After that, they arrived back at the motel. Dean stepped out of the Impala and looked up at their room on the fourth floor.
Instead of heading inside, he stood there staring at the building with an uneasy expression.
"Uh... shouldn't we ask for a room on the first floor or something? What if the building suddenly collapses? We'd never make it out."
Sam slowly looked up at the motel before turning back to Dean. Henry did the same. Neither of them said a word, but by now they were certain something was wrong with him.
Dean Winchester worrying about a motel collapsing wasn't just unusual — it was completely out of character.
As Henry continued watching him, a memory suddenly surfaced. "Dean, take out your gun."
Dean frowned. "My gun?"
"Just do it."
Still confused, Dean reached inside his jacket and pulled out his pistol. The moment it settled into his hand, his expression changed.
He stared at it for several seconds as doubt crept into his mind. What if the gun jammed when he needed it? What if the safety fails?
What if it accidentally discharged while tucked into his waistband? The more he looked at it, the less comfortable he felt holding it.
Without another word, Dean turned toward Sam and held out the pistol. "Sam... you hold onto it for me. This thing suddenly feels dangerous."
Sam slowly took the gun, his eyes never leaving his brother.
He had hunted with Dean for years, and he knew there wasn't a chance Dean would willingly hand over his favorite weapon unless something was seriously affecting him.
Henry finally pieced everything together. The slow driving. The irrational fear of staying on the fourth floor. Now Dean being afraid of his own gun. He had seen this before.
"I think I know what's happening to Dean," Henry said.
Both brothers turned to look at him.
"What is it?" Sam asked.
"Ghost sickness."
***
Inside the motel room, Henry opened his laptop and searched through the lore. After reading for several minutes, he found the entry he had been looking for.
"Ghost sickness," Henry said.
"It's a supernatural illness caused by a ghost. The symptoms begin with irrational fear — at first it's small things, but the fear keeps getting worse until the victim becomes terrified of almost everything."
"In the final stage, the victim dies from cardiac arrest brought on by overwhelming fear."
The room fell silent.
Dean swallowed. "Wait... so all the victims died because they were infected with this ghost sickness? And now I'm infected too? Does that mean I'm next?"
His voice carried far more anxiety than usual, which only confirmed Henry's suspicion.
"Dean, calm down," Sam said before turning to Henry. "Do you know how it's transmitted?"
Henry nodded. "According to the lore, the sickness passes from one victim to another through physical contact with the infected body."
Dean's face immediately paled. His mind flashed back to the morgue. During the autopsy, the medical examiner had accidentally sprayed blood onto his face.
"...You've got to be kidding me," Dean muttered, wiping his face with both hands as though he could still feel the blood.
Sam's expression grew serious. "So there's a cure?"
Henry scrolled farther down the article before nodding. "Yeah. Like most ghost cases, you stop the source. We find the ghost which is called Buruburu responsible for spreading the sickness, salt and burn its remains, and the curse dies with it."
Sam immediately began thinking through the investigation. "Then we stop chasing heart attacks and start looking for a ghost. Seven victims mean it's been spreading for weeks. We need to figure out where it started."
"But why me?" Dean asked, clearly unsettled. "Sam was there too. The blood hit both of us. Why am I the only one who's infected?"
Henry smiled awkwardly instead of answering.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "What does that smile mean?"
Henry scratched the back of his head. "Well... there's one more thing."
"What?"
"According to everything I found, every victim so far had one thing in common. They were all either jerks, bullies, or arrogant pricks."
Dean blinked. "Wait a second." He pointed at himself. "I'm none of those."
Henry didn't answer. Instead, he slowly looked toward Sam.
Sam noticed the look and met Henry's eyes. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. The silence alone was enough to make Dean suspicious.
Dean looked from one to the other. "...Seriously?"
Sam cleared his throat, trying very hard to keep a straight face. "I'm... not saying anything."
Henry coughed into his fist, doing an equally poor job of hiding his amusement.
Dean folded his arms. "Oh, come on."
Sam finally shrugged. "You can be a little arrogant."
"A little?" Dean shot back.
Henry closed the laptop and stood up. "It's getting late. Sam, you stay with Dean and make sure he keeps calm. I'll go track down the ghost before this gets any worse."
Dean looked offended. "I'm not a baby. I don't need babysitting."
Henry ignored the complaint and walked over to him. "Then hold your gun."
Dean instinctively reached for the pistol Sam had been carrying.
The moment his fingers touched the grip, doubt flooded his mind again — images of the weapon jamming, misfiring, or accidentally going off flashed through his head.
His hand hesitated before he slowly pulled it back.
"...No," Dean admitted awkwardly. "You keep it."
Henry nodded. "That's what I thought." He looked at Sam.
"The fear's getting worse. Don't let him go anywhere alone. Ghost sickness progresses fast, and the more frightened he gets, the worse it'll become."
Sam's expression turned serious. "I'll keep an eye on him."
Henry grabbed his coat and headed for the door. "I'm going to find the ghost. Hopefully, by the time I get back, this whole thing will be over."
*****
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