Season Two

Episode Nine: Enemy Territory

By Kittsbud

Part Two

Dean’s eyes widened but he didn’t waste time focusing further on his obviously deluded brother. Tucking the shotgun into his shoulder, he tugged back on the trigger, feeling the kick as two shells exploded from the barrel dispelling a shower of rock salt over his enemy.

The white powdery cloud bit into Grayson’s presence, diffusing his ethereal form in an implosion of light and sound. The sergeant screamed out as his message, his reason for being here was yanked away before he could complete it.

As Grayson vanished into the ether, his troop dissipated along with him, their bodies seemingly swallowed by the blackness of the night.

Dean heaved out a breath and rubbed at the thin sheen of perspiration that had formed on his brow. “You’re discharged, Sarge,” he snarked, warily eyeing the spot where Grayson had stood.

Sam cringed, suspecting the remark was from some instantly forgettable movie. It was a “Dean thing” he’d become used to over the years, but he just couldn’t place the quote right now. Then again, that was hardly surprising, the look his brother was giving him.

“Dude, have you gotten some kinda death wish here? Cos I’m working my butt off trying to find some solution to your whole Haris deal, and you go giving yourself up to the bastard!” The elder hunter returned to the Impala’s trunk and tossed in his weapon, not bothering to even slide it into the niche that normally housed it. He was mad, no furious, and he didn’t give a damn if Sam knew it.

Sam slid his hands into his jacket pockets but glanced away. It was hard to look Dean in the eyes when he was this pissed. Sometimes it was even easier to walk away, just like he had that night on the road that seemed so long ago now. Yeah, and that time I walked straight into the clutches of Meg, Haris’s kid. Seems like I’m going in circles here…

Sam inhaled, calming his rattled nerves. “This isn’t about Haris, Dean, but maybe it is about me.” He watched his brother’s features, waiting for more sarcasm, waiting to be shot down before he’d even finished his explanation. Instead, Dean simply shook his head and remained at the rear of the Chevy. “The soldier, the one who singled me out? I think he was trying to tell me something…”

“Yeah?” Dean huffed. “What are we dealing with here, friggin’ Lassie?”

“Dean!” Sam shot his brother the opposite of his normal puppy dog smile, the expression Dean had affectionately labeled “Sad Sam” but that was actually closer to “Pissy Sam” than the fluffy toy it described. “Man, you’re so not listening. You were the one with a shotgun, yet the thing was fixated on me…spoke to me…” Sam fidgeted. “It cited something from the Bible, Dean. I’m not sure but either Exodus or maybe Numbers…”

“The Bible?” Dean’s face contorted at the very word. Bibles, churches, they just weren’t his thing. “Dude, you been hanging around Moses, way too long. You’re starting to sound like him. Next thing you know I’m gonna have to buy you a dog collar.” The hunter thought about it, striding for the driver’s door of the Chevy. Eventually, he turned back and grinned. “’Course, then you could bless your own holy water, save us a bunch of time…”

“Dean, we have to figure out where that quote is from. It means something.” Sam tugged at the passenger door, climbing inside the classic and ignoring his brother’s jibes.

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean admitted, deftly twisting the ignition key. “But first we go eat, and then we find out if anyone remembers Sgt Bilko back in the sixties when he was still alive.”

Sam glowered. “Eat? Dean, it’s the middle of the night. Don’t you think of anything but food?”

Dean patted his stomach with a grin. “Dude, nothing better than some All-American grease burgers after a hangover…”

“Ugh…” Sam looked away and decided not to push the conversation. Who knew what other hidden, gross foodstuff Dean might decide to talk about to make him feel nauseous.

Sometimes, the things his brother ate defied description – sometimes, he often wondered if the word “supernatural” was too accurate for the items Dean piled on his plate.

* * * *

Oxford, Nebraska
The Next Day

Dean watched as the pendulum swung back and forth on the ancient grandfather clock, almost mesmerizing him with its metronomic motion.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Time’s running out, for me, for Sammy…

“Mrs. Grayson, thank you so much for seeing us at such short notice. We really appreciate it.” Sam’s velvety voice filtered across the room and Dean finally managed to pry his gaze from the antique timepiece in the corner.

“Who did you say you were with again, young man?” A short, spry woman who reminded the elder Winchester of Aunt May from Spiderman looked over her wire glasses at both brothers.

“We’re doing a freelance piece for the Oxford Standard here in town.” Dean smiled, hating to lie to the old woman. “We were wondering if you could tell us about your son?”

Margaret Grayson’s eyes flicked to a framed photograph sitting atop her TV. The young man in the picture wore dress uniform and stood proudly with several other men from his platoon, but it was obviously the sergeant from the previous night’s encounter.

The image was slightly faded, but his smile, his passion for his job shone through whatever the passage of time had done to the colors.

“This is about the rumors, isn’t it?” Margaret’s face grew solemn, her bottom lip quivering slightly and her hands wringing as she brought back memories long since pushed away into some dark corner of her mind. “It’s all rumors. My Ryan wouldn’t hurt anyone, not even if he could come back. He was a good boy. Everyone liked him.”

“Do you know what happened to him all those years ago?” Sam sat forward, teasing the information from the graying mother.

“No one knew,” she shrugged, her voice catching slightly as she swallowed back a tear. “All the parents were told was that the whole platoon simply vanished one night while on patrol. Everyone assumed they were all killed by the Vietnamese, but there was never any proof one way or another. Like the Marie Celeste on land…”

Both brothers looked at one another and frowned. The Marie Celeste was definitely their kind of gig.

“But there’s proof now?” Dean pushed.

Margaret shrugged and her eyes saddened. Without a body she had held out hope for so long that Ryan might one day be found alive. “Ryan’s whole platoon was found by a pair of backpackers. Their remains were brought home for burial, but its all still a mystery…”

“Mystery?” Sam scribbled on a small pad, feigning taking notes.

“Yes,” the distressed mother nodded. “You see, Ryan and the others? Their bodies were thirty miles from their proposed landing zone. No one knows how it could have happened…”

An awkward silence filled the room, the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock the only noise that dare to invade.

Tick. Tock. Tick.

Dean cleared his throat. “Mrs. Grayson, we hate to ask, but can you tell us where your son and the others were buried?”

Margaret frowned, a clear line of wrinkles forming across her aging brow. “Ryan is in Spring Grove cemetery. I don’t know about the other boys, but I think some are in Kellner cemetery, about half a mile from town. So many families had left Oxford after all this time…” She looked back at her son’s photo, his cheerful face drawing a small smile from her. “If you want to know more about Ryan, you should go visit his old friend Paul Mitchum. Paul was Ryan’s best friend and C.O. Poor boy was devastated when that whole patrol vanished.”

Dean nodded, and rose from his seat simultaneously with Sam. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll do that…”

Margaret bobbed her head and bit unconsciously into her bottom lip. “The stories I’ve heard, they can’t be true, can they? My Ryan…I mean…coming back?”

Sam looked to his brother, but couldn’t answer. From the crucifix on the wall unit it was clear Mrs. Grayson had faith. Maybe finding out her son had returned as something less than Godly would be more than she could take. Maybe Dad finding out about my deal will be too. Thank God he doesn’t know…

* * * *

Paul Mitchum’s Home
Outskirts of Oxford, Nebraska

Dean whistled as he trudged down a long, rough hewn path that cut through a mass of blowing corn sheaves. “Man, this guy takes living in the boonies to a new level. What kind of weirdo has a house in the middle of a cornfield?” He scrunched his face after thinking about it for a long, hard second. “Except maybe Mel Gibson in Signs…”

“Or a retired army officer that wants to stay out of the limelight?” Sam offered, finally reaching the large wooden building that Paul Mitchum called home. “I mean, did you read this guy’s bio? Highly decorated war hero, dude…” He climbed the wooden decking and rapped on the front screen door, raising a brow.

Dean scratched his head dismissively. “Yeah, well, heroes are usually over-rated.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue that Dean considered their father a hero, but quickly snapped his jaw shut again when a young man about his age appeared from behind the screen door.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“We’re doing an article for the Oxford Standard. We wondered if Mr. Paul Mitchum is home?” Dean flashed a fake press badge, but the young, dark haired man ignored him, his youthful eyes wandering to Sam and then widening.

“My, um…my dad is on the phone. Would you like to come in and wait?” The kid gestured into the house, and Sam couldn’t help but notice that he’d paled slightly and his outstretched hand trembled just a fraction.

“Thanks, um - ?” Dean shot his brother a glance and then focused his attention on the kid, pressuring for a name.

“David, I’m David Mitchum…” He stepped back, allowing the two brothers entrance into the huge wooden structure.

Inside was just as neatly kept as the outside. Picture frames perfectly aligned along the corridor as if on regimental parade. Flowers arranged in vases strategically placed to give the best effect without being too overpowering.

Jeez, he’s one of those guys who has that freaky anal condition about neatness, Dean cringed inside as he entered another flawlessly kept side room, knowing he was the total opposite and appreciating the fact. Sometimes being a partial slob had its advantages.

Along the top of a Baby Grand piano the hunter noticed a collection of photographs – all identically mounted. They were all of one man at various stages in his military career. Dean assumed correctly they were of Mitchum.

The first picture was faded, just like the one at Margaret Grayson’s home, and alongside Mitchum, M16 in hand, was the now infamous sergeant. To match the compilation was another frame, this time full of immaculately cleaned medals that shone in the morning light through the window.

Dean nodded to Sam, indicating the plethora of decorations Mitchum had received.

“Your dad was quite a war hero, David?” Sam let a hand run over the glass in the medal collection’s frame and was startled when a short static shock tracked up his fingers and into his hand, making him pull away.

“I…I guess…” David’s already pallid complexion seemed to sallow even further. “I’m proud of what he did…”

“Really, kid? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting you don’t sound too sure.” Dean cracked into a smirk and only bit back any further comments when Sam shot him the hundredth dirty look of the day.

“Is something wrong?” Sam crossed the room so that he was facing Mitchum’s son. “Is it something we said?” Hell, is it me? I saw the scared rabbit look the minute he set eyes on me…

“It’s nothing. Something stupid, that I should know better than let bother me.” David shrugged. “I mean, I’m twenty-two not four. Nightmares are for kids, right?”

Dean picked up the medal frame, knowing his moving it even a fraction would probably irk its owner. He didn’t know Mitchum yet, but he knew the type. “Dude, you’d be surprised how many nightmares are real…”

Sam nodded in agreement, thinking of the endless torment he suffered because of his visions. Been there, done that…don’t want the damn t-shirt. “Do you mind me asking why the dream bothered you so much?” He asked, perching on the edge of a rather huge, plush velour chair.

“It’s about my dad.” David watched Dean place the medals down, then his eyes shifted back to Sam. “Something bad happens to him in it…and the worse part is I keep seeing it over and over. Last night was the third night in a row…” He shuddered, suddenly wishing he hadn’t opened his heart, his soul, to two strangers, but then, were they strangers? He looked back up to Sam, fear abruptly making him want to leave the room.

“David? Why didn’t you tell me we had guests?” A short, gray haired man with a well-trimmed moustache sauntered into the room and scrutinized both brothers. His eyes were sharp, beady – the kind of eyes that missed nothing, not even the slightest scuffed boot on a parade ground.

“You were busy on the phone, I…I thought it best to wait…” David scrambled to his feet. “I’ll go finish in the kitchen,” he finished, scurrying from the room before his father or the Winchesters could say more.

“Seems like a good kid,” Dean offered. Pity I think his dad might be an ass.

“He is a good boy. Reminds me of my younger days. You know, my wife and I didn’t think we’d be blessed with any children. Then David came along out of the blue late in our lives.” Mitchum took a seat at a mahogany desk in the corner, resting his elbows on it and steepling his fingers. “But you didn’t come here to talk family. So, what can I do for you two? Did I hear mention of some newspaper report?”

“We were wondering if you could tell us about the night Ryan Grayson’s patrol went missing. You were his commanding officer at the time. Care to offer any speculations as to why they were so far from their mission LZ?”

Mitchum nodded, a wry smile forming under his moustache. “This is about the ghost sightings since the men’s bodies were brought home. The press will write anything these days to get a buck…” He leaned back in his leather swivel chair, a slightly accusatory tone edging his voice. “Ryan was my friend. I was devastated when the whole platoon was lost like that. The simple truth is, though, we may never know what went wrong. Vietnam was a bloody war. Unexplainable things happened in the confusion of battle.”

“Do you think someone could have made a mistake? Maybe someone could have messed up the mission’s coordinates somehow?” Sam faked writing on his notepad again, but all he could think about was the recognition in Mitchum’s son’s eyes back on the porch. Something bizarre was going on in the tiny town of Oxford. Something more than just a phantom Ranger patrol come back from the dead. He knew me somehow…the kid knew me. And what’s with the nightmare?

“…well, thank you for your time, Mr. Mitchum. Oh, and…nice set of medals…”

Sam could hear the tick of sarcasm in Dean’s voice and suddenly became conscious that his brother was excusing them. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts about David he hadn’t even noticed the interview had all but come to a close.

Standing from his seat, he stuffed the notepad into his top pocket and just managed to see Paul Mitchum fiddling with something on top of the piano from the corner of his eye as he exited the room. A grin appeared on the younger Winchester’s face as he realized Mitchum was re-arranging his medals after Dean had touched them.

Sam leaned from his lofty heights and whispered just loud enough for his brother to hear, “Hey man, I think you tainted his collection for life …”

Dean scowled and pushed open the house’s screen door just a little too hard, making it clatter on the carefully painted woodwork. “The guy is a dick,” he complained. “And they gave him medals! Man. I almost feel bad we gotta go torch his buddies instead of him…”

Sam paused at the Impala’s door, looking back across to the house as if it called to him. “Dean…I’m not so sure we should burn the bodies yet…”

Dean slipped in a piece of gum to satiate his grumbling stomach and then cocked his head. “Dude, they haunt, we salt and burn their asses. It’s a pretty simple equation.”

Sam grabbed the handle and tugged open the creaking metal door, slipping his towering frame inside. When his brother joined him, chewing heartily, he continued their conversation. “I sensed something in the Mitchum house,” he confessed. “Something strong, powerful, but I can’t put my finger on it. And what about the kid’s dreams? Dean, you might think I’m nuts, but I really don’t think those ghosts are here to hurt people – at least, not random people.”

Dean cranked the ignition. “You’re right,” he agreed with a smirk. “I do think you’re nuts…” Who else would sell their soul for my sorry butt? The elder hunter spun around the steering wheel with one hand and pointed the Chevy towards Kellner cemetery. According to what they’d discovered, it was going to be a long day, travelling between three separate burial grounds to find the entire platoon’s remains and burn them. A long day Dean could do without when he had his brother’s fate on his conscience.

“Dean…we can’t just burn these soldier’s bodies and walk away. What if this were dad?”

Dad.

Dean flinched at the word. “Sammy, if they’re not back to cause trouble, then what? How many spooks you know that go around pointing guns at people but really wanna win the friggin’ zombie peace prize?” Why did he have to mention Dad..?

Sam inhaled and fixed his gaze on the corn that stretched as far as he could see. There would be no talking to Dean. No asking to find the truth behind the haunting. And in a way, maybe his brother was right. The dead needed sending to a peaceful resting place. What good would it do to drag up how they’d died after all this time? But what if it was murder? What if…?

The random idea popped into the hunter’s head and refused to budge, no matter how hard he tried to focus on other things. On his deal with Haris, on how Dean would deal with things if Haris collected, on what his father would do. But still, the same question clawed at his mind like a hungry maggot in a feeding frenzy.

What if it was murder…?

Sam heard the radio flick on, and some part of his mind recognized The Doors’ “The Unknown Soldier” begin to harmonize through the speakers. Trust Dean to pick a song that epitomized a war whose aftermath they were still dealing with even now.

What if it was murder...?

The words began to scream at him, not in his voice, but in the rasping tones he had heard the previous evening. It was as if Grayson was somehow taunting him, begging him to listen, to hear the sergeant’s full story.

Sam let his head drop into his palms as it began to throb in the usual painful rhythm that indicated a vision. Somewhere inside it felt like his brain was actually pulsating, writhing, trying to break free from the constraints of his skull. And then, in a rapid blast of clarity, he was elsewhere, watching through a cloudy skewed haze as if seeing through a camera lens that wasn’t being held steady.

It was night, and all around the hunter could hear noises, strange chirps and insect calls. To his left a familiar, but slightly clearer voice broke the jungle sounds.

“We’re way out of our depth here. We should head back to our LZ and call the choppers back in. Pop some smoke before our asses get fried…”

Sam blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the vision, to the picture he was being shown that could never be changed. I’m seeing the past, not the future, just like in St. Michaels Bay…

Except Sam was more than seeing, he was feeling every thought, every last pain-filled idea than ran through Ryan Grayson’s head before his death, and it wasn’t pretty.

Grayson had known the whole patrol had been set up because of an action he had taken. In his last moments as he’d run full-throttle at the Viet-Cong, he had felt the weight of fifty men’s deaths on his shoulders.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

And yet, those deaths hadn’t really been Grayson’s fault. They had been the fault of another – a friend, a soldier – a coward.

“…Sammy…dude I’ve seen Casper with more color…”

Sam shook his head, trying to clear the miasma that had momentarily enveloped it. Dean was talking to him, was shaking his arm in a frantic attempt to pull him free from his reverie.

“I’m alright…I …” Sam tugged his tingling eyelids open, vaguely aware that they were stinging almost as much as the time they’d been burned during the recent Riverside gig. “Dean…we have to go back. I know why the platoon is here!”

Dean slowed the Impala but didn’t instantly turn. He looked across to the passenger seat, steering with just one hand. “You saw something that’s gonna happen?” he questioned.

Sam shook his head, finding the motion still painful. “No…I saw what happened. It was like for a split second I was back in ’Nam with Grayson. Hell, it was like I was inside the sergeant’s head. I sensed his every thought right up until…” He paused, thinking how needlessly the soldiers had died. “Dean, it was Paul Mitchum! Mitchum was mistreating women prisoners and Grayson found out. Confronted his old friend about it…”

Dean screwed his face up in disgust. “Man, you’re telling me that creep Mitchum went Casualties of War on some prisoners, and when Grayson confronted him he altered his best buddy’s next mission so his dirty deeds wouldn’t get found out? Son of a bitch!” The hunter slapped the steering wheel with his palm. “I knew that guy was a dick!”

“Yeah, well all Grayson and his men wanted was to try and make someone understand. They want justice, Dean.”

“Yeah, and if I have to drag Mitchum down to the local Sheriff’s office to do it, they’re gonna get that justice.” Dean hit the brake pedal, spinning the Impala in a one-eighty so fast the aging car groaned audibly in protest. He scowled, reapplying gas after the turn. “I knew I was gonna hate this friggin’ gig…”

* * * *

Mitchum’s House

Dean parked the Impala as close to the edge of the cornfield as possible and climbed out. Dragging his Desert Eagle from his belt, he ejected the clip, checked its contents, and then slid it back home with a harsh slam of his palm.

He sighed at the sound of the metal “click” as the clip found its place, and then he re-situated the weapon in its “home.”

“Dean, we can’t go in there all guns blazing. The guy has a son that has no clue what a monster his father really was…” Sam watched as the look of anger on his brother’s features subsided only slightly.

“Sammy, Mitchum is an ex-Ranger. No way I’m going up there with no protection. Trust me, no guns unless he pulls one first, okay?” Dean began to swagger through the corn toward the house without waiting for any agreement. He wanted this hunt over. He wanted to be back on the trail of Haris and a way out of Sam’s deal. Nobody else is gonna die for me…

Sam took down a long breath and began to follow. There was no reason to believe Mitchum would be expecting them back so soon, and no reason to think he’d be aware of what they’d found out. How could he, when it had come from one of Sam’s bizarre, yet insightful visions?

“Hey, looks like David can’t stand his dad’s company either…” Dean cocked a brow and stepped sideways just enough for Sam to see the young man bound through the house’s front door and storm down the steps.

Even at this distance it was easy to tell that he was flustered. The cheeks of his face were reddened, and as he climbed onto a small dirt bike he seemed almost disorientated.

David booted at the kick start in a frenzy, and when the bike finally struggled to life he yanked at the handle bars and gunned the gas until the rear wheel spun in the loose earth for several seconds before gaining traction.

“Whoa, stand clear, Evel Knievel’s on the war path!” Dean moved out of the bike’s route as it sped towards him. “Think he’s gonna try and jump the Impala?” He queried, raising a brow as he noted the Chevy was quite clearly blocking David’s path.

Sam’s voice softened as if he was only vaguely aware of what his brother was saying. Something else was on his mind, nagging, needing to know. “Shouldn’t we be asking ourselves why he’s in such a hurry?” The hunter moved until he was in the center of the rough pathway, directly in front of the oncoming bike.

“Sam!” Dean moved instinctively to push his brother out of the way, but the oncoming bike’s brakes squealed as its rider skidded sideways in an attempt to stop. David brought the Yamaha to a halt a few feet from both Winchesters, his eyes wide with the sudden realization he’d almost plowed into them.

“Dude, Haris not collecting fast enough for you?” Dean glared at his sibling’s apparent kamikaze attempt. “You give the words ‘death wish’ a whole new meaning and I ain’t liking it, li’l brother…”

Sam ignored the remark, instead addressing the young man who had now clambered from his dirt bike. “Where were you going in such a hurry?”

David ran his forearm across his brow and grimaced. He wanted to be somewhere else almost as much as Dean did. He wanted to save someone – almost as much as Dean did. “I need to go. I have to find my dad…” He moved to pass the two brothers, but Dean blocked his path.

“Your dad’s not home?” Dean shot Sam a glance that said maybe they had been expected after all.

“I was sleeping…I’ve had so many rough nights lately I must have dozed.” David squirmed, thinking about the dream his slumber had brought on. “I had another nightmare…it was so real…so…frightening…”

“About your dad?” Sam’s brow knitted in concentration. Things were coming together in his head now. Things he should have realized earlier.

“…the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations…”

David shook his head, his sweat-drenched hair dropping into his eyes. “It was about one of Dad’s friends. I’ve seen the guy in the photos, heard Dad talk about him even…” His eyes fell to the earth his bike had churned moments earlier. “I saw how he died…”

“You saw why he died too, didn’t you?” Sam pushed, knowing now that David was no ordinary kid. We shared the same vision. That’s why I was drawn here, why Grayson’s ghost singled me out…David is one of the special kids…just like me…

“Dad set him up…he set them all up.” David finally looked up, daring to stare his two companions in the eye. “But that doesn’t mean he deserves to die. He’s different now. He changed when he married Mom.”

Dean huffed, but bit back a scathing remark. “Where is he now? What got you so all fired up you nearly turned us into dog chow?”

“When I woke up he was going through the garage like crazy. He took a spade and a can of gas. Said something about knowing what he had to do.” David winced and bit into his lower lip. “I don’t know where he’s gone, but I have another bad feeling about this.”

“Spade? Can of gas?” Dean cocked his head towards his brother. “Sammy, I think Mr. Medals found out how to kill spook ass and he’s gone to burn his ex-buddies before they let loose his skeleton in the closet.”

Sam nodded. “The nearest cemetery is Kellner, where we were headed. He’ll probably go there first.” The younger Winchester looked to his fellow visionary. “David, go inside and wait for us. We’ll bring your dad back.”

“Back to what?” David’s eyes watered, but he struggled to hold back the tears. Deep down he’d been somehow expecting this. The dreams, the nightmares – somehow he’d always known they were some kind of insight into the truth.

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted truthfully. “The police, justice…but believe me, that’s better than what he’s headed for right now.”

David nodded. Somehow, he already knew that.

* * * *

Kellner Cemetery

Sam crept between the tombs, shafts of twilight sun catching him occasionally as he moved stealthily from monument to monument. It had taken longer to find the burial ground than either brother had expected – Mitchum having the advantage of knowing the Nebraska back roads far better than the Winchesters did.

Now they were here, it was late, and the ancient cemetery looked more like some civil war graveyard than a place where ten men had recently been interred.

“You sure we’re at the right place? I mean, c’mon, I swear no one’s been buried here since Abe Lincoln was in office…” Dean pressed his back against the stone of a crypt and warily looked across the expanse of headstones. For such a small, out of city place, a lot of people had died in or near Oxford.

“It’s the right place,” Sam affirmed. “We just have to find Mitchum before Grayson does.”

Dean pushed forward; keeping his rock salt-filled weapon poised in front of him should the ghostly platoon appear. “What I don‘t get,” he asked as he strode carefully between graves. “Is what’s going on with Mitchum’s kid? You think he’s starting the whole freaky vision vibe like you? We got ourselves another Village of the Damned outcast or what?”

Sam stepped over a crumbling monument dated 1865, frowning at his brother’s description. “Actually, yeah, I think you hit the nail on the head. There’s more too…”

Dean stopped again, forgetting their prey for an instant to stare at his towering sibling. “More? Like what, Sammy?”

“Remember when Grayson said something to me about children and grandchildren to the third and fourth generations? I finally recalled where it’s from, Dean. The whole thing is about sins of the fathers.”

“Huh? Sammy, you’re making about as much sense as that lap dancer back in Philly…”

Sam sighed, realizing that Dean just wasn’t seeing the connection. “Grayson singled me out because he knew I was like David. Some ghostly sixth sense told him I was like Mitchum’s son. The whole “sins of the fathers” thing has to be tied in too. I mean, c’mon, if Mitchum isn’t classed as a sinner, then who is?”

The sound of a spade in the distance hitting on something hard caught Dean’s ears and he held up a hand, torn between the gig, and Sam’s ramblings. “You’re saying you think Dad did something evil and that’s why you got stuck with those wonderful Clark Kent-like abilities of yours? Dude, Mitchum might be a scum bag, but no way you’re classing Dad with that S.O.B.” The hunter scowled and ducked low, moving towards the repeated whacking of metal on what was presumably a casket.

“No, Dean…I just…” Sam stopped when he realized he didn’t have an answer.

Paul Mitchum had openly admitted he and his wife had thought they would be childless, but then, like some miracle David had come along late in life. Maybe David was less a miracle and more some kind of demonic payment. What if the special kids all were? What if Haris paid off a debt by giving the special kids to certain families who had served him? Dad wouldn’t…

The more the hunter thought about it, the more confusing it became until his head began to thrum. Like Dean, deep down he was convinced their father would never willingly or knowingly work for a creature from hell. So what did the “sins of the fathers” phrase really mean? Sam was convinced Grayson had directed it both at David, and at himself, and he was convinced now it was about their abilities. I need to speak to Dad…

“Sammy…”

Sam felt a hand on his forearm holding him lightly back, and when he looked up he saw why.

Paul Mitchum had opened the grave of a young soldier named Alan Hartman and had begun to hack at his casket with the spade he’d dug the hole with. Now, though, the chopping noises had ceased, only to be replaced by the sound of a grown man whimpering, begging, pleading for his life.

“Ryan…I swear I didn’t change those orders…please…PLEASE!”

“Mitchum’s a coward,” Dean scoffed in disgust. “No big surprise there.” He leveled his shotgun and dodged from behind the tomb where he’d been hiding.

Sam followed, pump action tucked into his shoulder ready to dispel Grayson’s spirit.

“Sonofa…” Dean felt his throat and lips suddenly go dry and he stopped mid-gait. “Multiple haunting my ass. Forget Thirteen Ghosts, we’re talking full on Arlington uprising!”

Sam swung his Remington left and right, but had no clue where to aim or shoot first. There were simply too many ethereal targets massed around the dead Ranger’s open grave.

What neither brother had expected was now facing them in full ghost platoon glory.

The only thing between the Winchesters and a petrified Paul Mitchum were fifty angry spirits, every last one with a weapon trained expertly on their former commanding officer.

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