Fic: Seven Downsides To Being A Ghost (And One Silver Lining)
One week after the Almost Apocalypse, Sam tried to knock on Lisa’s door. Of course, it didn’t work. His hand slipped right through the wood with a slight squishing sensation, as if the door was made of pudding. Each material had a slightly different texture, and Sam was learning to tell them apart. Paper felt like trying to hold water, wood felt like pudding, metal like some kind of pastry, almost solid but crumbling in his hands.
So knocking was out. But Lisa had a doorbell and though Sam couldn’t press it, he was pretty darn good at fucking with electronics. He made the door play “Back in Black” and laughed as he heard footsteps slamming towards the door.
“Hi Dean.”
2. Severe salt allergy.
Dean opened the door holding a salt shaker shaped like a little girl. He had taken it from the kitchen table. Sam knew because he’d been watching Dean through the window as he over-salted everything Lisa had cooked for him over the past four days.
“Hi Sammy.” Dean had answered, voice calm and eyes cold. With a jerk of his wrist he jabbed the little porcelain girl in Sam’s direction and a short burst of salt flew towards him.
Sam tried to cover his face, but the salt went right through his hands. Right through his face, too, actually. He hissed and dropped his hands. “Ouch, Dean, cut it out that stings!”
Dean frowned at the porcelain girl in his hands. “Obviously this is not enough salt. Hold on one moment Sammy.”
Sam wasn’t stupid. By the time Dean returned holding a shotgun, Sam was hiding behind a giant oak tree in the front yard. “Stop trying to salt me Dean,” he called from behind shelter.
Dean’s answer was to shoot. The tree took most of the blow, but some of it blew into Sam. Sam mentally renamed salt ‘pain nuggets.’ Each grain felt like it was burrowing into him and then drying to pull him away somewhere, like grains of salt were ants and they were taking him back to their anthill to devour while he was still alive.
“Dean, I’m a friendly ghost!”
3. Tendency to frighten small children.
Dean believed Sam was actually Sam only after he had recited the names of all the American Presidents in order, all 51 states and recited in perfect Latin an exorcism. Also, he knew exactly how many pieces of LEGO were lost somewhere in the Impala and where they had carved their initials into it.
After Sam had passed his tests, Dean had opened the door for Sam to come in. It was totally unnecessary, he could’ve walked straight through the door, but it was polite of Dean anyway and Sam was impressed.
“What the fucking hell is going on, Sam?” Well, so much for polite.
“Dean? What’s going on?” A boy - Ben, Sam remembers - steps into the front hall. He sees Sam, squeals like a piglet, and disappears.
“Oh fuck. Now you scared the kid.”
“I didn’t do anything. I’m just standing here.”
“Translucently.” Dean adds. “Your translucence is the key here.”
“I’m only translucent in bright light. Go tell the kid he imagined it and let’s get out of here.” Sam has never given Dean an order like this in his life, not really, but he’s hoping the novelty will add to its effectiveness.
“Okay.”
4. Lack of ability to hold weapon.
Sam’s no good in a fight anymore. He can help with research as long as Dean turns the pages for him, but he can’t actually hunt for shit. It’s incredibly frustrating.
And often terrifying. Like when Dean’s fighting an entire nest of vampires by himself and Sam can’t do anything but watch.
“There’s one behind you!”
Dean spins and beheads it swiftly between his two swords. “Thanks, little brother.”
“No problem,” Sam mutters as Dean goes back to fighting. He can help, he can.
“You’re like the eyes on the back of my head,” Dean says on the walk back to the car, wiping his blades on his jacket. “I’ve always wanted a set of those.”
5. Loss of human ritual.
Sam has been wearing the same outfit for three months. His hair has grown neither longer or shorter. He hasn’t showered. He hasn’t eaten a single meal, though he always sits across from Dean in diners. He’s become a master of blending in to his surroundings during the day; in bright sunlight he’s almost invisible.
Today the waitress is young and pretty and she hasn’t even noticed Sam’s there. She’s noticed Dean alright, and she’s been flirting up a storm but Dean doesn’t seem interested. He’s more interested in throwing little packets of cream and sugar directly through Sam’s chest.
“Score! Oh Sam, this is way better than penny football!”
“Will you stop that,” Sam whispers so the other diners wouldn’t hear an empty seat talking. “That feels really - uncomfortable.”
“Oh, the pudding thing? How’s that work again?”
Sam sighs in exasperation. “Different objects have different densities and I can tell when I go through them. The more insubstantial they are the less I feel it, but denser materials have viscosity, I can feel myself squishing through them. And I can feel your goddamn sugar packets squishing through me.”
“Just be glad they’re not salt packets.” Dean goes back to eating his bacon cheeseburger and Sam goes back to sighing with envy.
6. Incompatibility with electronic devices.
For awhile they thought it was just bad luck that every motel they stayed at had broken TVs or shitty cable. And then they realized it was Sam. The simpler electronics - lights and stuff - are okay with Sam unless he tries to mess with him, but the more complicated electronics freak the fuck out whenever he goes anywhere near them. One time Sam thought he saw a computer actually move away from him.
Sam had offered to get lost for a few hours so Dean could watch some TV, but he’d looked panicked at the very suggestion. “No! I mean, don’t go, there’s nothing on anyway.”
So Sam had sat down on the bed - or slightly above it - and looked at Dean, who looked back at him. After several long moments of silence Dean said “So about this pudding theory of yours.”
Aimless conversation had never been something they were good at. Before, they’d talked about hunts and weapons and sports on TV and all the girls Dean had fucked and all the girls Sam only wished he could fuck. Or about how they were going to fuck each other. Words always had purpose - had a goal, even if that goal was just to piss each other off, or turn each other on. But more and more frequently the silences had gotten too long, too heavy for them to fill.
“So what does it feel like when you squish through me?”
7. Power can be difficult to control.
Sam didn’t know what it felt like to squish through Dean. He’d squished through other people - on crowded streets, on the bus. They felt like walking through a wall of Jello left in the fridge a few days too long so it got rubbery.
“Probably Jello,” he answered.
“What flavour?”
Sam boggled. “How the heck should I know, Dean?”
“Well you’re the one making a science of this. I think you should be precise.”
So Sam leaned over to touch Dean’s arm and felt...warm skin. He blinked in surprise, then poked Dean, hard.
“Ow! What was that...” Dean’s angry complaint trailed off. “Did you just touch me?”
“I think I did.”
Dean was on Sam in a moment, running his hands over Sam’s face, through his hair, under his shirt. Dean pressed his lips to Sam’s neck, pushed his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Pressed Sam hard against the creaky mattress. Rocked his hips against Sam’s and they both felt Sam harden between them.
The television exploded into about a thousand pieces. “Oops,” said Sam.
“There was nothing on anyway.” Dean laughed and it was also a sound of triumph. “You wanna fuck?”
“More than anything I have ever wanted in all my lives.”
8. Effects may be inconsistent.
They didn’t leave that hotel room for three days, though they almost starved. Sam was kind of okay with starving to death, he liked feeling his stomach again - he liked feeling all his organs again. He did feel bad for the cleaning staff though - the TV was totalled and so was the hairdryer, the mini-fridge and every light bulb in the room.
When they went to a nearby diner they sat on the same side of the booth. The elderly waitress flirted with them both, and they flirted right back, holding hands underneath the table.
Dean dropped Sam’s hand only to pick up his fork and eat, but stopped after a few mouthfuls as Sam swatted uselessly at his cutlery. “You can’t pick it up?” Dean asked through a mouthful of pancakes.
“No.” Sam frowned.
Dean reached quickly under the table and held Sam’s hand again. He sighed with relief when he found it. Sam swatted the container of syrup in frustration, and watched in awe as it tipped forward and spilled across the table. He stuck a finger in it and licked it hesitantly. It was the most perfect syrup he’d ever tasted.
“Hold on I have an idea.” Dean dropped Sam’s hand. “Now try.” Sam couldn’t touch his fork, the syrup or the napkin dispenser.
Dean slid over in the booth, so that their thighs touched. “And now?” Sam picked up the fork.
Dean laughed, loudly, and all the other diners turned to stare. He dropped his voice to a whisper, “I guess, Sammy boy, that you’re a ghost when you’re not touching me.” He linked his fingers firmly through Sam’s and squeezed them tight.
“I guess,” Sam answered, “you make me real.”
And now it's time for sleep!
So knocking was out. But Lisa had a doorbell and though Sam couldn’t press it, he was pretty darn good at fucking with electronics. He made the door play “Back in Black” and laughed as he heard footsteps slamming towards the door.
“Hi Dean.”
2. Severe salt allergy.
Dean opened the door holding a salt shaker shaped like a little girl. He had taken it from the kitchen table. Sam knew because he’d been watching Dean through the window as he over-salted everything Lisa had cooked for him over the past four days.
“Hi Sammy.” Dean had answered, voice calm and eyes cold. With a jerk of his wrist he jabbed the little porcelain girl in Sam’s direction and a short burst of salt flew towards him.
Sam tried to cover his face, but the salt went right through his hands. Right through his face, too, actually. He hissed and dropped his hands. “Ouch, Dean, cut it out that stings!”
Dean frowned at the porcelain girl in his hands. “Obviously this is not enough salt. Hold on one moment Sammy.”
Sam wasn’t stupid. By the time Dean returned holding a shotgun, Sam was hiding behind a giant oak tree in the front yard. “Stop trying to salt me Dean,” he called from behind shelter.
Dean’s answer was to shoot. The tree took most of the blow, but some of it blew into Sam. Sam mentally renamed salt ‘pain nuggets.’ Each grain felt like it was burrowing into him and then drying to pull him away somewhere, like grains of salt were ants and they were taking him back to their anthill to devour while he was still alive.
“Dean, I’m a friendly ghost!”
3. Tendency to frighten small children.
Dean believed Sam was actually Sam only after he had recited the names of all the American Presidents in order, all 51 states and recited in perfect Latin an exorcism. Also, he knew exactly how many pieces of LEGO were lost somewhere in the Impala and where they had carved their initials into it.
After Sam had passed his tests, Dean had opened the door for Sam to come in. It was totally unnecessary, he could’ve walked straight through the door, but it was polite of Dean anyway and Sam was impressed.
“What the fucking hell is going on, Sam?” Well, so much for polite.
“Dean? What’s going on?” A boy - Ben, Sam remembers - steps into the front hall. He sees Sam, squeals like a piglet, and disappears.
“Oh fuck. Now you scared the kid.”
“I didn’t do anything. I’m just standing here.”
“Translucently.” Dean adds. “Your translucence is the key here.”
“I’m only translucent in bright light. Go tell the kid he imagined it and let’s get out of here.” Sam has never given Dean an order like this in his life, not really, but he’s hoping the novelty will add to its effectiveness.
“Okay.”
4. Lack of ability to hold weapon.
Sam’s no good in a fight anymore. He can help with research as long as Dean turns the pages for him, but he can’t actually hunt for shit. It’s incredibly frustrating.
And often terrifying. Like when Dean’s fighting an entire nest of vampires by himself and Sam can’t do anything but watch.
“There’s one behind you!”
Dean spins and beheads it swiftly between his two swords. “Thanks, little brother.”
“No problem,” Sam mutters as Dean goes back to fighting. He can help, he can.
“You’re like the eyes on the back of my head,” Dean says on the walk back to the car, wiping his blades on his jacket. “I’ve always wanted a set of those.”
5. Loss of human ritual.
Sam has been wearing the same outfit for three months. His hair has grown neither longer or shorter. He hasn’t showered. He hasn’t eaten a single meal, though he always sits across from Dean in diners. He’s become a master of blending in to his surroundings during the day; in bright sunlight he’s almost invisible.
Today the waitress is young and pretty and she hasn’t even noticed Sam’s there. She’s noticed Dean alright, and she’s been flirting up a storm but Dean doesn’t seem interested. He’s more interested in throwing little packets of cream and sugar directly through Sam’s chest.
“Score! Oh Sam, this is way better than penny football!”
“Will you stop that,” Sam whispers so the other diners wouldn’t hear an empty seat talking. “That feels really - uncomfortable.”
“Oh, the pudding thing? How’s that work again?”
Sam sighs in exasperation. “Different objects have different densities and I can tell when I go through them. The more insubstantial they are the less I feel it, but denser materials have viscosity, I can feel myself squishing through them. And I can feel your goddamn sugar packets squishing through me.”
“Just be glad they’re not salt packets.” Dean goes back to eating his bacon cheeseburger and Sam goes back to sighing with envy.
6. Incompatibility with electronic devices.
For awhile they thought it was just bad luck that every motel they stayed at had broken TVs or shitty cable. And then they realized it was Sam. The simpler electronics - lights and stuff - are okay with Sam unless he tries to mess with him, but the more complicated electronics freak the fuck out whenever he goes anywhere near them. One time Sam thought he saw a computer actually move away from him.
Sam had offered to get lost for a few hours so Dean could watch some TV, but he’d looked panicked at the very suggestion. “No! I mean, don’t go, there’s nothing on anyway.”
So Sam had sat down on the bed - or slightly above it - and looked at Dean, who looked back at him. After several long moments of silence Dean said “So about this pudding theory of yours.”
Aimless conversation had never been something they were good at. Before, they’d talked about hunts and weapons and sports on TV and all the girls Dean had fucked and all the girls Sam only wished he could fuck. Or about how they were going to fuck each other. Words always had purpose - had a goal, even if that goal was just to piss each other off, or turn each other on. But more and more frequently the silences had gotten too long, too heavy for them to fill.
“So what does it feel like when you squish through me?”
7. Power can be difficult to control.
Sam didn’t know what it felt like to squish through Dean. He’d squished through other people - on crowded streets, on the bus. They felt like walking through a wall of Jello left in the fridge a few days too long so it got rubbery.
“Probably Jello,” he answered.
“What flavour?”
Sam boggled. “How the heck should I know, Dean?”
“Well you’re the one making a science of this. I think you should be precise.”
So Sam leaned over to touch Dean’s arm and felt...warm skin. He blinked in surprise, then poked Dean, hard.
“Ow! What was that...” Dean’s angry complaint trailed off. “Did you just touch me?”
“I think I did.”
Dean was on Sam in a moment, running his hands over Sam’s face, through his hair, under his shirt. Dean pressed his lips to Sam’s neck, pushed his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Pressed Sam hard against the creaky mattress. Rocked his hips against Sam’s and they both felt Sam harden between them.
The television exploded into about a thousand pieces. “Oops,” said Sam.
“There was nothing on anyway.” Dean laughed and it was also a sound of triumph. “You wanna fuck?”
“More than anything I have ever wanted in all my lives.”
8. Effects may be inconsistent.
They didn’t leave that hotel room for three days, though they almost starved. Sam was kind of okay with starving to death, he liked feeling his stomach again - he liked feeling all his organs again. He did feel bad for the cleaning staff though - the TV was totalled and so was the hairdryer, the mini-fridge and every light bulb in the room.
When they went to a nearby diner they sat on the same side of the booth. The elderly waitress flirted with them both, and they flirted right back, holding hands underneath the table.
Dean dropped Sam’s hand only to pick up his fork and eat, but stopped after a few mouthfuls as Sam swatted uselessly at his cutlery. “You can’t pick it up?” Dean asked through a mouthful of pancakes.
“No.” Sam frowned.
Dean reached quickly under the table and held Sam’s hand again. He sighed with relief when he found it. Sam swatted the container of syrup in frustration, and watched in awe as it tipped forward and spilled across the table. He stuck a finger in it and licked it hesitantly. It was the most perfect syrup he’d ever tasted.
“Hold on I have an idea.” Dean dropped Sam’s hand. “Now try.” Sam couldn’t touch his fork, the syrup or the napkin dispenser.
Dean slid over in the booth, so that their thighs touched. “And now?” Sam picked up the fork.
Dean laughed, loudly, and all the other diners turned to stare. He dropped his voice to a whisper, “I guess, Sammy boy, that you’re a ghost when you’re not touching me.” He linked his fingers firmly through Sam’s and squeezed them tight.
“I guess,” Sam answered, “you make me real.”
And now it's time for sleep!