Author's Note: Shorter than anticipated. More soon-ish. Full-time jobs with an hour-and-a-half commute tend to leave very little free time dedicated to "not sleeping."

Just want to thank reviewers who've been poking and prodding for more of this little universe. The encouragement is much appreciated.


"Finally."

It's muttered around the intrusion of a plastic straw and followed by a telltale 'empty can' slurp. Dean pulled himself away from the hallway wall and tossed the soda can into the nearest bin as Cas approached. "What the hell took you so long?"

"There are a lot of papers to fill out, Dean." As if to illustrate the point, Cas held up the thick folder he definitely hadn't walked in with. There was a paperclip holding it together and a label scribbled out and rewritten as 'Singer Copies'. With a little awkward shoving, it fit into the messenger bag Cas had taken with him. "And a portion of the meeting was my father drilling the registrar over the speaker."

"Right. Paperwork. Forgot how much of that shit Sammy had to do." Dean liked this campus less than Stanford, if only because he just knew he was going to end up travelling across the damn country to check up on both Cas and Sam in between hunts. If pressed, he could claim that the ivy and old mortar had a bad vibe. "We should celebrate."

"Celebrate?"

"Yeah. You're a normal kid, now, right? School, family, miles away from anything remotely interesting. Hell, there's even real ivy all over this ivy league you picked out." The Impala was far from being the only car in the lot, but it did stand out the most against the little things that had all the useless gadgets. Granted, not having to manually roll down the window would be nice. "I'll buy you a beer."

"I'm underage."

"Yeah, and that's why I'm buying it."

"I don't think getting into a prestigious school warrants a drink."

"Cas, kiddo, buddy, do you watch tv anymore?" It came out with the sort of mock-horror tone that Dean reserved for situations that he really had no other expectations for. Though the school gave him the creeps, and even if Cas was going to be a stick about the partying idea, he was glad to be away from the old buildings that promised brighter futures to smart little cookies. Dean didn't like where he stood in these sorts of places. "How about a hunt?"

"Dad would kill you." Though, as he spoke, Cas had already picked up the morning paper that they had left in car. Out of habit, Dean had scribbled through most of the obituaries, circling one or two small stories that seemed like his sort of 'local interest'. So far, there was a suicide that fit an urban legend, a handful of local gossip that resembled old wives' tales, and a preteen suffering from a heart attack. There was nothing as grisly as an out-and-out murder, but Dean had figured that he wasn't really on the hunt anyway.

A shrug, and Dean reach across the seat and to the floor by Cas' feet for a map picked up on the way into town. Trying to keep his eyes on the road and the traffic, he tossed the map into Cas' lap. "That's why we don't tell him. At least if one of those 'girl weeping in the park at midnight' stories turns out to be true, it's just a salt-and-burn. It's educational."

"Just a salt-and-burn?"

"Nice and easy. Baby steps." Dean grinned, deciding that they needed some Styx to help set the right mood. "Now find the nearest library so you can start reading old newspapers."

Cas was sure that his dry tone could barely be heard over the music when it gets into full swing. "Just how bored were you in there?"

"You have no freaking clue."

The public library was not a bustling place of social activity. Given that it was noon on a weekday, Dean was certain that only he, Cas, the librarian, and an old guy who smelled like peanut butter. It was quiet, and boring, and the hunter wasn't certain if the carpet was meant to be that sort of off-cream shade, or if it came from years of use and abuse. Between research and musing on the state of the library, and watching the occasional patron wander in for a book, Dean had managed to connect three sightings of the spirit in the park over the last fifteen years. Now he had a nice little list of sightings, 'victims,' and Cas had just finished up his short list of potential gravesites.

"Dude, you're going to have to narrow this down." Anything more than ten options and Dean stopped considering it as a lead. But he definitely had to admit that Cas was thorough with his research. "This would be like making a blind jump into hyperspace. I need the coordinates before I end up running through an asteroid field."

Dean's mind caught up with his mouth during the awkward few seconds of silence following that analogy. He thanked whatever god was kicking around the clouds that Cas just pressed on after he shook off that look of confusion. "But these are the most likely origins of the spirit."

"There's twenty—"

"Thirteen."

"Thirteen, names here. I'm not digging up thirteen graves in one night unless you have the cash to pay my bail."

"I am receiving a scholarship." It's muttered as Cas takes the list back, immediately scribbling out half of it and leaving the top few names. "Unless I see the spirit to confirm an identity, I will assume that it's one of these five."

"Still too many, Cas."

"Then it looks like we're in the park tonight to try to see her."

Dean frowns at the thought. This was supposed to be a quick salt-and-burn, with no hardships. Just how many freaking people jumped in the river in this town? "You can identify it on sight?"

"Most of the articles and obituaries had pictures."

"Right. Print them. You're staying in the motel with a six pack and a free pass with the porn."

"I'm on this hunt. I'm helping you identify this ghost."

"And you gave me a list of suspects. Just print the pictures and I'm golden."

"You likened the list to making a blind jump into hyperspace."

"And now you're going to give me coordinates."

"No, now I'm required to go on this hunt with you properly to ensure that you don't get lost."

With a roll of his eyes, Dean muscled Cas away from the computer long enough to open the history and print the papers. There would be a stack to go through later, but all he really needed were pictures clear enough to make a positive I.D. on the restless spirit. "You can call Bobby if you want to whine, but he's going to agree that you stay in the room."

"Then when I'm in the motel alone, I'll be sure to let Sam know that you're referencing Star Wars in regular conversation now. Or just mention it the next time a hunter stops by at the house."

"Dude, are you threatening to blackmail me? With my reputation?"

"Don't you usually make Obi-Wan or Yoda jokes?"

"There's more to Star Wars than Jedi…" Pictures printed and in hand, Dean pulled the unnecessary sheets of pure text and references. A few he kept to scribble notes on later, but the bulk went into the nearest bin. He spared a passing thought to the poor soul who happened to glance in at the recycling later. "Fine. But you make one noise that gets me killed, and I'll haunt your ass."

He didn't trust the small smirk that played about the kid's lips, and he definitely didn't trust Cas not to confess everything to Bobby anyway. Dean may have liked the way the kid researched and didn't take shit, but Cas was a sneaky little bastard when he insisted on helping. Dean had shoved the papers into Cas' bag and paused at the nearest vending machine when they hit the lobby. He was going to have to make a commitment to getting Cas drunk before dropping him off at home. The little freak deserved it. Though it wasn't for the first time on this trip that Dean wondered if this was what hunting with Sam would have been like, too. Or maybe Sam was too much of a geek.

Getting into the Impala, Cas tossed his bag over the bench seat and into the back before he spoke again. "Just think of me as your Wedge Antilles."

"I hate you."

"Do you really think this is right?"

The warmth of the fire had burned off the chill of night air, and dried dew-damp clothes. Lighter fluid tended to make the flames bigger than they needed to be, but Dean wasn't about to complain now that he had a few moments of warmth. It seemed appropriate to think that somewhere in the bone yard, there was an owl hooting out a warning to some small, skittering prey; or that the restless trees fed by death bent closer in to sap the heat from the fire. But Dean was too busy feeding research material into the blaze and trying to ignore the smell of burning decay.

"What's right?"

"Desecrating a body like this. Digging up holy ground, exhuming the dead, and destroying their bodies."

"It gets the job done."

"Does it?"

He dusted his hands off before he picked up the shovel, turning to face Cas. The kid was clean and tidy by comparison, but it was Dean who had spent the last couple of hours working through the dirt. "Gets rid of the ghost. Stops the killings. A few pissed off priests are fine by me if it means someone gets saved from a bad end."

Cas looked like he was struggling with the concept, trying to force some knowledge he couldn't quite grasp into words. Dean recognized the look: he had seen it on Sam every time he was told to do something that wasn't followed by a reason. Slinging the shovel over one shoulder, Dean grinned and (regrettably) steered Cas away from the burning remains. "It's death for ghosts, Cas. No remains, no way to stay around."

"Unless there was an emotional attachment."

"It'd have to be pretty damn strong, kid."

"There are millions of stories of dead mothers visiting their children. Or protecting them."

"This girl committed suicide."

"I mean in general, Dean. Both of our mothers died by supernatural intervention, and neither have physical remains."

"We're not having this conversation."

"My mother's ashes are scattered somewhere I've never been, but I swear that I've seen her around the house. I barely remember her, but I know exactly what she looks like because I've seen her."

"Dude, stop." Dean knew this line of thought. He had it in the few months after the fire when they tried to stay in the house again. He was a kid, but he swore he could smell his mother's perfume, or see her standing by Sammy. Even now, he knew it was just an imposed memory on a child's mind. He squeezed Cas' shoulder, not sure where the gesture came from, but just trying to derail him. "Hunt's over. Now I get to show you a time-honoured tradition that doesn't include moping around."

"What?"

"I got a fake ID for a 'Wedge Antilles' right here. Let's find a bartender stupid enough to accept it."