AN: Back again! Very slowly, I'm working around the looming writer's block xD

Chapter 6: Yellow Fever

Once again, Sam and Dean were standing in a morgue. No matter which state they ended up in on their travels, no matter what the nature of the creature that they were chasing was, things always took them into a morgue at some point. By now, they felt almost at home in them. It was still weird, though.

The coroner unzipped the body bag with a flourish, as if he enjoyed the theatrics of the moment. Clearly, he was a little too desensitised to the nature of his work. "Agent Tyler, Agent Perry, meet Frank O'Brien." The man on the slab looked fairly unremarkable; on first glance, he wasn't visibly injured, and his face had settled into a peaceful expression. You could easily make the mistake of assuming that he was simply asleep.

Sam looked him up and down. "He died of a heart attack, right?"

"Three days ago."

"But O'Brien was 44 years old and, according to this…" He held up the little pile of forms that had been completed when his body had been brought in. "... a marathon runner."

The coroner just shrugged. "Everybody drops dead sooner or later. It's why I got job security."

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, but Frank kicked it here. Now, just yesterday, two perfectly healthy men bit it in Maumee. All heart attacks, you don't think that's strange?"

"Sounds like Maumee's problem to me. Why does the FBI give a damn, anyway?"

"We just want to see the results of Frank's autopsy."

"What autopsy?"

"The one you're gonna do."

There was a few tense moments where the brothers worried that they'd used the wrong tactic here; that the man would chase them out of his territory and they'd have to leave with no more information than they'd had when they started. Then, he sighed, grabbed a pair of gloves from the open box on the instrument cart, and started to get to work.

He seemed to enjoy slicing through the man's skin, happy to continue the conversation while he worked.

"First dead body?"

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched up. "Far from it."

"Oh, good. Because these suckers can get pretty ripe. Hey, hand me those rib cutters, would you?"

Feeling his stomach do an unpleasant somersault, he handed the instrument over, noting the way that Sam paled at the sight of it and remembering it to use against him later. Hey, the least he could do in an uncomfortable situation was turn it into future bullying material, right? His gaze flickered down to Frank's hands, and something in particular caught his eye.

"Is that from a wedding ring? I didn't think Frank was married."

"Ain't my department. I do the gooey bits."

"Okay, so any idea how he got these?" He poked at the deep parallel scratches marring both of the man's forearms.

Mid cut, the coroner raised an eyebrow. "You know what? When you drop dead, you actually tend to drop. Body probably got scraped up when it hit the ground." Then, something made him frown. "Huh! Odd."

Sam cocked his head, trying to see what had confused him. "What? What is it?"

"I… I can't find any blockages in any of the major arteries. Heart looks pretty damn healthy." Not noticing the way the shorter man had cringed back as he pulled the dead man's heart from his chest, the coroner held it in Dean's direction. "Hold that a second, would you? I just wanna…"

This time, it was Sam who got the chance to relish in Dean's discomfort - that is, until a horribly warm liquid splashed across his face, making him reel back.

"Oh, sorry. Spleen juice."

The autopsy didn't reveal anything particularly useful, and once the two of them had cleaned up - and finished making digs at each other - they found themselves in the reception of the local Sheriff's station. The young deputy had shrugged apologetically, saying that he wasn't sure when the Sheriff would be available to speak to them. Apparently, he was rather busy. They had probably been sat there for twenty minutes when one of the doors on the other side of the space opened, and a rather irate looking man stuck his head out.

"Hell's bells, Linus, have you seen my..." He paused at the sight of the two boys in suits, frowning a little as they stood. "Who are they?"

Deputy Linus looked a little nervous. "Federal agents. I, uh..."

"And you kept them waiting?" He snapped.

"You, you said not to disturb."

Shooting the younger man a look that very clearly said 'I'll deal with you later', the Sheriff gestured for them to follow him. "Come on back, fellas. Ah, shoes off." He pointed to the little paisley patterned mat next to the door.

More than a little bemused at the strange request, they did as he asked and followed him through the door.

"Al Britton. Good to meet you."

"You too."

"And you."

He shook hands with both of them and indicated that they should sit down, slathering his hands in alcohol gel before he did the same. It was rather a lot of gel to use, and the two side-eyed each other briefly. Maybe the man just had some kind of OCD.

"Okay. So, what can I do for uncle Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Well, we're looking into the death of Frank O'Brien. We understand some of your men found his body."

The sheriff sighed. "They did. Me and Frank, we were friends. Hell, we were gamecocks." Dean snorted, and he shot the man a stern look. "That's our softball team's name. They're majestic animals. I knew Frank… well, since high school. To be honest, I just this morning got up the strength to go see him. Frank was...He was a good man."

Dean held back a rogueish smile - clearly, this man wasn't the type to enjoy jokes.

"Yeah. Big heart."

Sam swiftly redirected the conversation before Dean could put his foot in it any more than he already had done. "Before he died, did you notice Frank acting strange? Maybe scared of something?"

The sheriff nodded. "Oh hell, yeah. Real jumpy."

"You know what scared him?"

"No. Wouldn't answer his phone. Finally, I sent some of my boys over to check on him, and well, you know the rest." He reached for the alcohol gel again, this time using even more, and the boys' suspicions increased further. Something really wasn't right here. "So, why do the Feds give a crap? You don't really think there's a case here?"

Dean shook his head. "No, no. It's probably nothing. Just a heart attack."

"No way that was a heart attack."

They were barely out of the office building before starting to discuss what they really thought of the situation.

Sam agreed, ticking the facts off on his fingers. "Definitely no way. Three victims, all with those same red scratches. All went from jittery, to terrified, to dead within 48 hours."

"Something scared them to death?"

"Alright, so… let's say that's what this is. What can do that?"

Dean scoffed. "What can't? Ghosts, vampires, chupacabra? It could be a hundred things."

"Yeah. So, we make a list and start crossing things off."

"Alright, who's the last person to see Frank O'Brien alive?"

"Uh, his neighbour, Mark Hutchins."

"Hang on, hang on."

"What?"

Hesitating slightly, Dean shifted so he was facing Sam, keeping his voice low. "I don't like the looks of those teenagers down there." Sam followed his brother's gaze, perplexed - it was just a group of boys. They couldn't have been any older than thirteen, and were just having a conversation vaguely near the Impala. They weren't even close enough to touch it. But clearly, it was bothering the other man - enough to make him cross the street.

"Let's walk this way."

Mark Hutchins had let them into his home with a smile, all too happy to be of as much help as he could. He led them into a living room that seemed to have been overtaken by large glass containers, each with a different kind of scaly being inside. It made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up. Mark settled on the couch opposite the one they picked, musing a little over the names they'd given him.

"Tyler and Perry. Just like Aerosmith."

Sam smiled politely. "Yeah, small world. So, the last time you saw Frank O'Brien was…?"

"Oh, Monday, he was watching me from his window. I waved at him, but he just closed the curtains."

"Hmm. Did you speak to him recently? Did he seem different? Uh, scared?"

"Oh, totally. He was freaking out."

At this point, Sam noticed, Dean was looking fairly freaked out too. "Do you know, uh..do you know what scared him?"

Mark shrugged. "Well, yeah, witches."

Dean blanched. "Witches? Like...?"

"Well, "Wizard of Oz" was on TV the other night, right? And he said that green bitch was totally out to get him."

So, not really their brand of witches then. At least it was a start, though. Sam nodded. "Anything else scare him?"

"Everything else scared him. Al-Qaeda, ferrets, artificial sweetener. Those pez dispensers with their dead little eyes. Lots of stuff."

"So, tell me. What was Frank like?"

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I mean, he's dead, you know? I-I don't want to hammer him but… he got better."

"He… got better?"

"Well, in high school he was, he was a dick."

"A dick?"

"Like a bully. I mean, he probably taped half the town's butt cheeks together." Dean snorted, and Mark sent a slightly pointed look in his direction. "Mine included."

He shrugged, trying to redeem himself. "So he pissed a lot of people off. You think anyone would have wanted to get revenge?"

"Well, I don't…" Mark frowned slightly at the way the line of questioning seemed to be going."Frank had a heart attack, right?"

Sam sighed, not wanting things to get derailed. "Just answer the question, sir."

"No, I don't think so. Like I said, he got better. And after what happened to his wife."

Dean remembered the wedding band shaped patch of clear skin on the victim's left hand. "His wife? So I was right, he was married."

"Yeah, but she died about 20 years ago. Frank was always really broken up about it."

But he wasn't really paying attention to the statements that had followed his comment - he was far too distracted by the intricately patterned snake coiling itself around the man's neck. Noticing this, Mark chuckled.

"Oh, don't be scared of Donny. He's a sweetheart. It's Marie you've got to look out for." And he nodded towards their couch, just left of Dean's shoulder. "She smells fear."

Marie was a colossal albino snake, beautifully sleek and graceful as she nosed her way across Dean's thighs. Sam couldn't help but smirk at the sight - but the fear on his older brother's face was far more pronounced than he would have expected it to be. Yes, Dean was a bit funny around reptiles, but he wasn't really, truly scared of anything.

This was something else.

Something worrying.

Night was falling as the brothers reunited, hoping that the 'divide and conquer' tactic would serve them well. As Dean scratched idly at his left arm, a book propped open against his knee, Sam opened the passenger side door and slid onto the seat.

"Hey. Any luck at the county clerk's office?"

"I'm not sure I'd call it luck. Frank's wife, Jessie, was a manic-depressive. She went off her meds back in '88 and vanished. They found her two weeks later, three towns over. Strung up in her motel room, suicide."

He frowned. "Any chance Frank helped her along to the other side?"

"No, Frank was working the swing shift when she disappeared. Airtight alibi." He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "How was Frank's pad?"

"Clean. Searched it top to bottom. No EMF, no hex bags, no sulfur."

"So probably no ghosts, no witches, no demons. Three down and about ninety seven others to go."

"Yeah." The significant lack of a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach made Sam frown slightly - and the expression only deepened when he shot a glance at the dials on the dashboard. "Dude, you're going 20."

"And?"

"That's the speed limit."

"What? Safety's a crime now?"

Still practically crawling by his usual standards, Dean kept driving as the lights changed. And that was yet another problem.

"Dude, where are you going? That was our hotel."

"Sam, I'm not gonna make a left-hand turn into oncoming traffic. I'm not suicidal." He said this with such vehemence that it caught him off guard, and a quick look at his little brother told him that he'd found it strange too. "Did I just say that? That was kind of weird."

The start of a pitchy, tinny whining sound stopped Sam's next sentence before it got out of his mouth, and he slid a hand into his pocket - it sounded like it was coming from there. He tugged the EMF meter out, eyebrows raised at the sight of the hand on the dial wobbling consistently in the red.

"Are you seeing this?"

Eyes darting quickly between the meter and the road, a look of sheer panic crossed Dean's face. "Am I haunted? Sammy, am I haunted?!"

The night had been an eventful one, that was for sure. Dean had managed less than half of the night in the hotel room before giving up, totally unable to sleep. He didn't seem to be able to pin down what he was so anxious about, but his soft mumblings were keeping Sam awake and eventually, on the verge of an argument, he'd agreed to go and settle down in the car. Not that he got much sleep down there, but at least it meant that Sam could have a little rest.

So, in the morning, slightly refreshed and freshly updated by Bobby, he wandered down to the car. For a few moments, he stood and watched in utter amazement. Dean was splayed out across the front seat, air drumming as aggressively as humanly possible with the sound of Eye of the Tiger echoing through the lot. After a while he shook himself out of his trance and smacked the roof of the Impala, startling Dean out of his daydream. He flushed with embarrassment for a few moments before sitting up, leaning out of the window and showing his forearm. It was starting to look like he'd taken a cheese grater to it.

"Dude. Look at this."

"I just talked to Bobby."

"And?" He ignored the box of donuts that Sam handed over - yet another red flag. "Come on."

"Um, well, you're not gonna like it."

"What?"

"It's ghost sickness."

"Ghost sickness?"

"Yeah."

"God, no."

"Yeah."

"I mean I don't even know what that is."

Sam rolled his eyes - of course he didn't. "Okay. Some cultures believe that certain spirits can infect the living with a disease, which is why they stopped displaying bodies in houses and started taking them off to funeral homes."

"Okay, get to the good stuff."

"Symptoms are, you get anxious…"

"Yeah."

"Then scared, then really scared, then your heart gives out. Sound familiar?"

He grimaced, then frowned. "Yeah, but Sam, we haven't seen a ghost in weeks. Like, it's been way longer than usual."

"Well, I doubt you caught it from a ghost. Look, once a spirit infects that first person, Ghost sickness can spread like any sickness through a cough, a handshake, whatever. It's like the flu. Now, Frank O'Brien was the first to die, which means he was probably the first infected. Patient zero."

"Mmm. Our very own outbreak monkey."

"Right. Get this, Frank was in Maumee over the weekend. Softball tournament. Which is where he must have infected the other two victims."

A little smirk caught his lip. "Were they gamecocks?"

Sam matched the look for a moment. "Cornjerkers."

"So, ghosts infected Frank. He passed it on to the other guys and I got it from his corpse?"

"Right."

"So now what, I have 48 hours before I go insane and my heart stops?"

"Uhh… actually more like 24.

"Super."

"Yeah."

"Well, why me? Why not you? I mean, you got hit with the spleen juice."

"Yeah, um, you see Bobby and I have a theory about that too. Turns out all three victims shared a certain, uh, personality type. Frank was a bully. The other two victims, one was a vice principal, the other was a bouncer."

"Okay."

Sam couldn't help himself - he just had to smile a little. "Basically, they were all dicks."

"So you're saying I'm a dick?"

"No, no, no. It's not just that. All three victims used fear as a weapon, and now this disease is just returning the favor."

"I don't scare people."

"Dean, all we do is scare people."

He thought for a second, then conceded. "Okay, well then, you're a dick too."

"Well apparently, I'm not."

"Whatever. How do we stop it?"

"We gank the ghost that started all this. We do that, the disease should clear up."

"You thinking Frank's wife?"

"Who knows why she killed herself, you know? Anyway, did you work out what the hell was freaking you out last night?"

He nodded, a little sheepishly. "Our room's on the fourth floor. It's… well, it's kinda it's high."

"I'll see if I can move us down to the first."

"Thanks."

Once they'd managed to get switched to a room that was a lot less concerning, Dean finally joined Sam inside, before being left alone as his little brother went out to dig up some more information on Frank's wife - and hopefully, her body as well. But being alone meant that his mind was free to run wild. And it was picking up on the tiniest of things. The ticking of the clock on the wall. The texture of the paper beneath his fingers. The horrifying images depicted in the book. His vision started to grey out, sounds becoming painfully loud, sweat breaking onto his skin. He scrunched his eyes shut, chewing at the inside of his cheek. And then it stopped.

"Woah, deep breaths tiger. Easy does it."

Small, cool hands interlocked with his, and a wave of calm flooded through him. For a moment, he felt normal again. Blinking a few times, his vision cleared - and Jophiel's petite figure appeared before him. She was actually sitting on the table, her folded legs obscuring the books he'd been poring over. There was a hint of concern in her expression.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, I got bored. Felt like coming down to hang out for a little while. Clearly you've got stuff going on, though. You boys think you can handle it?"

He tried to put a brave face on. "Yeah, just a touch of ghost sickness. I'm sure it'll clear soon. Sam's off trying to find a body to burn."

"You sure? Because you didn't look too hot when I came in."

"Hey, I always look hot."

"You keep telling yourself that, sunshine."

That made him laugh, and the very fact he was laughing made him feel a hundred times better. He hadn't felt capable of doing so for a full day now, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. And the smile on her face certainly helped.

They sat there for a few minutes, not talking, before she reluctantly pulled her hands back. Immediately, the anxiety crashed back over him, and she frowned.

"I wish I could stay, but…"

"No, it's okay. Go."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Joey. It's fine. Really."

She raised an eyebrow. "Joey?"

"What, do angels not do nicknames?"

"Well, no."

"Sorry, I won't-"

"No, it's cool." She grinned, shooting him a wink. "I kinda like it. Feels… edgy. Rebellious. Suits me. Anyway," she stroked his forehead for a moment before stepping back. "If you need me, call me."

"How?"

"Oh come on, Dean, surely you know how praying works."

"Yeah. Right. But… won't you want to stay away if Sam's with me?"

Sighing, Jophiel shook her head. "Look, things might be complicated but now that both sides are pretty well aware of Sam and what he's up to… it's not so dangerous for you if I do drop by. And I do want to, it's just a case of timing. But I will come back, I promise."

"Okay. Thank you." A thought occurred to him, and he jumped to his feet. "Wait, before you go-"

"What?"

"The clock. I… it's bothering me."

Nodding in understanding, she turned her gaze to the offending timepiece and snapped her fingers. It shattered, falling to the floor and resting there silently.

Before he could thank her again, she was gone.

He'd probably only been sat comfortably with his beer for five minutes or so before Sam got through the door. Seeing the mess that had been created in his absence, he frowned slightly.

"Everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah. Just peachy. Find anything?"

"Yeah, Jessie O'Brien's body was cremated, so I'm pretty sure she is not our ghost." He reached over and gently smacked Dean's hand - he'd been scratching at his arm again. "Hey, quit picking at that. How you feeling?"

His tone was dripping with sarcasm. "Awesome. It's nice to have my head on the chopping block again. I almost forgot what that feels like."

"Yeah."

"It's freaking delightful."

"We'll keep looking, okay?" But he didn't get a response - Dean had started to cough, and it was clear that something was blocking his throat. "You okay? Hey! Dean, talk to me."

Staggering over to the little sink, Dean hunched over and coughed once more, spitting out what could only be a wood chip. It was slimy with mucus, but still very obviously wood. Rubbing his brother's back, Sam looked like he was kicking himself.

"We've been completely ignoring the biggest clue we have - you."

He pouted. "I don't want to be a clue."

"The abrasions, this, the disease, it's trying to tell us something."

"Tell us what, wood chips?"

"Exactly."

Quite honestly, a decrepit disused lumber mill was not Dean's idea of a fun day out on a good day, and this was most certainly not a good day. And he decided to make that very clear.

"I'm not going in there."

Sam sighed. "I need backup, and you're all I've got. You're going in, Dean."

"Oh, I could always call-" Then he paused, thinking for a second. While Jophiel had said she'd come if he needed her, he didn't quite think she'd appreciate being called on like she was some kind of dog. "Never mind. Let's do this…. It is a little spooky, isn't it?" Sam shot him a look as he handed over a gun, and Dean backed away. "Oh, I'm not carrying that. It could go off. I'll man the flashlight."

"Yeah. You do that. Come on, let's move."

The inside of the mill was even more ominous than the outside had been. Beams of sunlight caught the thick layers of dust, scattered by the uneven boards across the windows. The whole place smelled vaguely mouldy, and the shadows in the corners of each room seemed to be… crawling. But that could have been down to Dean's rapidly freaking out brain. The drone of the EMF meter had been constant since they got in the door, but they soon realised that it was unlikely to be helpful.

"EMF's not gonna work with me around, is it?"

"You don't say. Come on. Wait, hold on." The light had caught a thick silver ring laying on one of the tables, and he picked it up to take a closer look. "It's engraved. 'To Frank. Love, Jessie.' Frank O'Brien's ring."

"What the hell was Frank doing here?"

"No idea."

Rustling from the next room made them both tense - Sam out of curiosity, Dean out of pure fear. So Sam led the way through, coming upon a wall covered in lockers. Of course they'd have to open a door to find out what was making the noise. As if the universe would make things easy for them. Picking one at random, he grabbed the handle and yanked it open. A scrawny looking cat yowled and skittered out of the room, but the sound Dean made in response to the sight of it was infinitely louder. It was quite possibly the most feminine screech he'd ever heard in his entire life - the sort of sound that came from horror movies, not actual people. It was almost deafening, and when it finally stopped he couldn't help but glare at his brother.

"Seriously?"

"Hey! That was scary!"

"Whatever, man."

Searching through the lockers while his brother caught his breath, Sam closed his fingers around an ID card thick with dust, and held it up to the light.

"Luther Garland."

A thick notepad on a nearby table had caught Dean's eye - the drawings inside had clearly been done by someone with a talent for it, and there was one in particular that he recognised immediately.

"Hey, this is uh...this is Frank's wife."

""Plot thickens.

"Yeah, but into what?" He tore the drawing from the book - and jumped out of his skin as all of the machines in the mill switched on. The space was suddenly full of the sound of grinding gears, cogs catching against each other, ancient metal groaning with the strain of being alive again.

Movement in the corner of the room made them both turn, setting eyes on a tall, thickset man staring at them hungrily. It was clearly a ghost; when you've been around as many ghosts as Sam and Dean Winchester have, you get pretty good at seeing them for what they are. As Sam raised his gun, Dean turned on his heel and legged it.

"Hey! Dean!"

The apparition loomed closer while he was distracted, and he turned back to find that it was almost on top of him. He fired the gun, the shower of salt making the threatening spectre vanish, then moved to follow his brother out of the building. He found his brother huddled behind the Impala, making steady progress with a hip flask.

"Well, guess we got the right place."

By the time Sam had dragged Dean back to the Sheriff's station, he was definitely on the wrong side of tipsy. But they really couldn't afford to wait for him to sober up - especially since his life was in danger. The deputy, watching Dean as he swayed a little on the spot, handed Sam a slim folder.

"This is the Garland file. Is he...drunk?"

"No." He skimmed through the first report, frowning a little. "Deputy, according to this, Luther Garland's cause of death was physical trauma. What does that mean?"

He shrugged. "The guy died 20 years ago, before my time. Sorry."

"Then can we talk to the sheriff?"

"Um… he's out sick today."

"Well, if you see him, will you have him call us? We're staying at the Bluebird. Mind if I take the file with me?"

When the young man nodded, Dean shot him a slightly wild looking smile. "Know what? You're awesome."

"Thanks. Um, y-you too, I guess."

The two of them had barely left the building when the intercom buzzed, and the Sheriff's irritated voice came through the speaker grille.

"Who was that?"

"It's uh, those FBI guys."

"What did they want?"

"A file, Luther Garland's." There was no response to that, and he tapped the speaker lightly. "Uh…Sheriff? You there?"

Still, nothing.

Reading through Luther's file had given them a clear direction for the next part of their investigation. As the two of them walked through the halls of the Peaceful Pines residential home, Dean was visibly shaking.

"This isn't gonna work. Come on, these badges are fake. What if we get busted? We could go to jail."

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Dean, shh! Calm down. Deep breath, okay? There. You feel better?" He couldn't help but sigh at the head shake he got in response. "Just come on. Don't scratch." He took the lead as they entered the little recreation room, sitting down opposite a slender, slightly disheveled looking older man. "Mr. Garland. Hi uh, I'm Agent Tyler. This is Agent Perry, FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your brother Luther."

Mr Garland looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed. "Let me see some I.D."

"Certainly."

As Sam handed both their badges over, Dean found that he simply couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Those are real, obviously. I mean, who would pretend to be an FBI agent, huh? That's just nutty."

Ignoring this outburst, the man handed the badges back. "What do you want to know?"

Sam couldn't help but feel a little relieved that his brother's rambling hadn't caused too much trouble for them. "Uh, well...according to this, your brother Luther died of physical trauma." The scoff he got in response made him raise an eyebrow. "You don't agree."

"No, I don't."

"Well, then, what would you call it?"

"Don't matter what an old man thinks."

"Mr. Garland. We're just trying to get the truth about what happened to your brother. Please."

"Everybody was scared of Luther. They called him a monster. He was too big, too mean-looking. Just too different. Didn't matter he was the kindest man I ever knew. Didn't matter he'd never hurt no one. A lot of people failed Luther, and I was one of them. I was a widower with three young 'uns. And I told myself there was nothing I could do."

"Mr. Garland, um...do you recognize this woman? He pushed the drawing they'd recovered from the mill across the table.

He nodded. "It's Jessie O'Brien. Her man, Frank, killed Luther."

The surety in his voice took Sam a little by surprise. How do you know that?

"Everybody knows. They just don't talk about it. Jessie was a eceptionist at the mill. She was always real nice to Luther, and he had a crush on her. But Frank didn't like it. And when Jessie went missing, Frank was sure that Luther had done something to her. Turns out the old gal killed herself, but Frank didn't know that. They found Luther with a chain wrapped around his neck. He was dragged up and down the stretch outside that plant till he was past dead."

Dean frowned, trying to ignore his own fear for just a moment. "And O'Brien was never arrested?"

"I screamed to every cop in town. They didn't want to look into Frank. He was a pillar of the community. My brother was just the town freak."

Sam nodded. "You must have hated Frank O'Brien."

"I did for a long time… but life's too short for hate, son. And Frank wasn't thinking straight. His wife had vanished, he was terrified. A damn shame he had to put Luther through the same, but...that's fear. It spreads and spreads." There was a deep sadness in his eyes, but they could tell he was being honest.

Well. The story was getting more complex by the second.

Leaning against the Impala, Dean poked at the fresh scratches down his arms. "Now we know what these are, road rash. And I'm guessing Luther swallowed some wood chips when he was being dragged down that road."

Sam nodded. "Makes sense. You're experiencing his death in slow motion."

"Yeah well, not slow enough, huh? Say we burn some bones and get me healthy."

"Dean, it won't be that easy."

"No, no, it'll be that easy. Why wouldn't it be that easy?"

It felt like he was having to explain it to a three year old. Dean's brain was so riddled with fear that he simply couldn't understand. "Luther was road-hauled. His body was ripped to pieces. He was probably scattered all over that road. There's no way we're gonna find all the remains."

"You're kidding me."

"Look, we'll just have to figure something else out."

"You know what? Screw this." Smacking the top of the car, Dean moved to walk away.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dean."

"Come on. No, I mean, come on, Sam. What are we doing?!"

"We're hunting a ghost."

"A ghost, exactly! Who does that?"

"Us."

"Us? Right. And that Sam, that is exactly why our lives suck. I mean, come on, we hunt monsters! What the hell?! I mean, normal people, they see a monster, and they run. But not us, no, no, no, we- we search out things that want to kill us. Yeah? Huh? Or eat us! You know who does that? Crazy people! We...are insane! You know, and then there's the bad diner food and then the skeevy motel rooms and then the truck-stop waitress with the bizarre rash. I mean, who wants this life, Sam? Huh? Seriously? Do you actually like being stuck in a car with me eight hours a day, every single day? I don't think so! I mean, I drive too fast. And I listen to the same five albums over and over and over again, a-and I sing along, I'm annoying, I know that. And you -you're gassy! You eat half a burrito, and you get toxic! I mean, you know what? You can forget it." Breathing heavily following this little rant, he tossed the car keys at his brother and set off.

"Whoa, Dean. Where are you going?"

"Stay away from me Sam, okay? Cause I am done with it. I'm done with the monsters and- and- and the hellhounds and the ghost sickness and the damn apocalypse. I'm out. I'm done. I quit."

When Dean eventually burst back through the hotel room door, Sam was sat on the couch with a beer in hand, looking frazzled. He shot up at the sight of him. "I looked everywhere for you, Dean. How the hell did you get here?"

"Ran. What do we do now? I got less than four hours on the clock. I'm gonna die, Sammy."

"Yeah, you are. You're going back."

"Back?" That wasn't quite what he'd been expecting to hear.

"Downstairs Dean, hell. It's about damn time, too. Truth is," Sam trailed off for a second, his eyes flaring yellow as a smirk crossed his face. "You've been a real pain in my ass."

"No! You get out of my brother, you evil son of a bitch!" He tried to throw a punch, but Dean found himself pinned against the wall by his throat, unable to move.

"No one's possessing me, Dean. This is what I'm going to become. This is what I want to become. There's nothing you can do about it." As Sam's grip around his neck increased and the world started to fade out around him, he was vaguely aware of something shaking his shoulders, a concerned voice coming from above.

"Hey, hey, hey, Dean. Hey, Dean. Dean. Dean. Come on, man, talk to me. Please."

Everything went quiet.

As the second car pulled up outside the lumber mill, Sam felt relief wash over him. He didn't have to handle this alone any more. Sitting on the hood of the Impala, he passed a beer to Bobby as he came to lean next to him.

"Howdy, Sam."

"Hey, Bobby. Thanks for coming so quick."

"Where's Dean?"

"Uh, home sick."

"So, have his hallucinations started yet?"

"Yeah, a few hours ago. He kept going on about a joey? Like, a kangaroo's kid? So I don't know, maybe he's been freaking out about wild animals. Weird, when you think about all the strange crap we see."

Bobby shook his head, slightly bemused. "Nah, that's Joey - as in, Jophiel. She dropped by earlier."

Sam looked wounded. "Wait, you've seen her?"

"Yep. Apparently she dropped in on Dean while you were looking for more information on Jessie. She came by to see me and fill me in on what was happening, said it was in case you were too busy to. Sweet little thing, really. Didn't get the chance to chat when they first dropped by because Castiel knocked me out, but she seems nice enough." He scoffed at the look of disappointment on the younger man's face. "Oh, get your head out of your ass. She also said she wanted to talk to you properly, but that it was a bad time. She ain't got a grudge against you, kid. She's just busy. Now, how we doing on time?"

Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, Sam counted backwards to try and work things out. "We saw the coroner about 8:00 a.m. Monday morning, so, uh...just under two hours. What about you? You find anything?"

He handed over a small book, the cover adorned in Japanese text. "This uh, encyclopaedia of spirits dates to the Edo period."

"You can read Japanese?" He got a response in Japanese - and while he had no clue what had just been said, he could perfectly understand the sarcasm that dripped from Bobby's tone.

"Guess so, show-off."

"Anyway, this book lists a kind of ghost that could be our guy. It uh, infects people with fear. It's called a Buru Buru."

"Does it say how to kill it?"

"Same as usual. Burn the remains."

"Wonderful. Uh...is there a Plan "B"?"

"Well, the Buru Buru is born of fear. Hell, it is fear. And the lore says we can kill it with fear."

"So we have to… scare a ghost to death?"

"Pretty much."

"How the hell are we gonna do that?"

The sound of his cellphone ringing startled Dean significantly, and his hands were shaking as he picked it up.

"Hey."

Sam sounded like he was trying to come across as being far more confident than he really was. "Hey! So, uh, just ride out the trip, okay? You're- you're gonna be fine. We got a plan."

"What is it?"

"Uh, just a good plan, all right? Hang in there."

He hung up before anything else could be said.

Bobby shook his head in slight disbelief. "This is a terrible plan."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

"I know I said, "scare the ghost to death" but this?"

"Hey, you got a better idea, I'm listening."

When neither of them were able to come up with anything better, Sam walked into the mill, looking over his shoulder and into every corner just in case Luther was close.

Things at the hotel took a sudden turn - the Sheriff burst through the door, gun in hand, and Dean immediately moved so that the couch was between them.

"Sheriff? What are you doing?"

The Sheriff was red and sweating, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood. "Why are you looking into Luther Garland's death?"

He knew exactly what was happening here. "Hey, hey, you're- you're sick. You're sick. You're sick, all right? Just- just like me, okay? You gotta relax."

"Frank O'Brien was my friend. So he made a mistake. So I didn't bust him. So what? And you're gonna bring me down over that?! No, sir." He raised the gun to point at Dean's forehead, and he swatted it away. The fight didn't last very long - a few poorly aimed punches were thrown before the Sheriff pulled back, seemingly fighting thin air.

"Get away from me!"

"Al, you gotta calm down!"

"Step back!"

And he dropped to the floor, clutching at his chest, before laying completely still.

Bobby's voice crackled over the walkie talkie. "Any luck?"

"I don't know what's wrong, Bobby. Last time he came right at us. It's almost like he's, uh...like he's scared."

"So now what?"

"I guess I've got to make him angry. Hey, Luther!" He set the shotgun down and started tearing at the drawings they had left behind the last time they were there. Just like last time, the machines flickered to life the second the papers were touched. "Come on, Luther! Where the hell are you? What are you waiting for?"

He turned around - and Luther was less than a foot away from him.

With the body of the Sheriff slumped in the corner of the room, Dean sat on the end of the bed clawing at his forearms. The hallucination of Sam's voice was echoing around his mind, accompanied by cruel laughter.

"You're going back. It's about damn time too."

He could also hear barking, the sound of hellhounds scratching at the walls. And the voice of a little girl.

"Hi, Dean."

But this wasn't just a voice: a petite blonde girl had appeared in the room next to him, her chubby face striking fear into his heart. "Huh, no! No!"

"Yes! It's me, Lilith. Oh, I missed you so much! It's time to go back now."

"You– you are not real!"

"What's the matter, Dean? Don't you remember all the fun you had down there? You do remember. 4 months is like 40 years in hell. Like doggy years. And you remember every second."

Pain was rippling through the left side of his chest, running across his arm and jaw. "You are not real."

"It doesn't matter. You're still gonna die. You're still gonna burn."

"Why me? Why'd I get infected?"

"Silly goose. You know why, Dean. Listen to your heart."

"Whu...?"

"Baboom, baboom, baboom, baboom."

His heart was pounding faster by the second.

Sam was locked in hand to hand combat with Luther's ghost - well, hand to ectoplasmic appendage, anyway. And things weren't really going his way. He was tall, but Luther was taller, and far wider, so he had the upper hand. It took a lot of careful manouvering to wrap the iron chain around Luther's neck, and the second it was sufficiently tight, he radioed through to Bobby.

"Bobby, punch it!"

Waiting in the driver's seat of the Impala, Bobby slammed his foot down. Luther was dragged through the walls and along the road, flailing wildly as for the second time in his pitiful existence, he was road hauled. Sparks flew from the iron chain as it clattered along the road while he struggled to get free from it. Slowly, bit by bit, Luther faded away unti, the only thing left touching the road was the chain itself.

Their crazy idea had actually worked. Dean was safe.

Once they'd retrieved him from the hotel room - and moved the body of the Sheriff somewhere else - the three of them had driven out to a quiet spot outside town so they could catch up on what had happened. Dean looked between the two of them as they told the story, baffled.

"So you guys road-hauled a ghost with a chain?"

Sam nodded. "Iron chain etched with spell work, yeah."

"Hmm, that's a new one."

"It was what he was most afraid of. It was pretty brutal, though."

"On the upside, I'm still alive, so uh, go team!"

"Yeah. How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Fine."

Bobby shot him a look. "You sure, Dean? 'Cause this line of work can get awful scary."

He huffed in irritation. "I'm fine. You want to go hunting? I'll hunt. I'll kill anything."

"Awwww, he's adorable." He laughed, patting each of them on the shoulder. "I gotta get out of here. You boys drive safe."

Sam smacked the roof of the car lightly. "You too, Bobby. Hey, thanks." The two of them watched him drive off before he asked the question that had really been bothering him. "So uh...so, what did you see? Near the end, I mean."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Oh, besides a cop beating my ass?"

"Seriously."

He thought about being honest for a fraction of a second, then remembered what he'd seen of Sam during the hallucinations. And decided that he really didn't want to share that right now.

"Howler monkeys. Whole roomful of them. Those things creep the hell out of me."

"Right." It was clear that Sam knew he was lying, but he didn;t have the heart to argue over it.

"No, just the usual stuff, Sammy. Nothing I can't handle."

And the two of them got in the car, Dean taking the driver's side (obviously) and set off to the next place they were needed.

Wherever that may be.

See you soon!

Much love, Azzie