Chapter Ten

"Callie?"

And, yes, there was now a ghost on the scene. And, yes, Nate DeWitt seemed to have been rendered nearly catatonic, with the exception of his daughter's name slipping from his lips every few seconds. And, yes, Sam's back was throbbing like a mother. But those things were being pretty well glazed over at the moment, because Sam couldn't get past the fact that something was wrong with Dean. That something HAD to be wrong with Dean.

Focus. He had to, because before he could find and help his brother, he had to take care of…this. Sam couldn't remember the last time he had been so damn tense, and he didn't even know where to fucking start. Every muscle in his body was tight and his mind was racing and he was about fifteen seconds away from grinding his teeth into nothing. The whole outing had already gone SO wrong, and with Callie's ghost unexpectedly dropping by, there were even more possibilities for things to get even more screwed.

It was as though Nate had forgotten why they were there and that Sam even existed. He just gaped at the sight of his daughter, and kept repeating her name. The blonde spirit had yet to acknowledge him, but if he was frustrated it didn't show; his tone never changed from the quiet, flat whisper. He took a small step towards her and halted. To Sam, his wide eyes betrayed a fear that he would he startle her and she would run away. But she didn't move, just stared back at him and looked…well, dead. Her attention was solely on her father; she hadn't cast a single glance in Sam's direction since he'd landed face-down.

It certainly didn't look like anything was going to happen. There was just a lot of standing and staring going on and Sam was not one to leave a job unfinished, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind just kept repeating, Leave him and get to Dean. Because there was just no getting around it, Sam was scared. Scared and feeling very guilty, because he knew he had been taking too long. If anything had happened to Dean, it was his fault. His fault for letting DeWitt come along, and his fault for allowing the older man to hold him up and make it just take too damn long.

But he couldn't just leave. Callie was putting up a pretty good front, playing the harmless floating spook card, and Sam actually had to remind himself this was the same THING that had killed as many people as she had. Had tried to kill them. And if he just left her there, she would continue to kill. Sam knew he had to finish the job. Especially if she had done something to Dean…

And hell if he thought it was quiet before, because THIS was quiet. The only sound he heard was the faint tick-ticking of his watch, mocking him the passage of seconds he couldn't afford to be losing. He wasn't even sure he was breathing, and his eyes were so wide his face hurt. And his next full thought was, well, what the fuck do I do now?

He scanned the area quickly, analytical brain calculating in seconds the distance from him to the spirit; from him to the hole; from DeWitt to the spirit; from the spirit to the hole. Calculating possible escape routes, and how long it would take him to get a match out of his pocket, lit, and tossed down into that hole without the flame going out, and if he could manage all of that before he was thrown down again.

Honestly, the odds weren't in his favor; Callie's translucent form was hovering just a little too close to the open hole of her grave, and the whole scene was just a little too far away from where he was. But there was nothing else for him to do, and a taunting little ass of a voice in his head said, Dean could make it.

And that was pretty much it.

Sam rose just the slightest, balanced on the toes of his shoes and the flattened palm of his left hand, and groped in the pocket of his jeans with his right. His fingers closed on the matchbook and he made a mental note to buy a friggin' lighter when he realized it was going to take two hands to get the match lit, and that meant he was going to have to risk moving even more. And risk drawing Callie's attention, which thankfully continued to be fixed solely upon her dumbstruck father.

Neither living nor dead DeWitt had moved in what felt like hours, but had probably been no longer than a couple of minutes. Sam started counting in his head as he watched the silent and still pair, and when he hit twenty he sat back on his heels and lit a match as quickly as he could.

As quickly as he could was still not quite quick enough. Lighter. Next stop for gas, next stop for a friggin' SNICKERS BAR…buy a fucking LIGHTER.

Callie might not have been looking at Sam, but that apparently didn't mean she wasn't paying attention to what was going on behind her. She whirled and the matchbook was out of his hand and the small flame was out and Sam was, too, for a few bright black seconds as the back of his head connected with another tombstone behind him.

When Sam's vision righted itself and returned to a fairly normal spectrum of muted nighttime colors he looked up with a wince to see the shimmery adolescent spirit doing her little floaty dance right in front of him. She wasn't attacking him, she just…was. Staring at him. Sam couldn't help but stare back and wonder how such a violent ghost could look so young and innocent. He tore his eyes away from hers and looked wildly around at the moonlit ground, blades of grass ripped apart by his frantic fingers as he tried to find the lost book of matches, thinking, Lighter, Sam. GOD.

He didn't see the matches, but he did see one of the discarded shotguns, waiting willingly against a tree trunk with barrels-a-full of spirit repellent. Sam scrabbled across the cold ground, using hands, feet, knees, anything to get to the weapon as quickly as he could, and was just reaching a hand out to the shiny, beautiful barrel of the gun when he was off the ground again, flying and spinning into a neighboring tree.

He hit the trunk of the tree with a solid smack on his right side, the lower back half of his rib cage. Bruise or break didn't matter at the moment. All that mattered was GET UP GET UP GET UP, because young, innocent Callie was starting to look a little more like the homicidal maniac her spirit had become.

Eyes that had been dark, shiny blue in the light of the near-full moon flamed to an embery orange, pupils rimmed in hell-fire red. Her whole presence became…darker, and THIS was the raging ghost that had been killing people for the past twenty years. That had killed –

STOP IT.

The gun was still within reach, knocked to the ground but still, within reach. Sam stretched his right arm out for it but pulled back immediately with a hiss, cradling the arm to his side. Trees were hard, and it felt like this particular oak had taken out his entire midsection when he hit it.

GET UP GET UP GET UP.

His fingers strained for the gun. Sam bit his lip and stretched his arm, scooting along the grass and dirt and keeping his eyes on the ghost.

Suddenly, the gun moved. Not because Sam had it in hand but because Callie looked at it. The gun, his gun, flew out of his reach, brushing his fingertips, and whirled around so he was facing down the barrel. And – oh, shit – she was going to do it.

The scratch and catch of a freshly lit match drew both of their attention.

Sam brought his arm back into his sore side, digging his elbow in, and met Nate DeWitt's eyes as he held the dropped matchbook in one hand, and a lit match aloft in the other. The man's eyes were wide – fear, disbelief, and a silent plea for forgiveness.

Callie's mouth opened, and her own plea slipped out as shaky and small as if it was her first word. "Daddy."

DeWitt's mouth dropped open and closed again over a strangled sob, and Sam thought for a second he wasn't going to be able to do it. He started to rise, pushed himself up to be leaning against the tree, but he didn't need to move any further.

"I'm sorry, baby," DeWitt said, choking on the words. "But you need to stop." Without another second's hesitation he dropped the lit match into the open grave-pit at his feet, and a wall of fire shot up out of the hole.

Sam dove down and pushed back against the tree to escape the intense heat swept up in the wind, right arm still braced against his side and the other over his face, protecting himself from the rush of warm and gritty air washing over him as he huddled there on the ground. He hid his face in the crook of his elbow and squeezed his eyes shut, not seeing anything and not sure if he wanted to anyways; just hoping DeWitt had the presence of mind to get the hell out of the way of the fire. His ears perked and stung as an unearthly shriek sounded overhead, and then everything was still.

The wind ruffling his hair became cold again, and Sam brought his arm away from his face, opening his eyes. He could barely see a foot in front of him the air was so thick and smoky. He sat up and leaned back against the tree, took a deep breath and hacked it back out, clutching his bruised side. "Mr. DeWitt?"

There was no answer.

"Nate?" Sam squinted, trying to force his eyes to see through the remaining smoke.

"Yeah."

It was broken and hollow and pained. Sam winced and pushed himself to his feet. The wind continued to blow out what remained of the fire and the smoke, and he could see DeWitt then, standing just as still as he had been, still up at the edge of the grave. In his hands was one of the stuffed animals that had been so carefully placed at Callie's tombstone. A small dog, it had maybe once been fluffy and tan and as full as life as an inanimate object can be, but now was old, and ratty, and coated with soot.

DeWitt didn't look up at Sam, just bobbed his head. "Yeah," he said again, softer.

It was done. It was done and Callie was gone. Sam stood, arms out like he was ready to take flight, and wishing that was exactly what he could do, because there was just no way he was going to make it to wherever Dean was in time. No fucking way.

In time for what? The thought stopped him even more, so he wasn't even in a state of not moving, he was in a complete state of absolute nothing, his mind so far out in front of his body. Knowing he should be moving, knowing he needed to be moving, but his heart was being pulled in two opposite directions, and he just didn't know what to do.

As he stared down at that small stuffed dog DeWitt's eyes were as wide as the nearly full moon hanging over them, and even from where he stood he could see the glistening start of tears. Could see the older man's hands shaking, could see his mouth opening and shutting with nothing coming out. And he knew he needed to be out of there, and dozens of thoughts and images flashed through his head in a split-second.

He just killed his daughter.

Okay, so Callie had already been dead, but Sam was sure Nate DeWitt wasn't thinking rational thoughts at that particular moment. He was thinking he had killed his daughter, and Sam felt waves of sympathy for the man.

I can't leave him like this.

Human beings were unstable, reckless, and wired in all kinds of shaky ways and Sam knew how bad it would be for him to leave DeWitt there, alone, in that condition. They had already left him to cover up his daughter's coffin once, what would having to do it again do to the man?

Dean could be dead.

And it was that thought that won over all of the rest. It was the one that was going to win all along, and it hit home in such a way Sam finally had it together enough to get sounds to come out of his mouth. "Mr. DeWitt…"

The man looked up from the stuffed toy and at him, mouth still gaping, trying to comprehend what he had just seen and taken part of, and stared at Sam with those giant wet eyes.

Sam felt entirely too selfish, and he had a sense of what DeWitt had been feeling when Sam had asked for his help uncovering the coffin. "I can't…" he managed before he had to break off and look away. He found a spot on the ground, a charred patch of grass from a spark blown out of the hole. "I have to…"

He looked up and met DeWitt's eyes over the smokiness of his daughter's smoldering remains. The look must have conveyed every I'm sorry and other desperate thought he was thinking, because Nate nodded, another barely perceptible bob of his head.

And that nod was all the permission Sam needed.

He paused for a fraction of a second, and then took a few crooked steps in no particular direction, just in a direction away from there and closer to Dean. He only got those few steps away and had to stop, because he REALLY didn't know what to do. He glanced around the cemetery, blinking blankly, not even sure he was really seeing it.

"He's on the highway."

Sam turned, eyes wide in confusion. "Yeah?"

DeWitt's eyes, however, were the clearest and sharpest they had been all night. Clear, sharp, and deadly serious. He shook his head slightly. "That's too far."

Sam frowned and took a breath, his brain not really functioning on the higher levels at the moment. "What – "

"Are you gonna walk to your brother, Sam?" Nate's eyes went to the ground, as if he was thinking the same thing Sam had been – he wasn't going to make it. "We're clear across town. That's at least ten miles, depending on where…well, on how far…"

"Yeah." Sam swallowed. He looked around again, panic rising inside. His side hurt and he was pretty sure that it was only bruises, no breaks, but still…he couldn't run that far. Ten miles…there was just no way.

"Take Jerry's truck."

"What?" Sam's extensive vocabulary was appallingly limited at the moment. He clenched his fists at his sides and shifted his weight. Every impulsive fiber of his being wanted to bolt and get to Dean, and all of the rational ones were telling him to just hold on for a second and think things through.

"The grounds keeper." DeWitt made a vague gesture over Sam's left shoulder, and his eyes followed the direction the man was pointing.

In the bright moonlight, he saw the outline of a small shed near the entrance of the cemetery. The windows of the small building were dark, and Sam had a mental-smack moment for not noticing the shed before. What if someone had heard the commotion, or seen the fire? Thankfully, the small building appeared to be empty. Next to the shed was a truck.

"He's a good guy," DeWitt continued. "Trusting." He gave Sam a meaningful look, a sympathetic tilt of his head. "Keys might even be in it."

Sam didn't know this man, not more than a sympathetic twinge for his pain and an understanding of the confusion he was surely feeling. Sam didn't know him, but in that moment, he LOVED him. "Thanks."

"Just go."

Sam paused for only a moment, and he somehow thought to grab his cell phone from where he had left it on the ground, a tiny voice that he fought to ignore telling him, you might have to call an ambulance. He turned away without a glance at DeWitt – neither could risk that at the moment – and jogged in the direction of the shed, leaving behind the weapons duffle and several piles of haphazardly thrown dirt and a broken man to clean it all up.

Sam gripped his cell phone tight enough to break it. It sure felt like he was going to break it; that or his fingers, whichever gave first. He pressed it tighter to his ear, like maybe he was just hearing things wrong. But no, it just kept ringing and ringing.

Click. "This is Dean. If you need help, leave a message..."

Sam swore, mostly to keep from crying, and hung up and hit the speed dial again. Just like he had the past eight tries. Ring. Pick up, Dean. Ring. Pick up. Ring. Pick UP.

Ring. Click. "This is Dean. If you need help, leave a message…"

Sam swallowed and checked the speedometer. Ninety-five. It was a miracle he hadn't hit a building or something.

Jerry seemed to be just as trusting as Nate had said he was. The truck's door had been unlocked, and the keys were in fact inside, kept up in the sun visor. He'd nearly burned rubber out of there, not risking a glance back at DeWitt.

Halfway through the tiny town of Claremont, Sam found himself leaning forward over the steering wheel of the county truck, squinting and straining to see through an increasingly blurring windshield. He blinked stupidly and sat back.

He hadn't even noticed it had started raining.

Sam fumbled for the wiper controls and found that the view outside the windshield was still blurry, from water not coming from the sky. Keep it together. He increased pressure on both his phone and the accelerator, channeling what fear he could as he hit speed dial again.

Click. "This is Dean. If you need help…"

The town was now just a faraway collection of lights – yellow from the streetlights, blue and red from neon signs lining the main road, and green from the intersection he had just sped through. It had been red at the time.

After another few minutes, the lights faded out of view. Everything around him was dark, leaving Sam feeling very, very alone.

Click. "This is Dean…"

And them he saw them.

The skid marks. A good thirty feet's worth. Shit. Sam threw his phone to the side. He wanted to speed up but eased off the accelerator, barely keeping his eyes on the road, having the feeling that what he was looking for was no longer on the road anyway.

Up ahead on the right, the woods to the side of the road were set back from the road, divided by a steep drop-off, and warning/protecting drivers was that rusty old guardrail that the Impala had smacked into a few days before. The rail was nothing short of mutilated. Sam slammed the brakes and the truck gave a lurch and hydroplaning skid next to the worst of the damage, and he jumped out before the vehicle was at a full stop. An entire section of the rail had been ripped away from the post, hanging stiffly and swaying in the light wind with an audible creak.

"Dean!" Sam called, rushing to the edge of the rail with a few sloppy steps, his hurried feet slipping in the fresh mud. He stopped just short of taking his own swan dive over the edge, eyes frantically scanning the ground below.

He spotted Nate's black F150, on its side. His breath caught in his throat, and his feet seemed stuck in the sucking mud.

For about three seconds, he wasn't even sure Dean was in the truck, and the result was a sudden and near-paralyzing mixture of hope and panic assaulting his already shaky state of mind.

Hope. Dean's not in the truck. Being Dean,maybe he had outsmarted the ghost, had made some kind of action-movie leap out of the vehicle as it barreled through the old guardrail. Maybe he had been in the truck when it had crashed through, but had been completely unharmed, and had started down the road back towards town, royally pissed and ready to pull out the best big-brother-to-the-rescue of all time.

Panic. Dean's not in the truck. He had been hurt; Sam was LOOKING at the truck, for God's sake, how could he NOT be hurt. But he had pulled that invincible Dean Winchester bullshit out from wherever it was he pulled it from and had extricated himself from the mashed and misshapen hunk of metal. And he had started down the road back towards town, royally pissed and bloody and ready to try to pull out the best big-brother-to-the-rescue of all time.

But Dean WAS in the truck.

It was the black of night and the blur of the rain and the blood covering Dean's face that had made Sam think otherwise. A sudden flash of lightning lit up the scene below and he could see that Dean was in the truck. And he wasn't moving.

To be continued...