A/N: For those that actually asked for more…and for November's Guest, especially.

"Oh, man," Dean sighed, flopping back onto the motel room's double bed. He let out a deep, loud sigh. "I swear, if we have to deal with one more friggin' teenager taking his date through a haunted house who doesn't listen when the big bad ghost says, "Get out!" I'll shoot him and the ghost, both!"

Sam dropped down onto the other bed and nodded his head. "Yeah, you'd think after seeing so many scary movies, they might think twice."

"That's just it. Nobody believes that shit'll ever happen to them. Damn."

"I'm gonna grab a shower," Sam said, rising and heading for the bathroom.

Dean nodded and sat up on the bed. He reached for the television remote and turned the set on, pushing the channel button before the first channel even appeared.

00000

Sam relaxed under the hot spray. The haunted house gig hadn't been all that bad – the worst part was, indeed, getting the teenagers to listen to them and actually get out of the house. The ghost wasn't so bad. Just an old man that wanted his privacy. Even if he was dead…

He was thankful for the easy job, though. It was the first one they'd been on since Dean's kidnapping and subsequent torture. He still shuddered uncontrollably when he thought of what his brother had been put through. The woman was pure evil. But what was worse was that despite being a witch, she was still human, too. They couldn't just go to her house and kill her; prevent anyone else from succumbing to her torture.

He smiled then, and recalled his and his Dad's midnight raid to her house to steal all of her homemade videotapes of the Lawrence Welk show. They'd made a bonfire and let Dean light it. It was the best that they could do, under the circumstances.

Sam finished his shower and dried off. He'd just gotten his boxers and jeans on when he heard Dean's scream.

"Sammy!"

Sam rushed from the bathroom, grabbing his shotgun from his duffel bag along the way, and searching the room for bad guys. "Dean?" he called, seeing the empty bed.

When he caught sight of his brother lying on the floor between the two beds, he rushed over. "Dean? Dean, what's wrong?" he called.

Dean was curled up in a ball on the floor, his arms and hands covering his eyes and ears, rocking back and forth, mumbling, "Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop," over and over.

Sam didn't know what had happened, what had caused Dean to react this way. He looked around the room, and saw no threat. But then the awful sounds penetrated his senses. He looked at the television and saw the source of his brother's terror and torture.

"Oh, God!" he cried.

He frantically searched for the remote, but couldn't find it. Dean's keening wails became louder. "MAKEITSTOPMAKEITSTOPMAKEITSTOP!" Finally, Sam just aimed the shotgun at the television set and pulled the trigger. The resulting explosion sent glass and plastic everywhere in the room.

When the dust settled, and silence reigned once more, Sam gently pulled at Dean's arms, pulling them away from his head. "Dean? Come on, Dean. It's safe now. You're all right," he called.

"She's gone?" Dean asked, his voice quiet.

"Yeah, she's gone. I blew her away," Sam replied with a smile.

"It was horrible, Sam," Dean rasped. "Sacrilegious, even."

"I know, Dean. I know," Sam agreed, shaking his head. "Whoever it was that decided to let Celine Dion sing "You Shook Me All Night Long," should be shot."

"AC/DC should sue."