Hollow Victories\\Part 2

Dean limped into the motel room from the small bathroom, trying to stifle the moan of pain. The impressive black and blue bruise on his hip had started to throb as soon as they'd left the cemetery. He'd managed to drive without incident, but the joint had stiffened up and the long, hot shower had done little to loosen tightness in his leg. Without looking at his brother, he shuffled to the closest bed and flopped down onto his back, not bothering to lift his feet from the floor.

"Here."

The ice pack hit him square on the stomach and he deftly repositioned it on top of the area of throbbing pain.

"Thanks."

"You okay?"

"Would you believe I've fallen and I can't get up?"

"It must be a bitch getting old."

Dean tilted his head to glare at his brother upside down. "Laugh it up, junior. 'Cause this is you in a couple of years."

Sam grinned. "Like they say, Dean, it's not the years, it's the mileage."

"Says the guy with no car." Dean pushed himself onto his elbows and twisted his body around so that he lay correctly on the bed. "You spend all this time thinking up bad one-liners, or have you done something constructive with your time?"

Sam smirked but nodded toward the computer. "I think I found our horseman."

"No shit?" Dean pushed up, wincing slightly as he put weight on his leg. "What happened to 'the Headless Horseman is just a story?'" He limped over to the table across the Sam and carefully lowered himself onto the wooden chair, replacing the ice pack on his hip as he focused his attention on his brother.

"The Headless Horseman is a story, Dean. But I think it just may have some basis in reality."

Dean pursed his lips and ducked his head in question. "So, what, you think Washington Irving was writing more Amityville than Blair Witch?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. I mean it's possible he wrote something he saw, but knowing the fears of the people at the time, played it off as a work of fiction. Back then, people tended to believe in witchcraft and the devil and all sorts of things that could end up coming back on the person who reported it. It's conceivable that he witnessed the horseman first hand, or maybe heard the story from someone, and wrote a fictional account using the ghost as his villain."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Okay. Possible. But who's our horseman?"

"Major John André." Sam announced, turning the laptop toward his brother. "In 1780, he was a British officer who was arrested as a spy. Story is he was traveling south on Albany Post Road –"

"Right where Sam Walton is setting up shop," Dean interrupted.

""Exactly," Sam continued. "He was carrying plans to West Point when he was stopped and searched. They found the plans in his boot. He was arrested, convicted and subsequently hanged in mid October of that year.""

"Hanged?" Dean asked. "His head didn't happen to pop off or anything, did it?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "There's no actual report of anything but the hanging, Dean. But, if those bones are as old as the think they are, we could be looking at a simple salt and burn here."

"Except Major Pain still seems to be missing his head." Dean reminded him. "You think we can put a crimp in this things midnight rides if we can't find all of him?"

"Maybe the head is already destroyed," Sam offered, raising a hand to stop his brother's argument. "I know. We don't have any proof one way or another, but we didn't find any trace of the skull at the construction site, and I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of taking another survey as long as the horseman is still galloping around. Besides, if the head isn't with the body and it's still in tact, it could be anywhere. There's just no way for us to find it. I say we get the bones and put this spirit to rest."

"I guess it's all we can do," Dean agreed. "If he's keeping heads, it's possible he's really lost his, so I guess we're gonna steal us some bones." He pushed himself off the chair and hobbled back to the bed, easing himself down onto the mattress with a sigh.

"You gonna be able to make our appointment in the morning, grandpa?" Sam couldn't hide the trace of humor that colored his inquiry as he watched his older brother's movements. It was obvious Dean wasn't feeling up to a long, arduous search and Sam had no problem trying the easy way out for once.

"Oh I'll make it," Dean assured him as he repositioned the ice pack, then relaxed back into the pillows. "And after we torch this thing, remind me to kick your ass."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

A second hot shower the next morning had loosened Dean's hip slightly, despite the impressive green and yellow coloring that had extended above and below the actual bruise. Sam gave a low whistle of sympathy when Dean emerged from the bathroom in just his dark dress pants and limped to his bed to grab the white shirt and dark tie that completed his 'Fed' disguise.

"Are you up for this?" the younger man asked as he stood before the mirror, watching his brother as he straightened his tie.

"I'm fine, Sam." Dean responded without hesitation. He pulled on his shirt then sat down slowly before beginning to work on the buttons.

Expecting the answer, Sam shook his head silently as he crossed the room and pulled his suit jacket from the back of the chair. He turned toward his brother as he shrugged into the dark jacket, pulling on the sleeves to straighten the shirtsleeves below. "So, how exactly are we going to make off with a bunch of bones from a secure lab in broad daylight?"

Dean shrugged as he pushed himself off the bed and shrugged into his own jacket that had been draped across the foot of the mattress. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

The 'agents' were introduced to a tall, dark haired woman whose nametag read M. Cartwright.

"Uh, Doctor Cartwright," Dean began as they made their way toward the lab where the bones were currently being stored.

"Please, call me Margaret." The doctor lowered her glasses and gave Dean a wide smile, eliciting a look of surprise from the older brother and a soft snicker of amusement from the younger. The woman was in great shape for her age, which Dean surmised must be just this side of fifty. Her face showed only slight lines around her eyes and her dark hair shimmered with a slight tinge of white around her temples. Dean thought it made her look incredibly sophisticated. Underneath the white lab coat, he could tell she was someone who took good care of herself, her modestly cut blouse open just enough to show a bit of cleavage, the bottom tucked into a shapely pair of dark slacks.

"Okay," he drawled slowly, returning her smile with one of his own. "Margaret. Have you been able to determine the age of the bones?"

Margaret pushed through a set of swinging doors, leading them down a long, sterile looking hallway. "Actually, preliminary tests show the bones to be over 200 years old. That would date back to the revolutionary war. Of course there are plenty of old graves from that period around here so it's not surprising to find a body that old…"

"But this body wasn't found in a marked grave." Sam supplied.

"No, which is going to make it very hard to identify," she agreed. Moving gracefully into a small exam room, she waved them toward a gurney with a set of bones, sans head, lying in the approximate position they would occupy inside a human body. "We're sending them out later today to the state lab in Albany for a thorough study. I'm afraid there's really not much more I can tell you."

Dean stepped forward, his limp obvious as he walked around the gurney.

"Are you alright, Agent Shaw?"

He raised his eyes to hers, the corners of his lips turning down slightly as he nodded. "Ah, yeah. Just managed to take a hard tumble chasing a suspect a couple of days ago. Bruised my hip up a bit. Nothing serious."

Sam stepped back, knowing his brother would never play up an injury – especially one as minor as this – without a reason.

Dean took another step, placing himself just to the left of Doctor Cartwright, before bending slightly and giving a pain filled hiss.

"Oh my," Margaret grabbed for his arm, helping him stand and giving him a look of concern. "Perhaps you should sit down, Agent…"

"Tom," Dean supplied.

"Tom," she repeated with a smile. "I have a very comfortable couch back in my office. It's just a few doors down the hall…"

Dean raised his eyebrows and gave his brother grin before turning his attention back to the doctor. "That would actually be great, Margaret. In the meantime, my partner can call in and give our report."

Sam pulled out his cell phone on cue. "Uh, yeah. No problem, You take it easy for a few and I'll meet you back at the car."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

Leaning against the Impala, Sam pulled at his tie and checked his watch for the umpteenth time. After Doctor Cartwright had helped his limping 'partner' out of the exam room and down the hall, Sam had quickly pulled the collapsible carton from underneath his suit jacket and placed the bones inside. He'd found a roll of tape to seal the container and had made his way out of the lab, nodding to the staff he encountered as if he was simply doing his job.

It always amazed him what they could get away with by simply acting as if they belonged. Nobody questioned a 'federal agent' transporting a container from the lab and all he had to do was carry it out, drop it into the trunk of the Impala and hope his brother made his own escape before anyone who had a clue noticed the bones were gone.

Speaking of which….

He raised his head toward the door as it opened, spilling his smiling, only slightly limping brother into the parking lot. Sam pushed off the car as his brother approached, crossing his arms in front of him and breathing slowly through his nose.

"It's about time."

"You get the bones?" Dean pulled the keys from his pocket as he sauntered past the taller man and started around the front of the black Chevy.

"Yep," Sam replied. "In the trunk." He allowed his body to turn, following his brother's movement to the other side of the car.

"You put a body in the trunk?" Dean looked up as he opened the driver's side door. "How very Soprano of you, Sammy."

Sam snorted a laugh and opened the passenger door, sliding his long body into the familiar leather seat. "So, how'd it go? Doctor Cartwright looked like she wanted to sooth more than just the pain in your hip." He turned in his seat, throwing an arm across the back of the bench, giving his brother a grin.

"Oh, she did," Dean reached forward and slid the key into the ignition. "And for the record, she has very nice hands for a cougar."

"A cougar?" Sam stuttered, his eyebrows rising to disappear under his bangs. "Dean, you didn't!"

Dean leaned back and laughed, his eyes widening in innocence. "Hey, I had to do something to keep her busy so you could scam the bones."

Sam shook his head. "I don't want to hear this, do I?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, dude. She was a nice lady…"

"… with nice hands," Sam mumbled.

"… who just happens to be a student of Swedish Massage techniques." Dean finished, turning the key and letting the sound of the Impala's engine fill the air.

"Swedish massage?"

"Yep."

"You mean she…"

"Yep."

"And you…"

"Yep."

"Right there in her office?"

Dean shook his head as he threw the car into gear. "Close your mouth, Sammy. You're drooling."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

For the sake of thoroughness, they decided to take a last look around the construction site after the crew had left for the evening, but it was clear that if the spirits skull had at one time been with the rest of the bones, it was no more. They set up the skeleton back behind the partially constructed building, far away from the road, hidden from view from prying eyes. They hadn't encountered any security on their last trip to the site, and it seemed pretty obvious there was little to none tonight.

As Sam reverently placed the last bone on top of the pile, his thoughts went to the person that lived so long ago.

"You think his family ever wondered about him?"

Dean looked back over his shoulder from his position as sentry. "I don't know, Sammy. Seems kind of sad for someone to die and have nobody realize they're gone. Besides, we're going to give him a proper send off. "

"We're burning his bones, Dean," Sam reminded him. "Somehow I don't think that constitutes a proper funeral."

Dean sighed and turned back to the darkness. "He was a soldier, Sam. Despite which side he fought on, he was still a soldier and this is something a soldier would understand."

Sam thought about his brother's words for a moment before answering. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He sprinkled salt on the pile and doused it with lighter fluid, stepping back as he pulled out a matchbook. "You ready?"

Dean turned, placing his shotgun over his shoulder and nodded. "Light it up, Sammy."

It almost felt like he was back in Bobby's field behind the junkyard for a moment. Sam swallowed and looked at the pyre, for a moment seeing his father's linen wrapped body instead of the pile of ancient bones. With a heavy sigh, he struck a match, allowing it to light the rest of the book before tossing it onto the bones. Within seconds, the entire pyre was lit up, the flames climbing high into the night sky.

He looked up to see Dean's eyes staring into the flames, a lost look on his face. He could only imagine what ghosts his brother was seeing in the blaze. Sam remembered seeing the same look on his brother's face as they'd sat out in the field, alone, watching their father's body burn. He hadn't cried – not like Sam had – he hadn't shown any emotion at all. And for some reason, that had been more painful to see than the fire itself.

A movement behind his brother caught Sam's eyes and he looked up, breath catching in his throat as the horseman appeared almost twenty yards from the pyre.

"Dean."

Obviously sensing the urgency in the younger man's voice, Dean looked up, his eyes quickly following his brother's line of sight, focusing on the apparition behind him. He raised the shotgun, but didn't fire, instead taking a step forward, his eyes squinting at the ghost.

"He's not coming after us," he stated matter-of-factly.

Sam's brows furrowed as he realized his brother was right. The horseman wasn't even mounted on the dark steed. He stood beside the creature, the horse's reigns trailing on the ground. Neither spirit moved, simply standing in the darkness, a black silhouette against the waning moonlight.

"Maybe it realizes we're helping it," Sam ventured, his eyes round as he watched the spirit slowly begin to fade. After a moment, there was nothing but the darkness, the only sound the crackling of the fire as it completed it's job.

"Do you think a soul can be at rest with part of itself missing?"

Sam turned toward his brother who was still staring out into the night. "I don't know. I'm willing to believe it if you are."

When Dean didn't answer, he shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes tracking back to the dying fire. "Dean, I've been thinking…."

"When are you not?"

Sam huffed a laugh, grateful for the attempt at levity even though it was obvious his brother's heart wasn't into it. He took a deep breath, not really sure if what he was about to say would help or hinder, but knowing he had to do something to set his brother's mind at ease.

"About what you said before… about Dad… about him being dead because of you…"

"Sam…" He couldn't ignore the warning tone of Dean's voice, but he held up a hand, hoping to force his brother to listen to him for once. He'd been thinking about what Dean had said on the side of that mountain road for days and although he couldn't understand how Dean could believe it was his fault, he could understand why his brother would feel guilty about what had happened.

"No, just let me finish. Please."

Dean slowly lowered his head and Sam nodded, knowing it was all the permission he was likely to get.

"I know you think Dad made some kind of a deal. I know you think he traded his life for yours… and I don't know if that's what happened, but if that's really what did go down, if he really did make some kind of a bargain to save you, then… I think you're wrong." He kept his eyes on his brother, watching as the broad shoulders tensed. "Dad's not dead because of you, Dean. You're alive because of him."

"And that's different how?"

"Because it was his choice, Dean. It wasn't yours. It was his. He made it because he wanted you to live. He wanted to save you more than he wanted his revenge."

"Maybe," Dean acknowledged in a low voice. "But it wasn't worth it, Sam. It wasn't worth his life."

Sam sighed, knowing he was probably never going to get his brother to understand. John Winchester had been such a huge part of their lives – of Dean's especially – and Sam could only hope that one day his brother would be able to think of their Dad without believing his sacrifice was for nothing.

"He thought it was," Sam said softly. "And, for once, I can't find it in me to disagree."

The fire crackled in the silence, the wind beginning to blow the ashes back across the construction site. Sam turned his attention back to the pyre, watching as the smoke drifted high into the sky, disappearing into the night.

The End

My apologies for not having this complete by Halloween, but at least I didn't make you wait until Thanksgiving! Hope everyone had a safe and scary holiday!! Thanks for reading!