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Or, hey, it might even be God's will. Several responses ran through his brain, and he discarded them all. Dean just reached for the office door and held it open without even a conspicuously innocent look. The receptionist at the desk pointed them down a narrow path into the administrative warren, and shortly they were tapping at the door of a cramped office that looked like it had begun life as a closet. Denise Johns dislodged herself from behind her desk to shake their hands.

Denise was a chunky woman in pink, her hair done in a blond bouffant that had the look of a mid-rate dye job. She couldn't have been more than forty, but she looked older. While Dean unleashed a dazzling smile on her and introduced them and their bogus newspaper, Sam scanned the room and its contents.

Pictures of Denise with two kids in cheap, brightly colored plastic frames covered the desk; Sam saw none of a husband or boyfriend. The wall behind her was bare of awards or certificates. There was just a calendar showcasing a different beach resort each month. She gestured them to folding chairs crammed between file cabinets. He waggled his pen at her. There's a name I haven't thought about in a long time. But Gene mainly kept to himself. The ones who accidentally caused his death?

Denise was silent for a few moments. You know what kids are like. Danny and his friends never let him forget it. Before the incident that killed him in senior year? Stupid kid stuff—I wish I could tell you that I don't see it happen anymore, but I know the same things are going on in my school now. Bigger kids copying homework off of smaller kids, kids who are different getting beat up and swirlied.

This time he moved his leg before Sam could connect a kick with it. Sam gave Denise a tight, don't-mind-him smile. So you must have known the football players pretty well? How a tragedy like that could occur. Everybody in that school knew each other.

He ran one of the tissues under his nose and forced back the tingling in his sinuses. A lot of us did; I lived just across the street in another complex. He cleared his throat and blinked the water from his eyes when the tickle didn't go anywhere. What would he have been doing there? Kids used to hang out there, I suppose. It was a swift, silent dialogue: Johns, just one more question," said Dean.

Sam and Dean sat with unchanging, well rehearsed hopeful expressions and waited. Johns," said Sam, offering his hand as he rose. They shook and said their goodbyes. Sam turned back, and Dean halted at his side.

He was this guy who hung around the high school, a few years older than us—it doesn't matter. All I meant was that I don't think Fred and the others would have really hurt somebody if it hadn't been for Red egging them on.

They weren't bad kids. Dean scrutinized her for a long moment. Sam turned his head on the comforter to look at him. He was hanging up his suit jacket by the door and working at his tie one-handed, like he couldn't wait to get back into jeans and a tee-shirt.

Better a nice salt and burn than a vampire nest or something, with the condition you're in. Dean always knew, half the time even before Sam did; and now he could feel the phlegm gathering in his sinuses and the fever winding up in his blood.

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Not only was he sick, but it was going to suck. The springs creaked as he sat on his own bed and grabbed the remote. I mean, we should still take care of the bones, obviously, but his name didn't come up anywhere in the news coverage when Gene died. If he had something to do with it, we could tip off the police, maybe get the kid some justice. Gene Thomas was kicked twenty-seven times and then had his skull cracked open on a toilet bowl, because he was a nerd and couldn't make the football team.

You don't think he deserves justice? I'm saying, maybe we should look into what Denise said about him and if there's anything to it, we throw the police a bone. If someone told them to do it, it was a lot more than that. I can tell that this is bothering you, too. The best thing we can do for your ghost—who's killing teenaged girls for kicks now, by the way—is put him to rest.

Anything else is above our pay grade. You're the one who said we need to lie low, anyway. He wanted to tell Dean that that had been a low blow, but he was probably right. The more distance they kept between them and cops, the better. Besides, his head was throbbing too much for an argument. Should be a straightforward case.

When he woke, it was dark and he had the room to himself. That much he knew even with his senses swimming; over and over, their father had drilled it into them to let their training come to the fore when they were impaired and instantly catalogue the clues in their environment.

So he was unsurprised to open his eyes to darkness and a silence broken only by distant street traffic. A blanket had been draped over him. He'd fallen asleep in his suit jacket. Now the damn thing would have to go to the cleaners. His back ached, a dull, deep pain that promised more to come. The front of his face throbbed with the pressure of what felt like an oil tanker's worth of snot.

Moving slowly, he hauled himself to the bathroom to blow his nose. The effort left his head throbbing and his sinuses scarcely less clogged. But he wasn't dying, and he certainly wasn't slowed to the point of being worse than no backup. He washed his hands twice, and once more for good measure. Back in the main room, the alarm clock stabbed red in his eyes.

Dean probably hadn't been gone long, then; they rarely started digging up graves much before midnight. Sam checked the distance between the motel and the cemetery on the laptop and thought for a moment before he started shedding his wrinkled suit in favor of jeans and several layers of shirts. The odds of Gene's spirit showing up at the cemetery were small, but not slight. Half the head injuries they got were from getting chucked into headstones.

If Dean was going to be a moron, then Sam would just have to be one, too. The cold, steady rain that greeted him when he stepped outside wasn't enough to make him think seriously about going back to bed, but it sure as hell made him want to.

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He burrowed further into his jacket and bent his head to the rain. A mile of suburbia salad separated the motel and the cemetery, wet asphalt reflecting streetlights and shopping center signs and strips of snow melting onto the grass under the rain.

The world around him only penetrated his dulled senses in fragments. As he walked, he tried to focus on the case. Burning the bones was the first step no matter what, but they both had the same training: And something was bothering him about this. That much he knew. But he couldn't get anywhere; his thoughts kept falling apart like a cocoon under the fingers of a too-curious child. He fished his phone out of his pocket, hit redial, and waited.

Dean's phone rang and rolled over to voice mail, and Sam's stomach knotted slightly. It didn't necessarily mean anything; it was easy to miss a phone ringing while digging a grave in the rain. But he quickened his steps. Long familiarity with graveyards made it easy to locate the right section of the cemetery. Once he'd found the s, he followed the sound of a shovel grating against soil. Dean had his back to him, gas mantle lantern on the headstone and the Impala parked just a few yards from the grave.

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded not unlike metal plowing through grave dirt. Dean spun round, almost comical disbelief on his face. It was replaced by irritation in less than a second. Sam started at the other end of the hole and ignored the glare he could feel on his back. But I'm well enough to be working, so let's just get this done.

The grave was already swimming with water and turning into a mass of mud. This was going to take forever with both of them, never mind one on his own. That occasioned some cursing, even though it was no surprise with a modern-day, middle-class stiff; but eventually they got the vault's top leaned against one wall of the hole and the coffin open.

Dean gave Sam a leg up and Sam, crouching on the red, slippery lip of the grave, gave Dean a hand out. They poured lighter fluid in tandem, drenching the corpse in accelerant to combat the rain.

Dean dumped a generous amount of salt down there and struck a match. He saw Dean turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye, but kept looking down.

As soon as the fire had burned long enough, they took up their shovels again and made short work of backfilling Gene Thomas's second grave. They stowed the shovels, and Sam didn't say anything when Dean came around to thrust a towel into his hands. He even kept his mouth shut when they pulled into a CVS on the way back to the motel and Dean came out with half their inventory. By the time he followed his brother back into the room, he'd been on autopilot for hours.

When Dean put a dose of Nyquil in his hands, he drank it down without bitching that he could look after himself. He stripped off and showered, inhaling the steam deep into his aching lungs. It was so tempting to just stand there under the spray, with the steam soothing his raw throat and hot water pounding on his muscles, but he knew Dean was soaked, too. He stumbled back out to his bed and got in in nothing more than boxers.

He wanted to sleep, wanted nothing more, but he ached all over. He heard the shower, felt himself sinking down, seeping into the mattress. Heard clinking gun parts.

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Dean moving about the room. Blood thrumming, the dark pressing in on him. Crawling into his head like it used to. The dark was alive. Sounds were too loud; little sounds boomed, yawned, grew large, swallowed him up like they used to when he was a child. Sometime in the night, he felt Dean's lips on his forehead, checking his temperature. Dean stepped back, spreading his hands pacifically. He felt like something rejected by the USDA.

The clock read 9: At some point in the night, he'd racked up a disgusting pile of spent tissues on the bed next to him. He almost groaned like a melodramatic teenager, but he swallowed, instead, which proved to be a mistake because his throat hurt like hell.

Dean cleared his throat, and for the first time Sam registered that his brother was fully dressed while he himself was half naked with his hair mussed. He felt an almost queasy warmth in his belly that had nothing to do with his fever. There was a reporter standing in front of a building that looked familiar.

The screen showed a photograph of a young woman. Mid-twenties, conservative makeup, nice smile. He didn't recognize her, but her hair was long and brown, and suddenly he got it. Third death at Oak Crest Apartments, the headline ran. We burn the wrong bones?

Back to the drawing board? No one else has died under suspicious circumstances or gone missing in or around that building. Logic is going with his gut? He lapsed into silence to try to think; but his brain had gone to soup, so he ended up listening to the TV instead.

Apex Realty is releasing no statement at this time…. That mean something to you? That's Zachary Conchlin's real estate firm. He was one of the guys involved in Gene Thomas's death. He was the only one who was underage; jury found him not guilty.

Violent shivers wracked him in the next moment, and he pulled the comforter around his shoulders. He stared dumbly at the browser window for a moment before he remembered what he was doing. Hack the UMD proxy. Gene Thomas had been kicked repeatedly in the Oak Crest model apartment bathroom. The prosecution's filing enumerated his injuries more baldly than any of the news coverage: Forensics found the wound to his head consistent with an accidental fall against a hard surface like the toilet, not a deliberate blow.

Other than the one that had killed him, none of these had been serious injuries. But they hadn't been meant to be. They'd been meant to humiliate.

It didn't take Sam long to piece the legal picture together, when he already knew most of the story. He felt like he'd gone into this knowing it. Three popular kids had caused an unpopular kid's death and, basically, gotten away with it. Miller and Farber had gotten minimal sentences. Conchlin had gotten nothing. Everything about this court case had been majorly jacked; Sam could tell that much without ever having gone to law school. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and tried to clear his head.

Gene Thomas was no one to him. It was stupid to over-identify. Except that Gene reminded him too much of someone else, someone he'd counted as friend at a time when he hadn't had a lot of friends, and he still knew what it was to be an outsider. But the best thing he could do for Gene Thomas at this point was gank his ghost. Probably the best he could do for Barry Cook, too.

He laced his fingers together loosely, shut his eyes, and let his forehead fall forward onto his knuckles. The bathroom door thunked open, but Sam ignored it, still trying to get his head to work.

There was something else here. Dean had his back to him, giving his teeth a final check over the sink the architect hadn't bothered to fit into the bathroom. When he did turn, he went for his jacket as if nothing was up. Well, Sam reflected bitterly, he sure as hell didn't feel like praying now. He shoved an unexamined wad of emotion down somewhere inside him, closed the laptop, and headed for the bathroom himself. He washed his hands once or twice and pulled himself together.

He took a second to curse at someone who cut them off in a Miata. He was nauseated from too much Tylenol and twitchy from too much caffeine. Sam blew his nose into a doubled-up Kleenex, a long, wet, honking sound that earned him a look from Dean. Sam scrubbed a hand over his forehead. And you were the one who was all gung-ho to hunt this poor, misunderstood spirit, so how about you catch me up on all the boring parts we glossed over the first time?

It was hard when the pressure in his sinuses kept pushing them out of position. Farber and Miller were convicted, but Conchlin was found not guilty. He was the youngest one; he admitted he'd been present, but the defense claimed he hadn't participated. Young man with a bright future, a shame to ruin it for one mistake, he just fell into bad company, yadda, yadda, yadda. Tell me your OCD made you look them up.

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Danny Farber's still in the area, he works construction. It might even be true; the rest of his injuries were superficial. And that's bugging me, man. I mean, most ghosts usually don't recreate their deaths on their victims, but…. His reflection in the tinted glass told him the hope was vain.

It wasn't until a second later, as the young blonde seated there gave them a nervous smile, that Sam understood why. Dean had picked up on her discomfort instantly from across the room.

TIFU by sneezing while wiping my ass.

He leaned against the desk and held the wattage of his smile steady as he introduced them. We have an eleven thirty with Mr. Dean flicked his wrist hard under the desktop. The appointment's going to eat half our day. You sure he couldn't spare us just a minute? Dean snagged a card off the desk and grinned reassurance at the receptionist.

It is Andrea, right? We won't be ten minutes. The door was oak, solid enough to keep the conversation on the other side indistinct, but anger and annoyance came through clearly enough. They paused to listen for a moment, then shrugged simultaneously and reached for the door.

A gigantic guy, bigger than Dean, bigger than Sam, stood blinking at them in jeans and red flannel with a manilla envelope clutched in one hand. He looked about forty. In the office beyond, a man of the same age with dark hair and a pink tie stood frozen in the act of placing a flat shipping envelope wrapped in plastic on the desk behind him. For a moment, the tableau stayed like that. Sam followed Dean into Zachary Conchlin's office with his ears ringing and eyes watering.

He ran his handkerchief under his nose as discreetly as he could and tried desperately to suppress a cough as a tickle started at the back of his throat. Conchlin stabbed a finger at them as he swung an expensive sportcoat onto his shoulders. Did that new girl out front let you in?

I'm going to fire that moron so fast her head'll spin! Conchlin, we have an appointment. We're with Architecture Showcase—" Sam began. Conchlin turned his back on them to pack a briefcase. Mass-produced to look exclusive. A gaudy sparkle of gold and blue on Conchlin's finger caught Sam's eye. So did an appointment book on the blotter. Fat, black, bursting with cards and chits of paper, it was the first thing Sam had seen in the office that didn't seem to have been bought for show.

Zachary Conchlin's entire life was in there—Sam knew it on sight. They didn't even have to look at each other. Dean just tapped him on the wrist, barely a brush of the pad of his finger. He didn't even really have to do that, because Sam already knew what he was thinking. It was clarity that cut through the fog in his head. Sam stepped toward Conchlin. He took half a step back out of shock, but then he advanced, got in Sam's face.

A man like Conchlin couldn't do otherwise. Think I don't know why you're really here? You won't get anything about those dead girls out of me! Get out of my office! Behind him, Dean was stashing the appointment book away with the same God-given gift he used to make sawed-offs inconspicuous under a blazer. Sam put his sticky handkerchief away and let his mouth fall open slackly, breathing with a wet snick deep in his lungs and a glassy stare that had Conchlin backing up against his desk to get away from him.

Conchlin," he pleaded, as pathetically as he knew how. It was easy at the moment. He wasn't even bothering to keep a straight face.

While Conchlin swore and turned to collect the plastic-wrapped envelope Flannel Guy had left, Sam and Dean made their exit. They hastened down the corridors and crossed the slate-gray lobby at a clip.

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  • DEPARTMENTS

They needed to be out of the building before Conchlin missed his day planner. The rest of him was shaking with cold, but his eyes were hot. Even when he shut them, all he wanted to do was splash them with cold water. Full length colonoscopy is usually carried out in adults prior to any surgical intervention. However, the clinical significance of the findings are disputed by some.

STARRand these patients may benefit from post-operative biofeedback therapy. Decreased squeeze and resting pressures are usually the findings, and this may predate the development of the prolapse.

Note circumferential arrangement of mucosal folds. The appearance is of a reddened, proboscis-like object through the anal sphincters. Patients find the condition embarrassing. As most sufferers are elderly, the condition is generally under-reported.

It is rare in men over 45 and in women under Anatomical differences such as the wider pelvic outlet in females may explain the skewed gender distribution.

Initially, the mass may protrude through the anal canal only during defecation and straining, and spontaneously return afterwards. Later, the mass may have to be pushed back in following defecation. I spent a few minutes googling for it but only found a bunch of stories about how none of y'all fuckers know how to use bathrooms correctly. I hope she's not as dumb as you're implying. I was thinking the same thing but projectile poop all over his hand as he was going to wipe.

Like a normal person. The first thing I did this morning was fart by my mom as a joke. I shit my pants a little. Don't trust a fart after a night of drinking. Standers are just doing it that way because that's how their mothers used to do it for them when they couldn't handle it themselves. A grown man sits when he wipes. I've never even thought that there might be people deranged enough to stand up for the purpose of wiping.

If I have to stand up because my wife didn't replace the TP stash when she finished the last roll I have to walk to the closet with my legs spread wide apart in order to keep my cheeks spread. Standing just smashes your cheeks together. I started giggling in the middle of Spanish class.

She's just to well behaved to let me know she understands. I honestly had no idea that there are some grown adults who stand to wipe their ass. Standing is an option??? That's called the "Captain Morgan". I learned that here. So long as you don't let her read through the comments. I dont know why people call it standing up to wipe. I am a "stander" but its not standing. You don't stand straight up, you just lean forward onto your feet, instead of leaning to one side on your cheek.

If everyone who "stands" just starting saying they "Lean forward" all this BS would stop. We should start a Self-Dirty-Sanchez club. How's life in that third world country, you pedestrian? Dear Charmin, Instruction unclear. Shit in my nose. Dick caught in blender. To be fair, I'm sure a lot of wives are used to their husbands spending 30 minutes in the bathroom groaning and banging. That's exactly how much I've paid for.