Title: Snippet
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: gen
Fandom: CSI: Las Vegas/Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For dolimir_k, who wanted a convo between Dean and Nick. More SPN folks than CSI on my flist these days, so I chose Dean's POV. For SPN, this is set any nebulous time in the second or third season. For CSI, just anytime before Grissom left, because that's when I left, too. The case is entirely made up on the fly.

Nevada without Vegas, Dean had decided a long time ago, was pretty damn uninviting. Hot, dry, sparsely populated -- also really hot and really dry.

The sparse rural population made some jobs easier. The heat and the low humidity, well -- he'd learned that same long time ago to carry extra water and try really hard to contain any fires.
This worked better at some times than others. But what could you do.

At the moment, he was waiting for the sun to go down on this pissant little cemetery a few miles outside Caliente -- talk about your appropriate names -- so that he could burn the remains of a very unpleasant ghost. Might not be waiting, were it not for the civilian parked by the entrance, sitting in his truck but not doing anything yet. Couldn't tell if he was coming or going, and Dean didn't much care, but Sam was back at the motel, still not 100% after their last gig, and Dean was ready to dig, burn, and get it over with.

The black truck's door opened and some guy got out. Dean sagged a little behind the wheel of the Impala and sighed. "Come on," he whispered. "The fuck are you doing here?"

And dude didn't look like he was in any hurry, either, so finally Dean got out of the car. Hell, maybe seeing another visitor would take the lead out of the guy's ass. Might as well ascertain the exact location of the grave while he waited, too.

Except after a few minutes, the only thing he was able to say for sure was that the grave he was looking for was evidently the same one Civvie Guy had come to visit, too.

Fuck it. Time for action.

The guy looked around when Dean walked up. He was youngish from a distance, but up close you saw a few lines that suggested he'd been on the planet a bit longer. Square-cut, big-jawed face, hair as short as Dean's, not as tall. Athletic looking. The part of Dean's mind that was always assessing said he was pretty good-looking, if you flew that direction.

"Evening," Dean said, and nodded.

The guy nodded too. "Howdy," except it came out "Hidy," heavy Texas accent.

"Help you?" Dean asked.

"No, thanks," with a smile that flashed brilliant white teeth, quick and easy. "Just paying my respects."

To a murdering son of a bitch? Dean nodded, but narrowed his eyes. "I see."

He stood there, watching, didn't see flowers or any shit like that. Just the guy standing there, staring down at Emmitt Henderson's grave with no expression whatsoever on his face. Little muscle ticking in that righteous jaw.

"You, too?" the guy asked suddenly, without looking away from the grave.

"More like making sure he's actually in the ground," Dean said evenly.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Knew him?"

The guy stood firm, then gave a short nod. "Guess so. I put him there."

Oh. Whoa.

"You work at the cemetery?" the guy asked, and gave him a much closer look than before. "You normally hang out here?"

He wasn't smiling, so Dean didn't, either. This was a cop. He was already regretting coming over. "Here? Nah. Just like I said."

"There were rumors." The guy took a step back, eyebrows drawing together and forming a line in his forehead. "People said they saw him. After he was dead. Couple of accidents." Another glance. "Know anything about those?"

Pretty much, yeah. Dean shook his head. "I heard his ghost did it," he said, and waited.

"I had a guy once, said he was a psychic. He predicted a man would fall through my ceiling, among other things. He was right, too." That sharp look got sharper. "I don't believe in ghosts. But I wouldn't say I disbelieve, either. Just waiting for the evidence."

Dean drew a breath and saw the silver form veer up behind the guy, a black maw of a mouth gaping, and drew his gun without thinking about it. Faced the gun in Cop Guy's hand, and shook his head wildly. "Duck, man!"

The guy didn't, of course, just startled when Henderson's ghost screamed in his ear, and sent him sprawling.

Dean fired once, iron round that scattered it for the moment, and ducked down to check on the guy, who was sitting up looking shaken. The gun was nowhere to be seen.

"Dude, what's your name?" Dean asked.

"What? Nick. Nick Stokes, what WAS th -"

"Nick, I'm Dean, and we're gonna run now, kay?" He held out his hand, gave Stokes a lever up. Guy still looked stunned. "I have no equipment here," Dean barked. "RUN."

They ran. Henderson caught up a few feet from the Impala, gave Stokes a tap on the head that put him out for the count. Dean snagged the shotgun from the passenger's side, dissipated the ghost with salt.

Wishing for Sam like a mantra, he grabbed the rest of his gear, made sure of the extra salt rounds, and paused to check on Stokes.

"Man, take it easy," he said when Stokes flinched upright, hand flying to his bleeding temple. "He rang your bell pretty hard."

"Who did?"

Dean nodded. "Henderson, dude. Who else?"

Stokes stared at him. "He's -- dead. I shot him."

"Well, I just shot him a couple of times myself, and what's left of him just won't fall over and die, okay? So I got a little work to do. If you're feeling up to it, you can lend a hand."

Stokes frowned. "Work?"

"Come on."

Guy had a hard head, he guessed, but in any case he tagged along. Dean wasn't at all sure it was a good idea; good guess that Stokes here was like waving a red flag at Henderson's ghostly bull, but whatever. It'd be over soon.

Stokes stopped him when he saw the shovel. "What the hell are you doing?" His face was pale under the grime and blood, and he looked suddenly lots younger.

"What has to be done," Dean said as evenly as he could. "There's only one way to get rid of an angry ghost. Unless you think something else cracked you over the head and rolled you like a bowling pin?"

Stokes's mouth worked, but he didn't come up with anything.

"You put a ghost to rest," Dean continued, turning to the gravesite, "by digging up the remains, salting and burning them. As long as that's all of him, that'll be that."

He heard the dry click when Stokes swallowed, and then, "Let me help."

~~~~~~~~

Using both shovels, they got the grave dug in jig time. Stokes wasn't looking any healthier by the time Dean exposed the coffin, and Dean set the fire alone; the other guy was walking away, breath coming short and fast. Didn't puke, but it was a near thing.

Dean shoveled the dirt back in by himself. When he walked back to the vehicles he saw Stokes leaned back against the truck.

"I'm a Catholic," he said softly, when Dean drew near. "Grave desecration -- It's."

Dean nodded. "Part of the job, I guess. Whatever. Gotta be done."

He turned away to stow his gear, and Stokes said, "Dean Winchester."

Dean closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. "Just now figured that out, huh."

"Your photograph's been hanging at the station house for months."

"Gonna arrest me? After I saved your ass back there?"

He turned, resolutely unarmed, and saw Stokes's teeth again in a brief smile. "I'm not a cop."

"You're --"

"A CSI. I work crime scenes. Evidence."

"You carry a gun," Dean said, sounding a little peeved.

"So do you."

Dean considered. "More than one, usually."

Stokes shrugged. "Besides, this isn't Clark County. Outside our jurisdiction. I'm here as a civilian."

They looked at each other, and finally Stokes said, "Buy you a drink? For saving my ass?"

Dean gave a slow nod. "Sure. Why not."

"And you can explain to me what you really do."

"Maybe."

~~~~~~~~~

Against his better judgment he followed Stokes to the same bar he'd seen earlier, thought about hitting once he was done. Didn't know he'd have company for it, at least not this flavor of company.

Stokes brought them both beers from the bar, sat with his back to the wall. "So you and your brother -- this is why the grave desecration?"

Dean tasted the beer. Salty, cold. Not bad. "We don't just do it for kicks," he said. "There's shit out there you don't -- You don't know about. No reason you should. But once you do, it's hard to turn your back on it."

Stokes gave a quiet laugh and drank some of his own beer.

"What? Think this is funny?"

"No. No, not funny. Just." He made a complicated face, staring down into his drink. "What I do, it's all about facts. Evidence. Scientific method. My boss, he likes to say, 'People lie. Evidence doesn't.'"

"Depends on whether or not you understand what the evidence is saying."

"Emmitt Henderson killed eight people," Stokes said slowly, "and he was smart. Smart enough to leave very little evidence, and what there was, we couldn't use. If he hadn't made a mistake, he'd still be out there."

Dean worked his glass through the ring of condensation. "So what was his mistake?"

"Me."

Dean looked at him.

"He had a pattern," Stokes said slowly. "I fit that pattern."

"What? Young, male? Texan?" Dean tried out a smile, and was weirdly glad to see Stokes smile, too.

"Yeah, among other things, I guess. Anyway. I shot him before he could kill me. End of story." He drank off more than half his beer, and didn't look refreshed when he set his glass down.

"Only not, right? I mean, you're here."

"I paid attention."

"Most don't."

"No."

They drank in silence, and Dean nodded when Stokes offered to stand a second round. Dean drank half of it, and then looked at him. "My brother and me -- what we do is important. You may never know how important. I hope you don't."

Stokes gave a slow nod. "Not so different from what we do," he said. "If you think about it."

"Guess not." Dean plucked his keys from his pocket. "So what now? Gonna report this?"

"Report what? A wanted fugitive helped me out? Burned Henderson's body so his ghost would be laid to rest?" Stokes snorted, and gave him a grin so wide and beautiful Dean was momentarily taken aback. "Nah. Think I'm gonna go home, get some sleep."

"Sounds like a plan."

Outside, the night was crisply cool, smelling of dust and far-off rain. Dean pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders. Time to call Sam, let him know what the holdup was.

"Hey, Dean."

He turned. "Yeah."

Stokes lifted his chin. "I owe you. If you ever need something, look me up."

Dean smiled. "Maybe so. Watch out for those serial killers, dude. That can totally jack up your day."

Stokes laughed, nodding. "Guess so. Thanks."

"Thanks for the beer."

He got in the car, but didn't open his cell phone to call Sam until he'd watched the lights of Stokes's truck disappear down the highway, blending into traffic.

END