A/N: Hey guys! Back from my little holiday! It was my 18th birthday yesterday and I was going to update but I ended up getting home at like six in the morning from partying all night so I kinda just fell into bed. Then the document manager wasn't working and I only just got to upload this now. But anyway, thank you most beautiful people for the wonderful reviews and I hope this chapter is okay. I seem to think that these next chapters are not my best work but you may like it. Well I hope you do.

Chapter Thirteen

"Ya think?" John drawled sarcastically.

Missouri glared at John but turned her attention to Sam when he spoke.

"Missouri what's happening to Dean?" he asked in a small voice.

"I was hoping that I would be wrong about this but apparently I'm not. That man who hurt you and your brother, his spirit has latched onto Dean."

Sam felt physically ill. Dean was being haunted, hurt by that freak who was supposed to be dead. God hadn't his brother been through enough?! Still it was more than possible, he was pretty sure that John hadn't gone back to salt and burn that bastard and he sure hadn't. His own words came back to bite him in the ass.

'Killing others, killing themselves. Some people are just born tortured. So when they die, their spirits are just as dark.'

How the hell could they have screwed up like that! And now Dean was suffering for it. A sudden thought occurred to Sam and he paled, "He saw that freak when he looked at me didn't he?" he asked the psychic, all the color visibly drained from his features. The blood standing out against his pale skin.

The psychic nodded solemnly.

John who had been quiet so far, came to a silent decision and nodded to himself. He moved Sam's hand up to his nose so he could hold the tissues himself and then he stood up. His eyes glittered dangerously with barely contained fury. No one fucked with his sons. Dead, alive or a mix of both. He was going to finish this bastard once and for all.

"Dad?" Sam asked quietly. He knew where his father was about to go but they had to wait for Dean. No, they weren't going to wait for Dean. They were going to find him. He was too unstable the be out there alone, driving no less, "We have to find him. He can't be alone like this." Sam stated.

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Dean drove around Lawrence aimlessly for an hour. Somewhere in his panic he had realized where he was. Lawrence, Kansas. Home. He had purposely avoided his old house, afraid it would bring him undone. Dean looked at his hands clasping the steering wheel. They had blood on them. Blood from his captor's nose. Good. I hope it hurt like hell. I wish that hit could have made you feel all the pain I feel you fucking bastard!

God what was he doing? His captor was dead. Sam had told him that and his little brother wouldn't lie to him about something so serious. Besides it was John who had saved them and he knew his father. The second the older hunter realized what that prick had done to his boys he would have put a bullet through his goddamned head. Hang on back up. Where the hell was Sam? And what the hell was he doing in Lawrence? Oh that's right. Staying with Missouri. With his brother and father. But then what was he doing here alone and where were they when that bastard tried to hurt him again?

"Isn't that the million dollar question Deannie?" came the evil man's voice.

Dean slammed his foot on the breaks so hard he gave himself whiplash. He was lucky there was no car behind him or he would have been hit. Clenching his hands so tight on the steering wheel they hurt, Dean took a deep breath the steel his nerves before he turned and looked around the car. Passenger seat, empty. So was the back. He sighed in relief and shook his head. Great he was going insane. That's the last fucking thing he needed. But the car was empty.

"Do you really believe that?" the voice came again.

This time when the young hunter looked around the car, his eyes glanced over the rearview mirror. In the reflection his attacker could be easily seen. Dead yet fierce eyes looked back at him. The man looked just how he had seen him last, if not a bit paler and with a distinctive gunshot hole to his forehead. Right between the eyes.

"No. You're not here. I knocked you out. My dad killed you. No." Dean denied pathetically.

"Well technically you knocked your brother out. I think you broke little Sammy's nose." The voice laughed, "But you're right. Your father did kill me. Still you of all people should know that just because my body is dead doesn't mean I'm going to stay dead in spirit."

The vision of him hitting Sam flashed though his mind. Oh god he'd hit Sam! That was his baby brother's blood on his hands. He felt physically ill.

"Although it was a pretty neat trick that wasn't it." The voice commented and Dean could see the sardonic smirk on that bastard's face.

A horn sounded behind him and he realized he was still sitting stationary in the middle of the road. When he looked back to the rearview mirror, his attacker wasn't there. Biting his lip Dean started driving again. Fuck, he just couldn't escape all this shit that had happened to him! Was continuing to happen to him. He longed for the weeks he had spent buried safe in his own mind. He was warm there. Safe. Happy. Why the hell did he have to 'wake up'?

Dean sped through the residential streets not caring. He wanted out. He didn't want to do this anymore. He wanted to be free. Free of it all. Not paying any attention to where he was heading. He pulled numbly into a parking space and cut the engine. Staring out into the park he realized that he recognized it. His parents had bought him to this park when he was younger. Before the fire had killed almost everything he had. God, it felt like a lifetime ago that he had played baseball with his dad while his mom had sat on a picnic rug smiling and laughing in happiness at her family.

Taking a deep breath to compose himself and push away his wayward thoughts Dean exited his Impala. He stopped at the boot and opened the secret compartment. From inside he grabbed his 9mm Glock. The gun's shiny silver surface twinkled invitingly up at him. Tucking it into the back of his jeans he made for the swing set. As he sat on the old seat of the swing he remembered his Mom pushing him so high he felt like he was flying. Higher Mommy higher!

A silent tear ran down his cheek. God he missed his Mom. It wasn't fair that she had been taken from him. It wasn't fair that the fun loving side of his father had been taken with her and replaced with a goddamned drill sergeant. No. He stopped that thought. His Dad had done the best for them that he could under the circumstances. Still he may have done the best he could but his 'Daddy' had died in the fire with his Mom.

"Boo hoo. Grow up. You're pathetic you know. You should have died in that fire instead of Mary, instead of Jessica. Your father and Sam would be happy now. Complete. They wouldn't be lugging around a pitiable burden like you. You should be dead Dean." The voice was back.

"Shut up." Dean growled as he rocked himself slowly on the swing, looking for some comfort.

"Sammy's pretty hot you know. Even John has a certain average-Joe, blue collar American look working for him. Ruggedly handsome some would say." The voice said conversationally.

"You leave them out of this." Dean spat. How dare that fucking bastard even mention their names?! God if he wasn't dead Dean would track him down and burned a clip in him himself, just on principle alone.

Dean startled at the ghosting sensation of a hand across the back of his neck. He jumped off the swing and pulled out his gun, holding it in front of him, just like his old man had taught him. The feeling came back, this time grabbing his ass.

"You think a ghost can fuck a person Deannie? Because I'd really like to take you for a ride right about now." His attacker moaned.

"Leave me the hell alone!" Dean yelled spinning around again, gun still raised but not knowing where to shoot. Dean felt a hand snake down the front of his pants and grab him. He gasped, his mind going back to that night, along with all the feelings he'd had. No control. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't control it. Failed. Pathetic. Couldn't do anything. The gun in his hand was shaking as he lowered it and something in him broke. He let out a quiet, "Please. Please don't do this. Not again. Please." Before he dropped to his knees, next to the swing he had played on as a child.

Dean didn't cry this time. His eyes stung with the unshed tears but he wouldn't let them fall. He stared at the gun in his hands thinking about the fully loaded clip inside. It was a familiar and comforting weight. Slowly, his arm shaking, Dean raised the gun and pointed it to his temple. He had had no choice then. He hadn't been in control. Now, however, he was in control. This time he had a choice.

Yes a little cliffy, I just can't help my evil ways. More reviews I get, the quicker the update will be ;)

Mishka xXx