As the pair walked back to their car, Dean looked over at his brother. "So they went to find ghosts and then the kid got himself killed by one."
"Yeah," replied Sam, "but I really doubt the little kids were what killed him."
"Good. Then we're on the same page," Dean responded. "Question is, what did it?"
Sam grew thoughtful, then answered, "You think…the driver, maybe?"
Dean considered it, then shook his head. "From what Kathy said, it sounded like he survived. But I don't know who else…." He got in the car and started it, looking pensive. "Wait a minute…."
Sam buckled his seatbelt. "What is it?" he asked.
"We're agreed that an adult's probably to blame for this, right?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah."
"And," Dean continued, "aside from the bus driver, what adult…?" He trailed off, and watched as understanding filled his brother's expression.
"The parents."
Dean pulled out of the Stantons' driveway and nodded. "That's my best guess. It's a place to start, anyway."
---
A few minutes later, Sam and Dean were once again at the library, determined to find out what they were up against. This time they were looking through old local papers, having reasoned that in order for the school bus accident to have gone from fact to urban legend it would have had to have been a very old story.
After a long while of painstaking searching, Sam called to Dean in a whisper, sounding triumphant. "Dean! Found it!"
Dean's head shot up and he turned to his brother excitedly. "Really? You see anything about the parents?"
"No," Sam said, frowning and shaking his head in frustration. "Doesn't even give us the kids' names. I think we're just gonna have to go out there and hope we know what we're up against."
Dean had gotten up and was scanning the paper over Sam's shoulder. "Hey," he said, "I've got an idea. The article may not tell us names, but I bet the obits do."
He was soon proven correct, and both eagerly scanned the next few issues of the paper for any of the children's last names. It wasn't long before they found what they were looking for.
"'Marianne Chisholm, mother of one of the students killed in the school bus accident last week, was found shot in her home Tuesday. Police say it was clearly a suicide due to the tragedy…,'" Dean read. He turned to Sam. "Yeah, this is it."
"But why would she kill a teenager decades after this all happened? It doesn't make any sense," Sam argued reasonably. "What, was he related to the bus driver or something?"
"No, it looks like she was pretty vocal trying to get the driver arrested, before she died. When he got off because the whole thing was an accident – walked away scot-free even though she was convinced he'd put the kids in danger – she couldn't take it, I guess. And Mark Stanton…" He paused, and Sam could almost see the wheels turning in his head. "This time, Mark Stanton was the driver."
"Makes sense," Sam replied. "But if it's been this long, and all you have to do to make yourself a target is drive onto those tracks – people here do that all the time. Why hasn't this happened before?"
Dean shrugged. "You got me on that one. I have no idea."
"Maybe," Sam said slowly as an idea began forming in his head, "it has." He turned from Dean and sat down at a nearby computer. A quick search later he continued, "Look. A teenager, found dead in her home. Apparently strangled, but the killer was never found." He paused to click another link. "And this one: a college student, strangled in his dorm, no leads at all. And I bet we'd find more, if we were to feel like digging back through all that." He pointed to the old papers. "What if she only kills people once they're alone? Maybe she doesn't want to subject the passengers to it or something, who knows. But I bet Mark isn't the first person to die here because of this – just the first to be killed around the tracks themselves."
"Good thinking," was Dean's response. For a moment, he considered the implications of this, then continued, frowning, "Alright, now we know what we're up against. Probably, we can kill it just like any other spirit. Piece of cake."
"But who's going to kill it? It's gotta be just one of us." That was Sam. Ever-reasonable. Always wanting the nice, clear, well-formed plan.
So his brother smirked and gave it to him. "I am. After all, she goes after the driver. And no way am I letting you drive." He pulled the Impala's keys from his pocket and twirled them lazily around his finger as he walked out the door and headed to his beloved car.
Sam rolled his eyes and followed.