Dean has strong opinions about people who try to commune with the spirits of the dead, and don't even get him started on people who try to raise their dearly departed, because Dean has a couple stories about zombies and they aren't pretty. If he can just get to the altar without being shot at -- again -- he can disrupt the ritual, but right now he's one-on-one with a crazy old lady here at the edge of a golf course in suburban Virginia, cursing the call that sent his Dad off chasing a poltergeist in DC.
"Listen," he shouts, "you don't know what you're doing!"
"I know exactly what I'm doing," the woman shouts back. He gets a look at her in the firelight: not as old as he thought, and actually, sure, he'd do that, if she wasn't so damn crazy and messing with the dark stuff. "Put the shotgun down and back off!"
The gun's loaded with rock salt and not much good to him at the moment, so Dean bends down slow and leaves it on the ground. He raises his hands and walks forward a little. He gets a good look at the altar, and yeah, she does know what she's doing. That's a bad sign. Dean would also like to know why there's a worn leather jacket, a very nice Glock and an honest-to-fucking-god prosthetic arm on the altar as well. "OK," he says, trying to sound soothing. "OK, ma'am, you do know your stuff, but have you ever done this before?" The look on her face tells him he was right. He takes another step. "Because they don't come back right, that's the thing. Not the way they were."
At that, she laughs out loud. Dean rocks back on his heels with surprise; damn, she's a looker. "Alex wasn't right in the first place," she says. "I'm hoping for an improvement."
He can't help grinning a little when she smiles like that, but then her face goes still and Dean hears something crunch behind her. As she starts to turn, Dean dives and rolls back for the shotgun; he comes up and shoots at the lopsided form just beyond the woman.
"The hell?" A man's voice says. "You shot me with fucking salt?"
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