Chapter 8

After slowly drinking the rest of his beer, much to Dean's distaste, Sam grabbed his jacket and followed his brother out of the restaurant to the car. He paused when he got outside and looked up at the sky, frowning. "Dean, it's going to get dark soon. We really need to hurry."

"I know Sammy, which is why I've already thought of a plan." He replied, grinning as he got into the car.

"Care to share?" Sam realised it was better to indulge Dean's wacky ideas instead of ignoring them, as he figured one day they would actually work.

"Sure. You go and dig up this elusive head, while I go and stake out Route 50, see if anything happens."

"How come I have to go and dig?" Sam asked, wondering why Dean didn't want to be a part of the digging and why he trusted Sam to do it instead.

"Because I just don't want to dig this time, Sammy. Last time you got to go and stake out a cute chicks house, while I was sweating my ass off in a cemetery." Dean answered, matter-of-factly. "And although Route 50 isn't a place I've love to be, it sure as hell beats digging up a stinking old head. Satisfied?"

"Completely. Besides digging up a head is a hell of a lot easier than trying to ward off a headless, vengeful spirit and it's possible human sidekick, don't you think?" Sam took great pleasure in watching Dean's satisfied expression change to one full of worry.

"Sure, if you say so Sammy." Dean replied, suddenly focusing all of his attention on the road.

They drove in silence for the next few minutes, the sun seeming to go down unbelievably fast as they sped down the road towards the cemetery. The streets were dead, but in Eureka, that was nothing unusual. Aside from a few patrol cars and a few odd cars parked at the side of the road, the Winchesters hadn't seen any other cars driving along the roads after six in the evening. Brings a whole new level to the meaning of ghost town, Sam thought, grinning to himself. He sure as hell wasn't going to miss this town when they were gone.

Dean pulled into the entrance of the cemetery and turned to look at Sam. "You gonna be alright?"

"You mean you actually care?" Sam laughed in disbelief.

"Course I do. I'm like the ass-kicking, handsome Care bear."

Sam laughed again. No matter how angry he felt towards Dean on occasions, sometimes he'd rather be with him over anyone else. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. It's your ass you should be worrying about."

"Oh my ass is covered, trust me." He shifted in his seat and patted his ass to emphasize his point. "So, you know what you're doing?"

"Course, same as always. Salt and burn."

"Damn right, salt and burn baby." Dean reached into his pocket and handed Sam a pack of matched. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Sam turned as he climbed out of the car and looked at Dean. "Hey, I thought you said no chick flick moments?"

"Ahh yeah, course. Btch. Let me know when you've torched the sucker, okay?"

Sam nodded and slammed the door, going round to the trunk and grabbing a shovel and his bag. "Oh, and put your damn seatbelt on!" He shouted as an afterthought, to Dean's open window.

Then he watched as Dean swung the Impala round and drove off into the night. He stood still for a moment, watching the Impala's taillights draw further away, and then made his way into the cemetery. It was nearly pitch black now, so he grabbed a torch from his bag and turned it on, creating eerie shadows whenever the light an oddly shaped tombstone. Pausing when he reached a fork in the path, he pulled out the business card the undertaker had given him. Holding it carefully in his hands, Sam made his way down the left-hand path and towards the other side of the cemetery. From what the undertaker had told him, Charles Harrington's head was buried underneath an old oak tree near the far wall of the cemetery, with only a few neatly arranged stones to distinguish it from the rest of the ground near it.

Five minutes later, Sam reached the far wall of the cemetery and groaned. There wasn't just one old oak tree near the far wall; there were dozens. Starting from one corner and working his way east, he began the slow and monotonous task of checking the ground at each oak tree for any suspicious looking stone formations.

After ten minutes and no stones, Sam was starting to wonder if he'd actually got the short end of the straw after all. He felt like giving up when he shone the torch light over the last tree, and was shocked to see five stones arranged in a diagonal line. Ordinarily, five stones arranged in that particular manner wouldn't have earned them a second glance. But right now, this was the only thing Sam had to go on and he wouldn't have cared if they spelt out "This is not the resting place of Charles Harrington's head." They were stones and they were underneath an oak tree, that was good enough for him. Sighing, he threw his bag to the ground and moved the stones out of the way. Feeling like one of the seven dwarves, he grabbed his shovel and began to dig.

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Meanwhile, Dean was speeding along the town end of Route 50, heading towards the 7-Eleven. He had Foreigner on full blast and was drumming away at the steering wheel, singing along at the top of his voice.

"I'm hot blooded, check it and see. I got a fever of a hundred and three. Oh yeah!"

He turned the volume down a little, just in case Sam rang, and then carried on murdering a great song. He had just started to get into an air guitar solo and was happily strumming away, yet still managing to keep the car on the road, when something flickered in the rear view mirror and he slammed the brakes on hard.

The tyres screeched and Dean's head snapped forward and then back against the seat. Ignoring the shooting pains in his neck, he grabbed his gun from his pocket and swung around to face the back seat. It was completely empty, and was even entirely devoid of fast food cartons and wrappers. Sam's been cleaning again, he thought, grinning and sitting forward in his seat. He rubbed his sore neck and shoved his gun back in his jacket.

"Freaking out over nothing now, marvellous." He muttered, scowling over his own stupidity. "Damn Sam, trying to give me the heeby jeebies."

Wincing slightly, he turned the music off and put his foot on the gas, driving off towards the 7-Eleven. Every few seconds, he'd glance nervously at the rear view mirror to make sure there was nothing there. After getting a mile down the road, he started to relax and turned the music back on again, albeit quietly. He began to concentrate more on the road, feeling so relieved when the neon lights of the 7-Eleven came into view that he didn't notice the movement in the back seat until it was too late. He turned to face the back seat, catching a glimpse of black before feeling himself being pinned back against the seat, paralysed from the waist up.

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In the meantime, Sam had been digging for nearly 10 minutes and had so far come up at a loss. He sighed and sat down on the floor, wondering how Dean was getting along. As he checked to see whether he was really digging in the right place, little did he know that Dean was currently acting like a terrified teenager.

Groaning as he pulled himself up again, he quickly jogged the length of the back wall just to make sure he hadn't spent ten minutes digging in vain. Grabbing the shovel, he carried on digging and hadn't been at it for more than a minute when he heard the unmistakeable sound of metal hitting wood.

"Finally!" He muttered triumphantly, brushing away the loose dirt which revealed a small thick wooden box, the perfect size for a human head. He grabbed the shovel and carefully knocked in the edge of the box, trying not to damage the head. Grasping the wooden edge, he pulled it up and reeled at the dust and smell arising from what remained of Charles Harrington's head.

Coughing and holding his hand over his mouth, Sam took a closer look at Harrington's skull with a mix of disgust and curiosity. "To think, all this death and destruction because of one conventional skull. What is the world coming to?" He commented, shaking his head and beginning to shake the salt and lighter fluid vigorously over the remains.

He took the pack of matches from his inside jacket pocket, pausing first to take one last look at the skull. He opened the match book and pulled out a match, striking it on his first try and watching the flame flare up, casting sinister shadows on the ground. "I'm sorry Charles, but the 21st century just isn't ready for a new headless horseman." With that, he threw the match into the box and watched the flames flicker greedily as they engulfed Charles Harrington's skull.

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As Sam threw the match into the grave, Dean finally acted and put his foot down hard on the brakes. The tyres screeched again and instead of staying put in his seat, the spirit of Charles Harrington released his paralysing grip on Dean's body and he flew forwards, shattering the windscreen and soaring onto the road ahead.

He couldn't tell how long he'd been out, a few seconds, minutes even. But what he did know was that flying through a windscreen hurt like hell. He felt like every part of his body was on fire and the pieces of glass pinching into his skin weren't helping much either. Groaning, he opened his eyes tentatively and winced as pain shot up his neck when he tried to lean forward. "Okay, note to self. Trying to sit up, bad."

He lay on the ground, thinking about what he'd seen in his rear view mirror. At first it was just a shadow, a black mist-like shadow. Then before his eyes, the shadow had changed and took on the form of a man, a man with no head. Without a doubt, it had been the spirit of Charles Harrington. And man if his face looked as bad as his dress sense, he would've been fugly, Dean thought, grinning despite himself.

He carried on lying there, gazing absentmindedly at the sky, immersed in his own thoughts when he heard footsteps approaching from the car. "God Sammy, I hope that's you!"

"Unfortunately not."

Something in the unknown voice seemed awfully familiar and as he painfully propped himself on his elbows, he gasped as his eyes focused on the unknown individual. "You?"

"Yes, me Agent… Foreman wasn't it? Unlikely. Still, you boys had me fooled for a while." He ran his finger over the badge on his uniform, seemingly contemplating something for a moment. "And I sure as hell had you fooled didn't I?" He grinned, brushing the hair out of his eyes and crouching down next to Dean. "I didn't expect you to figure things out this quickly. Heck, I didn't expect you boys to figure this out at all. Bet you're surprised it's me, aren't you?"

"You're… you're a cop!" Dean spluttered, apparently the only reply he could come up with.

"Course, which was what made this easier. Do you know how satisfying it was to watch this blundering police force trip over themselves over this?" He grinned again, no longer sounding like the excited teenager Dean had taken him for just a few days ago.

"I can imagine. But your last name-?"

"Ahhh yes, I had to change that when I came back to Eureka. As even bumbling old fools won't take on an accident victim's younger brothers." He laughed as his last statement registered on Dean's face. "Yes, Charles Harrington's younger brother. Rory. Nice to meet you, Mr Winchester, isn't it?" He grabbed Dean's hand and shook it heartily before letting it drop back onto the ground. "Now, I hate to do this. But I can't leave witnesses." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a scalpel. "Not quite a pocket knife, is it?"

He laughed again, and the sound of his wicked laughter made Dean feel like someone was walking over his grave. He shifted, trying to get an edge on Harrington, but each tiny movement sent sharp pains through his body

Noticing the worried look on Dean's face, Rory placed the scalpel back in his coat and instead pulled the gun out of Dean's jacket pocket. "Don't worry, the scalpel's only for afterwards. This is much more efficient. Course I'll have to find another way of removing your head, but that can be arranged." He stood up and held the gun out at arm's length, pointing it straight at Dean's head. "And then as soon as I've finished you off, your little brother is next."

Dean stirred at the mention of Sam, and although he tried his hardest to move, to do anything, he was helpless and at the mercy of a crazed psycho killer. Sammy I'm so sorry, he thought, closing his eyes and waiting for the end to come as the sound of gunfire filled the air.

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If this was death, it really wasn't too bad. There was no pain, no hurt. Just the sound of a body hitting the floor, he thought, frowning as he finally caught up with himself. I'm not dead? Cautiously, he opened his eyes and was shocked to see a figure standing over him.

"Dean, you okay?"

"Dammit, Sam. I've never been so glad to hear your voice." He smiled in relief, lifting his hand and indicating for his brother to help him up. "Ouch.. ow… oh that hurts." He wobbled for a second as he was helped up, before his gaze landed on the body of Rory Harrington. "Dude, you just shot a cop."

"Yeah I know." He grinned, shoving his gun back in his bag. "He deserved it."

Dean laughed, clutching his ribs as he did so. "How the hell did you get here?"

"I stole a car. A police car."

"Haha, that's my boy. How'd you know I was in trouble?"

Sam paused, looking a little sheepish. "I didn't until I got here…"

"Marvellous, Sam. Just marvellous. Kudos for trying though." He bent down, ignoring the pain in stomach, and pried his gun out of Harrington's hand. "Jerk." He muttered, unable to resist one last insult at Rory Harrington's expense. "Where're the cops?"

"They're on their way, I called them soon as I saw you were in trouble."

"Even better." Dean muttered, scowling as he began tidying up after their mess.

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Just over an hour later, Dean and Sam finally left Eureka, exhausted after trying to get their stories across to the dim Eureka police officers. After a long and unsuccessful argument, Dean had finally agreed to let Sam drive the Impala but only if he agreed not to touch any of his cassette tapes.

"Damn, this is going to cost me a fortune to get a new windshield." Dean muttered, looking thoroughly upset. "First thing in the morning, we're taking my baby to a mechanics."

Sam nodded, trying to keep his face straight. "You know, we never did settle that bet."

Dean looked over at him, grimacing as he turned his neck. "Which one?"

"The one about what did this. Turns out both of us were right, so how do we settle this one?"

Dean looked thoughtful for a second, clearly racking his brain for any ideas. "I've got it! Rock, paper, scissors!" He exclaimed, grinning wickedly.

"Are you serious?" Sam asked, disbelievingly.

"Sure. After three, okay?" They both placed one hand behind their backs, and Dean began the countdown. "One… two…three!"

Sam revealed his curled up fist, whilst Dean held out two fingers.

"Dammit!" Dean exclaimed, smacking his already injured head against the headrest, succeeding in sending more shooting pains down his neck. "This sucks out loud!"

Sam grinned, glad he'd managed to get one over on Dean at last. "Alright, hand it over."

Scowling, Dean pulled out his wallet and pulled out five mashed up twenty dollar notes. Reluctantly, he handed them over to Sam, who took them quickly as Dean was already gazing at the notes with a sad, puppy dog look.

"Pleasure, Dean, as always,"

"Just shut up and drive, would you?"

Sam laughed at his brother's forlorn expression and put his foot down, sending the Impala out into the night.