A/N: No disclaimer. We all know I don't own anything related to Supernatural. Just this wonderful fic:P I'll now grant three wishes to everyone who reviewed on the last chapter. poof Okay, okay, I know, it's a bit short, but the next one will be a lot longer, if I have any say in it. Reviiiiew!

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Dean stood on shaky legs. He was sore, covered in mud, cold, and surrounded by death.

Graves.

What seemed like hundreds, but was probably only dozens, of graves surrounded him. Some in the form of ancient Irish crosses, some small granite stones, but most crude wooden crosses, two pieces of wood nailed together and stuck into the soft ground.

Wiping his hands on his knees, which only served to spread the mud around both his hands and his jeans, he surveyed the ravine he'd stumbled upon. It appeared to be about ten or fifteen yards across, and stretching even longer.

Dean wouldn't admit it, but the graveyard creeped him out.

"Are you okay?" Sam called down to him.

"Yeah," Dean answered, taking a moment to give himself a once over. He would have some bruises in the morning, and he could tell his knees and the balls of his hands were skinned beneath the mud, but he'd live.

He turned around and looked at his brother, a good fifteen feet up the side of the ravine. "Please tell me this is a graveyard for hamsters."

"Check the stones," Sam said, looking sick to his stomach.

"Aw, man," Dean grumbled. Things just had to get more complicated, didn't they?

Cursing under his breathe, he headed for the nearest stone, crouching down. He frowned and got up, moving to another stone, then another, inspecting several with intense concentration.

"What?" Sam asked, watching his brother move from marker to marker.

"There's no names," Dean called back up to him. "Just dates."

He could understand the wooden crosses not having names, but it seemed odd that the granite stones or elaborate crosses would not have a family name, let alone a personal touch. In fact, the amount of grave markers in that area was a bit alarming.

He was getting creeped out.

Suppressing a shudder, Dean turned his back on the graves, a shiver crawling up his spine.

Reaching the hill, he took a few tentative steps up the muddy face. His boots slipped in the wet mud, sliding him back to the bottom with a curse.

"Dammit!" he cried, wanting out of there, and wanting out now.

He looked up and saw Sam standing at the lip of the ravine, looking down, ready to assist his brother once he was within range.

With a growl of frustration, he took a few steps back and tried a running start, feeling his boots sink into the mud as he tried to run up the hill.

A laugh told him Sam was enjoying this, but right now all he cared about was getting away from those graves.

On his third attempt, his feet went out from under him, pitching him face first into the mud, and eliciting another laugh from Sam.

Any other time, he'd be glad to hear his brother enjoying himself, getting a sense of humor. Now was not a good moment.

"Fuck," he said, taking a moment to catch his breath and looking at the incline. It was steep, but not impossible. The mud was the problem.

For a brief moment, he was overcome with a feeling of panic. What if he couldn't get out? What if he was trapped down here with these graves until the ground dried out?

Dean had always hated cemeteries. Not for the dead bodies and the ghosts and the things people usually attributed fear of graveyards with. It was the graves themselves. It seemed unfair that people died and got stuck in the ground, six feet under the dirt. It seemed wrong that people so warm in life got nothing but cold granite or marble to remember them by. Of course, the dead didn't need warmth, but how could the living be comforted by something so cold and impersonal?

Suddenly unsettled by the thought of dozens of bodies decaying in the ground beneath him, all cold, and bones and rotting flesh, Dean launched himself at the side of the ravine, his fingers digging in the mud to grasp at roots and rock, anything to help him claw his way to the top.

One he was within reach, Sam grabbed his arm and hauled him to the top, Dean knocking into his legs, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Dean rested, his eyes fixated on the span of crosses and stones below.

"Sick," he muttered thickly.

Sam glanced at him for a moment, then back down. "Sick and weird. Really weird."

"Why were there no names?" Dean said, more to himself than to his brother.

Sam stood and reached a hand down to help his brother up.

Dean brushed him off and stood up on his own, making a half hearted attempt to dust himself off.

"God, that was creepy," he said out loud.

Sam stared at him for a moment.

"What the fuck?" he continued. "I mean, seriously. If that was a family graveyard, they'd have names. Hell, if it was a pet graveyard, they'd have Sparky scratched into them."

"I wonder if they even know this is here," Sam said, looking concerned as he spoke of Earl and Betty. "No one ever comes on these trails, right? How could they?

"I don't know," Dean said with a shake of his head. "Let's ask. "Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, did you know you have a bunch of dead bodies in the woods behind your house?"

"We should get back," Sam said. "You need a shower, and I need to be not looking at this right now."

"That makes two of us," Dean muttered, turning away.

"Looks like you found your trouble, Dean," Sam said as his brother started to walk back.

He was met with a one finger salute.

---

They walked back to the bed and breakfast in silence, each reeling from their discovery, each thinking all the possibilities, but not wanting to bring them up. Later, they'd talk, do the sleuthing thing, but right now there was too much to deal with, and neither of them were particularly eager to do so.

Betty met them at the door with a look that was a mix of shock and concern.

"He fell," Sam explained.

Dean tried for a smile. "City boy."

Betty ushered them in, clucking her tongue. "Oh my. Well, get upstairs and get in the shower, bring these clothes down and I'll wash them before that mud sets in. Oh, I just knew those trails should be shut down. They're so dangerous!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"Dangerous?"

Betty nodded, wringing her hands. "So many people have gotten hurt, or lost, but what can we do if they want to explore? Even if it we could stop them, they'd just do it somewhere else, or without us knowing. At least we can keep track of who goes where and when."

"You've had trouble before?" Dean asked sharply.

Betty nodded. "A few people have gotten lost, but the police around here have a good search and rescue team. Some people have tripped and broken their legs, all minor stuff but still, it worries me. Earl says I was born to be a mother, but you know..."

Her smile was sad.

"Anyway, there's so much space here, it's like our own state park," she laughed. "I suppose it's bound to happen sooner or later. Earl always says you can't stop things like that from happening, so I try not to let it upset me."

Dean just nodded, his face tense.

"Oh dear, look at me, rambling on, and I haven't even asked if you were hurt!" Betty cried suddenly, looking upset.

"I'm fine," he assured guardedly. "I think I'll get that shower now."

She nodded, still wringing her hands.

"Come on, Sam," Dean said, motioning towards the stairs.

Excusing himself with a smile, Sam followed his brother up the stairs, trying to ignore Betty's eyes on his back.

Dean obviously didn't intend to trust her any more than a common criminal. Which made it harder for Sam to admit he still did. Betty was a nice woman, a good person.

How was he going to tell her there was a graveyard in her quaint forest?