A/N: So, we finally have a title! Hurray! It's a reference to Superman since I keep comparing Lindy to Lois/Chloe. It's from the original movie when Superman first flies Lois and he tells her not to worry because he's got her, but she asks, "Who's got you?" Thanks to Haly for that and all her helpful suggestions to make this story better. I hope you like this next chapter and I'd like to let you all know that I've been working on revising the other ones later, so I will repost them along with the Chapter Nine, once I finish it. You don't necessarily have to reread them, but you can if you'd like and you have some time to kill. The changes are small, but I think that they make a difference in understanding the characters. At least, I hope that they do. Anyway, please read and review.

Okay, I'll admit it. I kind of like her. So sue me. She's cute with her long blonde hair and blue eyes and she's actually determined to do this. That's an interesting change of pace. Maybe Sam's right about her.

The other night Sammy insisted on telling me all about the good feeling he'd gotten from Lindy and how she was actually the kind of girl I'd really like. I'd just rolled my eyes and tuned him out. Sam's always trying to convince me to trust people that we really shouldn't be wasting time on. Especially since we're never in a place for very long. But who knows, maybe Lindy could be fun to keep around for a little while.

So, what's the problem? The problem is that I'm getting to know her and, even worse, I'm starting to actually like her. Damn Sam and his half-assed match-making. This is stupid. I glare at Sammy's silhouette in the driver's seat of her car through my rearview mirror. If you weren't my brother, Sammy…

"So, you actually like my tunes? Sammy hasn't turned you against me?" I ask when I catch her mouthing the words to the song.

"No way. I love Zeppelin and classic rock. Sammy just needed a break, I guess." she replies, stressing my nickname for my kid brother.

"Call him that." I encourage her, "He loves it."

"I'm sure." she nods, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I smile, admitting silently that she's caught me in the lie, but I have a feeling that she may take my advice anyway. I've always been fairly good at reading people and I think I've got her pretty much figured out, too. She'll call Sam Sammy and he'll hate me for it and she'll find it funny. I can already see it happening. I can already hear Sam yelling at me.

"Hey, did you ever see Ghostbusters?" she asks suddenly, catching me a little off-guard with her out-of-the-blue question.

I smile, recovering, "Of course. I've always thought Sammy seems like an Egon, doesn't he? Guess which one I am."

I flash her a flirtatious smile to encourage her. A small smile creeps its way onto her own face, almost as if its involuntary before she replies.

"Venkman, right?"

"Bingo." I nod.

"And why's that?" she asks.

I give her my most frank and innocent expression, "Because I always get the girl."

She laughs and kind of rolls her eyes, but when she says "I'll bet," I detect a note of bitterness. Intrigued, I wonder if she's jealous, but decide not to push that angle just yet. I've already reached my quota of hysterical girl moments for the day.

"And you're…huh…" I pause like I'm thinking really hard about this, "Jimmy Olsen?"

"Hey," she protests, "I'd like to think I rank a little higher than that."

"Okay, Lois." I joke.

She stops to think about the comparison, then shakes her head, "I've always kind of figured myself to be more of a Chloe Sullivan."

I freeze for a moment in surprise at how closely she's echoed my brother and wonder if maybe she overheard that conversation or if it's something more than that. Maybe she's some kind of psychic like Sam. A million possibilities race through my brain and I feel my suspicions swiftly returning before I realize that I'm letting the car drift. I hastily correct the situation, but when I glance at Lindy, I can tell that she's noticed. She smiles at me.

"I may have overheard a little bit of your talk in the bar the other night." she admits.

I relax, glad that the explanation isn't anything weird.

"Eavesdropping? I should've guessed. You really are a reporter."

She nods, still smiling, apparently not ashamed in the least to admit that she listened in on at least part of what I'd said to Sam. I'm kind of relieved and interested to see this new, more certain side to her. I guess now that she's made up her mind, she's found her confidence. And I do like confident more than I like insecure.

"So, why'd you get into this crazy line of work, huh?" I finally up and ask her.

"Well, I've always liked to write and I thought Buffy was a pretty cool show. Two plus two." she says, her eyes sparkling with humor when I catch them looking at me.

"I see." I reply, thinking to myself that just maybe our little reporter has a hang up on superheroes. She keeps bringing up movies and TV shows with heroes that save people from the supernatural. I wonder if maybe her real reason for doing all this isn't just because she wants to understand or to help people or to make a difference, but really to be a hero. I hope she won't get too caught up in that ideal like Sam does sometimes. Hero's are self-sacrificing and I don't have any patience for that when it comes to my little brother…or Dad, come to think of it. Maybe that's my problem. I keep getting stuck with people who have a hero complex.

"Aren't you going to ask me what a girl like me is doing in a place like this?" she teases me out of my reflections.

"Well, I assume you're here for the 'scoop.'" I reply.

She nods a little, but continues anyway like she wants to explain herself fully to me. I sense that she has this strong desire for me to understand her, "Yeah, but this one is important. Paranormal Monthly doesn't usually send reporters into the wicked wilderness where real bad things happen, I guess. My normal fare is the haunted house. You know, strange noises, objects moving, stories of apparitions that never seem to show up when someone who can document them is around. But those kind of stories get stale unless you can start really showing people something. So, I volunteered for something major when I heard about this place, something that would keep us in business. I promised that I'd bring back a story completely different from the normal fare that would not only stun our regulars, but bring us new readers galore. I'm telling you this because I'm hoping that you two will help me do this."

I immediately begin shaking my head, "We're not…"

"Before you say no, I'm not talking about featuring you guys. I got the impression that you don't want the exposure and that's fine. You can be anonymous, but I think that following two real ghost hunters, getting your perspectives, is exactly what we need."

Now she's looking at me with big, pleading eyes almost just like Sammy does when he wants something. I wonder if he's told her to do that. He must know how much I hate it and how vulnerable I am to it. It almost doesn't matter that they're her bright blue eyes looking at me instead of Sam's brown ones. It's all the same in the end. It's all about big, brother Dean looking out for the innocent, little kids. I wonder if this is how Dad feels sometimes. I try to avoid the eyes by keeping my own on the road, but I can't stop myself from glancing back at her repeatedly to see if her expression has changed at all. Finally, I give up.

"Stop looking at me like that." I snap, but she's listening to me about as much as Sam ever does, "Alright! Alright, we'll help you with the stupid story. Just make sure you don't say anything about who we are. This ghost hunting business has to stay below the radar, okay?"

The smile that lights up her face is almost blinding and I'm bothered by the fact that a girl I've known for less than 24 hours can manipulate me already. It especially bothers me that I feel like there's two of Sam around with all this whining and pouting and getting me to promise to do things outside of my comfort zone like bringing Lindy along in the first place and now agreeing to help her with her story. And yet, despite the fact that I'm bothered by all this and I know how much I'm going to regret my promises, I can't help but feel a little pleased with myself for inspiring that kind of smile.

"Under the radar. Cross my heart." she agrees, tracing an X across her chest and my eyes are momentarily drawn down by the movement. I mentally thank god for tank tops.

I force them back to the road. My brain has immediately concocted some fantasies that I find all too entertaining, but I push them to the back of my mind for later.

"Okay, now that we have all the important stuff out of the way, maybe we should backtrack a little. Lindy, whose last name I still don't know, where are you from?" I ask.

I don't really care, but this is how things work. You don't just pick up reporters at bars. You learn last names and places of birth and you build trust. Besides, if she's going to be writing about me, I want to know more about her. I can't trust my reputation with just anybody. So, small talk it is.

"It's Lindy Carrington and I'm from Phoenix. But in my articles I'm Sydney Welsh and I'm from New Zealand. Don't tell anyone." she says.

I raise an eyebrow, "Like the fake names, huh?"

"It's not a fake name." she protests, "It's a pen name. Makes me more interesting as a writer. My boss said it would be a good idea. Plus, keeps any crazy people from pinning me to what I write."

"Doesn't it keep you from getting the credit, too?" I wonder.

"Not really. The people who count know who I am. Or at least, they have an idea and they know how to reach me. Plus, I'm still getting the paycheck." she says with a grin, "What about you, Mr. Anonymous?"

"Sam and I are from Kansas and the last name is Winchester." I tell her.

She looks away, out the window before replying, "Yeah, right. Figures you'd pick the name of a weapon. And so, what, are you related to the people with the mansion, too?"

I'm not sure I'm completely following her besides the fact that she thinks I made up my last name. Then, suddenly I remember the Winchester Mansion in Northern California that's supposedly haunted by all the people killed by Winchester rifles. The crazy old lady kept building crazy traps through the house her whole life because some psychic told her that would keep the ghosts at bay. I wonder why it's never occurred to me before that we have the same last name and I wonder for a second if maybe we are related. Nah, it's probably just a coincidence.

"It's not a fake name." I tell Lindy, "For once, I'm using my real one. I can't help it if my last name happens to be cool."

She looks at me levelly, "Serious?"

I nod, "Yeah. Dean Winchester. That's me."

"Huh." she says, like she can hardly believe that's true, "Too bad I can't use your name in the paper. People who read Paranormal love crazy coincidences like that. Oh, well."

She lapses into silence, like she's lost in her own thoughts, so I take the opportunity to pop out the tape that has reached its end and gone silent. I reach across the divide between us to the box of tapes near her feet and pull one out at random. I glance down at the label and see that it's Metallica before sliding it into the player. The silence is warmed by the sounds of music, making it more comfortable. Still, I feel like I should say something before she gets too many crazy ideas in her head about how to portray me.

"Hey, Lindy?"

"Yeah?"

"This story of yours."

"What about it?"

"Make sure I look cool."