Chapter Nine


Sam could swear he could hear every sound in the cemetery. The Winchesters had, pretty embarrassingly, been caught off guard the night before, hadn't been prepared for the ghost's attack. That was not the case now. They were on the offensive and preemptive defensive at the same time. His nerves were already frayed, knowing what Dean was doing, and his senses were peaked; Sam was in full-on hunter mode, and not a damn thing was going to go by unnoticed.

He could hear the wind whistling over and around each tombstone. Could hear the dry swish of every leaf that continued to fight and cling to the autumnal skeletal remains of the tall trees dotting the field. Could hear the rough scrape of every fallen leaf against the stone of a grave marker. Could hear the irregular, rasping breathing of the man next to him as they staked out Callie's grave and waited for the go-ahead from Dean.

Dean, who was out racing up and down the highway, running interference and actually trying to bring Callie's ghost to himself. It was a stupid plan. It was a reckless plan. It was a Dean Winchester plan.

Crouched behind an ivy-covered granite tombstone, Sam had never felt so uncomfortable on a hunt. For one thing, he felt utterly stupid. What kind of ghost were they going to fool by hiding behind tombstones? Callie had died young, yeah, but she hadn't been four. And snuggling up closely to that dumbass feeling was the incessant nagging something was going to go wrong. He'd had the feeling since Dean had come up with this plan, and he hadn't been able to shake it, no matter how many times Dean said "It's gonna be fine." In Dean Winchester-speak, "It's gonna be fine" meant nothing more than "Leave me alone" or "I'm only pretending to listen to you in the first place." It was not reassuring, not at all.

And to top it all off…well, how many times had a surviving family member of the spirit they were aiming to destroy accompanied them on a hunt? True, Sam had said it was okay the man tag along, but here now, he was having his fair share of doubts. What if DeWitt was there to stop him? Played the sympathetic father and wormed his way right into the hunt, with Sam's permission. God, Dean would kill him.

Sam let out a tense breath and gazed out at the plot they were staking out. The dirt they had shoveled out the night before had been patted back down in the hole, and the flowers and stuffed animals he had moved had been set back at the base of the stone. "They covered her back up," he observed absently.

"I covered her back up."

Sam turned to the man, who appeared even stiffer and more uncomfortable than he was, and swallowed. Nate DeWitt was still and clearly anxious, leaning forward on the balls of his feet and looking straight ahead. Sam couldn't even imagine what was going through the man's head. "Mr. DeWitt, I'm sorry – "

"Don't, Sam." DeWitt's shoulders tensed and he shifted the rock salt-loaded shotgun to rest against the stone in front of him. Sam had practically had to force the gun onto him, insisting that in his hands, it was for nothing more than protection.

The older man's eyes stared unblinkingly out over his daughter's grave. "I know you want to try and make things better…but I just don't think there's anything you say to me right now that's going to make that happen." His head slowly pivoted. "Do you?"

Sam stared back for a moment, and then gave a slow shake of his head. Nate's head bobbed a few times, and his eyes again went to his daughter's grave.

It was quieter; Sam couldn't hear much of anything anymore except for Nate's breathing. He certainly wasn't feeling any more comfortable with the situation. Another breathy sigh had him surveying the area with squinted eyes. "Come on, Dean," he said under his breath.

Not ten seconds later, his cell phone rang, the sound trilling much too loudly through the silent graveyard. His own gun clunked to the ground as his hand went immediately to his pocket. He had the phone out and up to his ear before it rang twice. "Dean, where are your HANDS?" His bordering-on-frantic tone drew the wide-eyed attention of the man crouching next to him who, instincts kicking in, gripped the gun a little bit tighter.

"Relax, woman. You're on speakerphone."

"Oh." Sam paused, feeling like a moron."You see anything yet?"

"No, nothing. Man, I've been going eighty-five up and down this road for the past twenty minutes. Maybe Callie doesn't want to play tonight."

"Maybe…" Sam looked over the top of the tombstone and gave the area another quick sweep. Nothing but leafy shadows and white moonlight bouncing off of rough stone edges. "Maybe we should just pack it up, you know? Give it another night – "

"Sammy, hold on. I got somethin'."

And more time to think of a better plan, that was what Sam was going to say.

The words died in his mouth, and Sam swallowed them and held his breath, meeting Nate DeWitt's eyes. "Is it her?" The older man stiffened, his hand gripping the shotgun with knuckles so white they were visible even in the dark shadows that were "hiding" them.

"Yeah, Sam. It's her."

Sam let out the breath. "You up for this?"

"Just do it."

Way ahead of you, bro. Sam was already rummaging through the duffel bag at his feet.

"Sam."

He paused at the sound of his name, crouching with his hands in the duffle, phone still perched on his shoulder. There was a tic in Dean's voice that he couldn't quite place. "Yeah?"

"Dig like a man, alright?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Be careful," he said seriously. Silence on the other end. "Dean," he started, serious turning to warning.

He didn't get an answer, just a click and a dial tone, and Sam swore, tossing his cell phone to the ground next to the bag. He pulled out the canister of salt and another of lighter fluid and set them aside, patting his jackets pockets to make sure he had matches on him. If not, this would be a pretty pointless trip. Satisfied everything was in order, he reached for the shovel on the ground next to him.

"What exactly is it that you're going to do?" DeWitt asked, eyes widening at the sight of the supplies and Sam collecting them.

Sam paused. What was it the man thought he was going to do? He had been there the night before, had busted in on them standing over the grave with these very items, ready to drop a match into the hole and leave the corpse of his teenage daughter nothing more than a pile of ash. He knew what Sam was here to do, and hell, he had demanded to be there, too.

Sam squinted, grasping the handle of his shovel. "Mr. DeWitt, if you're having second thoughts…I mean, I can do this on my own."

DeWitt's eyes narrowed and he sat back on his heels. It was the insinuation he was going to have anything to do with the process of destroying his daughter's spirit; he was there merely as an observer. Maybe to step in and stop Sam if he felt it was going too far. And Sam was almost positive by the man's limits as a father…it was going to go too far.

"No," the man said, quiet but steady.

Sam waited for more, but that was it. They rose in unison, Sam with determination and DeWitt with hesitation, eyes locked, and Sam could only hope to GOD the man didn't try and stop him. Not with Dean out there as bait. But the older man didn't say a word, only stood, holding that gun down at his side so tightly Sam wouldn't have been surprised to see dents in the metal.

Sam pursed his lips and moved forward with the shovel. He'd wasted enough time already.


The size of the truck he was driving and that residual anger at Sam simmering away in his gut gave Dean enough pissed-off, to hell with the world macho man confidence to lay a little more pressure on the accelerator. He kept his eyes on the shadowy form of the Dodge Dart as it passed by on his left, and his eyes shifted immediately and without blinking to the rearview mirror.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. The mirrored image showed nothing on the road behind him but reflected moonlight from the blacktop. Dean lifted his foot slightly off of the accelerator; he didn't want to move too quickly from where he had spotted her. His right hand twitched towards his phone, tossed onto the bench seat next to him. He didn't want Sam doing anythingdestructive to Callie's grave until he was DAMN sure that she was nowhere near –

The grinding thunk and crunch of metal on metal cut off Dean's thoughts. But it was more surprise than concern for the well-being of either the vehicle or himself; Callie might have been a smart girl, but not so much a smart ghost. Her little two-door POS had nothing of the beast he was currently driving. The truck jerked forward, but the hit had about as much effect as a shot on a three hundred pound offensive lineman. Dean's fingers didn't slip on the wheel, and his foot remained firmly leaded on the gas pedal. What now? He thought smugly.

There was a sudden ram on the left, much like with the attack on the Impala, and much harder than was proportionally possible for the car behind the hit. Dean's overconfident thoughts quickly dissolved to Hurry up, Sammy, as the truck was forced into a rusty, stuttered glide against the guard rail on the right side of the road. He winced at the scraping sound; Nate DeWitt was not going to be a happy man when he got his truck back.

Dean got as good a grip on the steering wheel as was possible with one hand and, without slowing down, threw it and his whole body to his left, countering Callie's attack with an offensive strike of his own. The nose of the truck smashed into the right headlight of the Dart, taking it out. Dean was almost surprised when the small car spun out of the way, and legitimately surprised when it faded away into nothing.

"The hell…" His hand once again twitched towards the phone on his right. Should warn Sam…

His fingers gripped the plastic casing, rough in spots from being repeatedly dropped or flung around, Dean's pocket not usually being the safest place, just as those damned headlights – both of them, what the hell – flared to brilliant white life once again…directly behind the truck. He was blind to anything but the intensity of the light for no more than a few seconds, but it was enough to keep him from doing any defensive driving.

The force from the hit was like being struck by a frickin' semi. His phone was dislodged from his fingers, and his casted arm was driven from where it had been bracing the steering wheel into the dashboard, fingers connecting solidly with the hard plastic. Hot little flares ignited in Dean's knuckles. He somehow managed to keep his head up, his chest flying into the face of the wheel instead. All of the air in his lungs was pushed out, along with a raspy "Come ON, Sammy."

Dean eyed the Dart in the rearview mirror; she was currently about ten feet behind him and keeping that distance as they sped down the road. Dean knew he had two choices: hang a U and surprise her with an unexpected offensive maneuver, or keep up this action-movie chase scene. He was heading out of town, so he figured that option two would work just fine right now. Keep her as far away from the cemetery as he could.


Sam plunged the shovel again and again into the loose earth with quick, frantic scoops. It was coming out easier that it had the night before – airy and light from having already been shoveled through twice. He flung the dirt whichever way the shovel wanted to go, not really caring about making a nice, neat pile with which he could refill the hole; he was past caring. All he wanted was to get the hole dug, get the bones burning, and get the hell out of this town.

Nate DeWitt stayed quiet, standing at the top of the hole – which was taking Sam way too long to dig – staring down at him with an annoyingly wide-eyed gawk. Sam refused to meet the man's eyes, refused to give DeWitt the opportunity to try and talk him out of this. Next to the man's feet were the canisters of salt and lighter fluid, and in Sam's pocket was a matchbook. Couldn't leave those on the ground, where a father overcome by second thoughts could take off with them, leaving Sam to start the fire by rubbing two sticks together. This was already taking too damn long.

Throwing a shovelful of dirt over his shoulder, Sam snuck a glance at his watch. Ten minutes. It had only been ten minutes, but damn, it had been ten minutes already. Sam looked down his dirt-streaked jeans to the amount of soil still under his feet – too much – and around at what he had already moved. The grassy ground of the graveyard was level with his thighs. Shit.

He swallowed, shivering slightly as the beads of sweat rolling down from his hairline and neck turned icy in the chilly wind. He met DeWitt's eyes, hoping to communicate his panic and fear to the man. Sam didn't GET scared…but he didn't think he could do this fast enough. He was breathing hard, and his arms were already aching, ready to snap off at the shoulders and thud onto the dirt at his feet.

The older man took a step back, his head moving repeated left to right. "I can't," he said, his voice low and rusty.

Sam bit his lip, fully aware of the precious time he was wasting just trying to get through to this man the seriousness of the situation. "Your daughter is already dead, Mr. DeWitt," he said steadily. "I don't want my brother to die, too."

He could hear DeWitt swallow, could hear the grass bending under his feet as he took another step back, could hear the thudding of the man's heart – or maybe that was his own. "Nate, please."

DeWitt opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swallowed again, and resumed shaking his head. "I can't," he repeated, his voice swallowed up by a harsh howl of wind.

Sam dropped his face to his shoulder, vigorously rubbing salty sweat from his forehead and around his eyebrows. Fuck. He wouldn't look back up at the man, just turned his back and started digging from the other direction, not really giving a shit if he gave the officer a dirt shower.


It was like she knew it was him. Knew he had walked away from the first attack in one piece, and knew he had been the one trying to roast and toast her remains the night before. She wasn't letting up, not at all, which was good news for Sammy, but baaad news for him.

Dean had the accelerator to the fucking floor, but the hits just kept coming, faster and harder. Full of twenty years of pent-up rage at the world and everyone still living and breathing in it. A startling engine roar and thud at the rear of the truck bed had the large vehicle spinning in a nauseating arc across the road, Dean's stomach landing somewhere out in the woods that were suddenly to his right. The right side tires dug and pulled at the grit and gravel along the side of the road as Dean fought to maintain control of the truck. He righted the F150 on the blacktop and punched the brake pedal, screeching to a stop.

Breath coming hard and heavy, bruised chest fighting each and every one and the fingers of his left hand feeling large and hot, Dean scanned the highway with narrowed eyes. She was gone again, and Dean risked a glance at the clock on the dash. Almost fifteen minutes had passed since he had flashed his high beams at the Dart. Maybe that was enough time. Maybe Sam had finished –

There were no lights behind him to warn him of the next hit, it just happened.

He wasn't ready; the Ford truck lurched and skidded forward at least five feet, lurching Dean forward with it. His arms flew out to the sides of the steering wheel, left cast going into the corner where the door's window met the windshield, right hand thunking into the glass of the windshield. And, the icing on the cake, his forehead smacking down onto the hard wheel, right in the spot where he had already been stitched. The stitches gave immediately, warm trickles of blood snaking their way down Dean's face.

It took a moment for it to register in Dean's fuzzy and buzzy head the truck was still moving. His foot had slipped from the brake pedal, and that small – way too small to be causing the damage it was to a truck like that – car was pushing the F150 down the road. Dean sat back, wincing as he gripped the steering wheel with the now-throbbing fingers of his right hand. He stomped back down on the brake pedal, causing the tires to squeal and protest the piss-ass little Dart forcing them along the blacktop.

There was an insane amount of resistance coming from the locked tires of the truck, but the two vehicles continued in a crooked path down the otherwise deserted road for a good thirty feet. The Ford's tires kept screeching, and Dean coughed at the rising stink of burning rubber seeping into the interior of the truck. His hands and control of the truck were shaky, and the F150 started listing and turning a slow forty-five degrees to the left and into the middle of the road as it was pushed along.

The sudden lack of momentum was as unexpected as its sudden presence, and the truck shuddered a bit as all that pressure he was putting on the brakes finally did their job and the truck halted. Dean frowned and raised his eyes, looking around.

The Dart had stopped forcing him forward; the car was idling about five feet away. Dean watched with squinted eyes as the car reversed another shrieking ten feet, repositioning itself, and then with wide eyes as he realized it was no longer the back bumper of the truck lined up with the Dodge's front, but the driver side door.


Finally.

Sam forced the tip of the shovel into the crack between the two halves of the coffin and strained to pry the lid open, just as he had the night before. It flew open, crashing into the wall of dirt and sending up a dirty cloud that caused Nate DeWitt to cough and wave a hand in front of his face.

Sam glanced down and the remains in the coffin and no longer felt that hesitation he had the night before. He wasted no time. "Give me the salt," he said, reaching his hand up to the man.

DeWitt looked down at him, but didn't move.


Dean heard the engine of the Dart roar, and knew another ram was coming. He pressed down on the accelerator and peeled the truck right the fuck out of Callie's path of destruction, heading back towards town. His left arm was lying in his lap, and blood continuing to run down his face. He blinked furiously to keep it out of his eyes, shooting a glance every other second to the rearview mirror. Not that it would do much good if he couldn't fucking see her coming.

It was just too dark, and he wasn't entirely sure that was all due to the natural darkness of night. His head was throbbing, his eyelids felt heavy, and it was painfully obvious he was driving in a not-so-straight line down the highway. Dean swallowed, flexing two hands' worth of sore fingers. Should call Sam. Should tell Sam to just get the fuck out of there.

But his cell phone had been driven out of his hand earlier, and he didn't exactly have the time to go ho-humming and searching for it. Dean drove for another minute or so, and then started to ease off of the gas, just a bit. A few squinted glances in the rear and side mirrors had him finally slowing to a stop.

Dean shot quick glances to his left and right, into each mirror, and over his shoulder, out of the back window, just for good measure. The area looked vaguely familiar, but it was just too wooly in his head for him to really recognize where he was. He sat in the truck, the engine now growling with a stutter, and just listened. To the sweet sound of nothing.

'Bout goddamn time, Sam. Dean sighed and leaned his head back against the seat, wiping at the blood on his face, waiting for Sam to call so he could find his damn phone.

The inky black behind his eyelids became suddenly bright orange, like the moon had exploded. It physically hurt, a lancing slice through his eyes and into his brain, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking his head. When he was finally able to pry his eyes open, Dean snuck a watery peek at the source of the blinding light.

He was caught so completely off guard all he could do was stare dumbly at the headlights glaring like a white-hot supernova to his right. But Sam…he thought, a little confused, the knock on the head catching up to him.

He then heard the roaring of the engine he had been listening for, and Dean didn't even have the time or the speed to get out of the way. As the right side of the cab of the F150 cradled in, Dean was thrown into the window on his left.

And for the third time, a vehicle Dean was driving was ground into that damned guardrail. And not just into the guardrail…

"I don't think they ever really fixed it right…"

through the guardrail.


"Give me the salt," Sam repeated, face set and fingers wagging expectantly.

DeWitt blinked blankly down at Sam, like he was seeing him for the first time. He sucked in a breath and bent, tossing the desired canister down into the hole. Sam quickly popped the top and sprinkled as little salt as was needed over Callie's remains.

He looked back up. "Lighter fluid."

There was another frustrating and fist-clenching pause before DeWitt tossed that can down to Sam. He doused the interior of the coffin in three seconds flat and hauled himself out of the grave.

He had barely straightened before he found that the ground was no longer under his feet.

Sam hit the rough top of a tombstone right smack in the center of his back, toppling over to land on his stomach with an 'oof' and the wind knocked out of him. His first thought was, Ow, his second thought, Dean. Because if Callie's spirit was THERE, in the cemetery, something had gone really, really wrong out on the highway.

He swallowed and pushed himself up, bracing his body on his hands and the toes of his boots, and peered around the side of the tombstone. His stinging back was not liking the angle at which he was bending his body, but he kept the position, kept as still as he could, eyes wildly roving over the scene.

Nate DeWitt was standing next to the hole, mouth open and hands clutching the shotgun close to his body. "Callie?" he whispered, and Sam barely caught it in the light rushing of the wind.

But he sure as hell caught the form of the fifteen-year-old girl shimmering into existence in the empty space between where he was crouched on the ground and where Nate DeWitt stood frozen and transfixed by the sight of his very dead daughter.


To be continued...