Chapter 8
It was early when the boys returned to the construction site, much earlier than their usual night-time activities. That was the benefit of clueing the owner in on the plan. Dave had said he would make sure the area was deserted by 7pm, so the brothers arrived confidently at the site a few hours later.
But even though it was a fully authorised visit, they still didn't want to alert passersby to their presence, it would be inconvenient if someone were to investigate why they were on the premises after hours, so they chose not to illuminate the building with the powered lighting as they picked their way through to the room at the back, relying on their flashlights, keeping the beam at their feet so as not to trip over the scattered debris and materials.
The chandelier room was opportunely beyond the view from the road so there were no qualms about flicking on the light in that room, and when they did so the brothers discovered that the downed chandelier had been temporarily replaced by a sad, bare globe hanging from the ceiling. It bathed the expansive room in a soft glow that didn't quite reach the edges, left the corners shadowed and that was fine, the space didn't need to be brilliantly lit for them to get the job done.
Sam shouldered the laden duffle onto the floor in the centre of the room and crouched beside it to extract his sawed off shotgun. He loaded it with salt shells then stuffed the weapon down the back of his jeans, snug in the crease of his spine, the waistband tight across his stomach. He reached into the duffel and pulled out a handful of extra shells which he crammed into the pockets of his jacket, worn for just that purpose in spite of the humidity which lingered in the night air, until he had easily a dozen stashed on him ready for reload.
Satisfied that he was rudimentarily prepared for spiritual activity Sam carefully removed the hand held sonar from the duffel. He studied it for a moment, looking closely at the switches and dials, trying to remember how to work the thing, so long since they had last used it. He twirled the knobs which got the machine emitting a static noise, then with more fiddling the static became a low steady hum. A needle at the top of the equipment was swinging in wild arcs from side to side across a numbered gauge and Sam detached a small weighted pointer clipped to the side of the device and aimed it at the floor to settle the frenzied motion, keeping still until the needle became inert. Understanding the machine's visual and audio cues was like riding a bike, it was all coming back to him and Sam nodded to himself at the reading which was telling him something about the density of the earth directly beneath.
Dean meanwhile, had taken the EMF out of his pocket and paced a few steps around the room. He grunted low in his throat, a knowing sound, a wordless I knew it, and Sam automatically glanced at him even though he could hear the device squealing, knew what his brother was reacting to.
"There's definitely something here," Dean reported, eyes flicking between Sam and the readout. "And it's giving off pretty strong readings."
Sam nodded, a little uneasy at his brother's use of the word something, like maybe he wasn't sure of what it was. And then he mused that they didn't really know what it was, their whole theory was based on supposition and circumstantial evidence because whatever was onsite had never actually revealed itself.
Dean strode to the duffel and dropped the EMF inside, its usefulness at an end, then made his own preparations with a sawed off shotgun and the pocketing of extra shells before reaching into the bag to retrieve a crowbar. He tucked the crowbar into the back of his jeans, keeping his hands free to handle the gun, and it brought a smile to Sam's face, a long rod of metal jutting from his brother's pants, waving around unsteadily. It didn't look comfortable.
"You ready?" Dean asked and Sam immediately schooled his features, became all business.
"Yeah." He dropped his gaze to the sonar and made some last minute adjustments. "Where do you want me to start?"
"Start in the middle and work out," Dean suggested.
"Right."
Sam was already in the centre of the room so considered where he was as his starting point. Dean picked up the duffel and slid it toward the wall, out of the way, then took a few steps back, giving his brother space. He assumed a sturdy defensive stance with his legs slightly apart and held the shotgun casually across his torso, not exactly primed to shoot but ready, definitely ready. Dean's implacable calm was always impressive, it always inspired confidence in Sam, gave him a real sense of safety.
"Here we go," Sam uttered and took his first tentative steps.
"Bring it on," Dean replied, with a grin like he was looking forward to whatever may come.
--
They lurked in the shadows, careful not to be seen, careful not to be heard, determined not to be detected.
"Ow. Goddamn it."
"Shhhh!"
Unfortunately, covert was not their strong suit.
"There's shit everywhere Ada, I can't see a thing," Maud protested in a miffed whisper. "I think I just stepped on a nail, there's something in my shoe. I may get tetanus. Do you care Ada? Do you care that I may get tetanus and DIE?"
"Would you shut up," the Brit hissed. She squinted through the darkness at her companion to assure herself that the dramatics were overstated then continued edging her way around the exterior of the building.
"This has got to be the stupidest idea you've ever had," Maud said in a strained whisper. "And you've had a lot of stupid ideas."
Ada halted and waited for her friend to catch up. "Why don't you get a megaphone big mouth? Just get a megaphone and let the whole world know that we're here. Because clearly you are incapable of stealth."
"Get stuffed. There's shit everywhere, I can't be quiet when I am continually stepping on shit."
"I am aware of the shit status Maud. It's a construction site. Nobody made you come."
"Yeah right," Maud huffed and in a mocking tone, a parody of Ada, said, "I'm going to the construction site to check on the boys, you can just wait here because you're a useless cow."
"I didn't say you were a useless cow," Ada retorted, then added under her breath, "I just thought it."
"Yeah exactly. Hence my need to come along."
"Well useless cows need to be quiet."
Maud put her hands on her hips and said snidely, "If I'm a useless cow then you're mutton dressed as lamb. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?"
She roved her gaze over Ada's attire and despite her disagreeable mood, couldn't help the twitch up at the corners of her mouth. Her friend was clothed in a low cut black taffeta cocktail dress with shoe string straps, rouched at the cleavage, cinched at the waist and dropping to below the knee with some tulle under the skirt for volume. A long sleeved matching bolero jacket covered Ada's arms and was fastened by a single large button over her chest. To finish the bizarre ensemble, Ada wore old trainers on her feet, a salute to practicality and the difficulty of negotiating an uneven surface in heels, although Maud had tried to convince her that black low heeled pumps coordinated the outfit much better.
It was a very different ensemble to the casual black cotton pants, black t-shirt and white runners Maud was wearing.
"We needed to dress in black so we blend in," Ada replied flatly, weary of the remarks about her unconventional attire, starting to wish she'd worn something else. "We're being stealthy. And this was the only black outfit that was clean. If you were on top of the laundering maybe I would have had an alternative outfit. Something a little less governor's ball and a little more ninja." She tried to shoot a withering look over her shoulder but wasn't sure how effective it was in the dark. "But you let down the team and I'm the one who has to pay the price."
"Hey, anytime you want to take over laundry duty, be my guest," Maud returned. "I really don't understand why you couldn't take something out of the dirty clothes basket and wear that."
"Because I'm not going to wear something dirty, that's disgusting," Ada retorted, and she knew what Maud was going to say next, they'd already had this conversation, you should have worn your jeans, you should have worn something darkish colored and yeah, maybe that would have been more practical, but she wanted to be in black, only black, so that she would sink into the darkness, because frankly she was shitting herself about being seen. Dean had said their presence could be dangerously distracting and she believed him, she was aware that disobeying his request and sneaking around the construction site could have disastrous consequences and it gave her an acute desire to remain undetected. Looking stupid was a small price to pay if it kept them all safe.
Ada said quickly, to belay any further talk about her attire, "Now big mouths shut, we don't want Dean to get wind of what we're up to because he has a gun and he may well use it if he finds us sneaking around."
Maud snorted softly. "Scared of a young man Ada? Met your match?"
"Oh please. I'm not scared of Dean, I could SO take him. Even with my gimpy leg."
Maud regarded her friend dubiously. "Not in that dress you couldn't. Although if you had a dance off..."
The pair continued their prowl around the edge of the building until they drew near a window which looked into the chandelier room. Maud was peering closely at the ground, trying to watch her footing and failed to notice Ada stop. There was a clash of bodies, stifled yelps and hands grabbing for balance.
A low growl escaped Ada. "You wanna watch where you're walking unco?"
"I was watching," Maud griped. "How about some notice when you bring that fat arse to a halt?"
The women inched themselves closer to the window, Maud looking for vantage over her friend's shoulder. They peeped cautiously through the dusty glass, trying to see what the Winchester brothers were doing inside.
They froze at the sound of rustling behind them, the distinct noise of someone walking through the grounds, approaching where they hid.
Maud grabbed Ada's shoulder, fingers pressing painfully tight. They barely dared to breathe, aware that discovery would involve an explosion of vitriol and recrimination, their decision to disregard the request that they stay away was pretty much indefensible.
Maud let go of her friend and melted into the shadows of the building, hoping, with uncommon fervor, that the black outfit would make her invisible. Thank God for wearing the black.
All Ada could think about was that Dean was going to kill her and she was wearing a damned cocktail dress… he was going to laugh his head off and then kill her.
"What are you two doing here?!"
The male voice was strained, muted, more astonished than angry.
"Dave?"
Ada's anxiety melted, her thrumming heart slowed to a normal beat and then she had to clasp her hand over her mouth as she took in the vision that was Dave. He was dressed like them, all in black, even the top of his head was enclosed in a beanie, but in Ada's opinion, he had gone a step too far with the black strips that went across his nose and under both eyes.
She felt a strong urge to giggle. Dave looked like a cross between Jean Claude Van Damme and a cat burglar. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
Dave narrowed his eyes at Ada trying to survey her in the darkness and took a long time answering, not quite trusting that he was seeing her correctly.
"Ada… what the hell are you wearing? Are you going to a ball?"
A choked laugh escaped Maud.
--
Dean was still, eyes tracking his brother's movements, alert for any of the precursors to a supernatural presence. Sam ambled slowly around the room in an ever widening circle, the sound emanating from the handheld sonar the only noise in the otherwise still room.
Just when Dean was starting to question his instincts, review the evidence in his head, wonder whether he was wrong about a hidden body or it being in this room, there was a change in the frequency of the noise emitted by the sonar.
Sam peered closely at the instrument, frowning at the display.
"You got something?"
"Maybe." Sam took a large step left, eyes sharp on the readout, then took a step back to his original position before pronouncing, "It looks like this area of the floor is less dense."
"Good enough for me."
Dean strode to where his brother stood, toward the front of the room and pulled the crowbar out of his waistband. He crouched at Sam's feet, placing the shotgun on the floor beside him, and ran his fingers over the floorboards looking for a groove or a nick, some entry point for the edge of the crowbar to pry up the wood without causing too much damage. At the most accommodating place he jammed the crowbar hard between two planks levering his weight underneath to entice the nails to release their grip. The wood screeched and complained as, by degrees, the board began to rise. Dean increased the pressure, too impatient for a deft touch, and suddenly the wood snapped, throwing up dust and splinters that he instinctively turned his head away from as his knuckles slammed into the ground.
He drew up on his haunches, wiped his hands against his shirt, and examined the damaged floor then fixed an exaggeratedly rueful expression on Sam. "Oops. Hope Dave has more floorboards."
Sam breathed a laugh and thought that's the least of Dave's worries.
Dean wedged the crowbar under the wood again and continued prising until a length came away, providing a skinny opening. He thrust his hand into the hole at the same time as Sam extracted a flashlight from his pocket and shone it into the cavity.
"I think I can feel something," Dean said, his arm in the opening all the way to his shoulder, his head touching the floor. He rapped his knuckles on a box hidden under the surface.
"Yeah I think I can see it," Sam answered. "It's not that deep."
He switched off the flashlight and returned it to his pocket, then turned off the sonar, leaving the room strangely, jarringly quiet without the background mechanical hum. He walked over to the duffel and shoved the device into the cloth folds but straightened and swiveled fast when he heard a dragging noise, something being pushed across the floor.
He watched in horror as a work bench that had been resting against a wall careened across the room toward Dean.
When Dean saw the charging object he tried to simultaneously snatch up his gun and extract his arm from the cavity. The gun was no trouble, it was deliberately close, but his watch snagged in the narrow opening as he rapidly pulled out his arm and his body jerked back toward the floor with a hard tug at the shoulder. He growled in frustration at seconds lost that he couldn't afford, and darted quick gazes between his brother and the bench, gauging the relative distances and whether Sam would be able to help him.
Sam reached around for the gun at his back and pointed it toward the moving bench, firing off a shot, but without a target, no idea where in the room the spirit was, he was just aiming wildly, taking a guess at where it might be.
The blast had no effect. The object continued its course.
There was a minute change in Dean's expression, a wry resignation, as his eyes left Sam and focussed on the charging bench. He didn't panic as he tried to free his hand from the aperture, quelling the instinct to tug violently and instead rotated his hand in small twist and pull motions trying to clear the bulky watch.
But it was all too fast. The bench was hurtling, the watch was defiant and there just wasn't time to get out of the way. Sam could do no more than watch helplessly, too far away to offer physical aid, and desperately hope that Dean's theory about the spirit not wanting to kill anyone held true.
--
"My god your head is enormous!"
"Fuck off!"
"No seriously. It's like a melon on a toothpick. How do you live with it?"
Ada turned away from the window and slapped her friend's arm, a grin on her face. "The real problem is your stumpy legs which don't allow you to see over people with normal sized heads."
Maud chuckled. No matter what the situation, she always enjoyed their banter, their caustic senses of humor were a perfect match. And it was calming, it settled frazzled nerves cracking wise like everything was normal.
"What's going on in there?"
The Brit twisted back to the window and Maud bobbed her head trying to see past, searching for a position that gave her some sort of view.
"Sam's just walking around," Ada reported. "Dean's standing watching him."
"So, riveting stuff then."
"Oh wait….Dean's moving… he's going over to Sam… and he's pulling out the crowbar. Okay, here we go," Ada breathed.
Dave was on the opposite side of the window to the women having bravely ducked across the opening while the boys were facing away. He was still close enough to hold a muted conversation and the women heard him mutter to himself, "You be careful with that crowbar, friend."
Maud stood on tiptoes and craned her neck for a glimpse of the room but the brothers were outside her view, to one side, so even when she did see past Ada it was only of empty space. She let out a frustrated sigh.
In unison Ada and Dave let out a restrained rueful cry, reacting to something that had happened inside.
"What?" Maud cried and she was finding it increasingly difficult to whisper. "What is it?"
"Goddammit," Dave cursed under his breath.
"Dean just snapped a floorboard," Ada quietly explained.
"So much for being careful," the manager griped. "I wasn't planning on replacing the floor in that room, looks like I'll have to reconsider."
"He could be using a sledgehammer Dave," Ada pointed out. "He's doing the best he can." She gave a small huff, taking umbrage on the boys behalf, and returned her attention to the inside. "Looks like they've found something," she said, resuming the commentary for Maud. "Sam's putting the sonar away." The narrative was interrupted by a gasp and a frightened, "Oh God…"
"What?" Maud couldn't stand being on the outer, she elbowed her way into the line of sight, the hell with being seen. "What's going on in there?"
--
Sam sprinted to his brother's side.
"Dean?"
The elder Winchester was sprawled on the ground with both arms flung above his head in a classic dive position.
"Sonuvabitch," he groaned and slowly, gingerly, brought his arms down and rolled onto his side.
Dean was very aware of his right shoulder. The flat edge of the bench had nailed him across his back a fraction of a second before he could throw himself out of the way after his watch came free and he must have led with that shoulder because that was where he was feeling it most. It screamed in pain, protested at the slightest movement and sent a throb down his arm with a ferocity that numbed his fingers.
But he figured he should be grateful the bench hadn't struck a few inches higher, it might have taken his head off.
With grunting breaths and some tight blinks he pushed himself to a sit, with Sam adding a light hand at his back to help. When he was upright blood started rushing painfully around the injury and he closed his eyes as he cradled the shoulder, fingers pressing tightly into the skin, keeping the joint immobile to try and alleviate the throb.
"Is it dislocated?" Sam worriedly asked, crouched in front of him.
Dean shook his head, unable to talk through clenched lips and gritted teeth. After a few long minutes the throb started to ease, the numbness in his arm subsided and the pain dialed down to a manageable level, becoming more of a background ache.
"That was unpleasant," Dean grimaced and opened his eyes to look at his brother. "What is it about attacking me? Why am I always the target?"
"You were the one with your arm in the hole," Sam replied reasonably. "How does it feel? Is it alright?" He nodded at the shoulder and hovered his hands, looking for permission to examine.
"It feels great," Dean replied wryly and tested the joint with small shrugs and rolls. "Oh yeah, I should have had you whack me across the shoulder with a piece of wood years ago."
Sam ignored the sarcasm and gently probed the shoulder, pushing and kneading, feeling for himself the extent of the injury because he knew Dean would shrug it off.
"Did you see anything?" Dean asked, looking around absently, a little embarrassed by his brother's attention. "Like which one of them threw the bench?"
"Nah."
There was a growl low in Dean's throat. "That just pisses me off." He raised his voice, directing it around the room. "You could at least show yourself when you attack a guy."
Sam finished his examination and dropped his hands with a deep, relieved breath, satisfied that the injury wasn't serious.
"You okay to keep going?" The question was almost rhetorical, Dean could be nearly dead and want to finish the job, but Sam thought he would ask anyway.
"Yes," was the predictable answer, and Dean glared at Sam like the question offended him. He reached for his gun and climbed to his feet. "Your turn pulling up the floor," he stated flatly.
"Yeah, okay," Sam replied in immediate agreement.
Dean watched the room tensely, eyes in constant motion, as his brother pulled up the floorboards. He kept his sore shoulder moving with small exercises to prevent it stiffening and slowly paced the room feeling for cold spots. The failure of the spirits to materialize before attacking made him edgy, hyper-vigilant. He had no doubt the attacks would continue, especially now that they had located the coffin, and he felt at a distinct disadvantage.
When Sam had pried up a number of boards, he lent back on his heels, swiped at the dampness on his forehead and said, "You know, I think this will do it. I think there's enough space to lift out the coffin."
Dean was surprised to see the hole so big, he hadn't been watching the progress and Sam had worked really quickly. He was even more surprised that there hadn't been another protest from the resident disgruntled ghost. He wondered whether the spirit needed a rebuilding period after expelling all its energy, needed time to work up power after. That could be handy if it were so.
He drew beside Sam and peered into the hole, figuring out the logistics of getting the large box out. He pointed the gun, like an extension of his hand, at a corner. "If you lever the crowbar under there…"
With a startled cry, Sam was suddenly no longer beside him. Dean did a comical double take and instinctively whipped his gun up to the ready position as he swiveled his head looking for where his brother went. He found Sam behind him, sprawled on his back a couple of feet away, dazed but unhurt.
Dean clicked his tongue and went over to his brother to offer a hand.
"You want to stay with me here?" Dean asked irritably, and he knew it was unfair to be laying some sort of blame, like Sam had any control over being attacked, but frustration was getting the better of him.
"Yeah, that came out of nowhere," Sam said apologetically. As they walked back to the gape in the floor, he ventured, "Maybe we should put a ring of salt around us while we work in the hole."
Dean considered the idea seriously, it definitely held merit. It came down to how much salt they would need for that and how much they had brought with them. He didn't want to get caught short at the pointy end of the job.
"Let's just keep going for the moment," he decided. "At least the spirit, spirits, whoever's here, aren't trying to kill us. Gotta be grateful for small mercies."
Sam gave him a sideways glance, considering a retort. The spirits may not be trying to kill but they had no qualms about inflicting injury.
Dean tucked the shotgun into his waistband and crouched beside the hole, pointing once again at a corner, taking up where he left off. "Put the crowbar under that end and I'll get my hands underneath it."
Sam wedged the curved end of the crowbar under the edge Dean had indicated and levered up. It was awkward work, there was just enough space for each of them to put one leg into the hole beside the wooden box and that was preferable to laying on the floor and reaching down, but it was very confined, very hard to maneuver. With some grunting and swearing Dean managed to shimmy his fingers under the uplifted corner until he had sufficient purchase beneath to pull the box up, at which point Sam ditched the crowbar, ran to other side of the hole and got his hands under the box on the opposite side. Together they lifted the short edge of the box over the lip of the hole, and rested the base against the exposed floorboards such that it was on a precarious slant.
"Look at this," Sam exclaimed, and brushed at the years of dirt and dust on the lid of the coffin to reveal an etched symbol.
Dean's brow furrowed, "Huh."
He swiped away the dust from another side of the box and proclaimed, "There's one here too."
Both brothers gave the box a cursory examination on all sides, as best they could while it still lay half hidden in the pit.
"It's seems to be etched on every side," Sam stated.
"That's interesting," Dean said pensively. "Aren't they the symbols for…"
"Yeah," Sam finished. "A lock box."
"A lock box," Dean echoed quietly and ran a hand across his brow. "They thought they had to contain the evil inside?" He shot his brother a worried look. "Just how dangerous is this Bonner guy?"
"Maybe we shouldn't find out," Sam suggested.
"Sam..," Dean said, with a disapproving tilt of his head.
"Yeah, I know," Sam cut him off. This is what we do.
They positioned themselves on either side of the box preparing to lift it fully out of the hole when Dean felt a pressure on his chest, cold hands giving him a forceful shove, and he was pushed backward, sliding over the floorboards until he came to rest in a similar sprawl to that of his brother a few minutes before.
He thumped a fist onto the ground and shouted, "This is really pissing me off!"
"You alright?" Sam cantered over and offered a hand.
"Of course I'm alright, this is kids stuff, this is playground bully stuff. Just wait until I get a chance to push back."
"Listen," Sam said loudly, startling Dean because they were standing right next to each other, "whoever you are…" and Dean realized his brother was addressing the spirits. "Joseph, Eleanor, Ed, whoever, we're here to help. We know who's in this box, we know you're trying to protect people and we can help you with that. It's what we do."
Sam shot a look at his brother, a small shrug conveying I don't know, maybe this could work.
Dean returned the shrug. Worth a try.
Sam continued, "But we can't do this job if you keep attacking us. And we know you're not trying to kill us, which is very nice, thank you, but still, if you would just lay off for a while, we could get this done a whole lot faster and then there won't be any need for you to spend eternity guarding this soul."
They brothers waited expectantly for some sort of sign that Sam had been heard and understood. After a few still minutes Dean muttered to his brother, "You think they heard? Are we in the clear?"
Sam put a hand on his brother's arm and pointed to a spot across the room where there was a barely perceptible shimmer, a slight disturbance to the air. As they watched, three figures flickered and took shape.
"Hey hey, the gang's all here," Dean said quietly and very slowly he reached around and laid a hand on the gun at his waistband, not removing it, not wanting to do something that provoked a response, but ready if things went south.
Sam took a few steps toward the spirits, raising his hands to show he wasn't threatening. "We understand what you're doing, really we do. And you've kept people safe…" at a snort from Dean he amended to, "..alive, for a long time now. But times have changed and you can't do this anymore. You're hurting people and that is the opposite of what you intended. So let us finish this. We can do that for you. We can make sure Bonner will never be a danger and help you find peace."
He waited with bated breath for the reaction from the guardians.
--
Stunned silence blanketed the three interlopers peering in from the outside.
"Fuck. Me."
Maud said it in an undertone, barely audible, and Ada huffed a short laugh because very rarely did her friend go the full monty when swearing but it was so wildly appropriate in the circumstances it almost had Ada saying amen.
The blonde almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand grope at her wrist, every nerve was on edge. But then she recognized Maud's slim fingers working their way down to her hand, interlacing themselves into a firm grip and she squeezed in support, sharing strength with her friend as together they witnessed the most extraordinary, incredible encounter of their lives.
"Those people are dead!" Maud whispered in disbelief, struggling to process what was going on. "We can see them, but they're dead."
Ada nodded mutely, at a loss for words, which was more expressive than any response she could have given, a rare thing for her not to have words.
For all the tout of ghosts in this town, the exploitation of history that the economy thrived on and which locals perpetuated by reciting tales of unexplained incidents and alleged ghostly activities to wide eyes tourists, there was generally an underlying nudge and a wink, a degree of skepticism amongst the locals about such matters. Evidence of its truth, evidence that spirits really existed, and more than that, that they were powerful, dangerous, was almost too much to comprehend.
"You're seeing this right?" Ada called quietly to Dave. "Can you believe it?"
"Yeah, I see it Ada." His tone was flat, expressionless. "I see it."
As they continued to watch the proceedings inside, Maud pressed Ada's hand and shot her a worried glance. Ada knew what it meant, knew how to read her friend. She was scared for the boys. They finally understood what it was they had been trying to warn them about. This was serious stuff. And they could be in real trouble.
--
The three ghosts stood facing the brothers, not moving, not trying to communicate (and Dean was on the alert for that, he hadn't forgotten how painful their communication was), a kind of silent showdown that was a little unnerving.
Dean leaned in slightly to his brother and whispered, "You think they're with us or against us?"
"Hard to tell," Sam murmured out the side of his mouth.
At least they're visible Dean thought to himself. Nice to have targets.
Ed and Joseph moved slightly, their arms twitched and Dean shifted closer to Sam, forming a united front.
"Are they reaching for their guns?" Sam asked quietly.
"It won't do them any good," Dean returned and curled his hand a little tighter around the gun hidden at his back. "Phantom guns only fire phantom bullets." After a beat he added uncertainly, "I mean, that'd be your understanding wouldn't it? Phantom guns don't actually work in the real world."
"That'd be my understanding," Sam quickly confirmed.
"Yeah. Exactly."
All three of the spirits started nodding. Deliberate, exaggerated nods, slow up and downs but at the same time the two males carefully moved their hands toward their gun belt.
"Whoa, whoa…" Dean snatched the shotgun out of his waistband and brought it around to bear. Phantom guns or not, he didn't like the idea of being fired upon.
Sam quickly laid a hand across the weapon, forcibly lowering it. "I think it's okay. I think they're telling us it's fine to continue."
"Yeah, and they're going to threaten us with guns while we do it…" Dean snapped.
"I don't think the guns are for us." Sam darted his gaze toward the coffin.
Dean regarded the spirits suspiciously, debating Sam's interpretation and came to the conclusion that his brother made sense - the nodding heads were for them, the guns were for Bonner. He sniffed and shook his head in bemusement. "Huh. You're a better ghost whisperer than Jennifer," he pronounced with a playful slap to Sam's chest.
Without turning their backs to the spirits, too cautious for that sort of vulnerability, the brothers moved unhurriedly toward the recumbent coffin, Dean with his gun loosely aimed at their supernatural companions.
"You pull out the coffin and I'll cover you," Dean instructed, still wary of the supposed agreement that had been reached.
Sam nodded without question, he understood Dean's instinct to stay on the alert, there was a lot of experience and training behind that caution.
He slid the box up and over the lip of the aperture, it wasn't particularly heavy, there was no trouble shifting it. But he was nervous about the decayed state of the wood. He wondered whether they could get it outside without one of the seams rupturing.
When the coffin was flat on the floor, Dean reluctantly returned his shotgun to his waistband and took up position at the short end of the box opposite Sam. Carefully the brothers lifted the coffin and trudged toward the door that led outside.
--
"Shit!" There was panic in Maud's voice as she flattened herself against the wall. The Winchesters' progress was going to take them past the window around which the secret onlookers huddled and she was desperate that they not be seen.
"Just be cool," Ada warned.
"They're coming outside," Maud hissed, "they're going to find us."
"Not they won't," Ada replied and looked to Dave to back her up.
"We need to make sure the light from inside doesn't hit us," Dave said, and took a few steps backward, up the side of the building, until he was almost invisible in the darkness. "As long as they don't come around this corner we should be okay."
Ada and Maud followed Dave's lead and took some steps back from the window, away from Dave, toward the front of the building, and melted into the night.
"I think we should go," Maud whispered anxiously to Ada. "I think we're too close. Enough's enough. If they see us it could all go very badly."
"No Maud," Ada firmly replied, "I want to stay close. I want to see what happens."
She shared Maud's concern. A part of her agreed that they should retreat, that things were getting dangerous, but her overriding instinct was to stay close, keep an eye on what occurred, see it through to the end, and above everything, make sure the boys were ok. She would never forgive herself if she left and something bad happened to them, something she could have done something about.
The sound of the door being thrust open was heard, the women couldn't see it from their vantage but after a few seconds the boys came into their line of sight, stumbling over sandy uneven ground and piles of building scrap before gently lowering the coffin onto a flat piece of ground a reasonable distance from the edifice.
The guardian spirits hovered nearby, the men with their guns directed at the box, Madame Moustache wringing a handkerchief.
"This could get nasty," Dean warned his brother. "We'd better do it fast."
"Loud and clear," Sam responded and ducked back inside the building, emerging moments later with a large container of salt, a small drum of gasoline, his shotgun tucked under one arm and the crowbar tucked under the other. He moved in close to Dean, placed the drum at his feet and handed over the crowbar, then moved around to the opposite side of the box and stood with the salt canister poised and the gun firmly trained at the coffin.
Dean knelt beside the wooden box and noticed from the corner of his eye the ghosts move in, assume a defensive stance, readying themselves to combat whatever might emerge from within, and the idea of ghosts allying with the living, providing them with backup, was so bizarre and unnatural that he had to clear his mind of the thought, pretend they weren't there and concentrate on what he was doing.
He wedged the crowbar under the lid and pushed against the tool, silently hoping the lid would pop up in one piece. And for a moment it looked like it would, there was screeching and straining down the length of the cover and he slid the crowbar along a few inches to lever from a different position so as not to put too much pressure on one point. But then the brittleness and decay asserted itself. Even though he was being cautious about how much force he exerted, the crowbar accidentally pierced the wood and a small chunk flew into the air.
In the dim light of the moon and what reached them from the building, Dean could see a yawning black hole, small but significant, in the lid of the coffin. He cursed under his breath and tried to quell the dread about what it might mean, what was being contained and what now had an escape route.
No sooner did the thought take shape than a wind started to eddy, kicking up debris and sand, throwing it around.
"This isn't good," Dean muttered.