Skies Grown Darker, 1/6 (SPN, Gen)

[parenthetical]

Title: Skies Grown Darker (Part 1 of 6)
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Notes: Spoilers up to 2.04 only. Thank you to my beloved zooey_glass04. Instead of keeping me sane during NaNo, she joined me in plunging ever deeper into madness, which proved to be much more fun. She also went above and beyond the call of duty in beta-ing this for me, because she just rocks THAT hard. This story would not exist without her, so this is for you if you would like it, my lovely. Thank you for everything. <3 Title drawn from the Dream Theater album "Scenes From A Memory".
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Sadly.

Summary: Set following 2.04 - Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things. Dean and Sam try to find a way to move on, but some things can't be outrun. Gen.

"I'm having a psychic vision, Sam. It's... you! Saying we need to... do yet more research."

ETA: Now with amazing cover art by my beloved zooey_glass04. Thank you so much, darling! <333



Chapter One

Dean lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Across the room - yet another poky motel room, with only a particularly garish floral carpet to distinguish it from any of the thousands of other rooms they'd stayed in - Sam was quietly unpacking some necessities from his bag, a little awkwardly due to his bandaged arm, and trying not to be too obvious as he sneaked glances at Dean.

Dean was aware of them, but felt he'd more than exceeded his quota of chick-flick moments for his entire lifetime. And they had fairly conclusively determined that there was nothing at all that Sam could say to help right now.

He suppressed a sigh and rubbed a hand tiredly across his face. Lying here staring at the ceiling like this made him feel like Sam in one of his more emo moods, and he knew he should get up, crack a joke, grab a shower, head out and find some action, something... But he really couldn't face it just yet. And he was exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that only came from spending the night digging graves and hunting an honest-to-god zombie, then being forced to spill his guts to his brother.

It really hadn't been a day to remember.

So he simply turned onto his side, not even bothering to undress, and slipped one hand under the pillow to touch the reassuring coolness of his knife, before allowing himself to drift into the oblivion of sleep.

~*~*~
When he opened his eyes again, the grey light of early morning room was filtering through the garish curtains. Dean blinked at them and then checked his watch.

Five thirty. Fucking hell, Dean thought in disbelief. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd crashed like that. It couldn't have been much later than eight when he'd dropped off, and he'd practically slept right through to morning.

Turning his head cautiously, he could see Sam sprawled across the other bed, tangled up in his blankets. A faint smile quirked unwillingly at Dean's lips. Regardless of how fucked up their lives were - and really, they were pretty damn fucked up - the fact that Sam was still sleeping at this time, rather than struggling with his nightmares, counted as a very good thing.

Something nagged at him briefly, touching across the edge of his mind before slipping out of grasp. A weird dream?

Yeah, whatever, Dean thought, and sat up, shoving aside the blanket Sam must have spread across him at some point during the night. Fretting over dreams was his brother's domain.

When he emerged from a blindingly hot shower some time later, Sam had turned over but was still sound asleep. Dean dressed as quietly as he could, then slipped out in search of coffee and newspapers.

~*~*~
Sam opened his eyes blearily and yawned, then sat up abruptly as he remembered the events of the previous day. Specifically, his tight-lipped brother finally telling him what was on his mind.

It was still early, as a glance at his watch confirmed, but Dean's bed was empty, with the blanket he had draped over his brother the previous evening when it had become clear he wasn't about to wake up any time soon lying roughly folded at the foot. The bathroom was silent: Dean was gone.

Gone out, Sam told himself sternly. Not gone. There was a difference. And okay, Sam still didn't like having Dean out of his sight so soon after thinking he was losing him forever, so soon after losing their father, with both of them still shell-shocked. He knew it was ridiculous, that Dean wasn't about to shatter or die the second he was out of Sam's reach, but that didn't change the way he felt. He was vaguely comforted by the fact that Dean obviously felt something similar, refusing to wait at the Roadhouse while Sam visited their mother's grave, even though Sam knew Dean would possibly have preferred to rip out his own fingernails than visit it himself.

And okay, Dean was gone now, but Sam trusted him not to have gone further than it took to locate a semi-decent cup of coffee. After the day he'd had yesterday, it was hardly surprising that he would want one. So Sam would just chill and wait for him to return. Unless he hadn't come back by the time Sam got out of the shower, in which case Sam might try ringing his cell phone, no matter how much shit Dean gave him for it later.

To his relief, he heard the key in the lock while he was washing his hair. "Hey," Dean called, a habitual reassurance: Don't get excited, it's me.

"Hey!" Sam called back, and if he rushed to finish up as quickly as possible, well, Dean needn't ever know.

"Got coffee," Dean announced when Sam emerged a few moments later. "Brought you one of your special girly coffees, even." He gestured vaguely at the Starbucks cup across the table, and tilted his head slightly to the side, gaze sweeping Sam consideringly. "How's the arm doing?"

Sam wondered if Dean was consciously trying to turn the discussion towards Sam's physical wellbeing and away from his own mental state. Either way, he acknowledged, he had probably pushed Dean as far as he could go the day before. So until Sam could find some way to help Dean with this, it was time to drop it for the time being and simply be there. "It's okay. They bandaged it up pretty good. I guess it's gonna get in the way for a while, but I don't think it'll stop me from kicking your ass or anything."

Dean snorted. "Bring it on, bitch. Or better yet, get your ass in gear. I'm starving. There's something 'bout spending days chasing after zombie chicks that gives me an appetite."

Sam rolled his eyes, and hid his smile by tugging on a shirt.

~*~*~
"So, we heading anywhere in particular?"

Dean shrugged. "Out of this state, for a start." His mouth tightened for a moment, then relaxed, and Sam probably wouldn't have even noticed if he weren't watching Dean so closely these days. "There're a few things that look like they might be our kind of gig. Poltergeist in Wisconsin. Possible haunting in Arkansas."

Sam eyed him. "Well, Wisconsin's closer. Unless you really want to drive all the way to Arkansas as an excuse for some quality time with your car."

Dean patted the Impala's roof comfortingly as he walked past Sam to shove the last bag into the trunk. "Nah, I'm good. Let's hit Wisconsin first."

The drive was surprisingly quiet. Sam had often thought that Dean's choice of music was one of the best ways of divining his mental state. Sam divided it into categories, ranging from music chosen purely to piss Sam off all the way to calming comfort music, via driving-through-the-night music and depressed-but-never-going-to-admit-it music. Today Dean was playing Metallica at a fairly low volume, and Sam didn't even voice a token objection. If music could help his brother keep it together, Sam would be happy to listen to the greatest hits of mullet rock for the rest of their lives. Though he really, really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Sometime mid-morning Dean changed tape, turned the volume up, and started tapping along on the steering wheel. Sam couldn't quite hide his grin, and relaxed at last, leaning against the door to catch some more sleep.

~*~*~
The drive took the best part of the day, and Dean unwound gradually as he left what he'd now privately dubbed Zombie State behind him, with every intention of avoiding going back there for as long as he could.

He glanced across at his brother, who was slumped against the door and looked to be sleeping peacefully for once. Good, Dean thought, and wondered vaguely if Sam sleeping would ever again be something he took for granted.

They were getting closer to their destination now, and Dean turned the volume down and started paying closer attention to the road signs. He could have done with Sam's help navigating, but hell if Dean was about to wake him up for something as minor as that. Besides, he had it all under control.

Half an hour and a lot of cursing later, Sam woke up and shot him a look. "Where are we?"

Dean muttered something uncharitable under his breath, then, louder, said, "Almost there. The turn-off's got to be just down here..."

And holy shit, his luck had to be improving, because the turn-off totally was there, even though he'd guessed entirely at random. He shot Sam his cockiest grin, ignoring the raised eyebrow that said his brother hadn't been fooled for a moment, and took the turn-off.

Finding a motel proved relatively simple compared to the hassle of locating the goddamn town, although most of them seemed rather nicer than the places where he and Sam usually stayed. Still, they had quite a number of shiny new credit cards, and Dean figured they could cope this once.

The motel he finally drew up at even offered free wireless, and Dean felt a slight pang at the thought of his smashed laptop. Maybe it was time they scraped up the money to buy a new one. He didn't really want to use a fake credit card on such a crucial piece of equipment, but they couldn't go on relying on internet cafes for their research.

They ran quietly through their usual routine of making the room secure, one so familiar by now that no discussion was required. Salt across the doorway and on the window ledges, tiny devil's traps drawn on the entryways, walls and ceiling, weapons strategically positioned so that they were hidden from view yet within easy reach if needed.

"So, talk me through this gig," Sam said finally, sitting down on the bed nearest the bathroom. "A poltergeist, you said?"

"Yeah, a poltergeist," Dean confirmed, sitting down opposite him on the other bed. "I heard about something weird going on in some house here in Marshfield a few years back, actually, but I was up in northern Minnesota at the time, and I knew Caleb was down in this neck of the woods, so he ended up checking it out while I finished up the job I was working." He shrugged. "Caleb called me a few days later, said it was a bust. I took his word for it, headed out west after some harpies."

"But you think he was wrong," Sam surmised. "Things kept on happening in the house?"

"Yeah, your usual poltergeist attention-seeking shit," Dean said. "Flickering lights, cold spots, furniture shifting, you know the kind of stuff. Some couple moved in for a while, broke newly-weds, bought the place for a song. Sold up about six months later, and a couple of paranormal websites carried reports about the house. I called Caleb back up, asked him if he knew what the hell was going on."

Dean hesitated slightly and Sam raised his eyebrows in interest. "Dude, what?"

"He couldn't remember the house," Dean said finally. "I dunno, I mean, he thought it was a bust, so maybe it didn't seem like such a big deal to him. But it seemed a bit weird that he couldn't remember anything about it, or talking to me about it."

"That doesn't sound like Caleb," Sam agreed thoughtfully.

"No shit," Dean said emphatically. "But I was caught up in some other stuff at the time, and when I finally had the time to head up here, things had quietened down, no new reports at all. I figured, hey, we all have our bad days. Maybe Caleb got slammed over the head a few too many times around about then or something. So I let it go."

"Until now."

"Until now. Last internet cafe we stopped at, I checked out the usual websites, looking to see what might be worth investigating. Seems the house has had new occupants again for the past few months. Except they apparently moved out last week after their kid got hit by a chair that was flung across the room."

"Huh," Sam said. "Well, it sounds like it could be worth looking into. We should start at the library, find out about the history of the house. How much do you know?"

"Next to nothing," Dean said dismissively. "I just heard about the poltergeist shit last time, I didn't get as far as doing any in-depth research."

Sam grinned at him. "Wow, Dean, that's so unlike you. We all know how much you love hitting the books, man."

"Never fear, geek boy, I'm not trying to muscle in on your territory. Wouldn't want to deprive you of all your fun."

~*~*~
The library was easy to locate in the centre of town, just off Central Avenue. Dean shot one of his fakest charming grins at the librarian as they walked in, and headed immediately for the internet stations. Sam followed him.

"Here," Dean said a few moments later, shifting slightly to the side to give Sam a better view. "The report I was talking about."

"'Possible poltergeist activity?'" Sam read aloud, leaning closer. "'Marshfield residents James and Donna Blum have moved out of their home on West Ives Street, claiming their four-year-old daughter Jennifer was struck by a chair that flew across the kitchen. Previous residents have also reported flickering lights, moving furniture and strange noises.' Well, at least that gives us a basic address."

"We should try to track the Blums down, see what they can tell us," Dean said. "Shouldn't be too hard, Marshfield isn't that big."

"Yeah," Sam agreed absently. "But we should research the history of the house first. You got a house number?"

Dean clicked through a few pages. "245. 245 West Ives Street. It's on the edge of town, out to the west. We can go check it out tonight."

"I still want to check into the history first," Sam said. "Let's not go blundering in until we've got some idea what we might be dealing with."

He half-expected Dean to argue, as it did sound very much like a poltergeist, but to his surprise, Dean simply nodded. "Yeah, good plan. You want to start with the newspapers? I'll search online some more."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but decided not to call his brother on his near-unprecedented lack of bitching about research and just enjoy it while it lasted. "Okay. Let me know if you find anything."

Dean nodded absently, already bringing up Google.

Nearly an hour later, Sam looked up from his notes as Dean sank into the seat next to him. "What you got?"

"No murders in the house as far back as I can find," Dean said. "Small town, they don't get so many here. Your newspapers probably go further back, but I couldn't find any deaths there at all in the past ten years. Interestingly, though, nobody's stayed there too long. People seem to move in, stay a few months or a year or so and then move out again. Quite a few complaints about the usual poltergeist shit, but nothing like as much as I'd normally expect."

"Well, I found a few things," Sam said, flipping through the bound copies of the local newspaper to find the page he had marked. "Here. In 1954 a Simon Mason died in the house."

Dean studied the picture of the solemn-looking man. "Violent death?"

"That's the thing," Sam said, "apparently he died of natural causes. Sudden heart failure. He was only in his early thirties, but the article says he had some kind of undiagnosed problem."

"So what makes you think he's our poltergeist?" Dean asked. "I mean, okay, sometimes unexpected and sudden deaths can do that, if the person feels they've left things unfinished. But..."

"I'm not sure it is him," Sam said, flipping through to another article. "Check it out."

"Celia Mason," Dean read aloud. "Huh. Wife?"

"Wife," Sam agreed. "She committed suicide in the house about four months after her husband died. Slit her wrists, apparently. A neighbour found her. Seems that she never got over her husband's death."

"That could be it," Dean said, studying the photograph. Celia Mason had been a pretty woman, if you looked at her wavy red hair and ignored the grieving, empty expression in her eyes. "You find out where she's buried?"

"Local cemetery," Sam replied with a shrug. "But can we make certain it's her before we start digging up graves again?"

"For you, anything, princess," Dean said flippantly. "Let's go find this house and meet our poltergeist."

~*~*~
From the outside, the house didn't seem creepier than any other recently vacated house would. The EMF meter showed normal readings that the streetlights outside would account for. Dean shrugged at Sam and stood back to watch the street while Sam picked the lock on the front door. A few moments later they were slipping into the house, flashlights in hand, and closing the door behind them.

They shared a glance, then began to work their way methodically through the ground floor of the house. It was clear that it had been vacated very recently; most of the furniture was gone, but there was still a pile of boxes stacked in the front room, waiting to be collected.

"This is where the Blum kid got smacked with the chair," Dean observed as they checked out the kitchen. The EMF meter was remaining stubbornly silent. "Don't look like our poltergeist's feeling too frisky right now, though."

"Let's check upstairs," Sam said.

Upstairs seemed to be about as empty as the ground floor. The EMF meter flared briefly when they checked out the bathroom, but otherwise remained silent.

"You reckon this is where she killed herself?" Dean wondered aloud, pointing the flashlight beam around the bathroom.

"Well, she did slit her wrists. Makes sense," Sam pointed out. "I don't know, Dean. Maybe Caleb was right and this place is a bust."

Dean stared around at the bathroom, unseeing. "Maybe."

"I'm going to check out the kitchen again," Sam said, heading back out. "I think that's where her husband died, maybe she's more active there."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean said absently, still staring around him.

~*~*~
It was weird, Sam thought, but the kitchen didn't feel quite as deserted as it had a few minutes ago. It felt... tense.

He knew better by now than to ignore his instincts, and shifted his grip to hold the rock salt-loaded shotgun more firmly, glancing around warily.

In the end, he caught sight of her reflected in one of the windows, and spun around. Celia was just a few feet away, staring at him with dead eyes. As she opened her mouth as if to speak, he was already bringing his shotgun to bear, but before he could do so, a drawer shot out of one of the kitchen cabinets, sailed across the room, and slammed into the place she'd been just a split second previously.

Sam stared around himself wildly, looking to see if she'd reappeared elsewhere in the room, but it appeared to be empty.

"DEAN!" he yelled.

Silence.

Oh shit. "DEAN!"

Finally, finally, god, he heard Dean's footsteps as he raced down the stairs.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean demanded roughly as he appeared in the doorway. "You're down here one minute, tops, and suddenly you need to scream the place down?"

Sam gritted his teeth. "I wasn't screaming, asshole, I was trying to alert my deaf brother to the fact that the poltergeist was active down here, since you apparently spaced out and didn't even hear it throwing that drawer at me."

"The fuck?" Dean asked, sounding honestly baffled. "I would have heard that, dude, I wasn't that far away."

"I had to yell for you twice, man, you must have been having one hell of a good daydream," Sam muttered, and stuck out his hand. "Pass me the EMF meter?"

Dean complied wordlessly, which was unusual enough to make Sam look at him more closely. His brother looked slightly pale and... off, somehow. But at that moment Dean glanced up and caught him looking, and Sam quickly set to work, running the EMF detector around the drawer. It buzzed loudly.

Dean cleared his throat. "The poltergeist threw that at you?"

"Yeah," Sam said absently. "Well, actually, I'm not sure, maybe not. She was here, Dean. Celia Mason was here, right behind me. She looked like she was about to say something, but then the drawer went flying right at the spot where she'd been."

He glanced up again and saw Dean frowning.

"So... you're telling me she wasn't the one who threw the drawer? Something else threw it at her?"

Sam paused. "Well, fuck. Yes. We must be dealing with two ghosts here."

"Always knew you were the smart one, college boy," Dean muttered. "So, what. Celia and her husband?"

Sam straightened back up. "Maybe. But why would he be throwing things at her? It doesn't make sense, Dean."

His brother looked at him steadily. "I'm having a psychic vision, Sam. It's... you! Saying we need to... do yet more research."

"Jerk," Sam said without heat, unable to prevent the corner of his mouth from turning up slightly. "Let's get out of here."

Dean nodded his agreement and headed for the door.

Outside, they walked side by side towards the car, Dean digging in his pocket for the keys to the Impala. Sam turned towards the passenger door, but -

"Hey."

He turned back and caught the keys automatically before it even registered, then stared at his brother, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Don't make a big deal out of it, Sam. I'm just tired, all right?"

"Sure," Sam said slowly, hoping he didn't sound as sceptical as he felt. Not that he didn't believe Dean was tired - he'd driven all the way here that day, whereas Sam had spent most of the journey dozing. It was just that his brother would never normally surrender the keys unless he was dying, and not always even then.

Then again, maybe, just maybe, this was Dean starting to open up to him more, let Sam take up more of the slack. Admitting it when he needed help or he wasn't okay.

Yeah, well, Sam could dream. "Sure, fine. You sure you're okay, though?" And yeah, he was half-expecting Dean to get pissed off and snatch the keys back, but really, this was weirder than any poltergeist.

Dean sighed. "I'm okay, Sammy. Just tired. And a splitting headache all of a sudden. It's no big deal. C'mon, let's go."

Sam bit down on his lip to keep from saying anything more, and moved around the car to the driver's side.

The drive back to the motel passed in silence.

~*~*~
"So, you think we should talk to the family that just moved out?" Dean suggested over coffee the next morning, digging into the grease he called breakfast. "What was their name again?"

"Blum," Sam answered, picking up his notes and glancing through them as he sipped his own coffee. "Shouldn't be too hard to track them down."

"Maybe they can tell us a bit more about what was happening there," Dean murmured, clearly thinking aloud. "The poltergeist hit their kid, after all, so they must have seen something."

"Where do you want to start looking?" Sam asked. "Phone book?"

"Phone book," Dean agreed. "Failing that, I'm guessing they want to sell that house, so one of the local realtors must know where they're staying."

Sam nodded his agreement, and they finished eating in companionable silence. Sam kept sneaking tiny glances across at Dean, who seemed normal enough this morning. He would have liked to ask Dean if he was okay, but he knew better.

As it turned out, they struck it lucky with the phone book. There weren't many Blums in there. The first name listed was obviously the Blums who had lived in the haunted house; the second proved to be James Blum's parents. Sam listened half-heartedly as Dean spun a not-entirely-convincing tale to wheedle the person he was speaking to out of the Blums' new address, and evidently he seemed more convincing to strangers, because after just a few moments he scribbled down an address, thanked them, and hung up.

"We got it?" Sam asked.

Dean brandished the piece of paper. "Let's go."

~*~*~
The house where the Blums were now staying was right across the other side of town. Dean rang the doorbell while Sam glanced around at the front yard.

The door was opened by a thin blonde woman who looked from one to the other of them uncertainly. "Can I help you?"

Dean flashed her a charming smile. "Good morning, ma'am. I'm Dean, this is Sam. We've been told you own the house for sale up on West Ives Street and, well, we were wondering if you could tell us a bit more about it."

The woman continued to look uncertain for a moment, but Sam smiled at her too, and she relented. "Why don't you both come on in? My husband's out at work, but I'll make you some coffee and try to answer your questions if I can."

"Thank you very much," Sam murmured as they followed her inside.

Indoors, it was clear that the Blums were still in the process of moving in. Boxes were stacked haphazardly in corners, pictures were propped against the walls rather than hung up, and some of the furniture had clearly not yet been assigned a permanent position.

"I'm sorry about the mess," Donna Blum said, laughing a little. "You know what moving house is like. I'm afraid the place is still a little chaotic. And we haven't even fetched all the boxes across yet."

Dean flashed her another grin. "Oh, I don't know, you should see how our place looks right now. And it looks like things here are starting to come together."

"Slowly but surely," Donna agreed. "Come on through to the kitchen. The coffee's been unpacked, at least."

The coffee had indeed been unpacked, and Sam accepted his cup gratefully.

"So you two might be interested in our old house?" Donna asked once they were all seated.

"You could say that," Dean answered easily. "To be honest, we were kind of wondering why you moved out so suddenly. It looks like a real nice place, from the stuff the realtor showed us. We just wondered whether maybe there might be something major we were overlooking, if you see what I mean."

Donna laughed. "No, not really. It's a lovely house, and a nice quiet part of town. We just decided we wanted a change. We're a bit closer to James' - my husband's - workplace here."

"Really?" Sam asked. "We heard a rumour that the wiring might be shot - you know, flickering lights, that kind of thing. Did you experience anything like that?"

Donna frowned slightly, then shook her head. "Not that I can recall, no. Everything worked fine. Really, we were very happy there, happier than we've ever been."

"Mommy!" came a squeal just then, and a little blonde girl came rushing into the room. "Mommy, look what I - " She cut off suddenly upon seeing Sam and Dean.

Sam couldn't help but notice the fading remnants of a bruise colouring her right cheek, and glanced across at Dean, who held his gaze for a moment before looking back at the girl.

"Jenny, honey, this is Dean and Sam, and they're thinking of buying our old house," Donna explained brightly. "What did you want to show me? Did you finish colouring in your picture?"

The girl nodded vigorously without taking her eyes off the brothers, but she slowly edged closer and handed the piece of paper she had been holding to her mother. Glancing across at it, Sam saw it was a picture of a clown, evidently from a child's colouring book, that had been carefully coloured in with bright, gaudy colours.

"Oh, honey, that's beautiful!" Donna exclaimed. "You made a real good job of this one."

"Wow, you sure did," Dean agreed, leaning across to admire the picture. "You're quite an artist, Jenny. You do a lot of these?"

Jenny nodded shyly, and Dean smiled at her. Her mother laughed fondly. "Jenny loves colouring in. She'll be an artist when she grows up, at this rate."

"Very cool," Dean said approvingly. "I dig artists. You should hold an exhibition, kiddo."

Jenny beamed at him and suddenly grabbed his hand. "Come see my pictures! I'll show you them. C'mon!"

Dean laughed and got to his feet.

"Oh, Jenny, no -" her mother protested, but Dean held up his free hand, grinning reassuringly.

"I'd love to see your pictures, Jenny, if your mom doesn't mind."

"Mooooooom?" Jenny pleaded, turning wide eyes up at her mother.

Donna relented, helplessly. "Well, if Dean would like to see them -"

"Woooooo!" Jenny squealed triumphantly. "C'mon, Dean!" She took off, rushing out of the room, and Dean laughed again and followed her.

Sam smiled reassuringly at Donna and took another sip of his coffee.

"I do hope Dean doesn't mind," Donna said, looking slightly flustered, "she gets awfully excited about her colouring in. He doesn't have to go along with it."

Sam shook his head. "Dean loves kids, honestly. He doesn't mind a bit."

Donna smiled. "You two thinking of maybe adopting some day?"

Sam didn't quite choke on his coffee as he suddenly realised what conclusion she'd jumped to, but it was a near thing.

~*~*~
Jenny had a lot of colouring books. Dean was duly impressed.

"Wow. Nice work on Snoopy's nose in this one. Pink's a real good colour on him. I always saw him as more into blue myself, but you're winning me round, here."

Jenny giggled and turned the page to find a picture that hadn't been coloured yet. "Here! You do blue, I'll do pink."

Dean spared one wary glance at the living-room door to make sure Sam wasn't about to walk in and see this, then accepted the blue felt-tip pen and began carefully colouring in his designated half of Snoopy's nose. "So, you like your new home? Or do you miss your old one?"

The little girl was concentrating on her colouring, tongue sticking out slightly. "Liked it there. But Mommy says here's nicer."

"Yeah? I went and saw it yesterday. Seemed like a nice house." Dean hesitated a moment. "But yeah, this place is nice too. Lots of space for your art. It can be hard, though, moving. I... My family moved around a lot, when I was about your age. Sometimes I wished we didn't have to."

"You went over the line," Jenny pointed out.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Dean said, trying to repair the damage. "Well, Snoopy has a really tiny nose. Maybe he'll be happier with a bigger one. Be able to smell more, you know."

Jenny didn't reply, but she brought her pink felt tip outside the lines to join her half up properly with Dean's, and Dean figured that meant he was forgiven.

"So," Dean said slowly, trying for casual. "You been colouring in your cheek, too? Because I gotta tell you, blue may work on Snoopy, but I think pink would definitely be a better colour on you."

"It's a bruise, not colouring in," Jenny said, giggling slightly. "You're silly."

"Yeah," Dean said, mouth quirking. "I get told that a lot. So how'd you get the bruise, Jenny? Must've been sore."

"Don't 'member," Jenny murmured, sucking on the lid of her felt tip. "Just had it."

"Huh. You think you just forgot how it happened?" Dean hesitated, watching her closely but trying to be subtle about it. "Or do you mean it was just there all of a sudden?"

For a moment he didn't think she was going to answer, but then Jenny looked up at him, and he met her confused eyes evenly.

"Was just there. It was dinner time, and then it was there, and Mommy said - she said we were going and not coming back." Her lip was trembling slightly now. "Was it my fault? That we had to go?"

"No, Jenny," Dean said instantly, leaning forward to make sure she could see how sincere he was. "Listen to me. Never think that, okay? I promise you, it isn't your fault at all. Your parents, they just want you to be safe, all right? And your mom's right, this house is way nicer."

Jenny sniffed. "I like my new room."

Dean grinned at her. "I bet it's awesome. You gonna hang Snoopy up on the wall there?"

"No," Jenny said, and clumsily tore the page out of the book. Then she held it out to him. "You take him. I got lots."

Slowly, Dean reached out and accepted the page. "Hey. Thanks."

She smiled at him. "You're welcome," she said, before adding, "You went over the line, anyway."

~*~*~
"What's that?" Sam asked, nodding in the direction of the piece of paper Dean was carefully folding and slipping into his pocket.

"Nothin'," Dean said hastily. "You get anything out of the mom?"

Sam let it go for now, walking beside Dean across the yard and towards the car. "Not much. It's kind of weird, that report we read said the family had complained of flickering lights, moving furniture, all the usual poltergeist stuff, but she didn't mention anything like that. And I don't think she was just pretending because she thought we were potential buyers, somehow. I could be wrong, but she genuinely didn't seem to know anything about it. I don't know, dude. Maybe the report was inaccurate?"

"No," Dean said, crossing around to the driver's side and resting his arms on the car roof. Sam unconsciously mirrored his position. "You saw the bruise on the kid's cheek. I agree, man, I don't think Donna was lying, but I still think it happened. Hell, we saw for ourselves last night that something's going on in that house."

Sam sighed, running one finger absently across the Impala's roof. "Did the girl say anything to you?"

"Apart from bitching about my lack of colouring-in skills?" Dean muttered. "Actually, yeah. She said that it happened at dinner one night. As far as she remembers, one minute she was fine, the next she had that bruise and her mom was telling her they were moving out."

Sam frowned across the Impala at him. "So... people are forgetting things?"

"I think something's removing things from their memory, yeah," Dean said roughly. "It would explain Caleb's reaction, too."

"But..." Sam shook his head, not in denial, just confusion. "I mean, how? Why? You ever heard of anything like this before?"

"No," Dean admitted. "Though remember Ellicott? He was able to fuck with people's minds. I don't think it's out of the question, Sam." He opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

Sam got in the car. "Okay, so what now?"

"Salt and burn?" Dean asked, his voice hopeful.

Sam sent him a sardonic glance. "That's your answer to everything, Dean."

"That's because it works on everything, little brother," Dean replied blithely.

"Hook man."

"Hey, it worked there too, we just -"

"Possessed truck."

"If you'd found a way to torch it -"

"Haunted painting."

"FINE, Sam, you've made your point already!" Dean snapped, turning the key sharply in the ignition. "What do you suggest, then?"

Sam didn't even try to suppress his grin. "I think we need to do more research into Celia and Simon Mason. Maybe we can find someone still living who knew them, even."

"Oh, great, more research," Dean groused, turning out onto the main street. "Sometimes I seriously worry that you have some kind of addiction, Sam."

~*~*~
"17 South Apple Avenue," Sam said, shutting the car door behind him. "Yeah, this is it."

Dean sighed. "Fine, let's just get this over with." He strode up to the door and rang the bell. Sam followed hastily.

It was a few moments before the door opened. The woman who answered had white hair tucked neatly back into a tight bun. She looked to be in her early seventies, Sam guessed, but her eyes were sharp as she glanced from one to the other of them. "Good afternoon, can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Sam said earnestly. "Excuse me, but are you by any chance June Davison?"

She frowned. "I am. And who might you be?"

"My name is Sam, this is Dean," Sam answered, doing his best to appear as sweet and non-threatening as possible. "We're psychology students, conducting research, and if it's not too great an imposition, we were wondering if you might be willing to spare us a few moments to talk about your sister."

Mrs Davison stared at them, and Sam willed Dean not to say anything untoward. For once.

"My sister is dead, and has been these past forty-odd years," Mrs Davison said slowly, still frowning.

"We know that, ma'am," Sam said hastily, rushing in before Dean, who had been opening his mouth, could speak. "Our research is based on case studies of people who have... well, taken their own lives. We're sorry to intrude, but -"

"- But," Dean interrupted, meeting Mrs Davison's eyes intently, "anything you could tell us might help us to help other people."

Sam held his breath for a moment, but Mrs Davison was nodding slowly. "Well, I suppose... Why don't you come on in for a few minutes."

~*~*~
"She took Simon's death very hard," Mrs Davison said quietly. "His passing was like a bolt from the blue. Oh, afterwards you always think of a thousand little signs you should have noticed that something wasn't right, but at the time no one even suspected he had a heart condition. It wasn't something you expected in someone so young, and he'd always been healthy enough."

Sam tried very hard not to look at Dean, hoping that the closed-off expression he could see out of the corner of his eye was discomfort caused by the rigidly unyielding sofa they were perched on, and not Dean thinking about their father again. Either way, there wasn't a great deal Sam could do.

"Was your sister with him when it happened?" he asked.

"Yes," Mrs Davison answered, nodding gently. "They were home alone together at the time. She told me later that he just... collapsed. Just like that. She called 911 and asked for an ambulance, then went back and held him and tried to get him to breathe. It took the ambulance about twenty minutes to arrive."

"It must have been a very traumatic experience," Sam murmured.

"It haunted her," Mrs Davison said bluntly. "She said she couldn't forget any of it, not for a moment, just couldn't get it out of her head - the way he clutched his chest and collapsed, waiting for the ambulance, trying to breathe for him, crying and holding him and begging for him not to leave her..." She swallowed. "She just couldn't move past it at all. I think that's why she did what she did, in the end. She held on for four months, but she wasn't really living during those last four months, just reliving it again and again."

"We're sorry to have brought all of this up for you again, ma'am, but you've really helped us a lot." Sam glanced across at Dean to see if he had any other questions he wanted to ask, but Dean just stared back at him, stony-faced. Sam shook his head slightly and got to his feet. "Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Davison."

Back out on the sidewalk, Sam tried to catch Dean's eye and failed. Dean headed straight for the car and got in. Sighing, Sam followed suit.

"Dean, what's going on?" he asked, settling into his side of the car and twisting round to watch his brother more closely.

"Celia Mason is the one wiping things from people's memories," Dean said tightly, hands clenched on the steering wheel as he peeled away from the kerb. "She couldn't handle her own, so she's taking them away from other people. And I'm guessing her husband is the poltergeist, that he's trying on some level to stop her from doing it."

Okay, so that hadn't been what Sam was asking about, but he would go along with it for now. "So she's trying to help people."

The car swerved slightly and Dean turned his head to stare at him for a moment. "She's - what? She's fucking with their minds, Sam. She's stealing things from them, important things."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "I get that, Dean. But she isn't doing it to hurt anyone. She's trying to help them, in her own way." Sam couldn't help but think of how he had felt after Jessica's death, how it had been all he could think of, all he could see, and how he had relived it in nightmare after nightmare for months. And he'd had Dean beside him and a job to do. He imagined the pretty red-haired woman from the photograph sitting in that house, reliving her husband's death again and again until finally she took her own life to escape it, and felt desperately sorry for her.

He wouldn't wish reliving something like that on anyone.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Dean muttered, tension written in the clench of his jaw and the white of his knuckles on the steering wheel.

Sam very nearly said something like What would you know about what that's like? but bit his lip sharply, because that was unfair and he knew it. The memory of Dean in tears, just days ago, was still too fresh in his memory. What's dead should stay dead. Yeah, Dean did know a thing or seven about it, and had done even before their father's death. Sam knew that, even if his own grief for Jess had at times been so overwhelming that everything else had seemed to pale by comparison.

So he forced himself to release his tension in a deep sigh. "Whatever, Dean. Look, I'm not arguing with you here, okay? We have to stop her, I get that. And the poltergeist too. But we can't break into the graveyard until after dark, so what are we going to do until then?"

Dean's grip on the steering wheel gradually loosened and he sighed too. "Head back to the motel, I guess. Maybe grab a few hours of shut-eye if we're going to be digging up graves all night."

Sam glanced across at him. Grabbing naps in the middle of the day wasn't normally like his brother, a night of grave-digging ahead of them or not, and he was reminded again of how exhausted Dean had looked the previous night. "You all right, man?"

"Fine," Dean said briefly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

It wasn't a question. It was a warning: drop it.

Sam turned away to stare out of his window, then frowned. "Dude, you just missed our turn-off."

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Our turn-off," Sam repeated, unable to suppress the grin spreading across his face. "We were meant to take that left back there."

"What the... Oh, for -" Dean took the next left far too sharply, and Sam couldn't help but crack up at his brother's irritation, because this was just too good. Dean didn't get lost. Oh, if they were going somewhere they'd never been before and weren't sure of the way, that was one thing, but Dean had an almost uncanny sense of direction and he never forgot places he'd been or how to get there.

Except now, judging by the weird turns Dean was taking, he was actually, genuinely, hopelessly lost himself, and Sam couldn't stop laughing.

"Would you just shut the fuck up," Dean ground out, taking another left when he should have been taking a right.

"Oh, this is too funny," Sam laughed. "Dude, you totally deserve this for all the times you've mocked me for getting lost, you know."

"Really, Sam, you can shut it any time now."

Sam relented, though he didn't stop grinning. "You need to take a right up here. Then keep going straight ahead for a minute or two, and take another right when we see the trees. The motel's just down the road from there."

Dean followed his directions silently, obviously still fuming at the motel for having the temerity not to be where he thought it should. Oh, Sam was going to bring this up for years.

"Seriously, man," Sam said as they finally drew up in front of the motel, "you should have said if you were too tired to drive. I know you old people need your sleep -"

Dean cut the ignition and climbed out, slamming the door behind him. Sam couldn't help laughing again.

~*~*~
"Dean? Hey, Dean, come on, wake up."

Dean groaned and tried to force his eyes open. They felt gritty and hot, and he really, really wanted to carry on sleeping. Not that his dream was that good - well, all right, there was this black-haired chick, but it really wasn't that kind of dream - but consciousness felt decidedly unappealing right now.

"If you don't wake up now, Dean, I'm going to have to resort to extreme measures," Sam's voice warned.

Coming from Sam, that was a threat. Normally Dean was a light sleeper, which had saved his life more than once, but Sam took great delight in finding unpleasant ways to wake him up when the opportunity arose. Sam had bitched about Dean putting Nair in his shampoo for months, but Dean felt he had been entirely justified given how Sam had woken him up the previous day. Sammy could be a real bastard sometimes.

"I'm awake already," he mumbled, before Sam could get any clever ideas. He forced himself into a vaguely sitting position and scrubbed his hands across his eyes until the world came slowly into focus. Sam was standing over him holding out a cup of -

"God, coffee," Dean said, grabbing it from him and inhaling the scent like an addict. He pulled off the lid and raised the cup to his lips, and oh, god, he'd needed that. And he took back everything bad he'd ever thought about Sam. Sometimes Sammy could be a fucking godsend.

"Better?" Sam asked, sitting down on the other bed, facing him. "You were pretty out of it."

"Better," Dean agreed, gulping down more of the sweet, sweet caffeine. "What time is it?"

"Just after seven," Sam said. "I figured we could go grab something to eat and then head over to the cemetery."

Dean nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

Dinner was quiet. Dean didn't bother flirting with their waitress; it was just another one of those things that had lost their appeal over the past few months. Since their father's death.

It was still hard to say those words, even inside his own mind. But he did, and he didn't flinch from them. Denial would be betrayal.

That was one of things he just didn't get about Sam. He was aware that Sam sometimes wished he didn't know the things he knew; hell, Sam had come right out and said it a few times. And what Sam had said that afternoon... Could Sam really want that? To just forget it all? Forget Dad's death, and Jessica's, and Mom's, and who the hell knew what else?

Dean couldn't even imagine that. It would be a betrayal of them, and a betrayal of himself, too. He wouldn't be the same person without all of those things. He might wish that they hadn't happened, but he would never wish not to know that they had. They were part of him.

"You not eating?" Sam asked, glancing up from his pansy-assed salad.

Dean reapplied himself hurriedly to his burger. "Sure I'm eating. Just... savouring."

"Uh-huh," Sam said, and Dean carefully refused to look up. Sam had been watching him a little more closely, almost hovering, since Dean had given up and spilled his guts the other day. And it had become even more obvious since Dean had asked Sam to drive the previous night.

Honestly, you would think he never let Sam drive his car.

"So, we know where the graves are located in the cemetery?" Dean asked, pre-emptively changing the non-existent subject.

"Not so much," Sam admitted. "But how hard can it be to find them?"

~*~*~
"How hard can it be to find them," Dean muttered under his breath. "Jesus, Sammy, you just had to go and jinx us, didn't you?"

Hillside Cemetery was somewhat larger than they had expected, sprawling across a large hill in the north-west of the town, overlooking most of Marshfield. It was almost fully dark now, and street lamps and house lights were twinkling down below. If he tried, Dean could just make out their haunted house, further out to the west, dark and deserted, although soon there would be too little light to make it out, and it would become a slightly larger patch of darkness than normal on West Ives Street.

After a few minutes of searching, Dean and Sam had split up to cover ground faster, examining the grave markers for the two names they were looking for. Dean fervently hoped Celia and Simon were buried next to each other, so this didn't become more complicated than necessary. He could admit, if only to himself, that splitting up like this was putting him slightly on edge. Which was ridiculous, because neither of their ghosts was about to show up in the graveyard.

"Dean!" Sam called out.

Dean didn't run. He just... moved very quickly in the direction of Sam's shout.

"Found them," Sam said as Dean approached, pointing his flashlight at the two graves.

In Loving Memory
Celia Mason

read the one on the left, and beside it:

Simon Mason
Beloved husband and friend

Dean dragged in a deep breath and released it. Okay. Sam had found the graves. That was all. That was good.

"Okay," he said. "You stay here so we don't lose them, and I'll go back to the car and grab the supplies."

Ten minutes later, they had both stripped down to T-shirts and taken a grave each to dig. Dean kept a watchful eye on Sam, not entirely buying his brother's assurances that his wrist was fine, but beyond a wince or two, Sam seemed okay, and was making steady enough progress that Dean was forced to concentrate more on his own digging. It would be a cold day in hell before Sam finished digging up a grave before him. Particularly with a broken wrist. Dean had his pride.

After a while, Dean paused for a short break, clambering out of the hole he'd dug to wipe the sweat off his forehead and inspect Sam's progress. His wrist didn't seem to have slowed him down much at all. He wasn't down quite as deep as Dean - Dean was fairly certain he'd struck the coffin lid on his last stroke - but very nearly. They'd be done fairly soon, at this rate.

He stared down at the town spread beneath them, then frowned.

"Sam, get up here."

His tone must have registered, because Sam hauled himself out of the hole at once and joined him.

Dean pointed across to the west. "That's West Ives Street across there, right?"

Sam squinted, studying the pattern of the streetlights. "Well, that main road is West Veterans Parkway, which means that's West Ives Street, yeah. Why?"

"Because there are lights on in the house," Dean said grimly.

"What - wait, the house? Are you sure?"

"Pretty damn sure," Dean said. "I looked while we were hunting for the graves, and the place was dark then. Someone's in the house. Remember those boxes? Maybe the Blums went back to pick them up or something."

Sam was silent for a moment, then he swore. "Shit. We'd better work fast, then."

"Not good enough." Dean shook his head. "If your wrist's up to it, you should finish up here. I'm almost through in the other grave, it shouldn't take you more than a couple of minutes to finish it up too. I'll take the Impala and drive to the house, get those people out of there."

Sam hesitated, but there was no real time for debate, and Sam clearly knew it as well as Dean did. He nodded, and Dean grabbed his jacket and set off at a dead sprint for the gate.

~*~*~
Dean drove fast, but the Impala responded as she always did, taking the corners smoothly for him. It was barely a couple of minutes later that he was pulling up outside the house, but those were still two minutes too many for his liking.

He'd been right, unfortunately. The lights were on.

He half-debated calling Sam to tell him, but decided against it. Sam needed to concentrate on salting and burning the bones as quickly as possible, and Dean needed to get whoever was inside out of the way.

He knocked loudly on the front door once, then simply opened it and stepped inside.

"Hello?" he called out, moving methodically along the corridor, glancing into each room as he passed by, keeping his shotgun hidden as best he could. If the Blums were there and in no trouble, he didn't particularly want to alarm them, but he certainly hadn't been about to come inside without rock salt.

A floorboard creaked upstairs, and Dean took a more secure grip on his shotgun and started cautiously up the stairs.

He'd more or less expected the sight that awaited him when he reached the bathroom, but it sent a shock through him nonetheless. Donna Blum was standing there, eyes dazed, as Celia Mason cradled her face with one hand -

and Jesus, she looked familiar, but not from the photograph -

fuck, he'd seen her last night, she'd got him and he hadn't even remembered until now, no wonder he'd been feeling so -

and he couldn't take the shot with Donna that close, not without hitting her too, and he knew first-hand how painful rock salt could be.

Fortunately, Celia seemed to see him at that moment and released Donna, who swayed dizzily. Dean took two strides forward and grabbed Donna's arm, dragging her out of the bathroom.

"Donna, come on! Head for the front door! Go! Now!"

The order seemed to clear her head somewhat, because Donna looked around in sudden fright and then dashed for the stairs. Dean followed behind, keeping his shotgun at the ready. Celia might appear to have vanished for the moment, but he had no illusions that she was properly gone. He was fairly certain he'd feel the difference immediately whenever Sam finished salting and burning the bones.

Donna had reached the front door; she wrestled with the handle for a moment, but then wrenched it open and ran outside. Dean hazarded one last glance behind him - god, he wished Sam was here to watch his back - then moved for the door too.

That glance back cost him a split-second he could not afford.

The door slammed shut in his face, and he spun back to see Celia right in front of him, all long red hair and dead eyes.

Dean raised the shotgun and fired.

~*~*~
Sam finally broke through into Celia's coffin, and smashed it fully open with a few careful blows of his shovel. For a moment he debated whether to open up the other coffin first before setting both on fire at the same time, but he remembered Dean's theory that Simon was reacting to what Celia was doing. If so, that made removing Celia from the equation as quickly as possible the key.

He pulled himself out of the hole, grabbed the container of gasoline in his good hand and poured a substantial measure over the bones, followed by a healthy dose of rock salt. Then he set a rag on fire with his lighter and tossed it into the grave.

The fire spread across the bones, lapping at them hungrily, and Sam waited until he was sure the fire was doing its work before jumping into the second grave. Dean had been right, he had reached the coffin, and it only took another couple of minutes' work for Sam to clear it, break into it, then salt the bones and set them on fire, too.

He watched for a moment, then, satisfied, grabbed his coat and dug out his cell phone, hitting the speed dial for Dean.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Sam was just about to start running and wishing that Dean hadn't taken the Impala when Dean answered. "H'llo?"

"Hey," Sam said, a little breathless with relief, unable to suppress his grin. "I think we're done. Salted and burned. How are things looking there? Did you get whoever was there out?"

There was a slight pause, then Dean cleared his throat. "Um, yeah. It was... it was Donna Blum. She's gone."

Sam frowned. Dean sounded... off. "Dean, you okay?"

"...Yeah," Dean said, then again, more certainly this time, "Yeah, I'm okay, Sammy. They didn't go without a fight, but I'm okay. And you're right, we're done, they're gone. Nice work."

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "You too. But hey, don't think you're leaving me to fill these graves back in by myself, man. Get your ass back up here, okay?"

Dean laughed softly. "My ass will be there in a few minutes, bitch. Think you can hold out that long?"

"Screw you, asshole," Sam said, then hung up, grinning, before Dean could utter the filthy comeback Sam just knew he was about to make.

~*~*~
It was in fact closer to half an hour before Dean returned, and Sam had almost finished filling the graves back in, but any thoughts of bitching Dean out died when he saw how his brother was looking.

"Jesus, Dean, what the hell happened? Are you okay?"

Dean waved away his concern, but allowed Sam to push him down to sit on a nearby gravestone, and that was a sure sign he wasn't well if ever Sam saw one. "I'm all right, Sam. Just a bit..." He trailed off, and Sam shook his head in disbelief.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me on the phone? Look, just sit here a moment, okay? I'm almost finished here, so give me another minute and then we can get out of here so I can take a proper look at you back at the motel."

Dean didn't even try to argue, and Sam felt his worry grow. True to his word, though, it only took a couple of minutes to finish filling in the second grave. Then he took another few seconds to shove the containers of salt and gasoline into the rucksack they'd brought them in and grab the shovels before returning to Dean's side. Dean looked up and even managed a grin at his approach, but Sam wasn't buying it for a second.

"How are you feeling? No bullshit, Dean, tell me."

His brother rolled his eyes. "Oh, knock it off, Sam, I've had plenty worse. I just want to go back to the motel and crash for a while, okay? Nothin' serious. Come on, we done here?"

Sam sighed in frustration. "Fine. Whatever. Let's go."

He wasn't quite annoyed enough to pass Dean one of the shovels to carry, because he knew damn well that his brother would take it, regardless of the fact that he was clearly not entirely with it and had a thin thread of blood trickling down the side of his head. As soon as they reached the motel, Sam was going to force Dean to let him take a proper look at that.

There was something of a nasty moment when Dean wanted to climb over the wall, the same way they'd entered, and Sam had to talk very fast to persuade him to wait while Sam picked the padlock on the gates instead. Admittedly, Dean had somehow managed to scramble over the wall when he'd returned earlier, but he was now walking in the kind of unnaturally straight line that spoke of immense concentration. Eventually Dean heaved a martyred sigh ("When the hell did you turn into such a mother hen, Sam?") and left via the gate with bad grace.

He surrendered the car keys to Sam without an argument, though. Clearly, Sam thought in annoyance, risking breaking his skull while climbing over walls was one thing, but heaven forbid he risk crashing his car.

Back at the hotel, finally, Sam forced his brother to sit on one of the beds under the main light and checked his head. It really didn't look that bad, he was forced to concede. Dean now seemed to have reached a "tolerate the crazy baby brother" kind of mood and sat with something approximating patience while Sam checked his pupils and decided he didn't have a concussion after all.

"Dude, I told you, I didn't even hit my head."

"And this blood is what? Some kind of stigmata?" Sam asked drily, carefully cleaning the cut. "What did happen, then?"

Dean shrugged, a little awkwardly. "I went in, found Donna in the bathroom. Celia had her. Let her go, though. Donna ran for it, I covered her. Door slammed all of a sudden. Celia and the poltergeist got into it, everything went rather blurry, and then I was on the floor with my cell ringing. You make a real good alarm clock, Sammy, I ever tell you that? Phone calls, yelling, rats in the bed... Whenever I need wakin' up, you're my man. Hell, even when I don't need it."

Sam frowned. "Dean, did Celia get you?"

Dean frowned back. "Get me? What are you, twelve?"

"I'm serious, man. Did she have a chance to mess with you?"

"Shot her full of rock salt when she got close. Twice," Dean said. "I don't know, dude, I probably wouldn't remember it if she did, would I? But she's gone, so even if she did try something, it should be over now. I just need sleep, seriously."

Sam studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, fine. You want to go check on Donna tomorrow before we leave town? Make sure she's okay?"

Dean winced and began stripping off his T-shirt. "Might be better not to. If Celia did a number on her memories, she might be a bit confused about what went on and not entirely keen on people who rush into her house brandishing shotguns. We should leave as soon as it's light, just in case."

"You need a hell of a lot longer than four hours' sleep, Dean. You've been pretty out of it, no matter how much you hate hearing it."

"Jeez, Sammy, you want to drive that badly, you could just ask, you know."

Sam grinned reluctantly. "Get some sleep, asshole. I'll be waking you up again in four hours."

"Some things never change," Dean muttered around a yawn.

~*~*~
Sam debated briefly whether to stick around in Marshfield a little longer anyway, but Dean had had a point; skipping out early might save them a few problems, and Dean did for once seem content to settle down in the passenger seat and go back to sleep with a minimum of bitching.

He headed south. They hadn't talked about where to head next, but south was a fairly good bet. Maybe Dean really would want to go check out whatever that haunting in Arkansas he'd mentioned was about, or maybe they'd find a new gig a bit closer. Maybe they'd drive back down to the Roadhouse and see if Ash had come up with anything. Sam thought he would probably have called if he had, but with Ash, you just never knew.

Sam rolled down the window and enjoyed the early morning sunshine, the way the Impala purred its way around the corners, his brother's uncharacteristic silence, breathing evenly and slumped in the seat next to him.

Sometimes, life was pretty good, really.

It couldn't last, of course. They'd been on the road for less than an hour when Dean stirred, yawned, scrubbed a hand across his face, and opened his eyes.

"Hey," Sam said casually. "How you doing?"

"Better," Dean answered, glancing at his watch. "Where are we?"

"Should be coming up on Wisconsin Rapids soon," Sam said. "We could stop and grab some breakfast."

"Mmmm, sounds like a plan," Dean agreed. "We got a new gig?"

"Well, you mentioned that haunting in Arkansas," Sam reminded him. "Or we could find a new job nearer here, work our way down slowly."

"I'd say we should get the hell out of Wisconsin, at least," Dean said. "Head a bit further south, see if we can't pick up Dad's trail again."

Sam almost drove off the road.

~*~*~

Chapter Two