Mountainside Cemetery _FOLSOM PRISON BLUES

What if the Winchesters' attorney in "Folsom Prison Blues" gave Hendrickson the correct cemetery name?

"Damn it. That lawyer chick, what a bitch!" Dean hissed as the SWAT team flooded Mountainside Cemetery. "Glockner's still cold and clammy."

Sam edged slightly closer to his brother as the searchlights toted by the black clad policemen zeroed in on their position and pinned them like insects under a tack.

"You Winchesters sure gave me a scare," Hendrickson's cocky voice floated past the raucous of trampling footsteps and static-filled radio voices. His burly form could be seen sauntering toward them through the flashing lights. "Now I'd advise you to put your hands behind your heads now, before I order my men to shoot you."

Sam complied, slowly raising his arms. Dean just stood there with his jerk face on. "Dean," Sam grunted. "Dean, do what he says."

"Listen, Hendrickson," Dean shouted at the FBI agent, ignoring his brother. "I just need to finish something up, okay?"

"You think I'm going to stand here and watch you desecrate an innocent woman's grave, you're crazier than I thought," Hendrickson sneered. "Hands over your head or get shot."


"I really think you should let me do this," Dean tried one more time. The desperation in his voice was real; he had just seen Nurse Glockner's pale figure appear behind one of the faceless SWAT team members. Someone was going to get hurt unless Dean torched her bones.

Hendrickson raised his gun and aimed it at Dean. "I mean it."

Sam stepped in front of his brother. "Dean, come on. Stop being an ass and just . . ."

The SWAT guy started screaming, buckling over and dropping his gun. Dean could see the nurse's pale, scrawny hand placed on the man's heaving chest. This ghost was killing one too many people on his watch.

"What are you doing!" demanded Hendrickson, looking from the dying man to the Winchesters and back again. "What kind of psycho stunt are you trying to pull?"

But Dean wasn't listening. He had broken out of the ring of police and was taking off at full tilt toward Glockner's open grave. One flick of the lighter and it would be over – . . . The skittish SWAT team opened fire. Six bullets slammed into Dean's back as he jerked, staggered, and crumpled into a heap.

Sam stared in horror as Hendrickson yelled at the men to stand down. Then, darting forward, he fell to his knees beside his brother. The back of Dean's jacket was covered in blood.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. Hey," Sam gently turned Dean face up. "Dean, hey, say something, man." But Dean's face was frozen in blood-spattered shock. "Dean. God . . . Dean."