han_solo | (no subject)

She looks over when he offers the jacket, frowning. He's changing the rules again.

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?"

"You're not gonna be able to hit her any more with a gorilla-arm than with your own," Dean says flatly. "Just -- be quiet and try not to do anything dumb."

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.

Well, that's no good. Though Rachel's somewhat more confident to note that the ghost's arms are even thinner than her own. How likely can it be that she'll get an attack over on either her or Dean?

"So we're just going to keep walking until she flips out?"

"Basically, yeah. Ghosts never do anythin' without a reason. If she can't attack us till we're in a certain location, that means there's somethin' important about that spot. So we gotta find out what spot it is."

"Using us as bait." It's a soft comment, more to herself than to him.

(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.

"Yeah. Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly apologetic.

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.

Rachel doesn't think - not about her size and strength, not about spirits, not about anything.

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?!"

"A spirit," Dean says, rolling to his side and coughing. The spirit's knife missed him, but there's a large scorched handprint in the centre of his shirt, and dents where her fingers dug in.

"Duh."

"It hit you, why couldn't I hit it?!" Rachel demands, getting to her feet. She's angry and glaring but not at him, at the situation.

Besides, she's crouching beside him after a moment, giving a glance around the road before reaching to pick at his shirt. "It burned you?"

"Hands off," Dean snaps, pushing her hand away and getting to his feet. "Get the shotgun. Keep your eyes open. I'm gonna see if I can find anything."

Rocking back, Rachel gives him a final glare before getting to her feet after him. The shotgun gets lifted and shifted - a couple of times. It's a far cry from her six-shooter.

Doesn't stop her from getting a good grip on the gun and scanning the area. "What good is a gun going to do on it?"

Edited 2008-08-18 01:21 (UTC)

"It's loaded with rock salt," Dean explains absently, crouching by the side of the road and brushing at the dirt, frowning.

She didn't need any more explanation than that, did she?

Actually, no. He already said burning with salt had to do with something, so there's no reason why this shouldn't work.

At this point, with ice burns on her legs from tackling nothing at all, she'll take what she can get.

"What are you looking for?"

"At this stage? Anything." Dean narrows his eyes at the ground again -- and then looks up.

"... like a track through the trees. C'mon."

She's been scanning, turning slowly with the shotgun lifted and primed. When he speaks, she turns toward him, gaze catching on the tracks.

"...follow the yellow brick road," Rachel murmurs, glancing down either side of the road. "I'll follow you."

"Just what I wanted to hear," Dean grumbles. "You shoot me in the back, I'm shootin' you right back."

"Because between the two of us, I'm the one who's been untrustworthy so far," Rachel grumbles right back, glaring.

She inspects the shotgun in her hands.

For a long time.

She has yet to actually prime it. Probably because it isn't the same process as on her tiny six-shooter.

Several steps down the track, Dean turns -- and glares.

"Please tell me you know how to use that thing."

Rachel lifts her gaze from the shotgun to just look at him for a few moments. "Point-and-shoot. Beyond that, no. How do you cock it?"

"God, we do not have time for this. Give it here. You use this --" he hands her his pistol.

Sighing, Rachel rolls her eyes and trades him, already making a mental note to wear her shoulder holster everywhere from now on.

The pistol, at least, she cocks and holds like a pro.

"Go."

They go.

The track is narrow and twisty, obviously not well-used even before the apocalypse; it leads to a house that looks perfectly normal, not even unusual compared to every other deserted house they've seen.

Except that those houses didn't have fresh trails leading straight to them. Rachel bites back another shiver, rolling her shoulders to adjust the jacket without letting go of the gun, and glances back behind them. This is Dean's show and she's asked all the questions she's willing to ask at this point.

...until he does something stupid, anyway.

The house seems quiet. They're very quiet too, approaching it. At least, up until Dean tries the door, and it won't open. He tries again, glances back at Rachel, and shrugs.

SHOULDERING IT IN NOW.

That totally works better than using the rusty knob anyway.

...hey, rust.

"Kick it."