Spreading Roots

Ah, a day in the life of Dean Winchester.

Dean's thoughts were anything but pleasant when he finally finished digging up Audrey's grave. He had to wait around for hours after dark just to scope the cemetery out, and there it was, easily past two in the morning. Dean could have thought of a thousand places he'd rather be right then.

As it turns out, it's a whole lot harder and more time-consuming when you don't have somebody to take turns with.

When he didn't have his little brother to help him.

Another familiar wave of guilt washed over Dean. Starting from his throat it burned like a good shot of bourbon, except this feeling made him want to drop to his knees. He held onto his shovel for support and wiped the sweat from his brow, powering through the god-awful feeling. From his pocket he produced a match-book, one he picked up from the motel, and looked down at the casket he just cracked open.

Obviously, after nearly twelve years there wasn't much left to Audrey. He ignored the stench that slithered up from her decomposing body. All in a day's work.

This job required he shut off his emotions a lot of the time, that he simply see things in black in white. This wasn't some poor girl's body, and he didn't just actually desecrate a grave. He was doing this because another person was dead already, and more could very well die if he didn't. Because who else would, right?

Certainly not Marilyn.

Moments later Dean produced the gasoline, too, and sprinkled that and a generous amount of rock salt into the coffin. While he felt sure of himself, there was no going back then, and he focused only on the task at hand.

"So long, bitch," he muttered. He lit the whole book of matches and dropped it as soon as it caught fire. And Dean watched, then, as the body burned. He almost expected something grand to happen; thirty seconds of waiting turned into minutes until eventually an hour passed and the fire burned out. He knew he shouldn’t stick around, but this was weird. Nothing happened. It wasn't often a salt and burn was this easy. There was always a catch, because ghosts don't always like to take things lying down.

It just didn't feel right. No, not in the sense that there might have been something left behind that Audrey's spirit attached to. All those other times when things went according to plan, Dean always had this feeling of relief. That it was over, that the ghost or whatever else they happened to be hunting couldn't hurt anyone else. It just didn't click.

"Humph," Dean hummed on a shrug and opted to begin packing his things up.

He was too tired to care in particular, though he knew in his gut that things definitely weren't over. After Dean had all his crap packed back up, he took the shovel and began the painstaking task of putting all the dirt back over the grave. A precautionary move, of course, and Dean even put the sods he pulled up back where they were.

Almost an exact match. It was better no one find out about it then to cause commotion within the small town. He imagined that then people would talk—imagine, her mother dies and the next day Audrey's grave is desecrated?

When it was all said and done Dean was barely lucid when he finally got into his Impala and drove back to the motel. By then it was past four a.m. and all the houses he passed were dark and quiet, asleep. He wished again he could have that simplicity.

No, Dean didn't ask for much, didn't want to sound bitchy or whiny. To not have to worry about staying up until dawn to dig up some poor kid's grave so he could prevent other people from dying? That, in his opinion, would be his very own slice of heaven. But the white picket fence, apple pie life didn't appeal to him as much as it did almost a week ago.

There weren't even any lights on in the other motel rooms when Dean parked the Impala, and he was so tired he left his bag in the back seat, staggering to unlock his door and he nearly tumbled inside. Dean didn't even bother to turn a light on; he knew the general area of his bed and flung himself to it. Dirty clothes and all, Dean fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed.

Through the night he had the dreams of his brother again. Nightmares of his experience in hell—one Dean knew all too well. Except this time Kara was with him.

Her very screams, echoing along with Sammy’s, were what jolted him to consciousness in the morning only hours after he fell asleep. He sat at his bedside with his head in his hands. For minutes, hell maybe even an hour. Dean didn’t keep track of time any more. Didn't have the strength to, really, after what he just realized.

He went after the wrong chick. Or... the wrong spirit. Either he'd been too blind to see it or maybe he was in denial, in that moment all the pieces seemed to fit together.

It was Kara.

Even though he knew he probably shouldn't, Dean took his time throughout the day, trying his best to figure out the situation exactly. He didn't know too much about specifics but Marilyn had always been dicey at best when it came to the subject of Kara, so he supposed there was more to the story than she let on. A hell of a lot more.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought that Marilyn probably hid this from him all along. She probably knew, or at least had some inkling of a freaking clue. Why hadn't she told him? Dean did all of his usual tasks like showering, cleaning his guns and readying ammunition—preloaded with rock salt, until he had nothing left to do. Then? Then he moseyed his ass out to his car and drove across town.

He knew that Marilyn wouldn't want to see him, not after the fiasco he witnessed with Devon. Oh, and after everything he said to her about it. How could he have possibly kept his mouth shut about it, though? Exactly. He couldn't have.

His mind seemed stuck on the kid, so upon seeing Marilyn's driveway empty he drove down the block to take a look at Frank's house.

Just once he wished his loved ones could go peacefully, if they had to go at all. After Dean saw Devon at the cemetery the other day he knew she must still have been struggling with her sister's death.

It's was funny, Dean never really dwelled too much on it until then. He tried to picture Devon's life, normal and happy and safe, and then having her sister die at such a young age. That alone was enough to stick the kid in therapy for a good few years, but throw a cold as ice mother on top of that and it was a recipe for disaster.

Frank seemed to be all she had and then he was gone for who knew how long.

So he felt as if he had to help the kid in any way he could. Because he knew that loss, that loneliness he was sure she felt all too well.

Jesus, all he wanted was to check on Frank's house. There was no need to get attached because he'd be leaving soon, as soon as this job finished.

By then it was almost dark, and Dean knew from his grade A stalking abilities that Marilyn would get home from work just after six o'clock.

As he expected there was no life at Frank's house. He hoped that Devon wouldn't be at home, because while he wanted her to know the truth about what was out there, he didn't believe Devon would want to hear about her sister being a ghost trapped in this world. A vengeful freaking spirit. He knew this like he knew he wouldn't want to hear it about his own brother.

Dean headed back over to Marilyn's. He pulled up to the curb just as she got out of her car. Geez, Dean, try to make it a little more obvious will you. Upon seeing him on the way to her door and only giving him a slightly disgruntled look, Dean took it as an invitation inside.

Because Dean was all she had, and beggars can't be choosers.

So he let himself in instead of knocking and waiting out in the cold and sprawled himself across the sofa, scrutinizing the place. It looked to be the same as the last time he was there. Stuffy. Marilyn seemed to have busied herself in the kitchen, which irritated Dean more than usual because it was her, and he began to whistle.

After minutes passed she emerged from the kitchen nursing a cup of tea. She sat across from him on the recliner, just sipping from the stupid tiny cup. For minutes. He couldn’t help but to clench his jaw.

Finally, she eyed him with her murky gaze. Dean didn't as much as flinch. "What do you want?"

Dean held his hands up and on a condescending smirk he made to leave. "Fine. That's okay, if you don't need me."

He didn't even make it to the door, didn't even turn the handle. She spoke in a quick, jumbled mess. "Come back."

Make up your freakin’ mind, lady. He felt as if he were at a circus visiting some ultra-weird sideshow. He guessed that was what Marilyn really was, anyway. She could never seem to pay attention to anything but her own problems; though as catastrophic as they were then he for some reason felt the blame was to be placed on her. She couldn't even take the time to talk to her own kid about it. He sat back down on the sofa, except this time straight as an arrow. He wanted to hear whatever she had to admit, and would do so much that same smirk and hateful look in his eyes.

All those years ago when he first came to town he hadn't even liked her then. Not even those few times he begrudgingly met her when visiting Kara. Fuck, Kara. Dean's heart felt another wave of anguish as he thought about her. She'd been special, all right, for him to put up with Marilyn for her. Especially as the horny teenager he'd been. Right then he couldn't even remember leaving her, just that John got another job and the next day, after a very quick goodbye, he was out of town and onto the next hunt. Damn, that was just another regret Dean could add to his ever-expanding list.

Not quite as bitchy as before, Dean had to do a double take on Marilyn. He picked up on his whistling again because he knew it would irk Marilyn that much more. After another moment, she finally bagged the nerve to speak. "Something happened this morning."

The admission jolted Dean to attention as if he'd been doused by a gallon of ice cold water. "What? What time this morning?"

Dammit. Dean knew what was coming all along, yet he hadn't even let himself think of the possibility. He was almost as bad as she was. Marilyn sat straighter too, alarmed.

"Just before seven... why?"

Shit. How did he explain he dug up someone's body and burned their bones, only for him to have done it to the wrong person? He had no idea how to broach the subject. "I thought I fixed it last night. What happened?"

He didn't want to hear her rambling over how scared she was and that she thought she was going to die, like in all the other tales she told him. No, he wanted the truth this time.

"I woke up to screaming," Marilyn said with an even tone. But Dean saw through it. Underneath that snotty, belittling exterior, she was scared for her life.

Dean was tempted to groan at the news. Instead he opted to pinch the bridge of his nose, leaned forward on his knees. Here goes nothing. "Listen, Mrs. Baker, we have to talk about the possibility of it being Kara."

He knew to go about it—to skirt around the subject—carefully. Sometimes, though, there was only one way to do it: just spit it the hell out. He saw it coming. Her eyes hardened, became even dimmer, and her fingers tightened around her cup of tea; which she drained minutes ago. This time Dean really did groan.

This was just what he needed. He got it—the death of your child is never anything someone just 'gets over', but he wished desperately that she would at least be reasonable about this.

For her other child, that she seemed to forget about most times.

"Get out."

Dean rolled his eyes and stood. He had no qualms about leaving. "Y'know, you're somethin' else. Good luck tonight 'cause you're gonna need it."

Not that he expected her to, but Marilyn didn't reply. Instead she saw him to the door. He bet that it felt good for her, in her own twisted mind, to finally have the excuse to kick him to the curb.

Though he would’ve liked to have been, Dean wasn't completely heartless. Not even when it came to the old hag. Hell, he even expected this. So he drove around the block and parked down the street with a prime view of Marilyn's place.

And so the surveillance began.