1 - Red Line Season

So this was what normal people did for fun, huh? Dean wondered why.

Well, that was probably not very kind. Some people did this for fun. Technically, they were here for work related reasons.

Bobby liked to check out the weekend flea market that operated out of the old drive-in every other week, because sometimes genuine artifacts turned up. Supernatural items that people had no idea were supernatural. This started a couple years back, because apparently his friend Rufus was here looking for something - Bobby didn't say what - and they came across a haunted painting. A genuine "everybody who's ever owned it died in weird circumstances" sort of painting. According to Bobby, it was ugly as fuck too, just some random Midwestern landscape painted by someone who really loathed their surroundings, hardly a step beyond shitty motel art.

Bobby and Rufus burned it, and salted the ashes, and that seemed to take care of that. But he still liked to check, because, as Bobby had told him several times, "Never bet against stupid."

Dean didn't, but he was also bored as hell. It was unreasonably hot, and this little stay they had with Bobby was unknown. A couple weeks was the best Dad could give them. It didn't help that Dad and Bobby had another fight before he left. As always, they tried to have it away from him and Sam, so they didn't get caught in it, but did they think they were at all subtle?

Sometimes the fights between Dad and Bobby reminded him a little of the fights between Dad and Sam. Sometimes the source of the hostility was unclear; they were just mad and venting. Bobby thought Dad wasn't raising them properly, or putting them in too much danger, or some combination thereof. Dad felt Bobby was a busybody who had no right to tell him how to parent. Round and round it went. Just another fighting pair for Dean to get in the middle of, and try and separate. That seemed to be his one solid job in the family - referee. If you'd asked him, Dean wouldn't have thought he would play that role. Wasn't he the reckless hothead? Shouldn't he be the one arguing pointlessly for nothing? And yet, he kept the lines of communication between Dad and Sam open. He honestly didn't know if they'd be able to stomach living in the same house with each other if he wasn't around. Sometimes, when things were at their worst, he thought about leaving. He could just walk away, and he'd be able to fend for himself. But that always made him stay. It sounded arrogant, sure, but he wasn't sure they could function without him. Honestly, it was a terrible thought, and not one he liked to think about.

Bobby was searching one end of the flea market, and Dean was covering the other. They'd meet in the middle. Sam was sitting this one out, which was his prerogative. Besides, he was going through his whole moody teen thing, and it was best to just to let him brood and sulk in peace. Sam was generally nicer to Bobby than anyone else, but even he'd gotten a dose of it. Dean was just glad he wasn't putting up with this bullshit alone.

So far, Dean had seen nothing but crap. Every now and again, he'd turn and surreptitiously use his EMF meter, but nothing was moving the needle. The only thing haunted here was the concept of drive in movies, which was kind of a shame. Another piece of classic Americana dead and gone.

Yes, it was late June, but it seemed unseasonably warm, almost a hundred degrees, and he was still sweating like crazy, despite having left his coat in Bobby's car. He was going to need a year long shower after this. It didn't help that there was almost no shade available. Everyone at the flea market was roasting equally, which again made him question why anyone was out here.

He walked by table after table, barely glancing at any of them. One guy appeared to be selling glass bongs - sorry, "water pipes" - and Dean had a vague notion that was technically illegal in this state, but who cared? If people needed a beer or a hit to get through another day on this planet, what was the harm really? Dean wasn't sure he'd have lived this long if being completely sober was his only option.

Finally, he came to a promising stall. It was a large folding card table, covered with a blue tablecloth, and topped with with what could generously be called complete garbage. Old cabinet pulls and figurines, piggy banks and doorstops that looked like they were from the nineteenth century, that sort of thing. He turned on his EMF meter, and got a tick. Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe there was something here that needed to be bagged, tagged, and burned.

Since nobody seemed to be currently attending this table, he brought out his meter and ran it over, hoping to spot the one that made the needle move. As it was, he found its general vicinity before people walked by, forcing him to stick the meter back in the front pocket of his jeans, where it was a very tight fit. The reading was either coming from a single brass candlestick that had seen better decades, or a figurine of a ... what the hell was that? A buffalo, maybe? Or a bear with a spinal cord malformation. Real fucked up thing. He'd have no problem destroying it.

"You're younger than our usual buyers," a woman's voice said. Dean looked up, and found himself face to face with one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen.

She was probably around his age, twenty, maybe twenty two at the oldest, with shoulder length, glossy black hair, and clear blue eyes that almost sparkled in the sun. She was eyeing him with a small smirk, which maybe he should have found somewhat mocking, but god, she was gorgeous. "What can I say, I have an eye for old shit," Dean said, belatedly realizing that probably wasn't as charming as he hoped.

But her smile widened. "Then you've come to the right place."

"Can I ask where you found this stuff?"

"Oh, it's not up to me. My Mom generally haunts estate sales, shut down storage units, houses on the verge of destruction, that sort of thing. Frankly, I think she has kind of a hoarding issue, but what do I know?"

"Do you know what this is?" Dean asked, pointing at the buffalo bear thing.

She grimaced. "Uh, a badger and hyena that went through the Brundlefly transporter together?"

That made Dean laugh. Cool reference, and also? Now that she said it, he could kind of see it. "That was a great movie."

"Well, duh. I mean, it's Cronenberg."

His heart did a little flip. Someone who knew horror movies! Good horror movies! "Quick, which do you like better - Scanners or Videodrome?"

"Oh hell, man. That's like asking me to pick my favorite child." She considered it a moment. "Okay, if I had to pick one ... Scanners." Dean nodded. Despite Debbie Harry being in Videodrome, he would have to go Scanners too. "Now, Mr. Cineaste, what did you think of The Dead Zone?"

"Criminally underrated."

"I know, right? The whole thing's creepy as fuck. It's not exactly usual Cronenberg stuff, but it fits right in. But here's the advanced level - have you seen Crash?"

"I did. And I know it's weird as fuck, but ... I kind of liked it?"

She was grinning now. "Me too. Kinky as fuck, though."

"That's kind of why I liked it," he admitted, grinning himself.

"Ooh, a wholesome looking boy like you, into kinky stuff? Well, I never," she teased.

"I've never been called wholesome looking before. Should I be offended?"

She eyed him a moment, scanning him, and he almost felt the urge to blush. "No. Honestly, you're the cutest looking boy I've ever seen in this hick town. Hi, I'm Leah." She held out her hand, for him to shake. He did. She had wonderfully soft hands, and yet, one hell of a grip.

"Dean."

"Well, Dean, would you like to buy my badgerena?"

That made him laugh, and she giggled too. God, she was pretty. He was certain he was half way to love already. Her eyes and love of horror cinema were a trap he didn't want to escape. "Do I get a discount, since it was spliced together in a transporter accident?"

She made a show of thinking about it, and he didn't mind. He loved the way she bit her lower lip, and felt a tiny bit pervy for doing so. "No. But it's only ninety nine cents, so, you can't complain that much."

"I guess I can't." He dug out a dollar bill, and as he handed it to her, he asked, "Same price for the candle holder?"

"No, let's call that a cent. That way, I don't have to make change."

"Awesome." He picked them both up, and they were both small enough to tuck under his arm with no problem. But boy, was the metal hot from the sun. "I don't suppose I could get your number, in case I want to complain about a defect or something."

She smiled. "Oh, is that it? I'd be more open to giving you my number if you invited me to a movie or something."

"For a job well done? Yeah, I could do that."

"Oh, how magnanimous of you," she teased. She found a pen, and grabbed his hand, and instead of writing her number on his palm, she wrote it on the top of his hand, so he and the rest of the world couldn't possibly miss it. "Don't let me down, Dean."

"I won't." He basically wanted to pull his phone out of his pocket and call her now, but that would be way too eager, wouldn't it? Still, he threw her his best smile, and walked backwards, as he was reluctantly to turn away from her. But finally he did, and almost walked straight into Bobby, who was simply standing there.

He gave him a dark look, catching Dean by the shoulders so he didn't collide with him. "Don't let me interrupt your flirting time," he said. Yeah, it was kind of bitchy, but he was sweat drenched, so Dean imagined the heat was making him extra grouchy.

"I'll have you know I picked up a couple of things that made the meter jump," he said, handing over the badgerena and the candlestick holder. "And even if it was coincidence, they're fucking ugly and deserve to burn."

Bobby looked at them with a grunt of acknowledgement. "You kinda wonder why a haunted item can never be attractive."

"Maybe the evil sucks the pretty right out of them."

Bobby raised an eyebrow at that. "I think that's too metaphysical for me. I Had no luck on the other side, or at least it's clear of anything cursed. Lots of fucking garbage, though, if you're in the market."

"I think you have enough garbage at home, Bobby." Dean said with a smile.

Bobby scowled at him, but in his more typical, good natured way. Although you'd think someone couldn't have a good natured scowl, Bobby managed.

They walked back to his piece of shit car, which was broiling hot from being parked in the relentless sun, and Dean tried not to think about Leah for a moment, just so he could get the stupid grin off his face. But it was difficult.

Bobby tossed the possibly haunted items in the trunk, and they started back towards home. There was no air conditioning - of course not - so they had to keep the windows open. It barely helped, but Dean was trying to recall if any good movies were playing, so he didn't mind it so much.

They were about half way home when Bobby's phone rang. At home, he had at least a half a dozen lines, different numbers so he could pretend to be different people for hunters who need their fake credentials backed up, but he only brought his personal phone while on the move. Because Bobby was responsible, he pulled over before answer his phone. Dean just memorized the number on the back of his hand, half-listening. Bobby's side of the conversation wasn't very interesting, until he said, "Well, shit. Yeah, I think we're about ten minutes out. Thanks, Lon." As soon as Bobby hung up, he said, "We've got a detour."

"What's up?"

"That was a friend of mine who works for the county," Bobby told him, getting back on the road via u-turn. "There's this vacant lot next to a stand of trees out near Castleton, and while there, Lon was pretty sure she saw a ghost. She convinced another guy he only saw a really pale girl, but she knew it wasn't."

"Shit." Near a vacant lot? Oh, that wasn't good. There was a better than average chance that was a murder victim. That could be a tricky dig up and burn, because sometimes, if they didn't come from here initially, they were returned to their families out of state. How did you even begin to tackle that one? They had before, but it was always rough. And Dean felt bad for them. They deserved justice. It was just, sometimes, it was hard to find. Sometimes the people responsible for their death were in prison for something else, or decades dead, and it could be difficult to explain these things to a ghost. To them, on that side of the veil, time had no meaning. He wanted to help them all, but sometimes all he could do was help put them to rest.

They didn't speak the whole rest of the way there, probably because they were caught up in the same depressing thoughts. And as soon as Dean saw the place through the windshield, he knew it was an excellent place to dump a body. The vacant lot was overgrown, with waist high burnt brown grass, and some of those weird yellow wildflowers that seemed to grow on nothing but spite. The scrub land beside it was full of anemic trees and trash left behind by people, mostly teenagers who partied there, or homeless people with few other places to go. Dean was already dreading this. His hunter sense was kicking in, and leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

He and Bobby got out, and since they both had their EMF meters with them, it was easy to pull them out and use them again. And they both made noise the instant they were turned on. Yep, a ghost was nearby.

They split up without discussing it, with Bobby taking the field on the right hand side, and Dean taking the scrub land on the left. Dean looked between his meter and the ground equally, until the meter flashed green, and he suddenly felt cold. On a day like this, it was kind of refreshing, at least until he remembered the cause of it.

And he saw her.

She was maybe seventeen. Average height and weight, dressed in a t-shirt for a local softball team, and running shorts. Her brown hair looked nearly translucent, as did the rest of her body in this intense sunlight. But Dean felt impaled by her dark brown eyes, which defied the sun and psychics and everything he could think of. She was asking him a question without speaking, which was a weird thing to think, but he felt it like a punch to the center of his chest. She drifted back into the trees, and he followed.

She came to a stop near a spindly oak, and looked down at the ground. The dirt there was disturbed, and had been recently. Dean's stomach sunk, and as she watched, he used the toe of his boot to dig up the disturbed soil, until he dug up a finger with chipped pink nail polish on it. It took a moment for the smell to hit.

It wasn't that bad, she was a fairly fresh kill, but just knowing she had been murdered, and she was standing right here next to him, made his gorge rise. He swallowed it down, and shouted, "Bobby! We need to get the cops here." He glanced at the girl, who was still standing there looking at him, and said, "I'm sorry this happened to you."

Yes, cops usually got in the way of a hunter doing their job. But finding her killer was a lot more important than doing their job right now.