Looks Like Loss

Thank you kindly for the reviews. Now let me apologize (profusely) right up front. This chapter got so darn long, I'm going to have to split it in two. So many ghosts… so little time… This is more the intro to the showdown. (Please hold all tomato throwing - It'll mess up my keyboard and then you'll never get the end.)

Chapter Six

Dean woke slowly, hearing sounds he only associated with camping. The clink of metal plates and cups, a campfire, insects… it all floated to him through a haze. His head hurt so badly, he could hardly think. He knew there was a reason it hurt, but he couldn't quite remember.

Oh yeah. One of the jerks had kicked him. That would explain the blood on his face.

Dean tried to turn onto his side and screaming pain shot through his leg. No, the other leg. Laughter bubbled up from his chest and he couldn't help it as it spilled out.

"What's so funny, Johnny?"

Dean grimaced in pain, still laughing, he suspected to keep from sobbing. "You stupid bastards shot the wrong leg! Ghosts are supposed to try and rip off the other one!"

"Ignore him," a different soldier said. "He's not thinking right."

"Oh, I'm thinking fine," Dean snapped. "I'm just laughing to keep from being seriously pissed off."

"Dobbs, keep him quiet. There's a lady present who doesn't need to listen to his filth."

"As you were, Dobbs," Dean blindly held up a hand. "I'd like to keep my nose intact, thanks."

Dean opened his eyes to see that he was lying beside a small campfire. A handful of soldiers were sitting on the opposite side of the fire. Several feet away, the woman they'd seen the night before was sitting on the tree stump again, watching him fearfully. This time, however, she was facing him and Dean could see that she was extremely pregnant.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. Dean had rules. Don't let the bad guys win and don't scare the ladies... Even dead ones when they were looking at him like he was the bad guy.

She nodded, protectively setting her hands over her swollen belly, and Dean knew she had to be the woman who had died in childbirth. She was wearing a full length dress and had her hair pulled back tightly in a bun. She couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen, he guessed, a perfectly acceptable age to be married and pregnant 200 years ago. To Dean's eyes though, she looked hardly more than a frightened child herself.

Dean struggled to a sitting position. He'd already been exhausted and now these pinheads had screwed up his good leg. Sheer luck too, since they'd been randomly shooting at the house where the Sheriff had been sitting and…

"Sam!" Dean surprised himself by saying it out loud.

"Shut your mouth, Johnny."

Dean looked to see who was giving the orders. He was a small, dark-haired man with a bushy mustache. "My name is Dean. Dean Winchester," he said, shooting the man a quelling glance.

"Fine, Mr. Winchester," the man replied, matching him glare for glare. "Now why don't you be quiet and stop bothering Mrs. Martin."

Dean sighed, not even having the energy to taunt properly. There is no joy in Mudville...

He looked to his other side and nearly jumped to find a man sitting only a foot away, his back to a tree trunk. A second later, Dean noticed the unbelievable stench. It was the soldier who had attacked him the night before. As suspected, the man's leg was injured and gangrene had set in. The wound was a stinking, seeping mess as the soldier's leg tried to rot despite being still attached. He was a dead man... and he'd been both dead and dying for 150 years give or take.

"You!" Dean hissed. "This is all your fault!" If the guy didn't look so miserable already, Dean would kick the crap out of him on general principle.

"Keep your voice down," the man whispered. "They're just waiting for the Captain to get back and then they're going to shoot you."

"Why do you care?" Dean replied, keeping his voice low.

"I was following orders. A soldier has to follow orders."

"You mean why you attacked me," Dean said, wanting clarification.

"Yes, but… I don't think it was right," the man said, worriedly eyeing the other men. His voice dropped even lower. "I remember the Captain... Captain wouldn't have ordered me to do that. None of this is right. This man... he's not... I don't believe he is even an officer."

"Well ya got that right," Dean muttered.

"But the others… they are so sure… And a soldier has to follow orders. This is war. You… you understand?"

Dean nodded, understanding with every fiber of his being. Not just because their father had beaten it into their heads from the time they were children, but because he honestly understood. How many things had he done because he had to, despite his misgivings? Dad had told him to go and he'd hurried as fast as his feet could carry him. He'd learned very early not to show any hesitation. It was a war they were fighting and his life had depended on following orders without question.

And now… Without Dad… He felt like a soldier without his General.

But lives still depended on him. Sam's life, the people they were protecting, whether they realized it or not, they were relying on him to be prepared, disciplined, to have everything in order.

Yeah, he understood.

"There is something wrong with all of this," the soldier said, still troubled.

"You're right. But why are you telling me?"

"I was at the house. I heard the man who owns this land talking," he whispered conspiratorially. "He said you were coming to stop us..." The wounded man frowned fiercely, the ghost's image flickering as he became more agitated. "I know all of this is wrong somehow. I just can't quite put my finger on it. The Captain seemed worried about you. He sent me to scare you off... but I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to me?" Dean hissed angrily. "You nearly killed me!"

"What? I..." He frowned again, and Dean could see the confusion. The problem with ghosts was that they didn't always understand what was actually going on around them. They weren't real people. They were instinctual things. The 'infection' had been an unfortunate side-effect of the contact.

"ATTENTION!"

With the exception of the wounded man, the soldiers around him immediately stood and saluted. Dean looked up to see a man approaching through the trees. Except he wasn't dead. And he looked a lot like the Sheriff.

"Gentlemen, I'm General Kent. I've brought news and I need you to listen."

Yup, Dean thought. It was the Sheriff. The soldiers were all standing at attention though, like Patton had just walked into camp. Apparently a uniform with some shiny buttons was enough for the ghosts. The Sheriff pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and cleared his throat to read.

"Dated June 2nd, 1865. Following the surrender of General Lee and the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia on April 9th, General Smith has surrendered to Major General Canby. You are hereby ordered to cease all hostilities..."

"We can go home?" one of the soldiers cut him off in mid-sentence. The man then blinked, stuttering. "F-Forgive me, General... I... I..."

"It's all right, son," the Sheriff said kindly. "That's exactly what this means. You can go home. It's over."

Murmuring broke out among the tiny group of soldiers, happy, awed, disbelieving, one of the men broke down in tears. Finally, the man with the bushy mustache stepped forward. "Does the Captain know, sir?"

"Yes, he does. He's spreading the word."

"We can go home?" the same soldier asked again.

"Yes, you can," the Sheriff said gently. "You can all go home." The ghost who'd asked the question began to fade as did two of the others. "It's over, men. It's all over. I know how tired you are. I know how hard you've fought. But you can rest now. The war is over. You can go home."

As he continued to speak, the other soldiers also began to fade, slowly dissolving away into the darkness. Dean looked to his side to see that the wounded soldier was the only one unaffected.

"Is this right?" he said, his expression all confusion. "It's over? I... the Captain... This isn't right."

"The General and I will take care of the Captain," Dean assured him. "You're injured. You need to rest."

"You will see to it?" the man asked.

"I will," Dean repeated.

"My leg," he said, tears streaming down his face. "I don't want to lose it. You won't let them take it if I fall asleep? If I lose it…"

"Rest now," the 'General' said, stepping toward them. "Just rest."

The wounded soldier smiled and laid his head back against the tree behind him. "Thank you, Sir. Leg hurts... So tired..." He slowly began to fade. "So tired... all over now..." and he was gone. Dean immediately felt the last bit of tension in his 'infected' leg ease.

The Sheriff stepped toward Dean and put a hand on his shoulder. "You doing all right, son? You do seem to get knocked around a good bit."

Dean gave a short laugh, though there was no real humor in it, especially since it made his head hurt worse. "Where's Sam? Is he ok?"

"He's fine. They nicked him, but he refused to see a doctor until we found you. We split up to look. He's wandering around here somewhere."

"You just happen to carry troop orders on you all the time?"

The Sheriff snorted, holding up the piece of paper. "This is my grocery list. All of my officers know what to do though. This whole area was a battlefield. We all run into a lost soldier from time to time. I've got to admit, this is the first time I've ever had to give orders to Yankees. It's usually us stubborn Southern boys wandering around here."

"Yeah, that was an interesting method... I usually just shoot 'em," Dean observed dryly.

"They're soldiers," the Sheriff shrugged. "They accept their orders."

"Know all about that," Dean sighed. He groaned, struggling to his feet. Of all the freaking luck, Dean thought, hissing as he put weight on his leg. He was tired of limping into battle. It kind of ruined the image when you had to say, 'Hold on Mr. Bad Guy or I'll hit you with my crutch.'

Dean looked up and the Sheriff turned hearing someone moving quickly through the underbrush. The Sheriff raised his gun and held it steady.

"Don't shoot! It's just me."

"Sam!" Dean watched his brother as he walked into the light. He was protecting his side and Dean could see the seeping blood stain running down and staining his jeans. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," Sam said with only a slight grimace. "You?"

"Yeah, me too."

"Are you two nuts? We need to get you boys to a doctor," the Sheriff said.

"Hey, Mr. Obvious?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "What part of 'I'm fine' don't you get? It's guy speak for 'I might be dying'."

The Sheriff just shook his head. "Sorry. Forgot my Man Code Book there for a second."

"Come on," Sam urged. "Let's get out of here."

Dean heard a near whimper off to his left and turned. "Mrs. Martin!" He'd completely forgotten about her.

She was bent over, backing away from them, one hand protectively wrapped around her stomach, her long dress dragging the ground. Her face suddenly creased with pain and she clutched at her belly.

"Ok… I think this may be the appropriate time for us all to decide what we know about 'birthin' babies'," Dean said, wide-eyed.

Once again, so sorry I had to split this… It was either wait until tomorrow and post it all or give you half of it tonight… Hope this will hold you until then.