I felt like coming back to this story and revisiting it to edit and rewrite some parts, so hopefully it might be a smoother read. We'll see how it goes. If anyone is back here rereading this, let me know how I did or even if you noticed. There aren't any major changes, just some details and wording.

This fic is set early season 2. New readers out there, also please tell me what you think, and thanks for giving this a try. Enjoy!

...

Chapter 1

"Dean."

What was that really annoying sound that seemed far away but also perilously close?

"Dean."

Seriously, he should check on that. Could be important.

"Dean."

How long had it been going on? Seemed like he'd been hearing it for an eternity. Or at least since—

"Hey! Dean, are you even listening at all?"

Oh, that's right, since his little brother Sam had started filling him in on the details of a potential hunt in this random small town in Michigan. Again. Okay, he got it, thoroughness saved lives. But it also bored some older brothers nearly into a coma.

Dean brought his gaze back to the figure sitting to his right on the other bed, who looked like he was about two seconds away from reaching over to whack him into paying attention.

"De—"

"Sam, I hear you. I already know about the hunt, okay? People in their mid-30s are suddenly going deaf, and later totally blind, for no reason that anyone can explain medically, only to disappear and then show up again dead from dehydration, malnourishment, whatever. Sounds like our kind of job, which means we figure out what it is, we kill it, end of story, and we can blow this backwater town." He finished with a wave of his hands before he leaned his elbows on his knees. Amused, he watched as Sam raised his eyebrows in exasperation.

Sam gave it a second, then, "You done?" Not waiting for Dean to answer, he countered his little rant with a carefully controlled tone. "I was saying, we should go talk to some of the relatives of the victims. Maybe one of them saw something, or one of the victims mentioned something out of the ordinary before they died."

The older Winchester scoffed. "What, besides suddenly losing two out of five of their senses?"

Sam's mouth pressed into a thin line. "You know what I mean, Dean."

Dean really didn't feel like talking to weepy loved ones that rarely gave them anything to go on anyways, all blubbering in their grief. He could usually sympathize, but he really didn't feel up to dealing with them today. "Well, sounds like you got that covered. How about you get on that, and I'm going to hit the local bar, see if I can scrounge up any cash," he grinned as he jerked his thumb in the direction of the bar they'd passed coming into town.

Sam's face was downright incredulous now. He knew what Dean's bar visits usually entailed, and it wasn't just hustling. "You realize it's only two in the afternoon, right?"

Dean shrugged. "It's five o'clock somewhere, Sammy."

And, there it was, that infamous bitchy look. Mission accomplished. Dean smirked fondly this time to show he had his brother's number, and Sam huffed in annoyance. Dean rose from the bed to get his coat, because he had no doubt that Geek Boy already knew which relative they were going to visit first and where they lived.

He knew that all the hunts Sam kept finding for them was his way of trying to distract Dean, and probably himself, too, from recent events. Truth was, Dean hadn't felt like doing much of anything lately: hunting, charming women, talking. Not since their dad...

But the one thing he would always put effort into was watching Sam's back, especially since his father's last words rang in his head all hours of the day, and most of the night. Whether it be looking out for demons, evil spirits, or overly-flustered family members in mourning.

Sam met him at the door and Dean followed him out to the car. He half-smiled behind the back of his little, not-so-little brother.

Yeah, he could watch out for Sam.

…

Three hours and six—yes, six—interviews later, plus time at the library, Dean slid into a booth opposite Sam at a local diner. The long day of legwork had left them mentally weary but with a sense of accomplishment. It wasn't often they got so much information in one stretch. They now knew with almost certainty what, and whom, they were dealing with. After receiving their menus, they started hashing out their findings.

They both leaned forward slightly in mirror of each other, mindful of listening ears. Sam began in a mildly excited voice only he could have after hours of interrogation and research. Dean inwardly made a face. You could take the geek out of college but... "So, it seems like all the victims had fathers who died when they were younger. Not only did all of them die around the same time, but—"

"They died the same way as the recent victims," Dean finished, nodding. "So, we thinking vengeful spirit?"

Sam mmm'ed in affirmation, and Dean noticed a twinge of sadness cross his face at the reminder of the story they'd heard. Sam looked down at a page of his notes. "Warren Stiles was the first to die in that bout of killings thirty years ago. But he was deaf his whole life, not just a few days. He was bullied throughout his childhood, and he had no friends going into his adult years. There weren't any official records or reports, but there were rumors he was abused by his parents as a child as well." Sam paused to grimace. "The rest of the killings started up a few weeks after he died."

Dean picked it back up again, recalling what police records had reported. "Right, he went missing and was found a week later, cause of death being starvation and dehydration, in a sealed off cellar at his childhood house." He stopped when the waitress came to take their orders and then retrieved their menus, promising to be back soon with their food.

Dean resumed once she was out of earshot. "He was about thirty years old when he died. You thinking that's why it's been thirty years since the last set of deaths?"

"Could be. Now he's killing the children of the men who died thirty years ago. Not all of them had children, but the ones that did are now grown up, and most with families of their own. Warren doesn't seem to care that these people most likely never even knew him." Sam raised his shoulders. "Who knows? In thirty years, Warren would probably be back, killing their children for their grandfathers' mistakes."

Dean leaned back. "Not if we stop him first. What were these 'mistakes', exactly? Bullying the poor schmuck as a kid?"

Sam tilted his head. "Yeah, well, you heard. They said his life was basically a living hell for him, and not just growing up. It sounds like the people that died were the ones that tormented him, maybe even killed him, if it wasn't his parents. We may never know, as they never found out for sure who did it." He shook his head, the hair that was usually parted these days brushing across his forehead. "Either way, he must have felt like justice was needed and wanted them to suffer like he did. Vengeful spirits aren't the most rational of beings; taking it out on the bullies' children must make some sort of twisted sense to him."

"Then why make them deaf and blind before he snatches them?" Dean wondered. "I thought he was just deaf." Yeah, just.

Sam's natural sensitivity shone in his eyes. "He was, but think about it, Dean. That cellar he was found in? I doubt much, if any, light got in there. It must have felt like he was blind, too, enduring day after day of being trapped in there. He dies, and now inflicts the same treatment on the bullies, and their children?" Sam moved his hands apart in a questioning gesture.

Dean conceded. "Yeah, good point." A thought crossed his mind. "Remember how many of the people we spoke to said that their loved one was found in a place they were afraid of? You know, dark, alone, isolated. It wasn't even always a closed off space; for one chick it was the middle of the woods outside of town."

It dawned on Sam now, too, as he realized what Dean was getting at. "You think that even before Warren died that cellar was already a place of...fear for him?" Answering his own question, he found himself frowning again. "His parents were abusive. Maybe...maybe as a kid his parents locked him in there for periods of time. Dark, silent, alone, and probably cold… And then dying there years later? Must have been horrible."

Dean didn't bother answering. The theory was plausible, and it wasn't the first time they'd heard of such things happening. Angry spirits were all born somehow.

Each lost in their ponderings, they both sat up when the waitress returned with their food. She smiled with a friendly, "Here you go, boys. Enjoy!" and left them to it.

Eating without really thinking about it, Dean spoke up again after a few minutes. "So, we find the grave and burn Warren, put him to rest, no more weirdo deaths, and we go on our merry way?" He noticed a glob of ketchup drip off his burger and with one hand used a fry to scoop it up in a smooth motion before popping it in his mouth.

Sam scrunched his nose at him and set down his chicken sandwich. "The last person to be found dead was yesterday, and there are still two more people in line to be killed, Dean. If one of them hasn't gotten hit yet, they will any day now. The sooner we do this, the better. Even if the people who killed or hurt Warren or whatever deserved to die, their children certainly don't." He picked his sandwich back up and finished it off, albeit more slowly than his brother's usual wolfish eating style.

Dean scrubbed a napkin over his mouth before throwing it on his plate and standing up to leave. With a gung-ho grin that rang slightly false, a detail which Sam ignored, the older brother said, "Alright, Sammy, tonight we burn this mother."

Despite his show of over-enthusiasm, Sam huffed a laugh as Dean walked towards the door. A minute later, he stood up himself, left a few bills to cover the meal and a tip, and followed his brother out into the cool Michigan evening.

…

As Sam was taking his turn digging up Warren Stiles' grave—unfortunately, having a cast on his arm didn't get him out of it, and it ached dully—Dean kept a lookout. He was clutching his salt shotgun in one hand, a flashlight in the other, and holding Sam's gun for him under one arm.

After a while and wanting to hear something other than Sam's labored breathing for a bit, Dean made a show of switching the flashlight to his other hand and shaking the one that was holding it before. "Dude, hurry up, my arm is getting tired."

Sam glared up from the rectangular pit, the light bouncing off drops of sweat that spotted his face despite the northern-state chill, to see that mock impatience on his brother's face. Knowing Dean was hoping to get a reaction from him, he didn't take the bait and kept digging. He was nearly finished anyways.

He understood Dean's need to fill the silence, though. Silence meant one was able to think about things, and God knew neither of them wanted to spend too much time doing that, not recently. Sam had been trying to get Dean to talk to him about their dad's death for months, wanting to help him cope, to go on living—needing the help himself. And time after time he would be rejected and shut down with Dean's "I'm fine, Sam, stop nagging" and "How many times I gotta tell you, I'm fine!"

Finally, he had opened up, bared his soul and obvious guilt to Sam on that roadside, and Sam almost regretted how much he'd pushed him into it. But he didn't, because since then, things had been a little easier between them. At least his big brother was now willing to share some of the burden instead of letting it all sit on his shoulders. But that didn't mean either brother didn't still feel the gaping hole their father had left behind. Although, Sam couldn't fool himself—even though he missed his dad every single day, he knew that hole was rawer for Dean than for him, and probably always would be.

With a final clunk he hit the coffin and tossed the shovel up out of the hole. He bent down to brush the remaining dirt off and opened the casket before climbing out, taking Dean's proffered hand.

Sam brushed his dirty and sweaty hands on his jeans and reached for the canisters of salt and lighter fluid.

That is, of course, when Warren decided to make an appearance.

Dean's barked "Sam!" brought him to attention, and Dean held out the second gun, also loaded with salt rounds, already aiming his own by the time Sam grabbed it.

The spirit—who looked not much older than Dean but was slightly emaciated and had a gray pallor underneath his sandy hair and tattered cloths—flickered in place and disappeared.

Dean swung around, his eyes scanning to catch any motion. After a moment of tense anticipation, he said to Sam, "Get burning, quick. I'll blast him if he shows up again."

Sam gave a single nod and grabbed the two containers again, sticking his sawed-off in the back of his jeans for the moment. He started saturating the bones with the fluid while Dean circled the grave, his gun held at the ready.

Sam was just starting with the salt, and Dean was just starting to get twitchy for a target to shoot at, when the ghost appeared again. He was between the elder Winchester and the grave, facing Sam, who was on the other side.

Trying to avert his attention, Dean growled, "Hey, ugly!"

Warren spun around with a snarl, and Dean snickered, backing up, "I thought you were supposed to be deaf. Can you hear me now?"

"Don't you dare mock me." The apparition moved with inhuman speed and was suddenly in front of him.

Ignoring him, "Good," was all Dean said before shooting the ghost point-blank. With an outraged cry, Warren dissipated.

With nothing blocking his view, Dean could see Sam had jumped over the grave when Warren had gone after him, ready to intercede. But Dean just waved a hand at him. "Finish salting and burn him already before he comes back." He pulled out the EMF meter as an extra warning measure.

Both keeping a wary eye and ear out, Sam had just finished seasoning the corpse and was taking out his lighter when the meter screeched a split second before Stiles showed up again, back to his position in front of Dean.

Before he could do anything, his gun went flying to the right. Dean cursed and tried taking a step back and saying, "Whoa, Warren, hey. I got nothing against you, man." He raised his hands and canted his head. "Except, you know, killing people who don't deserve it."

The spirit rejoined, "They must pay." He threw out his ghostly hand towards Dean. "You must pay." Before the hunter could react, his palm connected with Dean's chest and Dean instantly felt a jolt. He let out a short cry as it ran through his chest and up to his head within a split second. The next sensation he felt was his body flying backwards, until it hit a gravestone and he slumped to the ground, dazed and with the breath knocked out of him. His eyes slid closed and his vision went black.

…

Sam saw Stiles appear, and again he was between him and his brother. He saw the ghost throw Dean's shotgun out of his hands and move in on him. The younger Winchester had drawn his gun, but didn't shoot for fear of hitting Dean. Instead he moved forward and to the left, away from the grave, hoping to get to an angle at which he could shoot so he didn't risk Dean being in the crossfire.

He vaguely heard Dean's undoubtedly snide remark, the spirit's rebuttal, and before he knew it Dean had cried out and was flying back into a headstone. He hit it hard with a gasp and slid to the ground, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Dean!" His brother didn't move. Letting out a silent prayer, Sam was running back toward the grave, the lighter now in his hand, and in another second, it was lit. He flicked the ignited Zippo into the hole and watched the resulting blaze flare up. He heard a ghostly shriek behind him, glanced back, and it faded to nothing. Silence.

Warren was gone.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to run to his brother as Dean called out for him.

"Sam!"

He reached his side just when Dean's lids flew open. Sam gasped in shock.

A flat, grayish film had covered Dean's eyes. But, already, as he watched, it faded away, leaving Dean with a blank look in his bright, green eyes.

Dean had frozen, his eyes widening. Then he started to flail, and he yelled again, but it was strangled this time, and he was holding a hand to his windpipe. "Sam!"

Sam's heart had jumped into his throat, but he managed to get out, "Dean, man, right here. I'm right here."

"Sam, where are you?! Son of a—" His voice sounded angry and too loud, but fear was etched into his face as he struggled to get up.

Sam rarely saw Dean panic—usually only when a threat to Sam or airplanes were involved. So seeing him start to lose it so suddenly made him swallow thickly. He reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him.

The older hunter lashed out at the touch. "Get off me!" He had frozen again, though, and was breathing raggedly, fast on track towards hyperventilation. He started to shake.

"Dean, man, calm down. Please. It's me, it's Sam." No response. Sam's own composure was wavering now. Warren was gone, but he was starting to suspect... He waved a hand in front of Dean's face. No reaction. But why….? With a terrified feeling, he snapped his fingers next to Dean's ears. Nothing.

Realization finally sunk in and horror washed over him, his heart stuttering.

"No. Dean, no." No no no no...

Dean couldn't see...or hear.