Chapter 1

It's just an old lady. An elderly woman who's been haunting a derelict house somewhere in Missouri for maybe the last fifty years, though you never can tell with old people. She might have had that housedress in her closet all this time.

But she's got moves. Like she's been at this more than a few years, winks out just as Sam swings the fire iron he found rusting by the dusty fireplace. Dean watches as Sam slices through thin air, then he swings around, salt-loaded sawed-off clutched in sweat-slick hands.

"There," Sam yells, and then grunts. "Shit, Dean. Look out." There's panic in his voice, too much panic, then a blur, like an arrow coming at him, a translucent old lady with a manic expression on her face behind it.

Fire rips through Dean's thigh, tears a gasp from his throat, and the impact knocks him to the floor. Wet warmth spreads out over his jeans and he wonders, briefly, if he's pissed himself. But there's just enough light in here to see the blood, spreading quick—too quick—in a dark stain over the denim where Sam's rusty fire iron pierces his thigh. "Oh, shit," he says, because he's not stupid. "Sam." He reaches out for his brother, all thoughts of the ghost gone from his mind. "Sammy."

Sam stumbles to the floor, too big, too tall, to do anything so graceful as a fluid crouch. There's panic on his face as his eyes skip over Dean's crumpled body, his hands reaching out to surround the slim column of metal sticking out of Dean's leg. "No, no, no," he chants, then puts pressure on the wound.

Dean screams in pain and blood bubbles up, pours over Sam's fingers. "It's too late," he croaks. "Sammy, it's too late."

The panic turns to horror on Sam's face. He shakes his head. "I can't—"

Jo died like this, or she would have if they hadn't blown her up first. "You can," he says. "You have to."

Sam's face screws up and it's weird how all Dean sees when Sammy cries is a fourteen year old kid who doesn't fit in. "Come here, you big crybaby." His words are slurring already, but he takes a hold of Sam's jacket with weak fingers, and holds on. "I love you, Sammy," he mumbles into Sam's massive, warm chest, gasps in his last chance at inhaling Sam's scent. It's cheap soap and gun oil and worn cotton and Dean breathes it in like it might save his life. "You get her for me, Sammy. You get the bitch."

Sam pulls back. His face is streaked with tears. He nods. "I love you, too," he says, then lifts the sawed-off from the floor where it fell and swings around, roaring all his pain and grief into the room. Dean sees him get off one shot, sees the ghost swirl into nothing, before everything goes black.

---

He's cold. He curls in on himself before he's really aware, feels stiff, as if he's been lying in the same position too long.

Then his eyes snap open as his death comes flooding back.

The ceiling is the same as a thousand other motel ceilings. Greying fiber tiles, a spreading patch of damp, the faint bootprint of the guy who installed them probably fifty years ago. "Sam," he growls, trying, failing to keep the anger out of his voice. "Sam, what did you do?"

"Dean?" Sam appears, like he's been sitting at the foot of the bed Dean's lying on. "Dean, it's okay." His face is open, his eyes are wide, and he's staring like he doesn't believe it himself.

Dean pushes himself up. His joints protest, but there's no pain, he's just stiff. His upper thigh feels tight, like it's wrapped, bandaged beneath the clean, intact pair of jeans he's wearing. "What the hell did you do, Sam?" He slides his hand over his thigh, feels the edge of the bandage beneath the denim. His hand looks pale, almost grey, fingernails blanched almost white. "I was done for. We were way out in the sticks, there's no way you got me to the hospital in time." His head snaps up. "I was dead, Sam. Don't lie to me and tell me I wasn't."

"I won't," Sam says.

Dean presses his lips together tight, breathes in and out, slow and noisy, through his nose. The air feels warm. He shivers and sighs. "When is this going to stop, Sam? Are we just going to keep bringing each other back to life until we're in the old hunter's home? I have a heart attack in my rocking chair and you make a deal to get it pumping again?"

"No deals," Sam says.

"Whatever." Dean swings his legs off the edge of the bed, bends his knees a few times. It feels like they've seized. How long was he out? "I was dead, now I'm alive—"

"You're not." Sam rises carefully from the chair at the end of the bed, half-crouches in front of Dean. "No angels, so no—" He presses two fingers gently to Dean's forehead. "And the demons are gone, too, so no deals. You're still dead, Dean. Just..." His eyes flick to the ceiling, like he's looking for guidance. "Conscious."

"Huh," Dean says. "Funny, 'cause I don't remember Hell being this stupid." He cocks his head to the side. "Heaven, maybe, but that would mean—"

"You're not in Heaven." Sam shrugs. "Louisiana."

Dean blinks. "Hoodoo?" He chokes and coughs. His hand flies to his chest, and then he can't remember if he could feel his own heart beating before. His fingers search out a pulse in his wrist, and find nothing. "I'm— Oh god. I'm a zombie."

Sam reaches out, drags Dean's hand away, wraps his own hands around Dean's wrists. "You're not a zombie, Dean, you're just on hold for a little while. It's just giving us some time to get this figured out."

"Don't kid yourself, Sam. How much do you trust the guy who did this? How long before I get the urge to munch on some brains? I'm a ticking time bomb and you know it. Are you even going to have the balls to finish it when it happens?"

Sam drops one of Dean's arms, reaches behind him. He pulls a pistol out of the back of his jeans, lies it on his knee with a loose grip. He drops his eyes down. "I trust the guy, yeah. Made damn sure he thought I'd come after him if something went wrong. But just in case."

Dean takes the gun out of Sam's hand, checks the clip, then slides it back in. "Do I even want to ask why there's only two rounds in this gun, Sam?"

Sam shakes his head, slow. "One for you. And one for me." He looks away, stares at the wall. He looks like he's blinking back tears. "But that won't happen." He looks back at Dean. His eyes are wet. "You're here. That's all that matters right now." He takes the gun back off Dean and slides it into the back of his jeans. "And we've got work to do."

---

"I can't believe you didn't finish her off." Dean flexes his fists as he turns the steering wheel with the heels of his hands. "You drove through two states and left the job behind?"

Sam stares out the window as they cross yet another state line. "I had other things on my mind." He glances up, eyes on Dean's hands. "If you don't want to dig, Dean, just say it."

Dean shakes his head. "Bit stiff is all. Doesn't hurt." He shakes his hands out, one at a time. It's possible he was completely in rigor by the time Sam got him to the hoodoo guy. "It'll ease up, right?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He doesn't sound completely convinced himself. "Yeah, I'm sure it will."

---

Hours driving, and six foot into the ground, and Dean's hands aren't just stiff, they're cold. The chill goes right into his bones. He watches Sam salt the bones, pour on the lighter fluid, then passes him the lighter. There's no way he's going to be able to strike it. He shoves his hands into his jacket, puts them underneath his arms, but it doesn't help.

Once the bones are burning, he sits down on the edge of the grave, holds them out to warm them over the flames. "That should have been me, Sammy," he says. "Hunter's funeral, little brother." He lifts his head, looks up at Sam towering over him. "Am I out there somewhere? Ghost-Dean, haunting that old lady's house until I go batshit? All because you didn't do what you should have done."

Sam shakes his head. "You're here. Your spirit's been bound to your body."

Dean blinks. Then he pulls himself up, and slowly gets in Sam's face. He doesn't care that Sam's so much taller, he lifts his chin and glares. "I'm a ghost?" he says. "Am I getting this right, Sam? I'm a ghost, wearing my own meat suit?"

Sam bites his lip and closes his eyes. His head drops, a fraction of an inch in a reluctant nod. "It's temporary, Dean. Until we find another way."

"And if we don't? I'm just going to live out my entire lack of life like this?"

This time Sam shakes his head. "It's a limited time offer. The magic won't last forever. You might be able to consciously hold on a little bit longer, but eventually you won't be able to."

"And then what, Sammy? Then what happens to me?"

"You'll move on. Or you won't. If it comes to that, I swear to god, Dean. I'm coming with you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The gun tucked into the back of Sam's jeans is loaded with only two bullets.

Sam shakes his head and looks away. "I'm not doing this without you."

Dean swallows. His throat is dry. "How long have we got?"

"A month," Sam says, still looking off into the darkness.