A/N: Whoa. That took longer than expected. *iz sheepish* Big thank yous to my beta i-speak-tongue for saving the ending yet again, to Spidey for looking things over, to Wicked Rebel and sidjack for the nudges, and to Enkidu07 for becoming a PhD and making me feel classy and academic by association. Thanks too to SciFiRN for answering a billionty questions about rib injuries. Speaking of which, remember how I said Dean's rib was cracked? Pretend I said "broken." FYI, this ghost (minus the violence) is based on the ghost that supposedly haunts my family's cottage.

Cicadas, the smell of hay, a blindingly blue sky. A treeline. And just in past it, a couple of really big, squarish rocks.

Sam checks his compass and nods. "They figure that's part of the old house," he says, pointing.

Flushed and panting, his grey T-shirt gone damp under the arms, Dean braces his ribcage with both hands and sneezes twice.

"Great," he chokes out, snuffling and wiping his nose on the edge of his hand. The hike in was only forty minutes, and he's already gone through his entire supply of kleenex. "So, now what?"

"Now we hope Anne's open-minded," Sam says, shrugging off his backpack and dropping it onto the dirt path, "'cause it would normally be a bishop doing this."

Dean groans, rubs his inflamed nose. "You better not have dragged me out here for nothing."

"Dragged you out here?" Sam stops unbuckling his bag to shoot Dean an incredulous look. "I believe your exact words were, 'Sammy, don't leave me.'"

"I was high." Dean coughs drily into his fist, his other hand pressing his torso. He grunts afterwards, new sweat shining on his flushed face, and wraps both arms around his midsection.

Sam frowns. "You shoulda doped up this morning, too." He pulls something out of the bag. "I brought some, you know. It's not too late."

Dean looks at the flu meds like they're a miraculous last sausage hidden away at the back of the grill at a barbecue that's supposed to be sold out. He drags a hand across his forehead, then sniffles and shrugs. "You know that'll put me off my game."

Sam blinks. "'Cause you're so on your game right now."

"Yeah, well, no thanks." An awkward pause. Dean snorts back some snot, makes a face. "You, uh, got any kleenex in there?"

He just manages to catch the box that comes sailing at his head.

"I love you." He tears it open, fishes one out and blows his nose until the tissue is wet and distended. Sam doesn't comment, occupied with the contents of his bag.

"OK," Sam says, straightening up as Dean chucks kleenex number three into the long, dry grass. Sam has a feather in his hand, and a little bottle. "All you have to do is hang out, and send Anne good vibes. I'm gonna go do my thing."

"Your thing?" The tissue box is cornflower blue, dangling by Dean's hip. He sounds weary, defensive. "You need cover?" But he's coughing even as he asks, involuntary tears starting to leak down his face.

"We're here to give her what she wants. I doubt she's gonna make any trouble." Sam's eyes scan the ground and he spots a fallen log a few metres off, in the cool shade of the treeline. "Take a load off," he says, nodding toward it. He watches Dean turn to look at the log, hesitate, and then rub the back of his neck, press a hand against his nose like he's trying to ward off a sneeze.

"Ugh," Dean says, blowing out a breath. "Just don't do anything stupid, OK?" The sneeze catches up with him as he sits down, and brings a couple more with it, leaving Dean hissing, red-faced and groping for tissues. Sam watches for a second, then heads into the forest.

An eagle feather, from Native American burial customs. He uses it to carve a cross into the ground in each corner of the area he wants to consecrate. "I pray for those I love but no longer see," Sam recites, unscrewing the cap off the lavender oil. "Grant them peace, let perpetual light shine upon them, and in your loving wisdom, almighty God, please, take them." The lavender is meant to go directly onto the corpse, another Native tradition, but Sam figures this is better than nothing. He sprinkles some on the ground, into the sign of the cross.

"I pray for Anne," Sam says at the final corner. "Please. Take her. Let her rest. Give your blessing to this place, to sanctify it and keep it holy. I set it apart from all profane use to be a resting place for the remains of those who have departed. For Anne. Okay?"

He's not sure what he's waiting for, a breeze or an apparition or a deep-down tug of peace, but there's nothing. Sam hears a series of spluttering sneezes and shrugs, turns to find Dean.

"You gotta watch out for people, Sam."

"Huh?"

The path's narrow here, surrounded by pine. There are ferns on the ground, and wild strawberries.

"People." Dean sniffles, rubs his temple with the heel of his hand. "Lotta jerks out there. Bigots."

"Like the people who buried Anne," Sam hazards. He edges into the greenery, lets Dean catch up.

"Exactly." Dean reaches Sam and stops moving. His cheeks are glowing, and he's breathing hard. "Somebody's different, they're a target."

It has the tone of a lecture. Sam sighs tolerantly, wonders when Dean will figure out he's not eight anymore.

"Your psychic stuff, Sam. It makes you a target." Dean's gaze is fevered, unwavering. "Don't you forget it."

Sam's face heats up. He grinds his teeth, then manages, "Yeah, OK."

Dean watches him for another beat, then shakes his head, starts walking again. "I worry about you, kid."

Sam's still digesting this when Dean stumbles, then grunts and goes rigid, half bent over, both arms wound around his torso.

"Dean?" Sam hurries forward, sees his face has drained white.

Dean makes a vaguely affirmative sound, then straightens up in delicate increments. Sam grabs an elbow and waits for the color to come back.

"Damnit," Dean breathes. His eyebrows shoot up and he sneezes, pitches forward a lurching half-step. Sam goes for the second elbow and holds on tight.

Later, in the hot car, Dean dry-swallows Sam's pills and fast-forwards the tape, a determined frown on his face, like he's looking for a certain song.

"Some people are all right," Sam ventures.

Dean snuffles, shivers, presses play. "Not that many, Sam."

"Maybe not." A bug pings off the windshield. "But there's good people, man. Anne's fine, right? Why can't we be fine too?"

end