A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you for reading, following and faving. I love you!
ncsupnatfan: Thank you for reviewing. This is a fic I wanted to do from the moment I started the show, and I finally got around to it. I also got a new laptop, one that supports word, so that explains the change in spacing. Cas is in this fic for several reasons, for one thing, I cannot imagine the angels leaving the most important vessels in the history of everything, not to mention their ticket to the apocalypse, unguarded. As for it being Cas, well, why change who you have dealing with them partway through the mission? It seems logical to me that if they had one angel watching them as children, the higher-ups would not change the angel in charge of that once they grow up. Thank you. I'm glad you like the plot.
I do not own Supernatural or its characters.
Chapter 7
John and Bobby sat in the motel room, going over the notes from their research.
John was frustrated, "This is impossible. How many people can die in one small town?"
Bobby looked up, "Well, who dumped you on prom night? I never told you you had to record every single death in the last century. Now stop whining and get back to work."
John glared at his notes, "What am I looking for, anyway?"
"I told you. Accidents, murders, suicides. Ghosts are born from violent deaths. Probably on that stretch of road, and probably a car involved."
"Because the victims died in car accidents?"
"Yep."
John looked up, "Um, Bobby, what are we going to do once we find the ghost?"
"Pretty standard. Dig 'em up, salt and burn."
"Well, that's going to be fun in this weather." Bobby nodded. The thermometer said negative twelve, and there was at least three feet of snow on the ground, probably more. Oh, yeah. Getting this done would be a lot of fun, especially since spirits really didn't like it when someone tried to burn their remains. Frozen ground and a pissed off ghost. This just got better and better. On the bright side, if there was ever a first job with the potential to turn a newbie off hunting, this was it.
Sam was annoyed. Dean was watching cartoons and he wanted to be held. Not that that was a problem. Dean was perfectly welcome to continue watching cartoons, but holding definitely had to be involved, and Dean wasn't paying the slightest attention to his silent pleas. He considered the options.
A loud wail broke through the room. Yay, it worked! Dean was looking at him now!
"What is it, Sammy? Are you hungry?" Dean sighed, "Okay." He got up and went to fix Sam's bottle.
Sam frowned. That was not the reaction he had been expecting. Now Dean was gone. That wasn't supposed to happen. He tried to think. He needed something drastic, something his brother couldn't ignore.
He crawled into the kitchen, to where Dean was standing on a chair measuring out formula and muttering something about "running out," whatever that meant. Sam considered the situation, and quickly determined the quickest route to the correct results. He focused as hard as he could, "D-" Well, that was disappointing. He tried again, "D-" He was on the verge of crying at this point, but concentrated hard on controlling his facial muscles and tried again, "Dee." His brother froze.
He said it again, more confidently this time, "Dee." Dean turned around, a shocked look on his face, and climbed off the chair.
"Sam, uh, Sammy I-" That was strange. Why were Dean's cheeks wet? The older boy rubbed a hand across his face. Still, he responded correctly. Dean reached down and lifted him into his arms, holding him tightly.
Dean couldn't believe his ears. Sam had talked! Not only talked, had said his name! Sam cared about him, knew he existed. He couldn't believe it. He had thought he was nothing to the baby, the unimportant individual who fed him and changed him, nothing more. Even he knew a baby's first words were supposed to be 'Momma' or 'Dada'. That it should be his name was overwhelming. He didn't know what to say. Dean found himself crying as he held his brother. Someone in the world cared about him. "Thank you," he whispered.
"I think I found it," John said triumphantly, holding a sheet of notes in his hand. Bobby looked up from his own research, "Really. What makes you so sure?"
"Well, listen to this. Hannah Dawson, 1975, killed in a hit and run accident on Greer road." Ha. Take that you sour, rude, annoying, unimpressible, doubting jerk.
Bobby nodded, "Sounds about right. What part of Greer road? Or did the coroner forget to mention."
"He did mention, and it was the right section. Sounds like our interviewee might have been the other car."
Bobby took the paper and looked it over, "Would explain why it would be going after her family. Just keep going until it gets a crack at her."
John stared at him excitedly, "So what now? Find the grave, right?"
"Yep. Back to the library."
It was getting late as John waited in the Impala for Bobby to come out of the library. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he climbed into the car. John stared at him, "Well?"
"Got it."
He started the car, "Okay."
They drove to the graveyard named in Bobby's new info, climbed out of the car, and walked around to the trunk for their flashlights and salt guns. They had already decided to leave the shovels and other gear until they located the grave. The moon was out, which was good for visibility, but it had started snowing, it was cold enouph that John felt his thick coat wasn't even there, and he really wished they could just leave this part until tomorrow, not that he would admit that to Bobby.
The other hunter must have noticed his shivering anyway because he turned to John and spoke, "You okay?"
"Yeah," John snapped.
"It's just, you look a little cold. Sure you're okay for shooting? After all, your hands are shaking, and you haven't shot a gun in how many years? Cold's not good for aim."
"I was a marine. I'm fine, and I'm pretty sure shooting's like riding a bike. Let's go." He stalked off into the graveyard before Bobby could make any more smart remarks. Bobby closed the trunk, "Idjit."
John stumbled around the graveyard, his sawed-off tightly held in one hand while he waved his flashlight around with the other. He lost his footing again as his foot collided with a hidden root and he cursed, barely keeping himself from falling face-first in the deep snow. His flashlight beam swung wildly as he walked, making it difficult to read the gravestones. He heard Bobby yell from elsewhere that he had found it, and he started over, hoping as he did so that the shotgun in his hand would not be necessary.
After confirming the name on the gravestone, John made his way back to the car to get the pickaxes and shovels. Then he stood guard while Bobby fetched the duffle of other supplies. They had gone in turn out of worry of losing track of the grave's location, but John was really glad when the other man returned. Graveyards were just so damn creepy, and the possibility of a crazy ghost out for blood showing up really was doing nothing for his peace of mind.
Bobby walked up, dropping the duffle to the ground with the shovels and pickaxes. Then he sighed, "Well, I reckon we may as well get started. You wanna stand guard first, or dig?" John considered, eyeing the tools in a heap on the snowy ground. Digging in this would be incredibly hard work, but then one would get awfully cold standing still holding a gun in that weather. He quickly made his decision, dropping his gun and grabbing a shovel, "I'll dig."
John briefly wondered if he had completely lost his mind when he agreed to come on this hunt. Digging the grave was backbreaking work. First he had to shovel the snow away, which was miserable and cold and difficult when he was using an ordinary metal shovel, then the real problems began.
Painful vibrations ran up his chilled arms as his shovel hit the frozen earth. Right, he had to break up the ground. He dropped it and went for the pickaxe.
After about ten minutes, he had a fair amount of simi-diggable dirt he could then shovel out of the grave. He repeated this process several times, before bending backwards with a groan.
Bobby's voice cut into his consciousness, "Hey! You need a break?"
He did, but he wasn't about to admit it, "No."
"Liar. Now get your stubborn ass up here and watch my back. Don't want you too tired to fight, or me dropping from frostbite. Time for a tradeoff." John stepped out of the hole, noting as he did so that he had made far less progress then he had thought. The excavated area was only six inches or a foot deep. He picked up his gun from beside the grave, where he had set it to be within easy reach while digging. Then he started watching.
They traded off several more times, and were making good progress. John was beginning to wonder if Bobby had overestimated the ghost threat. Bobby was digging at the moment, or rather hacking as he was currently using his pickaxe. John was standing guard, if he was to be honest with himself rather laxly, given that he, at this point, really didn't think they were in any real danger. After all, up to now Hannah had only haunted a certain stretch of road. It wasn't like she was just suddenly going to change stomping grounds, and he really didn't see how she would know they were there anyway. He heard Bobby's pick hit wood behind him.
Due to his lack of attention, he really wasn't ready when Bobby was lifted by an invisible force and thrown through the air. He stared in horrified shock as the other man flew quite a few feet, before hitting his head on a gravestone. A young woman staticed into view and started toward Bobby threateningly.
Coming to himself, John forced himself to look away from the scene and leapt into the grave to start furiously clearing the last of the dirt with his shovel. Then he thought of something. Straightening up, he took careful aim with his salt gun, shot, and the spirit dissolved with a scream. Well, that was surprisingly easy. He went back to his work.
The peace didn't last long though. An anguished cry told John the ghost was back, and he worked faster, his gun forgotten as he hacked at the wooden boards of the coffin to reveal the corpse. That done, he levered himself out of the hole and unzipped the duffle.
John willed himself not to look in Bobby's direction as he pulled some large cans out of the bag. Opening one, he hurriedly dumped salt in the grave, followed by gasoline from the other can. Then he struck the package of matches, and tossed them in.
He really wasn't sure what he had been expecting to happen, but as he turned to see if it had worked, Hannah left off hurting Bobby and threw her arms over her head, arching and giving an anguished wail as she appeared to explode in flames. It was all over in a few seconds. John pulled himself out of his shocked reverie and ran to the other hunter's side. Bobby gave a pained grin, "You did good. You were a useless bastard, and you apparently forgot you had a gun, but you did good."
"Shut up, Bobby," He said, without any heat. He checked Bobby over before pulling his arm around John's shoulders and helping him up, "Come on. You don't seem too badly hurt, but you don't need to be out in the snow any longer. I'll get the stuff."
"What do you think I am, a baby? I can deal with a damned concussion without your help."
"It wasn't the concussion I was worried about, you stubborn ass."
"Yeah, whatever." John laughed as he assisted Bobby into the passenger seat. He returned to the Impala after a few minutes with their gear from the hunt, and then he drove them back to the motel to grab a few hours sleep before heading back.
