Digging Up Ghosts
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, then I don't own it.
A/N: For 2021 Whumptober #30 Ghosts
Dean Winchester hated digging holes. Once, a lifetime ago, he had begged for his very own sandbox to put in the backyard when he had been a little boy. Throughout his mother's pregnancy, first with morning sickness then uncomfortableness for her large belly, she put off taking him to the park where he loved to dig. He hadn't understood then why she would not take him and he longed to just dig holes all day long.
He had dug many holes since then, none of them for the pleasure of it. The dirt that he used to squish between his bare toes now was cumbersome as it got into his boots, mouth, and hair. The holes that he used to try to dig as large as he could, now were all monotonously all the same dimensions. The buried treasure he used to search for with wide-eyed wonder had turned into the hunt for decayed human remains.
He did love his job; hunting things, saving people, but sometimes it got boring. He spent most of his time reading newspapers in rundown motels, searching through dusty books in libraries, or digging holes. The flashy high-action stuff took only a moment of his life in the great scheme of things. Yes, he got to shoot things or set them on fire, but most of his time was spent researching. That usually took longer than the hunt itself.
Research and digging had become an even longer process in the past year. When he was the only one digging. When he had no one to bounce ideas off of. When there was not even anyone to talk with to cut through the tedious parts of the job. He felt even more alone than he already was, as a lone hunter.
When his dad had up and left one morning to hunt alone he had left his son to do the same. The old man had seemingly taken any hunting support system Dean may have had with him. John Winchester was a hard man, he was hard to get along with, as such he had burned many bridges with other hunters over the years. At least the ones his sons knew about, he was positive there was much his father kept secret. This left his son with very few allies or help. Winchesters were stubborn bastards so Dean refused to tuck his tail between his legs and beg help off of anyone that had cut the Winchesters out of their lives. Not even his own brother, Sam.
He was alone. He was doing just fine. He practically raised his own brother, he could take care of himself. It was just in the slow times it hit him, how alone he was. As he dug up a grave alone he wished for someone to be digging right beside him, bitching and moaning.
The air grew cold around him, he dropped his shovel to grab his shotgun.
Another thing about being alone; he didn't have anyone to watch his back.
The wailing specter flew at him. He shot it full of rock salt, dispelling it for the moment. It would be back. He picked his shovel back up, working double-time to reach the casket. He left himself exposed for its next attack. Salt circles only did so much at keeping it at bay, when it had the ability to chuck anything at his head. Rocks and sticks rained down on him before he could get to his gun to dispel it once more.
Blood flowed down his face from a nasty glancing blow from a large stone. He wiped it out of his eye with his arm, hissing at the pain the contact flared up. He didn't have time to assess the damage. His vision swam as he tried and failed to grab the shovel out of the three he saw. Swearing he closed his eyes, lunging for the handle, grasping the rough wood.
He needed to end this quickly. He didn't know if he could shoot straight the next time.
His shovel clanked against the casket as the air went chilly once more. Scrambling in the dirt; he hammered and clawed at the old rotting wood until it gave way. His shaking blood-stained fingers struggled to activate his lighter one-handed. The salt and gasoline he poured with the other. Dark spots were trying to blackout his eyes. The ghost was practically on top of him, sending projectiles down on his vulnerable back.
With a slurred sound of triumph, the flame caught. He chucked the whole thing it the hole even as he scrambled out. The flames whooshed, singeing his legs on his way out of the grave. The heat of the fire devoured the bones as the ghost let out an unearthly wail. Dean covered his ears as his head injury could not handle the sound.
Disappearing from this plane of existence the ghost would no longer pose a threat. Its reign of terror had ended thanks to Dean. Not that anyone would ever know about the blood and sweat given to keep them safe. That was not the point of hunting. Saving people was. It was a lonely and thankless job, but somebody had to do it.
Dean laid next to the smoldering hole, trying to gear himself up to move. Now that the threat had been neutralized and the job was complete he felt himself crashing. The adrenalin that had saved him was now seeping his body of strength. The pain that he pushed through to finish the hunt was not slamming down on him full force. Vertigo spun the world around him even though he had yet to move. He struggled to sit up, panting through the pain. Only to fall back and puke into the dirt. His scalp was bleeding freely as it felt like his head had been split open. He definitely had a concussion.
It was up to him to get up and walk away from the hole he just dug. It was up to him to get out of the cemetery. It was up to him to find a secure place to hole up. It was up to him to nurse his wounds. He was all alone. If he lived or died it was all on him.
There was no Dad to help him to his feet. The was no Sam to wash away the blood after they finished stitching him up and wake him up for cognitive tests throughout the night. There was nobody left to care for him when he was hurt or down. Nobody to share the load or watch his back. The ghosts of what used to be his life haunted his every move. He was all alone in the world now, so he just had to forget how it used to be and deal with his own problems by himself. If he didn't, there was nobody left to do it for him, he would die young.
He was alone.