Scene Writer: Darksupernatural

Responder: V.R. Jennings

A/N: Hey everyone, this here is the wonderfully brilliant Darksupernatural's fan fic challenge. What we do is we each create a scene and give it to one random writer in the group, and whatever scene we get, we have to create an entire story, one complete one-shot, from that scene. Its loads of fun! :) Thank you girl for inviting me and giving me the opportunity to do this! *hugs* I admit I was a little stunned by the invitation, and I hope this was not a disappointment, lol. :) Cheers for the first of many!

Future rounds of Winchester Single Shots will be posted under Darksupernatural's profile so keep an eye out for that!

Now I know some of you are wondering about my other story (It Came Upon a Midnight Clear) but please don't worry. I still haven't forgotten about that one and it's slowly coming together at a snail's pace. Just please keep your fingers (and toes) crossed that I might get post it by the end of spring break :) *hugs to all*

One more announcement: HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONCNICA!!!!! *hugs* I'll be sending you a cane old girl! LOL!! :)


Disclaimer: don't own 'em

Winchester Single Shots:

Two Ghosts and the Darkness

Dean rubbed at the tense muscles in his neck as he tried to keep exhaustion at bay, all the while keeping one hand on the steering wheel, every once and a while roving the Impala around the potholes illuminated by the Chevy's highlights. Taking one look at his sleeping baby brother passed out in the passenger seat, leaning against the door, he thoughtfully lowered the volume of the radio, Lynyrd Skynyrd's Free Bird softly blaring out. Sammy's just as exhausted as I am after that damn poltergeist hunt, Dean thought absently.

Turning his attention back on the road – and just in time to avoid yet another nasty pothole – he started looking around for a motel to hole up for the night in the small town of Springer, New Mexico. He really wanted to keep going and head to Truth or Consequences to do that wendigo hunt Bobby sent them on, but knowing how pooped out both of them were, he knew they should at least get a good night's rest before driving about 260 miles to their destination.

His cell vibrated to life just as he pulled to a stop in front of the motel's front office. Not recognizing the number and not wanting to wake Sam up, he quickly got out of the car and answered whoever was on the phone.

"Hello?" he answered awkwardly.

A gruff voice cleared itself over the line before answering back, "Is this Dean Winchester?"

What the hell? Dean walked to the front of the car and sat on its hood before clearing his throat, "Who's asking?"

A long sigh followed, "My name's Juan. Juan Sanchez. And I was told to call a specific Dean Winchester. Said you could help…help me with my problem."

Okaaayy, that still didn't explain how you got my number, man…not to mention it's like one in the morning, Dean thought, annoyed. "How'd you get this number?" he asked, not realizing he voiced his thoughts.

Juan sounded surprised at that. "A-a friend of yours gave it to me. S-said you could help," he repeated lamely.

Glancing back at his brother, Dean realized Sammy was wide awake and looking at him in puzzlement. He shrugged a shoulder at him. Turning back to the man on the phone, he demand, "And just who might this 'friend' be?"

Juan hesitated, "I-I…don't know. He never gave me his name."

"Well, what did he look like?"

"I-I don't know…I never saw him. He just called me a week ago and told me to call you." The intimidation could easily be detected in the man's voice.

Dean scoffed, "You waited a week before calling me?"

"Excuse me for not calling you sooner – I had a wife to bury!" the man almost shouted defensively with a deadly edge to his voice, all intimidation gone.

Dean winced, suddenly feeling bad, "My apologies. I'm sorry for your loss." Not knowing what else to say, he went straight on to business, "How can I help you?"

Juan calmed down somewhat, but still a bit agitated, "My wife was murdered by some weirdoes," he paused, no doubt to collect himself, "and I want answers."

Dean got off the hood and started walking to the front office, ending in a simple, "I'll see what I can do," before clinking off.


"Hey Dean, we're here," Sam announced as he brought the Impala to a stop in front of the home of one Juan Sanchez, a bed & breakfast called Daises Bed & Breakfast in Temple, TX, a long way from New Mexico, and which took a few more days to arrive.

Dean groaned in his sleep before opening one eye to see for himself that they were indeed at their destination and not when Sam thought he had enough shut-eye. He groaned again as he made all the necessary cracks and pops in his achy joints. Damn, nothing beats a bed any day…sorry baby, I love you an' all, but sometimes you are just too uncomfortable.

After getting off the phone with the grieving widow, and after getting their room for the night, filling Sam in on the conversation, and calling Bobby to see if he would be able to do the wendigo job and hearing, "Sure, just got off a hunt myself, damn chupacabra, but you and your brother best be looking after yourselves, ya hear?", he was past exhausted. He even surprised Sam by collapsing in bed and snoring away in his dirty, sweaty clothes.

Looking at the two-story, aqua blue home with white shutters that contrasted nicely with the perfectly shaped, luscious green bushes, and noticing that the surrounding smaller buildings looked quite similar, made Dean looked appreciatively at Sam, "Looks like our luck's starting to turn."

"Really? How so?" Sam quipped, "Is it because you're hoping we get to stay and eat here for free or you're hoping this might actually be a paying job?"

"With our brand new luck, both." Dean said, "Besides, you're the one that taught me not to go looking a gift horse in the mouth. Man, it's about time we got an easy job that's not only a paying job, but one where there's free grub."

"I taught you that? Wow Dean, I'm touched. I mean I think that's the first time you've ever really listened to me. And besides, you know as well as I do bro, that our lives aren't always that easy," Sam said as he got out.

Dean followed suit, "Of course I listen to you…I listen to your pissy mood whenever you get your hair rollers on crooked. You whine when you don't get your happy meal and you bitch when I don't pay enough attention to you."

Sam was about to make a snarky comeback, one that would make his older brother glow with pride, but seeing Juan coming out to meet them, he decided to let it slide for now.

Or not.

"Jerk," Sam threw to his side before coming within earshot of Juan.

"Bitch," Dean threw back, smirking.

At 5'7 with a small beer gut, stocky shoulders, and grey barely tinting around the edges of his short army-style hair as well as the edges of his mustache which sat atop full lips surrounded by a square jaw, Juan Sanchez's medium height could fill a room just as good as any six-footer because it all boiled down to his easy-going presence.

"Mr. Winchester, thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope my place wasn't too hard to find," Juan greeted Dean. Glancing at Sam, Juan mistaken him to be a customer and said briskly, "We are no longer taking patrons in until further notice,"

Dean looked amused but stopped at the wounded, insulted look on Sam's face. Turning to the elder man, he cleared his throat and said, "First of all Mr. Sanchez, call me Dean. Second of all, this here is my little brother, Sam."

Startled, Juan flexed his jaw before shooting Sam a suspicious look and then looked accusingly at Dean, "I thought I was expecting just a Dean Winchester. Just you. Your friend told me that I could count on you."

Sam looked just as startled and offended, all the while giving his brother fleeting suspicious looks as well.

Dean gave the man a tight smile that glinted dangerously off his hazel green eyes, "Listen Mr. Sanchez –"

"Juan," the man corrected.

"Juan," Dean said, "Sam here is my brother and there is no other man I trust to have my back than him."

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, feeling deeply touched by Dean's compliment. He knew he shouldn't have felt that way mainly because he knew Dean never trusted anyone save for him, Bobby, Jim, Caleb, and John, but to hear his brother say it out loud…it was very rare yet one of those few precious moments that meant a lot.

Juan still looked distrustfully at Sam, taking in all of the younger Winchester's 6'4" tall frame, but thought better of making a wiseass remark for fear of losing his one last hope of gaining answers. "Follow me," he said curtly.

He led the hunters to his office, a nice medium size office with a big window showing the view of the customer parking lot and a private golf park just beyond that. The office was neat – too neat. Three black filing cabinets lined up behind Juan's desk and on the left wall was a large, maple bookcase loaded with some of the best literary literature – Hemingway, Hawthorne, Chekhov, Crane, O'Conner, and Poe to name a few – while the opposite wall was littered with diplomas, certificates, and an assortment of daisies.

Juan seated himself in the black, leather office chair behind the dark cherry wood of his desk, signaled the brothers to take the similar black, leather chairs across his desk, and fixed them with an intense gaze.

Wanting to be on the man's good side and trust him, Sam right away started, "Sir, can you tell us what happened?"

Juan considered Sam's words carefully, pain and grief clouding his eyes briefly, before answering, "My wife died. My Rosario. She died in my arms…and I want to find out who did it."

Sam looked puzzled, "Uh, you mean 'what'?"


"'What.'," Sam repeated, "'What' did it. Not 'who'."

"'What'?" Juan looked at him like as if he had somehow, some unexplained reason, sprouted two heads, "No, I mean 'who'. I wanna know who those sonofabitches are and I want justice!"

The brothers exchanged glances.

Mistaking their look for uncertainty, Juan quickly said, "Look, I'll pay you guys. It's not much, but I'm willing to pay. To get answers for my wife's murder…I'll pay."

Dean, who was half hoping the job would pay, felt bad, wrong, for taking money from a still devastated widow. He shook his head, and surprising Sam, said, "That won't be necessary."

The man sighed in relief.

"But why don't you start telling us everything you know?" Dean asked cordially.

Juan was about to tell him what he told him before about his wife being murdered by weirdoes, but one look at the brothers' uncanny, identical, and solemn, attentive expressions, he launched into his story. "My wife and I…we bought the old Winston place four years ago and we renovated it into a bed and breakfast. It was my wife's dream," he chuckled a little, "I mean my wife's favorite flowers were daisies…it was how we got the name Daisies Bed and Breakfast."

He cleared his throat, "Business was slow when we first started, but it started to really pick up a month later…that was when the first murders happened." Juan collected himself before continuing, "Soon rumors grew, people got scared…and our business was hurting."

"So let me get this straight," Sam cut in, "you ignored these murders that were happening right under your nose, until after your wife died?"

Juan looked affronted…not to mention outraged. "Police were here, day after day, year after year, crawling all over the place. They even told me to buy a few of those security camera thingies. I did. Still, it didn't work."

"So what happened after that?" Dean interjected quickly, trying to get between Juan and his brother since the old man looked like he was about to launch himself on Sam.

Juan looked at Dean like if he was deaf. "My wife died."

The brothers exchanged an awkward look as Sam asked, gesturing around them, "What can you tell us about the Winston place?"

"Does it matter?" the grieving widow demanded, "What the hell difference does that make? My wife died," he repeated, voice cracking at the end.

"We just want to be very thorough," Dean said.

After a few moments, Juan said, "Daniel and Rosemary Winston were one of Temple's wealthiest residences. Mr. Winston was a very successful stockbroker and his wife was a school teacher. Story goes, Rosemary had set her mind on marrying her high school sweetheart, Greg Masters, after he returned from Vietnam, but didn't wait when she met Daniel. After those two were married, she had just sent a 'Dear John' letter on the day Greg was shot. He never got it. When he arrived back to Texas and found the love of his life married and expecting…let's just say it didn't go too well. Before anybody knew what was happening, Greg stormed into the Winstons' home and killed them. After that regrettable action, he killed himself. Some say he was suffering from PTSD, and some say he was possessed."

This time the brothers exchanged a knowing look. "Mind if we look at the security tapes?" Sam asked, using his ever-reliable, best puppy-dog eyes.

"Mind if we stay here for a while – for free?" Dean asked hopefully, doing his best to mimic his brother's puppy-dog-eye expression.

It seemed to work because Juan just looked between them before shaking his head and mumbled, "Why not?"


In their room on the second floor, Dean sat on his heavenly, incredibly oh-so-soft bed and looked through the tapes on the TV set – "Wow Sammy, we actually got a room with a DVD player and over one hundred-fifty channels!" – for anything out of the ordinary. On the next cloud of heaven, Sam sat with his laptop open and his research pooled around him.

"Hey Dean?" Sam piped up.

"Yeah?" Dean said, taking his eyes off the screen momentarily to glance at his brother.

"What did Juan mean when he said a 'friend' of yours called him?"

Dean shrugged his shoulder, "Beats me dude."

Sam thought for a second, raking his brain for who the mystery 'friend' might be, "Well…we don't really have a lot of those, friends I mean…not who they would go all that trouble to give us hunts – not since Dad died anyway – but…should we worry?"

"Nah, that's another problem best saved for another day. One problem at a time, man," Dean said as he went back to the tapes.

Soon the sound of typing, scribbling, paper shuffling and the mechanic sounds of the VCR filled the silence between them.

"Hey man," Dean said suddenly, pointing to the screen and drawing Sam's eyes away from the laptop screen, "I think I got somethin'."

Dean rewound it a bit and stopped it, revealing a crazed-looking soldier in a Vietnam uniform, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun poised in the air and ready to shoot.

Sam looked impressed. "I'm impressed Dean. You've managed to get a full-fledged spirit on camera. TAPS would be so proud of you," Sam teased.

"Bite me. So, geekboy, what have you found?"

Sam scratched his head a bit and replied exaggeratedly, "Where do I even start?"



"Hey, I ain't short! You're the sasquatch, Gigantor!"



"Okay," Sam said, all serious now, "well what Juan told us coincided nicely with what I was able to find out. As we know, Greg killed Rosemary, her husband and their unborn child. Here's an old Vietnam photo of Greg which looks exactly like the spirit you were able to find in the tapes."

"So we are definitely dealing with a spirit?"

"I'd say so."

Dean cocked a brow at him, "What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

"I know what you're thinking Dean."

"What?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam scoffed, "You're thinking we should just charge in half-cocked and get the job done that way, aren't ya?"

"Well –"

"No Dean. We are not going in unprepared this time…and I sure as hell don't want a repeat of what happened with the poltergeist where you let it toss you in walls. Besides, we are not gonna get rid of Greg the old-fashioned way of salting and burning."

"Come again?" Dean blinked at him.

"Greg's body was cremated, but since we all know how spirits can still linger by an object, all we have to do is find the object and burn it…and I think you should stay here."

Dean studied his younger brother and asked bluntly, "Why?"

When Sam didn't say anything, Dean prompted, "What aren't you telling me Sammy?"

Sam sighed, "I researched the victims and found some kind of connection between them. I found that all of the victims' first names started with either an 'R' or a 'D'."

"Rosemary and Daniel."

"Exactly. Now you know why I don't want you involved in this hunt."

"Because you're afraid I might get killed because of my name," Dean said this almost bored.

"Dean –"

Dean held up his hand, "Fine. You go and play Full Metal Jacket while I sit with my thumbs up my ass as I wait patiently for your return."


"Whatever happened to 'waiting patiently for my return'?" Sam asked, half annoyed, half worried, carrying a bag of weapons, extra flashlights, salt and everything else they may need.

"I couldn't stick my thumbs up far enough and still be comfortable," Dean gibed as he followed his brother out the bed and breakfast and into cold, dark night, carrying a similar bag. "So, do you have any idea what you're looking for?" he asked, looking around for any sign of the ghost.

"Hmmm kinda," Sam answered uncertainly as he moved his flashlight to light up the path before them, leading them to the golf park.

"Now what's that supposed to mean? Either you do or you don't. We can't afford 'kinda' Sammy."

"I know Dean. It's just that according to what I've managed to dig up, Rosemary was given a locket by Greg –"

"So let's get the thing and burn it –"

"It won't be that easy Dean. I've tracked the locket and…it should be around here," Sam said, coming to a halt in front of a very large and very old oak tree.

"What? In the tree?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "No, not 'in the tree'. More like around it. She lost it around here."

"Well that's helpful," Dean muttered sarcastically under his breath, but loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam rolled his eyes again but decided to ignore him.

"Uh, Sammy?" Dean asked suddenly, "Did you say what happened to the victims after their little run in?"

Sam frowned at the serious, calm tone in his brother's voice, and his frown deepened when he looked at his brother's defensive stance, gun already in hand. When he noticed Dean's eyes fixed on something behind him, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand out – literally.

Sam whirled around just in time to see Greg pointing his shotgun…at something.

Both boys followed Greg's unwavering gaze to a very-pregnant girl a few feet from the tree. Sam was sure she looked familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where he'd seen her. Dean on the other hand, wasn't about to let her get killed.

"Dean!" Sam dove for his brother when he heard the grunt that accompanied an impact that surprised sound that Dean gave off, a deep "ungh" that scared the hell out of Sam just before Dean's face paled and his knees buckled. The soldier, gray coated and translucent smiled in satisfaction before fading out of sight and disappearing into the moonless night. Sam caught Dean just as his brother's position on his knees shifted and he slumped to the side, his eyes drifting closed.

"Oh God, Dean!" Sam looked his brother over. There was nothing. The well worn leather of his jacket remained unmarred by a powder ringed hole. Sam shifted Dean so that he was flat on the dry fall grass before gently peeling back the leather and the soft brown and rust checked flannel that had been left open over the black tee- shirt. Dean moaned slightly and Sam stilled, hoping that he wasn't hurting his brother. Dean's arm was worked free of the shirt and Sam grasped the neck of Dean's tee, the black fabric protesting the pull as it seemed to cling to the planes of Dean's torso, stretching it to look down inside.


There, on Dean's chest above his heart and spreading rapidly to his left shoulder was a mass of deep bruising. The yellows and greens rapidly turning to blue-purple-black as the flesh swelled and darkened. There was no wound, no blood, just the deep and painful bruising. There was still no sign, no hole, no blood.

"Huh." Sam said, his mind racing over the last few minutes' events. The soldier raised his shotgun, pointing it at a woman, one both Dean and Sam saw. Sam saw a woman in a long brown skirt and a white blouse with her hair piled high on the back of her head. Dean diving in to knock the woman out of the path of the bullet. Sam saw her disappear as Dean touched her, his form merging for a split second with hers. Solid meshing with insubstantial. He saw Dean staggering a bit as the bullet hit him, saw a splattering of translucent red blood. He saw the bullet bruising Dean but leaving no wound, no evidence it ever even existed aside from the fact that Sam had heard the report of the weapon echoing through the trees, heard Dean's grunt of pain, saw his brother collapse.

"Two spirits? What the hell?" Sam looked at the bruising on his unconscious sibling once more. A picture flashed through his mind, Dean's shoulder passing through the fading spirit, right about her head level. "Damn, that shot would've been fatal. Freakin' ghosts with guns!"

Dean groaned painfully, his eyes moving behind their lids. "Hey, hey Dean? Come on man, wake up." Dean's eyes fluttered open and he blinked at Sam.

"Oh, what the hell, man?"

"Ghost shot ya." Sam helped Dean to his feet, holding a large hand to his brother's chest as he allowed Dean to catch his breath. He gripped Dean tighter as he sagged into Sam's arms. "Easy man." Sam said as he looped Dean's good arm over his shoulders. "Come on. Gonna get ya back to the B&B. I'll call Bobby and figure out what the hell is goin' on. You'll be okay Dean."

"I wouldn't be s'sure 'bouthat." Dean slurred as he slumped against Sam's side.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Sam cried as he fought to keep Dean from sliding off his shoulder to the ground. Dean was no lightweight – he'll give him that – so instead of fighting with his unconscious brother, he gently laid him on the ground. The lines on his forehead crinkled with worry when he felt his brother's heart beating rapidly beneath his fingers and heard the laborious breaths. Sam quickly scanned the area around for another appearance of the blasted ghosts and finding neither one, decided it was safe to call Bobby. As he waited for his old friend to pick up, it finally hit him who the other ghost was: it was Mrs. Winston.

"Bobby!" Sam said, not letting the older hunter say 'hello'.

"Sam?" the gruff, familiar voice answered, "Don'cha know what time it is?"

"Listen Bobby," Sam said urgently, "it's Dean. I'm not sure what happened. I mean, one minute he was standing behind me and the next he got himself shot by a ghost! Thing is, there's no sign of a wound. There's no blood…just a lot of awful bruising."

"Whoa – slow down Sam," Bobby ordered, "start from the beginning and don't leave anything out."

Sam sighed as he checked the terrible, darkening bruises and grimaced when he saw it start to spread across his chest, "You do remember we're in Texas doing that job for the guy that called Dean, right? Well, as it turns out, it's a ghost as usual and we've even pretty much found out who it was, but we didn't expect there to be two of them and now Dean's unconscious and I…I don't know what to do."

God, I swear that kid's rapid explanation would one day cause a blood clot in my brain an' kill me, Bobby thought as he tried catching up to the younger hunter's story, wincing when the youngest Winchester's voice broke at the end. Didn't I just say to not leave anything out? He thought irritatingly when he realized Sam left a lot of info out. Running a hand down his face tiredly, Bobby said, trying to hide the worry and fear from his voice, "Hold up, kid. Now you said Dean was shot by a ghost, right? And that there's no wound and no blood, right? Well Sam, you did research on what you two were going up against, didn't ya?"

Sam quickly interjected, "The ghosts, their names were Greg and Rosemary, and Greg, he's killed people whose first names either started with an 'R' or a 'D'."

"That's all good and well Sam, but that's not what I meant. How did the victims die? What killed them? Didn't you find that out?"

Sam fumed, "How the hell is that gonna help Dean?"

"Don't cuss at me, boy! I'm helping you," Bobby snapped, the warning clearly evident in his voice, "Besides, you're not helping that brother of yours either. Now focus Sam."

Sam ran his hand across his face before stopping to scratch the two-day-old stubble under his chin, all the while keeping his eyes on his fallen brother and watching him breathe shallowly, "All the victims didn't have a wound or any visible blood, but according to the autopsy reports, they all died of…internal bleeding…from a shotgun wound…even though there were no visible, external evidence…" his voice faltered as his eyes grew big at his discovery. Shit! It's been under my nose this whole time?!? Why didn't I see it?!?

"Bingo," Bobby said, scratching his beard and quickly adding, "Sam, I know what you're thinking and I know how much you're beating yourself up over it, and I know how much you hate hearing me tell you that it's not your fault, but right now you don't have time to browbeat yourself. Your brother needs you. And if my calculations are correct, he doesn't have much time left, maybe a few short hours if he's bleeding internally…Sam he's dying."

Sam snapped, jerked even, and his eyes watered, shining with unshed tears, when Bobby said his brother was dying. He blinked back the tears as he looked down at Dean and noted his pale, sweaty features. He placed his hands on his brother's forehead and felt the cool clammy feel of his skin. "I need your help Bobby. I don't know what to do."

Bobby grimaced at that and said regrettably, "I'm sorry Sam, but I can't. I won't be able to get there in time. I'll be too late. But you're the only help he's got. Just quickly find the bones and salt an' burn 'em."

"I can't Bobby. It's not that simple 'cause the bones have been cremated. But there's a locket. If I could just find the locket I could save Dean."

Bobby nodded, "Then do what you have to. And call me when you can, ya hear?"

After finishing the call, Sam turned his attention back on his brother and noted the violent shivers raking up and down Dean's body. Worried, he felt for his pulse and winced at the very weak thump, thump of his heartbeat.

"Dean?" Sam called, all of a sudden wanting Dean awake and telling him off for being such a girl. He was used to seeing Dean so active, obnoxious even, and seeing Dean so still, almost lifeless, sent chills down his spine. Dean's stillness is unnatural – so wrong. No, he needs his brother awake – fast.

"Dean? C'mon man, there's no time to rest," Sam said, slapping his brother's cheek, but just as expected, there was no sign, no inkling, of him ever waking up anytime soon. He sat back on his haunches and ran his hand through his brown hair, all the while looking everywhere, hoping to find the locket as if he had Superman's X-Ray vision.

Dean's breath hitched, giving out a low, almost inaudible, rattle deep in his chest, making Sam's scared eyes fly back to him. The hunter almost relaxed somewhat when the seconds ticked by without anything dire happening until Dean's head suddenly shot in an instinctive move to grab more air, mouth hanging open as lungs worked overtime to bring in much needed oxygen. Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Don't do this Dean! C'mon man, you can't! Not now. Not ever. Sam's thoughts raced through his freaked-out mind as the awful sounds of his brother gasps soon filled the air.

"Dean!" Sam shouted as he swiftly pulled his brother up to an elevated position and settled himself behind him, holding him steady as he tried to teach him the fundamental basics of breathing, "C'mon Dean, in and out. In and out. That's it! Breathe man, in and out."

"Sammy?" Dean gasped out, slowly opening his eyes. He was swimming in the beautiful bliss of unconsciousness when his breaths came out in short, painful gasps as it fought against the increasing, excruciating pain in his chest. He knew it was blood accumulating around his lungs and compressing them, suffocating him. It was the pain and struggle that had him surfacing to the here and now.

"I'm here Dean! I'm here. Just breathe man, just breathe."

"Why," gasp, "you," another gasp, "huggin'…me?"

"W-What?" Sam stammered.

Dean grinned, "Y-youre s-sure…we're n-not…in an L-Lamaze…c-class?"




"Bitch," Dean gasped before coughing uncontrollably, bringing up blood.

"Just breathe Dean," Sam started coaching again as he rubbed circles on Dean's back.

Dean tried, he really did but his tired lungs wasn't able to bring in air anymore, and so with one final breath, Dean barely gasped out as he grasped Sam's arm weakly, "Cm'pny," before his eyes rolled in the back of his head and went slack.

"Dean?!" Sam said frantically, shaking him. The sound of the grass crackling under someone's foot alerted him to another presence behind him. Oh hell no! Sam's thoughts screamed and thinking it was Greg coming to finish the job he started, he laid his brother back on the ground, grabbed his shot gun filled with rock salt, and swung it around, hoping to put the poor bastard out of its misery.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Juan yelled, putting both hands up in the air, one holding a flashlight.

"Mr. Sanchez?" Sam asked surprise, confusion, and suspicion written all over his face, not ready to put down his gun, "What are you doing here?"

"Juan," the old man corrected. "I was just following you. I wanted to see those sick sonofabitches beg before you put them down like dogs," he finished viciously.

"Juan," the youngest Winchester amended, "first of all, we are not hired killers and…," his eyes shifted on something over Juan's shoulder, "you better duck," Sam barely ordered before he stood up to his full height and aimed the gun at the translucent form of Greg, wondering briefly why he didn't show up sooner.

Juan looked at Sam, half in awe and half in fear, before obeying the young man and dropping to the ground.

Sam waited. Just looked at Greg and waited, standing between the ghost and his brother. He didn't know what he was waiting for – a showdown maybe? – but he didn't like the idea of shooting someone who wasn't even looking at him.

Greg's pale blue eyes were fixed like in a trance at a point on the ground as he inched slowly closer.

"Holy shit!" Juan muttered under his breath, clearly terrified.

Sam chanced a glance at the petrified owner, already sympathizing with him at finding out that ghosts were real – only to find out that Juan wasn't looking at Greg but at something over Dean. Looking down and behind him, he saw the ghost of Rosemary, hovering above his brother and crying and whispering something to the silent form before her. Sam wondered if she thought Dean was Daniel, but thought nothing more when the sound of Greg's gun cocking brought him back to the present danger. Sam didn't hesitate when he shot Greg right between the eyes. Looking at where he saw Rosemary, he noticed that she disappeared at the same time Greg did.

Juan didn't know what to believe. He never, ever in a million years, would have thought ghosts exist. That was surely something his wife, Rosario, would believe…but never him. When the danger passed and he saw Sam blast away at yet another ghost, he turned to the hunter and asked, "You mean to tell me…that whoever did the killings…that whoever was responsible for killing my Rosario…was a-a ghost? Who are you people?"

Sam blinked at him and lowered his gun. Turning back to his brother and seeing Dean's blue-tinged lips, he knew something was very wrong as the overwhelming feeling of dread filled his heart.

Juan stepped closer and saw Dean's ashen face, dark circles beneath his eyes, and the freckles shown more prominently. Sucking in a breath, he asked shakily, "Is he d-dead?"

Sam was already checking his airway and pulse – and finding none – when Juan asked. His brain was beginning to short-circuit but he managed shaking his head vigorously, "No. He's not dead." He can't be. Looking up at Juan like if he had just noticed he was there, Sam asked desperately, "do you know how to do CPR? And better yet, call 9-1-1."

Sam wasn't discouraged when Juan shook his head sadly. "Here, all you have to do is make sure to tilt his head like this" – he demonstrated by tilting Dean's head – "and make absolutely sure his airway is open. Then you pinch his nose and give two breaths. The only way to make sure his lungs receive the air is by watching his chest rise because that's a sure indication of his lungs expanding. After the two breaths, you place your hands on his chest like this" – again he demonstrated by placing his own hands – "and do thirty swift, firm compressions. After a minute or so, check his pulse which can be found here," – Sam placed two fingers at Dean's carotid artery – "You got all that?" At Juan's timid nod, Sam finished, wasted no time getting up and grabbing his gun.

Dean's dying. He knew it. Dean needed to go to a hospital, but he knew it would be a waste of time considering that there would be nothing they could do. It would just be a way of prolonging the inevitable. No. He knew that the only way to save his big brother is to find the damn locket and burn it…but leaving his brother in the care of a total stranger was unthinkable. He would never leave his brother with a stranger, much less with one who didn't know CPR, but how else would he be able to save his brother and rid the ghost at the same time?

"W-what are you gonna do?" Juan asked as he awkwardly began the life-saving procedure.

Sam didn't answer him but asked, "You know how to fire a gun?"


"Good. Now when you see the asshole, shoot him. Don't ask questions and don't hesitate," Sam ordered with a dangerous, deadly tone to his voice that clearly meant that he would have Juan's head on a plate if he screwed up.

After he got Juan's affirmation, he hiked all the way to the edge of the woods that he had not seen from the owner's outstanding view from his office, and which outlined the park. He had scanned the area where the locket 'supposedly' fell before he realized that Greg had probably tossed it among the trees and moss and bushes. True, he didn't know for sure if the locket was in the woods, had no substantial evidence, but he somehow knew it was around somewhere. It was a hunch.

That same hunch, or his 'freaky ESP' as Dean had so tactfully put it, led him to a small patch of daisies on the ground. He bent down and searched around the flowers until he found what he was looking for. Before he even made contact with the small object, he felt himself being lifted and flown into a tree.

Damn, am I gonna feel that in the morning, Sam thought when his ribs got the brunt of it as he collided with the tree. What is it with ghosts and hard objects? And what's with the whole 'tossing their victims into the hard objects'? And why the hell am I thinking about it now? Sam's thoughts clashed with one another as he shook his head to clear it. He stood up gingerly and felt around his bruised ribs to determine if they were cracked. Sighing in relief when they were just bruised, he turned to face the invisible foe that had yet to make an appearance.

Hazel blue eyes roaming around the area for the attacker, he barely took one step before hearing two shots fired in the distance, making fear grip his heart in a vice-grip, but knew he couldn't stop to see how Dean and Juan were fairing, knew he had to stop Greg. With new resolve, he made a move towards the locket, but as before, he felt himself flying through the air, this time colliding with a different tree.

Sam felt blood running down the side of his face before being collected on his shirt from a gash on his forehead. This time he swayed when he made it to his feet – and this time he really felt his luck begin to turn when his bruised ribs remained bruised. "What do you want?!" he shouted into the night sky hotly. He was starting to get pissed. No, wait, scratch that. He was way beyond pissed. He was TICKED OFF. Nobody messes with him and his brother and gets away with it!

"Why?" a disembodied voice asked curiously.

Sam had to blink at that because that was not the kind of response he was looking for. Still looking around for the invisible foe, he said, "Uh why what?"

"Why?" it asked again, still invisible.

Taking a wild guess, Sam replied, "Because the murders – everything – it has to stop…and I have to save my brother."

"You know, I never knew Greg. Never knew he existed. Rosemary never talked about him, so I never knew. Never knew he threatened her to leave me. Never knew what was going on until…"

Daniel, Sam finally realized who it was. "Until he killed you," he supplied.

"I was innocent. I was a good person. It was her sin, not mine," Daniel said as he finally made an appearance.

"Then why are you protecting the locket?" Sam asked. "If that thing is not destroyed, more people will die."

"Not my problem."

"You're just punishing her aren't you?"

"She should've seen it coming. She should've –"

Sam didn't let Daniel finish as he blasted a round of rock salt at him. Once the spirit of Daniel was gone, Sam rushed to the locket and picked it up. Saying an incantation he knew so well that separated a spirit's hold on an object, he lit it up in flames and watched it burn, hoping it was enough. He jogged back to just in time to see the ambulance pull to a stop in the customer parking lot and the paramedics rushing out with their equipment.

"How is he?" Sam asked, kneeling at the other side of Dean, watching him breathe. He's breathing? Oh thank God.

Juan looked like he aged twenty years since Sam had left him to take care of the locket. "I-I think he's gonna make it," the owner said in a strained voice, and looking over his shoulders to see if the medics were not within earshot, he whispered, "Did I just hire myself a couple of ghost busters?"

Sam grimaced a little at that and mumbled cryptically, "Not exactly."

"Then who are you people? A couple of hunters hunting the supernatural?"

"W-would…y-you…b-believe u-us…i-if w-we…s-said…y-yes?" Dean wheezed out.

"Dean!" Sam cried, shocked, "Shit man, you almost gave me a heart attack. I thought I was gonna lose you."

Dean caught sight of Sam's blood running freely down his face and asked concernedly, "S-Sammy…y-you okay?"

Sam huffed impatiently, all the while wondering when his brother was ever going to stop putting everyone else first, "Fine Dean. It's you I'm worried about."

"Dude…s-stop b-being s-such…a-a…girl…Florence," Dean said as he tried to breathe through the pain, "…I-I a-ain't…g-going a-anywhere…b-besides I-I'm…g-going to t-take…you o-out of m-my w-will…"

"Dude, you don't have a will," Sam pointed out.

Dean grinned, "G-good t-thing too…c-cause i-imagine m-me…l-leaving m-my b-baby…to a n-natural…F-Florence N-Nightingale."



Juan managed to stifle a smirk at listening to the brothers' banter, glad that no one else had died tonight. He still could not wrap his mind around the fact that ghost truly exist. If they do, then how many myths and urban legends are true too? The old man hoped there wouldn't be many as he got up to help guide the medics to the fallen hunter.

Yep, he's gonna be alright, Sam thought as he shook his head at the cocky grin his brother was still wearing. The brothers didn't have more time to talk as the medics surrounded Dean in a flurry, putting him on a gurney, poking him with needles, and placing an oxygen mask around his mouth and nose. Sam overheard one of them mentioned something about Dean suffering a hematoma due to internal bleeding. Seeing his brother flirting with a female paramedic made him more relieved and more confident that his brother was indeed gonna be his pain-in-the-ass self in no time.


Goddammit! Sonofabitch! His mind screamed in rage, silently seething that his plan didn't work. He had sent Dean on that stupid hunt, hoping it would take him out of the picture, the big picture where it involved Sam. Only Sam. He could have taken care of the older brother himself easily, but that would make him the enemy. He didn't want to be Sam's enemy. Oh no, quite the contrary, he wanted to be Sam's right hand man. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. He wanted to be best buds with Sammy-boy. But he couldn't be with Dean around…and he wasn't stupid enough to alert either brother of his plans…not yet anyway. Dean Winchester might have won this round, but he's pretty confident he won't win the next one…

The End

A/N: Pretty please review!! They're greatly appreciated! And please read everyone else's also entitled Winchester Single Shots!!