They spent two more days in Manitoba, the first to give Sam some extra time to heal up and the second because Sophie woke up with a migraine so bad she couldn't open her eyes or keep down water. Sam went out to look for leads on a new case and Dean lay on top of the blankets next to Sophie, one hand on her back, the other scrolling through news listings on his laptop.
They found a series of news reports that sounded suspiciously like a werewolf up in Northern Saskatchewan. Eight maulings and all close to town. Too close to town for it to reasonably be a bear, even an aggressive one. All on the full moon.
"I don't think you need me to computer model this one," Sophie said as she skimmed the articles Dean had spread out on the bed. It'd been seven hours since she stumbled out of bed pressing her hands to her temples and complaining about the streetlight filtering in through the curtains in the early morning dimness. She was still shaky, still hesitant about light and sound. But she was functional. And Dean was confident she'd be road ready by the next morning.
"But full moon isn't for three weeks now," Sophie added, "What's the plan in the meantime?"
"Well," Dean said, picking up another stack of articles and sitting it in front of her, "That depends on what you can make of these."
Sophie skimmed the articles, circling numbers and underlining points.
"We think it's an angry spirit attached to some kinda farming implement," Dean said, "Simple salt and burn. Good practice for you before we take on the werewolf."
"You want me to burn the dead body?" Sophie asked.
"No, but I need you to be around," Dean replied, "I was serious about the not leaving my sight thing."
"Okay," Sophie nodded.
"Okay?"
"Yeah," Sophie said, "Let's do it. But let's sleep in an actual hotel this time? And not in your back seat."
"You drive a hard bargain," Dean cracked a smile.
—
Rosthern, Saskatchewan was a ranching town. Utterly isolated. Bitterly cold. And, currently, mourning the loss of one of its most beloved citizens. Georgie Hemming, the Hemming family's eldest unmarried daughter, had died in her bed with a scythe jammed in her chest just two days prior. And before that it was Allison Gartner. Before her it was Lucy James. All in the last month.
The pattern matched something Sophie was able to put together running algorithms on the old town newspaper clippings Sam dredged up. Every twenty-five years something like this occurred: a string of murders. All the eldest single daughter of the same ten farm families. All killed by farming implements with no other sign of an intruder.
A couple of interviews with the locals and a few hours spent at the library and it became clear they were dealing with an angry spirit.
Back in the 19th century a young, landless drifter had come into town and tried to court all the farmers' daughters. He was, predictably, unsuccessful.
So on his 25th birthday, he drove a hoe through his chest and ended it. He was buried at a crossroads. Bones in tact.
And every twenty-five years he came back and took the oldest eligible daughters of the ten families he'd tried to court all those years ago. And ten innocent girls died in their beds - murdered by their own garden tools.
Locating the correct crossroads - no one seemed to agree - took longer than any of them would have liked. After six nights and two more deaths - Josie Lanston and Maddie Sheldrick - everyone was feeling defeated. Sophie sat on the trunk of the Impala. This was crossroads number twenty-four. There were twenty-seven total in town. She'd mentally prepared herself for another dead end. But this time the EMF detectors went off. They'd hit pay dirt.
And thank goodness, this one was a gravel road. Sophie still wasn't sure what the plan would have been if the EMF had gone off over asphalt.
Dean handed her a flashlight, his jacket and his flannel shirt.
"You hold the light," he said, "We'll dig. And when I tell you you'll go grab the gas can. Got it?"
Sophie nodded. It was -10 centigrade and Sophie was cold enough she nearly envied the strenuous but warming labor of shoveling half-frozen dirt. After twenty minutes Sam knelt and pulled out a half-mummified hand. Sophie suppressed the urge to vomit. A few minutes later a half skeletal-half mummified body became visible.
"You okay?" Dean asked as he climbed out of the hold in the dirt, dusting off his hands and taking both the flashlight and the rest of his clothes.
Sophie shrugged. Talking seemed like it might increase the chances she puked.
"Grab the gas can for me from the trunk," Dean instructed, "And we'll get this taken care of."
She handed over the gas can as Dean tucked an arm around her shoulders.
"You did good," he said into her ear.
Sophie nodded. Sam took the cap off the gas can and Sophie gagged, the smell was not helping.
"It's okay baby," Dean reassured her, pulling her closer, "No need to watch."
And so, without a shred of guilt, she didn't. She pressed her face into his chest and closed her eyes and then she felt the flash of heat when one of them dropped a match into the pit.
Sophie was, a bit listless the next morning. She wasn't morose. But she also wasn't her usual perky and cheery self. She made pancakes, per their typical post-hunt tradition, and she helped Dean pack. But she was quiet. She was off.
"I'm filling up the car," Dean said, taking Sophie's arm, "You're coming with me."
"Why wouldn't we just stop on our way out of…" Sophie began.
"Now," Dean's tone didn't leave room for argument.
They sat in silence as Dean drove across town to the gas station.
"What's going on with you this morning?" Dean finally asked.
"What do you mean what's going on with me?" Sophie replied, "I'm fine, Dean. Promise. No migraine. No seizure aura. I'm fine."
"Then why are you acting like this?" Dean said.
"Like what?"
"Quiet. Droopy. Weird."
Sophie snorted a laugh, then dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap.
"What is it?" Dean prodded, "You still weirded out by burning the stiff? Because…"
"It's not that," Sophie said, "It's just that…I know we saved five people. But while we were working, two more died. We didn't get it done fast enough. And those girls…and their families…"
"Sophie we can't save everybody," Dean said automatically. He'd had this conversation with Sam too many times to count.
"But…I just need to be sure…" Sophie trailed off.
"You need to be sure of what?" Dean asked, parking at the gas station and turning to face her, "Look at me when you talk."
Sophie didn't move. Dean put a hand under her chin and forced eye contact.
"You're sure it's not my fault?" She asked, swallowing hard.
"What do you mean your fault?"
"I didn't slow you down? Make things worse? Get those girls killed because you couldn't find the body fast enough?"
Dean's face softened and he kissed her forehead.
"No," he said, "It definitely wasn't you. You didn't slow us down at all. You found the pattern faster than either of us could. And you trudged to every freaking crossroads in this town with us in the freezing cold. You helped this town, Sophie. Don't sell yourself short."
"Promise I'm not a burden?" She asked quietly.
"Promise."