Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine. The season one DVD's are though, and I dare anyone to say otherwise!
Regrettably, all errors are my own.
Jubilea was only able to review half of this chapter. I was too slow, and she had surgery on Friday. Get better soon, Jubilea!
Hell Hath no Fury
Dean looked down into the grave, but he did not see what elicited such a strong response from Sam. He straightened and looked over to Sam who was staring at the bones.
"Margaret was pregnant," Sam said quietly.
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Dean looked back to the grave. Margaret's remains seemed to have more flesh on its bones then it had only moments before. Dean crinkled his brow in confusion. Shrugging, he turned to pick up the salt tin. "We still gotta do this thing," he said.
"I know," Sam replied. He was still gazing at Margaret's remains, and let out a gasp of surprise when her eyes suddenly popped open. Margaret's spirit rose out of her bones, and floated up out of the grave.
"Dean!" Sam yelled in warning.
Dean barely had a chance to turn towards Sam when an unseen hand pushed him with tremendous force. Dean flew nearly fifteen feet until he connected solidly with an old black walnut tree. He slid down the trunk, and lay motionless on the sodden ground.
Margaret Drumsfield advanced on Sam. Her blue eyes flashed angry sparks, and her face contorted into a scowl of hatred. "Joseph, you should not have returned," Margaret said.
Sam tripped over the salt tin in his hasty retreat backwards, knocking it over and spilling some onto the ground. He could feel Margaret's pain and hate as a palpable force. He struggled to breathe. Already the power of her anger was overwhelming him. It was much stronger out here than it had been in the dining room. Sam's flashlight flickered out, leaving him in almost total darkness.
Margaret was on him in a heartbeat. Her icy fingers burned into Sam's shoulders as she locked on, and pushed him backwards. Sam fell to the ground with a thud; knocking what precious air he had left out of his lungs. He wheezed desperately trying to draw in a breath.
"I don't know what possessed you to think you were more than a plaything," Margaret said. "You were a diversion, Joseph, not a part of my life." She ran her fingers through Sam's hair causing sparks of pain to shoot through his head. Margaret no longer seemed confused about Sam's identity. She believed he was Joseph.
"I'm not," Sam managed to squeeze out. He fumbled his hand over the ground searching for the weapons bag. It had to be near him somewhere.
"You're not, what?" Margaret sneered. "Surely, you aren't trying to sweet-talk your way out of this?" Margaret rested her hand on Sam's stomach, and leaned closer to Sam's face.
Sam's world exploded in pain. "Aaaagh!" Sam could not hold back a cry of pain.
"What's the matter, Joseph?" Margaret asked. "It is nothing compared to the pain you caused me. No matter what you thought, the baby was David's. He was my husband. We were a family." Margaret pushed against Sam again.
This time, the pain was too intense. Unable to draw in a breath, Sam could not manage a sound. He fisted his hands into the ground beside him. It did not feel like clay. Sam's mind registered the feel of the fine salt granules, and he threw a fist full into Margaret's face.
Margaret fell back screaming, her hands covering her face. She paused for just a moment, before the expression of anger returned. She gave Sam a small, tight smile. "That was not very nice," she hissed. "I see your manners have not improved. Perhaps, another lesson is in order."
Sam heard two loud pops, and Margaret disappeared in a swirling mist of cold air.
Sam looked over in the direction of the noise. There he saw Dean, still sitting at the base of the tree. His knees were bent, and his arms were resting on his knees to support the weight of the gun. Dean met Sam's gaze. "You okay?" He asked.
Sam could not catch his breath to answer, but he gave Dean the o.k. sign. He wanted to just lie there, and not move. Sam wondered briefly if Margaret had somehow burned him on the inside, as she had burned him on the outside. Cradling his stomach with his arm, Sam struggled to sit up. Dean's hand appeared in his field of vision, offering him silent help. Sam grabbed Dean's hand, and heaved himself out of the clay prison his backside was ensconced in.
"Thanks," Sam said. He took in Dean's appearance. Dean too, was muddy from grave digging, and the landing after his flight on Drumsfield Airlines. His eyes looked tired, and his entire countenance spoke of weariness. Dean wore that expression frequently since their father's death. The weight of years of responsibility was a burden Dean shouldered easily. However, the addition of their father's share, and his own guilt left cracks in the foundation of Dean's soul. Sam looked forward to the day Dean would allow him to pick up his share, and help carry the load.
The blood dripping from Dean's hairline, down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his coat was new though. "You're hurt," Sam stated.
"I'm fine," Dean insisted. "Let's finish this before Casper the not-so-friendly ghost returns." Dean turned to grab the lighter fluid, and caught a glimpse of Sam who was bending over to pick up the tin of salt. Sam was caked in mud, and sprinkled generously with salt. He looked like he had suffered through the Winchester version of being tarred and feathered. Dean could not stop a chortle of laughter from escaping.
"What?" Sam asked with annoyance, wheeling around to face Dean.
"Nothing," Dean lied.
Sam shook his head. Sometimes Dean's sense of humor confused him. Sam poured the salt over Margaret's bones. He avoided looking too closely at the small bones nestled inside. Sam hoped the black-hearted Joseph had received his proper retribution.
Dean finished dumping the lighter fluid on Margaret's bones. He held a flaming lighter in his hands, and was about to toss it on the grave when it suddenly blew out. The now familiar cold breeze shot between the brothers, and they whirled as one to face Margaret.
The apparition in front of them was not Margaret. The spirit was a short man wearing a neat white suit, and small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. It was David Drumsfield.
David glided towards the open grave, and peered down at Margaret. His form flickered several times, and he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.
Dean looked at Sam, and shrugged his shoulders. Once more he lit his lighter. He was just about to throw it into the grave when the heavens opened up, and the rain started again.
"Oh, come on!" Dean shouted.
One. Two. Three times Dean tried to restart the lighter.
"Dean."
Four.
"Dean."
Five.
"Dean!"
"What?!" Dean shouted looking over at Sam.
Sam was holding a lighted match he was protecting from the rain with his other hand. He raised his eyebrows, and gave Dean the half-shrug, Dude-you-should-listen-to-me gesture.
Dean returned the gesture with one of his own.
Sam smirked at Dean, and threw the match into the grave. Despite the rain, with the amount of lighter fluid Dean had poured onto the bones there should have been an instant fireball. When nothing happened both Sam and Dean looked down into the grave. The match was out.
Sam reached into his coat pocket for another match. The air around him chilled, and he knew without looking that Margaret was back. Looking up quickly he was not surprised to find himself face to face with Margaret's angry blue eyes. "Why can't this ever be easy?" Sam thought.
Margaret reached out a hand to Sam, but this time he was prepared for her. He stepped away quickly enough to avoid her grasp. He drew his gun out of his waistband, and took aim at Margaret.
Dean realized the best way to help Sam was to finish the burn before things escalated out of control. Desperately, Dean tried the lighter again, and this time it started. He stepped closer to the grave when David reappeared in front of him.
"I left her once. I can't leave her again," David intoned.
"So, go with her," Dean replied.
"I left her once. I can't leave her again," David repeated. He reached out a hand towards the lighter, and it went out.
Sam fired the gun, but Margaret disappeared in the same instant. Margaret reappeared behind Sam, and grabbed his upper arm that was holding the gun. "Shooting me once wasn't enough for you?" she spat at him.
Sam's fingers went numb, and he struggled to maintain his grip on the gun. One part of Sam's brain pondered Margaret's question. Most spirits, even angry ones did not seem to realize they were, in fact, dead. However, Margaret not only seemed to grasp she was dead, but also how it had happened. The other part of Sam's brain was screaming at him to take action. This side of Sam's brain kicked his body into gear with an instinct born from years of hunting.
Sam twisted out of Margaret's grasp despite her claw-like grip on his arm. Spinning around, he easily dodged her attempt to regain a hold on his arm. Margaret lashed out at Sam, her pale arm sweeping past his face only inches from his eyes. Sam ducked quickly, and brought his gun up to bear.
A loud whooshing sound was accompanied by a bright flash of orange flames. Sam looked over towards the grave in time to see David wink out of existence. He looked back to Margaret, but she too was gone. Sam headed towards Dean.
Dean was kneeling on the ground near the grave, his arms covering his head, protecting his face from the flames. He stood up quickly when the flames went from ten feet above ground, to a relatively low-burning flame.
"You got it started," Sam said staring into the fire.
"Thank you, Mr. Obvious," Dean replied with a nod, sparing a glance at Sam. "She's not coming back, Sammy."
Sam nodded in response. He bent low, and scooped up both shovels in one hand. He flung the weapons bag over his other shoulder. Sam grunted in response to the pain in his stomach when he straightened back up to his full height. He did not miss the look of concern that Dean tossed his direction at the sound. Knowing Dean would be in full mother hen mode in less than five seconds, Sam used the only weapon at his disposal – distraction.
"Margaret knew she was dead," Sam stated.
"What?" Dean asked momentarily confused by the change in his thought pattern.
"Margaret knew she was dead," Sam repeated. "And she blamed Joseph for shooting her."
"She didn't necessarily die right away," Dean said. "If she had time to realize she was dying before it happened, that may explain it." Dean picked up the empty can of lighter fluid, and the salt tin.
"It doesn't explain David's appearance," Sam shot back. He tapped his flashlight against his forearm twice, and it flickered on. He started walking towards the Impala.
"Sam," Dean started.
"Dean, we need to finish this tonight," Sam insisted.
"Sam," Dean chided, inwardly acknowledging the battle to check the extent of Sam's injuries was lost. "It's morning."
"Whatever, Dean," Sam sniped. "Keys?"
Dean tossed Sam the keys. He caught them easily with his free left hand, and opened the trunk. He knocked as much of the clay off the shovels as he could, and tossed them into the trunk. They were quickly joined by the salt tin, and the empty can of lighter fluid.
"Margaret first appeared in the dining room," Dean conceded. "We should start there."
"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed slamming the trunk lid closed. "Let's go."
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This chapter was really hard for me. I didn't realize how hard action sequences would be to write. My hat is off to those of you who do it, and do it so well. And darn you for making it look easy in the first place!