A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Sorry it's taking so long to update, but I've been pretty busy lately. :) Hope you enjoy and please continue to review!

I'd Follow You Anywhere

Chapter Four

The moon hung high in the sky, partially hidden behind the cover of a couple of wispy clouds. The graveyard was silent and eerie, the marble tombstones glowing ethereally in the haunting moonlight. Large, twisted trees grew inside of the wrought-iron fence, the gnarled roots dancing around the graves and dipping in and out of the earth. Spanish moss hung in clumps from the branches, swaying with the leaves to the nearly-silent tune of the slight breeze. Somewhere, a bird called out, the sound echoing strangely across the deserted field. Silence reigned once more.

The quiet was suddenly cut by the sound of a powerful engine approaching, the low purr of the motor causing a small flock of birds to take off from the branches of the graveyard's trees. Dean steered the Impala through the graveyard, parking on the path between two large trees so the car, already as black as the night, would be all but invisible from the main road just in case somebody fancied a midnight drive past an old and creepy graveyard. He and Sam piled out of the car, grabbed their supplies from the trunk, and trekked off in search of the first grave. Sam's flashlight bounced from tombstone to tombstone as Dean juggled a couple of guns and a shovel. Sam's flashlight was clenched tightly in his hand; he had a bad feeling about this place, which was saying something because he couldn't remember a time when a graveyard didn't give him the chills.

The grave they were looking for was Lydia McClain, the late sister of one of the bog victims. She had passed away two years ago from cancer, Randy had been her twin brother, and they had been amazingly close. According to their mother, whom Dean had interviewed, one of the last things Lydia had told her brother before her passing was that none of this was his fault, that no one could control the illness, and that she was grateful for every moment they spent together. As wonderful and heartfelt as that sounded, it was still quite suspicious that Randy McClain had apparently been chasing after his dead twin when he took a swim in the marshlands. Lydia was one of the few of the apparitions whose body hadn't been cremated, so the Winchesters were finally back in familiar territory with a routine salt and burn.

"Here it is," Sam whispered, smiling grimly as the beam of his flashlight fell upon Lydia's headstone. "You ready?"

"Let's do this," Dean agreed, tossing one of the salt-loaded guns to Sam before holding out the shovel. "You did first; I'll keep watch."

Sam made a face but swapped his light for the shovel. "Why do I have to dig first?" he moaned petulantly even as he made the first crack in the earth with the shovel.

Dean grinned. "Because you're the youngest."

"You keep saying that," Sam grunted as a pile of dirt was flung over his shoulder, "but I think you're just too much of a pansy to get your hands dirty— and no, Dean," he smirked as his brother indignantly opened his mouth, presumably to say something very uncalled for, "don't even go there."

"Go where?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam glared. "Lord knows where," he muttered irritably. "With you, I've come to realize that nowhere is out of bounds. Now shut up and gimme some light, will you?"

Dean rolled his eyes and adjusted his grip on the flashlight, grinning at how much fun it was to wind up his little brother but opting to remain quiet so that Sam could concentrate on digging and they could get this done as soon as possible. They still had another grave to check after this. Sam dug in silence, the hole in the earth growing deeper as the pile of dirt beside the grave swelled with each shovelful of dirt. Dean kept an eye out for anything, supernatural or otherwise, while simultaneously shining the light in Sam's direction and positioning his free hand on the gun in his belt, ready to be drawn and fired in a moment's notice.

Finally, after Sam's shirt was sticking to his broad back with sweat in the humid Louisiana night and the grave was about halfway dug, Dean offered to take over with a brisk "get out of the way, slowpoke" and Sam gratefully took over watch duty. The minutes ticked by and with each passing moment, Sam felt the eerie feeling that something was going to go wrong grow ever stronger. His long fingers tightened instinctively around his gun as his eyes darted expertly around, looking for any sign of trouble. Once, he thought he saw a flash of baby blue darting behind a tree, but when the light hit it, there was nothing there.

Dean, irritated that his light source had disappeared, griped at Sam for a few minutes about how he sucked at holding flashlights, and kept digging. Finally, the wooden, faded coffin lid was exposed and Dean used the shovel to break through the lid. The musty smell of death and decay exploded with the onslaught of dust, which cleared to reveal the skeleton of Ms. Lydia McClain. Dean tossed the shovel down, dusted his filthy hands together, and said, "Let's light this sucker."

Sam nodded and strode forward, salt and gasoline in hand, when the air suddenly went icy around them. Dean cursed, his gun instantly out at the ominous signs of a spirit lurking around them. Sam didn't draw his gun considering his hands were full, but he remained on alert regardless. A horrible chill spread down his spine and the young man spun on the spot to find the ghost of Lydia McClain staring back at him.

She was pretty enough, he supposed, if she'd been alive and not ready to kill them. Her thin hair hung limply to her shoulders, her eyes tired and almost resigned. It occurred to Sam that she didn't exactly look dangerous or ready to kill, but that didn't mean anything. This spirit had lured her brother to his death and would just as easily kill Sam and Dean.

Dean had turned around as well, gun aimed at the apparition which made no move to disappear or attack or anything that most ghosts tended to do when their graves were dug up. Instead, she spoke, her voice seeming to vibrate through the night, rooting the brothers to the spot. Why are you here? she asked. Why did you upset my rest? Why would you defile my grave? I have done nothing.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean snorted, obviously not buying it. "Tell that to your brother; you lured him to his death, after all."

The wail that emanated from the spirit was low, mournful, and keening, renting through the night like nothing either boy had ever heard. This, Sam would reflect later, might be what it sounded like when a heart broke. The ghost screeched again. YOU'RE LYING! she cried. Randy's not gone… my brother… my brother…

"Are you saying you didn't kill him?" Sam asked dubiously. For the first time, Lydia showed anger, and she appeared in front of Sam, fire in her eyes.

How DARE you? she screamed. With a yell of rage, she sent Sam flying across the graveyard. He landed, quite by chance, where his head smacked into the corner of a large marble headstone. There was an ear-splitting crack as his head made contact with the stone. He didn't get up.

"SAM!" Dean grunted as he shot his gun, the salt hitting the distressed spirit. She screamed, dispersed into the air, but Dean knew she wouldn't be gone for long. He cast a quick, anxious look at the limp form of his younger brother several yards away, grimacing. As much as he wanted to go to Sam's side right now, he knew he had to salt'n'burn this pyscho chick's bones before she did any further damage. He dove for the gasoline and salt where Sam had dropped them before he'd gone flying. Just as he grabbed them and was sprinting toward the grave, Lydia reappeared, the angry rage gone from her dead eyes, replaced by pure sadness.

I'm sorry, she lamented as she reappeared in front of the eldest Winchester, blocking his way to her remains. I didn't mean… but I never… I wouldn't… my BROTHER! Dean blinked, slightly caught off guard by this strange behavior. You have to listen to me! Lydia tried again. There's something else out there, something powerful… I didn't lure Randy to his death, I'd never… I wanted him to live on… please… he's my brother.

Dean was in a bit of shock at the heartfelt, albeit disjointed, speech, and felt something like a pang of almost… sympathy inside him. Still, with a glance at Sammy's still unmoving body, he felt cold anger take over his body and his hands acted of their own accord. Ducking around the spirit, he tossed salt into the grave, followed by gasoline and his lighter. "Sorry," he said as both the bones and the spirit of Lydia McClain burned simultaneously, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. "Can't take any chances." The shadows on his face flickering from the firelight, he glared as the last of Lydia's cries died in the night. "You shoulda left Sammy alone."

Then he turned on his heel and ran for his brother.

When Sam woke up, it was to a throbbing headache and a churning stomach. It didn't help that he seemed to be moving at a fast speed. There was a slight vibration and growl of a motor and he realized he was in a car. The car. Dean's baby. The 'Pala. That was good, wasn't it? Sam thought so, although he could barely string two words together in his screaming mind. Something wet and sticky tickled the back of his neck and he wondered what Dean had poured on his head this time. Sam really wished his brother would lay off the prank wars.

"Sammy? You awake?" At the sound of Dean's worried voice, Sam realized that there was more going on than he originally thought. His eyes fluttered open as he desperately tried to show Dean that he was okay, but the moment they opened to the glare of someone's oncoming headlights as they drove into town, the pain spiked to new levels in his head and he realized something very unpleasant.

"D'n," he grunted from behind tightly gritted teeth. "'M g'na be…"

Dean got the message and slammed on the brakes just as Sam threw open the door and fell out onto the dewy grass of the shoulder, the cold moisture instantly soaking his hands and knees. Dean didn't say a word as his brother was violently ill, everything he'd eaten that day gone for good. Instead, he waited until Sam had fallen back onto his haunches, panting and wiping his mouth, and then walked around the car to help his concussed brother to his feet. As he was folded into the passenger seat of the car by his older brother, Sam couldn't help but notice that there were four Dean's looking concerned, hovering just above him. He could dimly hear one of the Deans saying something about a concussion, not sleeping, and "that damn ghost" before he drifted off, oblivious to Dean's attempt to rouse him once more.

A/N: So… a bit of whump there, but the boy's'll be back in the action very soon, methinks. While I do love a bit of whump, this isn't a whump-for-whump's-sake story, so there is a plot and they're getting closer to discovering what this thing really is, so it's about to get pretty intense…er. And yeah. I know that's not a word. ^.^ So, please review and I'll try to update soon (or at the very least, sooner than last time! XD).

~Emachinescat ^..^