Archive of Our Own

Sam's not a big fan of big cities. Dean gets it; Detroit left him a little wigged out on the idea, too. Something about all that concrete and glass and steel all piled up together, about the slivers of blue barely visible between the tops of the skyscrapers, makes Dean feel like he's standing at the bottom of a very deep well. He imagines that sensation is even worse for Sam.

They go anyway. The post-non-apocalyptic world is lousy with randomly malicious supernatural ghoulies, and most of the hunters still around are up to their eyebrows in local business; it's not like they can just phone somebody up to take the job for them. Dean fuels up the car, picks out a couple of new credit cards from the stash in the glove compartment, and sets off toward the Big Apple, Sam sleeping restlessly beside him.

The infestation is localized to a single block, most of which is taken up by a single house. They camp out across the street, around the corner, random spots in and around the neighborhood while they try to learn the rhythms of the household, figure out how best to get inside.

The household, as it turns out, doesn't have rhythms. What it seems to have is a bunch of unemployed people camping out in an apartment upstairs, and a rich older lady playing matron to whoever happens to wander in the front door. There's the little guy with the glasses and the sweaters, the hot chick with the legs and the hair, the other hot chick with the eyes and the hips, the stiff in the suit, and the slick pretty boy who seems to be his boyfriend. Then there's the staff -- a maid, a cook, and a driver they know about, possibly more they don't -- plus all the rich lady's friends. Dean's not sure how a house crawling with this many people managed to get so infected, but the EMF doesn't lie. Not since he fixed it the last time, anyway.

The best they can do is wait for a lull and take a shot. They pick a Tuesday morning and lurk around outside as unobtrusively as they can manage while the little guy slinks off around 4 am, the suit picks up the pretty boy at 8, and the rich lady and her daughter? granddaughter? hot chick with the eyes take off a few minutes later to do god knows what. In cheap suits and boring ties, Sam and Dean climb the steps and ring the doorbell, still working on a plan for how to bluff their way inside.

"You just missed them," she says when she opens the door. "I think they said they were stopping at the Bureau first, so you might be able to catch them there." She's pretty, clear skin and eyes, a kind smile; but she's thin, and there are fine lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes that don't fit her age. A sense of transparency hovers around her, as if she might flicker out if they looked away.

"The Bureau," Sam says, looking at Dean. "Right. We were just hoping we could catch them before they left."

"Any other day you might have, but today there's something wrong with the cappuccino machine." She smiles tiredly. "I'm a little put out by that myself. I could use a jump start this morning."

"Well," Dean says. "Can't blame them for rushing off then. We've heard rumors about your cappuccino." He smiles politely, then glances over at Sam, willing him to come up with something useful.

"The thing is, we were supposed to be picking up a file, and we're running a little late. I don't suppose you know if they left anything for us? It would save us a trip to the Bureau and give us a real head start on our day." Sam manages to look both flirty and embarrassed, which apparently is all it takes to charm an overworked lady's maid in the big city.

"I suppose I could check upstairs," she says, never taking her eyes off Sam. "If you wouldn't mind just waiting here, I won't be more than a minute."

"Thank you, ma'am," Dean says, and they follow her across the threshold, into the entry hall.

They wait quietly while she climbs the stairs; then, the second she's out of sight and earshot, Dean leans toward Sam and hisses, "Dude. The suit is a Fed. How did we miss that?"

"It's Manhattan," Sam says. "Everybody here looks like a Fed."

"Maybe the other guy isn't his boyfriend after all. They must be partners."

Sam shrugs. "Whatever. As far as the government goes, we're dead and buried. We'll work the case and get out before they ever know we were here. You got the knife?"

"I got the knife." Dean gives Sam a dark look. "I forget one thing--"

"Matches," Sam says. "For a salt and burn."

"--and it's gonna follow me to my own grave. You need to learn to let things go."

"You have the holy water and the incantation, too?"

"I have the incantation. You have the holy water. Did you see how rough she looked? Like she hadn't slept in a week."

"The others look fine. Through the binoculars, anyway. You think she's the main course?"

Dean looks up the stairs, listening. "I think she's been up there a while," he says, and after a quick shared look they follow her, taking the steps two at a time.

~ ~ ~

They find her at the door to the upper apartment, standing still and unblinking, dazed. She doesn't respond when Dean snaps his fingers in front of her eyes, when Sam squeezes her shoulder. Her breathing is slow and deep, rasping in her throat on each exhale.

"What the hell," Dean says. "She was only gone a few minutes."

"Whatever this is has been going on a lot longer than that." Sam points at a small, round mark just above the knob of her spine -- dark, like a bruise, but the color is slightly off and there's a shimmer to it, like it's covered with a thin glaze of oil. "This is old."

"How old?"

"I don't know. Couple of weeks, maybe." Sam looks around the landing, as if he expects something to come right out of the walls at them.

Dean takes a step in closer to his brother and the girl. Sam's got an instinct about when things are about to go to shit; when he worries about something, Dean worries twice. "We need to get her out of here."

"We need to get everybody out of here."

"Yeah, well, let's start with her. We can get something in place for the others once she's safe."

The LEDs on the EMF start to strobe like they remember disco, and a high whine pipes out of the tiny speaker on the side. Dean gives Sam a look, and Sam pulls his gun, for all the good it will probably do. There's a small bench covered with expensive leather behind them, and Dean puts the girl on it, folding her like a Barbie doll into the corner farthest from the stairs.

"How many, you think," Dean says, drawing an iron knife from the sheath tucked into the back of his belt. The blade is oiled to a bright gleam and smells like lavender and thyme.

"One?" Sam says hopefully, and Dean snorts. For them, it's never just one.

The first comes from below, filling the stairs with a foul grey cloud that looks like ash and smells like hell's armpit. Its eyes are gaping black pits with sparks deep inside that shift sickeningly when Dean looks at them too long. Yanking his gaze away doesn't help, because the mouth is worse, jagged yellowed teeth hissing out fetid, hot breath, surrounded by leprous grey skin. It reaches for him with spindly arms, flesh hanging off it in oily ropes and gobbets, lurching at him with dizzying speed. Its fingers are long buckled twigs of bone, with fleshy grasping pads at their tips, opening and closing like tiny toothless mouths. Each is the size of the bruise at the back of the girl's neck.

Dean registers each detail in less than the time it takes to blink, and throws himself at the wall just as it would have crashed into him. He spins and says, "Sam!" but it's not necessary; Sam's already firing. The bullets won't kill it, but they do knock it back, tearing through flesh like butter and taking huge chunks out of the elegant paint and plaster of the hallway. A high, agonized keening rises up from the creature as it tumbles away from Sam and the girl, onto Dean's knife.

Sam's ready with the holy water, spraying a fine mist that glows for a moment in the light from the chandelier above them and then drifts down like a veil over the creature's body. A hiss of smoke rises from the decaying skin, and Dean starts the incantation in a low, steady voice, digging the knife in deeper.

That's when the second one drops on Sam from above.

The landing goes dark, the chandelier hidden by the thing's aura, and Sam lets out a pained cry from somewhere Dean can't see. A spark of fear catches and burns in Dean's gut and he almost lets go, almost stops the chant, but he can't help Sam with this thing on his back. He talks faster, syllables tumbling out and running together as he twists the knife, drives it up into the creature's chest. When he reaches the final verse a glow rises up under its skin, silver-white and burning like a million tiny stars until flesh and bone and smoke are consumed. The monster flares and vanishes, the smell of ash and oil thick on the air.

Dean reaches into the darkness where Sam has to be. He finds something not Sam and hauls on it, ignoring the crackle of fragile bone in his hands, the way the flesh sinks like hot clay under his fingers. A vicious screech penetrates the grey shroud in the air and a hand fumbles at Dean's, a strong, broad human hand. Dean lets the knife go and Sam drives it home, up into the thing's gut, up under its ribs. Dean starts the chant again, and this time, Sam's voice joins him.

When it ends, the landing looks like a small war zone. The plaster of the walls is fragmented by bullet scars, and scorches from the creatures' death throes mar the carpet, the high ceiling, the paint. Shards of crystal from the chandelier, miraculously still burning, litter the floor. Ash streaks Sam's face and blackens his white Fake Fed shirt; his jacket is singed and torn, liberally coated with fluids Dean doesn't want to think about. A line of blood trickles from a cut in Sam's forehead to disappear into the collar of his shirt.

"Sam," Dean says solemnly, "you're a vision."

Sam rolls his eyes. "A mirror would fix that attitude of yours," he says, and goes to check on the girl.

Dean stays where he is, watching the stairs and the walls. Not like he could see them till they wanted him to, and the EMF meter is quiet so they're probably not there. But a couple of monsters applied to his face tends to bump Dean up to high alert; he wants to be ready, just in case.

"You owe me five bucks," he tells Sam, eyes darting around the landing.

"I never took that bet." Sam's got his fingers on the girl's throat, and he nods when Dean raises his eyebrows at him; she's good.

"I said, I bet you five bucks it's wights, and you said there weren't any wights in Manhattan. Acceptance of the terms was implied."

"I said there had never been any wights in Manhattan before. And there haven't, up till now. Anyway, I don't have five bucks." Sam grins up at Dean, looking like the world's happiest murder victim under his coating of blood and monster goo.

Dean shakes his head. "I'll put it on your tab."

~ ~ ~

The maid’s name is Emily, and she doesn’t remember anything after climbing the stairs to look for their imaginary file. She comes around in slow stages, with Dean patting her shoulder and asking her if she’s all right. It takes a few minutes for her eyes to focus; the first thing she sees is Sam, so the first thing she does is smile. Dean's been there. But then she looks past Sam’s concern-face to the wreckage of the landing, and her face falls.

“Oh, no,” she says, quick eyes cataloguing the damage. “Oh, no, what happened?”

Dean exchanges a quick look with Sam. “We don’t know,” he says. “We heard a crash and came up here, found you on the floor. It looks like--”

“Some kind of explosion,” Sam supplies. “Maybe from, uh--”

“A short in the wiring. Of the chandelier.” Dean’s eyes flick up to the ruined crystal piece. “You were probably standing under it when it blew.”

“I don’t remember any explosion.” She rubs at her temple, concentration wrinkling her brow. “I was so tired after climbing the stairs, I thought I would just rest for a minute, and then--”

“Possibly a gas leak,” Sam says, “and the short in the fixture just--” He bunches up his fingers, then spreads them out wide. “Boom.”

Emily’s eyes widen, and Sam tucks his hands behind his back, like it was just his fingers being idiotically insensitive, and not Sam himself.

“Let’s get you downstairs,” Dean tells Emily in a soft, comforting voice. “We’ll call the fire department, let them sort it out. You’re going to be fine.” He checks in with Sam on that, and when Sam nods, Dean says, “Absolutely fine.”

She’s already looking better, in spite of the added soot and confusion. Dean’s not exactly sure how much of a person’s essence a wight has to steal before it starts to seriously fuck them up, but it looks like they got here before that line was crossed. He’ll ask Sam about it later, but he figures they were being smart, taking only a little at a time, probably from several different people in the house. That way they could hide longer, wouldn’t have to move on to the next food source too soon. Less exposure for them, and luckily, a slower decline for the people currently on the menu. He really hopes there were only two.

Emily leads them downstairs and through the house to the kitchen, where Sam sits her down on a stool at the granite breakfast bar and lets her direct him to tea, cups, and sugar. He puts a kettle on, the picture of genteel hospitality in a shredded off-the-rack business suit. “Two sugars in mine,” Dean says when Sam puts a cup in front of Emily, “please,” and Sam gives Dean a disgusted look and goes back to the cupboard.

She’s still out of it enough that she doesn’t ask why they’re also pretty well demolished. Dean listens while she talks quietly with Sam, slowly internalizing the idea of the explosion. This is the easiest part of their job; people like rational explanations, no matter how closely they fit the facts. When Sam’s clearly got her in hand, Dean stands up and pulls out his cell phone.

“I’m just going to call this in,” he says, waving at the door to the hallway with the phone. Emily nods absently before turning back to Sam, losing track of Dean completely. In the hall, he trades the phone for the EMF meter in his pocket, and sets off to investigate the rest of the house.

Hands down, it’s the nicest home Dean’s ever been inside. Old dark wood everywhere, polished to a high gleam, with thick rugs breaking up the hardwood floors. The paintings on the walls are actual paintings, probably by artists whose names even he would recognize, and there are sculptures here and there, in nooks or on pedestals, things that cost somebody a whole wad of cash. Even the lamps look like works of art. Dean sincerely hopes they don’t have to break anything else before they’re done.

He starts on high ground, at the very top of the stairs, and clears two whole floors before the EMF meter gives so much as a blip. Even then it’s just a flash, there and gone -- when he knocks the meter against the heel of his hand, the light goes back off and doesn’t return. He’s extra careful, taking his time before he moves down another flight, but as far as he can tell, the place is clean.

It’s on the first floor, near the back stairs, that he gets something more than a flicker. One LED shines to life, then fades, then lights up again. Dean put the meter together with his own hands, and it’s not the most sensitive device ever built, but with EMF there’s not a lot of middle ground. Something’s there or nothing is, and the intensity of the read can only suggest relative distance. The wights upstairs sent the meter into conniptions by literally landing on top of them; whatever this is, it’s nowhere near as close, maybe not even inside the house.

He heads back to the kitchen, pokes his head in the door and says, “Excuse me, Emily? Is there by any chance a basement in this place?”

“There’s a wine cellar, of course,” she says, her voice suggesting clearly that anyone of any breeding at all would know that. “Why do you ask?”

“Yeah, Dean. There’s always a wine cellar.” Sam’s face wouldn’t give anything away to a stranger, but Dean can read that smirk when Sam’s only thinking about it. “You should go check that out.”

“What could the cellar have to do with the explosion?” she asks Sam, and while her back is turned, Dean points up at the ceiling and gives Sam a big thumbs up. Then he points at the floor and walks his fingers down a set of imaginary stairs until Sam rolls his eyes and looks away.

~ ~ ~

There aren't any wights in the wine cellar. Dean's not surprised. Two of those bastards was already a lot for a household this size. Even considering the transient population tramping through the place, those must have been a couple of seriously hungry wights. He takes his time, though; it gives Sam a chance to chill out the civilian upstairs. He runs his flashlight over racks of green and yellow bottles that get uglier and dustier the further back they go, he checks the corners, checks under a wooden table old enough to be his great-great-grandfather.

He forgets to check the ceiling. If he lives to tell it, that's going to be the moral of this story.

Dean's fast, but he's not fast enough; it skitters at him across the stone floor while he slips and scrambles back, trying to get some distance. Most of the things that come after him have names, legends, stories attached that go back for generations and generally give some indication of how he's supposed to gank the evil sons of bitches. This thing, it's got nothing; it's got no history, no lore. It's got about a billion articulated legs, that's what it's got. They scrabble toward him at the speed of light and make a horrible scraping sound against each other along the way.

It might be related to a spider, but it's not a spider; it's got really pretty eyes. They're blue, like the sky on a clear summer day, and they're human. Sort of human. Probably smarter.

Dean's got a flask of holy water that doesn't work, a pocket full of rock salt that doesn't even slow the thing down. He's got enough Latin to make a Classics professor blush, but all that seems to do is piss it off. A strange hissing sound comes out of its mouth, one of its mouths -- out from between its mandibles, if he's going for anatomical correctness. The hiss goes well with the drool, which leaves little black smoking holes in the floor when it splatters.

There's really no way this is going to end well.

He's still going backwards while it comes at him when he slams up against a wall, his head snapping back against it so hard he sees little cartoon birds circling his skull. He doesn't have time to worry about cracking himself open like an egg, though; he has to get to his gun. It's the only thing he hasn't tried, because the thing's just too damn fast, not even his aim is good enough to track it from floor to wall to ceiling to floor again. But that was when it was trying him out, trying to see if he was a threat. Now it's pretty sure he's food, and it's coming straight on.

He barely gets his hand clear of his body before he shoots, the barrel parallel to the floor. The bullet skates along just above the tile, rips through the cuff of his jeans and takes a chip off the sole of his boot on the way to the spiked, glistening bulb of the creature's body.

It drives right through it, comes out the other side like there was nothing there, but Dean knows his ammo. The bullet takes a good chunk of the thing's insides along with it. Shuddering like a balloon filled with jelly, it flops down and lists over to one side, its eyes -- those bright sad eyes -- still fixed on his. A low, desperate whine comes out of it, thick with pain, and for a second Dean feels bad for it. God knows what it is or what it does or what it wants, but it didn't ask to end up in a wine cellar with him in its last wretched seconds.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice echoes off the cellar walls, just enough warning for Dean to shove himself up onto his feet. He's standing, if a little unsteady, when Sam gets to the bottom of the stairs and stops, eyes wide. He looks from the smoking lump of whatever-the-hell on the floor to Dean, now leaning casually against the wall and checking his gun, making sure he's got a round in the chamber.

"Sam," Dean says. He resists the urge to buff his knuckles on his chest, but just by a hair. "What's up?"

"What -- you're asking me what's up? What the hell is that?"

"Oh, that?" Dean shrugs, moseys over and nudges at a stray leg with the tip of his shoe. "Some kind of spider thing, looks like."

Sam's eyebrows land somewhere north of his hairline. "Are you okay?"

"One little spider thing?" Dean narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to piss me off?"

Sam takes a cautious step back toward the stairs and scans the dark corners of the ceiling. "Are you sure it's just the one?"

"Just the one what?" Emily asks, halfway down the steps. She reaches down and flips a switch, and the cellar is filled with warm, yellow light. Sam looks up at Emily; then he turns his eyes back to Dean.

"Stupid place to put a light switch," Dean mutters. "Anyway, I didn't need it, did I?"

Sam's long past caring about Dean's prowess now, which is kind of insulting and also par for the course. "What the hell is up with this house?"

Another voice, from the top of the stairway, answers him. "What the hell are you two doing in my wine cellar? That's what I want to know."

~ ~ ~

The woman is impressive. Dean knows from women, and this is one he doesn't want to mess with. She's sweet enough, big dark eyes and perfect dark hair and skin that kind of glows from the inside -- not in a scary way, he doesn't think he's going to have to ice her or anything, but definitely in that way that makes a guy take notice. She's more than twice his age, and has double the bosom of any woman Dean's ever had the pleasure of, but there's a spark in her eyes that dares him to consider making a whole series of exceptions.

Her name is June. And she is extremely, extremely pissed.

"I know FBI," she tells them. "And you boys are not FBI. You don't know Peter, either, because if you did, you wouldn't be here claiming to work with him when that is not the case. I also know criminals; I married one and I look after another, and you're clearly not here to rob or con me. I would know." When her chin comes up, Dean suffers through a ridiculous urge to kneel.

"We're here to help," Sam says. He's got his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit, and he's got his shoulders hunched in, trying to look as small as he can. "You're right; we're not cops and we're not criminals. We're... kind of something in between."

"That's the first true thing you've said since we've been in this kitchen," June says. "Thank you for that courtesy, at least. What exactly is it you do?"

"We hunt ghosts," Dean tells her.

"Well, sometimes, ghosts."

"Right," Dean says, because that explanation is partly true, but out of date. "Sometimes vampires, werewolves, random wandering monsters. Demons and angels mostly, for the past couple of years, but we're trying to get back to basics. Right now we're on wights. That's what you've got, by the way." He jerks his head toward the door that leads to the hall that leads to the stairway. "Wights."

"And that's what's down in my wine cellar right now, mucking up my floor?"

"Uh." Dean scratches at the back of his neck, feeling caught out and awkward. "Well, no, not exactly."

"What is it, then?"

"We're not really sure." Sam says it like he's hauling each word up from a deep well of kindness and compassion. "Believe me, I understand how confusing all this must be--"

June lets out a sweet, lady-like snort and rolls her eyes. "It sounds like you boys are the confused ones. It's your job to know what these things are, you say? It doesn't seem to me that you're very good at it."

"Hey." Dean takes a step forward. "Maybe we got a little out of practice the last few years, while we were busy saving the world, but--"

"What he means is, there are no experts in this kind of thing. Some of us know more than others--"

"And those of us who don't are dead," Dean says flatly. "So a little gratitude--"

June's eyes sparkle, and a smile curves her wide red mouth. "How about some gratitude in the form of a roof over your head and a few hot meals while you figure out exactly what it is that's infesting my house?"

"We'll take it," Sam says, and Dean's so shocked by the turnaround that he doesn't say anything at all.

"I'm not stupid," June tells Dean. "I can tell by the look on Emily's face that you were helping her, and I've never seen anything even half so strange and unappealing as that creature you shot downstairs. You're not the first specialists I've opened my doors to, and I doubt you'll be the last. Will you stay?"

"That depends," Dean says finally. "Will your FBI friend have anything to say about it?"

"Peter?" June says, surprised. "Of course not. You just leave Peter to me."

~ ~ ~

The room she gives them is more than a room; it's more like a studio apartment, filled with books and paintings and random statuary on random flat surfaces everywhere they look. The bed -- and there's only the one -- seems like an afterthought. A deep, plush, richly covered afterthought. King-sized. California King. Dean takes one look at it, and then one look at Sam, and sighs. His brother's totally gone. It's true love.

"Guess we forgot the part where we ask for two queens," Dean says.

"You take one side, I'll take the other, and in the morning I'll still have to call long distance to wake you up."

"Maybe," Dean says, peering into the bathroom. "But don't commit to the bed till you've seen the tub. The Olympics called, they want their swimming pool back."

Sam leans in through the doorway, his head just above Dean's. "Whoa."

"I'll flip you for it," Dean says.

Sam reaches into his pocket for a quarter; Dean grabs his arm, twists it neatly and spins Sam end over end onto the floor. While Sam's on his back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to get his breath back, Dean starts shucking out of his pants.

"I win," he says cheerfully. He skins out of his button-down and his T-shirt and, naked as the day he was born, ducks into the bathroom. A second later, he slams the door; a second after that, he locks it and turns on the tap in the tub. "I won't be long," he shouts over the sound of blissfully hot water roaring into the basin. "A couple of hours should do me just fine."

~ ~ ~

It's what Heaven should have been, he decides as he slides into the steaming bath. It's hot and soothing and perfect, and as a bonus, it washes off the spider goo. Dean soaps up, singing a song he only remembers every third word of, not precisely on-key. He can feel himself relaxing, muscles liquefying under his skin. He's never getting out of this tub.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, banging on the door. "Come on, you've been in there half an hour!"

Granted, that's about twenty-five minutes longer than any shower Dean's had in recent memory. But then, most of the showers he's been in, in recent memory, have been of rapidly variable temperature and homes to vermin which, if not actually supernatural, are about as scary as you can get among the living. He thinks about getting out, for about half a second; then he drains the tub and refills it, this time adding stuff that makes a shit ton of bubbles.

He leans back, resting his head against the rim of the tub, letting the water lap up around his ears. He thinks very hard about sleeping in there. It's that good.

"Dean!"

He opens his eyes, and sighs. First the yelling; then the banging again. It's vicious and disruptive. He put Sam on his ass to get in here; now it looks like he's going to have to do it again once he gets out. Reluctantly, he stands up, water dripping off him, hair wet and still a little soapy. He steps out, wraps a towel around his middle, and opens the door.

"I bet you kick puppies, too," Dean says.

"You weren't killing wights out there by yourself." Sam's about 95% naked already, so all that looming isn't nearly as impressive as he probably thinks it is. "You better have left some hot water."

"It would take an army of me to use up all the hot water this lady has on tap. I think it comes up from the center of the planet. After we clean this place up," Dean tells him, "I'm giving some serious thought to moving in."

~ ~ ~

Later, cleaner than they've been in weeks and in the freshest clothes they own, Sam and Dean head back downstairs. Their FBI schtick busted, they've reverted gratefully to jeans and T-shirts, Dean with the addition of a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows -- formal attire, Winchester-style. He feels about ten times more himself with the suit packed away where he doesn't have to look at it. It might have only been a few days in real time, but good old Zach had dumped a lifetime of power ties and PowerPoint into his head not too long ago; Dean's developed kind of an allergy.

Emily meets them at the foot of the stairs and leads them into the dining room, where June is presiding over a table laden with more food than Dean has ever seen in one place in his entire life. His eyes go big, and his stomach makes a noise loud enough to startle the neighbors. June smiles, a warm and knowing look in her eyes.

"Boys," she says. "I was just settling down to lunch. You're welcome to join me if you like."

'Lunch' in June's case is small sandwiches cut on the diagonal, no crusts, a small plate of dark greens with walnuts and crumbly white cheese, and a tall glass of iced tea with a lemon wedge.

For Dean and Sam, it's steaks as big as their faces, steaming baked potatoes, and as much of the salad as they want (a lot for Sam; none for Dean). There's broccoli with butter, carrots in a thick, sweet-smelling glaze, and a crystal bowl filled with sliced cherry tomatoes and tiny balls of mozzarella. And that's just the stuff Dean can identify.

"Don't just stare at it," June says, waving at the table. "Room temperature is mere minutes away."

Dean doesn't remember much between picking up his fork and putting it down again, but he has to hide his mouth with his fist at the end of it to muffle himself. When he looks across the table, Sam's still eating and June's wearing an expression that's half sad, and half amazed.

"We weren't actually raised by wolves," Dean says; he's got to pick up a little of the slack, because Sam won't talk with his mouth full. "We just spend a lot of time on the road. We're not exactly used to fine dining."

"As long as you're staying with me," June says, "I'll do my best to patch this unfortunate gap in your education." She smiles, and leans over to top off Dean's glass of tea. "Seconds?"

Dean doesn't say no, and Sam doesn't either. It takes the fine, ravenous edge off a hunger he didn't even know he was carrying around with him, makes him feel sleepy and content. It's not just for himself, either; there's a very young part of him that never quite got over worrying about having enough for Sam to eat. That inner babysitter is about as relaxed as it's ever been right now.

That's where he is, the headspace he's in, when the Fed and his boyfriend come home.

"June," the boyfriend says. "I'm sorry; I didn't realize you had company."

"Neither did I." June smiles and politely pretends not to notice Dean quickly wiping his mouth and hands before he stands up to face the newcomers. Sam's on his feet already, not quite decided between slouching harmlessly and looming threateningly; the situation's a little unclear. "Sam, Dean, allow me to introduce my tenant, Neal Caffrey, and my dear friend, Peter Burke. Peter is with the FBI," she says, eyes twinkling, and Peter Burke, FBI, doesn't miss the emphasis.

"Nice to meet you," he says, unsmiling. He sizes Sam up first; he's almost Sam's height, but not as wide and not as rough around the edges. Dean figures he'll keep his eye on Sam, but when he turns to Dean, that's when his eyes take on a sharper, brighter focus. "Dean, is it?" he says. "I'm sorry, I missed your last name."

"Singer," Dean says. "Both of us. Sam's my brother." He shakes Burke's hand, returning the same pressure he receives. Caffrey, Dean notices, doesn't offer his hand and doesn't have a lot to say. But he's watching them with quick, intelligent eyes; all of them, not just the new kids at the table.

"Sam and Dean will be staying with me for a few days," June announces. "They're helping me with a small pest problem in the cellar."

"And the walls," Dean says, just as Sam says, "Ceilings, too." They're both right; you just never know with wights. And you really never know with previously unknown spider creatures that come out of nowhere and skitter at ninety miles per hour.

"Pest control," Caffrey says. "Really, June? What pest would dare?"

"Apparently manners are not endemic to the insect population," she answers mildly. "I trust you'll do everything you can to make my guests feel at home during their stay."

"You can count on it," Caffrey says, smiling. Burke doesn't smile.

"We'll stay out of your way as much as possible," Sam says. "In fact, a lot of our work will be done at night. That's when the, uh--"

"Bugs," Dean supplies.

"--the bugs are usually most active. If we're lucky, we can track them back to the main nest tonight, set some traps, and be out of your way by morning."

"Nonsense." June puts her hands on her hips. "I won't hear of you staying less than a week. I believe in thoroughness, gentlemen, and I wouldn't feel at all comfortable with the results of a single night's observation. Don't you worry about a thing; we'll do our best to stay out of your way and let you get your work done."

That's more hospitality than Dean has ever been threatened with in his life; he can't turn it down, not even with the FBI staring him in the face, daring him to accept. Sam follows his lead, and ups the ante with a yawn. They need to get to bed and rest up for the night's work, Dean explains, which has the dual advantage of getting them out of the dining room and being absolutely true. They go upstairs, the itch of investigative gazes on the backs of their necks, duck into their room and close and lock the door.

Dean stands just inside, his ear pressed against the wood. Sam stays watchful and silent behind him, trying to read in Dean's face what Dean hears in the hallway. But there's nothing, no following footsteps, no sound at all; for the moment, at least, it seems like they might be safe.

"We're not going to be able to stick around here much longer," Sam says in a low hissing whisper when Dean comes away from the door. "Did you see Burke's face? He doesn't trust us any further than he can throw me. And I don't think his little friend feels any better about us."

"Chill, Sam." Dean falls into a deep, rich leather chair; it's like sitting on a warm, buttery cloud. "What does it matter? It's not like we have records anymore. Hell, we probably don't have an existence anymore."

"I'd rather not trust our freedom to Castiel's angelic hacking abilities, thanks," Sam says. "And anyway, this place -- it creeps me out a little. Doesn't it creep you out?"

Dean reflects on the overwhelming comfort of his ass, and shakes his head. "Not even a little."

"June seemed a little too easygoing about the possibility of a supernatural infestation in her wine cellar, if you ask me."

"June? Come on, Sam. She's a sweet lady with more than her share of money and time on her hands. She's clearly got a thing for taking in strays, just look at Burke and Caffrey. And us. You ask me, she's also got more sense than her share -- our job would be a lot easier if there were more people in the world who could recognize a spook when they saw one. I like her."

Sam rolls his eyes and settles down into the chair across from Dean. He doesn't seem nearly impressed enough with the leather, but then, that's Sam all over. He's always been more interested in what's going on in his head than what's going on in the world around him. Right now, Dean can look at him and see wheels turning, smell the smoke coming out of his ears. Thinking more than is good for him, just like always.

"What?" Dean asks finally, unable to sit there and watch Sam stew in silence any longer. "What's really bugging you about this place?"

"It's just weird," Sam says immediately. "Wights and weird spider creatures? When does that happen? What are we going to find in the walls next?"

~ ~ ~

Sam just had to ask.

They keep to their room until well after dusk, avoiding both Burke's suspicion and June's curiosity. Sam sleeps like the dead -- which is to say, loudly and violently and not particularly well. Having the benefit of years of experience, Dean knows to keep well to his own side of the bed and build a buffer of blankets between them; Sam's got legs like redwoods, and tends to kick. For his own part, Dean dozes off and on but never quite makes it into real sleep.

The sun has just barely sunk below the tops of the buildings surrounding June's home when something not quite natural flickers in Dean's peripheral vision, just beyond the corner of his eye. It might be the flutter of a curtain, or a trick of the light, but Dean doesn't have that kind of job. He has the kind where things that flicker are generally dead, angry, or both.

This one's both.

It doesn't move, not at first, not the way most of them move. It shimmers with a silvered inner glow, part shadow and part the light of a place far separate from the world the living inhabit. It is still -- bitterly and patiently still. Its mouth is a gaping black pit, and its eyes are fixed and glaring with the kind of hate Dean hadn't seen since he got yanked up from Hell.

Dean eases his hand up and wraps it around the grip of the gun stashed under his pillow; his other hand he slides over Sam's mouth, waking him up and keeping him quiet all at once.

There's a trick to ghosts, as any hunter can tell you. They're mindless, heartless vengeance machines made of ectoplasm for the most part, but they do have a primitive kind of cunning. They have things they want, and the thing they want most (next to company in the coffin) is to scare the pants right off you. The way to do that is to be still, to be quiet, to be creepy -- and then, all at once, to be seen.

When Sam wakes up, he takes one quick look. Dean's already busily engaged in the act of not noticing the spook in the corner, and so for a second, just a beat -- just long enough -- nothing happens.

And then Sam's got the butt of a sawed off shotgun against his shoulder and the corner of the room explodes in a blast of eerie mist and rock salt. A roar like a 747 landing on top of their heads fills the room, and Dean dives for a useful weapon. He's a little miffed that Sam was the one with the right tools at the right time -- Dean was expecting spiders or wights, but Sam's paranoia is looking a little more like foresight now -- and he's determined to get back in the game. His shotgun is neither locked nor loaded, but the rack of iron next to the fireplace will do him just fine.

The flicker comes back right in front of him; he grabs the poker and swings like Isner. The ghost explodes with a scream into shards of glowy light.

"What the fuck is wrong with this house?" Dean demands of Sam, who looks about as shaken as Dean's ever seen him since Hell reset all his freak-out parameters. Sam's about to answer, though probably not in a satisfactory way, when somebody starts banging on the door.

"Not good," Sam says tightly.

"I know."

"We don't have a lot of time before--"

"I know!"

Dean gives Sam a second to get the shotgun out of sight, then opens the door. Burke barrels in, Caffrey right behind him like he's cuffed to the guy. They're both grim-faced and wild-eyed, trying to look at everything at once. Dean leans on the fireplace poker like a cane, rubs at his eyes with his free hand, and yawns. "Something we can do for you, Agent Burke?"

"We heard gunfire," Burke snaps out.

"And screaming." Caffrey looks at each of them. "A little more feminine than I'd expect from either of you, but I try not to judge."

"Sammy here had a nightmare and fell out of bed." Dean shrugs, and Sam, after a glare with encyclopedias of aggravation behind it, tries to look both sleepy and scared.

"I'm a troubled sleeper," Sam grates out.

"And the gunfire?" Burke says. "Not that I'm buying the nightmare, but just for the sake of argument."

"I broke a vase?" Dean tries.

"Which vase, exactly?"

Dean's about to dig himself in a little deeper when the clock on the old iron-stick-through-the-vengeful-spirit trick runs out. It flickers into bright, vicious light right next to Sam, but it's not focused on Sam; it's not focused on either of them anymore. Its empty eyes lock onto Caffrey, and its mouth twists into a howl of pain that brings a wind with it, a wind from nowhere that goes nowhere, ripping at their hair and clothes, knocking over a chair and tearing at the curtains over the windows. The noise goes on and on; the spirit jerks in and out of frame, closer to Caffrey every time it reappears. Caffrey hasn't moved, hasn't blinked, hasn't even changed expression; that's when Dean realizes he's looked miserable since they met him.

Now, with this thing reflected in his eyes? It's worse. It's a lot worse.

Dean grabs Caffrey and Burke by their collars and yanks them clear. Sam nails it with the shotgun, rock salt scattering across the hardwood and embedding itself in the wall behind it. That's another few seconds of safety.

Dean turns Caffrey by the shoulders and gives him a shake. "Who is it?"

Caffrey's mouth moves silently, his lips shaping a word Dean can't quite make out. He's ready to shake the man again, but Burke pulls him back. He puts himself between Caffrey and Dean and his face is so pale it's transparent, his eyes showing white all around the edges. He's holding it together, though, better than Dean would have expected.

His voice only wavers a little when he says, "It's Kate."

"Where's she buried?" Sam asks.

"Nowhere." It's Caffrey; he's decidedly not holding it together. Burke seems to be handling that job for the both of them. "She's not buried anywhere. She burned."

"Fuck." Dean looks at Sam; Sam's looking back, eyes about as wide as Burke's. "Bound object?"

Sam nods. "Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey. This is important. Do you have something here in the house, something of hers? It would have been something important to her, something with some kind of personal meaning."

"I don't know." Burke runs a hand through his hair; his fingers are shaking. "I don't know, I never knew her that well. She never lived here."

"The bottle." Caffrey's voice sounds like it's coming through a meat grinder. "The bottle, with the map. It's in my apartment."

"Take us to it," Dean says. "Right now."

~ ~ ~

Caffrey's apartment is directly above theirs, and like theirs, it's less an apartment than an extremely large, well-equipped bedroom. This one looks permanently lived-in, lined with books and filled with art and art supplies. There's an easel in one corner; the table is covered with brushes and tubes of paint, and underlying the faint scent of rich cologne, Dean thinks he can smell turpentine.

Sam's got a bag of supplies slung over his shoulder; he pushes aside the painter's clutter on the table and drops it, unzips it, starts digging around inside. Caffrey heads straight for the bookshelf behind the sofa, and pulls down an old, expensive-looking wine bottle. He's clutching it so tight his knuckles stand out white against the green glass.

"Two things you need to know," Dean says. He looks Caffrey in the eye; tries to pin him down with it, keep him steady. "First, that's not Kate. Kate's gone. This thing is like an echo of her, and only the pissed-off part."

Caffrey nods, and swallows. Burke, still hovering right beside him, a hand on his shoulder, says quietly, "What's the second thing?"

Dean holds out his hand. "You're going to lose this bottle."

When his hand closes around the neck of it, she flashes like lightning between them. Her hand goes into Dean's chest and he flies back, crashes into the wall empty-handed and out of breath. Sam flings a handful of rock salt in her direction but she's already gone, she's behind him, she's got his throat between her hands and she's squeezing; Sam's eyes roll back in his head, and he shakes like he's got his finger caught in a power outlet.

"The bottle!" Dean shouts at Caffrey, "throw it! Throw the bottle!"

Caffrey, for a second, he just stands there; he can't do it. Dean knows he can't, he's seen that look before on too many faces. This thing may not be his Kate, but it looks like her, and that's close enough when somebody's grieving; too close. He's not going to do it. He's not going to do it, and Sam's going to die, and then --

And then Burke says, "Neal."

It's not an order, it's not a plea. It's raw, quiet; it's warm. And Caffrey, Neal -- he looks up at Burke, tears standing in his eyes.

He nods. And then he draws his arm back and lets the bottle fly.

It shatters against the wall, green glass shards flying out like sentimental shrapnel. Dean gets a handful of it when he throws up an arm to shield his eyes. He doesn't even feel it; he's too busy watching Kate -- not-Kate -- shriek, and dwindle, and die. She goes out with a pop, like a burnt-out lightbulb, and Sam drops to the floor, hands and knees, gasping for breath.

Dean crawls over to his brother, sweeping glass out of the way as he goes. He hurts everywhere -- his back is a giant wall-shaped bruise, his head's banging like a toy drum and he's bleeding at the hands and knees. He gets to Sam after about a year; pulls himself up; pulls Sam up next. They have to lean on each other to stay on their feet. Dean grabs Sam's jaw and turns him this way and that, checking for damage, checking to see if Sam's still running on all cylinders. His eyes are tired, bloodshot, but they focus on Dean, and when Sam sees Dean checking him out, he gives a small, reassuring nod.

"I'm okay," Sam says. "You okay?"

"No," Dean says, "I'm not okay, I just got blasted into a friggin' wall, in case you didn't notice. I'm lucky to be alive."

"Good thing you hit it head first," Sam says, and that's when Dean starts to believe Sam's really all right.

He looks around the room, the wreckage of it, and winces. It used to be a nice place. Caffrey's stuff is scattered, ripped, or destroyed; books litter the room, their pages shredded in their bindings. There's an overturned easel, a sketchbook with its pages torn out and torn apart. Dean's eyes land on Caffrey, and he looks just like the room does.

Burke's got a hand on each of his shoulders, talking to him in a low, gentle voice. Caffrey's not hearing it at all. He's clocked out, even Dean can see that. Everybody's got a limit to what they can bear, and Caffrey's miles past his.

He hobbles over to the two of them; his back blossoms with fresh pain at every step. When he gets there, he gets a face full of Peter Burke, angry and scared and ... yeah, mostly just angry.

"So," he spits out, pinning Dean down with his eyes. "Pest control?"

~ ~ ~

They get Caffrey into a chair, and Sam starts trying to put the room back together while Dean pulls Burke off to the side. The sofa's still pretty much intact, though the coffee table that used to be in front of it is now in splinters on the other side of the room. They sit down, and Burke gives Dean both barrels of a determined, laser-beam stare.

"Tell me," Burke says, and waits.

"What do you want first," Dean asks. "Ancient history, recent history, or current events?"

"Let's start with who you are, what you're doing here, and what just happened."

"Okay." Dean props his elbows on his knees, laces his fingers together, and takes a breath. "That's going to take a little of everything." He cocks his head toward Sam. "He really is my little brother. And pest control really is our business. It's just that the pests we control, or try to, aren't really of what you'd call natural origin."

"Ghosts," Burke says, nodding. "I'd figured that much out already."

"Ghosts. Among other things."

"Other things?"

"Hey, dude, you asked for the truth. You didn't say how much. There's stuff out there in the dark that will peel your sanity right off you. Let's just stick with the stuff we have to worry about in this house, okay?"

Burke nods, pale and tense around the eyes. "Okay. Shoot."

"We didn't expect ghosts, to be honest. We came here looking for wights. And we found them -- two of them, snacking on June's favorite parlor maid. Probably been here about a week, ten days; they were pretty well fed when we killed them. Emily didn't have a lot longer to live."

"She's going to be okay now?"

Dean nods. "She'll be tired for a while. But she'll recover. Most people, if it doesn't flat out kill us, we tend to bounce most of the way back."

"What exactly is a wight?"

"Ugly like you would not believe. And not all that hard to kill, once you draw them out. Nothing special, except for how wights don't usually show up this far north, or in cities this size. We were just poking around to make sure there weren't any more of them. But then there was the spider-thing in the wine cellar, and June showed up and caught us, and you pretty much know all the rest."

"I don't know anything," Burke snaps. "I don't know who you are, I don't know why you're here, and I don't know what the hell just happened--and I don't believe Sam is your little brother, either, by the way --"

"Hey, I just told you who we are."

"You told me what you do. Who you are is Sam and Dean, no last name--"

"Winchester," Caffrey says. The faint, tight smile does nothing to wipe away the grief; there's no humor to it, nothing real behind it.

Burke twists his head around. "You know these men?"

"Criminals are as bad as cops when it comes to gossip, Peter. You can't make a career out of trouble without making a name for yourself at the same time. Two guys, brothers, always on the scene just after the mayhem starts. And always gone the second it ends. People pay attention, put the pieces together."

"Mozzie put the pieces together," Burke says, rolling his eyes. "Is there anything that guy doesn't know?"

"Not that I've ever noticed," Caffrey says. The smile comes back, a little more real this time. "He's going to be over the moon when he meets you two."

"What else does this guy know about us?"

"You're good." Caffrey looks at Sam, then Dean, his eyes tired but sure. "You've made a lot of bad places better over the years, stopped a lot of bad things from happening. The feds thought they were looking for monsters, but they were wrong about that. That's what Moz says, anyway."

Dean's spine straightens involuntarily, and his chin comes up. It's good to hear it laid out like that, after everything they've seen and done and been through.

"We do what we can," Sam says quietly. He's looking at Dean, his face solemn. Dean nods. They should write that down somewhere -- on their business cards, or maybe their tombstones.

Caffrey looks around his apartment, taking in the wreck of his possessions. "They're not wrong about the property damage, though."

"Do you people build campfires out on the terrace when I'm not looking?" Burke asks Caffrey, head tilted. "Roast marshmallows, scare each other with urban crime legends?"

Caffrey smiles. It's half the wattage he started the night with, but its getting there. Burke seems to bring it out in him. "You should hang out with us sometime, Peter. It's not all mustache-twirling and stolen doubloons."

"We survive the night, I just might take you up on that." He turns to Sam and Dean, his face relaxing into a kind of resigned acceptance. "So. You guys are what, Buffy's big brothers?"

Dean shakes his head at Sam, and laughs. "You know what? I'm actually starting to like this guy."

~ ~ ~

Remarkably, the ghostly visitation from Caffrey's ex goes unnoticed by the rest of the household. It's a big house, sure, but there was gunplay and screaming. "It was loud enough to bring you two running," Dean says to Burke. "Why not June and Emily?"

"We were listening outside your door." Caffrey looks up from the chair he's righting and smiles. "Sorry."

"Dude." Dean shakes his head, glaring at Burke. "Feds."

Burke gives Caffrey a confused look. "I thought he liked me."

"You lose a lot of friends with your lack of respect for their privacy."

"Maybe," Burke says. "But I close a lot of cases."

They've obviously known each other for a while. Dean's impressed. He's not blind, he can see the anklet Caffrey's wearing like it's the latest in high fashion jewelry. He knows what it means. Caffrey's not Burke's partner; he's Burke's prisoner. But there's more than that going on with them, something real there. Which makes Burke the second Fed Dean's ever met who turned out to have both a brain and a heart.

Also the second Fed Dean's ever met who knew about their day job. And the only Fed still alive to talk about it.

"Weird, isn't it?" Sam comes up behind him, quiet as a cat. He's watching Burke and Caffrey go at each other, back and forth; it's all too quiet to hear, but the comfort level is unmistakable. "Neal's a thief and a conman, and I think Burke's his best friend."

"Yeah, well. We've been to Hell, and one of our best friends is an angel."

Sam blinks. "Okay. Point."

"I don't like it, though. Too many civilians in this place, and all of them know what we're here for. It's just asking for trouble. If I thought I could get any of them to budge--"

"Emily, maybe. June's going to die in this house."

"Hopefully not tonight," Dean says.

"And our new buddies over there aren't going anywhere. They're in too deep."

Dean nods. Caffrey, definitely, is in too deep. "What do you think the girl wanted?"

"Company," Sam says, shrugging.

"Yeah, yeah." That's what they all want. "But what was she doing here now? Wights, creepy-crawlies, ghosts...we're in the corner penthouse of Spook Central here, and I don't know who the Gatekeeper is."

"Relax, Venkman. Things get hairy enough --"

"Heh."

Sam rolls his eyes. "--we'll call in reinforcements. But right now, all we have is a few random ghoulies and a houseful of people who know to be careful. It's not as bad as it looks."

"Whatever you have to tell yourself, dude," Dean says. "Just don't ask me to look in the fridge."

They're interrupted by Caffrey. He's got his hands in his pockets, a serious look on his face. He's a little too attractive to be a real guy, but his eyes ground him. He looks haunted, in every definition of the word.

And he cuts straight to the chase. "What you said before. You said that wasn't Kate. Was that true, or did you say that to get me to do what you wanted?"

Dean looks to Sam for some help; he's usually the one who handles the grief issues. Dean's better at calming people down than cheering them up. But Sam's not all the way back on his game yet -- he's got nothing, so Dean turns back to Caffrey and says, "What's your name again?"

He takes it for the stalling it is. "Neal," he offers. "And that's not an answer to my question."

"A friend of mine -- who's probably in the best position to know -- thinks they're what happens when a person dies and refuses to cross over. What's left just goes crazy with pain and hate and regret, forgets how to do anything but hurt the living."

"That's what your friend thinks. What do you think?"

"I know more about being dead than most people," Dean says flatly. "What comes after can suck, but it doesn't change who we are, not like some people think. Whatever your girl was before, I think that's what she still is, somewhere."

Neal is quiet for a minute, taking that in. Across the room, Burke is on the phone, but he's watching Neal like a mother hen and watching Sam and Dean like a hawk. He catches Dean's eye when he sees Neal relax, and gives a small nod of approval.

It doesn't take long to put the room as right as it's going to get without new furniture and paint; when they're done, Burke sits them all down at the table, leans back, and hooks his arm over the back of his chair. He's biting his lip, not looking at Sam or Dean, but Dean can feel his attention, can almost hear the guy thinking. He's not thrilled, and it's not like Dean can blame him.

"Winchester," he says finally, and Dean sits up a little straighter. It's not the warmest tone he's ever heard.

"Yeah," he says, trying to keep his voice from starting a fight. "So?"

"So, in addition to being traveling con men, grave robbers and serial killers, you two also seem to be dead."

"Courtesy of our last buddy in the FBI," Sam says.

"Yes." Burke nods, finally looking Sam in the eye. "Who also seems to be dead."

"Hendrickson tracked us like he was part blood hound for a year." Dean leans over the table, pulls Burke's focus back on himself. "He accused us of everything under the sun and talked a lot of smack about our father. Dropped all that like a hot rock once he saw what was really going on. Truth? I liked the guy."

"You liked him," Burke says. "The man who had arrested you and was taking you back to prison before he was killed by a mysterious explosion--"

"The man who reported us dead in a helicopter crash, just before he caught the attention of something way worse than he ever thought we were."

"Peter, you're hardly in a position to judge a man for enjoying low company," Neal says. "Look at us. You love me!"

Peter smiles at Neal, kind of the way Dean sometimes catches Sam smiling. "You'll be bearable someday. Once you're rehabilitated."

"Who's to say your Agent Hendrickson didn't feel the same way about these two?"

Dean's not the greatest student of human nature, but he knows a couple of things. One, he knows Hendrickson was way more interested in joining him and Sam than in rehabilitating them, once he figured out they were good guys.

Two? Burke hasn't got a chance in hell of rehabilitating Neal Caffrey.

"I'm inclined to believe you," Burke tells Dean, looping Sam in with a glance. "Partly because you don't read sociopathic to me, and I'm a pretty good judge of character. But mostly because I'm not in the habit of ignoring evidence, even if it does dematerialize right in front of me."

"Well, that's a real relief, Agent Burke." Dean's voice conveys exactly how worried he was about winning Burke's good opinion. "I don't know what we would have done with ourselves otherwise."

"Okay, okay." Burke shrugs one shoulder. "Fair enough. But now that we're all on the same side... what happens next?"

"Perfect world?" Dean asks. "You take Neal, June, Emily, and anybody else who might be inclined to show up here and put them up in a nice hotel for a couple of days while me and Sam take care of your little spook infestation."

"Right." Burke nods. "Let's assume we do that, minus me and Neal. What happens after that?"

"We've got some tests we can run, see what's hiding in the rafters and the walls. See if there's any other ghosts wandering around in here. But the main thing's going to be finding why this place is suddenly a magnet for the creepy crawlies. This isn't normal."

"I wouldn't think anything in your line of work could be classified as normal," Neal says.

"Well, this is less normal than we normally get." Sam counts off the list on his fingers. "Wights. Ghosts. Spiders. We usually find one thing at a time. Worst-case, something supernatural in conjunction with something skeevy in the usual human way. Something like this... we're in uncharted waters."

"And by uncharted, he means by us. We've got people we can talk to, who might have a little more experience in this area than we do. And a couple of not-people, too. Information isn't what we usually run short of these days."

"What do you run short of?" Neal asks.

Dean looks Neal in what he hopes is a reassuring way. "Ammunition."

~ ~ ~

Emily is more than happy to find somewhere else to be for the rest of the night, or week, or month if it seems necessary. June, on the other hand, is a little harder to persuade. She's lived in this house her entire married life, she tells them, and every year since, and she's not going to be chased out by anything. Especially not by the ghost of someone she's never even met (no offense meant to Neal, and apparently none taken), or overgrown spiders, or life-force-sucking ghoulies.

Dean appreciates her courage and Sam appreciates her determination. Peter doesn't appreciate any of it. Nothing he can say -- and he's a man who can say a lot in a very short time, without needing a whole lot of words -- will budge the woman. It takes an appeal from Peter's wife to get June to even consider leaving, and once the cell phone is handed over, the job is done in less than a minute. Dean has no idea what the wife might have said, but he hopes he never gets on her bad side. June packs her bags and goes, meek as a lamb, leaving Sam, Dean, the cop and the con all alone together.

Not counting the dead things, of course.

"We should stick together," Sam says. He's big enough to herd everyone into the parlor with nothing more than intent and a slight lean in that direction. Dean is a quick exception, detouring upstairs to bring down bedding, guns and holy water; when he comes back, Sam's pulling a Sharpie out of his back pocket and looking for a clear spot on the wall.

"Hey!" Neal grabs Sam's wrist before the tip of the pen can touch anything but air. "What are you doing?"

"Setting up a perimeter," Sam tells him. "Do you mind?"

"Do I mind if you draw on June's antique wainscoting with indelible ink? Yes, actually, I do."

Sam gives Dean a ridiculous, helpless look. Neal Caffrey's not stupid, not demonic, not a bad guy, not Dean -- and not letting Sam do whatever he wants. Sam has no frame of reference for how to handle it. Since he got his soul back and started the great Sam Winchester Penance Tour of the lower 48, he's got exactly one speed, and no reverse. Dean can't say he's fond of the constant overdrive, but it does have its amusing moments.

"We're not vandals," Dean explains, not unkindly. "We want to get through the night, we're gonna need to do a little artwork. You know a better way, let's hear it."

Neal and Peter exchange a look that leaves them both grinning.

Once Neal gets a look at what's needed, he's faster and more accurate than they are. Dean's sigils look like a third-grade art project -- more heart than skill, just barely good enough to get by. Neal's side of the room looks like an Enochian version of the Sistine Chapel. When this is all over, Dean plans to snap a few pictures.

By the time Neal's done, the walls are covered in super-sized sketch pad pages, and the pages are covered in supernatural security systems of every style and type known to Winchester kind.

"That," Sam says, eyes wide. "That's something."

"Next time, give me a real challenge. An above average graffiti artist could do this." Neal shoots a glance at his Fed. "Peter could do it."

"Yeah, well," Dean says. "It's not really our medium. Usually we draw them in blood."

"This stuff keeps the bad guys out, I get that." Peter isn't impressed with any of it, the art or the perimeter or the slightly exaggerated threat of casual gore. "What else does it do?"

"It gives us room to work," Sam says. "Look, I know you both feel responsible for this house, and you want to help. But it would be safer, not to mention easier for us to do our jobs, if you'd just... stand over there somewhere and be quiet. No offense."

"While you do what, exactly?" Neal asks. "It might be a little easier to trust you if you gave us a little more information. What happens next?"

Dean holds up his phone and grins. "Next," he says, "I use my superior knowledge of the spooky and arcane to make a couple long-distance calls."

~ ~ ~

Only Bobby's a dead-end, Rufus isn't picking up his phone, Crowley's dead, and Cas is too busy fighting with his brothers to answer when they call. After half an hour of getting exactly nowhere with their usual cheat codes, Sam fires up his laptop on a coffee table with an apologetic shrug and Dean kicks back on the sofa beside him, fishing Dad's journal out of his bags. It's not as useful as it used to be -- they've fought almost everything out there at least once at this point, and it's all down to demons and angels most of the time anyway. But there's always something in there that's interesting, if not actually helpful.

"Sam," he says, leaning in close to whisper. "Did you know there's a kind of vampire in Japan that sucks people's blood out through their --"

"Yes," Sam says shortly.

"That's disgusting," Dean tells him, delighted.

"That's why I never told you about it."

"Hey, after we're done with this gig, you wanna--"

"No!"

"You know what? You're why this job isn't any fun."

Sam ignores him, and keeps hitting buttons. Dean returns to his light reading. Across the room, Neal and Burke are arguing about an art gallery in Amsterdam that Neal either robbed or didn't rob before they ever met; it's clearly old territory, their voices settling into an easy rhythm that fills the silence without really breaking it. A few minutes or an hour later, Sam unfolds himself, flexes his shoulders, and flips the laptop screen around so Dean can see it.

"JoesMonsterWorld.com," Dean says. "Seriously?"

"I didn't name it."

"What am I looking at?"

"Maybe nothing," Sam tells him. "But maybe just what we're looking for. It says here that Joseph Mahrokhian, probably more a researcher than a hunter, tracked a series of paranormal hotspots around the globe back in the thirties, early forties. He died before he could figure out the source, but he thought it was probably some kind of cursed artifact. It acted like a homing beacon for spooks--"

"Kind of like what's going on here."

"Exactly like what's going on here. We just have to find out what it is."

"That's not going to be hard," Dean says, looking around. "We'll just paw through three floors and a city block of overpriced clutter till we find it. Shouldn't take more than a year or two if we get started right away."

"Or we could just ask the guy who lives here," Sam says reasonably.

"Ask him what?" Burke says from across the room, never missing a beat. "You found something?"

"We're looking for a cursed object." Sam passes the laptop to Burke, but keeps his eyes on Neal. "It would be something old, because this isn't the first time this has happened. Portable, because the hot spots move around. And something that just came into the house recently -- probably within the past couple of weeks. It doesn't take long for the activity to ramp up, if Mahrokhian knew what he was talking about."

"Something valuable," Dean finishes. "Somebody would have destroyed it long before now if it was just junk -- what?"

Burke closes the laptop, his face grim. He hands it back to Sam, and looks at Neal, suspicion and disappointment carving long lines around his mouth. "You didn't. Neal. Tell me you didn't do what I think you did."

Pale and still, Neal looks back at Burke. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Old. Portable. Valuable. And a recent acquisition. Gee, Neal. That sounds a lot like the music box to me. What do you think?"

"The music box is in St. Petersburg," Neal says softly.

It's as transparent a lie as Dean's ever heard; the guy's not even trying to sell it. "Dude. If you know what's causing all this, how about you haul it out here so we can knock this thing out and all of us go home?"

"The music box is supposed to be in St. Petersburg," Peter says to Neal, his voice sharp as a knife. "The Russians certainly think it's in St. Petersburg--"

"Peter."

"Neal, I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't lie to me right now. I'm asking as your friend."

"It's upstairs," Neal says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "There's a chest with a false bottom, back of the closet." He looks at Peter; his mouth is pressed into a thin white line. "Kate died because of that box. You knew I couldn't just let it go."

~ ~ ~

"Ug. Ly," Dean says, when Sam's got it downstairs and set up on the table. "With a capital Y." It's ornate and orange and topped with gold dancing babies; it's probably worth more than the house they're standing in.

"It belonged to Catherine the Great," Neal says distantly. "It's meant to be impressive, not beautiful."

"Is it the source of all this... stuff?" Burke asks.

Dean shrugs. "No clue."

"How can you not know? Isn't it your job to know?"

"Sometimes stuff glows, or moves around by itself--"

"Or tries to kill us," Sam offers helpfully.

"Without the usual signs, best we can do is smash it, set it on fire, and wait a few days. If nothing else turns up, we got it right."

"And if something does turn up?" Neal asks darkly. "What then?"

"Then we smash something else." Dean shrugs. "It's not an exact science."

"Peter," Neal says in a strangled voice. "You can't let them -- there has to be some other way."

"There is," a voice says from just over Dean's shoulder, low and rumbling with the wrath of Heaven and way too close for comfort. "I can help."

~ ~ ~

Burke has his gun cocked and ready almost as fast as Dean does; and it's just as useless. Dean lowers his, and risks his hand by pushing Burke's gun down, too. After a second of resistance, Burke lets himself be managed, but his eyes are huge and alert, all white edges.

"Cas," Dean says. "Nice of you to drop in. Eventually."

"I was in the midst of battle when I felt a very strong pull toward this location. I assumed you were either bored or in danger, so of course I came as quickly as I could."

"Nice coat," Neal says to Sam, his eyes wide. "Friend of yours?"

"Sort of. Mostly."

"Thank you, Sam," Cas says sincerely, and to Neal and Burke, "I come in peace. I mean you no harm."

"He learned diplomacy from the sci-fi channel," Dean says. "So later he may want you to take him to your leader. But he's okay. He's on our side."

"We have sides now?" Burke says, looking a little dazed.

"It's a long story."

"Aeons," Cas says. "May I examine the box?"

"Be our guest." Dean waves his hand at the coffee table. "Hey -- how did you get in here, anyway?"

"Your wards are imperfect. You left the bottom curve off the fifth sigil. You always do. It's the equivalent of a formal invitation."

"Don't look at me," Neal says, hands raised. "I'm just the forger."

"They like me," Castiel tells him with a faint smile. "I believe it is intentional."

Castiel holds his hands in a low curve over the music box. Dean's expecting fireworks, but the amber box just gives off a faint glow, like there's a light coming up from deep inside. It rises, about an inch off the coffee table, then settles back down gentle as a feather. The glow fades.

"Cursed," Dean says firmly, and Sam shoots him an amused look over Cas's bent head. "What? Those are the signs!"

"Not cursed," Castiel reports. "Blessed, I believe."

"Blessed? It brings bloody supernatural murder down on its owners because it's holy?"

"Think of it as a trap. It draws in the darkness," Cas says quietly, "that the light may banish it from the earth."

"Not a bad description, from what we've seen," Burke tells Neal. From the look on his face, he's not just talking about tonight.

"I'd like to take it with me. It can't stay here. Its power is too great to be contained, and I would rather not see it destroyed. I believe you feel the same," Castiel says to Neal. "I promise you, I can keep it safe."

Neal nods slowly. Peter puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, says something low into his ear that Dean can't quite make out. It brings Neal's shoulders up, makes him stand a little taller. "It was never mine anyway," he says.

~ ~ ~

Castiel's gone as fast as he popped up, like always. Neal and Burke handle it about as well as can be expected -- random dudes disapparating with your stuff is just weird at the best of times, which these aren't. Dean himself is jittering away inside, pumped up to fight or set things on fire and now denied all acceptable outlets for those instincts. The music box leaves a hole in the room when it vanishes, and the sense of waiting danger lurking in the shadows and the walls fades out around the empty space.

Neal looks as hollowed out as the room does. Since Dean met them, Burke has bounced through amused and worried and pissed off and he's gotten back to protective again now, hovering next to Neal like a shadow. There's an echo of familiarity in it, something Dean recognizes. When he looks over at Sam, Sam looks back, smiling. He recognizes it, too.

"So that's it," Neal says. "That's all it took? A guy in a trench coat with a weird voice waving his hands over it?"

Sam laughs. "Well, that guy was an --"

"Yeah," Dean interrupts. "That's all it took. It's not all rock salt and fire irons," he tells Neal, and Neal brightens up, smiles, like maybe he's going to find a way back to good.

"We'll want to stick around down here for the night," Sam says. "Just to be a hundred percent. But June can probably come back tomorrow, and we can get out of your way."

"Flip you for the sofa," Burke tells Sam, clapping him on the shoulder, and the two of them loom off together to start pulling sigils down off the walls.

"You okay?" Dean asks, not quite looking at Neal. "I only ask because for a while there--"

"He was talking about me and Kate." Neal shakes his head. "The box pulled us in. Me, Kate, Mozzie -- Fowler. Before it pulled in your crowd, it pulled in mine."

"Hey. I've seen dark, Caffrey. Believe me when I tell you, you're not even standing in the shade."

"You don't know me."

"Maybe not," Dean says. "But your buddy over there isn't the only good judge of character in the room." He looks at Sam, takes in the dark circles under his eyes, the fine white lines around his mouth that don't quite go away when he smiles. "Whatever it is you think you did, whoever it is you think you betrayed or let down," he tells Neal, "I don't know if it's Burke, or your Kate, or hell, maybe it's everybody. Whatever it is, you don't make it right with some crusade. You make it right by not doing it wrong next time."

"Sounds like the voice of experience," Neal says, following Dean's gaze to Sam. "What's he making up for?"

"Who knows?" Dean shrugs, eyes never leaving his brother. "Seems like it's always something, though."

~ ~ ~

They don't stay a week. Dean could set up housekeeping in the small apartment with the giant bathtub, and June's cook is someone Dean would like to someday marry, but there's just too much city out there -- too many walls, too much concrete. Just the thought of trading June's Bed & Breakfast for some Starlight Motel at the back of nowhere is heartbreaking, but Dean misses the road. He misses how loud and quiet it can get, and how it can sometimes wind his brother down. Sam's starting to get that look again, like he's already out on a new job, righting the wrongs of somebody not Sam.

June turns out to be a hard lady to say goodbye to. She hugs them both, and Emily steps forward to hug Sam, and then they start piling food into the car. It's like winning a crazy sandwich lottery. "You know there are grocery stores in middle America," Dean says finally, when the paper bags are all stowed in the back seat.

"Something tells me you boys don't see the inside of them very often." June eyes Sam critically, like he could stand to eat some healthy food and beef up some. Dean nearly strangles himself choking back a laugh. "Besides, you won't take money and you're not hurting for ammunition, so this is what I'm left with."

"Who says we won't take money?" Dean says, and gets an elbow in his ribs for the trouble. "What? We're drifters, and gas is almost four bucks a gallon."

"Dean--"

June smiles and leans in to kiss Dean's cheek, a waft of light perfume drifting in with her. "Check the glove compartment," she advises in a whisper. "Sam doesn't need to know."

"June, I think I love you."

"Then you'll have to come back and visit some time," she tells him firmly. "No need to wait for the ghosts."

Dean grins. He slings his duffel over his shoulder and heads around to drop it in the trunk. He's about to get behind the wheel when he catches sight of Neal coming down the steps to the street.

"Nice wheels," Neal says, standing back to get a good view of the car. "I'm a fan of the classics."

Dean liked him already, but his personal estimate of Neal's worth as a human being ticks up a notch, all the same. "Thanks. She takes good care of us." He shakes Neal's hand, glad he stuck around for the send-off. "I thought you were off fighting crime."

"Before nine? Please. I work for the government."

"You've got my number, right?"

"I've got it. You're more likely to need mine, though."

"I doubt Burke lets you off the leash long enough to forge IDs."

Neal smiles. "Who says he has to? I know people."

"You think about what I said," Dean tells him. "Okay? In my experience, your live friends need you way more than the dead ones do."

"I will," Neal says calmly. Dean looks at him, waits, and after a minute the shell cracks and Neal shakes his head, annoyed. "I will. I promise."

Satisfied, Dean gets into the car next to Sam. He leans out the window for a last shot. "And, hey. Tell Burke we said thanks for not arresting us. Now, or at any time in the future."

Neal smiles, waves, and shrinks in the rear view mirror as they pull out into traffic. Dean might call him sometime after all, just to keep in touch. He's not a bad kid.

"You really like Caffrey," Sam says, watching him from the passenger seat.

"No need to sound so surprised. I like a lot of people. I'm a friendly guy."

"But this guy, specifically. You bonded." Sam grins, eyes warm and amused. "It's cute. What's up with that?"

"He's a little short on perspective," Dean says, cutting Sam a sharp look before getting his eyes back on the road. "I tried to give him some. He reminds me of somebody, that's all. I wanted to help."

"Yeah?" Sam's voice is just a shade too casual. "Interesting. How'd that work out?"

"Still early days," Dean says, hiding a smile. "I'll let you know."

.end

~