"Talia!" Annie was standing in the arch between the two rooms with Sam following up just behind her. "Tal, you can't talk to people like that. What have I told you?"

"But Donny says it's imp – "

"Talia, enough," Annie interrupted. "Donny is imaginary. You are too old to have an imaginary friend and I am done pretending!"

There was a tense silence while Talia sat still, her face wooden and wilful, but then tears started in her eyes and she just got up and ran out of the room. Annie's hand flew to her mouth and she started to tremble; her own eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Sam drew closer to her side and his hands hovered uncertainly half way to her shoulders. Just for a moment, Dean wondered if his friend was going to be brave enough to reach out to her, but then he stepped up to rescue them both before things got any more awkward.

"You O.K, Annie?" he asked, taking her elbow in a steadying grip, and Sam produced a handkerchief that she gratefully accepted.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, wiping at her eyes. "It . . . it still catches up on me sometimes . . . when I'm not expecting . . ." She swallowed the rest of the sentence in a tight gulp.

"I know. I mean I get it, kind of," Dean assured her. "I lost my mother a little while back."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She blew her nose quietly. "Illness?"

Dean hesitated. "House fire."

He watched her mind working, connecting the dots to their conversation that morning. "I'm so sorry," she said.

Dean nodded acknowledgement, shrugged it off.

"I hope Tal didn't upset you. Since her father died she just seems . . . preoccupied with the subject."

"Understandable," Dean assured her.

"But this Donny she keeps talking about . . . I don't . . . I don't know what to . . ." she shook her head helplessly.

Dean glanced at Sam but no suggestions were forthcoming. Until they'd had a chance to discuss the situation it was hard to know how to respond. Dean plumped for reassuring platitudes. "I had an invisible friend myself at that age: a kid brother, actually," he confided. "It's quite common," he added as he caught an inquisitive expression gathering on Sam's face.

Annie looked up from the hanky and studied Dean more seriously. "Did you think he was real?" she asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Well, no . . . I didn't . . . I knew he was . . ." Dean hesitated. He wasn't sure what to say. "Honestly, I don't remember," he told her.

Annie nodded. "I should go and check on Tal," she said. Dean released her elbow and she left in the same direction Talia had taken.

"Donny's not imaginary," Dean quietly informed Sam. "Annie has to know that, surely?"

Sam shrugged. "People believe what they want to believe," he said.

Dean brought Sam up to speed on the way back to their room and when they got there Sam made a beeline for the laptop. "Do you mind?" he asked as he paused, half seated, with his fingertips brushing the top. He never missed the formality now, even though he spent more time on it these days than Dean did.

"No, sure, knock yourself out," Dean acknowledged absently as he picked up the journal and leafed to the section on spirits. "So how come Talia can see Donny and we can't?" he asked. "We saw the Whitmans clearly enough."

"Spirits can manifest in certain situations or to certain people they identify with, but it takes a lot of energy." Sam replied. "Then there are some people who can perceive the presence of spirits. Children tend to be more open to that sort of thing but they usually grow out of it."

"Huh." Dean gazed toward Sam as he let that idea sit in his head for a bit. "So she is psychic after all?" he asked.

"No, but she may be a sensitive."

"What's the difference?"

Sam hesitated. "Well . . . there are different definitions . . . but psychics usually receive knowledge and impressions about the living: their past, present and future. Sensitives can perceive energies and vibrations, and sometimes they can communicate with spirits."

Dean toyed with the sheets of paper between his fingers. "What about Donny? Is he psychic?"

Creases formed on Sam's brow as he began to study Dean's face more closely. "I'm not sure that's an apt term when you're talking about a spirit," he replied carefully. "In any case, what you described didn't sound like prophesy, exactly. It sounded more like . . . philosophy."

Dean grunted. He wasn't so sure. It had seemed more personal than that, somehow. And Sam had avoided the issue of whether ghosts had foresight. Were they like demons? Could they read minds? See the future? Did all the occupants of that shadow world have access to knowledge that was usually hidden from ordinary folk?

Everybody dies.

It was literally true, of course. Was that all Donny meant, just a common truth? But then why did it seem so particular with Dean? Why was it such an important lesson for him? Was it about Mom? Or was he going to die? Was Dad?

"Donald Helfer."

Were they all going to die? "What?"

Sam looked up from the laptop again and turned it around so Dean could see the screen. "Missing person's report from Lichtburg P.D, April '76," he elaborated. "This house is where he lived."

Dean stared at the picture of the small boy. He didn't know what he'd expected; ethereal light shining from the face, maybe? But, no. He was just a kid like any other . . . whose remains were presumably now in a drawer at the County Sheriff's Office.

After a pause Dean asked "is he listed as one of the victims?" just for confirmation.

Sam was frowning. "No, not all of the bodies have been identified yet, but he must be there. We have the date, his age, his description. It shouldn't be hard for us to figure out which bones are his."

Dean grunted. He was just puzzling how come Donny hadn't identified his own body when the full weight of Sam's comment started to settle on him.

"Wait. What?" He stood up straight and stared at Sam. "Are you talking about a salt and burn? On Donny? He's just a kid!"

Sam's frown deepened and once again he studied Dean's face intently. "Dean, it isn't a kid. It's a spirit," he pointed out.

Dean was thrown off for a second, but then he cried "and does that automatically mean we have to gank him? You got something against spirits on principle? Are we even investigating the same case, here, Sam? Donny isn't the monster, here. He's one of the victims!"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, you're anthropomorphizing. Don't confuse the essence that lingers after death with the living person. Spirit is energy. It can manifest in human form, sure; it can just as easily be a bird or an animal – hell it can be a truck, or a bus – anything."

"Sam, this spirit can think and communicate. It isn't just random energy. It's more like . . ." Dean hesitated ". . . a soul or something."

"I thought you didn't believe in souls."

"Yeah, well . . . that was before." Not like he'd had any intimations of immortality himself in the last couple of days or anything.

Sam stood up and moved round the table toward Dean. "Dean, I'm not so sure that a spirit constitutes a soul, but even if . . ." He was using his calm and reasonable voice, which just kind of wound Dean up even more. "It doesn't belong on this plane. It needs to move on."

"Move on where?" Dean snapped. "Do you even know?"

Sam sighed. "Dean – "

"And, by the way, which one of us gets to explain to a little girl why she has to lose her best friend?"

Sam opened his mouth then paused and studied Dean intently. "Is that what this is about?"

"What?"

"Downstairs you said – "

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean growled, cutting Sam off and turning away.

After a few moments of silence Sam asked "Aren't you even concerned that it's attached itself to a child? OK, it hasn't been dangerous so far, but there are no guarantees. And it's leading her into things she shouldn't have to deal with at her age."

"Oh, right 'cause watching her father die of a long illness didn't do that already."

Sam paused and digested that observation, then he nodded acknowledgement. "I guess. Maybe. I'm sorry, I wouldn't know; I've never seen anyone die slow."

Dean looked back and studied Sam from under his eyebrows. There was a statement that spoke volumes. "Maybe that's the reason he appears to Talia," he suggested after a beat. "Have you considered maybe they're finding some sort of comfort in each other? You're just assuming that sooner or later a spirit's gonna go dark side. Is that a given? I mean . . . just 'cause it's supernatural, does that automatically make it a monster? Is every supernatural thing definitely evil and asking to get ganked?" He waited for a response, but all Sam did was stare back at him with an odd deer-in-the-headlights kind of expression.

Eventually Dean broke the silence. "Sam, maybe instead of hunting this spirit we should be helping it. 'Cause there's a monster here. But it isn't Donny."

"Dean, it isn't our job to investigate natural cases," Sam pointed out, but Dean cut him off.

"Oh, it's a job now? I thought it was about helping people."

Sam raked his fingers back through the strands of hair hanging over his forehead. "I know," he said. "I mean, it is! . . . But we do that by solving the cases other can't. There are already structures in place for solving normal crimes. The police have got that covered."

Dean snorted. "Oh, yeah, 'cause they're doing a bang up job so far!"

Sam nodded acknowledgement. "Because there was nothing connecting the murders before. But now they've got the bodies – "

"Thanks to Donny!" Dean slammed the journal down in frustration. "Come on, Sam! There are kids dying here! How can you not want to help?" he cried.

Sam looked shocked and hurt. "You think I don't want to?"

"You're talking about dusting material evidence. How is that helping?"

Sam's face froze. It didn't look like he'd considered that particular issue. He sat down heavily on the bed and started doing his nodding dog impression. Dean figured maybe he was getting through to him, so he just let him simmer for a bit.

"It isn't exactly our skill set," Sam said after some mulling. "I'm not even sure how we'd investigate a normal crime."

"How different can it be? If this was any other kind of case, what would we do?"

"Research the history. Interview witnesses," Sam acknowledged.

"And we have a prime witness right here," Dean reminded him.

Sam looked up. "You're suggesting we interview Donny?"

"As opposed to blowing rock salt through him? Yeah! Pfft!" It seemed obvious to Dean, but Sam looked strangely alarmed by the idea.

"You realize we'd have to do that through Talia?" he pointed out. "We'd need Annie's co-operation, and she seems near the end of her rope on Donny."

Dean shrugged. "If putting Donny's killer away helps him to move on, there's a reason for her to want to help us."

"If it does," Sam cautioned him. "What if incarceration isn't enough? What if he wants blood?"

Dean scoffed. He wouldn't have blamed Donny if he went vengeful spirit on the evil son of a bitch, but according to Talia he didn't have it in him. "Talia said he isn't angry any more."

"Then why is he still here? If it isn't anger keeping him here, then what? Dean, you're going to have to allow for the possibility that sooner or later we're going to have to deal with Donny."

Dean turned away impatiently. It was like Sam had a one track mind. Hunting supernatural creatures was all he knew. But he heard Sam rise behind him and then he felt Sam's hand on his arm.

"'Cause say you're right," Sam said gently. "Say he's just a lost soul. What's going to happen to him? Talia isn't going to be around to keep him company for ever. Nobody is. But he'll stay here, for years. Disembodied. Scared. And over the decades it'll probably drive him mad. Then maybe he will get violent. Dean, how do you think angry spirits are born? They can't let go, and they can't move on, so they're trapped, like wounded animals. Lost. In so much pain that they lash out, caught in the same loops, replaying the same tragedies over and over."

Dean shivered. As he listened to what Sam was telling him he felt more and more chilled. Was Sam right? Was that how it was? Always? "And what happens to them when you burn their bones?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "Samuel, my grandfather, he used to say that was like death for ghosts, but truth is, I still don't know. Not for sure."

Dean turned and met Sam's gaze and just for a moment he was profoundly shaken and confused by the sight of the blue hues in Sam's eyes. He barely recovered himself to respond and his voice quavered when he spoke. "I know this, Sam," he said. "I saw what happened to Daniel Whitman when I torched his remains. If that was death, then he died screaming. That's not gonna happen to Donny."

Sam sighed and his chin dropped. He shook his head slowly. "Dean, I understand how you feel. I do. But you can't count on just . . . ghost whispering him across. This isn't the Disney Channel."

Dean stood upright and still, jaw set, staring into space. "No, this is real life," he growled. "And happy endings don't happen in real life, do they?"

"Dean – "

"Except they do, Sam! Sometimes." Dean picked up his car keys. "They have to," he muttered, and turned toward the door.

"Wait, Dean, where are you – ?"

"I need air."

"Then let me – "

Dean turned and stabbed out his fingers in a gesture that warned Sam to keep his distance. "I need air," he growled. He moved past the door to the house and took the exit to the fire escape instead. As the door slammed behind him and he made his way down the steps toward the Impala he was relieved to note he wasn't being followed.