FIC: The Fifth Annual Hank Pyle Memorial Poker Game (Supernatural, Gen, PG13)
So in my utter glee and frenzy to reinstall everything I forgot to mention: I have my computer back. Just shy of a month after the hard drive was first damaged. And I cannot even express how miserable that month has been, but happily it is all behind me now. And in celebration - or possibly just really coincidental timing - fic!
The Fifth Annual Hank Pyle Memorial Poker Game
Supernatural. 3100 words. PG-13. John, Bobby, Caleb, Bill. Gen, Pre-series.
Gering, Nebraska
August 26, 1994
Caleb laid down a flush, ace high, and John flashed the rest of the table his roughly dimpled grin as he folded. "You got me," he said, leaning back in his chair, unruffled by his fate. "You got me again, Caleb. That's one hell of a poker face."
"Just like he gets you every year," said Bill, clapping him on the shoulder. "You talk a good game, John, but you don't have what it takes when it counts."
Caleb finally cracked a smile as he pulled in his winnings, the crudely braced table leaning slightly under the pressure. Bobby lifted his whiskey to keep it from spilling, then up and drained the glass while it was in hand.
"Oh, I have what it takes when it counts, Harvelle," said John, that smile never leaving his face. When it counted he could clean up in a poker game and take enough away cash to keep him and his boys fed and sheltered for a month, but a game against other hunters was a whole different animal. Sometimes the playing was more important than the winning. "Another hand, gentlemen?"
Bill drained the last of his whiskey and pushed back from the table, his chair skittering along the old wood. There was more grey in his hair than the last time John saw him - not a full year ago, but damn near enough - but that just came with the territory. It was like Hank said to him one time, when John came off a hunt feeling as haggard as a man twice his age: every werewolf, every siren, every god damn ghost was another grey hair, and they never stopped coming.
"Deal me out this time, boys," said Bill, "it's time to take a leak."
His gun rattled as he headed into the back but no one batted an eye. No one disarmed for the game, and no one expected anyone else to. There were a lot of things to be more afraid of in the world than each other.
"It's just about that time anyway," said Bobby, watching the light die through the opaque windows, around the warping door, breaking out a fresh bottle of whiskey and setting it down on the crooked table with a bang.
John looked at his watch, the clock on the wall not just run down but shattered since last year, and nodded his head. Caleb told them it was about eight in the evening when it happened, when he got the call, and that was more than good enough for them. Hard to believe five years had already come and gone since Hank Pyle was taken out, right there in that room.
"So what happened here?" he finally asked, stretching out long and lean in his seat and looking around the old place again. It had always been a little run down, but looking the way it did now it was probably all but condemned. "Local kids come in and make a mess of the place?"
"Figured they would sooner or later," said Caleb. "Nothing like this stands empty for long. Kids need something better to do with their time than go around breaking into abandoned saloons."
"You tellin' me you wouldn't have done the same at their age?" said Bobby, breaking out the shot glasses. "I know I sure as hell would've."
"By the time I was their age I knew enough not to break into a place like this without a shotgun and a pocket of salt," said Caleb, picking up a couple of pieces of broken chair and trying to fit them together. But then Caleb's granddaddy had been hunting Chenoo on horseback before Caleb's daddy was even a flicker of a notion. Some people grew up knowing the ins and outs of the world they lived in, and just for a moment, when he looked at Caleb's face, John saw his own boys there. "Might come out here one of these days and pick up the place."
"You got better things to do," said Bobby. "We've got a working table and chairs and an old outhouse in back. Not much else four guys need for a friendly poker game they can't bring themselves."
Working plumbing might've been a plus, but John'd had to deal with far worse and for less reason, so he kept his mouth shut. He'd sewn up belly wounds in dirty motels and changed his son's diapers in a car trunk. One day a year out with the boys, he could piss in a hole and use wet-naps on his hands.
Bobby'd cleared the table by the time Bill got back, shirt untucked, wiping his hands on dusty jeans. Nothing there but a bottle of whiskey and four shots all in a row. Hunters didn't exactly have the life expectancy of normal folks but it was still a blow when one was lost, especially someone like Hank Pyle.
"Five years, Hank," said Bobby, raising his shot glass. "You picked some shit place to get ripped apart. It's hotter 'n hell out there."
"To the man who showed me how to use half the weapons in my trunk," said John, raising his own glass. They might've had their ups and downs, but John owed it to Hank that he'd learned to survive this life with his heart and soul intact.
"To the bastard who called me about twenty minutes too late," said Caleb, then toasted the ceiling with his shot glass. "Guess you won't be making that mistake again, will you, Hank?"
"Five years," said Bill, raising his glass along with the rest of them. "The world was a better place with you in it."
"You shoulda been more damn careful," added Caleb, and downed the shot.
The remaining glass in all the windows rattled sharply, then stilled again.
"I hope to hell that was a train," said John after a moment, breaking the sudden silence. But it was only words for something to say; he knew better than that.
"Tracks aren't near enough," said Bobby, gun already in his hand, moving to one of the broken windows and looking outside. "Not a truck route either. And this isn't exactly earthquake territory."
"Jesus Christ," said John, hand at the ready but waiting to draw a weapon till he knew what they were dealing with. "I thought you took that spirit out, Caleb."
"I don’t leave a job undone," he snapped, voice gone rough and gravely with frustration. "Nearly took out the stupid bastard who got in Hank's way, too. There hasn't been a peep from this place in five years."
"Then what the hell was that?" said Bobby.
"Maybe nothing," said Bill, but as if to prove him wrong the windows all rattled again. One freak occurrence was one thing; now it was something else. "There isn't even any damn wind out there."
"Old place like this, maybe something moved in," said John, looking sharply around the room to see if anything else was out of place from what he remembered, but with all the damage from those dumb kids it was hard to tell.
"Break-in could’ve stirred something up," said Caleb reluctantly, eyeing the untidied damage around them. "This land's got history."
"Anything come to mind?" said Bobby, moving from one window to the next and peering out again. "I know you did a history on this place."
"Yeah, five years ago," said Caleb. "Barely remember a thing, and any notes I might've made are back home in my cellar lockup."
He lived close enough they might've gone anyway, done a proper hunt, but taking a side trip to Caleb's old farmhouse wasn't in the cards. He barely had time to go more than a couple of steps before a figure walked out of a wall that was unmistakable to all of them, even with blood obscuring his face, and even missing an arm.
"Jesus Christ, Hank, why'd it have to be you?" said Bobby, taking aim and firing rock salt just as the ghost of Hank Pyle narrowed his eyes and raced at John with a god damn machete in his good hand.
Caleb'd never given any of them much detail on what had gone down five years ago, and none of them had ever asked it of him, but whatever it was, it hadn't been pretty. The guy was missing a damn arm for one thing, and hunters didn't generally stick around even after a job gone south for another.
"I hate it when people show up at their own memorial," muttered Bill. "God damn it, Hank."
Invoking his name didn't make him reappear again, though, and after a few moments passed, John relaxed enough to reach for his bag, start digging through it.
"I think you'd better run down exactly what happened here, Caleb," he said. "I wouldn't have pegged Hank for the vengeful spirit type."
"Wasn't here for most of it," he said, taking a moment to spit on the floor in disgust. "Hank was taking care of some grade A poltergeist, was keeping the neighbors up nights, and some damn fool passing by thought the flickering lights meant the place was open. Got in his way. Got him killed. If my gun'd been full of lead and not rock salt I'd've taken care of that idiot on the spot."
That feeling, at the moment, was pretty universal. "And now Hank thinks we're the damn fools," Bill summed up.
"Looks like," said Bobby as he reloaded. "Can't think of any other reason Hank'd go for our heads."
This wasn't Hank, though, not anymore. Hank would've known who they were. The Hank they'd known wouldn't've stuck around. But then John knew as well as any of them how single-minded he got on the hunt. Get any of them at just the wrong moment, and this was the road they followed to this very end.
"He always did have a temper," said Bill, looking at the spot where Hank had vanished. "Him and that wife of his were always locking horns."
"Dammit, I told that woman Hank wanted to be cremated," said Caleb, loading his own shotgun. "I should've stuck around to make sure it was done."
It was a business with a lot of regrets, but no time to dwell on any of them.
"You knew him best, Caleb," said Bill. "You know where the family plot is?"
"Creighton, a few miles east of here," said Caleb with a curt nod, like this was a hunt like any other. And maybe it was, at that. "Better get going before this place gets torn apart even worse than it already is."
"Or we do," said Bobby.
"You know Hank would thank us for burning his bony ass," said John. "Who's got some gas handy? I don't want to have to siphon it out of my car."
"I'll take care of it," said Bill. "You and Bobby just keep him here and hold him off until we get there."
Like most hunts, it was easier said than done. No sooner were Caleb and Bill off and heading east, a cloud of dust kicking up behind them, than the glass rattled again, one fragile window shattering inward under the strength of it.
"Jesus, Hank, I can't believe a bunch of kids got you riled up like this," said Bobby.
"Hank let rain showers and the price of cabbage get him riled up," said John, kicking glass out of his road with thick boots. "Hope it doesn't take them long to get out there. Looks like he's riled up enough to take our heads off."
"You out there, Hank?" called Bobby.
There was no warning before Hank made another strike. One minute Bobby was reaching into his pocket and then next Hank was on him, flickering in from a narrow window faster than blinking and leaving a messy slice through Bobby's shirt before he could raise an arm.
"God dammit," he hissed, clamping one hand over the wound while John fired at nothing. Hank was already gone. "He's not going to make this easy on us."
"We need to keep him in here," said John, and it wasn't just for the sake of anyone else who might stumble onto this place and get in the way, and it wasn't for Bill and Caleb, racing out to dig up the grave of an old friend. They were doing this for Hank, and they needed to do it right. "How's the arm?"
"It'll hold up," said Bobby, dripping blood as he grabbed his bag for supplies. "We got too complacent. Should've salted this place before we even sat down and cut the deck."
"You on it now?" said John, reloading and keeping his eyes peeled. Hank might have gotten them once, but damned if he was going to let him get them a second time. There'd been a whisper of breeze before Hank had appeared the last time, barely there and nothing like the rattling windows but enough to give him a second's head start.
"I'm on it as soon as I tie this off," said Bobby. John moved to give him a hand but Bobby just waved him off so John backed up and gripped his shotgun with both hands.
Hank was just too bloody wily, never appearing from the same place twice, moving with a speed that left John struggling to keep up. He thought he might've clipped him once, but the truth was that in all the time Bobby was doing the rounds of the saloon John didn't get one clean shot off in Hank's direction. God help them all when a hunter turned angry spirit; they retained all the tricks of the trade.
While Bobby secured the broken building, John mapped patterns in his head, filed away every single move Hank made. The lamps they'd set out earlier sputtered but mercifully stayed alight, giving him at least a dim glow to work by, more shadows than light but enough for him.
Hank's appeared from all over, every wall, every window, but John watched and waited and where Hank ended up, that was what he was looking for, that was the key. Again and again Hank kept flying at this one spot on the floor, this one spot where John would lay good money a stupid and baffled civilian once stood between Hank and the poltergeist he was hunting. But unless there was something there for him to get hold of - once it had been John, and if he hadn't had a pocket of salt that machete might've done more than nick his shoulder - he'd just vanish before John could get a shot off.
John had the lay of the land now.
"Over there," he said when Bobby finished up, pointing at the spot. "You can get a good angle from there when he comes back."
It was a calculated risk, but Bobby took him at his word and moved into target just as Hank emerged from the wall again, too fast for Bobby to even raise his gun.
John fired as soon as Hank had his hands on Bobby, shattering as the particles of salt hit him. It wouldn't keep him off for good, but it bought them some time and Bill and Caleb had to be nearly done by now.
Bobby was sharp. It only took him a couple of seconds to figure it all out, to narrow his eyes at John and shake his head.
"Reload," was all John said, taking his own advice and helping himself to another shot of whiskey to fortify himself for the next assault.
John'd taken care of a lot of spirits over the past decade, but none of them had been friends.
He'd bought them enough time to catch their breath, and when Hank flickered into existence again, just inside the now wide open front door, they were ready for him. But even after they fired, before the particles of salt could hit him, Hank broke up into a dozen pieces that hung in the air for a moment, then melted away. John watched it happen and knew it was the last glimpse of his friend he'd ever see.
"Guess Bill and Caleb found the grave."
"Looks like."
Silence hung between them for a few moments, then John finally lowered his shotgun, reached for his army bag to start packing up. A few moments later, Bobby did the same.
"Next time you want to use me as bait, Winchester, a little warning would be nice."
"Quit your bitching," said John with a smile spreading across his face again. "Dean would've done it without batting an eye."
"You're a real sonofabitch, you know that?"
John didn't argue. He just got a needle and thread out of his bag and stitched up Bobby's arm, kicked some sawdust over the blood on the floor and left everything else be. The less he messed with the better, he figured.
"Now how do we get out to this cemetery?"
They finished the poker game by the light of Caleb's headlights, and it was closing fast on one in the morning when they packed it in and sat around watching the embers cool in Hank's grave, passing around the last of the whiskey.
"No thanks, boys," said Bobby, standing up and slinging his coat over his shoulders. "I want to make Kansas City before I sleep."
"Should be getting on my way myself," admitted John. "Got to pick my boys up from Jim and then head south to get them registered in their new school."
"That time of year again, is it?" said Bill. "Where you settling down this time?"
"Austin, till Christmas unless we have to bolt," said John. "I've got a line on a few different things down that way. I figure I can keep myself busy for a few months. Dean's plenty old enough to keep house for the both of them."
"You should bring 'em by to visit some time," said Bobby. "Haven't seen them in a dog's age. They as tall as you are yet?"
"Just about," chuckled John. "Just about."
"What about you, Bill?" said Caleb. "You sticking around?"
"Nah, I've got a sighting in West Virginia I promised I'd go check out," he said. "You can handle a shovel on your own, Caleb. You don't need us."
"Get out of here," he said, waving them off. "Go on. This is my mess anyway."
"See ya around, Hank," said John, giving the grave a quick salute before he got on the road. "Just better not be before I kick it myself."
"Amen to that," said Bill, dropping a handful of dirt in the smoldering grave. "Good night, boys."
The Fifth Annual Hank Pyle Memorial Poker Game
Supernatural. 3100 words. PG-13. John, Bobby, Caleb, Bill. Gen, Pre-series.
Gering, Nebraska
August 26, 1994
Caleb laid down a flush, ace high, and John flashed the rest of the table his roughly dimpled grin as he folded. "You got me," he said, leaning back in his chair, unruffled by his fate. "You got me again, Caleb. That's one hell of a poker face."
"Just like he gets you every year," said Bill, clapping him on the shoulder. "You talk a good game, John, but you don't have what it takes when it counts."
Caleb finally cracked a smile as he pulled in his winnings, the crudely braced table leaning slightly under the pressure. Bobby lifted his whiskey to keep it from spilling, then up and drained the glass while it was in hand.
"Oh, I have what it takes when it counts, Harvelle," said John, that smile never leaving his face. When it counted he could clean up in a poker game and take enough away cash to keep him and his boys fed and sheltered for a month, but a game against other hunters was a whole different animal. Sometimes the playing was more important than the winning. "Another hand, gentlemen?"
Bill drained the last of his whiskey and pushed back from the table, his chair skittering along the old wood. There was more grey in his hair than the last time John saw him - not a full year ago, but damn near enough - but that just came with the territory. It was like Hank said to him one time, when John came off a hunt feeling as haggard as a man twice his age: every werewolf, every siren, every god damn ghost was another grey hair, and they never stopped coming.
"Deal me out this time, boys," said Bill, "it's time to take a leak."
His gun rattled as he headed into the back but no one batted an eye. No one disarmed for the game, and no one expected anyone else to. There were a lot of things to be more afraid of in the world than each other.
"It's just about that time anyway," said Bobby, watching the light die through the opaque windows, around the warping door, breaking out a fresh bottle of whiskey and setting it down on the crooked table with a bang.
John looked at his watch, the clock on the wall not just run down but shattered since last year, and nodded his head. Caleb told them it was about eight in the evening when it happened, when he got the call, and that was more than good enough for them. Hard to believe five years had already come and gone since Hank Pyle was taken out, right there in that room.
"So what happened here?" he finally asked, stretching out long and lean in his seat and looking around the old place again. It had always been a little run down, but looking the way it did now it was probably all but condemned. "Local kids come in and make a mess of the place?"
"Figured they would sooner or later," said Caleb. "Nothing like this stands empty for long. Kids need something better to do with their time than go around breaking into abandoned saloons."
"You tellin' me you wouldn't have done the same at their age?" said Bobby, breaking out the shot glasses. "I know I sure as hell would've."
"By the time I was their age I knew enough not to break into a place like this without a shotgun and a pocket of salt," said Caleb, picking up a couple of pieces of broken chair and trying to fit them together. But then Caleb's granddaddy had been hunting Chenoo on horseback before Caleb's daddy was even a flicker of a notion. Some people grew up knowing the ins and outs of the world they lived in, and just for a moment, when he looked at Caleb's face, John saw his own boys there. "Might come out here one of these days and pick up the place."
"You got better things to do," said Bobby. "We've got a working table and chairs and an old outhouse in back. Not much else four guys need for a friendly poker game they can't bring themselves."
Working plumbing might've been a plus, but John'd had to deal with far worse and for less reason, so he kept his mouth shut. He'd sewn up belly wounds in dirty motels and changed his son's diapers in a car trunk. One day a year out with the boys, he could piss in a hole and use wet-naps on his hands.
Bobby'd cleared the table by the time Bill got back, shirt untucked, wiping his hands on dusty jeans. Nothing there but a bottle of whiskey and four shots all in a row. Hunters didn't exactly have the life expectancy of normal folks but it was still a blow when one was lost, especially someone like Hank Pyle.
"Five years, Hank," said Bobby, raising his shot glass. "You picked some shit place to get ripped apart. It's hotter 'n hell out there."
"To the man who showed me how to use half the weapons in my trunk," said John, raising his own glass. They might've had their ups and downs, but John owed it to Hank that he'd learned to survive this life with his heart and soul intact.
"To the bastard who called me about twenty minutes too late," said Caleb, then toasted the ceiling with his shot glass. "Guess you won't be making that mistake again, will you, Hank?"
"Five years," said Bill, raising his glass along with the rest of them. "The world was a better place with you in it."
"You shoulda been more damn careful," added Caleb, and downed the shot.
The remaining glass in all the windows rattled sharply, then stilled again.
"I hope to hell that was a train," said John after a moment, breaking the sudden silence. But it was only words for something to say; he knew better than that.
"Tracks aren't near enough," said Bobby, gun already in his hand, moving to one of the broken windows and looking outside. "Not a truck route either. And this isn't exactly earthquake territory."
"Jesus Christ," said John, hand at the ready but waiting to draw a weapon till he knew what they were dealing with. "I thought you took that spirit out, Caleb."
"I don’t leave a job undone," he snapped, voice gone rough and gravely with frustration. "Nearly took out the stupid bastard who got in Hank's way, too. There hasn't been a peep from this place in five years."
"Then what the hell was that?" said Bobby.
"Maybe nothing," said Bill, but as if to prove him wrong the windows all rattled again. One freak occurrence was one thing; now it was something else. "There isn't even any damn wind out there."
"Old place like this, maybe something moved in," said John, looking sharply around the room to see if anything else was out of place from what he remembered, but with all the damage from those dumb kids it was hard to tell.
"Break-in could’ve stirred something up," said Caleb reluctantly, eyeing the untidied damage around them. "This land's got history."
"Anything come to mind?" said Bobby, moving from one window to the next and peering out again. "I know you did a history on this place."
"Yeah, five years ago," said Caleb. "Barely remember a thing, and any notes I might've made are back home in my cellar lockup."
He lived close enough they might've gone anyway, done a proper hunt, but taking a side trip to Caleb's old farmhouse wasn't in the cards. He barely had time to go more than a couple of steps before a figure walked out of a wall that was unmistakable to all of them, even with blood obscuring his face, and even missing an arm.
"Jesus Christ, Hank, why'd it have to be you?" said Bobby, taking aim and firing rock salt just as the ghost of Hank Pyle narrowed his eyes and raced at John with a god damn machete in his good hand.
Caleb'd never given any of them much detail on what had gone down five years ago, and none of them had ever asked it of him, but whatever it was, it hadn't been pretty. The guy was missing a damn arm for one thing, and hunters didn't generally stick around even after a job gone south for another.
"I hate it when people show up at their own memorial," muttered Bill. "God damn it, Hank."
Invoking his name didn't make him reappear again, though, and after a few moments passed, John relaxed enough to reach for his bag, start digging through it.
"I think you'd better run down exactly what happened here, Caleb," he said. "I wouldn't have pegged Hank for the vengeful spirit type."
"Wasn't here for most of it," he said, taking a moment to spit on the floor in disgust. "Hank was taking care of some grade A poltergeist, was keeping the neighbors up nights, and some damn fool passing by thought the flickering lights meant the place was open. Got in his way. Got him killed. If my gun'd been full of lead and not rock salt I'd've taken care of that idiot on the spot."
That feeling, at the moment, was pretty universal. "And now Hank thinks we're the damn fools," Bill summed up.
"Looks like," said Bobby as he reloaded. "Can't think of any other reason Hank'd go for our heads."
This wasn't Hank, though, not anymore. Hank would've known who they were. The Hank they'd known wouldn't've stuck around. But then John knew as well as any of them how single-minded he got on the hunt. Get any of them at just the wrong moment, and this was the road they followed to this very end.
"He always did have a temper," said Bill, looking at the spot where Hank had vanished. "Him and that wife of his were always locking horns."
"Dammit, I told that woman Hank wanted to be cremated," said Caleb, loading his own shotgun. "I should've stuck around to make sure it was done."
It was a business with a lot of regrets, but no time to dwell on any of them.
"You knew him best, Caleb," said Bill. "You know where the family plot is?"
"Creighton, a few miles east of here," said Caleb with a curt nod, like this was a hunt like any other. And maybe it was, at that. "Better get going before this place gets torn apart even worse than it already is."
"Or we do," said Bobby.
"You know Hank would thank us for burning his bony ass," said John. "Who's got some gas handy? I don't want to have to siphon it out of my car."
"I'll take care of it," said Bill. "You and Bobby just keep him here and hold him off until we get there."
Like most hunts, it was easier said than done. No sooner were Caleb and Bill off and heading east, a cloud of dust kicking up behind them, than the glass rattled again, one fragile window shattering inward under the strength of it.
"Jesus, Hank, I can't believe a bunch of kids got you riled up like this," said Bobby.
"Hank let rain showers and the price of cabbage get him riled up," said John, kicking glass out of his road with thick boots. "Hope it doesn't take them long to get out there. Looks like he's riled up enough to take our heads off."
"You out there, Hank?" called Bobby.
There was no warning before Hank made another strike. One minute Bobby was reaching into his pocket and then next Hank was on him, flickering in from a narrow window faster than blinking and leaving a messy slice through Bobby's shirt before he could raise an arm.
"God dammit," he hissed, clamping one hand over the wound while John fired at nothing. Hank was already gone. "He's not going to make this easy on us."
"We need to keep him in here," said John, and it wasn't just for the sake of anyone else who might stumble onto this place and get in the way, and it wasn't for Bill and Caleb, racing out to dig up the grave of an old friend. They were doing this for Hank, and they needed to do it right. "How's the arm?"
"It'll hold up," said Bobby, dripping blood as he grabbed his bag for supplies. "We got too complacent. Should've salted this place before we even sat down and cut the deck."
"You on it now?" said John, reloading and keeping his eyes peeled. Hank might have gotten them once, but damned if he was going to let him get them a second time. There'd been a whisper of breeze before Hank had appeared the last time, barely there and nothing like the rattling windows but enough to give him a second's head start.
"I'm on it as soon as I tie this off," said Bobby. John moved to give him a hand but Bobby just waved him off so John backed up and gripped his shotgun with both hands.
Hank was just too bloody wily, never appearing from the same place twice, moving with a speed that left John struggling to keep up. He thought he might've clipped him once, but the truth was that in all the time Bobby was doing the rounds of the saloon John didn't get one clean shot off in Hank's direction. God help them all when a hunter turned angry spirit; they retained all the tricks of the trade.
While Bobby secured the broken building, John mapped patterns in his head, filed away every single move Hank made. The lamps they'd set out earlier sputtered but mercifully stayed alight, giving him at least a dim glow to work by, more shadows than light but enough for him.
Hank's appeared from all over, every wall, every window, but John watched and waited and where Hank ended up, that was what he was looking for, that was the key. Again and again Hank kept flying at this one spot on the floor, this one spot where John would lay good money a stupid and baffled civilian once stood between Hank and the poltergeist he was hunting. But unless there was something there for him to get hold of - once it had been John, and if he hadn't had a pocket of salt that machete might've done more than nick his shoulder - he'd just vanish before John could get a shot off.
John had the lay of the land now.
"Over there," he said when Bobby finished up, pointing at the spot. "You can get a good angle from there when he comes back."
It was a calculated risk, but Bobby took him at his word and moved into target just as Hank emerged from the wall again, too fast for Bobby to even raise his gun.
John fired as soon as Hank had his hands on Bobby, shattering as the particles of salt hit him. It wouldn't keep him off for good, but it bought them some time and Bill and Caleb had to be nearly done by now.
Bobby was sharp. It only took him a couple of seconds to figure it all out, to narrow his eyes at John and shake his head.
"Reload," was all John said, taking his own advice and helping himself to another shot of whiskey to fortify himself for the next assault.
John'd taken care of a lot of spirits over the past decade, but none of them had been friends.
He'd bought them enough time to catch their breath, and when Hank flickered into existence again, just inside the now wide open front door, they were ready for him. But even after they fired, before the particles of salt could hit him, Hank broke up into a dozen pieces that hung in the air for a moment, then melted away. John watched it happen and knew it was the last glimpse of his friend he'd ever see.
"Guess Bill and Caleb found the grave."
"Looks like."
Silence hung between them for a few moments, then John finally lowered his shotgun, reached for his army bag to start packing up. A few moments later, Bobby did the same.
"Next time you want to use me as bait, Winchester, a little warning would be nice."
"Quit your bitching," said John with a smile spreading across his face again. "Dean would've done it without batting an eye."
"You're a real sonofabitch, you know that?"
John didn't argue. He just got a needle and thread out of his bag and stitched up Bobby's arm, kicked some sawdust over the blood on the floor and left everything else be. The less he messed with the better, he figured.
"Now how do we get out to this cemetery?"
They finished the poker game by the light of Caleb's headlights, and it was closing fast on one in the morning when they packed it in and sat around watching the embers cool in Hank's grave, passing around the last of the whiskey.
"No thanks, boys," said Bobby, standing up and slinging his coat over his shoulders. "I want to make Kansas City before I sleep."
"Should be getting on my way myself," admitted John. "Got to pick my boys up from Jim and then head south to get them registered in their new school."
"That time of year again, is it?" said Bill. "Where you settling down this time?"
"Austin, till Christmas unless we have to bolt," said John. "I've got a line on a few different things down that way. I figure I can keep myself busy for a few months. Dean's plenty old enough to keep house for the both of them."
"You should bring 'em by to visit some time," said Bobby. "Haven't seen them in a dog's age. They as tall as you are yet?"
"Just about," chuckled John. "Just about."
"What about you, Bill?" said Caleb. "You sticking around?"
"Nah, I've got a sighting in West Virginia I promised I'd go check out," he said. "You can handle a shovel on your own, Caleb. You don't need us."
"Get out of here," he said, waving them off. "Go on. This is my mess anyway."
"See ya around, Hank," said John, giving the grave a quick salute before he got on the road. "Just better not be before I kick it myself."
"Amen to that," said Bill, dropping a handful of dirt in the smoldering grave. "Good night, boys."