∞∞∞

"Our loving ray of sunlight has already left three messages on my voicemail." Dean sat near the bottom of the staircase as Sam swayed around, dancing with his homemade EMF meter. In one hand was his cell phone, and in the other was a bag of assorted fun-sized candy bars he came across… hidden under a pile of junk mail in the drawer of an end table.

"Ron? He hasn't even been gone an hour yet." Sam slowly strolled through the kempt living room, his arm outstretched. His other hand kept the black earpiece securely lodged in his ear. The EMF meter had yet to make a noise, or light up, which made him wonder if it was on or broken, but it was never safe to openly question Dean's homemade doohickey.

"Tell me about it. Princess Peach said we're not permitted to use guns—not even the ones loaded with rock salt. God, I'd like to bust a cap right up his tight ass." Dean set down the phone next to him, and brought his attention to more important things, such as the bag of candy that screamed out for his sweet, hot mouth. Oh, my.

Sam made his way through the hallway and stopped in front of the stairway. "So he basically wants us to get rid of his ghost friend without touching anything, or using any weapons." He shrugged a shoulder, aiming the EMF meter above and around Dean. "Sounds reasonable… until the next message where he decides he wants us to do it from the front lawn."

"And step all over his precious daisies? Try from the middle of the street." A crinkling noise was heard as Dean peeled open a small candy bar, and popped it into his mouth. "You know, Sam, I really don't see how they can call these little shits fun-sized. Wouldn't it be more fun to eat, like, a foot long candy bar?" He asked his brother, talking through the melting chocolate.

"Very professional, Dean. Very professional." With a tired and defeated sigh, Sam took a seat besides Dean, the EMF meter resting in his lap. Wordlessly, Dean, without even as much as a glance, titled the bag of sweets towards him, and, with a shrug of hesitation, he slipped a hand in, locking a candy bar between his index and middle finger. "So, what's the plan, Sherlock?"

"We've scanned both floors, and nothing, so as far as I'm concerned, Watson, Ron can just up his freakin' meds." Suddenly, he got that feeling, and felt something far back in his mind tug back—an emotion, a vibe, or maybe a thought? He glanced sideways at Sam, covering his confusion with a seemingly coy smirk. "Any objections?" He asked as Sam bit into his mini-chocolate bar, and paused mid-bite.

It took him several seconds to process this—shit, had he said something—thought something wrong? He swallowed in a nervous gulp. "Um…" Crap, what had he been thinking about? Paper? No. Sam blinked, dumbfounded. "I just, er, think we should give the house one more look over—Ron doesn't seem like the type to… lie." Wait, yes he does. He realized, the sweet chocolate unusually sour in his mouth.

"Yes he does." Dean echoed, and despite his words, he dropped the bag of candy between them, besides his cell phone, and reached up with his left hand, griping the banister. He put his weight against it, in hopes of not putting any strain on his chest, but something pulled as he got to his feet. He turned his face away from Sam, barely catching the wince in time. "Hand me the EMF, will you?"

"You're going to do it?" Sam asked, right as the sound of crashing was heard above them. Sam practically jolted onto his feet, nearly losing his footing. "Okay, so maybe I missed something." He stated, as another crashing sound was heard. Dean snapped out, "impatient fucker," as he pulled a gun out of thin air, or rather, from the inside of his jacket, in one quick, swift movement; no hesitation. "Ah, ah, ah, hey—no guns, remember?"

"Remember what?" The older brother innocently asked, brushing past him as he cautiously walked up the stairs. "Stay behind me, Shrek." He ordered, elbowing Sam in the ribs when he tried to pass him.

"I'm not the one—"

"But you are the one getting on my last nerve."

"You're unbelievable—"

"Quite! Now please tell me that's the EMF poking into my back." Snorting, Sam lightly shoved Dean's shoulder, but then he was like, 'oh, wait,' and looked down to notice that the bulbs on the device were flashing red. "Looks like we found our new friend, huh?" In response, the sound of breaking glass was heard in the nearest room.

"On the count of three." Sam began when they crept up to the door, one brother at either side. "One… hey!" Dean charged into the room, and froze when he saw a crystal kitten licking its paw hovering in the air. It dropped, and pieces scattered everywhere. The EMF meter went crazy, and then still. Sam, while mentally cursing at Dean, stepped in. "Oh, man."

"Yeah, oh, man—we're going to get blamed for this." The room was obviously a study—a desk, bookcases with the shelves lined with books, and, oddly enough, a shelf nailed to the wall where several glass animals sat. The ground was littered in broken glass, so it didn't take much to put two and two together.

"Ghost not an animal lover?"

"Maybe it's not a Ron lover." His comment made Sam smile as the younger male cautiously moved around the room, stepping around the glass while he heard it crunching under Dean's feet as he walked around, examining the shelf of animal sculptures. He watched unmoving as Dean picked up a dog one, and smiled down unassuming at it. "You know, when we were younger, I wanted a hunting dog, but dad said no."

"A hunting dog, to, what, track down demons? Wouldn't he have just gotten in the way?"

"Yeah, so? We kept you around, didn't we?" He chuckled at the glare Sam shot at him. "Kidding, doofus. Anyway, dad said just about the same thing, and pissed my nine-year-old self off. I don't think I talked to him for, like, a whole mile and a half."

"How'd he make it up to you?" Sam wondered, amused by Dean's sudden story. Before the start of the era where he got into the big fights with John over college, their father would somehow do some unusual act to make Sam smile, to forget what had happened. It worked until puberty hit, but now, Dean just stared at him blankly.

"Make what up?" He asked, clearing his throat as he set down the dog that had stared at him longingly with its clear beady eyes. Sam joined him in clearing his throat, and changed the subject, and asked, "What do you think we're dealing with here?" Dean's lips tugged back. "Well, Sam, I'm no expert, but I would say we might be dealing with a poltergeist."

"And you call me the smart-ass."

"Hey, if the shoe fits…" Then, downstairs, the clanking noise of silverware being dumped out of its respective drawer onto the linoleum-clad ground was heard. "Sonofabitch! He counted those!"

∞∞∞

"Judging by the way the ghost practically threw a tantrum—or twelve—after Ron left, I'd say it may have a crush." Sam joked later that day. Dean scoffed, parting his lips to speak, but paused. His brother waited patiently for the retort, but Dean ended up shrugging, like whatever, which made Sam grin. Stumped you, hah! Dean frowned, because apparently getting forked in the ass by a ghost makes a person cranky.

They had spent several houses at the two story colonial house. With three bedrooms, and two bathrooms, the brothers had figured it too big for one man, but Dean had stated that the man needed to store his attitude somewhere, and Sam tried not to chuckle while telling his brother to be nice. "First impressions are everything, Sam." Dean had wistfully replied.

It was now around dinner time, and neither Winchester was in the mood to deal with people, so they ordered Chinese take-out and ate at their new pick of a motel room—this room, thankfully, was bigger than the last. Now Sam actually had room to stretch out those long legs of his, and Dean had the comfort of knowing he didn't have to sleep with Sam breathing down his neck from the other bed.

While Sam ripped open the paper bag containing their meal, Dean lazily fell back on the bed, using the remote—which was chained to the bed frame—to turn on the television. The local news was on, the first three stories all about deaths, whether they happened in a house fire, or a freak automobile accident involving a semi. Dean, without giving any explanation, shut off the television and they ate their dinner in silence.

"We don't get paid enough for what we do, never mind for maid service." Sam tried to break the ice—sure, the silence was comfortable, but there was this latent tension in the air. He was referring to the mess the rambunctious poltergeist had made… and that they had actually cleaned up. Dean put the pieces of Ron's smashed precious animal sculptures in a shoebox he found and labeled it, 'pet cemetery,' only he had used the misspelled form (Pet Sematary) of it, a la Stephen King.

"Like hell Ron is going to pay us anyway, dude—he's a friend of dad's, so he probably expects it as a favor." When Sam asked how the two men knew each other, Dean shrugged, opening a white carton of rice. "I would like to know what crawled up that man's ass, laid eggs, and then died, though, woo, really. You know he left another message for us?"

"What did he have to say?"

"Nothin' I can repeat in front of your virgin ears." Sam bit down hard on the piece of sweet and sour chicken in his mouth. Dean twirled the plastic fork into the block of rice, breaking it apart, his eyes never leaving the food. "Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. They were basically empty threats, and more bogus rules, like not digging up any of his property, so I called him up and told him until he can book the Ghost Busters to let us do our job. Who you going to call?"

"Sam and Dean." Something still felt off to Sam, and it was starting to distract him. Dean's tone was lighter now, even friendlier, and sure, he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why? They had a rough day, what with the spastic ghost, the grumpy man, and you know what? Screw it. For once in the past few days, Sam felt more relaxed. He hadn't even thought about paper or books in quite some time!

"Dean and Sam." Dean corrected with a murderous glance as he ripped open packets of soy sauce over his dry, bland rice. "And we look good while doin' it, yeah, and without those tacky jumpsuits and damn vacuums stuck to our backs. Vacuums, heh. If only, huh?"

"Are you kidding me? I was waiting for the day dad would come barging through the door with them. Didn't he ban us from watching that movie anyway, for the wrongful portrayal?"

"No, he banned us from watching the movie after you had recurring nightmares about the Stay-Puft marshmallow man, you little freak. He also banned us from the Child's Play movies when someone was convinced that every doll was out to kill him." Dean cleared his throat, trying hard not to chuckle at the memories—particularly the one back when he found a doll with a cracked face and missing eye in the trash and decided to slip it into bed with a young Sam while he slept.

Sam picked up a pillow off his bed, and whipped it at Dean's head, but the older male easily blocked it without spilling any rice. "You've always been such a jerk, Dean. Such a jerk!" He played to be more upset than he actually was, because the smile on Dean's face made it worth it.

"Oh, and lets not forget the Candyman saga, oh god. You were so fucking convinced something was going to tear out of that medicine cabinet and kill you, dude, it was hilariously pathetic." For the week they stayed at the motel, in the early hours of the morning, Sam had Dean woken up Dean and made him wait outside the bathroom while he did his business three times. John finally put a stop to it when he threatened Dean with staying home while he went on his hunts if he continued showing Sam scary movies behind his back. "You were the reason dad always unhooked the cable box."

"Oh, sure, blame it all on me."

"Don't worry, I do."

"Lousy jerk."

"Gullible bitch."

Unexpectedly, something felt… on, even maybe… right.

∞∞∞

On the wall hung a picture—or rather, a framed painting, and it surely wasn't a Da Vinci or Van Gogh masterpiece. It was a medium sized piece of white canvas with a sleek black shadow-esque form painted on it. There was something about it that just gave Sam the creeps, thus he laid on his side, his back to it.

The bathroom light was on, which dimly lit up the room. He could make out the curve of Dean's back. The older male was lying sprawled out on his stomach, his face buried into the queen-sized pillow on the bed. He stirred in his sleep a few times—Sam guessed it was from the pain of lying on his wounded chest—and would smack his lips together, slightly arch his back, and shift his head from resting against one cheek to the other.

Gosh, why could he conk out easier on some nights than others? It drove him completely mad. His mind was now totally wired, he wasn't sure if it would ever just shut off. He thought about his last vision, and his utmost concern for Dean came rushing back. Feeling utterly restless, he turned over onto his back, and in order to keep himself from looking over at the spooky painting from the corner of his eye, he flung an arm across his eyes. He kept his eyes tightly closed under the crook of his elbow.

If only his tired mind would stay focused. One second he thought about Dean, and wanting to help him, and the next he was thinking about Jessica, and how he missed out on helping her. Why did I keep such information from her? He silently asked of himself, instantly thinking of Dean. Why am I keeping information from Dean? He hadn't even told Dean about his vision—his vision of him! Oh, fuck. Sam was less than a step away from tearing his hair out in frustrated clumps.

After much scattered thinking about his infected brother and dead girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?), John came swinging in, hitting the tree that is Sam's brain with much force. Oh, brother—father, even. There was a sore topic. The man that had angered him and annoyed him to no end was the man he wanted so badly to find. He was around thirteen when he started to question John, when arguments started to arise, and when the no ifs, ands, or buts rule was flushed down the toilet. But now, that stuff wasn't important, he wanted to find John, and end what was started twenty-two years ago.

But then what—what came next? Oh, no, no. Now was not the time to get into that. Sleep, brain, just sleep, Sam inwardly urged his brain. Just shut off for a few hours, please? He rolled back onto his side, pressing his palm into his forehead. He could just watch infomercials on mute, maybe with closed captioning on if any interest rose. Oh, yeah freaking right, who the hell was he kidding? He didn't want to watch television, especially not at—he picked up his watch off the nightstand with his free hand and nearly groaned—two A.M. How the hell was that possible? They hit the hay early, after dinner, and it sure as hell didn't felt like that much time had passed.

Jessica would sometimes make him tea when he couldn't sleep. Early in the morning, she'd boil water, get out some cookies, and they'd sit at the oval kitchen table. Sometimes she'd take his larger hand in hers while they waited, smoothing the pad of her thumb over his calloused knuckles in the most soothing way, and other times, they'd sit there, their fingers interlaced so perfectly. Oh, Jessica.

And then there was Dean, who would, though arguably, get up during the late hours of the night for him. During that Candyman scare, on the third and final night, after waking him up and having him wait while he used the bathroom, Dean had made him hot cocoa. It was snowing outside, and they sat next to the window, blowing on their hot drink, sipping it slowly, quiet as ever—as to not wake John, who did wake up, and wasn't happy to find out why Sam needed to wake Dean up so he could use the bathroom. "I told you not to let him watch it!" John had snapped at the young Dean. Sam would always remember the way his thirteen-year-old brother flinched, like he expected John to hit him.

Anger boiled up in Sam's chest, causing him to be even more so awake. Oh, man, I suck at life. He rolled onto his stomach, his mouth pressed deeply into the pillow, which muffled his exhausted groan. That's when he heard the consistent shuffling next to him, and his head shot up. "Dean?" He asked while shifting up into a sitting position. He heard his brother exhale sharply, as if he were in pain. Anger faded, replaced distress. "Are you—?"

"Just… just shut up, please. Just stop it." Dean sounded breathless, and Sam stood up, turning on the lamp between their beds, but when he moved towards Dean, the blonde put a hand up, halting him. "No, no, no, no." He rattled off quickly. "Stay there, just stay there, 'cause I swear, dude, I swear…" He was now sitting up, one knee brought up to his chest.

"Dean! Just relax, calm down, all right?" Hell, Sam wasn't any fool. He put up his hands, knowing that Dean was a little out of it, and that he had a knife under his pillow, and those two things just don't mix. His face softened when he examined his brother, who pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while rubbing his eyes with the other. His eyes were closed. "Oh, Dean. Dean, you're… you've… bruised." The skin around his hairline was lightly, although noticeably, bruised—fresh and ripe. "What the hell is the matter with you, man?"

Dean slowly opened an accusing eye. "You."

∞∞∞