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Part IV: He Vanished in the Mist
Lunch was hamburgers in the Impala. Hamburgers didn't need knives and forks. Dean felt a surprising surge of gratitude when Sam got himself a burger, too, and not whatever rabbit food he'd probably had his eye on. Samantha putting bad cholesterol into his system was truly a sign of solidarity.
After lunch they made a round of the library, the town hall, and any other place that Sam thought looked even vaguely like it might provide information on a Hessian trooper who'd been killed in the seventeen hundreds. Nobody knew anything, and the next person to ask Sam in an undertone if Dean needed any special facilities was going to get Dean's fist in their jaw.
Or possibly in their neck. Dean's hand-eye coordination wasn't the best right now.
They risked going to a café for dinner. By then they'd spent the day navigating, so they'd both got the hang of it. Sort of. Sam guided Dean to his seat and told him where his glass was. Dean drank without spilling. It was all fine until the waiter put a Braille menu in his hands.
Then Dean just wanted to cry.
A regular menu would have been better. He was mentally prepared not to be able to see a regular menu. He'd been not seeing things all day. But this was too much. The raised dots should mean something to him because they were the only way he could read now. Dean was now the guy who got handed the Braille menu and he couldn't read it. The texture made no sense to him. And if he couldn't read that, what could he read, and –
And the worst part was that the stupid waiter probably thought he'd been very considerate, and it was probably one of the things the cafe owners bragged about, being disabled-friendly. Dean would be a jerk to complain about it –
The menu was taken out of his hands, and Sam's voice said, "Remember how you used to read me the menus when I was a kid?"
Dean did have to blink back tears then. They weren't for himself. They were for all the other people who'd been in this position, who'd suddenly lost one of their biggest connections to the world, and who hadn't had a Sammy sitting across from them kicking them under the table and trying to make them feel like everything was all right.
"Dean?" Sam sounded worried now, and Dean shook his head.
"It's OK… I'm fine, kiddo. Read me the menu."
The evening should have looked up after that, but of course they weren't that lucky. They'd just finished ordering when Dean heard a chair scraping as someone sat, uninvited, at their table. He turned his head towards the sound.
"You again?" Sam asked. But he only sounded faintly annoyed, not disturbed, so Dean relaxed.
"I'm disappointed," came the response, and Dean recognized the voice straight away – the man who called himself, and might or might not be the ghost of, Ichabod Crane. "After everything I told you, I thought you would be well on your way to digging up the grave by now. Not sitting here… Eating."
He sounded like was wrinkling his nose.
"Is there a reason you're here?" Sam said coldly.
"Why haven't you finished the Hessian yet?"
"Why do you care?"
"Really? You think that's the way to go? It doesn't matter why I care, and that's not the question you should be asking." Crane's voice was closer, and Dean knew the man was now speaking to him. "Dean, you should be asking your partner why he's taking it so easy. Your life is on the line now. Clearly he doesn't care –"
"Shut up," Dean said without heat, covertly nudging Sam's shin with his foot – at least, he hoped it was Sam's shin, because he so didn't want to be kicking some creepy stranger under the table.
"You listen to me," Crane hissed, and he was talking to Sam again. "If you don't want your brother's life on your hands, you need to get rid of the ghost. I thought you would have done it by now. I gave you his name. I told you his story. All the information you need." Something was getting to Dean, something about his voice and his urgency. "You could have salted and burned him twice over by now, but you've got exactly nothing to show for it."
"Hey," Dean snapped. "That's enough."
"I don't think you understand the seriousness –"
"No, I understand plenty. What I don't understand is why you care so much. Who the hell ever you are, this clearly matters to you, and you know how to get rid of ghosts. If it's that easy, why haven't you done it yourself? Because you can't. You don't know where he's buried. All you know is some stupid old wives' tale and you're trying to guilt-trip my brother. We can handle the job, we don't need your help, now get out."
There was a moment's dead silence. Then Crane's chair scraped again, his footsteps receded, and Sam let out a relieved breath.
Sam grinned at Dean even though he knew his brother couldn't see it. He should've known that Dean would always have his back.
"Stop it," Dean said irritably.
"I'm not doing anything."
"I can feel you looking."
Sam laughed and looked away. The café was busy, which was surprising for a place so far from the town of Sleepy Hollow itself. Sam supposed it worked for road trippers. He watched the waiters bustling about and carrying trays back and forth.
He was watching the kitchen door swing shut when he saw the computer on the counter flicker and disappear.
"Crap."
"Sammy?"
"We have to go. Now." Sam hauled Dean to his feet, looking around at the crowded café. Full of innocent civilians who might get hurt, who might disappear without a trace like Jed's friend. He couldn't leave them here – and he had to help Dean.
He spotted the fire alarm and sprinted across the room to it, mumbling hasty apologies to the people whose food he knocked over. Praying that the alarm was still working, he smashed the glass, ignoring the tiny shards that embedded themselves in his hands, and pressed the button.
"Hey!" someone yelled, but it was lost in startled exclamations and children crying and the sound of people getting to their feet.
Sam turned to Dean, and his breath caught for a moment at how startled and bewildered – how lost – his big brother looked.
He crossed the distance in a few steps and grabbed Dean's shoulders.
"Sammy?"
"Yeah, it's me. Come on."
He hurried Dean out, supporting him when he stumbled.
They'd barely gained the parking lot when white mist descended.
"Crap."
People were frightened, screaming, and Dean had stiffened against him. "Sam, what's going on?"
Sam didn't know if it was safe to stay where they were – it was the parking lot, and last time it had happened Jed's friend had disappeared from the street – but visibility had gone down to nothing. There was no way he'd find the Impala in this.
"It's the fog again. Don't move."
"The fog?" Dean whispered, and Sam heard his fear.
He tightened his arm around his brother's shoulders, hating his helplessness. Of course Dean didn't like it; the Headless Horseman had done – something – to him in this mist and –
Dean's head was turning into his shoulder, and it was all kinds of wrong seeing his big brother so vulnerable.
"It's OK," Sam whispered, wrapping his other arm around Dean as well. Nothing was getting to Dean without going through him first. "We're fine. You're fine. I don't even –"
Sam cut himself off in the middle of "I don't even see him" when the great shadowy figure of the Hessian on the horse appeared, galloping down what was probably the road. The Horseman was moving like he had a purpose. He was going to run someone else down; and although Sam's hunter's instincts screamed at him to go get in between before a civilian got hurt, he forced himself to stay where he was. Dean was already out of action, and the only way of stopping the ghost was if Sam did it.
Sam needed to stay safe. It was best for everyone, including all the civilians who'd get hurt after the Horseman got to him if Sam got in the ghost's way now.
He took the opportunity to study the figure. It was headless, the body ending in a horrible stump of a neck. The horse was very tall, maybe twenty hands, and its hooves ate up the ground as its rider urged it to move faster.
Sam waited for the scream as it touched someone, but there was nothing. And… Now that he thought about it, the Horseman didn't look like he was trying to get anyone, either. He was riding with purpose… But he didn't look he was hunting someone.
He was going somewhere.
Dean was trembling, and Sam rubbed his back and murmured something comforting. His mind was racing.
Had the Horseman been doing that yesterday? Had he been doing that all along? Sam and Dean had been on the road, so if the Horseman had been making for some destination, they'd been directly in his path. He might just have ridden through Dean without knowing or caring that he was a person.
Sam had assumed the ghost had been malicious, and it certainly was dangerous and needed to be finished, but it didn't look like it meant harm. It looked like it was on a mission and would ride right through anyone who was in its way.
As Sam watched the Horseman pause, turning the horse in a circle as though trying to find his way, something else clicked in his mind. Legend said – and if maybe-Crane's story was true, it was probably right – that the Hessian was searching for his severed head. Except, of course, that he'd now had well over two hundred years and a limited area in which to look. Either the Hessian of the Hollow was the worst searcher in the history of forever, or he knew where his head was buried but couldn't get it.
But maybe he could lead Sam to it.
Dean was still shivering minutely and Sam felt a pang at leaving him – but Dean needed him to figure this out, and this might be the only way.
"Stay here, Dean," Sam murmured, stepping away.
"What?"
"I'll come back for you." He gripped Dean's shoulders briefly. "I promise I'm coming back for you, Dean. I'll explain later, but there's no time now. Just wait here."
Ignoring Dean's questions, Sam ran after the ghost as quickly as the shrouding mist allowed. It was difficult, and if the Horseman hadn't been stopping every few moments to turn his horse around as though he was looking for something, Sam wouldn't have been able to keep up. The parking lot was crowded, and Sam bumped into cars and people and once he tripped over what was probably a dog.
The rider was almost out of sight before Sam reached the road, which was blessedly free of obstacles – and he knew this was dangerous, he might get run over, the ghost might turn and come after him and he was unarmed. But Dean was dying.
He ran full out. He could barely see the Horseman, a tiny speck in the distance, but he had to reach him.
And then, fortunately, the horse stopped moving altogether. The horseman leapt off, cloak billowing behind him although there was no wind. He took a few steps off the road, the horse waiting patiently where he'd left it.
Sam didn't stop running. That had to be it. That was where the Hessian's head was buried. He had to get there, had to find the spot before the ghost disappeared.
He was a few yards away when the mist began to dissipate. The horseman vanished, but Sam had seen where he was standing, standing and staring down at the ground like there was something he desperately needed underneath.
Sam looked down at the grass. The soil seemed loosely packed, but it had been more than two hundred years. It was probably buried pretty deep. He'd need the shovel from the car.
And he needed to get back to Dean. His brother must be freaking out.
Dean was alone. Sam had said something about coming back and then he'd disappeared. He'd disappeared and left Dean and now all Dean could hear was people screaming in the darkness and –
Oh God. He couldn't do anything. If the ghost came back he couldn't help anyone, couldn't help himself. That thought hadn't been as horrifying when Sam had been around.
Dean had never realized just how comforting Sam's presence had been until it was gone. Sam was gone, God knew where, and Dean was here and he couldn't see and there was nobody to guide him with a hand on his shoulder and kick him under the table just to let him know he wasn't alone and read him the menu and make him feel like suddenly having lost his sight didn't make his life unbearable.
Dean was alone.
Someone bumped into him.
Dean stumbled, and a man's voice snapped, "What the hell were you doing standing right in front of the steps, idiot?"
"Jake," a woman's voice said, quick and quiet. "Jake, I think he's…"
"What?"
"You know." The woman's voice dropped an octave. "Blind."
"Oh." Jake sounded embarrassed now. "Oh, man, I am so sorry. I had no idea. Are you hurt? I'm sorry. Is that – are you OK? Can I call someone for you?"
"No, I'm fine. I'm just… Waiting for my brother. He's going to be along in a few minutes." Dean hoped so, anyway. Because he needed Sam. "Don't worry about it, man, it's cool."
"No, really, I'm so sorry. I couldn't – at least let me help you to a bench. You should sit down."
Dean felt a strong urge to punch Jake. He was blind, not an invalid.
"Nah, Sam told me to wait here."
"Don't worry, the bench is right here. Your brother's going to be able to see you."
"But –"
But the guy was already moving him away, and Dean normally would have hit him but he couldn't even see him. Besides, he didn't want to cause trouble until Sam was there to get him out of it.
Then Jake and his girlfriend were gone and he was alone again and he didn't even know if Sam would be able to see him.
Minutes ticked by. Maybe hours. There were footsteps and voices, and then there was laughter. The fog must have lifted. No sobbing, so maybe nobody was hurt.
The fog had lifted. Where was Sam? Maybe he'd come back and hadn't been able to find Dean and was looking for him somewhere else. Jake had said Sam would be able to see him on the bench, but what the hell did Jake know? What if Sam thought Dean had ditched him?
There were footsteps coming towards him. Sammy.
Dean got to his feet and took a couple of tentative steps forward. His shoe struck something and he went down. Hard.
Oh God. He was sprawled in the gravel like an idiot, and –
And there was a strong arm around him.
"Dean?" Sam murmured. "What happened? Are you OK?"
"Sammy."
Sam probably understood, because he said, "Yeah, OK. I've got you."
"You left."
"I didn't leave, Dean. I was just – I was checking something out."
Dean knew that tone, and he didn't miss a beat when he said, "Truth, Sam."
Sam sighed, helping Dean up. "Don't freak out. I followed the Horseman –"
Dean had known it was some stupid crap like that.
"Sam, you moron –"
"He wasn't trying to hurt anyone." Dean scoffed and Sam went on quickly. "No, I know he's hurting people. I mean, he isn't doing it because he wants to. He just doesn't care. Maybe he doesn't even realize he's hurting them. He's looking for his head. I thought he might lead me to it."
"That sounds less disturbing than it should."
Sam laughed. "I think he did lead me there, though. He led me to a place and I think his head might be buried there."
"Even if it is, we still need his body."
"We'll find it." Sam squeezed Dean's shoulders. "I promise. Do you still want your burger?"
Dean was about to say hell yes – he always wanted his burger – but he couldn't face going back inside to the waiter who'd given him a Braille menu and Jake who'd knocked him down and then guided him to a bench like he was freaking helpless and –
"OK," Sam said softly. "Let's go to the car. You can wait there and I'll go back in and get our order."
Dean had barely realized Sam had been walking them somewhere, but then a door opened and Sam's hand was on his head, keeping it down so he didn't bump it as he lowered himself into the passenger seat.
"Sammy?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be long."
Dean hated the vulnerability in his own voice. But all Sam said was, "Sure, Dean."
Sam was back in what was probably a few minutes, though it felt to Dean like hours. Dean wasn't sure what he looked like, but it must've been terrible because it took about ten seconds for his brother to draw him close.
"Sam," he protested half-heartedly.
"Eat your burger."
Dean started to eat. Sam wasn't, though. The Impala was moving.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere we can wait for night."
Night. Dean shuddered. The next day his hearing would go, and he would be even more isolated.
His hearing would go.
"Sam?"
"What, Dean?"
"Tell me about…" Dean hesitated. What could he come up with that would lead to a Sam-lecture that would go on for a good four hours? "Tell me about classical influences on Elizabethan art."
"What?"
"Please."
Dean could feel Sam staring at him. But his brother probably understood, because a moment later he started talking. Dean finished his burger, and then he fell asleep to the sound of Sam's voice.
As soon as Dean was asleep, Sam slipped out, grabbed the first aid kit, and pulled out the few tiny glass shards that were still embedded in his hand. He hadn't wanted to say anything about it in front of Dean; patching him up was usually his big brother's job and it would have made his big brother feel even worse than he already did.
Dean was still asleep when Sam wrapped a bandage around his hand.
Careful not to wake him, Sam put the car in gear and drove back to where the Horseman had stopped.
Dean was going to kill him when he found out. It was stupid to hunt without backup. Sam should call someone. But everyone they knew was at the other end of the country, and he couldn't risk waiting, not with Dean's life in the balance.
He pulled the car onto the shoulder, near enough to where he needed to dig that he'd be able to keep an eye on Dean the whole time.
As long as the Horseman didn't interfere, he could do this.
He grabbed a shovel from the trunk and started digging.
He had to go about five feet before the edge of the shovel struck something hard. Sam knelt and brushed the dirt aside. Instead of the skull he'd been expecting, there was a firm, flat surface.
A box?
He cleared away soil with the shovel. The flat surface extended too far to be just a box with a severed head. Sam went on until he'd uncovered a coffin.
The body, then.
Except that maybe-Crane had said the body was in the cemetery. Maybe he'd had the location wrong, but –
Mist was descending.
Crap.
Sam looked up, frantically trying to spot Dean in the car, but he couldn't see more than a foot as the fog came down thick and fast, covering everything before Sam could even scramble out of the hole.
He'd parked far enough away for Dean not to be in danger. He thought he had. He hoped he had. If he had that wrong –
There was a flickering shadow, and then the Headless Horseman was in front of him.
Sam stepped back, fumbling for his gun.
But the Horseman wasn't moving forward or trying to attack. He was simply standing there, body turning towards Sam and away again and again like he was trying to say something.
"What?" Sam asked.
The Horseman didn't show any sign of having heard. Of course he couldn't hear, he didn't have ears –
Sam stared. That was what was happening. That was why all the people the Hessian touched were losing their senses. They were suffering the same way the ghost did, falling into dark silence with no connection to the outside world other than touch. The Horseman could touch. He couldn't hear or see or speak. He could only touch.
The ghost stepped closer, clearly aware of Sam, but –
The Hessian raised his hand and pointed at where his head would have been if he'd had one. Then he pointed at the coffin. He repeated the gesture four times, as though to be certain Sam had understood.
Sam's heart was racing. He did understand, or he thought he did. Whatever else he was, the Hessian of the Hollow wasn't malicious. He just wanted to be whole.
"All right," Sam whispered. "You want me to put your head and body back together, is that it? I'll do it. But then you have to fix the people you've hurt. Dean, and Fred. That guy who disappeared near the motel, was that your doing too? He vanished in the mist."
Once again, the Hessian didn't respond. He simply stood there as the mist thinned and disappeared, along with the brooding black figure on his tall horse.
Sam let out a breath, feeling like there might be hope after all. He had the body. That was more than he'd hoped for after a fruitless day of checking records and talking to people who seemed uncertain whether he was a lunatic or simply an obsessive ghost-chaser. He had the body, and maybe he'd soon have the head. If he handled it right, the Horseman might even lead him to it.
There was a sudden sound, a loud bang that reverberated in the darkness. At the same time, Sam felt a line of fire and pain on his upper arm.
Slowly, Sam raised his head.
Standing on the highway next to a beat-up pickup truck, rifle raised to fire again, was Jed.
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