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Dean is Over It.
Nebraska and the Roadhouse cannot come soon enough.
Rachel's getting increasingly more annoying, and Dean's starting to wonder if travelling on his own would be better.
Anything would be better that this, for sure.
... although possibly not, he thinks, stamping on the brakes hard as they cross the border into Kansas and a flickering figure in white appears, screams, falls under the car and disappears -- possibly not this.
Damn.
Nebraska and the Roadhouse cannot come soon enough.
Rachel's getting increasingly more annoying, and Dean's starting to wonder if travelling on his own would be better.
Anything would be better that this, for sure.
... although possibly not, he thinks, stamping on the brakes hard as they cross the border into Kansas and a flickering figure in white appears, screams, falls under the car and disappears -- possibly not this.
Damn.
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"Oh my god, wait, she's not on the road, she must be stuck under the car!"
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He doesn't tell her to stay in the car because that wouldn't do any good.
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She gets out of the car when he does anyway, slamming the door and crouching in flip-flops with her hands pressed to the road to see beneath the car.
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(It's summer.)
Damn.
Damn.
"Spirit," he answers Rachel tersely. "And we're in the middle of fuck-off nowhere, goddamnit, and no freakin' Internet." Or access to local papers, or anyone still alive nearby.
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The look she gives Dean says that she believed him when he said he hunted spirits, she just didn't believe him.
"What do we do?"
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Dean doesn't even bother rolling his eyes. He gets that look a lot.
"She's making the rules now. We wait, we try'n figure out what she wants and why. And then we try to find her corpse and salt'n'burn the shit outta it."
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"How do we figure it out?
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It's dark, quite quickly, even though it was barely twilight before.
"She'll let us know."
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"I hate waiting."
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Dean does roll his eyes, this time.
"I'd never've guessed."
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And shivering. A lot.
"Shit, unlock the car, I need my clothes."
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They might need to leave in a hurry.
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Rachel takes hold of the handle, catches Dean's eye, and tugs uselessly a few times.
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Dean frowns, looking around sharply. The wind is picking up, noisy in the otherwise silent world.
Ahead of them, several hundred yards down the road, the figure flickers again. It's a woman, in a ragged white dress, pale skin, straggling blonde hair.
She's calling to someone. They can't hear words, but they can hear the desperation in her voice.
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Maybe Dean attacks creatures like this for a living, but all Rachel feels is pity.
For half a second.
"Do you need the trunk open?"
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At least he has his duffel out of the car, having thrown it to the road while getting his shotgun out.
"We better go see what she wants."
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"What do they usually want?"
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"Sometimes they just wanna know why. I'm hopin' that's the case."
The woman doesn't look friendly. But then, nobody so obviously dead could look very friendly. She's corpse-mottled-white with sunken eyes, neck twisted in a way that nothing living could mimic, and her white dress is stained with blood and grime and filth. Her feet are bare.
Dean yawns.
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This time, though, she's too damn cold to question it.
"Anything to tell just from looking at her?" Rachel's seen her friends turn into cockroaches, a walking corpse isn't turning her stomach just yet. "Should I be morphing?"
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The ghost is still now, watching from sunken eyes, flickering occasionally. Beneath her feet the ground is white with the frost.
One hand is holding a small but lethal-looking knife.
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"So we're just going to keep walking until she flips out?"
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(it might be a little approving, too)
With Dean's jacket on, she crosses her arms tight around herself, eyes steady on the spirit as they approach her.
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The spirit is watching them, flickering and hazy, and by the time they're close enough to make out the pattern of gashes in her neck, they can also see the look in her eyes -- pure cold rage.
"Hey, there," Dean says, quietly. "Can we help you?"
In answer she lifts her knife, lips twisting in a snarl -- and in another flicker of focus she's on top of them.
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Just launches straight at the thing to tackle her off of Dean.
...of course, spirits, as a general rule, are discorporeal. Rachel hits snow and rolls, skidding to a stop and sending a glare back to Dean who's...
No longer being straddled by a skinny, angry ghost.
"What the hell was that?!"
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