Author's Note: Little later than usual; happy Halloween, everyone! Hope you enjoy the final chapter of this story!

Chapter 6

Susan Pollack was at a loss. Her son was in danger from something that should only exist in scary stories, she had let a stranger with a dangerous weapon enter her home, and now the police were knocking on her door. She had no idea where to go from here, and felt so out of depth it made her head spin.

The man who had introduced himself as Dean during one of the quieter moments in the last few hours was now cursing low under his breath, and she was tempted to tell him the watch his vulgarity in front of her son. It was probably a lost cause with a troubled boy like Robby, but it was a mother's instinct.

"What should I do?" She prompted when Dean didn't speak and the police knocked more insistently on the door.

"Okay," He said slowly, and the way his eyes darted from side to side indicated he was doing some very quick thinking. The doorbell sounded once, and then again and again. "Think you can act natural?"

She took in a shaky breath, clenching her hands together to stop them from trembling. "I have to lie about all of this, don't I?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head and looked at him beseechingly. "Can't you come downstairs and explain—,"

"No," He answered curtly. "You have to make them go away, alright?"

She felt a flicker of annoyance that the young ruffian was ordering her around in her own home. But then again, she didn't know how to deal with this type of situation and it was almost comforting to have someone else take charge.

She nodded once and then hurried downstairs to the front door, pulling it open just as one of the officers raised his hand to knock again. She recognized both of them and smiled graciously.

"Adam," She greeted the younger of the two, who wasn't a day over twenty-five. "Good to see you. How's your father doing?"

He smiled uncertainly, looking slightly nervous. "Better, thank you, Ms. Pollack. Doctors say he should be home in a few days."

"Well, that must be good news for your mother," Susan replied, still seeking to distract him. "I know she nearly went crazy with worry when he had that heart attack."

The older officer, Eugene, cleared his throat noticeably and glanced at Adam. The younger man flushed and looked down at his boots.

"We've had several reports of gunfire in the last hour, Susan," Eugene said, his voice polite but professional. "Everything okay here?"

Her hands flicked nervously up to her hair, smoothing it away from her face. "Really?" She asked, swallowing hard. Lying had never been her strong suit.

"Yes," Eugene replied, and his eyes narrowed. "And they apparently originated from this location. Have you heard anything unusual?"

"No," She answered, maybe a little too quickly. She placed her hands in her pockets to still their movement and then attempted a smile. "Nothing at all."

Adam opened his mouth to say something, but a loud thump echoed through the house, seemingly deriving from upstairs. Susan's gaze flew to the ceiling and a startled gasp passed her lips before she could stop it. Eugene looked from her, to the direction the noise had come from and back again. Suspicion tightened the lines of his weathered face.

"What was—," Adam began, looking puzzled, but Eugene waved him off and the younger man quieted immediately.

"Mind if we look upstairs, Susan?" Eugene asked, and her heart fluttered in panic. If she said no she would only raise more suspicion, but if she said yes….

"Ms. Pollack?" Adam prompted after a look at his older, more experienced partner.

"Yes, of course," Susan replied, hoping she didn't sound quite as breathless as she felt. She led slowly them up the stairs, stomping a little loudly in what she hoped would be interpreted as a warning. She knew little about this Dean, but she wanted her son safe and he seemed to be the only one capable of protecting him.

She knocked once, hesitantly, on Robby's closed door. There was shuffling inside, and then Robby called, "Come in!"

Susan pushed the door open and stepped inside, moving forward enough so that the two men could enter behind her. The room looked….normal. Well, it never looked normal with Robby's strange taste in decoration, but there was nothing inconspicuous about it. No ring of salt on the floor, no materializing ghost, no tall, handsome stranger with a shotgun.

"What?" Robby asked, looking annoyed and completely at ease. What she lacked in acting skills Robby had in spades.

"Someone reported gunshots coming from this house," Susan said, as casually as she could manage. "Do you know anything about that?"

Robby looked surprised. "No, I haven't heard anything."

Eugene glanced from Susan to Robby and then began walking casually around the room. "Really? Then why have all your neighbors?"

Robby hoisted an expression of innocent confusion on his face. It looked real. "I don't know. But I did have my music on earlier, so maybe I didn't hear them."

Susan almost smiled at this; the police had responded numerous times to Robby's too-loud stereo.

Adam stood awkwardly in the doorway, but Eugene continued to circle the room. He fingered the floor-length drapes adorning the window and then shifted his eyes toward the closet, which stood open, messy and obviously empty. Then he noticed the splinters of plaster and the large dent in the opposite wall.

"Susan," He said, turning back to her with shrewd eyes. "Did something happen here? Something you're not telling us?"

She shook her head quickly. "No, of course not. Right Robby?"

"Everything's peachy." Her son replied.

"No break-ins or anything? No one was here who shouldn't have been?" He looked unconvinced and disbelieving still.

"No," She and Robby said at the same time.

He could tell something wasn't quite right, she knew. But she also knew that Eugene had no other reason to investigate further, and sure enough, he soon turned back toward the door and his young partner.

"Call us if you have any problems?" He said as she walked them to the front door.

"Yes, of course," She said, smiling tightly. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Once she'd closed the door on them, she rushed back up the stairs.

"They're gone?" Robby asked the second she reentered his room. At her nod, he rolled her eyes and slouched exaggeratedly. "Jeez, mom, you almost ruined it."

"Lucky for me my son's a good liar," She said, a reprimand hidden in her words.

He sighed dramatically; apparently their little game of charades had put him in a slightly more upbeat mood. "Save the day and I still get in trouble."

She ignored his comment. "Where is he?"

The question became pointless a second later, however, when the window slid open.

"Great job with the cops," Dean said sardonically while he climbed through the small rectangular opening. He must have been balancing on the roof that bordered the window; luckily it faced the back of the house. Robby laughed.

"Come on," Dean said once he'd pulled himself easily to his feet and grabbing the canister of salt. "We need to—,"

Susan's breath suddenly condensed into billowing white plumes. She shivered and then opened her mouth in horror as a figure began to appear beside Robby. It solidified just as Dean lunged forward and Susan let out a shout of warning.

Then the ghost stopped, stared into space as though not even seeing its surroundings, and vanished again. Susan looked around, tense and alert, expecting it to reappear somewhere else. When it didn't, she looked toward Dean.

"Did you…?"

"No," He interrupted, staring absently into space. Then his face hardened, and she almost thought she saw a flash of fear. "Sam."

Sam dusted away the last grains of dirt and took a moment to prepare himself. Then he pried the lid open and held his breath, experienced by now with the dank, putrid air that released itself from a coffin after years of confinement. He looked down at the remains, which were nothing more than crumbling bones covered in tattered clothing.

He'd expected a small amount of nausea, which he always felt no matter how many times he'd done this. He was surprised, however, when the disgusted, sick feeling didn't come. Maybe he'd gotten used to death and decay, after all.

He placed his hands on the ground surrounding the square pit he'd dug and then pulled himself out. After taking a moment to catch his breath—that was record digging he'd done—Sam pulled out the salt and lighter fluid. He doused the corpse with the gritty white granules and then began applying liberal amounts of the flammable liquid.

He reached for the box of matches, and was flying through the air and crashing into a headstone before he'd realized what had occurred. His head hit on one of the polished stones with a resounding crack and went momentarily cross-eyed. Blood, sticky and thick, oozed down his temple

He blinked rapidly to clear his double vision and paid dearly for the hesitance; the ghost sent him rocketing backwards again, straight into another net of tombstones. This time he hit his shoulder, hard enough to make him shout out.

He rolled onto his stomach and ducked behind a large statue of an angel, eying the matches sitting at the edge of the grave that was now a good ten feet away. He cast a glance at the ghost, who looked like a crotchety old man except for the way his body flickered in and out of existence, and then edged toward the open grave.

Bellman moved quickly and eerily in that impossible way ghosts moved, and in the next second he was upon Sam again. Sam lurched to his feet and dodged around the ghost, but he didn't make it far before his feet were thrown out from under him again. He fell against yet another cold, gray stone, hitting the same shoulder he'd injured before.

He grit his teeth against the pain and rolled to his feet.

"This is getting really old," He grumbled under his breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clenching his hands into fists. He marked the ghost's position, noted that it was staring strangely into space with its hands held outward, and then made another break for it.

He reached the grave and skidded to a halt, landing on his knees and grabbing the trusty packet of matches. He fumbled with the paper flap, pulled out one of the matchsticks, and struck it against the rough patch on the back of the box. With a burst of light, the fire caught and then dwindled into a small flame.

Before he could celebrate the victory or even drop the match into the grave, however, something caught him from behind and jerked him backwards. What felt like thick, knotted rope wrapped itself around his neck, and he clawed at the cord that was now cutting off his breathing. He wheezed desperately, struggling to draw air past the steadily increasing pressure on his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed his shotgun, which was perched next to his other supplies at the edge of the grave. He threw an arm out, one hand scrabbling to grip the handle of the weapon while the other still yanked at the rope around his neck. He felt his fingers brush the gun and push it forward a little, so that it was suspended more precariously over the edge of the deep hole. Carefully as he could manage in his frantic, choked state, Sam put more concentration into it and nimbly wrapped his fingers around the base.

He let his fingers fall from the rope and gripped the shotgun firmly with both hands. Still struggling to draw breath, Sam cocked the gun with one hand and then pointed at random behind him, stretching one arm out and pulling the trigger. The rope around his neck slackened a bit and he pulled in a huge, gaping breath. Then he loaded the gun, held it out, and fired again at a new angle.

This time the pressure on his neck decreased completely, enough for Sam to stumble toward the set of matches. With shaking fingers, he managed to get one lit and then dropped it, without preamble, into the grave. Bright orange flames engulfed the body within, and a scream scraped through the air. Then it cut off abruptly, leaving the night still and strangely silent.

Sam collapsed on his back, eyes drifting closed as he continued to suck in air, his throat scratchy and raw. His last thought, as if drifted into a state of unconsciousness, was one of incredulous exasperation that he was always the one to get choked.

"Sam? Sammy!"

Sam jerked awake, eyes opening just as careful hands fumbled to remove the rope that still dangled loosely around his neck. He looked up at Dean, whose eyes were, for the first time in months, expressing all the emotions he was feeling—which ranged from worry to anger to concern.

Dean tossed the cord aside and then rested his hands cautiously, almost gently, on either side of Sam's neck; he also began speaking quietly. Sam blinked slowly, still coming back to himself.

Then he sat up, and the moment was broken. Dean moved his fingers away and shifted back, and Sam tried to shake himself out of his daze. He glanced around and noticed two people standing not so far away, hidden by shadows but still easily identifiable.

"Hitch a ride?" Sam asked, and then regretted it when his voice crackled and broke.

The corners of Dean's eyes wrinkled, but he shrugged nonchalantly. "Had to drive a minivan to get here, so be grateful. Last time you ever get the car."

"Dude, you were late," Sam said, gesturing to the already roasted corpse.

Dean shrugged again, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Guess you can take care of yourself."

Sam raised his eyebrows and chuckled hoarsely. Then he stopped because the action hurt. "About time you realized it."

Dean shot him a look, and Sam knew that Dean hadn't realized anything. And the next time this happened, Dean would probably use any means necessary to reach him. Even if that meant driving a minivan.

Epilogue tomorrow...