Looks Like Loss

Summary: Sam and Dean get into trouble working a ghost infested antebellum mansion in the Deep South. Just one ghost too many...

Thank you so much for the kind reviews. Especially for a chapter that was mostly exposition-y chitchat.

Chapter Two

Sam and Dean made a quick trip to the car to get some supplies and hurried back to the house.

"I'll show you to your room," Martha said, urging them up the long free-standing staircase in the foyer. "The Sheriff will be here any minute and he doesn't need to know you're here yet. He already thinks we're crazy for calling you."

"He knows you called?" Dean asked.

Mrs. Pruett smiled. "This is a little town. Everyone knows."

"Great." Dean shot Sam a glare that said, You got us into this mess.

"I hope you boys don't mind sharing a bed. It's the only other bedroom. It was our son's before he left home," she added.

"I'm sure it'll be just fine, Mrs. Pruett." Dean shot Sam another look that said, And I'm holding you personally responsible for this disaster.

"Please, call me Martha," she said, opening the door to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. There was an oversized four-poster bed set against one wall, a dresser, a huge armoire and a few other odd bits of furniture. A door led off to what looked like a bathroom. The wide second floor porch was visible through two tall windows that went all the way to the floor.

"If you want to go out onto the gallery, just open the windows. They were meant to be doors too. Now if you'll excuse me…" She bustled back out of the room, her troubled frown reappearing as she closed the door behind her.

"Dude, what have you dragged me into?" Dean said, turning on his brother. "Only you could find a house with a whole herd of ghosts."

"It's good for you," Sam smiled, "Keeps your brain working. I know it likes to take a rest from time to time."

"Funny," Dean waved the remark away. "This place is infested and one of the things is bumping people off and leaving them out back."

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning in thought. "So leave out the little kid who fell. Leave out the spinster and the woman who died in childbirth. They just don't sound the murderous type."

"That would leave the bandit raiding guy, the dude who got shot at the gates defending the place and about 500 dead soldiers. That narrows it down real well," Dean shook his head tiredly.

Grabbing up his duffel bag he headed for the adjoining dressing room that had been turned into an attached bath. They were both dead on their feet and they both knew they couldn't wander around out back with the police there. They would just have to get some sleep and see what they could do tomorrow.

Hardly even realizing it, they fell into the familiar routine that had been abandoned the day Sam had left for college. In hundreds of hotels, their father had taken one bed and they had taken the other. Without even having to think about it, they each chose the side they always had.

Dean climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets up. He lay there for several minutes staring at the ceiling. "I don't know about you, but I feel like I'm five years old."

Sam snorted. "Were you already sleeping armed to the teeth when you were five?"

"Some kids got training wheels… I got a .22." Dean closed his eyes and burrowed into the pillow until he was comfortable. "Santa feared me. That's why he stopped coming."

Dean woke abruptly and held perfectly still, unsure of what had disturbed his sleep. He was lying on his side facing Sam who was sleeping on his stomach.

He couldn't see anything or hear anything and slowly rolled onto his back. A man stood in the moonlight coming through the high windows leading out onto the porch. The ghost flickered as he turned his head and looked straight at Dean.

"You're a soldier, aren't you?" he said quietly. The man's voice was hollow, long dead.

Well, that was a trick question if Dean had ever heard one. As with most things in his life, that was a yes and no. The question though brought his attention to what the ghost was wearing which was a Civil War era uniform. Surprisingly, however, it was a Union uniform. Dean would have expected a Confederate soldier in this area. Granted, if they had been cleaning up a battlefield, men from both sides might be buried out back.

"You understand that I have to do it?" the ghost asked. "Orders are orders."

Dean reached to the side of the bed where he'd set Marigold. Mr. and Mrs. Pruett might think that nothing had happened in the house, but Dean hadn't really wanted to put it to the test. He liked having Marigold nearby anyway. Having the shotgun close at hand was always reassuring. And no Sam didn't know he'd named the shotgun, Marigold. He didn't know and he never would. His brother didn't need any extra ammo in their little war of words.

Dean carefully rose from the bed, grimacing when the floor creaked beneath his feet. As he moved, he kept Marigold leveled at the ghost who had gone back to staring out the window, his outline flickering in the moonlight.

"You should put that away," the soldier said. "The Captain won't like it. He doesn't like being crossed."

"Who's the Captain?" Dean asked. He heard Sam stir, though he stopped moving abruptly, staying in the bed. Dean guessed he'd noticed their unwanted guest.

"Have to obey orders," the ghost said, and Dean could tell the man was no longer speaking to him. The ghost turned and Dean backed away as the soldier began limping toward him, his hand held out like he wanted to touch him. He kept moving and with no other choice, Dean fired, rock salt spreading out in a fan.

The ghost vanished but not before the last wisps reached out and fluttered over Dean's skin, making his hair stand on end. Light flickered in front of his eyes and then died away.

The pain started in the leg that had been injured before and that was just finishing healing. A few seconds later, the pain spread to the other leg, pain like his limbs were on fire, burning from the inside out. He dropped Marigold and fell to the floor, unable to support himself.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he heard Sam say, but Dean didn't dare open his mouth to answer or he would scream.

He tumbled onto his back as the pain spread upward into his abdomen and then into his chest, like flames licking up his body in search of new fuel. His back arched, his muscles contracting, as the unbelievable agony spread down his arms and up his neck until it felt like his brain itself was on fire. He clutched futilely at the carpet, his back bowed until he thought it would snap.

"Sam," he begged, "Sam, please," though he hardly knew what he was asking for. Surely Sam could do something. Anything. Surely Sam could shoot him and make it stop.

Then the pain seemed to lessen, like the tide receding. It left his head and his hands, pouring back into his chest, downward until he fell back flat on the floor. Finally it left both legs, flowing back into just the leg where it had started, receding to only a dull ache. He hardly dared to move for fear of the pain starting again.

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes to see that Sam had turned on a light. His brother was kneeling beside him, one hand on his chest, clenched in his t-shirt, like he was holding onto him for dear life.

"That was… bad," Dean said, his chest still heaving.

"You ok?" Sam asked nervously.

Dean brought his hand up and patted Sam's, still held again his chest. "S'ok. M'ok," he said, his breathing starting to slow.

Sam removed his hand, but remained kneeling, leaning over him for several seconds. Finally, he stood and went to their bags, rummaged for several seconds, then went into the bathroom, reappearing shortly.

"Can you sit up?"

Dean complied, feeling suddenly old, and accepted the aspirin and glass of water Sam handed him. His muscles hadn't appreciated the added workout. His leg in particular had already been sore and was now feeling the strain.

"You wanna tell me what just happened?"

"Ghost…" Dean said, taking a slow, calming breath. "It… It touched me… Don't know why it hurt so much. And what is that smell!"

"It was here as soon as you shot the ghost, I think. I wasn't paying much attention after you keeled over," Sam said.

Dean wanted to gag. The smell was foul, like rancid meat. "Can you open a window?"

"The Pruetts said nothing had happened in the house," Sam said angrily, walking to one of the tall windows and throwing it open. "Only the people by the back gate."

"At least we know they're not making it up for publicity," Dean said. He accepted Sam's hand to help him up off the floor and took a few extra seconds to balance on his wobbly legs. Once he was certain he wouldn't fall back down, he began to pace back and forth trying to shake off the 'visit.'

Sam moved back to their bags. "Should've done it anyway," he muttered, pulling out a canister of salt and pouring wide arcs around the windows. He turned toward the door and the startled look on his face brought Dean to a halt. He turned to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

The ghost, a different ghost, Dean observed with some annoyance, stood in front of the door, his image flickering as he grinned, baring his teeth in a predatory smile. He raised an ancient pistol, pointing it steadily at Dean who was slightly closer to him.

"Evening, gents."

Sam and Dean remained in stunned silence, though Dean glanced toward Marigold sitting on the floor several feet away. He doubted he could get to her before the ghost shot one of them. He made a mental note to smack the Pruetts. Noooo… Nothing had happened in the house. It was allll outside. Right.

"I said good evening," the ghost narrowed his eyes when they didn't answer him. "Did your mother not teach you any manners?"

"I'd suggest you not talk about her," Dean growled. He was already in a crappy mood. He so did not want to deal with this right now. Sam reached out and took Dean's arm, silently telling him to watch it.

The ghost had to be the first owner of the house, the robber guy from the late 1700s. His clothing was rough homespun and the pistol looked positively ancient. He also looked like a miniature of a modern man, which would fit the time. Poor nutrition, poor hygiene… People had just been smaller back then.

"You have had one warning," he looked at Dean. "Do not cross me or you will like the next even less."

"I'd appreciate the warning if I knew what it was for," Dean shot back.

"Play coy if you wish. I know the Sheriff has brought you here to stop me. He is too much a coward to bring me in himself."

"I'm having a little trouble being threatened by a guy who's five feet tall. My brother here could fall on you and break you," Dean said. "You should look into some vitamins."

"I am only protecting what I hold dear. Just like you." His eyes glanced toward Sam then moved back to Dean. "You've been warned. Stay out of my way."

The ghost changed his aim to Sam and fired.

To the astute readers who have noted my sadistic penchant for repeatedly damaging one of Dean's legs, you are correct. --insert evil grin here-- It was all done just for a certain aspect of this little story… More tomorrow.