#superphantom

Now, Danny didn't have much experience with the layman's hunter. The ones that were well spread on every type of creature and not just ghosts.

He also knew that his kind of ghosts were less known by the average hunter. So, he had a shot, right?

Danny might actually have a chance to heal if he can just fly under the radar long enough. If he could keep these hunters oblivious to his presence, than all would be good...

Right?

Right.

So, Danny didn't have much of a choice. He figured it was time he pulled a Technus. He possessed the car. Danny didn't like that word, but that's exactly what he did.

He nestled his core near the engine, a spot he figured would be safe, and spread the rest of himself throughout the frame and mechanics.

And it worked!

...

At least for the first day. He managed to hitch a ride into the next state over. Danny thought he was actually going to get a break.

Listen, Danny wasn't used to hunters being friendly with supernatural beings, okay? How was he supposed to expect the sudden appearance of an angel!

An actual angel! Something he only heard about through Clockwork. Never once saw one, or interacted with.

So when this strange, winged, trench coat wearing man appeared in the backseat of the car, Danny felt. He felt the power and presence immediately.

He felt all his hope drain away the moment the man opened his mouth. The first thing in reference to Danny currently hidden inside the car.

His cover was up. Especially of the way each man suddenly got tensed said anything.

Castiel is far from an expert on human behaviour though, so if the Winchesters insist such gathering is standard 'cop behaviour' necessary for their cover, he can get his hands a little dirty. It's just...unpleasant. He, as an angel, is far more accustomed to dealing with carnage of the metaphysical. That of the physical sort is... a lot slimier, he's finding. 

And staining, he thinks, mourning his once clean trench coat as its edges start absorbing the blood where he kneels. 

Swiftly capping said container and vanishing it into his coat, Castiel is quick to move on. 

Hoping to feel a lingering soul, rather than the admittedly more likely residue of an ascended or stolen one, he reaches out with his Grace only to be met with nothing. There's no sign of a soul anywhere in the blood splatter; even the body's remains, where the soul's touch lasts longest, are devoid of its echo. Castiel is perplexed—while he may have struggled to feel the soul properly earlier, needing far more time than usual to even find the crime scene, that's because it was too weak to pick up at such a distance and his companions were distracting, wasn't it?  

There shouldn't be any other reason why he, an angel of the Lord, would have difficulty tracking a mortal soul or its remnants. Even when devoured or stolen away, a soul's echo lingers on whatever it touches with no exceptions.

This seemingly normal body shouldn't be reading as empty mere hours after the murder. Not when he is so close to it, and looking so hard. Just once during this trip through Amity, Castiel would like things to work how they're supposed to.

The very town itself is strange, begetting caution the instant Dean's precious Impala crossed the boundary. Castiel had immediately done a precautionary sweep of the city, vanishing from the car and letting his Grace flow through the ground and homes as he explored the streets. He’d found nothing of particular interest during his search, aside from a weird number of men in white and a building bearing some sort of spaceship, but he did note an excessive straining of his abilities given the ease of his task upon his return to the impala.

Whatever the reason, the faith of God and His is fainter here.

But, again, not so faint that the soul of a child so brutally murdered should evade him so completely.

Regardless of what his Grace is telling him, Castiel knows the soul is there. He felt it, if intermittently, as they approached the school. No matter it's fragility, or what Dean speculates about the ghoul devouring it alongside most the victim's body, there should still be some sign of it and the soul being devoured is extremely unlikely. The soul, while innocent, was...off-putting...unappetizing...in a way that repelled his Grace. Castiel couldn't explain why—it didn't burn like the demonic, or harmonize like the angelic, energies he'd previously encountered influencing souls. It felt like something new all together, a hypothesis as exciting as it was worrisome to a being as old as he. 

It was a child's soul, that was for certain, and mortal in that it Died rather than Ended, but that same something kept Castiel from confidently claiming it as such. It had registered as a normal mortal's soul, looked and felt the part, but he couldn't shake the feeling he'd missed the full picture. Like there was a lingering of energy after his acknowledgment of the soul that didn't quite fit, as if some part of the soul wasn't being seen, escaping his Grace. Dean would liken it to discovering a peculiar 'aftertaste' in a once familiar food. Not that Castiel is in the business of eating souls. 

Either way, what he's attempting to rationalize is impossible; a soul incomplete, splintered so thoroughly it registers as different energies opposed to as a shattered whole, would not have felt as entirely intact as this one had in the glimpses Castiel caught of it previously. He also would have been able to properly separate the energies, and feel the soul’s pieces individually, without one remaining firming only in his metaphorical peripheral. 

Reaching out again, both physically now as well as with his Grace as if being closer yet may help, he closes his eyes to better focus on what he recalls of the soul from his earlier brief brushes with it. He still can't find it, but this time he registers a firm resistance in the space between him and where the soul surely rests.

Is that...a wall?

He gently probes the 'blockage', Grace sliding smoothly across the invisible surface. Akin to cool glass, whatever it is is perfectly smooth and contact brings with it an eerie chill. It surrounds not the corpse, but Castiel himself, beginning right where he, his true self rather than his physical incarnation, ends. It swells and shrinks with him when he flexes his true self, 'separating' him from outside energies but not at all restricting. 

Perhaps less of a constructed wall, and more a concentration of Nothing gravitating toward the Lord of Creation's Light? 

It does not ensnare, but isolates all the same.

Mentally branching out, he can't feel Dean's Wild Fire or Sam's Pending Tsunami either, despite their closeness. He can, however, register flickering souls loitering outside the school once his Grace seeps through the school's brickwork. 

The hallway, home to a presumably powerful Unknown, has suddenly become a dead zone for Grace. There's no way Castiel wouldn't have noticed if it was like this when they first arrived. 

The heart in his vessel's chest skips a beat, the hairs on the back of its neck standing on end. His borrowed body is confused, like Castiel, and has chosen to react as prey. A rarity, for angelic vessels protected by divinity. 

He chooses to prioritize his companions' safety over finding the missing soul or solving the hallway mystery, turning his full attention back to the nearby brothers to issue a warning—

Oh. So that's what's blocking me. 

Towering over Sam is something Castiel can only describe, in human terms, as Darkness. Not the Nothing he compared the void surrounding him to before, but something that may as well be for all his Grace can feel it.

Whatever it is, this Unknown he has now met, it fortunately doesn’t seem inherently malevolent. Not one of Hell's many horrors, or earth's own twisted mutations like the potential ghoul they're hunting. 

It's pure, innocent like a child yet Whole as the universe itself. It is Space, one of God's many dominions, yet It knows not of His control. It permeates the dimensional plane itself, yet exists outside of it even as It impossibly interacts with its inhabitants, the mortals beside It and Winchesters before It, on a physical level.

It Is, and It Isn't, not staying the same long enough for Castiel to get a stable reading on It. Him? 

Castiel won't pretend to know the being, but then, he doesn't need to. The being is telling him, much in the same way as Father would, much about Itself. Not through speech, concepts and truths crammed into clumsy, ill-fitting sounds that always fail to encompass the whole message, but through Knowledge. 

Simply by Knowing of It, Castiel is Learning. 

The being is a boy; young, male and a mortal of the human variety.   

Yet Castiel Knows the opposite too. 

The being simply Is; unmeasurable by time, whatever it wishes to be, and the furthest thing from mortal. 

Both are true, a certainty that grows the longer Castiel observes. 

Danny—Fenton—Phantom—Young—Male—Human—Ghost—Protector—Student—Son—Brother—Friend—Template—Dangerous—

—radiates outward, the being exuding Its essence for all to Know—

Amity—Home—Crowned—Space—Bridge—Death—Life—

As his Knowledge grows, Castiel puts together a complicated picture. Despite his status as one working under the Lord, accustomed to receiving Knowledge this way when the world was new, he is unable to properly recall the Knowledge being passed on when he tries to review it. He can get close, but Knowledge is still lost. Further simplifying the being into human words, English none the less, would even further water-down the understanding. 

The best Castiel could translate for his companions would have so much imperative nuance lost that there may as well be no information being passed on at all. There's no point in attempting translation of what he has Learned. Knowledge of It cannot be crammed into the boxes humans understand. Especially not when there is Knowledge even Ennochian has no translation for. Already, the Knowledge is diluting itself, slipping from his memory and leaving behind only vague renditions. King—Bridge—Other. The Knowledge too much for even angels to retain in completion.  

Dean and Sam can pester him all they like, but if it comes up, Castiel will not be explaining how he knows what he does about the child. 

What is it humans say? 

It's complicated? A long story?

Explaining would be a dreadfully complicated and tedious process. It wouldn't be a lie, and having them draw their own conclusions based off what they perceive is probably for the best. The being would likely prefer that, and Castiel would rather It be pleased than upset. 

Squinting, Castiel tries to focus on the physical half of the being: Danny. The human boy the being considers itself to be above all else. 

At first glance, he isn't anything special. Ratty sneakers, blue jeans, an oversized white tee, fair skin, black hair, blue eyes—

FEARCONFUSIONPAINRUNDANGERLOSSFEARPANICWHATWRONGWRONGWRONGDEATHFADINGPROTECTRUNGHOSTZONEPANICRUNDESOLATEWORSETHANTHEHOTDOGSHOPELESSLOSTWHYANGERDEFENDPANICBITTERINTRUDERMINEWRONGSCAREDRUNMONSTER—*

Castiel braces himself against the emotional onslaught—nothing like the neutral and calm aura from before, instead a direct and violent in-pour of negative emotion—wrapping himself tightly in his Grace and withdrawing his Sight in an effort to protect the body he inhabits. Castiel knows what happens to mortal bodies that lay eyes upon the Other, can already feel the permafrost beneath his skin and shattering of slumbering spirit. Danny may not be of God, but he is undeniably of Something...possibly even Danny Hisself. 

This reaction—am I his first sight of Divinity? The implications—

Is God aware of him? So like Himself, but so terribly young and lost? 

He isn't part of the Plan—

It hurts, where it hurts when Dean is sad, that Castiel would strike such depthless fear into a youngling. 

Was God like this once, young and terrified of the unknown despite the power within him begging to be used? To rend the world to ashes, or deliver unto it salvation, at the hands of a wielder fearful of what mere slivers of power they've seen? 

It is a blasphemous thought process, but not one he can stop. Not when the Being, Danny, reminds him of his 'friends' as much as he does of Father. 

The passionate emotions, spontaneous nature, and ability to exist in ignorance of the Plan, are all tell tale marks of 'humanity'.

Was the sharing of Itself, the projection of Its feelings, even intentional? Is It aware that It is screaming Its identity as something Foreign to Castiel, to God, for all who can listen to hear? 

Castiel turns himself further inward, grasping for a message from his Father and doing his best to keep his physical body disconnected, sheltered, from the war of wills. He's so caught up in his tasks, that he doesn't even notice that what he's battling is the being's residue, the boy long gone.

*Spaceless text: FEAR CONFUSION PAIN RUN DANGER LOSS FEAR PANIC WHAT WRONG WRONG WRONG DEATH FADING PROTECT RUN GHOST-ZONE PANIC RUN DESOLATE WORSE-THAN-THE-HOT-DOGS HOPELESS LOST WHY ANGER DEFEND PANIC BITTER INTRUDER MINE WRONG SCARED RUN MONSTER—

“A thermos? Who the hell would send us a thermos?” Dean sat at the table in the bunker, glaring at the offending thing sitting within arm’s reach in front of him as if it had personally wronged him.

When he’d found the package in their PO box—or, rather, in the lock box for parcels that went along with the block of PO boxes that was there—he hadn’t been entirely surprised that there had been no return address or that the package hadn’t been addressed to them by name. Anyone sending them stuff wouldn’t use their real names.

But it wasn’t like they made a habit of purchasing stuff online and burning the use of a credit card by doing so.

When Sam hadn’t fessed up, and with Cas and Jack too computer illiterate to handle something like online ordering, Dean had talked himself into it being a present. Maybe from Jody or someone else.

Now, seeing that the meticulous wrapping with entirely too much tape had revealed a thermos carefully packed in bubble wrap, Dean was back to suspicious. He could have seen Crowley doing something like this just to mess with them, but would Rowena? He didn’t know how she’d have gotten their mailing address, but she’d chalk it up to having her ways. She’d probably delight in the fact that he was considering her as a possibility at this very moment, whether or not she was behind it.

He’d blame Gabriel if he didn’t know the angel was dead. (For real this time. Probably.) This was definitely something he’d have done. Of course, Gabriel would be more likely to send them a neat package wrapped in brown paper and conspicuously ticking, but….

Did metal really gleam like that or was it a trick? The thermos was light enough to be empty—it hadn’t sloshed or rattled or anything when he’d picked it up—but there was an electronic display on the side that read 2% in bright green letters, and he wasn’t convinced that meant nothing.

He wasn’t keen on opening it and releasing something that might be inside, either.

If Cas weren’t out with Jack, he’d ask if the angel had any clue what was going on, but their choice was either waiting till they got back or—

“Hey,” Sam said as he fit pieces of the packaging back together, “there’s a note written on the inside of this wrapping.”

The wrapping in question had been Christmas wrapping paper adorned with multiple sizes of presents in a rainbow of colours, interspersed with Christmas trees.

Even though it was July.

There had been a scrap of white paper taped to the front with their address penned in a neat hand, and a cluster of stamps in the corner, which was weird in and of itself, because Dean would have assumed the sender would have gone to the post office and mailed it there, paying the exact cost of the shipment rather than guessing and slapping on more stamps than was probably necessary.

If Dean had to guess, he’d say the entire thing had been covered in enough packing tape to have suspended Sam from the wall without him falling.

“And?” prompted Dean. “Whose idea of a joke is this?”

Sam was frowning as he read. “Jasmine Fenton’s, apparently.”

“Who?” Dean was pretty good about remembering the people they’d saved, but Fenton didn’t ring a bell. If the thing had turned up at Bobby’s mailbox—Jody monitored that one for them—it would be a different story, since she might’ve been someone they’d saved before he’d started hunting with Sam again, but—

“Not someone we know,” murmured Sam. He slid the wrapping paper towards Dean. “Apparently, she got our address from a friend who’d been in contact with Charlie.”

Charlie.

That one still hurt.

All right, they all still hurt, just to varying degrees, but he couldn’t dwell on that if he was going to get his job done.

“Why the hell was Charlie giving out our mailing address?”

Sam nodded towards the paper, so Dean huffed and started to read.

Hi,

I know it’s weird for me to request something when you don’t know me, but I’m desperate, and trusting the people I’m around here won’t be enough to save my brother. None of us can save him. We’re too close to the situation, so they’ll be watching us, and I’m just hoping this gets through.

Our friend Tucker Foley knows your friend Charlie. Not their last name, maybe not even their real name, but they found out he was the one behind Fryer_Tuck’s posts years back. They probably know more about us than we realize, so talk to them if you want any of what I’m saying confirmed. They said to call you if it was important, but the number we had was out of service. This is a last ditch effort, I guess. A Hail Mary.

We were only supposed to contact you if we ran up against something we couldn’t handle ourselves, and now we have, so this is me contacting you and begging for your help. Please keep my little brother safe. I’m really hoping you haven’t moved since we got this address, but if you have, then to whoever’s reading this— Please help me. Please help us.

Dean looked up at Sam. “How the hell are we supposed to save a kid when we don’t even know where he is?”

“Keep reading,” Sam said. “It gets weirder.”

“When do our lives not get weirder?” muttered Dean, but he kept reading.

Danny and I weren’t home when the Guys in White raided our house. I don’t know the real name of their organization, but they’re government agents, off the book, who hunt ghosts.

“You seriously expect me to believe the frickin’ government is out here hunting ghosts and they just happened to miss absolutely everything else that was happening right under their noses?” groused Dean, but Sam just gave him a look, so Dean rolled his eyes and looked to see what else Jasmine had written.

They’ve got our parents. They’re questioning Vlad Masters and Danny’s best friends, Tucker and Sam Manson. I couldn’t talk to Sam’s parents, but I talked to Tucker’s (they’re going to mail this for me once I finish and get it wrapped) and they’re not getting any answers, just that their son was taken in for questioning. I’m going to try to get to my aunt’s in Arkansas, but they’ll probably find me. I can’t risk them finding Danny. If the Box Ghost hadn’t been raiding the warehouses by the docks again, they’d already have him.

Dean glanced up at Sam again. “You’re going to be able to figure out where these people live based on everything she’s written here, right?”

“I’m going to try. She’s given us enough names. I know I’ve heard about Vlad Masters before, so I should be able to find something on him if no one else.”

Dean frowned. “I don’t remember hearing anything about him.”

Sam smirked at him. “How often do you read the news except to skim for something that sounds like a hunt?”

Dean wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer.

He won’t know much when you release him. I didn’t have time to explain or tell him the plan. Just— Remember he’s human, too, okay? Listen to him before you do anything else.

“Release him?” Dean repeated. “Release him from where? And what the hell is her brother if he’s not human? If these so-called government agents were focused on ghosts, they’re not going to be looking for vamps or werewolves.”

Sam looked pointedly at the thermos.

“Djinn hide in caves, not frickin’ thermoses. There isn’t going to be a genie in that bottle.”

“Does any of this situation sound like djinn to you?”

Sam knew full well it didn’t, but Dean couldn’t think of any creature off the top of his head that could be believed to be part human and also could be seen as something that would be mistaken for a ghost. The whole dead versus alive, tangible vs intangible thing really made a difference on that front. And it wasn’t something someone could hide.

And the things that could be hidden typically couldn’t be shoved into a thermos.

Maybe the kid had been possessed and they’d somehow managed to capture a demon who’d smoked out? That didn’t really make sense—no demon would stay in a thermos even if some part of them had been closed inside—but he wasn’t coming up with anything better at the moment.

I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know where else he might be safe. I just know it isn’t here.

Please. Keep him safe. Help him. Try to talk him out of doing something stupid. The Guys in White won’t harm the rest of us. Well, maybe Vlad, but— But he needs to stay safe. Please.

If this is too much, if you can’t take this on right now, please just guard the thermos for me. Danny won’t be happy, but he won’t know how long it’s been until we tell him.

I’ll reach out again once it’s safe.

Thank you.

Jasmine Fenton

“So what do you think?” Sam asked as he looked up. “Open it up in the safe room or leave it closed?”

“Closed till we make some sense of this,” Dean said. “I wanna see if Cas has anything to say about it, too.”

“We don’t know how long they’ll be if—”

“It’s a glorified play date,” interrupted Dean. “Jack isn’t going to learn how to make friends if we’re the only ones he hangs out with. Let him practice not scaring kids while Cas does a grocery run and plays overprotective parent. No one who meets both of them is going to question it unless one of them says otherwise.”

Which they might, despite being encouraged to let people make their own assumptions, but Dean had decided this wasn’t a battle he wanted to fight.

And making friends had been Jack’s idea, one Dean hadn’t been entirely sure he’d be willing to follow through with let alone propose himself after what had happened last time, so not discouraging that was the first order of business.

If nothing else, Jack needed to practice lying.

Cas was markedly better than he’d once been, but he still wasn’t great.

“That’s my point. We don’t know how long it’s going to be.”

“Dude, it’s Jack and Cas. It’s not going to be long. Let the kid dip his toes in and figure some things out. They’ll be back before the beer’s warm.”

“You really have so little faith in them? If someone just thinks he’s an awkward kid—”

“I didn’t miss the rumour mill whenever we moved, Sammy,” interrupted Dean. “You’re fooling yourself if you think there aren’t already going to be stories out there about Jack. He needs to pretend they aren’t true. Getting some practice under his belt now might save his skin later.”

“And ours, you mean.”

“Sure. If that thing” —here Dean tilted his head towards the thermos— “doesn’t skin us first.”

“If Jasmine knew anything about us, she wouldn’t send us her brother if she thought he was something we’d have to hunt.”

“We don’t know what she knows about us. We didn’t know Charlie was telling anyone anything. But even if she did, doesn’t mean whatever Jasmine sent was her brother. It might just be something she thinks is her brother.”

“Or it might be his ghost. A new enough one that he hasn’t lost himself yet.”

Dean met Sam’s eyes.

That was what he’d been thinking and hadn’t wanted to say.

Ghosts couldn’t be saved. Not forever. Eventually, their death would catch up to them, and if they weren’t put down first, they might take an awful lot of people with them, depending on how twisted they became.

“If it’s really a kid, one who still seems to be himself, we shouldn’t do this when Jack’s here.” Sam reached out to pick up the thermos, and Dean didn’t stop him. He shook it; it didn’t make a sound. “Do you figure she put some of his hair in here or something to keep the ghost in place?”

They could just salt and burn it. That was safer than not opening it when—with their luck—it would get opened at a time that was remarkably inconvenient for everyone. They didn’t have to listen to some pleading letter written by an older sibling worried sick about her little brother.

Goddammit.

Dean reached forward and yanked the thermos out of Sam’s hands. “I’ll do the final prep on the dungeon. You research what you can on these guys.”

“Gimme half an hour.”

“You’ve got ten minutes. We just need the basics.”

And, though Dean wouldn’t admit it, Sam was right.

Cas might have some useful information on this, if these guys had ever pinged the celestial radar, but he might know nothing, too.

And it wasn’t worth waiting for something that might turn out to be nothing if it meant Jack might take a front row seat to seeing them put down a monster who had yet to show its teeth.

It was a lot harder to convince yourself that it was to protect everyone else until you learned—the hard way—the horror that waiting meant.

XXXXXXXXX

Danny was talking (well, complaining) before his vision had cleared from the blinding light of the thermos. “If this is your idea of practical joke, I swear I’m gonna ask Clock….”

Once the light faded and his eyes adjusted, it became painfully clear that Jazz was not the one who’d released him, even though he knew she’d been the one to catch him in a thermos.

It wasn’t Sam or Tucker, either.

It wasn’t even his parents or Valerie. That would’ve sucked, given that none of them knew his secret, but that would’ve at least made more sense than two guys he’d never seen before looking at him like they expected him to attack them. And at least if it had been his parents…. Well, he’d been planning to tell them anyway. He hadn’t gotten them to admit that not all ghosts were master manipulators or that they could feel pain, but he had gotten them to talk to him as Phantom without shooting him on sight—even when they weren’t fighting a common enemy.

That was progress.

“Uh.” It shouldn’t be taking this long for his brain to process all this. How long had it been? Too long. “You’re not Jazz.”

And he thought Tucker had a thing for stating the obvious.

Danny risked a quick glance around, gleaning enough of the symbols painted around the room to know that Sam might understand half of them, but he didn’t. About the only thing he really did recognize was the pentagram, just not the other symbols painted in it or the white stuff poured in a thick ring around it. For all he knew, it could be sugar or salt. At this point, that would make as much sense as anything else.

Danny blinked, refocused, and realized that while he’d been distracted, the shorter of the two men had pulled out a shotgun. Or maybe he’d had it the entire time. Point is, it was levelled at Danny now. (And, okay, fine, neither man was short, but one was markedly shorter than the other, even if they were both shorter than Danny’s dad.) Danny didn’t really expect a normal gun would hurt him when he was Phantom, but he held up his hands in what he hoped would be seen as a placating manner anyway. “You, um, really don’t need to shoot.”

Neither of them said anything.

The gun didn’t go away.

Okay.

He could do this.

He just had to think like Jazz.

Danny let himself drift down slowly until his boots hit the floor, and he tried not to think about the fact that the gun had followed his progress. That shouldn’t be too hard. He was already trying not to think about the stain on the concrete that he was pretty sure was blood. “Um, I’m Phantom. In case you didn’t know that. Where, uh, did you get that thermos?”

“Got it as a present,” said the one with the gun.

The taller man frowned at him. “Dean.” Disapproval laced his tone, which had to be saying something, since Danny doubted either of them were his biggest fans. He wasn’t even sure they knew who he was; neither had reacted to his name.

He’d already known, on some level, that this wasn’t Amity Park.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that it wasn’t Elmerton, either.

“What? That’s not even a lie.”

The taller man rolled his eyes. “Danny?” he asked pointedly.

Huh.

Weird that he knew that when he hadn’t reacted to Phantom, but whatever. Maybe if the whole gift thing hadn’t been a lie, there’d been a note taped to the thermos or something. “Danny Phantom, yeah.”

The shorter man—Dean—snorted.

“Danny Fenton?” prompted the taller man.

Oh, crud.

Danny shook his head. “Danny Phantom. As in, a ghost. Which I’d kinda assumed you already knew, but if not, surprise, I guess? Ghosts are real.”

“Yeah, we know,” said Dean. “This ain’t our first rodeo.”

“Right. Well, um, you don’t need a gun because I’m not going to hurt you, so if you can just put that down so I can put my hands down—”

“Who are the Guys in White?”

“Huh?” The question had come from the taller man, and Danny really wished he knew why they were asking. These two didn’t look like they wanted to respond to some recruitment ad, but how did he know what the trainees looked like before they were actual trainees, let alone field agents? “They’re, like, secret government ghost hunters. Think Men in Black, except these guys are obsessed with keeping their suits spotless. Not that I’m complaining. It’s a lot easier to get away from them when they’re like that. Why, uh, are you asking?”

The two men exchanged a look, and then the smaller one looked at the floor—or probably something on the floor, but Danny had no idea what—and then he dropped the gun to a resting position.

Danny was not foolish enough to think that it wouldn’t be aimed in his direction in a heartbeat if he said something stupid, but for now, he thought he could drop his hands without risking the fact that those were special bullets coated in phase-proof foam or something. He didn’t plan to move elsewhere, though. That would probably not be great for his not-bullet-riddled self.

“I’m Dean. That’s Sammy—”

“Sam.”

“—and you’re Danny Fenton, so cut the Phantom crap and just explain why everyone thinks Danny Fenton’s still alive while the local ghost hunters and these Men in Black rip-offs are out for your head.”

Danny stared at them.

“Your enrollment records are current,” continued Sam. “No obituary. Possession of a corpse wouldn’t preserve it indefinitely, and you’ve healed from the damage you’ve taken, so you’re either playing with some pretty powerful magic—”

“Um.” Danny risked raising one hand and a corresponding finger. “I can guarantee you that whatever you’re thinking right now is wrong.”

“So enlighten us,” said Dean, and though he hadn’t raised the gun again, Danny felt like he was still looking into its barrel. His hand dropped back to his side.

Danny wasn’t a huge fan of spilling his secret to veritable strangers, but he was a huge fan of not getting shot, so…. “I, uh, didn’t actually die? Maybe briefly. I dunno. But I didn’t stay dead if I did? I just have ghost powers.”

“Ghost powers.” Dean’s voice was flat. “Meaning?”

“Exactly what it sounds like? I don’t know how else to describe it. I have powers like ghosts do. I can pass through stuff and turn invisible and fly, and it’s a lot easier when I’m in ghost mode.”

The two exchanged looks again. Either they’d been best friends for practically ever or they were siblings, Danny guessed. He and Jazz weren’t as good at the silent communication thing as he was with Tucker and Sam, but they’d gotten a lot better since she’d admitted to knowing his secret.

Danny bit his lip, and when neither of the other two spoke—probably waiting for him to dig his own grave by somehow saying the wrong thing—he asked, “What happened? Why ask about the Guys in White?” He hoped that would lead to the answer of why am I here? or where am I? without his asking it being so obvious. Knowing the names of the people who were liable to shoot him if he said the wrong thing was a little lower on the priority list than that, even if these two didn’t seem to think so.

“How many people know about your little secret?”

Danny frowned at Dean’s question. “Two more than before if you guys believe me, but why does that matter? Where’s everyone else?”

“Detained, probably, if it really is a government organization,” Sam said, studiously ignoring Dean’s glower. “There was a raid. As far as we know, your sister is safe.”

“You talked to Jazz?” They must have. “She said there was a raid?” In hindsight, that made a lot more sense than the whole ‘trapping him in a thermos’ thing being a practical joke or a mistake or payback for something he’d already forgotten doing, but— “What about Mom and Dad and my friends?”

In theory, Sam and Tucker should be farther away from whatever the situation was, since they hadn’t been with him at the time, and the Guys in White shouldn’t know how much they helped Phantom. But raid implied somewhere being stormed, and if these guys were trying to claim all the FentonWorks technology without paying for it this time….

“I’m still working on that,” admitted Sam, and Danny’s heart sunk to his toes. Sam and Tucker were caught up in it, too, then. Or, at least, they’d been caught up in it, even if they’d managed to get free since.

When had this happened? How long had he been in there?

“We and your friend Tucker knew someone in common,” started Sam. Knew, not know. That was not exactly a great start. “She apparently gave you a phone number and an address. Welcome to the address.”

Danny had a vague recollection of that, but— “That address was for a PO box, wasn’t it?”

“So welcome to the physical location of our residence,” snarked Dean. The gun was still lowered, but he didn’t look relaxed. “If this is your ghost mode, show us your human mode.”

“You mean being a regular person?” Human mode sounded creepy. Like he was playing at being human like Spectra always did. Or Johnny or Ember or someone else. “If you know who I am, then you probably already know what I look like, so why does it matter?”

Another look.

They were holding entire conversations with those looks.

“It matters if you aren’t still the boy you think you are,” Sam answered quietly. “If you have people who are fabricating your continued existence—”

Danny held up a hand again. Thankfully, that did not mean he got a gun barrel to the face. Maybe things were improving. “Okay, one, no, no one is making up the fact that Danny Fenton is still alive. I am. Even when I’m Phantom, I’m still me, y’know? Using my powers is easier as Phantom, but I can still do it as Fenton.”

Aaaaand now the gun was pointed at him again. Great. “So even when you’re impersonating a dead kid, you mean?”

He could risk intangibility or go straight to body contortions, but those were exhausting, and if these guys were the ones that Tucker’s friend had said could help if they ever needed it—

“At this point you’re just trying to antagonize me, aren’t you? Fine.” He let himself change back, smirking when they both started at the sudden light, but he’d give them this much: they didn’t drop their guard. It was probably best for him if he went back to acting casual. Danny stuck his hands into his pockets. “Now can you stop pointing a gun at me? Please?”

“Will you let me examine you?” asked Sam.

Danny made a face. “Which entails what, exactly?”

“Holy water, silver, iron, looking for a pulse, you name it,” drawled Dean. “The usual.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He walked towards Sam, crossing over the line of crystals on the floor without issue (he had started to wonder if they’d been tapping into the human equivalent of Desiree’s magic, but thankfully that didn’t seem to be the case), and he saw Sam glance at Dean again before the man offered him a flask and told him to take a drink. He was passed a few more objects and he apparently passed those tests without issue, and then Sam took his wrist to check for a pulse before eventually looking at Dean and nodding.

The gun only lowered after he’d done so.

“Now can you tell me what’s really going on?” pressed Danny. “Did the Guys in White raid FentonWorks? Are they still questioning Mom and Dad?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I was still working on all of that,” Sam said. “I didn’t have time to do a lot of research before we freed you. Most of what we know came in Jasmine’s letter.”

“What letter?”

Sam produced it from his pocket, and Danny read it over hurriedly. Jazz was going to Aunt Alicia’s—or might already be there, assuming she’d made it. He wished Spittoon weren’t a dead spot so he could try her cell phone. He wished Aunt Alicia had a landline. He’d have to figure out some way to contact her. Unless the Guys in White would be monitoring that? He should probably take the battery out of his cell phone. It might be dead anyway, but—

“You want to fill us in?” Dean asked.

Jazz had mailed him here via Mr. and Mrs. Foley because she hadn’t known any other way to get him out of Amity Park without the Guys in White finding him. They had Jack and Maddie, Sam and Tucker, probably even Vlad unless he’d managed to talk his way out of it—

Were they only talking to Vlad because he was the mayor of Amity Park, or were they talking to him because they somehow knew—

Danny swallowed.

Tucker would be able to find out.

Danny didn’t have the skills for that.

These guys might be good, but if Tucker was friends with their friend and not them, then it was that friend who had skills as good as or better than Tucker’s.

“I don’t know that I can,” he whispered. “Can you at least find out if Vlad’s free? Vlad Masters, I mean? If they don’t have him— If they don’t have him, then he might even help.”

“Amity Park’s mayor hasn’t been seen for almost a week and a half,” Sam said quietly. “I’m assuming that was the day of the raid.”

They must know. The Guys in White wouldn’t keep Vlad otherwise. It would be too dangerous for them to kidnap someone so public, especially if they didn’t dare accuse him of being a ghost where anyone might overhear them. Given the mess that had happened Elliot, he wouldn’t blame them for being wary of throwing that one around, but still.

The Guys in White had Vlad.

They had to.

And if it was because they knew about Plasmius—

If it was because they knew about Plasmius, then there was a good chance that they already knew about Phantom—and that that was why Sam and Tucker had been questioned. It might even have been the real reason for the raid on his house and why his parents were probably also detained.

It also might mean Jazz had never made it to Aunt Alicia’s, even if her last ditch effort of getting him to safety had worked.

“I need to help them,” he murmured. “I need to free them. They could be getting tortured right now for all I know.” He looked up, meeting the eyes of the two men who were still, for all intents and purposes, strangers to him. “Please. Help me?”