Alicia's driveway is a well-worn patch of grass with two ruts of bared, dry soil. Her house is a single-level square with a dark rooftop and preened vegetable garden in the front. Cas leads to the door along the cracked pavement, he knocks on the door in some semi-elaborate rhythm.
He doesn't let his fist down, runs the fingers through his hair, combing the damp strands off his forehead. When his hand finally slips into the pocket, it doesn't stay there for long. He drums on the door once again. This time his lips count the time when Alicia doesn't come out.
"Alicia! It's me!" he calls, pressing the tip of his nose to the door, knuckles still thrumming against the wood.
"Try the doorbell?" Dean offers.
"It's disconnected." Cas shifts away from the door. The stare he sends Dean is lined with worry. "It kept going off at night."
Dean presses the handle, without much of a hope. Cas reaches to the pocket of his jeans, pulls a silver piece of metal out. Dean narrows his eyes at the object—a key. It fits perfectly into the lock, turns smoothly. Cas sprints inside before Dean's brain is done processing what it just witnessed.
"Alicia?"
The entrance leads straight to a pastel-painted living room, only big enough to fit a set of armchairs and a sofa. There's no signs of struggle, not a fresh one, at least. There are things missing, like the pictures on the walls that left only the line of nails, the empty mirror frame, taken off its place above the fireplace, now sitting beside its cold, dead insides. But there are no shards of glass covering the floor, not ripped up pages of the magazines, no ripped of petals of the orchid sitting on the rustic table.
Most out of place seem the lights, the half a dozen light bulbs bringing out every corner of the room, though the sun still seeps in through the windows.
"Harry?" a voice, a soothing calm against Cas's distress, comes from the corridor. "I'll be there in a sec!"
Cas doesn't relax until a tall figure follows her own voice into the living room. She must be around Dean's age, possibly younger, though with the puffed circles under her eyes, it's hard to tell. And then she smiles at Cas, the grin he must have learned from her.
"I'm glad you're back," she says, wrapping her thin sweater tighter around her chest.
She's so lost in the middle of her own living room, eyes glazing over the bright lit corners, expecting a ghost jumping out at any moment. Dean has seen this look too many times, on the faces of every haunted family he's ever tried to save.
At last her eyes find him. "You must be Dean, Harry told me a lot about you." She stretches her hand out to him. "Alicia."
"Nice to meet you," he greets her. Her grip is strong, but her palm is cold. On its top, there's an ugly bruise decorating her dark skin. "He did?"
She withdraws, back to her place near Cas, she tugs at the hem of her sleeve.
"He told me about that ghost you helped him with in South Dakota," she says. Dean considers her words, but the story doesn't even ring a bell. "And that you're the best at what you do."
That's more like it. "That I am," he boasts and winks at the woman.
Cas's fingers graze Alicia's arm to get her attention. He tips his head at the lights. "Has it appeared when I was gone?"
"Oh, no, no." She lets out a little, embarrassed chuckle. "I just got a little antsy sitting here alone."
"Understandable," Dean assures the poor woman. "Don't worry, the thing is as good as gone. Just tell me everything."
She nods and invites them to sit down. She and Cas take the sofa, barely any space between them. That's for maximum sense of security, of course. Dean opts for the opposite armchair.
"Oh, where's my head," she blurts as soon as they sink into their cozy spots. "Would you like some coffee? Tea?"
"No, it's fine, I'm good." Dean waves a hand. "Just relax and tell us about the ghost."
Another salve of laughter escapes Alicia's mouth, this time it hits the hysterical undertones. "I'm sorry but this—this is an oxymoron."
She hides her face in her palms, takes in a few shaky breaths.
Cas is there, right beside her. His palm on her shoulder, his thumb rubs soothing circles into her skin. It works; with time, the tension fades away from her body, he chest resumes its regular rhythm. That's how Cas's touch works, isn't it? Even if it's no longer angelic? There's something about the way Cas's fingers burn through layers of clothes, how they seem to cradle you whole. The exact weight of his palm, the exact shape, remain vivid in Dean's muscle memory.
Seeing that palm misplaced now—Dean has to turn his eyes away.
"I'm sorry, I just—" Alicia's head pops up, held high again, relative calm returned to her face—"I still have a hard time accepting the whole 'ghosts are real' thing."
"Life-altering, isn't it?" Dean says as if he had any idea about that. He pinches the screen of his phone to zoom in on the dead guy's face and hands it to Alicia. "If this what the ghost looks like?"
They still need a one hundred on that, digging out and burning the wrong body would hurt not only Dean's spine but his pride as well.
Alicia's head comes bobbing up and down rapidly, her fingers start to play nervously with the tips of the braids falling down her shoulder. "Yes, it's him, definitely. It's paler and all twisted, but it's him." She glances at the window, teeth bite into her lower lip as if they tried to chew it off.
"This is good, Alicia," Dean says in the same moment Cas assures her there's still plenty of time. "It should go easy from here."
"Why is he doing this?" she asks, doing her best to remain calm but failing. "I didn't do anything to him!"
"None of this is your fault." Cas throws his arm around her in a half-embrace. With his calming, gravely voice he retells her all that they've found out in the library.
He's gone such a long way from that guy in Purgatory who'd rather clench his fists than reciprocate a hug. From the guy who'd speak in bible verses, in half-sentences over the phone lines. Were those few weeks really all it took for him to learn how to comfort, how to laugh, how to be human? Or was it the distance?
Alicia raises an eyebrow at Robert Johnson's picture. "So this thing thinks I'm a white, mustachioed dude?"
Dean doesn't try to hold back a chuckle. "Yeah, ghosts get a little confused sometimes. All he knows is that he hates the owner of this place, but doesn't realize the owner has changed."
"That kinda sucks for him," she decides giving Dean back his phone. "Being angry at the wrong person all this time." She pauses, hanging the words in silence. If only the ghosts could hear them, really hear them, it would all go down much smoother. "So what are you going to do with it?"
"Dig out his grave and burn his bones," Dean answers, keeping his tone a bit too casual.
"Oh." She's doing a sloppy job of not looking shocked and appalled, but that washes away, exchanged for a concerned crease between her eyebrows. "Is it safe?"
"Frankly? It depends," Dean admits, foregoing any pointless promises. "Do you have someone who could take you in tonight?"
Alicia nods. "A friend, on the other side of the town. I've been staying with her from time to time when it all got too much and I was desperate for sleep. But this is my home and I can't just give it up and leave on exile."
"You won't have to," Cas steals the words straight from Dean's mouth.
"Take whatever you need and we'll drop you off," Dean says as he gets off the armchair. "And maybe safeguard any important items you don't want broken, these things can get messy."
Alicia chuckles bitterly. "It already broke pretty much all important items I had." She points to the wall behind Dean's back.
He hadn't noticed it before, the freshly filled indents and holes in the wall, the white standing out on the soft yellow. That explains the pictureless nails, the mirrorless frame, the empty shelves. Sort of.
Dean steps forward to get closer to the woman, level with her eyes. "By morning the sucker will be gone," he says firmly. "You've got our word."
"Your—?" She turns to Cas, uncertain.
Dean can see it on Cas's face, the withdrawing: his mouth opening to protest, eyes telling Dean to shut up. But Dean speaks before he can say a thing.
"Yeah, Harry's coming too. I'm gonna need someone to dig that grave."
—
She wraps her arms around his neck. He pulls her in with his hand on the small of her back. With her chin on his shoulder, she murmurs a few words to his ear. They break away. Lifting her bag, she turns towards Dean, waves at him from the driveway of her friend's house. He's not sure if she sees him from the inside of the car in this dark a night, but he waves back.
"She's nice," he decides, as Cas slips into the passenger seat.
"She is," Cas agrees, corners of his lips drift up for a brief moment before falling. "She didn't deserve this."
"She didn't," Dean agrees. They seldom do. He fires up the engine. "It'll be all over soon."
Cas nods and relaxes into the seat.
They drive in silence through the quiet streets, except for Cas's occasional instructions which turn to take to get to the cemetery. High above them, dark clouds begin to gather, threatening with a downpour. Great, because that's exactly what Dean needs, digging holes in mud, setting soaked matches aflame. Hopefully, they'll get a few hours to get their job done.
"So how long have you two—?" Dean cuts off to let Cas fill in the blank.
Cas turns at him, expectantly, his piercing stare Dean can feel on his face without glancing away from the road. There's no guarantee Cas will bother answering. The Cas from five hours ago would not even grace him with a look. Three cheers for progress.
"Known each other?" Cas guesses, at last, when Dean doesn't provide any hints. "She was the first person I met, right after I arrived here. She got me a job and a place to sleep."
"Hm." Dean pouts, twisting the steering wheel to the left. "So how come you—?" he starts and cuts off. It's not the best possible question, not after what he witnessed in the archives.
It's too late, of course. "Could you speak in full sentences?"
Dean snorts. "Alright, I'm not saying there's anyone at fault here, but how does someone not notice the house is haunted?"
Cas considers his question for a moment.
"Humans seem to have this counterintuitive mechanism that makes them try to rationalize things like weird noises, objects falling off the shelves until they get so bad they can't—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know all that," Dean interrupts him. This is not about humans, not ones that don't know better. "But Alicia said she hasn't slept in weeks. It would shake the bed, smash things against the wall, can't sleep through that. How did you?"
"How did I wh— oh." The understanding dawns on Cas before he can finish the question. A brief chuckle escapes his lips. "I didn't, I heard it. The last three nights that I stayed with her to keep her safe."
Now it's Dean that needs a moment. "So you don't live with her? You've got her key and—"
"She had a spare so it was more comfortable that way," Cas says like it's the most obvious solution. And it is.
"Makes sense," Dean decides and shuts his mouth not to make an even bigger idiot of himself.
One last turn and the yellow lights appear down the hill ahead, so sparse the sky above them could be their reflection. It's still pretty early, but they've gotta hope no one decided a walk among the graves is a perfect way to spend the evening.
Dean parks at the end of the road, among the trees. His car sitting at the cemetery gate is a sight that has been printed in newspapers on various occasions, so he's learned better by now. Cas remains in his seat when Dean gets out of the car. He puts two shotguns filled with rock salt into the duffel bag, adds a tube of salt, a can of fuel, a flashlight, the whole ghost hunter starter pack He feels his pocket for a box of matches, grabs two shovels for him and Cas.
He knocks on the window on the passenger's side. He waves at Cas to get out of the car, but Cas still doesn't move, except for the head that's shaking in refusal.
"Let me get the door for you, princess," he grumbles, shifting all both shovels into one hand, and pulls the handle. "Come on."
Cas folds hands on his lap. "I'll watch the car."
Now, that's the dumbest excuse not to dig Dean has ever heard. He doesn't feel like laughing, though. There's something in Cas's tone that reminds him of a completely different Cas.
"The car doesn't need to be watched, it's got locks for a reason," Dean explains, fixing the bag on his shoulder. "We don't have time for this, lazy butt."
"I'm not going to dig the grave," Cas announces in a firm voice, the don't argue with me type.
Dean can't not argue, of course. "What do you mean you're not going to dig the grave?"
"Exactly that."
"Listen," Dean sets the shovels aside, slowly losing his patience. "I know it's the suckiest part and I'm not thrilled about it either, but you wanna be a hunter, you gonna have to pull some muscles."
Cas shakes his head, chuckling at something that Dean doesn't see.
"I don't want to be a hunter," he explains.
Right, of course, he doesn't. He'd be down in the trenches by now if he did. "Okay, that I figured," Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're a librarian. But you did all this research, find the ghosty, found the grave. You won't tell me you dragged me all the way from Kansas to dig a grave for you."
"I didn't do any of that, Dean," says as if today was some kind of Rashomon story. "You carried out the whole hunt. I merely helped out. As a civilian," he adds with emphasis.
Dean purses his lips, head bobbing up and down as he chews on Cas's word.
"Banging job so far," he decides, grabbing one shovel and sticking it out for Cas to grab, "let's do some more."
Cas doesn't grab it, though he shifts in the seat to face Dean better, as if Dean could even properly see his face in the shadow.
"I can't dig the grave, Dean," he enunciates each word so Dean doesn't miss the meaning.
Dean sighs, keeping calm. "Why? Is it your back or something?"
"My back is fine," Cas assures. "It's not about my physicality. It's where we are. You know how I make a living: I work with children, I tutor and babysit sometimes. Who do you think will let me take care of their toddler if someone sees me digging a grave and burning bones?"
Dean stands unmoving for a few seconds, staring at the dark shape of Cas's face and trying to process the revelation. So it's the social status Cas is worried about, of all things. The man who used to spill the ridiculous truth about the angels and demons left and right, slayed people in the daylight as a self-proclaimed god, couldn't even set his voicemail message right and never gave a damn. Such an upstanding citizen all of a sudden, isn't he?
"Wait, you babysit?" Dean asks like that's the most important news he could get from that whole speech. A grave digger nanny is definitely the worse option here than an ex-angel who's only been a human for four months. "Okay, I see how that might be a problem," he says before Cas can chime in with explanations. "But there's a reason I don't work solo, man. You could have warned me."
"I told you to bring Sam with you."
"And I told you he is—"
"Weak," Cas finished for him. He's heard that exact tunes enough times. "I know. I'm sorry, I can't go with you."
Dean rubs his face and fixes his grip on the wooden handle. "Yeah, don't worry, I'll manage. It'll take forever but I'll manage." He's still got a little trek ahead, searching for the right grave and then the digging of course. He's too old for that crap. "Throw that shovel in the trunk," he tells Cas, walking away.
"Sure," Cas calls behind him. "Be careful."
Dean doesn't stop, just looks back over his shoulder. "Not my first rodeo."
—
Smashing your face against the tombstone is not fun. Being thrown a few feet by a ghost, who was supposed to sit tight and wait to be salted and burned, then smashing your face against that tombstone is even less fun. Dean managed to take the most of the hit on his shoulder, though it will not be grateful for it, but there's still a mighty bruise to be expected to bloom all over the left side of his jaw.
"Tha' all you got?" Dean shouts into the grass. The jaw's not broken, that's a good news.
As per usual, the attack happened so fast. Dean already got the salt down on the dead guy, sprinkled it generously with fuel too. He even got the match out. But that's when they just love getting nasty when it's this close to the eternal rest.
Dean digs his nails into the dirt and lifts himself up on the good hand. The next few days are gonna be a nightmare, with the whole world of pain coming, as if his poor, old bones needed more rattling.
The flashlight's still on, its light seeps over the ground and the gaping hole in it. On its edge lies the matchbox, opened and gutted, with the matches spilled all around it. He just needs to get to them, strike just one on drop it into the open casket.
The only problem is the pale figure standing between the grave and Dean's current position. There is no wide smile on his narrow face, there's a twisted disgust on it, instead.
"Listen, pal," Dean says, weighing his options. The guns are still in the bag lying a few feet to the left. Maybe he could reach it, if he's fast enough and if Jack's ghost doesn't see his plan through. "This don't have to get ugly."
He just needs to distract him with his talking, that Dean is good at. He takes a step to the side, casual enough, not breaking eye contact with the ghost.
Jack's head snaps to the bag, then back to Dean. He blinks out of the sight just to blink back right in front of him, his eyes burning with rage.
"Too late!" he roars, zapping Dean into the air with a wave of its hand.
A surge of pain lashes from Dean's eye socket, a hot cascade of blood streams down his cheek. His palm shoots right to his eyes, fingers feel for the spheric shape of his eyeball. Still there, thank fuck.
"So this is how you wanna play it?" he calls, keeping on his armor of the badass attitude. "Let's play! Come on!"
He's not gonna get far this way, unless farther and farther from the gun is what he's aiming for. Which it is not. This? This is exactly why hunting solo is never a good idea.
Dean gets back on his feet as quickly as his head lets him. Like a fucking chess master, the ghost put himself strategically, successfully cutting off Dean's chances at getting either the gun or the matches.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, is all Dean can think. The ghost tilts his head, watching him like a sadistic bastard and Dean doesn't have much choice but to stare at his twisted mug as it approaches. He takes a few steps back but he quickly hits a tree trunk.
A gun fires. Somewhere to the left. The bullet misses the ghost, but gets its attention. It's Cas, his dark shape standing a few yards away works as a perfect bait. Jack goes after him, buys Dean time to get to the bag. He pulls out the shotgun and turns to find Cas with his weapon trained at the ghost. The guy fires. And misses again.
"Wow, you suck," Dean mutters to himself as the ghost charges at Cas. "Hey, Jackie boy!"
It works, the ghost turns to him again, apparently not very threatened by Cas's shooting skills. His eyes fall on the barrel of the gun then snap up to Dean's face.
"You're just like him!" Jack howls.
"And you're just naughty," Dean snap and shoots.
As soon as the salt bullet pierces through his ethereal shape, the ghost disappears.
"How'd you know I was in trouble?" Dean asks, bent down, grabbing a bunch of the scattered matches.
"The spot you parked in has a good view of the cemetery," Cas says, dropping his gun into Dean's bag. "It seemed that something was wrong."
"Thanks, you were just in time." He slips the matches back into the box and hands it out to Cas. "Will you do the honors?"
Cas glares at him, jaw clenched. Dean shakes the box encouragingly. They have no time for banter now, the ghost might reappear any second. Cas grunts in displeasure, but takes the box. After all, who could resist Dean's goofy smile, adorning his bloodied face, stretched as wide as the hurting jaw lets him.
Cas strikes a match and throws it into the coffin in one move. He doesn't even wait to see if the fire caught well. He pulls the hood on his head, turns on a heel of his boot, and walks away.