never trust a big butt and a smile (obeetaybee) wrote,
never trust a big butt and a smile

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The Burying Point

Title: The Burying Point
Character(s): Dean and Sam
Rating: R (for language)
Word Count: 2730
Summary: “Give me back my brother, bitch.”
Author's Note: Written for spn_halloween Prompt #8: The family is staying in Salem, Massachusetts and come All Hallows Eve victims of the witch trials (actual witches or not) are back for revenge.

Very big thank you's have to go out to dotfic and trystan830 for the beta work.

“The Burying Point”

Run. Faster.

Not fast enough. Sam's here, somewhere.

So many. Where to begin? Find Sam. Will not fail.

Not acceptable.

I will not be left alone again.


16 hours earlier

Frost crunches underfoot as they move along the path in the graveyard. Their breath mists from open mouths, fingerless gloves tight on their fingers, keeping the worst of the chill from their hands. Shotguns are poised on their shoulders, but nothing seems to be moving through the graveyard except for the barren tree branches above and the fallen leaves below. Gray light filters from the ground up, lighting the mist along the ground in the old cemetery with the coming dawn.

“This is a bust,” Dean says, turning in a half circle and staring up at the remaining stars above.

Sam nods. “I think you’re right. It’s Halloween morning, though. We should come back later on tonight after the sun goes down.”

Dean makes a face and brings the gun down off of his shoulder. “We didn’t see any trace of ghosts. Not even any high school kids pretending to be ghosts for kicks. Why are we here, Sam?”


“I mean, why did you pull us all the way from Nebraska to Massachusetts on Halloween?”

Sam turns and looks at Dean. “You read the same pages of Dad’s journal that I did. He always meant to come here and check this place out.”

“Aw, come on, Sam. Even Dad wasn’t sure it wasn't all just a coincidence. Four people in the last ten years have heart attacks after visiting the cemetery and it’s the ghost of Giles Corey who’s causing it? Long shot.”

“In every police report the heart attack victims said they were overcome with the feeling of a heavy weight upon their chest, just like Giles Corey.”

“So, Giles Corey comes back on Halloween and extracts his revenge?”

“Maybe,” Sam says as he squints and tilts his head at a weathered stone marker.

Dean puts the gun under one arm and pulls the knitted cap on his head down over his ears. “Bah. Coincidence. I think they were just caught up in the moment, visiting a spooky place like this. You know how I feel about Halloween, Sam. Fucked up shit always happens to us on Halloween. So why don’t you tell me why we’re really here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Knock off the bullshit, Sam.”

Sam looks down at his feet for a moment before looking out over the sea of tombstones. “Jessica and I…I mean, Jess was a history major. Did I ever tell you that?”

Dean shakes his head. “No.”

“She had planned on applying to the Graduate Fellowship program at Stanford and getting her masters in early American history. Jess, she was planning on doing her thesis on the mass hysteria that affected Salem back in the 1692. She wanted to prove or disprove the theory of mass hallucinations.”

“Damn, Sam,” Dean says, putting his free hand into his jacket pocket. “Why didn’t you just say…”

“Shh,” Sam says, holding up a hand to quiet his brother.

Dean brings the shotgun back up and sights towards where Sam is staring. “What is it?” he whispers.

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. Thought I saw something shimmering, over there above that gravestone.”


“Don’t know. Don’t shoot though. I don’t think it’s anything. It’s probably the sun reflecting off the frost or something.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. “That’s what you always say.”

“Dude, its six o’clock in the morning. If you shoot and it turns out to be nothing, we’ll have the cops here within minutes. We’ll come back tonight and stake this area out. If it’s something, we’ll take care of it then.”

“All right. I say bring it on, Giles Corey.” Dean sighs. “Let’s get out of here. I’m freezing and starving. Those granola bars you had hidden in your pocket did nothing for me.”

Sam glances back at the tombstone and clenches his jaw. There’s a faintly human shape perched on top now. “Wait a second, Dean. I just want to see if I can read the inscription.”


I was there and then I was not.

An endless moment filled with sparse recollections of before. Cold seeping into my skin; the wind caressing my hair, the warmth of the sun on my upturned face, for a moment only and then the world disappears.

I was. I am not. I’ve become.

I awaken, the sun rising over the horizon. I can see the wind blowing through the trees and miss the feel of the gentle touch flowing through my hair. All around me, I can feel the others rustling, coming to life as I have.

Something new.

He sees me.


“This whole place is a witch’s wet dream,” Dean says as they wander through the streets of Salem later that afternoon. The town is filled with thousands of people of all ages, most dressed in outrageous costumes. They crowd the streets and stores, children in tow. Sam and Dean pass numerous store fronts selling charms, spells, herbs and incense. “Man, I hate that freaking smell.”

Sam tucks his big hands into the pockets of his Carhart. “Let’s go check out the Salem Witch Museum.”

Dean’s features pinch together like he just smelled something rotten. “Oh, hell no.”

“Come on, I want to research the name on that gravestone.”

“Why? We have all the information we need on Giles Corey.”

“Yeah, but the name on that gravestone wasn’t Giles Corey and I’m not one hundred percent sure that wasn’t a ghost I saw this morning.”

Dean stops and turns to stare at his brother. “I wish you’d said something earlier, Sam.”

“I wasn’t sure. Hell, I’m still not sure. I just want to check it out, okay?”

“So what was her name?”


Dean laughs at the look on Sam’s face. “Oh, come on Sammy. I can’t think of any other reason why you would have such a hard on to research an old grave stone.”

“Not funny, Dean.”

“Of course it is. So come on, Sammy. Give it up.”

Sam clenches his jaw. “Elizabeth Hood.”

“I knew it.” Dean shakes his head as he stares at a pair of girls dressed as a scantily clad witches pass by him, giving him a pair of flirty smiles. “Why can’t real life witches look like that?”

Sam laughed. “Aw, come on, Dean. All the witches we dealt with loved you. Remember the coven that turned you into a pumpkin?”

“Ha, Sam, very un-freaking funny. Let’s not forget the time they turned you into sex machine boy for twenty four hours. Remember how sore your di…”

“I remember,” Sam breaks in, hoping to shut Dean up.

“Come on, let’s go hit that Salem Beer Works before it gets invaded by tourists. I got a hankering for Pumpkinhead Ale.”



I wait dutifully, head bowed, ignoring the hundreds of humans trampling on my grave. I need, I want; I wish I could kick out and break the fingers running over my words.

Will he return?


“So where’s this Corey fellow buried?” Dean asks as he pulls the parking ticket off the windshield of the Impala. He glances down at it before balling it up and shoving it in his pocket. “I figure once the sun goes down, we can do the salt and burn and then head back to the Burying Point to see if it works.”

Sam slides into the passenger seat and closes the door behind him. “I wish it were that easy,” he says when Dean sits down beside him in the drivers seat. “Corey was buried in an unmarked grave.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says as he cranks the ignition. “Well, then, I guess we better hope for witches, huh?”


Flecks of dust float along the beams of the setting sun.

I wait.

Others are coming.

I shiver, power crackles along the stones.

Not here. Not supposed to be here.

Stay away.


“Give me back my brother, bitch.”

The coven leader smiles and tilts her head to the side. “Now where would be the fun in that?” The fire in front of her burns bright and orange, flicks of sparks shooting up into the night sky.

The two cloaked goons holding Dean tighten their grip on his upper arms. He twists in their grasp, but another one comes up and punches him in the gut.

“Enough,” the coven leader says, her clear voice carrying across the graveyard. “Tie him against the stone and be quick about it. I want to begin.”

Dean’s arms ache and the blood running down his forehead is dripping into his eyes. Doesn’t matter, he feels no pain. All he wants is Sam. “Where is he?”

The coven leader smiles, her eyes reflecting amber and crimson, the color of flames. “All in good time, Dean. We’re going to play a game.”

“Game? What the fuck are you going on about? I don’t want to play a fucking game!”

The witch smiles widely, showing perfect white teeth. “Oh you’ll want to play this one. Two hours, Dean Winchester. You have two hours to find your brother. If you fail, Sam is dead.” She moves around the fire, her black cloak swirling around her ankles as the wind gusts through the clearing. Her followers crowd close behind her. “Within the walls of this cemetery, you’ll find twenty unmarked graves. Nineteen of them are empty. Hidden deep inside of one, you’ll find Sam. Dig him up before midnight, he’s yours. You’ll be free to leave.”

“Oh, that’s just great, motherfucker. How the fuck am I supposed do that? With my bare hands?”

“Language, Dean. You kiss your mother with that mouth?” The witch looks down at the ground for a moment before looking back at Dean. “Oh, yes. That’s right. Your mother’s dead. I’m sure you’ll find a shovel in that bag of tricks you keep locked in the trunk of your car.”

“I’ll find more than that, bitch.”

The witch smiles again, and this time her eyes glow yellow.

Icy fear slides down Dean’s spine. There were no warnings this time, no omens, no portents. No frantic cell phone calls from Ash back at Harvelle’s.

“Will you? Will you murder her the way you murdered my daughter? Will you put a bullet into her head like my son? But you’re missing something, aren’t you? That’s right. I’ve got the Colt, I’ve got the bullet and I got your daddy’s soul.”

Every single coven member gasps momentarily in pain. All of their eyes have turned black.

This is not good. This is so not good, Dean thinks as he twists his wrists against the binds tying him to the gravestone.

“We’ve got a score to settle, you and me. And I so look forward to collecting. Soon. Right now we’ve got wee Sammy buried alive. Do you think you’ll find him in time?” The demon leans forward, the witch’s face inches from his. “It really doesn’t matter, though. He’ll be mine soon enough.”

Dean clenches his teeth together. “He’ll never be yours.” He spits.

“Really? Such blind faith you have in him.” The demon turns and looks out over the dark graveyard. “No moon tonight. This should be a fun hunt to watch. I’ll abide by the rules of the game. I like this girl. So inventive. Maybe I’ll allow her to live when I’m through with her. Blindfold him,” the demon says with a wave of the witch’s arm. “Don’t untie him. He’ll figure that out on his own.”


A drop of sweat trickles down his brow.

He’s quiet in his box, the curve of his jaw tight in the darkness. I settle in beside him, does he feel me?

A name.


He does not belong here.

He does not belong to me.

He will not belong to

Not ever.


Two empty graves and time is running out.

He’s afraid to look at his watch, afraid to see the minutes passing like seconds. He could be in anywhere. Sam could be in the very last one at the edge of the graveyard, but could he waste the time if he’s wrong?

Don’t think. Dig.


Silence surrounds him, heavy and oppressive. All the night sounds are holding their breath, and he can feel the eyes in the trees. He strikes the wooden lid of a third coffin, and panicking now, he screams his brother’s name.

The fucker’s empty too. He jumps out of the empty grave, shedding his coat and shirt as he moves to the fourth. The cold wind hits his wet skin and he shivers, but refuses to give up.

The first time he feels the hand on his cheek, he shakes his head in irritation, fist moving up to bat it away, not giving it another thought.

By the third time, he’s had enough. “What?” He shouts into the darkness. Something’s moving ahead. A silvery outline in the mist stops and waits.

“I don’t have time for this, spirit,” he mumbles and resumes his digging. The hand is back, more insistent this time. In frustration, he bangs his foot on the wooden coffin lid, and there is no knock back. It’s empty.


This one is stubborn.

My heart remembers the other.

I cannot let him fail.


If Sam dies, he’ll die too. It’s as simple as that. He’ll be alone and the death wish he courts will come knocking and he’ll finally answer the door. No more fighting, no more denying, he’ll go willingly.

The shimmer is back, hovering over a mound of dirt about ten yards away. He stops and runs the back of his hand over his forehead. Against his better judgment, he glances at his watch, cursing as the minute hand continues to inch towards the twelve. Fifteen minutes left.

“Oh, fuck it,” he mumbles and jumps out of the grave. He’s got nothing left.

The moment his shovel hits the dirt, calm settles over him. His burning bones cease to ache and he shovels the dirt over his shoulder like a machine. Minutes to spare and his shovel strikes the lid.

An answering knock makes his knees go weak. He drops and yells his brother’s name, thanking a God he’s not even sure exists as his fingers dig along the crack. With strength he never knew he possessed, he yanks the lid off and pulls Sam up and out of the grave. Clutching him tight, he glances at his watch. Both hands point to midnight. He made it.

The shimmer is back, hovering on the edge of the grave and Dean nods once at it as Sam coughs against his chest. “Thank you,” he says as it gradually fades.

“Who you talking to?” Sam sputters as Dean stands and helps him to his feet.

Dean ignores him as he helps him over the lip of the grave and Sam lies flat on his back, staring up at the night sky and takes deep breath of the night air.

Sam holds out a hand and Dean grabs it, pulling him up and then punches Sam hard in the shoulder. “Ow,” Sam says, rubbing his shoulder. “What was that for?”

“Shut up,” Dean says. “You stupid punk. I told you I hate freaking witches and Halloween. Next time I tell you to stay on my right, you do it. How many times do I have to tell you my peripheral vision is all fucked up on my left side? Next year, we’re holing up in a motel room somewhere and watching crap TV for two days. Understand?”

Sam pats Dean on his back and smiles. “Sounds good to me, Cranky McCrankypants. Tell me what happened later, okay? Right now I just want a shower and some food.”

They turn and walk away, Sam pausing once to turn back. The shimmer hovers high over the open grave for a moment and then Sam blinks, and it disappears.


They’re gone.

They were there and then they were not. I watch their backs, longing for something I can never have again.

Already, I’ve forgotten.


Tags: obeetaybee, supernatural: dean and sam

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