Chapter Text
"Was out tillin' the field the other day."
The warm days of spring were swiftly approaching in Letterkenny, the aroma of freshly-tilled soil on the breeze as Wayne squinted against the setting sun. He pulled the pack of darts out of his front shirt pocket, pushing one up with his thumb and snagging it on the moisture of his bottom lip. Steadying the tractor's steering wheel with one knee, he shielded the end of the cigarette and flicked his lighter until the end caught and glowed. Dart in one hand and the other on the wheel, he rounded the corner of the field and started the final stretch back to the barn.
This is the part Wayne's still unclear about when he tells the guys later: through the open barn door, Wayne saw the figure of a woman in a tattered dress and bonnet. 'Cept instead of a pitchfork or a broom, she's holding a carving knife dripping with blood. In her other hand, she's holding a man's severed head by the hair. Then her image seemed to flicker before disappearing.
"So she cut of her husband's head?" Darryl posits.
"Couldn't say if it was her husband's head, but she was holding a man's head regardless." Wayne took a long drag off his dart, then cautioned a glance over at the barn before exhaling a shroud of smoke.
"Well I thinks she'd has to be pretty passionates about him if she's gonna cuts off his head." Squirrelly Dan added.
"'Cept when I pulled the tractor into the barn, there's no woman, no head, no blood. No dogs neither, they all ran an' hid in the house like they seen the wolves." Wayne ground his molars, unwilling to voice the thought in his head.
"You think maybe it was a ghost?" Darry tilts his head as he says this, shifting in his seat. Though thankful someone else said it, Wayne still lobbed his empty beer can in Darryl's direction.
"Whats can youse even do abouts a ghost?" Dan asks.
"Don't know. Don't tell nobody neither, ain't worth drawin' a fuss." Wayne dropped his cigarette butt in a discarded coffee can and cracked open another beer. Giving the barn another sideways glance, he put away half the can in one drink. Wayne didn't admit to feeling fear often, but the sight of a severed head ain't somethin' you see every day. "We'll figure it out."
"Figger it out," Darryl echoed.
"We got enough livin' freeloadin' fucks 'round here, fuck knows we don't need dead ones too."
[Letterkenny opening music plays]
The room was still lit from the night before when Dean cracked his eyes open, a full night's sleep spent on top of his blankets and clad in denim. He rolled onto his stomach and pulled himself toward the alarm clock, silencing it with a heavy thwomp. Rolling onto his back, he sat up with his back turned to the clock and buried his face in his hands. Seemingly a moment later, Dean felt his head jerk up to see Sam standing at his bedroom door.
"Sleep well?" Sam asked, fighting back a shit-eating grin.
"Fuckin' fantastic." Dean stretched and emitted a barely-audible creak that evolved into a yawn.
"Don't worry, there's coffee in the kitchen." Sam pushed his shoulder off the door frame and stood straight to turn and walk away.
"Wait, who made it? You, or Cas?" Dean looked up at Sam through hooded eyes.
"Cas did, why?" Sam asked, trailing off as Dean hopped up and staggered out as quickly as his legs seemed to allow.
"'Cause he makes coffee, not brown water," Dean said as he rounded the corner toward the kitchen.
Sam ambled into the kitchen after Dean, finding him pouring a mug of the rich liquid and doing absolutely nothing to suppress a grin. Dean turned, his smile wiping away at the sight of Sam's incredible resting bitch face. "What?" Dean croaked between sips.
"What's wrong with my coffee?" Sam kept his tone flat, and his hand from smacking the back of Dean's head.
"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just— You could stand to make it a bit stronger is all." Dean caught himself rolling his shoulders forward and straightened his posture.
"Alright, that's it. I'm making the next pot of coffee and you can critique it since you're such a fuckin' connoisseur." Sam scoffed as he poured himself a mug and made his way to the hall.
Cas sat by the fireplace, the fire growing lethargic as the last of a log burned among ashes. His thousand-yard stare remained unwavering as Dean approached.
"You there?" Dean asked, snapping his fingers in Cas' line of sight. Cas shook his head and then looked up at Dean. "Thanks for the coffee," Dean added.
"Oh, um— yes." Cas blinked hard, a look of confusion settling in as he looked to Dean for a cue.
"I said thanks for— Are you alright in there?" Dean sat on the armrest of the reading chair, looking down into the angel's lost blue eyes.
"I have been experiencing difficulties with painful flashbacks of recent events, I don't know how to stop it. Nights are hard." Cas heard Dean's heart rate increase and knew already to direct his gaze back to the fire.
"Sounds like PTSD, I never imagined an angel struggling with mental illness," Sam said. He stepped closer, sitting in the chair opposite Cas.
"Yes, but most angels act according to their orders. They don't question their actions, they do as they are instructed. By defying heaven, I created the potential for questioning my own actions and considering how I could have chosen differently. Self doubt, remorse over my actions, regret about the outcomes. I suppose this is the price of free will." Cas' stare grew distant, then he pinned his eyes shut and rubbed his face in his hands.
"Well I know that Sammy and I have both been through some PTSD before, so anything we can do to help you get through it. You aren't condemned to suffer alone, we're here for you." Sam nodded emphatically as Dean gripped Cas' shoulder. "We'll figure out something so we aren't abandoning you for hours every night, there's gotta be a way to fix this."
"Though in my attempts at distracting myself last night, I may have found us an interesting case." Cas stood, crossing over to the table where Sam's laptop sat hibernating. The screen lit up revealing an online discussion, and Cas scrolled up to reveal a story in a block of text. "This is on the paranormal subreddit, sounds like a haunted barn."
Sam rose, swapping seats for the one in front of the computer. "I don't know, Cas. This is in Canada, it's a hell of a drive."
"Only if you drive the whole way, which would require a border crossing. I can bring you two and the Impala, just not a very long distance."
"So drive toward the border, you hop us over the crossing, we drive the rest of the way. Simple enough," Dean said.
"I'll respond, let them know we can help." Sam smiled, then began pounding out a message.
Wayne took pride in his dogs, who were all well behaved and trained to guard the property. So his stud male tearing into the cattle barn barking wildly was as shocking an act as it was startling. Reeling with pitchfork in hand, the apparition of a woman in a blood-soaked dress soaring straight for him naturally got a swingin' at.
As the points of the pitchfork grazed her, a shriek rung in his ears and she vanished. Frozen in place, Wayne watched, listening for any sign of her return with his pitchfork raised and ready to rock.
The big shepherd dog walked up to him, pawing his leg before turning and pointing his nose at the tractor. He looked between Wayne and the machine until Wayne took a few cautious strides toward the equipment. The dog ran forward and began pawing at the harrower, and Wayne noticed a stick caught among the discs.
He crouched next to the machine, and wiggled the stick loose from the blades. Looking it over, where the disc had struck the side of it shone bright white. Wayne turned it in his hand as a sick feeling sunk in his gut, and brushing away dirt he confirmed his worst suspicions. He held a human femur.
"So what the fuck in God's good green globe am I supposed to do with it?" Wayne demanded, the cool morning shade under the produce stand deepening the chill he couldn't seem to shake.
"I reckons you should calls the federalies," Dan stated before nursing his coffee.
"What're the cops gonna do with a bone? I betcha whoever killed them is long dead anyway, who're they gonna arrest?" Darryl pondered aloud.
"Your inside thoughts're spillin' out again, Darry." Wayne gripped his double-double, sipping the hot coffee in a dire hope to feel warmth. "Doedn't it seem unusually cold fer this time o'year?"
"A tit bit nipply out, fer sures," Dan said.
"You wanna take about 20% off that there, Squirrelly Dan?" Wayne said, a smirk tugging at his taut lips.
"Well I think we oughtta let the police know we found a body. Er, least part of one." Darryl hocked a wad of spit toward the ditch before taking a drink.
"Hard no. Last thing we need 'round here is rumours flying with the five-oh scouring the property. 'Sides, last I hear cops ain't no ghostbusters." Wayne pinned his coffee between his knees long enough to light a dart before wrapping his big hands around the cup and soaking the heat again.
"The cops 'round here are ten-ply. Anyway, I think I may have an alternative solution." Katy started.
"Well pitter-patter," Wayne barked.
"I posted our story on the paranormal subreddit, and this dude says him and his brother hunt ghosts and can get rid of it for us." Katy looked back at Wayne, watching his stony face sit unmoving until he drew in a drag and blew a cloud of smoke.
"And how much they chargin' fer this service?"
"Didn't say, but we can negotiate. We kinda do need their help."
"Texas-size ten-four. When can they be here?"