#ghost!dean

Time was strange inside the mansion. Dean didn't have any concept of how long he'd been there or even how he'd gotten there in the first place. He didn't remember the Impala parked and hidden in the overgrown brush a few blocks away. He remembered very little about himself at all, in fact, except for his name, and he couldn't have said why that was the thing he got to keep. No, most of his knowledge was about this house. It was an evil place. Few who set foot in here left alive. He couldn't remember if he thought he'd be the exception to that rule, or if he'd been caught unawares.

He was pretty sure he was dead.

He was far from the only ghost to haunt these halls, but none of them were friends. Some, like the original owner, had always been wicked, but he knew it wasn't true for all of them. Others were simply trapped in endless torment, reliving their deaths over and over again. He thought those might have been here the longest. There was little left of them other than those final, awful moments. Others did his bidding, the owner's. Dean thought he might have known his name once, but names were powerful. Names could help end this, and so of course the knowledge had been taken from him. He also knew, without knowing how he knew, that all ghosts ended that way eventually. The longer they were dead, the more their memories and personalities eroded, until they became vengeful. He didn't want to be a vengeful spirit, but he couldn't leave.

None of them could.

The ghosts were in a stir today because someone new had walked through those grand front doors. Someone alive. He wouldn't be for long if they had their way. Dean had been trying in vain all day to get his attention, to warn him, but manifesting took energy, and he didn't think (although he couldn't be sure) that he'd had a lot of practice at it. He'd tried appearing in mirrors or moving his things, but at most he could only manage to nudge them an inch or two. He thought he'd made the flames in the hearth flare higher once, but maybe they were going to do that anyway.

Night had fallen early with the storm clouds rolling in, and it was in full glory now, rain lashing the windows, thunder and lightning clashing. Dean doubted he could get the man to leave in this weather, even if he could make himself heard, but now that he'd chosen a bedroom for the night, he had another idea. He'd perched on the edge of his bed, not sure why he should feel nervous. It wasn't like the man could see him yet, let alone hurt him. Slowly, he reached out to rest his hand on his arm. He could almost feel it, warm and solid beneath his hand, and beneath that the tug of life. He pulled tentatively on that energy, warmth flooding his fingers as he leeched it from the man's body. In contrast, the temperature in the room dropped dramatically, until Dean could see the fog of the living man's breath. "Wake up."

Jelly!Dean

Hiiiii read my new fic I Sing The Body Electric it's got this nonsense in it as well as some serious sad busniness but it's harder to advertise on "being a ghost is a metaphor for depression enjoy!"