Credit for Rain goes to Rouge.

Dakota Jenkins was waiting in the foyer of the Hurts home when we arrived. Dean flashed his badge at an officer patrolling the police tape. The skinny, youthful cop nodded, lifted the yellow border, and allowed us to pass.

"Detective Ford, Norman," Dakota nodded, his face solemn. Beside him a pregnant woman stood, silently weeping as she rubbed her swollen stomach. On the stairs behind her sat a tiny girl. She was numbly staring forward, her eyes red and puffy. I felt my stomach clenching as my heart bled for them.

"Detectives, this is Amanda Hurts, Billy's wife, and their daughter, Rain," Dakota motioned. "Ladies, these guys are from the FBI. They're here to find the monster that did this. Now, can you tell them what you told me."

Amanda's eyes slowly trailed up from the floor. She glanced briefly at Dean, then me, before settling her gaze on the wall. "Bill, Rain, and I were upstairs. W-we were putting the baby's crib together and Bill went downstairs t-to get a different wrench but h-he was taking too long so I…so I sent Rain to get him-oh God."

The carrying woman broke off into muffled cries, clutching her hands to her stomach. She leaned against the banister of the staircase, her daughter bolting up to stand beside her. The young girl's lips quivered, "Mom, I'm so sorry; I'm so sorry."

"What do you have to be sorry for?" Dean asked. Rain looked at him with sad, wide eyes, "It's my fault."

"Care to elaborate?" I questioned. Amanda sniffled before swatting her daughter's arm, "That is enough, Rain! You didn't do-"

"You don't understand, mom! If I had just sent the email then dad would still be alive! It is my fault; dad is dead and it's all my fault!" Rain shrieked, tears finally spilling over in her eyes. They streaked pitifully down her face pooling on the collar of her purple shirt. With a whimper, she collapsed on the stairs, smashing her face into her knees. Her mother peered down at Rain, pain etched across her face.

Jenkins, Dean, and I shared knowing looks. Dean took a small step forward, kneeling before Rain. "Sweetheart, I'm going to need you to show me that email."

To:

From:

Cc:

Subject: Forward:to ; ; ; ; 2legit2quit!.com; animefreak2…

Text:

Four years ago a little boy named Adam McDonald was drowned by his toy clown while his father watched. Three months later a girl got forwarded this email and thought it was just a joke, so she deleted it. That morning at three am, the toy clown appeared at the foot of her bed and cut her to bits with a rusty knife, drowning her in her own blood. If you don't want the clown to come after you, pass this on to at least ten people. But beware, if you don't forward this, expect a visit from him soon.

To see that attachment click here.

"What's the attachment?" I asked, reading the email over Dean's shoulder. He moved the mouse, then clicked. Abruptly, a picture of the clown from Stephen King's IT popped up and laughing flooded the computer's speakers. I cringed, pulled back.

Dean growled, "I'm really starting to hate clowns."

"This is ludicrous," Amanda snapped. "My husband's murder had nothing to do with an email!"

"We know, ma'am," Jenkins murmured. "We're just covering the bases. Please, why don't you go with officer Hainey and he'll take you and Rain to your sister's, alright?"

With a few choice words, Amanda snatched up her daughter and did as Dakota suggested.

Dean stared at the computer screen, his brow furrowed. He cupped his chin in his hands. Sighing, he mumbled, "You think this has anything to do with the murders?"

"I think it's worth checking out…with no leads at the library and now this, maybe we jumped to the deva conclusion a little too early," I replied. Turning from the computer desk in the Hurts' family office, I stepped into the hall and allowed my eyes to survey the seen before me. Just three feet away, in the entrance of the dining room, William Hurts was scattered across the wooden floor.

Blood pooled around the massacred body. The crimson liquid shimmered in the low lights of the kitchen and the flashes of the CSU techie's camera. My lips dipped into a frown and I felt myself pale. A familiar presence was suddenly all around me. I faced Dean. He gazed over my shoulder at the mess then met my eyes. "Don't let it get to you," was all he said before leading Dakota and I out of the house.

The snarky Winchester and I soon returned to the shady motel. We were waist deep in research when Dean scoffed, "Well I be damned."

"Been there, done that, remember?"

"Someone's a smartass," he scoffed. Dean pulled the laptop he'd borrowed from Dakota off the table and waltzed over to where I sat on the bed. "Check this out."

"Neither Logan nor Carter got the chain letter about the kid but, Logan's girlfriend did and so did Carter's nephew."

"I take it they both deleted them…?"

"Damn straight."

"So what, you get the email and if you don't forward it a family member dies? Rain's dad, Carter's uncle, Kai's fiancé?"

Dean nodded, "Looks like it, but is there any truth to it?"

"Well," I sat up, pulling open my notebook. "I had one of Dakota's men look into any child drownings in Portland going back the last ten years. There were four incidents. Three girls, one boys. Roughly a year ago a kid named Avery McIntosh drowned while his father went inside to get a drink. The report said nothing about clowns but the one-year anniversary of Avery's death corresponds with the first killing."

"Coincidence, maybe?"

"Coincidence? What's that?"

Dean gave a laugh and closed the laptop. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, I'll go check into Avery's death. See if his daddy's still kickin'. Maybe he knows something. Stay here and don't…I don't know, don't check your email."

I waited until Dean left to slip out of my jeans and into something more comfortable. For a while I paced the room, going over everything I knew about the case. Briefly, I wished I was more like Sam and could actually help Dean with the hunt. All the self-pity and worry caused me to develop a migraine. Popping some Excedrin, I snuggled down onto the bed and shut my eyes tight.

Almost instantly slumber overtook me. Visions of Sam fighting with other hunters flickered behind my shut lids. The images passed quickly and I saw Sam arguing with Jessica. Then, Jess wasn't Jessica anymore. She was some man. I strained to hear what was being said but the scene changed too soon-only this time Sammy was nowhere to be seen. Dean was milling through a cemetery, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. I watched as he searched for a grave.

Once more the dream shifted and shook. Tiny glimpses and sound bites here and there passed. Even in the dream state the vagueness of my visions irritated me. I struggled to gain control over what I was seeing. Futilely I attempted to see what I wanted-to see how this specific hunt would turn out. To my chagrin, unfortunately, I did not and I slipped into a dreamless sleep.

When Dean returned hours later I was still dozed off, my body curled around one of the smelly, old motel pillows. He gently nudged me awake, "Hey, princess, rise and shine."

I gave a disoriented groan.

"Loriii, wake up. I talked to the kid's dad." The rickety bed shook as Dean kicked the mattress. Mumbling a disgruntled curse I opened my eyes only to narrow them at the dirty-blonde hunter. I grumbled to myself as I propped up on my elbow, snapping, "And?"

"And he gave me the exact same story from the report. Swimming with his son one Saturday afternoon, goes inside to get a beer, hears poor, ole Avery screaming for help, and when he comes out the kid's dead. According to his father, Avery was not cremated, he's buried…with his favorite toy."

"Let me guess," I murmured. "A clown."

"Bingo."

"Awesome. That makes me super happy. So we were wrong, it isn't a deva but a vengeful spirit."

Dean nodded. Crossing the room, he began tossing bags of salt and containers of lighter fluid into his duffle bag. A wave of déjà vu hit me. As he continued to gather things for a typical salt-and-burn Dean spoke, "I called Jenkins on the way over. Avery's buried in-"

"Park Hill Cemetery," I cut him off.

"Yeah, how'd you kn-oh, right. God, that's freaky."

"Get used to it, Winchester."

"Alright, let's go take care of Bozo the Serial Killer," Dean gave a cheeky grin. Slipping off the bed, a sleepy yawn escaped my lips. I reached for my discarded jeans. I told Dean to wait while I changed and glided into the bathroom. Just as I finished buttoning the denim pants, a harsh knock rippled on the door.

"Change of plans," Dean's deep voice radiated through the door. "Jenkins just called. His daughter-" I opened the door, startling Dean. "His daughter got the email-" I groaned, knowing full well what he was about to say. "And she deleted it."

"Shit, okay, let's go."

"Dakota!" Dean screamed as we took the front steps of the farmhouse two at a time. The eldest Winchester shouted the officer's name once more, now pounding on the door. Suddenly, the door swung open and Callisto ushered us in.

"Have you seen it yet?" Dean demanded.

"No," Callisto muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. The pissy teen jeered our way. "How in the hell was I supposed to know the chain letter was real? It's a fucking chain letter!"

"We know," I told her. Dakota appeared in the doorway and Dean gave him a once over, "You good?"

"So far," the gruffy man replied. Callisto looked at her father and a sullen expression dawned her features. Sensing her guilt, Dakota slung an arm around her shoulders and gave a loving squeeze. "Everything's gonna be alright, Callie."

"Right, we need to get you two locked up nice and tight. You got any salt?" Dean took charge then. We gathered in the living room where a giant salt-circle had been made. Dean gave Dakota and I each a shotgun loaded with salt-rounds. He paused as I lifted the weapon, examining it.

Raising a quizzical brow, he scoffed, "Please tell me you know how to shoot."

"Point and fire," I shrugged. "Yes, Dean, I know how to work a shotgun. It's just like a bee-bee gun, right?"

"Yeah, sure, you know, just deadlier."

Once the fort was secure, Dean hoisted the duffle bag off the couch and cleared his throat, "You three stay here. I'm going to go take care of the creepy little bastard. Do not, I repeat, do not step out of that circle, am I clear?"

"Yes, master," Callisto quipped sarcastically. I glanced at the teen just in time to see her eyes roll.

I gave a snort. "It'll be fine, Dean, just hurry, okay?"

He nodded and turned, heading out. Just as he reached the door, he pivoted. Concerned eyes met fearful ones. The rugged hunter squared his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was low, barely audible, "Be careful, Lori. If you get ganked, Cas'll kill me."

"Well that was sweet," Callisto sneered. "Your boyfriend's a real charmer."

"He isn't my-" I spun on my heels to snap at the youth but a sudden jingle halted my words. Like the tinkling of a tiny bell, a soft ringing rang out. A draft blew through the room and I felt the hairs on my skin stand tall. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When my eyes reopened there was a small clown standing where Dean had been only seconds before.

The evil S.O.B stood no more than two or three feet tall. It's white face held a large red grin spanning from cheek to cheek. Its eyes were black, rimmed in a harsh brown. It wore a frayed yellow jumper with blue and white polka dots splattered on the pants legs. The clown took two steps forward. I raised the gun with a quivering grip. Another step and it disappeared.

"Where did it go?" Dakota asked.

I shook my head but didn't lower the shotgun. "I don't know. Stay sharp. Look around."

Suddenly, the clown appeared on the edge of the salt-circle, just a foot away. I gave a shrill scream and jumped back. I continued backing up and pulled the trigger. The backlash of the shot shook my arms and locked several of my muscles. I gave a foul curse as the ghost vanished once more. Either out of fear or habit I took another step back.

"Everybody okay?" I asked. Dakota confirmed and Callisto clung to her father wordlessly.

"Where is it?" the girl asked, eyes darting all around the room. All of a sudden, Callisto shrieked, "There!"

Spinning, we saw the clown standing in front of the couch. Dakota shot. It reappeared on the other side of the circle. Again, Dakota shot. It reappeared at the door. I shot. With each gunshot, the three of us backed up, retreating away from the clown until we reached the very edge of the circle.

The clown had just reappeared when Callisto tripped and fell out of the circle.

"Callie!" Dakota screamed, dropping his gun and lunging for his daughter. He shoved her back in the circle when the clown popped up to his left. Suddenly Dakota was flung across the room.

"Daddy!" the teenager yelled. Pulling a round out of my pocket I attempted to reload the shotgun but couldn't remember how. A frustrated groan sounded from my mouth. Tossing the firearm to the floor, I stepped out of the circle and shouted.

"Hey! Hey, Bozo!" My screams did nothing to distract the clown as it began to cut Dakota with its tiny, plastic hands. Callisto's shrill cries contrasted against her father's painful grunts. In panic, I began searching the room for something, anything iron. My eyes landed on the fireplace.

Dashing over, I snatched up a fire-poker. "Of course."

I ran to Dakota's side and swung like Babe Ruth. The iron rod swept through the clown's body, dissolving it with a swoosh. I grasped Dakota's bleeding arm and helped him climb to his feet. We ran for the circle when a painful lurch attacked my stomach. Seconds later my back made contact with the living room wall.

I fell into a painful heap on the floor, watching as Dakota was dragged back across the floor, clawing and kicking his way towards the circle.

"Callisto!" I snapped, pushing myself upright. "Get a fire-poker! Toss it to your father, hurry!"

The girl did as I instructed before scampering back to the circle. Dakota reached for the poker, which laid a mere inch or two away, but before he could grasp it, the clown gave a piercing cry and vanished in a blaze of crisp smoke and orange flame.

All was still as we shared scared glances. Then, a familiar tune hit the air. I retrieved my phone from the pocket of my jeans. "Yeah?"

"You guys kosher?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, we're super." Closing the phone, I dropped to the floor and gathered my breath, fighting back terrified tears.

I believe this is the part where I babble on and on about how sorry I am and how ridiculously long it's been since I updated, but really, what's the point in that? Point is, I'm back in action and Ramble On shall henceforth kick ass once more!

Review or die. But not really.