They reached the hunting cabin after pushing through thick brush. The place sat crooked in the clearing, old wood sagging, windows dark.
"This must've belonged to him," Dean said, scanning the structure.
Sam followed him inside, flashlight beam cutting through dust and cobwebs.
"There's no grave," Sam said, already checking. "No marker, no burial records. Nothing on Greeley."
"Why?" Molly asked from the doorway. "Why would you need to find his grave?"
Dean didn't sugarcoat it.
"To salt it. Burn the bones," he said plainly. "That's how you put a spirit down for good."
"Of course," Molly said faintly, clearly unsettled but trying to process.
They were still tearing through the cabin when Henry stepped back into the doorway, breathing a little fast but trying to sound casual.
"Hey, guys. I think I found where Greeley's grave might be."
He already knew it was beneath the tree in front of the cabin. The memory had clicked back into place. If they dug it up, salted and burned the bones, they could finish this and maybe—just maybe—sleep in a cheap motel bed without something trying to kill them.
Dean looked up sharply. "You're kidding. We find it that quick?"
Henry nodded toward the front yard. "It's—"
A hand slammed down on his shoulder.
Ice-cold.
Henry didn't even get to finish the sentence. Jonah Greeley stood behind him, face mangled, eyes full of rage. With a violent jerk, the ghost hurled him straight off the porch.
Henry flew through the air and crashed hard into the woods, smashing through branches before slamming into the ground. Dirt filled his mouth as he rolled.
Inside the cabin, Dean spun and raised his shotgun to fire—
Greeley flicked his hand.
Dean was ripped off his feet and thrown across the room, smashing into the wooden wall hard enough to splinter it.
"Dean!"
Sam charged forward. "Molly, run!"
Greeley turned his head slightly.
Another flick.
Sam was hurled backward, crashing into a table that exploded into pieces.
Molly stumbled toward the door but froze. Greeley was already there, blocking the exit. He turned slowly toward her, something twisted in his expression, and extended his hand.
She had nowhere to go.
A blur came from the side.
An iron rod swung with full force and slammed into Greeley's chest.
The ghost burst into smoke, scattering through the air.
Henry stood there, breathing hard, dirt smeared across his face from where he'd face-planted in the woods.
"I hate ghosts," he muttered, wiping soil from his mouth. "They're nasty. Zero respect for personal space."
Behind Henry, the smoke began to coil back in on itself, pulling tight, reforming.
Dean saw it and didn't hesitate.
He shoved himself off the wall, ignoring the ache in his ribs, brought the shotgun up, and fired straight into the forming shape.
The salt blast tore through the smoke mid-assembly. Greeley shrieked as his body flickered, half-solid, half-vapor.
Dean pumped the shotgun smoothly and fired again.
"You don't get a second swing," Dean snapped.
The second shot ripped through the ghost's torso just as his face began to fully reform. The impact destabilized him, shredding the shape apart into a violent burst of smoke that scattered across the yard.
Dean kept the shotgun forward.
The smoke writhed for a moment—
Then thinned.
Sam staggered upright, brushing splinters from his jacket. "That won't hold him long."
Dean didn't lower the weapon. "Didn't plan on it."
He glanced at Henry. "You said you found the grave."
Henry nodded toward the tree in front of the cabin. "Under that. I'm sure."
Dean gave a tight nod.
"Good," he said. "Then we end this."
Henry and Dean dug fast at the base of the tree in front of the cabin, shovels biting into damp earth. Sam stood nearby, keeping watch, eyes scanning the woods for any sign of smoke reforming.
Molly lingered a few steps back, arms wrapped around herself.
"Why would anyone attack other people like that?" she asked, voice unsteady.
Henry didn't stop digging. "They're not people anymore. Ghosts get stuck. Sometimes they don't even know they're dead. They just replay the same night over and over." He drove the shovel deeper. "Being trapped like that… it messes with them."
Dean struck something solid.
Wood.
Henry dropped to his knees and cleared dirt away with his hands.
"Some ghosts don't even realize what they've become," Henry continued, glancing briefly at Molly. "Others figure it out… and get angry."
"They're stuck with their last feeling," Dean muttered, looking at bones "Pain. Fear. Rage."
The bones inside were brittle, wrapped in scraps of old fabric.
Henry exhaled. "There we go."
He poured salt over the remains, coating every inch. Dean splashed gasoline over it.
"This is my favorite part," Henry said, striking a match.
Dean shot him a look. "You need better hobbies."
Henry tossed the match.
The grave ignited instantly. Flames roared up, devouring wood and bone. The fire burned hot and bright against the dark woods, crackling violently.
Inside the cabin, something screamed.
A deep, tearing sound echoed through the clearing, then cut off abruptly as the fire consumed the last of the remains.
Silence settled.
The air felt lighter.
Molly stepped closer, staring at the burning grave. "So… is he gone?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah."
Relief flickered across her face—but it didn't last.
"You said he might have taken my husband," she said quietly. "Is David… dead?"
Sam hesitated.
Henry and Dean both looked at him.
"There's something we need to tell you," Sam said gently.
Molly's expression shifted. "I want to see him. Please."
The fire crackled behind them as the last of Jonah Greeley turned to ash.
*****
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