Contact, ch. 8
xxxx
"OK, here's everything I could find." Dean put his brother's leather satchel on the table in front of him. Dean was tempted to open it and get the contents out, but he was trying to let Sam do stuff for himself when he could.
Clumsily, Sam struggled with the bag, reaching in and pulling out the spiral-bound notebook that rested on top of the computer. He pushed at the bag, trying to shift it out of his way.
"You don't need the laptop?" Dean picked up the bag and placed it on the floor next to the bed when Sam shook his head.
Sam was carefully opening the spiral. He took a deep breath and focused intently on the page he'd flipped to, eyes moving deliberately from word to word. After a few minutes' concentration, he turned the page.
They'd discovered during the aphasia diagnostic tests that reading comprehension was one of the language skills affected by Sam's brain injury. The problem wasn't as severe an issue as it could have been, but reading was not easy. Dean knew that if Sam concentrated, he could make out the words on the page and their meaning, which was good. It just took longer than either of them were used to.
Dean settled back to wait while Sam searched for what he was looking for. Patience had never been a strong trait in the Winchesters, and both men were struggling to find whatever reserves of it they might have in the wake of Sam's impairment. The speech therapist had been cautious, but still somewhat encouraging about Sam's prognosis and the potential for improvement. It couldn't happen fast enough for either of them.
Dean had come back to the room early in the evening, riding up to the hospital with Jo and Tommy, who had brought dinner for Sam. Sam had eaten more than he had up to this point, pleasing both Jo and Dean. He'd worked his way steadily – if kind of messily – through the vegetable lasagna Jo had made. Jo and Tommy had stayed a couple of hours until Sam had actually dozed off.
"That's our cue," Jo said softly. She started to gather up her things, nudging Tommy to get him up and moving. "Do you want to come home with us?" She looked at Dean while she handed Tommy the bag with leftovers in it.
Dean shook his head as he stood. "I'll stay for a while longer." He wasn't sure whether Luke had had a chance to tell her the plan in terms of finding the ghost and burning a body. "Jake's coming by after he's finished at church. I can get a ride from him."
"OK." She kissed Sam on the cheek before turning and leaning up to do the same to Dean. "We'll see you in the morning if not tonight."
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Night."
Tommy gave him a careless wave as he followed Jo out.
Dean raised his hands over his head at stretched out the tightness in his back before he moved to a different chair and sat down again.
That had been a little over an hour ago and when Sam had started to stir, waking groggily from his nap, Dean had pulled out the bag he'd retrieved from Jake and Michael's. He'd figured that Luke and the two older boys would be back shortly, so he and Sam had better get on figuring out who they were dealing with.
Sam turned another page in the notebook, and Dean sighed, moving his head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks in his neck.
Finally Sam tapped the tray in front of him, catching Dean's attention. Sam tapped his finger again, this time at a spot on the paper in front of him.
Dean stood and came over to the bed. His brother looked up at him, and Dean, cocking his head to look at the page, slid the notebook out from under Sam's pointing finger.
Emily Johnson.
Dean scanned the notes Sam had made before the accident. It looked like she and her children had been murdered by an unknown intruder in the early 1900s. The house itself had been bought and sold repeatedly over the years, then abandoned completely in the late 70s. It made a sad sort of sense that the ferocity of the ghost's attacks had increased as people invaded the old home more and more often looking for shelter or thrills or, eventually, the ghost herself. It was interesting that two children had died in the same incident; he and Sam had only seen mentions of a female ghost.
"There hasn't been anything about the kids haunting the place, has there?" He looked over at his brother.
Sam shook his head gingerly.
"OK. Do we know where she's buried?"
Again, Sam shook his head. He brought a hand unsteadily to his temple.
Dean sighed. Both at the answer to his question and the indication that Sam was in pain. Crap. "Well. This is a good place to start," he said. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Asking Sam what he'd done so far wasn't a question his brother would be able to answer. He started again, "Have you tried the local newspaper archive?"
Sam shook his head carefully, closing his eyes.
Dean watched Sam for a minute. "Hey," he said gently. He looked at the clock on the wall.
Sam blinked his eyes open again, turning somewhat dazedly toward Dean.
Dean tapped his forefinger against the back of Sam's hand where it rested on the tray. "One for 'yes,' two for 'no,' okay?" That would at least save Sam moving his head around to answer questions.
Sam's eyes drifted down to their hands. He started to nod, but stopped when Dean tapped his hand once. Sam echoed the movement.
"Good. Meds are coming soon. Can you wait or do you need me to get someone?"
With a lopsided grin, Sam tapped three times.
Dean huffed out a laugh. "Yes, you can wait and no you don't need anyone?" he tried. That seemed the most likely combination given the Winchester tendency to power through pain.
One tap.
"Sorry about that."
One of Sam's shoulders hitched slightly in a shrug. His eyelids slid closed, face tight.
Dean looked at the clock again. He was tempted to call the nurse in spite of Sam's saying he wanted to wait – it was only about 10 minutes until the next round of meds. Dean knew it was more than just Sam's head that was hurting and what difference would 10 minutes make, really? But. Letting Sam have control over those decisions he could make right now in his condition, was something Dean was trying his hardest to do.
So, forcing himself not to press the call button, Dean reached down for the computer bag. He went back to his chair and pulled out the laptop. He'd see what he could find about the burial location for their ghost.
He hadn't gotten very far – the local paper didn't provide access to archives online – when the nurse arrived to give Sam his meds and check vitals. Then, just as Dean was getting resettled and ready to come at the problem a different way, Jake arrived.
"Where are Luke and Michael?" he asked after he'd flung himself into one of the other chairs.
Dean shrugged.
"Luke's going to stay home for now," Michael said as he walked into the room. "We can text him when we're ready. Hey, Sammy."
Sam smiled a little hazily, the medication starting to take effect.
"Oh, hey, Sammy," Jake said with a wince, realizing he hadn't actually acknowledged the injured man in the bed. "Sorry about that."
Sam flapped a hand at him. No worries.
Jake smiled. "How are the drugs treating you, dude?"
Sam gave him a messy thumbs up, and everyone laughed.
"So he's not going to be much help on this," Michael observed.
"He's given a good start in his notes, and he couldn't have contributed a lot beyond that anyway, really," Dean admitted softly, sliding a glance at Sam, who just blinked at him.
"What have we got?" Jake asked, getting up to drag his chair over to Dean's.
"Sam found a name for our ghost, but we need to find out where she was buried. The newspaper's site wasn't much help, so I was going to see what the public library has online."
Dean pulled up the website and clicked through the choices – with "help" from Jake – until he found one that provided obituaries back to 1871.
"Here's hoping it says where she was buried." He clicked on the link to get them into the database. "Crap. We need a library card number."
"I've got one," Jake said, getting up to reach for his billfold.
Dean shook his head. "Nerd."
"Shut up." Jake handed over the card, and Dean typed in the number, squinting at the small numbers on the back.
"Okay." Dean typed in the name. There were several "Emily Johnsons" listed, but with the help of Sam's notes, Dean was able to find the correct one. "Damn." The listing included how she'd been murdered and the names of her two boys who had been killed with her. But there was no cemetery listed.
Michael had wandered over to stand behind Dean and Jake. He pointed at something on the screen. "She was black."
"Yeah." Dean turned to look at Michael. "So?"
"Well." Michael glanced uncomfortable at his brother, then back at Dean. "There was probably a cemetery for just African-Americans at the time she died," he said with a grimace. "That will at least help narrow it down."
Sam's finger tapped once, somewhat haphazardly, on his tray. Dean guessed he was paying attention.
"Right," Jake agreed. "Here." He slid the computer off Dean's lap. The kid had been itching to get his fingers on the computer ever since he'd sat down, so with a slight grumble, Dean let him have it. Dean was tired anyway.
Jake typed and clicked and typed and clicked for a few minutes. "Oh!" He sounded excited. "Look here she is!"
The webpage Jake had found included interment records for Plummer Cemetery. It was an incomplete list, but Emily Johnson and her children were there.
"OK," Dean said. "Where do we go?"
Jake gave the address for the cemetery and added, "Um. It says her sons were five and seven when they were killed." He paused. "Are we going to have to dig them up, too?" Uneasy eyes turned to Dean.
Dean rubbed a hand over his head. They should. Just to be safe. But. "Not necessarily," he said. "If they show up when we're taking care of their mom, though…." He let that hang.
Jake swallowed with a glance at his brother. "OK."
xxxx
"So." There was a long pause. "You're going to… take a sick Dean and two of our children to … a deserted cemetery … dig up a body … and then set it on fire?" His wife's tone was going for just making sure I understand, but was edging decidedly into how did I miss your going insane?
Luke squinted at her. "Yes?"
Jo stared at him from across their mattress. She'd just flipped back the covers to slide into bed when Luke had started his explanation about why he was leaving the apartment so late. She'd gone completely still, gaping at him while he'd talked. Now, she shook her head.
"I don't know what to do with that information," she said, finally climbing under the comforter. "Is it safe?" She cocked her head at him as she scooted back against the headboard. "Is it even legal? It can't be legal."
Luke scratched his ear and looked at her somewhat shamefacedly. "It's really not," he admitted.
Jo huffed at him. "Honestly, Luke. What are you thinking?"
Luke sat on the edge of the bed and sighed heavily. "I'm thinking that evidently there's a murderous ghost on the loose; I'm thinking Dean can't get rid of it on his own, sick as he is; I'm thinking our boys are going to help no matter what we say; and I'm thinking I'd rather be there with them than sitting here chewing my nails."
Jo gave him a knowing look. "You're thinking you want to see how this whole ghost thing works first hand," she said repressively. "And you're leaving me here chewing my nails."
Luke was surprised into a laugh, caught. "Well." He grinned at her. "Yeah. Sorry."
Jo glanced at the clock. "How long will you be gone?"
Luke shrugged. "Two hours?" He stood again. "I need to pick up the boys from the hospital, then we'll head to the cemetery, which actually isn't too far away." On Jo's questioning look, he added, "As far as we can tell, it's an old place and not used for much more than parkland these days. Hopefully, it won't take too long." He leaned over and kissed her. "I'll keep you posted."
"You better."
xxxx
Dean leaned a shoulder against one of the posts that held up the portico covering the drop-off circle at the hospital. Beside him, both Jake and Michael were bouncing on the balls of their feet, nervous energy keeping them in fairly constant motion.
Dean rested his head on the column. At least he wasn't going to have to be the one who was digging up their ghost. He had told Luke what they were going to need out of the trunk of the Impala, and he knew he could count on Luke to get exactly what he'd asked for. He also knew that Luke and the boys could carry everything, do the digging, salt the corpse, and set it on fire with just direction from him. In fact, Dean was counting on doing very little with this particular salt and burn.
He pushed away from the porch support as the Suburban pulled around.
"Shotgun!" called Jake as his brother got his hand on the front side passenger door.
For a brief minute it looked like there might be a scuffle between the boys, but Luke said, "Dean's in the front."
With a smug look at the other two, Dean moved to his place.
"I was just opening the door for him," Michael said, hip-checking his brother out of the way.
"Sure," Jake drawled, climbing into the back seat.
On the drive to the cemetery Dean reiterated the plan they'd come up with in Sam's room. Luke, Michael, and Jake would take turns digging while Dean kept an eye out for problems of both the natural and supernatural variety. Jake had won two rounds of rock-paper-scissors beating first his brother, then his uncle for the privilege of lighting the corpse on fire. They'd fill the hole back in and be done. Dean hoped.
The cemetery was as deserted as one might expect on a chilly, cloudy night in November and the graves they were looking for were in a far corner of the park, conveniently shielded from the road by space and a row of evergreen bushes. Dean breathed out a sigh of relief. This should be a pretty easy operation for his team of newbies.
Digging went smoothly and quickly with three men—two of them ten years younger than Dean—taking turns and getting regular breaks. Dean enjoyed his supervisory role and wondered vaguely about how he and Sam might be able to work a couple of hired diggers into their budget.
The chunk of a shovel hitting the coffin shook Dean out of his slight daze and got him looking around for possibly pissed off ghosts.
"Good." Dean pushed himself off the tree he'd been leaning against to peer into the grave.
Jake and Michael looked up at him. Luke was by the side of the hole they'd dug, propping himself up with his shovel. He'd taken advantage of his position of authority as uncle and old man to have the boys shoveling double-shifts.
"Clear off the lid enough to give you a place to break through it."
Michael pulled himself out of the grave while Jake did the remainder of the work. It didn't take long to expose the decaying pine box and just a few sharp blows with the shovel blade busted it open. These old graves were so much easier to deal with than more recent burials with their fancy metal coffins and upholstered interiors and locks.
Emily Johnson did not make an appearance, and Dean wasn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned.
"OK." Jake was still in the grave, feet on either side of the open coffin. The bones of the murdered woman were exposed, eye sockets staring sightlessly, tattered cloth clinging to her torso and legs. Jake tilted his face up at Dean and in the glow of the lantern they were using, Dean could see his face was smudged and kind of queasy looking.
"Climb out."
Jake took the hands his brother and uncle held down to him and let them help him scramble up to the surface.
Dean picked up the can of salt and handed it to Michael. "Coat her good."
Michael salted the bones liberally, covering her from head to toe.
"Should we be concerned that our ghost isn't protesting this?" Luke asked. "Not that I'm complaining," he added.
Dean shrugged, not sure himself. "Sometimes they don't. Admittedly not very often, but…"
"Um. Y'all?" Michael's low whisper turned the others toward him, and he pointed.
A few yards away, three vague shapes hung suspended in the darkness.
Dean heard Luke breathe in suddenly and deeply beside him, startled and a little awed, Dean imagined, by the apparitions. Dean shifted his hold on the shotgun, bringing it up, ready to fire. But none of the ghosts made a move.
"Lighter fluid," Dean said softly, and Michael squirted the accelerant over the body, his hands unsteady in the movement.
There was still no movement from Emily Johnson or her sons. They seemed to be holding hands.
"Burn it, Jake."
Eyes fixed on the ghosts, Jake struck the match and dropped it in the hole. The coffin and its contents caught immediately, igniting with a gentle "whoosh."
Emily Johnson's ghost started to spark, what would have been the hem of her dress lighting first, then the whole figure burst into flames before she was completely consumed. The two little boys on either side of their mother wavered briefly when she vanished, dark eyes seeming to acknowledge the four men on the edge of her grave just before they, too, winked out of sight.
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