Chapter 2

Dean walked up to Lou's place for work at ten on Saturday morning, but the door was locked and there was a sign up. Family emergency, closed till Monday, 9:00 am. Dean went around behind the shop and saw that Lou's old car was gone. Sighing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and contemplated what he was going to do.

He'd had a couple of slices of toast that morning, but he could always eat. A meal at the diner downtown wouldn't set him back too much. He walked in and took a seat at the counter. Patty was working front, and she walked up to him. "Coffee?" she asked, and he nodded. "So, have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Tom Carpenter's dead."

Dean's jaw dropped. "What? What happened?"

"No one knows for sure," she said with a little shiver. "He and his friends went out into the woods last night, and I guess they got separated, and when the found him this morning, he was dead."

"The Owens property?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Dean said, feeling sick. Suddenly he wasn't so sure he wanted breakfast. He ordered anyway and ate mechanically. Tom was a douchebag, sure, but he didn't deserve to die. Not like that. He knew there had to be a way to make Nancy stop, and he had this feeling he'd once known how. He hated the way his mind was fractured. Before the summer of 1991 and after. Everything before was locked up tight as a drum. The shrinks said it was trauma from that son of a bitch cutting on him. Dean thought it might be more.

He left neatly folded bills on the counter and went outside. The sky was sunny and bright, but he felt leaden. Maybe there'd be something in the library, something no one would think twice about because they didn't really believe in all that crap. He walked down there and went inside. He'd been in a time or two before because of school reports or rainy day canoodling in the upstairs stacks. Mrs. Johnson, the librarian, gave him a stern look as he passed. He went to the computer and looked up books on ghosts. The first few pages he got were all ghost stories, and most of them were in the kids section. He pursed his lips. Maybe he was on the wrong track. He needed the occult. He typed that on the line, and got a whole bunch of weird stuff, and a Dewey decimal number. 133.1.

He went to that section of the shelves and started pulling books off at random. He flipped through a couple, looking at contents pages, but nothing seemed to be quite what he wanted. He needed to figure out about this ghost in particular, not just ghosts in general, but that was going to be a challenge. He didn't even know her last name. Nancy wasn't really enough to go on. He shoved the last one back in where he'd gotten it from and went up to the front desk.

"Yes, Mr. Hunter?" Mrs. Johnson said.

"Do you have newspapers going back all the way around the end of World War II?" he asked.

"We do," she said. "Are you doing a report for school?"

"No, it's just something I'm kind of curious about."

"Well, it's all on microfiche, and we only have one machine."

"And that's a problem because . . ."

"Because someone's already on it If it was for school, I could evict him, but you said it's not."

Dean cursed his honesty. "Thanks anyway." He wandered in the direction of the machine and saw little Sammy Beckett sitting at the screen. He walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder, wondering what a kid like Sammy was reading up on.

"Local Girl Suicides in Woods." The date was April 21, 1949. There was a photograph under the headline. She wasn't wearing the same clothes, but it was the girl he'd seen in the woods on Wednesday night, there was no doubting it.

"Kinda morbid reading," he observed.

Sammy jumped and turned his head. "I'm . . . just curious."

"You heard about Tom?" Dean asked.

Sammy's brows knit. "Tom? I heard some kid died in the woods. Was it Tom?"

"That's what I hear," Dean replied. "What are you looking at this for, Sammy?" he asked, leaning his butt against the side of the table the machine was on.

"I told you, I'm curious," Sammy said defensively. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking stuff up." He scanned through the article and found her name. Nancy Everett. "Be seeing you."

"Sure," Sammy said, sounding puzzled.

Dean left the library and walked along the road, not sure what he was going to do. Something had to be done to stop her, but he didn't know what. A car pulled up beside him when he was about two blocks from the library. He looked up when the door opened and realized it was Ronald Carter, the police chief. "Dean, I need you to come down to the station and talk to me."

Dean swallowed. "Can I walk down and join you?" he asked.

"I'd rather you came with me in the car," Carter said.

Dean peeked inside the car and saw that the passenger seat was empty. "Can I ride up front, at least?"

"Sure."

Dean got in on the passenger side of the car and resigned himself to a polite conversation with the police. If this didn't end with him in juvie, he'd be lucky as hell.

***

Sam followed Dean out of the library, wondering why he'd been so interested in the article about the only violent female death Sam had found in the history of that stretch of woods. He knew why he was interested. He'd heard that morning in the grocery store that Tom and some of his friends had been out in the woods Friday night, and he knew that one of them had died. According to Mrs. Whitley, one of the school secretaries who gossiped nonstop as far as he could tell, the other boys were nearly hysterical with stories about a pale girl who appeared and disappeared. That had sounded ghostly to him, so he'd come down to look into it.

He looked down the street and watched in surprise as a police car pulled up beside Dean. A cop got out and talked to him, then they both got in. Sam wondered what that was all about. He went back inside and closed down the microfiche machine. After returning the microfiche roll to the librarian lady, he went back to the apartment. It was a hunt. He knew it. And Dad wasn't here.

Dad would probably tell him he should wait, that he would handle it when he got back. But one guy had already died, and Sam didn't think he dared wait. Thirteen or not, he had to do something. He went through all the stuff he had on hand, and scowled. He had rock salt, but it was the emergency stash Dad left always for him in case anything bad showed up while he was gone. If he used that up on a hunt and left himself unprotected, Dad would kill him when he found out. So, he needed lighter fluid, rock salt and matches. He dug through the money Dad had left him, and knew it would cover it, but he wouldn't have much left for food.

Shrugging, he stuffed it in his pocket and walked down to the grocery store. It made a weird looking pile on the belt, but the checker didn't even blink. She just rang up his purchases, put them in a plastic bag and took his money. Now he had to figure out which of the three cemeteries in town Nancy Everett was buried in. The article hadn't said that.

He went from one to the other and found her in the last one he checked. He stared down at the grave for a long moment and realized the flaw in his plan. There was no way in hell he had enough money to buy a shovel. He'd have to steal one, and that led to different dangers. He looked around for a good place to stash his supplies and saw a tree with a hollow spot. It was a little above his head, but if he left one of the handles hanging out a little, he'd be able to drag it down again.

That done, he went off in search of a shovel.

***

When Dean heard footsteps on the lane coming out of the graveyard, he dodged behind a stand of bushes, not particularly wanting to be seen. He'd spent the last four hours in the police station, answering stupid questions about his fight with Tom Carpenter and about the confrontation at school on Friday. It was ridiculous. None of what had happened would have led to Dean attacking Tom. It was far more likely that Tom would have gone after him. When he'd pointed that out, the detective had immediately asked him if that's what had happened. Dean rolled his eyes. Cops wanted the easy answer, always.

Finally, they'd confirmed that he'd been at the garage until after eleven Friday night, and that seemed to clear him, at least provisionally. He really hoped that being questioned by the police wouldn't be considered grounds for pulling him out of Jake's house and putting him in juvie. It wasn't like he'd done anything.

When he saw Sammy coming out of the graveyard, he blinked. What the hell was that kid up to? Once Sammy was out of sight, Dean went on into the graveyard. He'd come to this one first because it was on the southeast end of town, right up against the woods, maybe three blocks along from Lou's. It seemed like the logical first choice.

He wandered up and down the rows of graves till he found the Everetts. There were Marian and Arnold, parents of Michael and Nancy, and then there was Nancy. She'd died ten years before her father had and nearly thirty before her mother. Her brother didn't appear to be present. Dean stared at the stone. Beloved Daughter/Taken Too Soon. He guessed it was a good thing it wasn't a Catholic graveyard, or they wouldn't have let her be buried here at all.

He knew there was something that needed to be done, and it needed to be done here, but he didn't know what. He clenched his fists and looked around for any kind of hint. It was maddening, truly, because he could feel the knowledge boiling around somewhere in his head, only he couldn't get anywhere near it.

A spot of white caught his eye, and his gut chilled. It wasn't night, she couldn't – then he looked closer and saw that it was something sticking out of a hollow in a tree. Dean walked over and leaned up a little on his toes to see what was there. It was a plastic grocery bag, and it clearly hadn't been there for very long. He reached in and grabbed it, not sure what he expected to find.

When he looked inside, he was aware of a peculiar sensation, like the dam in his mind had burst just enough for a trickle to come through. The words salt and burn flowed into his head just as easy as that, and he knew that was the answer he'd been looking for. He needed to dig the body up and . . . and that was fucking creepy. He stuffed the bag back into the hollow and wondered who'd put it there. It couldn't have been Sammy. He was just a kid. What would a kid be doing with this kind of knowledge?

On the other hand, anything Dean knew about this stuff had to have been learned before he was twelve, and Sammy was older than that. He bit his lip and wondered where Sammy had gone.

He walked a little way into the woods, figuring he could stake out the grave from there and see who came back to it for the barbecue.

***

Sam saw a couple of shovels, but they were both in use. Hard to steal a shovel that some guy had a firm grip on. He wandered around for awhile, then went home and dug out the flashlight. He'd need that, too, if he was going to dig after dark. Maybe he should call Bobby and see if he had a suggestion.

No, this was his hunt, and he had to show that he could manage on his own. Besides, Bobby would probably call his dad. Sam dug through all their stuff again, and all he found was a couple of big spoons. Throwing them on the bed in disgust, he searched through the cupboards. In the back of one of the drawers, he found a rusty old spade. It would take forever to dig deep enough with that, but he'd take it, just in case. Maybe he could dig a smaller hole, and if the coffin wasn't metal or something, he could just break into it and jet the lighter fluid along inside and light it from there.

He sighed. One of these days he was going to be as big as his dad. He just wished he knew when.

The hours that followed were agony. Sam couldn't concentrate on homework or on TV. Every time he heard a car, he ran to the window, half-hoping his dad would come back and take care of this for him. For one thing, Sam knew there were shovels in the back of the Impala. He read through his notes on dealing with angry ghosts over and over again, even though they were less than a page. It felt like the night before a big test, only the grade was life or death, just not for him. He didn't think he fit the profile for this ghost. The deaths he'd seen in the papers were all of guys between sixteen and twenty-five.

Around seven, it finally looked dark enough to go outside and make his way to the graveyard. Sam stuffed the spade into his jacket pocket and kept his eye out for abandoned shovels. He saw a few people clearing up after yard work, but everyone seemed to be putting things away properly. He'd have to make do with his spade.

When he got to the lane that led to the graveyard, he slowed a little, listening. He didn't want to surprise anyone making out. He'd heard kids talking about that as a thrill in class, but all Sam could think was that they were crazy. There wasn't a sound, so he crept cautiously in. No one around. He turned on the flashlight and walked up to the grave. Sighing, he got down on his knees, put the light where it showed what he was doing, and started to dig.

He'd turned no more than three or four spadefuls when he heard a twig crack behind him. He whirled, grabbing the flashlight and pointing it at the newcomer. He stared in shock and horror. It was Dean, and he discovered in that moment that he actually gave a damn what Dean thought of him. He must be the only kid in three states Sam felt that way about. He stood up slowly as Dean squinted in the light. "What'cha up to, Sammy?"

"Um . . ." Sam didn't have a ready lie for this one. "I just heard that if you . . ." He broke off. Talking about graveyard dirt wouldn't help. "Um . . ."

Dean was right in front of him now. "Salt and burn?" he asked softly.

"What? No, of . . ." He trailed off. Dean seemed entirely serious. "How did you know?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Lucky guess," he said. "You have to dig her up first?"

Sam realized he was trying to hide the spade behind his body and relaxed his arm. "Yeah. I've got to salt and burn the bones, but how do you even know there's a ghost?"

"I get around," Dean said. He leaned down and plucked the spade out of Sam's hands and tossed it aside. "But this is not the way to get the job done, Sammy-boy. Give me ten minutes, and I'll be right back."

"You're not going to get the cops or anything, are you?"

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Would I rat on you?" he asked, reaching out and tousling Sam's hair.

"I don't know, I don't really know you," Sam said, ducking back.

"Well, I'm not a rat," Dean said. "Back in a flash." He took off down the lane, jog-trotting along. Sam watched him go, then shook his head. Going and getting the spade from where Dean had thrown it, he got back down on his knees and started digging again. Dean probably wouldn't be back.

He tried to convince himself that he was making headway. He'd gotten a whole six inches down in a hole that wasn't much bigger than a loaf of bread when he heard jogging footsteps in the lane. He sat back and stared in shock when Dean came into the graveyard carrying a shovel, a real shovel.

"Can I use that?" he asked, getting to his feet.

"Nope," Dean said, and Sam glared up at him. "You're too short to get the right torque on it," Dean added. "Sorry."

"What are you saying?" Sam demanded. Dean didn't answer, he just walked over to the side of the grave and, putting his foot on the side of the shovel, sunk it into the ground. He started cutting through the sod in a roughly rectangular pattern around the perimeter of the grave.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked.

"Well, if we have the grass and stuff still intact, it will be a lot easier to hide what we've done."

"You don't have to do this," Sam protested. "It's my hunt."

"Hunt?" Dean asked, now carefully levering chunks of grass out of the ground. Sam started helping, piling them away from where they'd have to throw the dirt. "Never thought about it that way. Anyhow, I have more call to be on it than you do, Sammy."

Sam stood up straight and glowered at him. "How's that?" he asked belligerently.

"I saw the bitch," Dean said. "Night before last. She tried to kiss me, but I ran like hell."

Sam stared at him. "She tried to . . . eeuw."

Dean paused and gave him a shrug. "Pretty much, yeah."

Once the sod was out of the way, Dean started digging for real. With one flip of the shovel, he'd pulled out at least as much dirt as Sam had managed so far. Sam settled glumly down on the side to watch him dig, and he sort of saw what Dean meant about the torque. Sam wasn't all that much taller than the shovel. He sighed and resigned himself to holding the flashlight. After awhile, he said, "Is that why you were at the library? Because you saw her?"

"Because I saw her, and because I asked Lou – that's my boss – what the story was, since the kids were all telling stories out of the bloodiest horror movies." He paused and shrugged. "And because somebody died. That could have been me Wednesday night, and if I'd gotten my shit together sooner, Tom might have been okay."

"You can't blame yourself," Sam said with a shrug that made the circle of light bob. "You're a civilian."

"I'm a what?" Dean asked, his face taking on an amused look.

"A civilian," Sam repeated. "Not a hunter."

"What are you? Because I don't believe you do this every day."

"No, but I will," Sam said, lifting his chin. "My dad does."

"So you're like a . . . what do you call it . . . an apprentice?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "If you're tired of digging, I can take over."

Dean shook his head and started digging again. It took hours to sink a hole that deep. Sam hadn't realized that. Maybe that was part of why Dad was gone so long when he hunted. Sam kept offering to help, but Dean wouldn't let him.

"This is nuts. I'm the hunter and you're the one digging."

"Apprentice . . . hunter . . ." Dean said between gasps for air. "Short . . . apprentice . . . hunter." He stopped digging and leaned on the shovel, breathing heavily. "I think I gotta take a break, Sammy," he said.

"Fine, then you hold the flashlight, and I'll dig." Sam jumped into the hole and took hold of the shovel. "Wait, what's on this?" He shone the flashlight on the spot. "Is that blood?" he asked.

Dean shrugged and let him take the shovel away, going a few steps back to hop out and sit on the ground, his feet dangling in the hole. "I don't do this much," he said. "I guess maybe I should have grabbed Jake's gloves, but they're way to big for me."

Sam walked over and turned Dean's right hand into the light. He could see blisters that had come up and popped, and new ones starting. He went over to the bag he'd brought with him. "I grabbed the first aid kit before I came out," he said.

Dean looked up when he said that. "You got gauze and tape?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Okay, here, give it to –"

"You're not going to be able to do it by yourself," Sam said, walking over and setting the kit down on the edge of the hole. He opened it and pulled out one of the three inch square pieces of gauze. "Okay, hold your hand out."

"Sammy, I can manage it on my own."

"Hold your hand out," Sam said, ripping the packaging off the square of gauze.

"You're a bossy little squirt," Dean said.

"Yeah, well, you're the civilian and I'm the apprentice hunter, so put your hand out."

Giving him a dubious look, Dean held out his left hand. Sam carefully placed the gauze over the palm and pulled out the tape.

"Wrap it good, or I won't be able to dig any more."

"You shouldn't have been digging in the first place," Sam said, but he started wrapping the way he'd seen his father wrap his hands when they were in a similar state. Sometimes Dad showed up with all sorts of weird injuries, and he usually wouldn't answer questions about how he'd gotten hurt. He thought he knew where the hand stuff came from now. It used a lot of tape, but Sam had often thought they should buy stock in first aid companies.

"Not too bad, kid," Dean said when he'd finished the first hand.

"My name's not kid, it's Sam," Sam said irritably. He grabbed Dean's right hand and started working.

"Sam, yeah, right. I guess I'm probably driving you nuts calling you Sammy."

Sam was glad he was looking down when Dean said that, because his eyes widened. It was only at that moment that he realized that he hadn't minded at all. Usually it pissed him off beyond words, but after the first time, he'd sort of accepted it without question. "Kind of," he lied. "But that doesn't mean you have to stop."

"That's sort of schizo, don't you think?" Dean asked, giving him an odd look.

"I kind of like it, too," Sam said quietly. "It reminds me of my brother."

"Where's he?"

Sam shrugged. "He disappeared when I was eight," he said. "After all this time, Dad thinks he's dead."

"What do you think?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. He sighed and didn't look up. "I don't want him to be dead."

"Man, I know that one," Dean said.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"I'm going to find my real parents one of these days, that's all. I just hope they aren't dead before I get to them, you know?" Sam gave him a quizzical look. "What?"

"Your real parents?" Sam repeated hesitantly.

Dean glanced down at his hands. "Oh, right, I forget you're not from around here." Sam shrugged and waited for more information. Dean grimaced, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'm a foster kid."

Sam nodded and didn't pursue the subject. He finished the tape on Dean's right hand and put the supplies back in the first aid kit. Then he grabbed the shovel and drove it into the dirt. He put his foot on the side of the shovel and tried to dig it further in, but instead of the shovel going into the ground, Sam shoved himself off his feet.

"Easy, tiger, I got it," Dean said, gently pushing him aside. "I've gotten a rest, and my hands are all protected now."

"I can do it," Sam protested.

"Before dawn, when some old biddy comes to lay flowers on her husband's grave, sees us, and has a heart attack?"

Sam climbed back out of the hole and sat Indian style on the edge. "I hate being short."

"You'll grow out of it," Dean said, and Sam glared at him. "Come on, Sammy! Hey, knock knock?"

"Knock knock jokes?" Sam said disdainfully.

"Why not? It'll pass the time." He raised his eyebrows and Sam shrugged. "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Doris."

"Doris who?"

"Doris locked, that's why I had to knock!"

Sam groaned, but he kept playing the stupid game until he heard a thunk. He scrambled to the edge of the hole. "I think you're there!"

"Either that or China's a whole lot closer than I thought."

Sam got up and flashed the light at the hollow in the tree. "I'd better get the . . ." He couldn't see the bag. "Someone took it!" he said.

"Don't fuss, Sammy," Dean said, climbing out of the hole. "I stuck it a little further in after I peeked. Keep the light pointed over there."

***

Dean went up on his toes again and pulled the bag out of the depths. "See, Sammy," he said, turning around.

"Dean, look out!"

With the flashlight between them, Dean couldn't really see Sammy, but he whirled to find that Nancy – or rather what was left of her – had come up behind him. He threw the bag in the direction of the flashlight. "Deal with it while I distract her."

"Dean!"

"Do it, kid!" Dean dodged as Nancy came at him.

"I thought you wanted to kiss me," she murmured.

"That was before I knew you were dead," Dean said, backing up. "How about if we stay just friends?" She was suddenly no longer in front of him, and he felt a chill behind him. He turned again. "Hey, that's cheating!"

"Come on, kiss me!" she cooed. "I know you want to."

"Sammy?"

"I can't get the coffin open!"

Dean ducked and dug in his pocket. He threw the salt through her, and she vanished. "Use the shovel!" he called, twisting around to see where she would come at him from the next time. He dodged across to the bag of supplies and grabbed out some more salt. A cold front behind him made him whirl and fling salt in an arc. She flickered out again, and Dean took a deep breath. "How you doing?"

"Better, I think," Sam said. He sounded breathless, and he punctuated his response with a thump of the shovel against the casket. He could hear the top beginning to splinter. "Look out!"

Dean dug into the salt again and turned around, but she vanished before the salt hit her. Cold hands seized his arm and swung him backwards against a tree. He hit it with a bone-jarring thump, his head whacking into a protruding knot. Dazed, he watched her approach. A splintery crash came from the direction of the grave, and he hoped Sammy was almost done. Her hands landed on his shoulders, and she got up on tiptoe to press her frigid lips to his. He felt energy draining from him.

Then she pulled back abruptly and let out a mind-rending shriek. Flames shot up and consumed her completely. Dean sank to his butt at the base of the tree, heart pounding. That was too close.

A few moments later, he realized he was being shaken and that Sammy was calling his name over and over again. "Dean! Are you okay? Dean?"

Somehow, he seemed to have flopped over. He pressed himself upright. "I'm good, kid, I'm fine," he said, pushing Sammy gently away before clambering to his feet. "We'd better close the grave up now."

"Right. I'll do that, you just rest."

Dean stumbled over to the side of the grave and contemplated the shovel. Then he sat down in a kind of controlled collapse. "Okay, you do that," he said.

Refilling the hole took less time than digging it had, but it still took awhile. By the time Sammy was jumping up and down on the mound of dirt to try and get it to flatten out, Dean was up to getting up and stomping on it himself. "That's enough," he said, finally. "I've gotta go to bed, but I'm going to see you home first."

Sammy shook his head. "I don't need you to see me home."

"Tough." He put an arm around Sammy's shoulders. "I'm not letting you go home on your own after that."

"You were the one in danger. I should be walking you home.'

"Like you need to be anywhere near my house."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sammy asked, pulling away.

"The people I live with aren't fit associates for a lad of your tender years," Dean intoned sententiously.

Sammy gave him a disgusted look. "You sure do know how to sling the bullshit."

"It's a gift," Dean said, buffing his knuckles on his second best jacket. He supposed he could go back into the woods to find his other jacket now. "Where do you live, anyway?"

"You know those crappy apartments across town?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Number three."

"So, I guess you guys aren't planning on sticking around, huh?"

Sammy shook his head. "We never stay anywhere for long."

"Sounds kind of lonely."

"I've got my dad," Sammy said staunchly, but Dean was a shrewd judge of character. If this kid wasn't lonely, he'd eat his shorts.

Dean blinked and tilted his head. "Where is he?" he asked. "If he's a hunter, why was it you coming out to salt and burn those bones on your own?" He kept his voice low now that they were passing through inhabited streets.

Sammy shrugged. "He's out on a hunt," he said.

"He left you alone to go hunt?" Dean asked, a little annoyed by that idea.

"He says I'm too young to go with him," Sammy replied. "But it's no big deal. I wouldn't want to miss school, anyway."

"Yeah, right," Dean snorted. "But how long has he been gone?"

"Doesn't matter," Sammy said. "He'll be back soon."

"Soon as in tonight, or soon as in tomorrow?"

"Soon as in soon," Sammy replied, giving him a dirty look. "Why are you asking so many questions about my dad?"

Dean shrugged. "Just wondering." He figured that was as good an answer as he was going to get. Soon didn't mean tonight or tomorrow, and probably not Monday. "I just thought we could hang out together tomorrow, but if your dad's getting home then, you probably won't want to, that's all."

Sammy's expression cleared right up, and Dean knew he'd chosen the right excuse. "Oh, no, he won't be back tomorrow." He gave Dean a sidelong look. "What, you don't go to church on Sunday mornings?" he asked mischievously.

"Hell, no," Dean replied with a laugh. "Jake and Louise do. They even dress up and look the part, like the hypocritical bastards they are."

"That your foster parents?" Sammy asked.

"If you mean are they the people the great state of Georgia decided to 'place' me with, then yes," Dean said. "But they are in no way parental, foster or otherwise. If I didn't have to stay with them, I'd have left months ago." He nodded towards the stairs. "This it?"

"Yeah." Sammy paused, looking at him. "You want to come in?"

"Sure," Dean said. By now he was curious how the kid lived on his own. They went up the stairs and Sammy used his key to open the lock. Dean stepped inside after Sammy and looked around. "Man, this place is a sty!" he said without thinking.

"That's just because I had to dig through everything we had to see if I could find anything like a shovel," Sammy exclaimed defensively. He dropped the bag on the floor and started picking things up.

"Hey, I wasn't saying you should clean up, Sammy-boy, I just –" Something occurred to Dean suddenly, and he started laughing. "Oh crap!"

"What?" Sammy asked, looking like he wanted his share of the joke.

"I left old man Miller's shovel at the graveyard."

Sammy's eyes widened. "Will people think he did it?"

"Well, first there'd have to be an identifying tag or something, and I didn't see one," Dean said. "And then there's the fact that he's eighty-two and hasn't done much digging in the last ten years or so." Sammy didn't seem to quite see the humor in it, but Dean's laughter got the better of him at the image of stern, solemn Mr. Miller digging up a grave.

Sammy kept cleaning up, and Dean said, "You don't have to do that on my account."

"It has to be done," Sammy said.

"At five in the morning?" Dean asked, and Sammy finally looked up. "Get some sleep. I'll come back by around –"

"Do you –" Sammy's jaw clamped shut and he bit his lip as if he didn't want to say something.

"Do I what?" Dean asked.

Sammy shrugged, but the tension in his body belied the casual gesture. "Do you really feel up to the walk home?" he asked, and Dean had a feeling he'd edited the question.

"Why, you offering me a chunk of floor?"

"Actually, you could sleep on my dad's bed. It's not like he's using it."

It was clear that Sammy really wanted him to stay despite his attempt at concealing it, and Dean wondered how he'd wound up in this position. He grinned easily. "I'm beat, so I'll take you up on that, as long as you don't think you're old man will mind."

"He won't care," Sammy said. "It's through here." There was one bedroom with two beds in it. Sam pointed to the one his dad usually used, grabbed what looked like a pair of PJs and headed off towards the bathroom.

Dean kicked his shoes off, shucked his jeans and hung his jacket and outer shirt over the chair at the end of the bed. No way in hell was he taking off his t-shirt. No kid, no matter if he was an 'apprentice hunter,' needed to see the crap that bastard had engraved on his skin. Pulling back the covers, he fell into the bed and was instantly asleep.