A/N: First off, I feel a pressing need to apologize for the glaring typos that I discovered dotted throughout the last chap, and for a few flabby paragraphs towards the end. In my haste to post it, I didn't properly edit it – argh!
Anyway, here is the next one. Tell me what you guys think! I had a bit of a writer's block going on, so please leave feedback letting me know your thoughts.
And, most importantly, I want to again give a huge shout-out to all you reviewers – you guys rock my world! ;)

HAUNTED

Chapter 4

"Bet you're sorry now"… "Bet he's sorry now…"

The words spun in Sam's head, circling around every other thought, faster and faster, until they were all he could see or hear. He turned back to the front door that had now closed on him. He took a step towards it. Jamie. He had something to do with that thing almost killing Dean. Almost killing his brother. He had to. The coincidence was too large, too taunting, to ignore.

Sam took another step back towards the door. He could barely feel his limbs anymore; his muscles were infused with an anger he had rarely felt before. Something, someone, behind that door wanted his brother dead. Wanted Dean dead…

That thought jolted Sam out of whatever rage-induced trance had enveloped him. The heat drained from his limbs and he found himself standing a few feet away from the closed door in a deathly quiet street. What was he still doing here! Was he nuts? He had to get Dean away from this place! Fast.

Sam swiftly jogged to the Impala and jumped into the driver's seat, instantly turning to check if Dean was okay.

Dean was lying across the backseat, his head resting against the window, his eyes shut tightly, a small frown creasing his brow.

"Dean?" Sam asked, trying his best keep the worry from his voice. "You comfortable back there?"

After a beat, Dean nodded slightly, mumbling something to the tune of: "My car's always comfy."

Satisfied, Sam turned back around. "Keys, keys," he muttered to himself, running his hands along the dashboard, searching for them. Something clanged against his head and bounced to the floor. Turning, he realized that Dean had retrieved the keys from his pocket and chucked them at him. Sam scooped them up, quickly turning on the car and getting them away from there.

Dean held back a grunt as the car swerved onto the road, jolting his sore body. Now he knew what it felt like to be boiled alive – he was never eating lobster again, ever. He felt Sam staring at him. He opened his eyes and sure enough, there was Sam peering back at him through the rear view mirror, eyes large with concern. Had he caught that suppressed grunt?

Dean sighed internally and, ignoring his body's screaming protests, pushed himself into a sitting position. He leaned forward in the space between the car seats, resting an arm on the side of each seat. He wanted Sam to see that he was okay.

"That ghost better pray there's a bitch heaven, coz, boy, am I sending its ass there."

That did the trick. Sam's worried frown dissolved into a small smile. "No one messes with Dean Winchester and gets away with it, right?"

"Damn tootin' fruitin'."

Sam snorted. "You do realize that he's technically already dead, being a ghost and all."

Dean waved off that logic. "Eh, killing things a second time is my specialty."

A few minutes later, Sam pulled into the parking lot as gently as he could so he wouldn't jolt Dean too much. He then hopped out of the car and quickly ran to open the back door for Dean . Dean just glared at him for a second before slowly sliding himself out, shaking his head.

Dean then quickly backed away from Sam, rightly anticipating Sam's attempt to help him into the motel room. "Get away, dude," he warned.

Biting back a retort – something along the lines of this was not the time for Dean to be so stubborn - Sam stepped back, gesturing to the path in front of him. "After you," he said dryly.

Dean walked slowly towards their room, keeping a weary eye on Sam. Once inside, he headed straight for the bathroom. "Showering," was all he said.

"Do you need anything?" Sam automatically asked.

"Stop mother henning me!" Dean growled, marching resolutely into the bathroom.

Sam chuckled softly. An annoyed Dean he could handle; it was the silent one in the backseat of the car that had worried him.

Once the door shut behind him, Dean instantly fell to the ground, his knees making a small thud as they connected with the tile - though it barely registered compared with what the rest of his body was feeling. Dean let himself slump against the closed door. Now that Sam wasn't watching his every move with those big, worried eyes of his, Dean let the pain and exhaustion wash back over him. Let it burrow itself deep inside him, emanating a sharp, painful glow that infused his every muscle.

He slowly pulled up his knees and let his head drop onto them, closing his eyes against the harsh florescent light.

God, what had that thing done to him? It hurt to breathe, it hurt to think, it hurt to move. But it was more than that. It hurt to remember. That thing, it had said stuff. Shown him stuff. He didn't really understand it, didn't want to understand it, but he felt his memory pull him back there anyway, instinctively trying to work it out.

He clearly remembered the electric energy coursing though him, how it had felt like a heated knife slicing through his nerves. When that thing grabbed his head, there had been a blinding, searing pain – an eruption of blue and white that had temporarily blinded him. But from beyond that, whispers, snippets, had merged with the sound of the electricity, surrounding him, breaking into his consciousness.

Hates you, hates me…wrecked my life, his life…need to be stopped…you're going to kill him…LEAVE MY TOWN! And the images…some pulled from his own memory, some he'd never seen before: Blood splattering against a wall, over and over again; Sam pulling the trigger at the asylum; young men being burnt alive by that same ghost and that same energy; Sam being attacked by that shapeshifter in Dean's form; and a rage, a hurt, so deep and so strong that it felt like that was what was burning him alive.

Dean's eyes snapped open when a knock from behind him jolted him back into the present.

"Dean?" Sam called softly from behind the door.

Dean closed his eyes again, rubbing his forehead. He'd been in here for what, 10 minute now? Sam was bound to have noticed that the shower wasn't turned on yet. And though that fact was a stupid slip on Dean's part, he really didn't want to deal with Sam's worry right now.

"Wait your turn," Dean answered.

There was no reply for a second. God, if he asks if I'm okay…But in a testament to how well Sam knew his brother, Sam didn't push the issue.

"Um, you hungry? I was thinking we could just order take-out." He paused for a moment. "Any preferences?"

Dean smiled slightly, silently grateful.

"Anything but lobster," he replied.

"Uh…" Dean could practically hear the frown coming through Sam's words. "Sure, that's really no problem."

Dean waited until he heard Sam's footsteps retreat from the door, before he pushed himself up and trudged towards the shower. He shrugged out of his clothes and gingerly stepped into the tub, more relived than he'd admit that the taps hadn't decided to start gushing water on their own. He turned the faucet as far as it would go and let the water hit him in the face.

It instantly washed away the dried blood, sliding off in pink droplets. He'd forgotten it was even there, what a sight he must have been to that family.

Dean tried to increase the water's pressure, but the handles were turned as far as they could go. Dammit, he thought. He stepped further under the stream, but the power of the water wasn't enough to stop his mind from wandering back. He quickly grabbed the soap and scrubbed himself clean, staring at the stains on the ceiling, the cracks in the floor, that spider web in the corner. Anything to distract himself. But he couldn't stop that last snippet, that last image that had been entwined with the electricity, from re-entering his memory. He closed his eyes and gave into it.

This image had broken through the other images and angry whispers with startling strength. In it, Sam was standing over him with the gun aimed at his chest, only this time there were real bullets, and that ghost was standing beside Sam, watching. Only, maybe it was Sam on the floor with Dean holding the gun. And maybe Sam wasn't there at all. Maybe it was just him and some kid. But though the snippets had been just that – snippets – weaving in and out of his consciousness as the energy coursed through his weakened body, Dean had caught enough to know two things for certain. One, that ghost was definitely standing there. And two, a shot had definitely rang out – loud and deadly.

Sam looked up as Dean emerged from the bathroom, a trail of steam following him out. He looked a bit worse for wear – big bags sat under his eyes and a number of bruises dotted his face. He wouldn't be happy about that.

Sam had spread the food over the room's small table. "No lobster, just like you ordered," he joked.

"What'd you get?" Dean looked at the spread with interest.

"I didn't know if you'd feel like any meat today, given your whole lobster remark, so I decided to go vegetarian."

Dean hesitated, stopping halfway to the table. "Vegetarian? Like, vegetables and other green stuff?"

Sam scoffed. "Don't look so terrified. As in, hot chips, potato cakes, onion rings and chicken nuggets since no one really considers them meat."

"Atta boy," Dean said, plopping down at the table and grabbing a handful of chips. Mouth full, he nodded over to where Sam sat tapping his fingers on the table and watching the muted television set. "You eat already?"

"Yeah, while you were showering." Sam's head suddenly snapped towards Dean. "That's okay, right? I mean, you didn't want me to wait or anything, did you?"

"Dude!" Dean leant back in his chair and shot Sam a sceptical glare. "Don't you start copying this town's freaky obsession with manners or I may have to disown you. Or kill you."

Sam chuckled. "I just thought - "

"Well, there's your problem," Dean cut in, grinning as he scooped up some more food and shovelled it into his mouth. Man, he was hungry.

"Ass," Sam retorted lightly.

Dean widened his eyes playfully, but then decided just to shrug. What could he say. "The reason I ask," he said, returning to his original topic, "is that if you're done eating then you can get off your lazy butt and grab the laptop."

Sam swivelled in his chair to grab the laptop, but then frowned and turned back to Dean. "To research? Now? Really?"

Dean rolled his eyes. Sure he usually had an aversion to research this late at night when food and sleep called – a good hunter was a well-fed, well-rested one, after all – but he had a hunch that he needed to explore before it drove him mad. And he didn't want to just sit here waiting for another attack, either. "Just do it, smartass."

"Wow, you sure that ghost didn't scramble your brains?"

Dean didn't respond straight away. He managed to offer a slight smile before turning back to his food. "If he had, I'd be put off one of my favourite breakfast foods. Scrambled eggs just wouldn't do it for me anymore," he finally said. Lame, but it was all he could come up with at that moment – his mind again slipping back to those words and images.

Sam opened his mouth to apologize, realizing with a sinking feeling how insensitive that had been. But he didn't say anything, not knowing what to say. Instead, he hastily grabbed the laptop and turned it on.

"What did you want me to look up?" he asked Dean.

Dean blinked a few times, shaking his head slightly, as if dislodging some thought that was trying to ensnare his attention. "Um, get into the local police records."

Sam shot Dean a look but did as he was told. "Okay," he sighed. "I'm in."

"Check out what went down in lucky number four," Dean said, referring to the Palmer house.

Sam frowned at the certainty lacing Dean's voice. Did he know something? "Okay," Sam said, tapping a few keys. Dean watched as Sam used the mouse to scroll down and then leant closer to the screen, his eyes flickering back and forth as he read. "Huh," he finally said.

"What?" Dean asked, putting down an unfinished Spring roll and pushing the food away.

"There has actually been some violence connected to that house. Sixteen years ago, um, a Bret Parker was killed by his brother… Murdered. Shot, in fact. He was 17." Sam looked up at Dean – how had they not discovered this earlier?

Dean nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. "The brother in jail?"

"Uh…no…it doesn't say what happened. There's no indication that action was taken."

"What was his name, the one who shot him?"

Sam looked back at the screen. "Brad. Brad Parker."

"Bret and Brad," Dean said with a shake of his head. "Were their parents trying to breed serial killers? The B-Brothers got any living relatives?"

Sam frowned before searching through the town's records. "No," he said. "Their whole family died within a year of the murder. It doesn't say how." He paused and looked up at Dean, still frowning. "Why do you say 'serial killers'? Brad didn't kill anyone else and Bret didn't kill anyone at all."

Dean just gestured back to the laptop. "Look up violent deaths in the past 16 years," he said by way of answer.

Sam shook his head. "There hasn't been any – I've already looked up this town's recent history. The newspapers have almost no mention of murders. We're living in Leave it to Beaver land here." As an afterthought, Sam added: "You know, apart from the ghosts and strange noises and haunted houses."

"Just do it," Dean said.

Sam sighed and logged back into the police records. "Oh, wow," he said after a moment. "In the few years after the killing, there was a…huge…number of violent deaths. Hundreds died of…" Sam's eyes widened, "of electrocution and drowning and strangulation and gun wounds, the list goes on." Sam looked up at Dean who was looking surprisingly unmoved by this information. "Electrocution and drowning, Dean!"

"There you go, I may not have that psychic mumbo-jumbo thing, but my hunches work just as good."

"A hunch?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Yes, a hunch, college boy. It means - "

"I know what hunch means," Sam cut in.

"Well, good, we're on the same page of the dictionary then."

Sam just stared at Dean for a moment, waiting. "That's all you're going to tell me?" Sam said after Dean didn't offer any further explanation.

"That's all there is to tell," Dean smiled, a blank look carefully drawn on his face.

Unbelievable. After all the flack Dean gave him over keeping secrets.Sam sighed and returned to the reports. "The killings decreased as the years went by, now there are only one or two deaths a year, if any. Usually out-of-towners." Sam rubbed a hand through his hair, then nodded in realization. "Wow, the whole town knows about all these deaths – they know what's going on. And they're hiding it. That's why no news will report anything."

Dean rubbed his eyes with a sigh. He was getting more tired as this day wore on. "And they know how to avoid what's going on. That's why only out-of-towners, like yours truly, are getting targeted lately." Dean shook his head. "Small towns. The clichés exist for a reason."

"This town isn't that small," Sam said absently.

"Smaller than it was 16 years ago!"

Sam frowned at Dean's morbid humour. "What exactly is going on, Dean?"

Dean threw his hands in the air. Wasn't it obvious? "Revenge killing. Spirits are born out of violent deaths. This kid was shot point blank by his own brother. Doesn't get more violent than that. His spirit is out to wreak vengeance on anyone who reminds him of Brad dearest. He's our serial killer. That's what's going on."

Sam was nodding slowly, letting all this information sink in. "But why is it after you?"

Dean's mind involuntarily flashed back to that day at the asylum, and at Sam's words being flung at him: I am sick of doing what you tell me to do…

"Dean?" Sam prompted. Dean just looked back at him with that odd, disquieting smile again. The one that didn't reach his eyes. But he quickly wiped whatever it was distracting him from his mind and answered in a normal voice: "I bet you Brad was loud, swore a lot and hit on the town's 'innocent' waitresses."

"But there are a lot of people around just like that, Dean."

"Which is why there are so many deaths, Sam," Dean said, getting slightly annoyed by Sam's need to doubt what Dean was telling him. They'd found the answer, uncovered the mystery, it was time to go put a stop to it already. "It explains why people are so freaked out by my lack of manners – they've caught on. They may not realize it's an angry spirit doing the deeds, but they realize that bad behaviour no longer gets them put in a corner. It puts them in a grave. I'm impressed they even figured that out - for once we've stumbled across a town with half a brain."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again, not knowing what to say. It made sense…but then again, not really. He sighed noisily. How did Dean suddenly stumble across these insights? How had he known that this town held a history of deaths?

"But what about the Palmer family. And Jamie? Where does he come into all this?" Sam finally asked, deciding that it was best not to push Dean for an explanation, but to just try and work out how much he knew all of a sudden.

"Ah, so now you're listening to my hunches," Dean said with a triumphant – Sam would call it smug - smile.

"Yeah…uh, and the fact that, while leaving their house, I heard him say that exact same thing that the ghost said to you in the bathroom yesterday."

"Oh," Dean said, looking a bit disappointed before Sam's words sunk in. "He did?"

"Well, more or less. He said: 'Bet he's sorry now'."

"Huh," Dean said, frowning.

"And how did he know we were brothers?" Sam asked, suddenly remembering how Jamie had addressed them.

Dean's frown deepened as he quickly traced back through their encounter with the family. Nope, not once had he or Sam given any hint that they were related. "Huh," he said again. S

am was looking more and more perplexed by Dean's distant reactions. "That's all you have to say? A grunt?"

"What do you want me to say, Sammy? Jamie's a suspicious character, I got it. Got there before you did, remember?"

"There's a connection between Jamie and the ghost that attacked you!"

"Okay, so there might be a connection. But it doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"What do you mean?" Sam sighed. How could Dean be so blasé about all this? His life was at stake! He almost died today!

"Whatever connection there is can't be severed by just talking about it, Sam! That's what I mean. We need to salt and burn Bret's bones and all this will be done with. No more vengeful spirit, no more Jamie problem." Dean pushed his chair away from the table and went to grab his bag, shoving in the stuff they'd need. Sam watched, his growing incredulity sparking his growing frustration.

"You're not even going to try to work out what Jamie's deal is?" Sam asked, glaring at Dean's back as he threw a jacket on. "You don't think it could be at all important?"

Dean zipped up his jacket and turned to look at Sam, deliberately picking up the bag as he spoke. "No, I don't. Burn the bones, kill the angry son-of-a-ghost, deaths stop. It couldn't be simpler, Sam. If you want, I'll drop by the Palmer's afterwards and give Jamie an Avril Lavigne CD - bad pseudo-punk should cure whatever the hell's crawled up his ass. Now, you coming?"

Sam felt a pulling need to say that no he wasn't coming. If Dean wanted to go trump off in the middle of the night without giving five minutes to explore the possibilities of something else going on here, and without bothering to tell Sam exactly why or how all these hunches had hit him, then no, Sam wasn't coming. But Sam's juvenile instinct was easily overpowered by his brotherly one – Dean looked like shit. There was no two-ways about it. His bags had deepened and yellow bruises lined his face, many of them starting to turn blue. Dean wasn't in any condition to go out into a graveyard by himself. Though Sam wouldn't dare tell him that.

"Fine," Sam relented, pulling on a jacket.

"He still has his senses," Dean muttered, striding out ahead of Sam.

They rode in silence, Dean at the wheel, Sam staring out the passenger window. It was late – the streets were dark, devoid of drunken teenagers or escaped, barking dogs. Sam hadn't really realized how unsettling such complete, artificial silence was. It felt like the whole world could hear their car driving over the gravel roads.

"So, how are we going to know if burning the bones works?" Sam asked Dean, more to break the quiet than anything else.

Dean glanced at Sam before continuing to watch the road. He could just see the graveyard ahead, and thus felt an odd need to keep his attention focused in case Bret's spirit got wind of his plan to, well, destroy him.

"He'll stop attacking me and the community will be able to swear in peace," Dean answered.

"I sort of meant in the more immediate sense," Sam said, smirking a little.

Dean shrugged. "I'll go back to the Palmer's, bang on a few walls, throw around a few 'your mama' jokes. If he's still alive - well, not alive, but you know, kicking – he won't be able to resist my bad ass charm."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged again. "I'll bring my guns, don't worry."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Sam said, eyebrows lifting higher with every comment Dean made. "What if Jamie's around?"

Dean's gaze flickered towards Sam again. "So what if Jamie's around. You think he's the one I'll put a bullet through?"

"Do you?" Sam asked.No, that wasn't what Sam had meant, but it was obviously what was on Dean's mind.

"Despite what certain brothers think, whose names I'll refrain from mentioning, I know I'm not a killer," Dean answered, ignoring the images flashing through his head of him being shot… and of him doing the shooting.

Sam knocked his head against the headrest with a loud, irritated sigh. "God! You're so frustrating!" he blurted out, kicking out his legs restlessly.

Dean shot him a glance. "Whoa, there, Giraffe boy," he said. "Don't take your frustrations out on my car, dude. It's not her fault you haven't been laid lately." He kept the smile from his lips as Sam turned to look at him with wide eyes, spluttering something incoherent – some sound that Dean guessed what a cross been angry, annoyed, and amused – before throwing up his arms and turning his back on Dean, determined to spend the rest of the ride staring out the window and keep from swatting Dean upside the head.

Dean smirked, his mood instantly lifting.

Dean dumped his bag full of weapons and tools onto the dirt ground with a clang. "Well, this is it," he said needlessly. After a few minutes of searching, he and Sam had found the Parker plot and were now standing in front of Bret's gravestone.

Sam squatted in front of it to read the inscription. "Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift." Sam read it again. "That's odd," he mumbled to himself, before standing back up to find a shovel being held out in front of him by Dean's outstretched arm. Sam frowned at how close the shovel was to his face, but took it from Dean anyway.

"Start digging," Dean stop, hopping onto a nearby grave.

"What?" Sam spluttered – he seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "Why aren't you helping?"

"One shovel. One digger," Dean said innocently.

Sam laughed humourlessly. "Oh, how convenient, you only brought one shovel."

Dean shrugged, hopping off the stone and walking back to where Sam stood. "Okay, give me the shovel, I'll do it," he said, reaching out his hand. "Pass it over."

Sam was suspicious now. "Why?"

"You're obviously tired, being attacked by a wall and all. Sure, I almost died today, but hey…what sort of brother would I be if I used that against you?"

Sam just stared at Dean, blinking a few times as a strange battle between annoyance and guilt waged within him. He sighed. "I'll do it," he grumbled, gripping the shovel more firmly and positioning himself at the side of the grave. Today sucks, he decided.

"No, really, Sammy, I got it," Dean persisted, amusement glittering in his eyes.

"I'm doing it!" Sam growled, forcing the shovel into the ground and removing a large clump of grass and dirt.

Dean chuckled silently. "Gosh, what a great brother I have."

Sam snorted a half-laugh, despite himself.

Dean sat back on his make-shift chair, watching as Sam shovelled clump after clump of dirt away from the grave. Dean kept one foot ensnared on his duffle bag's straps, comforted by the fact that his weapons were close by. Just in case.

Getting a bit bored sometime later, Dean slid off the headstone and absently read the inscription. His eyes widened. "Hey!" he called to Sam, who poked his head out from the pit he'd created. "What?" Sam asked, out of breath and using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"I found out what happened to the psycho brother. He's dead. Been sitting on his grave, small world, huh? Listen to this: Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother – ha! - in death he shall find the peace he missed in life."

"When did he die?" Sam asked, still panting a little.

"Uh…"Dean traced the engraving. "Feb 20th, 1990."

Sam took another look at Bret's grave. "A week after he killed his brother. I wonder what happened."

Dean shrugged, not all too interested. After taking a moment to dwell on this information, Sam resumed his digging, his shovel finally clanging against hard wood.

"Finally!" Dean said, opening his bag and grabbing the salt and matches. He strode up to Sam and took the shovel from him. "Let's torch this sucker."

Sam shot him a small, disapproving look, but didn't say anything. He understood how much Dean wanted this nightmare to be over. Hell, so did Sam! He just felt a bit strange, desecrating the grave of someone who was a victim in life. But in death he became a killer, Sam reminded himself.

"Okay, move out of the way," Dean said to Sam, who obediently jumped out of the hole he'd made. Both brothers took a moment to look around the silent graveyard, their chests tight in anticipation – almost expecting Bret's spirit to come barrelling through the abandoned night, its light weaving through the gravestones and descending upon them.

But it didn't happen. So Dean grabbed the shovel tightly and slammed it down on the coffin, prying it open. He turned his head slightly at the sight of the rotted body. Keeping an arm in front of his face, covering his nose as best he could, Dean shook the salt over the body. Then Dean struggled out of the ditch and lit a match, throwing it down into the open grave. The fire caught instantly and bathed the corpse with an orange glow, crackling and licking the air above it, but quickly dissipated, leaving a charred, wrangled skeleton behind.

Dean let himself flop onto the grass beside Sam, staring at the corpse, then staring at the graves surrounding them, and finally at the empty night. Sam was looking around also, uncertainty etched into his sweaty features. They waited there for a while, not saying much, until finally the morning sun began to peek over the horizon.

"Huh," Sam said, mimicking Dean's earlier expression.

"Yeah," Dean voiced. "That was anti-climatic."

Jamie stared out the window, watching the gravestones that dotted the edge of his town.

"They're burning bones," he spoke out loud.

His mother looked up from where she sat, alarmed. "Whose bones?"

A pained expression crossed Jamie's face. "Bret's," he said quietly.

The mother breathed deeply, her hand fluttering against her chest. "Okay, that's okay then. Do…do you think they'll -"

Jamie cut her off, knowing what she was about to ask. "No. They won't. He's too stupid to figure it out."

"Are you certain about that?" she asked sharply.

He turned to her, surprised by her tone. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him."

"Of who?" a young voice said from the doorway. Jamie whipped around and saw his little sister standing there. Dammit, he hadn't realized she was listening.

"A bad person," he answered gently.

She walked up to him and clutched his hand tightly. "What's happening? Tell me! I'm…I'm scared."

Jamie looked to his mother, suddenly tired. She just shrugged sadly and nodded her approval.

Jamie took a deep breath and knelt in front of his sister, his hand still clutching hers protectively. "There's something I have to tell you…"