A/N: My intent with this story when I started posting was to have it all done before the premiere, expecting after that fandom's collective brains will have exploded after that. The fic is certain to explode. Uh. Looking at the calendar, now the only thing I can safely say is that I'm not gonna make it! :)

Thanks again, everyone. I can't say it enough.

Sweet Caroline
Chapter 17

There couldn't be a worse night for grave digging.

The temperature had risen to where it teetered between freezing and not freezing, making the precipitation falling more like slush than snow. Big, wet globs dive-bombed the ground as if they were on a death mission. Dean tried to think of the foul weather as nature's way of giving the car a wash, but he knew the thick, brown sludge on the road kicked up and splattered his poor Baby, negating any positive outcome. He was traumatized on her behalf.

"At least the snow will provide some cover," Sam said.

Sam's were the first words spoken directly between them since Deputy Graham had invited himself along on the salt and burn. He squinted through the slushy snow, catching sight of Graham a half a block up, waiting for them by his car.

"Like snow's going to stop a freaking vengeful spirit," he said.

Dean had to admit to himself the extra set of hands would be nice, but he remained unhappy. With him and Graham digging, that left Sam as their only guard against the spirit. Dean knew if he mentioned his problem with that, Sam would think he was implying a lack of trust. It wasn't that. His problem was that he hated the idea of exposing Sam to danger in a weakened state even more than he hated bringing a civilian into this mess. They did not hunt hurt, simple as that. A salt line around the grave would normally provide him some peace of mind. He cursed the falling slush again, for preventing the simplest of precautionary measures.

"I meant it would keep people from seeing what we were doing, in case Graham's plan doesn't work out. The snow and the trees might muffle gunfire if we have to use them."

"Oh."

After they had explained everything back at the motel, Graham had left to bribe, coerce or otherwise make sure he was the only one on patrol around the cemetery for the night. While he was at it, he also would make sure their fake IDs weren't uncovered by anyone else. It actually would help quite a bit if they didn't have to think about cops crashing onto the scene again, and it wasn't like he could resent the guy for keeping a lid on their minor little impersonating-federal-agents thing. He pulled the car into a parking space a few back from Graham's. While Dean would never like it, Graham could know what they did – but he wasn't about to let the guy see the trunk. It was a hunter's inner sanctum, as sacred as anything could be.

Pivoting, he opened the car door and slid out into the ankle-deep slop. Nice. Dean didn't dare look at the sludge-pack he knew was clogging the space between fender and tire of his poor car, keeping his eye on the prize. He popped the trunk. Sam couldn't load and reload a shotgun quickly enough if things got hairy, so they'd agreed they'd load all of the shotguns they had with salt shells and hope for the best. He really, really, really didn't like the idea of Sam standing guard on his own when so much had gone wrong up to this point. Had he mentioned that? If worse came to worst, Dean fully intended to stop digging and pick up a shotgun himself. They only had four to work with, which really wouldn't give Sam many shots. He grabbed a bandoleer, in case they needed a reload.

"I was thinking," Sam said as he fumbled to load a sawed-off, holding it awkwardly under his gimpy wing. "Maybe if we put something on the ground in a circle around the grave and put salt on that, it would help? Like a few tarps?"

Dean should have thought of that himself. It wasn't a bad idea. He hadn't told Sam he planned on pouring a protective circle anyway, figuring it was better to try than not. This way the falling wet snow would probably still melt it with a tarp, but not as quickly as if the moisture came from above and below. He'd rather have Sam on re-salt duty than fighting off a spirit they knew could toss them around like they were rag dolls. He was a pragmatist like that.

"Yeah, it's worth a shot," he said, leaning down to tug out a blue tarp he couldn't remember why they even had.

Pulling back, his right side twinged and he couldn't avoid a grimace. Dean hoped his brother hadn't noticed, but by the way Sam's lips pursed into Bitchface #2, he'd failed. It had taken him a long time to decipher the differences in Sammy's bitchfaces. He hated them all sometimes, and this one was at the top of his hate list.

"We're not going to have enough. Go check to see if Deputy Doofus has anything we can use. Meet you up there in a second. Let me just get everything all set here."

Handing his brother a Colt revolver loaded with consecrated iron rounds, his favored Taurus Model 92 and one of the sawed-offs, Dean busied himself with weapons gathering so Sam wouldn't mention his ribs again. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the concern. There wasn't time for it, and, yeah, he knew that made him slightly hypocritical. He knew he hovered over his brother but hated it if anyone did the same for him. He was a veritable walking contradiction to anyone who didn't know the only things Dean valued in life were Sam and Dad, and that included himself. What good would he be without either of them? He shook his head to expel negative thoughts.

Thanks to his tender ribs and Sam's handicap, there was too much equipment to carry at once even with Graham's help. Dean decided he'd grab the shovels and lighter fluid on a second trip. Pulling out the canister of salt, he clicked the trunk lid shut and headed toward his brother. Graham was halfway in his cruiser's trunk when Dean joined him and Sam. His gut told him to shove the guy in and close it, but he resisted. He couldn't even say his ire was well founded; Graham was a nice enough person and hadn't done anything to annoy him like Will had, aside from being way too enthusiastic about everything.

It was this damned case. It was the pounding headache he still had. And it was that even now, when they were so close to finally wrapping it up, Dean had an uncomfortable urge to glance over his shoulder constantly. Like someone was watching him. Sam was the one who was supposed to be the psychic boy.

"Got it," Graham said, inching out of the trunk with a large piece of clear, flexible plastic in his hands.

"Great," Sam said. "You get everything else, Dean?"

"I'm going to have to go back for the shovels after we lay down the salt line," he said, handing off the salt to Graham. "I don't have twenty arms. It's like we're getting ready for Custer's Last Stand or something."

"Nice comparison." Sam raised his eyebrows. "Let's just hope we have a better outcome than Custer did."

Forget about Custer, Dean wanted a better outcome than they'd had last night. They schlepped toward the cemetery, with Graham at their heels like an eager puppy. The dude had no idea what he might be getting in for. This was either going to be boring and backbreaking, or it was going to be full of the kind of action people thought would be cool but didn't really want once they were actually in the middle of. There were times Dean craved that action, but tonight he was hoping for the former. He was also hoping Graham was stronger than he looked. He wanted this all to be over as fast as possible. A large glob of snow plopped on the nape of his neck, sliding down his back. Damn it.

The cemetery was dusted with last night's snowfall, though it was quickly turning into crusty piles thanks to the glop falling now. It took Dean a minute to figure out which way to go. Once he realized they'd used the side gate instead of the main one he knew where he was. The demolished statue was still lying around in bits and pieces, the largest collection where Sam must have fallen. Nearly suffocated. He kicked a big chunk out of his way. All that accomplished was a sore toe and a worried stare from Sam.

"Okay," Dean said at graveside. "We need to make the circle big enough that the dirt won't break it as we dig."

"'Bout three feet?" Sam suggested.

"That should do it."

Putting his shotguns on a nearby headstone, Dean ushered Graham to start laying the tarp. It was apparent right away there wasn't going to be enough. Before Dean started hiking back to the car, Sam solved the problem by pulling out his switchblade and cutting the deputy's tarp into three wide, lengthwise strips. By the time his brother was done, his pale face was covered with a fine sheen that of sweat. Dean frowned, pulling Sam aside.

"Did you actually take any of those pills I went and got for you?" Dean asked.

Sam looked down and to the left, the only answer needed, but he said, "I wanted my head to be clear. It's not that bad."

"Damnit, Sam."

But Dean couldn't argue the logic. He'd have done the same. He didn't know if that made him proud of or sorry for Sam for being truly Winchester in that regard. Either feeling was probably a little screwed up. He nodded, though he hated the pain lining his brother's battered face. Oh hell yeah, Graham had better dig like a freaking mole.

"Okay. I've got it all set up. Did I do it right?" Graham asked.

Peering around the deputy, Dean double-checked to make sure there were no gaps. He lugged the salt off the headstone. Checking the circle again, he wondered if they'd have enough to cover it and have enough left over to maintain a thick line.

"Perfect, Gra…what's your first name, anyway?" Dean asked. "I figure if we're going to be in the trenches together, we should at least know your name."

"It's Teddy."

Standing behind the deputy, Sam broke into an amused smile that was like a beam of light.

As for Dean, he kept his groan internal. First Veleeta Cheese and now…

"Teddy Graham. Your name's Teddy…Graham." Dean shook his head. "Boy, your parents just loved you, didn't they?"

"They call me Theo," Graham said, looking puzzled. "I prefer Teddy."

"Of course you do." Dean shoved the canister of salt at the guy. "Here. I have to go before I say something that'll hurt your feelings."

Tromping to the car, he heard Sam instructing the deputy on how to pour the salt. Dean moved with speed, grabbing the shovels and can of lighter fluid. It'd be tough torching a corpse in this kind of precipitation, but it'd been done before. They'd just have to restock their accelerant, as it would take all that they had. He hurried back to the grave, soaked and shivering. If Caroline didn't come to stop them, they might all succumb to pneumonia. When he got back, Sam and Graham (no way could he call the guy Teddy) were done and waiting within the circle. Sam was eyeing it skeptically.

"What does the salt do, anyway?" Graham asked. "I know you said the remains have to be salted and burned, but I don't understand why we did this."

"Salt is multi-purpose, but in this case it's a repellant," Dean said, passing Graham a shovel. "A spirit can't cross a salt line, so we'll be safe in here as long as it stays unbroken."

"I'll keep an eye on it." Sam looked exhausted, but alert, with a sawed-off already in hand. "We should be all right."

"So, once we dig her up and burn her it's over, right?"

Dean counted a mental ten. They'd gone over the basics, which he'd hoped would be enough to satisfy Graham's curiosity.

"Look, we'll give you a full tutorial once we're done, okay?" he said. "This'll go a lot faster without the chit-chat."

Dean noted Sam had arranged the shotguns on a headstone within the circle, handles in and easily grabbable. It wasn't as good as being able to reload quickly, but Dean was comfortable with Sam's solution. The guns would be easy for him to grab if he had to as well. A cold trickle of snow made its way down his neck again. Cursing under his breath, he swiped at it before bringing the shovel down into the hard earth. It was going to be a long dig, no matter how fast any of them wanted it to go.

Once they got in the swing of things, Graham was too busy to ask stupid questions and it went without a hitch. The night was quiet, filled only with the sound of wet snow, the sharpness of metal cutting into dirt and occasional soft grunts by him and Graham. Dean's ribs did not approve of grave digging, and his head began to truly throb after half an hour. He kept an eye on Sam, who circled around them slowly, bending to replenish the salt now and again. He also paused to lean on an upright marker to rest, but Dean pretended not to notice that.

The night didn't remain quiet. After an hour of digging, the wail of sirens came from a distance. Graham's radio crackled to life, the dispatcher calling a familiar 415 to a familiar address.

"The spirit's at it," Dean said with a grunt, heaving a full blade up and out.

"Same house as last night." Graham paused, leaning on the handle of his shovel. He took a deep breath, before he took the radio from his belt. "Dispatch, this is 1611. Do you need backup?"

"Negative, 1611. Maintain your patrol," the dispatcher said.

They hadn't considered the spirit's attack wouldn't be against them. Dean pursed his lips and looked up to Sam. His brother appeared cold, wet and worried, casting his eyes toward the town. There wasn't anything they could do about it now. The sirens stopped, and, as last night, the dispatcher called off the responding officers. Dean didn't know if that was good or bad. He and Graham dug. They were only three feet down. The ground was so damned hard, and every swing of the shovel brought Dean pain.

"Dean, the salt's almost out," Sam said after another ten minutes. "I wish this snow would let up a little."

Damn. They needed to keep some salt for the burning, and though the spirit hadn't shown Dean didn't want to chance it by letting the salt circle break. He and Sam shared a glance. There was no choice. Someone had to make a run for more. Dean wouldn't leave Sam alone out here, he was pretty sure Sam would argue against him leaving, and neither of them wanted to send inexperienced Teddy Graham out into the night. The spirit had been across town, but that ooky, someone's-watching feeling Dean had made him paranoid she was there, unseen and waiting.

"What kind of salt do you need?" Graham asked.

"We prefer rock, but any'll do in a pinch." Sam poured in a gap, holding the can awkwardly. "Why?"

"Because I've got two twenty-pound bags of it in the trunk of my car."

Dean resisted the urge to bludgeon the guy with his shovel. "You're just mentioning this now?"

"It didn't occur to me. Sorry. I keep it there all winter long, to keep the back end from spinning out on the ice."

"Keys," Sam said, holding out a hand. "I'll go get it."

"Sam," Dean said. "I'll get it."

Dean was certain Sam was in no shape to haul a twenty-pound bag of anything around. His brother's lips looked blue with cold, and the rest of him one foot in the grave he and Graham were digging. This had been a bad idea. In his injured state, Sam's defenses would be down. He'd been half joking about pneumonia, but looking at Sam…

"No, Dean. You guys keep digging. I've got the shotgun, and once I'm at the car I'll have plenty of ammunition."

Before Dean could argue or scramble out of the hole, Graham handed Sam the keys and his brother stepped over the tarp, gone within seconds.

"Damnit," he muttered.

"He'll be fine. There's nothing out there," Graham said, as if he had the first clue about anything.

"Shut up and dig, Teddy bear."

Graham did, but after Dean stabbed his shovel blade into the ground, he didn't lift it until he heard Sam coming back. It took at least seven minutes, not that he was alternating between watching the clock and watching for his brother. The wind picked up, so strong the dense snow started coming down at an angle. Great. Not a fit night out, for neither man nor beast. He saw Sam had emptied some of the salt out of the big bag, carrying it like Santa carried his sack of toys. The sawed-off was awkwardly in his right hand, and his face showed the strain.

"This should last us," Sam said, or rather wheezed.

Dean scrambled out of the hole, taking the bag from Sam with more force than was necessary. He glared at his brother as he haphazardly spread the salt over weak spots.

"That was stupid, Sam. Just like you, always doing what you want, damn the consequences," Dean hissed angrily. He didn't even know where it came from. That bad feeling he had, maybe. Anything could have happened to Sam out there. "There was no reason I couldn't have gone. I'm fitter for the job."

"Damn the consequences?" Sam blinked, confused, taking a couple steps back. He switched the shotgun to his left hand, regarding Dean as if he might be possessed. "Dean, it's like I said – I figured you should keep digging so we can get out of here sooner. Get off my back, would you?"

A gust of wind blew Sam's hair into his face, obscuring hurt and angry eyes. Dean slumped, dropped the bag of salt and ran a hand through his hair. Sam was right. Dean was about to apologize and joke about catching Sam's chronic PMS when he noticed Sam had stepped outside the circle. The bad feeling notched up to a horrible feeling.

"Sam, get…"

The wind cut off his words, howling an inhuman cry. Before Dean could make it to his brother, Sam flew backward through the air with a startled cry, disappearing into the swirling snow.