A/N: Well, completing my fan obsession of Superwholock, is Supernatural, my most recent obsession so naturally I had to write a fanfic on it haha, so this is my first shot at a Supernatural fanfic. Please be patient with me for at least the first chapter because the beginning pages are always the hardest for me to write XD anyway, hope you enjoy :)

The Road Goes On

Chapter One: The Road to Home

Green-brown landscape tore by in a blur as my black '71 Z28 Chevrolet Camaro sped down a country backroad in Georgia. I had lost track of where exactly I was on the small map that lay in the passenger's seat next to me, but at this point I didn't care. AC/DC's "Back In Black" blared through the speakers of the car helping me combat the burdens that bore through my mind like they always did. The burdens had been there ever since I could remember, only they had lied dormant for years, until a few days ago, until I realized I had to return home.

I had spent the past few years of my life riding around the country working the only job I was good at: hunting. Unlike most people, hunting for me did not mean game like deer or boar, it meant monsters, spirits, and the occasional demon. As a child, my father and brother didn't teach me math, they taught me that salting and burning was about the best possible option for any situation. My brother taught me the books, how to spot signs and omens of various monsters along with the ways to kill the ones I couldn't just salt and burn. He taught me to draw all kinds of sigils and Devil's Traps until I had subconsciously drawn them on the pages of notebooks during my school years. Most times I was overly grateful for my childhood, that I hadn't been lied to and told that there were no such things as monsters, but other times I wondered what a normal childhood would have been like. When I thought like this the resulting remark to myself was that a "normal" childhood would have been absolute crap. Deep down though, I knew my sarcastic self-remarks were probably a front because many things would not be as they were if I hadn't grown up fighting monsters.

My home lately had been my car, it had taken me all along the East Coast and through much of the rest of the country, and when it wasn't my car it was some cheap motel. I had met with other hunters along the way, though I didn't take a liking to working with any of them and often found myself on a job alone. Hunters are hard people to work with, most of them -or at least the ones I've met- are complete asses and have enormous egos; the ones that don't mind working with others aren't good hunters at all and I see them becoming meat for some monster in a couple years. Certain hunters are good for one thing and that's pointing out potential jobs. Even though hunters don't often work together, we know one another, who is closest to a job that has the capability to deal with it. I had received a call a few days ago from a hunter up north informing me of a job in Florida, my childhood home. Seeing that I had just finished a nice job concerning a werewolf in southern Georgia I couldn't ignore a job so close to me, no matter the emotional devastation it might cause.

Only a day after I received the call I arrived in the large northeast Florida city and started my own investigation. While I did take the words of other hunters into consideration when taking a job, I didn't just rely on them because of my overwhelming curiosity. I liked to form my own opinions of people and their depictions of the odd events I had come for. This particular story was twisted with many first-hand accounts that all varied from person to person, almost no story I heard matched the story of another. Details were off, general concepts were complete opposites, only one fact remained the same and that was the scene of the hauntings: a school. Every story I heard had that one thing in common, that a school in which some tragic event took place was now haunted by the spirits of its previous occupants. This catastrophe was one of the details that kept changing, one account was of a cannibalistic principle calling students into his office in which none returned from, another said that the janitor went on a murder spree and killed dozens of children and a few teachers; the most believable of these over-exaggerated scenarios was a furnace that blew up. My conclusion from the research I had conducted on the Internet and from a few calls to local official record offices was that a furnace had blown up, killing a few kids, two teachers, and the principal. The only problem was records said maintenance had been called in a few days prior to check the furnace, it was cleared as safe, so no one knew why it would have blown up two days later. With that knowledge and the knowledge of spirits, my guess was that someone had tampered with it, yet I was unclear as to why.

I was lying in the motel bed, staring at the off-white ceiling that had clearly been damaged due to time. I had seen so many horrible things in my lifetime it was a wonder that I was able to sleep anymore without chilling nightmares, those which would leave a normal person with cold sweats and trembling limbs. I could hear the almost-silent tapping of rain starting to hit the roof, a book of local history cracked open in my lap. I hadn't gotten much further in my investigation by just reading so I decided that come morning I would have to visit the site of the hauntings. Thunder cracked in the distance and the lights in the hotel room flickered on and then back on, making me slightly nervous. I sat the book on the bed, getting up to check the salt lines I put under all the windows and the door were still unbroken. Pulling back the beige curtain covering the window, careful not to break the salt line, I looked out into the black night, illuminated only slightly by the glow of a dull-orange street lamp. Pushing aside the thoughts that haunted me like the spirits I often combated in my line of work, I placed my Colt .45 pistol next to the lamp on the nightstand, my final defense if anything or anyone could make it through that door. I had made and inherited a lot of enemies in my many years of hunting, although I'm sure some hunters would consider me young at the trade. Many of those enemies would be the supernatural creatures I hunted, but some were just humans who simply wanted to see me dead. As I went to turn the lamp out thunder boomed in the distance, I looked down at the grip on my gun still bathed in light: the initials L.G.W were carved into one side, the other side I knew read D.J.W. It reminded me that it had been a night just like this that had changed my life forever, and if only I had known about salt lines then my life could have turned out drastically different. Despite all of the thoughts crowding my head I was able to fall slowly fall asleep, sleep that was soon filled with memories of home.

"One day," I remembered him telling me. "One day this gun will be yours, but don't tell your mother, she'd have a fit."

I remembered looking up into his bright, green eyes and giggling like any small child would when knowing they now held a secret. At that age I didn't even take notice to the depth of my father telling me he would soon give a weapon to me. He showed me where he had carved his initials and told me he had done that when his father gave the gun to him.

"I was much older than you when your granddad gave me this, see? Right there, my name?"

"What's it stand for, daddy?" I asked, being the age at which a child only knew their parents as "Mom" and "Dad".

"Daniel Joshua Wright, now what would yours say if I gave you this and you wrote your name?"

"L...G...W?" I slowly spelled out, unsure if I was right. "Yeah, because it would be for Lara Grace Wright, that's my full name!"

"Yes, it is, my sweet girl," he said smiling proudly.

I remember him putting the gun away and wrapping me in a big hug.

One of my warmest memories of my past came and was swept away in dreamless sleep that followed. My mind tried to bring back the memory, to sustain it in the dark nightmares that would soon crowd it, but was unable to. I woke at the break of dawn the next morning, whispers of the memory floating through my head and the faint traces of tears at the corners of my eyes. Nevertheless, I rose from the less than comfortable bed and started to get ready for the day that faced me, not days that had already come and gone. First would be the police station, formal clothes are definitely not a favorite of mine, but if you want to pull off being an official with enough clearance to do just about anything sometimes comfort must suffer. After I got all the information I needed or could access from the police station I planed to go to the actual school itself with a handy EMF detector. I hoped with information and a scan of the place I could rule out some culprits, though it is never that easy.

Dressed in a navy, knee-length dress-skirt and white blouse with a navy blazer, and wearing the most uncomfortable pair of heels I have ever walked in, I tucked my gun in a hidden pocket in the blazer before leaving the motel. I only had to search the trunk of my car for a second before I found the small bag containing various fake IDs and some money. It took me a minute before I picked out the badge labeled "State Homicide Division" and used an interchangeable slip I created to make the "State" read "Florida", ideally it could be made to read any state in the country. I pulled out the wood-and-cloth false trunk divider, pulling it back over the various weapons in the trunk that would surely get me a good amount of time in prison. Knives, shotguns, axes, stakes made of various woods, hand guns, tons of assorted bullets, and gasoline riddled the trunk of the Camaro. Though I failed at being neat, clean, and organized my entire life, the weapon-filled trunk of my car was meticulously organized down to the corner in which the small bag of fake IDs resided. When I was on a job I couldn't afford to misplace or get one weapon mixed up with another because my life may very well depend on it, and I had gotten to where I could grab the exact thing I needed from the trunk blindfolded. In my line of work, who knows when you would need to be able to do that, probably more often than not. I closed the trunk, the partition safely in place, starting up the car with its most familiar roar of the engine. My '71 Camaro had been my first car, a gift from my father when I was too young to drive, but promised to me when I came of age. I had seen the car in a run-down lot about to go out of business and it had not looked as sharp as it did now, that was the gift of it all, my father had worked on the car between jobs also teaching my brother how to work on cars. The sleek, black paint job looked almost new, I had managed to keep the wheels fairly clean, none of the lights were clouded, and the engine still ran like new; so it felt like I had the best of the best when really it was the care toward it that made the car that special. I pulled out of the motel parking lot and headed downtown toward the police station.
Shortly after I arrived at the police station I was taken to the chief detective working the case, my badge being taken as real without question. The detective didn't know more than I did about the history of the school, but did know about the crime scene which was the source of my investigation.

"There were two victims in a week, one was a surveyor and the other was a woman who worked for this company that refurbishes old buildings," the detective said.

"Was there anyone who would have any reason to kill them?" I asked, trying to rule out some possible culprits of the killings.

"I've talked to the families and both said that no one would have had reason to hurt either one of the victims, that both of them mostly kept to themselves outside their jobs," the detective replied.

So, that rules out witches, I thought to myself, scratching the word off the notepad I carried as if I were taking notes.

I already had my mind on spirits, vengeful ones at that, but even spirits usually had their reasons for killing people. Of course I still had a few questions for the detective before I made up my mind because there were still a few big players to rule out.

"You said you were first at the crime scene, besides the person who discovered them of course?"

"Yes, Jerry Saden, your regular businessman, saw Connor Atkins', the surveyor, car outside on his way to work. He said the lights were still on so he stopped and called out to see if they had been left on purposefully, but when no one answered he walked up to the gate and saw Mr. Atkins dead, he called us."

"What was a surveyor doing at an abandoned, rotting school?" I asked. "Isn't it a little late for that?"

"Mr. O'Donnell wants to reopen the school, it's all over the news," the detective said.

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Harry O'Donnell, the richest man in the city, you don't know who he is?"

"I'm sort of...new, is there any way I could question Mr. O'Donnell myself?"

"You could try, but he's usually busy this time of week, here," the detective said writing down a number to call and a business address.

I thanked the detective, telling him I would visit the crime scene soon myself and started off to Harry O'Donnell's.

Contrary to what the detective thought, the second I showed my badge and ID to Mr. O'Donnell's secretary I got the man himself a few minutes later. I could imagine with a largely successful company as his he didn't want an official, even though a fake one, in his lobby for long. He fit the stereotypical "businessman" look in his tailored suit, tie, and the slight-overweight appearance. He welcomed me into the privacy of his office away from the sight of any potential investor that might take suspicion of me in the lobby. After assuring him he wasn't a suspect in the investigation so far, he was willing to answer my questions.

"Why do you want to reopen a school that would take millions more to refurbish rather than buying a new building for a lot cheaper?" I asked. "Not that you don't have the money..."

"No, it's much more than starting a school, that particular school has sentimental ties to me, I guess you could say," the man replied in an all-business tone with a slight Alabama accent.

"Are you from Alabama?" I asked, trying to gain more trust.

"Born there, raised here, you?" he asked.

"I'm from here, but my grandparents were born and raised in Alabama. What kind of 'sentimental ties'?"

"You see, my mother and grandmother both worked at the school, my grandmother was the principal and my mother was a teacher. They both loved that school so much, loved all the kids, everything about it. The Board was about to change the school so that a lot of kids wouldn't be able to go there anymore. They devoted their lives to the school and both of them were there at the time of the...accident," he said with slight sadness in his eyes. "I want to reopen the school, as a private school for children who are very special in their academic skills."

"I'm sorry, I was wondering, since the books don't say much about that day, if they could tell me more about the history of the school?" I asked.

"That would be real hard," Mr. O'Donnell said.

"Why's that?"

"Well, they both died in the school the day of the accident."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed that start, I just had to add in that little flashback because I wanted the initials , which were originally just going to be "D.W", and I didn't want you all to think she was Dean's daughter or something XD I already have planned out chapter 2 but I still have to type it, so hopefully it won't be long but no promises

Thanks for reading