Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this story, you're all fab :-) I think I replied to you all, sorry if I missed anyone. I'm truly humbled by your kind words. This is a short chapter, more to come I promise.

SnSnSnSnSnSnSnSnSnS

Stevie Shapiro seemed even younger than Dean remembered him from four years ago, from the hot night when he had saved the fresh-faced rookie from a vase-loving poltergeist. Kid had cried on the lawn afterwards, on his knees, begging Dean to tell him everything when really he must have wished he still knew nothing. Sam's hand futile on his shoulder.

Yeah, definitely too young to be sitting on a park bench with him and Sam all serious and policeman-like and loaded with stolen information.

The young cop was perched between the two brothers in his pristine uniform, looking for all the world like a kid playing dress-up - except for the thin, business-like folder protruding from under his arm.

He handed Dean a pile of papers and spoke all deep-voiced: "Here's what we know."

Dean made a show of leafing through the sheets with interest. One, two, three, four white pages of text and dates, a photograph of a burnt table, smoke stains on walls.

Only a show, because his head had been pounding for the last hour, ever since they'd arrived in this painfully suburban town. Ever since the distracting parade of scenery passing the car window, the snap of something new every second, had been replaced with slow-moving streets and crimson red traffic signals.

Now trying to read was only making his headache worse. The images blurred, text brightened and dimmed. Sledgehammer. He reached across Stevie and passed the information to Sam, who leaned right forward to glare at him before snatching the pages away.

"Fine, Dean. I'll read them." And quieter, so quiet that maybe Dean wasn't meant to hear: "As usual."

After a few moments of silence except for rustling papers, Stevie unwittingly leapt to Dean's defence. "There's nothing in there I didn't tell Dean over the 'phone." He paused while two mothers with pushchairs walked by. "Two fires, no identifiable seats. Kids seeing things." Whispered for the benefit of a boy who came running over after a soccer ball: "A ghost."

"The usual." That was the longest sentence Dean could manage right now. He started coughing, an irritated, dry cough. Just waiting to turn into something worse. He rubbed his throat.

Sam took over. "So, what's our way in?"

"Here." Stevie reached into his back pocket and a fake ID landed in Dean's lap. When he opened it, he groaned. A loud, sick groan.

"Feds?" Sam asked increduously. Out of the corner of his eye Dean could see his brother leaning back in the bench as he spoke. Casting an eye in his direction.

"Best I could do, guys," Stevie apologised.

"All right," Dean croaked, heart thumping.

Because it wasn't, not really. Feds meant suits, suits meant a damn tie. As if he wasn't suffocating enough already.

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Half an hour later they were in a tux shop surrounded by grooms to be and bored kids. The place was packed. Children screamed.

When a pretty sales assistant raised her eyebrows at them from over a tall guy's shoulder, Sam was negotiating his way towards her before Dean even had chance to put a restraining hand on his brother's arm, before he could find that presumptuous wink. Let me, Sam. He saw the girl smile widely and turned away. Looked like his brother had got it covered.

He collapsed into a hard chair and waited, fingers drumming against his thighs, loud hum of voices pulsating in his ears.

Sam returned a few long minutes later with a black suit on a hanger, matching tie strung around its neck. The younger Winchester was already dressed like a Blues Brothers reject.

"Put this on, Dean." No please, no thank you.

Book withdrawal.

Dean stretched back in the chair, feet becoming a trip hazard. Calves invisibly clenched. He flopped his head to the side and sniffed heavily. "Ugh." Waited for a sudden wave of nausea to subside.

"Dean, this god damn hunt was your idea. If you're too sick to do it, why are we here? I'm gonna call Bobby-"

Sam was half-turned away before Dean spoke. "No, no, Sam. Here, give me it." Quieter: "I'm ok." Got to his feet and headed for the changing rooms in semi-blindness as a head rush overtook him.

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The white collar was tight around his neck, the tailored sleeves restrictive. The tie was going to strangle him. Oh, and he looked like a funeral director. Dean stood in front of the full-length mirror and adjusted and readjusted. Loosened the noose. Sweat was building under the collar already. God, is it hot in here?

Then, in the clear reflection, bright flames flashed orange behind him. He spun, nothing there except an empty wall.

When he looked back his face in the mirror was bloody and skinless.

And then now again. His heart pounded, sweat pouring down his back, and he bolted, elbowed some poor woman in his hurry to get to the door.

Outside he sucked in huge gulps of the cool air, hands down on his thighs, gasping. Added burning orange fire to the list of things he was trying not to remember. Shit.

He breathed hard for minutes. When Sam found him he was just about upright, leaning against the wall. He faked a yawn.

"Geez Dean, can't you stay still just for a minute?"

"Only when I'm dead, Sammy," he replied, smile quickly flashed.

Sam dropped his head and walked away to the car without responding. Dean took in a long swig of air and followed his brother's long strides.

Thinking with each step Let's go back to Bobby's, Sammy. Maybe this hunt wasn't such a good idea. The sight of his brother's back, the shape of his brother leaving him behind, making sure he never quite managed to say it.