Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Ghosts. Fucking ghosts. They'd been a constant in his life since he was four years old and his mother haunted his father enough to turn him into a hunter, even before any of them knew that Mary did linger as a ghost in their old house for over twenty years (not that she remembered a single moment of it, or remembered saving them from a poltergeist as a ghost).

But now his mother was alive, and it was his brother who haunted him. He hated himself for it, but he found himself thinking that he'd trade his mother for Sam when he looked at her. He knew how to live without her, but he never learned to live without Sam. Never thought he'd have to.

Besides, that gun had not been meant for Sam. He should have been safe, next to Dean and tethered by whatever Billie used to toss them away from Mary. But leave it to Sam to be able to resist the powers of something supernatural.

Dean dialed Cas' number again, just for it to go to voicemail. Again.

"Cas, I don't know what you're doing, but I could really freaking use your help here," he said.

It took all of his willpower to not throw his phone against the wall, or break it in two like he did to the vet's phone who fixed Sam's leg, no questions asked, for Toni.

He last saw Cas the night they carried Sam's body into the bunker. Wherever he was now, he was about as likely to listen to Dean's voicemails as he was to listen to Dean's prayers.

"Don't take it personally, Sammy," Dean said. "Cas always does this, doesn't he? Just disappears and does his own thing."

He didn't get a response, but he knew that Sam heard him. As long as he wore his amulet, Sam was stuck with him.

"We're gonna figure this out. We always do, right?"

Sam hadn't done anything to signal he was there at all since he destroyed one of the storage rooms. And Dean knew that was bad. Sam having enough energy and anger to throw things across the room meant he was that much closer to going full vengeful spirit. On the other hand, no signs of Sam meant that he wasn't particularly angry at the moment. If he could just stay calm long enough for Dean to figure it out.

Getting Sam back into his body was a race against time, but Dean had no idea how long he had to work with and there was a certain amount of despair that accompanied each storage room he emptied without coming closer to an answer.

He cracked open the door to Sam's room. He shouldn't do this to himself, but he couldn't stop himself either.

With Sam laying on his bed, the blood wiped away from his skin, he looked like he was sleeping.

Dean stepped in and closed the door behind him, finding himself back in Cold Oak and staring at his brother laying on a filthy mattress. Then and now, he felt like a failure. After all the time his father spent drilling into his head that he had to watch out for Sammy, he always did a shit job of it.

"You love making my job hard, don't you?" he asked.

He should get some air fresheners for the room, he thought. Or maybe scented candles (Sam would love those). Either way, he shouldn't have to wake up in a room reeking of death.

Dean held his head in his hands. This was all wrong. Cas killed Billie, but he did it both a moment too late and right on time. Sam wasn't thrown into The Empty, but Mary hadn't put her gun down. She was ready to shoot and end it all.

She was ready to leave them again.

A few tentative knocks on the door drew him from his thoughts.

"Dean? What are you doing in here?" Mary asked, sticking her head in the door. "I got some dinner. Come eat."

"Later."

"You always say that."

"I'm not hungry."

Mary sighed. "Dean, you're a grown man. You have to be starving with how little you've eaten lately. Just come eat a little bit, and you can get back to…" She paused, looking at him, at Sam, and around the room in general. "To this."

"Why do you care now?"

"Dean, you're my son. Of course, I care. I just needed some time to adjust, that's all."

"You care?" Dean asked. "Sam's your son, too, and you don't seem broken up about the fact that he's dead. Or the fact that it was your gun that killed him. You want to get rid of him. Salt and burn my amulet and say your final goodbyes."

Dean looked over at her, glad that she had the decency to look ashamed and wasn't able to meet his eyes.

"I will never be able to forget that it's my fault that Sam's laying there," Mary said. "And he will always be my son, but I never knew him, Dean. He was six months old when I died, and he's a stranger now."

"That's because you never made an effort to get to know him," Dean yelled. He didn't know at which point he stood up, but he kicked over the chair he sat in earlier. "You never made an effort to get to know either of us. You ran away."

Dean looked at her, his anger draining and feeling all of four years old again. "You ran away," he said again, softer.

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry. You make it sound like I want Sam gone, but I don't. Really. I just don't want him to suffer either. He's throwing and breaking things, Dean. That's not a good sign."

"Give me some time, I can fix this. We've dealt with worse before, but I don't want to do this thinking that you're going to go behind my back and try to get rid of him when I'm not looking."

"I won't. Just please come eat, Dean," Mary said. "Please?"

Dean felt hands on his back push him forwards. He looked around and asked, "Sammy?"

Another push moved him closer to the door.

"Alright, alright. I'm goin'."

He saw the Impala first, in the middle of an open field beneath a star filled sky. Then, he saw Sam reclining on the hood.

"Sam!" he yelled, running the rest of the way to the Impala. "Sammy!"

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean, grinned, and raised a beer bottle in a silent cheers to him.

Dean paused to catch his breath, then pulled Sam from the roof of the Impala and into a hug. "What the hell are you doing here, man? You're still…"

"Dead?" Sam finished for him. "Yeah, I am."

"Then, how are you here?"

"You're dreaming, Dean," Sam said.

"You're haunting my dreams?"

Sam shrugged. "It's the only way to get through to you. I've been trying for days now. Guess it finally worked this time."

Dean worked cases where the victims mentioned strange dreams about a person they didn't know, but they were usually about reliving that stranger's death, and Dean never imagined that he'd be on the receiving end of a ghostly dream visit.

"Dean, I know you don't want to, but I think you should listen to Mom this time," he said. "You need to let me go."

"Not happening, Sammy. I told you, I'm going to fix it. You just have to hold on for a little longer."

"You don't get it, Dean. I'm so angry. I'm angry all the time, worse than I was before the Apocalypse. It's getting hard to think straight enough to keep myself from lashing out. Just let me go, man. Don't make me lose myself."

"Sam, you can't ask me to do that," he said.

Sam laughed. "No," he said. "I knew it wouldn't be that easy, but I hoped."

Sam became blurred, along with the Impala and the field. Dean blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes, but nothing cleared.

"Don't make me wake up yet, Sammy," Dean said. "Don't leave yet."

"I don't have the energy to stay any longer. I'm sorry, Dean."

When Dean woke up, he stared at the ceiling of his room in complete darkness for a long time. With the amulet still around his neck, he knew Sam was trapped in the room with him. But for the first time, that fact wasn't comforting. Not when even Sam wanted him to give up looking for an answer.

He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his tear ducts until it hurt. He wouldn't cry, not even in front of ghost-Sam.

But it was hard not to when his entire family wanted him to let go of the single most important part of his life.

Author's Note: Thank you to those who read, review, follow, and favorite! It means the world to me.

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