Instinct (2/8)
The next morning brought with it the possibility of a hunt, and Dean could feel the familiar swirl of excitement and anticipation through his gut as Bobby read him the details from the back of a coffee-stained sheet of motel stationary.
The two of them had been roused that morning by a call from Pastor Jim, a friend of Dean’s father and Bobby alike, and one who Dean had spent a lot of time with whilst he was growing up. Once a hunter himself, the Pastor had long since given up the life in favour of setting up his own church, with a small but faithful flock of attendees. Since then, he’d passed on more than a few hunts to John Winchester and a few other hunters, passing them over himself for fear that one day one might follow him home.
His rectory in Blue Earth had become a safe-haven of sorts for Dean when he was a child, comparable only to Singer Salvage, and the Pastor had gradually wormed his way into the Winchester’s lives until he’d firmly cemented himself as family.
This time, it appeared to be an angry ghost that he’d led them to - the kind of hunt that Dean usually found boring - but he’d lured them in with the promise of his infamous homemade Cherry pie. After that, the two hunters had agreed in record time.
They’d stuck in town just long enough to pack up their stuff, and for Dean to take Sam for a walk whilst Bobby checked the local news one last time for any updates, before they’d packed their stuff up and hit the road.
Predictably, that was when John had phoned.
If he was honest, Dean had spent a long moment deliberating between whether or not he should answer. In the end, it was the realization that ignoring it would cause more hassle than good that had him picking it up, glancing guiltily at Sam as he did so.
“Hello?”
“Dean?” John asked, voice familiar and gruff. “You were supposed to ring me after you torched that place. What happened?”
“Shit,” Dean swore, resisting the urge to slam his head off the steering wheel. “I… I kind of forgot.”
There was a pregnant pause, and Dean could practically feel the tension over the phone mounting. “You forgot? You gonna explain that one a little further, there?”
“I, uh,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, just as nervous as if his father was sat right there next to him. “We found a dog. He was the only thing still alive in the place, and I guess I got carried away making sure that he was okay, and I forgot to call.”
“A dog?”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, dad. A dog.”
“Have you tested him?”
Dean blinked stupidly, swerving dramatically when he realized that he’d nearly cruised past his exit. The Impala responded to him just as easily as she always had, making the tight bend with room to spare, and the young men grinned to himself even as a series of car horns blared behind him. “Tested him for what? He’s a dog.”
“If you haven’t tested him yet,” John growled. “Then how do you know that for sure? For all you know you’re driving around with a skinwalker in the passenger seat, Dean. I trained you better than that. Or I thought, I had, at least.”
Dean felt his own irritation swell.
“You trained me to be paranoid, Dad,” He bit out. “But I’m not gonna live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I’m twenty-one years old. I don’t need you to sign off on every decision I make, and it’s about time that you realized that. Sam’s staying.”
Dean could practically see his father’s face reddening in anger across the line, and when the older man spoke again, his tone was acidic.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He responded finally. “Jim mentioned he’d found a hunt for you. I’ll meet you in Blue Earth in a few weeks.”
**
The brief phone conversation with his father had left Dean antsy and agitated, shifting irritably in his seat, and it wasn’t until Sam had tucked himself against the side of his leg and rested his head on the hunter’s knee that the young man felt himself begin to relax.
In a way, it had almost felt good to finally stand up to his father. Dean had practically worshipped the man growing up, always following a step behind him and trying to live up to the older man’s expectations, and it wasn’t until he was fifteen and his father had messed up the timings on a hunt and landed the two of them in hospital that Dean had started to see the man for what he really was. He was disillusioned about the fact that John Winchester was doing his best - it had been a cruel twist of fate that had torn Mary from them, a demon with a penchant for destruction and fire, and weaker men would have broken in the aftermath.
Instead, John had grown harder and colder and had trained himself to be the best hunter that he could possibly be. The problem was that, somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten that Dean wasn’t just a soldier in his quest for revenge - instead of seeing his son, he’d started seeing a soldier, and Dean had been too wrapped up in his hero-worship to realize it at first.
In some ways, he’d grown to resent that part of his father, but he’d never stopped being obedient. John had failed as a father, and Dean wouldn’t hesitate to admit that to himself, but he was a damn fine hunter and - if nothing else - they both wanted to end the sorry sonofabitch that had killed Mary Winchester.
Dean had fallen under thumb and, for twenty-one years, he’d bitten his tongue. It was high time that he found his voice.
“My dad can be a little bit of a jackass,” Dean admitted over the faint stirrings of Metallica playing through the speakers. Sam twisted his head to look at him, ears perking up as Dean spoke, and the young hunter could practically hear him saying, ‘go on. I’m listening.’ “He’s all about the hunt, you know? Obsessed, almost. But he’s a good man, and he loves me.”
Sam’s tail gave a small wag.
“I guess… thinks might have been different if I’d stuck up for myself a little sooner. Bobby always did tell me that one day I’d have to stand on my own two feet instead of hiding in his shadow… honestly, I hadn’t even realized that was what I was doing. I guess I have you to thank for my sudden epiphany, hey, Sam?”
Sam gave a little woof, tail wagging more vigorously against the Impala’s leather upholstery, and Dean dropped one hand off the steering wheel to tangle in the fur around the animal’s neck. His eyes flickered to the red leather collar, smiling a little to himself at the clear declaration of ownership. It was a clear contrast to the heavy metal that had been clasped around the young dog’s neck when he and Bobby had found him, and Dean had been honestly surprised that the animal had let him clasp it around his neck.
Instead of flinching away like he’d expected, Sam had sat tall and proud with his head held high, tail wagging in pleasure. For the first time he could recall, Dean wished that he had listened to Bobby’s suggestions that he get a dog months beforehand, shortly after the elder hunter had lost his Rumsfeld to a wendigo with uncanny aim.
It was ridiculous how different driving with Sam cuddled up to him felt than driving alone, and it wasn’t until Dean had tangled his finger’s in the creature’s fur that he realized for the first time that he’d been lonely for a long time. Perhaps since before he’d left his father, when their car rides were filled with long silences and the faint rustle of take-away coffee cups.
Sam licked his hand gently, and Dean grinned despite himself.
“I think I’m gonna like having you around, pup.” He confessed to the quiet of the car, and reached over to knock the volume up on the stereo, grinning all the while.
In front of him, Bobby indicated to turn into the gas station on their right, and Dean glanced briefly at the Impala’s gas gauge before pulling in behind him. He still had a quarter of a tank, but his father had long since drilled into him that in the life of a hunter, a nearly-empty tank was just as useless as an empty one. Whether you were running from some kind of supernatural creature, or simply from the authorities, it never hurt to have a little extra fuel when you needed it most.
He gently nudged the dog off his knee, gratefully stretching as he climbed out of the car, arching his back and sighing in relief when it cracked audibly, and he felt the pent-up tension in his back release.
“You’re cracking and snapping like an old man over there,” Bobby grinned. “I thought that was my job.”
Dean shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve been slacking recently. Figured I’d remind you of what you’re supposed to be doing… old man.”
“Cheeky sod.” Bobby grinned. “Just gas your car up and shut your trap. How’s the dog doing?”
Dean grinned like a proud parent. “You’d think he’d lived on the road his entire life.”
“Good,” Bobby nodded. “I had a feeling he’d settle into things well enough. Quite honestly, anything has to be a step-up from that shithole that we found him in. Just remember to give him a bathroom break before we hit the road again… don’t think you’d appreciate him making a mess of your baby’s seats there.”
Dean wrinkled his nose. “Duly noted.”
**
It was nearly eight in the evening by the time that they were pulling into the small driveway behind Pastor Jim’s house, the setting sun casting the sky into shades of pink and ivory. Against the vivid skyline, the silhouette of the rectory created an almost haunting picture.
In the passenger seat, Sam stamped his feet almost anxiously, and Dean raised his eyebrow a little. The dog had been calm for the entire journey, dozing lightly or entertaining himself with the squeaky toy that Dean had tucked into the footwell for him, and it took him a few minutes to register that the animal probably needed the bathroom.
The Pastor was waiting for them on the porch, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway with a small smile on his face. Dean couldn’t help but grin at the familiar sight of him; the man was one of few people that his father had ever trusted enough to leave him with, and the Pastor had become somewhat of an uncle when he was growing up. He could remember many a time that his father had tucked him into the backseat with a few blankets and the promise that, “we’ll be at Jim’s soon, son. We’ll go to the diner whilst we’re there, hey?”
“Damn, it’s good to be back.” He muttered to himself, easing the Impala to a stop in one of the two spaces that Jim always kept cleared, parking his own well-worn truck out front, just in case the Winchester’s ever needed a place to crash. Bobby pulled in behind him, keeping John’s space free out of habit, and Dean grinned a little to himself. He could recall more than one argument between the two elder hunters as to who had rights to park in the free space.
Almost as soon as he turned the engine off, the Pastor was at his window, reaching through the squeeze his shoulder with a grin. “It’s good to see you, Dean. It’s been far too long.”
Dean nodded his agreement, and it was then that the Pastor first seemed to notice Sam. His eyes widened, face breaking into a grin, and he leant further into the car to get a good look at him.
“Who’s this? You didn’t tell me that you’d picked up a friend.” He reached forwards with his arm, extending his hand for the animal to smell, and Dean didn’t know which of them was more surprised when the dog backed away and cowered into the corner where the seat met the door. Jim turned to look at the hunter apologetically, but Dean shook his head.
“It’s not you, man,” He reassured. “Bobby and I rescued Sam here from that demon we were hunting. The thing had him all caged and chained, and then he’d just left him behind to die, and, well… I guess he was too out of it to be nervous when we rescued him. I should really have figured that he’d be a little scared.”
Jim’s icy blue eyes softened, and Dean could practically see the Pastor’s good nature kicking in big time. It was one of the things that Dean had always loved about him, and the reason that his home had always been the dwelling place of numerous stray dogs and cats over the years.
“Well, he’s fully entitled to be a little nervous,” The Pastor grinned, glancing over his shoulder as Bobby pulled into the driveway, parking neatly behind the Impala. “Why don’t you grab your stuff and come inside? I’ll put Oscar upstairs so that he doesn’t terrorize the poor thing too terribly, and then serve up our dinner. You think he’ll be alright with Mitsy and Buttons?”
Dean nodded, gratefully stepping out of the car and pausing to stretch once more before moving out of the way so that Sam could climb out. Eyes locked warily on the Pastor, Sam obediently slunk along the seats with his tail tucked so far between his legs that it was touching his belly, and wedged himself into the small space between Dean’s legs and the car as soon as he’d jumped down from the leather seats.
“Big wuss,” Dean muttered affectionately, being careful not to step on the pup’s paws as he headed for the Impala’s trunk. The hunter paused for a few seconds at the back of the car, reaching down to soothe a hand across the animal’s still-trembling form, ignoring the knowing look that Bobby shot him as he headed inside. He didn’t straighten up until Sam seemed to have calmed a little, tail still tucked between his legs but not quite so tightly, and it was only then that he reached for his duffel, and the second that he’d acquired earlier that morning to carry Sam’s stuff in. He could have sworn that Sam’s was heavier than he remembered.
The smell of sausage casserole wafted out from the open kitchen door and Dean grinned, breathing deep as he stepped inside the small house and gently kicked the screen door shut behind him, ensuring that Sam was safely inside before he did so. Jim was already dishing the casserole into bowls, humming a hymn under his breath that Dean distantly recognized from a childhood of crawling around under the long benches in the rectory.
The hunter hesitated in the doorway for a few seconds, watching the way that Sam had tucked himself firmly behind the hunter’s legs, before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to walk across the floor without scooping the dog into his arms. Whilst he more than understood why the dog was so scared, he also knew better than to coddle him; if he ever wanted him to get better, he’d have to implement a little tough love now and again.
Sam seemed lost as to what to do for a long moment, wide eyes following Dean as he sauntered across the room, dropping the duffel bags to the floor and sinking into a seat. As if recognizing that his owner wasn’t going anywhere soon, Sam shot across the room so quickly that his paws scrabbled briefly for traction on the tiled floor, ducking into the small space beneath Dean’s chair.
Jim had drug out the dog bed he kept in the house for when Bobby headed over to stay a few days with Rumsfeld, tucked neatly into an alcove where a kitchen cupboard had once sat beneath the counter surface. Despite having made the effort to create a safe place for Sam to retreat to, the Pastor seemed intent to ignore the dog for now, which Dean figured was probably the best approach to the whole thing.
A few seconds of rooting around in Sam’s bag turned up a few of the ratty old blankets that Dean had initially wrapped him with and a stuffed cat which Bobby had chucked into the basket with a chuckle, and Dean headed over to tuck them in the basket. Sam followed at his heels, watching his actions with pricked ears. Hesitantly, as if testing whether or not Dean was going to tell him off for doing it, Sam stepped onto the soft bedding and gradually let himself relax onto the soft surface.
“Poor thing,” Jim muttered.
“You should have seen how they were keeping him,” Dean sighed. “I’ll be amazed if he ever doesn’t freak out every time he walks past something that even vaguely resembles a cage… on the plus side, he seems to be pretty damn sure that this is where he wants to be. I keep forgetting to put the bloody leash on him, but he hasn’t so much as attempted to run away.”
“He probably thinks of you as his hero.” Jim teased, settling down opposite him and handing Dean the bowl of food and a spoon. Bobby reappeared from the hallway, collecting his own bowl from the counter and settling into his seat with a grateful sigh. Across the room, Sam’s ears pricked and he picked his head up from the blanket to eye the bowl of food in Dean’s hand.
For his part, the hunter did his best to pretend that he hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t help a smile as the pup slowly manoeuvred out of the dog bed and through the kitchen (giving Jim a wide berth as he did so).He didn’t stop until he was at Dean’s side, and even then it was a few more moments before he plucked up the courage to rest his head on the hunter’s thigh, and then rest his paw next to it.
“You think perhaps the young pup is hungry?” Pastor Jim laughed, and tipped his head questioningly towards the half-empty dish of casserole. Dean hesitated, and then nodded as he slipped a hand down to run through the soft fur behind Sam’s ears.
Jim fished the dog bowl out of the still-open duffel and tipped a generous portion of the food into the dish before setting it on the floor and turning to quickly wash and dry the spoon he’d used in the sink. Glancing briefly at Dean, the dog slowly made his way across the kitchen - pausing briefly at the bowl of casserole before leaning over it to give the Pastor’s hand a gentle lick.
When Jim turned around, his eyes were damp.
**
It didn’t take them long to figure out that, despite the cushy dog bed, Sam didn’t like sleeping alone. When Dean had headed up to bed after a discussion of the case with Jim, Sam had been sleeping soundly in his basket, curled up tightly with his tail tucked up around his nose.
The hunter had awoken less than an hour later to desperate scratching at his door, a low whining sound giving way every few seconds to frantic little yips, barks and broken-off howls. By the time that Dean had realized what was happening and gotten the door open, Jim and Bobby had emerged from their own rooms and Sam had pressed himself against the door, making a high-pitched keening noise and trembling.
“Jesus, Sammy.” Dean breathed, crouching to the dog’s level - completely uncaring of the sharp glare that Jim sent his way for the blasphemy. Sam’s head came up at Dean’s voice, and he launched himself at the crouched figure, pressing himself as close to Dean’s chest as possible and hooking his chin over the hunter’s shoulder, allowing Dean to feel the frantic heaving of his ribs.
“I think,” Bobby said tiredly, yawning and running a hand through his hair. “That next time you should probably just bring him up to bed with you.”
“I think I agree.” Dean agreed, tucking Sam into his chest and standing slowly. The animal didn’t move other than to press closer, and he couldn’t help but feel an irrational surge of pride that in a desperate panic, Dean had been the person that Sam had run to. Logically, he knew that Sam had probably picked him because he had spent the most time with the animal, but it was still a heart-warming realization.
When the hunter climbed into bed the second time, it was with a much calmer Sam pressed against his chest. He fell asleep faster than he had in years, fingers still tangled in the soft fur on the back of Sam’s head, where the animal’s head rested on his shoulder.
There were no nightmares that night; no flashes of fire and his mother screaming. No fractured memories of being eleven and lost in the woods, painfully aware that - somewhere out there - a Wendigo was hunting humans; of being sixteen and feeling a werewolf’s claws bite deep into his chest. Instead, he dreamt of a long forgotten Christmas - his mother smiling as she handed him a warm cookie, presents under the tree and a smiling John telling Dean that he was allowed to open one before he went to bed.
In his dream, Sam was sat next to him, little puppy tail wagging excitedly behind him and a shiny red collar around his neck.
“You look after him, Dean.” His mother told him gently, running her gentle hand through the young boy’s hair. “He’s more than he seems, but the world doesn’t have to be black and white. Sam already loves you dearly, and you must remember that no matter what.”
When Dean woke up the next morning, he couldn’t help but turn the words over in his head, wondering just what exactly his mother had meant. More pressingly, just why his subconscious mind felt fit to dredge memories of his mother up at all - Dean had been four when she died and, although he hated to admit it, he honestly didn’t remember that much about her. Usually dreams of her were fleeting, memories of her smile or golden hair or the way that she smelt; certainly, they’d never before been of memories of the Christmas just before he’d turned four.
“I think you’re getting to me, man,” Dean muttered, gently running his fingers through the pup’s fur, before untangling himself and grabbing some clothes out of the duffel. He made sure to leave the bedroom door open, and only pulled the bathroom door until it lay against the frame but was still technically open, before stripping and climbing in the shower.
He cleaned quickly and efficiently, pausing to shave, before heading out feeling a little more awake and certainly a lot brighter. Sam was sitting next to the door, staring resolutely out into the hallway as if guarding it, and Dean couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It seemed that he and Sam were going to get along just fine.
“Breakfast time.” He grinned, giving the dog a quick stroke hello before dumping his sleep pants on the floor of his room and heading downstairs. Jim had left some coffee, still reasonably hot, on the kitchen counter, alongside a quickly scrawled note: Gone to see to the flock, Bobby is with me. Back at ten. Please remember to feed the cats (& Sam). - Jim.
Dean scoffed a little at the implication that he might forget to feed his new companion, but appreciated that it wouldn’t have been the first time that he’d forgotten to put out food for the three rectory cats. He figured that the biggest of the three, Oscar, had been seeking revenge for his lack of breakfast when he’d sunk his claws into Dean’s ankle the last time he’d been there, and proceeded to cling on for dear life.
Muttering to himself about ungrateful preachers, Dean set about making the animals some breakfast, dishing it out into three slightly smaller dishes and Sam’s bigger one, before laying all four on the floor. Sam went for his with no complaints, Dean ensuring to nudge Oscar to the cat bowl furthest away when he emerged from the back of the house, but Mitsy and Buttons took their time coming in from the back porch - apparently they were more than a little wary of Sam, even if he did seem content in ignoring the two smaller creatures entirely.
Dean mentally added a reason number thirty-eight to the ‘Reasons that John should be happy that Dean has Sam’ (alternatively known as the ‘why John shouldn’t hate Sam’) category: Doesn’t hate cats. Even when they try and bite his tail.
**
The gig seemed easy enough, a salt and burn that Jim probably could have taken care of himself if he didn’t have a reputation as a respectable Pastor to uphold, and he and Bobby decided to split up to try and find the grave faster. Dean debated for a while about whether or not to take Sam, before he figured that Sam would probably be a mess by the time he got back if he left alone. The pup seemed to suffer from a slight case of separation anxiety, if the events of the previous night were anything to go by.
Then again, there was always the risk that Sam - like plenty of other dogs Dean had come across in his years as a hunter - would get one glimpse of the spook and freak out or run off. It seemed pointless now to even deny that Dean cared about the stupid mutt; whilst he’d never really pictured himself getting a dog (despite Bobby’s hinting), he couldn’t deny that it seemed to suit him just fine. In a way, it was nice to have someone who trusted him implicitly, and who Dean could trust without fear of ulterior motives - he knew enough to know that dogs were loyal, and that kind of commitment was exactly what Dean needed in his life, whether he was ready to admit it or not.
“You,” Dean told the dog, easing the Impala into the small cemetery car park and forcing as much frustration into his tone as he could manage. “Are seriously forcing me to re-evaluate, you mangy mutt.”
Sam harrumphed as if in annoyance at the comment, turning his head away to stare out of the window. Not for the first time, Dean had to remind himself that it was just a coincidence - Sam was a dog, he didn’t speak English.
“Right,” The hunter muttered to himself, eyeing his canine companion warily before glancing to the leash and collar that he’d tucked into the footwell of the passenger seat. “Leash or no leash?”
The dog didn’t react, but Dean found himself opposed to the idea of a leash on a hunt - the last thing he wanted was to give the spirit something that they could potentially use as a weapon. He didn’t want his choice to be the thing that got an innocent animal hurt, or potentially killed. After a few moments deliberation, he settled on the red leather collar that Bobby had picked out in the pet shop - the small, bone-shaped tag on the front simply containing both Dean’s and Bobby’s mobile numbers.
Recalling with distaste and anger the heavyset metal collar that had bitten into Sam’s neck when he was in the hands of the demon, Dean set out a quick prayer that the dog wouldn’t panic, and then gently eased the leather around his neck. Sam trembled visibly, head hunched low, but he didn’t try and bite, or snarl, simply let Dean clasp the collar onto him.
“It’s alright, Buddy,” Dean muttered, running a hand over the animal’s shaking flank, feeling the fast thrum of his heart through his fur. “I don’t want to hurt you - this is just in case you get lost. It means that, no matter what happens, I’ll always have a way to get you back. Sound good?”
Sam nudged his nose under Dean’s arm, and gave the hunter’s wrist a gentle lick.
“Okay, then.” Dean smoothed a hand over the animal’s ears once more, dropping an impulsive kiss on the top of his head, before opening the Impala’s door and climbing out. Sam padded along the seat, dropping out only seconds after Dean and indulging in a few moments of stretching. Watching the extension of his legs, Dean was reminded a little of a ballerina, and couldn’t help but snort a little. Sam turned and gave him a baleful look, as if he knew what the hunter was thinking.
Rolling his eyes, Dean quickly located his duffel bag and shovel, slinging them over his shoulder before shutting the Impala’s door and tucking his keys into his pocket.
“Alright,” He said conversationally as the two of them headed deeper into the cemetery, keeping his voice quiet. “So, here’s the plan. Either I find the grave and ring Bobby, or he finds the grave and rings me, and then we dig it up and burn the bones as quick as we can.” Dean turned his eyes to Sam. “Think you can manage that?”
Sam wagged his tail.
**
The grave was fairly easy to locate - there was only one Maria Bukov in the entire place, and the large statue of an angel gave away the location of the woman’s grave. Dean unceremoniously dumped his duffel next to the neat line of grass that marked the edge of the grave, ensuring that his shotgun wasn’t out of reach before wedging his flashlight between the statues arm and her wing, the beam falling directly on the grave and illuminating the area around him. Grabbing his phone, he quickly relayed his location to Bobby, before cracking his back and getting to work.
He dug as quickly and efficiently as he could, practice making his movements sure and effortless; still, he thought he was making more progress than usual, and it wasn’t until he looked up that he realized that he wasn’t the only one digging. Sam was shifting an impressive amount of dirt with his forepaws, ears pressed tight to his head as if to stop mud from flying into them, tail lightly wagging.
“Should have figured you’d like digging.” Dean laughed, shaking his head a little before getting back to work. The sooner they could get the digging over and done with, the less chance there would be of the spirit turning up.
Almost in the same instant that Dean completed that very thought, the temperature around them - warm enough that Dean had tossed both his leather jacket and flannel shirt aside - dropped considerably. Sam’s growl and sharp bark gave Dean just enough warning to duck, before a large tree branch whistled through the air that his head had been occupying only seconds before.
Swearing, Dean scrambled for the shotgun, his hands slick with sweat and mud. Before his hand had firmly closed around the butt of the gun, it shot out of his grasp, a ghostly face appearing mere inches from his own. Startled, Dean jerked backwards, nearly slipping on the soft terrain beneath his boots.
In the same instant, Sam launched himself out of the hole the two of them had created - straight for the spirit.
“No!”
Dean lurched forwards seconds too late to stop the canine figure, a sick feeling settling into the pit of his stomach as he hoisted himself out of the grave, glancing around in a desperate bid to locate his canine companion, and the shotgun.
The gun was nowhere in sight, and mere meters away, Sam was crouched, hackles raised impressively high. In the complete opposite of everything his studies had ever suggested that an animal should do, Sam hadn’t run away. Instead, his lips had pulled back to reveal sharp teeth as he snarled, the sound evil-sounding. Most surprisingly of all, the ghost wasn’t attacking.
Oh, she looked angry, alright. Angry and perplexed, occasionally charging at Sam only to jerk back a meter or so away from him - fear on her face. Dean wondered, distantly, whether it was simply the human recollection of how dangerous a dog could be that was giving Sam his power.
Either way, the hunter knew that the only way to get rid of the spirit without the salt rounds handy would be to torch to her bones whilst she was distracted, and wasted no time in dropping back into the hole and digging furiously, ignoring the discomfort in his hands. Only a minute or so later, his shovel hit the lid of the coffin with a heavy sounding thud; he tossed it onto the grass above him without ceremony, fumbling around for a few seconds before finally throwing the lid off.
He raised a hand to grab the straps of his duffel, searching for it blindly, and a loud yelp sounded, his only warning before Sam tumbled over the edge of the grave, knocking Dean over as he fell, in the same instant that the hunter’s hand closed around the strap of his bag.
Landing on the bones of an unfortunate dead girl wasn’t exactly the highlight of Dean’s evening, that was for sure. An unearthly wail from above them proved that Maria hadn’t exactly enjoyed the experience, either, and Dean was bracing himself for something else to be launched at him when the familiar retort of a shotgun rang out from overhead.
It seemed that Bobby had finally found them.
Sighing in relief, Dean fumbled for the lid on the gasoline canister, dousing the bones liberally with it as he urged Sam back out of the grave. The dog climbed out easily enough, one leap enough to carry him over the edge, and Dean followed him over.
Bobby was standing with his back to them, eyes trained for any sign of the ghost, shotgun clasped easily in his hands, and Dean knew that nothing would be getting past the hunter. Upturning nearly an entire tub of salt onto the corpse, Dean gratefully lit a match and tossed it in.
The all-too familiar unearthly wail of a dying ghost filled the air for a brief second, before the graveyard fell silent.
“Jesus,” Dean breathed, flopping onto his back on the damp grass. Bobby’s face appeared over his own, peering down at him in concern.
“You alright?” He demanded, holding out a hand to tug the younger hunter to his feet. Dean accepted it gratefully. “She didn’t get you, did she?”
The younger hunter shook his head, dusting off his pants as he took in the sight of Sam. The dog was sitting next to his abandoned duffel, mud and dirt streaked through the fur on his face, watching Dean with what looked entertainingly like an expression of pride.
“Sam gave me the heads up before she could. I think I’d be dead without that mutt - she launched a branch at the back of my head, and I had no idea she was even there until Sam starting barking. Jumped out of the grave and held her off… I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Bobby paled slightly.
“Christ.” He swore, tugging his ever-present trucker cap off to run a hand through his hair. “We never should have split up. Your dad would’ve had my head on a plate if anything had happened to you, especially if it was because I wasn’t watching your back like I was supposed to.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t you dare go blaming yourself, old man. It was my idea to split up in the first place, remember? Besides which, it looks like I had someone watching my back, after all. I’m just glad that you’re not the one that found her first.”
Bobby nodded his head in agreement.
“He alright?” He asked, inclining his head towards the dog, studying him carefully. “She threw him when she saw me.”
“I think so. I’ll look him over properly when we get back to Jim’s, but he was moving fine when we got back out. As far as I can tell, it’s all dirt.”
“Thank goodness for that.” The older hunter breathed. “You wanna take him back? I can shift this dirt in by myself, no problem.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Thought we’d learnt our lesson about splitting up?”
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