Usual disclaimers apply
Don't Cry for Me
"I don't know, Dean." Sam stepped over the broken glass. Every window in the run-down house had been shattered. "Something's off. It just doesn't seem like a vengeful spirit."
Dean wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of decay overtaking the dusty parlor. Moonlight stole inside, illuminating white sheets thrown over chairs and tables. "All the signs point to it. The reports of locals suddenly going insane—six to date—all bat shit crazy enough to hara-kiri themselves. Come on, sounds like a malevolent ghost getting his jollies off around here to me. Six, Sam. Tell me how six people in one little town all kill themselves in the space of two weeks without a nasty spirit influencing them?"
"Yeah, okay. You're right." Sam pumped his shotgun.
Kid didn't look convinced.
"Tell you what." Dean tapped the end of his own sawed-off. "I'll keep my dagger unsheathed in case it's something besides a spirit. Which it isn't."
"Guess we'll know soon enough," Sam said. "Up or down?"
"I'll take the cellar. You search the second floor, then meet back here and we'll sweep the main floor together." Dean glanced at Sam's back as the young hunter headed toward the stairway. "Call out if you find anything."
Without looking back, Sam flicked out an exaggerated salute. Dean grinned. Bossing the kid around never got old.
He tried several doors off the kitchen before he found the cellar. Why an angry spirit would want to hang out here was beyond him, but they'd pieced together that at least four of the suicide victims had come here sometime during the month—one as a realtor, two as potential buyers, and another stopped by to give an estimate for refurbishing. So far it was the only thing any of the vics had in common.
Slipping out his penlight, Dean flicked it on. The little beam barely penetrated the darkness down into the slender stairwell. His first step down squeaked across the old noisy wood and footsteps rustled below. Yep, something was definitely down there.
Dean pumped his gun and descended the stairs that squeaked and squealed beneath each step, which didn't matter since the ghost or whatever was in the cellar would have already heard him. His light bounced around spiderwebs and shelves holding dust-coated jars of preserves or something before shooting across a face.
Jolting, Dean dragged the light back to the figure and the identical shotgun that was pointed at him.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Tracking a specter." Jo tipped her head, making her ponytail fall to the side."Nasty one by the looks of it."
"Well, leave. We got here first."
"I don't think so."
Dean lowered his gun. "You don't think you're gonna leave or don't think we got here ahead of you?"
"Neither." The girl's shotgun lowered.
A frown pulled at Dean's mouth. She looked good. Long legs snug in black pants. Tight blue T-shirt beneath a short-cropped leather jacket. She could give Catwoman a run for the money any day. "Your mom know you're here?"
Brown eyes narrowed. "How else am I supposed to gain any experience? I'm a Hunter. Same as you."
"On your own?"
No, I brought my baby sitter along. Geez."
Dean did not like her hunting alone. Not one little bit. Sure he knew it was in her blood and she was going to do it anyway, despite Ellen's wishes, but…hell, he just didn't like it. That's all.
"You're not ready. You need to go home."
"Says who? You?" One hip cocked out, almost in defiance and Dean couldn't help staring at the curve of it.
"Someone has to say it."
"Pluuh…eease. You and Sam have been hunting at a far younger age than I am. If you haven't noticed I'm a grown woman."
Oh, he'd noticed.
"Get yourself a partner then. Hell, hunt with Ellen for all I care. Ash even. Just don't go it alone. Every Hunter needs someone to watch their back."
"Cause that worked out so well for my dad." Jo flinched, at what she'd let pour out.
Dean went very still. "Ya know what. Never mind." He headed toward a darker part of the cellar.
Jo scurried after him. "You know that's not what I meant."
"Sounded like you meant it to me."
"Just stop. I'm sorry, okay. You know I don't see you like that."
"Fine." Dean spun back to face her. Whatever, but Sam and I are hunting this spirit so you need to back off."
"I am not backing off."
"Yes. You are."
"Look." Jo lifted her chin. "I put a lot of effort into tracking all the signs. It's my first solo and I'm not returning without even trying."
"Meaning you don't want to go back to the roadhouse with your tail tucked beneath your legs."
"Fine. Yes. Whatever." She tossed her head back. "I've got to prove to her I can do this."
"It's not about whether you can do it not for Ellen"
"Then I've got to prove it to myself. I don't care, but I am salt and burning this ghost."
Dean swung the shotgun up to rest over his shoulder. He understood the need to prove yourself. He also knew if Jo didn't do it on this hunt, she'd just run off to another. "Fine, you can stay. But, sweetheart, we're doing this together." Where he could keep an eye on her. "I'm in charge. You do everything I say." Oh her eyes flared wide at that. Maybe this could be fun after all. "Deal?"
She glared at him. He could practically see the cogs of her mind weighing options. Finally her gaze met his. "Deal."
#
Basement checked out, they trudged up the stairs. Jo's shoulder bag swung against her hip. Dean wondered what kind of arsenal she had in her little bag of tricks.
Sam was waiting for him on the main floor. "Jo?" His forehead scrunched and he looked questioningly at Dean.
Dean shrugged.
Jo's features tightened. "Sam." Guess she still wasn't over that whole demon possession thing. Awkward.
"Upstairs clear?" Dean barked out at his brother, intentionally bossy so Jo would understand the hierarchy.
Sam seemed relieved to have something else to focus on. "Nothing upstairs. "You?"
Dean flicked his gaze toward the girl. "Well, nothing supernatural."
Jo rolled her eyes.
"Jo, what are you doing here?" Sam asked.
"Same thing as you." Jo grinned then and it made all sorts of feelings jump around in Dean's gut.
Sam frowned. "What data did you use?"
"Newspaper reports. I chatted up the ME. Been sweeping the EMF, but the readings are surprisingly faint, but with the sudden rash of suicides… It all points to—"
"A malevolent spirit." The skin between Sam's eyes bunched as he frowned.
Jo tilted her head again. "You think it's something else?"
"I don't know. It's just…a feeling."
"Sam, I told you," Dean said. "If it waddles like a duck…"
"I know, just keep an open mind."
Dean pulled his handgun from the waistband at the back of his jeans. "I brought the Beretta, didn't I?" Sam's look of relief was worth bringing the extra weapon, though Dean doubted he'd be using it. He shoved it back into his waistband. "Now, can you two compare geek notes later so we can search the rest of this place? Sam, you finish this floor. Jo and I will check outside."
"There's three of us now." Jo drew her EMF from her jacket. "Why do I have to go with you?"
Because he didn't want her running into an angry spirit on her own. "'Cause I'm the boss. You take the front yard." Which he and Sam already scanned on their way in. "I'll take the back." Where he could get to her quick. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic." She spun on her heel and flounced toward the front door, leaving Sam and Dean staring after her.
"This is going to be a fun job," Dean muttered before heading in the opposite direction.
#
The old wrap-around porch groaned beneath Dean's boots. He quickly stepped off before the rotting boards splintered beneath him. A slight breeze ruffled weedy grass against his calves. The estate was huge and overgrown. A few rickety out-buildings and sheds lined the edge of the property in front of a dark copse of trees.
Pulling out his own EMF, Dean walked toward the shell of an ancient barn that leaned to one side so bad it looked as though one hard shake could topple it over. Nothing registered on the meter. "All right, ghostie, where are you hiding? Give me some hint of where you've gotten off to."
He made a wide sweep of the yard, stopping near the trees to check the readings again. A cold breeze blew across the back of his neck, making the tiny hairs stand on end. Dean peered into the thick darkness between the trees. He heard the faint sound of water splashing over rocks. There must be a stream within the trees close by. Dean listened a moment longer before turning his back to the little grove and moving on.
Another sound stopped him in his tracks.
A woman's sorrow filled crying tingled along his skin, a soft grief-stricken keen that speared straight to Dean's bones.
He turned back to the forest, hesitating for only a second before he walked into the thicket. Moonlight barely reached the ground. Ducking beneath drooping branches, Dean followed mournful cries. Pocketing the EMF, he lifted his shotgun.
The weeping grew louder.
Dean came around the trunk of a large tree and saw her.
She knelt on the ground over a wooden bucket holding sudsy water, long grey skirt flowing outward across the ground. Head bowed, shoulders shaking, she wept as she scrubbed fabric across one of those old-fashion washboards.
Kay, so salt and burn, but they needed to figure out who she was to find her bones or whatever item held her here. That meant talking, which really was more up Sam's alley. At least for now, she didn't seem aggressive—just incredibly sad. Which, damn, he'd almost prefer her attacking. Weeping women, alive or dead, were just . . . geez, where was his brother's tender self when he needed him? Dean lowered the shotgun.
Well, here goes nothing. Actually he was glad Sam wasn't here to see what a softie he was about to be.
"Ma'am?" Dean stepped closer.
The woman stopped scrubbing. With her head lowered, he couldn't see her features behind the fall of her long silver-white hair.
Okay, then. The awkward silence strained between them. Taking a chance, Dean crouched down, still a few feet away.
He settled the shotgun loosely across his knees. "I want to help you."
She remained quiet and began moving the fabric up and down on the washboard again. Her fingers were red. Was she bleeding?
Stretching his neck forward, Dean looked into the washbasin, into the pink water. The woman started crying again, her slim body shaking as she scrubbed the clothes with more force, blood seeping from the material. What? Dean flinched. She was scrubbing a black shirt. He could barely make out some kind of picture or logo within the wrinkles. Wait. Was that a concert T-shirt?
Dean looked down at his own chest, at the same logo. He sprang to his feet, whipping the sawed-off up. "Sonuvabitch!"
Too late! The woman was on him, thumbs digging into his temples, long fingers curling around his head. Faces inches apart, red glowing eyes stared into Dean's, holding him powerless within the intensity of her gaze. A violent wind erupted around them, pulling at the strands of her silver hair, whipping her dress around their legs.
Her head dipped to the side, toward Dean's ear, and she let out a thin screech, low and penetrating, somewhere between the wail of a woman and shriek of an owl. It pierced every fiber of his body, drilling through his organs like the buzz of an electrical shockwave.
A scream erupted from Dean's chest, stealing the remainder of his breath with it.
TBC