Chapter 3

The school corridors were long and empty. Two pairs of feet echoed discordantly on the hard floor.

"This way, Dean," Sam instructed, taking an unexpected sharp turn.

Dean nearly fell into the wall, righting himself with a flat palm on the whitewashed brick.

"Fuck," he whispered, biting his lip. Blaming the uneasy feeling in his stomach on a sudden influx of high school memories.

One memory in particular.

Meredith High School, 1993. How old was I? Fourteen? After a slow start Dean had ended up in the Principal's office every day for a week. Screamed at, belittled, humiliated and, on the last occasion, punched in the stomach. Yeah, the punch had given it away. Demon in a teacher-shaped meat suit had tried to strangle him, and damn nearly succeeded.

Dean shook his head as he remembered the fingers tight around his throat, the dull, startling pain as his skull had smacked into the wall. Shook the memory away with ease. If only it was always that easy.

He regained his footing and caught up with Sam, the muscles in his legs locked tight as he walked.

When his hand suddenly moved to his stomach, he swore, louder than he had intended. His body reminded him that there was another other reason his limbs felt like rubber right now. A flu-induced cramp assaulted his stomach like a ring-laden fist.

"You up to this, Dean?" Sam asked, concern in his voice.

Dean held his breath as his gut tightened, a fleeting thought rising along with the spasm in his belly: funny how some types of pain are easier to deal with than others.

He let the breath go and stood up straight. Nodded.

Sam stood still for a moment, lips pursed, like he was contemplating something. Like he might say something. Then he stepped up to knock three times on the door with a shiny brass Principal plaque, and Dean mentally located the knife tucked into his sock. Because you never could tell what was waiting on the other side.

Seconds passed and no one answered.

Dean looked around and spied a couple of empty chairs. He moved to sit in one, to give his aching legs some relief while they waited. But Sam just opened the door and walked right in.

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The room's only occupant was a young dark-haired man, apparently not much older than Dean, who sat at the leather-topped desk at the back of the room, one hand pressing a phone to his ear, the other playing with the blind behind him. Peering through its slats.

The office that surrounded him was big and old fashioned, full of oak furniture and oil paintings that were incongruous with the rest of the school. The yard peaking through on the other side of the blind was modern and concrete.

Dean's eyes wandered. A plaster of Paris David stood, armless and naked, on a thin wooden shelf above a radiator. Someone's remnants of another life.

"Well, Mrs Brannigan," the man said to someone on the other end of the telephone, "I know that Amy has been under a lot of strain this year, but her grandmother's death was over three months ago now-"

When he saw Sam and Dean he scowled slightly, swiveled on his seat and moved the blind-fiddling hand into the air to gesture at them. A stay there and do not move gesture. "Mrs Brannigan, we will have to resume our conversation at a mutually agreeable time. I'm afraid I have a meeting to attend."

The phone was placed back in its receiver.

"I heard you knocking, gentlemen. When you don't get an answer, the done thing is to take a seat and wait."

Dean wanted to say I told you so, restrained himself with a painful gulp before he realized he never had. When Sam stepped forward and flashed his ID, he did the same. Quickly, so no one would see that his hand was shaking. When did I start shaking?

"I'm Principal Weaver." The scowl gave way to reveal a wide, fake smile. "Take a seat gentlemen. Officer Shapiro told me to expect you, but I trust this won't take long. I do have classes to teach."

Sam took the one seat already opposite the Principal's desk, legs scraping on the wooden floor as he sat down. Dean dragged one over from the side of the room while Sam started without him.

"Very nice to meet you, Principal Weaver," Sam smiled back. Over the top, Sammy, thought Dean, as he planted his backside on the most uncomfortable chair in the room. Don't play too nice. "We're investigating the fires you've had in the school recently. What can you tell us?"

The Principal leant back in his padded leather seat and pressed his fingers together under his chin. "I've already spoken to the police about this." Leaned forwards. "Why on earth would the FBI be interested?"

Dean was thinking the same as he pulled at his tie.

"Humor us, Mr Weaver," Sam continued. "We have information that there are strange circumstances surrounding these fires."

The smile got wider. "You're not interested in that load of nonsense, surely? Disappearing arsonists. People don't just disappear into thin air."

Dean wondered why the air was always thin when people disappeared.

"I was talking about the fire investigation reports." Sam responded, moving his chair in closer to the desk. "But, do tell us about that."

The smile disappeared slowly and calculatedly, as if Principal Weaver was hoping that he could make its sudden absence go unnoticed. "Well, it's nonsense, obviously. Just some kids trying to deflect attention from themselves. I've no proof, of course." Both hands clenching the desk.

The young pretender was on his back foot, and Dean's clenched muscles relaxed slightly. "We want to talk to them," he contributed, short and sweet. Followed it up with a throaty cough.

"What, the pupils who are claiming that they saw a boy disappear into thin air?" Weaver looked from Sam to Dean and back again. "One of them claimed it was a ghost, for Christ's sake!"

Sam was firm. "But, as you clearly suspect, they may be the ones who started the fires."

Weaver raised his voice a little louder. "They were already interviewed by the police. They didn't learn anything from them. I refuse to subject-"

"It's not a request, Mr Weaver." Sam was being a badass. Dean counted thirteen seconds of silence.

"Very well." Weaver picked up the phone, and dialed.

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The first kid, a teenage girl in a sloppy t-shirt, was in tears before she even sat down. Sam had arranged some chairs in a rough circle, reluctantly placing one for the Principal, who seemed determined to stay.

"You're not in any trouble, Tanya," Sam soothed, looking around the circle to make sure everyone else knew the game he was playing. Except Dean knew it wasn't a game, just Sam trying to comfort a scared girl. "We just want to know what you saw."

"Nothin'. I didn't see nothin'." The kid looked ready to jump up and run for the door. Her hands were ringing in her lap. Snot ran into her mouth. She and Dean sniffed in tandem.

"You told the police that you saw a boy where the fire started." Sam carried on, his voice soft.

More sniffing. "I did, but no-one believes me." Looking up at the Principal while she wiped her nose with a tissue yanked out of her jeans pocket.

Dean chipped in in a deep, growling voice. "Did you start the fire, Tanya? Either of them?"

For Weaver's benefit.

"No!" The kid's eyes were wide and honest. She bowed her head and shook it slowly. "No." Again: "No." Getting quieter each time. "No." Then just the sound of a girl trying to stop crying.

Sam asked the crucial question: "Tanya, did you recognize the boy you saw?"

"No, never seen him before," she sobbed. "He was just some... some skinny little kid."

"What did he look like?"

"Nothin' really. Borin' lookin'."

"Hair color, eye color?"

The girl shook her head and pursed her lips. "Nope, don't remember."

Sam put his hand on the girl's thigh, which Dean could never have pulled off without it being deemed inappropriate. "Great, Tanya, you've been a real help."

Second kid, Daniel, was even less help than the first. Seemed to think he was in a movie, playing the wisecracking genius who never gave a straight answer. Saying things like, "What do you think I saw, agents?" Dean wanted to shake his hand and then kill him.

Third kid, Mike, he was the one they really wanted. The one who had said the word ghost. He sat, timid, looking at the floor. Shoulders turning away from Weaver.

"Principal Weaver, I wonder if we could talk to Mike alone," Sam said.

Weaver shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea, gentlemen. If his parents found out-"

"That wasn't a request." Dean this time, voice getting weaker by the minute. Gave the guy his best mean look to make up for it.

After a pause, Weaver stood up, put his jacket on, rearranged the papers on his desk. All very deliberate, all very slow. "Very well," he said, making sure he made eye contact with everyone in the room one by one, but saving the longest look for Mike. He closed the door gently on his way out.

Sam moved his chair around a little so he was facing the boy. "You know why we're here, Mike?" The boy nodded. "Okay. When the fire in the canteen started, tell us what you saw."

Quiet.

"You saw a boy, right? A boy where the fire started."

Mike nodded again.

"Was there anything unusual about him?" Sam asked, trying to avoid putting words in the kid's mouth.

Silence. Dean could only hear his own stuffed up breathing.

"Mike?" Sam tried again.

The boy's voice was so quiet. "He was a ghost."

"How do you know he was a ghost?" Sam probed, eyes meeting Dean's for a split second. "Was he... translucent?"

Dean leant in closer. "Did he, uh, shimmer at all?"

The boy looked up, eyes moving from one brother to the other. Filled with wonder that they weren't telling him he was a liar. Then, a second later, frowning like he thought they were stupid.

"I know it was a ghost because it was Tim Wilkins." Raised eyebrows asked the question. "Tim died two weeks ago."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. "How did he die?" they asked in unison.

"Hit by a car, outside the school. Everyone thought it was an accident."

The air was pregnant as they waited for the approaching but. Mike seemed on the verge of tears. His lips parted.

The door flung open and Principal Weaver came barreling in. "Times up, boys." He actually clapped his hands. Dean wondered if he'd been listening at the door.

"We weren't quite finished yet, Principal Weaver," Sam stated calmly.

"I'm afraid Mike here has classes to go to. He has an important test today."

Dean caught the look of surprise, horror, and then understanding that flashed across the poor kid's face.

The boy stood up and headed for the door, bag slung over his shoulder. Sam called after him, "No, Mike, wait-" But he was already gone, the door swinging to behind him. More afraid of his Principal than the FBI. Cute.

"Mike was just telling us about the boy who died here a couple of weeks ago," Sam stated, the volume of his voice rising.

Weaver just stood there with his arms folded. "Yes, there was a tragic accident in the road out front there. But that has nothing to do with these fires."

"Of course not." Dean reassured him. "It is tragic, though, isn't it?"

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"Bastard." Dean whispered. "Kid had something else to tell us."

Sam swung open the main door and they emerged into daylight. "Might have been nothing."

Side by side in their matching funeral suits, they walked down the wide concrete steps towards the parking lot. Dean was already loosening his tie.

"I'm going to go to the coroner's office," Sam told him. "I'll see what I can find out about Tim Wilkins' death. It's only three blocks over." He waved in some general direction or other. "I'll find out where he's buried."

Dean's heart started racing again. "We're not salting and burning a kid, dude."

"Why not?" Sam asked innocently, as if he'd just suggested something completely normal. Hell, before, Dean might have thought it was completely normal. But right now, the very thought of it was making him want to throw up. Or maybe he could blame that on this nasty 'flu. Another set of spasms began to churn his stomach.

"Because."

"Dean-"

Dean stopped at the bottom of the steps, thought about it for a second, trying to turn a gut feeling into words for his brother. "I'm not burning some poor kid's grave, Sam. Not if we don't have to. That kid has a mother."

"Okay." Okay. "But Dean, our only alternative right now is to try and find Tim and talk to him."

"Sure, that sounds good." Better.

"And we can't do that until later, when the school is closed. Preferably after dark. So I'm going to go to the coroner's office and see what I can find out. And if I can find out where he's buried, then I'm gonna. We'll only do it as a last resort, okay? Dean, if this thing starts killing people-"

"All right, Sammy. All right. You go and do that and I'm gonna find me a nice bar." Get really drunk so I don't have to think about burning children. Dean's stomach lurched.

Sam's hands were on his hips. "Fine. I'll meet you back at the car in three hours." Dean didn't respond. "Three hours, Dean."

"Sure."

When Sam had gone, the back of his black-suited form getting smaller in the distance and then disappearing out of sight around a corner, Dean turned and threw up in a bush. Wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Okay, no bars then. Stumbled across the parking lot.

He sat in the Impala for seven minutes before it got too hot in there. Even with the windows down it felt like he couldn't breathe. So alone, so much time to think. He slammed the door (thought: sorry, baby) and walked, just kept moving.

And when he felt like his legs were about to collapse under him, he found a bench to lie on and closed his eyes. Stuffed the vomit smelling jacket under his head. Hummed Metallica. Focused on the sound of the footsteps walking by.

Didn't fall asleep.