Chapter 5
It was hours later when Dean and Maud returned to the house. Sam had called his brother in the interim to check on progress and heard, in no uncertain terms, all about how tedious it was putting together a chain of ownership. As if he'd never done it. But he had patiently endured the tirade because he knew research didn't suit Dean, knew that paper trails bored him, that inaction drove him crazy, and he also knew that once Dean blew off his pent up frustration he would get right back to work and finish what had to be done.
His name being yelled alerted Sam that Dean had returned. And not in very good humor.
"We're in the study," Sam loudly directed, cringing at his lack of etiquette with Ada sitting right next to him.
When Dean's heavy steps approached, conversation between Sam and Ada suspended and they gazed expectantly at the door. With only the briefest hesitation, barely a glance in their direction, Dean commanded, "Come into the living room," and stalked off.
Ada and Sam raised their eyebrows at each other.
"When he asks so nicely…" Ada quipped.
"Research affects his personality," Sam confided, a pre-emptive apology for the mood Dean was in.
Picking up their jotted notes, the pair followed the older hunter to the living room. They settled themselves into the sofas, Ada beside Maud, Sam beside Dean and waited for Dean to open the discussion. He took his time in starting, flicked through some pieces of paper, re-read his notes, then without any prelude broke the silence so suddenly that Maud flinched.
"So as you know, Maud and I spent the past few hours putting together a list of owners for the construction site, the funeral parlor. The place is over a hundred years old so…" he pressed his lips together bitterly, "it took some doing. But lucky for you, we are awesome." He tipped his head to Maud, acknowledging her with the praise. "We found details of everyone who owned the funeral parlor, everyone who leased it and the names of some of the early employees. Trust me, it's a long and boring list, starting with," his eyes drifted to the paper on his lap, "Ed Scheifflin, the town founder. He was the first owner of the building, apparently he owned all the buildings in the early years, but he never actually worked at the funeral parlor, he had guys manage it for him. The Scheifflin family sold the place in the twenties and it went through a string of owners until Dave bought it two years ago. Now what we did was match up death certificates to the owners and their family, looking for unusual or unexplained deaths."
Sam's eyebrows flickered up and down in surprise. That would have involved searching through marriage records, birth and death records, he hadn't expected Dean to be that comprehensive, it was a lot of work. No wonder he was in a bad mood.
"Back in the early days," Dean continued, "a lot of people died young and it was hard to tell from the records what was suspicious and what wasn't. But there were a couple of red flags." He referred to his notes. "The first one related to a guy called Joseph Tranter, who managed the place from 1886 to 1905. He had two daughters die on the same day from gunshot wounds in 1889."
Sam made a noise at the back of his throat, halting Dean's report while he scanned his handwritten notes for relevant information.
"Were their names Madeline and Elizabeth?" he queried.
"Yeah."
Dean wasn't surprised that Sam's research intersected with him own.
"They were murdered," Sam read. "Their murderer was never brought to justice."
"Okay, well that's one to file away."
Dean dipped his head back to the page. "The other red flags occurred in 1912, when the owner, David Page, was killed by a horse hoof to the head. And I'll bet that hurt. Then in 1943, Doug Mulroney, the then owner, committed suicide. Although not at the funeral parlor." With a tilt of his head he added, "Probably would have been more convenient if he had done it at the funeral parlor."
He gave his notes a final scan then popped his head up. "And that's it for the guys who died while currently employed at the funeral parlor. There was some other stuff we found, some questionable deaths over the years but it starts to get removed."
Dean directed his attention to Sam, a cue that it was his turn to report.
"I don't have much to add," Sam admitted. "The town has an incredibly violent history, the early years were almost lawless, people were getting killed at an alarming rate, although those little girls being murdered was uncommonly brutal. But there are no deaths that occurred at the funeral parlor. Quite a few deaths occurred around the funeral parlor, and most of the dead ended up at the funeral parlor," he shrugged, turned up his palms in a helpless gesture. "So I don't know, I've got this long list of people who met an untimely death since 1880 and no easy way to narrow it down."
Dean hummed his dissatisfaction and Sam looked up sharply because it sounded like Dean was disappointed in him, like he had expected something more and Sam had the urge to protest, to get defensive, but he bit back his words so as not to start an argument.
Dean turned to Ada with a wan smile. "You were looking into strange incidents at the construction site. Find anything?"
The request was impatient, perfunctory, embarrassingly dismissive and Sam was glad he had warned Ada up front that research affected Dean's mood, hoping she wouldn't take offence.
If Ada noticed the abruptness, she let it slide.
"Yeah, I found a couple of things. In 1910 a guy painting the place claimed that something kept shaking his ladder. But he was a bit of a boozer so no-one believed him, which makes it not a very reliable account. Then in 1933 the building was extended and it looks like there were some problems on-site although the report was a bit cagey about exactly what the problems were, so it's hard to tell if it's the sort of stuff we're looking for. Then in 1969 there was some sort of refit and some of the workers claimed they were interfered with."
"What?" Dean exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.
Ada jumped a little in surprise, the response unexpectedly disproportionate to the information, until she realized there was another connotation to the word interference, and Dean had misinterpreted.
"Not like that!" she cried. "I don't mean that sort of interference." Ada couldn't help but laugh. Giving the word a sexual innuendo put an entirely different slant on the incident. It amused her that Dean had interpreted it that way, that he had subscribed to that meaning first.
Dean bristled. "Maybe you should choose your words more carefully."
"Sorry." Ada held up her hand in an admission of guilt, she could tell that Dean was offended by her laughter, that he thought he was being laughed at and she tried to mitigate by explaining, "That's just a funny image, workmen being interfered with by ghosts." She dropped her eyes to the handwritten notes in her lap, focusing hard on the words to regain her composure, but the phrase interfered with, so innocently written, seemed to jump up at her from the page, fueling the humor. "I expect the workers might have enjoyed that," she added, the words catching in her throat, behind a renewed peal of laughter.
The rest of the group didn't find the misunderstanding quite so funny. They looked at her with polite smiles, indulging her sense of humour, but after a few moments Ada made a concerted effort to regain control. She clenched her teeth together, pressed down until her jaw ached and forcibly halted the laughter.
"Okay, as I was saying, the workers on the 69 job…" Ada's lips quirked, she paused and cut her eyes to Maud.
"This is serious Ada," the Aussie coolly instructed. "Keep it together."
Ada nodded at her friend's words, drawing on Maud's solemnity to push down her amusement. She smiled apologetically at the boys, cleared her throat and continued, "On the 69 job…" A cough of laughter escaped her and she clamped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring as her gaze shifted to the floor, desperately trying to ground herself.
"Stop saying 69 job," Maud offered evenly. "We've got that part, move on."
Ada didn't reply, couldn't while the urge to laugh was so strong. After a few seconds she breathed, "Okay, I've got it now." She swallowed a few times to ensure her emotions were in check, schooled her features into a serious expression. "In that year some workers claimed their tools moved," a choked sound escaped the woman, "without being touched."
The floodgates opened. Ada laughed with abandon. And it wasn't that she found what she was saying particularly funny (although she did find it funny), it was more that suppressing her mirth had made it more insistent, build up within her until it couldn't be denied.
"Oh for God's sake," Maud declared, annoyed. "Are we going to have a problem with the word tools now?"
Ada nodded. "He started it," she gasped, pointing a finger at Dean. "Him and his sexual innuendo. Now everything has a double meaning. I'm only human." Her shoulders shook, tears slid down her cheeks and she slouched into the cushioning of the sofa, giving in to the laughing fit and waiting for it to pass.
Dean glowered indignantly at the accusation, turned up his palms and frowned at Sam in a protest of innocence. What did I do?
"My God. You're a child," Maud scolded her friend.
Sam turned away and stared into the distance with his top lip drawn between his teeth. The laughter was infectious. Maud's condescending disapproval was funny. And Dean being affronted by an accusation of sexual innuendo was hilarious. He could feel the corners of his mouth turning up, looking at any one of the group was going to get him laughing.
A huff from his brother almost made him break.
After a few minutes Ada's humor subsided. She swiped away the tears, smoothed down her clothes and straightened in the chair, exhaling some becalming breaths.
"Okay, sorry about that. I think you get the gist of the 69 incident," she said. "That's it for my research, sorry it's not much, I'll look again tomorrow if you like. Oh," she added quickly, "obviously there's the stuff that's been happening with Dave. I don't know if you want me to list all of the incidents. There's certainly a lot of them." She furrowed her brow and lingered a gaze at Sam.
"What?" he prompted.
"It's just …the amount of stuff that has been going on with Dave seems a lot more intense than any of the other incidents. It's been one thing after another. Why so many?"
Sam gave a half shrug. "It's all part of the mystery," he flippantly offered, then added more seriously, "Spirits tend to get more insistent the longer they're around, the number of incidents tends to increase."
"So you think that the earlier incidents are connected to what's going on now" asked Maud.
"Probably" replied Sam "Same sort of pattern, non-life threatening accidents, all occurring when the place is undergoing renovation. Spirits can be pretty possessive of places they are attached to and renovations often stir them up"
Dean was quiet during Sam's explanation, which was surprising, he usually took the lead in conversation about the job, paranoid about how much was revealed. Sam's eyes darted to him, wondering if the silence equated to sulking, but Dean met his gaze with a thoughtful, open expression and said slowly, "You know, if we assume that the 1910 painter's claim is true, that something was going on at the funeral parlor way back, then we're looking for someone who died before that time."
Sam nodded his agreement.
Dean continued, "Which takes my red flags down to one, Joseph Tranter and his daughters."
" Joseph Tranter die prior to 1910?"
Dean flicked his eyes to his notes. "Yeah. 1905."
"So are you thinking it's him or his daughters?"
"Him. He spent most of his life working at the funeral parlor so he obviously had a connection to it, and when he died he would have been aggrieved that his daughters' murderer was never found."
"And that would make him a ghost?" Maud interjected.
"It could," Dean replied.
"So does that mean we do the burning bone thing now?" she pressed.
Dean gave his brother a sharp look and Sam averted his eyes sheepishly. The older hunter was surprised by the lack of discretion, by just how much Sam had revealed. But more than that, the presumption in Maud's question, the assumption that her involvement was going to continue, had him thinking it was time to pull back and get some distance. They weren't interested in taking on partners, they had no intention of involving these women any further in the job and there was nothing personal in that, it was simply a matter of risk assessment. Research was one thing but no way were these women getting their hands dirty and if they thought otherwise then it was time to correct that notion right now.
"No we don't do the burning bone thing now," Dean replied. He shifted forward in the seat preparing to stand. "We say thank you for your hospitality and get out of your hair."
He rose and gave Sam a pointed look.
"Whoa, whoa. That's it?" Ada frowned, rising to meet him. "You're leaving?"
"Well...yeah," Dean replied flatly. "We have accommodation. And we don't want to involve you any more in our business. I mean you girls have been great …"
"Fuck you, your business?" Ada snapped and Dean's mouth clicked shut. "You don't think the fact that we live here, and were pushed to safety by god knows fucking what, makes this our business?" She glared at Dean in open disbelief. "You drop this ghostbusters crap on us and then expect to just wave goodbye?"
Dean got a hard, stubborn look in his eye and said curtly, "Yeah we do. This stuff is dangerous. And your involvement is finished."
"The hell it is," Ada replied heatedly.
Both Maud and Sam rose quickly, sensing that the butting of these two hot heads could end badly.
"Okay," Sam interrupted. He pressed a hand into the middle of Dean's back and pushed him in the direction of the door. "Way to wear out your welcome dude. Try not to flip off the nice ladies as we leave." And with that he neatly sidestepped the argument, didn't have to reveal he was in agreement with his brother.
Dean didn't object to the manhandling, it was getting them to the door, which was where he wanted to go. And he kept his mouth shut. He didn't particularly want to burn any bridges, he recognized that the women had been generous with their time and their understanding, that they made for good allies. Maybe even more than allies, it felt suspiciously like they had veered into friendship. Better to shut up and not say something he would be sorry for later, let Sam take the lead.
Maud followed closely behind the boys as they moved toward the entry while Ada deliberately hung back, lips pouting in discontent. But when Sam shouldered the duffel and gave her a warm, appreciative smile over his shoulder, her attitude dropped. She took a few quick steps to catch up.
At the door Dean twisted away from the fingers in his spine to face the two women and said sincerely, "Thanks for all your help, we really do appreciate it." He cocked a finger at Maud, slipped on a cheeky smirk and added, "You can be my study buddy any time."
She chuckled, her color rose a little at the teasing flirtation but then her eyes clouded and she said seriously, "Just be safe. Okay? Whatever you do, wherever you go from here, just be careful."
Dean gave a half smile, not wanting to utter the cocky platitudes which sprang to his lips, not wanting to insult her by being dismissive of her concern but uncomfortable at the underlying emotion, reluctant to get involved in it.
It was Sam that replied, in his usual earnest way, "We will be."
Dean wondered how he could sound so honest. He wondered whether Sam really believed they would be careful. Maybe Sam considered they were always careful and shit happened despite that care. Or maybe Sam was just really good at faking honesty.
"But we'll see you again," Sam insisted. "We're not going to head out of town without saying goodbye."
"You'd better not," Ada said tartly, but she appeared somewhat mollified and flashed him a warm, appreciative smile.
"Okay, let's roll." Dean flicked his brother's arm, gave the women a broad grin then dived into the humid afternoon stillness and strode toward their motel with an extended wave.
Sam said a final goodbye, enveloped each woman in a hug, then set his long legs to work catching up with his brother.
--
As light was turning to dusk the impala rumbled into the carpark of the Boothill Graveyard. The brothers were on a reconnaissance mission. Joseph Tranter was buried somewhere in the cemetery and they were going to save some time fumbling around in the dark by finding the headstone while it was still light, then return under cover of darkness to do the salt and burn.
The graveyard was a tourist attraction. Which was problematic. It was popular for a start, there were a number of people wandering around so they couldn't talk freely about what they planned for later. And an attempt had been made at security, a chest high wooden fencing ringed the area and there were a couple of cameras recording who entered and exited.
It was nothing insurmountable, just things that needed to be factored in.
They walked around the site playing the part of tourists, nonchalantly reading the headstones, some of which were quite amusing.
Here lies Lester Moore.
Four slugs from a 44.
No Les no more.
Dean chuckled. Poor Lester. Made fun of in death. No respect.
The graveyard wasn't huge so finding Joseph Tranter's headstone didn't take long. The brothers lingered at the gravesite for a few minutes, making mental calculations about how best to go about the job later in the night, where they should dig, how they could best take advantage of the natural cover the sparse shrubbery provided and then moved on, always mindful of not drawing attention.
They returned to the motel for something to eat and a couple hours sleep then clambered into the car just after midnight and headed back to the graveyard, refreshed and ready for action.
Like thieves in the night the boys quickly advanced into the grounds and located the gravesite without incident or concern. They had agreed in advance that Sam would dig and Dean would stand lookout. Sam had insisted on it, arguing that the gash in Dean's back was only being held together by a few strips of tape and as soon as he did anything physical the healing skin was going to tear. Dean had objected of course. Any inference that he was incapable or incapacitated was always going to draw an objection. But truth be told he preferred working with a gun than a shovel so he had offered some standard argument before submitting to the demand and agreeing to be the sideliner.
Sam got to work quickly. There was virtually no moisture in the earth, the soil was loose and sandy, the shovel slid through with very little effort and it promised to be one of the easier graves he'd ever had to dig. Until the mound of displaced earth piling up beside the hole began to trickle down, back into the pit. It had Sam growling in frustration, digging the same soil over and over. He revised his opinion of it being the easiest dig ever and changed his method so that instead of dropping the sand at the grave's edge he hefted it away, past the point where it could slide back in, and that very quickly started to tell on his shoulders.
Dean meanwhile, prowled the cemetery, shotgun hanging in his grip like an extension of his arm. He mused that the old boneyard probably harbored more than one spirit. The inhabitants harked back to a callous and unforgiving era, a lot of those buried must have been discontent in death. The likelihood didn't particularly concern him, the dead, the supernatural, they held no mystery or apprehension for him, it was just an interesting idea, that he might be walking among more than one restless spirit.
When Sam was about hip deep in the pit Dean's instincts were piqued and he wasn't exactly sure why. His gaze swept through the dark, searching for something out of place and when he found nothing tangible his heart beat a little faster because it meant it was one of those intangible things, an indefinable change in the landscape, something in the air, something resonating within him.
He knew to trust that feeling.
He shifted the gun in his grip, found a balance between comfortable and primed, and took measured, watchful steps back to the grave's edge.
"Sam," he said gruffly.
Without looking up Sam griped, "Yeah I know. I'm going as fast as I can but the damn sand comes back in as fast as I can dig it out."
"I think something's going on," Dean stated, ostensibly ignoring his brother's complaint, but darting his eyes to the pit to see what Sam was grumbling about before returning his gaze to the surrounds.
The younger brother instantly straightened. "Oh."
Sam ground the shovel into the soil, stretched some relief into his back and sides and reached over to snag his gun from where it lay at the grave's edge. He remained in the hole and traversed his eyes across the landscape in a slow, steady sweep. He didn't ask questions, didn't want to break Dean's concentration and didn't doubt the truth of what his brother said even though nothing was discernibly stirring. After a minute or two with both men in a wary pose Dean glanced at his brother and said, "Keep digging. Dude, the sand is winning."
Sam made a face and did as instructed, lay his gun down within easy reach, picked up the shovel and continued ploughing the hole. He peeked at Dean every few minutes, in rhythm with the spade expelling soil, to keep a gauge on what was going on, taking cues from his brother's body language.
Dean returned to the prowling, a nervous habit as much as anything, a need to be active and moving. He didn't allow himself to relax, didn't dismiss the feeling that there was something afoot.
His eyes tipped to his watch, absently noting the time, and in his periphery he detected a shimmer. He whirled in the direction and narrowed his eyes as the shimmer took form.
A man stood before him, dressed in period outfit, a frock coat and a stiff, wide brimmed hat which looked to be from the late 1800s, although that was a detail Sam would be better at measuring, it was enough for Dean to conclude it was their guy, Joseph Tranter. The hunter's finger slid to the trigger, his aim became exact but he held off on firing, gunshots attracted attention and he would wait until they were directly threatened before taking that step.
The apparition's mouth moved, speaking, without any sound emitting.
Dean eyed the spirit warily, waiting for something more, alert for anything sinister, but it didn't advance, didn't move from the spot, just kept silently talking, pleading it's case.
"Dean?"
Sam's voice was pitched low, with underlying concern. He had his gun in one hand, the shovel in the other and was looking for guidance about which role he should assume.
"It's okay Sam," Dean replied in the same even tone, as if anything louder might startle the spirit or draw its attention. "It's stuck in a loop or something. I'm keeping an eye on it, just get that grave dug."
Sam resumed his task and Dean stood vigilant, gun never wavering from the spectre before him. After a while the hunter became fascinated by the ardent entreaty. He wasn't sure if the apparition was talking to him or reliving some history. The spirit was becoming increasingly animated, punctuating words with gestures and facial expressions. Dean tried to lip read, tried to interpret what was being said, but was aggravatingly unsuccessful.
"I don't know what you're saying," he muttered with a shake of his head, a statement of fact rather than an intention to interact.
Suddenly the air sliced and folded and the apparition stood directly in front, inches away and laid a chilled hand on Dean's head. Through screeching feedback Dean heard in deafening volume, "You need to stop."
With a sharp intake of breath, the hunter convulsively pulled the trigger then crushed his hands to his ears. He fell to his knees with a grunt, eyes tightly shut as the words echoed clamorously through his head, an excruciating assault on his senses. He pressed his forehead against the earth, wondering with real concern if eardrums could be burst from the inside out and struggled to breathe through the pain, pushing and pulling air in rough gasps.
Gradually the noise subsided, tailing off with merciful rapidity until he was left with a residual buzz, white noise, which was infinitely more bearable than what had preceded. He dropped his hands from his ears and sighed with relief into the soil.
Sam was beside him. Even with his eyes closed Dean knew his brother was there, and he kind of expected that he would be, covering his back.
He pushed himself slowly up onto his knees and Sam's fingers twisted into the front of his shirt, pushing against his chest to help him find upright and Dean leaned into it for a moment, until he got his balance. Sam peered hard into his face, wide eyes telegraphing his worry and confusion.
"You alright?"
The voice was all wrong, distant and tinny, hard to make out through the background noise, but Dean heard enough to know he should nod.
"What happened?"
"Spirit," Dean breathed, still struggling to normalize. "It asked very politely that we stop."
Sam was quiet. He waited until Dean had pulled himself together, gained his feet, before asking, "Should we? Stop?"
Dean frowned, like the question was absurd. "Why would we stop?"
Sam pressed his lips together, gave Dean a look of rebuke that said because you just collapsed, moron. But he knew that wasn't a persuasive argument and offered instead, "Maybe the spirit is trying to tell us something. Maybe there's a reason that it's trying to make us stop."
"Since when do we take advice from spirits?" And so that Sam couldn't offer a comeback Dean continued firmly, "We're not stopping, so just keep digging. Let's get this over with."
Sam didn't move, considering insubordination. He had that dubious you don't look so good expression on his face which always irritated Dean, made him feel like he needed to prove something.
Dean picked up his gun and when his brother stayed rooted to the spot asked innocently, "You want me to dig?" as if he didn't understand Sam's hesitation, as if the only possible reason for Sam not moving was physical incapacity. Dean backed up his offer with a step toward the grave, fully intending to take up the shovel if his brother took a stand, and Sam caught his arm. "No, I'll do it. I just…" And whatever he was going to say, whatever objection he was going to raise, he reconsidered with a shake of his head and ambled back to the grave.
It was less than ten minutes later when the spirit made a return. It appeared before Dean with hands open in appeal, lips moving in silent speech, and Dean blasted it without hesitation.
"Someone's going to hear all this gunfire," he speculated absently, grateful that the cemetery was somewhat removed from the town.
"Dean!"
The older Winchester swiveled at the call. Sam was backed against a side of the grave staring wide eyed at a female apparition no more than a foot before him. Clad once again in period fashion, the woman was entreating Sam with dramatic hand wringing and an anxious expression, looking like the heroine of a silent film. Sam was surreptitiously flexing his arm, reaching for the gun that lay just beyond him.
"Whoa. What?" Dean muttered, confused at the appearance of a second apparition. But he stowed the speculation, put off the whys until later, as he scrambled toward the pair, seeking an angle that gave him a shot without hitting Sam.
The apparition outstretched her hand, laid it on Sam's head and ready or not Dean pulled the trigger, aiming as low as he could to minimize the consequences to his brother. The ghost scattered and Sam yelped in pain, collapsing to the bottom of the hole, below Dean's line of sight.
Dean's boots pounded the distance between them, the mantra playing through his head I couldn't have killed him, I couldn't have killed him, it's only rocksalt. But in that agonizing few seconds he considered all the damage only rocksalt could do and came up with some breathtakingly awful results.
He skidded into the grave without any caution, lucky not to land on his brother and found Sam moaning softly, cradling his head. Dean's hands slapped at Sam's torso, shifting the material side to side probing for rips or wetness, then travelled up and under his jaw tilting the head back and around, chasing the moonlight so that he could get a clear view, before dropping the hands away with an abruptness that made Sam's head bounce and a relieved sigh that Sam was okay.
Sam was too preoccupied to care about his brother's rough ministrations. The clanging in his head was all encompassing. You need to stop was bounding around his brain, ricocheting like a laser in a house of mirrors, and he was finding it hard to breathe through.
When he felt some recovery, regained some awareness, he scrubbed at his eyes and peered around to get his bearings. Dean was outside the grave, but close, within reach, and the tightness in his body, the stiffness of his posture told Sam he was tense, anxious, and pissed off.
"Oh man that sucked," Sam sighed, and Dean turned through the hips, raised one eyebrow and was about to offer a pithy rejoinder, No shit or something of that nature, but took pity, felt a little guilty for not preventing the attack and spraying Sam with salt, even if it didn't do any visible damage and settled on an understated, "Yeah."
"She said to stop," Sam stated as he got his legs underneath him, using the shovel to lever himself up. He was speaking too loudly and a small smile flittered across Dean's face.
"You can turn down the volume," the older brother advised.
"What? Oh." Sam ducked his head in embarrassment. "She said to stop," he repeated more quietly, then realized that Dean had probably heard him the first time.
"Yeah, I got that."
Dean was distracted, focused on the surrounds and Sam said with commitment, "I think we should stop."
He was aware that the idea was going to meet with resistance and he braced himself for the confrontation.
"What?" Dean blustered. "Why?"
"Because that's not normal. Two spirits at one gravesite? There's something weird going on here. Who's the woman? What's her connection to Tranter? Why do they want us to stop?" Sam paused for a beat to allow the unanswerable questions to hang in the air, to emphasise how clueless they were. "We need to do some more research."
Dean's face creased at the suggestion. "Always with the research poindexter. Listen, the fact that there are spirits here revealing themselves to us is an indication that we're on the right track. Let's just get this salt and burn done, then you can hit the books and figure out who the woman is."
Before Sam could protest the male spirit appeared once again, halting discussion. Dean's gun boomed through the silence and the spirit disappeared.
"Keep digging," Dean gruffly commanded.
Sam snatched up the shovel and fiercely ground it into the soil, physically expelling his irritation. He wasn't convinced continuing was the best course of action, was of the belief they should abandon the salt and burn until they were better informed.
When the spectre of a third person appeared Dean's shoulders slumped.
"Oh come on," he moaned.
The odds were swinging hard against him. He hesitated before pulling the trigger, taking in the features, the clothing, identifying features he could recall later when they engaged in the inevitable research, then exploded his gun dispersing the figure.
He snapped open the barrel, shook out the spent cartridges and fumbled in his pocket as the first male appeared simultaneously with the woman. He cut a frantic glance to Sam, waist deep in the hole, digging with determination. He had a moment of indecision about whether to call Sam out or keep him digging? If the coffin was six feet under the digging still had a ways to go, but if Sam was wielding a gun the hole wasn't going to get any deeper.
Dean didn't really make a decision, he just stuck with the status quo, Sam wielding the shovel. He considered giving his brother a heads up that there was a third guest at the party but Sam was already minded to quit and that would likely strengthen his resolve, so he kept it to himself for the moment.
He had a very bad feeling about being outnumbered. There was some writing on the wall that he didn't want to read. And he was most unimpressed that the ghosts were getting smart, starting to play the odds and double team him.
His practiced fingers jammed the first bullet into its housing, racing against time, denying the losing battle. Just as the second bullet slipped into the barrel, Dean felt the drawback of air, the plunge of temperature, cold fingers at his temple and tensed for the detonation.
"YOU NEED TO STOP."
The male voice was impossibly louder than before, a cumulative effect, a build upon the first attack. The gun slipped through nerveless fingers as Dean's hands clutched at his ears, hopelessly trying to dull sound that was coming from within. He hit the ground hard, no grace at all in the collapse. He was vaguely aware of the jarring impact, the whoosh of air from his lungs, but it was lost in the greater picture, the more pressing assault on his brain.
He may have passed out, he wasn't really sure. One minute he was writhing in agony the next the pain was abating. Whether it was a loss of consciousness or just a zoning out, he appreciated the time skip, appreciated that his body had cut through the pain for him. He regained his senses lying on his side, curled almost foetal and he stretched his legs out quickly to changed that position. The discord in his head leeched away slowly and his whole body trembled in the wake of such an overwhelming bombardment. He felt drained. He felt exhausted.
The report of a shotgun brought Dean back to his senses. His fingers scrabbled in the loose soil and he pushed himself onto hands and knees, then back onto his haunches, pausing to adjust to the new position and take stock of the situation. Sam was beside him, out of the grave, the shovel abandoned for the gun, and he stood in a defensive pose, although Dean couldn't see any spectres threatening for the moment.
"There's a third one?" Sam called, and he sounded annoyed. "This is getting out of hand. We need to stop."
Sam's repetition of what the spirits had said struck Dean as funny, ridiculous. A strangled laugh escaped him and he was dismayed at how it sounded, like he was about to lose it.
Sam's hand dropped onto Dean's shoulder, trying to get his attention. He was a little freaked out by the unexpected laughter.
"We need to stop," he repeated earnestly, with unshakeable conviction.
Dean looked at the hole. They were so close to finishing. Another few inches and the coffin would be exposed.
But there wasn't just the lack of odds working against them, how many gunshots had rung out? Five? Six? They couldn't get away with that for much longer, the police were going to check it out at some point, may already be on their way.
He stalled, twisted his head from side to side cracking vertebra and stretching tight muscles, then gave his brother a weary, defeated nod.
"Yeah. Okay."
He hated being the loser, hated that spirits had routed him, got the better of him. But as much as his subconscious was urging him to keep fighting, he could see the futility in the situation. And he couldn't take another one of those strident, deafening messages. The ghosts had the upper hand in this one, they weren't going to be able to finish the salt and burn. Better to regroup and come up with another plan of attack.
Sam rose and went to the grave, picked up the shovel and starting returning the displaced earth to the hole. Dean recovered his gun and pushed himself to a stand. He felt off kilter, a bit unsteady, but powered through it, determined to provide his brother with some protection and support against the possible recurrence of spiritual activity.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, a male apparition appeared, the initial apparition, the one Dean presumed to be Tranter, and started again with the silent appeal, the urgent plea.
Dean's grip on the gun tightened, and he yelled irately, "We're doing it. We're stopping. So just back off."
He pointed to the grave, to the decreasing hole, hoping to impart his own message, satisfy the spirit that it didn't need to assail him again with its overloud communication.
The apparition regarded him uncertainly, shimmered and shifted, but didn't move any closer. Dean took that as progress, until the two other apparitions appeared and flanked their friend. That did not bode so well.
He backed up slowly closer to Sam.
"We have company," Dean muttered out the side of his mouth. "A lot of company."
"Nearly done," Sam replied.
It was much quicker filling a hole than digging it and in only a few minutes Sam was patting down the earth, putting the finishing touches to Tranter's gravesite. He stretched to work out the kinks in his back and shoulders, and flicked his eyes between Dean, tensed to shoot, and the ghosts passively watching.
Suddenly, the three ghosts were gone, blinked out like a light blown a bulb.
"What the hell?" Dean cried.
He shook his head, questions and inconsistencies crowding his mind. He turned to Sam with his hands out wide, not knowing where to start, then threw the hands up and thought better of starting at all.
"Let's get out of here."
The boys wearily packed their equipment into the duffel, frustration and defeat in both their posture. When they were ready to depart Dean tapped Tranter's headstone with the toe of his boot and announced, "We'll be back. Don't think that you've won or anything."
They began a weary walk to the car, Sam bringing up the rear, when he piped up, "I think your back is bleeding."
Dean gripped the bottom of his shirt and arched around to see, then rolled his eyes heavenward and uttered, "A perfect end to the night."