Part 2.

Going Home

Dean was furious. He stalked to the back of the car, and appraised the damage, completely ignoring the big guy wearing way too much plaid. The guy would be dead soon, so it hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things.

"No, no, no," he growled as he took in the large dent in the bumper, then opened the trunk to see how extensive the damage was.

"I am so sorry," plaid man was babbling. "I don't know what happened. I hit the brakes but Baby just kept on moving."

Thankfully the bumper wasn't pushed in as far as he originally thought— Wait. What? Dean stared at the guy dumbly. "Baby?"

"Yeah, my truck." The Impala's attacker pointed at the large red monstrosity he'd been driving. "I call her Baby."

"Oh, no." Dean shook his head in denial. "You did not just call that beast, Baby."

The man's features darkened as he straightened his shoulders, revealing how big he actually was. Big…and strangely familiar looking.

"Did you just call my Baby a beast?"

"So what if I did?" Dean's inner voice was saying back down but his mouth was off and running. "Your butt-ugly piece of crap beast hit my Baby!"

The guy balled up hammer-sized hands, and Dean realized a split second too late who this was: cleaning lady Linda's husband, Ryan. The one Pastor Matt had warned him about.

"Oh crap," he muttered as he saw one of those giant fists fly toward his face. This was so not his day…

When Sam regained consciousness, he was cold and confused. The world was blurry, and he had no idea what happened. "Wha—?" he slurred, his gaze lolling slowly to the side. Bright light from above made him squint, his head aching against it. But when he closed his eyes, darkness pulled him under again.

The second time Sam regained consciousness, he wasn't alone. A child, no more than eight or nine was peering anxiously at him. There was something familiar about the child, but Sam couldn't think, so he let his eyes close again.

"You look terrible," were Pastor Matt's first words when he picked up Dean at the police station.

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy," Dean grumbled, wincing. Speaking pulled at the warm skin of his fat lip, but it was true. Although big, Ryan had no training or technique. So while he managed to tag Dean a couple of times, it didn't actually take much for Dean to have the big man on the ground groaning in pain and crying for his mamma.

"I did," the Pastor admitted, his tone disapproving. "And I think you are both lucky Sheriff Devon was feeling seasonably charitable and, in light of all the circumstances, only tossed you in a cell to cool down. He could have pressed charges."

The man sounded so much like Pastor Jim that Dean dropped his gaze and had the good grace to feel embarrassed about what had happened. He frowned after a moment as he waited for the pastor to unlock his car. It was an older model and didn't have one of those fancy FOB's or key unlock systems. "What do you mean, all the circumstances?"

"I just explained that you were one of Pastor Jim's nephews and that this, being your first trip back since his death, was a difficult time. Coupled with Ryan's own history of trouble and the stress of the fender bender on both parties, the Sheriff decided it really was just a perfect marriage of bad timing." Matt finally got the car unlocked and let them both inside.

"Oh." Dean wasn't sure what to say about that, so turned to more urgent matters. "Sam springing my car?" That could be the only reason Dean could think of for Pastor Matt playing taxi instead of his brother. The Impala had been impounded by the police when they'd shown up, along with Ryan's truck. Neither vehicle damaged enough to be sent directly to a repair garage.

"Sam?" Pastor Matt shook his head. "I thought he was with you."

Dean frowned as he worked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and noticed there were no missed calls. "You told him to sit the interview out. He was supposed to be checking around the cemetery." He pressed speed dial and waited for his brother to answer. "Damn," he muttered as the phone went to voicemail. He waited for the beep and left a quick message. "Call me." Disconnecting the call, he looked at Matt. "Can you drop me off at the impound lot? I'll meet you back at the house."

"Sure." The pastor nodded. "Your brother probably just didn't hear his phone or something," he said, trying to make Dean feel better. "Happens to me all the time. I just get so taken by a book I'm reading and the next thing I know, bam, I've missed two calls."

Dean's smile was tight. "Yeah, maybe." He lied through the sense of dread clawing around his stomach. It wasn't impossible. If Sam found something in the cemetery and went back to the library to follow it up, he wouldn't have his phone on… but he would have left Dean some sort of message. Especially since Sam knew about the accident.

The third time Sam opened his eyes he knew he was in trouble. His head was still pounding and it was hard to think. He was cold and it was dark. And he wasn't alone; there was a ghost watching him, a transparent child, its face hovered inches from Sam's. Sam held his breath, unsure of its intent.

For a long moment, ghost and hunter just stared at each other, and then the ghost smiled.

"Uh…hi?" Sam tried to say, but the words were raspy, his lips and throat dry.

"Sammy…"

The word was like a cold whisper and Sam shivered hard, forced to close his eyes as he swallowed slowly. After a moment, he reopened them again and saw the young spirit still watching him. He fought hard to concentrate. "You…you know me?"

"Sammy…" the ghost repeated, his face hopeful as if Sam should know him, too.

But Sam's head hurt too much, and he closed his eyes again.

Dean wasted no time getting back to the house. As he parked the Impala and turned it off, his eyes swept the area, looking for his brother. The pastor wasn't back yet and the house was dark. Still, Dean checked it first, hoping Sam was snoozing or something. No such luck. The place as empty as it was dark.

"Damn," Dean said as he stood in the kitchen and tried his brother's cell again. Still no answer. "Where the hell are you?" The cemetery was the last place he knew Sam had been so, zipping his jacket up, Dean hurried back outside, cursing and shivering against the rapidly dropping temperature. It was supposed to be colder tonight, according to what he'd overheard from the back seat of the sheriff's car.

"Sam? Sammy!" Dean yelled as he quickly covered the distance between the parsonage and the cemetery. "Sam!"

No answering yell. The graveyard was postage-stamp sized at best, and it didn't take Dean long to search. At his considerable height, Sam should have been easy to spot, towering over the markers, and even if the kid was crouching down to look at something, there was no way he could miss Dean's yelling. So after a few minutes of looking and hollering, Dean realized his brother was not there. That left him stumped.

"Where the hell did you go?" he growled, worry putting an edge to his voice.

Before he could decide what to do next, his phone rang.

"Sam?" he answered without looking at the caller ID.

"Not exactly," Bobby's voice rumbled in his ear.

"Hey, Bobby, sorry." Dean tried to keep the disappointment from showing in his voice. "What's up?"

"Just wondered if you boys had finished up there yet? I got wind of a possible hunt between Blue Earth and here. Thought ya might want to take a look and then head by for a couple of days afterwards."

"Awww, you miss us." Dean couldn't help the smile that lit up his face. It was almost funny just how easily Bobby had slotted himself back into their lives after years of being absent.

"Like a toothache," the older hunter grumbled.

"Well, as luck would have it, we're going to be needing to haul ass for a visit anyways… some local yokel rear-ended me a couple of hours ago. Car's drivable but the bumper could use a bit work." Dean still seethed about the whole thing.

"Damn it, Dean, didn't you just finish gluing that thing back together a couple of months ago?"

"I know," Dean agreed and then thought of something else. "Hey, Bobby – you still got Jim's journals and books and stuff, don't you?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

And that is why Dean loved the old man like a father. No pussyfooting around. Bobby always cut straight through the crap. "Could you see if Jim mentioned anything odd going on in his house before he died? We're totally stumped on this one. Sam ran a history on it and there isn't so much as a nail out of place…"

"All right, give me a couple of hours to see what I can find." Bobby paused, then added. "Have you considered that it could be—?"

"Don't even say it," Dean cut the other hunter off. "I will tell you the same thing I told Sam, it isn't Jim, okay? It just isn't."

"Okay, okay. Just saying… I'll call you back as soon as I get something."

And then Bobby was gone.

Sighing in frustration, Dean took one last lingering glance around, then started toward the gate. "Where the hell did you go after you left here?" he muttered, wondering about the validity of sewing a tracking device into his brother's boxers. Screw that, surgical implantation was the only way to go—

"Sammy…"

Dean paused. Had he just hear something?

"Sammy…"

There it was again.

Frowning, Dean slowly turned around. He held his breath and listened, positive he'd just heard his brother's name. Something flickered, just off to the side and Dean's hand moved for his gun. What if Sam had run into whatever was messing with Pastor Matt?

"Hello?" he called out, cautiously moving toward the back of the cemetery. "Is someone here?" He listened for another moment, and then bellowed, "Sam!"

"Sammy…"

This time he was sure. He had heard his brother's name.

And then he saw the child; a little boy about nine or ten years old, with snow blond hair and eyes that burned black.

Dean stopped. "I…I know you…" he stammered as slivers of recollection cut tiny slices through the fabric of his memory and took him back almost twenty years to another day in this same cemetery.

A jealous Dean had been spying on a very young Sam and Sam's invisible friend, when a freak accident landed Dean with a minor concussion after he'd slipped on a ground-level marker and hit his head. Just before he'd lost consciousness, he could have sworn he'd seen a little boy, the same child now standing in front of him. He'd never mentioned it to anyone at the time, not really sure that what he'd seen was real or a concussion-induced hallucination.

Dean shook his head as he just continued to stare, realization making him colder than the weather ever could. It wasn't a child. Not anymore. It was a ghost.

The ghost glanced behind itself and then disappeared.

"Hey! Wait!" Dean shouted, chasing after it as it appeared farther away, near the back of the cemetery. He almost plunged into a large hole. "What the—?" Arms pin wheeling as he lurched back onto more solid ground, Dean gaped at the size of the sinkhole. It was easily big enough to drive a small car into. Nearby graves tipped precariously at the edge, one, if not two plots having already fallen in. And Dean knew right away that if Sam was down there, they were going to need help. 9-1-1 kinda help.

"Sam?" he yelled, leaning forward as much as he dared, more worried about sending something else down the hole than falling in himself. He eyed a large teetering monument in particular. "Sammy! You down there?"

For a long moment, he heard nothing.

"Sam?" he tried again. "Sammy!"

A soft groan reached his ears.

"Crap, crap. Just hold on, Sammy…okay?" Dean fumbled for his phone. "I'm going to get you out of there. I promise. Just…hold on!"

"Your brother is a very lucky man," a white-haired doctor announced. "He's going to be just fine."

Dean felt relief slither down his spine and let out a heavy sigh, his body melting back down into the waiting room chair he'd been sitting in for nearly six hours. It had taken the rescue crew almost three hours to get the sinkhole stabilized—who knew Minnesota had sinkholes?—and get Sam out. His brother was then airlifted to St. Mary's Hospital in Rochester. The trip took Sam minutes but Dean over an hour to drive. Damn icy roads. Pastor Matt arrived forty-five minutes later and had been keeping Dean company as he alternated between pacing and sitting in stiff agitation while they waited for word on Sam.

"Now don't get me wrong," the man continued, heaven forbid he give Dean too much peace of mind, "he was in serious condition when he arrived, but he's responding well to treatment and, barring any complications, should be able to go home in the morning."

Dean's gaze darted from the doctor to the double doors the man had emerged from. "What's wrong with him?" He'd only gotten a quick glimpse of his brother when Sam was hoisted out of the hole and rushed to the nearby transport. Even then, an oxygen mask had obscured most of Sam's face, thermal warming blankets hiding everything else.

"Hypothermia was our most urgent concern," the doctor explained. "His body temperature had dropped significantly and needed aggressive treatment, and he is responding nicely to. He's also suffering from a Grade 3, or severe concussion, but there doesn't appear to be any fractures, and he has been lucid and answering questions."

Dean shook his head, his eyes closing briefly as the man continued.

"However, he also dislocated his right shoulder, which we've reset, and has some heavy bruising to his back and torso from the fall and subsequent impact."

"Holy shit," Dean whispered, reaching up to scrub at his face, wincing as he rubbed over his own bruises.

"Anything broken?" Pastor Matt asked, his hand reaching up to give Dean's shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"His x-rays came back clear. We're just waiting for an MRI. Because of his age, and the type of shoulder injury he sustained, Sam's at risk for what is known as a 'Bankart lesion.' That's a tear in the cuff of cartilage that forms a cup at the end of the arm bone, and allows for that wonderful range of motion we have in our shoulders. Most of the time, just leaving the arm to rest and heal on its own, with the use of a sling, will be enough. However, sometimes surgery is needed. And before I feel comfortable with releasing Sam, I want to make sure he isn't in that 'sometimes' group. "

"Yeah," Dean blew out a breath. Sam was only supposed to be checking out a cemetery. "Whatever you need to do… yeah."

"But he is okay?" the pastor reaffirmed.

"He's in some pain but he's was awake and lucid. And as long as he takes it easy and lets his body heal, I can't see any reason why he won't make a full recovery, so, yes, he is okay," the doctor answered with a nod. "And at the risk of repeating myself, all things considered, he is a very lucky young man."

"Can I see him?" Dean asked. He needed to see for himself that his brother was okay.

"Of course, but he's still up in radiology right now. Once he's brought back down, I'll have someone come get you. Your brother will probably be sleeping, so just let him rest and I'll let you know more once I get the results of the MRI back. If he does wake up, let the nurse know and just keep him calm and in bed." The doctor held out his hand for Dean to shake. "If you do have any more questions, the nurse can page me." And then, in a flurry of white lab coat, the man disappeared back behind the double doors to, hopefully, save someone else's life.

"Wow," Dean shook his head. "Just, wow."

"Oh, Dean, I am so sorry," Pastor Matt was immediately in his face, all concerned blue eyes and furrowed brows. "I never would have called you boys if I thought either of you were going to get hurt."

"You didn't rear-end me or hollow out a hole for Sam to fall into." Dean wasn't in the mood to try to make Matt feel better; his worry for Sam was too distracting. But he couldn't let the man tear himself up either. "S'not your fault. And, look, I do appreciate you driving all the way out here—"

"Dean? Dean Winchester? Oh, my God, it is you!" And then Dean had his arms full of a small blond woman as she gave him a tight hug. "I'd recognize you anywhere. Oh, my God," she repeated, oblivious to his confusion as he tried to disentangle himself from her. "You haven't changed a bit. Okay, well, maybe you have, a lot, but I'd still know you anywhere. Oh my, just how long has it been? You do remember me, right?"

She finally pulled back and Dean got a good look at her. Dark brown eyes, thin, pale lips, black rimmed glasses, nurse smock… He tried to think.

"Oh c'mon, you have to remember. You got detention because of me…"

That didn't really help. Dean screwed up his face and slowly shook his head.

"Christmas 1988? Tommy Hudson pushed me down because I called him a jerk for being mean to Erik?"

"Ally?" Dean's eyes widened in recognition. "Ally Brown?"

"Ally Hudson now. Strange world, huh?" The woman blushed as she smiled. "I told you, you'd remember me. How are you? And what the heck are you doing in a hospital at this time of night? You're not hurt, are you? What happened to your face? Should you even be standing?" Totally ignoring Pastor Matt, who seemed to be taking great delight in this little happenstance, Ally grabbed Dean's arm and guided him to a seat. "Are you okay? Have you seen the doctor yet? I work here, I can get you someone… Well, I work on the psych ward but—"

"Whoa, Ally, hold on," Dean finally interrupted. "I'm fine. It's my brother who's in here."

"Your brother?" The woman frowned as she tried to remember the other Winchester. "Small, dark-brown haired kid? Sweetest little dimples? Even if he did always look worried…"

Dean huffed out a laugh. Yeah, she remembered Sammy all right.

"Is he okay?"

"He will be." Dean didn't really want to get into things with her.

"Dean Winchester?" A dark-skinned woman in pink scrubs called.

Dean shot back to his feet. "Gotta run," he smiled at Ally as she stood with him. "Nice seeing you again. Say hello to Tommy, he's a lucky guy."

"Yeah, okay, thanks Dean. It was great seeing you again and I hope your brother is feeling better!" The woman gave him a little wave as he started to follow her.

"I'll see you at home," Matt called after him. "Call if you need anything!"

"Thanks, Matt," and then Dean was gone through the doors, Matt and the rest of the world no longer anything to him. All his focus was on one thing – he was finally going to get to see his brother.

Sam doubted he would ever be warm again. He didn't remember much before the sinkhole collapsing under him, but there was something niggling at the back of his memory, – something he needed to tell Dean. It was bugging him as he lay stretched out under a ton of blankets on the couch in Pastor Matt's living room, late the following afternoon. The lights had been dimmed in deference to his concussion, but there was a nice fire burning in the fireplace. Sam found the sound of its crackle soothing. Dean was in the kitchen making him a mocha. The day that Dean Winchester made girly drinks would normally be fodder for teasing, but Sam remembered the naked worry on his brother's face when Sam had finally opened his eyes late last night. Dean had been sitting next to him, anxiously watching, and Sam knew too well how that felt.

They had only gotten back to the parsonage a little while ago, the hospital keeping him until noon and then traffic being a bitch on the drive back to Blue Earth. Now he lay propped and miserable on Matt's old couch.

His arm hurt and his head hurt. He was exhausted and his entire body sore. And he was cold.

"You want marshmallows in here, too, princess?" Dean bellowed from the other room.

Sam winced as the words pounded through his tender head. He'd swear he could actually feel the bruise on his brain and closed his eyes to compensate.

A moment later, Dean was standing in front of him. "Sam?"

Sam slowly opened his eyes at the worried tone. The bruise on his brother's face made Dean look almost as bad as Sam felt. "You okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse from the beginnings of a sore throat.

"Me? I'm not the one who fell down a well—"

"Sinkhole," Sam corrected. The slowness of his speech making it two words.

"Whatever, Timmy. Now, seriously, stop shitting around and just tell me, are you okay? How's the arm?"

They had lucked out, and while there had been an injury to the shoulder joint, the doctor didn't feel surgery was needed. Sam just had to let the arm rest and it should heal on its own. It didn't keep Dean from worrying about it even more than he did the head injury. It was the word "surgery," Sam knew the word scared his brother.

"It's fine," he promised, then added, "and you don't put marshmallows in mocha, jerk."

"You're lucky I'm putting anything in your mocha, bitch. So suck it up and be nice to me." Dean continued grumbling something about "ungrateful pains in the asses" as he returned to the kitchen to finish his concoction. Sam had no idea what to expect beyond half coffee and a package of hot chocolate. But when Dean had asked if he wanted a coffee or a hot chocolate and Sam couldn't decide, his brother had made the decision for him. Mocha. Best of both worlds.

Sam would have to take his word on it because, to be honest, while he enjoyed lattes, he had never actually had a mocha before. "Anything exciting happen last night?" Sam asked a few minutes later when Dean came back, a steaming mug in each hand and a bottle of water under his arm.

Dean put both mugs on the coffee table, then uncapped the water and gave Sam two pills: a painkiller and an anti-inflammatory. He watched as Sam swallowed them with a sip of water before sitting in the big armchair across from the couch. "You mean besides your journey to the center of the earth?" Dean gave him a newly concerned look. "I was with you all night, dude. Don't you remember?"

"I mean, here, at the house. Did anything happen here last night?"

Sam accepted the mug Dean passed him and sniffed it before trying it. It smelled really good, and he grinned in delight after the first taste. "This is…just wow." How come he'd never tried one of these before?

His brother dismissed the compliment with a snort. "Well, duh. And no, actually… According to Matt, the place was quiet. Not even one slammed door."

Sam took another sip before settling the mug amongst the heavy blankets on his lap, fingers settled around the handle so it wouldn't spill. Holding it up seemed to sap what little strength he had. This sucked. "That's weird," he said.

"Yeah." Dean frowned as he blew on his own drink before taking a mouthful.

"Didn't think you liked girly drinks." Sam watched his brother through half-closed eyes. Fondness brought a small smile to his face.

"Coffee and chocolate, Sam. Do I really need to defend that?" Dean scowled. "Dude, sometimes I don't think I even know you."

Sam grinned. It probably came off as more of a grimace, but it was genuine. "Where's Matt?" he asked.

His brother shrugged as he settled back into the chair, his eyes dark in the glow of the fireplace. The fire was starting to burn down and would need another log soon. "Some sort of church emergency."

"I didn't know churches could have emergencies," Sam said tiredly, trying to stay awake long enough to finish his mocha. The tug of painkillers was working against him. "Thought maybe it had something to do with that sinkhole in the cemetery…"

"He mentioned that the national department of something or other was sending people out to check on the stability of the area, and that the cemetery is off-limits until they finish their investigation. Apparently, this isn't unheard of around here. Maybe not as big as the one you fell in but, hey, Winchester luck and all. The state should probably consider changing its motto to 'Minnesota, come sink yourself.'" Dean rubbed his eyes, wincing when he hit a sore spot.

"I hope they put a lot of yellow tape up." Sam yawned, reaching up with his right hand to cover his mouth. Molten hot pain rippled up his arm before he did more than start, and he sucked in a breath.

"Don't be an idiot, stop moving it," his brother chastised with a small chuckle that broke off in his own yawn. "Why'd you say that?"

"Some kids have been drinking in there. I saw a case of empties in the back section," Sam remembered, surprising himself. "I'd hate for anyone else to fall in."

His brother looked at him sharply, a thoughtful look softening the edges after a moment, "Yeah? Hey…" There was something unreadable in his tone. "Did you happen to see anything else while you were there? Or hear anything?"

"No. Not that I remember, anyways," Sam admitted, his eyes fully dipping closed now. He felt the mug being removed from his lap.

"Sleep, Sam."

Sam wanted to protest. He thought he heard his brother's cell phone ringing, but with those two words, both a command and permission, and he was out.

"There is a ghost." Bobby didn't mince words when Dean answered. "And Jim knew about him."

"What?" Dean quietly moved into the kitchen, letting his brother fall asleep.

"It's in Jim's journals. Apparently, he'd known about the spirit for almost twenty years. Not just known, mind you, but trying to communicate with the damn thing."

Dean swallowed hard, thinking about the little ghost he'd seen. "Damn," he whispered.

"Dean?"

"I saw it, Bobby. Yesterday. When I was looking for Sam in the cemetery… I thought I heard Sammy's name and then it was just there. It actually sort of led me right to Sam."

"Led you to Sam? Where the hell was your brother, boy?"

"He fell in a sinkhole. Can you believe that?" Dean still shook his head over that one. "Got busted up pretty good, too. But he's back here now and he's gonna be okay."

"Crap… You idjits. There are no words. I've heard some about those damn things though, just never thought I'd know anyone who actually fell in one. I think I want the kid's autograph."

Dean barked out a laugh and it felt good. "I'll tell him. So, Jim's known about this ghost for a while, huh? Did he mention if it's always been so active or is this something new?"

"Well, according to what he's written, the ghost—a kid named Olaf Peterson—is harmless. Jim called him 'a sad little waif who haunted the cemetery' but never made mention of it coming to the house."

Cold settled over Dean like a blanket and he had to step back into the living room just to see his brother. Sam was still asleep. "Well, shit." He thought of an excited younger Sammy telling him about his "new bestest ever invisible friend." Knowing this "friend" was actually a ghost left Dean feeling hollow and tired. "Jim didn't happen to mention why he didn't deal with this before, did he?"

Jim, even as soft-hearted and kind as he was, had always done what needed to be done. Even the hard things like this. Children spirits sucked. There was always so much tragedy and pain bound in their deaths. Nothing was worse than having to open a small casket and burn tiny bones. It made Dean sick thinking about what they were going to have to do.

"I don't know. The only thing I can say for sure is that Jim didn't think this spirit was any threat."

"Yeah, great. Only now Jim's dead and we're left to deal with it. Anyway, I better run. Thanks, Bobby. I'll give you a call once we're done here and are heading your way."

Hanging up, Dean moved back into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. He was torn between waking Sam up and telling him about Olaf, and secretly sneaking off to the cemetery and doing the salt and burn himself. He just wasn't sure how his brother was going to react to finding out his invisible friend was not only real, but also their hunt. And then there were all the other things that just were not adding up… Like, why wasn't Olaf tripping the EMF meter? And why did it help him find Sam if it was haunting the house?

Looking at the time as he stifled another yawn—damn Sam and his contagious exhaustion—Dean decided to check on his brother once more, and then try to get some sleep. He'd need to set his alarm to wake Sam up for his next dose of meds in a couple of hours anyway. Maybe then he'd have some great revelation about all this.

Yeah, and maybe the Impala would shovel snow and make him a coffee, too.

Sam wasn't sure if it was the cold or the pain that woke him this time. Dean had apparently put a couple more logs on the fire before he'd called it a night, but the warmth Sam felt on his face didn't seem to radiate through to the rest of his body. And his shoulder was hurting like a son of a bitch. Glancing at his watch, he bit back an audible groan as he realized his next round of pills was almost an hour away. And he needed to pee.

Masters of dealing with pain, Winchesters knew how this was supposed to work. You plan bathroom breaks for about twenty minutes or so after the pain meds. It allowed you to maximize their effectiveness during the necessary movements required for the trip. Yet somehow Sam had managed to forget that one important rule, and the mocha sitting in his bladder was demanding a way out. He was not going to be able to wait an hour.

There was some good news though. There was a bathroom on this floor, so he wasn't going to have to climb stairs. His bruised body and pounding head appreciating that one small fact. The rest, though, was going to suck. However, Sam, while being many things, was no coward, so taking a few deep breaths to try to relax as much as he could, he steeled his resolve and started the arduous task of slowly moving off the couch. Thankfully, the piece of furniture wasn't one of those soft cushy things—Sam would have needed his brother's help if it had been—so very slowly, inch by inch, he pushed the blankets off his body and carefully shifted his legs to the floor.

He was just pushing up when he heard a soft noise on the stairs and froze. The third step from the top had always had a squeak in it since the time Sam was a kid. It had thwarted many a midnight adventure. He knew Jim had intended to get it fixed someday but apparently it had never gotten done and now someone—someone who was not Dean—had just stepped on it.

Sam tensed, biting back a groan as pain flared through his chest and back, his body not liking the half-propped angle he'd frozen in. He listened. The person was trying to be quiet, but now that Sam had heard him, he could easily trace the slight shifts of movement. It could be a she, but in Sam's experience, it seldom was. Gingerly settling back, Sam looked for something he could use to defend himself. Pleased that one of Dean's strong suits was not picking up after himself, he spotted the two ceramic mugs still on the edge of the coffee table. It wasn't much, but it didn't have to be. He felt a moment of remorse for the mess the leftover mocha would make, but then a dark shape moved through the doorway and into the living room. Sam heard harsh whispering and realized there were at least two intruders. Crap.

"You do it!"

"I don't want to do it. You do it!"

"It was your stupid idea."

"We're going to get caught."

"We haven't so far."

Sam could hear them moving toward the couch.

They were going to see him any moment…

Making a quick grab for a mug, Sam picked it up and threw it at the closest guy.

Startled, the guy yelled.

The mug shattered.

Gasping in pain, Sam curled in on himself. Shit, shit, shit!

And then the living room was bathed in light and Dean's voice boomed, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

Someone else yelled, "Run!"

There was a flurry of movement, but the sound of a single shot being fired silenced it all.

"Next one won't miss," Dean growled.

Sam felt dizzy with relief. He wanted to look over the back of the couch to see what was going on, who the guys were, find out what they wanted, but instead he tipped to the side and threw up on the floor.

Dean glared at the two kids—teenagers—in disbelief, everything falling into place like tumblers on a combination lock. There might be a ghost in the graveyard, but it certainly wasn't haunting this house. Just like there was no EMF, because people don't give off that kind of electricity.

No, just two punk-assed kids, pissed at the local pastor after he caught them drinking in the boneyard and told their parents about it. Angry and smart enough to construct an elaborate ruse to try to scare the older man as payback: break in, pull a few pranks, make him think his house was haunted… Only thing they hadn't counted on was for said older man to know a couple of actual ghostbusters who had no problem busting balls, too, when it was required. And the fact that Sam was injured and had made himself puke because of these two troublemakers bled whatever sympathy or humor Dean might have had out of the situation. After all, no one had really gotten hurt, and when they confessed to him their ingenuity in creating their hoax, Dean was impressed. But still, Sam was supposed to be resting.

"So, what do you want to do with them?" Sam asked after Dean had helped him back from the bathroom and got him re-settled on the couch.

The teenagers had been put to work cleaning up the puke, mocha, and mug, too terrified of Dean to even think about trying to run. They were now staring wide-eyed at the Dean and Sam.

"Think we should call the cops?" Sam asked.

"Nah." Dean shook his head. He held up his phone. "I'll do one better. I'll call Pastor Matt and he can take it up with the parents."

The horrified looks on the kid's faces were priceless.

"It must have been one hell of a hole," Sam said in the quiet of the early morning.

Pastor Matt had retired to bed only a few minutes earlier, having dealt with the upset parents and repentant children, leaving the Winchesters alone in the living room. Dean was sunk into the big chair across from where Sam was still lying on the coach. It was five a.m., and even though Dean had his head leaned back and his eyes closed, Sam knew he wasn't asleep.

"Huh?" Dean's eyes opened and he slowly turned his head so he could get a better look at Sam.

"The sinkhole," Sam said wearily. The pull of sleep caressed the edge of his mind but he stubbornly held onto wakefulness. He wasn't sure why. "Must have been pretty big."

Dean exhaled tiredly and closed his eyes again. "Big enough."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed as the fingers on his good hand worried at a thread at the edge of the blanket. "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for finding me."

Dean opened his eyes again and fixed his gaze on Sam. He frowned. "We're thanking each other for shit like that now?"

Sam started to shrug but caught himself with a wince. "Ah, no?"

"Good." Dean seemed satisfied. "Wouldn't be me you'd have to thank anyways."

"What?" Sam was confused. "What do you mean?"

Dean straightened up with a sigh. He scrubbed a hand across his tired face and then leaned forward to rest his arms on his legs. "I was getting ready to leave. I'd checked out the cemetery but couldn't see that damn hole, so I figured you'd just gone somewhere else. Library, maybe. Then, well, the weirdest thing happened. I heard your name."

Sam felt a chill that had nothing to do with being cold.

"You are not going to believe this," his brother continued, "but there he was plain as day. Your freakin' ghost. And he led me right to you."

"My… g-ghost?" Sam stammered. He frantically tried to remember what had happened after he fell, but his mind was a painful mess of darkness, cold, and pain. "I don't understand. Did I…did I die?"

"No, Sam." Dean moved off the chair to sit on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to put one warm hand on Sam's good shoulder. His grip was firm and grounding. "Not your ghost. Your ghost. Your little imaginary friend that apparently isn't so imaginary. He's a ghost."

"Olaf." The word spirited across Sam's lip and he started to shiver hard.

Immediately, Dean grabbed the spare blanket off the back of the couch and added it to Sam's layers.

"But…" Sam stared at his brother, his mind racing through recollections of his past. To that winter so many years ago. "No. That's not possible." He shook his head, ignoring the sick sensation of a bruised brain swishing back and forth in his skull. "It can't be."

"Sammy—"

"No, Dean, no." Sam tried to shift down a bit more on the couch, forcing the words past a sharp gasp. "It's late. We need sleep. Good night." And then he closed his eyes and turned his head away. He felt his brother's confused gaze on him for a while longer, then he heard a heavy sigh and then the sound of Dean moving away. Dean didn't go upstairs though, Sam heard him move back to the big chair and after a bit, knew Dean had fallen asleep.

Only when he heard his brother's breathing even out, did Sam dare open his eyes again. The idea that Olaf could be real tormented him. "Luba brat." He mouthed the words, already knowing what they meant. He'd looked them up once in the library at Stanford when he was missing his own brother like crazy. "Loved brother." Sam had been too much of a coward to look any further than the translation, not wanting to know the tragedy behind the headstone. Olaf had been his imaginary friend. That was it.

Loved brother… there was just too much sadness there.

Tears burned his eyes and it was a long time before Sam finally fell asleep again.

Dean had no idea what was up with his brother. Sam had been acting weird ever since Dean tried to tell him about seeing Olaf, and that was three days ago. His brother had been unusually quiet, but Dean had no idea how much of that was from the painkillers and his injuries, and how much was just Sam. Either way, neither of them mentioned anything else about Olaf, even though they both knew something had to be done. They just could not, in good conscious, leave the ghost as he was. It would only be a matter of time until it became twisted by the bleakness of its existence, and hurt someone. Child spirit or not.

Pastor Matt had assured them they were welcome to stay as long as they needed to, but now that the parsonage problems had been put to rest, and a storm was predicted to hit the area in the next 48 hours, Dean was eager to get on the road. Sam could finish out his convalescence at Bobby's, where they'd both feel more comfortable, and Dean could knock that dent out of his car.

Dean waited until after they ate lunch to force the issue, refilling his brother's coffee mug before Sam could escape the kitchen table. "Hey, Sammy—" he started, then lifted his eyes in surprise when his brother cut him off.

"I know, okay? I know it has to be done." Sam sounded defeated. He didn't look at Dean as he spoke. "I just… It isn't fair. He was only a kid."

Setting the carafe down on a trivet, Dean sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. "He was a lot more than that." When Sam finally looked at him, Dean continued, "He was a hero. Nine years old and he drowned trying to save his younger brother, Aric. Olaf got the kid out but was swept away himself…" Dean's voice choked up a bit. Damn it, he didn't even know the kid.

Sam's knee nudged him under the table.

"I never knew that," Sam admitted quietly, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Wow."

"Stupid, I know, but I was always kinda jealous of Olaf, of the time you spent with him. It took a bit, because you know how much I love old dusty records, but I was finally able to find out some things about him. I thought…" Dean paused and scratched at the back of his neck self-consciously. "I don't know, I thought it might help somehow."

"Wow," Sam repeated.

And this time, Dean was sure it wasn't about Olaf. He blushed and tried to shrug it off. "Eh, just another bit of wonderful me. Honestly, Sam, I have no idea how you can put up with all this awesomeness sometimes."

"Me neither," Sam admitted dryly, smiling around the lip of a mug as he took a mouthful of coffee. "Sooo… Now what? Salt and burn?"

The words were casual, the tone was anything but. Dean knew that was the last thing Sam wanted to do and felt a grin slip into place. "Actually," he smirked, "no."

"No?" Sam was watching him carefully as his hand came up to gently massage at his injured shoulder.

Noting how pale Sam was getting, Dean glanced at the clock and saw it was close to the time for Sam's next dose. He stood and grabbed at the two pill bottles beside the sink, then popped the lids off. He passed meds to his brother, then waited for Sam to swallow them before he continued. "Digging, yes. Salt and burn? In this case? I don't think so. Mind you, if we do it my way, it is going to be double the work."

Sam frowned, his words already starting to slow. "I don't… understand."

Rolling his eyes in fond exasperation—Sam was such a narcotic light weight—Dean moved around to help his brother stand. "C'mon, dude. Let's get you back to the couch before you go naptime at the pastor's table."

"But…" Sam started to protest as he let Dean help him up and maneuver him to the living room. "Olaf?"

"I found out something else," Dean said as he expertly got his brother situated and under blankets. "No one else in Olaf's immediate family is buried in this graveyard. Not even Aric. Sam, I think Olaf is restless because he's still looking for his brother. But Aric's buried in that newer cemetery on the other side of town. So, I say, we dig the poor kid up and move him in with his brother. Well, not today obviously. It's too damn cold. We're going to have to come back once the ground thaws out."

Sam stared up at him as Dean continued to fuss with the blankets. "I still…don't understand," he repeated dumbly, and sounded about six years old.

Dean couldn't help the affection that warmed him from inside and crept into his voice. "Sammy, he saved you. Without a doubt, it was him in the cemetery that I heard. And then he led me right to you. And," this part was going to be a bit harder to admit because Dean had never told anyone about this before, "you remember back when we were kids, and I slipped on that stupid granite marker and knocked myself out in the cemetery? You were off playing with Olaf and, man, I can't believe I was jealous of a ghost." Dean chuckled and shook his head. "Anyway, just before I passed out, I saw him. That same kid. He was there. And he was worried. I remember that, plain as day."

"You never…you never said anything 'afore." Sam blinked slowly, stubbornly trying to stay awake.

"Yeah, well, head injury and all. I couldn't exactly be sure, now could I?" Dean crossed the living room to close the curtains.

"I never saw 'em," Sam slurred. His eyes were closed when Dean looked back at him.

"You didn't need to, I guess," Dean realized with a frown. "Although you did say Olaf showed you where to find me when I was out cold. That you just sensed where he wanted you to go." He laughed. "You always were a touchy-feely kid… Anyway, I just don't think we need to salt and burn him. Not this time. I think just moving him is going to be enough. Put him with Aric, give him back his little bro. So…what do you think?"

Sam didn't say anything; he was asleep.

They left Blue Earth early the next morning with the promise that they'd be back in the spring. Pastor Matt vowed he'd have cabbage rolls waiting for them as he waved them off.

Sam was quiet as he stared out the passenger-side window, thinking about Dean's solution for Olaf. Honestly, he wasn't sure it would work, but it was definitely the less barbaric of their choices so he was willing to give it a shot. It still bothered him that his imaginary friend was actually a ghost and, ironically enough, he'd dreamed of Olaf last night. That the boy had been down in the hole with him, keeping him company until Dean could find him. Keeping him cold. It brought back memories of Pastor Jim and Dean always worrying about how chilled a young Sam would be whenever he came in from playing with Olaf. Sam didn't remember it bothering him much, but both the pastor and Dean would always bundle him afterwards.

"Do you think that's why I used to get so cold?" Sam asked, his voice startlingly loud in the unusual quiet of the car. Dean hadn't put any music on, most likely in deference to the lingering throb at the back of Sam's skull. He had no idea how his brother knew he still had a headache but was thankful for it, nonetheless.

"Huh?" Dean jerked a glance at him.

"Whenever I used to play with Olaf, you and Pastor Jim would always fuss about me being cold. And no matter how warmly I dressed, it took forever for me to warm back up."

"It was December, Sam. It was cold outside," Dean said, then shrugged. "But, now that you mention it. Since he was a ghost… probably."

Sam was quiet again, once more reflective on the past.

"You okay?" Dean asked after a while, casting him a quick concerned look. "Want me to pull over somewhere, give you a break?"

Sam considered that for a moment. He was hurting, but not bad enough for his brother to stop. He knew Dean wanted to get as close to Bobby's as they could before stopping for the night. "I'm okay," he decided. "Maybe in an hour?"

"Sure – we'll need gas then anyway," Dean easily agreed.

"Hey, you remember when you first told me Olaf was a ghost, and I sorta… well, freaked out?" Sam started as he carefully shifted in the seat and turned more toward his brother. "I think I owe you some sort of explanation."

Dean's forehead furrowed. "What? No. You don't owe me anything, Sam."

"I think I do," Sam argued. "It's just that with everything that's been going on over the last two years, hearing that my imaginary friend had actually been a ghost? That even as a kid, there was nothing normal about that? It was just too much. Everyone else can have invisible friends who aren't real… I get the one that is? Yeah… just, too much. Sorry for, you know, freaking out."

His brother gave him a quick look, then shook his head. "There is nothing normal about a lonely kid playing in a graveyard, Sam. To be honest, I'm kinda glad Olaf was real. Well, in his own Casper-assed sorta way. At least you weren't really alone."

"Dude." Sam snorted a laugh. "With a brother like you, I was never alone. Lonely sometimes, yeah, but never alone."

"Sap." Dean blushed.

"Sam," Sam corrected with a grin.

They'd be back in a couple of months to dig up a grave and reunite two long-lost brothers and, strangely enough, Sam was really looking forward to it. There were a lot of things about his life that sucked but, there were a lot of things that didn't.

And behind them, standing at the edge of the cemetery, Olaf Peterson waited.

The End