AN: You want mothering for our boys? Okay, mothering it is. Also, I added the word numbnuts to my laptop's dictionary, so that's a good day's work.

* * *

Dean woke up feeling a whole lot better, but he was the only one who did. He'd had enough to drink to make him tipsy but not enough to earn himself a hangover, and he finally didn't feel like he needed another year or two of sleep. Sam hadn't gotten drunk either, and he didn't seem to be nursing a hangover, but he looked like he felt sick nonetheless. Sam brushed off his concern rudely enough to prove he was probably okay, but Dean was still going to look at his hand – both hands, actually – once they finally got to their own condo. Their beautiful, big, free condo they'd hardly spent two minutes in.

Carolyn was the color of paper, and she made coffee so strong that it made Dean's nose hairs curl (and he liked strong coffee), then drank her first two cups in total silence. Myra came out of her room wearing big sunglasses, the kind that go over top of regular glasses. She too was unusually quiet. Judy was decidedly not. She'd taken out her hearing aids and refused to put them in,so everything she said was overly loud and made her sisters wince. Barb poured the last of the Glenlivet into her cup of coffee and, for the first time since Dean had known her, walked like she was actually old, though she claimed it was stiffness from her little tumble more than anything else.

"Getting old sucks," she'd announced. Softly.

But they were all okay and capable of taking care of themselves, so Sam and Dean packed their things up.

"We're making a big breakfast. Er, brunch," Barb told them. "Come back around 1:00."

"Bacon?" asked Dean with a smile.

"Lots of bacon," she confirmed. "And those peach muffins you liked so much. I don't know what anybody else is making, but if there's anything we Firths do well, it's cook."

"We'll be back," Dean promised. He meant it, too. He really wanted to tell them all to stay inside, but he had a feeling that would go over like a big, rare steak at a vegetarian's convention. He comforted himself with the reminder that every single attack had taken place at night. Man, they really needed to figure this out and take care of it. There were usually civilians in danger in their Hunts, but having this many vulnerable parties that they actually cared for was kind of a nightmare. Maybe they could find a way to convince the ladies to stay somewhere else until they'd killed or banished the ghost. Yeah, right.

Dean tossed the first aid kit and a few other things that had ended up at the condo in the back seat and climbed into Baby. He couldn't help but notice that Sam climbed in with somewhat less than his normal ease of movement. Sam wasn't squinting in the bright sun or showing other signs that he was reacting adversely to the alcohol consumption of the night before, so maybe it was just discomfort from his hand. Thing couldn't feel good.

Still, Dean never liked maybe, especially when it had to do with Sam. Dean stretched his arm over the back of the seat and turned to look over his shoulder so he could back around the curve of the driveway. As soon as they were on the street, he stuck the hand that was already right by Sam onto Sam's forehead without warning. Predictably, Sam slapped it away almost immediately, but Dean only needed a second.

"The hell, Dean?" Sam scowled.

"You're a little hot," Dean mused, chewing his lip. He was trying to decide how worried he should be.

"Damned by faint praise," said Sam, because he sometimes said things that made no sense whatsoever.

"What?"

Sam rubbed a hand over his face but failed to disguise an amused smile. "Never mind. I don't have a fever, Dean. Relax."

"Well, you look like crap. What's up with you, then?" asked Dean, definitely not relaxing. "More than the usual, anyway."

"Nothing is wrong with me. You're being paranoid because you're worried about Barb and her sisters, and you're unhappy that I got hurt by the ghost. Remember the Ch – "

Dean gave Sam an incredulous look. "Paranoid?" he demanded, interrupting because he was pretty sure what Sam had been about to say. "Since when is it ever nothing? And don't you dare bring up the Cheetos incident."

"But – "

"No. No, bringing it up. Ever." Dean pulled into the garage of their condo and ignored the way Sam was biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling or laughing. Shortly after they'd gotten the bunker, they had killed a witch as she cast an unknown spell toward Sam. Dean had been...well, paranoid was probably the correct word, except it was totally justified given that it was a witch and a spell and Sam, and those things together were never good. So Dean had been watching closely for any signs that Sam had been hexed and had gotten a little worried to see that part of Sam's hand had changed color. How was he to know that it was orange because Mr. Health Nut had decided to splurge on Cheetos?

Sam, naturally, thought it was hysterical. Dean, naturally, promised to make Sam feel real pain if he brought it up again. It was only fair.

"You tell me if you feel off at all," Dean ordered rather than allow Sam to go down that embarrassing rabbit hole.

"I will," Sam lied sincerely. He probably didn't mean to lie, which was why he looked and sounded so earnest, but he would. Chances were good that even if he did start feeling crappy, he'd be too distracted to notice, or he'd figure it was no big deal. That was pretty much Sam's M.O. He could call Dean paranoid all he wanted – Dean was going to have to watch him. Still his job, and he wasn't even sad about it.

By the time they were both showered and sort of moved in, Dean's phone said it was over 90 degrees outside. By all rights, the younger brother should be the one to get all sweaty going to check in with security to see what they thought of the disturbance of the night before. But Sam was pale, and Dean was awesome and he knew Sam would struggle to explain his new bandages. "Let me see that before I go," Dean insisted, pointing to Sam's left hand.

"It's fine. You can check it when you get back," Sam argued, because it was his superpower. "Go before it gets even hotter. I'm busy with this translation."

And Dean agreed, against his better judgment. Looking back on the rest of the day later, Dean would conclude that it was the start of a lot of things going wrong.

The trip to talk to security was a complete waste of time, but at least they thought what people had heard had been fireworks. "There was absolutely no sign of violence, agent," some guy named Ed told him, which Dean took as a positive sign. They really didn't want anybody poking around and getting themselves killed for their trouble. Even better news was that more and more people had been leaving, so there were fewer and fewer potential victims (or witnesses) and construction had even been suspended, though only for the weekend. No wonder the north end of the development felt like a ghost town, pun not intended.

On the freaking way too hot walk back (and why the hell had he walked?), Dean got a call that was the next domino to fall. It was Barb, definitely not her normal cool self.

"Dean, I think we have a problem."

"What's up?" Shouldn't it be illegal for ghosts to haunt places that were this hot?

"We called the rental car company to bring us out a replacement car – you know, since the one we had slipped out of gear like that and ran into the back of the garage?"

Dean was mildly impressed. It was a good story. "Okay?" How much farther anyway? His sweat was sweating in his dark suit.

"They asked us to back the car out and Judy did it. Except, she didn't turn far enough, and she backed into that space in the circle of the driveway, you know?" Of course she did. Did Judy ever do anything the easy way? "And, uh, she ran over one of the rose bushes. Does that mean the ghost will be coming after her?"

Well, crap. Dean respected Barb too much to lie to her, but he didn't want her to worry either. "Listen, Barb. Every single attack has happened after dark, and it's barely noon. And there's not a ghost in the world," that they knew of " that can get through the salt lines, so she's completely safe if she stays inside. Sammy's working on research right now, so the plan is to figure it all out before there's even a chance of a problem. Just...make sure she stays indoors, alright? We can talk more when we come eat."

Barb rang off, sounding reassured. But before she did, she said, "Dean, she's my sister," and he felt that, all the way down to his soul. He was convinced that nobody else experienced a sibling bond like he and Sam did, but he could still understand and appreciate the connection they did have. Myra, he thought, must be going crazy with the need to protect three younger siblings, especially since she'd recently lost the fourth.

No matter how old he and Sam got, assuming they lived long enough to get old, Sam would always be Dean's little brother, and his job would be to protect him. And it seemed like the sisters felt some version of that protectiveness towards each other.

Speaking of younger siblings, Dean really needed to see Sam. Right now. He couldn't have told you why, but he was certain that there was something not quite right. You're worried about Barb and her sisters, and you're unhappy that I got hurt by the ghost, Sam had said, and he was right. They needed to get this Hunt over with, and get all of them out of danger. The bandages on Sam's hands reminded Dean too much of the pathetic bandages the British Men of Letters had put on Sam's hand and foot and leg. Spending time with women who wanted to mother them reminded Dean too much of the actual mother he'd dreamed of for so long...and who did not want to mother them. Ugh.

Dean peeled off his coat as he walked into the condo and frowned. It wasn't as cool as he'd hoped. He found the thermostat and cranked it down a few degrees – what was the point of free air conditioning if you kept it like 80 degrees inside?

"In here," Sam called from the left, where the kitchen was in their unit. Dean walked that way.

"We have a problem," he parroted Barb's earlier words, realizing a beat later that Sam had said it with him. And that Sam didn't look any better than before. "Of course there's another problem," Dean muttered. He quickly outlined Judy's mishap and the danger she could potentially be in.

Sam frowned as he listened. "Well, the good news is that I know who the ghost is," he said when Dean finished. "It isn't Dante. One of the servants suspected he had killed Camilla, so they poisoned him with nightshade, packed his corpse with salt, and burned it. Then they sent a sealed coffin full of sand back to his parents. No way did he stick around."

"So, it's Camilla after all?" Dean asked. It was strange that a vengeful spirit would have talked so long to Barb only to get nuts after they showed up, but not impossible. They sometimes had that effect on ghosts or monsters.

"No, I think it's Mara, the castellana, the one who ganked Dante. Most of her book is practical stuff – ledgers and notes about running the household. But the back section is all arcane stuff."

"Right in a book anybody could have found? That's weird," Dean mused, thinking out loud.

"Actually, most of the servants probably couldn't read. Anyway, she probably carried this with her at all times, which makes it a pretty good place to keep secrets. There might have been some protections on it too." Sam traced a finger over some faded markings on the dirty cover of the book. "They could have worn off over time."

"So, what was Mara into?"

Sam wrinkled his nose, which made him look about five years old. "Apparently, her real job was as a maga, a witch. She was charged by Camilla's parents with secretly protecting her. There's an oath she took and everything."

"Bang up job with that," Dean complained. He pulled a beer from the fridge; it had been stocked when they'd arrived. He rolled it over his forehead and relaxed at how good the cold felt.

"That's the problem." Sam waved off a beer of his own but didn't complain about Dean drinking before noon, so there was that at least. (Even though they were here for work, there was nothing to say they couldn't pretend they were on vacation.) Dean noted that Sam had pulled on a flannel. It made him hotter just to look at it. "Mara was an elitist. Even though she saw the evidence, she didn't believe Dante would ever really hurt Camilla, because nobility simply wouldn't do that."

"No, of course not. Rich people are moral paragons," Dean snorted.

"Paragons?" Sam smiled a little.

"Shut up. I know big words too."

"Ti piace fingere di essere stupido," Sam answered, his smile growing.

Dean growled. "What does that mean?"

Sam shrugged in response. "Probably nothing. I don't really speak Italian. Anyway, I think Mara went a little nuts after Camilla died. If her book is telling the truth, she refused to leave, not even to go to town or anything. She may have even committed suicide after everyone left. Or she just starved. I don't know. But I think she's still trying to protect Camilla. And the only way she can do that…"

"Is to attack anyone who hurts Camilla's roses?" Dean groaned and finished his beer. He decided to let Sam's mysterious Italian phrase go. Then he brightened. "Hang on! If Mara died alone out here, there was nobody to ship her back to Italy. We can find her and burn her!"

Sam tapped the table thoughtfully, then winced, pulling his hand toward his chest reflexively. "Right. Except, they haven't found any human remains at all. I have no idea where to look. Maybe someone found her and buried her – here, or maybe in town. Or maybe animals dragged her body off...we just don't know. I guess we start by checking burial records for nearby towns." He rubbed the bandage absently with the fingers of his right hand.

"Lemme see that," Dean ordered. He sat on the table next to Sam and snagged his left wrist. The bandage was spotted with blood, which it certainly should not be. As tightly stitched as it was, very little if any blood should be able to escape, especially under the tight bandage, and not enough to soak through. "Dammit. What did you do?" This would have taken a whole lot of trauma.

"Nothing." Sam's forehead creased. "Literally nothing. I've just been reading. I swear, Dean."

The truth of the words was easy to hear. Swearing, Dean retrieved the first aid duffel (forget the smaller kit) from his bedroom. Sam flinched when Dean cut the bandage off, and the reason why was immediately apparent. The once-clean wound was now swelling around the stitches, weeping watery blood and pus, and the skin was black around the edges. "What. The. Hell?!" Dean exclaimed. Even turning the hand so he could see it better made Sam flinch again, which meant it freaking hurt because Sam had a ridiculously high pain tolerance. Dean's work should have prevented infection, and no infection should be able to spread so quickly.

"Nightshade," deduced Sam, rapping his good knuckles on the table in frustration. "Mara killed Dante with it. I bet she laced a blade and then managed to cut him with it. It would be a slow, painful death that would mimic an illness. Or she could have just laced his food – same deal, just faster. She probably killed herself with nightshade, too. And now any attack – an attack just like that one that killed Camilla – includes it too."

"So what do we do about it?" Dean demanded louder than was strictly necessary.

"Nothing. A little of the tissue died, but that should be no big deal. If it's just ordinary nightshade, I just need to keep hydrated and wait for my body to clean it out."

If. What a shitty word. "But it's ghost-witch nightshade." Dean set down the hand gently then stood and paced across the small kitchen. "And that means what? It doesn't get better until we torch her – wherever she is?"

"Probably." Sam's eyes widened in thought and he pulled out his phone and quickly dialed. He identified himself as an FBI agent and talked for a few minutes, then hung up, looking disturbed. Dean leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for Sam to drop the other shoe. Sam didn't meet his eyes. "That was the hospital. Joe, the construction worker who was cut, died this morning from an unidentified infection." His eyes darkened in recrimination. "I told him that he was going to be okay."

Thoughts crashed in Dean's mind like breakers onto the shore. The need to protect – even from beyond the grave – was powerful. A powerfully-motivated, oath-driven, ancient witch-ghost had poisoned Sam and they didn't have a clue how to find her body. At the same time, he'd promised Barb that he would keep her family safe, and her sister was also in the super ghost's deadly sights.

There was one thing he could fix right now, though. "That guy Joe's injuries shouldn't have been fatal, Sam. You told him the truth, as far as you knew, and there was no way you could've known that there was some poltergeist poison in play." Dean understood the feeling that once they arrived on scene, every subsequent death was on them, but really, that just wasn't true. They couldn't do better than their best. "You've been working your ass off to figure this out, even getting hurt yourself. His death isn't on you, man. He was in the hospital and even they couldn't save him." Dean bumped Sam's shoulder lightly. "And there's nothing wrong with giving a guy who's in pain some encouragement."

Sam nodded but didn't answer. Dean bumped him a little harder, though not enough to jar the bad hand. "You know that, right?" he insisted.

"Yeah." Sam looked up and, as it always did, the trust in his eyes took Dean's breath away. That look had once allowed Dean to overcome the Mark of Cain and kill Death instead of Sam. He didn't know what his own expression did, but Sam's softened into an almost-smile. "I got it, Dean." Thanks. "And, uh, you know that it's not your fault that I got hurt, right?"

Dean wanted to scoff, but he melted like ice cream in the microwave at that tone. "No, it's that ghost bitch's fault, and I for one am going to enjoy roasting her. Just because she failed in her job doesn't mean she gets to kill people!" You're welcome. And thanks right back.

"I'll get started with these burial records, but we need to get to brunch."

Dean paced the small kitchen twice, missing the space of the bunker kitchen. He really wanted to keep researching without a break, but they had promised, and he knew the Firths had cooked up a feast. It's just what they did. And they would need (and deserve) some reassurance that Judy would be safe. Again, they'd recently lost her twin and had to be scared that they'd lose Judy too. And though they were tough old birds and had accepted the existence of the strange and weird, he couldn't expect them to be totally okay with everything. "Alright, but first I'm cleaning that out again. Give your body every chance to fight it off."

Sam grimaced but didn't argue.

Dean didn't want to have to take out any of his careful stitches, but he had to take out a few at the worst part in order to better flush out the wound. He hated it, but it had to be done to prevent worse pain and infection down the road, and there was nothing a doctor could do better than he could, except maybe offer top shelf pain control.

Sam clenched the edge of the table with his other hand as Dean carefully clipped a few of the stitches and teased the thread out of Sam's skin. He began to sweat as Dean squirted saline in the cut over and over. Dean had to pin his wrist with one hand and Sam's skin was bone white by the time Dean was gently pushing on the sides of the injury to push out any leftover pus.

"You should...clean it with holy water too," Sam grit out from behind clenched teeth.

Dean froze a second. Why hadn't he done that the first time? Ghosts didn't usually have any infernal ties, so wounds they inflicted didn't require holy water. Except, when was usually good enough for Sam's health?

"'S no way to know, man," said Sam, with his annoying mind-reading schtick. "I sure didn't think of it."

Yeah, well, Dean should have. He stood to retrieve the flask of holy water. "Still not your fault," said Sam a little hoarsely.

Dean just shook his head and came back to the table with flask in hand. They didn't know what, if anything, this would do, but he had a bad feeling about it. This time, he sat right next to Sam so he could pin his arm with one elbow in case it was as awful as he feared. "One..." said Dean, and tipped up the flask.

The holy water hissed, bubbled, and steamed as if it had been poured onto something red hot. Sam went rigid and made a small, strangled noise, but Dean steeled himself and poured more. It took almost the entire flask before it finally it finally stopped reacting. By then, Sam had gone silent and white.

"Breathe, buddy. Don't forget to breathe," Dean encouraged, hating to do this. As per usual, he'd been talking a bunch of nonsense the whole time he worked. "You're not going to pass out on me, right? If you pass out, you don't get any brunch." Actually, given Sam's pallor, maybe mentioning food hadn't been the best decision.

"Not gonna," grit out Sam, his tone revealing just how much it hurt, as if all the other clues hadn't been enough.

"That's good. Cuz I am not missing out on bacon and muffins for your sorry ass if you do." Dean gave the whole thing one more rinse, wiped it off as gently as he could, and studied it critically. "Alright, done with the worst part now. Don't forget to breathe." It was a valid concern, as it wasn't uncommon for someone in a lot of pain to hold their breath to try to fight the pain. Sam drew in two quick breaths, then deliberately slowed his breathing. "That's it. That's right. Man, I owe that Mary a beat-down."

"Mara."

"That's what I said." Dean generously smeared antibiotic ointment over everything, then put a butterfly bandage over the middle of the area that he'd removed the stitches from. He covered everything with a 2x4 pad and wrapped it in enough gauze to offer some protection from bumps as well as germs. He shot a quick glance at Sam's face. Pained but composed. "Okay, let me look at the finger that got it, too."

When Dean turned his hand to rest on the outside of the palm on the pinky side, Sam curled down all fingers except the hurt one – the middle one. "Nice," complained Dean, though he was grinning on the inside. Punk. The tip of the finger was swollen and dark, too, but it was easier to handle since it was much smaller than the other cut and hadn't required any stitching. "How did Noah keep the ark from getting too dark?"

"Dean." Sam rolled his eyes.

"How, Sammy? C'mon!" Dean gave Sam his best play-with-me face.

Sam sighed long and loud as if very put-upon. "Um. I guess floo – shit!"

Dean had poured the peroxide over the wound, followed almost immediately by the last of the holy water. He smirked at Sam rather than let his worries show. Because if Dean looked worried, Sam would certainly think that he was dying. Which he was not. "Nope. Shit doesn't give off light, numbnuts. He turns on the flood lights," Dean all but sang, well aware that Sam had been about to give the correct answer.

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes and generally pretended that he was irritated with Dean rather than physically hurting, and Dean pretended he didn't notice. It was kind of their thing.

Dean didn't quite close the bedroom door as he changed his clothes so he could keep half an eye on Sam sitting at the table doing his research. Sam pretended not to notice that either. What Dean couldn't ignore was the minute tremble of the long fingers as he tapped on his laptop one-handed. Or Sam's paleness. Dammit.

"We should get going to Barb's," Sam said, thankfully not calling Dean out for being a stalker. Dean nodded and walked by and tried to sneak a touch of Sam's forehead. Sam reacted too fast this time and punched Dean's arm, and Dean didn't even get a chance to gauge his temperature.

"Hey," Dean complained. "Don't hurt your good hand. Well, better hand."

"Hitting you? I doubt it," Sam snorted, his bitchiness oddly making Dean feel a little better. He still tossed the Tylenol on the table with a pointed look. And worried a little more when Sam dry-swallowed a couple without complaint. Dammit again.

They drove the short distance to the other condo because it was moving from hot to scorching bordering on hellish. The fact that Sam was wearing a flannel out in it was just another sign that things weren't copacetic.

The new rental car, some white bland-mobile that Dean couldn't be bothered to identify further, sat on the road and the garage door was open, so he happily drove right in. This, feeling so at home some place other than the bunker, with people other than Sam, was odd. But oh-so-nice. It was sort of like being at Jody's place. Or like Bobby's had been. You knew you would be welcomed, that the people inside would share whatever they had and hug you or yell at you depending on what you needed and deserved at the time. It made Dean ache in a way that he'd first felt at four years old when he'd realized that he no longer had a real home.

It made him kind of wish that these good women didn't have homes and families to go back home to. That he could tuck them all in his pocket and bring them back...not to the bunker. But close by, somewhere in Lebanon, where he could drop in for good food and unconditional love when he needed a little break from everything. There were some things a brother couldn't really offer. What he wanted was...a mom, he realized, and the ache grew sharper.

"You 'kay?" asked Sam, softly, seriously.

"Just starving," said Dean, finally putting the car in park and turning off the key. He looked over at Sam and asked the same question back, just as seriously. "You 'kay?"

Sam actually considered the question, then nodded. "Yeah. My hand hurts a little, but it's livable. Oh, and Dean? Me, too." He tipped his head lightly toward the door to the condo and got out, leaving Dean to stare after him for a second. Huh.

Dean went in through the door of the garage right behind Sam. It deposited them directly into the kitchen, and though Dean couldn't see any of what the ladies had prepared yet, he sure could smell it. "Oh, boy!" he enthused, rubbing his hands together gleefully. His stomach chimed in loudly, just as enthusiastic as the rest of him. Carolyn, who was ushering them in, chuckled lightly.

"It's a good thing you're hungry," she said. "We had a little...discussion about what kind of quiche you boys would like best and, well, we ended up each making some." Sam moved to the side and Dean could see into the dining area for the first time. There were four steaming, pie-shaped egg casseroles on the table. "This one has ham, mushrooms, onions, green peppers, and of course, cheese. This one – "

Dean let the words wash over him. They all sounded amazing, even the one with spinach in it. Not only that, but Barb followed them in with a plate of bacon, and Judy came next with two large bowls full of muffins. "Did Caro tell you that we had a little disagreement?" the latter asked with a grin. "There are four kinds of muffins too. Just wait until this evening. It will be like a TV show. Pie Wars: Firth Sisters Edition."

Dean whispered to Sam, deliberately loudly, "Sammy, this might be the greatest day of my life!"

As they ate, Myra admitted that they were trying to show their gratitude for the boys "saving Barbie's life" and "coming all the way out here to hunt a nasty ghost." And boy, did the women show it, no matter that the Winchesters insisted there was no need. Dean was never slow about taking more food, but he never got the chance. His coffee cup never got less than half full, nor did his glass of apple juice, and bacon, muffins, and a slice of each different kind of quiche (which was so not the pansy dish he'd thought) appeared as if by magic. And you better believe that he ate it all.

Then there was the blatant affection and teasing. The women had been open and teasing before, but now it was as if their shared danger and drinking had opened a door, moving the Winchesters firmly into the category of family. It was...just as nice and just as terrifying as Dean had thought as they drove into the condo garage. A pat on the back of the hand. A warm smile. Clucking and fussing over Sam's new bandages and the fact that he wasn't eating as much as Dean. Barb even kissed the top of Dean's head once when she was walking past for some reason. Sam was all but beaming, looked a bit bemused but also relaxed and pleased. Even Judy was acting more motherly than nuts.

It almost, almost was enough to distract Dean from the way he could swear he could feel Sam's temperature going up. Not quite, though. Even talking about the case couldn't do that. "So, ghosts can only come out at night?" Judy was asking. She was the only sister who wasn't worried by the fact that she'd taken out some of the super special roses of death.

"Not exactly, but most have a pretty major preference for the dark," Sam explained, setting down the muffin he'd been nibbling at. Dean thought Sam was mostly eating to keep the mom-types off his back, but hey, whatever worked. "And they seem stronger at night too. I've read some theories about why –"

"And we don't need to hear any of them," Dean interrupted. What kind of sausage was in this quiche, anyway? It was amazing. He'd have to ask. "The important thing is that mad Mara isn't very likely to do anything while the sun's out trying to roast us alive. Anyway, one thing we don't need a theory to tell us is that ghosts can't cross salt lines, so you're safe here."

"You shoot them with salt, right?" clarified Barb. "But that doesn't end them, just makes them go away for a few minutes. You have to burn their bones with salt."

"Right." Dean spoke with his mouth full, easily ignoring the dirty look Sam was undoubtedly sending his way. "But sometimes ghosts are stuck to something else. Something physical that was important to them in life. Like, Camilla is probably stuck to her roses, or maybe even that packet of seeds that she dug up."

"How do you figure out what it is?" asked Carolyn. She looked even more nervous than usual and kept sending glances at Judy that Judy pretended not to notice. (Hey, that was familiar.)

"Research," said Sam. "Sometimes the ghosts give it away themselves. Once in a while, we can even convince some to just let go and move on."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that happens about as often as…"

"As often as Barb behaves herself?" asked Judy with her typical twinkle in her eyes. Apparently, the other sisters hadn't quite let go of Barb's little solo evening jaunt and the way it had put her in danger. That was familiar, too. No wonder Dean got along with the...whatever you called a group of old ladies. Gaggle? Coven? Herd? Flock, maybe? That and the amazing food, naturally.

Dean let the ensuing bickering wash over him for a while and took the opportunity to study his brother a little more. What he saw was not great. Sam had his left hand curled in his lap, held close to his body in a subconscious attempt to protect it. It was a sure sign that it hurt like a bitch. He was also shivering a little, and his pallor was worse than it had been just a little earlier.

"Speaking of research," Dean butt in, not caring that it was an obviously forced segue. "We need to go back and do some more of it. I mean, thank you for the awesome food – really, really awesome – but we want to get this figured out before dark if we can." And before the supernatural poison takes Sam down. Possibly for good.

Sam's expression said he knew what Dean was really after, but he didn't argue, either. He wouldn't want the Firths to see him getting sicker.

"Sam, are you –" Barb started, only to be interrupted as Sam's and Dean's phones both beeped in warning. A second later, a few other phones beeped, too. Dean pulled his out and frowned, noting out of his peripheral vision that Sam and Barb were doing the same thing.

The National Weather Service has issued an emergency weather alert for your area. A severe sandstorm, moving from west to east at approximately 65 miles per hour, will be arriving in the next 4-12 minutes. Indications: take shelter indoors, in an interior room on the lowest level of the building. If you must be outside…

Sand storm? Where were they – the freaking Sahara? With a jolt, Dean jumped to his feet and rushed to close the garage door, then breathed a sigh of relief that his baby would be safe. When he got back, all four of the women were lined up looking out of the west-facing living room window, with Sam watching over their heads. It looked like a dirty red wall, stretching from horizon to horizon, was rushing toward them. Though the sun was still shining harshly on them, above the wall of sand the sky was gray and hazy. It looked ominous, to say the least.

Sam turned and caught Dean's eye. "There goes our daylight," he said softly.

"And," added Barb, wrapping one arm around Judy's thin shoulders, "that will kill all of the roses."

* * *

AN: More food, more mothering, and only a mild sort of cliff-hanger. More like a hill-hanger, I guess.

The Italian, as always, comes from Google translate. Sam tells Dean: Ti piace fingere di essere stupido which means, you like to pretend to be stupid.

I don't know if the National Weather Service issues warnings for sandstorms, as we don't exactly get them where I live. So I just worded the warning like a tornado warning, because we do get those.

Timelady66: Deal -- Barb is now communal property for me and my readers! Judy, et. al. too. So, you were absolutely right, the boys needed more mothering, so they got some here. And Barb's sisters brought up her ill-conceived walk again too. Good call on the ghost! I love to have such smart readers!

Shazza: Look at you calling it with Sam's injury! And I wanted to say I'm so sorry

that you lost your mom so long ago and are missing her this time of year. Sending hugs from the other side of the world!

Colby's girl: I've never actually had Glenlivet, but people tell me it's great. I'm glad that you liked the boys taking care of the sisters. :-)

Christine: I'm glad you enjoyed the ogling. That's what I will probably be like when I'm an old lady. hehe You called it on the red herring. Y'all are very smart!

muffinroo: Always happy to provide virtual eye candy! And Judy is so much fun to write. She's a nutcase, so I can have her do anything. BTW, Barb's line that Judy's the reason they can't have nice things is all sfaulkenberry. I just preempted (i.e. shamelessly stole) it.

stedan: I love these crazy ladies too! And look - not Camilla! I liked her too much to make her the killer.

sfaulkenberry: You sure did! And there are a lot of ways that many of us are like Judy. Except, I'd hide under the table instead of guarding the door with a golf club! I do think there are a lot of us who are guilty of pausing the show at opportune times...and maybe cruising Pinterest for pics. I should try Judy's Scrabble strategy, except none of my sisters would be shocked or horrified. I just have to laugh at your absolute honesty about what you expect and hope to see coming up. I think it's pretty fair to say we're on the same page!

Kathy: It's so great to hear that Barb feels like a real, fleshed-out character to you! She has pieces of all her sisters, I think: some of Myra's stern protectiveness, some of Judy's goofiness and spontaneity, and some of Carolyn's motherliness and worry. Good, too, that you found Barb walking to clear her head realistic. Maybe not the best decision, but at least understandable. Thanks for your always fabulous comments!