Dean was flicking through Dad's journal for the umpteenth time, sat at the table at some shady motel, yet another in the string of poorly decorated but otherwise unremarkable motels we'd always stayed in when we weren't with Bobby, or Pastor Jim.

"Well, what about Caleb?" Sammy asked me as he paced the room, irritably fiddling with his phone.

"Yep." I was reclining on the bed, favouring my left shoulder, which still had hardly healed after nearly two weeks. I idly examined a crack in the yellowed plaster over my head. We were still searching for Dad, but I'd been wracking my brains for so long trying to come up with something we'd not tried yet, that they were beginning to feel like mush.

"Well, what'd he say?" Dean asked from his seat.

"Same as Jefferson, Pastor Jim and all the rest, if they hear from him they'll let Bobby know." I replied, wincing as I pulled myself into a seated position. "Bobby hadn't heard anything when I called a couple of days ago, but if you wanna look desperate, Sam, go ahead and call again." Sam gave me what Dean and I fondly refer to as bitchface #14 and turned to Dean.

"What about the journal? Any leads in there?"

"No, same as last time I looked. Nothing I can make out..." He laughed a little, still focused on the pages he was slowly leafing through, "I love the guy, but I swear, he writes like friggin' Yoda."

Sam sat next to me on the bed with a sort of a 'hmmpf' noise through his nose. "You know, maybe we should call the Feds. File a missing person's."

"We've talked about this. Dad'd be pissed if we put the Feds on his tail."

"I don't care anymore." Sam replied, as Dean took his feet off the chair in front of him and crossed the room to search for the mobile that had started ringing from somewhere in the jacket that was tossed on the other bed. "After all that happened back in Kansas, I mean...he should've been there, Dean. You said so yourself. You tried to call him and...nothing."

"I know!" Dean moved to rummaging through his duffel, "Where the hell is my cellphone?"

"You know, he could be dead for all we know!"

"Shut up, Sam!" Don't say that. You can't say that.

"Don't say that! He's not dead! He's – he's..." Dean's answer wasn't much softer than mine and he waved an arm, clearly trying to come up with an answer for what Dad could possibly be doing.

"He's what? He's hiding? He's busy?" Sam continued despite our protests.

"Sam, shut up!" I was starting to get so pissed off with his pessimism, that was my Dad too that he was saying that about, and I desperately needed Sam to be wrong, I needed Dad to be okay. "I've put out a hunter's APB, we'll find him!"

Sam turned to face me directly and I steeled myself for one of Sam's famous shouting matches with someone just as stubborn as he is, when we were both distracted by Dean's quiet voice, staring at the mobile in his hand. "Huh. I don't believe it."

"What?"

"It's, uh...It's a text message. It's coordinates."

My heart leapt at his words and I scurried across the room to the laptop. Co-ordinates could only be from Dad, which meant that he was okay. It also meant that he had another job for us, which meant that Sam would be pissed. But the important thing was that Dad was okay, and we'd have ended up working a job once we'd found one anyway, all his text had done was reassure us that he was okay and prevent us from enjoying any downtime between jobs.

"You think Dad was texting us?" Sam questioned.

"He's given us coordinates before." Dean said to him while leaning over my shoulder, holding the phone out so that I could see the screen to copy down the co-ordinates.

"The man can barely work a toaster, Dean." Sam pointed out, irritably.

"Sam, it's good news! It means he's okay, or alive at least." Dean straightened, pocketing the phone.

"Well, was there a number on the caller ID?"

"Nah, it said 'unknown'." Dean admitted as I searched local papers for anything that sounded like our kind of thing.

"Well, where do the coordinates point?"

"That's the interesting part." I told them, "Rockford, Illinois."

"Ok, and that's interesting how?" Sam bitched.

"I checked the local Rockford paper. Take a look at this." I handed the laptop to Dean and he angled it so Sam could read over his shoulder as I summarised the article for them. "This cop, Walter Kelly, comes home from his shift, shoots his wife, then puts the gun in his mouth, blows his brains out. And earlier that night, Kelly and his partner responded to a call at the Roosevelt Asylum."

"Okay, I'm not following. What has this have to do with us?"

"Dad earmarked the same asylum in the journal. Let's see..." Dean handed the laptop back to me and grabbed the journal off the table, flicking through to find the right page. "Here. Seven unconfirmed sightings, two deaths – till last week at least. I think this is where he wants us to go."

Sam snorted, "This is a job... Dad wants us to work a job."

"Well, maybe we'll meet up with him? Maybe he's there?" Dean replied optimistically.

"Maybe he's not? I mean, he could be sending us there, by ourselves, to hunt this thing." Sam argued as I started looking up how long it would take to drive.

"Who cares! If he wants us there, it's good enough for me!"

"This doesn't strike you as weird? The texting? The coordinates?"

"Coming from Dad?" I pointed out, "Perfectly normal."

"Sam! Dad's tellin' us to go somewhere, we're goin'."

"It's about a day's drive." I shut the laptop and turned to my arguing brothers, "How about we get a good night's sleep and start out in the morning?"

Sam looked at the two of us, clearly recognising that he was outnumbered and sighed in defeat. "Fine. I get first shower."


I sat in the car outside 'The Old Terminal Pub', waiting for Sam and Dean to finish talking to Kelly's partner. We'd followed him here from the police station, recognising him from photos on Kelly's online profile. People have such relaxed security settings online; you can find anything about anyone these days.

I was using Sam's laptop, and it's miraculous WiFi, to dig a little into the history of the asylum when I was joined by a rather disgruntled Dean.

"What happened?"

"I was pretending to be a journalist wanting the story. The guy didn't want to talk so Sam shoved me out of the chair and pushed me across the room, tellin' me I should have more respect."

I snorted; I wish I could have seen Dean's face when that happened.

"He'd better get a decent story out of the guy, that's all I'm sayin'." Dean finished grumpily, slouching in his seat and sending a glare in the direction of the pub.

I reached across and patted him on the head, pulling the pain from his hip where he'd apparently collided with something. "There, there, mean old Sammy didn't mean to hurt your feelings." I told him in a disinterested tone, still staring at the computer screen in front of me.

"Ge' off." He pushed my hand away, and followed to tickle at my side; bastard knows all my weak spots. I squeaked and twisted away before gasping and reaching up to grip at my shoulder where my sudden movement had pulled at the stab wound. "Shit! Sorry, Ali. You okay?"

I gave him a tight smile, trying to get my breathing back under control and leaned into his side, accepting the hug he offered. We sat like that, both reading the old newspaper articles I'd found about the asylum until Sam walked out of the bar.

"Shoved me kinda hard in there, buddy boy." Dean greeted him as he opened the back door of the Impala.

"I had to sell it, didn't I? It's method acting."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"He means that he's mad about Dad and is taking it out on you." I supplied, somewhat unhelpfully. They both stopped, looking at me with exasperation. "What? Am I wrong?"

"What'd you find out from Gunderson?" Dean asked, choosing to ignore my input.

"So, Walter Kelly was a good cop. Head of his class, even-keeled, he had a bright future ahead of him."

"What about at home?"

"He and his wife had a few fights, like everybody, but he was mostly smooth sailing. They were even talking about having kids."

"Alright," Dean concluded, "so either Kelly had some deep-seated crazy waiting to bust out, or something else did it to him."

"What'd Gunderson tell you about the asylum?" I asked, wondering if there would be anything whispered among the locals that simply didn't make it to the Internet.

Sam snorted, giving us a smug grin, "A lot."


We found and checked into a motel to continue researching and to exchange what information we'd found so far. According to the cop Sam had spoken to, they'd followed some local kids into the South Wing. Gunderson had found the kids and escorted them out, given them a lecture and sent them home. There were plenty of local stories about the place being haunted and how staying overnight would send someone insane, loads of accounts of sightings and strange noises. Kids breaking in on a dare or whatever wasn't unusual and the night had been fairly routine for the two cops. They'd split up inside to search for the kids and had met up outside after the kids had left, and then they'd finished their shift and gone home. Where Kelly had shot and killed his wife and himself.

I'd taken a seat at the table, plugged the laptop in to charge and continued my research on the asylum. Dean, who was leaning over my shoulder to read the laptop screen, gave a low whistle, "Man. Electro-shock. Lobotomies. They did some twisted stuff to these people. Kinda like my man Jack in Cuckoo's Nest." He twisted his head around to grin maniacally at Sam, who ignored him. Dean's smile dropped and he straightened, turning to face our surly younger brother. "So. Whaddaya think? Ghosts possessing people?"

"Maybe." Sam murmured. "Or maybe it's more like Amityville, or the Smurl hunting."

"Spirits driving them insane. Kinda like my man Jack in The Shining." Dean gave the maniacal grin another try.

"Dean." We both focused on Sam, Dean cutting out the shenanigans. "When are we going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"About the fact Dad's not here."

"Oh. I see. How 'bout...never."

"I'm being serious, man." Sam stood from the bed, "He sent us here-"

"So am I, Sam." Dean cut him off. "Look, he sent us here, he obviously wants us here. We'll pick up the search later."

"It doesn't matter what he wants."

"See. That attitude? Right there?" Dean pointed a finger at Sam, "That is why I always get the extra cookie."

I snorted, and Sam gave Dean a bitchface before continuing, "Dad could be in trouble, we should be looking for him. We deserve some answers, Dean. I mean, this is our family we're talking about."

"I understand that, Sam, but he's given us an order."

"So what, we gotta always follow Dad's orders?"

"Of course we do, Sam. Because Dad might be a pretty crappy dad, but he's an excellent commander; so if he gives us an order, we follow it." I held eye contact until Sam looked away, bitchface in full force, but no longer voicing his frustrations.


The next morning we headed over to the asylum to check it out. It was an imposing building, multi-storied with large, paned glass windows, barred and boarded up at the lower levels, and 'keep out' signs everywhere. The sign on the chain link fence stated that the building was condemned and unsafe to enter.

The boys jumped the fence anyway.

"I'll just wait here then." With the injury to my shoulder I wouldn't be able to climb the fence.

My brothers smirked at me, Dean gave a jaunty little wave and they disappeared into the building. I sighed, shaking my head and returning to the car.

There wasn't much more history to look into on the asylum. It was built in 1875 to ease overcrowding in other mental health facilities, and named for Dr Henry Roosevelt, who played an important role in establishing the facility. The North and South wings were added to the original building in the 1900's, and the South wing was high security, used to house the criminally insane.

In 1964 the patients in the South Wing rioted, deaths included both patients and staff and the asylum was subsequently closed and the remaining patients moved to other facilities. I'd researched and found lists of people who'd died or simply never been found after the riot. Some were presumed dead, but the bodies had never been recovered; the patients must have stuffed the bodies someplace hidden.

A bunch of violent deaths and unrecovered bodies, of people who were quite possibly criminally insane even before they died. Death seems to send most ghosts a bit cuckoo. This would be even more dangerous than most of the other ghosts we'd dealt with in the past.

Then in 1972 three teenagers broke into the South Wing and only one survived. This was the old newspaper article which had made its way into Dad's journal. The way the survivor told it, one of his friends went nuts and started lighting up the place.

Salt rounds in the shot guns, and iron knives would be the order of the day, while trying to find the bodies the police were unable to and then salt and burn them. Simple. Except for the homicidal ghosts.

The boys weren't gone long, only about twenty minutes before they were climbing back over the fence like they were part monkey. If Darwin had been able to present those two climbing fences as evidence that man was descended from ape, no one would have doubted him.

"No one home." Dean announced, unlocking the car I'd been standing against and shivering for the whole time they'd been gone. "Looks like we're gonna have to come back after dark if we wanna see any action."

"Given we're probably dealing with the ghosts of homicidal maniacs," I pointed out, "maybe we should be searching for the bodies during the day?"

"If the police couldn't find the bodies, we won't be able to." Sam argued, settling into the passenger seat. "Perhaps the ghosts will give some indication where we should be looking."

"'Casper the friendly ghost' actually being friendly?" Dean snorted. "That'd be a first."


Over dinner we discussed Sanford Ellicott, who had been chief of staff and whose body was one of those never recovered. We discussed the possibility that since he'd been in charge of basically torturing the patients, his spirit may be a central figure in the haunting of the asylum today. Most of the other spirits would probably hold a grudge, and it was very likely that he'd been murdered by some of his previous patients during the riot.

We also discussed the possibility of me coming along. Sam suggested that if I could get over the fence without assistance I could come. Dean must have recognised the look of determination on my face, because he quickly put a stop to that, telling me that injured people have no business hunting anything.

We argued for a while, I don't like them going off into danger when I can't keep an eye on them and make sure they're safe, but in the end I knew Dean was right. My arm would hold me back, make me a liability in a fight, and looking after me would mean that the boys would be more likely to get hurt.

I reluctantly agreed to sit this one out, in the car, as close as I could get. Just in case anything happened.


Night fell and the boys took the duffel I'd packed with shotguns and rock salt rounds, an iron crowbar, a pack or two of salt, a tin of kerosene and a lighter and a book of matches. What can I say? I like to be prepared.

The boys climbed the fence and I tossed the bag over to them, the video camera Sam wanted was shoved through a hole in the fence. They assured me that they'd be careful and then disappeared into the dark asylum. I retreated to the car, sitting in the comfort and warmth, I'd give them until dawn, then if they weren't back I would go in after them, stab wound or no. For now I watched the lights occasionally flicker through the windows of the South Wing as they moved through the building.

After half an hour the last of the warmth had faded from the car. I pulled a spare jacket from the boot and walked south, along the outside of the building, hugging myself in the cold night air and straining my ears to hear anything that might be happening inside the old building. The torchlight had still been on the ground floor the last time I'd seen a glimmer, and it didn't take long to catch up with the boys.

I could hear the sound of a girl screaming; Sam, Dean and another male voice I didn't recognise shouting. The girl, Kat, had apparently been separated, "locked inside" by a ghost, I listened carefully as Sam told her to face the ghost; that they wanted to communicate, not to hurt her. Then all was quiet for a moment and I pressed as close to the fence as I could, trying desperately to hear what was happening.

"It whispered in my ear, 137." They were speaking normal volume now, and the ground floor was elevated quite a bit above the ground just here, the voices only barely reaching me.

"Room number." That sounded like both boys speaking at once, but I was unable to make out the words any more after that.

Torchlight flashed in windows again shortly after, going in two separate directions. I though it likely that my brothers would have split up, one guiding the civilians to safety, the other looking for room 137. And if I knew Dean, then he'd have sent Sam on the safer task, guiding the civilians out. I followed the light that was moving further into the building. It rose one floor and moved back along the corridor above before there was a scrapping noise and the light entered a room close above the main entrance. The light flashed through the broken window.

In the corridor below, the light had come to a stop, flashing around for some time in the same location. I watched through the barred windows, listening to the quiet murmur of voices, but unable to distinguish the words.

In contrast, the broken window of the room Dean was apparently searching allowed me to hear quite clearly the sounds of him moving around the room, opening and closing filing cabinets and then a sort of wooden cracking sound before Dean's smug voice stated, "This is why I get paid the big bucks."

I raised an eyebrow; no one pays us anything to do this, but I held my tongue, not wanting to startle my brother. There was the sound of a book dropping to a table top, then the scrape of a chair being pulled up and the sound of pages turning before Dean spoke again. "Well, all work and no play makes Dr Ellicott a very dull boy."

The light in the corridor below started moving again, searching no doubt for a way out, it moved through the corridor, shining out of each and every window that it passed. There were very few ways out of the building, I guess fire exits weren't so important to architects in the 19th century, and this building had been designed to keep people in. I shadowed the light as it moved, looking for doors, or even escapable windows on the outside of the building, but there was nothing.

Sam's light returned to where it had stopped before and I heard voices again, though I couldn't make out the words, then Sam's phone rang. He spoke quickly and then the light departed again. The silence in the room above was broken as Dean stood, the light swung around the room again and departed, moving back along the corridor the way he'd come. I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialling Sam's number.

It rang through to the voice mail, though I hadn't heard the phone ringing inside the building. I tried Dean, same result. Something was blocking my calls.

Sam's light disappeared through a doorway, I got a glimpse of it through a window that was level with the ground and then it moved out of sight. Sam was in the basement, all alone, for I could still hear voices in the darkness where Sam had left them, and Dean's light was descending the staircase at the far end of the South Wing.

I weighed my options, my brothers were almost certainly in trouble, and I had no way of contacting them. I could struggle my way over the fence, but if the civilians couldn't get out, then the chances that I'd be able to get in were slim. I could try shouting, but my hearing was superior to a human's and I could only just hear them shouting inside, the chances that they'd be able to hear me shout were pretty low. Dean might have heard me if he was still in the room with the broken window, but that opportunity had passed and wasn't likely to reoccur.

In summary, I was utterly useless. There was nothing I could do to assist my brothers at this point; I could only watch as Dean's light approached the spot in the darkness where voices could still just be heard. A shot rang out, followed by voices.

"Damn it, damn it, don't shoot! It's me!"

"Sorry! Sorry." The girl's voice replied, after that the voices sunk back in volume and I couldn't make out the words any more.

Then Dean's light followed Sam's, descending into the basement and out of my sight.

Silence followed, tense and awful; broken occasionally by some creature in the woods behind me, far behind me, even the animals knew to avoid this place. It really makes you wonder how humans as a species have survived. Animals know to stay away from the ghosts, but humans dare each other to spend a night with them; how are they not all dead yet?

A gunshot echoed faintly from the building in front of me and I tensed; my muscles prepared for fight or flight despite there being nothing I could do.

There was more silence, and more, and more, until finally the lights reappeared in the little basement window and steadily climbed the stairs back to the ground floor. I followed them along the corridor until they paused and announced their presence before rounding the corner to join the two civilians.

The lights moved no further, I waited for a few moments, but when the lights had held steady for some time, as if the people holding them weren't moving at all, I gave Dean's phone another try.

It rang, and this time I could hear the ringing from inside the building. The light didn't move, but Dean answered his phone.

"Ali?"

"Dean! Are you okay? And Sam? What happened? I heard a gunshot. Is it over? Why aren't you coming outside?"

"Woah, hold up there." He laughed, "One question at a time. We found Ellicott and… dealt with him, but the doors are still locked, anything you can do about finding us another way out?"

"I can't see anything from out here, not unless you fancy jumping out of an upstairs window." I told him, casting my eyes over the building again, and not seeing any door magically appearing, nor the bars disappearing from the windows.

"Any idea why the doors are locked?" Sam's voice asked over the phone.

"It might be the expectations of the rest of the ghosts." I told them, "They're used to there being no way out, so while they're up and about, there is no way out. If it's still sealed at dawn I'll come bust you out."

"Awesome." Dean's slightly petulant tone made me smile.

"Since we seem to have some time on our hands, wanna back brief me? I can start writing the report." By which I meant, tell me what happened and I'll write it in the journal, but if I'm on speaker and the civilians are listening in, it's better to sound professional, it gives them more faith in us.

"The riot in '64, the patients were rioting against Dr Ellicott. I found his log book. Apparently he was experimenting on his patients, awful stuff. Makes lobotomies look like a coupla aspirin. Dr Feelgood was working on some sort of, like, extreme rage therapy. He thought that if he could get his patients to vent their anger then they would be cured of it. Instead it only made them worse and worse and angrier and angrier."

"So, his spirit was doing the same thing? To the cop? To the kids in the seventies, making them so angry they become homicidal?" I filled in as Dean paused for breath.

"Yeah, to Sammy here too."

"What?!"

"I'm fine. Now."

"The log book said he had a hidden procedure room down in the basement where he'd work on his patients." Dean continued, though I'd be giving Sam a thorough check once he was close enough. "Sam got a phone call, supposedly from me, which lured him down to the basement, and Ellicott did a little experimenting on him. When I went after him I found weird Sam who said a bunch of stuff and shot me-"

"Are you okay"

"I'll be fine, it was just rock salt." I bet it stung like a bitch though, I wish I was close enough to comfort my brother. "So, I knocked him out and found Ellicott. Sam was normal when he woke up."

"Is Sam okay?" Dean's got one hell of a right hook; Sam must be feeling pretty sorry for himself right now.

"I'll be fine, Ali."

We chatted for a while longer until Dean's phone battery started to die, and then we hung up and I retreated to the car until daybreak.


With dawn came freedom and the boys were finally able to join me outside the asylum.

We sent the two civilians on their way, with a caution to stay away from haunted places in future and turned to the Impala, our thoughts turning to the motel and warm beds.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam called quietly, pausing before getting into the car. Dean turned to look at him. "I'm sorry, man. I said some awful things back there."

"You remember all that?"

"Yeah. It's like I couldn't control it. But I didn't mean it, any of it."

"You didn't, huh?"

"What happened?"

Sam sighed, turning to me and shifting from foot to foot. "I said a whole bunch of hurtful things about Dad, and Dean, mostly Dean…" His voice faded to silence, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"But you didn't mean it, right?"

"No, of course not! Do we need to talk about this?"

"No." Dean opened his door and settled into the driver's seat. "I'm not really in the sharing and caring kinda mood. I just wanna get some sleep."

We made it back to our crappy motel room and Dean pretty much collapsed into bed. I joined him after seeing to Sam, whose jaw was probably going to bruise and who was still feeling guilt over whatever had been said while he was under Ellicott's influence.

I lay down next to Dean, allowing myself to be ensnared in a hug, Dean always cuddles in his sleep, pillows, me, even Sam if he gets too close, all are fair game while Dean's unconscious. Sam took his spot on the other bed and lay staring at the ceiling, the bitter tang of his guilt still hanging in the air.

"Do you want to talk about it, Sammy?" I kept my voice quiet so as not to disturb Dean.

"I called him pathetic." His voice was quiet in the darkened room, but filled with a sort of horrified disgust at his own words, "I blamed him for not finding Dad, I called him a "good little soldier" incapable of having his own thoughts."

"He's not mad at you, Sammy." I tried to reassure him, "You weren't exactly in control. Words spoken in anger very rarely ring true once the anger has passed, so you lashed out and the anger made you use words as weapons. Dean knows you didn't mean it, he knows you love him; you don't want to hurt him."

"I tried to kill him, Ali." His face scrunched up in distress, "He handed me his pistol and I pointed it at his face and pulled the trigger. It wasn't loaded, but I didn't know that."

"He's already forgiven you."

"But, Ali-"

"Sam. If anyone else had tried to kill him, I wouldn't have let them live to see the dawn. But it was you. Dean and I both know that you love him just as much as I do. We've both forgiven you. It's okay; you can forgive yourself."

Sam was silent after that, and I said no more. I had been truthful, Dean had forgiven the offence as soon as Sam had made it, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. The pain of what Sam had said, things I suspected Dean already thought about himself to some degree, would linger for some time, and I wouldn't be surprised if watching his baby brother point a gun at him and pull the trigger would give him nightmares. He claims he doesn't have nightmares, and for the most part it's true, but whenever Sam or I get hurt, whenever something threatens our family, Dean will be restless at night for weeks afterwards, tossing and turning, sometimes jerking awake, staring around the room to convince himself that everyone was okay, before he could return to slumber.

The room was quiet, Dean's breathing deep and regular in my ear, I was glad that, as much as getting shot had hurt, it hadn't done any real damage. The quiet was broken by the ringing of Dean's phone. Dean didn't move, his breathing remaining the same, so I reached for the phone on the bedside table, and hissed in pain as the movement pulled at the stitches in my shoulder.

Sam rolled over, picking up the phone and flipping it open before holding it to his ear. "Hello." His eyes went wide and he sat straight up in bed, "Dad?"


AN: In this episode, when Sam shot Dean with the rock salt, Dean was blasted backwards through the door to the secret lab; this is not true to physics. Momentum is mass multiplied by velocity squared, and while the shot would have a very high velocity, it's mass is very low, when it hits a person the much higher mass means that the velocity imparted to the body is negligible; being shot would not blast a body backwards. It's possible that Dean was sent through the door by his muscles reaction to the pain pushing him away from the source, but it wasn't the shot that pushed him. Similarly in every Hollywood film where that happens, they are ignoring the laws of physics.