thirty-five beers
[ open action post ]
Dean comes out as the light begins to grow dim, rummaging through the trunk of his black Impala to pull out rods of iron, rock salt shells, tools of his trade. He's being compelled by the curse, to do what he always has been compelled to do. Find what's unnatural and remove it from the world. It's something he would find himself doing under normal circumstances, but under normal circumstances it would only be the angry spirits he would go after.
Today, he's less discerning. Maybe even a throwback to a Dean he once was, or a ghost himself of a future that never came, one where Dean became like Gordon Walker, killing the unnatural for the enjoyment, for the sake of it, rather than doing it to protect others. His face is set into a thin line, his eyebrows knit, and he loads his shotgun full of homebrew shells before cocking it and taking off down the sidewalk without mentioning anything to Sam or Bobby.
He can't take it anymore. He's going to hunt them down, the ghosts he's seen around the City, because they're even worse than cannibals or werewolves or demons. They're dead. And what's dead should stay dead.