Sam watched Dean fire quite a few rounds that afternoon. If the—uh, younger?—of the two had been made to describe it, "a waste of our goddamn time and bullets" would have worked best.

Sam set up a few cans, buckets, and other random and decaying items he found around the yard. They didn't expect to be bothered by the spirit—if it was even in the house—while they were outside in broad daylight. The house ended up having an extensive yard filled with junk. Things were going much better than Sam had hoped- and for one, Dean seemed way more agreeable right now, all things considered; he patiently cleaned the guns five times over waiting for everything to be set up, and was now hunched over a table, double-tapping the last of the targets. Sam remained absolutely silent so that he wouldn't ruin his luck concerning Dean's more pacified attitude. The only sounds were the echoing explosions of various guns and quite a few muttered curses from Dean, when he found out he was missing nearly a third of his shots overall—and that number didn't improve until he started making drastic corrections.

One can, two cans, three cans went flying from a rickety old nightstand. The fourth jostled only a bit from the aftereffects. Farther right. You've been drifting left for the last few minutes, is what he wanted to point out, but Dean was already blowing the fourth can sky-high. He turned his gaze towards the next row of targets when Dean whirled around, emptying the mag. "Are we good to go? This ghost isn't gonna burn herself."

Sam noted that there were still a few things left to practice on, but decided not to mention them when he saw just how pissily his brother was reloading their stuff. "Why don't you grab the extra bags?" he offered. "I'll handle those."

"I'm pretty sure I can load a few fuckin' guns, Sam."

He held his hands up, doing his best not to show how funny Dean's look-of-death really was. It had become progressively less intimidating over the years as he adjusted to it, but now, it was almost cute—which was terrible of him to admit, but true. "Fine, fine! I'll go grab them, then." He kept his hands raised in surrender while silently wondering if Dean was going to try that look on monsters and demons. It certainly wouldn't work as well as it used to, if it ever worked much in the first place. They tended to get directly attacked either way.

He ran out to the car, which they'd parked a little ways down to street to make things less noticeable. The thought kept flitting across his mind—could the spell be affecting his mental attitude, too? Was it just a hormonal thing? There was no way Dean purposefully chose to act exactly like your run-of-the-mill angsty teen. Sure, maybe practicing shots was embarrassing, and it was just Sam. But a couple other weird moments just out of the last twenty-four hours came to the forefront of his thoughts, like Dean's abnormal tartness at the motel or a few of the snarks he'd made while they ordered food. He tossed some salt, iron tools, and other general equipment into the bag with sigh. Even if there was something "wrong", he could only really ignore it—for now.

OOO

He noticed it as soon as he'd reentered the backyard area. Dean was avoiding his gaze and fumbling with the guns more than usual—he was upset again, though Sam really had no idea how he'd gotten so pissed so fast while Sam was gone. "Are you ready?" he asked hesitantly, knowing that if he said it too harshly Dean would take offense, but because he'd posed it too lightly, Dean was going to take offense…. This was way more complicated than dealing with women. Had he made it this hard on Dean when they were kids?

His brother mumbled something vaguely affirmative and tossed him a couple handguns to throw in the bag, keeping the shotgun at waist-level as they snuck in the back door, which must have lost its lock long ago and squealed on its hinges. It was easy to tell who was quieter. Even as they made their way into the basement fairly carelessly, Dean's sneakered footfalls hardly made a sound.

They kept fairly quiet while he took out the shovel and got to work. Half of the basement's ground was flooded and disturbed cement, with the other half being cold soil. There was even a large enough patch to bury a coffin in—and this is where they went to work. If nothing was found, fine, they'd go back to scouring the internet. If the ghost's remains were here… it was best to avoid disturbing the paranormal for as long as possible. But digging stuff up was long and tedious. Dean appeared to get antsy and began to pace after only a short while. The going was slow though the dirt was loosened by sand, and he yearned for something to occupy his mind. Sam wouldn't have been adverse if Dean spoke up in meaningless prattle. He wasn't sure what there was to talk about besides the age regressing spell or the Mark… neither of which his brother liked talking about. So he stayed silent for a while.

Sam was still unsure about whether to say Dean was older or younger than him now—both were correct, but one would get him into trouble with Dean, and the other would make issues with the normal people they came across. Nevertheless, his older-younger brother found a chair and seemed to drift off with the shotgun in his lap, about as useful as he'd been before. He only realized his mistake when Dean spoke up. "Want help?"

Despite the sweat trickling along—well, absolutely everywhere—it couldn't be right to ask his brother to do much, could it? He was only fourteen now, as much as he wanted to act like a spry millennial. Sam remembered helping only very little on hunts compared to him and their dad. Sure, he found them all the information—while they ran around with guns and badges, racking up the kill points. It came to his attention that he was stalling on the answer, and before he knew it, the reply came flying out of his mouth. "Nah. It's a pain to have two people dig at the same time, anyways."

Dean was silent for a moment, mulling over his weak excuse and probably boiling over in hatred again, or something. He wasn't sure. He certainly didn't plan on looking back over his shoulder and checking. There was a huff from his brother, and then a small, "Fine." His shovel hit the dirt a couple more times before there was the louder addition of, "But if you seriously want a break, just let me know."

He nodded, uncertain as to if Dean had seen it, but figuring his brother must be keeping a good eye if he'd noticed the digging was tiring him out. Sam blamed the stuffy air in this old, decrepit basement.

It ended up being that the burial wasn't too far down. The bastard who'd completed the act must have been as sick of the location as the brothers were. Sam stooped down to pry open the box—it wasn't a traditional coffin, he could tell you that much—when a shotgun blast rang out above his head. He didn't like the proximity. "Jesus, Dean!" he shouted, still dirt-ridden and kneeling in the hole.

"Sorry, Sammy, maybe you shoulda cut those luscious locks, so they're not blocking my shot." Another blast went off, and he managed to pry off the first section of wood, knowing that the ghost must have suddenly gotten pissed if she was returning so soon. It was no surprise; her attacks against passersby and snoops late at night hadn't been lighthearted.

He jumped out, looking for the supply bag they'd left next to the hole. Upon glancing up, he locked eyes with Dean, and noticed there was a double-barrel pointed directly at his stomach with a scolding Dean holding his finger to the trigger.

"Dammit, Sam, move!"

He flung himself into a crouch and flicked burning fluid in the opening he'd created. Holding up the lighter to his eyes, the flame poured out at a snap of—

Glass exploded to his left with a ground-shattering shriek. Sam looked up, only to see Dean collapsed underneath the remnants of a broken mirror, being approached by the ghost in her unnaturally jerky fashion. Trapped between diving for the discarded shotgun to save his brother or lighting the ghost's remains on fire and still kneeling in a position where he could clearly see his brother, small and young and bleeding in multiple places, Sam worked hard to force himself out of his thoughts and to throw the lighter into the hole. Fire roared up for a minute in time with the spirit's cry, and then each burned away, the fire licking away slowly at the rest of the skeletal body.

He immediately dashed over to Dean's side. It was so uncanny, trying to figure out how to work with such a distinctly smaller form. Then his brother groaned, his voice still high-pitched, and instinct began to kick in—at least somewhat. "Okay, don't move, Dean. You've got broken glass all over you." There was a clean towelette in the bag he brought over. It was the best option they had to wipe off the little shards, slowly and carefully. Dean's breathing became shaky and laboured, but after a few minutes, he had nearly gotten all of it off.

"Sam," Dean moaned, and turned his hand to gaze at the sliced palms from where he still laid on his stomach.

"One sec." He brushed the glass from Dean's hair, and before his brother could collect himself enough to complain, he also dragged the cloth down his face a few quick times.

"Fucking-!"

Alright, maybe that hadn't been such a good plan. "Do you want glass in your eyes?" His tone was much harsher than he meant for, and Dean seemed to stiffen right up.

"No…" His brother murmured. He watched Dean clench his teeth and look away from his palms to face the opposite direction from Sam.

Something in his gut twisted at Dean's reaction, and he shoved the rag back in their bag. There were a couple other things around the basement that he'd need to pick up, but for now, his brother needed to be taken somewhere comfortable. "C'mon, let's get you to the car."

Dean took his aid just a little in order to find his balance whilst standing, and their progress was slow. He forced them to stop once to check Dean's vision and reaction speeds, but he seemed all right now, and once they resumed the walk to the car, things went a bit faster. Thankfully, there was no one around. He managed to get to the passenger door first and opened it up. Dean had his hands held up to view while passing by to sit down, casting a bitch face in his general direction concerning the whole I'm-a-big-boy issue and something close to let-me-open-my-own-doors. At this point, he could hardly care less. Sam was well aware that Dean had been taking a personal offense to all of it, thinking his actions only as a result of the spell, but really—he was sure he'd be acting the same way, normal Dean or not. With ripped-open palms like that, he doubted his brother would want to be mucking up the car anyway. "I just gotta grab the rest of our stuff," he mentioned hastily. Sam shut the door and dumped some stuff in the trunk, before jogging back into the house and scooping up the other few things left over.

The house was eerily silent now, save for the thudding of his boots as he collected all of their remaining gear, his face pensive. Cleaning gave his mind time to replay the accident, and how on Earth it'd come about. Dean had been yelling at him to move, probably because the ghost was right behind him when he hopped out, and his brother's shot would have became entirely blocked. But then, another question rose to mind before the decent aspects of his brain—the ones that regulated embarrassment, compassion—could stop it. Why did Dean yell at him, instead of pushing him out of the way like they normally do to each other? Its answer was obvious as soon as he began pondering the thought. It didn't make him feel any better. The idea of holding power over Dean, in any form, had never really occurred to him before. But now that it was a sudden reality, he realized just how awful the feeling was.

It took him a minute before he could return to the Impala.