Harvelle Supernatural

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural


Chapter 9: Long-Distance Call

Skylar's POV

I can't believe I'm spending my spring break in Ohio. It was the middle of March, and what I thought would be time spent with Ellen and Jo didn't go out as plan. Mom called, saying she and Jo got stuck on a case and won't be able to come and visit. So, I asked Cheryl if she had plans, and if not, we go to Florida. But sadly, she and her folks are heading off to Europe for Spring Break. At first, I was considering on going to Chicago or some landscaping area to add to my portfolio. However, Bobby called asking me a favor. Knowing I can't reject Bobby, I said sure.

Bobby asked me to go to Milan, Ohio, to meet up with the Winchesters.

Apparently, series of people are receiving phone calls from dead loved ones. I heard about this on the news, the heaven calling, but never took it seriously until now. Then a banker who lives all American dreams commits suicide. Before he died, Bobby believes it is an evil spirit. So, I flew to Ohio and waited at the airport for my favorite men. At four o'clock in the morning. Although this means I'm ignoring Ruby's threat. Hell, screw her and all demons. Anything that rots in the hell is a damn liar and a soul-eating thief. No offense Dean. As if I'm letting that bitch near Sam or Dean. Also, this wasn't a demon case…I think.

After spending twenty minutes in the waiting terminal, I saw a familiar vehicle come forward. I smiled, adjusting the carry-on, and waited till they parked. Once the Impala parked, Sam got out of the passenger side. Instantly we shared a hug, glad to see him in person. The last time we saw each other in the flesh was Devil's Gate. Almost a year.

"Hey, Sam," I greeted.

"Hey, Skylar," Sam said. "Sorry, you got drag into this."

"Don't worry. It's not like I had anything planned," I assured.

Sam nodded as he took my carry-on and placed it in the trunk. We got in the Impala, with me in the back. Dean turned around and smiled. "Damn, you look hot."

"Don't go there, Dean." I chuckled.

I have indeed changed over the past year. What they say about Freshman Twenty is true. Forced three square meals a day, fast food joints on campus, ready greasy pizza, and tons of alcohol. That entire weight went to the right places that I look much healthier than I was a few years back. I'm a breast size up and have hips, if not working out in the gym, getting some muscles. Also, I cut my long hair to shoulder length in layers, if not dyed to a golden brown with caramel highlights. Although it looks like I have three shades of brown.

"What, I can't say my favorite girl is growing up." Dean teased.

"And you're still a stud." I countered.

Dean placed a hand over his heart, "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Let's go. We're holding up traffic." Sam sighed, shaking his head.

Dean rolled his eyes and started driving from the airport to Milan.

"So, you guys got my ID's?" I asked.

Bobby said the boys are making an I.D. for me for this investigation. Dean smirked, attempting to hold back his humor while Sam hesitantly opens the glove box and handed me the I.D. cards. I took it, taking a look at the picture I sent to Sam of me dressing professionally with older makeup, and then read the FBI card.

"Clarice Starling, seriously?" I asked.

"And take a look at the other," Dean chuckled.

I looked at the other one and gawked, "Gracie Lou Freebush."

Dean burst out, laughing his ass off while Sam shook his head, giving an apologetic look. Dean must have created the IDs for Sam would provide a reasonable name. Not one that is based on a fictional character. Sure, Sandra Bullock and Jodi Foster are great actresses, but seriously. If I didn't know any better, Dean likes to pull on my leg. Or, in this case, yanking on it.

"I should have gone on that class trip to Miami," I muttered, slouching in the back seat, arms crossed.

"Sorry, Sweetheart, but you're stuck with us." Dean snickered.

.o0o.

When we reached Milan, we got two motel rooms that had a door to connect us. Dean said we got to meet the victim's wife at seven. Saying okay, I entered my room and started to make myself appear mature. After taking a quick shower, I blow-dried my hair and used a curling iron to curl it. Once my hair is curly, I brushed it gently to tone it a little and put it in a French twist along with a tone of hairspray. Next makeup, as I did contour makeup, using shadows and highlights to enhance my facial features. Lipstick that is a shade darker than my own and mascara.

Once makeup was done, I put on some skin tone tights, a tank top, a white button-front pleated blouse, a blazer, and a high pencil skirt. And to end it all is a pair of heels.

I stood in front of the mirror, correcting my appearance. All this stuff made me looked a few years older than I am. As I stood there being a 21-year-old looking as if I were 25 or something. A was securing a gun holster to hide under my blazer when a knock could be heard. I shouted them to come in, as Dean and Sam enter dressed in suits. Their mouths dropped when seeing me.

"Holy shit," Dean said.

"What?" I asked. "It's just makeup."

"Yeah, but damn, you look hot." He complimented.

I blushed, begging to god that the makeup covered it. Sadly, it didn't as Dean laughed. Although

Sam remained quiet, staring at me. The attention became too much that I put on my blazer, concealing my Ruger Mark III. Quickly Sam shook his head, taking a deep breath.

"So, are we ready?" I asked.

The boys nodded as we left the motel and got in the Impala. Sitting in the back, I read the police report Sam acquired, "Ben Waters, aged forty and married with two kids. He works for the bank, having a major salary and easy lifestyle."

"How did he die?" Sam asked.

"From what the police report says, he shot himself, barrel under the chin facing up. Blood toxin reports has his alcohol level was at 0.02. From what police could tell on his psychological level that he seemed normal, no changes in behavior until two weeks ago, saying he was acting agitated." I answered.

"Well, maybe Mrs. Waters might know something," Dean said.

I nodded, reading more into the report. The gruesome photograph of the victim was unsettling. I managed to read the reports only to find all evidence that leads to suicide. Hopefully, Mrs. Waters could fill in the gaps that the police left out.

When we reach the house, Sam rang the doorbell. A moment later, a woman in her late thirties answered the door. She looked upset, probably from losing her husband.

"Mrs. Waters?" Sam asked.

"That's me," she answered.

"I'm Detective Raimi, and these are my partner Detective Campbell, and Detective Starling. We're here to investigate your husband's death." Sam said.

"Oh, I gave my testimony to the police." Mrs. Waters said.

"Yes, but we like to hear it from you and swoop the crime scene," Dean explained.

Mrs. Waters nodded, letting us inside. We walked to the office where the crime scene took place. I analyzed the office and living room, noticing an eerie atmosphere.

"I found him . . . there." Mrs. Water said, pointing at the studies near the desk.

"Why don't you just tell us everything you saw, Mrs. Waters?" Dean asked.

Mrs. Waters stopped, arms crossed, as she turned around to face us. "You mean besides my dead husband?"

"Well, just everything else . . . you saw, please." Sam clarified.

Mrs. Waters sighed, "There was, uh, blood . . . Everywhere. The phone was ripped from the wall, his favorite scotch on the desk. What else could you possibly want to know?"

"Why was the phone ripped from the wall?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," she answered.

"You mind if I take a look?" Sam asked.

Mrs. Waters waved her arm dramatically, giving consent. Sam walked over to the desk while Dean and I remained put. However, Mrs. Waters seemed a bit irritated. "I already went over all this with the other detectives."

"We'll be out of your hair in no time, Ma'am," Dean assured.

Sam picked up the phone going over the caller I.D. list. He quirked a brow at something he saw,

"Ma'am, what time did your husband die?"

"Sometime after 11:00." She answered.

Dean and I looked at Sam as he gestured his pointer finger to the phone. A spirit must have made contact with the phone. It could explain why the phone was ripped out of the wall, let alone Mr. Waters' death. A spirit could have possessed him to commit suicide or persuade the man to do it.

"Has there been any strange phone calls?" I asked. "You received any of those lately?"

Mrs. Waters looked confused, so Dean further into the question, "Weird interference, static, anything like that?"

"No," She answered in a high tone.

Lie. There are many traits you can tell if a person is lying. The individual would touch themselves, avoid eye contact, fidget while standing, change the pace of their speech, and tone their voice. Mrs. Waters crossed her arms, swaying a little, while her tone went high. In other words, she's lying.

"Mrs. Waters, withholding information from the police is a capital offense," Dean warned.

Sam cleared his throat. Did Dean use the law card? That's low even for him. I mean, this woman just lost her husband. It's not like she's part of the drug cartel or something low stream.

"In some parts of the world, I'm sure," Dean murmured.

Mrs. Waters sighed, "A couple of weeks ago, um, there was this . . ." she took a deep breath after all eyes were on her. "I woke up one morning; I heard Ben in his study. I thought he was talking to a woman."

"What made you think that?" Sam asked.

"Because he kept calling her Linda." Mrs. Waters snapped. "The thing is . . . I picked up the other line, and . . . Nobody was there. Ben was talking to nobody."

"There was nothing." I clarified. "Just static."

"Yes," she confirmed.

"Did you ever speak to Ben about this phone call?" Sam asked.

"No. I should have, but no." She answered, almost in tears.

"Did he ever say who Linda was?" Sam asked again.

"What difference does it make?!" She yelled. "There was no one on the other end?"

"And your husband's behavior changed after that phone call?" I asked.

Mrs. Waters took a deep breath, "Yes."

After a few more questions, we left Mrs. Waters's house and returned to the motel. The boys changed into more comfortable clothes, while I just took off my shoes and blazer; we started doing research. Dean went on Sam's laptop, searching for Linda. Meanwhile, Sam and I research spirits that could manipulate phone lines on the beds. As Sam borrows my computer to find the owner of SHA33 while I try to figure out what type of spirit we're dealing with. Mostly Mrs. Waters stating when she listens to her husband's conversation, she heard nothing but static, except Ben could hear Linda.

An hour later, Dean spoke, "Linda's a babe . . . or was."

"You found her?" I asked.

"Yeah, Linda Bateman," Dean answered. "She and Ben Waters were high-school sweethearts."

"So, what happened?" Sam asked.

"Drunk driver hit 'em head-on. Ben walked away." Dean answered.

"So, what, then – dead flame calls to chat?" Sam guessed.

"Very Shakespearian," I muttered.

"You would think, but Linda was cremated," Dean said. "So why is she still floating around?"

Sam scoffed, "You got me?"

"What about that, uh, caller I.D?" Dean suggested.

"It turns out it's a phone number," Sam announced.

"It's no phone number I've ever seen," Dean said.

"Yeah, because it's about a century old. From back when phones had cranks." Sam explained.

"So why use that number to reach out and touch someone?" Dean asked.

"You got me there too," Sam said. "But either way, we should run a trace on it."

"Well, how the hell are we gonna trace a number that's over 100 years old?" Dean asked.

"Ring ring, Operator," I suggested.

The phone company may be a good start to search. So, we got back in our outfits and prepared to go to the nearest phone company in town. When I got dressed and waited by the Impala, I gawked to see the boys in matching uniforms of cheap black suits. Nothing like their detective suits this morning. But full-on suit and tie.

I couldn't stop smiling as they came over and we got in the car. Dean buckled up and then turned his head, seeing the grin. "What're you smiling at?"

"I love a man in uniform," I replied.

Dean snorted while Sam chuckled, shaking his head.

.o0o.

We were at the phone company, following Clark Adams, the supervisor of this facility. A man in his late forties, almost smooth, fair skin, and tall. He wore professionally and spoke like one too. Anyway, he continued to lead us down to the basement where the technician room was.

"We don't get too many folks from H.Q. down here," Clark said.

"Yes, well, the main office mentioned that there would be lunch," Dean added.

Seriously, I thought. Is he going to play that card?

"Well, I'm sure we can arrange something. The man you gentlemen and lady want to be speaking to is right this –"Clark spoke only to be interrupted by flies. A fly came over into Sam's personal space. He swatted at the annoying insect. "I know. Sorry. Got something of a hygiene issue down here, if you ask me."

We then enter the technician's room. And my god, what a mess it was in. There were piles of papers, garbage, and overflowing trash bins. Flies were flying everywhere, and let's not forget that rotten smell. At the central computer, a man stared at many monitors exposing pornography and spam to uncensored websites, as the man gazed over panting. His hand on his lap, and if he turned around, it might be touching his genitals.

"Stewie?" Clark scolded.

Stewie jumped, trying to close off the porn sites. But his boss caught him anyway.

"What did I tell you about keeping this place clean?"

"Spam mail. Spam mail." Stewie muttered.

I gaged, grabbing a tissue from my purse, and covered my mouth. The Winchesters looked at the scene, either bewilder or laughing at the situation. How can this company keep an employee who can't follow hygiene regulations, let alone abuse the internet for pornography? If I were the manager, I have this man fired.

"Stewie Meyer—" Clark introduced. "Mr. Campbell, Mr. Raimi, and Miss Freebush . . ."

"I don't know how all this got here." Stewie interrupted.

Clark yanked at Stewie's black hair, getting his attention, and finished his sentence. " . . . From headquarters."

"Oh," Stewie mumbled, turning around. Got to say the man is a slob. His clothes were wrinkled, some stains on his pants. And a logo shirt underneath that polo shirt. There was a ring on his finger indicating he was married, though I wonder how Mrs. Meyers takes it that her husband is a pervert.

"Give these people whatever they need," Clark instructed.

Dean, Sam, and I said our thanks as Clark left the room. I coughed, for the smell gotten worse. I managed to hold down lunch.

"So, can I help you?" Stewie asked.

"Is that, uh, Busty Asian Beauties?" Dean asked.

"No," the man answered and then turned his head to see the spam on the monitor. Instantly he closed it. "Maybe."

"Word to the wise – platinum membership worth every penny," Dean said.

"Can we get back to business?" I scolded; a bit disgusted with the male race.

"Right. Anyway, um, we're here to trace a number." Sam said, handing Stewie the number.

Stewie analyzed the number and scoffed. "Where did you get this?"

"Off a caller I.D.," Sam answered.

"Oh, no, that's impossible," Stewie said.

"Hasn't been used in a few years. We know." Dean said.

"'A few years.' It's prehistoric. Trust me. Nobody's using this number anymore." Stewie said.

"Sure. Could you run it anyway?" Sam asked.

"Sure. Why don't I just rearrange my whole life first?" Stewie sarcastically replied.

I scowled, walking over to him to a point I was standing right there and leaned down. The man leaned back in his chair, now intimidated by the neutral face I was giving. "Mr. Meyers, shall I inform you that you are violating six employee-code violations down here. So, unless you prefer, I report this to the area manager, including the missed use of the company's internet for pornography, I recommend you run that number. Or Mrs. Meyers shall get a phone call about her husband being a pervert."

Stewie's eyes widen, looking at me, then the Winchesters to see if this was some joke. Sadly, we held our poker face. Therefore, he lost the battle. He took a deep breath and ran the number through the computers. I sighed, walking back to the guy's arms still crossed. A minute later, the monitor showed a lot of names and addresses.

"Holy crap," Stewie gasped.

"What?" Sam asked.

"I can't tell you where the number comes from. But I can tell you where it's been going." He said, standing up and headed to the printer.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

Stewie handed us copies of the locations receiving the number. "Ten different houses in the past two weeks all got calls from the same number."

We looked at the address finding this strange. What kind of haunting is this? Usually, a spirit haunting a person takes a house or a specific person. But this, how can a ghost be haunting ten residences, one of which being Mr. Waters. This doesn't make sense.

"So, are we done here?" Stewie asked. "Cause I was sort-of busy."

Eew, men are pigs.

.o0o.

Sam suggested we split up and visit the residences of these houses. Dean agreed, ditching Sam and me at a rental shop before getting the head start. Unable to comprehend what just happened, Sam managed to rent a car a businessman would obtain for a trip. So, getting in the car, we headed to the first address being the Greenfields. There have been a dozen calls the past week. Hopefully, the family may help.

"I can't believe a company keeps a guy like Meyers," I said, in slight disgust.

"You're telling me," Sam agreed. "Also, you were scary back there."

"Hey, I was close to vomiting if we didn't get anything," I muttered with a shudder.

Sam nodded as he continued to drive. "So, how is college?"

"We're solving a case, and you want to talk about college?" I asked.

"Uh, if you like," Sam said.

I sighed, "It's okay, though hard to avoid the distractions. Let alone other temptations. I have good professors, although one professor is a bore."

"How so?" Sam asked.

"He talks like Ben Stein," I answered.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. It's true, my professor in photography talks like Ben Stein. You could fall asleep instantly when he talks about using a camera or labeling the parts. Practically need a five-hour energy drink to survive the period.

Anyway, we reached the Greenfield residents. We got out and walked towards the door, ringing the doorbell. A moment later, Mr. Greenfield and his son open the door.

"Yeah," The man said.

"Hello, sir." Sam greeted. "We're with the phone company. "

"Uh, we didn't call the phone company." Mr. Greenfield said.

"Oh, no, sir. No, see, we're calling you." Sam corrected. "We've had a lot of complaints from the neighborhood lately."

"Complaints?" Mr. Greenfield asked.

"Yes, sir," I answered. "Complaints about dropped calls, static, or even strange voices on the other end of the line. Have any of these things occurred?"

"No, we haven't had any of that here." Mr. Greenfield said.

"Nothing?" Sam asked just to confirm.

"No," he confirmed.

"Great, we thought we check. Thank you for your time." I said.

"No problem," Mr. Greenfield said.

As the father talked to his son, closing the door, a girl stood there in shock. She must have listened to our conversation and probably experienced the events we listed. However, Mr. Greenfield shut the door. So, with nothing further to say, we left the house heading to the car.

"So much for that house," Sam said.

"Hey, they might have missed the calls," I said, opening the passenger door.

"No way you work for the phone company." The daughter said out of nowhere.

"Sure, we do," Sam said.

"Since when does a phone guy drives a rental or wear a cheap suit? Or a phone girl uses Kim Kardashian makeup." She noted.

Sam chuckled, knowing the cat is out of the bag. Damn, this girl is observant like Sherlock Holmes, attentive.

"Yeah? Well, maybe we're all keeping secrets." Sam challenged.

"Why'd you ask my dad if we heard strange voices on the phone?" She asked.

"Why? Did you hear something?" I asked.

"No." She answered.

"Our mistake," I said. "We thought you did."

"Well, I didn't, okay." She said.

"Okay. Sorry to bother you." Sam said.

With that said, we got in the car. The girl still stood there, arms crossed, swaying a little, practically fidgeting. Knowing those are signs of apprehension, I gestured Sam to continue talking to her. He saw this and got out.

"Because you know, if you did, then I would have told you that I've been right where you're standing right now," Sam said. "Hearing things, even seeing things that couldn't be explained. Maybe I would have been able to help out a little bit. Anyways . . ." as he was about to get in the car.

"Hey, wait." The girl said. "Maybe . . . Maybe I've been talking on the phone . . . with – with my mom."

"Well, that's not so strange," Sam said.

"She's dead." She said.

I lowered the window down to join the conversation. "How long?"

"Like three years now dead." She answered, scared.

"How often does she call you?" Sam asked.

"A few times," she said. "It started a week ago. I thought I was, like, crazy or something."

I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote my cell phone number to a prepaid phone, and gave it to her. "Well, I can assure you one thing, and you have to go with us on this, you're not crazy. This is my number. Call me ASAP if your mother makes contact. Okay, dear?"

"Okay," she said. "Um, what's your name?"

"My name's Gracie, and this is Raimi." I introduced us to the undercover names.

"I'm Lanie," She said.

I nodded, assuring Lanie that everything is going to be all right. After a quick conversation, she headed inside while Sam and I drove off to the next person on our list. Sam asked me to call Dean. So, using my actual phone, I called Dean and put him on speaker so Sam could hear.

"What you got, Dean?" I asked.

"Dude, stiffs are calling people all over town," Dean answered.

"Yeah, tell us about it," Sam said.

"I just talked to an 84-year-old grandmother who's having phone sex with her husband . . . who died in Korea," Dean said.

"Gross," I muttered, trying to keep the image out of my head.

"Completely rocked my understanding of the word 'necrophilia.'" Dean said.

"So, what the hell's going on here, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Beats me, but we better find out soon. This place is turning into spook central." Dean answered.

"Yeah. All right. I'll call you later." Sam said.

"Bye, Dean," I said.

"Yep," Dean said before hanging up.

I put my phone away and looked at Sam. "I don't get it. Why would spirits want to kill their loved ones? Sure, Linda died young, and Ben Waters survived. But Lanie and the grandma, it doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, it doesn't make sense." Sam agreed. "Any ideas?"

"The only theory I'm coming up is somebody is controlling the dead. It's the only logical solution. A witch or a demon?" I guessed.

"Probably," Sam said.

The rest of the day was spent with four other residents who had the same caller, SHA33. None of them said a word, though their bodies say otherwise. They must be afraid of admitting the dead is contacting them, or they don't want to lose contact. Either way, none of them spoke.

When we got back with lunch, I changed my suit and put on jeans and a t-shirt. I joined Sam as we ate out of the Chinese box, researching any of Milan's obituaries that fit into the SHA33 period. Suddenly Dean barged into the room, rushing to change in the bathroom, and came out.

"I need to talk to Sam," Dean said.

"Um, okay, I'll be in my room," I said, picking up the box of chicken lo mein and headed to my

room.

I sat on the bed, turning on the T.V. to watch the local news. Maybe the media could tell us. However, they just talk about the miracle of hearing loved ones from the other side. Thirty minutes later, Sam knocked on the door, saying I can come back in. I nodded, joining him in his room.

"What's up with Dean?" I asked.

"He thinks our dad called," Sam answered. "But I'm not so sure."

"Huh," I said. "Do you believe it?"

"I don't know." Sam sighed, sitting on the couch, going back to his lunch.

Three hours later, and we found nothing in our research. There was no Indian burial ground, witch trials, massacres, or anything to make Milan have a paranormal phenomenon. Unless you consider Cedar Point. We even researched individuals to find no satanic worshipers or anything.

Suddenly Dean came barging in, causing Sam and me to jump.

"Find anything?" Dean asked.

"After three hours, we have found no reason why anything supernatural would be going on here," Sam said.

"Wow, you know, you think a Stanford education and a high-school hookup rate of zero points zero would produce better results than that," Dean said.

"Hilarious," Sam muttered.

"Guys, you're just looking in the wrong places," Dean said.

"Oh really, and where did you find the right places?" I asked.

"Motel pamphlet rack," Dean said, taking a pamphlet out of his jacket and tossed it at Sam. Sam picked it up to be the advertisement for Milan's historical museum. "Milan, Ohio – the birthplace of Thomas Edison."

"Yeah, right. So what?" Sam asked.

"Keep reading," Dean ordered.

Sam scoffed and opened the pamphlet. What he saw had him a full eye, "You kidding."

"What, what is it?" I asked, taking hold of the pamphlet and read it. "Seriously?"

Dean wiggled his eyebrows.

.o0o.

"And we're walking. And we're walking." The tour guide said at the museum dedicated to Thomas Edison. The guys and I follow the tour guide all over the place. I suggested we just buy the entrance fee and wandered around the faculties to find this damn Spirit Phone. But no, Dean considered a tour. I debated if he was interested in history or just wanted to get under my skin. So, we spent thirty minutes walking around to Miss Perky throughout the house.

Supposedly Thomas Edison invented a device that could communicate to the dead. I find that hard to believe. Sure, Edison made a better lightbulb, but he wasn't that much of a man. I mean, Nikola Tesla had a better understanding of electricity. If you don't know, Edison considered electrocution as a humane death. Tell that to William Kemmler.

Anyway, we entered a room where the center stage is the Spirit Phone sitting on a pedestal. It looked like a gramophone. How is this musical device supposed to communicate with the dead?

"And here we have one of the museum's unique and treasured possessions – Thomas Edison's 'Spirit Phone.'" The tour guide said, using air quotes. "Did you know that Mr. Edison, while being one of America's most beloved inventors, was also a devout "oculist"? Oh-woo"

"What's with the quotey fingers?" Dean asked quietly.

"Theatrics," I whispered.

"He spent years working on this, his final invention, which he was convinced, could be used to 'Communicate' with the 'dead.' Pretty spooky, huh?" The tour guide asked and then looked at her watched. "And we're walking. We are walking." She leads the tour to the next room.

Once the room was secured, Sam, Dean, and I went over to the Spirit Phone. Sam pulled out an EMF detector, moving it gently above the object.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam answered, putting the EMF away.

"What do you think?" Dean asked.

"Honestly, its kind of looks like an old pile of junk to me," Sam answered.

"It's not even plugged in," Dean said.

"Maybe it doesn't work like that," I said.

"Maybe it's like a radio tower, you know, broadcasting the dead over town," Dean said,

continuing to believe that this gramophone is connecting the spirit realm to ours.

"Could be," Sam said.

"Well, you know, the caller I.D.'s 100 years old, right?" Dean suggested. "Right around the time, this thing was built."

"Yeah, but why would it all of a sudden start working now?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Dean replied. "But as long as the moldy are calling the freshes around here, it's the best reason we got."

"I don't know. I think it's peer coincidence," I said.

After I said that, my cellphone ranged. I stopped as my phone continued to ring over and over again. The boys looked at me, wondering why I'm not answering it. Well, here's the thing, I turned off my cell phone because it was low on battery. So how does a turned off device start ringing?

I pulled out the cell phone seeing the caller I. D was SHA33. I showed this to the guys before walking outdoors. The guys followed till we found a secured place. How could the dead be communicating with me? And then I thought of Ash. Maybe Ash is helping us?

So, I answered it, putting it on speaker so the boys could hear.

"Ash, is that you?" I asked nervously.

"Sorry, my little princess, but this is not Ash." A deep voice replied. The voice sounded familiar, as if from a dream. But I don't know who the owner of that voice is.

"Who is this?" I asked.

A chuckled could be heard, "I wouldn't be surprised if you don't remember my voice. You were young when I died."

". . . Dad?" I gasped.

"Yeah, it's me," The voice said.

"Dad . . . uh, what, how can this be?" I asked.

"You could say I used my one phone call," Bill answered. I couldn't manage a single word. I couldn't comprehend what is happening. "I want to see you."

"Dad, that's impossible. Mom cremated you, and it's a long journey back to Nebraska." I said.

"No, I want to see you now," Bill said.

"How?" I asked.

Bill said something that shattered my world. Unable to accept it, I threw the phone, practically screaming. Instantly Dean went after my cellphone while Sam came forward, embracing me. I sobbed as I tried to understand what my father just said. No father should have said something like that. That is not in the father's rule book.

"Why would he say that?" I cried. "Why?"

"Skylar, calm down," Sam said. "What did he say?"

"You didn't hear?" I asked, confused.

"No, all I heard was static. You looked like you were in a trance." Sam said.

"What?" I asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed.

I panted, trying to understand what happened. Sam opens the back-seat door to the Impala, letting me sit down. I put my head between my legs, taking deep breaths as I fell into minor shock. I was dumbfounded by what just happened.

"Skylar?" Sam spoke.

"He said, take my gun and go to the woods," I mumbled. "There, I shall see him."

"Well, it's nothing to overreact about." Dean came back, handing over my cell phone. "So, this just proves our dads are contacting us."

"News flash, my dad's been dead for almost twenty years and cremated," I murmured. "How am I supposed to see him in the woods if he's a pile of ash, in an urn, buried in Nebraska?"

Sam saw how distress I was and decided we should head back to the motel and sleep this through. How can Bill say that to me? Go to the forest with your gun, and there you shall see me. It doesn't sound right. It's like he wants me to go there and commit suicide. Just shoot myself, and I shall meet him in heaven. Much as I love my father… it's not my time of dying.

.o0o.

Throughout the night, my phone has remained silent. I had a hard time sleeping, thinking the phone would ring. Sometimes I would doze, but when a dream got so vivid, I had to wake up. And when I wake up, I would cry thinking about my father. I was three years old. Just three years old, and I could barely remember him. The only thing I could remember is him playing with me singing westerns.

Suddenly my cell phone rang; I paused, looking at the device on the end table. It vibrated over and over and over again until it stopped. I sighed, going back to sleep. The moment sleep consumed me, the phone rang over and over and over again. Grabbing the phone to check on the caller I.D., to find it was SHA33. So, taking the risk, I answered it.

"Dad, what do you want?" I asked.

"Princess, I want to see you," Bill answered.

"How do I know this is you?" I asked. "And not some copycat spirit."

Bill deeply chuckled, "I wouldn't blame you. You were three when I passed."

"Still," I said.

"When you were a toddler, you had a hard time sleeping. I used to take you on night rides in my truck till you managed to fall asleep. Your mother would have fits, yelling at me about staying up late. Though I shrug it off and carry you back to bed."

"Oh god," I said.

Ellen used to talk about me having sleep problems, especially being a colic baby. When mom wanted to sleep, Bill would sneak me out of the house as I cried nonstop. He put me in the baby car seat in his truck and drive around the highway playing Elvis Presley. How the King of Rocks music such as "Can't help falling in love with you" made me go to sleep.

"Skylar, princess, it's okay," Bill said.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I want to see you." He said.

"But I can't, not in a very long time," I said. "It's impossible."

"No, it ain't," he said. "Princess, listen, go to the woods, and bring your gun. I'll be there."

"You want me to shoot myself," I accused, voice now breaking.

"No, I want you to come to me. Come to me, Skylar. Come to me . . ." Bill said.

Over and over like a broken record player, he continued to say, "Come to me." Unbelievable to take it, I disconnect the call. I placed my hands over my face and sobbed. This can't be happening. It's just not possible. Bill Harvelle became a hunter to keep his family safe. Why all of a sudden does he wants me dead.

Several knocks on the door interrupted my train of thought, follow by the cell phone ringing. I didn't realize the phone was still ringing with the same caller, I.D. Ignoring the phone, I answered the door to find Sam. He instantly walked in, grabbing my phone, and answered it.

"Harvelle," He said. After a few seconds, he hangs up. "I thought so."

"Sam, what is going on?" I asked.

"I don't know, but we got to keep a clear head," Sam said. "Are you alright?"

"No, I don't know anymore," I replied, wiping away tears.

Sam came over, hugging me. Instantly I embraced him holding on tight as I sobbed quietly, not wanting to wake Dean. Sam moved us to the bed, still holding me as his hand rubbed my back. This doesn't make sense. Dean gets a call from John and me with Bill . . . But Bill wants me to commit suicide. My brain says this is some trick, but my heart says it's true.

Suddenly my cell phone rang. We stopped at my purse continued to vibrate on the table. Cautiously I got up and grabbed the device to find the caller I.D. being ten digits. Sighing in relief, I answered it.

"Gracie Lou Freebush?" I spoke.

"Gracie?" Lanie asked, crying some.

"Lanie, what's wrong?" I asked.

"It's my mom. she hasn't stopped contacting me. She's on my computer, constantly saying,

"Come to me" over and over again." Lanie sobbed.

"Is she on the computer right now?" I asked.

"Yes," she cried.

"Lanie, turn off your computer and disconnect it from the outlet. Take the battery out of your phones and put them in one place. Then sleep in another room. If she contacts you call me. Raimi and I will be there in the morning." I told her.

"Okay," she whispered before hanging up.

I put my prepaid phone down and look at Sam. "Who was that?"

"Lanie and her mom is stalking her," I answered.

.o0o.

The next morning, I grabbed some breakfast from the local bakery nearby, snagging a couple of croissants and pastries. After the spook last night, I could hardly go back to sleep. Sam being Sam, stayed with me, convincing me to go back to sleep. I barely believed it until he said he would stay with me in case the phone rang. Considering the idea, we laid in bed as I cuddle with him, and he wrapped his arms around me. And just like he said, the phone didn't ring.

Now being almost noon, still exhausted, I thought the boys and I could use some caffeine and sugar. Once paying the baker, I headed back to the motel, lost in thought of this case. Why would spirits want their loved ones to die? It doesn't make sense. The more I thought about it, the more I'm starting to think these calls aren't from the departed but an individual. But why?

When I reached the motel, there was yelling in the Winchesters room. Using a spare key, I enter to find the boys arguing once more. This dispute wasn't like the one in Springfield, but more emotional.

"Wow, Man! A couple of Civvies are freaked out by some ghosts. News flash, Sam – people are supposed to be freaked out by ghosts!" Dean exclaimed.

Sam sighed, "Dad tells you where to find the demon?"

"I'm waiting for the call!" Dean yelled.

"Look, Skylar told Lanie we stop by," Sam said, turning around to leave.

"No, you go hang out with jailbait. Just watch out for Chris Hansen." Dean said. "Meanwhile, I'll be here, you know, getting ready to save my life."

"Dean," I said, surprised.

"Come on, Sky," Sam grumbled, grabbing my arm, gesturing us to leave.

"You're unbelievable; you know that," Dean called out. "I mean, for months we've been trying to break this deal. Now, Dad's about to give us the freakin' address, and you can't accept that?! The man is dead, and you're still butting heads with the guy!"

"That is not what this is about?" Sam said, stopping at the door.

"Then what is!" Dean shouted.

Sam turned around, walking over to Dean. "The fact is, we got no hard proof here, Dean. After everything, you're still just going on blind faith!"

"Yeah, well, maybe! You know, maybe that's all I got, okay?!" Dean said.

"Boys, enough," I finally spoke.

The boys became quiet, not looking at each other. Never had I ever seen them fight like this. Not even in Springfield. With days passing by, who wouldn't be scared of demons collecting your soul. Let alone a one-year lifespan compared to the usual decade. But right now, we're on a case. And if we don't act fast, Lanie will be dead or anyone in Milan.

Sam took a deep breath, "Please. Just please don't go anywhere until I get back, okay, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer, just standing there watching us. Unable to get an answer, Sam leads us outside. Quickly I place the cup of coffee and his donut on the table before following Sam out. No words were spoken. The argument left an imprint that Sam could barely eat. I nibbled on a croissant, except I couldn't finished it.

When we reach the Greenfield residents, Sam parked the car. However, he didn't unbuckle or move. I remained in the passenger seat, not able to say anything after what felt like an eternity. I looked at him taking his hand.

"We will find a way," I said softly. "It just takes time."

"He only has two months, Skylar," Sam said. "And I have a hard time believing our dad found a

way to break the deal."

"Like it's a coincidence," I noted.

Sam nodded, "I just don't know what I'm going to do without him."

I squeezed his hand. "You have people, Sam. You have Bobby, Jo, Ellen, and I. We'll always be there to lend a helping hand. Remember that, okay?"

Sam nodded, squeezing my hand before letting go. We got out of the rental and headed to Lanie's house. The girl let us inside, informing us her Dad was at work while she was babysitting her brother Simon. Lanie asked Simon to play in his room while she talked to us privately in her room. The boy complied while we head up. In her room, Sam went to check on Lanie's computer to see if there were any clues to last night's affair.

"Have you told your dad about this?" I asked her.

"And bother him at work? No." Lanie answered. "He wouldn't believe me anyway. He'd just chuck me into therapy."

"So, what did your mother say?" I asked.

"That she wanted to see me. So, at first, I thought I was supposed to go to the cemetery." She answered.

"Did you?" Sam asked, not finding anything on the computer.

"Nothing happened." She said. "But then she started asking me to do other things."

I paused, looking at her, "Like what?"

Lanie took a couple of deep breaths; her eyes started to become watery, "Bad things."

She started crying pacing around her room. Did Mrs. Greenfield ask her to commit suicide?

"Lanie, please. Tell us what happened. It's very important." Sam said.

"Mom told me to go to dad's medicine cabinet." Lanie cried.

"And?" Sam continued.

"Take his sleeping pills – take all his sleeping pills!" She yelled.

"She wanted you to kill yourself?" Sam asked.

Lanie covered her mouth, nodding rapidly. "Why would my mom want me to do that?"

"I don't know," Sam said.

"Sam, my dad said something similar to that," I whispered to him.

"I mean, so that I could come to her?" Lanie said.

Realization struck Sam, "What'd you say?"

"She wanted me to come to her," Lanie repeated.

"No, no, no, no, no. How did she say it exactly?" Sam said.

"'Come to me –,' like a million times." Lanie cried.

Come to me, Bill's voice whispered in my head. Come to me.

"Lanie, that's not your mother," Sam said.

"Sam, if it is not her mother, then who is it?" I asked.

Sam didn't answer as he stormed out of the room. Lanie and I followed after him as he walked around, making sure all the lines in the house were disconnected.

"All right, listen to me," Sam instructed. "Don't answer the phone. Don't use the computer. Don't do anything unless I say to, all right?"

Lanie nodded as we make our way downstairs. But the girl stopped by one of the bedrooms gasping, "Where's Simon?"

I walked into Simon's bedroom, finding no phones in there. As I walked out, I noticed a toy phone on the ground. Picking it up, I looked at the small monitor reading the caller I.D. SHA33. I cursed, looking at Sam. "We need to find him."

"Skylar, watch Lanie. I'll find Simon." Sam ordered, rushing out of the house.

Lanie ran after Sam, however, I grabbed her, keeping her inside. She struggles at first but soon calmed down. None of us spoke as we waited for Sam and Simon. Lanie started asking questions about why I called Raimi Sam and why he called me Skylar. Taking a deep breath, I lied and told her that whatever is contacting us is using our names to make a reliable connection. So, if it hears a fake name, it wouldn't make a connection. Lanie bought the lie, though, not sure what is going on.

Twenty minutes later, Sam came back with Simon. Both were scraped, but nothing too serious. Lanie held onto Simon, scolding him not to leave the house without telling her. Simon apologized, saying mommy called and wanted to see him. How Simon is supposed to walk to the park and don't stop walking. I look at Sam as he told the boy would have been run by a truck if he didn't get to him on time.

I nodded before both of us ran out of the house to the car. "Sam, what are we dealing with?"

"Skylar, when your dad called, what did he say?" Sam asked.

"Go to the woods, bring a gun, and you shall see me." I listed then remember what Lanie said.

"And come to me. He reiteratively said 'Come to me.'"

"Sky, that's not your dad," Sam said.

Suddenly my cell phone rang with the caller I.D. of SHA33. I looked at Sam, not sure if I should take it. He nodded, saying I need to trick him. Try to make the voice answer a complicated question that I would only know. Doing so, I answered:

"Dad," I greeted.

"Skylar, have you thought about seeing me?" Bill asked.

"I'm still thinking about it?" I answered. "I'm not sure. What about Mom and Jo?"

"They have each other," Bill said. "But I want to see you."

"And what next?" I asked.

"Whatever you like," Bill answered. "Heaven is like a dream."

"And we'll go on car rides, and you'll sing 'Hurt' by Presley for me?" I asked. "Like you did when I was a baby?"

"Yes, of cour-," Bill said.

Instantly I hanged up. Sam looked at me, waiting to know what happened. "You're right. It's not my Dad."

"How did you know?" Sam asked.

"My dad sang, "Can't help falling in love with you," I answered. "It was kinda like my lullaby."

Sam nodded, telling me to call Dean using his phone. I grabbed Sam's cell having Dean on speaker.

"Sam, what is it," Dean asked on the phone.

"Dean, it's not dad," Sam said.

"Then what is it?" Dean asked.

"A Crocotta," Sam answered.

"Is that a sandwich?" Dean asked.

"Some kind of scavenger – mimics loved ones, whispers 'Come to me,' and lures you into the dark and swallows your soul," Sam explained.

"Crocotta – right," Dean said. "Damn, that makes sense."

"Dean, look. I'm sorry, man. I know—"

"Hey, don't these things live in filth?" Dean interrupted.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.

"Sam, the flies at the phone company," Dean said.

"Stewie Meyers," I said. "Shit."

It explains everything: the filth in the technician's room, the flies, and how the Crocotta could enter the phone lines to communicate. Nothing was said after that from Dean. I hung up, looking at the road, comprehending what we're dealing with. Never heard of a Crocotta, probably because I'm used to the basic hunters' manual.

"So, how do we kill it?" I asked.

"By stabbing it in the neck," Sam answered.

.o0o.

Around closing time, Sam and I reached the phone company waiting for closing. Sam sharpens a knife while I got a pocket knife ready. I asked Sam how he knows of a Crocotta. Sam hesitated then told me when he was a kid when Dean and John went hunting, he ran away. He just continued to run, never looking back till staying at an abandoned cabin at Flagstaff with a dog he named Bones. One night, he heard voices in the woods. A woman's voice. He recognized the voice from a video camera to be his mother, Mary. He and Bones went out to investigate, hoping to see Mary, except he saw a Crocotta instead.

"And you stabbed it?" I asked.

"Dumb luck," Sam said. "I pushed it hard that a branch got through."

I nodded. Sam and I had some things in common that it hurts to think about. We barely know our parents. Sam was only a baby when his mom died by the Yellow-eye demon. I lost my Dad at three years old to a Hellspawn. We never officially grew up with our folks, never getting a chance to have those experiences or memories. Only lived off what our family says and videos. And this Crocotta had us fooled. Deep down, I wanted to see Bill, but now is not my time.

Roughly around seven did we get out. Sam led the way as we walked down to the lower regions where the technician's room would be. Near the windows, we stop to find Stewie finishing up last-minute work before turning off the computers to leave. Suddenly there was a loud noise. We paused, waiting until Sam gestured to keep moving.

At the parking lot, we found Stewie's car, is the one filled with trash in the back seat. We hid behind some vehicles waiting. It wasn't long when Stewie came out walking to his car. Sam tried contacting Dean, "Dean, we're in the parking lot. He's here. Hurry." Once Stewie reached the driver's side searching for his keys, Sam came up to him, pinning to the vehicle with the dagger aimed at his neck.

"Whoa, what the hell?!" Stewie yelled.

"I know what you are," Sam said.

"Wait, mister, please." The thing said.

"And I know how to kill you," Sam added.

"Okay, wait, wait." Stewie panted. "If we're overcharging you for the call-waiting or something, I – I can fix that. I'm your friend."

Wait, what? I thought.

Usually, when a supernatural being gets caught, they panic or rejoice, especially if a blade is at their throat. But Stewie, he's freaking out, almost in tears and making a big deal about hacking into the phone company.

"Sam…I don't think he's a cro-"Out of nowhere, something hit me, knocking me unconscious.

.o0o.

"I'm - I'm sorry, Clark," Stewie's voice cried. "I'm sorry for whatever I did to you. I'm sorry. Please."

I woke up to find myself tied to a chair. Next to me was Sam in the same predicament, while up ahead was Clark walking around Stewie holding an ancient knife? The supervisor is the Crocotta; you got to be freakin' kidding me. Clark Adams's office was squeaky clean. Not like Stewie's technicians' room.

"Wait! Wait. Don't do it." Sam pleaded.

Clark placed a hand on Stewie while standing right behind the weeping man. He smiled, "You're awake. "

"You're not a killer, Clark. No!" Stewie cried. "There's a – there's a good man inside of you. I know it."

"What do you think, Sammy, Sky?" Clark asked. "Am I a good man?"

"Just let them go," Sam said.

"I would. I really would. If only I'd had more than a salad for lunch." Clark said. "See . . . I'm starving."

"No!" Sam screamed.

Instantly he slashed his arm out and stabbed Stewie in the chest. I gasped in horror while Sam yelled at the monster. The poor man died instantly, mouth ajar, eyes closed. When the Crocotta twisted the blade, Stewie's head bent forward, mouth gushing blood. Clark stared at us, smiling until unhinging his mouth, exposing rotten razor-sharp teeth creating a bone-cracking sound. It turned Stewie around facing him, before leaning forward and consuming the dead man's soul. I looked over my shoulder to see myself tied up in cable wires. Quickly but not violently working on making the restraints frail. Twisting my wrist around to loosen them. Once done, the Crocotta mouth closed back to a typical human appearance.

"My last call with Dean – it was you," Sam noted. "You led us here."

The Crocotta cracked his neck, looking at us. "Some calls I make, some calls I take. But you have to admit, I had you fooled for a while. All that Edison phone crap . . ." he chuckled, walking over to the server. "Oh, well." When his hands touched the server, everything went on to full throttle.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded.

Carl swoons his head, "I'm killing your brother. Or maybe I'm killing another guy. We'll just have to see how it goes."

Sam and I couldn't do anything as we watch how the Crocotta hunts his prey. How the beast sways in a trance, lips moving, mimicking the sounds of a little girl. Oh shit, if a bit of a girl died, that means the parent will be furious. Any dad would want to kill the man who killed their little Princess. When he finished, he walked over to Stewie's body, retrieving the dagger.

"You know, mimicking Dean's one thing," Sam said. "But my dad – that's a hell of a trick."

"Let alone adding my dad into the picture," I added.

"Well, once I made you three as hunters, it was easy," Clark said, pushing Stewie's body aside.

"Found Dean's number, then yours, then your father's number, then to E-mails, voicemails, I.P. address – everything." As he listed, he wavers over till the knife was in my face. "You see, people think that that stuff just gets erased. But it doesn't. You be surprised at how much of yourself is just floating out there, waiting to be plucked." Tapping the dagger on my nose.

"Dean's not gonna fall for this," Sam said. "He's not gonna kill that guy."

Clark turned his head facing Sam, "Then the guy kills him."

The Crocotta pulled back from us, pacing, waiting to collect the soul of the two victims in his devious game. Sometimes walking over, tracing the blade along our skin. "Technology . . . Makes life so much easier. It used to be I'd – I'd hide in the woods for days, weeks, whispering to people, trying to draw them out into the night. But they had the community. They all looked out after each other. I'd be lucky to eat maybe one, two souls, a year. But now, when I'm hungry, I simply make a phone call. You're all so connected . . . But you've never been so alone. "

He then knelt down to my level tracing the dagger over my collarbone. He snapped his jaw open, exposing large teeth. Instantly I kicked upward, getting the bastard in the chest, causing me to roll back. At the same time, Sam broke free from his restraints, tackling the beast.

Desperately I ripped the wires, getting them off and getting out of the way. I watched in fear for Sam, seeing how strong the Crocotta is. He managed to pin the beast to a monitor, except the Crocotta punched Sam off him. Crocotta raised his dagger, ready for the kill, yet Sam jumped out of the way making the creature tumbled forward to the rack. They struggled, yet Sam was stronger, making the beast walk backward. And out of nowhere, Sam did a hammer fist, punching the monster in the head. Suddenly blood spurted out from his neck from being stab by a hook.

Sam panted, glaring at the Crocotta. A few minutes later, he turned around, walking over towards me. Not saying a word, he took my hand, leading the way out of here before security or anyone comes in to find the body. Once we were in the car, Sam drove back to the motel.

"Are you okay?" Sam finally spoke.

"Yeah," I breathed. "And you?"

"Yeah," he said.

None of us said a word. My hands shook slightly from witnessing Stewie's death. Never in my life had I witness a human person die. Yes, I have seen pictures, footage, and death stories, but see it in person or how it was committed—especially the professor's body at Springfield University. But to know how the Crocotta kills got to me deep to the very core.

On the way over, we pull off to the side of the road, grabbing the first aid kit to mend out the wrist. Both were bloody from the cable wires, though a little of water, Neosporin, and gauzes would do the trick. Luckily no bones were broken.

When we reached the motel, the Impala was parked outside the driveway. Dean must be back; we enter to hear the bathroom sink running. I sat on the bed, rubbing my wrist, finding them tender now. Sam walked to the bathroom to check on Dean.

"I see they improved your face," Dean said.

Sam chuckles, "Right back at ya."

I chuckled, shaking my head. The boys came out taking a seat, though Dean grabbed three beers out of the fridge.

"So, Crocotta, huh?" Dean said.

"Yep," I said, popping the p.

"That would explain the flies," Dean said.

"Yeah, it would," Sam agreed, sitting next to me, while Dean handed us our bottle before sitting on his bed. "Hey, um . . . look, I'm sorry it wasn't dad."

Dean scoffed, "I gave you both a hell of a time on this one."

"Ah," Sam said.

"No, you were right," Dean said.

"Forget about it," Sam assured.

"I can't." Dean disagreed. "I wanted to believe so badly that there was a way out of this. I mean, I'm staring down the barrel at this thing . . . you know, hell . . . for real, forever, and I'm just . . ."

"Yeah," Sam understands.

"I'm scared, guys," Dean confessed. "I'm really scared."

"I know," Sam said.

"I guess I was willing to believe anything – you know, last act of a desperate man," Dean said.

"You weren't alone on that one," I assured him. "There's nothing wrong with having hope, so you know."

"Hope doesn't get you Jack Squat," Dean grumbled. "I can't expect Dad to show up with some miracles at the last minute. I can't expect anybody to, you know. And the only person that can get me out of this thing is me."

"And me," Sam added.

Dean stared at his brother, almost a sentimental moment until he just scoffs, saying, "And me."

"What?" Sam said, confused.

"Deep revelations, having a real moment here, that's what you come back with – 'And me'?"

"Do you want a poem?" Sam offered.

"Moment's gone," Dean muttered. Grabbing the TV remote, turning the television on. "Unbelievable."

I burst out laughing. No matter what, these guys do know how to make a person laugh without meaning to. So, nothing else to do, we just relaxed in the motel room, drinking beer and watching television—a typical night without anything supernatural.

After an hour of TV, Dean turns off the television. "What are we doing?"

"What?" I replied.

"Sky, you're on spring break. We should be out partying, going to the beach, or whatever college students do on break." Dean said.

"So?" I said.

"I say we pack our stuff and go to some student vacation sight, dance around, drink like crazy, maybe get some action. What do ya say?" Dean offered.

"You're serious?" I asked.

"When he says get some action, I think he means it," Sam murmured.

"Well, alright then," I said, finishing off me beer.

"That's my girl." Dean praised.

.o0o.

The rest of the week was spent cross-country down to Tennessee. For three days, Sam, Dean, and I hang out in Memphis and Nashville. Dean had a field day picking up the ladies at bars that Sam and I had to share a bedroom, so the younger brother doesn't be scar for life. When Dean is sleeping off the hangover, Sam and I become tourists exploring the attractions, such as Elvis Presley's Graceland. Being where the King lived meant something, bringing memories of my Dad. And that being day one, the rest of the two days was in Nashville, sightseeing the Pantheon and music districts.

At the bars, we got cheap beers listening to country music and the blues. One night, we drank at a bar on Broadway. Dean was close to being drunk, having his beer goggles on while flirting with a woman. Sam and I hang out at sidebars listening to a blues band.

"This is fun," I said, taking a sip of beer.

"Yeah, Dean sure picked a good joint." Sam agreed.

"You guys ever had this much fun?" I asked.

"Not really," Sam confessed.

"Huh, I'm must be a lucky girl then." I snicker.

Sam nodded, finishing his beer. Nothing was said after then just listening to the Blues. Dean came over with a babe, saying he'll be meeting us back at the motel later. Sam hesitated, but I assure him to let the dying man have some fun. The brother sighed, shaking his head.

After another hour of music, we decided to head back to the motel. We were so buzzed that we stumbled or sway a little. Okay, I'll admit, I'm somewhat tipsy, but I can still pass a sobriety test.

When we got to the motel, Sam checked on his room, finding no Dean. He sighed in relief before escorting me to my room. "Guess you can have your room tonight."

"Guess so," I breathed.

Sam nodded, "I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah," I said.

I grabbed my key, ready to unlock the door. When Sam didn't move or headed to his room, I stopped, turning around to face him.

"Are you gonna kiss me or not?" I asked.

Sam gawked, debating if he should kiss me or not. I stood there waiting, feeling nervous that he

would reject me. God, he must be thinking I'm drunk or something to say that. Before I could say never mind, he placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up into his green eyes as he stared down into my hazel hues. Sam cradles my cheek then leaned forward, kissing me gently, which I kissed back. My hands were resting on his chest, clutching his shirt, he wrapped his arms around my waist. Our lips locked in simple kisses sending shivers down my spine.

When we pulled back to breathe, Sam kissed my forehead and let go. "Night, Skylar."

I smiled, opening the door, "Night, Sam."

And we went to bed in our separate rooms.


OH MY GOD! This is like the longest chapter I ever wrote.

So, what do guys think? Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and the Samlar moment. If there is a case you like to see Skylar in, put it in the review. Options are:

4.11 Family Remains

5.02 Good God, Y'All

5.06 I Believe the Children Are Our Future

If there is an episode you want to see her in, let me know in the review.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!

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