Road Closed Ahead

Summary: Sam and Dean run into an urban legend that's not quite what the stories say...

Run, boys, run!

Chapter Four

Dean sprinted toward the car, leaving the shovel behind but keeping the duffel and his favorite sawed-off shotgun close. It wasn't Marigold's fault that the salt rounds hadn't worked, after all, and he refused to leave her behind. The salt pelting the horseman had definitely sounded like it was hitting something a lot more solid than a pissed off ghost, although neither the horse nor the rider had so much as batted an eye at being shot. Granted, only the horse had eyes, so maybe that was the problem.

Sam ran alongside Dean, but the horseman was faster than them both. He rode ahead of them, turning the horse directly in their path, blocking them from getting to the car. Dean immediately changed tack, and Sam matched him, heading off through the tombstones at an angle to the horseman. Dean heard the horse neigh as the rider sharply jerked the reins. The horse responded quickly, turning to intercept them.

They ran for all they were worth, making a wide arc through the cemetery with the car as their final goal, but the horseman was too fast. Dean could hear the horse's hooves thundering behind them, drawing closer and closer as every second passed.

Suddenly Sam was gone from Dean's side. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned back in time to see the horseman tugging on the reins, causing his mount to raise its front hooves, only to come crashing down on Sam's fallen figure.

All Dean had was Marigold, loaded with salt rounds that didn't work, and a duffel bag, so Dean did the only thing he could think of. He unzipped the bag and emptied its contents on the ground. Dean fearlessly approached the rearing horse, dodging to avoid hooves that he knew could rip skin right off his body. He waved the bag wildly forcing the horse back from Sam and then with a final and very inelegant leap tossed the bag over the horse's head through the large zippered opening. The horse immediately quieted, although it reared again when the rider dug his heels into its side. Dean ignored whatever the horseman decided to do. He grabbed his brother, dragged him to his feet and hauled him the ten yards to the car. Dean had the Impala started and flying out of the cemetery within seconds just about the time the rider had the duffel bag removed from the horse's head. Dean floored the car, roaring away until the speed was simply too much for the horse to keep up.

Dean looked over at his unconscious brother and noted the distinct tang of blood in the air.

Dean gritted his teeth. "Ghost, my ass."

Dean kicked the motel room door closed behind them and helped Sam to the closest bed. "Easy, Sammy. Easy," he soothed when Sam groaned as he half-sat, half-fell on the bed. Dean helped him slide down onto a pillow, and then lifted his legs so that he could completely stretch out his too-long frame.

Sam was barely conscious and for that Dean was almost grateful. He unbuttoned Sam's ragged shirt and saw that the horse's hooves had managed to tear open a nice sized gash in his brother's side, not to mention all the bruises and the ribs. More worrisome, however, the side of Sam's head was already swelling and badly bruised. Dean didn't know if he'd taken a direct blow from a flying hoof, or if it had been a glance off the ground or something.

"S'it bad?" Sam asked through gritted teeth.

"Nothing a few band-aids and some spackle can't fix." Dean opened the first-aid box that he'd brought in from the car and began pulling out supplies. He quickly handed his brother several pills and then helped him with a water bottle.

"Spackle?" Sam took another gulp of water before waving it away. "Kinda scarin' me here, Dean." He raised his head to look at his side and then let it fall back. "You know as much about construction stuff as you do about horses."

"Shows what you know. I spent a month putting up drywall a few years ago."

"Seriously?" Sam blinked as if trying to focus.

"Seriously. Dad was laid up, and I had to pay for our room somehow. I bluffed my way onto a crew and figured it out as I went along. About as much fun as ditch digging, but it kept us fed."

"How did we get away from the h-horse…" Sam stumbled over the word as Dean began cleaning the gash in his side with holy water.

Sam swore, using a few words Dean hadn't thought were even in his brother's vocabulary, then pinched his lips together and fell silent, breathing rapidly through his nose in an effort to control the pain.

"Make all the noise you want," Dean said. "The owner knows we're hunters and the deposit's long gone."

Sam just remained silent, panting, his fists clenched at his sides as Dean finished cleaning the wound and began getting out what he would need to stitch it up.

"How did we get away from the horseman?" Sam asked again.

"I threw the duffel bag over the horse's head. It calmed right down."

Dean glanced up at his brother's face and saw Sam frowning. "What is it? Something hurt more than your side?"

"How did you know to do that?"

"Throw a bag over its head? Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Figured you were more the Blazing Saddles type." Sam swallowed audibly, agony etched on his features. "Just punch the horse."

Dean snorted. "The thought might have crossed my mind, but uhh… yeah, the bag was better."

"You got a soft spot for horses?" Sam asked, his breathing turning close to a wheeze all of his muscles were so tense.

"Ask me again sometime," Dean evaded.

Sam jumped at the first bite of the needle into his skin, but only a few moments later he finally relaxed into unconsciousness. Dean let out his own sigh of relief. He hated sewing up people no matter what, but if he had to, then he'd take passed out over awake any day of the week, especially when it was family.

"That's it," Dean murmured. "Take a load off. Been a rough couple of days anyway. You just get some rest." Dean quickly stitched up his brother, careful to make the stitches as fine as he could. Scars were no help in their business. They made them stand out, and not just to doctors. Scars were warnings that their owner just might not be trustworthy and getting information out of people required them to trust you, at least for a few minutes.

Dean straightened from his work and let out a low groan. His back and his ribs were killing him. Hauling a Sasquatch through a cemetery wasn't all it was cracked up to be, then leaning over to work on Sam had set his entire chest right back into screaming mode. Not to mention his head. He and Sam were both going to need a vacation once this hunt was done. Maybe they could go visit Auggie and his horses. He could tell Sam had a bee in his bonnet to know the story, but unfortunately, Dean had no doubt that it would just piss Sam off, so it was a no go.

Dean pulled the comforter up over Sam and made sure he was as comfortable as possible, then sat down gingerly at the table beside the bed. The journal Sam had found at the library was sitting on top. Dean knew he wouldn't be able to sleep for a while, so he decided to take a look. Maybe his brother had missed something that could help them. Dean began scanning the pages and immediately concurred with Sam's assessment that the guy's handwriting was even crappier than Dad's.

There were lists of people the horseman had saved, the people he hadn't, a lot of details about the horseman and his family, where they'd lived, blah, blah, blah. None of it stood out as really useful. The hunting business was usually pretty straight forward. Figure out who was causing the problem, then salt and burn them. Which was kind of funny since all of this started with the witch trials, what with the whole medieval burn-the-witch thing. Of course, the accused witches in Salem had been hanged so nothing was normal about this case.

Dean set the book down. They were idiots.

Witch trials.

Nothing was ever straight forward when witches were involved, especially if a real witch had been hiding in amongst all the accused witches. If a real witch was holding on to the guy's head, then this was an entirely different ballgame. Dean quickly pulled a receipt out of his pocket and scratched out a note that he was going to the library. He doubted Sam would wake up before he got back, but better safe than sorry.

Dean stood up and groaned as his ribs once again protested. He cast a final glance at Sam to make sure he was as patched up as he could manage for the time being. Freaking horseman. Dean really needed to have words with that guy. And he would. Just as soon as he found the guy's head... and maybe the witch who'd started it all.

More soon...