The ground is rough under Dean's pounding feet and he can hear his own ragged breathing sawing in his ears, feel the crackling cold in his lungs as he gasps. "Over here, fugly, come and get it!" He lets out a shout of laughter along with a round of rock salt, which blows through the screaming, glowing form of Edmund Fowler. This mindless rush of chaos through the silent night is perfect, just what he needed to wash the clouds of weariness and uncertainty from his mind. At least for now.

He skids to a stop, looking back the long, wobbling row of gravestones, gone still and soot-dark. His blood feels electric. He bares his teeth at the night, waiting impatiently for the ghost.

"Liar!" Fowler bursts up right in front of him, hands clawing, eyes narrowed in hate. He has one of those creepy pencil-line moustaches, which might be hilarious later. Dean brings the shotgun up but it's too late; long fingers made of something more active than ice wrap around his head and his brain explodes. Everything goes white, and distantly he feels his fingers loosen on the shotgun. A rasping scream wrenches from his throat as Fowler presses closer to his face and the pain in his head intensifies.

Fowler is hissing something at him. "Liar, boy, you are a creature of lies. I can see them on your skin. You are filthy with deceit. You will…" The rest of the words are lost as the pain in Dean's head goes nuclear, and he falls into nothingness.

"Dean!" Hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him, everything's warm and his head barely throbs – what?

"Mff – wha – Sam?" Dean fumbles his way out of the dream to find Sam looming over him, face pinched with worry. He shrugs Sam's hands off his shoulders and rubs his face. "Take it I was dreaming."

"Yeah. You ok?"

"Just some Leviathan clowns, Sammy. Nothing to worry about. Is there coffee?"

He can see the emotions play out over Sam's face: worry, frustration, then acceptance. Not three years ago it would have stopped at frustration and they'd be fighting right now. "Yeah." Sam gets up and grabs a cup from the table and brings it over.

"Bringing me coffee in bed?" Dean narrows his eyes at Sam as he takes a sip. "What'd you do?" The coffee blooms warm and bright in his stomach and he grins at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes and sits down on the bed. "Nothing, dude. How's the head?" He reaches a hand toward Dean but Dean catches and holds it, staring at Sam and struggling with a completely alien urge: he wants to tell Sam about the dream. Not a need to confide, more a reward for Sam's forbearance. He knows how much it hurts to watch his brother in even the slightest of pain.

"Um. Dean. What?" Sam's looking at him kind of warily, like he expects him to pass out again. Stupid Sammy, always expecting the worst.

Dean finally squashes the talking urge and just pulls Sam forward for a kiss. He tries to make it as clear as he can that it's a thank-you. "Nothing," he says when they part. "Just, good morning. I feel fine."

Sam's hand is warm as he leaves it on Dean's cheek, and Dean does his best innocent-and-sleepy face as he lets Sam stare. "Ok, then," Sam says warily. "Well, we've got an appointment with the first victim's sister in two hours."

With a sigh, Dean flips the covers back and gets out of bed, turning his back to Sam and stretching his arms over his head until his spine cracks loudly. Turning back around, he finds Sam watching him with wide eyes and chewing his lip, hands gripping his knees. All his arguments drain away at the sight and he slumps; he's just too tired argue with that face, no matter how pointless he thinks it is. Besides, it'll make Sam happy. What the hell else does he have going for him at this point? "Ok, sure. I'm gonna take a shower."

The expression on Sam's face is priceless. Poor guy had his arguments all lined up and ready to go. Probably has a bad case of geek blueballs now. "Um, really? Well, ok then. I'm, uh… I'm going for a run. I'll see you in a bit."

After his shower, Dean gets dressed and sits down at Sam's laptop. Sam's runs usually take at least forty-five minutes these days because apparently he feels the need to be in marathon shape, so Dean figures he's got a little over half an hour of Dick Roman research time.

The heater underneath the window does nothing but make occasional clanking sounds. It's freezing in the room, to the point that he can see wisps of steam from the shower curling up toward the ceiling and clouding the top of the window. He sticks his coffee in the microwave and dumps a few shots' worth of whiskey from Bobby's flask into it when it's done, then sits down to see what non-atrocities Dick Roman is committing these days.

Still no word on that fucking field in Wisconsin. He considers calling Frank and dismisses the idea immediately. The idea of wading through all the cranky half-craziness to get to the even crankier possibly-just-as-craziness sounds exhausting. He'll do it later. There's a lab doing some kind of operant conditioning experiments on chimps in Georgia, though, that looks promisingly sinister and hush-hush. Four layers of dummy companies, even. He's kind of proud of himself for finding it at all.

"Boy…" The crackling hiss makes him snap his head up, eyes darting around the room. What the fuck? The room's cold, but not ghost-cold, and the salt lines are all still there.

"Monster… creature of falsehoods…" This time, the words are accompanied by what feels like a spike of ice through both eyes and he gasps, clutching his head. He stands and wobbles to the nightstand, collapsing on the bed beside it. He's trying really hard not to whimper at the pain, which is ratcheting up to grenade-just-went-off-in-my-brain levels. The nightstand is blurry and wavering through the tears pouring down his cheeks, but he manages to grab the sawed-off after a few tries, his phone after a few more.

He's got the phone open and is squinting at the screen when the pain stops. One second he's trying to hold his brains in with one hand and dial Sam with the other, the next he can see again and his heart is pounding in his ears but he feels fine.

What. The fuck.

Slowly, he stands, checking to make sure the sawed-off is loaded, and checks the salt lines at the door and window very closely. They're completely intact. "Well, shit," he says aloud to the empty room.

No matter what happens today, they are torching this ghost tonight. He doesn't care if he has to do it by himself.

A tall figure outside the door and a key rattling the lock make him toss the sawed-off back on the nightstand and shove his phone in his pocket. He's just sat down and is taking a long drink of his coffee when Sam bursts into the room, panting and dripping with sweat. The sharp smell of frozen asphalt and car exhaust drifts in after him.

"Hey," says Dean, "How was it? Did you feel the burn? Were you all you could be?" His voice comes out even.

Sam rolls his eyes. "What does the Army… nevermind. Yeah, it was good. What are you doing?" He drops into the other chair and peels off his sweatshirt, and Dean gets distracted from his answer watching the muscles shift under Sam's gleaming skin as he reaches down and yanks off his shoes. He sits back up and rakes the sweaty tendrils of hair out of his face. "Dean? You in there?"

"What? Oh, yeah… um, looking up stuff on Dick Roman. There's this lab in Georgia, and they're doing something to chimps, trying to get them to reject their babies… or… something…" All the blood in Dean's body rushes downward and he very much wishes he didn't have jeans on. Sam has gotten up from his chair and is doing a series of stretches that involve much bending over and flexing.

"Yes…? Oh." Sam looks at him quizzically and then finally (finally!) realizes why Dean's stopped talking. He grins and fucking saunters over, the light playing over his shoulders and abdominal muscles, and stands so close Dean can feel the heat of his skin and he has to crane his head back to glare at him.

"You think you're so hot, don't you." Dean says, knowing Sam can see the bulge between his legs. "Think you're all distracting and shit."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you do."

That's it. Dean growls and stands, and yanks Sam's head down so he can claim his mouth with his own. Sam groans and opens for him and Dean delves inside, breathing in the smell of salt and Sammy. A hand cradles the back of his neck and the other slides down his back to squeeze his ass, pulling him closer as Sam slides a leg between his, putting unbearable pressure on his cock.

"Shower. Now." With a last lick over Sam's bottom lip, Dean takes his hand and pulls him toward the bathroom.

Sam chuckles and lets himself be dragged. "Didn't you just shower?"

"Yeah, but you need to, and I'm gonna need to again anyway, looks like. Now get those pants off, Sammy boy."

In half a minute, they're both naked and pressed up against each other in the tiny shower. Sam has Dean flattened against the wall, his chest sliding over Dean's back, and the sensation of Sam's hardening cock thrusting slowly between Dean's ass cheeks is driving him crazy. When Sam runs a hand up Dean's side and rubs his thumb over his nipple, Dean lets out a moan, which Sam swallows in a kiss.

"Gonna… run out… gahhh, Sammy… of h-hot water," Dean gasps as he turns to face Sam and grabs the shampoo. The scent of lemongrass fills the humid air as he squeezes out a dollop.

Sam closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the water soak his hair. The sight of runnels of water over soft lips, a long neck, and those broad shoulders momentarily shorts something out in Dean's brain and he can feel his cock twitch in response. "Turn around," he says, voice husky.

Sam smiles and does, and Dean works his fingers through the thick, silky locks, relishing the moans of pleasure he's getting from Sam. When Sam's hair is completely lathered, Dean continues his gentle, massaging motion down Sam's neck and over his shoulders, causing a delicious series of muscle flexes, and Sam drops his head, bracing his hands against the wall.

"De, God damn…"

Dean kisses Sam's spine in reply, then takes him by the shoulders and turns him around so Sam can tilt his head back into the water again. The sight of his neck bared like that, his arms up washing the last of the shampoo from his hair, is too much, and Dean latches on, pressing a kiss over the throbbing pulse.

The next few minutes are a slippery mess of biting and stroking and soft whimpers. Sam gets Dean up against the wall again, sucking a bruise onto the join of his neck and shoulder, while he rubs his cock against Dean's ass and jerks him slowly. They're both breathing raggedly, Dean biting his lip over loud moans. They echo in these little bathrooms.

"S-Sammy – please – " The hand on his cock disappears, and Dean whines, but then a finger slips between his ass cheeks and rubs over his hole, around and around, just barely dipping inside.

"This what you want, De?" Sam rumbles against his back and Dean jerks, needing more friction, just more.

"God, yeah, Sammy please just – "

A cry escapes Dean's mouth as the finger slides all the way in, swirling, stretching, and is soon joined by another. The second hits his prostate and a molten burst of pleasure fills his stomach and rushes down his cock. He can feel himself leaking. The water might be getting colder but he can't feel anything but Sam's hands, Sam's body, hot as a branding iron all over him. A third finger enters him and he moans, thrusting back onto Sam's hand.

"Ready, love?"

Dean nods, not trusting himself to form words. Sam takes out his fingers and then reaches around to take Dean's aching cock in his hand, gives it a few fast strokes and Dean arches back, letting Sam collect the precome dripping out.

Then Sam thrusts into him, grabbing his hips to angle himself. No longer able to hold back, Dean lets out a cry and reaches a hand back to grab Sam's ass, pulling him closer. They move together, Sam starting slow, hitting Dean's prostate with every deep thrust. Dean starts jerking himself off, the ache too much to bear, but Sam removes his hand and does it himself, stroking in time to his thrusts.

"Ahh… Sammy, faster, faster, please," Dean is shaking with need.

Sam obliges, speeding up and rubbing his thumb over Dean's slit with every stroke, and soon Dean is bracing his hands against the wall, letting out near-sobs with each breath. Behind him, Sam is growling low in his throat, littering a series of bites over Dean's shoulders, which he then sooths with open-mouthed kissing and sucking.

"Come on, love, are you close? Gonna come for me?"

The words are enough to send lightning shooting through Dean's body, and he quivers, jerking spasmodically. "Yeah – Sammy – I – uhhn – " With that, he is lost, come spurting out over his stomach and Sam's fingers as Sam gently strokes him through his orgasm. As he tightens around Sam's cock, he can hear Sam gasping and then the sensation of being filled, Sam's arms going slack around him as he goes rigid against Dean's back, moaning.

They stand, or rather lean into each other for several minutes after, breathing heavily, feeling the now-cool water patter over their heated skin. Finally, Sam slowly slides out, kissing the back of Dean's jaw in response to his hiss of discomfort.

They let the water rinse them off and then climb out, shivering a little. Dean grabs a towel and rubs it all over Sam's head, then cracks up at the sight of his exasperated expression and fuzzy hair. He wipes a palm across the mirror and examines the scattering of marks left by Sam's mouth across his neck and shoulders.

He sighs. "Sam, if any of these aren't covered up by my shirt collar, and I catch people staring, I'm not even gonna bother lying. I will sit down with the grieving relatives and say 'Yes, these are hickeys, and this gigantic bitch here gave them to me this morning when he was banging me in the shower. Also, we're brothers. Now, did you notice anything unusual about your dead loved one's behavior?'" By the time he's finished, Sam is wheezing with laughter, leaning against the sink, shoulders shaking. Dean grins and runs his fingers through his hair, then, judging himself presentable, leaves the bathroom, smacking Sam's towel-clad ass as he goes by and earning another snort of laughter.

Luckily, all the marks are covered up by his collar once he gets the tie on, so he doesn't have to tell people his brother gave them to him. Which he would have, really; can't have Sammy thinking he doesn't keep his promises.

SPN SPN SPN SPN

Lydia Engelson, the first victim's sister, lives in a studio apartment in Oakland, all unvarnished wood and tapestries over the windows. It smells oddly spicy from the incense burning by the door, a smell that reminds Sam of his friends' apartments back in California. It takes him so long to identify the memory it may as well have come from another life. He shakes off the slight wistfulness and glances at Dean, who has his professional, emotionless mask on for the girl. Or maybe just on, Sam isn't really sure sometimes. Either way, no sign of any lingering effects from the ghost – Sam shudders, just when he thought nothing could shock him anymore – messing with Dean's head.

As they move to sit, Sam sees a small red bruise just above Dean's collar, right over his spine. He smirks to himself, wondering if Dean would really make good on his threat if someone else noticed.

Lydia sits on the green patchwork couch facing Sam and Dean and wipes a tear away. Her fingers shake slightly as she hands Sam a picture of her brother. They look a lot alike, dark eyes and dark wavy hair, though her face is softly rounded where his was squared off.

"He was my best friend," she sniffs. "I mean, we fought, like all siblings, but… not ever really bad fights, you know? And we were in and out of each others' places all the time, we have all the same friends… God, I introduced him to his girlfriend." More tears trickle down her face, and Dean gives Sam a calm her down look, so Sam hands her back the picture and gives her a tissue from the box on the table.

"Lydia, have the police said anything? About why they think Jeremy was killed?" Dean says.

She balls up the tissue in her fist. "No! They haven't told me anything. I don't even think they're trying. They said it was just a burglary gone wrong, but, I mean, as far as they can tell nothing was taken… and... w-what kind of burglar cuts… s-someone's… throat? God," she sobs. "There was s-so much blood. All over his papers, and the desk…"

Sam does his best soft-and-understanding voice. "He was working when he died? Do you happen to know what he was working on? It's just for the insurance company, you know," he says when she gives him the look they get from all the families, the what the hell does that matter look. "They like us to be very thorough, and we don't want to have to keep bothering you." That sounded thin, even to Sam. Maybe they need to come up with a new default scenario.

Lydia seems to accept it, though, and the moment passes. Dean glances at Sam with raised eyebrows that say he thinks they might have been in trouble for a minute there, too.

"I don't really know." Lydia says, and Sam sighs inwardly. This visit is looking more and more like a waste of time. "He was probably going over his old articles. He'd gotten some letter or something complaining that he made stuff up, and I guess it really bothered him. He'd been doing that for about a week, just going through his old stuff, looking for mistakes, I guess? I don't know, he was kind of weird about it."

Dean sits forward and Sam feels like cheering. Dean says, "He got a letter? You don't happen to know where it is, do you?"

"Wh-what? No…" Lydia looks like she's starting to think they're crazy. "I never saw it, I just assumed… one day I came over and he was acting really weird, saying how he needed to make up for all the lies. Then a week later he was dead."

Sam says, "And do you know what he meant by that? 'Make up for all the lies'? Did he report something falsely?"

Lydia has definitely stopped crying now, and is edging backward in her seat, but answers, if a little guardedly, "No. I mean, nobody tells journalists the whole story, or whatever, no one wants to look bad in the news, but, I mean, he never made anything up on purpose. He was… he was a good writer, he didn't need to lie."

"Ok. Lydia, you've been very helpful, thank you so much for your time." Sam stands and Dean follows him. They shake hands with Lydia, who hesitates a little before taking their hands. It used to bother Sam when people gave him looks like he might be unstable and possibly dangerous, but now he actually finds it kind of funny, imagining the looks on their faces if he tried explaining. Whatever, he's got a job to do.

Dean, apparently, does not share his attitude. He shakes Lydia's hand perfunctorily, not meeting her eyes, and strides out the door without even a goodbye. He's down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk before Sam catches up with him, walking quickly with his shoulders hunched.

"Hey." Dean doesn't respond so Sam grabs his shoulder. "Dean, hey, wait."

Dean shrugs him off, but slows down. "What."

"What's wrong?"

He gets a sarcastic laugh in response, but nothing else.

"Dude. I'm just going to keep asking, you know that. Oh…" Something occurs to Sam, and he gets in front of Dean, stopping his determined trudge with hands on his shoulders. "Is it... something to do with what you said to me at the grave last night? I completely forgot about that, I'm sorry, I just –"

"Sammy." Dean puts his hands over Sam's and finally looks at him and Sam can tell that he's right. Dean has that same hopeless and resigned look and it's all Sam can do not to scoop Dean off his feet, carry him back to bed, and curl up with him until everything's better. "I'm fine, ok. Just forget about it, I was tired and pissed off 'cause we were arguing all day about the research. It's fine. Now let's get lunch or something, I'm starving." And with that, he shrugs out of Sam's hands again and continues down the street toward where they parked. Conversation over, door closed.

They find a diner with the same red-and-white checked, all-American decorating scheme that seems to pop up at least once in every town worth the term all over the country. It does have gyros and kebab on top of the usual cheeseburger and fried chicken fare, though.

Lunch is quiet and not exactly tense, but not really comfortable either. Dean orders a gyro and doesn't make fun of Sam's wrap, and in return Sam doesn't remark on the shot of whiskey Dean pours into his Coke from Bobby's omnipresent flask. The flask still makes his chest ache with missing Bobby sometimes, and he can't help but wonder if it does that to Dean too. It probably does, he decides, studying his brother's distant expression, and that's probably why Dean keeps it around.

Halfway through his lunch, Sam decides he's had about enough empty silence. "So. Do we think Fowler was haunting Engelson, for whatever reason? It definitely sounds that way."

It takes a minute for Dean to come back from wherever he was, but he clears his throat and says, "Yeah, that's what I thought too. What I don't get is how Fowler got focused on him in the first place. I mean, he's just wandering around, not being vengeful, and then randomly picks some nobody journalist and rips his throat out?"

"And, I'm sure there are plenty of journalists in this town who are much worse at their jobs than he was. I believe the sister when she says she doesn't know what could have set Jeremy off, she seemed genuinely confused."

"Or just thought we were whackjobs and wanted us out of her place, but yeah, the whole thing's weird and random." Dean sighs, takes a gulp of his Coke. "Weird, obviously, I'm fine with, but random? I mean, if there's anything this job isn't, it's random. Ghosts are supposed to have patterns, crazy patterns, but patterns. None of the other victims were even reporters; I mean, what the hell, dude!" Dean shoves his half eaten sandwich away with a disgusted look.

"I know." Lacking anything else useful to say, Sam glances around the diner, wondering what to do next.

Lucifer is sitting at a table across from them, arms folded, smirking at him. Sam twitches and grips the table, checking to see if Dean's noticed. He's lost in thought again, which would be at the top of Sam's worry list were it not for the freaking Devil sitting there staring at him.

"You two. You know, it was initially kind of fun, watching you play Nancy Drew of bump-in-the-nights, but to be quite honest, Sam, I think you and Dean-o might be losing your touch. It's right there in front of you and you can't see it. Hell, you already know it and you can't see it." The horrific incongruity, Lucifer sitting in a diner while life goes on around him, has Sam frozen in his seat. The smirk on the Devil's face grows to a razor-sharp grin, and he says, "But it's about to get fun again. Loverboy seems kind of quiet, doesn't he?"

A thrill of fear rushes through Sam and digs his finger into the scar on his hand, wrenching his gaze from Lucifer to Dean, who is rigid in his seat, eyes wide and blank, hands clutching his head. "Dean?" Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face and then the fear turns to panic when a tiny whimper escapes Dean's clenched teeth and a tear rolls down his face. "Holy shit! Dean! Dean, what is it?"

As he scrambles around to the other side of the table, Sam glances across the diner and finds the chair Lucifer had occupied empty. He feels no relief, however, as he crouches beside Dean's chair, gently drawing Dean's hands away from his head and searching for some sign of awareness in his unblinking green eyes.

Dean's whole body is locked up, his hands freezing, slight tremors running through them. He stares straight through Sam and another tear trickles down his face.

"Jesus. Dean, come on. Look at me. Help me out here." Nothing. Sam glances around again, relieved that they don't seem to be attracting any attention yet. The last thing they need is some Good Samaritan calling an ambulance full of Leviathan EMTs. He cradles Dean's face and blows out a breath. "Ok. We're going to get out of here, as unobtrusively as we can, and get you behind some salt lines. Sound like a plan? Ok, good. Let's go." Aware than the monologue is probably not the most unobtrusive thing he's ever done, Sam shuts up with an effort.

Getting Dean to his feet is a slow, shaky process. All his muscles are quivering in tension or pain, Sam can't tell which, but he moves when Sam directs, a hand on his back and another around his shoulders. His hands are twitching at his sides. Sam throws money on the table and leads Dean out onto the freezing street, feeling a pang for the Impala much like the one Bobby's flask evokes. It wouldn't make anything actually better, but the sight of what Dean has taken to calling the shit-mobile does not lighten the weight of the panic crushing his chest. It's just transportation, not safety.

Fumbling and cursing, Sam manages to fold his unresponsive older brother into the passenger seat. Sometime during their weaving stumble down the sidewalk, Dean's eyes closed, but every now and then another tear slips out from under his eyelids. Sam rests his face for a moment on Dean's chest, breathing in the smell of leather and his own shampoo, trying to calm down. He is all Dean has; he has to keep it together.

"Baby." Sam never calls him that to his face, he's pretty sure Dean would punch him. Or at least laugh at him. "De, baby, please wake up. Tell me what's wrong."

"Gahh! Sammy!" Suddenly Dean's eyes fly open, darting around wildly, and he flails, almost smacking Sam in the face. "Nno… stoppit! Sammy!"

"Dean! Hey, hey, hey, Dean, it's ok, I'm right here. I've got you, it's ok." Sam grabs Dean's arms, pulls them down to his lap and holds them with one hand while catching his face in the other and gently turning it to his. Dean's eyes are struggling to focus, roaming lazily. Sam pats him on the cheek. "Come on, look at me. It's ok. Tell me what's happening."

Finally, Dean meets Sam's eyes. His chest is heaving, and he's gripping Sam's hand just as hard as Sam is gripping his. "Sss'the fuckin' ghost." A gasp. "B-been sayin' shit… sssounds like the same as E-Engelson. Lies, I'm a l-liar. W-wouldn't… let me m-move or t-talk…" With a strangled groan, he smacks his head back into the seat. "Th-thinks he can – ah – torture me into… t-telling the truth, or someth-thin'…"

This is not helping the panic. If anything, it's worse, as now Sam's panicked and completely confused. "Fowler? He's talking to you? What the hell, why can't I – " A burst of inspiration has Sam digging leaning over Dean for the bag in the back seat and pulling out the EMF meter. He flicks it on, waves it around Dean's head and body, and gets nothing.

A hand falls over his and he looks up to see Dean shaking his head, eyes narrowed in pain. "C-can't hear him anymore, Sammy. Said he was… g-gonna leave me t-to think about… it. God, my head." He wraps his hands around his head and brings his knees up, curling into himself in the seat.

The sight of Dean trying to hide from the pain flips some sort of switch in Sam. Abruptly, he is no longer panicked, but furious. "Ok. I'm getting you back to the motel and behind the salt lines. And then I'm going to the graveyard and burning the bones myself, even if I get arrested." He buckles Dean in and closes his door, then gets in the driver's seat. Dean is rocking back and forth, gasping, clearly holding back sounds of his pain. Sam puts a hand on his back and rubs soothing circles and tries not to drive recklessly enough to get noticed.

After about ten minutes of driving, Dean slowly begins to relax, and he turns to look at Sam. "Wh… where we goin'?" His voice is raw.

"Motel. Gonna get you safe, then go take care of Fowler." The steering wheel creaks under Sam's grip.

"Won't help."

"What?" Glancing at Dean, Sam is relieved to see him no longer gasping for air. "What do you mean?"

"Happened this morning… while you were running. Salt lines were good and everything, but he… he talked to me, made my head hurt. I thought it was just a, a side-effect or something. Went away fast. But the salt's not gonna help."

Sam stares open-mouthed at Dean, not sure whether to be angry or just scared. He gets his eyes back on the road and grits out, "So this happened before. And you didn't tell me. What, you didn't think I needed to know? Didn't think that information might be useful?"

Dean sighs, shuts his eyes. "I swear, man, I didn't think it was that big a deal. Like I said, it went away fast, and I… I didn't want you to worry anymore."

Sam lets out an incredulous laugh. "Well, that's probably never going to happen, so how about you just not worry about me not worrying?" He sighs, decides to deal with the frustration later. "So he's not there now."

"No. Head's getting back to normal, too."

"Well… good, I guess." The situation they're in nudges at him, trying to take away his clear-headedness, replace it with blind reaction. He can't let it. "Ok. Ok. This is weird, but it's still just a ghost. We can deal with this. That graveyard was huge and really old; if no one's noticed the grave already, there's a pretty good chance we can get him salted and burned without anyone noticing now. Especially since the hole's mostly dug already."

There is no response, and Sam looks over to see Dean fast asleep, head leaning against the window, arms folded over his chest like he's trying to keep warm.

"Ok." Sam says to him anyway. "Sounds like a plan."

A/N: The plot, well, I can't say thickens, since this is the first actual hint of plot, but the plot becomes! I hope the shower scene wasn't too out-of-left-field, but when I realized Sam was going to come back from his run all sweaty and then get in the shower… I couldn't resist. Also, Lucifer is way too much fun to write. I miss him. I may have to do a Lucifer Fucks With Sam story once this one's done. Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated, positive and negative alike! Peace!