o()o

Author's Note: Holy shotgun sliging brothers batman! It's another chapter and it hasn't been six months. I was amazed at how many people stuck Obsideo on their alert list this time around. If only I could get your lurktastic readers to review! LoL!

Nifty Fact for the day: Believe it or not, Dean's ritual, in part, is based on honest to goodness stuff I scrounged up doing research for this story. I probably wouldn't try it at home however . . . you might end up a bunch of broccoli. :)

Ridiculously Long Translation of the Chapter: The incantation that Dean uses is in Latin and translates:
Animae de mortua, voco vos meum (Spirit of the dead, I call you to me)
Arcesso vos ex obscurum (I summon you out of darkness)
Arcesso vos transmaritanus de silenti (I summon you beyond the seas of silence)
Acresso vos harenae de aveus (I summon you through the sands of time)
Venio meum (Come to me)

o(18)o

Dean had done a lot of dumb things over the course of his life.

In fact, he had done enough of stupid things to be able to arrange them into categories. Neat little groupings to help organize his less-than-genius actions.

There was a category for leaping blindly into danger (his favorite), one for having too much to drink and doing something he regretted the following day, one for having too much to drink and doing someone he regretted he following day (by far the worst), one for stupid curiosities that had led to explosions, one for simple lack of common sense, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

But there was no category for what he was doing now. As far as stupid things went, he was pretty sure it was going to break the mold.

It's blinds drawn, doors locked and bolted, the house was silent, only the occasional grumble of thunder outside breaking the airless hush, a portent of the summer storm to come.

Errant crystals of salt crunched under Dean's boots as he stood in the middle of Bobby's dining room, surveying his handiwork.

Light from a single candle created flickering shadows on the walls and glinted off of the circle of rock salt that now graced the center of the floor. Surrounding the circle were dozens of intricate symbols, all inscribed in white chalk.

They had taken him over an hour to draw out, and while he wouldn't be illustrating the cover of a Led Zeppelin album anytime soon, the characters looked solid and accurate.

At his feet a heavy, leather-bound book displayed innards of ancient, yellowing, pages and faded ink.

To his left, the lone candle created a tiny pool of light that seemed far too fragile when compared to the darkness that surrounded it. To his right sat an earthenware bowl full of green and graying plants.

Kneeling in front of the book with a wince, Dean reached into his back pocket, and pulled out several sheets of crumpled notebook paper. He tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth them out before setting them down beside the larger tome.

His scribbled handwriting looked out of place next to the fastidious calligraphy, as out of place as he felt performing a ritual like this. Spells and incantations were Sammy's specialty and Dean would have happily traded all this mystical crap for one sawed-off loaded with rock salt.

The sawed-off wouldn't get him the answers he wanted though.

He didn't like to think of that night by the river and the fractured half-memories, half-hallucinations that had come along with it, but something had happened there. It had taken a lot of late-night research, a lot little white lies and a handful of real whoppers, but using information that neither Sam nor Bobby knew, he had puzzled together what neither of them could.

It had a hundred names in a hundred different languages, but they all boiled down to one simple, grim, meaning.

Hitchhiker.

Closing his eyes, Dean blew out a breath. Ready or not, and there was precious little time before Sam and Bobby returned from their errands in town.

Holding his notes flat with one hand, his injured arm still secured to his side, Dean took a deep breath began to read.

"Phasma de mortua, voco vos meum"

The Latin that came so easily to his brother felt heavy on his tongue, and he took care with each word. It wasn't likely that a mispronunciation would turn him into a bunch of broccoli, but he wasn't about to take any chances.

In his hunt to translate this ritual, he had unearthed a startling number of instances in which it had gone wrong. The results ranged from merely ugly, to what was left the unlucky conjurer being enough to fill a few zip-lock baggies.

"Arcesso vos ex obscurum."

He dipped a hand into the bowl, crushing Wormwood leaves and fragrant Amaranth buds between his fingertips. It was a pleasant smell, one that might have made a nice aftershave.

Well, if it weren't designed to raise the dead.

Tamping down the mental image of Resurrection cologne, he sprinkled the herbs over the candle. The leaves and buds shriveled and blackened under the orange flame and the room filled with heady gray smoke.

A dazzling, soundless, flash of lighting burst through the house, and Dean jumped swearing. He then looked around, chagrined.

"Arcesso vos transmaritanus de silenti"

The rain finally began, hammering against the windows. The previously muted thunder crashed loud enough to rattle the panes of glass.

The storm had arrived.

"Arcesso vos per harenae de aveus."

Hushed whispers intermingled with his lower voice; Dean turned at the sound and caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Inside the circle of salt, there was a distortion of the air as though it were touched by some flameless heat.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Gooseflesh swept over Dean's skin like icy ocean waves.

"Venio meum."

There was a deafening crash of thunder and he found himself staring down into black-ringed eyes where moments ago there had been nothing.

"Phasma de mortura . . . Phasma . . ."

Dean stumbled over the invocation and stopped, staring back. "Son of a bitch."

The ghost didn't move, crouched inside the ring of salt and Dean watched it warily, waiting for the susurrus it caused to fill his head until there was no room for anything but noise and pain. Instead, the whispers tapered off to a tolerable hiss, the sound ebbing and rising like ocean waves.

It looked like dozens of spirits he had encountered before: tattered, bloodied, still showing signs of whatever violence had created it. If he were completely honest, as far as ghosts went, this one was one of the tamer ones. It still had all its body parts anyway.

But when it stared up at him, its pale hands splayed against the floor, Dean had to forcibly quash the shiver that was trying to skitter up his spine.

Creepy-ass bastard.

"So," he said forcing away feeling, shutting the book with a snap. "I think it's time you and I had a long talk."

o()o

Sam banged through the door a little past midnight.

"It's pouring out there!"

Shaking the rain from his hair, he dropped his armload of bags and looked into the living room, searching for his brother. But, Dean was nowhere to be seen, his heap of blankets and Atari controller abandoned on the couch.

"Dean?"

Only silence greeted his call.

"Dean, you here?"

Still, no answer. The house was shadowy, quiet, and an odd smell hung in the air.

Sam huffed, shaking his head. "Dude, have you been smoking? You know it didn't turn out so great for you when you were twelve, and I'm pretty sure . . ." He stopped, spying a familiar silhouette. "Hey."

"Hey." Dean didn't move, didn't even turn to look his way. "Where's Bobby?"

"He ran into a friend at the bar, said he'd catch a ride back and sent me home with the groceries. I think they're going to be there for a while."

"Good."

"There wasn't a signal where we were," he offered, frowning at his brother's tone, "otherwise I would have called to let you know I was going to be late."

"Yeah, that would've been nice," Dean agreed dryly. "We were getting a little worried."

"We?" Sam asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Dean finally moved, turning his head and glancing to his left.

Following his brother's gaze, Sam felt his heart freeze in his chest.

There was a wide circle of salt on the floor of the dining room. Inside, surrounded by dozens of chalk symbols hunkered a ghost.

Its dark eyes were ringed with darker black, creating disfigured shadows and angles on its face, blood matted in long tangles of hair and stained shredded, dirty, clothing.

. "Gah!" Sam lurched backward, away from the grisly sight

Dean chuffed humorlessly. "You've sure got a way with words Sammy."

Blood rushed to Sam's face, half from surprise, and half from his reaction. "Dean what the hell?"

"The flying objects, breaking mirrors, all the crap that's been happening around here. It's been Casper the pain-in-the-ass ghost here trying to get my attention."

Sam stared at the specter, openmouthed. "What's it doing here?"

Dean shrugged, losing some of his cocky demeanor, and remained silent.

Sam felt his eyes go wide. His brother wouldn't have . . . he couldn't have . . . there was no way . . .

Oh God.

"You conjured it?" Sam's voice rose, keeping pace with his flaring temper. "You conjured this thing?? Dean!"

"Well, I was trying to order a pizza," Dean shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "I guess I got the wrong number."

"That's not funny."

"Come on, It's a little funny."

"No," Sam gestured angrily, "it's not! You can't just screw around with crap like this. It's stupid and it's dangerous."

Dean's eyes narrowed and Sam knew his big brother's patience was reaching an end. "Well, I did, Sam. So get over it."

"Get over it?" Sam's arm was beginning to tingle with the urge to strike out at his brother, and he clenched his hand into a fist. Wounded or not, he was going to beat the crap out of Dean for being such an idiot.

Dean glanced down at the fist and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, get over it, Sammy."

"And do what? Wait for you to do something like this again and get yourself killed?" He opened his arms wide, in an irate gesture. "Because that's what's going to happen, Dean. And Dad isn't around to sell his soul for you this time."

He heard Dean suck in a breath and then silence reigned supreme.

Sam took a step back, appalled by what he had said, and his arms fell to his sides, bravado gone. "Dean, I--"

Dean swallowed hard and looked away. "Shut up, Sam."

"Dean."

"Shut. Up. Sam."

Sam nodded meekly, his anger flushed away by guilt. "Did you find out what it's doing here?" he asked quietly turning to look at the ghost.

"Nope." Dean's reply was clipped, frustrated.

"Why not?"

The question was directed toward his brother, but the ghost answered instead. Face distorting like some macabre funhouse mirror, it opened its mouth revealing emptiness. Teeth, tongue, gums: everything was missing, replaced with an expanse of clotted darkness.

Sam stared. "What the hell? Dean . . . Dean?"

Dean's eyes were screwed shut, brows furrowed, a hand mashed against his forehead. His entire body was rigid, thrumming.

"Enough already," he gritted out.

The ghost closed its mouth and Dean groaned, some of the tension leaving him. "It can't tell us a damn thing and I don't know what to do with it now."

"I've got a tin of rock salt and a lighter that says otherwise."

"And what the hell am I going to burn, Sam?"

"Oh," Sam shook his head, eyebrows lifting. He was suddenly very, very glad he was not his brother. "Bobby is going to kill you."

o()o