The drive to the cemetery where the body of Joseph Klein lay buried felt much longer than the mere ten minutes it actually took from the motel. The streets of New Orleans were alive with a haunting beauty, the dim streetlights reflecting off the slick pavement and the distant sound of jazz seeping into the air. But for Dean and Sam, the grandeur of the city was overshadowed by the grim task ahead. They weren't here to revel in the charm of the place; they were on a hunt for something dark and deadly.

An angry spirit, revealed to be Joseph Klein, had been preying on the fears of the living, killing them in a twisted nightmare. The brothers had caught wind of the bizarre incidents and felt compelled to come to the cemetery, armed with salt and a determination to end the spirit's reign of terror by laying his remains to rest for good.

"Any idea where this guy's grave is, Sammy?" Dean asked, irritation lacing his voice as raindrops plummeted from the sky, soaking into their jackets and chilling their bones.

"Should be just up ahead," Sam replied, the beam of his flashlight slicing through the gloom, illuminating a sea of weathered gravestones, each one telling silent stories of the past.

When they finally stumbled across the granite-marble gravestone that marked Klein's final resting place, they dropped their gear onto the muddy ground with a dull thud. With gloved hands, they grabbed their shovels and began the grim task of digging. The rain, though a nuisance, had softened the earth, providing an unexpected advantage. The soil yielded easily beneath their efforts, making the grim chore feel almost manageable.

As Sam wrestled with the coffin lid, prying it open with labored breaths, Dean suddenly sensed a shift in the air—a chilling presence looming just behind him. The temperature around them plummeted instantaneously, the damp air turning icy. His breath emerged in visible puffs of fog as he instinctively tightened his grip around the handle of the buckshot. Spinning on his heel, he scanned the shadows, heart racing, only to find that the ghostly figure he sensed was gone, leaving behind an oppressive silence that filled the night.

"Sam, we need to wrap this up fast! We've got some unwelcome visitors closing in!" Dean called over his shoulder, his voice taut with urgency.

"I'm on it, Dean! Just hold him off for as long as you can!" Sam shouted back, his hands flying over the tools laid out before him.

Dean shook his head, frustration etched on his face as he muttered under his breath, "Easier said than done."

His eyes darted around the eerie graveyard, the moonlight casting long shadows on the weathered headstones. He was acutely aware that the ghost, with its malevolent energy, was lurking, ready to pounce at the slightest hint of vulnerability. Just as he turned to check on Sam, the specter struck.

But Dean's reflexes were sharp. He leveled his shotgun, a mix of rock salt and iron packed in the shell, and fired. The blast dispersed the ghost for a fleeting moment, a shimmering wisp of anger and vengeance twisting away into the night. It bought them precious seconds, but he knew it wouldn't last.

Suddenly, the vengeful spirit reformed, this time to Dean's left, its expression twisted with rage and resentment. As Dean swung the shotgun around, he felt the pressure behind the barrel, ready to squeeze the trigger—only to miss as Klein vanished just in time.

Before Dean could register what had happened, Klein reappeared mere inches away. Panic surged through Dean, and he swore under his breath, trying to steady his aim once more, but the ghost's counterattack was swift. With a powerful force, it knocked the shotgun from Dean's grip, sending him tumbling backward. His back collided forcefully with a weathered headstone, knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving him momentarily dazed.

As Dean struggled to regain his composure, he could see Klein shifting his attention towards Sam, intent on his next target. The desperation in Dean surged, and he fought to push himself up, knowing he had to get back on his feet before it was too late.

Scrambling to his feet, Dean grabbed the gun from the muddy ground, yelling, "Hey, you dead son-of-a-bitch! Come back here!"

Klein slowly began to pivot, sensing an unnatural shift in the air around him. In a split second, Dean, fueled by instinct and the urgency of the moment, pulled the trigger. A deafening blast erupted, sending a burst of energy that temporarily drove the spirit away, forcing it to retreat into the ether.

Dean rushed toward Sam, who was on his knees, meticulously pouring a blend of salt and lighter fluid into the grave. Breathing heavily, Dean's brow furrowed with unease. "C'mon, man. Somethin' doesn't feel right," he urged, his voice heavy with apprehension.

Sam looked up sharply, his brow knitted in confusion. "What do you mean? This was supposed to be an easy job, Dean. It's just a spirit," he replied, slightly exasperated, brushing away the tension building in the air.

Dean shook his head, dread brewing in his gut. "No. Tha— that's not what I—"

Suddenly, the ghost reemerged from the shadows, its presence like a chilling draft that swept through the cemetery. One moment, Dean was engaged in desperate conversation with his brother, and the next, he was suspended in midair, fear gripping him as he was hurled headfirst toward a cold, unforgiving marble-granite gravestone.

In that horrifying instant, a whirlwind of memories and instincts flashed through his mind—moments of laughter, brotherly bonds, and the haunting reality of their dangerous lives—as he braced for impact. Just before he collided with the headstone, he heard Sam's anguished shout and glimpsed a blinding flash of light, the world around him dissolving into darkness.

🔯

Dean stirred awake, jolted by a deafening clap of thunder that echoed across the sky. Rain cascaded down in merciless sheets, drenching him to the bone as it pelted against his face. He lay sprawled on his back in a patch of soggy, mud-slicked grass, his surroundings cloaked in a disorienting haze. An unsettling sense of isolation wrapped around him like a shroud; an instinctual awareness that he was utterly alone.

A searing pain throbbed relentlessly in his head, and as his fingers gingerly brushed against his skin, he discovered a gaping wound at his temple—a deep cut that sent sharp waves of agony coursing through his body.

With great effort, he slowly pushed himself up to his feet, fighting the waves of nausea that threatened to overtake him. His vision swam in and out of focus, the rain drenching him, leaving his clothes heavy and clinging to his skin. He struggled to piece together the fragmented memories swirling in his mind, desperately trying to locate Sam and understand what had transpired. The sharp throb in his head was a glaring reminder of the injury; he knew he'd hit it hard—likely sustaining a severe concussion that muddled his thoughts and impaired his coordination.

He took a cautious step forward, but the ground beneath him shifted unexpectedly, causing the earth to tilt and throwing off his balance. Instinctively, he stumbled, pain lancing through his body as he struggled to regain his footing. Through the obscurity of the night and the relentless sheet of rain, he caught a glimpse of the scene before him—Sam had been unable to complete the task. The shovels lay abandoned at the edge of the grave, the duffel bag sprawled nearby, and the lighter fluid glinted ominously in the dim light, ignored and forgotten. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, and a sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

Klein was still here.

Dean began struggling to get out of the cemetary. He knew that Sam would have left and gone back to the motel if things got hairy. So that's where he would go. Every step was sending a shockwave of pain up to his head and it was all Dean could do to not throw up his lunch. He felt blood running down his face, the cut still bleeding pretty heavily. Dean made it halfway out of the cemetary before he just about collapsed at the entrance. He pushed himself back up to his feet, his vision tunneling in and out, and kept going.

There was no way he was staying out here in the cemetary in the middle of the bayou, especially not during a storm. Dean heard a howl somewhere out in the darkness and he cringed. Werewolves? Damnit. He was in no condition to fight off a werewolf and he had nothing to defend himself with anyway.

Dean broke out into a run when he heard the sound of Klein laughing behind him. The son-of-a-bitch was really going to chase him down and kill him. Why the hell did I agree to this hunt? Oh right, cause it's what I do.

Dean sprinted through the dense woods, his heart racing with adrenaline as he desperately sought to put as much distance between himself and the ghostly figure that had haunted him. The wind whipped through the trees, whispering warnings that fell on deaf ears as he narrowly avoided a gnarled branch jutting out from a leaning tree. Each step felt perilous; he fought to maintain his footing, nearly slipping in the slick, muddy ground beneath him twice, frustration bubbling in his chest. He cursed the dark clouds above for unleashing relentless rain, wishing fervently that Cas was by his side to confront whatever darkness lurked here.

As the forest thinned, he hardly noticed how he had reached the road, his focus solely on escape. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but he pushed forward, the world around him blurring into a chaotic swirl of shadows and colors. Finally, he stumbled onto the asphalt, his legs buckling beneath him as he sank to his knees, gasping for breath. A pounding ache erupted in his head, a relentless drumbeat that throbbed in time with his racing heart.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the pain that threatened to overwhelm him, but dizziness washed over him like a tide. The last thing he remembered was the piercing brightness of headlights slicing through the darkness. With a final, hopeful thought that it might be Sam, Dean succumbed to the darkness, collapsing onto his side, his consciousness slipping away.