Monachopsis

Chapter XLVI: Grave Digging; It's A Hobby

Luckily for us, Sarah din't pitch too much of a fit when Dean pulled the shovels out of the trunk. I worried that perhaps we'd just traumatized her to the point that she'd fallen into a state of complacency in order to survive long enough for this to be over. Honestly, I wouldn't have been surprised. Sometimes, my desensitivity to the things we did disturbed even me.

The boys' brush with my condition back in Fitchberg had made them skittish when it came to me doing stuff like inhaling grave dirt. So I was forced on flashlight duty with Sarah. I pouted beside her, irritated that my one chance at activity had been taken away like I was a child.

"Dean--" I started, intent on pleading my case for the third time in an hour.

"I don't wanna hear it Gray," he barked, stopping his digging just long enough to jab a finger at me. "A little to the left."

I huffed, ready to chuck the damn flashlight at his thick skull. But Sam blocked my shot as he clambered out of the hole towards Sarah. He panted with exertion, stabbing his shovel into the ground with a note of finality.

"You guys seem to be uncomfortably comfortable with this," Sarah said. She looked a little queasy, her flashlight trained on Dean.

Sam shrugged. "Well...this isn't exactly the first grave we dug."

I gasped--almost laughed--so suddenly that Dean's head popped out of the hole like a gopher. I pointed at Sam. "You remember when you tripped and fell in that grave in Reno? The one with the fat stripper and her three ferrets?"

Dean burst into laughter. Giggles shook my shoulders, causing the light from my flashlight to wobble back and forth as Dean started to dig again.

Sarah turned to Sam, eyebrows pinched. "Fat stripper?"

Sam shuffled his feet. He gave her probably the most awkward smile I'd ever seen. "Still think I'm a catch?"

Before Sarah could give her response, there was a dull THUMP  from down in the hole. Dean stopped and stabbed his shovel into the dirt at his feet. THUMP THUMP THUMP.

"Think I got something," he said. I moved to the edge of the hole, giving him better light as he reared back and slammed the edge of his shovel blade into the coffin. It took him two tries, but eventually the coffin cracked like a walnut.

Dean wriggled his shovel around and forced the crack wider. The cobwebbed skull of Isaiah Merchant smiled at us from inside.

I couldn't help the smile that stretched my lips. "There you are, you bastard."

Sam and I pulled Dean from the hole. I handed him the large can of salt we'd brought with us. He circled the grave, spicing Isaiah's skeleton with showers of white powder. Sarah watched silently as Sam started dousing the grave in a generous amount of gasoline. The choking fumes overwhelmed my senses. Sarah coughed, turning her head away.

Catching sight of my wrinkled nose, she asked, "This doesn't bother you?"

I shrugged. "You get used to it. I've been doing this a long time."

She paused. "How long, exactly?"

I considered. "Hm..." I raised my arm, holding my hand at the height of my hip.

Her eyes bulged. I could tell that hadn't been the answer she'd expected. Before she could try to unlock my tragic backstory, Sam capped the gasoline can and joined us as Dean dug in his pockets for his matches.

"You been a real pain in the ass, Isaiah," he said. The sound of him striking a match rung in my ears; the sound of a job almost done. "Good riddance."