The world was dark in the early morning light under a thick blanket of menacing gray clouds. I could feel the moisture building in the air beyond the glass and steel of the Impala. The scent of the looming wetness cut through the dry heat, and a faint roll of thunder growled in the distance.

The world outside looked like how I felt on the inside. It was dark and foreboding, and it was building up to something terrible and unstoppable. Only, the storm outside would quench the parched earth, and eventually recede and give way to the sun and all would be happy and warm again. The storm inside of me would only satisfy the demon, the part of me I had been trying to keep at bay, and God only knew if I could recover from that.

I debated telling them who I was. I considered pulling my mask back and announcing my true identity to my sons before they sent me on another suicide mission. Before the tempest swept in and took away every last shred of John Winchester that I desperately clung to, and I really became the thing I despised. But I decided it was best to keep them in the dark, keep them blissfully unaware of what had become of their old man. Besides, they wouldn't believe me.

"Well, that's weird," Sam muttered out loud, shattering the thick silence that had been made uncomfortable by my very presence. He was sitting in the front passenger seat, despite my claim to the seat (although I never actually thought I would be welcome in the coveted spot), with his black laptop open and carefully balanced on his knees.

"What's weird?" I asked with a note of contempt, keeping my eyes on the dark gloomy skies and the rusty earth. "How do you have the fucking internet right now?"

Sam responded by pretending he didn't hear me, although the way his eyes narrowed, I could tell he had.

"Please don't tell me there's not an asylum in Traverse," Dean pleaded from his place behind the steering wheel. He took his eyes off the two-lane highway he was navigating to shoot Sam a disgruntled look.

"There is an old asylum," Sam said. "It was established in 1881, and shut down in 1989."

"Great," Dean said. "Sounds exactly like the kind of place Crowley would hole up. So what's weird?"

"The fact that it's not abandoned," Sam revealed.

"What?" Dean asked with a sharp look of confusion. I sat straighter in my seat and leaned forward in interest.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, his eyes still glued to the screen. "The Traverse City State Hospital actually has multiple buildings on site, and they've been slowly under restoration since about 2001. It looks like a lot of them are occupied."

"Occupied by what?" Dean asked, more confused than before.

Sam clicked his mouse and sat back, his eyes slightly widened.

"The buildings are used for residential and business purposes," he read from his computer screen. "Apartments and condos, restaurants, boutiques, coffee shops, a freaking winery, offices, a yoga studio–"

"I get it," Dean cut him off. "So what you're saying is that it's crowded."

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

"That doesn't seem like the kind of place Crowley would hang out," Dean said, looking between Sam and the road. "Which is why that is exactly where he is."

"The only problem is figuring out what part of the property he's hanging out in," Sam said as his fingers stroked the black keyboard.

"Check out the businesses," I suggested. Sam craned his neck back and shot me a cold glower, wordlessly telling me he hadn't asked for my help. "Maybe he's operating out of a restaurant or something," I continued anyway. "It's a vacation town, right? Get the tourists drunk and full and complacent and offer them their wildest dream come true for desert."

Sam sighed and turned around to face the road.

"You know, that's not a bad idea," Dean casually said. "Check out the winery, dude. I bet they get tons of people wasted."

Sam fixed his gaze on the computer once more and began typing.

"How'd you know it's a vacation town?" he casually asked without looking up from his task.

I paused to contemplate my response. Northern Michigan was a common vacation destination for folks in Illinois. I had never gone myself, but most of my childhood neighbors and friends would visit for weeks at a time in the summer, and the names of the cities and towns had been burned into my mind.

Of course, I didn't want to clue them in to my home state or past human history, so I didn't mention this. And so I replied with;

"How did you not know it's a vacation town?"

Sam ignored me, and instead stared thoughtfully at the screen in front of him. His brows folded in curiosity and a light "huh" emitted from his lips.

"What?" Dean asked impatiently as he picked up a paper coffee cup from the cup holder and carefully took a slow sip.

"Nothing," Sam shook his head. "I mean, at first glance, none of these places scream Crowley. But there is a business called — get this – GLASS Paranormal and Ghost Removal."

Dean choked and sputtered on his coffee as a hearty chuckle rolled up from his chest.

"Are you shitting me?" he asked with amusement, swiping away the coffee that dribbled down his chin with the back of his hand.

"I am not," Sam said. He clicked the mouse a couple of times and a tiny, amused grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Their web page is pretty bare. It says." He paused and tried to stifle a snicker. "Got ghosts? Call Miss. Torie."

"Miss. Torie?" Dean echoed questioningly before he got the joke and he rolled his eyes. "Mystery."

"Yep," Sam said, still mildly entertained.

"I don't think Crowley's hanging out with a ghost chaser named 'Mystery'," Dean said.

"No," Sam agreed with a nod. "But if anything weird is going on, I bet she would notice."

"Please," I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Paranormal investigators wouldn't notice 'paranormal' if it bit them on the ass."

Sam ignored my bitter comment and shifted in his seat, careful to keep his laptop level as he fished his smartphone out of his jeans pocket. He dialed the number listed on the webpage, and turned the speaker on. He held the slender, black device between Dean and himself, and we quietly listened and waited for "Miss. Torie" to pick up.

"Hello?" A feminine voice filled the Impala.

"Uh, hi," Sam spoke up. "Is this GLASS Paranormal?"

"Yeah," the voice said. "What's up?"

"I have a question for you, and it might sound a little odd."

"I'm sure it will, honey," the voice said in a tone that bordered on sarcasm, though not in an unfriendly way.

"Um, right." Sam paused to glance back down at his computer. "Your office is located at the Traverse City State Hospital, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's technically called The Village or something now, but yeah."

"Have you noticed anything… unusual there recently? Like, flickering lights?"

"Uh, yeah dude," the woman's voice returned, as if it should have been obvious. "That's kind of what happens in haunted buildings."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of curious beguilement.

"What about odd smells?" Sam prodded as thunder grumbled in the distance. "Like, rotten eggs or sulfur?"

The line went silent, and, after a few seconds, the phone beeped to indicate the call had been disconnected.

"Well that's not suspicious," Dean said sarcastically as Sam redialed the number. It took him a couple of tries before the woman would answer her phone again.

"Quit calling here," she said shortly, and swiftly hung up.

Sam sighed, but remained persistent and tried again.

"I fucking mean it," she snapped when she answered. "Tell Crowley I passed his idiotic test and leave me the fuck alone."

"Hold on a second!" Sam quickly called, hoping to keep her on the line. "I don't work for Crowley."

"You don't?"

"No. My name's Sam. I'm a hunter—"

"A hunter?" The woman's voice cut him off. "Well, that's just fucking great." There came a long pause and Sam had to check his phone to make sure he was still connected. "Look, pal," the voice said at last, her words laced with a sorrowful irritation. "If you don't leave me alone, you're gonna get me killed. I'm hanging up, and I'm blocking your number. Do not call me again."

Sam's phone beeped, and the three of us sat with baffled expression in the Impala half a country away.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked no one in particular. "What did she mean by that?"

"I don't know," Sam said, just as bewildered as Dean. "But I'm starting to think she's not the typical paranormal investigator."

"You think she's in trouble?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam admitted, but the concern that gently laced itself across his face said he suspected something similar. "But it sounds like we're headed in the right direction."

"This place is creepy."

Dean stared up at the giant, four story Victorian building with an unsettled look. The nobel asylum was elegant and clean, and far less eerie than any of the former institutions I had run across. The off-white bricks wore a fresh coat of paint, and the black, peaked roofs had been re-shingled. All the windows were not only intact, but extraordinarily clean, so clean they reflected perfectly the deep blue skies and the fluffy white clouds that lazily sailed across them. Illustrious old oak trees stood proudly alongside strong maples in a cluster on the front lawn, and, on the other side of the small, gravel parking lot, sat an open field of lush green grass.

We stood at a fork in the narrow road that led up to the former asylum, studying the long building we had to infiltrate. Dean had parked the Impala a mile or so away on a shady residential street, and we had walked to the place the sign called The Village at Grand Traverse Commons. If Crowley was there — and we were certain he was — the car would have tipped him off in an instant. And if the Impala didn't alert them of my boys, the hellhound sitting in the back seat would have alerted them of me.

"This is actually the least creepy asylum I've seen," Sam said, challenging his brother's statement as his eyes swept over the historical landmark.

"I mean, it looks nice," Dean added, squinting up at the four-story building. "But it still has that old, crazy feel to it. And people live here?" He paused and glanced over to Sam. "How much you wanna bet it's haunted?"

"Considering 'Mystery' already told us it is, I wouldn't bet against it."

I lit myself a cigarette and inhaled the poisonous smoke with a desperate breath. It had been a long couple of days stuck in the backseat of the Impala, and Sam's reserved hostility hadn't helped. It was relieving to finally be out of the car, and at the right destination. My part in the grimoire affair was coming to an end, and, soon, I would get to return to hunting things that wouldn't try to drag me back to Hell.

As soothing as it was to know my work with my sons was about to come to an end, it was also deeply disappointing. I hadn't truly understood how much I missed them until I had begun traveling with them, even under the circumstances. I may have abandoned my mission for penance when the revelation of what the angels had done to me came to light, but I knew I couldn't stay with them. Even if they did know who I was – or, rather, used to be – they wouldn't want me hanging out with them. I was, after all, a demon.

I tried to shake the regret that grew like a weed in my gut. I couldn't afford to get distracted again. Not here, not with Crowley so close.

"According to the website," Sam began with his gaze between the grand building and his phone. "Mystery's office is in Building 50. Which should be this building here."

He pointed straight ahead at the building we had been eyeing.

"How many buildings are there?" Dean asked.

"There should be four more former patient wards behind here," Sam said, idly motioning towards Building 50. "A couple of them are still completely abandoned. Well. Un-renovated."

"Let's go check 'em out," Dean said. He began strolling across the street, motioning for Sam to follow. "Maddox, you take Building 50. Find out what Mystery knows, and see if she's in trouble."

"Yes, I heard the plan the first time," I called as I walked directly towards the building while Sam and Dean took the sidewalk around.

"This time," Sam scoffed loud enough for me to hear. I sighed in embarrassment and hung my head as I lumbered to the set of simple glass doors that seemed tiny and out of place on such a grand and polished structure.

The inside of Building 50 was tidy and clean, and smelled faintly of lavender and garlic. The walls were mostly old, but well-tended red brick which proudly displayed paintings of landscapes and waterscapes that danced under a pleasantly dim light. A half-flight of stairs directly in front of me led down to a row of boutiques, shops and restaurants, while another short staircase ascended to the second floor just to my left. I took the stairs up and wandered down the wide, naturally lit corridor past rows of offices until I found another staircase and I took it to the third floor.

I wandered this corridor a little slower than I had the first, carefully reading numbers and names painted on the frosted glass windows of each door I passed. A vague scent of sulfur found my nose as I neared the center of the wide hall; I was getting close.

I stopped short at the door marked "G.L.A.S.S. Paranormal & Ghost Removal" in bold, black sticker letters, half of which were curling and fraying at the edges. The window was too thick and too frosted to tell if anyone was inside, but when I knocked an annoyed voice responded with a short "what?" and I let myself in.

The office was small, smaller than an average hotel room, and cramped. An overstuffed black leather couch sat along the brick wall on the left, facing a closet door on the right wall. On one side of the couch sat a weathered, antique table, and on the other a black mini-fridge that supported a white microwave and a small, black coffee maker. Two decent sized speakers sat on either side of a cheap, pinewood desk that had been placed in front of the tall, narrow window along the far wall, set so the woman sitting behind it was facing the door.

The woman Sam and Dean had been calling Mystery peered up from a silver laptop with giant, round eyes the same color as the sky. They were outlined in heavy black makeup that made her lashes stand out and made her eyes look electric and intense. Her vibrant, aquamarine hair was pin straight and long, falling just past her chest, with her bangs combed flat over her forehead. She wore a solid black tank top that displayed a collection of colorful ink embedded forever along her arms; the left arm was covered in what looked like a page straight from a comic book with panels and word bubbles, while the right was covered in stars in a multitude of sizes, arranged to give the appearance that they were falling from her shoulder to be caught in a pile at her wrist. Another tattoo had been drawn across the left side of her chest over her heart, something that looked like a name laced within the symbol for infinity, but her top covered it just enough to make it unreadable.

She was small, but her exterior was tough and, had I not been an ex-marine/hunter/demon, I might have found her intimidating. As I examined her round face, I realized she was actually kind of pretty. At least, she would be were it not for her wildly colored hair and extensive tattoos.

A sly smile spread across her full, pink lips as she watched me enter the tiny office space, and she quickly pulled her laptop to a close to give me her full attention.

"Well hello, Steve Rogers," she said with a suggestive tone, her eyes sweeping over me with interest.

"Um, my name is Maddox," I awkwardly corrected her.

The smile on Mystery's face widened into a look of amusement.

"You mean you're not Captain America?" she said sarcastically.

"I'm afraid not," I shook my head. "I only made it to corporal."

Her smile widened even still, seemingly delighted by our casual banter.

"Please, come in," she motioned for me to step forward. "Shut the door, would you?"

I did as she requested, quietly latching the door closed before I strolled towards her.

"What can I do for you, Maddox?" she asked with a sweet voice that clashed with her rough-and-tough style.

"Actually, I was wondering if there was anything I might be able to do for you," I told her as I took a seat in the un-sturdy wooden chair that sat across the desk from her.

"Oh?" she asked, pleasantly intrigued. She flashed me a seductive smile as she leaned forward slightly to expose her cleavage to me. "I bet I can think of something."

"That's… not quite what I had in mind," I admitted, taken somewhat aback by her brazen flirtations.

"No?" she asked with an exaggerated pout. "That's good." She dropped her tone and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Because that's not exactly what I had in mind, either."

Before I could blink or have time to consider what she could have possibly meant, she was steadily aiming a sawed-off shotgun at my chest with her right hand.

"I was thinking you get the fuck out or I'll pump you so full of salt you'll be able to taste it in every meat suit you jump into."