"You okay, Sammy?" The roads were getting slick, but Dean risked a glance at his brother who hadn't said a word in about three hundred miles.
You okay, Sammy? No. He was not okay. Sam could barely remember the last time he had been okay. A quick inventory revealed a purple and green bruise the size of a baseball on his thigh, a shoulder that had been dislocated enough times that it never quite stopped hurting, and his left ankle was still a little bit sprained from running through that cornfield last week. Not to mention the crushing guilt and fear from the knowing there was a good chance that his brother would be in hell this time next year.
Dean knew that Sam was not okay, but Sam knew that wasn't what he was really asking. To Dean, ""You okay, Sammy?" meant "Can you make it back to the Impala?" or "You got banged around, are you still physically able to back me up?" and sometimes, like now, "Is there something you need to tell me?" But there wasn't. There was absolutely nothing new to say.
"I'm fine, Dean. Just tired." And Sam was tired. They had been working as though they had the devil on their tail for a solid month now. Of course, that wasn't so far off either. Dean ran his hand over his mouth but let it go. Dean was tired too.
"Well if the weather doesn't get worse, we should be there in less than an hour. This should be a pretty simple salt and burn. In and out."
Sam flicked open the case file and skimmed the news report again. MORE DEATHS AT LAKE, the headline read. Two college students had been found hacked to pieces in a ramshackle abandon cabin on the edges of a summer lake community. The cabin had belonged to a man who had been murdered, along with his wife, when they surprised some incredibly unstable squatters fifteen years ago. It was Dean's theory that the ghost husband or wife was protecting their property. Sam was inclined to agree.
"My guess is no one is going to be at the lake in January on the eve of a snow storm. Wanna go straight there, figure out which ghost we are dealing with and then get it done before we stop somewhere for the night? The cemetery is pretty close to the cabin, and I'm worried about the weather."
Dean wasn't going to say it, but he was a little worried about the weather too. And he didn't relish the idea of digging a grave out from under a few feet of snow tomorrow. "Sounds like a plan to me."
The lake house was exactly as empty and foreboding as Sam would have guessed, though the darkening gray sky and spitting sleet added a certain cinematic touch. Sam was glad for the extra warmth of the hoodie under his winter coat.
Dean's leather jacket probably wasn't providing nearly as much protection from the elements but Sam knew he had a zero percent chance or convincing Dean to borrow something better suited.
Dean shouldered his shotgun and slammed the trunk of the car. "Ready to go, Sammy?" He didn't both to wait for Sam to agree before heading up the stairs. Sam sighed and followed behind him.
Dean took point, like always. It was a little hard to see in the gloom of the cabin, but Dean was quite sure the ghost would make himself known. He stepped over what was probably once a chair, into the main room where the kids had been found. Sam followed with the EMF detector, which was going crazy. Dean could see his breath, but he'd been able to do that outside, too.
Dean knocked a box off junk off a table, sending it to the floor with a crash. "Hey buddy! Come and get me!"
It worked. A spirit—the husband, as Dean had suspected—came zooming out at him, armed with a machete. Dean fired off a salt round and it vanished. "Let's go burn him, Sammy." Dean turned just in time to have the gun knocked out of his hands by another ghost, the wife. So two angry sprits. Sam fired at her and she vanished, only to be replaced by her husband who swatted Sam to the floor. Dean watched as Sam's gun skittered out of his hands.
"Sonofabitch," Dean swore, as he scrambled towards his gun and the salt in his duffle bag, which ever he could get to first. The wife appeared as it was almost in his reach and kicked him in the ribs, knocking the breath out of him. She did it again and Dean felt something crack. He glanced towards Sammy for help only to find he had his hands full. The ghost husband had Sam pinned in the corner. Sam was holding him off, but it looks like the ghost had gotten a few swipes of his blade in already.
That was all the adrenaline rush Dean needed. Dean pulled the ghost bitch down to the floor, surprising her, and used the moment to retrieve his weapon. He shot her in the face and swung on Sammy's ghost and shot him too. That gave Sam the chance to get to his feet and reclaim his gun.
"Let's get out of here, Sammy." Dean turned to grab his bag and Sam fired a round at whatever ghost had reappeared. The wife. Dean swung around and as the husband rematerialized too.
"Dean!"
"I see him Sammy." Dean shot at the ghost again, covering Sam as he reloaded and they both moved towards the door. A few more bullets and they were outside, sprinting down the stairs towards the car. Dean nearly slipped on the now icy stairs. Rookie move, he though, catching himself just in time on the banister.
Sam was already in the car, breathing hard when Dean got in. Dean turned the keys and hurtled them down the driveway, probably a bit faster than Baby should have been going in these conditions.
"I think that bitch broke one of my ribs," Dean growled as the adrenalin faded and the damage started to make itself known. "You okay, Sammy?"
The ghost has sliced him a little bit—the side of his face, and something a little nastier on his side, but he'd had worse and some gauze and duck tape would probably do the trick for an hour or two until they could stitch it up somewhere cleaner. He could dig.
"I'm fine. Let's go burn 'em."
The cemetery was close to the cabin, and the double grave they had been buried in wasn't all that hard to find, all though the digging was going slower than usual, thanks to their battle wounds and having to dig up two graves instead of just one. To make matters worse, it was fully dark and also starting to snow in earnest now. Dean hated January. He leaned on his shovel to catch his breath for a minute. His rib was definitely broken. Every breath was agony. He looked over at Sam, and saw that even by the lantern his brother looked pale as well.
"Hey Sammy, are you sure you don't want to finish this tomorrow?"
"And leave two half-dug graves out here all night?" Sam leaned back on his heels and glanced at Dean. Sam wasn't feeling great either- the ducktape bandage wasn't doing as well as he had hoped. He could feel a steady trickle of blood seeping into his shirt and waistband. It was probably the only part of him that was warm. Still, he was almost finished—he could power through it. If Dean could dig with a broken rib, Sam could dig with a little cut. Sam picked up his shovel again.
Dean finished his hole and looked over at Sam, ready to give him some crap for losing the race. But Sam did not look good. He was still digging, but he seemed really unsteady on his feet. Dean pulled himself out of the grave and went over to his brother, concerned
"Hey Sammy, how about taking a break? You can salt and burn mine and I'll finish yours okay?"
Sam didn't fight him on it, just reached up so Dean could help him out. It was torture on his ribs, but he didn't hesitate. Sam's hand was colder than Dean expected it to be, even in the snow.
"Maybe the fire will warm you up."
"Mmhmm." Sam grabbed the gas out of the duffle and stumbled towards the other grave. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe they'd been out in the cold too long. Dean dropped into the grave Sam had been working on and finished it quickly, ignoring the protests of his body. Next to him, he felt the heat of fire Sam was setting.
"All right, Sammy, my turn. Almost done." Dean pulled himself out and was shocked to find his brother looking so drawn and leaning heavily against the car. Dean threw down his shovel and rushed towards him. "Jesus, Sam, you okay?"
The world spun and tilted at an angle and Sam started to slide down the Impala. "I don't think so."
