Millie Winchester

by rememberyourcosmicroots

Sister-Fic. Millie Winchester was born twenty-two years ago along her brother, Sam Winchester. She lived through her mother's death, her brother fleeing to college, and even car rides with Dean when he's blasting Bob Seger and eating chili cheese fries. Still, when their Dad disappears and they bring Sam back into hunting . . . well, who ever said hunting was easy? Not a hunter.

So, I wanted to rewatch Supernatural.

That's how this all started. I decided, hey, let's throw in a new character, that'll be fun.

I know the sister-fic idea has been beat to death, but here's a new one. Welcome Mildred Winchester, or Millie.

Since I kinda carbon copied the episodes, I probably should say I don't own Supernatural. I just messed around with the dialogue a little. I don't know.

LAWRENCE, KANSAS

22 YEARS AGO

"C'mon, let's say goodnight to your brother and sister," Mary Winchester said, placing Dean on the floor so he could run over to Sam's nursery and hop up the steps. He leaned over the edges of the crib, pressing his lips to Sam's forehead.

"Goodnight, Sam," Dean said softly. He'd been taught just the other day how quiet he had to be around babies, and was getting pretty good at it too. His mom leaned over Sam and he hopped down the steps, marching right over to the second crib in the room and doing the same thing, leaning in for a quick kiss. "Goodnight, Millie," he said, and his baby sister blinked at him. He still didn't get twins, exactly, and how they were born on the same day, but it was cool. He got two for the price of one. At least, that's what his dad had said.

"Hey, Dean," a deep voice called from behind him, and Dean spun around, already knowing who it was.

"Daddy!" he called, but not too loudly, and hopped off of Millie's steps to run into his dad's arms.

John picked him up with ease. "Hey, buddy," he said, holding Dean close, height level, like they were actually talking. "What do you think? Do you think Sammy and Millie are ready to toss around a football yet?"

Dean laughed. Sammy and Millie, with their tiny baby arms, throwing a football? Yeah, right. "No, Daddy." But he could teach them, once they grew a little.

"No," John echoed with a scoff, as if it was too ridiculous now that he thought about it. Mary gave Millie a kiss and brushed past John on her way out.

"You got him?" she asked quietly.

John gave her an easy smile. "I got him." Dean threw an arm around his dad's shoulders, squeezing, and John hugged back, rubbing small circles in his pajamas. "Sweet dreams, Sam. Sweet dreams, Millie."

Mary woke up to the baby monitor going off. She blinked her eyes open, fumbling the air for a minute before she was able to turn the lamp on. It sounded like it was Sam who was crying, but she could never be sure. They were twins alright, nearly indistinguishable even if they were boy and girl.

"John?" she called, not bothering to turn over. When she got no reply, however, she shifted onto her forearms to glance at the empty space next to her. She let out a sigh. Of course. She pushed out the kids, but he still couldn't be around to check on them in the night.

She yawned and rubbed her still-tired eyes as she wandered down the dark hallway towards the nursery. She found the door open as she'd left it, with John leaning over Sam's crib, back to the door. Millie was still sound asleep in the crib next to him.

"John, is he hungry?" she called.

"Shhh," was his reply, slightly sardonic with the noise. She almost hit herself. Of course. He'd probably just got the baby to sleep.

"Okay," she said back. She could go get a drink for herself, then, she decided. She let out another sleepy sigh as she turned away. The light down the hall began to flicker for a moment, and she watched it skeptically, hesitating a moment before heading over and tapping on the glass lightly. It took a second, but the light flickered and stayed on. She hummed, turning away before she could start thinking about things that did that sorta thing to lights.

She heard the TV from downstairs, heading down the steps slowly. John had probably left it on, she reasoned, using the banister to guide her as she stepped. It wasn't until she had hit the second-to-last step before she could see into the family room clearly, and hear the faint snoring that came from the armchair sat right in front of an old war movie.

You know, she told John to stop watching war movies because they gave him nightmares, but she didn't mean for him to sneak around behind her back about—

Her heart sank. That was John, in the chair. But if he was here, who was—?

"Oh my God," she breathed, whirling around, both hands on the banister to push herself up the stairs faster. "Sammy!" she called. "Millie! Sammy!" She raced down the hall, barely noticing that the light wasn't on anymore, to focused on bursting through the doorway to the nursery, to confront the strange mystery figure leaning over her baby's crib—

She froze in the middle of the room and felt everything go numb.

Those eyes. She knew those eyes.

PALO ALTO

I missed Sam.

I hadn't for a while, because I'd been angry about him leaving to go party in Palo Alto with everyone other Californian twenty-year-old. In fact, I'd flat-out ignored him for a solid three months while Dean held up some secret phone conversations when we weren't around Dad.

But it had been two years. My anger had long since worn out in favor of some wholesome longing. I missed my twin, the kid that would sit in the backseat of the Impala with me. In the past two years, I'd almost gotten used to sliding into the front seat instead of the back. And that just wasn't right.

So, secretly, I was happy we were going to visit him, even if it wasn't under the best circumstances. I was slightly less happy we were going to be pulling his college life away from him, even for just a weekend, but Dean seemed to think the situation called for it, and he was nothing if not the boss around here. That was how the hierarchy went. Dad was the king, but when he was gone, nobles like Dean took his place. In the odd occasion Dean was gone with Dad, Sam got to boss me around. I was never by myself, and even if I was, there wasn't anybody left to be in charge of.

Being the youngest, if by two minutes, sucked.

Still, that didn't mean I didn't get in my two cents as we booked it to Stanford to go rope Sam into helping us track down Dad. I'd made sure Dean knew, loud and clear, that Sam had made his peace and gone his own path, and that we shouldn't even be bothering him.

"I know, Millie, I know," Dean had snapped. "But do you really think I would do this if it wasn't serious? Dad's missing!"

"He's been gone a mere three weeks, Dean," I'd placated. "He could be waist-deep in a swamp or freezing his ass off in the mountains, or a million other places without cell service."

"It's been three weeks," he said. "And that's three weeks too long."

And then he'd cranked up Metallica to drown me out.

I was used to Dean's temperament, sure, but that didn't mean I had to like it. But there was still that little part of me that wanted to go see Sam, so I wasn't too hard to convince, even if I was still on the fence about the whole Dad-missing thing.

Whatever. At least I'd get a little time with my brother.

Sam's apartment with his cozy little girlfriend was all too easy to find, even without the address Dean had weaseled off of Sam two months ago. I could've got it from Jess's social media all the same. But, apparently, my sleuthing skills weren't needed this time.

"Can you tell me why we're breaking into his apartment instead of just waiting until morning?" I hissed at Dean where he was crouched next to Sam's apartment window, using a knife under the window pane to switch the latch open. I couldn't help but think old Sam would've never left such a liability like that so obvious. This was the first thing we looked for when we were breaking in.

"I don't know. For fun?" Dean glanced up, a shit-eating grin on his face, and window popped open.

I cringed as the window made a loud crashing noise, and hesitated a minute, waiting to hear the pounding of footsteps and a 'what the hell?' but there was nothing. Dean looked to me and shrugged before stealthily slipping through the window like a cat. I had no choice but to follow suit, as was the way of the Winchesters.

"What's the plan, then, asshat?" I asked. Dean shushed me and moved forward silently, past the kitchen and into an open sitting area. He swung open a glass door that served as a barrier, moving forward despite the small creak it made. I followed in at a slower pace, barely having time to jump back in surprise as someone launched forward from the shadows, grabbing Dean's arm and trying to catch him by surprise.

I was about to jump in and help when I froze. This was Sam's house. Only Sam would attack first, call the police later. That had been drilled into us since we were kids. So I hesitated and waited until Sam, still punching and kicking, stumbled a little too close to a window and I could see his face in perfect lighting. Yep. That was my brother all right. And there was my older brother, having realized the same thing, putting up a perfect defensive fight.

They were pushed back into another sitting room where Dean finally got the upper hand, flipping Sam on his back, one knee on his chest and a hand lightly around his throat.

Dean grinned. "Whoa, easy tiger," he said, and I slinked closer, leaning down as realization dawned on Sam's red face.

"Dean?" he panted. His gaze flickered over to me. "Millie?"

"Hiya, Sammy," I said, giving a little wave. Dean chuckled. This wasn't the reunion I imagined, but it was a reunion nonetheless.

"You scared the crap out of me!" Sam said.

"That's 'cause you're outta practice," Dean teased, his tone hinting at condescending.

Sam got the hint, and without even blinking slipped his legs out from under Dean, wrapping around his midsection and flipping him over, hands moving and working to compensate before he had his brother pinned down. I had to shift slightly to the left to avoid being taken out.

Dean was still grinning all the while, and let out a breathless laugh. "Or not," he said, patting for release on Sam's leg. "Get off me."

Sam slid off of Dean, offering a hand to help him up.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing here?" Sam demanded. "What are both of you doing here?"

"Well, I was looking for a beer," Dean teased, patting Sam's shoulders. "I don't know about Millie over here—"

"Oh, I could use a beer," I said, waving two fingers in a mini salute.

Suddenly, the overhead light flickered on, and the girl from the few pictures Sam had sent was leaning in the doorframe, one hand on the lightswitch.

"Sam?" Jessica asked.

Sam gave a small sigh. "Jess, hey," he said, turning back to the two of us. "Dean, Millie, this is my girlfriend, Jessica."

"Wait, your brother and sister, Dean and . . . Mildred?" she asked, stepping forward.

"Millie," I corrected, shooting Sam a glare he didn't see. Jessica nodded.

"I love the Smurfs," Dean broke in. I rolled my eyes from behind them. It almost seemed as if Dean couldn't go two seconds without the attention on him. He gestured to Jess's shirt, where Smurfette and some other blue guy were displayed. "You know, I gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother's league." Dean strolled forward a few steps, eyes wide.

"Just . . . let me put something on," Jessica said, moving to turn away.

"No, no, no," Dean insisted. I couldn't see his face, but since Sam hadn't punched him yet, I was assuming Dean was doing a very good job of keeping his eyes on her face. "I wouldn't dream of it." He took a deep breath. "Seriously."

"Jesus Christ, Dean," I muttered from behind him, putting my face in my hands, trying to regain my composure. Jess's eyes flickered over to me, then back to Dean.

"Anyway," Dean continued, "I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business, but nice meeting you." He pointed a finger at her and gave her a saucy grin as he spoke. I nearly gagged. I usually stayed as far away as I could during Dean's hookups, but sometimes far wasn't far enough.

But at least there was a subject change. "Yes, nice meeting you, Jess. Maybe we'll see you for Thanksgiving," I said, stepping closer to Dean's elbow.

Sam's eyes flickered from Jess to me to Dean, then back to Jess. "No," he said, then shifted to move over behind his girlfriend. Jessica looked very confused by the power play Sam had just pulled. "No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her."

"Okay," Dean said easily, glancing towards me. I shifted again, narrowing my eyes.

"Um, Dad hasn't been home in a few days," I tried experimentally.

Sam sighed. "So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift," he said. "He'll stumble back in sooner or later."

Dean nodded slightly, as if he'd been expecting this all along. But he regained his composure and took over for me. "Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days," he reiterated, and I watched what Dean had said hit Sam like a ton of bricks.

"Jess, excuse us," Sam said, not breaking eye contact with Dean.

"What?" she asked, looking between the two of them. "What does that mean?"

Sam bit his lip. "Fifteen minutes, Dean. That's all you get."

"Fantastic," Dean said, beaming. "Well, my shit's in the Impala, so . . ."

Sam nodded. "Right." He turned to the still-confused Jess. "I'll be back soon. We're just going to go down to my brother's car to talk."

"I'll stay up here," I offered, and both the guys turned to me. "What?"

"Yeah, I mean, go for it, Millie," Dean said, turning back and giving me a wink. He thought I was playing wingman for his brother's girlfriend. I shook my head no, and led them out.

It took a minute to get the boys to shuffle out, but then it was just me and Jess. Jessica still looked mildly uncomfortable, even as she offered me a Coke. I plopped down on one of the couches as she got me the can, and then she perched on an armchair, still clearly confused.

"So you, Sam, and . . . Dean," she said slowly, glancing up at me through long lashes. "Are all siblings?"

"Me and Sam are twins, actually," I said, taking a sip. Jessica's mouth fell open.

"You and Sam are twins? Why hasn't he ever told me?" she demanded.

I shrugged. "No clue. What did Sam tell you about us?"

"Not much," Jess said slowly, as if she was thinking carefully. "Just that his mom passed, and his brother and sister were in the family business with his dad. He doesn't talk about you a lot."

"Good for him," I cheered, grinning, holding up the can as a mock cheers. "It's good that he's moved on. It was hard for him to choose between college and the family business, and that choice wasn't made any easier by our dad, who really pressured him. In reality, it was more like choosing between the family and college."

"Really?" Jess pressured. I nodded. It was nice talking to another girl. The last female I'd spoken to that I wasn't interviewing about a dead family member was the cashier when I had to pay for gas back in New Orleans.

"Dean just wants to borrow him for a few days, no big deal," I said. "Our dad goes missing a lot, it's just . . ." I paused for a moment, thinking about how to play up the excuse Dean had given. "When he goes on hunting trips, there can be areas with no cell service, wild animals, no clean water . . . the whole thing's very dangerous. And we haven't heard from him in I think three weeks now, no contact." At least that part was true. It had been three weeks, and it was in general very dangerous, but the rest was me talking out of my ass. "We just don't want him to have to get all 127 Hours, you know?"

"Totally," Jess said, nodding empathetically. "So . . . you and Dean are in this . . . family business?"

I nodded. "Yep. It's kinda far off from this normal, apple-pie life, that's for sure." Safe, I added in my head. This life was safe, and that's why Sam had picked it. Even all these years later, I could still remember the last argument Dad and Sam had had, and that's what Sam had said. I want a safe life. Too bad safe also meant boring.

"You know, tell Sam he doesn't have to go if he doesn't want to," I continued, glancing at the door as if Dean was going to burst through the door and yell at me for betraying him. Jess pulled back, surprise flitting over her pretty face. I powered on. "Dean and I, we'll live without him. It's . . . been hard, but we can manage. I don't want to take him away from the life he wants. He likes college, loves you, and wants to have a normal life. If that's a life without me, I'll deal. I want him to be happy." I took a deep breath. I'd prepped this speech on the way over, but it was a lot harder to get through while actually here.

Jessica nodded slowly. "That's very . . . that's really cool of you, Millie."

I grinned. "Not really. But when they get back up here, if Sam's on board, just know that I'll support you. As much as I can, though, 'cause I'm the one that's gotta deal with Dean in the car."

Jessica laughed. "It'll only be for a little while, right? Maybe it won't be so bad."

I shrugged. "Sure. But I know Dean. Once this is over, he'll try to rope him into something else. My brother's not manipulative, he just wants to be with his brother again, and he's not above making him stay. I think it would be better if Sam doesn't go at all."

Jessica frowned. "Okay. Well, he's got this college interview Monday, so he needs to be back for that. I don't think he'll miss it."

I nodded. "Good. Now, what about you? What stupid shit has Sam done in the past two years?" I asked, turning more to face her on the couch.

Jess smiled, and immediately launched into a story about stressed-out Sam during finals week. I was all too excited to hear about Sam's adventures, stuff he wouldn't think to tell me on our monthly calls and every-so-often texts. And Jess was excited to share, really. Maybe we could end up being friends, and when Sam and Jess got married—which I didn't doubt they would, the way Sam talked about her—I could be the cool aunt to their little babies.

We talked and chatted slightly mindlessly for a little while, until Sam came back, giving a small smile and immediately heading to the bedroom the two shared. I'd have to tease Sam about that later. A bedroom together, all ready? My brother must have more game than I knew. I watched as Jess shot me a confused look and headed into the bedroom, trailing after my brother. I winced, hoping Sam was careful not to pull out anything dangerous that couldn't be explained with an easy lie, but Sam had been living with her for two years. She was either ridiculously dense or Sam was just that clever. I was betting on the latter.

"Wait, you're taking off?" Jess asked as she disappeared through the doorway. I cringed slightly and got up to put away my drink. "Is this about your dad? Is he all right?"

"Yeah, you know, just a little family drama," Sam lied easily.

"But your brother and sister said he was on some kind of hunting trip," she said dubiously. So she was clever. I had to give my brother props for not dating an airhead. He really lucked out with swinging a girl like her. I grinned to myself as I emptied the Coke in the sink.

"Ah, yeah, he's just deer hunting up at the cabin," my brother covered, "and he's probably got Jim, Jack, and Jose along with him. We're just gonna go bring him back."

Well, that didn't line up with my story exactly, but it was better than nothing. Sam was still a little rusty, that was all.

"What about the interview?" Jess asked. I tossed my can in the trash and went to lean against the counter, still listening.

"I'll make the interview," Sam insisted, scoffing, and I heard a rustling sound. "This is only for a couple of days."

"Sam, I mean, please," Jess said. "Just . . . stop for a second." I had to lean in to make out what she said next. "You sure you're okay?" she asked, concerning lacing her voice.

"Hey," Sam said, and I could hear him softening at Jess's worry. "Everything's going to be okay. I promise."

"At least tell me where you're going!" Jess called a little loudly.

"Jericho!" Sam called back, sounding a little muffled. There was more shuffling, and Sam appeared from the bedroom, Jess right behind him. He grinned at me. "Ready?"
I pushed off from the counter, feeling slightly displeased, but also a little giddy. Just like old times, except now it was going to be the three of us, minus Dad, at least until we found him.

"Don't worry, Jess," I said to his nervous girlfriend as Sam moved to the door. "See you Monday!"

"Monday," she echoed, a frown on her face.

Sam blew her a kiss and closed the door behind us.

We stopped at a gas station just outside of Jericho to refuel both the car and ourselves. Dean went inside while I filled the tank, and Sam sat in the passenger seat with the door propped open, looking through a box of Dean's cassette tapes.

"Dean lets you fill up the Impala?" Sam asked me as I leaned casually against the car, blowing my hair out of my face.

"Yeah, and sometimes, he actually lets me drive it too," I said, flashing my brother a grin. "I almost hit a mini cooper over in Utah, though, so it's been a few months. I don't think he trusts me anymore."

"You always were a shit driver," Sam said, nose practically in the box.

"Okay, but that's because I learned last," I defended.

Dean appeared next to the car, waving a candy bar in my direction. "Hey, you want breakfast?" he called to Sam, tossing me the chocolate. I caught it easily and stuck it in my pocket.

Sam surveyed the candy and chips Dean offered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Apparently, he was no longer the kid that preferred marshmallow fluff in his mac and cheese.

"No, thanks," he dismissed, turning back to the tapes.

Dean clenched his jaw slightly, but only I caught it.

"So how'd you pay for that stuff?" Sam called, holding up a tape with Dean's lazy scrawl on it. "You two and Dad still running credit card scams?"

"Say it a little louder, why don't ya," I muttered, playing with the drawstrings of my sweatshirt.

"Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro-ball career," Dean said, taking the pump out of the nozzle and placing it back. "Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards."

"Yeah?" Sam asked skeptically. "And what names did you write on the application this time?"

Dean headed around to the driver's side, pretending to think as he did. I slid into the backseat, slamming the door the same time he opened his. "Uh . . . Bert Aframian and his son and daughter, Hector and Elise. Scored three cards out of the deal."

"Elise is such a pretty name," I commented drily as Sam shook his head, smiling in disbelief.

"Sounds about right," he said, before turning back to the tapes. "I swear, man, you gotta update your cassette tape collection."

"Why?" Dean asked, glancing back at me. I shrugged under his gaze. There was nothing wrong with Dean's tapes. Outdated tech for an outdated car, I say. Not that the Impala was outdated. She was practically the eighth wonder of the world in my eyes.

"Well, for one, they're cassette tapes," Sam said. "And two—" Sam held up individual tapes for proof. "Black Sabbath . . . Motorhead . . . Metallica?"

"It's the greatest hits of rock," I protested as Dean snatched the Metallica tape out of his hand.

"It's the greatest hits of mullet rock," Sam corrected, glancing back at me, eyebrows raised.

"House rules, Sammy," Dean said, ignoring the both of us as he took the casing off and popping the tape in, "driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole." He tossed the casing in with the rest of the box, eyes wide in a challenge.

"You know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old," Sam said over the roar of the music. The tape kicked in as soon as Dean gunned the engine. "It's Sam, okay?"

"Sorry, I can't hear you," Dean said. "The music's too loud." He gave a cocky grin and stepped on the gas. I, for one, relaxed in my seat. This was going to be a long ride.

We arrived at Jericho later that afternoon. It was fun being in the car with my brothers again, but not so much with Sam as I would've liked. He was clearly itching to get this over and done with as soon as possible. He was busy making phone calls nearly the whole way, and was constantly looking over the few newspapers we had. If I hadn't nearly memorized them already, I'm sure he would've put me to work.

I had zoned out a while ago, and only snapped to attention as Sam closed his phone, shifting a little bit so he could talk to both of us at the same time.

"Okay, so there's no one matching Dad's description at the hospital or the morgue," Sam said. "So that's something, I guess."

We rounded a corner on that was going to lead us across the bridge that was part of the five-mile stretch that all of the guys had disappeared in. The bridge was slam-packed with cop cars.

"Check it out," Dean said, as if we both couldn't see what was clearly up ahead.

Dean eased his way onto the road a few feet away from all the cars.

"What are you thinking, Dean?" I asked. Sam looked mildly confused.

"Marshals?" Dean suggested, leaning across Sam so he could pop open the glove box, pulling out a smaller wooden box that contained all are false I.D.s.

"You read my mind," I teased lightly as Dean flashed Sam a grin before tucking the badge into his jacket. I nearly laughed at the surprise on Sam's face. It was like he'd forgotten everything we knew by routine now. Maybe it was the fact that Dad rarely ever let us tag along, but surely Sam had been expecting something like this. What did he think? That we were less sophisticated than we were before? That we'd somehow be able to walk up to this obvious crime scene without getting stopped?

Dean smiled at me. "Let's go."

Together, the three of us approached the middle of the bridge. There was a taped-off abandoned car crawling with deputies, and more down by the small riverbank underneath, patrolling the area. And, just like all the other men that had disappeared in the area, this guy was just gone.

"So this kid Troy—he's dating your daughter, isn't he?" the sheriff asked one of his deputies. The other guy was inside the car, doing a very careful sweep as he answered.

"Yeah," the guy replied almost casually.

"How's Amy doing?"

"She's putting up missing posters downtown," the deputy said, voice calm for a guy who'd just lost his daughter's boyfriend. Maybe this Troy kid had been an asshole or something. I snorted to myself, and Sam shot me a worried glance. I brushed him off.

Dean chose that moment to interrupt, and I tucked the Amy thing into the back of my mind.

"You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?" he asked, rounding the car towards the sheriff, who straightened up as he approached, and the two did a body scan of the other. Sam followed Dean slightly behind, hands in his pockets, while I went around the other way towards the driver's side.

"And who are you?" the sheriff asked.

Dean flashed his badge. "Federal Marshals," he answered. His voice was low and gruffer than usual, kinda matching his whole scruffy atmosphere. Unfortunately, Dean was not great at passing off as federal agents of any kind. I wasn't surprised when the sheriff was immediately curious.

"You three are a little young for marshals, aren't you?" he asked, glancing over at me. I crouched next to the car, peering into the back window, only half-listening to the conversation. There wasn't much to be found, at least not with the naked eye. I wished I had Dean's EMP scanner, because I was leaning towards ghost of some sort. There was no way a guy could disappear without leaving a single trace, so it couldn't be anything corporeal.

Dean chuckled. "Thanks, that's awfully kind of you." Then he brushed past the sheriff towards the car. "You did have another one just like this, correct?"

"Yeah, that's right," said the sheriff, "about a mile up the road. There have been others before that."

"So this victim," Sam asked. "You knew him?"

I perked up. Amy was potential, and I was desperate to know a little more information. She would probably be our next stop.

The sheriff nodded, pressing his lips together. "A town like this, everybody knows everybody."

I frowned, not impressed with his vague answer.

"Any connection between the victims?" Dean asked, rounding the car more towards my side as I crouched again, defeated. The other deputy had left the car and I slid into the driver's seat, feeling around to try and see if there was any markings.

"No, not so far as we can tell," the deputy said.

I tried to imagine I was Troy. I was driving home, crossing the bridge, and, what? Does my engine go out? Does something appear in the middle of the road and I swerve and stop? Do I get out and investigate, or am I attacked in my car? I frown, the questions floating in front of my face, frustration setting in when I couldn't answer them immediately.

"So what's the theory?" Sam asked, coming around to my side by Dean.

"Honestly, we don't know. Serial killer, kidnapping ring . . ." the sheriff shrugged, and I had to resist an eye roll.

"Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys," Dean said, voice still sounding chipper, not at all condescending, but not joking, either. I frowned, glancing at Dean's mock grin. I watch as Sam's lips purse and both of our feet slam into Dean's, making him cough as he tries to muffle a yelp.

"Thank you for your time," Sam said graciously. I slide out of the car, hearing my cue. "Gentlemen."

We head back down the bridge towards the car, and I tip an imaginary hat as I pass the sheriff.

Sam storms ahead of us, jaw clenched, and I break into a light jog to keep up. As soon as we've gained a little distance, and the sheriff isn't looking, Dean's face twists and he slaps Sam in the back of the head, making his hair fly up. I cough through a snicker.

"Ow!" Sam yelped, turning to Dean. "What was that for?"

"Why do you have step on my foot?" Dena countered, voice still at a harsh whisper. "I ought to get you, too, Millie."

"Why do you have to talk to police like that?" Sam demanded before I could respond.

"Come on," Dean protested, moving to step in front of Sam, making him stop. "They don't really know what's going on," he said. "We're all alone on this. I mean, if we're gonna find Dad, we've got to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves."

"That does so not justify being rude," I say, and I'm about to rip Dean a new one when Sam clears his throat, his eyes dragging to just over Dean's shoulder. I glance that way and feel my heart sink just a little bit. Behind us is a real state marshal, and two FBI agents as well.

"Shit," I mutter, looking at my toes as Dean turns around.

"Can I help you three?" the marshal asked.

I cleared my throat as Dean stepped in to answer. "No, sir. We were just leaving," he said. The two FBI agents moved past us, and Dean gave them both a little nod. "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully."

We head around the marshal, who I give a smile to, just to be careful. We get back to the Impala, all of us sliding into our assigned seating. The car was technically Dean's, so he got to drive as long as he kept up the engine and filled the tank. Then it went in age order, where things got a little dicey. I was only born a couple of minutes after Sam, but still, I was parked in the backseat based on one hundred and twenty seconds. I'm sure that if I put up a big enough of a stink that we could switch it around, (two minutes is nothing on being two years rusty, Sam) but I was just glad to have a sense of normalcy back.

"So, where to next?" Dean asked as he pulled away from the bridge. "Check in at a hotel?"

"Let's stop and see Amy downtown first," I said.

"Who?"

"The kid who went missing—Troy—his girlfriend. She's hanging up missing posters in downtown Jericho," I said. "We should talk to her. Maybe she knows something."

"You got a theory, Millie?" Sam asked.

"I'm thinking it's gotta be a spirit," I said, leaning forward and placing my hands on the bench seat. "No markings is a huge clue. Plus, a five-mile-radius is pretty specific. Something's gotta be attached to it."

"Fair enough," Dean declared. "To downtown it is."

We drove around until we found a string of multicolored missing posters. Dean parked, and we only had to go a little bit before we found two girls, each with huge stacks of papers.

"I bet you that's her," Dean said as we approached. He tucked his hands into his pockets as we stood in front of a early twenties girl. She was kinda plain looking, but beautiful all the same. Still, her eyes looked puffy and tired. She probably hadn't slept all night. "You must be Amy," Dean said. "Troy told us about you. We're his uncles."

"Well, I'm not. I'm his aunt," I offered from next to Dean. "It's a close family."

Amy's eyes flickered over to me. "Yeah?" she asked.

"I'm Dean, this is Sammy, and that's Millie," Dean said. Sam gave a pointed look for the hated nickname, but kept quiet.

"He never mentioned you to me," Amy said dismissively. I noticed, even if her eyes still looked tired, Amy wore a shit ton of makeup. She turned away from us, pulling another stack of posters from the messenger bag slung around her shoulder. Her friend a few feet away hadn't noticed us yet.

"Well, that's Troy, I guess," Dean said with a relatable scoff as he followed her. "We're not around much. We're up in Modesto—"

"So, we're looking for him, too, and we're kind of asking around," Sam interrupted. Apparently, he wanted to waste no time on his cover story.

By this time, the friend had noticed three strange people circling Amy, and came over, touching her elbow as she glanced over us. I made sure to give her a big smile. "Hey, are you okay?" she asked. Amy dismissed her, too, and Sam took that as cue to continue talking.

"Do you mind if we ask you a couple questions?"

The girls glanced skeptically between the three of us, before turning back to her friend. "I don't know, Amy . . ."

Amy bit her lip.

"Just for a little bit," I broke in, glancing at Sam, then flashing the girls sympathetic smiles. "We just want to help Troy, okay? To bring him home." I didn't mention that if the other victims were anything to go by, Troy was probably gone for good.

Amy thought for a second, before nodding. "Okay. There's a diner across the street. We can sit in there."

I grinned. "Great."

The girls led us there, and all three of us squished into one side of the booth, me pressed up against the glass uncomfortably as Dean shifted, trying to get his butt on the plastic. Sam kept nudging both of us, and I was seconds away from demanding that everyone shove off, and we hadn't even asked them any questions yet.

We didn't even need to ask anything, though, because as soon as we were semi-comfortable, Amy jumped into her story.

"I was on the phone with Troy," Amy began. "He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and . . . he never did."

"He didn't say anything strange or . . . out of the ordinary?" Sam asked.

"No, nothing I can remember," Amy said. Her friend gave her a sympathetic glance, but at least Amy had room on her side of the booth. I squished further into the corner and curled my hands around my mug of coffee, which had not been a good idea for near-dinner time, but whatever. I probably had a long research night ahead anyway.

"Here's the thing, ladies," Dean began, and I shot him a warning look that he ignored. I knew that tone, though, and sometimes this didn't always play out right. "The way Troy disappeared—something's not right. So if you've heard anything . . ." he trailed off.

The girls glanced at each other, having a silent conversation, but Dean caught on.

"What is it?"

The friend glanced over at me. "Well, it's just—I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk," she said.

"What do they talk about?" Sam and Dean asked in unison, and I snorted into my coffee cup, forcing Sam over an inch.

The friend leaned forward. "It's kind of this local legend. This one girl, she got murdered out on Centennial, like, decades ago." Dean glanced over at Sam, a I-told-you-so look on his face, which Sam promptly ignored. Instead, he had his eyebrows drawn together, listening intently to the story. I glared back at Dean across the table. "Well, supposedly, she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up—well, they disappear forever."

"But that's just a local legend," I broke in immediately. "No truth to that, of course. None."

"Well, duh," the friend said. "But it's still a thing. People talk."

"Is that all?" Amy asked. "We need to get back to hanging up flyers. Obviously that's just a tale."

"Yeah, thank you," Dean said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing down a few bills on the table. "We'll cover the drinks."

"Thank you for your time," Sam echoed.

Next stop, at Sam's insistence, was the library. There was only a couple of working computers available, so we all crowded around one, Dean demanding control of the keyboard as he searched through the archives.

His first few tries came up with squat.

"Let me try," Sam said, reaching for the mouse, but Dean slapped his hand away.

"I got it," he said, typing again.

Before he could finish, though, Sam pushed Dean's chair and sent it rolling a few feet across the hardwood.

"Guys!" I hissed. "C'mon!"

"Dude," Dean whined, rolling himself back over as Sam took over his position, smacking him on the shoulder. I shushed them again, to no avail. "You're such a control freak," he grumbled.

"So we're going with the spirit idea, right?" Sam asked, glancing at me.

I shrugged. "I don't think the evidence leaves much wiggle room."

Sam nodded. "Okay, so angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?"

"Yeah," Dean drawled, still pouting.

"Maybe it's not murder," Sam said thoughtfully. He typed in a search, changing the keyword murder into suicide.

"Smart thinking, Sammy," I applauded as he pressed enter.

One result came up, a sparse article that Sam skimmed through. I read over his shoulder.

"This was 1981," Sam read. "Constance Welch, twenty-four-years-old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river."
"Does it say we she did it?" Dean asked.

"Maybe she was depress—" I offer, but Sam interrupts me.

"Yeah."

"What?"

"An hour before they found her, she calls 911. Her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die," Sam deadpanned.

Dean hummed.

"Dark," I said under my breath.

"'Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it,' said husband, Joseph Welch," Sam quoted from the article. He pulled up a picture attached to it.

"That bridge look familiar to you?" Dean asked. It was a picture of the same bridge we'd been on this morning where Troy had disappeared.

"That's our next stop, huh?" I asked. The boys nodded.

A few hours later, when it was pitch black out, we headed back to the bridge. We'd done as much research as we could, waiting for it to get dark, but there was zilch. There was very little on Constance Welch, unfortunately. I had tried to rummage up something on her husband as an afterthought, but had run out of time before Dean wanted to go. So now we were here. The wind chill was bad this high up, and I shivered as we exited the Impala. I was hoping Troy's car would still be here so I could do an EMP scan, but it had been carted off by the cops, which was just my luck. I had to give them props for efficiency, even if it interfered with our plans.

"So this is where Constance to the swan dive," Dean said, moving up next to the rail of the bridge and gripping the metal.

"That's a little insensitive, Dean," I said, looking at the water below, and he hummed as if he was thinking it over and judging that for himself.

"So you think Dad would have been here?" Sam asked.

"Well, he's chasing the same story, and we're chasing him," Dean said, pushing off from the railing and moving onto the bridge. We were about halfway down, the Impala just at the entrance. I trailed after him, and so did Sam.

"Okay, so now what?" Sam asked. I knew what he meant; Dad wasn't here, that much was obvious. He probably had been for a time, but now he wasn't. This had been a dead end all along. At this point, Dean was kinda just dragging out the case.

"Now we keep digging till we find him," Dean said. "It might take a while."

I gave Dean a wary look. "We don't know how long that will be."

Sam stopped in his tracks, and I stopped with him, biting the inside of my cheek. "Dean, I told you I've got to get back by—"

"Monday," Dean interrupted, turning around. "Right. The interview."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I forgot."

"I'm sure you did," I muttered. Dean glanced my way, but brushed me off.

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Dean asked. "You think you're just gonna become some lawyer, marry your girl?"

"Maybe. Why not?" Sam asked.

"Dean . . ." I warned.

"Can it, Millie, I know you're on his side, and you have been since we drove through Oklahoma. The thing is, Sam, does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?" Dean asked.

I frowned.

"No, and she's not ever going to know," Sam snapped.

Dean nodded sarcastically. "Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy, but soon or later you're going to have to face up to who you are."

"Who is that?" Sam asked as Dean turned and began to stroll down the bridge again. We both hurried to follow.

"One of us," Dean declared, gesturing between me and him.

Sam scoffed. "No, I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life," he said, going to skirt in front of Dean, making him stop. I rounded on them both.

"Well, you have a responsibility," Dean countered.

"To Dad and his crusade?" Sam demanded incredulously. I knew what he meant. This whole hunt for the thing that had killed Mom had started when we were babies. It was our whole lives, and had given us a path to take, not caring if we wanted it or not. Sam and I didn't even know Mom, even though we loved her regardless. Sometimes it felt like we were fighting the air for how much progress we'd made, though, and I could see why Sam would want to declare it a lost cause.

"If it weren't for pictures, I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like," Sam continued, and my heart clenched at the thought of Mary Winchester, but it was nothing compared to Dean's face. The anger showed in his clenched jaw, and all the hurt was in his eyes. He missed Mom enough to rival Dad, and that was a hard thing to do. I felt a little shame at how much I agreed with Sam, even though I could never think to give up hunting. "What difference would it make?" Sam continued, and I couldn't help but think, low blow. "Even if we do find the thing that killed her . . ." Sam shook his head. "Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back."

I was mad but not too surprised when Dean grabbed the front of Sam's jacket and slammed him into the support beam of the bridge, holding him there.

"Dean!" I protested, but Dean just leaned in close.

"Don't talk about her like that," he muttered, before I got a hand on him and shoved him off of Sam.

I had had enough. I'd sat back and watched them bicker all day, and hadn't done a thing. Now, I was done. Verbal abuse was fine by me, but if you want to start shoving, there's the problem.

"Does anyone want my two cents?" I demanded. Both Sam and Dean blinked at me. "You guys are acting like children. Guess what, Dean, Sam leaving hurt me too. But I can still let him live the life he wants. If he wants to have a normal life, that's fine. And if you're so caught up on the responsibility of the job, that's his choice to leave behind too, okay? He gets to chose. That's the whole point of . . . everything. And you, Sam, Dad is missing. Like AWOL, MIA, whatever. He's gone. And the fact that you think freeing up your weekend is going to fix missing two years . . . you're wrong. Pick. One. The job, or college and your girl. You can't have both. We're not asking us to join us on this crusade—actually, correction, I'm not, Dean is—but you have to make a decision. There is no best of both worlds. You can't come for a weekend every now and again. It's full time or not at all, because eventually, hunting and normal life collide, and then what've you got? Nothing."

I took a deep breath. "And second of all, mentioning Mom? Not cool. Totally not cool. But since you brought her up, let me say, just because Mom isn't here right now does not mean I'm substitute. I should not have to play mediator, guys, you're not kids."

Both of my brothers just stared at me for a minute. Then suddenly, Dean's gaze flickered to something over my shoulder.

"Sam. Millie," he said. I spun around, and there she was—Constance, standing on the railway a little bit farther down the bridge, a white gown fluttering in the cool wind around her. She looked over to us, and made eye contact. She looked so real, even down to the very last detail, so real that she could've been alive. Still, the chill her gaze sent down my spine told me she wasn't.

And then slowly, she leaned forward, tumbling right off the bridge.

I made a noise of protest and lunged towards the other side of the bridge, feeling Sam and Dean behind me. We hit the railing together, expecting to hear or see a splash as a body hit the water, but there was no one there.

"Where'd she go?" Dean demanded.

"I don't know," Sam and I said in unison.

Suddenly, the Impala's engine turned over, and headlights illuminated the long bridge.

I glanced up, as did Sam and Dean, to see the Impala all lit up like Christmas morning.

"What the . . ." Dean began, letting the words die in his mouth.

"Who's driving your car?" Sam asked.

There was a slight jingle, and Dean was holding the only set of keys in his hand, dangling them from his fingertips.

As soon as Dean moved to put away his keys, the tires squealed and the car lunged forward as if someone had just slammed their foot down on the pedal. I think I counted three seconds we watched the car head towards us before any of us even thought to run.

"Come on, guys, let's go! Go!" I heard Sam yell.

I felt Dean's hand on my arm and together we turned, sprinting away while trying to keep an eye on the fast-approaching car. We made it to almost the end of the bridge before I swear I could feel the heat of the headlights on my calves. Suddenly, Sam dove, grabbing the side railing and launching himself over. Dean and I were quick to follow suit, and we swung ourselves over the side. The Impala just missed us, nearly scraping the side of the bridge in the process as we made our escape.

I gasped for breath and felt Sam grunting beside me as we pulled ourselves up over the side of the bridge. Sam had managed to hold onto a pole jutting out from the side while I had never let go of the railing in the process of going over. The Impala had turned off immediately after we jumped, and now sat idle a few feet away. I swung one leg over, pausing for a moment.

"Where's Dean?" I demanded, still panting, and Sam looked around, eyes going wide.

"DEAN!" he yelled over the side, clinging to the outside of the railing.

I leaned over as far as I could go. "Dean!"

There, on the riverbank, was a mud-covered Dean, army crawling across the dirt. I breathed out a sigh of relief. This is where Constance had died, after all. That very well could've been Dean just now.

"Hey, are you alright?" Sam called.

Dean flipped over onto his back and gave a lazy a-okay sign. "I'm super," he called back.

Sam and I glanced at each other, both breaking into big grins and laughing before I moved to help Sam over the side.

It took a few minutes for Dean to make the trek back up to the bridge, but we waited patiently, laughing only a little when we saw the mud plastered to his . . . everywhere. Then we cautiously headed over to the Impala, where Dean and I did a little sweep, me checking the places that Dean couldn't afford to get dirty.

"Car alright?" Sam asked after a minute as Dean shut the hood.

"Everything alright in there, Millie?" Dean called. From the driver's seat I gave a thumbs-up and nodded, doing one last look-over the pedals and the steering wheel.

"Okay, then, whatever she did to it, it seems all right now." Dean turned, leaning against the hood as I slipped out of the car. "That Constance chick—what a bitch!" he yelled into the night air, as if Constance would or could hear him. I didn't tell him that, though, just let him blow off some steam. He'd had a rough night.

"Well, she doesn't want us digging around, that's for sure," Sam said.

"What, was the killer car not enough proof for you?" I asked.

Dean let out a heavy sigh and sat down on the Impala's hood.

I slid onto it next to him, and Sam followed suit.

"So where's the trail go from here, genius?" Sam asked.

Dean held up his hands in surrender, letting them fall against his lap.

"Probably more research," I said. "I want to look into this Joseph Welch guy, see if he's still around. Maybe he can tell us more about his wife and kids."

"You think he'd stay?" Sam asked.

"I don't know; maybe. It's worth a look," I said.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence for only a few seconds before Sam sniffed the air and crinkled his nose. "You smell like a toilet," he informed Dean, and I burst out laughing.

"Let's go find a place so Mud Monster here can shower," I said, sliding off the hood. The boys followed, and as Dean moved to the driver's side, I stopped him. "Whoa there, mister. Where do you think you're going?"

"To my seat," Dean said slowly, eyeing me as I waved a finger.

"Your seat? You mean the . . . driver's seat?" I asked. Dean nodded, eyes narrowing. "Oh, no. There's no way you're driving looking like that. We'll put a towel down for you in the back, but there's no way you're driving covered in mud. You'll ruin the leather seats."

Dean huffed. "No way you're driving, either, Millie."
"What, would you rather have Sam drive?" I asked, turning to look at Sam, who was trying hard not to smile even the slightest bit, to the point of sticking his chin out.

Dean sighed. "Fine. Fine! But Millie . . ."

I held up a hand. "Trust me, whatever you're going to say, I already know. Keys?"

A little bit later, when the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, we made it to the only motel in town. Dean spent a minute in the parking lot to scrub his face and neck with the towel he'd been sitting on, but it did a whole lot of nothing. Exhausted, we all stumbled into the lobby.

"One room, please," Dean declared, tossing his credit card down on the desk. The old man working the front desk picked it up, glancing at the name on the front.

"You guys having a reunion or something?" he asked drily.

Sam gave a politely confused smile. "What do you mean?"

"That other guy, Bert Aframian. He came in and bought out a room for the whole month," the man said, and realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Dad had used Bert Aframian's card to rent out a room. That had to be it. And while it was nearing a month since Dad had been here, the room would still be intact if he'd never checked out. It made me a little worried that Dad had just got up and left, but it was better than nothing. Maybe, just maybe, it meant he was still in town.

With a very little bargaining, we found out Dad's room number, and after booking our own, made our way over there. Sam spent no time at all picking the lock, and soon, we were in.

I headed in the room as the door opened, and Sam turned around, grabbing the back of Dean's jacket and yanking him into the room, closing the door behind us. Immediately, we all stopped, frozen. The room was covered, it seemed, in pictures. Most of the walls were taken up by pictures and maps, with strings and tape and Post-It notes covering the walls. Other than that, the room was a disaster. Dad's stuff was strewn around haphazardly, not like the usually organized military style of our father.

Dean immediately turned on a lamp, giving a clearer view of the walls. I stepped towards them. It was a mess that was going to take a while to decipher, that was for sure.

"I don't think he's been here for the last couple days at least," Dean said, and I turned around to see him placing down a burger that had been left half-eaten with one bite taken out of it, probably already growing mold.

Across the room, Sam was digging his fingers into the salt ring around his bed. "Salt, cat's-eye shells . . ." Sam straightened up. "He was worried, trying to keep something from coming in."

I really didn't want to think about what. Instead I just turned back to the wall I'd been examining.

Dean came up next to me, glancing at the papers of scribbles I was looking at.

"What do you got here, Millie?" Sam asked.

"Centennial Highway victims," Dean replied for me.

I nodded. "He wrote his own personal profile on each of them. It's like he was trying to figure out his own pattern." I paused. "I wonder if he found one."

"I don't get it," Dean mused. "I mean, different men, different jobs, age, ethnicities . . ." I fingered one of the articles about the first man to ever go missing because of Constance. The only thing they had in common was that they were all men, alone on a highway. Troy was young and Caucasian, and over here, Ralph, he was fifty-two and Latino. "There's always a connection, right?" Dean asked, glancing at me. I nodded. "What do these guys have in common?"

"Were they all in relationships? Maybe Constance is jealous that she doesn't have her husband anymore?"

"I don't know about relationships, but wouldn't Constance go after the women in the relationship, then?" Dean asked.

"There's gotta be a motive we aren't seeing," I said, shifting down the wall. I glanced over at Sam, since he was being oddly quiet, but he'd moved to a different wall and was zoned out. "Motive's half the battle."

"It has to do something with her kids," Dean said. "It has to."

Sam flicked on another lamp. "Dad figured it out," he called. I snapped my head in his direction, immediately moving his way curiously.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"He found the same article we did," Sam said. "Constance Welch. She's a Woman in White."

I could've groaned at the realization, but kept my mouth shut, observing the pictures Dad had taped up.

Dean turned back to the victims' pictures. "You sly dogs," he said cockily. "All right, so if we're dealing with a Woman in White, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it."

"She might have another weakness," Sam mused.

"No, Dad would want to make sure," Dean insisted. "He'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?"

I was already shaking my head no before Sam even started to answer.

"No, not that I can tell."

"I did some digging while we waited to go the bridge," I said. "I couldn't find it, either. Looking for her grave would be a dead end. Plus, she might've been cremated, for all we know." I paused. "But if I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband. If he's still alive."

Dean hummed. "Alright, why don't you two see if you can find an address," Dean said. "I'm gonna get cleaned up." He made to move towards the bathroom attached to Dad's bathroom, but Sam stopped him.

"Hey, Dean, what I said earlier about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry," Sam apologized. "I—"

Dean cut him off, holding up a hand. "No chick flick moments."

I grinned wildly, looking at Sam to gauge his reaction.

Sam scoffed. "Alright. Jerk."

The corner of Dean's mouth quirked up playfully. "Bitch."

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. "Idiots."

Dean smirked at me before moving into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door. I blew out an exhausted breath and plopped down on the bed, letting my posture relax. Sam had moved over, examining something on the mirror.

"Here, Millie, look at this," Sam said, turning, a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

I straightened up. "What?"

He handed me the paper, which turned out to be an old, faded picture that Dad had tucked into the mirror. It was of our sad family of four, where Dean looked about ten and Sam and I looked around six. We were all dressed up and looking like proper hillbillies, including me, who was decked out in a flannel shirt and a brown jacket. We were all sitting on the Impala's hood, Dad holding Sam in his lap and Dean off to his left, and I was right behind the two, grinning wildly at the camera.

I giggled like a little kid. "Oh my God, look! Dean with a mullet!" I held the picture next to Sam. "It's the Sam look before the Sam look was a thing!"

Sam frowned. "Well, at least I still had my front two teeth."

"At least I don't look like I still could've used braces," I countered.

His frown deepened, but I knew he took no offense to my words. You had to get used to Dean's tough-love style of living if you wanted to survive the Winchester way, so we were used to backhanded compliments with underlying well meaning.

"Dad looks so young," Sam said, perching himself on the bed next to me.

"I know," I said. "And you haven't even seen him recently. He's got grey hairs, Sam. Grey. Hairs."
Sam laughed at that, and we spent a while sitting on the bed, going over the case or talking about our mildly effed-up childhood. Eventually, we both were laying down on the bed, legs dangling over the side, Sam's arm tucked under my head. And while I could never say I'd experienced this 'twin bond' I was supposed to have with Sammy, I knew this was as close as I was going to get. I would take this moment with my brother and cherish it forever. After all, who knew when I'd see him again come Monday?

A long while later, after Dean had finished up in the bathroom and had given me and Sam a few minutes to freshen up, I was looking over the walls again, this time balancing precariously on the bed, one foot on the unstable mattress, the other on the old nightstand. Sam was looking through his messages while taking break from research, and Dean was in the bathroom changing.

I paused for a moment, listening intently as Sam started on his voicemails.

"Hey, it's me," a chipper-sounding voice called, sounding a lot like Jess. "It's about 10:20 Saturday night—"

"Hey, guys, I'm starving," Dean said, swinging out of the bathroom, throwing his leather jacket on. His necklace bounced against his chest as he moved around. "I'm gonna grab a little something to eat at that diner down the street. You two want anything?"

Sam just pressed the phone into his ear. "No."

"Aframian's buying," Dean prompted.

Sam shook his head.

"Millie?" Dean called.

"Chili-cheese fries for me!" I said, shifting my weight and making the bed creak.

"You got it," Dean replied, giving me a cheeky grin before heading out the door.

I turned back to the wall, not really focusing as I waited for it to get quiet again. I just heard the end of the call, "So come home soon, okay? I love you."

There was a couple clicks, and suddenly Sam's bored voice was asking, "What?"

I turned around, suddenly overly curious.

There was muffled talking I couldn't hear, and Sam suddenly stood up. "What about you?" he asked.

I jumped off the bed. "What's going on?"

"Five-0," Sam told me. I pursed my lips and nodded. Sam hit the speaker button as we listened to Dean's response.

"Uh, they kind of spotted me," Dean said, overly casual, and I could only picture the cops approaching him as we spoke. I moved over to the motel room's covered window, peeking out cautiously."Go find Dad," Dean finished before the dial tone was heard.

"He's out here," I called to Sam. "He didn't get very far."

I peeked out through the curtains, being careful not to alert anyone to the room Dean had just strolled out of. He was facing the sheriff and a deputy. The sheriff's arms were crossed, and Dean was doing an excellent job at playing innocent.

"Dammit," Sam swore next to me as the sheriff jutted his thumb at the door and the deputy took off towards us. I shut the curtain quickly, and Sam and I made eye contact before bolting towards the other side of the room.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asked. I glanced around the room, biting my lip in thought. The doorknob jiggled, and Sam swore again.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. I grabbed Sam's hand and we slid under the bed. Sam barely made it thanks to his obnoxious height, but we clung together. The bed didn't have anything covering the space underneath it like there sometimes was, so as long as it didn't look like there was anything under the bed, the deputy would have no reason to look.

The door swung open and the cop strolled in. I watched as his boots immediately headed straight for the bathroom, and in a new record I had squirmed out from under the bed and was up on my feet and out the door, Sam on my tail.

"That was way too close," I breathed as we headed casually away from the scene in the other direction towards the Impala. I winced as I heard Dean getting slammed down on the hood of a car and his Miranda rights being read to him.

Sam only nodded. We approached the Impala, but I realized we couldn't take it just yet—we didn't have the keys.

"Can you pick the lock?" I asked.

Sam nodded, but glanced towards the cops. "But not now."

I nodded. We needed somewhere to hide out until the coast was clear. Once we got in the car, we could either hotwire it or see if Dean had the backup key hidden in there and not one of our safehouses.

Turns out, though, we didn't need the keys. We ducked behind a huge pickup as the cop car carrying Dean drove by, and suddenly, the Impala chirped, now unlocked, and I watched as a set of keys went tumbling out the slightly open window of the cruiser.

"No way," Sam breathed.

I grinned, waiting for the car to be out of sight before running into the road to pick them up.

"Well, we've got a while before Dean finds a way out," I said. "Want to go meet with the man, the myth, the legend, Joseph Welch?"

"You know where he is?" Sam asked. I nodded, holding up a piece of paper that had been taped to Dad's wall with Joseph's address scribbled on it.

"If Dad has his address, he must've gone," I said. "Maybe he'll give us some clues."

Sam nodded. "Let's go."

Half an hour later, we pulled up to the rustic house that was Joseph Welch's home. I'd driven on the way over, saying that if Sam drove, Dean would find out and be beyond pissed. Sam called me a snitch, and I told him I was going to blast some of his least favorite mullet rock if he didn't can it, and the rest of the ride was peaceful. I even promised I'd let him drive on the way home.

We approached Joseph's home carefully. I hadn't found anything saying the man lived in a junkyard, but it sure looked like it. There was piles of odds and ends everywhere, and even a truck with a crane parked a little ways away from our Impala. I knew this wasn't Joseph's home when he lived with Constance, but it seemed that after she'd died, he'd lost all meaning of home entirely.

Sam knocked on his door, rapping the old wood three times, and I almost expected it to come apart under his light force. It took a solid thirty seconds before the door was swung open, and a grizzly man in a flannel was standing in the entry way. It kind of reminded me of Uncle Bobby. I hadn't seen him in years, and the thought made me miss him.

"Hi, uh, are you Joseph Welch?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," the guy said, his voice old and worn.

"Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?" I asked.

"About what?" the man drawled, looking between us cautiously.

I glanced at Sam. "A-about a friend of ours," I said tentatively. That was a nice, broad subject that could be similar to whatever cover story Dad gave him.

"Here. Follow me, walk and talk," the man said, leading us back the way we'd came, taking a right before we would reach the Impala, leading us further into the trash heap.

"Sure," I said, hurrying to catch up, and Sam followed suit.

Sam fumbled for a moment, but took the picture he'd found in Dad's mirror and handed it to Joseph. "Have you seen this man in the past few weeks?" he asked.

Joseph took the picture between dirty fingers, examining it carefully. Then he nodded. "Yeah, he was older, but that's him." He gave Sam the picture back. "He came by three or four days ago, said he was a reporter."

"That's right," Sam said. "We're working on a story together."

"We're close colleagues," I threw in.

"Well, I don't know what the hell kind of story you're working on, the questions he asked me," Joseph said.

"About your late wife, Constance," Sam filled in, nodding.

Joseph looked up at Sam. "He asked me where she was buried."

I pretended to look confused for the purpose of appearances, but Sam held no such standard. "And where is that again?" he asked.

"What, I gotta go through this twice?" Joseph demanded.

"We're really sorry to bother you, sir," I said, nodding my sympathy.

"It's fact-checking, if you don't mind," Sam continued, nodding along with me.

Joseph sucked in a breath. "In a plot behind my old place over on Breckenridge."

"And why did you move?" Sam asked. I wanted to roll my eyes; the question was obvious enough to me, and I would assume it was to Sam, too—I wasn't sure why he was checking.

"I not gonna live in the same house where my children died," Joseph said, stopping in his path and forcing me and Sam stop too, turning around to face him.

"Mr. Welch, did you ever marry again?" Sam asked.

"No way," was Joseph's immediate response. "Constance . . . she was the love of my life, prettiest woman I ever known."

"So you had a happy marriage?" Sam asked, and I tensed up. I had an inkling where this conversation was going, and I didn't want to see Joseph's reaction if Sam pried too far.

Joseph hesitated just long enough for it to be noticeable. "Definitely," he said, far too late.

Sam nodded, having gotten the answer he wanted. "Well, that should do it. Thanks for your time."

"Yeah, thank you," I said sincerely, and Sam and I turned to walk away. I toss Sam the keys as promised, and Sam caught them easily. I waited for him to unlock the door, watching Joseph walk away, but Sam stopped.

"Mr. Welch, have you ever heard of a Woman in White?" he called after the widower.

"Sam," I hissed from the passenger's side, but he ignored me.

"A what?" Joseph called.

"It's nothing—" I begin, but Sam cuts me off.

"A Woman in White, or sometimes called a Weeping Woman," Sam says. "It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really." Sam clutched the keys in his hand, stalking forward a little bit away from the Impala and the frozen Mr. Welch. "They're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico—lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women, you understand, but all share the same story." He kept walking until he was only a few feet from Joseph. I cringed, my hand twisting on the handlebar. We both knew the story of the Woman in White, born out of a hatred for men who betray their wives in the worst way possible. In a way, Joseph Welch was responsible for the murders that had happened on that bridge. All of them, simply because he had been unfaithful. But he'd had to live with those consequences for years now. It wasn't Sam's place to drop a bombshell like this on him, even if he wouldn't believe a word out of his mouth.

"Boy, I don't care much for nonsense," Joseph said, his tone slightly darker than the one he'd been speaking to us with a few minutes ago. He turned to head into his house, and I'd hoped that was the end of it, but Sam wasn't done. He followed Joseph, and I moved myself off the car to follow.

"You see, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them. And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children. Then, once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives." Joseph turned around, his eyes wide as Sam spun his tale. "So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways, and if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him, and that man is never seen again."

I approached the two, and grabbed Sam's elbow. I watched as Joseph's face contorted from on of a peaceful hermit, just trying to live out the rest of his days, to an defensive old man. "You think . . ." he sputtered, "you think that has something to do with Constance, you smartass?" Joseph moved closer, and I prepared myself for the punch to Sam's jaw I hoped wouldn't come.

"You tell me," Sam challenged.

Joseph's breath was coming out fast. "I mean, maybe—maybe I made some mistakes, but no matter what I did, Constance never would have killed her own children," Joseph said, his voice breaking. "Now, you get the hell out of here, and you don't come back." The poor man was shaking all over, but he managed to turn around and head back towards his house.

I grabbed Sam's elbow and yanked him towards the car. "What was that, dumbass?" I demanded.

"He cheated on his wife, Millie, and drove her to kill herself and her children! You don't think he deserves at least knowing the truth about what happened to them? Even if it's all his fault?"

"Maybe if it was twenty years ago, yeah!" I said, pushing him towards the driver's side door. "But he's had decades to build up some kind of wall, to get over their deaths, and you broke it down in a two minute conversation, Sam. That's so fucked up, even if he did cheat on his wife! He didn't mean to lose his whole family!"

Sam clambered into the car, and together we shut our doors. "I can't believe you're defending this guy, Millie. He's the reason so many guys are dead."

"Yeah, more unfaithful men," I snapped. "You just broke Joseph's will so he could have consequences for being unfaithful and causing his wife to turn into a raging homicidal man-killing machine. Good job, Sam. God."

We didn't speak as we returned back to town, and we spoke very little as Sam pulled into a parking spot in front of a strip mall and put the car in park. We were still outside of Jericho, and even farther from the Jericho Police Department.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Wait here," Sam said, and slipped out of the car, leaving it running. I slid over into the driver's seat immediately. I watched as he strolled nonchalantly over to a phone booth, slipping inside and pulling some coins out of his pocket and using them as pay. The sun was setting, so I had to squint my eyes to see. He spoke on the phone for barely a minute, then hung up and ducked out quickly. He headed back over to the car and got in the passenger's side. I put the car in drive and pulled out, waiting a minute before speaking.

"Was that an anonymous 911 call?" I asked.

"Shots fired on Whiteford Road," Sam replied with a nod.

I smirked to myself. Hopefully everyone rushing around would be enough for Dean to slip out of the station. "Awesome. Here's what I'm thinking. You hotwire someone's car and go and pick up Dean wherever he calls from. I'll go check out the house. It'll be better, anyway, without having the you guys there, especially Dean, since he's probably cheated on someone in the past. I mean, I have—remember that thing when we were in junior year? That was so stupid, but anyway, hopefully she won't since I'm a girl."

"What?" Sam demanded. "Millie, if she thinks you're attacking her, it won't matter what gender you are. You can't go there alone."

"Then who's going to pick up Dean?" I asked. "He'll get caught once they realize the call was faked. He won't have enough time to get away."

In the back of my mind, I realized we were heading down the five-mile highway to Jericho, passing right through Constance's hotspot. I didn't think much of it, though; it's not like she'd attack with both of us in the car together, even if it was getting dark out. But even so, she hadn't hesitated when we were on the bridge . . .

"I'll go, then," Sam said. "She won't attack me; I've never cheated on anyone."

"You just said that if she thinks you're going for her grave, it won't matter!" I protested, turning to glare.

"You and Dean better hurry up then," Sam said. "Head to the grocery store up ahead."

"Sam—"

I was interrupted by Sam's phone ringing. He scrambled for it immediately and I hesitated, waiting to see who it was. Sam saw the I.D. and immediately pressed speaker.

"Fake 911 phone call, you two?" Dean's voice said. "I don't know, that's pretty illegal. Was it Millie's idea? If you get caught, I'm sure she'd let you pin it on her."

"It was all Sammy boy here, actually," I said, letting out a smile. How could I ever doubt that Dean wouldn't get out? I wondered where he'd gotten a phone from, but Jericho was pretty old. There had to be more than the one phone booth we saw around. "And of course I'd go to jail for you."

"You're welcome," Sam said to Dean, smirking.

"Listen, we gotta talk," Dean said.

"Tell me about it," Sam began, before jumping into a quick recap of everything we'd done while he was sitting in the slammer. "So the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with a Woman in White. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should be our next stop—"

"Sammy, would you just shut up for a second?" Dean said. I snorted lightly, and Sam glared.

"I just can't figure out why he hasn't destroyed the corpse yet," Sam continued regardless, so lost in his own thoughts he didn't even hear Dean.

"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Dean snapped. "He's gone. Dad left Jericho."

I felt my heart sink, and watched Sam deflate. All the evidence had pointed to yes, he was gone, but we had both held onto hope that he had stayed. Both for different reasons, sure, me wanting to see my missing Dad again, and Sam so he could flee back to his college life. Not that I blamed him.

"What?" Sam asked, shoulders hunching. "How do you know?"

"I've got his journal," Dean said.

"He doesn't go anywhere without that thing," I said quietly, glancing up at Sam as if daring him to prove me wrong. He had his eyebrows drawn in concern, but didn't retort.

"Yeah, well, he did this time," Dean said.

"What's it say?" Sam asked.

"Same old ex-Marine crap when he wants to let us know where he's going," Dean said, and I blew out a breath. So he hadn't just disappeared, at least. He'd left us that old secret code he used with the coordinates of wherever he was going. The first time he'd done that, he'd sent us a card from Idaho, giving us the coordinates to Illinois. It had taken all three of us, collectively, almost a week to figure out what he meant. It was a bittersweet memory, mostly because the train ride to go find him had been super fun.

"Coordinates," Sam said what I already knew. "Where to?"

"I'm not sure yet," Dean replied.

"You think he wants us to meet him?" I asked. Maybe it was just a note telling us he was okay, not to worry. Why he couldn't have just said all that in a phone call was beyond me, but it was rare I understood any of Dad's reasoning for doing the things he did.

Dean didn't even hesitate. "Definitely."

"Dean, what the hell is going on?" Sam demanded.

I glanced over at Sam, studying his face. He held the phone in between us, but had his eyebrows drawn in concern. I bet I was mirroring something of the same. Why would Dad do this? It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to test us and things we'd learned, things like what to say if a teacher wanted to meet Dad while he was out of town; what to do and say when we'd been caught in a lie, if someone went missing, there were plans, and backup plans, and backup plans for the backup plans. But this wasn't a test. We weren't kids anymore. Why would Dad make us miss him by days, leave a case and his precious journal that was the bestiary of all things supernatural where it could be found by anyone unlucky enough? And why not just call us? If this was a test, I was pretty sure we were failing.

I mean, maybe it was—

"Millie!" Sam hollered, his eyes widening as something in the road caught his attention. My gaze shot out towards the road where it should have been in the first place and I barely had time to register what was happening before it was over. There was a woman standing in the middle of the road with a white, fluttering nightgown. It was as if she had appeared out of nowhere, and I slammed on the brakes. I wasn't fast enough. We plowed into her, and it was almost as if she'd turned into dust. Her body didn't go flying, and as we roared to a stop, it was like we hadn't even hit her at all.

My seatbelt squeezed my chest tight enough to bruise and I wheezed as I tried to catch my breath.

"Sam! Millie!" Dean's voice called from the floor of the car. Sam had dropped the phone, but as we fought to catch our breath, made no move to pick it up.

"You okay?" I asked Sam, and he nodded.

"Take me home," a new voice announced, and my eyes shot up to the rearview mirror. Constance, in all her undead glory, was sitting in the backseat. I glanced at Sam, whose face was filled with steely determination. I set my face and didn't answer. When we didn't respond, Constance became a little more insistent. "Take. Me home," she said urgently. The temperature in the car seemed to plummet.

"No," Sam said, just as firm as she was, and I gripped my hands on the steering wheel. Constance's pretty face screwed up in a frown, and with a click, all the doors on the Impala locked in place. I immediately turned and tried pulling on the little indicator, but it wouldn't budge. I heard Sam trying the same on his door.

This was bad. Very bad. We didn't have anything on us, no salt, no iron, no nothing. We were dealing with a psychotic man killer that wouldn't listen to reason, and we were practically defenseless.

I'd taken my hands off the wheel to pull on the indicator, and Constance took her opportunity, using her ghostly powers to slam down on the gas pedal and forcing the steering wheel to spin wildly. The car sped down the highway, and I made eye contact with Sam, who was still struggling with his door. I grabbed the wheel and tried to wrestle for control, paying a very dangerous game with Constance, but it was a worthless attempt.

We'd both stopped after a few minutes of trying as the highway gave way to a turnoff onto a gravel road. The Impala bounced along, Constance's face still impassive from the backseat.

We pulled up to an abandoned dilapidated house that seemed to be falling apart at the seams. It was clear that this was the famed Constance Welch's house.

Once the car was close enough, it stopped, and shut off completely. I wanted to try again for the door, but I didn't want to draw Constance's attention back to us. Her gaze, for now, was fixated on the house, and I was hoping that maybe she'd just disappear inside and be gone forever.

Sam, on the other hand, apparently wasn't so positive. "Don't do this," he said, his voice calm and dangerously low.

Constance flickered once, her whole image disappearing for a second like it was a bad connection, and she looked sad.

"I can never go home," she said dejectedly.

While I wanted to scream, it's right there, you crazy bitch, go right ahead! Some realization hit Sam, and he turned around to face Constance. "You're scared to go home," he accused, spinning in his seat, but she had disappeared.

"Where'd she—" I began, but suddenly, I was thrown back in the Impala's seat as it leaned back, pinning me there.

Next to me, Sam, in a similar position, groaned. But for a completely different reason.

Constance was on top of him, straddling his hips as she leaned in.

"Hold me," she whispered, and I fought the force that was holding me down, trying to get to my brother. "I'm so cold."

"You can't kill me," Sam insisted, voice still oddly calm. "I'm not unfaithful. I've never been."

"He's not!" I yelled, desperation seeping into my voice. "I am! Constance, I am unfaithful! I cheat!"

Constance didn't take my bait, though, as she leaned in, close to Sam's ear, and he groaned in pain again.

"You will be," she murmured. Her hands cupped his face, and pushed her mouth onto his. I began screaming, begging for attention of any sort as Sam's lips went slack and he didn't respond to her prompts.

"Constance! Constance! C'mon!" I tried desperately to think of her kids' names, because that had the chance of snapping her out of her stupor, but I was coming up empty. I don't think the article we'd read or any of the research I'd done had mentioned their names. Still, that didn't stop me from trying. "Remember Joseph Welch? Your husband? Constance! Joseph, remember him?"

But it wasn't working. Instead, I decided, I tried desperately to reach for the keys still dangling in the Impala's ignition. They were just out of my reach, but I stretched, feeling my fingertips brush them and making them jingle. Just a little bit more . . .

Suddenly, Constance pulled off of Sam, disappearing in a ghostly flash.

"Are you okay?" I demanded immediately, starting to sit up too fast as the pressure was released. But it was all for nothing because as soon as I leaned over to Sam, I was thrown back again, smacking my head on the leather seats.

Sam screamed suddenly, his hands scrambling for his jacket and ripping it open, revealing his shirt underneath with five puncture wounds in it, reaching for his heart.

"No!" I yelled as Constance flickered back into view, her fingers matching each hole. I guessed she had gotten what she wanted out of Sam, enough for it to be considered cheating, and was going in for the kill.

Sam kept screaming and I kept struggling, but it went on for only a few more minutes before gunshots were heard coming from my side of the car. The window shattered, hitting Constance a few times as the bullets distracted her from Sam. They weren't rock salt bullets, which would hurt Constance enough for a few minutes that we would have a chance to regroup, but by the sound of the gunshot, they could've been iron or plain old regular bullets. Still, they forced Constance away, and she flitted out of view, her control slacking.

I sat up immediately, anger burning through me, and I wasted no time—not even enough to glance at Dean out the now-shattered window—and gunned the engine of the Impala. I realized what Sam had meant that she was scared, and I was about to make Constance face her fears.

"I'm taking you home," I growled to her, and shot the car forward.

"Millie!" Sam yelled, and I heard a similar call from Dean behind me, but I didn't listen as the Impala tore through the front porch, crashing right through the dining room and kitchen area, glass raining down around me. I could already feel a cut on my forehead from glass from Dean's gunshots, but I didn't care.

"Sam! Millie!" I heard Dean call as he ran up to the car. I glanced at Sam. He looked miserable, and the gaping wounds in his chest hadn't gone away, as shallow as they were.
"Are you okay?" I asked again, and he nodded.

"Here!" I called to Dean.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, running up to the passenger side door.

"I think," Sam moaned, and I nodded through the window.

Without hesitation, Dean wrenched the door open. "Can you move?"

"Yeah. Help me," Sam said, and I pushed him on his back while Dean helped him out. Dean eased Sam so he was leaning against the car as I pulled myself out. A little ways away, Constance was standing there, holding a giant picture frame and staring at it, an odd look on her face. I shut the door and leaned against it, still breathing heavy from the crash. Constance threw the picture down, her face made up of pure anger, and sidestepped a little bit. She moved a dresser she'd been standing in front of towards us. It was about as long as the Impala, which was an odd length, but was still more than enough to pin all three of us against the car, sending me wheezing for breath again. She kept pressure on the dresser, holding us in place as we pushed against it.

Constance moved forward in the blink of an eye, but suddenly, all the lights flickered on behind her and around us. With the way her face twisted up in confusion, that wasn't her, and it certainly wasn't this dilapidated house. Slowly, she turned to the staircase behind her that led up to the second floor of the house. Water was pouring down it, and when I turned my gaze to the top of the stairs, there were two shadows of little kids standing at the top, a boy and a girl together.

The Woman in White moved towards her children and away from us. I held still.

"You've come home to us, Mommy," the children said in unison, and I was reminded too much of those twins from The Shining.

But suddenly, instead of looking happy at the rejoicing, Constance looked scared. The children disappeared from the top of the stairs and she whirled around to find them standing behind at her. They were little kids, really little, but the looks on their faces rivaled some of the scariest I'd ever seen. They rushed forward at unearthly speeds, hitting their mom full-force. They collided and Constance screamed, and it looked as if the room had been lit on fire. Lights danced across the walls, images of terrifying half-dead women appeared in Constance's place, and her scream just echoed. I winced, but soon the images were gone, along with Constance and her kids, leaving nothing but a slurping sound and a wet patch on the floor.

For a moment, me and my brothers stood gasping for breath, but as Dean quickly realized the pressure of the dresser was gone, we were able to push it off and send it crashing away.

They headed towards the spot where Constance had disappeared, and I followed suit, feeling sharp pain in my ribs. Maybe I'd cracked a couple. I, after all, had been the only one out of the two of us who'd been wearing their seatbelt, and I was glad Sam had been laying down so he hadn't been thrown forwards in the process.

"So this is where she drowned her kids," Dean said.

"No shit, Captain Obvious," I said from behind him.

"That's why she could never go home," Sam said as way of explanation for what we'd both realized back in the car. "She was too scared to face them."

"You guys found her weak spot," Dean said, grinning. "Nice work, Sammy." He headed back to the car, patting Sam's chest as he did, electing a weak half-laugh half-pitiful yelp. "I'd give you credit too, Millie, but since your solution was driving my car through a wall, you get minus points."

"I could say the same for you," Sam defended me as Dean inspected his car. "What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?"

"Hey," Dean said, pointing a finger at Sam, "saved your ass."

"You cut my face, that's what you did," I said, gesturing to my forehead.

Dean turned. "Sorry, is that what appreciating sounds like these days?"

I shook my head at him, biting back a retort as I gripped my ribs painfully.

"I'll tell you another thing," Dean continued, glancing at me, "if you screwed up my car, I'll kill you."

I scoffed, and Sam laughed loudly.

It took a while to get the car out of the house, and even longer for us to pack up and clean out whatever we could of Dad's motel room. The police had taken everything they'd deemed important, which wasn't a lot since they didn't know what they were looking for, but they'd left a few marked maps and books that just looked like miscellaneous. Now, into the wee hours of Sunday night—no, more like Monday morning—we headed back to Palo Alto. Sam and I both had said maps spread over the carseats, each of us with a flashlight and pens while Dean drove. He'd complained about the broken headlight and the missing car window, but neither of us had taken his bait. I was faring the worst, having had my chest hastily wrapped by Dean in a gas station a few miles back after finally fessing up about my ribs. Sam had fretted the whole time and bought me medicine and water for the ride back, but it wasn't enough and I was slowly losing my patience as I tried to keep the edges of the map from fluttering around in the back. Still, at least I'd gotten over from the loopey state the medicine Sam had gave me put me in. I'd kept shouting, "Padiddle!" as we'd driven down the completely deserted highway, kissing Dean on the cheek whenever I felt like it. Dean finally told me to cut it out, but I knew he secretly enjoyed it.

"Okay, here's where Dad went," Sam said, tucking the flashlight into the crook of his shoulder and neck, gesturing with a pen as he plotted out latitude and longitude. Dean glanced over and I leaned into the bench seat. "It's called Blackbottle Ridge, Colorado."

"Sounds charming. How far?" Dean asked.

"Uh, about six hundred miles," Sam said. I cringed; I knew what was coming next, and I did not want to have this conversation until I had at least a few hours of sleep. I had thought we were heading to Palo Alto. I guess we had just taken the most major highway, and now, here we were.

"If we shag ass, we can make it by morning," Dean suggested, and I blew out a slow breath.

Sam winced. "Dean, um . . ."

Dean had locked gaze with Sam, only sparing a glance at the road every few seconds. "You're not going," he said simply, sounding dejected.

"The interview's in ten hours," Sam said apologetically, and I was at least a little glad to see he really meant it. "I got to be there."

Dean bit his lip angrily, nodding to himself as he shifted his arm of the bench seat, grabbing the wheel with both hands instead of the relaxed posture he'd just held. "Yeah," he said, as if he'd been expecting this, and I realized Dean was a lot more optimistic than I'd ever thought. "Yeah, whatever. We'll take you home."
"At least we got to see you for a little while," I said from the backseat. "Better than nothing."

I heard Dean mutter something under his breath, but I didn't catch it.

We pulled up to Sam's apartment building at around three a.m. Dean put the car in park and Sam slid out, grabbing his duffel bag as he did. I was getting an uneasy feeling in my stomach, but I chalked it up to missing my twin and all that telepathy people always spoke about as I got out to get into the front seat, giving Sam a hug as I slid in.

He shut the door softly once I was settled, leaning in through the open window.

"You'll call me if you find him?" Sam asked, and we both bobbed our heads yes. The feeling in my stomach grew as I thought about Dad, but I brushed it off. "Maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?"

That felt as empty as it sounded. I was bobbing my head again, looking at my shoes.

"Yeah, all right," Dean dismissed, and I heard the slightly too chipper tone in his voice.

Sam patted the car and straightened up. Dean turned the engine over, and Sam began to walk away.

As he did, though, Dean leaned across me, calling, "Sam!" through the open window.

"Ribs!" I protested, and Dean eased off with an apologetic look, instead gripping the bench seat behind me.

"You know, we made a hell of a team back there," Dean said, gesturing between the three of us as Sam turned.

Sam softened. "Yeah," he said.

Dean turned back to the wheel and shifted the car into drive.

"Call me, please," I said through the window. "Maybe give me Jess's number."

Sam nodded, and the car began to pull away. I turned to gaze out at the road in front of us, but felt Sam's eyes on me until they were gone, and when I glanced back, he was pushing his way into the building. The feeling grew; something was terribly, terribly wrong. I could feel it in my gut.

When I glanced at Dean, who looked stony and impassive, I knew we had to stop. We'd just turned a corner and were two minutes away from getting on a highway. Once we got on, it'd be an hour before we could turn back around.

"Dean, stop," I said firmly. I would just go check on Sam, explain my feelings, say hi to Jess, then leave after doing a sweep of the room to calm my nerves. But when Dean just glanced at me oddly and didn't stop the car, the feeling tripled, and I almost bent over out of it. "Dean, stop the car!" I commanded, and he did, slamming on the brakes, and I didn't hesitate before getting out of the car and sprinting back towards the apartment building, my ribs aching all the while.

"Millie!" I heard Dean call, then him cursing as he turned off the engine and got out of the car to chase me. But I paid him little mind. Sam was my priority, and I knew in my body, mind, and soul, that something was wrong. Deadly wrong.

It only took me a couple minutes to get back to the apartments on foot, but it felt like two minutes too long. The apartment building doors were thankfully unlocked and I raced up the stairs, taking them three at a time, catapulting myself towards Sam's floor. I heard Dean shouting my name as he burst through the stairs behind me.

When I got to Sam's floor, my fears were confirmed; I could hear muffled shouting coming from the other side. I grabbed at the door knob, but it didn't budge, and I almost sobbed. Suddenly, Dean was grabbing my shoulders and yanking me back, pulling me away from the door. I almost fought him until he slammed his foot into the door and it bounced open. We both raced into the apartment shouting Sam's name, and Dean was the first to Sam's room, standing in the threshold. The hallway behind him was lit up in yellow, and I skidded to a stop, I felt heat on my face.

The room was ablaze, obviously, but the weird thing was: I didn't see any fire. My mind slowed down as I tried to process what I was seeing. Sam, screaming, laying on his back on his bed. Fire, raining down from the ceiling, and in the middle . . .

Jess. I choked when I caught sight of her, surrounded by fire, her front soaked with blood and her eyes and mouth open in surprise. She was wearing a white nightgown, something Jess would never actually wear, I knew, and I'd known her for less than an hour. Her blonde hair splayed out around her like a fan. And the fire. I shielded my eyes away. It felt like I was cooking.

Suddenly, Dean darted forward, grabbing Sam's front and yanking him off the bed, turning around so he was pushing Sam's back out the door. I'd never seen my brother so desperate, so upset. But he was trying to get into a room that was going up in flames. In no time, the fire would be everywhere.

"JESS! NO!" Sam was shouting, and I bit back a cry of my own, holding the door out of the way so Dean could get him out. I followed them as Dean continued to fight with Sam as he tried to go back to save Jessica. Blearily, I got out my phone and called 911, answering the operator's questions until she informed me officers were on their way, and I hung up.

We managed to get Sam out of the building. Even from outside, we could see the yellow glow of the fire. Dean helped Sam to a bench to have him sit down, and I moved and got close to him, wrapping an arm around his tall shoulders and pulling him as close to me as possible. He didn't even react. I'd dealt with family members getting over the loss of someone close; was even pretty good at being empathetic and sympathetic. But when it was Sam, who was always so brave and strong and calm and cunning . . . now, when he was reduced to a shell of himself in less than ten minutes, well, all I could do was be there for my brother.

The fire department showed up and set to work. Dean was standing in front of us protectively, fielding any questions when anybody tried to approach. A small crowd had gathered as people evacuated, and Sam's neighbors and friends came over, asking him what had happened, what was wrong. Dean got them to move their asses. Sam didn't even care.

We were allowed to leave after a little while, after the police came over and questioned him. Dean melted into the crowd then, since he had an arrest warrant out on him, but I stayed right by Sam's side, playing a close friend of Jessica's who was just . . . traumatized. And I was, slightly. Jess had been nothing but sweet and smart and basically amazing, and the way she'd been pinned up on the ceiling . . . not only was it dark and graphic, it was our kind of dark and graphic. We all knew the story of Mom's death, even if Dad never told us directly. We knew that she'd been wearing a white nightgown, pinned up on the wall with a stab wound to the stomach and a fire lit around her.

And that was exactly what had happened to Jess.

So when we were dismissed by the police, Sam got up abruptly, heading over to the Impala. I whistled to Dean, who caught the noise and shifted out of the crowd. By the time we'd caught up to him, he had the trunk open and the secret bottom up. He was checking through the guns as we approached. He looked at us, and Dean shook his head, saying what we all already knew.
Jess was gone. It had been a small hope that maybe she'd be alive, but it had been too small.

Sam sighed, gulping and nodding. He tossed the rifle he'd been messing with in the trunk with everything else. It clattered against knives and grenades, rock salt shells and iron-infused bullets. This was our life, after all, and I think Sam knew deep in his gut that he was going to be following the path Dad had laid out for him all those years ago. Now, it was literally. Our mission: find Dad, and bring the monster who'd killed Mom, and now Jess, to death.

"We've got work to do," Sam muttered, and slammed the trunk of the Impala.