Chapter 4: Woman in White
[Centennial Highway — September 18, 2005, Night — Jericho, California]
The Impala cruised past for the third time in an hour.
Ethan tracked it through binoculars from his position near the old factory, watching the black Chevrolet prowl Centennial Highway like a shark circling prey. Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, scanning the roadside. Sam sat shotgun, probably checking research notes or monitoring police frequencies.
Professional. Methodical. Exactly what he remembered from the show.
The Spirit stirred in his chest, responding to something Ethan couldn't see yet.
SHE APPROACHES.
"Where?"
WEST. THE BRIDGE. HER GUILT SCREAMS ACROSS THE VOID.
Ethan adjusted the binoculars. Centennial Highway Bridge—the place where Constance Welch had taken her fatal jump in 1981. According to the show, she'd drowned her children in the bathtub, then thrown herself into the river below. Now she hunted unfaithful men, forcing them to drive off that same bridge.
The Impala turned east, heading away from the bridge. Wrong direction.
They're following a different lead. Must be checking the victim's last known location.
Movement near the bridge caught his attention. A car—not the Impala, something smaller, compact—had pulled off to the side. Two figures inside, their shapes barely visible through fogged windows.
Teenagers. Parked on a bridge where a vengeful ghost hunted.
This wasn't in the show.
INNOCENTS.
"I see them."
THE GHOST HUNTS. THEY WILL DIE.
"The Winchesters are—"
BLOCKS AWAY. MINUTES TOO LATE.
The temperature dropped. Even from this distance, Ethan could feel it—a cold front sweeping in from nowhere, condensation forming on windshields, breath becoming visible in the September night.
Constance Welch was manifesting.
The Spirit burned in his chest. The Urge hit him like a sledgehammer, demanding action, demanding intervention. These were innocents about to die because two hunters had followed the wrong lead.
Ethan was already running before he finished the thought.
The truck ate up the distance between the factory and the bridge in ninety seconds. Ethan killed the headlights a hundred yards out, coasting on momentum, not wanting to spook the ghost or alert the teenagers.
Too late for stealth.
Constance Welch stood in the middle of the bridge, white dress billowing in a wind that didn't exist, face beautiful and terrible and wrong in the way only the dead could be. She'd already phased through the driver's door. The boy behind the wheel was screaming, hands locked on the steering wheel as the car lurched toward the bridge railing.
Ethan's door was open before the truck stopped moving.
"HEY!"
The ghost's head snapped toward him. Dark eyes, endless and hungry, fixed on his face. She registered him as a threat—something different, something that didn't fit her usual prey profile.
Then she tried to phase through him.
The Spirit roared.
Constance Welch recoiled like she'd touched a live wire. Her scream was high and thin, the sound of something ancient encountering something older. She flickered, partially transparent, staring at Ethan with an expression that mixed rage with something dangerously close to fear.
His chains manifested without permission.
They burst from his wrists like living things, wrapping around the ghost's translucent form, binding her to the physical world. Hellfire flickered along their length—not full flame, not yet, but enough to make her shriek again.
"GET OUT OF HERE!" Ethan yelled at the car. The boy was frozen, the girl beside him sobbing. "DRIVE! NOW!"
The car's engine revved. Tires squealed. The compact sedan shot past him, fishtailing briefly before straightening out and disappearing into the night.
Constance Welch thrashed against the chains. Her form flickered faster now, trying to phase out, trying to escape. The chains held—barely.
NOT ENOUGH POWER. SHE WILL BREAK FREE.
"Then give me more."
THE TRANSFORMATION REQUIRES—
A gun cocked behind him.
"Don't move."
Dean Winchester's voice. Hard, cold, professional. The voice of a man who'd spent his whole life killing things that went bump in the night.
Ethan kept his hands visible, chains still extended, ghost still struggling. "Little busy here."
"What the hell are those?" Sam's voice now, somewhere to Ethan's left. Flanking position. Smart.
"Supernatural binding. Like iron, but better." Constance screamed again, her form flickering more violently. "She's about to break free. You want to shoot me or help?"
A moment of silence. Then Dean: "Sam, salt round."
The shotgun blast caught Constance square in the chest. Rock salt dispersed her form in a shower of ectoplasmic mist. The chains went slack, then retracted back into Ethan's wrists with a sensation like static electricity running backward.
He turned slowly, hands raised.
Dean had a silver pistol aimed at his forehead. Sam held the shotgun ready, eyes wide, tracking between Ethan and the spot where the ghost had been.
"That was a temporary dispersal," Ethan said. "She'll reform in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. We need to burn her bones or she comes back."
"Who the hell are you?" Dean's gun didn't waver.
"Someone who hunts the same things you hunt."
"Those chains weren't human."
"No. They weren't."
Sam stepped closer, reaching into his jacket. "Your eyes are glowing."
Ethan blinked. The orange light faded—he hadn't even realized it had started.
"That happens sometimes."
"Dean." Sam had pulled something from his pocket. A flask. "Holy water test."
"Do it."
The water hit Ethan's face. Cold, wet, and completely ineffective. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. "I'm not a demon."
"Salt." Dean jerked his head toward the line Sam was already pouring across the asphalt.
Ethan stepped over it. Into the circle. Out of the circle. "Not a ghost either."
"Silver." Dean produced a knife. "You willing to—"
Ethan held out his arm. "Cut me."
The blade pressed against his forearm. Dean drew it across—shallow, controlled, the cut of someone who'd done this test before. Blood welled up, red and normal, no smoke, no burning.
"Not a shapeshifter. Not a werewolf." Dean lowered the knife but kept the gun up. "So what are you?"
"Something new." Ethan met his eyes steadily. "Something that kills what you kill. Only better."
"Better how?"
In the distance, the air temperature dropped again. Constance was reforming.
"I can explain later, or we can finish the hunt now. Your call."
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Some kind of silent communication that came from years of working together, of trusting each other with their lives.
Dean lowered his gun. "This isn't over."
"Didn't think it was."
"You know where her bones are?"
Ethan nodded. "The house. 4636 Breckenridge Road. She killed her children there, killed herself there. The remains were never properly disposed of."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"I do my research." Not a lie, technically. "Are we doing this or not?"
Dean glanced at the spot where Constance had vanished. The temperature was still dropping.
"Sam, get the shovels. Our new friend here is going to prove he's useful."
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1