Ghost Boy

Chapter One
Child of the Moon


The wind blows rain into my face
The sun glows at the end of the highway
Child of the moon, rub your rainy eyes
Oh, child of the moon
Give me a wide-awake crescent-shaped smile


He really can't breathe right now. He's just turned out the light, and it's like the darkness has creeped over the world and into his heart, because he can't grieve in the daytime. Not when who he was grieving for had been dead to the world for a few months...

But something feels different tonight. He's not feeling Dean's abscence like he normally does. Every day, he lives in an empty motel room. The towns change, the seasons change, and the hunts are never the same, but he's always alone. And that is the one thing he would give anything in the world to change, only he's not sure if he has anything in the world that could buy back a lost life anymore.

Tonight is weird. Instead of missing Dean, he's feeling like his big brother's right there, laying on the other bed, just preparing some smart-ass comment that's somehow going to make everything all better. In a way, he's waiting for it...part of his mind's telling him, bring it on, Dean, give me the works... But the other part's deflating, knowing that comment's never going to come.

"Well, Sammy, you just gonna sit there and cry about it?"

I'm delusional. Sam, you've been on the road for too damn long. Just go to sleep, and in the morning, you'll be sane...I'm fine, I'm just tired...

"No, wait, let me guess- you're praying, right? Oh, God, the things you learn about a guy!"

Sam sits up so quickly that the darkened room around him is spinning. Dean? But it's not possible...is it? Dean's been dead for two months. He's been living out of crappy motels and thriving on his choice of take-out for two months. He hasn't heard any mullet rock for two freakin' months.

Now, his dead brother is accusing him of prayer?

He stumbles out of bed, his mind racing a thousand miles an hour. I'm insane. Oh, damn- I'm going to straight into one of those strait-jackets. White padded walls, here I come...

When he finally reaches the light switch, he does say a prayer. Maybe he's just dreaming, and he's really hoping that he'll wake up soon if he is. But maybe he's not crazy... He flips on the light, then turns to face the beds.

Dean's got his stupid smile plastered on his face at the moment. He's leaning back in bed like he was born to just lounge around- then again, maybe he had, before the demon came and screwed up all of their lives. But it sure as hell is Dean, just like right before that damn wendigo tore him into pieces.

Sam meets his brother's gaze, and the grin slips from Dean's face. Finally.

But Sam can't help it- he keeps staring at his big brother, as if waiting for him to burst into sparks or something of that sort...well, who wouldn't be? Dean was dead. He had burned the body himself. He had been driving the Impala around recklessly ever since, and if Dean was alive, there was no way Sam would still be breathing after running two stop signs and God knows how many red lights...

He reaches down and pinches himself until his tanned forearm goes white.

Dean snorts. "Very mature, Sammy."

Sam gapes at him. He's not dreaming- his arm hurts like a bitch, courtesy of his own stupidity, of course.

"What the hell?"

That million-watt smile flicks back onto his brother's face. "Exactly, Sammy," he says happily. "What the hell."