A/N: This is actually serving the dual purpose of being my first story for my 13 Days of Halloween Writing Challenge as well as a ficlet for my Dæmons-Supernatural AU. Good times, man!
Though his dad would never say so, Dean suspected that his father let him come on his first salt-and-burn as a congratulations gift for his dæmon settling.
And though Dean would never say so, it frightened the hell out of him.
He knew the lore, of course. Knew that only part of the reason ghosts went vengeful was the passage of time, or the violence of their death.
The idea that a person can ever be separated from their dæmon was enough to give him chills on a normal day; seeing it first-hand was something else.
"Eyes open, Dean," John said seriously, scanning the darkness ahead of them, "anything comes at you, shoot it."
Dean nodded, tightened his grip on the rock-salt-loaded shotgun in his hands, trembling partially from excitement and partially from fear. Dad had said he wanted his help with this one, wanted to see what Dean could do. Dean had no intention of disappointing him.
"See anything?" he whispered to Zorah, who was perched tensely in her usual spot on Dean's shoulder, sharp, bird-of-prey eyes focusing intensely on their surroundings.
"No," she whispered back, looking behind them attentively, "Nothing yet."
"Here," John said, jerking the end of his own shotgun toward the roped-off section of the fort, the whole reason they were there. Historic sites were always tricky; excavation and restoration tended to stir up trouble of some kind. Especially sites that had to deal with war, like this one.
"Know what you're diving into Dean," John had told him back at the motel, handing him the pages of information he had gathered about the case, "Always know everything you can about what you're up against. The less it can surprise you, the better off you'll be."
Dean listed off the facts as they walked cautiously toward the grave site; years of silence at Fort Collier, nothing paranormal at all, until they excavated several graves on-site, and suddenly what appears to be the ghost of some homicidal soldier who thinks the war is still on is suddenly attacking the staff. Nothing much for it, except to burn the remains of all the graves they excavated and hope that no more crop up that start trouble.
Which was the reason why Dean was there; three graves to salt-and-burn, and a violent ghost who would try to interrupt it.
They ducked under the barrier, Dean still holding his shotgun at the ready as his father lowered the bag on his shoulder to the ground.
"Be ready, Dean," John advised, placing the bag with salt and lighter fluid next to the first grave and Dean nodded, scanning the surrounding area carefully. Vita came to stand at his side, ears swiveling back and forth as she scanned the darkness as well, and it made him frown in annoyance.
"We got it," Zorah told her, shifting her weight irritatedly from foot to foot on Dean's shoulder, and Vita growled at her.
"I'm not doing anything different than what I always do, so you mind your tongue," she snapped, and Zorah bristled, but clicked her beak shut with a huff.
It wasn't until Dean heard the soft drizzle of salt hitting the exposed skeleton that the temperature dropped. Dean's eyes widened as the warm summer air turned suddenly frigid, and he raised the shotgun, scanning the treeline attentively.
Vita growled beside him, on full alert, and he could hear his father hastening to move to the next grave, shaking the salt a little more vigorously.
"Death to the traitors!" a voice suddenly screeched, and Dean cursed himself for jumping in fear as he got a glimpse of an actual apparition for the first time.
Only a glimpse, because no sooner had the thing burst from the tree line, bayonet waving and grim, gaunt face snarling, Dean fired; Vita's warning not even completely vocalised before the ghost disapparated as the spatter of rock salt burst through it.
"Holy shit!" he panted to Zorah, heart racing.
His father's deep voice cut through the darkness, "Dean!"
"It's fine!" Dean said immediately, reloading the shotgun, proud of himself that his hands were steady, "We got it."
"Hurry up, John!" Vita barked at him, her body tense beside Dean's, ready for the next attack, and he heard his father doubling his efforts.
"No surrender, your scoundrels!"
"Right!" Zorah barked in his ear, and Dean swung right rapidly, the soldier almost on top of him before he got the shot off, and Dean ejected the shell with his heart in his throat.
"John!" Vita growled, fur bristling as that particular close call set her nerves on edge.
"Almost!" John barked back, and the smell of gasoline hit Dean's nose as his father ditched the salt in favor of the fuel.
Dean propped the shotgun up against his shoulder again once it was reloaded, feeling more confident now, the closer they got to finishing this damn ghost off.
"Come on, dirt nap," Dean mumbled to himself, eyes darting around the treeline, "Come and get me."
Zorah gripped her talons sharply into his shoulder, shushing him chastisingly.
Dean heard the hiss of the matchbook being lit and the sudden heat at his back as his father threw it in the first of the graves before rapidly moving on to the second. In an instant the ghost was back, screeching in pure, animalistic anger as he rushed to try to stop them. Dean braced himself to fire a shot, but the soldier burst into flames before he could pull the trigger, his grave finally purged.
He watched with wide eyes as the ghost dissipated in a fiery scream just as quickly as it had reappeared, and he lowered the shotgun slowly.
"Well done, son," John surprised him by clapping him on the back, and Dean turned to look up at his father, a breathless grin taking over his face at the compliment, "Come on, we need to pack up before someone notices."
It was the first salt-and-burn that Dean ever did. It was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, and as he ran his fingers through Zorah's feathers in the car on the way back to the motel, he was sure he wanted to do it again.