you guys cannot fathom how sorry I am for not updating like I said I would but I didn't know I'd be without internet on the days I promised chapters and then some until today ;w; and i tried, really i did, to get out a happy chapter but I didn't get to write up anymore and i've lost a bit of creativity but i shall endeavor to update sunday and maybe during the middle of next week before staying on the regular sche~dule.

edit: added a bit more description, and it's like my headcanon of what a ghost!Sam would be (i'll actually add descriptions or maybe draw my headcanons at some point this weekend)


0.

The ghost hisses, drawing up in the chair. Shriveled brown strips of grass are sprouting up through the concrete beneath its feet, twining around its bare toes. The ghost's eyes are a livid, furious shade of purple, but its face is drawn and its glow is all but nonexistent.

"Where'd yer white haired friend go?" Bobby growls, holding the blood blossoms closer to it.

It snarls, baring sharp fangs and a toxic green tongue, and spits at the hunter.

Bobby barely dodges the loogy, and grimaces as it festers on the ground, burning the concrete as it bubbles. Glaring slightly at the ghost, he moves the tongs over to the acidic spit, holding the blossoms as close to it as he can, and watches as the fizzling stops and the saliva dries out into flakes.

Stupid ghost. Stupid idgits. Stupid ghost infested town. Stupid everything really right now. Bobby exhales, frustrated and just ready to gank the stupid thing, but he needs to know where the white-haired one went. Scowling at the entity, he turns back to the metal tray just behind him, and picks up a syringe as he puts the tongs and blood blossoms down.

He pulls the stopper full from a watered down glass of blood blossom paste.

The specter stills out of the corner of his eye.

"Still wanna go a few rounds?" he growls, brandishing the needle as he walks back toward the ghost and behind it. "I'll give you three guesses as to what's in this here syringe, and the first two won't even count if you get it wrong."

"Fuck y—"

The words are barely out before Bobby plunges the needle into its neck, depressing the paste, and jerking back when a fourth of it is gone.

It screams.

Bobby watches dispassionately as it withers in the chair, spasming in pain. The ghost bites back on more howls of pain as the paste filters through its body; its hair falls free from its green tie and ponytail atop its head as it jerks violently and silently in pain. He busies himself with pulling the stopper full with more of the paste, giving an idle ear too the fading growls and grunts of pain.

"Ready to talk?" he inquires over his shoulder, his annoyance at getting nowhere fast clear in his voice.

When he turns back, the ghost is invoking murder with its eyes, trembling just the slightest under the saltwater soaked ropes, and its lips are coated in free flowing plasm.

It grins a sharp mouth full of green from when he swears.