"I got something I want you guys to hear."

"Why isn't that an even a trade, Sammy? You're practically smarter than dad is in some circumstances already!"

"Because, I'm not dad. I'm not like dad either," Sam said frowning a little. Dean sighed to himself before smiling and giving his baby brother a little noogie.

"You're right, you're not Dad."


Now they were inside an office, seemingly directly after the previous interaction.

"I listened to this. And, well, it sounded like it was up your alley." Jerry said, before putting a CD in a drive, "Normally I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours."

"Mayday! Mayday! Repeat! This is United Britania 2485—immediate instruction help! United Britanis 2485, I copy your message— May be experiencing some mechanical failure..." There is a loud whooshing sound in the recording.

Dean himself seemed to flinch, holding his armrest tightly. Sam had a worried frown on his face, laying his head against Dean's shoulder comfortingly. Bobby smiled at the sight of comforting affection, the small smile growing a bit when he noticed Dean stop clutching the armrest and instead move to gently hold his younger brothers hand.

"Took off from here, crashed about two hundred miles south. Now, they're saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurized somehow. Nobody knows why. Over a hundred people on board. Only seven got out alive. The pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert. He's a good friend of mine. Chuck is, uh...well, he's pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault." Jerry explains, a sad and worried tone to his voice.

"You don't think it was?" Sam asked, intrigued.

"Not, I don't" Jerry responded, sounding as if he believed himself, and that he was willing to fight for it.

"You think they- we- can get everything we need from him?"

"Probably not everything," Sam said, "I don't think this guy'll have enough clearance for it all, knowing our luck."

"Jerry, we're gonna need passenger manifests, um, a list of survivors," Sam said

"All right."

"And, uh, anyway we can take a look at the wreckage?" Dean asked, curious and hopeful.

"The other stuff is no problem. But the wreckage...fellas, the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance." Dean frowned but seemed to understand.

"No problem,"

"Told ya."

"Shuddup."

"Never."

...

"You just did."

Sam just stuck out his tongue and focused back on the screen.

Sam is now waiting by the car outside a Copy Jack. As Dean exits, an attractive woman enters.

"Hey," she says.

"Hi," Dean responds with a smile.

"You've been in there forever," Sam comments as Dean gets closer. Dean holds up two IDs.

"Well, how long do you think it takes, Sammy? You can't rush perfection!" Dean says, smiling proudly when he realizes he said the last part at the same time as the older version of himself on the screen.

"You can't rush perfection."

"Homeland Security?" Sam takes one of the IDs, "That's pretty illegal, even for us."

"That is pretty illegal, Dean... I don't think we've ever used Homeland before," Sam says, looking at his brother with a mix of some sort of awe and a faint bit of disappointment.

"Yeah, well, it's something new. You know? People haven't seen it a thousand times," They climb into the car, "All right, so, what do you got?"

"Well, there's definitely EVP on the cockpit voice recorder."

"Yeah?"

"Listen," He plays the tape, which has been edited to pull out a scratchy voice.

"No survivors!" the voice says.

"No survivors... maybe there weren't supposed to be any?"

"'No survivors'? What's that supposed to mean? There were seven survivors."

"Got me."

"So, what are you thinking? A haunted flight?"

"Well, it's plausible. There's a bunch of history and stuff on it," Sam pointed out, looking to Bobby for confirmation. Dean just stared at the back of Sam's head proudly.

"There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships, like phantom travelers."

"Mm-hmm."

"Or remember flight 401?"

"Ooooh! Flight 401!"

"Shush, Sammy, trying to watch."

"Sorry... Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Shut up, idjits, and watch the damn screen."

"Right. The one that crashed, the airline salvaged some of its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and copilot haunted those flights."

"Right."

"Yep."

"Maybe we got a similar deal."

"All right, so, survivors, which one do you want to talk to first?"

"Third on the list: Max Jaffey," Sam says, pointing to the name.

"Why the third one?"

"How should I know? It hasn't happened yet!"

"Why him?"

"Well, for one, he's from around here. And two, if anyone saw anything weird, he did."

"What makes you say that?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I spoke to his mother." The scene changes to see the Impala, parked in front of the gate to a building with a sign out front reading RIVERFRONT PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, "And she told me where to find him," Sam's voice could be heard.

The scene changes again, to a grassy lot in front of the hospital, a boy, presumably Max, is walking with a cane between Sam and Dean.

"I don't understand. I already spoke with Homeland Security," the boy says, obviously confused.

"Right. Some new information has come up. So if you could just answer a couple questions..."

"Just before the plane went down, did you notice anything...unusual?" Sam asked, sounding professional like he'd done it a thousand times.

"Like what?"

"What does he mean, 'like what'? Like unusual! Strange! Did you see a floating see-through person? Did you see the guy we already know you saw with black eyes, or not?"

"Strange lights, weird noises, maybe. Voices."

"No, nothing."

"Mr. Joffey—" Dean starts, before being interrupted.

"Jaffey." Dean sighs, but repeats the name.

"Jaffey. You checked yourself in here, right?" Max nods, "Can I ask why?"

"I was a little stressed. I survived a plane crash."

"Uh huh. And that's what terrified you? That's what you were afraid of?"

"I...I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"What's he so scared of? He's already in a psychiatric hospital!"

"See, I think maybe you did see something up there. We need to know what."

"No. No, I was...delusional. Seeing things."

"He was seeing things," Dean said sarcastically.

"It's okay. Then just tell us what you thought you saw, please."

"Wow, Sam, quite the charmer, huh?"

"Oh shutup"

"There was...this—man. And, uh, he had these...eyes—these, uh...black eyes. And I saw him—or I thought I saw him..." Max trailed off awkwardly.

"What?"

"He opened the emergency exit. But that's...that's impossible, right? I mean, I looked it up. There's something like two tons of pressure on that door."

"Yeah."

"This man, uh, did he seem to appear and disappear rapidly? It would look something like a mirage?"

"Oh yeah, we're still thinking ghost, aren't we?"

"Yup."

"Great, wish I could juts go up to them and yell, 'It's a demon!'," Dean said, turning to Bobby, "Cause that's what you said, right? Demon?"

"Yup"

"What are you, nuts?" Sam tilts his head, "He was a passenger. He was sitting right in front of me."

The scene changes to the Impala pulling up in front of a house.

"So here we are. George Phelps, seat 20C."

"Hmm. Man, I don't care how strong you are," Dean and Sam get out of the car, "Even yoked up on PCP or something, no way you can open up an emergency door during a flight."

"Not if you're human. But maybe this guy George was something else. Some kind of creature, maybe, in human form."

"Well, that's one way of putting it, but he ain't no werewolf or somethin'," Bobby muttered.

"Does that look like a creature's lair to you?" Sam turns to look at the perfectly ordinary house.

"Damn idjit, most monster homes don't look like a monster home!"

"...I know..."

Dean and Sam now sit across from a woman, Mrs. Phelps, inside the house. Sam is looking at a framed photograph.

"This is your late husband?"

"Yes, that was my George."

"And you said he was a...dentist?"

"Some monster. What's he gonna do, leave spinach in between your teeth?"

"Mm-hm. He was headed to a convention in Denver. Do you know that he was petrified to fly? For him to go like that..."

"Ouch."

"How long were you married?"

"Thirteen years."

"That's... that's a long time. If he was a monster I'd say either she was one too, or she loved him enough to cover for him. But, he's not a monster!"

"Yes Dean, we know. You don't need to rage at the TV."

"I-I am not raging at the TV!" Dean said indignantly, pouting a bit and crossing his arms.

"In all that time, did you ever notice anything...strange about him, anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well...uh, he had acid reflux, if that's what you mean," Dean and Sam look at each other, before the scene changes once more. Back outside the house, Sam and Dean are walking down the stairs.

"I mean it goes without saying. It just doesn't make any sense," Sam said.

"A middle-aged dentist with an ulcer is not exactly evil personified..." Dean mumbled sarcastically, Sam giggling quietly next to him.

"A middle-aged dentist with an ulcer is not exactly evil personified. You know what we need to do is get inside that NTSB warehouse, check out the wreckage."

"Okay," Sam conceded, "But if we're gonna go that route, we'd better look the part."

"OOOOOOooooooooOOOOO! Dress up time!" Dean shouted, before blushing heavily, "I-I mean, uh..."

Sam chuckled next to him, curling up to try and hide his guffaws.

"Sh-shut up, Sammy!"


HEY LOOK!
I FINALLY UPDATEDDDD