Standard Fanfic Disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for um, er, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. (Hey, the quick red fox and the lazy brown dog get boring after a while.) They will be returned to their original owners and copyright holders relatively undamaged, or at least suitably bandaged. This story is set first or second season Supernatural, and second season She Spies. It was originally published in the fanzine Hunting Trips #6, from Neon RainBow Press. And not to brag, but it won a FanQ for Best She Spies Story. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first year that the FanQ Awards have had a She Spies category.
Kally
by Susan M. M
Supernatural/She Spies
Winner of the 2013 FanQ Award for Best She Spies Story
Sam Winchester ran his fingers through Jessica's hair, his fingers caressing each silky strand. The scent of her apple blossom shampoo filled his nostrils. Their lips locked in a passionate kiss.
Suddenly, Sam and his fiancée were no longer embracing. His arms were empty. He looked around. He didn't see her. He felt something drip onto his face. He reached up to wipe his cheek with the back of his hand, then stained in shock at the red stain on his skin. Blood.
Sam looked up. Jessica was spread-eagled against the ceiling, like a giant butterfly in some demented entomologist's collection. Her blood dripped down on to him. Her corpse burst into flame.
"No-o-o!" Sam yelled.
He sat bolt upright, or tried to. The seatbelt stopped him from moving too far. He blinked.
"Hey, have a good nap?" Dean asked his younger brother.
Sam blinked again. He was in Dean's '57 Chevy Impala. A dream – a nightmare – but just a dream. Jessica had been dead for nearly ten months.
"The way you were snoring, you must really have been out of it," Dean said. In his late twenties, he had brown hair and eyes and a muscular build. Compared with his brother, he looked short and stocky, but that was only because Sam was taller and on the wiry side. "We should be at San Esteban in half an hour."
"San Esteban," Sam repeated, still half-asleep. "Carneton House."
"The fake IDs are in the glove compartment," Dean told him.
Sam opened the glove compartment. On top of a Beretta .22 and a somewhat battered rosary lay two FBI identifications. The one with Dean's picture was for Special Agent Marvin L. Aday. The one with his picture was for Special Agent Richard Starkey. "Feds? Isn't pretending to be FBI agents a trifle excessive for this case?"
Dean shook his head. "Naw."
"Why would the FBI bother investigating a haunted house?" Sam asked. "Carneton House is a known haunted house. Heck, it's a museum. We can just walk in as tourists."
Dean nodded. "That's Plan A. But if we need Plan B, then we're feds checking out rumors that drug dealers are using Carneton House as a base of operations, and counting on the ghost legend to keep people out."
"That sounds like something out of Scooby-Doo," Sam scoffed.
Dean shrugged, but didn't deny the source of his inspiration. "Hey, whatever works."
The red Chevy Corvette cruised sedately down the mansion-lined streets of a gated community in Beverly Hills. A few minutes ago, on the freeway, the only times the Corvette had been anywhere near the speed limit was when the radar detector or the police scanner had revealed the presence of cops. The convertible's top was down, revealing two blondes so stunningly attractive that few red-blooded policemen would even think of giving them a ticket.
A Harley-Davidson rode ahead of them. The leather-clad rider gestured to the right. A moment later the motorcycle turned down a driveway. The Corvette followed. The driveway was long, with palm trees alternating with cypress trees every ten feet. A gorgeously manicured lawn lay on either side, with clumps of hydrangeas and hibiscus bushes scattered here and there. The house was semi-Spanish colonial, white walls, red tiles roofs, and large enough to house a small army.
The motorcycle and the car parked in front of the mansion. The motorcyclist took off her helmet and shook out her long, wavy brown hair. She looked at the two blondes who were getting out of the Corvette.
"However owns this place is better paid than we are," commented DD Cummings. She was the youngest and shortest of the trio.
Shane Phillips, the African-American woman who'd been riding the motorcycle, took a second look at the mansion. "Deeds, whoever owns this place is better paid than the three of us, put together, before we went straight."
The driver of the Corvette, Cassie McBain, nodded. "You don't suppose we could get Cross to get us a place like this for our next safe house, do you?" Her blue-gray eyes sparkled mischievously, although she was only half-kidding. The three ex-criminals turned secret agents shared a beach house owned by the ISD. Before that, they'd had an apartment that the ISD rented for them... until Mr. Cross had decided that they'd stayed there too long, become too conspicuous. He had moved them into the beach house without warning, and could move them out again just as easily.
The three went to the door. Cassie rang the bell.
A moment later, a middle-aged Hispanic woman opened the door. She wore a blue dress and white apron. Her eyes were red; her cheeks were still damp. "Yes?"
"Mr. Cross sent us," Cassie said.
"Sí, sí." She opened the door wide and gestured them in. "They are expecting you."
She led the three of them to a living room, where two people sat in front of an empty fireplace. One was Quentin Cross, the Deputy Director of the ISD's West Coast Division. The other was a beautiful woman, who, like the maid, had been crying.
"Tea, señora?" the maid asked.
The redhead sitting on the couch next to Cross nodded.
Cross turned his head when the women entered the room. "Ladies, this is—"
"Greer Sinclair," Shane interrupted him. She recognized the redhead instantly. All three of them did. Greer Sinclair was an international fashion model, her face and name known around the world.
"Greer, these are my three best agents," Cross continued. He was a tall, handsome man; his dark hair was going prematurely gray. "Agent McBain." He pointed to the statuesque blonde. "Agent Phillips." He indicated the brown-skinned, brown-haired lithe beauty. "And Agent Cummings." He nodded in the direction of the perky blonde. "Trust me, they'll be able to help you."
Cross discreetly did not mention that the three agents were all former criminals, and had only agreed to work for the ISD to get out of prison.
"What's wrong?" Cassie asked gently.
"Kally. My Kally," Greer started to say, then burst into tears again.
Cross picked up a picture frame from the table and handed it to Cassie. "This is Kally. She was kidnapped yesterday. You're going to find her and get her back."
Cassie examined the picture closely. It was of a dark-haired girl, about five or six. She passed the photo to Shane. "Yesterday?"
"The police and FBI were notified immediately, of course. They don't want to get involved. There's a very good chance it's a custodial kidnapping, and Ms. Sinclair's ex-husband has diplomatic immunity," Cross explained.
DD took the picture from Shane, also examining it closely. "Ex-husband." She thought a moment. "Rabi Salim, the music producer, right?"
Greer nodded.
"Greer's father-in-law – ex-father-in-law," Cross corrected himself, "is the deputy consul-general at the Moroccan Consulate in Los Angeles. Officially, Rabi Salim is a cultural attaché with the consulate, but he spends most of his time working for his own profit as a record producer."
"Is Kally inside the consulate?" Shane asked. An ex-thief, she'd broken into places with tighter security than a minor consulate.
"As far as we know, no," Cross said. "If they bring her to the consulate, she'll be on Moroccan soil, and we won't be able to touch her." He mouthed, at least, not legally. "But it would be very difficult for them to get her into the consulate without our noticing."
"Can you tell us what happened?" Cassie asked.
Greer reached for a Kleenex and wiped her face. She took a deep breath, fighting to get herself under control. "I was at a photo shoot. María took Kally to the park to play. A man came up to her. He was calling for his dog in Arabic. He asked her if she could help him find his lost puppy. They both started calling out 'puppy, puppy' in English and Arabic. María chased after them, reminding Kally about not talking to strangers. Before she could catch up, the man grabbed Kally, threw her into a van. He jumped in and the van drove off."
"There were at least two of them, then, the kidnapper and the driver?" Shane asked.
Greer nodded.
"Was the man Middle-Eastern?" Cassie asked. Greer nodded again. "What about the driver?"
"María didn't see him," Greer said. "She screamed, of course, and then she called 911, and then she called me." She started sobbing again.
Cross patted her hand. "The police took a report, and then informed the FBI, since it was a kidnapping. The FBI doesn't want to get involved."
"They don't want to get involved?" DD repeated. The picture of Kally was still in her hand. She looked at it again. "A sweet little girl like this?"
"When a child has dual citizenship, like Kally does, and there's a custodial kidnapping, which this appears to be, it's never pretty," Cross explained. "Especially when her father and grandfather both have diplomatic immunity."
"And the Kingdom of Morocco is one of the few Middle-Eastern nations on good terms with the US at the moment," DD added. Unlike her teammates, she wasn't a career criminal. The computer hacker was a diplomat's daughter, who'd been arrested when she tried to use her cyber-skills to find the evidence to clear her father after he'd been falsely accused. "So the State Department doesn't want to risk a diplomatic incident?"
Before Cross could confirm or deny her supposition, they were interrupted by a crash of something falling and breaking, and angry voices.
"Don't you tell me I can't come in! My alimony checks pay your salary," a man's voice roared.
"Rabi," Greer muttered.
A moment later a short, swarthy man in an Armani suit strode into the room. "Damn it, Greer, what the Hell do you think you're up to? First you claim Kalila was kidnapped to keep her away from me, and then you have the nerve to demand a ransom? Why? Aren't I paying you enough in alimony and child support? Or did you just want to add an element of verisimilitude to your fake kidnapping?"
Shane and Cassie maneuvered themselves between Rabi Salim and his ex-wife.
Cross stood. "Watch how you talk to the lady."
"Who the Hell are you?" Salim demanded.
"Quentin Cross, ISD. I'm the man investigating your daughter's kidnapping." He pulled his ID out of his pocket and displayed it.
"She wasn't kidnapped. She's probably in her room." Salim called out, "Kally, come here, it's Daddy. Kally! Kalila!"
Greer broke down into tears again.
"Kalila Morag Sinclair-Salim, you come down here right now!" Salim yelled.
"She isn't here," Cross told him. "Now, you can sit down, give me what information you have, and help me get your daughter back. Or you can stand there bellowing like a buffoon, adding an element of verisimilitude to your fake kidnapping."
"Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"
"I told you. Cross, ISD." Icy brown eyes glared down at Salim. "Do you have Kally?"
"Of course not! I haven't even seen her since last Saturday." He scowled at his ex-wife. "Some nerve you've got, hiding Kally and blaming me. Did your lawyer tell you to do this to get more child support?"
"I wouldn't kidnap my own daughter!" Greer looked up, hazel eyes blazing angrily out of her tear-streaked face. "And if I did, I certainly wouldn't have hired Middle-Eastern thugs to grab her."
"You would if you wanted to try to make it look like I did it. You probably hired some of María's wetback cousins. All dark-skinned guys look alike to you," Salim sneered.
"This isn't helping." Cross' voice was cold and firm. "A little girl is missing and in danger. You can help us find her, or you can stay out of our way. And at the moment, Mr. Salim, you're a suspect."
Salim took a deep breath. He stared at his ex-wife, then at Cross. "She's really missing? She's… really missing."
"May I see the ransom note, please?" Cross asked.
As a somewhat subdued Salim reached into his pocket for the note, Cross also reached into his own pocket for a pair of gloves. He put on the white gloves before accepting the note.
"Did the security at the consulate check this for fingerprints?" Shane asked.
Salim shook his head. "I assumed it was fake, one of Greer's tricks. No one—"
"I don't play tricks!"
"—bothered to check it for prints," Salim finished.
"Looks a lot like the note you got, Greer."
Cassie, Shane, and DD gathered around Cross to look at the note. Words had been cut from the newspaper and glued on to the paper: If you want to see your daughter again, have two million dollars ready when we call.
"That's word for word for the note I got," Greer realized.
"This other note, I want to read it," Salim said.
"Already at the lab, being analyzed," Cross told him.
Ali Rajab took another puff of his marijuana cigarette and smiled at his cousin. "This is gonna be so sweet, man. Mama pays. Papa pays. And then Max pays."
Faisal Rajab nodded. "Should we sell her to Max, or to one of those dinosaurs back in Yemen or Syria who wants a child bride?"
"Max'll pay more." Ali took another drag off his reefer. "Don't suppose we could do both, do you? Rent the kid to Max and then ship her off to the old country?"
"Be nice if we could – quadruple profit – but from what I hear, Max plays with his toys pretty rough. Might not be enough of her left to ship to Yemen." Faisal reached for a beer. Alcohol was forbidden by the Koran, but he didn't care. Second-generation Palestinian-American, he regarded the traditions of his ancestors as hopelessly archaic. It had been years since he or Ali had been to a mosque. Besides, he was already breaking several edicts of Islamic law: polluting his body with drugs and alcohol, eating unclean food, abstaining from prayer, abducting children.
And plotting to sell a little girl to a child-porn filmmaker. That was definitely against Shari'a.
Ali asked, "Think we should go sample the merchandise ourselves, before we sell her to Max?"
"At her age? Why bother?" Faisal scowled.
"The old dinosaurs seem to think there's something in child brides. Max certainly likes them young, and so do his clients. Maybe we should see what we're missing," Ali suggested.
Faisal shook his head. "Wait until we've got the money, and then we can get ourselves some real women."
Ali pushed himself up from the Victorian armchair, neither noticing nor caring that his cigarette was burning a hole in the brocade upholstery. He went up the stairs to the room where Kally was imprisoned. He turned the key in the lock. At least, he tried to. He fumbled with the key again, then swore, first in English, then in Arabic.
"Faisal's right. Too young to waste my time on," he muttered as he went back downstairs.
From behind the locked door, Ali couldn't hear Kally whisper, "Thank you, Captain."
Nor did he hear the soft reply: "My pleasure, my dear."
Dean drove down the street past Carneton House. He went around the corner and cruised slowly past the Victorian house again. "What do you think?"
"McDonald's next to the haunted house, at the corner. Hardware store on the other side. Touristy gift shops and Thomas Kinkade gallery across the street. Not many tourists this time of year, but enough people around to mean too many witnesses. We could check the place out now, but it might be better to wait until dark," Sam suggested.
"Let's at least give it a look-see."
Dean found a place to park the car. They walked up to Carneton House. There was a historical marker sign in the front yard. On the porch was a sign with the museum's hours, but graffiti covered it: Closed because the mayor is a cheapskate.
"They're closed," a woman's voice called out.
The Winchester brothers turned around. A woman stood on the sidewalk. "They're closed."
"Thanks," Sam called back. He whispered to his brother, "Small towns. Everybody knows everybody else's business."
Dean put his hand on the door. It was locked securely. "We'll come back later."
Sam nodded. Another thing about small towns – they tended to shut down at sunset.
Cassie, Shane, and DD walked through the ISD's Los Angeles headquarters. They approached a brown-haired young man who was staring intently at a computer screen. "Hi, Duncan," Cassie said quietly.
Duncan Ballew was so focused on his computer he didn't even look up.
"Earth to Duncan," Shane said.
DD approached and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Duncan, do you have anything for us?"
Duncan started. He turned and looked up so quickly his glasses nearly fell off his nose.
"Got anything for us?" Cassie asked.
"Oh, uh, yes. I was able to get the license plate of the getaway van from analyzing security camera footage. I'm doing a computer search now –- like facial recognition, but for license plates, not people -– based on security cameras and satellite photos," the bespectacled young man explained.
"Do you know where they took her?" Shane asked.
"Not yet," Duncan confessed. "Um, Mr. Cross said something about a second ransom note?"
"Already dropped it off at the lab so they check for fingerprints and such," DD told him. "You want some help?"
"Please."
The stairs were steep. Faisal went up them slowly, one hand on railing, the other holding a Happy Meal. He stopped in front of the door, pulled the key out of his pocket, and put it in the lock. It turned easily; the door opened.
"Hey, kid, brought your dinner," Faisal announced.
Kally sat on the floor, putting together a jigsaw puzzle. "Thank you."
Faisal dropped the box on the floor and nudged it toward her with his foot.
"I want to go home."
"Soon, kid. Soon," Faisal lied. He backed out of the room, shut the door, and locked it. "Ali must have been high," he muttered to himself. "There's nothing wrong with that lock."
Most of the shops on Mercado Street closed at six. The Winchesters waited until seven. Dean took some tools that were illegal to own in most states, and began working on the door.
"Hold it. Federal agents," a woman's voice ordered.
"I think you've got that wrong," Sam said calmly. He was startled to hear the woman's voice, and more startled to turn and see three women behind him, but he didn't let it show. "We're the federal agents. I'm Starkey, he's Aday. FBI."
Three women –- two blondes and an African-American woman with long brown hair -– stood behind them. All three wore black pants and black turtleneck sweaters. Dean couldn't help noticing that all three of them filled the turtlenecks nicely… very nicely, in his opinion.
"ISD," Cassie McBain countered. "I thought you guys didn't want to be involved in this case."
"Um, uh," Dean said. He hadn't allowed for real federal agents showing up in his plan B. Just then he managed to pick the lock, and the door opened.
"Thought it was too delicate for you to handle," DD said. "Politically awkward."
"Uh, the boss doesn't want to get involved. We disagreed," Sam said.
"Nice to know some FBI agents actually have a heart," DD muttered.
"Have you had time to case the joint?" Shane asked.
"No, not really," Dean admitted.
"So, you've got no idea where the little girl is?" Cassie asked. "It's a big house."
"Just who are you?" Sam asked.
"We're ISD agents," Cassie repeated. "Want to see our IDs, or want to rescue that little girl?"
"I want to see their IDs. FBI usually isn't into breaking and entering," Shane pointed out.
Sam and Dean displayed their fake IDs.
"We showed you ours, how 'bout you show me yours?" Dean managed to put a lascivious note into his voice.
Cassie smiled. "Save the attitude until after we rescue Kally. Shane, second floor," she ordered. "DD and I will take the back door. You two go in the front door in about…" She thought a second. "…three minutes. But be careful. Remember, nothing takes priority over that little girl's life. Get trigger-happy, and I won't report you to your boss. I'll just tell him where you're buried."
"Yes, ma'am." Dean touched two fingers to his forehead. He waited until they were out of earshot before asking his brother, "What the Hell's the ISD?"
"Damned if I know," Sam replied. "The feds have a lot of alphabet soups."
"Go to the car and get the shotguns. Real FBI agents would be armed," Dean pointed out.
"There's nothing but rock salt in the shotguns," Sam protested.
"They won't know that," Dean said. He made a shooing gesture with his hand, and Sam rushed off to the Chevy Impala. If there was any shooting, they could let the real feds handle it. Besides, if they had to shoot, rock salt in the rump would hurt like hell.
Shane threw the grappling hook up. She tugged hard to make sure it was secure, then began climbing up the side wall. She paused when she reached the second floor window. It was locked, but that only delayed her a minute. It was a cheap lock.
She climbed into the room. It appeared to be a master bedroom, decorated in Victorian style. Over-decorated, in her opinion. Victorian décor ran to excessive knick-knacks.
"Kally," she called quietly. There was no answer.
"Those FBI guys weren't bad looking," DD whispered as Cassie picked the lock on the back door.
"Boys," Cassie scoffed. "I prefer men."
"They were on the young side," DD agreed. "Don't they usually team up a young guy with an experienced, older agent, not with another young guy?"
Cassie pulled back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. "Thirty seconds, then we go."
Dean looked at his watch. "It's time." He threw the door open and yelled, "Federal agents! Hands up!"
"FBI!" Sam shouted. They entered the house, their shotguns at the ready.
Kally sat on the 19th century bed, hugging an antique porcelain doll in a dusty velvet dress.
"Child."
She looked up at the voice.
"People have come here to help you. You must let them know where you are."
"Will I go back to my Mummy and Daddy?"
"I think you shall."
"Is somebody there?" Kally raised her voice. "Is anyone there?"
"Kally?" a woman's voice called quietly.
"Yes, I'm here." Kally didn't recognize the woman's voice. She heard scraping noises, and then the door opened.
"Hey, sweetheart, your mama sent me. I'm going to get you out of here," announced a dark-haired, dark-skinned woman.
Kally threw herself into Shane's arms. The ex-thief hugged her awkwardly, trying to comfort the little girl.
Sam and Dean stepped into the hallway.
"What was that?" Max Reynolds asked.
"I'll take a look," Faisal offered.
Max looked around. He was old enough to be the Rajab cousins' father, a middle-aged man with a beer belly. His blond hair was combed over to hide a growing bald spot. He looked for exits. There were two –- three if you counted the windows, but he was getting too old to go out windows. There was the door to the hallway, where Faisal had just gone, and the other door, which led from the dining room to the kitchen.
Max stood and edged his way toward the kitchen door.
"Hands up." Dean pointed the rifle at Faisal.
"The others in there?" Sam pointed his rifle at the dining room door.
Faisal Rajab just nodded. Too much beer and marijuana, plus two shotguns pointed at him, were a bad combination.
"Lead the way," Dean ordered.
Hands half-raised, Faisal went back through the door. The Winchester brothers followed him.
"FBI. Hands up," Dean ordered.
Max threw the door to the kitchen open. DD and Cassie stood there, blocking the way. He stepped back.
"Where's the little girl?" Cassie demanded. She and DD stepped into the dining room.
Panicked, Ali rushed DD. She raised her arm, pointed her hand at herself, and jabbed him in the gut with her elbow. He staggered back. She raised her foot and brought it down hard on his shoe. Then she raised it again, pulled back her foot, and kicked his shin.
Cassie turned to Max. She reached out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him forward. She released him, leaving him off-balance. She lifted her leg high and kicked him in the chest. He fell back on his rump.
Dean whistled in appreciation. "Nothing better than a pretty girl who kicks ass."
"I think you broke a rib," Max protested.
"My heart bleeds for you," Sam lied.
Cassie looked at Faisal. "You want the same, or you want to surrender?"
Faisal's half-raised hands rose higher.
"Where's the little girl?" Cassie repeated.
"Safe," Shane's voice came from the doorway. "Greedy. You guys didn't save any for me."
DD pulled a pair of handcuffs out of her pocket and manacled Ali. She turned to Dean. "Might be better if you frisk him. He'd probably enjoy it if I did it."
"I know I would," Dean muttered. He leaned his shotgun against the wall and stepped forward to frisk Ali.
Shane helped Cassie handcuff Max and Faisal.
"I want a lawyer," Max demanded.
"Yeah, yeah, they all do," Cassie retorted.
Kally came skipping into the dining room.
"I told you to wait in the car," Shane scolded.
"The captain called me. He said it was safe to come back and get my dolly," Kally explained.
Dean growled. "These slimebags kidnapped that little darling. Sons of b—"
"Watch your language in front of the kid," Sam warned him.
Kally pointed to Faisal and Ali. "They grabbed me and brought me here. They wouldn't let me go home to Mummy." She pointed at Max. "The captain said he wanted to take pictures of me with my clothes off." She frowned, more puzzled than upset. "Why take pictures with my clothes off? Mummy always puts on extra-pretty clothes before she gets her picture taken."
"You f—" Dean glanced down at Kally, and bit off the epithet he'd been about to say.
"Her grandfather works for the Moroccan Consulate. In the Mideast, they cut off a thief's hand. What do you think they cut off for guys who kidnap little girls and want to take naked pictures of them?" Shane asked. Her voice was arctic.
Max paled and looked as though he was about to throw up.
"May I go get my dolly now?" Kally asked. "The captain said I could keep her."
"Who's the captain?" Sam asked.
Kally pointed to the portrait hanging on the wall. It showed a middle-aged man, dressed as a ship's captain, his hands on the wheel of a tall-masted sailing ship. "That's the captain. He took care of me." Without another word, she dashed out of the dining room and hurried upstairs to fetch the doll.
Sam read the brass plaque mounted in the mahogany frame. "Captain Elias Carneton, 1820 – 1893." He raised an eyebrow. "That's the man who built Carneton House. He's supposed to be one of the ghosts haunting this place."
"You think a ghost was babysitting Kally, protecting her from the kidnappers?" Cassie asked disbelievingly.
"Naw," Dean shook his head. "But kids that age have big imaginations. She probably heard the legend, and turned the ghost into an imaginary friend so she wouldn't be alone."
Shane nodded. That made sense.
"You've got these scumbags under control, right?" Sam asked. Cassie nodded. "Then we'd better get. We were acting without orders, 'cause we couldn't bear the thought of the kid in danger. But if you could leave our names out of your report, it'd be a lot better for our careers."
"That's the feds for you. Can't do the right thing unless you've got orders," Cassie muttered. "Go on. We'll handle these guys."
Dean nodded his thanks. He and Sam left the dining room.
They saw Kally coming down the stairs, an antique doll nearly as big as she was in her arms. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned around, and looked up. "Thank you, Captain."
Sam and Dean followed her gaze. The transparent figure of Captain Elias Carneton stood at the top of the stairs.
In a cheap motel room in Los Robles, the next town down the road from San Estaban, the Winchester brothers ate pizza and pondered their course of action.
"Too bad we couldn't have asked those lady feds for their phone numbers. They were hot."
Sam had his mouth full, and didn't reply.
"I don't think we should go back to Carneton House," Dean continued, with his mouth full.
Sam nodded. "Bad manners to exorcise a ghost that saved a little kid."
"We could go down to San Diego tomorrow, maybe get Whalley House."
"Naw, it's a major tourist attraction. They'd be upset if we busted their ghosts," Sam pointed out. "We're not far from Anaheim. Maybe we could take a break, go to Disneyland?"
Dean took another bite of pizza. "Sounds like a plan."
"One thing, though. Let's skip the Haunted Mansion," Sam suggested.
"Deal."