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Part Four

Dean woke with a start, trying to remember when he had allowed himself to fall asleep. Without a window to tell the time of day, he didn't know if it was only a few hours or all night. He bit back a groan as the aches and pains began to flare up with sudden vigor, making him feel like he'd been hit by a Mack truck. Forced to remain in the same position for God-knew-how-long didn't help ease the discomfort, either – only made it worse with stiff muscles and restricted blood flow. He seriously needed to keep a paperclip on his person for occasions like this, since he seemed to find himself in handcuffs more often than not. Something, which in fact, he grew rather tired of.

Sammy…

Suddenly he realized the reason why he'd been cuffed to the post, hoping that his brother hadn't gotten himself into trouble. Damn it, if only he'd been able to get past these freaks – he was so close. He shut his eyes and inhaled deep, angry at himself for not staying alert, for not taking the townspeople seriously when they had given him strange looks from the beginning. He should've known to act upon his instincts instead of just thinking, "Oh, nothing to worry about. These hillbillies don't know the difference from their asses and a grain of intelligence."

If their dad were here, he'd beat Dean senseless for acting so foolish and making Sam vulnerable in the process. No one was out there to watch out for him, and Dean felt his heart clench with worry over his brother's well-being. He didn't think he had much to worry about since Sam had proved on more than one hunt that he could take care of himself, but that didn't quench the 'big brother' anxiety any better.

The feeling of someone watching him – eyes boring into him, caused Dean to tense his body, and look up. He couldn't believe he didn't sense it sooner, wondering how long the presence was there, and blamed it on the head injuries. Blinking through the haze from sleep and one too many blows to the head, Dean stared at the girl who had successfully ended his escape attempt with a broom. He couldn't help the scowl darkening his face, and he subconsciously pulled at the cuffs around his wrists with the sudden urge to hit something. Unable to do anything, he just stared at her with narrowed eyes, challenging her instead.

She didn't speak right away, just stared at him with a sense of abstract awe. Calm and serene was more like it, as if studying a painting and trying to figure out its story – its past and future all in one gaze. She found him intriguing. "My dad doesn't know I'm down here… he'd probably raise hell," she said with a small, nervous laugh. "I just had to see it for myself."

What the hell…?

"You really do look just like him," she continued, her gaze deep and searching as if for a long lost truth. "I've seen pictures of him."

Dean's brow creased in puzzlement. Who was she talking about? Who did he look like?

"It's kind of scary to think—" She paused, looking down at her hands on her bent knees, playing with the frayed edges of a hole in her jeans. Swallowing down what looked like tears she quickly looked back at Dean, and forced a smile. "I don't blame her, ya know? I read about her in the old newspapers after my Uncle died five years ago. I didn't believe my parents when they told me it was hereditary – I was so mad at them for telling me that, for keeping such a big secret from the rest of the family." She shook her head and sighed, rubbing her hands down her thighs. "But when I found out everything, I still can't find a part of me that's mad at her. I think I would've done the same thing…I don't know."

Dean made a noise of frustration, and rubbed the side of his face against his shoulder, desperate to speak and ask questions. He tried to persuade her to take the tape off, but she seemed to hesitate, reluctant to come near him after what had happened earlier. Imploring with his eyes, the girl finally stood from her perch on the stairs and came forward, her stride cautious and slow as though she was ready for Dean to attack her at any moment. Her fingers shook when she peeled the tape away, but Dean thanked her with a smile to calm her apprehension.

Then the questions came pouring out…

Addison's daughter held up her hand, frowning. "Wait… you don't know anything?"

Dean gave her a look. "Reasons for the questions, sugar. Keep up."

"I was talking about Kathryn Sheridon. This is crazy, but I think her ghost is haunting our family, and the Dubois', too."

"I know that much," Dean said, grunting. He tried to stretch his limbs, his back stiff and sore, but it only caused him more discomfort and he cringed. The girl had a powerful swing; he was sure his back bore bruises testament to that. "Trust me, it's not crazy. I've seen worse. What I want to know is why me? What do I have to do with all of this?"

"You look like her husband."

Such a simple answer; not exactly what he expected to hear, however. "Well, that puts everything into perspective now." He shook his head and coughed a laugh, looking up at the girl. "What do you know about Kathryn? What's the real story?"

She told him everything she knew. The entire legend had been twisted around to make everyone believe that Kathryn had actually killed her husband and practiced witchcraft, placing the blame on someone else to make the real people at fault look good in the end. No wonder members of the families were kicking the bucket every year – Sheridon definitely wasn't a happy spirit. Dean had suspected that the families wanted to use him as some sort of sacrifice, but this put things on another level, and he was afraid that it might actually work.

"Damn it," he groaned and shifted. "Your family is crazy, I hope you know that."

She frowned again, brow furrowed as she slowly made her way toward the stairs, but she didn't leave – just sat down again. Placing her chin in her hands, she stared at Dean through the corner of her eye, appraising him. "What's your name?"

"Dean," he answered gruffly, still trying to find some leverage in the cuffs. He really needed to get out of here before the Sheriff or Larry decided to make another appearance. Maybe if he gained the girl's trust…or at least convince her to let him go. "And yours?"

"Rachel," she said distantly.

"Was your brother the only one she took this time?"

Rachel gave a clipped nod, and looked away with tears shimmering in her eyes.

"I need you to listen to me, Rachel," Dean said, his words imploring. He waited for her to return his gaze, and continued, "I know I didn't give you the best impression of me by hitting your dad earlier, but you have to trust me. It won't stop with me." Or at least hoping it didn't have to start with him in the first place.

"What do you mean?" she asked, brows creasing in worry. "My dad said—"

"Look, he's your dad, I know that, and he's supposed to have that 'daddy-knows-everything' persona, but he doesn't know jack about what he's up against."

"And you do?"

Dean sighed. "Yes. It's what I do."

"What are you saying?" she asked incredulously.

Leaning his head back against the post, he regarded Rachel carefully. "Ever watched Ghost-busters?" She nodded. "Just think of that without all the cheesy get-ups and marshmallow giants added in the mix."

Rachel actually smiled, amused. "You're serious, huh?"

He grinned. "Always – okay, I'm lying there, but I am where it concerns my job."

"It makes sense, though," she said, shrugging. "You don't seem like the type to visit this sort of town on a whim."

"Oh, I don't know," Dean said with the grin spreading wider, and lifted his eyebrows in mock admiration. "The cabin's nice. Like the cabin." He made her laugh. Now, all he needed was to persuade her to get the keys to the cuffs. Or find him something to pick the lock with. "Hey Rachel… I need you to do me a favor." She gave him a skeptic look, and he forced a small smile to dissuade her doubts. "Look, it's not much… but you have to find my brother. Can you do that for me? Tell him he needs to kill this spirit before—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted; her voice sullen. "Your brother was arrested."

Dean blinked hard, shock washing over his features slowly. "What? Why?"

"He broke into the library," Rachel said matter-of-factly.

A flurry of curses spilled from Dean's mouth before he realized he had a teenager watching him intently. He gave her an apologetic look, and sighed. "This is not good," he muttered, trying to think of what to do now; his mind drawing a complete blank. With Sam behind bars, they had lost their only chance of getting rid of the spirit. This wasn't supposed to happen – a clean investigation, possibly a swift disposal of a pile of remains and then they could go on to the next town, and their next gig. Where there were pretty ladies and plenty of drinks to go around. Why couldn't it be that simple? Dean finally concluded that he and his brother were cursed men – doomed to find themselves in trouble every corner they turned.

There is definitely something wrong with this picture… I should be getting laid by now. Not tied up in a basement and with Sammy behind bars. Dean groaned, closing his eyes. He had to figure a way out of here, and fast.

"Did you still want me to give him a message? I help my dad out in the station during the day," Rachel said, cutting through Dean's unsuccessful attempt to think of a plan. He opened his eyes and looked at her, shaking his head.

"I need you to believe me when I tell you that you have to let me go, Rachel. You have to find the keys to these cuffs and get me out of here," Dean said, pulling on the restraints for emphasis.

"But—"

"Please, Rachel. All I want to do is get my brother, kill this spirit and then drive the hell out of your town. Oh, and I want a nice, cold beer, too. That's all I care about. I promise."

Rachel seemed to weigh his words; the silence between them heavy and long. Dean wasn't sure she'd go through with it, and he felt a bit of his hope crumble. Then she stood with a new determination in her eyes, and said, "I'll do it. I believe you, Dean. You seem like a good guy and you don't deserve to die because of my family's past."

Relief poured out of Dean in waves, and he slumped against the post with a small laugh. "Thank you, Rachel – for believing me. You're doing the right thing."

She smiled, nodding. "I'll be right back with the keys." She climbed the remaining steps and opened the door only to have her father and Larry greet her in the doorway. With a small cry of surprise, she stepped back while Dean swore under his breath. "Dad, I—"

"What are you doing?" Addison asked, accusing and angry. "I thought I told you not to come down here, Rachel."

"I know, but—"

Addison ground his teeth, anger bristling on the surface, but he held himself back. Dean noticed the struggle when the Sheriff tensed his body. "Go to bed," he ordered, and stepped out of the way.

"Yes, sir," Rachel mumbled and brushed past them, but not without sending Dean a quick glance over her shoulder; her eyes filled with the apology she couldn't voice aloud.

Dean looked away from her, sudden defeat causing him to clench his jaw in a firm line. He wanted to scream. With Rachel gone and Sam in a holding cell, Dean had no allies left, and he wanted to bang his head against a wall for getting caught so easily. Never mind his dad beating the shit out of him if he ever found out about this, Dean would do it himself. Maybe even kick Sam's ass for getting arrested.

He glared at Addison and Larry as they approached, his body straining instinctively, hands balled tight behind him. "Moment of truth, huh, boys? You still think getting rid of Sheridon's spirit this way is going to work?"

"I guess we'll find out sooner or later," Larry chided, rounding Dean's body to release the cuffs.

Dean stared at Addison, his eyes narrowed. "What do you plan to do with my brother?"

"Nothing," Addison said simply, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll leave him to think over things in that cell until dawn then let him go."

"That's it? Getting him out of the way until the deed is done, right?" Dean said bitterly, lips upturned in a vicious sneer. "Dude, your desperation is really screwing you up." Larry unlocked one wrist, grabbed Dean's arm before he could move it himself and forced him to stand on shaky limbs, snapping the cuff back around his wrist behind his back again. There wasn't even a chance to attempt to twist away, and Dean inwardly groaned.

"I'm sure if you were in our shoes, you'd try to find a way to save your family – at all costs. Am I right?"

Dean glared. "I wouldn't sacrifice another's life, that's where you and I are different, Sheriff. And my brother knows that, too. He'd do the same thing." Addison peered over Dean's shoulder at Larry, but Dean forced the Sheriff to look at him as he said, "Why do you think my brother and I came here in the first place? You guys don't even have beer…"

"What are you getting at, kid?" Addison asked, impatient, but willing to listen it seemed.

"My brother and I hunt these things for a living, though the pay is pretty bad… or actually there's none for that matter, but my point is that we know how to get rid of this spirit without anyone else having to die in the process," Dean said, hoping that his words would turn on that little light bulb in the older man's head, and shed some light in his incompetent brain. It was a stretch, but Dean held out hope.

"Why would you hunt spirits?" Larry asked, disbelieving. "What's in it for you?"

"If you're thinking glory? Fame? You're wrong," Dean said over his shoulder, lifting it slightly. "It's just something that my brother and I have been trained to do all our lives, and we do it to help people."

"Trained? Like some military fanatic?"

Dean wanted to punch Larry, so bad that his eye twitched along with his fingers. If he ever made it out of here alive, he'd make sure to give the big guy a good smack just for the hell of it. And then another for good measure.

"See? This is what I'm talking about," Larry said, waving his hand around in irritation. "The kid's just making up stuff to fool us."

It took everything inside of Dean not to rebut against that comment, but he really wasn't in the mood for another blow to the head. He focused on Addison instead; the one man he truly needed to convince here. "Look, where is her body buried?"

Addison shifted on his feet, one eyebrow raised. "Your brother brought up the same thing…"

"Of course he did," Dean said. "It's the best way to get rid of this spirit for you. This is not something I'm just pulling out of my ass here. I can prove it to you."

"Do you want to know what she says before taking a victim?"

Dean blinked, taken aback by the Sheriff's abrupt question. "What?"

"'I want him back,'" Addison said gravely, frowning. "Now, in my book that constitutes to one thing, since chance just came upon us with you coming into town and carrying the face of her husband, I'm going to bet she'll be one happy spirit once she gets what she wants."

It took a moment for Dean to compose himself, his voice low as he said, "You're insane."

"I'm a man desperate to save his family and his town. That is all," the Sheriff said, as if he had just told Dean how lovely the weather was outside. "You say you want to help us then think of this as your way of contributing to the cause."

Dean couldn't think of a word to say in response – just clenched his jaw tight, and allowed Larry to escort him out of the basement and into the Sheriff's SUV outside. No sign of Rachel or Lynn as they passed through the house. It was still dark out, only a few more hours until dawn approached, and Dean hoped that Sam would find a way to get out of jail before it was too late.

The drive through some back roads was silent and filled with so much tension it was palpable. Dean stared out the window, memorizing the scenery, mind whirling, and trying to ignore Larry's presence beside him in the backseat all at once. It didn't exactly help with the pounding headache, and he was barely aware of the vehicle rolling to a stop. When Larry urged him to scoot across the seat to get out on his side, Dean snapped back to reality and surveyed the surrounding area.

A small, common village, abandoned – the homes deteriorating with time. The wooden structures sagging and rotting away, giving the sense that if you barely touched them they'd collapse into a pile of termite-infested lumber and dust. And Dean was dragged toward one of the houses with a front porch barely keeping itself together with one support column of wood – the awning drooping precariously close to the ground. Dean eyed it cautiously as he ducked and was forced to walk inside first, Larry right behind him with a grip around his forearm.

"Why haven't you torn this village down?" Dean asked aloud, out of curiosity.

"Trust me, we've tried," Larry said with apprehension dripping from his words. His flashlight bounced along the barren walls as they walked further inside. "It just comes back."

"Oh, that's nice," Dean said sarcastically, "great addition to the whole story."

"Every time we tried to burn or bulldoze the village, we'd come back the next day and it was standing again, but worse than before," Addison said from behind. "It slowly rots away."

"Interesting," Dean muttered, looking around the one-bedroom home wherever Larry's flashlight shone.

Small and cramped, the room held little furniture. Roaches crawled through the cracks in the walls and across the warped hardwood planks. Centuries of collected dust coated the cracked windows and thick cobwebs piled in the corners. A sagging, iron-framed bed occupied a third of the room near the windows overlooking the back portion of the house's yard. The musty smell was stifling, along with the underlining scent of something that had crawled inside the house and died long ago, causing Dean to gag. He shook his head and tried to hold his breath, or at least breathe through his mouth instead. It only seemed to make it worse, the stagnant odor coating the back of his throat, and reminding him of one of the reasons why hunting wasn't always enjoyable.

The perks just aren't adding up anymore, Dean thought derisively.

Larry released Dean's arm, and he turned around only to have the flashlight glance under his chin and send him reeling. He landed in a crumbled heap on the floor, dazed but still conscious – barely. A painful moan surfaced from Dean's throat, as he rolled to his side, blinking past a layer of dust floating through the air. He vaguely heard an apology from Larry – or was it Addison? – when the flashlight landed another blow across his temple and darkness quickly followed.

TBC…