Disclaimer : Um, for the record, I still don't own any of this...

Author's Note : Was everyone as impressed with the season premier as I was? I know, I know, I didn't except them to go that route either, but... let's just say I'm not gonna turn down the eye candy.

I also want to send a special thanks to hitchcock-starlet who found this story a couple of days ago and took the time to write out a review for every single chapter. How awesome is that? (Hint : really freakin' awesome!) So thank you, hitchcock-starlet, and thanks to everyone else who has read and reviewed. By now I think you all know I'm a bit of a review whore... please don't judge. ;)

I'm not really happy with this chapter, but I don't have it in me to rewrite that much of the story, so it's staying. Any mistakes are sorry for being there, and thoroughly blame me for their existence.

--

Halfway to their destination, Dean was trying very hard not to regret his decision. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to jump right back into things, but taking it slow wasn't an option anymore. He wouldn't be a liability, refused to be the reason Sam was turning down Bobby's plea for help. He'd done nothing for long enough, and if he'd be damned if he was the reason people were dying.

But as he sat in the diner, under the eyes of a dozen patrons, he couldn't get his skin to stop crawling. He was anxious and barely able to control the urge to run when anyone came anywhere near the table. The smell of cooking food combined with the stench of too many truckers without access to a shower was making his stomach churn. He fidgeted, and forced himself not to reach for his knife by sitting on his hands.

Across the booth, he was aware of Sam's eyes on him, too. He was nervous, worried, and it showed.

The waitress came to take their order, and it was all he could do to remain in his seat. He looked down at his lap, trying hard to focus on anything but the fact that this person was too damn close.

He heard Sam rattling off an order, heard the waitress say something in return, and wondered if it would be too much to ask to maybe hide out in the Impala until Sam finished eating.

Then the waitress reached for him.

His heart stopped as the hand came closer, his entire body going still as fight or flight kicked in and his brain tried to figure out which one would get him out of this alive. His fingernails dug into the vinyl beneath him, a scream caught in his throat -

- and she whisked the menu out from in front of him, offering an uneasy smile before heading back to the kitchen.

Okay... taking it slow was good. They definitely should have kept taking it slow. He wasn't ready for this.

He drew in a ragged breath and tried to nod when Sam asked if he was okay.

No, I'm not okay. I'm an idiot.

He forced his breathing to even out, and tried to relax his grip on the seat, folding his hands in his lap. What kind of man couldn't even face a pretty little truck stop waitress without pissing himself? What kind of man wanted to hide in the car forever? He'd faced demons, vampires, he'd been to hell and he couldn't take half an hour in some tiny diner?

If Dad could see you now...

Dean squared his shoulders and told himself to stop being such a wimp about this. He was fine. He could do this.

But when the waitress brought their food, not only could he not bring himself to dazzle her with the ol' Winchester charm, he still couldn't so much as look at her. And if that wasn't bad enough, when he saw Sam's steak sitting on his plate, rare and swimming in blood-tinged juice, he lost it.

He vaulted from his seat, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran to the bathroom, pushing through the swinging door and into the first stall he saw. He barely made it, hitting his knees hard just as the contents of his stomach made a reappearance.

It wasn't much, but it left him shaking, shaking, clinging to the toilet seat, too preoccupied to care that it was probably filthy. All that mattered was trying to convince himself it was steak, not a chunk of flesh he'd seen on that plate. It was food, nothing more.

But he still smelled the sickening stench of charred flesh, tasted it at the back of his throat. His stomach refused to settle and he gagged again.

When he finished, it was only because his stomach realized there was nothing more to throw up. By that time Sam was standing at the door, looking concerned when it swung open.

"Are you all right?" he asked as Dean crossed to the sink to splash water on his face and rinse his mouth.

Dean didn't answer, scrubbing his face clean with the same rough paper towels that graced bathrooms everywhere as if it would actually remove the layers of filth he felt clinging to his skin. What was he supposed to say that anyway? They both knew that nothing was ever going to be right again.

He crumpled the paper towels in his hands, throwing them in the trash without a second glance. No, he wasn't all right. He was wondering if he was going to have to worry about facing a plate of steak more than a diner full of people from now on.

Since he'd been back, nothing held the same appeal, but food had been the worst of it. It was all he could do to choke down enough to keep kicking. Nothing tasted right, and he wondered if the ash coating his tongue would ever go away. Looked like that wasn't his only problem. Maybe he'd been looking at steak back there, but what he'd been seeing was a chunk of human flesh, singed and served up like Christmas ham.

Now, staring at his reflection in the grimy mirror, he saw a stranger. A thin, weak stranger with shadows in his eyes. His hair was too long and dark circles under his eyes spoke of the sleepless nights. He turned away, unable to face himself. He felt betrayed by both body and mind, and he was utterly disgusted with it.

Looking at Sam was worse, seeing those doe eyes pointed his way, concern practically radiating from him.

I'm fine.

It was the response he would have given before. He wanted to say it now, to lie and reassure. To say anything. He didn't even need to speak; he could shake his head, or nod. He could shrug, a noncommittal gesture that was, at the very least, a response. Instead, he stared at the floor.

"Maybe this was too much, too soon," Sam said on a sigh. "I'm sorry, Dean."

No, he wanted to say. Don't be sorry. It's not your fault, it's mine.

His eyes burned holes through the tile.

"You wanna head to the car?" Sam asked, and he hated how his brother's voice was soft, the placating tone you used on a child. "I'll get them to wrap the food up and we can just eat on the go?"

He could still smell the faint metallic odor of blood, and for a minute he didn't know if it was a memory. A quick check told him it wasn't his blood, but surely he wasn't still smelling the still-kicking cow on Sam's plate? God, what he wouldn't give for some smelling salts - something potent enough to overpower the blood.

Sam was frowning at him. Waiting for a response, he realized. And since staying in the bathroom for the rest of the night probably wasn't an option, he nodded.

Sam's hand on his back, a simple gesture that still made him cringe, offered support as he left the relative safety of the bathroom. He felt the eyes on him as he did his walk of shame, felt the glaring absence as Sam's hand retracted, and forced himself not to bolt to the car. He kept his pace steady, all too aware of every footstep, and watched from the corner of his eye as Sam headed back to the table.

One foot after another led him into the night.

--

As they drove, Sam recounted the information Bobby gave him. He'd gotten wind of the trouble from another hunter, who'd been passing through on his way to take care of a spirit in New York. Passing himself off as a reporter, he landed a phone interview with the mayor, who was eager to put rumors to rest.

The facts spoke for themselves : Four people were dead in Eastern Ohio.

Three men and one woman, members of three separate companies working together on a rundown Victorian called Manor House. The house had been beautiful once, but after decades of neglect, it was in danger of being condemned. Instead of demolishing the place, the city officials decided to save the structure, an unofficial historical landmark, and put money into what would become the town's community center.

The first death happened four weeks ago. An experienced roofer somehow missed a rotted section of the roof he was replacing and plunged into the basement, breaking his neck. Work went on without interruption.

Then, while reinforcing supports in the basement in preparation to repair the floor, a beam collapsed, trapping two workers beneath it. While it took only minutes to free them, both workers were pronounced dead on arrival, a result of massive brain hemorrhage brought on by the crushing blow of the heavy beam.

Construction was brought to a halt, and did not start up until a second survey of the house proved safe enough to bring worker's back in.

The final death came only days later; while working on the wiring, an electrician had been electrocuted.

After that last incident, police couldn't ignore the public's demand that they explore the possibility of foul play. It was no surprise that they deemed the deaths accidental - there was nothing suspicious in the deaths besides the time in which they happened. It was a unfortunate series of events that happened, they said. Tragic, and shocking, but completely coincidental.

Coincidence or not, it was hard to stomach, and a dark cloud settled over the town. Rumors of a curse sprang up - half a humored attempt to cope with the tragedies, and half nervous fear - and the allure of the long awaited community center began to fade. Now they were just trying to decide if it was safe enough to continue.

According to the mayor, Manor House had all the signs : flickering lights, cold spots, but it was all stuff you could attribute to an old house undergoing renovations.

He wasn't so sure if it was their kind of problem, or just a really sad series of bad luck for a small town. Sure, it sounded suspicious. And maybe the house was a lawsuit waiting to happen, but what were the chances four people would die there in as many weeks? Even if it was a death trap, they were talking seasoned workers, doing what they knew best, what they did every day.

With any luck, this would be a walk in the park, a good way to ease Dean back into the swing of things without any real trouble. After the diner, Sam wasn't so sure Dean was ready for anything more.

He followed the signs to Pine Falls, ignoring the fact that the area boasted very few pine trees, and, at Bobby's direction, kept driving until the houses became fewer and far between. He knew as soon as he saw the dilapidated roof rise over the crest of a hill that this was Manor House.

Even seeing the monster of a house in the middle of the night it was clear, Manor House was something special. Sure, it was run down now, but it must really have been something in its day... even with the redundant name.

Sam slowed to a stop a safe distance away, pulling far enough off the road that a passing car wouldn't endanger Dean's baby.

They crossed the road, waiting until they reached the porch before Sam flicked on his flashlight. The beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating his path up the stairs. He took them three at a time, his long legs easily carrying him onto the porch.

A sharp crack and a muffled cry from behind him had him spinning on his heel, gun appearing as if out of nowhere to focus on a sheepish Dean. He played the light down and saw Dean's leg disappear into a hole where the fifth step used to be.

"You okay?" he asked, letting out a sigh of relief. His heart was in his throat, and he tried to talk it back down.

Dean nodded, pulling his foot back through the splintered wood.

Before he opened the door he made a mental note to take it easy, and not just on the stairs. This place was in bad shape, and on the off chance the deaths here really had been accidents, they needed to watch their step.

The doorknob was cold beneath his hand.

"Here we go..." he muttered.

And then he twisted.

--

Work had been underway for over a month, yet the inside of Manor House looked as if it had been sitting untouched for years. A noticeable layer of dust coated every surface, including an obviously recent addition - an improvised table made of sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. Even the continued interruptions letting dust settle again couldn't equate to that kind of build up.

The air was stale, and plenty cool, with fat motes of dust drifting easily through the light they provided. As they progressed through the house, getting an idea of the layout and scanning with the EMF, they saw signs more that life had existed inside these walls only recently : an unopened box of nails, a circular saw, a lone can of WD40, even an abandoned over shirt left crumpled in the corner.

One room was no more than a gaping hole that gave an easy view of the basement, and it was there they discovered the site of the first three deaths. Though the first had died on impact, the problem started on the roof, and the electrician had died in the foyer, so he ruled out any connection beginning or ending in the basement.

They skirted that room, and headed for the stairs. When the EMF remained silent the entire time Sam felt his nerves unwind. He'd wanted an easy hunt, but it looked like there might be none at all. Plenty of dust, a whole lot of work that needed done, but no cold spots, nothing jumping out at them from the shadows.

He shrugged and turned to Dean. "Might be a bust."

Dean frowned, and nodded slowly.

They didn't have much of a choice, as Sam saw it. If nothing presented itself, they could try again tomorrow, but it wouldn't do much good poking around in a house trying to provoke a spirit even if there was none. Research would help them determine any history of violence or tragedy, anything that might indicate a reason for someone to stick around after they were gone.

Dean abruptly clicked off his flashlight. In response, Sam brought his up. "What's up?"

"Idea," Dean grunted, weighing the Mag-Lite in his hand.

Without another word, he swung the flashlight like a baseball bat in a one handed grip. Sam cringed; they weren't made for it, but if you needed a weapon in a pinch one could come in handy. And as long as you didn't mind destroying one in the process, it could do a lot of damage.

The EMF went wild in Sam's hands as the wall easily gave way beneath the heavy aluminum.

Dean swung again, and this time the lens shattered on impact. Dean rapidly brought his hand back for a third time, and the spirit finally decided to show itself - but not before sending Dean into the darkness.

Sam spun, instinctively following his brother instead of focusing on where the blow might have come from. The beam of his flashlight came to rest on Dean, pressed against the far wall, looking stunned and covered in dust he'd mopped up on the way.

"You okay?" he asked, immediately regretting his decision to come in unprepared. He hadn't expected trouble; his first mistake. The second was leaving the shotgun in the trunk.

Dean nodded and rubbed the back of his head with a wince. Sam didn't miss the streaks of red when he pulled it away.

"Shit," he spat, taking in the cracked wall behind his brother as well. "You're bleeding."

Dean glanced at his hand, looking somewhat surprised.

"What were you thinking, anyway?" Sam asked, offering a hand to help him up.

He shrugged in response, but allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

"I take it someone didn't appreciate you banging on their house," mused Sam, playing the light over the gaping hole in the wall.

"Yeah," Dean said simply, stooping to retrieve his own flashlight.

"So, you wanted to piss the ghost into coming out to play?" Sam asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Worked."

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment. "So I guess we need to figure out what happened here."

Sam sighed; it was time to hit the books.

--

They waited for morning to hit anything. By the time they found the town's singular hotel and Sam played nurse to the small cut on Dean's scalp, they were both too worn out to contemplate any research. Dean woke them both up at dawn, but Sam managed to get back to sleep after calming him down.

As he munched on a blueberry muffin he wondered if Dean had done the same. His bloodshot eyes and the circles beneath them were standard fare, so he couldn't be sure. He watched as his brother carefully selected a muffin from the box he'd picked up at the gas station earlier.

If there was anything to find, he was missing it.

He felt rusty, off his game, and knew it was the furthest thing from the truth. He was better now than he'd ever been - there was a reason his name was well known, and for once it wasn't because he was special. He'd spent the past four years honing his skills, living up to the Winchester name, dancing on a thin line that bordered obsession.

He guessed that was what happened when hunting was all you had left.

He wasn't off his game... the game had changed. Someone threw a wrench in the gears, introducing a new set of rules, and he wasn't sure he could play along.

"There's not much online beyond talk of the new plans for the place," he said as Dean picked at his muffin. "So I'll probably have to check the library."

Dean's hand froze, a broken off piece of muffin suspended in front of his mouth. "Oh."

More than anything, he wanted to forget about it. More than anything, he knew he couldn't.

Research was boring, frustrating, and more than a little annoying but it was also one of the most integral parts of hunting. Even Dean wouldn't go into things without scaring up what information he could. You had to know what you were up against, know what to expect, and most importantly, know how to get rid of it.

Which meant he needed to get his ass in gear and figure out how to play these new rules fast. Didn't mean he had to like it.

"You know, there probably won't even be anyone there," he said quickly. "You could come with me."

Dean popped the bit of muffin in his mouth and chewed like it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Take that as a no," he said softly, watching as the rest of his brother's breakfast was deposited back in the box.

"I'll make it fast," he promised.

Dean locked eyes with him, there surprising Sam. "I'll go."

"You sure?" he asked, watching the tension play across his brother's face.

"No," Dean replied softly.

"Then I'll make it faster."

--

"...accident in the early 30's, but it doesn't say anyone was even hurt..."

Heavy man in his fifties, sports coat, over by nonfiction.

"...fire in the kitchen, cook was burned pretty bad, but she survived and they covered the bills..."

The teenager by the front desk, carrying a purse.

"... there was a kidnapping... never mind, turned out to be a runaway..."

Librarian could fit some heat under that cardigan.

"...damn, gimme something here."

Guy in a grey sweatshirt, by the bulletin board, maybe thirty...

Sam kept on, reading from articles, but he only caught the occasional sentence here and there. Someone had to keep a lookout.

The sports coat wouldn't conceal a gun, already stretched tightly against the man's broad shoulders and back, but he couldn't rule out knifes. The old lady probably could have concealed an arsenal in her hair alone, but somehow the thought of a weapon stashed in her bouffant didn't have him laughing. The purse would hold at least a small pistol, but the guy in the hoodie was the best bet. It was baggy enough to neatly conceal a holster or hastily stashed weapon.

"... forced entry, graffiti found on the walls... "

Maybe they knew he'd go for that guy, first. Then it would make the most sense to pick the least assuming suspect, but there was the question of which one that was. The old lady was the obvious choice, but they'd know that, wouldn't they? The kid looked innocent enough, but what did that mean? It only made them more dangerous if you got 'em started early - no one ever suspected a kid. The older guy had enough padding around his middle to keep him from being too suspicious, but maybe that was the point. He'd bet the guy could still do some damage.

"Dean? Are you listening?"

He answered without turning his head, keeping all four in his line of sight. "Mm."

"Dean!"

It was a hissed whisper designed to get his attention without disturbing anyone, but it sure as hell got his attention. He started, looked back to Sam, and immediately felt the spiders on his back.

"Where were you?" Sam asked, flashing a grin that immediately fell away when he thought about what he'd asked.

He tried to smile back at Sam, but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace.

"So, uh, I was just saying there were no unexplained deaths, well, any I could find, anyway," Sam muttered with a frown. "But we know there's something there, and that it doesn't like people messing with the house."

Dean felt the sigh that built up behind Sam's carefully passive face. He didn't have to hear it to know how frustrated Sam was. Any other time, any other gig, he could slap on a fake badge, invent a history with some stupid newspaper, dig around the locals and get his answers in no time. Now he was limited to dusty libraries and avoiding everyone for fear his crazy brother would have another moment.

Why can't you just be normal?

He cleared his throat and nodded dumbly. "N-need more to go on."

Sam looked surprised, and he bit the inside of his cheek at that. Maybe he should be talking more? But as he tried to think of something to say, his eyes were drawn back to the front desk; he really didn't trust that librarian...

Sam stood up, his chair scraping across the floor loud enough to have the librarian glancing in their direction. At her glare, Dean took a reflexive step back, bumping into Sam. He resisted the urge to press closer, and remembered a time he would have done so to protect Sam, not to seek protection.

Then Sam was gripping his arm lightly, saying, "Let's go check out the house again, huh?"

The librarian went back to her business, smiling cheerfully as she checked out the girl's stack of magazines, and he wondered why he'd been so worried.

"Dean?"

Sam stared at him expectantly.

He couldn't suppress the shiver as he followed his brother to the car.