Hi – I haven't seen many of these OC POVs around, so I wasn't sure if it was acceptable. But, I didn't want to write all in Dean/Sam POVs, because I feel somewhat wrong prying into their brains – idk, I'm weird like that. Currently, the plan is to maybe switch POVs – or at least, OC POV then third person, etc.
Also – this still needs work, but I just couldn't work on this particular chapter any more at the moment. I'll probably edit it later. – Sam&Dean'll hold a more prominent role hopefully starting from the next chapter.
(To be quite honest, I'm not sure if this story belongs here or not)
Thanks!
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Chapter One
I looked down at the burning hundred year old corpse and sneered. Very attractive, yes, I know, but no one's around to see me.
Mary Ellen Clarke had it coming – especially after she tried to use me as a human dartboard. So she had a terrible life – who cares.
There are more of us hunters, but I work by myself. I actually haven't kept up my contacts in the field, mainly because there's enough to keep me busy – and, I'm not particularly fond of the flannel, trucker hats, and mullets. I'm aware that that's an extremely ignorant generalization, but it's scarily accurate most of the time. Also, I've found that partners usually muddle things, and in this line of work, things just can't be muddled. After all, lives are at stake. I've had one die on me – not so long ago – and that was just not pleasant (thanks, werewolves). Humans don't clean up after themselves like evil beings do (sometimes).
After filling in the grave, I gave the plot another glance before heading off to my car. It was almost morning, and god knows who could be enjoying a nice little jaunt in this cemetery at the moment – their lovely morning walk would most definitely be disturbed if they saw what seems like a freshly filled plot where the one hundred and thirty two year old Mary Ellen Clarke – Beloved Mother, Wife, and Daughter – was supposed to be resting.
Beloved my ass.
.
Holding a bottle of beer in one hand and rubbing my arm with the other, I cursed the very existence of spirits and everything supernatural. I was currently at a so-called "hunters' haven" in middle of Nowhere, Nebraska, a few miles south of Mary, and it was filled with hicks, truckers, and some roadtrippers. All men. Great.
Filling in graves, though I have done my fair share, still make my arms sore. But at least I never have to go to the gym. Not that I'm around a place long enough to enjoy the perks of a gym membership. Actually, if it weren't for my job (if you can even call it that, considering the fact that I don't get paid, nor do I receive any benefits…), I'd probably be winded after climbing one flight of stairs.
"We got that son of a bitch good, didn't we?" a distinctly masculine voice said to my right.
His companion laughed. "Not before he clocked you one."
"Yeah, well, saved your sorry ass."
There's definitely no time in this line of business to entertain any thoughts of men, but damn, the lighter-haired man had quite the voice. I sneaked a glance at him, pretending that I was a lady in one of them Regency romance novels, looking up at a lord of some sort through my incredibly long and thick eyelashes.
Okay, why does a man have my Regency-eyelashes?
I'm jealous.
I looked away nonchalantly as his eyes met mine.
Well damn. I guess I wasn't as covert as I thought. Step it up, Elle, you're losing your game.
"Hey."
Oh goodness. What do I do now? I know he's talking to me, but do I pretend I don't? Or should I just say hi? I'm better at speaking with spirits, and that's saying a lot. Quick, decide! Or else too much time is going to pass and everything will just be awkward.
"Hi," I managed to squeak out, cursing myself the moment the word came out of my mouth.
I think he was talking to me, at least.
I really hope he was.
"That's a nice necklace you got there," he said, motioning towards me demon-repelling amulet.
Okay, so it doesn't repel demons, so to speak. It just prevents them from possessing me – which, let me tell you, is a big problem especially when you're all by yourself.
"Thanks," I replied, "it's a family heirloom."
"What is it of?" the darker-haired one asked, his gaze fixed intently on my necklace.
I laughed ditzily. "I have no idea. Someone probably thought it was pretty or something."
He nodded. "You don't sound like you're from around here."
"Why? Because I don't sound like a redneck?" Another comment regretted. I edged a glance around the tavern, just to make sure no one was offended by my somewhat blunt speech. Nope, everyone's too drunk, and the music's too loud. Excellent.
The one with the swoon-worthy voice smiled slowly. "I'm Tom, and this is Jerry."
Jerry glared at him.
"Are you two related?" I asked, trying to conceal my laughter.
Okay, so I may be out of the loop with all the cultural on-goings of modern society, but I do remember Tom and Jerry from back in the day.
"Yeah, unfortunately, we're brothers."
"I see," I nodded. "Oh, I'm Belle."
Rule Number 5 in my book. Don't give out your real name unless you have to.
"You don't look like a Belle," Tom responded lazily, taking a swig of his beer.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you're not blonde and busty."
I resisted the urge to glare at him indignantly. I also stopped myself from looking down at my chest, just to make sure he was wrong.
"I'm sorry, my brother's had a bit much to drink tonight," Jerry apologized, glaring once again at Tom.
I smiled, "No problem. You guys don't look like Toms and Jerrys either."
"And why not?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow challengingly.
"You don't look like talking cartoon housepets."
"I like her," Tom said, laughing.
"So what are you two doing in Nebraska?" I asked, attempting to make small talk – something I'm really quite horrible at.
"Just passing through. We're on our way to California."
"No way! So am I," I exclaimed, ignoring Tom's pointed glance at his brother. "But first, I'm going to try and hit up some of the haunted spots nearby."
Why oh why am I so good at sounding like a valley girl? My voice tends to go soprano sometimes. I'm hoping it's just the beer kicking in – on my empty stomach.
"Why would you want to do that?" Jerry questioned, furrowing his brow.
"I'm a huge sucker for ghost stories," I replied, crossing my legs under the counter.
"I would steer clear of them if I were you," Tom stated.
"You don't honestly believe they're true, do you?" I asked, eyebrow raised.
He scoffed.
Jerry frowned at him. "We're skeptics."
"I wouldn't rule it out, I suppose," Tom said, "But tell me about the ghosts lurking around here."
"Ah, I see," I responded, tapping my finger against my chin – don't ask. It's just something I do when I'm thinking. "Right. Well, there are plenty of stories of hauntings at a local college near Lincoln –"
"Platte River?" Jerry interrupted.
"Among others," I responded, motioning for the bartender. "Coke, please."
"Hopefully the friendly ghosts will still be there by the time my car gets me there."
"There's really nothing to see," Jerry started, "We've already looked around. They're just stories."
"You've been looking for ghosts when you're skeptics?"
"Well, there's obviously nothing to do here, so we hopped on a ghost tour they were promoting at the motel."
Tom downed the last of his drink and brought the glass to the grimy counter with a thud. "We've got to get going," he said, standing up abruptly.
"What? Oh, yeah, yeah. Nice meeting you, Belle," Jerry said, getting up himself.
"Maybe we'll see you around," Tom continued. "Don't go chasing after them ghosts."
"You sound like a dad," I replied, half-frowning. I definitely do not want to even think of him as my father. Ugh.
I left soon after they did, and checked into the typical rundown motel off the side of a dirt road. When I first started out hunting, driving around by myself in my sometimes unreliable car was pretty nerve wracking. Ghosts and all that stuff don't scare me much, but humans are unpredictable. Well, I guess we're not that unpredictable – big burly truckers, young woman by herself, in middle of nowhere, hm, gosh, I wonder what might happen. Granted, that sort of stuff happens in big cities and everywhere else in the world, but I was slightly paranoid. Now, I think I can handle it, you know, what with my weapons and all.
A creepy old man handed me a key and took my money without a word.
Friendly folk, these people.
It took me four tries to get the door open. The door was stuck shut, most likely due to lack of use.
I threw my duffle bag onto the bed, and turned on the light. It flickered a few times before it stayed put. Sometimes I wish I had a normal life, you know, one in which I'd stay in nice four-star hotels with busboys and more than two floors. Luxuries I can't afford. Whatever.
The tinny strains of the preset ringtone startled the crap out of me - because it was loud, and because I didn't think I'd be able to get service here.
"Hello?"
"Elle! You haven't been picking up your phone."
"Hey Kevin," I greeted, "What's up?"
"Where have you been?"
"What do you mean? You know I'm working."
"I know, but you're always so busy. I was under the impression that there's not much to do in Ohio."
"The office keeps me busy. And plus, Ohio's not that bad," I responded, lying down on the bed.
I sneezed. Perfect timing.
"I think I'm sick. It's getting cold here."
"You're not hunting, are you?" he asked cautiously.
"Of course not," I lied, though I said it in a how-can-you-even-think-that tone.
Yes, I don't enjoy lying to my brother, but it just can't be helped. After our parents died during a hunt – it was a crazy family business – my brother took it upon himself to make sure that we had nothing more to do with anything supernatural. That was about six years ago. I'd gone to college, graduated in three years, and even found a job in a sales office, and after half a year boring myself to death, I told Kevin that I'd been transferred to Ohio. And thus began my solo career as a hunter. And lying about it.
"Okay. Well, Charlotte says hi. And call every once in a while, got that?"
"Yes sir," I replied sarcastically.
"I'm just looking out – "
"I know, I know, but I'm nearly twenty five."
"That reminds me. Have you found yourself a boyfriend yet?"
"What the hell. You honestly sound like a grandfather or something now."
"I'm wise beyond my years. Seriously though, have you? Not hanging out with any hooligans, are you?"
"None worse than who you've been with in the past."
"That's not reassuring at all."
"You don't have to worry about me. I have to go in early tomorrow, so I'm going to have to cut this short."
"Oh, right. Sorry, I can't seem to remember the time difference."
Time difference? Oh. Right.
Faking a yawn, I said goodbye.
Yes, sometimes I want the normal life – for more than just the starred hotels and such. I mean, look at my brother. He quit hunting so easily – it's like he just pulled an irritating band-aid off a wound. Not a problem at all. And he's already living life as he should, what with getting married and all.
Sighing, I reached into my bag and pulled out my journal. I flipped to the last page with writing, and checked Mary off.
Tomorrow, Platte River.
.
Platte River Community College is in need of millions of dollars in funding. I looked around, almost expecting to see tumbleweed roll past the somewhat rundown Administration Building. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. After driving around in Middle America for months and months by yourself, you tend to develop an extreme aversion to this particular area of the country.
Okay, down to business. Making sure that I had everything I needed – even though I wasn't sure what I was up against, I slammed the trunk and turned. I just like being prepared for the worst.
"I'm Regina Jackson of the Lincoln Courier. I'm here about the Donalds case," I greeted the woman at the front desk in the Administration building. I'd used my more professional of tones, well, at least, the one I reserve for this particular type of role.
"You don't look like a Jackson," she responded flatly, glaring at me for interrupting the meticulous act of filing her nails.
"It's my husband's name," I lied, holding my gaze.
She – Martha, according to her nametag – flicked her hair. Her 'do was entirely reminiscent of the 70's, flippy and voluminous. And also reeks of excessive hairspray.
"Well," she sniffed, reluctantly placing her nail file on the desk, "What can I help you with?'
"I'm following up on the Donalds investigation."
She looked up at me, expectantly.
"There have been four deaths on this campus within the past two weeks –"
"You should talk to Paulson," she interrupted. "He's been doing a little investigating of his own."
"Where can I find this Paulson?"
"Library Science Building, room 605."
And with that, she picked up her nail file and waved me away.
Sometimes it sucks being a woman. I bet if I looked like…Tom from the roadside pub, she'd be much more receptive.
Whatever.
Library Science Building…
I'm certainly not the best of hunters out there, nor do I even come close, in my opinion. Why? Well, for one, I'm not entirely level-headed when it comes to crunch time. On the outside, I may look just fine and calm, but on the inside, that's a completely different story. Completely. I stand my ground with demons and the gang, but what I'd really like to do is flee like hell. Fight or flight. But, this is what I've chosen to do – the adrenaline's great too, though most of the time it's a mixture of adrenaline from fear and from excitement. Also, my lying skills need a little more work. I never really enjoy acting out stories while trying to get information out of people. But, no one's ever called me out, so whatever I'm doing seems to be working.
By the time I found the Library Science Building, it was almost eight thirty. I think it's safe to say that PRCC doesn't think much of this particular concentration. I've passed several agricultural structures and buildings, old and newly built, but the Library Science one is, well, raggedy.
The floorboards creaked under my boots – can't wear sneakers for fear that the laces might come undone and thus prevent me from making a hasty retreat or from giving a good chase, for that matter. Not trusting the elevator, I climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, and was immediately bombarded by the scent of burning incense sticks.
Coughing, I knocked on 605. The placard on the door said "Henry D. Paulson, PhD," though it was more than slightly rusted and worn down.
"Hello?" I called, turning the knob after a few seconds.
The door was pulled open from the inside before I even registered the fact that it was opening.
"Who are you and what do you want?" a jittery middle-aged man asked.
He looked like a cute little grandpa, wearing his gray sweater vest and round glasses.
"Hi," I said friendlily, "I'm Regina Jackson of the Courier. Martha told me you might help me with the Donalds case."
"What do you want to know?" he asked warily, returning to his seat behind a mahogany desk that was completely covered with paper and open books.
Wow that was easy.
I followed him inside, and the incense became more empowering. There was an entire row of them lining the window sill. Why, I don't know.
Coughing again, I said, "What happened? The police report wasn't exactly clear on that. All they said was that it was a suicide."
He peered at me over the top of his glasses. "Do you want the official version?"
"Do you know something the police don't?
"They think I'm crazy," he laughed somewhat bitterly. "It doesn't matter how many degrees you have. As soon as you start spewing words like ghosts and spirits, you're automatically insane."
"Ghosts?"
He nodded. "Now I hope you don't think I've lost my marbles, but I'm certain the place is haunted."
"Really? I've always been interested in the supernatural," I gushed, all the while grimacing on the inside at my effusiveness.
He smiled and gestured to the one chair that wasn't covered with stacks of paper. "Take a seat."
As much as I love cute old men, I hope this doesn't take long, I thought, settling into the hard wooden seat.
"Drink?" he offered, gesturing to the coffeepot.
"No thanks," I replied, noticing a giant book with familiar demonic signs. "What is that?"
He closed it with a thud, dust blowing off the cover.
The book actually reminded me of the Book of Shadows. You know, the book in Charmed. It was a great show – one that I actually watched. Good show, but inaccurate.
After he made himself comfortable in his leather chair, he looked up at me and said, "Jenny Donalds. She was a good kid."
"You knew her?"
"She took my Ghosts in Literature class last year. Quiet, got good grades – it was an easy class though."
"Did she seem depressed?"
He shook his head and tapped his fingers together. "Not at all. Neither did any of the other victims."
"Victims?" I asked, frowning slightly.
"Victims."
He leaned toward me conspiratorially, "Have you heard of Michael Stevenson?"
"He hanged himself earlier last year, right?"
"He was depressed. I've gathered that his long-time girlfriend dumped him the day before he was going to propose to her. His friends said he followed her around afterwards, trying to win her back. She didn't want anything more to do with him. Apparently, she had been cheating on him for three of the five years they've been together. Young people these days," Paulson sighed. "You've never done anything like that, have you?"
"What? Oh, uh, no," I replied, surprised at the sudden change of tone.
"Good. Though, I doubt Michael would come after you anyway. You don't fit the profile."
Resident investigator, huh? Less work for me to do. Awesome.
"Let me guess. He only goes after brunettes," I said.
He nodded. "All brunettes, all had cheated on their boyfriends. I'm sure there will be another victim by the end of the week, seeing as how promiscuous people are these days."
"How many students attend Platte River?"
"Several thousand. The majority of them live at home. There's only one dorm, and that's where everything has happened. Excuse me for a second," he apologized as his cell phone went off to the tune of House of the Rising Sun.
"I'm still working on the case," he frowned into the phone. "I haven't lost my marbles, Leah…Yes, okay, tell Charlie I'll stop by soon."
"I'm sorry about that," he said, turning back to me. "My daughter thinks I'm senile. I keep telling her the school wouldn't keep an old fogie like me on board if I were. You said you were from the Courier? How many stores are they doing on this?"
Not entirely sure what he meant by that, I replied cautiously, "We're just trying to get our facts straight."
"Right, well, thoroughness is indeed often overlooked. I would love to continue this conversation, but I have a class to get to," he said, standing up.
"Can I ask you a question, if you don't mind?" I asked, curious as hell as to why there were so many incense sticks in the room. "What are the incense sticks for?"
He looked around the room as if seeing them for the first time. "Oh, those. They're believed to ward off evil spirits."
I said goodbye and exited towards the stairs, trying to remember if that was in fact true.
You're an idiot, Elle. You're Asian, you should know. Hell, you've done the whole New Year's incense ritual. Only once, and for fun, but still.
.
"I'm sorry, I'm already late for class," Jenny's roommate apologized, squeezing past me and out the door. "Go on in though, Jenny's uncles are in there. I'm sure they'll be able to help you with whatever it is you need."
"Thanks!" I called after her, surprised that she'd actually let strangers stay in her apartment.
"Hello?" I said loudly, glancing around the living room. It was the typical college-student décor, complete with disk chairs, a ratty couch, a smattering of magazines all over the place, and posters of celebrities on the wall.
I guess I was staring at the life-size poster of George Clooney – before he lost all the weight – for a second too long, because I didn't hear the throat clearing behind me until it reached a high volume.
"Hi!" I greeted, turning to face the man that had interrupted my happy time with George.
Our brows wrinkled at the same time.
"You're Jenny's uncle?"
"What are you doing here?" the taller one – Jerry, I believe – cut in.
"Fact checking."
"I thought you were just passing through," he replied, taking a step closer.
I backed up and thought furiously. "Oh, I am. I'm a free lance writer for an online news blog. And you didn't answer my question."
"Yes, we're her uncles," Tom said impatiently.
Really. I had done my research, and Jenny doesn't have any uncles. In fact, her family line had effectively ended with her death.
"She didn't have any uncles," I said flatly, slowly backing towards the door.
"We're very very distant uncles," Tom responded, equally flatly. "Look, we're in mourning, so if you don't mind…"
"Her roommate said I could look around," I said indignantly.
Real professional, Elle, real professional.
"Go ahead."
The two brothers convened in the kitchen, and though I was insanely curious to hear what they were talking about, I walked haughtily into Jenny's room.
So much pink.
I wanted to gag.
I didn't even know what I was poking around for. Paulson's ideas pretty much confirmed my own – and added to it, actually. If it was Michael, then I'd just have to dig out his bones and salt and burn them. Okay, so I'm a somewhat careless hunter. Why? Because I'm probably going to find his grave, dig, salt and burn, and then hope everything works out – and that he doesn't get to any other brunette before I finish.
My handy EMF meter started beeping crazily from the depth of my pocket. I took it out slowly, keeping an eye out for my surroundings.
I would have let out a startled yell, but at times like these, my voice usually disappears. I had turned around, only to stand face to face with a ghost.
"Michael?" I asked as he kept staring at me – or through me. "What do you want?"
He remained silent.
"Why are you killing –"
"Stay away," he hissed in warning, pushing me back with a surprisingly strong hand. Then, like they always do, he vanished, leaving the acrid scent of death with him.
"What's going on here?" Jerry asked, holding what looked like a walkman in his hand. The antenna was fully extended, but he kept the device covered.
"What's that?" I asked, trying to evade the question.
"Nothing," he said quickly, stuffing it in his jacket pocket. "Have you found anything interesting?"
"She liked pink," I said dryly, eyeing Tom warily as he entered the room.
If he weren't such an ass, I would totally jump on him like none other.
"I don't think you're a journalist," he said simply, picking up a picture frame from the vanity.
"Why?"
"Because Diana – the roommate – forgot to bring her books with her to class, and didn't know anything about that online blog of yours. She said you told her you're from the Courier."
Busted.