The Ruin of Souls
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.
Edited: by Teajunkie. Thank you for all your help polishing this piece.
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The stop at the clinic had turned out to be relatively painless, all things considered, but it had easily sucked two hours out of the afternoon. Sam's brain felt muzzy from the heavy-duty painkiller the doctor had given him before they left, but his mind was at ease. Doctor Mersch's initial diagnosis was inner ear trauma, not bleeding in the brain, or worse: permanent damage. They'd have to wait on a few test results to be sure, but it had been promising.
Sam glanced over to the driver's seat at Dean and didn't miss the tight set of his jaw or the tension around his eyes. Obviously, something was still bothering his brother. "What're you worried about?"
Dean's eyes flicked in his direction and then resettled on the road. "I'm not worried."
Sam sighed and crossed his arms, effectively hugging himself to get warm. The new coat had helped, but he was still freezing. "Okay, what're you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking that you should stay at the motel while I check out the farm," Dean said.
Sam opened his mouth to protest and somehow, without even looking, Dean knew and held up his hand for Sam to be quiet.
"And I know you won't, so I was trying to remember if we still had rope in the trunk to hog-tie you in the car."
"Funny." Sam turned the vent so it blew directly on him and held up his hands to warm them.
"I wasn't joking," Dean deadpanned with a smirk.
Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if he'd heard Dean correctly or not. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and blurted, "What?"
The smile dropped off Dean's face and he pulled to the side of the road. He threw the car into Park and pivoted on the seat to face Sam. "Are you having trouble hearing me?"
"No," Sam protested. "Well, yeah, but no."
Dean rolled his eyes and waggled his head. "So not helping, Sammy."
"No, I'm not having trouble hearing you right now," Sam said, twisting in the seat so Dean could see he was being honest. "Provided, that is, that you truly said something about tying me into the car."
"You heard me fine." Dean twisted the key in the ignition and the engine rolled to a stop. "So, let's set the ground rules now."
Sam folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw. "Ground rules?"
"Ah, don't be like that," Dean said, slugging Sam lightly on the arm. "You think I don't know my little brother by now? I tell you not to do something and sure as shit that's the first thing you're going to do."
"I do not do that," Sam argued, then grinned. "Unless you say something stupid, which—"
"You're a riot," Dean interrupted. "All I'm saying is that we need to play this thing smart. It could be nothing, I mean, nothing is pretty much all that's been going on at that farm for a century, right? But I don't want something to happen and for you to literally never hear it coming."
Sam bit the inside of his cheek and nodded his head. He couldn't argue there, and Dean's reasoning seemed familiar somehow. "You've got a point."
"See? That's all I'm saying. Stay in the car." Dean's face unfurled with obvious relief.
"No, I mean about nothing happening on the farm or the roadside for ages. We both checked." Sam's knee jumped in time with his whirling thoughts. "What changed?"
"I don't know, but it's been bugging me," Dean said. "How did a corpse stay hidden in an icehouse, no matter how remote, for a hundred years?"
Sam frowned and tilted his head as a faint memory tickled the edges of his consciousness. "She wasn't dry bones either. More like mummified."
"Right, and that takes, what?" Dean paused and pursed his lips before he continued. "Dry moving air? There wasn't a window or even any ventilation that I noticed in that thing."
"There wasn't." Sam shivered as cold seeped into his joints at the mere memory. "The air was stale, thin."
"So who moved her?" Dean started the car and cranked the heat. He turned back toward Sam before he asked, "And more importantly, why?"
"Looks like you're going to get your wish after all, Dean," Sam stated by way of reply.
"How's that?"
"I think you should drop me off at the motel to research some more." Sam rubbed his head in a futile attempt to jumpstart his sluggish, drug-addled brain. "See if I can't find the answer."
Dean tossed him a concerned look before he smiled. "Good plan."
Sam knew it was as much over him staying tucked away at the motel as it was the research. "I still think you should wait for me."
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized with a hint of a smirk, "but you know me. I'm not good at waiting."
"Tell me about it," Sam grumbled.
Dean didn't answer, but Sam could have sworn that the grin never left his brother's face all the way back to the motel.
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Dean had all but tucked his younger brother into bed with the laptop and his cell phone before heading out again. All he planned to do—all he really had time to do with the afternoon drawing quickly to a close—was poke around for clues. He pulled into the drive of the two-story farmhouse, surprised to see an old, brown truck already parked there. He thumbed the speed dial on his phone and called his brother.
"I'm fine," Sam greeted him on the third ring.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Good to know. Hey, see if you can run a plate for me."
"What?" Sam shouted through the phone.
Apparently, they had differing opinions on the meaning of the word fine. "A plate," Dean repeated, raising his voice. He had a growing suspicion Sam "heard" better when he had lips and facial expressions to read. The phone was going to be a bitch. "Run a plate."
"Text me the number," Sam replied. "It'll take me a few minutes."
"Yeah, no problem," Dean said. "I just wasn't expecting company." The pause on the other end had Dean pulling the phone away from his ear as he checked the connection. "Sam?"
"I'm sorry." Sam's voice dripped with regret.
Dean didn't need any special abilities to know his brother was apologizing for not being able to hear and what the implications meant to them.
A man stepped out of the farmhouse, rifle drawn, and approached the car.
"You don't have anything to apologize for, Sam," Dean said, even though he knew his brother probably couldn't hear him. "I'll text you that plate." Dean hung up, quickly typed the plate into the phone, and sent it to Sam. He reached into the glove box and fumbled for the I.D. he wanted before he slid out of the car and confidently strode to the man. When caught, act as if you were meant to be somewhere and people generally responded in kind.
"Stop right there," the man commanded. "What're you doing on my property?"
"Hollister," Dean said, displaying an official-looking badge. "Building Inspector."
"Damn it," the man grumbled, lowering his weapon. "I told you guys I'd get it cleaned up."
"Sir?" Dean asked. His phone beeped through an alert and he held up a finger to the scruffy man in front of him. Dean pulled out his cell and peered at the screen. Ray Johnson. Heir. "Mr. Johnson," he said, pocketing his phone, "it's good to hear you're getting it cleaned up, but I'm here to check on your progress."
"Yeah, yeah," Ray muttered. He waved a hand in Dean's direction and started trudging toward the outbuilding.
"And Ray?"
Johnson stopped and turned his head to look at Dean. "Yeah?"
"How about you leave the rifle here?" Dean asked firmly. He nodded to the side of the house.
"Oh, right."
Ray propped the rifle along the wall of the house and waved an arm for Dean to follow him. The stone outbuilding had windows, filthy as they were, and Dean could see a mountain of junk inside as they approached.
"I started out here," Ray said, opening the door. "But, as you can see, it's a big project." He held the door open, but Dean shook his head.
"After you, Ray." Dean followed Johnson inside, coughing as the stench hit. It smelled of old dust, mold, and something Dean couldn't quite identify, nor was he sure he wanted to. "It's pretty ripe, Mr. Johnson. Where exactly have you started the clean up?"
Ray's haggard face curled in confusion. "You're not here about the trash?"
If this wasn't the trash, Dean hated to think of what it looked like before. "Of course I am, Mr. Johnson, I'm just not seeing very much evidence that you've made progress."
"Look, I know it's bad, but grandpa was a bona fide, what-would-you-call-it…hoarder. I'm trying to get this place cleaned up to sell it. Damn property is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but not if I can't haul this crap out. I just need time, man." Ray's face had turned bright red as he spoke, his voice gaining volume as desperation leaked out.
That explained what had changed. No doubt Ray had inadvertently stirred something up with all his efforts and vengeful spirits weren't exactly fond of change.
"Of course, Ray, I get that, and I'm willing to cut you a break here," Dean said, turning on the Winchester charm he'd perfected in his tenth grade English class with Ms. Charne. It had rarely let him down since.
Ray relaxed, his shoulders slumping. "Thanks. I mean, I'm sorry. It's just been a lot of hard, disgusting work so far, and constantly having to chase squatters and teenagers who don't realize the place is occupied and they can't hold weekend orgies here now is about to do me in."
Dean quirked an eyebrow and held a smirk at bay. "Sounds like a bitch."
"More than," Ray said with a huff of frustration. "And then, no offense, I got people like you criticizing my every move and telling me I need permits. I gotta say, I'm about ready to take a match to the whole damn place."
If Dean thought burning down the farm would get rid of whatever might still be lurking about, he'd let Ray do it, but Dean wasn't convinced. "That would be a felony, Mr. Johnson," he said in his most official tone.
Johnson held up his hands in supplication. "Hey, take it easy. Look, I never said I was actually going to burn anything."
Dean took out the notepad he kept in his jacket and flipped it open. He nodded at Ray and wrote on the pad, pick up Tylenol and dinner. "That's good to hear, Ray." He paused, pen poised on the paper. "Is there anything you need to tell me before I start my investigation?"
Ray sighed and flopped his arms against his sides. "No. Nothing, except that I need more time."
Dean frowned and tapped the pad with his pen before he flipped it closed and stuffed both back into his jacket pocket. "Got that. Okay, let's get this over with."
"Okay," Ray said reluctantly. "Where do you want to start?"
"Here's as good as any," Dean replied, carefully stepping over a discarded rusty bucket. As he picked his way toward the back of the building, he noticed the items were older, tools from a bygone era and gadgets that he couldn't begin to identify. He made a mental note to check it out later when he and Sam came back after Ray was gone for the night. He must not sleep at the house or they'd apparently gotten lucky last time to find the farm empty, but Dean wasn't counting on it again.
Dean turned to talk to Ray, surprised to find the room empty. "Ray?" A stone sank in the pit of his stomach as he walked toward the entrance. His phone beeped and Dean took a look at the text message. "Oh yeah, Ray, you're in this up to your eyeballs."
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Sam's fingers flew over the keyboard as he trolled through the public, and not-so-public, records. It had been easy enough to find out that Ray Johnson was the only living heir to the Johnson farm. However, if Sam knew anything, it was that things were rarely as they seemed at first glance. It had taken a little longer to find out the property had been zoned agricultural until about five weeks ago when it had inexplicably been changed to commercial, increasing the value of the property from a few hundred thousand to possibly close to a million practically overnight.
The question of why was easy: avarice. Money was a very good reason to cover up a century-old murder that would only stall the sale of the land as an investigation took place. In addition, Sam doubted the zoning change would stand up to very much scrutiny. He pulled up a map of the farm and surrounding area. The buildings themselves, historical or not, were not worth very much and probably wouldn't serve well for any business endeavor. Unless that was the point. Maybe they were trying to cash in on the historical factor because they weren't exactly in a metropolitan area.
The map didn't show the icehouse, but that didn't surprise Sam. It was a small, forgotten building tucked into a heavily wooded hillside. What he hadn't expected to find was a proposed mining site. If someone had excavated a mine, they would also have dug ventilation shafts. A site like that would have made a perfect dumping ground for a body that would also have a steady temperature with moving air.
Sam picked up his cell and quickly texted his brother, Farm has a mine. A better explanation could wait until Dean returned. Sam curled onto his side, pulling the laptop in close and the blankets tighter. He was freezing, and the drugs were definitely taking a toll on his ability to stay awake, never mind to concentrate. He fought it for a while as he focused on the flickering screen, but eventually he lost the battle and his eyes slipped closed.
When Sam blinked his eyes open, the sky outside the motel window was dark and gray. Rain pattered on the roof, and beside him the laptop standby light blinked steadily in a reminder of what he had been doing before his brain had switched off. He looked around the room for evidence that Dean had returned, but couldn't find any. Glancing at his watch, he saw that three hours had passed, more than enough time for Dean to wrap up what he'd been doing out on the farm and make it back.
He searched blindly for his phone, found it under his left hip, and squinted against the brightness of the display. The call history didn't reflect any calls from Dean and it had Sam bolting out of bed before a wave of dizziness caused him to stop halfway across the room, trying to regain his equilibrium. That's where he found himself when the door opened, the scent of rain sweeping in with a chilling arctic breeze. "D-Dean?" he asked, his teeth chattering.
"Dude, why are you standing here freezing?" Dean asked, latching onto Sam's elbow.
"Going to look for you," Sam said, his face curling with concern. "Where've you been?"
"Ray was only too eager to show me everything," Dean said, steering Sam toward the bed. "Well, not the mine you texted me about, but all around the farm and he's actually a chatty guy once you get him started. In fact, I'm not even sure he knows about the mine. He didn't seem like he was hiding anything."
"Well, someone got the zoning changed from agricultural to commercial a few weeks ago," Sam said, pulling out of his brother's grasp. He sat on the edge of the bed, but it was because he wanted to, not because Dean had all but manhandled him over to it. Yeah, that was it. "Maybe someone on the town's Zoning Committee?"
"Maybe," Dean said, taking a seat on the opposite bed. "Then again, he made it sound like the local bureaucracy was hassling him. Could be someone had it changed and didn't tell old Ray, though."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked hard several times in an attempt to push the headache back. "Someone is definitely positioned to make money on this deal."
"You okay?" Dean asked, his tone soft.
Then again, that could be Sam's hearing. "Yeah," Sam replied, clearing his throat to relieve his gravelly voice. "Just a headache."
"Sharp or dull?" Dean asked, reaching across the divide to place a hand on Sam's shoulder.
"Relax." Sam blew out a breath and lowered his hand. "It's just a headache."
"You have a concussion, Sam." Dean sat back and scrubbed a hand down his face. "You know the drill."
"Yeah," Sam replied. He did know, but he'd been on the other side of the concussion most of the time. Dean had an amazing propensity for getting his head smacked one way or another. "Feel free to remind me how annoying it is next time."
"I will, believe me." Dean gazed at him appraisingly.
Sam did his best to look like he wasn't feeling like hammered crap, but he had a feeling he was failing miserably.
"I should go back out there tonight while Ray is gone. I don't think he's sleeping there except maybe on the weekends."
It was an odd qualification, but Sam wasn't going to ask what Dean meant by it. Something told him he didn't really want to know. "Nuh-uh, we go together."
Dean looked as if he might protest, but instead he nodded once and thumped Sam on the knee. "Can you get ready to go before we eat?"
"Absolutely." To prove it, Sam stood and carefully bent down for his boots. While Dean watched, Sam sat back down and slipped them on. He grabbed the computer and stood up. Finally, he couldn't handle the scrutiny any longer. "What?"
"Just checking." Dean didn't elucidate.
Sam didn't ask. Sometimes, it was just better that way.
Dean held up a plastic bag that had previously escaped Sam's notice. "Hungry?"
"Depends, what did you get?" Sam thought he smelled onions. A lot of them. "Burgers?"
"Nope." Dean walked over to the table and started pulling items out. He looked up before he started talking. "Sandwich for me and a salad for you and there's soup, too." He waited for Sam to take a seat. "Tell me about the mine."
"It's on an old surveyor's map from the turn of the century," Sam said, rummaging through the papers he'd printed to hand the map to Dean while he looked at the computer screen. Sam opened the lid on his salad, relieved to see that while it did have onions, there weren't too many, which meant Dean's sandwich had to be packed chock full of them. "But I can't find it on any other records, so either it was never excavated after all, or someone just never pursued it."
"My money's on it being there," Dean said, tapping the spot on the map. He unwrapped his sub and opened the chips, jamming a handful into his mouth.
"Mine, too," Sam agreed, digging into his salad. "Especially because it's pretty odd to have information that old available digitally. Either the county has spent a great deal of time and effort getting old records archived electronically or someone before us was poking around at the property and didn't cover their tracks very well."
Dean raised an eyebrow and bit into his meatball sandwich. Sam didn't need to be able to hear to know what that look said. Dean suspected the same thing he did. Someone was very interested in the old Johnson property, and considering the farm's less than stellar history, it couldn't be for innocent reasons.
They finished their meal in silence, but whether it was because they were both eating or if it was because Dean was sensitive to Sam not being able to hear well, Sam wasn't sure. Although, if it was the latter, that meant Dean was truly worried or he wouldn't be passing up the opportunity to have fun at Sam's expense. It was almost enough to make him wish his brother would try some harebrained joke just to restore a little normalcy to their lives.
"You ready?" Dean asked when the wrappers were thrown away and they'd finished their second cups of coffee. "I'm not sure we should go to the mine tonight, but I'd still like to take a look around the property without Ray knocking around."
Sam concentrated on keeping the frown off his face. He hadn't caught it all, but he'd picked up enough to get the gist of what his brother said. He hoped. "Let's go." Sam stood, too quickly it seemed as the room spun crazily on its axis until he gripped the edge of the table to ground himself. He didn't make eye contact with Dean, but continued out the door to wait in the Impala.
To his credit, Dean didn't say a word about it. They drove out to the farm, the patter of rain on the windshield and the rhythmic beat of the wipers an accompaniment to the radio, which Dean had turned down so low the words were not distinguishable, only the melody. When they pulled into the driveway, Sam could see where a truck had been parked, but there was no sign of it now. Dean killed the engine and turned in the seat to face Sam.
"Here's the deal. You stick right by me, Sam. I mean it. We're not splitting up to cover more ground, we're not getting out of eyesight of each other. If that's a problem, you can wait in the car."
Sam crossed his arms and tried to think of a reply that wouldn't escalate it into a full-blown argument. He should have known his brother wouldn't let it go that easily. The muscle in his jaw ticked with annoyance until he realized it wasn't just Dean being bossy. If their situations were reversed, Sam would be giving him the same speech, just with less of a strong-armed approach. Sam nodded and sighed deeply to let go of the tension. "It's not a problem." He smiled to let Dean know everything was okay between them. "Jerk," he added for good measure.
Dean smiled back and patted him on the shoulder. "Then let's go."
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Per Dean's instructions, Sam waited in the car while he went to the trunk for the weapons and flashlights. The rain had slowed, but it would be a wet tromp around the farm trying to dig up clues they didn't even know existed or not. If it had been up to him, Sam would be at the motel buried under the mound of blankets he'd been using since the icehouse. There was not a doubt in Dean's mind that his brother had been a hair's breadth from dangerously hypothermic. Sam had no idea how close Dean had been to dragging his sorry ass to the hospital instead of the motel room.
The truth was, however, that he could use his brother's help. Sam knew the details of the case and injured or not, an extra set of eyes never hurt. While Dean was a strategist and the one who generally pieced together patterns that others missed, Sam was the one who, more often than not, made the intuitive leaps.
Debating on whether or not to take the shovels and finally deciding it couldn't hurt, Dean tied one to the weapons bag. He'd carry it just in case they needed it. He slammed the trunk closed, and by the time he made it around to the passenger side, Sam was already climbing out.
Sam pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears. Dean didn't miss the shiver. Taking his brother out in the rain was a bad idea, but Dean was fresh out of good ones. The trouble being that it might all be for nothing. The hunt could've truly ended with Elisabeth.
"Ready?" Dean asked.
Sam's gaze continued to be focused on the surrounding area. He looked around, shielding his eyes from pelting rain with a raised hand. Finally, he turned toward Dean and asked, "Ready?"
Dean frowned but nodded and stepped forward, taking the lead. His flashlight cut through the darkness, reflecting raindrops as it bobbed along the ground with each step. The one place Ray hadn't taken him was the house, and Dean wanted a look inside. It would be drier, and that alone was almost reason enough to start there. The front door squeaked like a slasher movie cliché as the brothers stepped inside. Sam walked past him and made a beeline for the sturdy bookcase in the next room. Dean shook his head affectionately. You can take the geek out of Stanford…
Movement in his peripheral vision had Dean spinning around just in time to catch a whiff of ozone. "Look alive, Sammy!" he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the kitchen. A flickering light caught his attention and he cautiously moved forward, poking his head around the open door. A woman in clothes similar to those Elisabeth had worn appeared to be searching through invisible items in the pantry.
He raised his shotgun, setting his sights on the spirit when she turned in his direction. "He's here," she said, her voice containing a sadness that a century of disembodiment hadn't managed to erase.
Dean's eyes went wide and he risked taking his eyes off the spirit in front of him to glance about the room. A ghost of a man hovered not more than a few feet from Sam. "Sam!" Dean shouted, once more sighting the weapon.
Sam twisted to look at Dean, confusion clearly visible in the raised eyebrows even from this distance. His eyes widened as the spirit moved in a fraction of a second to stand between the brothers. With inhuman force, it slammed Sam up against the bookcase. Its hammy arm sought out his throat with deadly accuracy. The ghost leaned in closer, pressing harder until Sam gasped for breath as he tried to struggle out of its hold.
"You can't have it. It's mine," the spirit growled.
"Shit," Dean swore. Shooting the spirit now would mean his brother would get hit by the salt pellets as well, but at least it wouldn't be choking him anymore. The strangled sounds from Sam cut through any reluctance he felt and Dean readied to fire. "Hey!" he shouted in a last-ditch attempt to garner the spirit's attention.
It worked. The spirit flickered twice, its arm falling away from Sam's neck. The next moment Sam sailed through the air, landing hard on a small table before he crashed to the floor. The spirit flickered again; Dean's flashlight sputtered and went out. He hit it several times against the palm of his hand. When the light came back on, the spirit hovered directly in front of him. Dean's jaw ticked, his lips pressed together in a tight smirk. "Go to hell," he growled, firing the shotgun.
The spirit howled angrily as it dissipated in a swirling mist.
"Sammy?" Dean rushed for the huddled lump in the corner, hoping that somehow his brother had just been thrown clear, relatively unharmed. He fell to his knees on the filthy hardwood floor. "Sam?"
Sam gasped, his eyes fluttered open, and he curled into a half-sitting position. He coughed until his eyes watered and it dissolved into wheezing, shaky breaths. "What happened?"
"You had an up close and personal with another damn ghost," Dean said, his voice a low snarl of anger. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Sam's fingers curled, crinkling the creases of Dean's leather jacket. "Help me up?"
Dean looped an arm through his brother's, leaned in close, and shifted to help him stand when Sam's eyes widened and his breath hitched slightly. Dean slowly reached down, his fingers touched the cool metal of his gun. In one smooth motion he moved to block his brother from the threat behind him, and twisted to bring his weapon to bear.
The woman spirit stood not more than a few feet from him, her face pinched in sorrow, and the family resemblance to the ghost who'd just knocked Sam around was unmistakable.
"He used to be such a sweet boy," she said, wringing her hands. "Such a sweet, sweet boy."
"Judith?" Dean guessed, keeping the weapon trained on the spirit. She seemed to be riding out her reality as it was a hundred years ago, oblivious to the fact that anything or anyone around her had changed. "Judith, where's Daniel?"
The spirit didn't respond, just continued her frenetic pacing. Her emotional state appeared to border on hysteria as she flicked in and out, wringing her hands. "Such a sweet boy."
Dean held his shotgun steady. Judith was a threat no matter how innocuous she appeared. Spirits were fond of nothing if not familiarity and repeat performances of their lives, including the violence that ended them. Dean wasn't about to let any of that violence near his brother again tonight. She moved closer, her form wavering. Sam tensed next to him and that was all the incentive Dean needed to pull the trigger.
The spirit's form hadn't completely disappeared when Dean turned his attention back to his brother and with only a quick nod between them, pulled Sam to his feet. "Let's go, Sammy. It's like a freaking Johnson family reunion around here." He didn't wait for a response, just tugged on his brother's sleeve and half-dragged him out of the house.
Sam pulled free from Dean's grasp at the car. He ripped open the passenger door, leaned inside, and emerged with papers in hand. "It was never Daniel," he said when Dean stepped closer.
"No, it was their son." Dean reached into his jacket pocket for his flashlight. He flicked it on and shone it at the papers. "What're you doing?"
"I think Elisabeth's body was in that mine," Sam explained, his voice gravelly from the near strangulation.
"We've already taken care of her." Dean stepped closer, his shoulder pressed against his brother's so he could see.
"Yeah, but I think it's definitely what Daniel Jr. is trying to protect. What if he's still there, too?"
Dean could feel Sam trembling where their shoulders touched. "Nothing a salt and burn won't fix."
"If we can find him." Sam looked at him, his lips pinched from pain.
"We start at the family plot," Dean said, resting a hand on his brother's back. "Sometimes the easiest answer is the right one."
Sam snorted, his mouth quirking in a brief smile. "That'd be a first for us."
Dean jerked his head to the side. "There's a first for everything, bro." He paused, then fixed Sam with a hard stare. "Doesn't have to be tonight."
"No," Sam said, his murky hazel-greens searching out Dean's. "We need to take care of Daniel tonight. Someone could get hurt."
"Someone did get hurt," Dean said, his tone hard. "Well then, I guess it's grave digging time."
"Agreed." Sam's hand shook as he reached for the map, folded it, and jammed it into his pocket. "But we do it tonight, both of us."
Dean huffed and bit back a string of frustrated obscenities. Instead, he nodded and patted himself on the back for how calm he managed to sound when he asked, "I don't suppose there's any point in asking you one more time to stay here?"
Sam just gave him the look.
Dean nodded. "Didn't think so." He scrubbed a hand down his face, then held out his arm in the direction of the plot to usher Sam along. They trudged up the hill while the rain came down in a steady but light mist, chilling Dean, so he wasn't surprised to see his brother shivering even in his new thicker coat. Sam might insist on accompanying him, but Dean was calling the shots from here on out, whether his brother liked it or not.
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Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading!