A/N: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed and added this story to their favorites list. I hope this next installment doesn't disappoint. In might be some time before I update again, given that I'm going on a holiday in a few days and my computer access will be limited during that time, but I promise to post the instant I return. In the meantime, please continue to read and review, I really appreciate the feedback.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way shape or form.

CHAPTER TWO

And he was out the door. Dean watched Sam go, wrestling the impulse to call him back.

Instead, Dean grabbed one of the room's small chairs and roughly pulled it back from the desk, plopping down on it. He tapped his fingers on the desk restlessly. But he could see Sam's retreating back from here, so he jumped up and sat on the bed furthest from the window, grabbing his duffel bag with the tip of his boot and dragging the thing towards him. He withdraw their dad's journal and began restlessly flipping through the pages. He wasn't really paying it any attention though – he knew those worn pages almost by heart. But then his eyes fell on that photo – the one of him, Sam and their dad, and he sighed, running a hand through his short hair.

Okay, so maybe yelling at Sam about something Dean had pushed him into divulging in the first place wasn't the classiest move, but…No, you know what, Dean cut himself off, I have a right to be pissed off – it isn't exactly a hissy fit when murder accusations are involved.

Drawing from experience, Dean quickly shut off his senses to anything but the frustration he was feeling – concentrating on it until it eclipsed any of the emotions that had caused him to get so upset in the first place. Satisfied that he'd eradicated any strands of self-pity or guilt that were trying to disrupt his frustration, Dean grabbed a clean (it smelled relatively clean, at least) shirt and strode into the motel's tiny bathroom to take a shower. He made sure to slam the door behind him; even though there was no one else around to hear it, slamming things made Dean feel better.

A little while later, Dean hopped out of the shower and dressed. Realizing he'd left his shaver in his bag, Dean went to grab it. Sam hadn't returned yet. Dean shot a glance at the room's alarm clock. It had only been fifteen minutes. Not long enough to start worrying.

Dean grabbed his duffle bag and plunged a whole arm into it, rummaging around for his razor. His fingers brushed against an assortment of items and he managed to find that old Snickers bar he'd been saving, but no razor. He finally had to turn the bag upset down and shake all the contents out. How did he ever find anything in this thing? Dean's eyes involuntarily slid towards Sam's backpack as it sat neatly on his bed. He bet Sam's razor was neatly stowed away in the same compartment each time they packed and moved on. He glared at it.

Dean was so busy rummaging through his wrinkled possessions that it took him several minutes to realize that his quiet muttering wasn't the only sound filling the motel room. He stood up straight and quieted his breath, listening.

The noise was coming from the bathroom - from behind its closed door. It sounded like running water. Dean hadn't left any taps on. Reaching first for his small shot gun, the one filled with rock salt – he knew where to find this, at least – Dean slowly moved towards the closed door. Pausing right outside, he leant his ear against it. Yep, definitely the sound of gushing water.

Maybe a pipe gave out, Dean tried to reason, before his real sense of reason kicked in: Yeah, when the hell is it ever the normal explanation.

Taking a deep breath, Dean quickly swung the door open to reveal…nothing. Nothing that interesting, at least. No ghost, no messages on the walls, no taps spurting blood. Only a bathtub that was quickly filling with ordinary water as it gushed from its ordinary tap.

Maybe it was just the pipes. Dean entered the small room cautiously, though, keeping his arm outstretched, the gun leveled in front of him. Edging towards the tub, he quickly glanced down to make sure there wasn't anything actually in it, before reaching to turn the water off.

It was in that moment that he noticed a flicker out of the corner of his eye. He had just enough time to look up and see a ghostly figure – grayish in colour with cold, dead eyes – glaring at him fiercely through the cabinet mirror, before he felt its hand grab him from behind and shove his head into the water.

As his head and shoulders hit water, Dean involuntarily gasped. The water was cold! Like ice! But gasping was a bad move – the water rushed into his mouth, down his throat, the iciness burning him as it stung his eyes and blocked his nose. He was choking, and coughing made it worse.

Shit! He was going to drown. In a bathtub!

Dean panicked, struggling with every bit of strength, his arms slipping against the slick tile, his hands clawing at the bottom of the tub, trying desperately to find a grip so that he could lever himself out. But the harder he struggled, the tighter that thing held onto Dean's neck. Dean could feel the fingers digging in – at this rate his neck would snap before he even got a chance to drown.

That thought, and the black fog that had begun to creep across his vision, gave Dean the incentive to pool all his remaining strength into one last struggle. He lashed out with his legs, thrashed around his body, writhed his neck to try to dislodge the viselike grip.

He felt the pressure on his neck loosen, and though his lungs were exploding and his throat burning, Dean could've sung out in relief. But, all of a sudden, the creature recovered his grip and angrily slammed Dean further into the water. Dean's teeth knocked together as his chin smashed into the tiles, his elbows and wrists connecting with the tub just as painfully. Whirlpools of red began swirling in the water, expanding in front of Dean's eyes as quickly as his energy flowed out of him.

I'm going to die…The realization stung more than the cold. Where are you, Sammy…

Instinctively clinging onto his last shred of awareness, Dean heard his attacker whisper something:

"Bet you're sorry now."

You'll barge in like a maniac and Dean will be sitting there watching TV, complaining about how long I took. Sam kept repeating this to himself, hoping it would quiet the unease he'd been feeling since his little encounter with that local.

Reaching the motel in less than half the time it had taken him to leave it earlier, Sam barged in like a maniac and found an empty room staring back at him. The unease tripled, beating against his chest.

"Dean?" Sam called, chucking the plastic bag full of food onto the closest bed. He hurried towards the bathroom door and pounded on it. "Dean! You in there?"

When he received no answer, he rattled the doorknob in the off chance that the door was unlocked. It wasn't. Sam quickly backed up, getting ready to kick the door in. His unease had mutated into downright fear.

Sam hesitated for a split second – he did hear running water, maybe Dean just couldn't hear him over the shower. But Sam wasn't about to take that chance. "Just please don't be naked," he muttered, and kicked open the door. It flew open, bits of wood flying in all directions.

Sam ran inside but slipped on the large puddle of water that had spilt over from the bathtub. He grabbed onto the towel rack as his legs gave way under him, which must have been instinctual given that what he saw instantly slackened every muscle.

Dean was being held underwater by what looked like a ghost in human form. It was a grayish colour with deep, black eyes set in a young face contorted by rage. But all Sam cared about was that his brother wasn't struggling. His brother was limp, the only movement coming from a few twitches racking his brother's limbs.

Though time slowed to an excruciating pace the moment Sam saw Dean's still body, the ghost actually disappeared the instant it locked eyes with Sam. But, in the moment, Sam could care less about that thing. He skid and slid across the wet floor, falling to his knees beside Dean, hauling his body out of the water.

Dean's limp form fell against Sam. Eyes closed, lips swollen, his face a strange mixture of blue and red, this Dean looked foreign to Sam's eyes. It sent a chill down his spine.

"Dean!" Sam cried, cradling his brother's body close to him, using his free hand to tap Dean's cheeks. Jesus! They were cold to the touch. "Dean! Come on, man, open your eyes. Please." There was blood trickling from Dean's mouth, turned pink from the water. Sam shook him a little. Still no response.

"Shit!" How long had he been under? As quickly, and as gently, as his shaking hands allowed, Sam lay Dean's body on the ground, tilting Dean's head back, getting ready to initiate mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But before he got the chance, Dean spluttered into life, water shooting out of his mouth as he rolled to the side, coughing and gasping for breath.

"Don't you dare," he managed to rasp out between his struggle to suck in air while simultaneously coughing out the water he'd swallowed.

Relief flooded into Sam with such force that he collapsed against the bathtub, laughing. He knew that laughing while Dean was still flat on the floor, coughing with enough force to ripple the puddles of water around him, was inappropriate. But he couldn't stop. His brother was alive! Sam was sitting there on the floor of a motel bathroom, his pants soaking in water stained pink with his brother's blood, but Dean was alive!

Fuck… Dean had almost died.

That thought quickly sobered Sam up. His insane laughter faded. He was sitting in Dean's blood, wasn't he? He clambered over to where Dean was now sitting, having managed to lift himself up off the ground with shaky arms. Dean's head was resting on his knees. Sam could hear Dean's shuddering breath as he concentrated on getting his breathing back to normal, visibly wincing every time a gulp of air passed through his sore throat.

Sam gave Dean the time he needed, quietly sitting beside him.

When Dean finally got the energy to lift up his head, a few minutes later, he found Sam staring at him worriedly. Dean managed to mold his features into his usual grin. "Talk about your brain freeze."

Sam snorted, the relief again threatening to overpower him.

"Sam," Dean croaked after a moment, the hesitation in his voice instantly getting Sam's attention.

"Yeah?"

Dean sighed, struggling to get out the words, though it had nothing to do with his sore throat. He wasn't looking at Sam when he finally spoke. "Do you really think I could kill someone?"

Sam was shocked. The tone that Dean had asked that with…it was earnest, almost vulnerable – devoid of any frustration or sarcasm or…anything! And it was for this reason that Sam didn't answer right away. He was taken aback, the relief that had filled him earlier quickly giving way to shame as he realised that Dean actually felt he needed to ask that question.

Sam's shocked silence seemed to knock Dean's sense of control back into him, and he quickly recovered from the shaken state his close-encounter had left him in.

"Because if I don't get into some warm clothes soon, I'm going on a murdering spree."

"Dean," Sam began. But Dean cut him off, like Sam knew he would.

"How'd you fight it off?" Dean looked at Sam, distractedly rubbing his chest as his lungs depressurized.

Sam sighed. He'd let it go for the time being.

"I didn't. I ran in, slipped, and he disappeared."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding me."

"Serious."

"Gee, you're just a regular gung-ho Charlie." Dean used the bathtub to lever himself off the floor, waving off Sam's help. "Hey, go find me some dry clothes, would you."

Sam hesitated. Dean just rolled his eyes. "I promise to call you if another freak comes out to play. Give you a chance to orchestrate your slip and slide attack."

Sam smiled. Dean's voice still sounded gravelly, but at least his sarcasm had returned. "Hey, never underestimate the element of surprise."

Dean chuckled. "Falling on your ass is surprising. Not if he knew you, of course, but lucky for you I'm the only one who knows what a klutz you are."

Sam shook his head, a smile playing on his lips as he left the room.

Knowing that it'd take Sam some time to locate a clean outfit in the bundle of possessions strewn across the bed, Dean took this chance to check out the damage that ghost thing had caused. A coppery taste had been welling in his mouth since the black fog had cleared from his vision and he'd found himself on the floor. He spat the blood out into the sink, and quickly checked that all his teeth were intact. If that thing left me writing to Santa for my two front teeth, I swear to God…

But his teeth were all fine. The blood had come from a split in his lip from when he'd hit the tile. He quickly cleaned it up, avoiding looking in the mirror lest he saw that ghost again. Okay, so Dean was a bit shaken. He wasn't going to pretend he wasn't. At least not while Sam was out of the room.

But as the pain in his chest retreated to a dull throb, so too was Dean able to shove aside his sense of foreboding. He and Sam had a job to do. And once that was done they could leave this god forsaken town for good and forget that death seemed to be chasing him lately.

Looking at Dean for the third or fourth time since he'd emerged from the bathroom, Sam couldn't help smirking. Dean was leaning up against the pillows in his bed, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, a heatpack placed carefully under his feet. In one hand he held a hairdryer up to his hair, with the other he munched on his hamburger. All while watching the TV loudly. He sure looked content for someone who had almost just drowned.

"A picture lasts longer," Dean said in between bites, not taking his eyes off the tube.

Sam chuckled. "You're unbelievable, you know that."

Dean grinned. "Why, thank you."

Sam shook his head, closing his laptop. "Only you would use a near-death experience to get out of researching." He said it lightly.

Dean shrugged. "It was a traumatizing experience. I almost drowned in a teeny bathtub in a dinky little motel room. The only way my death might have been more humiliating is if I'd choked on a rubber duckey." Dean finally let his eyes travel from the television set. "How's that going anyway? Find anything that might explain who our friendly visitor was?"

"Not yet," Sam sighed. "This town has a pretty standard local history. No whisperings of anything darker going on."

"Bet you're sorry now."

"What?" Sam asked, turning towards Dean. Dean switched off the hairdryer and placed his half-eaten burger on the bedside table.

"It's what that ghost said. I almost forgot."

"Bet you're sorry now?"

"Yeah." Dean's memory flashed back to the whispered remark. He had almost lost consciousness when that thing had said it. But though a black fog was covering his thoughts like a thick blanket, that voice – torn into by rage - had cut through the thickening blanket and seared into Dean's memory: Bet you're sorry now.

Sam voice brought Dean back to the present. "Sorry? About what?"

Dean shrugged. "Using up all the hot water? I mean Christ, that water was ice cold."

Sam was about to tell Dean to be serious, when his own memory offered him some answers. Hadn't he wished Dean would stop being so hot-headed just as that icy wind passed by? Sam felt the color drain from his cheeks. No. No way. It had to be a morbid coincidence. There was no way in hell he had played any part in what happened to Dean. But…god, there was no way! He'd never want to hurt his brother! It just wasn't possible. He was connecting dots with lines that didn't exist.

"Sam?" Dean was staring at him, eyebrow cocked.

Sam mentally shook himself, trying to dislodge those thoughts from his head. "Um, it's noth - "

"Let me guess," Dean cut in, holding up his hand. "It was nothing. And then I say 'Sure it was', and you say, 'Gosh golly, really it wasn't anything', but I know different coz I'm freakin' insightful like that, but you just stare at me like a wounded puppy dog and insist it's nothing. Whatever. I know the routine. I'm going to bed."

Dean turned the TV off and flipped onto his side, yanking the sheets over his head. Though he popped out from under them a second later to switch off the bedside lamp, before disappearing under the covers again, leaving Sam sitting in the sudden dark.

Sam didn't move for a while. He just stared ahead, watching as the room's dark shadows seemed to waver in and out as his eyes adjusted. His brother was in danger. Any moron could see that. But the question was why. What did Dean have to do with his vision of that little girl running down the street. Was the ghost that attacked Dean responsible for her fear? But why had it disappeared when Sam entered. And why was the town so concerned with Dean and his…cussing. None of it made sense!

Sam opened his laptop again. Yes, he was tired. Exhausted even. But he had to try to find some explanation. Even just some breadcrumbs leading them in the right direction. And if only to silence the little film reel in his head that was replaying, over and over again, that moment Sam had felt the air grow cold as he wished Dean weren't so hot-headed.

About half hour into his research, a lamp popped on, giving relief to Sam's strained eyes. Surprised, Sam glanced up to catch Dean's hand snake back under his covers. Sam smiled.

Dean stirred in his sleep, pulling the covers tighter around himself. His chin still ached from where it'd hit the tile and sleep hadn't come easily because of it. Now he could feel Sam hovering over him. "Dammit Sam," Dean mumbled into his pillow. "I'm fine, let me sleep."

"Wha…" Sam answered sleepily, his own voice muffled by his own pillow.

Wait a minute. If Sam was over there…

Dean's eyes sprung open, his hand instantly reaching for his knife.

"Holy crap!" Dean shouted, springing up from his bed.

Hovering over him had been another ghost. This one also in human form – also young with dead eyes, though not as cold or cruel. But it'd disappeared the instant Dean yelled. Dean's heart pounded against his chest, his hand clutching the knife. He turned to put it down on the table, only to find himself staring at that ghost again. His yell froze in his throat as the ghost leant forward, wrapped his fingers around Dean's face to silence him, and whispered into Dean's ear.

"Archers Way…"

Then it disappeared again. And light flooded the small room. Sam was standing over the light switch, staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean stared back, unable to form any words. He took a shuddering breath and ran a hand over his face, he could still feel those dead fingers against his skin. He put the knife back under his pillow. It would be useless against the see-through.

"What happened?" Sam asked, his eyes still wide.

"You didn't see it?" Dean asked. How could he not have seen it? It'd been practically glowing! Collecting whatever small amount of light was in the room and drawing it to himself. What a showoff. Insulting the ghost seemed to help Dean calm down.

"It was another Casper. Just…watching me sleep. I feel violated." Dean grabbed some clothes off the ground and threw them on over his shorts. No way he was getting back to sleep now.

"Did it hurt you?" Sam asked, instantly alarmed.

"No. Scared the crap out of me though. Dudes just don't watch other dudes sleep. Dead or not. It's wrong."

Sam checked the glowing digits of the alarm clock. 5:43. He's just gone to sleep a couple of hours ago. Maybe that's why he hadn't woken up the instant the otherworldly presence had entered their room – he was just too tired to be properly alert.

"That's all it did?" Sam asked Dean, watching as Dean strode across the room, kicking away his duffle bag as his feet got tangled in it and then grabbing the laptop and quickly switching it on.

"He whispered something." Dean typed in the phrase and hit search. Still a bit shell shocked, Sam drew up a chair and looked at what results the search yielded.

"Archers Way?" Sam said, surprised.

"Yeah. That's all he said. Why, you heard of it?" Dean stopped his search and looked at Sam, noting the recognition that had filled his brother's voice.

"Last night. Uh, not through any ghostly means. I was trying to find some information about this town that would help explain what's going on, and I stumbled across some random kid's blog entry. It was called Pod People Paradise."

"And you still read it?" Dean asked, amused.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well conventional sources weren't giving me much help. But, this kid, he said he has a cousin who lives in - get this - Archers Way, Point Ardeer."

That got Dean's attention.

"And that whenever he visited this cousin, he'd always hear these strange noises at night. Like rattling and screams. But no one else who lived in that block would ever acknowledge the sounds. Hence the pod people thing. He even goes on to mention the five houses that he thought the noise might be coming from."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "No shit? He did the work for us?"

"Looks like it," Sam said, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, there's no harm in checking out those houses he mentioned. Thanks to your encounter we know there's something going on there."

Dean shut the laptop. "Okay," he nodded.

Sam hopped up, grabbing his jacket.

Dean frowned at him from where he remained sitting. "Whoa, slow down tiger. Where you going?"

"Uh…to check out those houses." Sam frowned back.

"Dude, it's like six in the morning. We aint going anywhere."

Sam was lost for words for a moment. "Dean, we're always up early on hunts."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah well, to check out those houses we gotta get in first. And who's going to let us in after waking them up at six in the morning. It's a Saturday. Plus, I'm going to have to start calling you crater face if your eyes sink in any further. Go. Sleep. We'll hunt bad things later."

Sam was tired, and a few extra hours of sleep would help to revive him. He quickly decided he didn't want to argue Dean's point. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

Dean just smiled. He hopped up and grabbed his bag, opening it. "Oh, you know," he grabbed a scythe and placed it on the table beside him. He then pulled out his shot gun and cradled it in his arms. Lastly, he scooped out the pack of M&Ms from the plastic bag of food that Sam had bought earlier. "Just hang out a bit." He sat in a chair close to the door, gun held protectively, scythe sitting close by, M&Ms open in front of him.

Sam chuckled, getting back into bed, feeling his body begin to relax the instant he hit the sheets. "I feel sorry for the next Casper that tries to sneak up on you."

"If it's a friendly ghost, it has nothing to worry about." Dean cocked his gun. "But when's that ever the case?"