Because of what happened, Dean invited you two back to his apartment to figure out what the hell just happened. As soon as you walked in, Dean scoffed with a shake of his head.
"What?"
"If I knew this is what it would take to get you back to my apartment," he chuckled.
"All you had to do was ask," you winked as you walked in further. "What a night."
"Yeah. I could use a beer," Sam commented.
"Oh, sorry, man. I'm on the Cleanse. I got rid of all the carbs in the house."
"Hey. How the hell did you know that ghosts are scared of wrenches?" he asked as Dean handed you two a bottle of water.
"Crazy, right? And nice job kicking that door too. That was very Jet Li. What are you, like a black belt or something?" you asked.
"No. I have no clue how I did that. It's like... we've done this before. And what about you? That roundhouse kick?"
"Same as you, I guess," you shrugged.
"I—I just can't shake this feeling like I—like I don't belong here. You know? Like I should do something more than sit in a cubicle," Sam sighed.
"I think most people who work in a cubicle feel that same way."
"No. Well, look, it's more than that. Like, I don't like my job. I don't like this town. I don't like my clothes. I don't like my own last name. I don't know how else to explain it, except that... it feels like I should be doing something else. There's just something in my blood. Like I was destined for something different. What about you? You ever feel that way?"
"Actually, I do. It's been having that feeling ever since I started working here. No offense, Dean, but I feel like I should be doing something more."
"I don't believe in destiny. I do believe in dealing with what's right in front of us, though," Dean said.
"Alright, so, what do we do now?
"We do what I do best, Sammy. Research," Dean smiled.
"Okay. Did you just call me Sammy?"
"Did I?"
"I think you did. Yeah. Don't," Sam smiled as he walked to a table to do some research. Dean was about to walk to his corner desk when you grabbed his hand in affection. He snapped his head to you with a look on his face. Realizing what you've done, you quickly took it away before blushing.
"I'm s-sorry, I didn't know where that came from."
"Don't be, I liked it," he smiled as he winked at you. Time to start some research.
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It's been a long night with everyone doing research, but you gave up in the middle of it. Deciding to let Dean do all the work, you laid your head on his shoulder to watch him, and he didn't seem to mind it. In fact, he liked it a lot that you were showing him this affection. It was like something out there was drawing you two in together.
"Oh, jackpot," Dean chuckled once he came across a site called Ghostfacers.com
"What you got?"
"I just found the best site ever. Real, actual ghost hunters."
"Maybe," you chuckled, not knowing why you were feeling the way you were feeling about them. Something just didn't sit right. Sam got up to join you and Dean.
"Instructional videos," Sam muttered as Dean clicked on one. Two men appeared on screen with two white lab coats on.
"We know why you're watching," Ed said.
"You've got a problem."
"A ghost problem."
"A ghost-related problem. A ghost—it's like a ghost-adjacent pr—it's like a problem that's—and the ghost is—"
"Whatever. You've come to the right place. The only decent place, really, because the Ghostfacers know how to solve it. Watch and learn."
"This is shit, you know that? Look at these guys, t's bad acting," you chuckled as Dean shushed you.
"See, the first step in any supernatural fight: Figure out what you're up against."
"Okay, so let's do that then. Look up how Sandover got started," you said.
"I got that covered," Sam said, walking over to his laptop before bringing it over for you two to see. On it was an article about the death of Sandover's founder.
"That's him. That's the ghost," you commented.
"P. T. Sandover. Died 1916. Devoted his life to his work. No wife, no kids. Used to say he was the company, and his very blood pumped through the building."
"Wow, okay. So slight workaholic. Maybe he's still here, you know, watching over the company, even killing for it," Dean suggested.
"Plus, turns out this isn't the first time people started killing themselves in the building. 1929, lots of guys jumped off lots of high rises that year."
"Okay, so P. T. Sandover, protector of the company. His ghost wakes up and becomes active during times of grave economic distress," you thought out loud.
"Well, I mean, the worst time we've seen since the Great Depression is now. Yeah, now sucks. My portfolio's in the sewer. I don't even wanna talk about it," Dean sighed.
"So Sandover's helping the bottom line by zapping some model employees," you figured it out.
"Yeah. I mean, Ian and Paul. It was like he turned them into different people."
"Perfect worker bees, exactly. So devoted to the company that they would commit hara-kiri if they failed it."
"One more interesting fact. The building wasn't always that high. Used to be fourteen floors. And the room where the ghost attacked, fourteen forty-four? Once upon a time, that was the old man's office."
"Let's continue watching," you said as you played the video.
"Once you've got that thing in your sights, you kill it," Ed said.
"Using special ghost-hunting weapons," Harry added.
"First, salt. It's like acid to ghosts. It's a bad trip for ghosts. Next up, iron."
"Which is why the wrench worked," you said.
"Pure power in your hand. Dissipates ghosts instantly."
"Next little trick. We learned this from those useless douchebags—"
"That we hate," Harry interrupted.
"The Winchesters, and their girlfriend, I think her last name is Singer?" Ed asked his friend. Hearing that name made you gasp as you got another vison? It was of Harry and Ed but in casual clothing with cameras hooked to them along with night vision goggles.
"You okay?" Sam asked.
"Yeah, perfect," you nodded as the video continued.
"Gun. Shotgun shell. Pack it up with fresh rock salt," Ed explained.
"Very effective. Winchesters still suck ass, though," Harry grumbled.
"Affirmative. Suckage major," Ed nodded. Dean paused the video as he got up, grabbing some pokers by his fireplace that were iron.
"Are we seriously listening to this? These guys are idiots," you watched Sam join him in finding all the salt and iron before they packed it in a duffel bag.
"Do you have a better idea?" Dean asked which made you shut up. "Where do we even get a gun?"
"Gun store?"
"Isn't there like some kind of waiting period or something? So how in the hell..."
"I don't know. Seems pretty impossible, honestly," Sam shrugged.
"Back to the video it is," you said, playing it once the men joined your side.
"The aforementioned super-annoying Winchester douchenozzles also taught us this one other thing. You have to burn the remains," Ed said, showing you a lighter on screen.
"Okay, this next part gets a little gross. Sometimes you might have to dig up the body. Sorry."
"It's illegal in some states."
"All states," Ed's friend corrected.
"Possibly all states." Sam walked back over to his laptop before sighing.
"Sandover was cremated."
"What? So what do we do now?" Dean asked.
"Now, if the deceased has been cremated, don't panic," Harry said, fixing the problem for you three.
"Just gotta look for some other remains. A hair in a locket, maybe. Fingernails. Baby teeth. Milk teeth. Genetic material. You know what we're talking about," Harry listed off the things.
"Go find it."
"Fight well, young lions."
"Godspeed," Ed smiled. Turning off the video, you shook your head.
"Can't watch a minute more of that," you shuddered. "Okay, let's go kill ourselves a ghost."