Don't Be Dumb, Boy

by R.Rettler

Sherilyn Singer knew exactly what she was doing when she stepped through that portal. The odds of landing in the right universe were a 657 billion to one, but she'd take that chance any day. She needed to find the famous hunter Rufus Turner and if there was a version of him out there somewhere, Sherilyn had to find it.

1. Chapter 1

The house had been perfectly preserved under a thick layer of dust.

Unwashed plates sat in the sink with stains from old meals, the fridge had become a coffin for mummified food, the pile of dirty clothes sitting in an armchair had made the perfect rat nest, and miscellaneous hunting supplies, books, and beer bottlers were scattered. Dean and Sam Winchester were the last ones that had been in the house nearly 6 years ago. They didn't clean it, comb it over for buried treasure, or take any personal namesakes besides a metal flask. The boys simply turned off the power and water, locked it, and walked away. Weeds had over grown in the car salvage out back and on the porch where an old pair of boots sat by the door. Much like it's late owner though, it held strong. The roof was still in one piece with no leaks, none of the windows were cracked or broken, the support beams and front door had kept everything in place and secure, and the walls remained familiar.

When the lock clicked and the backdoor to Bobby's kitchen swung open with a creek, the house seemed to stir with hope that it's owner had finally returned. It was not Bobby Singer though, it was someone else. A girl, in fact. All she carried was backpack and a loaded revolver. She looked in with curiosity. She knew this house, but this house did not know her.

When Sherilyn had woken up two days ago to her EMF reader going berserk she had not planned on ending up in another universe, but times were tough back home and she couldn't pass up on the opportunity for help. Her home – not this one, but her real one – had been neater when she locked it and left for the trip. The windows had been opened to let light in and it didn't smell of old socks. Her father's ashes and mother's portrait were on the mantel. Sherilyn had kept her home tidy. Whoever lived in this version of it must have been a mess.

The sky behind her melted from black to a vibrant pink, perfectly outlining her features. Sherilyn was thick but muscular in youth. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a bun and sun spots were already starting to show on her high cheek bones. When she got older the skin of her face would sag like Bobby's and her short fuse would get even shorter, but for now youth made Sherilyn look sturdy and like someone you wouldn't want to get in a fight with. The only part of her mother were her eyes. Hazel with splotches of brown in them. Sherilyn was a Singer, through and through.

Her button nose sniffed the air realizing for the first time that no one had been here in a long time. A mixture of stagnant air, dust, and mildew in the walls left her lungs heavy. With the barrel of the revolver she reached for the nearest light switch and tried to turn on the lights. "Shit." She muttered when nothing turned on.

Sherilyn wasn't entirely sure how she had found herself here in this world but was thankful that everything seemed familiar so far with only slight changes. Realizing that no one was home – or had been home – gave her a sense of relief that immediate confrontation would not happen. Sherilyn relaxed. Dropping her head in defeat to the day, she threw her bag into the house and then walked back outside towards the shed where the old breaker-box was. Hers had been replaced several years ago but this one was missing its metal cover and had rusted through on some spots. Small pieces of tape with faded hand writing were stuck next to each switch.

Heater

Basement Lighting

Lighting

Lighting

Office Lighting

Office Heater

Washer

Bedroom Heater

Bedroom Lighting

Kitchen Lighting

It was her fathers hand writing.

With a bit of effort, Sherilyn pried each one of the rusted switches for lighting and heater over to the "on" side. The house grunted and its pipes moaned as it tried to kick back into life for the newly found Singer family member. Sherilyn walked back inside just as the last few bits of sunlight were disappearing. She kept the side door open behind her and turned to face the abandoned house.

A few mice ran in the walls at the disturbance and clouds of dust that had been spit out from the air vents were swirling around, but Sherilyn knew she was safe here and that's all that really mattered. She'd open the windows for half an hour, need to throw some trash out in to the yard, and call the power and water company but this place would hold her for a while. There was no time to waste with getting everything in order. She looked at her watch as it clicked to 5:30pm. If she called now everything might still be open.

Setting to work Sherilyn pulled out her cellphone and called the local water company first. As the phone rang she loaded the dirty dishes from the sink into a trash bag she found under the sink and began to clean.

"Sioux Falls Water Well, my name is Patty how can I help you?"

"Hi Patty, I need the water turned back on in our family's house."

"Well," her Midwest accent hung thick as she smacked her lips on the other end of the phone. "What's the address, Sugar?"

"8584 S. Deetree Rd. Sioux Falls, South Dakota."

Sherilyn could hear Patty type on her keyboard with long artificial nails. "Singer residence?"

"That's the one."

"Looks like the account is under Bobby Singer and has an outstanding bill that you'll have to pay before we're able to turn it on for you."

Sherilyn threw a dirty bowl into a trash bag making it break and shatter against other plates. "How much?"

"Four hundred and eighty-six."

It was a tense moment between the two women. "Fine." Sherilyn fished out a pre-paid credit card she had picked up on her way here and gave Patty the numbers. As Patty walked her through some of the logistics, Sherilyn opened the fridge and gagged as the trapped smell of rotting food stung her nostrils. Clamping a hand down firmly over her mouth, she put Patty on speaker and began to throw food out of the fridge and into the bag with such speed that Sherilyn did it without taking a new breath until she was outside and throwing the bag into the yard.

Her eyes had begun to water from the stench of the fridge but the fresh air helped clear her lungs. Sherilyn took a few deep breaths and looked out at the shadows of towering car piles.

"Hello? Hello?" Sherilyn her Patty's voice squawking from inside.

"Sorry!" She yelled as she lunged back in towards the counter where her cellphone sat. "Sorry, I'm here."

"Well," Patty said a little less politely after being ignored. "You're all set to go-," Sherilyn turned the nozzle on the sink and watched as a mixture of trapped air and dust sputtered out of the faucet before the pipes shook and water came.

"'preciate it." She hung up the phone and leaned on the counter to look at the house.

All of the misplaced items, old leather-bound textbooks, candles, ritualistic drawings, and weapons would have made most people nervous but Sherilyn knew what it was all for. She rolled her eyes at the thought of her dad huddled over books about Monsters and called the power company.

"MidAmerican Power Company this is Tamara is it ok if we record this phone call for training purposes?"

"Yep." Sherilyn watched as the refrigerator door started to slowly close on its own. She looked around and grabbed a bucket full of empty bullet casings to keep the fridge door propped open. It needed to air out badly.

"How can we help you today?"

"I need the power turned back on in the house I'm in. I'm running off a generator right now and don't want to lose it in the middle of the night."

"I hear that. It's supposed to be below 30 tonight. Well you called just in time. We're close to closin' up for the night. What's the address?"

Sherilyn appreciated the fact that Tamara wasn't looking for a conversation. "8584 S. Deetree Rd. Sioux Falls, South Dakota."

Tamara hummed to herself as her computer loaded, "Singer?"

"The very one."

"Um," you could hear the girl chewing on her lip, "Ma'am your account seems to be overdrawn and without that bill paid we can't turn your power back on."

Sherilyn sighed, "of course, ready?" She pulled out the same pre-paid credit card and started to rattle off numbers and expiration dates. As she waited for confirmation she noticed how quiet the house was now that the mice had stopped running and the old pipes and wires had settled down. Sherilyn turned to make sure the fridge door was still open along with all the nearby windows. She'd close and relocked everything after she got off the phone.

"Alrighty Ma'am, your landlines and power should be turning on momentarily-," on cue the refrigerator light clicked on and started to hum as a radio sitting on the shelf above the sink began to mumble staticky words. Little red lights popped up all over the house; on the TV, on the laptop plugged into the outlet, the clock on the microwave began to flash an inaccurate 12:30pm, and a series of wall phones all stationed next to each other started to blink indicating dozens of voicemails.

"Thanks." Sherilyn hung up and threw her phone on the counter. There was a lot to do before she could finally settle down for the night.

She moved the bucket of bullet casings and let the empty fridge close, shut and locked the side door then moved to each one of the windows that she had opened and closed them. On the last window, at the base of the latch was a small cluster of rock salt that had managed to survive over the years.

"Oh Jesus Christ, Dad." What a paranoid old man he must have been, she thought to herself. Sherilyn pinched the leftover salt between her fingers and rolled it around. She sighed and hung her head, her own little bit of paranoia sinking in.

Grabbing her revolver off the door side table, Sherilyn headed towards the basement with her gun locked and loaded. The door swung open and lights flicked on without an issue. Below were more weapons, boxes and garbage to the untrained eye. Shoved in the corner were toddler sized burlap sacks full of salt. The cold air made her move quickly and before long the basement was dark again and shut behind a closed door.

Sherilyn started in the kitchen lining the doors and windows with salt, then the living room, dining room and front door. She turned to the stairs going up towards the bedrooms. A little bit of fear tickled at the base of her skull. What would she find up there, Sherilyn wondered? A body, a creature, a shadow lurking behind the door? In her version of this home she had kept the lights on at all times after her father died. Having a fear of the dark would be an understatement for Sherilyn – she was terrified of it. But like Bobby, Sherilyn couldn't let a good defense fall to the waist side. She walked up the stairs and in to each of the three bedrooms. The first would have been the guest bedroom. Just like in her house an old moldy bed and wooden frame with a neatly made spread sat alone in the room, this one was just covered in more dust. There was a simple bedside table and a chair with extra blankets on it, but nothing more. She salted the window and closed the door on her way out. Next was her room. The door stood ajar and the ceiling fan had begun to spin again, trailing spiderweb on each of its panels. In this world it Bobby must have lived in it. The room was messy to say the least. Clothes were in random piles around the room, the bed was unkept and a few empty bottles of coke or beer were sitting on the bedside table. Stacks of books and old newspapers were lining the walls. The only recognizable thing she had seen so far was a portrait of her mother propped up next to the bed. It was the same one hanging above her mantel in the living room next to other framed family photos. Sherilyn left the room as it was and salted the window before moving on to the last bedroom.

She hesitated for a moment outside. The door was ajar but not enough to see inside. Sherilyn pushed it with the barrel of her revolver and flicked on the light switch. For the most part she wasn't surprised. Much like the spare bedroom, this one had an old mattress and bedframe that was neatly made with a simple bedside table and chair. Sherilyn walked across the room and to the window, the bag of salt significantly lighter than when she started, poured a heavy line across the window sill and retreated down stairs.

The mumble from the radio kept the silence at bay as she stood uneasily in the house for the first time.

Seeing the house in this condition brought back dark memories. In the two weeks leading up to her mother's death, Sherilyn witnessed some horrific things. Black eyes, inhuman power and emotional abuse. She witnessed her mother snap her own back and straighten it in the kitchen, watched as she dug her nails in to her own forearm and bit the ear off the family cat. Sherilyn was there that night her father pulled out the shotgun. Her mother had been in the kitchen looking for butcher knives and talking in some unknown tongue. It was on the family phone that Bobby had called uncle Rufus over to come help. The screams for her mother could still be heard echoing in the walls when Rufus tied her down and preformed an exorcism. The flurry of black smoke disappearing out a window and the dead body left behind created only questions for Sherilyn and her father Bobby.

The month after her mother's death was the worst. She stopped going to school after a teacher called Child Protective Services for noticing Sherilyn's dirty clothes and consistent lack of lunch. They had asked her where her mom was and Sherilyn couldn't answer. They asked her what he dad had been doing recently, and she said "drinking." They did a wellness check on the home one day and saw only beer cans, obsessive newspaper clippings, books, and a stock pile of weapons forming in the living room. They took Sherilyn that day and she was with a foster family for a week. Rufus was the one that came and got her. Technically, in the universe that she left, Rufus was her legal guardian. When she returned home Bobby was completely engulfed in the supernatural and from there the two of them, with the frequent help of Rufus, set out to find her mother's murderer.

She embraced the new world and enjoyed learning about the different monsters but she avoided hunting and had only been out a few times. Sherilyn preferred doing the research and wishing her father and Rufus well as they left for several weeks at a time. She'd stay behind and man the phones.

The blinking lights from the landlines caught her attention and welcomed a much needed distraction. There were 5 of them on the wall next to the side door, one on the table below, and two more on the far side of the room near what she assumed was Bobby's desk. Each one had a piece of duck-tape with black sharpie scribbled on it or had been written on directly. Additional notes had been inked in on the wall next to some.

FBI – Agent Lovell

Federal Marshal – Greg McFadden

C.D.C – Mark Flighten

Health Department – Richard Peterson

Police – Officer Reed

CIA – Agent Rafter

Homeland Security – Spencer Wheeler

Personal

The tan phone sitting on the table read Singer's Salvage Yard in black sharpie. Curious, she took the phone off its receiver and punched the voicemail button that flashed a pale green.

BEEP.

"Hey Bobby, It's Al from the hardware store. Listen, our work truck broke down and we were wondering if you could come tow it for us. Probably be able to fix it on our own, but any help will be appreciated."

BEEP.

"Bobby, Terry here. I need a new car radio. Got any of those in your trash pile? Call me back."

BEEP.

"This is Sioux Fall Water Well and we're calling to inform you that last month's bill was overdue. Our charts show us you're still using the water so we will not be shutting it off but all usage until the bill gets paid will have a 15 percent increase in fees. You can handle this matter online or call our offices."

BEEP.

"Singer this is Lee down in Watertown. Listen, remember that tractor I let you borrow a few months back-?"

BEEP.

Sherilyn walked away from the answering machine as it rang out forgotten voicemails from over the years and began to tidy up. Unraveling another trash bag from under the sink, she started with the trash that littered the living and dining room. Beer bottles and take out boxes mostly. She went through the cabinets and threw out all expired foods, which was mostly everything except for a few cans of beans, chicken, and tuna. The voices coming from the machine kept her company as Sherilyn walked around the house grabbing old pieces of her father's clothing and throwing them into one pile by the door. The washing machine was in the shed and would give her a task for tomorrow. She lined his boots up along the wall and hung his hats on hooks above the fireplace. As Sherilyn moved through the house it became apparent that this world's Bobby Singer had moved on to another place.

BEEP.

"Now listen here, Bobby." The voices were getting a little more agitated from being ignored. "I've called three times now about comin' down to look for a useable pair of tires. If you don't call me back I'm comin' down there to get them myself."

BEEP.

Sherilyn took the cushions off the couch and beat them profusely against the wall to dislodge all dust and debris. Her mother's decorative pillows that were once perfectly embroidered and bright now hung limp and dull. She kept the least trashed one and threw out the rest.

BEEP.

"Haven't seen you around in a few days, Singer. Let me know where you're at."

BEEP.

Bobby's desk was a mess of papers, notes, news clippings, and books. Odd assortments of bone, weapons, crushed or whole vegetation, bottled and corked liquids, and a few teeth were unearthed as she gave everything a quick shuffle. Her father's handwriting was scrawled on most of the papers and opened books. She didn't move or throw out anything on the desk because it was the only part of the Supernatural she cared about – information.

She was intrigued with the web of clippings and notes stapled or pinned to the walls around the desk. They all revolved around mysterious deaths, unforeseen outbreaks, Dick Roman, Roman Enterprises, weird weather patterns, and repeated missing person cases. Sherilyn leafed through a some and traced the few pieces of string that connected old cases together. There was a picture taped to the wall that caught her eye. She recognized two people in the photo; Bobby and Helen. They looked like themselves. Same style, same stern attitudes. Bobby wore the same hat and beard and everything. The only difference was that this Bobby was sitting in a wheelchair.

When did he lose his legs? She squinted at the other group members. The other three men and blond girl were a mystery. A rag-tag team of Hunters if she'd ever seen one.

BEEP.

"Me again. Called a few folks around town and people said you've up and left. I'm coming to get my tractor, Bobby. Hope you're alright."

BEEP.

"Mr. Singer this is Bill Rettger. I'm from out of town but my car broke down and none of the shops are open. I got my kid with me and I was really hoping you'd be able to help me out. You can reach me at this number."

BEEP.

Sherilyn pulled the photo off the wall and saw on the backside a few names scribbled in. Helen and Jo Harvelle, Castiel – angel, Dean and Sam Winchester. She flipped at the photo again and peered at the blond girl. Jo Harvelle? She thought, Helen had a kid?

BEEP.

"Bobby, this is Chuck from the police department. I need you to call me back if you're there. We're going to do a wellness check tomorrow if you don't."

BEEP.

The messages were becoming shorter and shorter except for the occasional message from out-of-towners looking for help. Sherilyn went around the house and made sure everything was locked and curtains pulled. She poured herself a glass of water and pulled a Slim-Jim out of her backpack that had been bought a gas station. Just as she bit off the first piece of dried beef, the voicemail's robotic voice politely said – No more messages.

The pale green light stopped flashing and the phone went still. Sherilyn walked over and unplugged it from the wall. The Singer's home phone could finally rest in peace.

She stared at the seven remaining phones still flashing. It was safe to assume that Bobby had been a rather respected member of the Hunting community if he had this many identities to play pretend with. She only had five. CIA, FBI, C.D.C, Homeland Security – Sherilyn chuckled at the idea of Bobby picking up these phones and seriously acting like he, the mechanic from Sioux Falls South Dakota, was an agent for the CIA.

"Let's see what the hunting community has to say then," She muttered to herself and unhooked the FBI receiver before hitting the voicemail number.

You have fifty-seven messages. First message.

Sherilyn rolled her eyes and plopped down on the couch, propping her head on the arm rest.

BEEP.

"This is Officer Blight over in Montana with the Montana State Troopers. We've got one of your agents in front of me saying you're in charge of my homicide cases for the FBI. You can understand our reluctance with giving out information, if you could call me back, I'll be here till 5."

BEEP.

"Agent Lovell I have an Officer Chang sitting in front of me asking for the ability to enter our cemetery and dig up a dead lady. That ain't gonna happen. You can get a hold of me at the Redding California Morgue, this is Chad Surling."

BEEP.

"My name is Trevor Day and I got your number off of a buddy of mine. I'm a hunter from down south and been trying to get rid of a nasty group of vamps', said to give you a call for some help. I'll be in Georgia until Wednesday."

BEEP.

Sherilyn finished her Slim-Jim, pulled herself off the couch, slammed the phone back on the receiver and moved onto the CIA.

You have eighty-nine unheard voicemails.

Sherilyn groaned at the thought of listening to so many and quickly hung the phone back up.

Forty-Four messages. Called out the C.D.C voicemail.

Sixty-one unheard messages. First Message. "Who needs the hell needs the Health Department that many times?" Sherilyn nearly cried out in astonishment.

She picked up the Homeland Security hotline. Twenty – three messages.

The Police Department; One hundred and forty-eight messages. Sherilyn's eyes widened and quickly slammed the phone back down.

You have one Message.

She paused and flipped the phone over to see which line this was. Personal.

Press pound to listen to messages.

Sherilyn eyed the pound button suspiciously before pressing it down firmly.

BEEP.

"Bobby, it's us. We're driving up."

BEEP.

To hear messages again press pound. She pressed it again.

BEEP.

"Bobby, it's us. We're driving up."

BEEP.

To hear messages again press pound. She let the phone sit for a moment before pressing the star button.

585-555-8574

The machine gave each number very firmly before going quiet again. Next to the Personal phone was a list of neatly written phone numbers on the wall under "Winchester." The same last name on the back of the photograph. Sherilyn punched the star button again.

585-555-8574

Again.

585-555-8574

There it was. The phone number was seventh on the list. She placed a finger next to the same set of numbers written on the wall under 'Winchester'. Sherilyn let her hand fall before giving the number a curious look and going to fetch the photograph. Dean & Sam Winchester. Which of the three strange men in the photo could they be? Sherilyn debated what to do for a moment before picking up the Personal phone and dialing their number.

Nearby, on a high way heading out of Indiana a cellphone rang. Half asleep and looking for a motel, Dean nudged his brother in the passenger seat next to him to find the phone. Sam rolled his neck trying to wake up and picked up a bag to dig through.

It was one of their older phones that still had a number pad and an antenna. It lit up and vibrated with each ring.

"Who is it?" Dean grunted.

Sam turned to his brother after doing a double take of the screen. "Bobby."