Disclaimer: Sometimes I pretend it's so, but Dean and Sam do not belong to me. Life really isn't fair at all.

A/N: Yes, two chapters in one day. Why? I dunno, call it a whim. Thanks to the faithful few who keep on keepin' on with me. It means a lot. Also thanks to LdyAnne again for the alpha and typo-spotting, and Meg for the beta. :)

Sweet Caroline, Chapter 9

The cops drove by the cemetery every thirteen and a half minutes. Dean had frozen his fingers off for the past hour, as he staked out the graveyard in soggy underbrush lining the illustrious College Avenue. So far, the local LEOs hadn't broken pattern and Dean was beyond ready to call it confirmed. Thirteen minutes gave he and Sam plenty of time to get things done and get out, undetected. They didn't need to lug much equipment, which would speed their time. The second the cruiser vanished around the corner for the fifth time, Dean started making his way back to the Impala, parked a good three blocks away. With any luck, Sam had completed his task and was already there.

Dean pulled his jacket tighter, thinking he was going to have to hone up on his computer skills so next time they could flip a coin for the cushy job. Sam had secured the indoor – warm – assignment of clearing their "school records" without contest. It wasn't like it was a job Dean could do half as well as Sam. That whole thing could have waited until after they dispatched Caroline Sellke, but it wasn't something Dean wanted forgotten in an unforeseen rush out of town. Besides, to make up for Sam being the lucky one now Dean planned on making him do the brunt of the work in the graveyard. To even things up. At the very least, Sam was going to play pack mule.

His brother wasn't at the car when Dean arrived. He contemplated calling Sam to bug him about being so damned slow, and rag on him for the snow jinx while he was at it. Dean was no meteorologist, but it smelled like snow was in the air. If he had anything to do with it, they'd be southbound twenty minutes after Sam made it back to the car. A fast in-and-out job was in order. He climbed in, cracked a window and started the car up. No sense trying to demolish a statue with numb hands.

Once warmed up, Dean again considered calling his brother. He wasn't quite sure where Sam had gone on the ride from campus to the motel earlier because he hadn't asked, but he was certain the mental road trip hadn't been fun. Sam had stayed in a funk for a good hour, the kind Dean knew he couldn't fix with antics or food or anything at all. He was still out of touch with Sam, but not so much he didn't understand some things needed to work themselves out.

Especially if the funk was induced by what Dean suspected it was. The list of things likely to bother Sam had one item on it, and was titled "Jessica." Even if it was more immediately about someone or something else, it was always about Jessica in the end. And that wasn't a subject Dean felt qualified to talk to his brother about. It sucked, because if Dean closed his eyes he was once again hit with a memory of Sam at six, looking to him to answer every question and fix every little thing. Of course, thinking about that only reminded him that back then he hadn't told Sam everything, not by a long shot, and he sure as hell hadn't been able to fix everything. Their lives would never be uncomplicated.

He slumped down in the seat. If Sam didn't hurry up, Dean would be the one too distracted for the job. He had to stop thinking of his brother as if he were childlike, because Sam had stopped being that a long time ago. It only did harm to dwell on things that could not ever be again, that probably never had been in the first place.

The passenger door creaked open the second he thought that. Excellent timing. Having one of them mopey nearly 24/7 was enough.

"What took you?" Dean greeted.

"You were right. We shouldn't have even bothered enrolling. It was more work than it was worth," Sam said. "I had to crosscheck a bunch of different systems."

"I figured we'd be here longer."

"Yeah. Me, too." It looked like Sam regretted more than just enrolling them as students, eliminating any urge Dean might have had to say I told you so. Sam held his hands out to the heater. "So what'd you find out?"

"The cops are out, but they've got light coverage." Dean sat up, checking his watch. They'd have to wait for the next circuit of the police cruiser to start. "Only one car. It passes the cemetery every thirteen minutes or so. We've got about seven more before he's due by again."

"That should give us plenty of time."

They'd gone over all the information they (Sam) had uncovered regarding this urban legend and established that in most cases it was just a legend. No new facts came to light on how to deal with a real, live killing statue on online sources or in Dad's journal. Sam had gone over it four times, Dean twice. After all that, they both decided the spirit was somehow bound to the statue itself rather than remains, so demolishing it should take care of the problem. Dean felt a small amount of relief for that – the ground was probably still winter-hard. Under no conditions ever could he dig a grave in less than fifteen minutes.

"We should get over there. Let's go smash this bitch," Dean said with a grin.

"Dude." Sam looked mildly alarmed by Dean's enthusiasm. "You're actually looking forward to this, aren't you?"

What could Dean say – smashing things was fun. He'd never outgrown that. It wasn't his fault Sam didn't hold the same childish delights to heart. Sometimes he thought Sam should embrace his inner child; they'd both be better off for it. But then Dean remembered Sam hadn't liked smashing things when he was a little kid. He'd preferred to burn stuff with a magnifying glass and the sun. Dean frowned, disturbed at that image. That wasn't something Sam would turn to for enjoyment, and explained why Dean so often got stuck with the salt and burn. It might be a while before fire was just another part of the job to Sam.

"I love the sound of concrete breaking in the still of the night."

"You're messed up."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. C'mon. Grab the sledgehammers from the trunk, will you?" Dean shut off the car, handed Sam the keys and rolled up his window. He peered at the dark houses, certain he saw a curtain fall back into place. He locked the passenger door and got out, joining Sam at the rear of the car. "I wonder if we should move the car. I think the friendlies might be not so friendly anymore."

"That might just draw more attention," Sam said after a moment. He held both hammers as inconspicuously as he could. "The car doesn't exactly purr."

Pulling the keys out of the lock, Dean shut the trunk lid quietly. Sam made a good point, the Impala growled like the beast she was and made people stare. But having their car investigated or towed due to suspicious townsfolk would put a crimp in his departure plans. It would also be nice to have it a little bit closer to the cemetery, in case they needed extra supplies.

"I think the folks in house number 1395 have already noticed us sitting here awhile. I'm gonna move it," Dean said.

"Okay, if you think it's necessary it probably is." Sam lifted the sledgehammers slightly. "I wish you would have thought of it before I got these things out of the trunk, though."

"Too heavy for you, Nelly?"

"No. Shut up, man." Sam left Dean by the trunk, glaring back at him when he reached the passenger door. He stood for a minute, expression growing ever darker.

Dean smiled.

"Are you going to get the door for me, or what?"

It amused Dean when Sam was such an obvious girl. He walked to the driver's side, smiling all the while.

Sam gaped at him, shaking his head in disbelief. He set the sledgehammers down, frowning when he discovered the passenger door locked.

"Dean."

"Hey, I'll meet you there. We've lost another two minutes. You can start while I find a good place to park."

"Dean," Sam growled this time.

"See ya, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam grumbled something about denting the roof of the car, but the threat was empty. The guy only gave him another death glare before slipping off into the night.

Dean opened the creaky car door and slid in, watching Sam stalk away in the rearview mirror. The sledgehammers made it look like he had giant blocks for hands, and he hunched slightly from their weight. He glanced at house 1395 quickly, realizing Sam's shadowed figure would probably look like something out of a horror movie to anyone who didn't know him. The curtain was still down. He shrugged, started the car and pulled away from the curb. He'd spotted a good place to park earlier, so it only took him a few minutes and then he was silently moving through the bushes. He found Sam hidden at the gate, waiting for the patrol to go by.

"They should be here any second now," Dean said as he hunkered down next to his brother.

Before the cop made his inevitable slow drive by the cemetery, though, disruption came from another place – Sam's pocket, as his cell began to buzz. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam fumble for the device. He was about to tell his brother to ignore whoever it was when he saw his brother's face in the bright LED light. Confusion and uneasiness were predominant, with a fair touch of dread. Never a good combination.

"It's Iris," Sam whispered, looking over at him with a worried frown.

What the hell? Miss Never-gonna-talk-to-you-again had sure changed her tune real quick like. Dean didn't have time to shake his head. Sam already had the phone up to his ear. Great. They hadn't even set foot in the boneyard and this was fouled up. On cue, the cop drove by slowly. He tugged at Sam's sleeve. His brother pulled away, disregarding him. Dean shifted, trying to decide if he should leave his bleeding-heart brother out there while he went in to take care of business.

"What? Iris, slow down." Sam's voice sounded hushed and panicky, drawing Dean's attention back. "What do you mean? You're where?"

That's when Dean heard a voice. A female voice. And it wasn't coming from Sam's phone. Oh, hell no. This night couldn't possibly get worse.

"I followed her out to the cemetery. She said she wanted to prove you were a whack job. Sam, she won't answer her phone. I didn't know what else to do. Even if you're crazy, you...oh, shit, I don't know what I was thinking."

In the pale, frosty glow of the quarter moon, Dean saw Iris, her hair gleaming faintly copper as she walked directly for the cemetery gates. Well, she was either stupid or really stupid for coming out here after her friend…wait, followed who now? If someone was already in the cemetery and alone, that was inviting disaster. The spirit seemed to go for lone people, but once it got going anything was fair game. He eyed Iris. Dean figured it wasn't a good plan to leap out of the bushes and grab her, but at this point there weren't many options. Sam beat him to it, hurriedly telling Iris to turn around and go back home as he rustled through the brush.

"But Gwen," Iris said, trailing off with a startled squeak at Sam's sudden appearance. She took two steps backwards, dropping her phone. "What…?"

Dean picked up the sledgehammers and followed Sam, keeping himself behind his brother so Iris wouldn't freak out. Freak out more. Her eyes were huge, her face so white it almost glowed. His attention wandered to the cemetery, eyes searching for the equally stupid friend. They were at the far gate, away from the road. The statue was on the other side of the graveyard, closer to a side gate too visible for them to use in their quickly turning unstealthy plan. Dean couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything. But then, if sweet, sweet murdering Caroline had the other girl already, she'd be suffocating right about now.

"Sam," he said, "Not to break up the party, but we have to get on this. Clock's ticking."

"I want you to go back to campus, Iris," Sam said, grasping the girl by the arms and pivoting her back the direction she'd come.

"But Gwen's out here somewhere."

"We'll find her. We'll get her home, don't worry."

"I'm not leaving without her."

They did not have time to stand around talking.

"For crying out –" A shrill cry tore through the night as if in response, cutting off Dean's frustrated words.

Sam let go of the girl, turning to him.

Dean tossed his brother a hammer, and they ran without pausing or thinking, calling back simultaneously, "Stay here." He glanced back to make sure Iris heeded the warning, thankful it looked as though she was rooted to the spot. It slowed him down, but Sam would always outdistance him anyway. He collided with his brother when Sam suddenly stopped short and started swiveling his head around like he was looking for something. Then Dean saw the object of their disaffection was not where it should be. Neither was the other girl.

Another cry, and Dean knew where to go. The girl had run for the closest escape. He slapped Sam on the sleeve, taking up pursuit again. Dean saw a massive black shape ahead, somehow much bigger than the statue actually was. He didn't have time to think. The girl was on the ground, her face twisted in terror that he could not allow to become her death mask. She was too close, the thing was right on top of her. The risk of injury by falling debris was one she'd thank him for later. It beat the hell out of the alternative. Dean locked his legs, raised the sledgehammer and prepared to swing.

What he hadn't taken into consideration was a moving target. Sledgehammers were effective tools, but they required exertion and balance. That wasn't easy to come by in a fight. The hammer was halfway down when the statue turned. It swung back at him, clipping the right side of his face. He faltered and then fell, gravity pulling him down with the sledgehammer which had come nowhere near its mark.

"Dean," Sam said faintly, and, "The girl. The statue."

He blinked at his brother, seeing Sam's face contort in a shout, not whisper. His ears were ringing, must be, because Sam was talking more than Dean was hearing. Somehow it sounded like a disco song and also the thunk of concrete hitting dirt at the same time. Sammy swinging the hammer, the girl screaming. Dean scrambled to his feet, reclaiming his own sledgehammer. Everything did a loop. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. The statue moved to him again, unfazed by the blows raining on it. Someone – him? Sam? – connected a substantial blow, shattering its right arm. Not the left, though. The left hit Sam, sent him flying. Dean's brain cleared almost instantly.

"Sonuvabitch," he growled, not sparing Sam the look he wanted to.

He aimed for the goddamn bonneted head, smashing it into a billion pieces. That should have killed the possessed statue, but the thing kept coming at him. Headless. It was all so fucking ridiculous. Before Dean could raise the hammer for another swing, the statue flung its still-intact arm at him. The punch was more than glancing this time. As he flew across the cemetery, the disco bells came back, sounding an awful lot like a young woman wailing.

Dean saw it coming but couldn't do anything to stop. He hit a big pine tree headlong. He'd held onto the sledgehammer the whole time, though he had a crazy, sudden thought it would have done him a world of good to let go of the thing before. In any case, he felt it fly from his fingers, hitting the cemetery fence with a loud clang.

Or then again, maybe that sound was actually his head.