I cried to my daddy on the telephone

How long now?

Until the clouds unroll and you come down

The line wentBut the shadows still remain since your descent

Your descent

-"The Saints are Coming" by U2

Claire grunted as her arms strained. This grave was deep. And damp. Mud was all over her clothes, smudged on her face, hands, arms, legs, and who knows what else. Dean dug next to her, every bit as dirty.

The grave belonged to Isaac Horiuchi – date of birth June 8, 1918, and date of death the same day in 1946. He survived as a soldier in World War II only to be jumped and killed by idiotic bigots that apparently thought that war had never ended – and who obviously thought all Japanese Americans were spies. "Some shit like that," Dean had muttered while briefing Claire.

Dean never took Claire hunting if he had a choice. It was a blended result of his overprotectiveness of the young as well as his strong friendship with Claire's uncle.

"Jeez, wished all my life for a dad. Now I have two who freak out if I so much as stub my toe," Claire had joked at one point. She hit and scraped during a hunt – the second in which she'd ever participated and the last, until now. Her statement had elicited an eye roll from Dean and a soft remark from Castiel "not to insult her father," as he patched her up. She was regulated to research, workouts, practice shooting, and sparing, afterward. No hunting. Of course, she'd ranted about the whole thing to Dean, – why work so hard if she would never hunt? - but he had shrugged.

"Just because you're not hunting now doesn't mean you won't ever," he had pointed out.

So Claire had watched and learned. And on the nights of hunts she would stay awake, always worrying that one of the two men – or, to be worse, both – would fail to return.

As for why, when only months ago Dean had definitely sided with Castiel over the "hunting or no hunting" issue, Dean had taken Claire with him… it wasn't as if Dean was unable to hunt alone. The problem was that he was too much of the spirit's type – late twenties to early thirties, white, male, looks and acts like an asshole – and very much a potential target. Claire herself still could be harmed, though. After all, vengeful spirits weren't particularly fond of being cast into whatever abyss they were cast into when they were salted and burned.

Claire sagged against the handle of her shovel.

"How much longer do you think we have to dig?" she panted.

"Not much – " Dean grunted as they heard splintering sound. "Quick, help me clear off the rest of the dirt." He threw his shovel over the top of the hole and grabbed a large container of salt, lighter fluid, and a crowbar.

Claire was finishing dusting off the top of the coffin when a cloud passed in front of the moon. She shivered. Cold…was she cold? No. She was just freaking out. Just freaking out.

The coffin opened with an echoing crack. Dean let out a sigh of relief and dumped salt and lighter fluid onto the body. He opened his lighter with a click and gave Claire a grin.

"Let's fry this sucker."

The cold came again.

An invisible hand hit Dean in the chest. He collided with the dirt wall and dropped the lighter before being launched out of the hole.

"Dean!" Claire screamed. There was no answer. Adrenaline pumped through Claire's veins. She dove for the lighter.

Something grabbed Claire's neck and she fell to the ground. She kicked and twisted, but it only tightened.

Iron. I need iron. Iron or salt.

She groped around, her hand connecting with the handle of her shovel. She swung. Hard.

The pressure receded, and Claire sat up, gasping. As quickly as she possible, she retrieved the lighter and set fire to Horiuchi's bones.

"God, Dean. Please be okay," she whispered.

Claire found her guardian standing next to– scratch that, hanging from – a corner of the graveyard's fence. A spike stuck out his shoulder. Her mouth dropped open.

"Is that -?" Dean just gave her a strained grin.

"Ouch."

"Ouch?" Claire gave Dean a glare. "A ghost impales you in the shoulder and all you have to say is ouch?"

"I would shrug at that…but that's might be a really bad idea right now. A little help?" Dean brought his left hand up to his shoulder and pushed slightly. He hissed in pain.

"Um, don't do that. Don't do that," Claire fretted. "I'll just…okay." She put one hand in front, and the other behind, his shoulder.

"On three. One…"

"Son of a bitch!"

I apologize for any errors! I wrote this rather quickly and didn't go back to look for any errors. I hope the next update comes soon (the one for my other SPN story will) but I...procrastinate.