Author's Note: Of course I had to bring a certain character back!

Chapter IX - Hogwash

I hung back a bit, giving Dad some space. It was oddly warm in Lawrence, Kansas, even though a chill hung in the air. Dad bent over his mother's grave. It was a simple tombstone with only her name, date of birth and date of death. It was apparently placed by an uncle of Dad's and Uncle Dean's that they never met.

From my angle, I couldn't see what Dad was doing. He had his pocket knife out and he seemed to be digging a hole for some reason. He held something silver in his hands, but I couldn't tell what. "I think…I think Dad would've wanted you to have these," he said, putting the silver object into the hole and piling the dirt back onto the hole. At the time, I didn't know what it was. It was Grandpa's dog tags from the Marines.

Many different types of emotions ran through my mind—many of which, I knew, were not my own. Dad's was full of sadness and self-loathing because, not matter how many times Uncle Dean tells him, he thinks her death was his fault. I knew some of the sadness must have been my own for never getting to meet the woman I was named after, and also for my own mother. But I picked up an emotion that definitely wasn't from Dad or me: hatred. That had to be coming from Uncle Dean. He resented the idea of coming here, pushing Dad into the idea of just heading to the Roadhouse to find out anything about the demon—whatever the Roadhouse was. The only thing I couldn't tell was why he felt this way and refused to visit his mother's grave. Dad was easy—almost like reading a book. Uncle Dean was like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube while blindfolded.

The hatred soon morphed into confusion. Something was not right. I looked around for any sign of Uncle Dean. He was walking over to some dead tree. I watched him intently, trying to figure out why he would be confused by something so mundane.

"You okay, Liz?" Dad asked. Ever since the little episode in Red Lodge, he seemed to be asking me that every few minutes.

"It's Uncle Dean," I said, pointing towards him. He was now hunched over a black tag marking a new grave that was still in need of a headstone. That's when I noticed the perfect circle of dead grass surrounding him. "I think something weird is going on."

Dad sighed. "Isn't something weird always going on with us?"

He's right. Our lives were the epitome of weirdness.

A funeral director or someone of a similar title approached Uncle Dean. They talked in low voices. I couldn't hear them, but I felt Uncle Dean numbly accept the information. I looked up at Dad who was just as confused as I was.

Uncle Dean slowly approached us, looking down at a small piece of paper. The funeral director walked away in the opposite direction.

"What's that about?" Dad asked Uncle Dean.

"Angela Mason," Uncle Dean replied. "She's a student at the local college. The funeral was three days ago." He looked back down at the card, studying it intently—probably the only thing in his life that he voluntarily studied.

A beat of silence followed Uncle Dean's words. "And?" Dad prompted, glancing and him expectantly.

"And," Uncle Dean repeated, mockingly. "You saw her grave," he said, motioning behind him where the grave was located. "Everything's dead around it in a perfect circle. You don't think that's a little weird."

"Maybe the groundskeeper went a little wild on the pesticides."

"No," Uncle Dean snipped, shaking his head. "I asked him. No pesticides, no chemicals….Nobody can explain it."

"'Kay…so, what are you thinking?"

"I dunno," Uncle Dean admitted. "Unholy ground, maybe."

"Un—" Dad couldn't even finish his statement. He just chuckled at Uncle Dean's theory. Which, I don't understand why. Unholy ground sounded reasonable.

Then again, what the hell do I know?

"What?" Uncle Dean demanded. "Something could've happened there that poisoned the ground." He gave Dad a challenging look. "Do you remember the farm outside of Cedar Rapids?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah."

"It was a sign of a demonic presence. Or, it could be Angela's spirit if it's strong enough."

Dad did this weird nod and shake his head at the same time thing and then headed towards the Impala. "Well, don't get too excited. You could pull something."

"It's just…stumbling onto a hunt…here of all places…"

"So?"

"So…are you sure this isn't about a hunt and not about something else."

Dad didn't believe Uncle Dean—he thought he was just searching out something to make this little rendezvous not about visiting their mom. And then there's Uncle Dean, who wanted—no, needed—to make this worth something. Ever since the whole Gordon Walker thing, it seems like Uncle Dean was trying to find a reason to kill something. This whole thing was really starting to get weirder—and that's saying something, since this whole thing started out pretty damn weird.

"Let's just…go," Dad said, not wanting to get into it with Uncle Dean right now. He pulled the passenger door open and I took that as my cue to climb into the back.

"Believe what you want, Sammy, but you dragged my ass out here….The least we can do is check this out."

"Yep…fine," Dad finally said, sounding more like a robot than a human.

"We'll head into town. Angela's dad is a professor at the college."

Uncle Dean climbed into the Impala, annoyed with Dad. Dad climbed into the Impala, annoyed with Uncle Dean. And I climbed into the Impala feeling like the third wheel.

Yep, life is good.

-SPN- -SPN- -SPN-

I sat in the visitor parking lot of the local college, watching college students walk left and right heading to classes or to the dorms or somewhere more important than their present location. I felt so out of place here. It was almost like I was wearing a neon sign that blinked FREAK in multiple colors made up of different gases.

My cell phone rang, breaking me from my daze. I looked down at my cell phone and saw that it was Missouri. Cautiously, I flipped it open and said, "Hello," into the speaker.

"Mary Elizabeth Winchester, you didn't tell me you were gonna be in town."

I rolled my eyes. That was Missouri Mosley for you. "We've only been here a couple hours," I countered, which wasn't an excuse. I could've called her when I first found out we were stopping in Lawrence.

"You could have called," Missouri said, as if she could read my mind. Wait, she could.

"How come your not berated my dad and Uncle Dean? They could have given you a ring."

"And don't worry; I'll whoop them with a wooden spoon once I get my hands on them."

I smiled. This is why I loved her so much. She was hard on everyone, especially Uncle Dean. I remember a few months ago when Dad had visions of a poltergeist in the home him and Uncle Dean used to live in before their mom was killed by the yellow-eyed demon. She helped us kill it.

"Besides, I wanted to talk to you…alone and in person."

I sighed deeply. I was in for the ass-beating of a lifetime, I had a feeling. Hell hath no fury like a pissed of Missouri Mosley. "Fine. Their busy trying to get some info on this dead girl named Angela Mason."

"Oh, yes, I've heard of Angela. Poor girl. Killed in a car accident trying to get away from a cheating boyfriend. It's a shame, really."

"Yeah, we were at the cemetery when Uncle Dean noticed how everything around her grave was dead. He seems to think it's unholy ground, but my dad says that it is a bunch of hogwash."

"You've been reading Harry Potter, haven't you."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes," Missouri said. "But, Dean may be right. Maybe I should go and visit the grave. See if I feel anything….Did you feel anything?"

I shook my head. Then I realized that she couldn't see that. "Not in the sense you're talking about. My…psychic receptors were kinda focused on those two's minds."

"We really need to talk in person," Missouri insisted. I think me talking about my weird abilities triggered something.

"Okay," I said, "I'll be their ASAP."

"Make it before then," she said. The call ended and I looked down at my main screen. I tried calling Dad's phone. I heard the familiar ringtone echo through the nearly-empty Impala. Rolling my eyes, I tried Uncle Dean. It went right to voicemail.

Using a page from my English notebook, I scribbled a note to Dad saying that I was going to Missouri's. As I placed it down on his seat, I had a flashback from the night that I had written him a note explaining how I had snuck out to help Grandpa out with his phony Colt exchange with Meg that had gone sour. No matter how many times I try to convince myself that if it weren't for me he would be dead right now and the demons would have the Colt, but I still think I am to blame of the whole plan going south—the exchange, the rescue mission, the ultimate showdown, everything.

The walk to Missouri's place wasn't a long one. I didn't have exact directions, I just sort of new where I needed to go, like an internal GPS. In no time at all did I see the familiar building.

When I first walked in, I was in the waiting area where I first met Missouri. Her being nice to a client, telling him that his wife was loyal when she was actually shagging the gardener because he didn't want the truth, he just wanted to hear what he actually wanted.

It was also the first time I met someone who was willing to put Uncle Dean in his place.

"Now, Liz Winchester, you better get your butt in here and give me a hug, right now," the familiar southern drawl floated in from the office. I smiled as I stepped inside. Missouri was sitting on the couch underneath the window, sipping on a cup of tea. She set the cup down and stood up. I was so happy to see her again.

I rushed over and gave her a hug. I didn't mean to squeeze so tight, but I was just so happy to see her. Actually seeing her was better than hearing her voice on the phone. I could feel her. She felt trustworthy—she felt sane…which is something I really needed right now.

"Come child, sit down," Missouri said, guiding me over to the couch. That when I noticed a tea cup resting next to an old fashioned tea kettle. She poured me some tea as I sat down. "It's chamomile, it should help make you feel better."

I cautiously took a sip. I couldn't taste anything because the scalding liquid immediately burnt my tongue. Missouri settled in next to me, her tea cup left to cool.

"Now, I suggest you start talking," Missouri said. She didn't need to add an or else and I threat. It was implied and you didn't want to find out if he didn't obey her command.

With a sigh, I set my tea cup down—mainly because it was burning my hands. Watching my feet like they were some sort of interesting painting in a museum, I explained to Missouri everything that happened, everything I felt over the past few weeks. It all came out in weird snip-bits of information as if my mouth just decided to puke out random facts. However, it seemed that Missouri knew what I was talking about. She probably didn't even need me to talk, but it was probably more to benefit me in some weird, psychiatric way.

"I was struggling," I said, finally getting to the part about the Colt and the ultimate fight with yellow-eyes, "I focused on the Colt in hopes that…that…I dunno, that I might be able to kill the bastard. But, once I got it—I mean, I actually got it using telekinesis—I couldn't shoot the damn thing. I just stood there like a friggin' deer in headlights."

"No one can blame you," Missouri said, finally saying something. For the last half-hour or so, it's just me and my nonstop chatter. "The demon possessed your granddaddy. No one would expect you to be able to kill, let alone kill your own grandfather."

"But he said that afterward that if it wasn't for me that I he…he wouldn't have to…."

This was the first time I was actually talking about it. No longer was I some weak little girl acting like a stoic knight. I was a weak little girl and I was showing it and all its glory to Missouri. Maybe that stupid nightmare I have every time I seem to fall asleep was right: I am pathetic.

"Liz, what are you—"

My phone began to ring. I answered it with a quick, "Hello."

"Liz, where the hell are you?"

Dad's voice rang through the phone, his voice a mixture of relief and fury. I don't think he appreciated the note I simply left him. Well, if he and Uncle Dean hadn't left their phones in the car or let them die….

"I'm with Missouri, like the note said," I simply stated, trying (and failing) to keep my previous emotions from invading my voice.

"You can't just disappear on us," Dad said, "not after…" He didn't need to finish that statement. We both know what he was talking about.

"Okay, fine. I'll just—" Missouri motioned for me to hand over the phone. "Hold on, Missouri wants to talk to you." I gingerly place the phone in her hands.

Before she spoke into the phone, she pointed towards the threshold. "Through the kitchen I have some muffins on the counter. Go help yourself."

I took that as a hint that she was going to say something that she didn't want me to hear. This was a parental strategy used since the dawn of man. Any way to protect the innocence of youth. Too bad I don't have much innocence left to lose.

As I walked back with the platter of muffins in my hands, Missouri slammed my phone shut. "I persuaded him that you and I needed some girl time to talk about…girly stuff. He folded like a bad hand in poker."

I sat down on the couch, placing the tray of muffins down on the table in front of us. "Now, Liz," she said, her voice growing serious, "what were you saying about John…?"

My stomach clenched in fear. "I just…he said that he wouldn't have to do this if I hadn't just killed him. He traded his life and the Colt for Dean's life." I put my head to my hands and hunch over my lap in hopes to calm my nausea.

Missouri was silent. I didn't dare look up. As she put a tentative hand on my shoulders, she said, "Liz…he didn't just give up his life…he sold his soul."

For as many times as I have run into death during the short time I have been on this earth, I never really understood what happened when someone dies. I've seen ghosts, poltergeists, and Uncle Dean's weird out-of-body experience that he doesn't remember happening. But, as far as where your soul left after officially leaving the living plane, I had no idea. I have a feeling that selling a soul is not a good thing.

"Meaning?" I asked in clarification.

"Meaning that his soul was dragged to hell."

I wish I hadn't.