Okay, so maybe Sam's been bumping into furniture more often than not lately, but he can't stand this feeling of uselessness, even though it's always been an old friend of his.

So he looks.

He looks and looks for a case that isn't too hard, but also isn't something they can just ignore. It takes days of mind-numbing research, website after website, keyword after keyword before he finally finds something of interest. But he has to be careful about his approach, because not only is Dean worried about him, but he's also worried about the injured angel camping out on the bunker's couch. Sam's hoping that his brother will get off his high-horse and admit he's worried for Cas, but he won't hold his breath. Instead, he watches the two dance around each other for what feels like the thousandth time, which it probably is.

"I think I found a case," Sam casually brings up after dinner, when Dean's most content with a full belly and a couple beers.

Dean stops washing the dishes to look at him. Since when does Dean Winchester do dishes? (If Sam wasn't so young at the time, he'd remember his older brother doing the dishes after cooking them a hot dog and mac-and-cheese dinner while their father was out killing the monsters under their bed). Domestic life has stuck itself to Dean, and Sam hopes that one day, it won't have to be ripped off. Sam hopes that his brother gets to keep his gun-decorated bedroom, and his water pressure, and yes, even his dirty dishes.

"Sammy, man," Dean says as he tosses the wet dish rag aside. "We've talked about this. You can't even walk straight and now Cas is lurking around here somewhere too. If anything, you need to be saving your strength while I keep looking for Kevin, and then we can do the third trial, whatever the hell it may be."

"I know – I know. It's just... There's a case in Florida, there's been a string of suicides in one town."

Dean leans his back against the sink, so he can face Sam at the table. That's how Sam knows that Dean is listening to him, even though his tone is admonishing. "No offense, Sam, but Florida is full of angsty spring break teenagers and people who wrestle alligators for a living. Suicides don't sound like a hunt; they sound like one more F-you from the big man upstairs."

Sam doesn't let this deter him; he knew going into this that Dean was going to fight him. "In Shepherdsville, there's been a suicide every few days for weeks, and all of them are connected in some way. You're right, it could be nothing, but the way I see it, the worst case scenario is we end up spending a couple days at the beach to recharge our batteries... I can't take being cooped up in here anymore."

Dean doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he stares at Sam for a long hard moment. This gives Sam more hope than he's had since they first started the trials.

Finally, Dean responds, "Okay."

"Okay?" Sam can't keep the smile off his face.

"Yeah," Dean nods as he turns back around, picking up the rag and continuing the dishes. "Let me finish this and we can start packing. But if at any point – and I mean any point – I think this is more than you can handle, we're turning around and hightailing it back here. Capeesh?"

"Capeesh," Sam laughs. "Thanks, Dean." And he means it. Not just for the hunt, but for always taking care of him. If only Sam could find a way to put that into words.

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam smirks at Dean's blatant dismissal of affection. Not wanting to waste any more time than necessary, Sam heads back to his room to start packing. And maybe take a nap.

Yeah, a nap sounds good.

——————-

As they drive further and further south, the air gets warmer and warmer. The clear skies and sunshine soothe the bone-deep aches that constantly plague Sam nowadays. Sunshine really is the best medicine

Once the latest Metallica song finishes, Dean turns off the radio and rolls his window down. "We're about an hour out, so go ahead and catch me up to speed."

Sam nods, pulling out the manilla folder he had compiled before they left the bunker last night. He flips it open to the first article. "Okay, the first vic was David Sommers, a retired soldier from Afghanistan. According to the paper he suffered from extreme PTSD. His wife said that he had been both looking and feeling better, but then a few days later she came home to his head splattered on the ceiling."

"So, we talk to the wife first? See what kinda vibes he was giving off before he, ya know..." Dean trails off, waving his hand in the air.

"Actually, we can't. Stephanie Sommers is vic number two. She hung herself a few days after her husband died. And the pattern continues like that through a chain of friends and family for a total of seven suicides. The last one was yesterday morning, which means we have a couple days to find this thing before someone else dies."

"Okay... What are we thinking? A ghost of someone who committed suicide, jumping from person to person?"

Sam nods, shifting in his seat. He can never seem to get comfortable. "Uh, yeah, it's possible. It could be similar to that fallen soldier case we worked a few months back."

"The one with the coin? Brought out people's grudges?"

Sam notices that he doesn't bring up the resulting cannon fodder of that case, but he doesn't comment on it. "Yeah, that one."

Dean takes another glance at Sam. "Okay, so then we'll start by looking into the Sommers, see if they knew anyone who passed away recently."

"Yeah." Sam's quiet for a moment before he decides to try his luck. "We could split up, one of us talks to Sommers, one of us goes to the local precinct, talk to the officers who handled all the cases."

"No offense Sammy—"

"It's Sam," he corrects, but Dean continues without missing a beat.

"—But I'm not letting you out of my sight during this whole case, or whatever this is. Got it?"

Sam looks out the window at the passing trees as he sighs. "Got it."

"Good, cause we're almost there. Navigate me the rest of the way, Kirk."

"Dude," Sam laughs, "you know Kirk is the captain, right?"

Dean frowns and tries to come up with a witty cover-up, but now that Sam's aware of the mix-up, he doesn't let Dean live it down. In between directions, Sam lists off different Star Trek characters for Dean to place, which he fails horribly at. Normally, teasing like this would piss Dean off, but right now he lets it slide. Neither of them have had this much energy in weeks. It's refreshing.

They pull into the parking lot of a decent looking motel for once. Having the bunker reduced their spending by almost half, so now they're able to splurge a bit. Sam waits in the Impala while Dean checks them in. Neither of them speak while Dean comes back out and moves the car closer to their room. Dean grabs the bags from the trunk before Sam gets the chance. With Dean hogging their stuff, Sam decides to head up to the room.

It's definitely a step-up from their old fifty bucks a night stay, but it's no five-star lodge either. It's... quaint, Sam thinks. It's the only word that fits the pale green walls and cream-colored sheets. He claims the bed by the window for himself, perks of getting to the room first. The view isn't of a dumpster but instead a nice sit-down restaurant next to the motel. It looks like some sort of steak house. Maybe he could convince Dean to try it out later.

Speaking of which, the man himself kicks his way into the room, hauling four large duffel bags in his arms. One for him, one for Sam, and two with standard hunting equipment. 'Equipment' being a fancy word for weapons.

"Hey man, I want the window bed." Dean complains as he drops the heavy bags onto the nearest bed.

Sam laughs. "Sorry dude. Ya snooze ya loose."

Dean grumbles to himself, but even he can't argue with such age-old wisdom. It's pointless to unpack the bags other than the snacks because the hunter lifestyle forces them to stay alert and ready to retreat at any moment. They only spend a few minutes in the room meandering before restlessness gets the best of them.

"Ready?" Dean prods, as if he even needs to ask. Instead of a reply, Sam simply pulls one of his suits out of his bag and heads into the bathroom.

It must be fate that the hotel they pick is only a few minutes away from the Sommers' home. With both David and Stephanie dead, that leaves only their son, Nathan, alive enough to actually answer their questions. The house itself is unremarkable, a two-story suburban home with red brick, a cookie cut-out of the American dream. The driveway is full of cars, so they're forced to park the impala on the side of the road.

As soon as he steps out, the Florida heat bears down on Sam. He wishes, and not for the first time, that FBI agents didn't feel the need to dress so professionally. He tugs at his collar, fruitlessly trying to take the edge off. Dean eyes him as he comes around the impala, but he thankfully doesn't comment. They make eye-contact and nod, heading up towards the house.

Dean rings the doorbell and knocks on the beige door once, twice, and a third time before stepping back. Sam hears a slight shuffle and a murmur of voices behind the door before it opens, revealing a sandy-haired young man in his twenties. Freckles adorn his cheekbones and green eyes widen when they land on the Winchesters.

"Can I help you?"

"Nathan Sommers? I'm Agent Prine and this is my partner, Agent Walters," Dean introduces as they both flash their fake badges and smiles. "We'd like to speak with you regarding your parents."

At the mention of his parents, Nathan's face loses its sun-kissed pallor. "My parents? I'm not sure what you want to talk about, they both... well, they took their own lives, if that's what you're here for."

Sam steps in this time, "We understand, Mr. Sommers, we just have some routine questions when it comes to a double suicide like this. Cross our 't's and dot our 'i's, so to speak."

Nathan nods, but Sam doesn't think he actually registers anything. After what he's been through, who can blame him? He turns his head to look back in his house and then faces them again. "I actually have some company now, but I don't think it should be a problem. Come on in," Nathan says as he steps back, opening the door wide in invitation. Both Dean and Sam nod as they enter, following the hallway and the subsequent murmurs that come with it.

The hallway opens into a normal looking living room with two couches and a coffee table with a tv hanging on the wall. What catches Sam's attention, however, are the very much not-normal looking guests sitting together on one of the couches. Their black clothing and white collars, along with the gothic style cross on their chests outs them as priests, not that they look like any priest Sam has ever seen before.

The one on the left is Asian, with pale skin and long black hair that almost looks blue in the room's lighting. His arms are crossed, and his eyes are sizing Sam and Dean up just as intensely as they are him. The one on the right is young, teenager young, and has white hair. Sam doesn't want to know how much processing it must've gone through to get that pure of a tone. Sam's hackles are raised, and he imagines that Dean's are too.

"Agents, this is Father Kanda and Father Allen. We were discussing my parents'... services."

Kanda remains unmoving, but Allen stands up when introduced. He holds out a gloved hand and smiles. "It's nice to meet you, Gentlemen."

Sam smiles in return and takes the offered hand. "Likewise." They break away and despite his instincts telling him otherwise, Sam turns away from the priests to look at Nathan. "If this is a bad time, we can come back la--"

"Nonsense," Allen says, cutting him off. "We were wrapping things up anyways, we'll get out of your hair." Kanda rises as well but remains silent. As they step around the coffee table to leave, Allen grabs Nathan's hand and holds it between his own. "We can finish up the details later. If you need anything, you know where to find us."

Nathan smiles appreciatively and thanks them. Allen nods in Sam and Dean's direction and then they're gone. The Winchester's take the recently vacated seats and Nathan sits down across from them on the other couch.

"So, Agents," Nathan says, rubbing the fabric of his jeans. "What do you want to know?"

Dean doesn't bother with small talk and jumps straight to the point. "Your father, David, he took his life first, correct? Did he have any history of suicidal thoughts or attempts before this?"

"Yeah, Dad is -- was -- a veteran. He was diagnosed with PTSD shortly after he came home from service. He went to therapy, had support groups, and he was doing fine for several years. A few days before he... before his death, he started having nightmares again out of nowhere. I don't know what triggered them, but I assume they're why he did what he did."

"Other than the nightmares, was he acting out of the ordinary?"

"Like what?"

"Was he hearing or seeing things, for instance?"

If Nathan is surprised or offended by the question, he doesn't show it. He simply shakes his head. "No, his PTSD was never strong enough that he had hallucinations or anything like that. He did seem tired though. Exhausted, even."

"And your mother, Stephanie?" Sam asks, coughing into his elbow. He deliberately looks away from the tiny dark stains that liter the fabric. He can feel Dean's gaze boring into him nonetheless.

Nathan shrugs. "A broken heart, I suppose. Losing Dad the way she did, I just don't think she could handle it. It seemed like his nightmares passed on to her until she too..." he trails off, unable to admit what's transpired.

"We understand," Sam continues for him. "And we're very sorry for your loss."

When silence begins to fill the room, Dean steps back in. "And your mother, did she act strange at all?"

Finally, an expression other than dazed grief stretches over Nathan's face. He scoffs. "Is there any 'normal' way to behave when your husband of almost thirty years takes his own life?"

Thoroughly chided, Sam and Dean share a sheepish look. Dean clears his throat and stands. "Well, thank you for your time Mr. Sommers, we greatly appreciate it. Do you mind if we take a quick look around before we go? Protocol and all that."

Nathan shakes his head. "No, go ahead. I haven't... erm - no one's been in my parents' room since they died, so nothing's been touched."

Mr. and Mrs. Sommers' bedroom is unremarkably plain. A bed, two nightstands, and a dresser with a tv on it make up the furniture. There's some jewelry, chargers, and a wallet by the bed. They check for sulfur, any EMF readings, or any supernatural items, but they find nothing. Nathan is waiting for them in the living room.

"Thanks again. And, if you remember anything you think we should know, give us a call." Dean hands Nathan a business card with one of their burner phone numbers on it.

Sam gives Nathan one final courtesy nod and a, "We'll be in touch," before stepping past the door. The brothers make their way to the impala in silence.

It isn't until they're halfway down the street that Dean speaks first. "The grey mustang that was in the driveway was gone. I guess that means it was the priests'."

Sam frowns. "A mustang? For priests? That seems..."

"Freaky, right? And did you see how young Snow White was? He should be getting picked on in gym class, not preaching the good word. Yeah, there's no way those two are priests. Ordained, anyway."

"So, if not priests, then what? They can't be hunters, like you said, serial suicides aren't that uncommon. I had to literally beg you to come investigate."

Dean scoffed. "I still haven't decided if there's anything here worth investigating yet."

"That's exactly my point," Sam stresses. He half turns in the passenger seat so that he's facing his brother. "If there's nothing to hunt, then there's no hunters."

Dean tries and fails to keep the worry off his face. "Well by the sounds of it, they'll at least be in town for the parents' service, so we have a couple of days to figure... whatever this is out." Sam hums in agreement as they pull out of the subdivision.

"While this case is certainly an interesting one, I don't see why you boys are here. The cause of death for all of them has been ruled suicide."

Dean smiles, "We understand that, Officer Grayson, but with the sheer quantity of connected deaths, we believe it's in everyone's best interests for us to look into it."

Shepherdsville's precinct is just as simple as the rest of the town. A small, two story building made up of tan walls and old desks with even older computers on top, it reveals how little disturbances this town is used to. If there were high crime rates here, then there would definitely be a need to upgrade from the slightly rusted file cabinets and old cookout fliers along the walls. This makes the recent death toll look even more out of place and suspicious.

Officer Grayson is an older officer, the prime of his career coming to a close as the beginnings of a beer belly distends the shirt of his navy uniform. His salt and pepper hair don't do his aging appearance any favors either. "Listen, gents," he says, eyes roaming around the floor as he leans closer to them. "We don't get a lot of excitement here -- the occasional break-in or overdose, some kids spraying graffiti down mainstreet. A lot of good folks have died and something like this... well... let's just say people probably won't appreciate you sniffing around and making it seem like it's something to worry about. Something about people taking their own lives sets others on edge."

And Sam understands. In small towns like these, mental health is something that's swept under the rug, skeletons to be stuffed in the closet so that they don't ruin the family's reputation. If there is something here (and every fiber of Sam's hunter instincts screams wrong), then they'll have to tread carefully, otherwise they'll be run out of town long before they can figure out what's going on.

Sam coughs into his handkerchief as Dean continues the conversation. "We appreciate the concern, Officer. All the more reason for us to finish our investigation a.s.a.p." He grabs the box of case files off the nearby table. "We'll let you know if we find anything."

Grayson bids them farewell as they leave the station. Dean loads the files into the backseat while Sam gets into the impala. As soon as the door shuts, he sheds the suit jacket and loosens his tie, the summer heat making him woozy. He's surprised when Dean doesn't say anything when he sits beside him. Instead, they ride the short distance back to the hotel in silence.

They head into their room and Sam immediately swaps the suit out for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, preparing himself for a long night of research. As he steps out of the bathroom, he barely catches the projectile thrown at him. The familiar shape and weight of it registers in Sam's head before he's even looked at it.

"Gatorade?"

"Yeah, dude," Dean looks offended at the question. "You need the electrolytes and sugar for all the sweating you're doing. And don't think I haven't noticed your coughing. You need a nap."

Sleep sounds... sleep sounds beautiful right about now, but decades of bickering are hard to shake, even when he knows his brother is right. "A nap? I'm not a little kid, Dean. I'm fine."

"Sleep, Sam, or no nerdy case files or research for you. I meant what I said earlier at the bunker, I'm watching you like a hawk this entire case. Now stop arguing and just rest, would you? You look like a zombie."

"Wow, Dean, that just hurts my feelings. I thought you said I was beautiful." As he says this, his bed calls to him and he can't resist the pull. He doesn't even make it under the covers before he's out like a light.

Filtering through the gap in the curtains, sunlight is what finally rouses Sam. It takes a moment to get his bearings. His ever present headache is still there, as well as the tickle in the back of his throat and the tightness of his chest – all tolls of the trials he's undertaken. Apparently a nap meant sleeping through till the next morning, if the stiffness of his muscles is anything to go by. As he sits up, he notices that his brother is missing.

Taking advantage of the silence, Sam heads to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth. The several hour long drive and the heat from yesterday has led to a layer of grime on his skin that he is all too happy to get rid of by hopping in the shower.

The heat does wonders for his aching limbs, and he ends up staying under the water far longer than originally intended.

"You okay in there, Sleeping Beauty? You didn't pass out on me or anything, right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam shouts over the roar of the water.

"Well hurry up, breakfast is waiting."

Not needing to be told twice, Sam shuts off the water and grabs a nearby towel. After drying off, he slips into a fresh set of clothes and leaves the bathroom. Steam billows in his wake, sweeping into the hotel room.

Dean is standing next to the tv, pulling breakfast sandwiches out of a to-go bag, no doubt from a local diner. He doesn't even turn his head to look as he holds one out. Sam takes the offering, mumbling his thanks as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed.

They eat in relative silence until Sam speaks around the last bite of his food. "What did I miss?"

Taking an obscenely large gulp of his soda, Dean tosses his wrapper in the trash can next to the door. He misses by an inch. Scoffing, he turns around and grabs the folders from the box. "Not much. Like you said earlier, all the vic's knew each other, and they each killed themselves only a few days after the one before. The only thing of note is that it sounds like all of them had nightmares right before they died."

"That's not that weird, considering they all..." Sam trails off.

"Bit the bullet? Yeah."

Sam frowns. "They all shot themselves?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"Cause you just — never mind." Sam gets up from the bed to grab the files from his brother. To his credit, Dean only jerks them out of his hand twice before relinquishing them. A testament to how worried he is for Sam's health. Otherwise, he would've made him promise a trip for pie first.

Sorting through the files takes hours. The suicides start with the Sommers, first the husband and then the wife, then the wife's friend a few days later, followed by the friend's neighbor, and the list continues. It isn't clear how the vics are chosen, only that they knew the recently deceased. The methods varied as well. Firearms, hangings, and a few nose dives off roofs, so that proves unfruitful as well. The only continuity is that everyone mentions having nightmares leading up to their death, and they all died three days apart. If the cycle continues, that means that there will be another suicide tomorrow.

But they still have no clue what they were dealing with. If they're dealing with anything at all.

"So, what's cooking in that big brain of yours, Sammy?"

"Honestly?" Sam asks, tossing the files on the table and rubbing the dryness out of his eyes. "Nothing. I'd say we should start talking to the families one by one, follow the trail, but..."

Dean frowns. "...But we don't have enough time?"

"Exactly."

"Well then," Dean starts, heaving off the edge of his bed. "Then I say we cut to the chase and talk to the latest dearly departed."

Sam scrambles through the papers until he finds it. "Uh... Savannah Harris. Her parents were the ones who found her. They live across town."

"Alright. Let's roll."

"Savannah had a break from her classes, so she decided to come back home to visit. We were so excited to see her, but now... I'd give anything to keep her away from here. I'd say anything, no matter how cruel, if there was a chance she'd still be alive."

"And do you believe that, Mrs. Harris?" Dean asks.

"Believe what?" she asks.

Instead of another living room, Sam and Dean are in a kitchen. Savannah's mother insisted on sharing some of the mountain of food she's received as condolences. 'It's just too much for two people,' she had said.

"That she wouldn't have taken her own life, if she had been anywhere else?"

"I'd like to think so," she begins, "but I can't say for certain. Savannah babysat for the Herndons for years, so she's always been close to the family. Mrs. Herndon's death must've been too much for her. She's never had any real grief in her life, you understand."

"You mentioned in your police interview that she had nightmares. Do you have any idea what they were about?"

The mother shook her head. "No idea. They started before we even knew that Mrs. Herndon had taken her own life... So, while that may certainly have been the topic afterwards, that wasn't what started them. She was always so focused on her studies, so I'd imagine the stress of college is what fueled them. She never had nightmares like that before she left for school."

"Is there anyone close to Savannah outside of the family that we can speak with? Perhaps a friend or partner?"

"I'm afraid not. Savannah wasn't dating anyone that I knew of, and all of her friends from high school are still on their way down for her funeral. All of them were surprised by the news, so I don't think she confided in any of them."

"And, other than the nightmares, did you notice any other strange behavior?"

"No," she says, cradling a fresh cup of coffee in her hands. "If we had any inclination of... of what she was going to do, we would've — we would've gotten her help... She was our little girl... Oh God..."

Sam smiles apologetically, placing a hand on hers. "We're very sorry for your loss. We'll let you grieve in peace. Here's our card in case you think of anything else you think we should know."

Mrs. Harris takes the card and thanks them. They take a look in Savannah's room, but yet again, nothing is amiss. Mrs. Harris packs them lunches with some of the food she still has left and sends them on their way. Sam is following Dean out the door when something catches his eye.

"Excuse me Ma'am, but do you mind if we borrow this?"

She follows his line of sight. "You can keep it, I don't need it anymore."

Nodding in thanks, Sam grabs the newspaper off the entryway table and they leave the house. As they get in the car, Sam flips to the back of the paper, finding the object of his desire.

"What do you need that for?" Dean asks.

Sam smirks, showing him the page. "The Sommers' memorial service is today."

They went back to the hotel to kill time for an hour. After putting away their food, Sam reads while Dean goes back over the files. They're both on edge, Dean chewing on his pen cap and Sam bouncing his leg so hard the bed shakes.

It's a big opportunity. In a small town, everyone shows up to memorials, especially when so many people have died so soon. It's prime time for questioning everyone at once, and to get an idea of the next victim, if they're lucky.

Sam stares at the page in front of him. After spending 10 minutes on it, he doesn't remember anything past the first sentence. His eyes catch the clock on the nightstand.

Finally.

The dual service is held at the local community center. It takes up two rooms, one reception area and a side room meant for young children to entertain themselves with books and puzzles. Along the back wall are rows of finger foods and drinks. The room is packed with people, and if it wasn't for Sam's height, he wouldn't be able to find anyone amidst the group.

"What's the food situation looking like?"

"Dean," Sam admonishes

"Yeesh.... Well then, Sammy, who should we hit up first?" his brother asks.

Sam shrugs, "We should probably talk to Nathan first, since the service is for his parents."

"Sounds good, big guy. Lead the way."

Nathan is standing along the wall, a line of people off to the side, waiting to speak with him. They don't grab anyone's attention as they cross the room, sliding amongst them. Crowds are easy cover.

The line moves slowly, the women especially taking a while to pamper the young man (orphan? But then, so were they) with words of encouragement. It's a solid twenty minutes before they finally reach the young man.

"Agents," he says, smiling softly. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Sams holds his hands out, and Nathan takes it. "We wanted to offer our condolences in person."

"Thank you."

"Gotta say," Dean starts, looking around. "Quite a big turn out for such a small town. Your parents must've been well loved."

"Well, Dad was a vet, so a lot of his army buddies flew out for him, 'no soldier left behind' and all that. Mom worked at the school, so she knew pretty much every family in town, at one point or another."

Sam nods in understanding. As he does so, a flash of white attracts his attention.

"Excuse me, for a minute. I'm gonna grab a drink."

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn't stop him, instead turning back to Nathan and asking him another question.

Making his way towards the snack table, his theory is confirmed. One of the priests from earlier is getting a glass of lemonade. The boy turns around, jumping when he bumps into Sam and nearly spills his drink.

"Oh, I am so sorry! Forgive me, Agent, I didn't see you."

"It's okay," Sam laughs, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. "I should've announced myself. Where's your, um... partner?"

"Kanda, you mean? He couldn't make it today. He's assisting the Harris' with their own arrangements. So, just me, I'm afraid... is there something that I can help you with? Questions, perhaps?"

Sam flusters at being found out so quickly. "I don't want to be disrespectful."

"Don't worry," he says, shaking his head. " I don't think Mr. Sommers would mind if we spoke. Come, let's go somewhere more private."

The priest's version of more private is outside, near the parking lot. Most of the people who planned to arrive at the memorial were already present, so they were surrounded by just empty cars and the Florida heat. Sam's already sweating, but if his companion is bothered by the heat, he doesn't show it.

"I'm sorry, I can't remember your name, Father."

"Allen," he says, smiling. "Go on, Agent, ask away."

"Did you know the Sommers very well, before they passed?" Sam asks, loosening his tie for some extra breathing room.

Allen shakes his head. "No, Kanda and I are traveling priests for the church. We were sent here for aid when the late Mr. Sommers passed, and I'm glad that we were, with what's happened since. This town has faced many hardships in the past few weeks, I'm just happy to be of service, where I can."

"It seems a bit late to be holding a memorial service? Nathan's parents died two weeks ago, didn't they?"

"Yes. Well, Mrs. Sommers was originally planning her husband's, but with her own grief, she didn't get far. Then, she took her own life as well. Nathan was, quite understandably, distraught about the loss of both of his parents so unexpectedly. I'm glad that Kanda and I showed up when we did. Once the services are over, Nathan is going to visit some family a few towns over. Hopefully, he will be able to rest a bit easier."

"I'm surprised that you two are involved. I thought that suicide was considered the ultimate sin?"

Allen looks down, his gaze forlorn. "Another unfortunate misconception. Our God cares little for the sins one commits in death, only the choices made in life. These services are not for the departed, but for the living. They give a sense of finality, and for some – closure. That's all we can hope for, in dark times such as these."

"You know, you look like a kid, but you sure don't sound like one," Sam says, laughing.

The priest doesn't seem offended by the statement. Instead, he smiles brightly. "I get that a lot, actually." Allen wipes a gloved hand across his face. "It is a scorcher today, perhaps coming out here wasn't the smartest idea on my end?"

Sam watches as skin-colored residue comes off Allen's face, coating his glove. A dark red line is now visible on his cheek that Sam is sure wasn't there earlier.

Make-up.

Allen, aware of his staring, looks down at his glove and frowns. "Oh."

"Are you okay? That looks pretty b–"

"It's alright," Allen cuts him off. "An old scar. It's a bit unsightly, so I usually cover it up. It seems the heat has loosened the product. I'm sorry you had to see that."

Sam means to reassure the boy in front of him, but his body picks the worst time to betray him. He can't hold back the bone-rattling coughs. Allen lays a supportive hand on his arm to steady him, as Sam had done earlier.

"I did not know you were unwell. My decision to come outside seems more and more foolish the longer we stay out. Let's go inside."

Once inside, Allen hands him a handkerchief and excuses himself to the bathroom to fix his appearance. Sam finds an open chair nearby and plops down, taking several moments to catch his breath. His suit is sticking to the sweat on his back and arms, and the crowd in the room is starting to merge into one mass.

"Okay, yeah, you're done for today."

Sam looks up to find Dean glaring at him. When did he get there?

"What about the case?"

"I said the second it was too much, we'd bail. And no offense, dude, but you look like crap." Dean smirks, "I think it's time for your afternoon nap."

He wants to retaliate, but to do so requires too much effort. Instead, he lets Dean help him to the impala, and then back to the hotel. He peels off the sticky suit and sits on the bed, but he does not lay down.

"Learn anything before we left?" Sam asks, hoping they didn't just waste a golden opportunity because of him.

Dean shakes his head, "Nada."

"So, then.... Do you think there's even a case?"

"I don't know, Sammy," he admits as he sits across from him in the other bed. "I have no clue what could be doing this – there's no sulfur, no ectoplasm, no sigils, no EMF. But there's no history of depression in any of the vics other than the first dude, and they're all having nightmares? Every single one? And the way they're all spaced out so perfectly... something doesn't add up..."

Sam grins when an idea comes to him. "We could call Garth?"

The look Dean gives him is hilarious, but they're desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. Reluctantly, Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and dials Garth's number, putting the call on speaker.

"Garth."

"Hey Garth, it's Sam and Dean."

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite dynamic duo of monster-hunting brothers. What can ol' Garth do for ya?"

"We think we got a case, but we're not sure what we're hunting here."

"Lay it on me."

"We've got serial suicides," Dean explains. "Each one about three days apart. All of the vics complained about nightmares right before they died, and each one knew the previous vic in some way."

"Nightmares, you said?"

Sam and Dean share a look across the room. Does that mean they've hit something after all?

"Yeah."

"Sounds like you guys might be hunting a Baku."

"A what now?"

"A Baku. It's sorta a Japanese chimera. They can be summoned using talismans to 'eat' bad dreams. Usually, they're protectors, but very rarely, Baku can be twisted by the nightmares they eat. They start feeding off the 'good' dreams, the happiness of a person until.... well... until they become so depressed that they end up taking their own life. Then they move on to the next available human, and so on. It's not a very common creature in the states."

"Okay, so how do we stop it?"

"Oh, that's easy. You gotta destroy the talisman that summoned the Baku to begin with. That... resets it, so to speak. Breaks the spell and all that."

"Are they weak to anything?"

"Well, they're similar to spirits, so I think salt would work, but it won't kill it."

"Thanks Garth, talk to ya later."

Dean hangs up the phone. They sit in silence for a few moments, processing the info.

"Nathan's dad is the first vic, so that means he summoned it, right?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, he was a vet, so he probably had hella nightmares. He hears about this thing called a Baku while deployed, he goes home with PTSD. One day he can't stand it anymore, so in a last ditch effort, he gets a talisman. It works, but then the thing gets confused, starts eating the good stuff too and then..."

Sam continues, "then it moves on Nathan's mom, and it just keeps going until Savannah, three days ago."

"So, then... we're looking at another suicide tonight. But we don't know who it is."

"We gotta destroy the talisman. I bet it was in that jewelry we found at Nathan's house."

Dean frowns. "But how are we gonna get to it? I think Nathan's gonna notice us breaking into his house."

"Actually, I don't think we have to worry about that. One of the priests was at the memorial service. He said that Nathan was going to be out of town tonight."

"Wow, how lucky is that?" Dean asks.

They wait until it's dark outside before they start packing up, in order to avoid any unwanted attention. Dean gathers their salt bullets and guns while Sam researches what the talismans might look like. Sam beats Dean to the impala, and before they know it, they're pulling up to Nathan's house.

Sam goes to open the car door, but a firm grip on his shoulders stops him.

"Sammy–"

He knows what Dean is about to say, but he won't let him take this hunt from him. "No. I'm going in there, with you. You need back up. We've never taken on one of these before. We don't even know if it's in there."

It might be his last hunt, before...

Dean stares at him, hard. He takes in Sam's flushed pallor, the lines around his eyes, the tremor in his hand. It was a mistake to let Sam come this far away from the bunker, in his state...

"Fine. But you follow my lead on this, you let me go first."

"Yeah, okay. You take the lead."

After one final pointed look, Deans lets go of his shoulder and they get out of the car. They each take a shotgun from the trunk and several back-up rounds. As they get to the front door, Dean pulls out his lockpicks. He frowns when he tries the door, and it opens, already unlocked. They look at each other and nod before heading inside.

All of the lights in the house are off, shrouding the hallway in darkness. Thankfully, they already had a layout of the house from earlier. As they approach the parents' bedroom, they freeze when there's a shuffling coming from inside.

Dean readies his gun, motioning for Sam to stay where he is. Sam nods and watches as his brother grabs the doorknob, turning it silently. One breath, two, and then his brother shoves open the door, taking aim. Sam can't see anything from his spot in the hallway, but Dean must see something as he fires off both rounds.

Heart racing, Sam scrambles in the room after him, fumbling for the light switch. It takes a couple seconds until his fingers find it and he flips them on. He has to wait a second more to adjust to the bright light, but when he does, he sees a very familiar head of white hair on the ground.

"Shit."

I'm so excited for this new crossover! It's been simmering in my head for about a year now, and I'm finally getting it fleshed out. I plan four parts for this main story. I also have other side stories (and a prequel) planned out as well. It's a bit unconventional, but I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!