Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I mean, really, why would you think that?

I hated women in white. Almost as much as I hated witches. Really. They were just spirits, but they were really, really, whole new level of vengeful angry. And they were arbitrary, which made them a bitch and a half to deal with. They had honesty going for them, and an uncanny sense of a person's guilt. The last thing any hunter needed was something that preyed on guilt. As a group, we had a whole lot of collective guilt.

My mood was not helped by the fact that it was mid-July in Alabama. Sammy was due to start fifth grade in the fall. I was gonna be in 8th grade. I was supposed to be a freshman going by age, and I knew I was smart enough, but Dad wouldn't allow it. It was frustrating- him needing to sign off on everything. I had gotten good at forging his signature for stuff like report cards but he still had to register us for school and other stuff.

I couldn't help but be a little angry he was never really there for the important stuff, like the play Sam was in last year with the food pyramid. He didn't even know Sam had gotten a sophomore level score on his last reading comprehension test or the science teacher at my last school gave me a special book so I could learn more about physics and chemistry.

I guess I was more angry about the fact he wasn't there for the normal stuff. It was all about hunting with him. Always had been. Normally, I didn't really mind. Dad had let me go on a few hunts now, and I kind of liked it.

I'd had my own gun for a while. It was gorgeous and Dad had even registered it. A pearl-handled 1911 pistol with engraving down the barrel; it was exactly what I needed it to be.He was going to let me go tonight, said he needed the second set of eyes and someone the ghost wouldn't go after. I was hoping I'd get to use the gun for something besides target practice though.

I was nervous about leaving Sammy by himself. It didn't matter Dad had been leaving us alone since I could shoot. It didn't matter I knew Sam was more than capable of taking care of himself. Leaving Sam alone, still pretty new to the fact that monsters were real, went against everything I knew, everything Dad had taught me. Protecting Sam was in my blood, and I wasn't sure I was ready to leave him alone.

Regardless, two hours later, I was sitting shotgun in the Impala. The salt on the windows and doors had been checked four times and I made sure Sam knew to shoot first, ask questions later so much I was pretty sure he was going to shoot us when we got back.

It was the first time I felt the cool metal of mygun press against my back.I would always remember that. It was loaded with iron bullets and I was more than ready to use them.

The lore on the case was simple enough. Emma Garfield died in 1962. Her husband had been having an affair with the local bartender. She had found them in bed together. She killed them both, went home, put a couple bullets in her kids then one in her own head. She had spent the last thirty years luring men to their deaths, and it was our job to make sure she didn't see thirty-one.

As it always seemed to be the road she favored was the most practical way to the cemetery. We drove along and Dad pulled off the road, just before we turned onto her's.

"You know what to do, Dean?"

"Yes, sir. If she comes after us, shoot her. No hesitation. When we get to the graveyard keep my gun on me. Dig, but drop the shovel if I feel a chill, even if I think it's just the wind. Salt her as soon as she's up and get out. If you get hurt and I can't move you, Iget in the car, get Sammy, and call Pastor Jim."

"Good boy. Don't forget."

"Yes, sir."

Dad eases the Impala out of the shoulder and turned onto the road. I felt a jumpy kind of electricity in my limbs I hadn't felt during a hunt before. I kept waiting for a jump scare like what happened in the horror movies Dad didn't know I watched.

It happened when were a couple miles from the graveyard. I knew the theory of how it was supposed to work- I'd been helping Dad with research for ages now and heard stories for even longer. It turned out that the theory of it was radically different than the reality. A twenty-degree drop in temperature was terrifying. Accompanied by a body materializing in the middle seat, well I didn't have words for it besides another day at the office, but it certainly wasn't fun. Dad jerked the car off the side before he was knocked into the window, Emma's nails digging into his chest.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't freeze for a second. I couldn't shoot her without shooting Dad. The wrought iron bullets would do a hell of a lot more damage then she currently was.

"Dean! Do something!" Dad barked and his voice made me quit panicking.

I reached into my boot and pulled out the iron knife I had stashed there. I wasn't expecting resistance when I slicked through her. It was the texture of scrambled eggs,but she disappeared quickly enough. Dad righted himself.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Fine. Quick thinking."

"Thanks."

"Let's get going before she comes back."

"Don't they usually wait to be let in?"

"Knew we weren't going to stop. Probably knows what we are."

"So it just happens?"

Dad didn't respond, just punched the gas. I pressed my lips together to keep from saying anything else and slid the knife back into my boot. We spent the rest of the drive in silence. I kept glancing out the window, expecting her to appear again. We got the cemetery and Dad was counting under his breath. I knew he was counting the rows to her grave. Eventually he pulled to a stop.

I hopped out of the car, eager to get this hunt done. Dad popped the trunk and I grabbed the shovels. He smiled at me as I pulled the gas and salt out. He pointed down the rows and I followed him.

Digging up the grave was a lot harder than I imagined. We were only about three feet down when my arms started burning. I gritted my teeth and pushed through. Complaining wasn't going to get me anywhere. I couldn't help but be relieved when Dad sent me to the car to get the water jug. I was on my way back when I heard it.

A resounding thunk followed by: "Dean!"

I drew my gun on instinct. The jug hit the ground and I ran forward. When I got back in line of sight of the grave I wasn't entirely surprised by what I saw. The ghost had Dad pinned to the ground. His gun was five feet away from him, and his headwas bleeding. The amount of blood he had lost was almost alarming, and even in the dim light I could see his eyes start to flicker closed.

"Dad!" I yelled before I could help myself.

The next thing I knew there was a shovel flying toward me. The metal hit my shoulder, slicing through cloth and flesh. I hissed with the pain of it, and my grip on my gun wobbled precariously. I kept my grip though, and fired. She disappeared when I hit her. I moved to Dad, intending to get out of there.

"Finish the job, Dean," he said.

"But your head."

"Dean, the job."

"Yes, sir."

The hole was mostly dug. I grabbed the shovel that was still sitting next to the grave. I counted my blessings for her pauper's burial- no one had wanted to claim her. Her wooden coffin was half rotten with age. It took some effort to break through, but it only took a few good whacks with the shovel. I poured salt and gasoline over the bones and dropped a lighted match into the grave. The sudden rush of heat made me take a startled step back.

I recovered quickly, though. I knew she wouldn't be bothering anyone else. I made sure my gun was secure before making my wayover to Dad. Now that I was close I could see the puddle of blood he was laying in was not just from the head wound, but also a series of gashes in his stomach.

"Come on. Let's get home," I said.

Dad groaned, and I could tell he was going to lose consciousness soon. I fished in his pockets for the keys. I got my good arm around him and hauled him up.

"Come on, Dad. Need you to stay awake."

"Leave me, go get Sammy."

"Don't think so. Know you have it in you."

I could feel the massive effort it took for him to start walking. I could already tell the car would be covered in blood and knew I would probably be helping detail the Impala for the next week. I got Dad settled in the back and climbed into the driver's seat. It wasn't like I hadn't driven her before. It had just been during the day on back roads with Dad in the passenger seat. I turned the key and felt her familiar roar beneath me. I could handle this.

I was shaking by the time I pulled up to the motel- a combination of fear and the pain in my shoulder. I coaxed Dad out of the back, ignoring the blood, and hauled him towards the room. I pounded on the door.

"Come on, Sammy! Let us in."

The door creaked open in such a way I knew he had a shotgun trained on the other side of the door. He looked wary. I shouldered past him and pretended not to notice the look of relief on his face when we easily crossed the salt line. I got Dad onto a bed. Sam had closed the door, but was standing there looking stupefied.

"What are you waiting for? Get the damn first aid kit!" I barked at him.

Sam scrambled to do as he was told. Dad stirred on the bed, and I went over to him, helped him strip off the blood-soaked shirt.

"You did good, kid," he said before he passed out.

As Sam plopped the first aid kit down beside me I spared him a small smile. I motioned to the wounds on Dad's abdomen. They were deep, but not so deep I though he needed the hospital. As if on cue Sammy started cleaning the wounds. The one on Dad's head had mostly stopped bleeding, as opposed to the ones Sam was currently holding pressure on. I cleaned away the dried blood and stitched it up. There was little doubt he had a concussion.

I waited a few minutes until I was reasonably sure the bleeding had stopped before I nudged Sam aside and stitched up those wounds too. I taped them for good measure. I wouldn't be surprised if he had some bruised ribs, but there was no way to know until he woke up. As soon as I was done I collapsed into the chair and took a swig of whiskey.

"Dean," Sam said.

"What?"

"Your shoulder." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's fine, Sammy."

"I got it. Needs stitches."

I knew there was no point in arguing. "Fine. Just be careful okay?"

"I will."

I shrugged out of my shirts. I flinched back on instinct when Sam poured whiskey over the wounds. Sam hadn't done many stitches yet and I tried not to flinch every time he pulled needle through skin. Basically, I sat very, very still while my little brother sewed me up.

"What happened?" he asked.

"A hunt, Sam. What do you think?"

"Did you get her?"

"Yeah, I got her."

"What happened to Dad?"

"The monster. Got him when he wasn't looking."

"I know he took you on the hunt because it was a woman in white."

"Yeah. He did."

"And I know what they do. Who they go after."

"Women in white are the reason hunters don't have significant others, Sammy. Drop it."

"Like wives or girlfriends, right?"

I looked towards Dad, making sure he was still out before I spoke. I knew he would catch my meaning, if Sam didn't. "Yeah, or something."

"Boyfriends, too, I guess." Leave it to Sam to get it.

"Yeah, kid. Boyfriends too," I said as Sam taped the gauze down.

I shrugged back into a t-shirt, ignoring the pull of the stitches. Sam automatically started cleaning up the first aid stuff. I stood up and nudged Dad awake. His eyes flew open and his hand went for the knife he expected to be under his pillow.

"It's fine. It's okay," I said.

"How long was I out?" he demanded.

"Long as it took to stitch both of us up."

"Sammy?"

"He's fine. Didn't do a half bad job on my shoulder either."

"Right. Okay. What about the ghost? Sorry, Dean. I'm a little fuzzy right now."

"Whacked your head pretty hard. She got her claws into you, too. I ganked her though, got us back here."

"No one saw us?"

"Not that I noticed."

"Good. Don't think I'll be going anywhere for a few days."

"Probably not. I'll wake you in a few hours."

"Thanks. You done good tonight."

I smiled.