I wasn't going to update for a day or so... but this story has latched onto my brain and is feeding on all my concentration. Like one of those Wraith-bugs in Stargate Atlantis.


Friday morning, 10.33. The worst thing about being injured? Sammy gets to drive your baby.

Which means he also gets to pick the music, and man, you hate Oasis.

The two of you are heading over to the Mallory place to make sure nothing's happened since your little accident on Wednesday; then you're driving up to that town with the unpronounceable name to see the daughter. Your mind has been working on overdrive, trying to think of a way to get her to talk to you, but so far, you've got nothing.

Doesn't worry you. Once you're actually there, in front of her, you'll think of something. Bullcrap at short notice is your speciality; working it out beforehand never gets you good results.

Dad always needed to plan it all, you remember. You and Sam used to tease him about it when you were kids.

The Impala turns onto the road leading to the house and Sam swears; an instant later, following his gaze, so do you.

There's a car sitting in front of the house, and its owner, a woman in her early forties, is standing looking up at the building with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Isn't she a bit old for truth-or-dare?" you demand, hauling yourself out of the car by clinging to the door.

"Dean… I think that's the daughter," Sam says slowly.

You look again, more closely, and realise he's right, there's no one else she could be. It's the look on her face that gives it away: a mixture of fear and nervousness and loathing and a sense of terrible loss. You've seen it before. You've felt it before.

Jobs like this one really suck.

"Mrs. Rosenbaum?" Sam asks, moving towards her. She turns in surprise.

"Yes? Who are you?"

"We're with the police, ma'am," Sam replies, "we were actually just on our way over to see you… ask you a couple questions. I assume if you're here you know what's been happening in the house?"

The puzzled look gives way to wariness.

"With the police? In that car? I don't think so."

Was that an insult? The cheek of the woman.

You hate dealing with smart people. They're so astute. And observant. And, ya know, smart.

All these things leaving only one option open for you to explore. Frontal attack.

"Who we are isn't really the issue here, Mrs. Rosenbaum," you tell her, limping forwards. Sam makes a move as if to help you; you glance across at him and he subsides, looking irritated.

Lecture ahoy.

"The issue," you continue as if your little exchange hadn't happened, "is that house, and what's been going on in it. Could you please trust for now that we're here to stop the murders and tell us –"

"You can't stop the deaths," she interrupts harshly. Sam glances up, registering the use of the word 'deaths' rather than 'murders'. "No one can – at least, that I know of. I've tried, but they've all been fakes."

In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary…

"What?" you say blankly.

Sam's watching her with that look he gets when he's on the verge of working everything out.

"Mrs. Rosenbaum," he says slowly, do you know what's really happening here?"

Linda (ha! You knew it was something starting with 'L') Rosenbaum draws a sharp breath and looks at him, her expression going from angry to off-balance and, at the same time, inexpressibly weary.

You know that look from the inside, too.

"My mother is haunting the house," she says simply.

For a moment, you're both just stunned. This must be the first time in your whole career that you've met someone not in the business who believes. Before you arrived, even.

Poor Ron doesn't count. He'd seen a few too many episodes of Doctor Who. But Linda Rosenbaum… she's sensible. She teaches high school math!

She also mistakes your stumped looks. "Listen, I know how it sounds, OK? But I've seen her. I know she's there. And I think I know why. The police can't do anything. And neither can you."

"That's where you're wrong," you tell her. "We're not fakes."

"Oh," she says, taken aback. Apparently, that's the last thing she was expecting. Then, with a little more skepticism, "really?"

"Yeah, really," you tell her, and man, was that lame or what?

Judging by the look he's thrown you, Sammy thinks so too.

Your answering one tells him to shut up, can you do better?

"Look," he says to Linda, "we're telling the truth. We hunt these thi- vengeful spirits. You know how they become what they are, right? They're born out of violent death."

On the last sentence, his voice drops, getting softer, and Yahtzee! Linda's face crumples briefly before she pulls herself together.

"How did you know? The official cause of death was a heart attack."

"We talked to some people," you reply with a slight shrug. "Like I said, we know what we're doing. We're here to stop anyone else from dying in that house, Mrs. Rosenbaum. It'd be much easier if you could help us."

You make sure your words are a statement, not a request. People tend to have more confidence in you that way.

Linda sighs. "You could at least tell me your names," she says.

"Dean. And this is Sam."

"Call me Linda."

"Linda. Look, we know how hard this is for you –"

She interrupts Sam with a snort of bitter laughter. "Oh, do you?"

"Yes, we do," you say sharply, and she must have seen something in your face, because she gives a jerking little nod of apology. Her eyes flick from you to the Impala to Sammy, then back to you. She's looking at me, you think. All your life, you've known you're beautiful, and you use it as a weapon, no different from your favourite shotgun or the knife in your boot. But every so often you come across someone who sees your face as a part of you instead of all of you, and Linda Rosenbaum seems to be one of those people.

Cassie was too, that's one of the reasons why you loved her. Turned out she couldn't deal with the other parts.

"Linda," Sam carries on, tearing slightly worried eyes away from you, "I'm very sorry, but we need to know – well, everything you do. What happened that night, what you've learned since… all of it."

She nods. Whatever she saw in you, it seems to be telling her to trust you.

Happens a lot, actually. You're not sure why.

"I understand. Someplace else?" she asks.

Sam'll kill you for it, but you just can't help yourself. "Your place or ours?"

To your surprise, Linda actually laughs. "Which is closer? And where can I smoke?"