Chapter One: Who The Hell Are You?

The Oxford University Press dictionary describes shock as:

1. A sudden upsetting or surprising event or experience, or the resulting feeling.

2. An acute medical condition associated with a fall in blood pressure, caused by loss of blood, severe burns, sudden emotional stress, etc.

3. A violent shaking movement caused by an impact, explosion, or tremor.

4. An electric shock.

It also goes on to give more suggestions in case the first four were not to your liking, such as:

1. A group of twelve sheaves of grain placed upright and supporting each other to allow the grain to dry and ripen.

2. An unkempt or thick mass of hair.

Now why Dean was thinking about that right now, he wasn't exactly sure. But he had the sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the man standing in front of him. Or perhaps it was because he was feeling said shock and wanted to know which category he fell under.

"Man, it feels good tonight. And look at the stars! Their so bright."

Sam managed to effectively blink his eyes at the man before them. A minute ago, he was a fat drunkard with a scraggly beard and slurred speech. Now he was a clean-shaven, well toned man of which he would peg as being somewhere in his mid twenties. . .

"But honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing out here at. . ." he glanced down at his watch. ". . . two o' five in the morning." he gave an impressed whistle. "My parents would kill me."

The idea that this apparition was worried about dying when he was already dead, struck Dean as funny in that morbidly fascinating sort of way things like that are bound to strike a person at two o' five point thirty seconds in the morning.

"So," Sam started slowly, unsure on how exactly to handle this situation. "You don't know why you're here?"

"Not really." the guy stated sincerely then looked curiously around. "A graveyard? Why the heck are we at a graveyard?" his eyes then narrowed in suspicion. "And who the hell are you guys?"

Dean rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of this exchange and just as he was about to announce that they were this ghost's worst nightmare and prepare to be terminated and all that shit, Sam decided to take the more formal approach.

"Uh, I'm Sam, and this is my brother Dean."

The ghost closed his eyes for moment to process the information. Dean took the opportunity to elbow his brother in the ribs. "Ow." Sam yelped quietly before sending a death glare to the elder.

The ghost then reopened his eyes and gave an unnervingly pleasant grin, while offering his hand. "I'm Leslie."

There was no stopping the guffaw building up inside of the eldest hunter. Well, until Sam decided that it was his turn to give a little rib bruising himself. "Ow."

Leslie took in the brother's reactions and also did not miss the fact that neither of them made an attempt to shake his hand. What was up with these guys? Why the heck were they looking at him like he had just risen from one of these graves or something? Because, seriously, it was starting to get on his nerves. "So, uh, either of you want to tell me why we're standing in the middle of a cemetery?"

"Well, you see-" Of course Sam would try to reason with the thing. Thankfully Dean was here to save the day.

"Yeah. Here, let me show you." And with that, Dean Winchester pulled out one of his favorite hunting rifles, hidden well by the long trench coat he had been wearing that night and pulled back on the trigger, eagerly waiting for the rounds of rock salt to come shooting out so as deal with their Casper friend.

But all he heard was the taunting click of a jammed barrel that seemed to say: What? You actually wanted me to fire? 'Shit'

That was kinda what Leslie's reaction was too, except with a lot more feeling. "Holy shit!" he screamed out before he heard the much prayed for click of a stubborn gun. He gaped at Dean with a fearful hurt marring his features. "Y-y. . . YOU TRIED TO SHOOT ME! You twisted sonuvabitch!"

Sam watched in slightly amused horror as the rifle jammed, leaving a shell shocked and rather dumbfounded Dean standing alone against a now very pissed off Leslie. The events from then on seemed to move in slow motion as the spirit glared angrily at his brother then jumped in the air, yelling a war cry as Dean threw his hands up to protect himself from the new found threat he created.

The impact was going to hurt, Dean knew. Just because the guy lost lots of the fat hanging over his belt didn't mean he still didn't have that weight now measured in muscle. 'What the hell have I done to deserve this?' he asked himself miserably.

Leslie seemed to be suspended in the air in Matrix fashion as he hung over the now helpless, and hapless, hunter. He thought that the time slow theory was a myth created by people who liked to draw out the suspense for well paying movie goers, and thriller readers that had no grasp on reality. Hey! Who knew?

And just like in those movies and books, time would regain it's normal equilibrium, so as not to make the viewers or readers have a heart attack at the build up of overly stressful drama, sending Leslie plummeting down toward Dean in an amazing display of body mass versus gravity.

The collision though, was actually rather anticlimactic, seeing as how Leslie simply sailed right through the elder and landed onto the soft grass with a silent thud, leaving both the participants in this particular charade, relatively unscathed. Physically anyway. And Dean was emotionally sound. Leslie, however, was pretty sure he was going to need years worth of therapy after this.

"Holy shit! What the hell are you?" Leslie screamed out from his stunned position on the ground.

Dean almost laughed at the question, coming from the spirit of a dead drunk and all. . . "What am I? Well that's real rich coming from you."

Leslie scrunched up his eyebrows in confusion. "Are you a druggie?"

Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No. Now I think it's about time you stop playing dumb, cause you're not good at it. We both know what you are, and if you don't want to go peacefully then we'll be forced - well Sam will be forced. I for one will enjoy it - to send you back by our own means." He thought it was a rather well put threat.

"What the frickin' hell are you talking about?" 'God, why do I always get stuck with all the wackiest people in this world? What did I do to deserve this?'

"Uh, Dean." Sam pulled his brother aside and nodded his head over to a stricken Leslie. "I don't think he knows."

"What? How the hell could he not know that he's dead?"

"I don't know." Sam confessed. "But, look at him. He thinks you're some psycho trigger happy killer, and he has no idea how he fell right through you."

Dean glanced over a now vomiting Leslie. "I didn't know spirits could do that."

"What? Fall through things?"

'Honestly,' Dean thought while rolling his eyes for another time that night- morning. . . uh, dark time. 'How is it even possible that a guy could be that slow? Are we even related?' "No, moron." he jutted his chin at the miserable looking ghost on the grass, and then the pile of puke next to him.

"Oh."

"We need to tell him."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?' So we can kill him! He can't stay you know, he's dead."

"Wouldn't that make killing him a mute point." Sam countered smugly.

Dean threw his hands in the air. "Keep it up smartass and Leslie won't be the only body gone missing tonight." He whined out the word 'Leslie' in a nasal sort of way to show his dislike of the name as he stalked over to the sickly ghost.

"Okay, Les. Let's get this straight. There is nothing wrong with me. Thousands of females with vouch for me on that. The truth is that you're a ghost. A spirit. An apparition. A mere shadow of the man you once were. And before you start calling me insane, I suggest you take a peek at the meat shell you came from." He pointed over to the grave they were previously leaning over.

Leslie cautiously crawled over to the side of the recently dug hole and gasped. "Cripes!" Stepping back from the unshaven, overweight version of himself, he reached out for a nearby tree to support his stumbling form, but simply fell straight through the sturdy trunk and onto the slick grass once again.

'Alright, this charade is getting a little ridiculous. And if ghostie thinks that this whole, 'I don't know I'm dead' thing is going to keep me from salting and burning his ass. . . he doesn't have a clue who I am.' Dean thought with almost a certain satisfaction at the idea of finally setting fire to this spirit's remains.

"Sam, I want you get the equipment from the Impala." Dean faced his brother with a grin that could light up a room, or cause a bar fight - depended on the company - then patted his untrustworthy rifle. "I'll handle our little problem."

Sam nodded and headed off into the distance without a word. What was he supposed to say anyway? Get the frickin' materials yourself? Yeah, that would have gone over well.

Dean turned around with a smirk. "Looks like it's just me and. . ." His voice trailed off as he realized that he was the only one there. "Great." He scanned the area and then took off in the direction opposite where the Impala was parked in search of Leslie. What he didn't see was the two men sitting behind a giant overrun shrubbery to the left of the dug up grave. They had arrived just as Leslie's spirit had mysteriously disappeared.

---

"Hey Doug?" The first man whispered quietly.

Doug glared at him. "Yeah Nate?"

Nate scratched the back of his head. "Why are we still here? It looks like those guys got to all the booty first."

Doug rolled his eyes. "Because man, we're not here for a dead guys wallet." He looked back over to freshly dug grave, a glint in his dark brown eyes. "We're here for the bones."

"Right." Nate nodded his head and looked in both directions the brothers had headed. "Let's go before they get back."

Doug smiled and the two of them quickly darted from the bushes; Nate jumping into the grave to hand the large body up to his partner. "How are we going to get to the bones anyway?"

Doug just smirked with a knowing look. "I have my ways. The important thing here is that we don't have to dig up a grave."

"Good point." Nate grinned and with a finale heave, threw the body over the top and onto the slick grass, allowing Doug to wrap his arms around the deceased's waist to drag him bag into the bushes. Just as Nate was pushing himself out of the hole, he heard a single voice coming from the right. With a leap and a sprint, he dashed into hiding with his partner before the tall brunet arrived.

---

"Dean?" Sam dropped the items he collected on the ground. "I got the salt. And a lighter." He flicked it open. "Ooh, look at that: fire!" Still nothing. "Dea-"

"Sam! Would you quit all that yelling. We're a graveyard for goodness sakes. Show some respect." Dean snarked while sauntering over to the grave. "Or at least remember that I don't where traffic code orange in the spring."

"Right." Sam rolled his eyes then looked around suspiciously. "Where's Leslie?"

"And that's another thing. What kind of parents name their son a pansy name like 'Leslie'?"

"According to what he told me about them earlier, not good ones." Sam sighed. "So where is he?"

"How should I know? One minute I'm telling you to grab the salt and then I turn around to see he pulled a Houdini on me."

"Dean, you really need to stop categorizing everything that happens to you in reference to other people."

"Fine." Dean huffed. "He's gone. Departed. Vanished. Disappeared. Hopefully never to return. Get the picture?"

"God you're a pain in the ass."

"Right back 'atcha."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Hey guys?"

Both brothers swung around to see that Leslie had reappeared and was staring intently into the grave they just dug. "Uh, where's my body?"