"Hurry up, Sammy! This ghost ain't getting any deader!"

Sam hears another crack as Dean pounds more rock salt into a ghost.

A ghost whose body's buried more than the typical six feet under. Despite this, Sam still manages to toss a shovel-full of dirt at his brother accurately judging by Dean's indignant squawk.

"You're more than welcome to hop in if you think you can dig faster!" Sam shouts. He pounds his shovel into the ground and hears a wet crack, like a rotten log breaking.

Huffing in triumph, Sam clears off what's left of the dirt, and breaks through the wood with his shovel. His nose wrinkles when he sees Richard Thornley's skull grinning at him.

"Still fighting a ghost up here!" Dean calls over the apparition's shriek as he lets off another round of salt. Muttering obscenities under his breath, Sam breaks open the rest of the coffin, wincing at the smell of rotting wood. With his arms burning from exhaustion, Sam at last clears the last of the coffin to expose the skeleton.

"We're good Dean. I'm coming up," Sam warns Dean before he tosses his shovel up and follows it out of the grave with surprising grace. He locates the gasoline can they'd brought from the Impala and dumps its entirety over the bones.

Sam checks his pockets for a lighter. He is more than ready to set fire to the bones of the bastard who made him spend his Friday covered in sweat and dirt. Not to mention having to listening to Dean sing in what he probably thought was his best impression of Robert Plant.

Sam would argue it was a bold attempt to mimic the alley cats beside their motel.

Sam find no lighter in the pocket of his jeans. He pats his others quick enough to put seasoned Macarena dancers to shame.

Sam curses. "Dean! I need a light!" Sam grabs his own gun which rests against a headstone. He takes his brother's place keeping the ghost at bay.

He pretends not to notice the look of disappointment on Dean's face as he contemplates disowning his brother. But a strange combination of a groan and a growl coming from Dean makes him spare a glance over. Sam sees Dean empty handed and angry.

"Way to go, college boy! Who was it that I told to get some more lighters at the gas station?!"

"Who is it that keeps throwing the damn things into graves like they're matches?!"

"Hey, you do it too!"

"Because you taught me to do it that way!"

"I also thought I taught you to not be a little bitch, but here you are –," Sam's gun gives an empty click.

Dean and Sam turn slowly towards the specter of Richard Thornley. The ghost stands about ten feet away from them, grinning like Christmas had come early.

Or Halloween.

Whatever.

"Hey Sammy," Dean whispers as if the ghost is an angry bear he's trying not to startle into mauling them. "How fast do you think we can get to Baby after torching this sucker?"

Sam sighs with resignation. "Pretty damn fast if we're gonna do what I think we are."

"We're a little short of options here, matchless-wonder. Ready?"

Sam nods and straightens his shoulders. His fingers twitch in anticipation.

"Now!"

With lightning speed, Sam reaches for the stick strapped to the small holster against his back. He points it at the grave.

"Incendio!" Flames spew from the stick and ignite the gasoline.

"Engorgio!" Dean calls with his own stick pointing at the grave, causing the flames to grow to impossible heights. Sam takes a step back as a wave of heat rolls over him.

In record speed, the bones disintegrate, and Thornley's ghost disappears with a scream that falls onto deaf ears. The Winchesters switch their efforts from feeding the flames to transporting the dirt back onto the grave with identical swish-and-flick movements. Sam stoops over to pick up the shovel and almost secures his shot gun when the shouting starts.

"Expelliarmus!" Startled, Sam finds both the shovel and his wand yanked out of his hands as if pulled by a string. Glancing over at Dean, Sam sees that he is also empty handed.

"Sam and Dean Winchester. I suppose requesting that you to confine your crazy to the reasonable hours of the morning would be too much to ask?"

"Hendrickson." Dean spits the name like it's a curse, but the Congress agent stares back with cold eyes. Sam would commend Hendrickson's confidence if he wasn't supported by several black robed agents.

Sam thinks he catches the sight of fuzzy slippers beneath one man's cloak but he can't be sure. The bleary eyed agents still manage to hold their wands steady at the Winchesters.

"You boys are in a heap of trouble."

"Aren't we always?" Sam says with a wry grin.

"Don't get smart with me, Winchester." Hendrickson snaps, pointing his wand at Sam.

"He can't help it. Smart is kind of his thing," Dean drawls, earning himself a glare which he returns with a cocky smirk. "So, seeing as you are the ones with the wands - and I commend you all for your bravery against our unarmed selves, how can we help you on this fine summer night?"

Sam resists the urge to kick Dean. The last thing they need is to send these guys over the edge they woke up on. For his part, Sam's trying to not make sudden movements, even if it means his leg muscles are starting to twitch with discomfort.

"Sam and Dean Winchester, you are under arrest for violations of the Statute of Secrecy, the murders of countless people and protected magical creatures, misusing no-mag artifacts, and plenty of other petty crimes which are so far beneath my jurisdiction that I don't even give a damn."

"Really?" Dean feigns surprise. "I thought for sure that jaywalking I did the other day was what set you over the edge."

Sam's list of possible escape plans is a lot shorter than Hendrickson's list of accusations. His left leg begins to twitch more in protest of its current position.

"You could come with us willingly," Hendrickson continues, ignoring Dean, "or we could stun you both into tomorrow. It doesn't matter to me which way we do it."

Sam can't take it anymore. He moves to shift his feet to a more comfortable position.

"Incarcerous!" Sam finds himself tied up with ropes. He falls, and only avoids breaking his face on the ground by twisting himself to the side. He hits the ground with a pained grunt.

"Kinky," Dean quips, glancing at the man who must have fired the curse with blatant distaste. "You know, I really thought you aurors had better things to do than chase after two guys who like taking strolls in graveyards. Aren't there some loiterers or underage drinkers that you can bother instead?" Sam thinks that Dean had better have a good plan if he was going to rile up the people with wands.

But with each pointed glance that Dean throws Sam, he begins to think that his brother is biding his time as he waits for Sam to pull a plan out of his ass. With an inward groan, Sam realizes what his brother had been waiting for.

It really has been a long time since they'd done magic.

Sam finally returns Dean's glance with a subtle nod. He exhales as he focuses on splitting his mind into two simultaneous thoughts.

Inhales. Sam imagines his magic coursing through his veins, unused for years now, but still strong and steady.

Sam exhales, and he expels both streams of magic. One wave of force topples the aurors like bowling pins. The other summons the Winchesters' wands back into their hands.

Dean wastes no time, and burns the ropes tying Sam and pulls him upright. With a sensation much like being pushed through a small tube, Sam finds himself lying next to the Impala. It was right where they'd left it, several blocks from the graveyard.

Sam stumbles forward, catching himself on the car. "Dean, you've gotta-"

"Portkey. On it." Making sure Sam has his hands on the Impala, Dean touches the car and taps his wand on the hood. "Portus."

In an instant, they are once again jerked off their feet as they travel across miles and miles of the United States within seconds. Just as Sam feels like his belly button is about to be yanked of, the feeling stops, leaving discomfort in its wake.

Sam doesn't care whether they are in Canada or Timbuctoo. He rolls over and presses his face into the cool grass, trying to stop the world from spinning around him. At the very least he hopes he can keep his greasy supper where he had put it.

When he no longer feels like the world is a merry-go-round on steroids, he speaks to Dean.

"Wer-er-weh," He mumbles into the grass. Glancing above his arm, Sam sees Dean sitting on the ground with his back against the Impala's front tire. He looks a little pale, but he has a shit-eating grin on his face that tells Sam he is doing okay.

"Wow, I didn't know you could speak ogre."

Sam steels his stomach and un-clenches his teeth to try again. "Where are we?" Dean huffs a laugh and opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts off any answer he might have given.

"You blasted boys think you can get away with not even sending a damn post card for five months and then appear on my front lawn in the middle of the night, set off all my wards, and damn near give me a heart attack? I ought to hex both of your asses so hard your ancestors will be rolling in their graves!"

"What, did we trample your petunias or something?" Dean laughs, earning himself a smack on the head and an offered arm. Sam watches Dean take it to pull himself up, and embrace the man. "Hey, Bobby."

It had taken Sam the promise of a cold beer and a few more minutes to fully regain control of his stomach. He walks with Bobby back to the house, while Dean parks the Impala closer to Bobby's. Sam has no doubt that Dean would be busy for at least an hour. He would want to check every inch of the car to ensure she wasn't damaged after being used as a portkey.

As they walk, Sam explains to Bobby everything that had happened during the past five months. He doesn't stop talking until the old man seems calmer, and his mother hen instincts cool down.

It was the usual. Saving people by hunting down the nasty things of the night, and avoiding the Magical Congress of the United States as they tried to track down the notorious Winchesters. In all the chaos, they'd forgotten the things that really mattered. Bobby told him as much, but he was a little less kind about it. Sam winces with guilt as he begins composing a formal apology to Ellen and Jo. They hadn't seen either since they'd last driven through Nebraska. Which was February.

Last year.

Sam watches as Bobby's face morphs from anger to thickly veiled affection at seeing his surrogate sons again. "Just as well you boys arrived when you did, although I don't quite appreciate waking up to sirens, bells, and horns. Something's come up that might interest you both."

"Really? New case?" It was rare these days that something came up that the Winchester brothers hadn't yet faced. Having been raised in the life, they'd seen pretty much everything the dark side had to offer. Sometimes Bobby got Sam and Dean to take on some creatures to spare other hunters the trouble. But the majority of cases that came across Bobby's radar went to hunters who weren't wanted by both the no-mag government and the Magical Congress.

"You could say it's a new case. But it can wait until morning. I for one want to get some sleep, and I know Dean will spend half the night fondling his girl until he knows she's alright." Sam cringes at the comparison. "Beer's in the fridge, and ravioli's in the cupboard. Help yourself." Bobby walks off to his bedroom, groaning almost as much as the old wooden stairs without so much as a "good night." But Sam knows that Bobby offering his alcohol to anyone was a sign that he didn't hate their guts as much as he might seem to.

After cracking open a beer and draining the bottle dry, Sam sets about clearing off both the couches. He moves piles of books to the floor, and sets weapons against the wall. He can feel the alcohol relaxing the tension that had been building over the last few hours.

Bobby's wards would keep the aurors from tracking where he and Dean had disappeared to. Sam grins as he imagines Hendrickson's frustration at losing his first lead in months.

Sam walks over to the small closet in the living room and throws his favourite blanket and pillow onto the smaller couch. He knows that he would just get a rude awakening from Dean if he came in to find Sam sleeping on 'his' couch. As an afterthought, Sam also drops Dean's favourite bedding onto the other couch. Sam flicks his wand to turn off the lights, and curls up on the old, familiar furniture.

Sleep is not far behind.

-.-.-

Edit AN: Hello, Hello! I'm currently working my way through the previous chapters of this story and editing them. My writing style has improved drastically since I started this story, and I also found a website that highlights run on sentences, adverbs, you name it. (This chapter had faaaaaar too many run on sentences. Why people stuck around, I have no idea :P So, please bear with my as I work through it, and make this story easier and more enjoyable to read! Thanks!