There's this funny scene in my kitchen right now. My hubby's making soup and right now he's standing there, watching the 'Swabian pockets' (a typical german thing, you have to try it sometime!) swim around in the broth. And he just told me how exciting this looks. Okay, so. Now you know how I came up with that story here, about the crazy people.

But hey, on with the story, folks!
This chapter is dedicated to fanotheboys. When you reach that special part with Dean flying: this is for your hubby and you ;-)
Also, once again I want to say special thanks to LadyKryptonite294 for creating another wallpaper for this story – check them out here: http:/ladykryptonite294(dot)deviantart(dot)com/

Chapter 14

Right now, Dean was missing the calming weight of a shotgun in his hands. Filled with the faithful power of rock salt shells, ready to blow Mitch McKinley's ass into next week. So far, the spirit hadn't shown any interest in them. Dean just hoped they were digging up the right spot and the remains in the grave matched to the name on the headstone.

He had to admit, he was surprised at Phillip's determination. The man was shoveling large amounts of dirt from the hole he currently stood in, never once complaining. He had brought lighters, gasoline, a canister of salt and the crowbar Dean held in his hands, his only weapon against the ghost, should he make an appearance, without questioning it.

Sam would have become hoarse from bitching by now.

Dean was struggling to keep his head in the game. One part of his jumbling thoughts was constantly drifting off to Mike, his apparition having thrown Dean off the track. The other part was trying to scheme a plan concerning his escape.

If he were a really nasty villain he would go and knock Phillip out, just like that. Maybe use the crowbar, for good measure. The guy was so oblivious and dewy-eyed right now, with his back towards Dean, mumbling something about the soil being sticky and smelly, it was downright peaceful.

Of course Dean wasn't going to betray Phillip's trust. He had promised to help him out with his problem. Besides, there were lives at stake. Not only Phillip's, but many others as well. Now and in the future. But he doubted that he was able to just wave goodbye to the nurse and vanish into the night. Like he had said, Phillip could nuke his career with this, he wouldn't let Dean wander off just like that.

The dull 'thud' erupting from the hole yanked Dean from his musings and he looked at Phillip, who met his gaze wide-eyed.

"Oh my god, it's really there..." he breathed, starting to scratch the remaining dirt from what Dean hoped was a coffin. He walked up to the edge and sat back on his haunches, eyes darting from their finding illuminated by the flashlight to the darkness around them.

"Careful now, Phil..."

He tensed when the words rolled from his lips accompanied by small clouds of cool air. Rising to his full height Dean whirled around, sharp eyes searching the night, crowbar at the ready, the beam of the flashlight dancing along headstones and trees. He heard Phillip mutter something about the drop of temperature.

"Phillip", Dean said in a low tone, searching the dark with narrowed eyes, "Hurry up. Open the coffin, pray that there's a corpse in there. Spill the salt over the body, all of it. Drench it with the gasoline and light it up."

A cold waft stroking his cheek, an angry sigh out of nowhere.

"Yeah, okay...wait...what are you going to do?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer when something slammed into him with a force so vicious that all air was driven out of his lungs. He was being hurled through the air, felt himself flying through the cool night for a ridiculously long time until he impacted with an unyielding surface. When he slid down said surface a small part of his brain registered it as the trunk of an old, giant oak, the insane and unnecessary thought of how freakin' far he had just been thrown occurring to him.

Through the thick haze he heard Phillip holler his name, felt the air grow colder once more and in the next second a painful shower of what seemed to be tiny rocks hit him, causing him to yank his arms up protectively.

A painful shriek accompanied Dean's own hiss and suddenly it was silent again, the temperature rose back to normal.

"Dean! Jesus!" Phillip cried out, attempting to crawl out of the his hole.

The Winchester shook his head and pulled his knees close. "Jus' me", he groaned, "Haven't seen Jesus around..."

"Are you okay? Is anything broken? Can you…"

"Phillip, cut it out, I'm okay. I'm kinda...well...used to this…"

"What! You're crazy, let me at least check you over…"

"Listen, Phil, you stay in that grave and burn the sucker, I got it out here."

"I prefer the term 'hole', if you don't mind."

"Whatever." Dean touched the back of his head gingerly, wincing. He then scrambled to his feet, noticing bright white crumbs trickling from his jacket. "Did you throw rock salt at me?" he asked incredulously.

"Not at you", Phillip shrugged before he held his hands up, "Hey, it's not my fault that thing's permeable."

Suddenly, the temperature dropped again. Dean tightened his grip on the crowbar and took a step towards the grave. Phillip cursed and grabbed the shovel, ramming it into the coffin with gusto and a few grunts. His small outcry of disgust went unnoticed when Dean saw movement from the corner of his eye and whirled around, swinging the heavy crowbar through the air like a golf club. Mitchell McKinley's spirit dissipated with an angry screech.

"Phil. Status Report", Dean barked, his eyes searching the dark.

"I'm gonna throw up", Phillip replied miserably.

"What else?"

"Stop rushing me, I'm on it..."

The sound of salt being scattered over something incredibly dry filled the night. Dean was tense, all senses on alert, waiting for the telltale signs of Mitchell's return, eyes roaming the cemetery. For the first time since weeks he felt utterly strong, almost like Superman only seconds before leaving the telephone booth after shedding a mousy suit. A near to perfect moment, like the good old days, hunting things, keeping watch over a grave, a simple, non-ethereal, non-demonic weapon in hand.

The deep breath Dean was about to take was cut off by an icy grip around his throat, a cold draft into his face making his eyes water, the crowbar being ripped from his hands. Once again he felt himself moving without actually using a muscle, grunted when his back once again impacted with the oak.

Inches from Dean's face Mitchell McKinley materialized, their noses almost touching. The spirit's lips were moving, his expression angry, bitter, his one large hand that held Dean pinned to the tree increasing the pressure on his throat.

"This is getting old", Dean croaked into the ghost's face, annoyed over the thing's tenacity, while he searched the ground for his wrested weapon and tried to wriggle himself free. Time was the key. They needed time, Phillip needed time and if being McKinley's anti-stress-ball would earn them precious minutes he'd gladly volunteer.

Suddenly the spirit turned his head around slowly, and Dean felt the dead fingers loosen their grip on him.

Mitch had noticed Phillip. Damnit.

"Hey", Dean spat at his opponent, trying to get his attention back, "You prefer straight tracks through your bedroom or curves?"

With the deepest growl Dean had ever heard McKinley yanked his head back, stared at him with so much hate and revulsion the Winchester waited for the crack of his own neck any second. To his surprise the icy grip around his throat suddenly vanished, together with the apparition.

Feeling his feet back on the floor, Dean didn't lose time. His frantic gaze searched the grass for the crowbar. Thank god for the moonlight. He had no time to get the flashlight that lay god-knows-where.

"Phillip...get your freakin' ass in gear!" he hollered, the night still lacking the eagerly awaited glow of a burning fire.

"I'm on it, I'm on it..." Phillip hollered back, his voice strained, panicky, the reassurances rounded off by further curses.

Something in the grass caught Dean's eye. He lunged at it, at the same time checking on Phillip and the source of the man's distress. The nurse stood in the grave, fidgeting a Zippo with ten fingers, the small device staying alarmingly dormant and dark. Hissing a few expletives of his own at the unpleasant sight Dean prayed that at least the shadow on the ground was what he was looking for.

He almost yelped in delight when his fingers closed around the cold metal of the crowbar. Phillip's simultaneous shout of joy, "Works!", completely made his day.

However, when Dean looked up the triumphant grin froze on his features. "DOWN!" he yelled and yanked the crowbar up in the air.

He saw Phillip's eyes widen, then disappear completely when the man dropped to his knees and vanished in between the protective walls of the grave, the space he had occupied now filled with the sinister appearance of a vengeful spirit. The look on McKinley's transparent face was priceless when his clawed fist grabbed only thin air.

Dean didn't hesitate. He launched the crowbar at full tilt towards the ghost who had discovered his next victim-to-be in the hole in front of him and was about to pull a flailing Phillip close. The metal bar flew through the night air, a whistling noise accompanying it's journey.

It hit it's target, cut through McKinley's incorporeal form, causing the spirit to dissipate once more.

Dean dropped to his knees and pulled his friend from the grave, all the while keeping their surroundings in sight. When Phillip rolled himself onto his back and threw the burning Zippo into the hole, Mitchell McKinley's remains went up in flames with a whoosh. Somewhere in the dark a terrible scream erupted.

"There", Phillip breathed, pointing to their left where McKinley's ghost appeared again, wrapped in flames, his face a mask of pain and terror. Seconds later, it vanished, wrapping the cemetery into silence except for the crackling fire.

For mere minutes, no one moved, no one said a word. Dean and Phillip sat side by side, watched the dancing flames, recovered their breaths.

"Dean?"

"Right here."

"What happened to 'You never throw your weapon away'?"

Dean turned his head and glanced at Phillip. "Lesson 2", he replied flatly, "You know the rules, you can break them."

Phillip answered him with a pair of raised eyebrows before he started to laugh, a tiny chuckle at first, rising to a full-on laughing fit. A contagious one, causing Dean to get the giggles as well.

The fire burnt for what felt like ages. When the last flames died down, leaving nothing but ashes and a feeble glow behind, Phillip stood, rubbing his hands together.

"Too bad I can't tell anyone of this", he said, shaking his head, "I feel like a hero, man!"

"Oh, you can", Dean replied, scrambling to his feet as well, "But don't come running to me when they put you in a cell next to mine and force you to create something beautiful out of modeling clay." He walked around McKinley's grave, searching the ground for the crowbar. Again.

Phillip laughed, "Yeah, right. Speaking of, it's time to head back. What do you say, are we done here?"

The tip of his boot grazed the black tool. "Yeah, about that." Dean bent down slowly, reaching for it. "There's something I wanted to talk about."

The sound of a gun being cocked let him froze dead in his tracks, his hand hovering only inches over the crowbar lying in the grass.

"Leave it where it is, Dean."

Dean pulled his hand back and straightened ever so careful, shoulders slumping when he found himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.

"Phil. Really. A simple 'Thank You' would have been enough", he deadpanned, rising his hands I surrender.

Phillip's expression didn't match with the scene. Dean could see he was tense – the way his lips were pressed together, his mouth a thin line. His eyes were showing too much regret and uncertainty.

"I know what you're planning", he said in an sympathetic tone, "and I can't blame you, I would take this chance, too."

"So, I take it that you understand why I have to go now", Dean tried, half questioning, half stating.

"Dean..."

"No, Phillip. I won't go back. That's just facts." Dean dropped his hands, let them dangle loosely by his sides. "Things have happened in my past. Things I won't elaborate further because I swear you don't want to know. Somehow I have managed to cope with all that crap, have pushed all those memories and experiences into the darkest and loneliest corner of my mind, hoping they wouldn't come back and bite me in the ass. But since I'm in that shithole of mental institution I have the feeling I'm loosing my marbles. I'm going crazy, slowly but surely and I just can't put my finger on it why and how it's happening."

He stopped and swallowed hard. "I'm going to turn around now and I'm going to walk right through those cemetery gates over there. You can shoot me or you can let me go, it's your decision. But one thing's for sure, as long as I'm breathing I won't set a foot in that building ever again."

Dean blinked, feeling his eyes watering slightly. He didn't know where that wave of emotion had come from – maybe it was disappointment, maybe the strain of the past week finally caught up with him. For a moment he didn't move, couldn't find the strength to even twitch a muscle. Suddenly, he felt so damn tired he was about to drop to the ground and have a nap right here and now.

Damn those drugs.

Phillip stood, the gun in his hand still trained on Dean's chest, not wavering, not losing it's aim. But where the weapon was cold and emotionless, it's master couldn't hide his humanity. Phillip's eyes were glassy, inner turmoil and desperation clearly visible in them.

"We're supposed to help", he said, his voice calm and sad, "the idea of that facility, the meaning of my job is to free you from pain and sorrows such as those you're describing."

Dean shook his head, equally sad. "There are things you can't heal just like that. And after what you have learned tonight I'm sure you know that now, too."

There was his always complaining inner voice, screaming at him, pushing him to just run, to cut the psychological emo-crap and just move. A tiny part of him even welcomed the idea of Phillip pulling the trigger. Talking about freeing from pain and sorrows.

But another part wanted to make peace with the other man, yearned for his blessing, whatever he would choose to do.

Almost inaudible, almost not there, the decision was made.

"Go", Phillip whispered, defeated. He put the gun down, let it hung from powerless fingers. His gaze dropped to the ground. "Go, before I change my mind."

Tense features cracking into a thankful smile, Dean gave Phillip a curt nod. "Thanks", he breathed, taking a tentative step backwards.

"Quid pro quo."

Phillip's answer caused Dean to stop dead. "You know what, you of all people shouldn't quote Lecter", he remarked in disgust, smirking when Phillip managed an eye-roll and a feeble smile himself.

"Just go already", he shouted, waving his free hand in a shooing gesture at Dean. An order the Winchester easily complied. With a grateful wink he turned and jogged off, avoiding graves and headstones, through the open cemetery gates.

To be continued...

Author's notes: That was easy, right? Guess again...