Dish It Out

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

Chapter Two

While Sam got dressed, Dean called Bobby to ask him to find someone else for the haunting. They apparently already had one here and a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Granted, Dean didn't like birds or bushes. Birds crapped on the car, and bushes, trees, shrubs, they all meant he was hiking or crawling through stuff that ensured he had too many holes in his jeans. If he ever found out who'd imported tumbleweed he was going to kick their ass.

Stockton was sitting in one of the chairs by the door, still watching him warily. Dean snorted. Honestly, he waved a gun in somebody's very deserving face one time and they never trusted him again.

Sam came out of the bathroom, combing his fingers through his hair. "Ready?" Dean asked unnecessarily.

"Yeah. Where to?"

"Grab your gear. We're gonna have to find another motel. This one's booked for tonight if you can believe it." Before calling Bobby, Dean had called the desk to tell them they wanted to stay another night. No such luck.

"You," Stockton took in a deep breath, "can stay with us. You'll need to see the house anyway."

"It's ok," Dean said, taking pity on the guy. "We'll find another motel."

Stockton shook his head. "Really, I… I'll do anything that will make my wife feel safe again. Having someone in the house who knows about this kind of thing will help."

Dean glanced at Sam who just shrugged, so he sighed and gestured toward the door. "Lead the way."

The man practically leapt for the door. "Just follow me. I live about ten minutes from here."

Dean wasn't in a big hurry to follow. He waited for Sam to gather his few belongings and stow them in his duffel before grabbing his own bag and heading for the door.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Sam asked.

"Probably not," Dean replied, then raised an eyebrow, "but it might get you a better mattress for the night. What more can a ghost-hunting outlaw with a bad back ask for?"

An odd look crossed Sam's face and Dean was almost sorry he'd asked.

Dean pulled the Impala into the drive and looked up at the house. It was a typical, two-story suburban home, no more than fifteen years old. Not exactly prime territory for a haunting. It was a little too new, too clean. They probably had a sprinkler system, for crying out loud.

Stockton was already out of his car and waiting on the front porch to let them in, but Dean just sat for a moment taking in his surroundings. If this was a problem that had been going on for three years and had caught the attention of other hunters who hadn't been able to fix it, then Dean wasn't going to rush in without getting a good lay of the land first.

He spared a glance at Sam and saw that he was doing the exact same thing. It was one of the first things Dean had noticed when he came back. Sam was more watchful, more vigilant. Dean went back to studying the house and the area around it. He didn't want to think about how much time Sam had spent on his own, watching for new dangers without his brother there at his back. He certainly didn't want to think about Ruby taking that spot.

As if by mutual agreement, they got out of the car and both walked to the trunk. Dean wasn't going in there unarmed and apparently neither was Sam, although it was daylight and the spooks did love the night life.

Mr. Stockton let them into the house and once again, Dean saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was a big house, perfect for any suburban couple with 2.4 children. It made his skin crawl. He wasn't sure if it was because he was so far out of his element or if it was because there was something going on he couldn't see.

A smartly-dressed woman with more gray than brown in her shoulder-length hair appeared from the back of the house and quickly came forward at the sight of them. Dean noted that she purposely walked on one side of the entryway, maintaining her distance from a closed door opposite. Mrs. Stockton had that same too-tense look as her husband, but she smiled and held out her hand. "I'm Amy. I'm so glad you could come."

"No problem," Dean said politely. "I'm Dean. This is Sam."

Sam also held out his hand. "Nice to see you again, Mrs. Stockton." He turned to Dean. "She was a teacher, too. Not my grade though."

She gave Sam a more genuine smile. "It's nice to see that you grew into your height. You were so, so tall and thin. I always wanted to feed you when I saw you."

Sam blushed and Dean was glad to see that there was at least a trace of the bashful teenager still left in his little brother. He was afraid that four suicidal, vengeance-filled months and a demon girlfriend were enough to drive that out of anyone.

"Trust me," Dean said. "Sam did two things as a teenager. He studied and he ate. Not necessarily in that order." Dean had made sure of it. A guy didn't get to be sasquatch-tall without getting enough to eat.

As a teenager, Sam had shot up almost overnight. He'd been scrawny, too, all of his energy going into his seemingly never-ending growth spurt. Thankfully, by the time Sam was going through a half-gallon of orange juice in a sitting, Dean had been older and hadn't been forced to make do with the cash their dad left. When the money ran out, Dean had just switched to different methods.

Dean gave himself a mental shake. He kept catching himself thinking about the minutiae of his life with Sam. It had been all he'd had to hold himself together while he was… gone. He'd had memories of his life with Sam and he'd held onto every stupid little detail he could remember. He'd learned to focus like a frigging Zen master, because the alternative was to focus on-

"Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes. He didn't even remember closing them. Mr. and Mrs. Stockton were looking at him anxiously and Sam actually had a hand on his arm.

"Maybe we should sit down?" Mrs. Stockton said. "Why don't we go into the living room?"

Dean nodded and made an attempt at a smile. His skin was crawling again and this time he was certain it wasn't the effects of the apple-pie suburban life. He wanted to ask Sam if he was feeling it too, but didn't want to when Sam was already looking worried. He'd have to wait and see if Sam brought it up. Dean couldn't afford to look weak. Well, weaker. Not now.

They followed the Stocktons into the next room, Sam still keeping a hand at his elbow. Dean shrugged it off, but almost wished he hadn't. His knees felt a little shaky, and every instinct he had was telling him to run for the door and never come back to this house.

The couple sat on the sofa, leaving Sam and Dean to take a pair of chairs opposite them. It rankled that Sam made sure Dean was seated before he went to his own. Even an invalid didn't need help sitting on his ass.

It was only then that Dean realized there was another person in the room. Another man was sitting at a little table in the corner, his back to the wall, with a pack of cards in front of him playing solitaire. He was older than the couple, his remaining hair stark white, and his face was slack, like the lights were on, but the homeowner had already skipped town.

Mr. Stockton saw where he was looking. "That's my father, Walter. He's," the man smiled sadly, "he lives with us, but don't worry. He won't bother you."

"Is there something wrong with him?" Dean went for blunt. There was something going on in this house and he didn't really feel like sticking around. That meant no beating around the bush.

"He was in a camp in Vietnam. He came home like this. He takes care of himself, will do a few basic things around the house, but he won't speak to you, doesn't interact." Mr. Stockton's sad smile turned fond. "He plays a mean game of cards though."

Walter didn't look up, although he was being talked about. He just kept playing solitaire. PTSD, Dean thought, although he'd always kinda preferred the term shell-shocked for a soldier. It let people know you'd been in a war. It let them know you'd been through hell.

"You must have been just a boy when he came home," Sam observed.

Mr. Stockton nodded. "To be honest, I don't remember what he was like before. My mother and I have taken care of him since I was little. Mom's gone now, but really, he's no trouble. Not even all of this," he made a vague gesture to the house around them, "seems to bother him."

"You're sure it has nothing to do with him?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"Yes. And don't think everyone else hasn't thought the same thing," Stockton said, his tone reproachful. "Pop has lived here with us since this house was built and we know exactly when all of this started which was only three years ago."

"Ok," Dean cleared his throat, "then you wanna tell us what is the problem?"

Mrs. Stockton shifted in her seat, almost as if embarrassed. "The house is haunted."

"Yeah, we got that. I'm guessing there's a catch since you've had other people come in and they couldn't take care of it for you."

"They've tried. Goodness knows we've had everyone come in we could think of or who tracked us down from the reports in the papers. Priests, preachers, paranormal specialists… Nothing works."

"So three years," Sam said. "You know what started all of this?"

"I went to a garage sale," Mrs. Stockton answered, noticeably relieved that they were taking it seriously. "I found a beautiful set of china and brought it home. Full place settings for twelve people."

"Dishes?" Dean asked, surprised.

She nodded. "I brought them home and set them in the formal dining room. Gil and I were having dinner that night and," she grimaced, "the room just went crazy. The dishes started flying everywhere, smashing themselves to pieces, flying at us, trying to cut us to ribbons or just beat us to death."

"We ran out of the dining room and locked the door," Mr. Stockton took up the story. "Every few days we hear things breaking, but we don't go in there. The neighbors have called the police several times thinking we're fighting and throwing things at each other, but it's all over by the time they get here."

"What about other people who go in?" Dean asked.

"The same thing happened to a couple of them, but most of them, nothing. The dishes are just dishes unless either of us goes in, too."

"It's bone china, isn't it?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

The Stocktons both nodded.

"Bone china?" Dean frowned. Sam already seemed to have an idea what was going on, but Dean was still lost. Ghosts threw dishes at them pretty regularly. They had some good weight on them and could do some damage.

Sam looked at him. "It's called bone china because one of the ingredients is bone ash. Makes the dishes stronger. These days it's mostly from cows."

"How do you even know that?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I tend to remember things that use bodies to make them."

"Cows, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So," Dean ran a hand over his face, "either the world's most pissed-off cow got turned into a plate… or somebody got a little human mixed in with the bovine."

"Sounds like," Sam replied.

"Man, I hate cows." Dean rubbed absently at his right hand, where there had been a scar pre-hell.

Sam snorted. "Focus, Dean. The real problem is that whoever this is? They shouldn't be around to cause problems like this. The body's already ash. There's no one to dig up."

Dean heard Mrs. Stockton make a strangled sort of noise and he and Sam both looked up, realizing they'd forgotten they had an audience.

"Sorry," Sam said. "It's just… obviously the normal… techniques won't take care of the problem."

Mr. Stockton nodded. "We've thrown the dishes away, taken them to Goodwill, sold them. A man came who took them outside, poured salt all over them and set them on fire. No matter what, they always reappear, intact, in the dining room."

"Can we see them?" Dean asked, standing. His skin was still crawling, and he was already thinking there was no way he would be able to sleep in this house. They were going to have to find another motel whether these people liked it or not.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Mr. Stockton said. "You should really just take our word on this."

"Not really good at taking things on faith," Dean answered wryly. "Where's the dining room?"

The couple both pointed toward the door that Mrs. Stockton had given a wide berth when they came in. "Across the hall. The key's in the little table next to the door."

"We'll make it quick," Dean said, following Sam out of the room.

Sam grabbed the key and immediately they heard the distinct clink of china. He put the key in the lock and they waited, but there was no further noise.

"Plates flying at us," Dean said. "I need my shotgun. Be like one of those rich guys in the movies. Or Duck Hunt."

"I'm pretty sure in skeet they're flying away from you."

Dean shrugged. It didn't really matter. He still wished he was carrying Marigold. The handgun at his back was good, but his favorite sawed-off just made him feel better when there was a ghost in the neighborhood. Nevertheless, before they broke out the shotguns and scared the Stocktons, they were just going to do a little recon and then have a brainstorming session on what to do.

Sam opened the door warily, but everything inside was quiet and nothing flew at them. It was a large formal dining room. There were a few pieces of furniture up against the walls including a sideboard with dishes stacked on it, and in the middle of the room a large table set for eight people, gold-rimmed dishes gleaming in the light coming through the windows.

Sam stepped inside the room and Dean followed, that crawling feeling blossoming into a nearly itching pressure.

The second Dean was inside, the door swung closed behind them and suddenly the pressure was crushing. Dean had to get out of here. He was trapped. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Sulfur burned his nose and eyes, ash blinded him.

He was in hell.

He was here for Sam. He had to be here for Sam. He had to stay here for Sam.

He couldn't leave. He'd made the deal and it was set in stone. He couldn't leave. They wouldn't let him.

Dean fell to his knees, his eyes streaming, the stench of death and sulfur clogging his lungs. Screams filled his ears, crashing, breaking, never-ending destruction.

He could never, ever leave this place. All that was left to him was darkness and pain.

He was damned.

Dean came to on the sofa in the living room. He could hear Walter flipping cards at his little table behind the couch.

"Are you sure he's ok?" Mrs. Stockton asked breathlessly.

"I've never seen anyone react that way to the room," her husband added.

"He just needs a minute," Sam said, using his I'm-panicking-on-the-inside voice. "He-" Dean couldn't understand the rest above the sound of breaking dishes in the room across the hall.

He took a deep breath, forcing away the images in his head, and turned to sit up. Sam immediately caught the movement and dropped to one knee at Dean's side. Dean did his best not to look as freaked as he felt. He knew it wasn't working when Sam reached out a hand as if to comfort him then withdrew it, afraid to startle him. So much for not looking weak.

"Hey, man," Sam said, using that quiet, careful voice that Dean both hated and clung to when he was on shaky ground.

"Yeah," Dean answered, not liking how ragged he sounded. There was another crash of dishes in the dining room and Dean flinched, blaming it on his pounding headache and not on his very sincere desire to run like a girl.

"You ok?"

Dean gave up on waiting for Sam to bring up the topic. "You, uhh… you feel anything weird in the house? Even before we went in there?" he asked, rather than answer. Cause saying I am beyond freaked wasn't going to help the situation.

"Like what?" Sam was still using the talking-to-a-skittish-witness voice. Dean distantly noted it was remarkably close to his brother's Dean-has-a-hangover voice.

"I dunno. As soon as we walked in it was like…" Dean trailed off, unsure how to describe this particular brand of heebie-jeebies. It was just perfect that the house was affecting him and not Sam. Dean fought not to get angry. To say that he was feeling defensive about the possibility that he was holding his brother back was an understatement.

"No, I didn't really notice anything," Sam admitted. "But whatever it is, it really doesn't like me."

Dean raised his head and finally worked up the nerve to look at his brother. "Holy crap. What happened?" Sam was bleeding from a cut just above his hairline and he was already working on a beauty of a bruise across the right side of his face.

"The door slammed shut, you did a face plant and started making noises like you couldn't breathe, and then every freaking dish in the room tried to bash my head in."

"Just you?"

"Hard to tell with all of the yelling and the cowering under the table," Sam said, pursing his lips in chagrin, "but, yeah… the dishes hate me."

"Huh."

The noise in the dining room abruptly stopped, causing everyone in the living room with the exception of Walter to turn in that direction. Sam stood and Dean followed on unsteady legs, passing the Stocktons and warily approaching the door across the hall. Sam put his hand on the knob, but there was no reaction from inside the room. He pushed the door open with his foot, but neither of them crossed the threshold.

The room was pristine. There were dishes stacked on the sideboard and the table was once again carefully set for eight places, gold-rimmed dishes gleaming.

Sam pulled the door closed and locked it.

Pardon the cow reference, just couldn't resist. If you haven't read the mini-moo story, then ignore what I just said. More soon...