Author: Mirrordance

Title: Less Traveled By

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

Hi guys,

MASSIVE THANKS to the awesome reviewers of Less Traveled By. While I cannot respond individually to your reviews just yet, I am working as hard as I can to churn these chapters out for you in a timely fashion and hopefully for the entire fic to be done before the year ends (cross your fingers for me!). I feel like time is chasing me and breathing down my neck, haha, because I have to leave for a couple of weeks by mid-December so wish me luck! :) As always, your c & c's are welcome and cherished!

Without further ado, Chapter 8 of Less Traveled By:

Less Traveled By

8: Miscast, Misshapen

1997

Dean squirmed inside – dying slowly -but gave everyone who had said 'hello' to him and Margie Huntington as they walked by the best smile he could muster. He was self-aware enough to know that when done right it could be disarming, and damned if the best defense wasn't a good offense.

He bore the attention more or less patiently, but Margie Huntington was both a slow-walker and a busy socialite, and this damn business is tiring.

Does she know everyone in this joint? he wondered, Is her sense of direction all whacked or did we just take the long way around?

It took him a long moment to wonder, Is she showing me off?

It was a little bit disconcerting - and certainly unexpected - to find that in his old clothes and with his bruised face, this lady was walking around seemingly proud to know him.

He paid closer attention after that, how she held his elbow close, led him subtly so he looked like he knew exactly where he was going. She took her time, and she was gracious with the people around them. It was a strange experience, and stranger still when she introduced him to a group of people he saw on TV a couple of days ago when he was still in the hospital: a daytime talk show host, a fashion designer and a soap star. They looked like those wax museum replicas with their perfect skin and controlled expressions.

Someone (who isn't Sammy before he hit puberty) is proud to know me, he thought, Weird.

She led him past high-ceilinged marble lobbies and airy gardens to an unoccupied ballroom flooded by glorious natural lighting streaming from barely-there floor-to-ceiling glass windows lining one wall, reflecting against mirrors lining the other. Crystal chandeliers hung over their heads, and Margie's snappy shoes made thin, sharp noises on the polished wooden floors. Everything looked delicate and clickety-clackety in Dean's eye, and he felt obtrusive and destructive walking around in that space.

She walked him over to sit by the chair of the grand piano in one corner of the room, explaining as she went, "I'll get my husband, Dean, just sit here, all right?"

He blew out a breath as she exited. The walk had been pleasantly distracting but still exhausting, and the lighting in this room was a little overwhelming to his still-healing head. But it was almost worth the fact that Margie made him feel welcome and wanted here, not like he was some interloper fit only for the back door (or a break-in), which is what he'd usually had to be in his life.

He shot to his feet at the sound of Jed Huntington stepping inside the room, trailed by his wife. Just as in the hospital, the bear of a man headed right for him in a stance that resembled a charge. Dean had to check his instincts and not-deck the man as he enfolded Dean in his massive arms.

"Jed," Margie admonished her husband, also as always, "Let him breathe."

Reminding her husband not to accidentally kill the kid was – apparently - the extent of her duties there. She left them alone shortly afterwards, walking away and murmuring about that lunch Dean really didn't want to have to 'do.'

"Dean, Dean," Jed said, drawing out a cigar and a match as he regarded the younger man thoughtfully, "I think I know what this is about. The cigar bother you?"

"No sir, that's fine," Dean replied, "I really didn't want to take up a lot of your time," he drew out the check from his pocket, "I just wanted to give this back. I was going to just not-deposit it, but in case you wondered... I thought it would be better like this. Clearer."

"You know I won't take it," Jed told him with a raised brow, "Why bother?"

"Well I won't have it either," Dean countered, "So where does that leave us?"

Jed smiled at him tightly, squinting at the check in Dean's hand, "I see Sam will be hanging onto his. Smart kid, your brother."

"We have different priorities," Dean admitted, "And I might regret this one day, but I really don't want it, Mr. Huntington. I really don't."

Jed's eyes narrowed contemplatively, "Dean... let me tell you a little bit about me. I didn't come from a rich family and as a matter of fact, we were piss-poor. I made my fortune with my brains, and undoubtedly with guts and fists and sweat and blood and tears. I'm proud of what I've achieved, but I never forget where I'm from and I'll never disown it. I can tell you from personal experience that I know rough kids when I see them because I know what it takes to survive," he looked at Dean pointedly, "I know what you've had to be just to get by. I know it stains you sometimes. But damned if I don't recognize promise too. And I see it in you in spades. I see the same in Sam. It would be a shame if that promise was not actualized. That money is not much, I know. It won't pay for college, for instance, but it helps get you nearer somehow, and it's the least I could do for you."

The speech raised Dean's hackles a little bit, made him feel defensive before he checked it. His promise was not being wasted in the hunt; his job as a hunter may be different, but it wasn't any less than this guy's or anyone else's. Maybe it even counted for more! But before he could get too annoyed, he also thought about how Jed Huntington could possibly comprehend that if he didn't know what Dean and his family really did.

I'm not wasted where I am, Dean wanted to scream, even as he knew that he couldn't.

"Like I said," he repeated, mouth dry, "My priorities are different. I can't... I can't just up and go to college like the next kid. I gotta stick around, for my family. And I'm good at what I do... helping out my dad with the family business." He pressed the check Jed's way, "Please, Mr. Huntington. Man to man, if you respect me... I would appreciate it if you just took it back. It was the least I could do to help your daughter, and most people would have anyway."

Jed pressed his lips together in mild disapproval over his failure to convince the teenager, before just taking the check. He nodded at Dean grimly, before putting the piece of paper on top of the covered grand piano and putting out his cigar on it. He watched Dean's resolute face as he destroyed the check.

"You're not most people, Dean," he said with a shake of his head, before his eyes lit up, "Hey, how about a job? You want a part-time job in my office? We pay top-dollar for fine young talents-"

Dean actually laughed at that. "You will overpay me for photocopying made-up nonsense or something and you know it, Mister. I think I'm good. You're irrepressible."

"How about a steak and lobster lunch?" Jed said, plying a heavy arm over his shoulder and leading him out of the ballroom, "You told me to respect you like a man, and no right-thinking man would say no to that."

"I can't," Dean winced even at the mere thought of food, "I'm on these meds, and the food just doesn't sit right with them yet."

"Oh no," Jed's face crumpled, "Okay, well... I'll have Daniel bring you home so you can rest, then."

They stepped out of the room and right into the overly attentive sphere of the family chauffeur, who seemed to know exactly what was expected of him before having to be told.

Jed waved at a couple of men on the other side of the room who looked like they were waiting for him. These men looked far grimmer than Margie's friends, probably because they were here on business rather than pleasure. They looked like a band in a funeral.

"We'll re-schedule when you're better," he told Dean, shaking his hand warmly, "You're a good kid, Dean. Bright things, I see, bright things for you."

The Huntington's chauffeur drove Dean back to the mansion, where he grabbed his car and drove back to the Winchester's motel on his own. The chauffeur had followed him home to make sure he got back all right, but damned if being followed by a stranger didn't make Dean's back itch. When he pulled over to park, Daniel waved at him cheerily before driving off.

Dean was a bit winded by the time he got back, but was relieved that the day's business was done with. He fell to a light sleep, and woke up just as his father and Sam entered the motel room. The two Winchesters looked like they were steaming, and he wondered for a brief moment of panic if he'd been caught leaving the house when he was ordered to rest.

"Hey guys," he greeted them tentatively, moving to get up from bed.

"Sit," John barked at him. He stayed where he was, and Sam sat next to him.

"I can explain...?" he began with his most winsome grin, even as he wondered what this was going to be about, exactly. He glanced at Sam, wide-eyed, and his younger brother shook his head at him minutely, as if in warning, Don't even try it.

John started pacing the room a little, and when his back was turned, Dean took advantage of the opportunity to mouth at Sam, "What the hell...?"

"You didn't tell me that you told Annie Huntington about the ghost," John began, glaring at Dean as he paced. When he turned his back on his sons again, Dean mouthed "Snitch" to Sam before answering. His younger brother just shrugged at him, looking indignant, What was I supposed to do?

"I was going to," Dean said with a nervous gulp, "Eventually. Come on, dad, what harm would it have done? She was going nuts with the guilt, she was maybe being haunted if that ghost had latched onto her, so I thought I'd give the truth a shot. Was she?" he turned to his younger brother, "Being haunted, I mean?"

"Nope," Sam said.

"Good," Dean remarked before continuing, "Well anyway, I thought the worst thing that could happen is that she finds me nuts, and even then we can just say – I hit my head, ignore me."

"The worst that could happen is that she believes you, as it turns out," John told him, nodding at Sam, "She was talking to your brother earlier today, and she said she's making arrangements to go back inside that trunk and find out for sure."

Dean eyes widened, "But that's-"

"Dangerous, yeah," John said, running a hand over his face wearily, "Annie can ask the ghost questions, or talk her into the light, whatever... but you can't tell beforehand how the ghost will react to the information. She can turn violent; she can hurt Annie."

"Shit, dad, I'm sorry," Dean said, "I never thought-"

"You didn't think," John snapped, cutting him off.

"But dad, how was he supposed to expect-" Sam argued.

"Sam," Dean warned his younger brother, who promptly shut his mouth, "I screwed up. I get it, I do. Now what?"

"Her excuse so that the cops would let her get back in that trunk is that it might jog her memory," Sam relayed, still looking peeved at their father but determined to be more productive about this and get Dean's ass out of the fire, "They're all out of leads, and I think they just might let her. They let you do it with the car, after all."

"Is she being reasonable about all this?" Dean asked Sam.

The youngest Winchester shrugged, "She seems kinda... bewildered, kinda manic. Rightfully, I guess. I mean... what would you do, if you found out there's stuff sitting in the dark..." his voice trailed off. They all knew the answer to that, what his father had done, what the three of them had become, after the death of Mary Winchester.

"We have to try talking her out of it," Dean said, when Sam's words had made their father look distant, and pensive.

"No," John suddenly murmured, "No... There's no talking her out of this, I don't think, just like there's no taking back what she's seen and felt, what new reality she knows. There's no talking her out."

"So what?" Dean pressed, "What do you want us to do?"

"Short of torching that car before they let her back in there," John said, "We can't do anything, can we, except prepare her for what she'll meet inside."

"Prepare-" Dean stammered, "Dad, come on, a civilian-"

"She'll know more than most people at their first contact," John said, with more determination as he spoke, "We'll tell her what to say and what to do. And we'll be on standby."

"She'll be a sitting duck in there," Sam said distastefully, "And besides... I thought you said this hunt was done?"

"Well your brother nuked all chances of that, didn't he?" John snapped, and Dean winced, "I told you we do what we can with what we have. This is an opportunity, Sam. You said so yourself: Linda Carin's a victim too, and we got a chance now to put her to rest."

"You're just aching to get back in it aren't you?" Sam snapped at him, "Stop blaming Dean for this, dad, and stop using my words against me. This is different; you are putting an innocent girl in danger. And I bet you're just happy this hunt got burst wide open-"

"Watch your goddamn tone-"

"I wouldn't have to if you just listen to what I have to say!" Sam roared, and John fell silent, eyes burning and nostrils flaring in rage. Dean just sat there, wordless and stunned by his brother's outburst.

"When did it ever matter if Dean said something or if I said something?" Sam ranted, "If you wanted to pull the plug on a job, you could and if you wanted it on, it was. Dad... you're putting an innocent girl in danger. We can talk her out of this, or at least try. We gotta try. If you wanted it, we can put a lid on this."

"It's the job," John told him tersely, "We gotta do it, and that's the end of it."

"It's the job," Sam scoffed, "It's always the job-"

"Sam, dude - come on," Dean implored, but was promptly ignored.

"I'm sick and tired of the job," Sam said, and he could look so tough sometimes, Dean thought fleetingly, so strong and tough if not for his welling eyes. Those eyes were probably the only things keeping him from being decked by their father.

"I'm sick and tired," Sam finished, "I'm sick and tired of being the 'optional' part of your life, dad. The part you'd only look after when you had time or money to spare, the part you'd only hang onto when it's almost taken away, the part you'd listen to only when it's convenient. Like now... you're right, fine, I said it. We're here to help Linda Carin as much as the next innocent person, but I'm telling you now: not at the cost of harm to people who are still alive, like Annie."

John's eyes narrowed at Sam, "This isn't about you or me, Sam. It's about what needs to be done, and what can be done about it. Anyone who'd ever been shoved in this life was innocent, it's just the way it is. We have an opportunity now and we're going to take it, end of story."

John started for the door, and the sight of it was giving Dean a mild panic, "Dad, where are you-"

"I'll be back in a couple of hours – knock some sense into that brother of yours," John told him, marching out the door and shutting it behind him.

Sam groaned and laid back on the bed, rubbing at his face.

"We've been arguing about this since he grabbed me from school," Sam explained to Dean, voice muffled from beneath his hands, "I mean, he can't be right about this, can he? Tossing his own kids in the fire, fine, that seems more fair. We're his to lose, apparently. But a civvie? This can't be right, can it, Dean?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean sighed, "Hell, I'm kind of stuck on just being sorry about opening my big damn mouth."

"I'm sorry too," Sam said quietly, "That I told dad before telling you. I couldn't wait, I guess. She seemed determined, and I got nervous. Besides... I didn't think dad would be ragging your ass for it. You did the right thing in telling her what you did."

"I don't know about that," Dean argued, "If I'd just kept my mouth shut, Annie wouldn't be getting these crazy ideas in her head."

"Instead she'll have a lifetime thinking she failed this girl and got her killed," Sam pointed out and saying again, "You did the right thing, Dean."

"Annie should know the risks," Dean said thoughtfully, pressing at the bridge of his nose against another headache that was picking up, "Maybe she'll back out on her own, and we wouldn't have to worry about putting her in danger."

"You've taken your pills today?" Sam asked him, watching his pinched face worriedly.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "I did. But then there was this kid, doing all this crazy-ass screaming in my ear, giving me a headache."

Sam's lips quirked a little in a smile, "Shut up, Dean."

"I thought your head was gonna start spinning around," Dean teased him thinly, "Doc did say I could take something extra if it got bad."

"I'll grab your meds," Sam said, springing to his feet.

"Good idea," sighed Dean, "Gonna need the relief, especially if I wanna be back in school tomorrow."

"You wouldn't-!" Sam exclaimed.

"I'd say we have bigger problems than me getting these lame-assed headaches right now," Dean told him, "I'm better, Sam, I am. But this case is burst wide open again, so we just... gotta do what we gotta do. Right now, we need to talk to Annie."

It was a minor blessing that Dean was too weary to be pissed at the camera flashes and the warm attention of their schoolmates; he had settled for mildly bewildered, walking beside Sam along the school hall and looking wan and standing closer to his younger brother than he usually would.

"You good?" Sam asked under his breath, and Dean just winced and gave him a short nod. They lumbered over to Dean's locker, where three girls were already waiting.

"I'm really not up to this," Dean growled low, but he stood a little bit taller, and apart from Sam a little bit more.

"Hello, Dean," one of the girls said; she was the homecoming queen from Sam's lunch with Annie days before, "Hello, Sam."

"Ashley," Dean grinned, eyes crinkling warmly as he played along despite his lack of desire to do 'this' (whatever the hell 'it' was, in Sam's eye). He nodded rakishly at the others too, "Girls."

"I'm soooo relieved you're okay," one of them, a petite Eurasian named Mikaela, cooed at him, earning a glare from her friends.

"I sent you pie," the last one, a blond named Cherry said in the spirit of oneupmanship. Sam guessed this one was probably Dean's favorite; she had the pie-awareness, for one, as well as the rock-song name.

"I loved it," Dean lied to her indulgently; he'd probably never even seen it. It was left behind at the hospital, like most of the other stuff John Winchester had turned away or given away.

Sam rolled back his eyes, and decided his brother probably didn't need to be taken care of by him right now, "Dean, you good?"

"I'm awesome, man," Dean assured him, "I'll see you later, huh?"

They saw each other sooner than either of them expected, pulled from homeroom and made to sit in the waiting room outside the principal's office. Sam was already there when Dean arrived, looking nervous.

"Anytime I sit here it makes me think I'd done something," he mumbled at Dean, who just chuckled and sat beside him.

"It's your guilty conscience," Dean teased him, "Reminding you of all your sins."

"It's my guilty conscience reminding me of all your sins," Sam retorted, shifting uneasily. The chairs and the waiting and the damned office reminded him of the times he'd had to sit here before being admitted to yet another new school, or if he or Dean got caught in some kind of trouble as they tried to fit into yet another new environment with all its bullies and assholes, or the couple of times they'd been set aside and asked if they were being abused by their father, because they've gone to class hurt and bruised from hunts many times.

"Chill, Sam," Dean told him, leaning back, projecting relaxation the more agitated Sam became, hoping to impart some of it to his younger brother.

The door into the waiting room opened again, and in came Annie Huntington. She registered surprise that they were there a moment before she sped over and sat hurriedly on Sam's other side, sandwiching him.

"Hi," she greeted them breathlessly, speaking of the need to chill.

"Annie," Dean returned more cautiously, "You uh... you okay? You're kind of rocking the crazy-eye a little there."

"Oh- what? No," she said, catching herself and squaring her shoulders, trying to get some of her composure back, "Did Sam tell you my idea? I floated it by Vaughn and Diamond, and they have some reservations so I'm not entirely sure how to convince them to let me at the trunk-"

"Later," Dean told her shortly, as Principal Strauss walked into the room, trailed by a lady the Winchesters remembered form their early admission days. It was Mrs. Medina, the guidance counselor.

"Good to see all three of you well and back in school," Principal Strauss grinned as he led the three teenagers to sit on the office couch, instead of on the stiff-backed trouble-seats in front of the massive desk.

"Your dedication to your studies is as admirable as your more heroic feats," he went on, making Dean cough to block out a helpless chortle.

"Water?" he offered them, "Tea?"

"No thank you, sir," Sam said, "Um... what is this about?"

"You know Mrs. Medina of course," Principal Strauss said, "We are here because while we are assured of your physical well-being following the kidnapping incident, we wanted to inform you that the school is making available counseling services in the event that you should need them. It might help, to speak of the things that concern you."

"You're giving us a shrink?" Dean asked, acerbically. Sam glanced at his older brother in misery. That would be fantastic for all three of them, really. There is, unfortunately, no repairing three teenagers on a ghost hunt.

"Think of it as a support group with good conversation, Dean," Medina told him, "The three of you have shared a traumatic experience, and we want to assure you that you are not alone."

"We're not alone," Dean said simply, closing off. He and Sam were practically allergic to shrinks, having been subject to some before in the midst of the messes associated with nosy civilians who felt it was their business how to run John Winchester's household. They've had to flee several towns and schools before the inquiries went official and on the ear of Family Services, Sam recalled vividly.

"Annie might feel better being backed by you and Sam," Medina said emphatically, "To have regular, periodic, therapeutic talks about how to cope better in the aftermath of so world-altering a personal event. Am I correct, Annie?"

She frowned at her, equally displeased, before her eyes brightened, "You know what would be really therapeutic, Mrs. Medina?"

"What, dear?"

"If I can see that car," Annie told her earnestly, "The one I was trapped in? The one they just pulled out of the lake? If I can have access to it, and-" Sam watched her in awe, and recognized a bullshit-artist when he saw one because he did grow up with Dean, "And confront my demons, you know, let the reality sink in and remind myself that the nightmare is over, that I got out, that I'm safe and that I survived, that I can go on with my life."

Dean slapped a hand over his face, miserably, feeling all the cliches and psycho-babble she tossed into that one sentence stick to his clothes like oil and grime and a bad episode of Oprah.

Mrs. Medina frowned in thought, "That is not at all a bad idea, Annie. I will speak with some colleagues, and find a way to endorse this to local law enforcement."

"I would appreciate that," Annie said gravely, but Sam noted some triumph and hunger in her eyes, just the eagerness to see what was real, and to do what she could for whoever was in that trunk with her, dead or alive.

"You all right there, Dean?" Principal Strauss inquired, "You seem a bit peaked."

"Yes," Dean replied with teeth-clenched in a pained smile, "Absolutely awesome. You understand Sam and I are also interested in this confronting-the-demons thing too, right? To get over the trauma and all that-" shit, Sam heard at the end of the sentence, not needing Dean to voice it.

"Yes, of course," Medina said, making some notes, "Let me see what I can do."

Sam, Dean and Annie exited the Principal's Office and started walking back to their respective classrooms. The hallways were empty, what with everyone being in homeroom.

"You really have no idea what you're getting into," Dean told Annie disdainfully.

"I'm in it whether I know what I'm doing or not, from what I understand," Annie told him, a little heatedly in reaction to his tone.

"I can't believe I'm saying this here," Dean said, looking around at the lockers and the cheerful amateur poster-art and the squeaky floors, at the lights and the subtle sounds of busy rooms behind closed classroom doors, "It's a fricking ghost, Annie. And we're not talking Swayze and romance here, we are talking possibly-violent, unpredictable thing in an enclosed space with a lot of rightfully pent-up aggression. Entities that can actually, actually hurt you."

"But she can also just be a nice girl, right?" Annie said, "Someone quiet and reasonable, and someone who's just been waiting for someone to tell her what's what? Someone who's been waiting all this time for someone to start asking the right questions, for someone to help her?"

"You know I don't get it," Dean said, halting and having his two companions perforce halting with him, "You go one second thinking a guy's brain-damaged, and next thing I know, you're not just hopping on the crazy-train you are fricking driving it. What's up with that?" He added with as much condescension as he could muster, "Is it a woman-thing?"

"Before you told me about Linda Carin," she replied, not rising to the bait, "You asked me several things, remember that? You told me you wouldn't say stuff to hurt me. You asked me if I thought you were crazy, and you asked me if I trusted you. Well... while I do think you're nuts, I think you're nuts in a different way. And contrary to how I felt just a couple of days ago – god knows why – I think I do trust you. I've had time to think about this, Dean. I can't... I can't let this go. I categorically can't, I think I'm literally unable. No one seems to have an answer to this but you. I can't not give it a shot.

"I think I'm losing my mind," she went on, hands trembling as they raked over her well-kept hair, dislodging the dark strands, "I can't sleep, I can't think of anything else but her, and I'm just... splintered all over, cut up wrong, like I'm out of the trunk but I can't fit in the world anymore because I'm the wrong shape now. I feel like I'm not all here, or here is not here, you know, it's not real, there's something else out there and everything around me is plastic and all the people are made of cardboard. I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for it all to collapse or for someone to fold it up and take it away."

The brothers glanced at each other, thoughtfully. They knew about seeking answers and not being able to do anything else but get there. They knew about pervasive secret realities that you had to be hyper-vigilant about in case they reared their ugly heads and wrecked the surprisingly fragile 'real world.' They knew about how the rest of the universe as most people understood and lived it felt more like a stage. They knew about being miscast there, and about being misshapen. God did they know.

"There's some things we have to tell you before all this goes down," Sam said cautiously, speaking for both himself and Dean. The older Winchester set his jaws and looked away, but remained silent.

"My house tonight?" she invited them, "Dinner and 'homework?'"

Dean had called up their father to say that they would be home late, and just be driven back to the motel by the same Huntington chauffeur who had picked the three of them up from school. John was cautious but open-minded, especially after he was informed that the objective of the meeting was to brief Annie on what to expect when she came into her second encounter with Linda Carin.

The three teenagers had a light meal in the formal dining room of the mansion before settling in to work at the family library. Weirdly enough, they actually actually did some actual actual homework. Annie, who was in an advanced placement class with the seniors, asked Dean about some calculus, before the conversation turned rather casually and anticlimactically toward Linda Carin's ghost.

"So apparently, ghosts are real, right?" Annie asked, after being satisfied with Dean's interpretation of quadratic equations, "What else is real?"

"Many things you wouldn't expect or want to be are real," Dean said wryly, "But we'll just stick with the things you need to know right now. I don't want your head to explode."

"Ghosts are spirits that stick around our world for a number of reasons," Sam said, "Sometimes they are bound by relatives who won't let them go, or if they have unresolved personal issues. The ties that allow them to stay are body parts, even the most minute, like hair. Other times, these ties are things that can count practically as body parts, things that really mattered to the person when he or she was alive. Other times, like when bodies get cremated, it doesn't matter if they have physical ties to the world; they stick around when the emotional ties are strong enough, like in traumatic experiences. Ghosts in general have some pretty distinct habits; they haunt particular places, particular things, particular people. There are pretty clear rules, once you've figured them out."

"So Linda," Annie summed, "She's in the trunk maybe because her DNA is in there, or maybe because it's a traumatic experience for her, or both, right?"

"Right," Dean affirmed, "Now like Sammy said, ghosts are big on habits and rules. The moment you jar that order, they might get pissed off. For instance if you move things around, renovate or sell a property, tell them distressful things... stuff like that. Needless to say, you start yapping at her about how she's dead and that she's a ghost or that she was actually murdered by someone, it's reasonable to expect her to freak the fuck out."

"So what do I do?" Annie asked, "How can I talk to her?"

"You go slow and gentle," Dean said, "And when you feel the attitude shift, you play it by ear and you either go in some more or you back the hell out. There's a lot of discretion involved, you get that now, right? That's why I think you're out of your head to think you can do this, newbie."

"I'm the same age as you," she pointed out.

"I've been at this since I was..." he glanced at Sam, "Four years old, so I think I'd know what I'm talking about."

"Four years old...?" she echoed, "How did you-"

"A long story for a different day," he told her with a rakish grin, and Sam knew the mask was on for this more than on any other question, "I was told mystery is sexy."

"When a ghost gets violent," Sam moved on, pretending to be obtuse and relieving Dean of having to answer Annie's question, "The typical defenses are salt and iron. Materials made from these that come into contact with the apparition causes them to disperse temporarily, but not for long."

"Iron?" she wrinkled her nose at them skeptically, "Salt?"

"Salt is mentioned many times in the Bible and in different mythologies and all sorts of rites across a lot of religions, same was with iron," Dean told her, faux-mockingly, "You really should read more."

"There's mentions of them not just in the Bible," Sam enumerated primly, "But by the Aztecs, in Judaism, mythologies of Hinduism, Shintoism, ancient rites and writings of the Egyptians, Greeks and Romans. Both seem to have something to do with representations of life; salt of the earth, component in the bl-"

"And you need to read less," Dean sighed, "Focus, geek-boy. Breathe or something."

"Okay I get it," Annie said, "But you said dispersing a ghost, it's temporary."

"If you want them away for good," Dean said, "You have to find out where the body is buried or whatever of it is left, or whatever valuable thing that person had, and then you put salt on it, some handy accelerant if you have any, and then burn it. Salt and burn."

"You've um," she gulped, "You've dug up bodies and burnt them."

Dean just shrugged, and went on, "If there's no physical link or if a ghost is staying not because of a physical link, then you got no choice but to, you know. Talk them into the light."

"What does that-"

"It means exactly what it sounds like," Sam told her, "You try and tell them to head to the better place. We're uh... we're not the best at it because we don't get that a lot. The other way is easier."

"No arguments, you know," Dean agreed, "No philosophical shit. Salting and burning is cleaner. Figuratively, that is, 'cos of course you'd end up messier if you had to dig someone up."

She actually paled a little, but nodded.

"So uh..." she bit her lip thoughtfully, and her eyes shined in hope, "This 'better place' you tell ghosts to head to. It's real too...? Is that... is that heaven?"

"We don't know," Sam admitted, and he regretted having to do so because her eyes dimmed, "But from what we've seen, the ones who were good people go off to some sort of light, wherever it leads."

"So..." she stammered, "So how do we do this?"

"If they let us at that car," Dean began, "We have to get the detectives and anyone else around off our backs. If your parents are coming with, you'd better know how to get rid of them unless you want them knowing about ghosts and redecorating your room with padded white walls. Tell them you need space or privacy to reflect or whatever."

Annie nodded earnestly.

"Sam and I," Dean said, "We'll stick around. We can all say we're trying to cope with this or some bull like that. Our dad probably should stay too, but I don't think we'll have any luck with that if you're sending your parents away."

"He won't like that," Sam said, "But he'll have to trust us to handle it. Wouldn't be the first time."

"Your dad sends you out on stuff like this?" Annie asked, "On your own? How does that happen?" The brothers just looked at her and she sighed, "Okay, I get it. Long story, different day. Got it."

"Once it's just the three of us and that car," Dean went on, "We'll try and summon the ghost out and talk to her. I don't want anyone going inside the trunk unless it's absolutely needed. If Linda plays ball and steps out, we'll ask her full name, the last thing she remembers before waking up in the trunk, people who may be angry at her and who would maybe hurt her, things like that."

"And if she doesn't show?" Annie asked.

Sam winced, "And just to manage expectations here, she probably won't."

"Then we go inside," Dean said, "We go inside the trunk, and we talk to her in there."

"'We?'" Annie echoed, "What do you mean 'we?'"

"Well maybe not 'we,'" Dean said, "Maybe... me."

"What?" Sam and Annie exclaimed at the same time.

"I told you," Dean said to Annie, "This isn't something for a newbie. 'Sides, I kinda have the feeling it's my fault you got reeled into this."

"No," Annie argued, "You said it yourselves: ghosts are big on rules and order, right? How's she gonna feel getting shoved into the dark with a guy? Besides, we have proven from past experience that she won't hurt me."

"I'll know what to do," Dean countered, "I'll know what to say. I've been doing this a long time, sugar. She'll like me, everyone does."

Sam didn't take the last line very seriously. "She's right, Dean. Besides... the more I think about it, I don't think the adults will be leaving us alone. It's evidence, right, the cops won't take their eyes off of it, the potential liabilities will be huge. It'll have to be Annie going in there with the excuse that she wants to try and remember more, right in front of everybody."

TO BE CONTINUED...

... in Chapter 9, where we return to the trunk of the car :) 'Til the next post!