SuperWhoLock: Demons Run [COMPLETED]

Chapter Two

Three sharp knocks on the Impala's window jerked Dean back to reality.  Sam was leaning over, a bag of groceries in each hand, peering inside.  "Dean, you okay?" he asked; his voice was muffled through the car window.

"What?  Oh, yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine."  Dean leaned over and opened the passenger door for him.  Sam slid into the car and set the plastic bags down in between their seats.

"You sure?  You look... I don't know.  Preoccupied."

"I'm fine," Dean repeated.  He glanced at the grocery bags.  "You get everything?"

Sam sighed and pulled one of the bags open, tossing Dean a small cardboard box.  "I didn't forget the pie."

~

Approximately one thirty a.m.

Dean stabbed his shovel into the soft dirt and lifted, grunting with exertion as he dug up a huge shovelful of dirt.  He turned, keeping the shovel flat so the dirt didn't spill, and dumped it onto the ever-growing pile of dirt next to his ever-deepening hole.

Sam crouched by the tombstone at the top of the hole, keeping watch.  He shone a flashlight down into the hole.  "How much farther, do you think?" he whispered.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean grunted, digging up another shovelful of dirt.  "Next time, you're digging the hole."

There was a soft chuckle from above.  "Okay, whatever."

Dean paused for barely a second to wipe sweat from his forehead.  Then he went back to work, digging and digging and digging.  After what seemed like an eternity of stabbing, lifting, turning, and tossing, his shovel finally struck something hard.

"Found the coffin," Dean called quietly.  He heard Sam move around up at the top of the hole. 

"Okay," Sam replied in the same volume.  Then, after a second, "Damn, that's creepy."

Dean crouched, grabbed the lid of the coffin, and lifted, letting out a soft groan from the strain.  "What is?  We dig up graves all the time, man."

"No, it's not that.  There's this really creepy angel statue.  It looks like it's moving."

"Don't be ridiculous," Dean said.  He unscrewed the lid to the container of gasoline.  "Statues can't move."

"I know that, but it's weird.  It used to be over by the gates and now it's by that willow tree."

Dean shook the gasoline over Scott Dickens's body.  "It's your imagination, Sam.  Even with our job, statues are statues are statues.  And statues don't move."

"Dean, I'm telling you, it moved," Sam called softly from the top of the hole.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean grunted.  "I get it.  You think it's moving.  Enough about the statue."

"I'm not kidding!  Look!  It's five feet closer now!" Sam insisted.

Dean sighed.  "Yeah, yeah, sure.  Pass me the salt."

There was no response.  Dean glanced up.  "Sam?"

He set the gasoline down and hoisted himself out of the hole he had just dug.  Flicking on his flashlight, he swept it around the cemetery.  His brother was nowhere in sight.

"Sam?!"

Dean turned in a full circle, panic rising in him now.  Sam was fast, but he wasn't fast enough to get out of the cemetery in under thirty seconds, even running full speed.  Besides, why would he? 

"SAM?!" Dean yelled again, whirling around, the flashlight beam throwing distorted shadows across the headstones.

"He's not here, Dean."