's right, forming an unbroken circle…the third, Sam realized. The candles, the table, and their clasped hands all formed concentric rings, one nested in the next. The offerings of food sat in the center.

Missouri squeezed his hand, and Sam focused, letting his breath out slowly and trying to let his thoughts flow out with it.

"Okay, you little devil," Missouri muttered. "Come see me. Come tell Missouri what your hairy-assed little problem is."

Sam felt it begin – he felt the energy begin to move, from him and toward the psychic, and then around. It almost burned: a dim, pins and needles sensation that prickled at his fingertips and in his chest. The energy began to build in the circle, and Sam watched as Dean shifted uncomfortably.

In the middle of the table a black mass began to form over the food. The little black cloud churned within itself, the light of the candles folding back from it in such a way that made Sam feel almost motion sick. He knew what the mass was: ectoplasm. He'd only seen real ectoplasm twice before. Both times he'd been in the presence of a majorly pissed-off spirit.

"Focus," Missouri reminded them, her voice sounding strained. "He's fighting me. Focus on keeping your walls down. Let it in."

Sam closed his eyes, shutting out the distracting sight of the ectoplasmic cloud. He reminded himself of his job here. Let the walls down, let the energy flow, let it in….

Pain. Hot agony in his back, in his chest, his legs and arms far too heavy. Cold, iciness, it seeps into him like liquid, filling him, sucking away the heat and the pain, the world becomes dim, and he so frightened… "Sam!" he hears but it's a world away, a lifetime away, and there some else, someone so close and with those eyes, and the fear comes back but without a heart to pound, without a throat to scream and the terror fills him as much as the cold had, pulling him even farther from the life he had, sucking him away, leaving him alone and boundless and aching –

"Sam!"

and there are different eyes now, but just as bright, just as happy to see him, and he fills him like the terror had, once upon a time, a new kind of terror, a new and horribly familiar loss –

"Dean, get his hand loose! Get him off of me! It's getting into him! It's using him!"

he killed him, used him, hurt him, left him alone and cold and bleeding in the dark, and then the dark had just become…complete. Total. Annihilating everything . Except the pain. That he got to keep. That was his. Always. And he couldn't, couldn't leave the pain behind because he needed… needed… and in him it finally found a way, a way to get back, power enough to not ever be used again

"Sam!"

-o-

Dean felt Sam's hand start to tremble in his own, but missed the significance. Truthfully, his attention was so focused on the swirling mass of ectoplasm that he barely noticed.

The ectoplasm was so weird, so freaky – even in their world – that Dean was more fascinated than worried.

So he missed the signs. He missed the signs that this was going bad and he should have ended it early. He missed it…and Sam paid.

Dean only clued in as he turned to ask Sam what he thought about the black cloud, about what it meant about the haunting.

Sam's head was tilted back, his eyes staring blankly. His shoulders were stiff, and then Dean noticed how much Sam's hand was shaking, and how cold it was.

"Missouri," Dean started tentatively, and then Sam jerked back like he was electrified, the cords standing out on his neck tough he made no sound. "Sam!"

Missouri gasped, and Dean felt her let go of his other hand, breaking the circle.

It had no effect on Sam, who still strained as if caught in some invisible current.

"What's going on, Missouri? Is he having a seizure?" Dean tried to remove his hand from Sam's clutching grasp, but he was half afraid he'd break his brother's fingers.

"I should have thought of this," Missouri gasped, looked appalled. "Oh, Lord, I should have thought!"

"Of what?" Dean stated to demand, but it was too late. The ectoplasm was moving fast, flowing like liquid, churning like a storm cloud under hurricane winds. It surrounded Sam, flowing into him like demonic smoke.

"Oh my good Lord." Missouri whispered hoarsely. "Dean, get his hand loose! Get him off of me! He's pulling my energy and it's getting into him! It's using him!"

The room exploded. Things began flying. Dean jerked his hands free of Sam's grip, just in time to tackle Missouri out of the way when the drawer from the nightstand rattled loose and slammed at her head. It hit the wall behind her with enough force to shatter. Missouri grunted as she hit the ground, but Dean had no time to worry about the older woman as all the electrical outlets blew in a shower of neon sparks and ozone. Beside him, one of the bed spreads burst into flame, a tiny blaze, but hot, and it began spreading rapidly. Dean cursed, scrambling to his feet and turning the coverlet over on itself to smother the flames.

As he beat at the flames, Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Sam! I could use some help here!"

Sam was still sitting at the table, seeming frozen. Or stunned. His hands were laying palm-down on the tabletop. His head was bowed. The whole table was floating about three inches above the floor.

Dean felt an icy fear steal through his body much like the ectoplasmic cloud had slid into his brother. "Sam? Sam! Knock it off, kid!"

Sam's head swung up, and his eyes were wrong: bright and green and childlike… and furious.

"Let me go!" There was a double layer to Sam's tone; Sam on the one hand, and a child underneath. It shivered Dean.

"Okay," Dean agreed easily, happily. "Fine! Go!"

But Sam didn't move. And Sam's eyes were still green. Green and wrong. "I said: Let me go!" The lights in the ceiling exploded.

Dean cursed, ducking. "We aren't keeping you!" he shouted at the thing in his brother. "Knock it off! We have to pay for the damages, you know!" Missouri stirred, coming up to her knees next to him. Dean reached down, hauling her to her feet. "Missouri, what's going on?"

The psychic wasted no time explaining. She pushed past Dean, reaching out and laying her fingers on Sam's forehead. "Get you gone, little boy."

Instantly Sam slumped, and the room quieted. Dean hurried over to the bed, beating out the flames. Sam looked up from his spot on the floor, his eyes wide and appalled. Missouri was panting, staring at him, her expression pained. Dean was just pissed.

"What the hell is going on?"

-o-

Missouri accepted the cup of coffee with a murmured, "Thank you."

Dean saw her hands shaking around the Styrofoam.

Biting back his concern, Dean went over to the now cleared table, handing Sam the second cup. Sam looked fine, now, if horribly embarrassed. Familiar hazel eyes met Dean's as he took the cup.

The room still smelled like burnt polyester and ozone. Dean had hoped it would clear out while he made a food run, but no such luck.

Both Missouri and Sam looked shaky after all the brouhaha. Missouri was still in the chair where Dean had put her after the bungled séance. She had looked contrite, and had stayed quiet as Dean had gotten Sam to his feet and into a seat at the table. Dean had checked them both over, found that they were okay, if pale and shocky, and decided that explanations could wait until after he got them fed. His father had once told him that psychics tended to bottom out their blood sugar when they worked, so Dean hoped the coffee and sandwiches would set them both right again.

Now Dean finished handing out coffee and took a seat on the unscorched bed. He watched as Sam paid a little too much attention to his cup. Dean reached out a foot and kicked him in the shin. Sam's head jerked up.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes a little. "Yeah. Fine." He scratched at his forearm.

Dean bought that about as much as he bought that Bigfoot existed. Not that Dean blamed Sam for being less than fine. Having a ghost-kid get into his head and throw a full-out temper-tantrum couldn't be pleasant, no matter that Sam had a lot of experience in throwing his own.

Sam scratched his arm again. The skin was getting red.

"Itchy?" Dean asked, mostly to draw Sam's attention to the fact that he was scratching before he tore skin.

Sam glanced down and forcibly folded his arms to stop the motion. "Yeah."

Dean nodded. It was a common side effect of physical contact with a ghost – a bone deep itch that was like a mix of pins-and-needles and stingweed rash. The stronger the spirit – and the longer the contact – the deeper the itch.

Sam scratched at the back of his neck.

"So, Missouri," Dean said, "you want to tell us just what went wrong?"

The woman sighed. She took a big gulp of her coffee, slugging it back like she was taking a shot of courage. Dean felt his stomach tighten and prepared for bad news. Whatever Missouri was about to say, he was fairly sure he wasn't going to like it.

She took a breath and looked at Sam. "When did you die, Sam?"

Sam flinched like he'd been slapped. Dean glared. Neither answered.

Missouri looked between them. "I'm not prying. I know it happened. And I know it was untimely. I know it was unpleasant. And I know that something dragged you back here, and that that was just as untimely and unpleasant."

Sam had hunched over, gaze locked on the table. Dean felt the familiar sweep of impotent rage and unfocused fear rush through him again. His hands clenched.

"He doesn't remember any of that," Dean snapped. "What does it matter, anyway?"

Missouri was sympathetic and implacable. "When you died, Sam…it wasn't your time. You were ripped from this life and that left a tear on your spirit. I could feel it from the second I laid eyes on you. Normally, that kind of tear isn't such a big deal. Spirits can heal, same as the body. In time, it would have healed up. Scared over, maybe; but healed just the same. But you got dragged back. That's a whole 'nother kind of wound. It left you open. And the ghost smelled it on you, Sam. It smelled someone who knew death; someone who had experienced it. It's been trailing you since the night at the factory, and the séance, it just opened you up. And it used those openings to crawl inside you."

Sam had not looked up, not once. Missouri, reached out to touch his hand. "Honey, I'm sorry. I should have realized that you shouldn't sit in the séance. I knew you had been hurt. I should never have let you get that close to the boy."

"Boy," Dean leaped on the word. "So it's a kid? A boy?"

Missouri nodded.

"Great," Dean growled. "The ghost kid gets into his head through the wound, and now has access to Sam's powers." He ran a hand though his hair. "So where is this kid now?"

Missouri looked miserable. "Same place he was," she said, staring at Sam's bowed head.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Sam's possessed?"

For the first time Sam looked up, his eyes dull. "I can feel him. He's…angry, alone, scared. In that order. I can keep him down for now. He's… confused." Sam made a noise that was almost a laugh, "I'm confused."

"You have to keep him down, Sam," Missouri warned. "That child has no ties to your body. He won't care what happens to you."

"What are you saying?" Dean asked.

"If the child pulls too much energy, Sam could die."

"Well, that's just perfect," Dean snapped. "So how do we yank this little bastard out?"

"I can rip the child's spirit free from Sam's; it's not much different than an exorcism, really," Missouri said. "But not without a risk. Sam, you're… tattered, hun. Dying and being brought back, both when it wasn't your time it tore at you. Now that child has wrapped himself up in you, and if I go pulling him free it will only do more damage."

"So how do we shake him?" Dean asked again, glancing nervously at Sam, whose eyes were still locked on the tabletop. He spun his coffee mug around and around and around, and never looked up. His lack of reaction was worrying the hell out of Dean.

"Same way you get rid of any spirit," Missouri answered. "Find out who he is, and destroy the remains. Without a physical link to this plane, he'll have a hard time holding on to Sam. It will be an easy thing to work him free and make him go."

"So who is he?"

Missouri frowned. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Dean demanded, standing. "How do you not know?"

She glared. "It's not like he was talking to me, boy. He was focused on other things. Sam? Did you pick up on anything?"

Sam shook his head, his expression a sort of distant concentration… and vaguely disturbed.

"Sam?"

-o-

It was a good question. Had he picked up on anything? Anything more then just the vague memories and heavy emotions of an angry and hurting child? Could he pick up on who the little boy was? Should be easy enough with the kid stuck in his head, right?

Sam reached in, looking for the child he could feel twisted up in him. He needed to know...who he was, why he was here, why he'd followed them…. How he had died.

He wanted to know.

And he could feel it…his own death, the pain of it, the cold – a different pain – a different cold –wet mud under his knees and he's lost, alone and needs him, he needs his – he needs her, needs his sister, she promised, she promised that she'd take care of him, that she'd always – always come for him, that's why he's not surprised to see Dean on the road…relieved, but not surprised, because Dean will always come, always be – there, she has to be there, with the others, they're all waiting, they need him to do his job, need him to free them, needed him to get them away from him

"Sam!"

Sam snapped back to the too-warm motel room with Dean shaking him. Dean looked white.

"Sorry." Sam said, pushing away and rubbing his face. "Sorry."

"What was that?" Dean asked, his voice angry.

Sam sighed. "The kid. I was trying to find out who he was. But I didn't get anything specific." Nothing more than the images – the sensation – of dying. Sam shuddered.

Missouri gave Sam a significant look, but Dean missed it. Thankfully. He didn't want to even try and explain to his brother how dying had felt.

"So what do we do now?" Dean demanded tiredly.

Missouri shrugged, and Sam could feel her weighing him. "We could have Sam let the boy come forward, use the information he provides."

"No!" Sam repelled the idea immediately. "No way. That boy used my powers! He set the room on fire! Do you know what I can do? Because I don't! Do you really want to turn this thing loose with those abilities? He could kill somebody!" Sam wrapped his shaky hands around his cooling coffee, struggling to control himself. He could feel the fear nipping at him, and the anger. They were old and familiar sensations, fear and anger that something was using him, that something was controlling him. It was a terror that he lived with daily, and one that he knew how to deal with. He wouldn't be used. Not ever. He pulled in a breath, meeting Dean's eyes. "Look, I'll try to communicate with him again, if you want; but I'm not letting him come forward if I can help it."

Dean hesitated… then spoke. "We don't know that. Maybe the ghost has his own powers. Maybe it's just normal poltergeist crap. We can fight that, Sam."

"Either way, he set the room on fire, Dean. On fire. He could kill someone. I can't live with that possibility. I just can't. No more, not ever. I told you that. We'll just have to figure this out without the kid."

Missouri sighed, getting up to lay a hand on Sam's shoulder. Her eyes were kindly, but her voice was like steel when she spoke. "You might not have a choice, Sam."