Hey, I apologize for this chapter taking forever, but I've had more time to write recently, so I should be updating more often than not. I don't like cursing, so there won't be foul language in my fanfictions. I apologize if cursing is what makes the fanfiction for you. Whatever. I hope you all like this chapter. I think it's kind of boring. It'll pick up a little in the next chapter.

Thank you so much for reading (:

I do not own Supernatural.

C-H-A-P-T-E-R

3

Maryse: 3

"Daddy?" I walked out of the bedroom of the hotel room and to my dad. He was sitting at the table, writing in his book.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked, setting his pen down and turning towards me.

"I had a bad dream," I answered, a tear making its way down my cheek. I would have normally woken Sam or Dean up if my dad wasn't here, but he was here and he could help me.

He furrowed his eyebrows, turning in his chair and holding out a hand to me. I took his hand as he asked, "What was it about?"

"There were people," I said, sniffling and wiping away my tears with the back of my hand, "like the person I saw on the way to school today."

"What do you mean?" he asked, pulling me up to sit on his lap, his face serious now.

I pursed my lips and shook my head. The people. They were so scary, with their crinkled and cut faces and their black eyes. They were trying to kill me, they were going to get me.

"Rae, I have to know what they looked like," he said.

My lip quivered as terrifying images flashed in my mind, and I buried my head in his chest, clutching onto his tee-shirt. "They had cuts all on their faces and black eyes, and-and they were trying to hurt me Daddy. You weren't there. Dean and Sammy weren't there. They were going to kill me."

One nap, a bag of Funyuns, an explanation, and three arguments (one over Sam's and my seating arrangements, another over Dean's and my music preferences, and the last over the nickname "Sammy") later, the three of us were sitting in the Impala, making our way towards Jericho, California. Sam sat in the front, and I was still a little peeved about the whole thing: Dean telling me to suck it up and that I was the youngest so I had to give up my seat, Sam telling me that the back seat was more comfortable anyway and that he would sit back there if it weren't for his monstrous size (okay, so he didn't use those words exactly), and me being demoted to backseat ownership. Needless to say, I grumbled quite a lot for an hour or two.

"Alright," I heard Sam say from my seat, "so there's no one matching Dad at the hospital or morgue, so that's something, I guess."

I looked up from my book and trained my eyes on the back of his head. I knew Dad wasn't hurt or dead; I would have felt it.

For as long as I can remember, I've been abnormal when it comes to . . . well, being a human being. I've always been able to see demons for their true form, and it's terrifying. The things are probably my biggest fear. When I was young, I told Dad about it, about the monsters with black eyes I saw in every day people. To say he freaked is an understatement. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, hearing him researching my "sight" (or whatever he called it) like a mad man, and he would constantly keep an eye on me, especially times after I had a nightmare about someone we knew. Those nightmares would sometimes come true. Then, I didn't understand that what I was able to do was considered dangerous, I only knew it was scary and different. Thankfully, because of me thinking it was scary, I never told Sam or Dean about it, and Dad, being Dad, never told them either. A few months ago, though, I gained another strange ability: I was able to feel if something was wrong with someone in my family, and if Dad or Dean grew angry, even if it wasn't at me or had nothing to do with me, I was immediately angry. This, I did tell Dad and Dean about. We still don't know what's going on with me. It's weird.

"Check it out." This time, it was Dean's voice drawing my attention.

I looked out the left side window as we pulled over, the Impala rocking back and forth as its wheels rolled over uneven gravel. A whole bunch of police officers were crowded around a small blue car on a bridge. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that this all probably has to do with our case," I said, staring at the scene in front of us.

"Probably," Sam replied.

I watched Dean move out of the corner of my eye, reaching towards the glove compartment. Oh, this is gonna be good, I thought as I turned to watch Sam's expression. His eyes bugged out of their sockets as Dean pulled out the box of ID's to set it on his lap and rifle through. He pulled out the ID he was looking for and closed the box, leaning over Sam once more to put it back in the glove compartment.

Dean sat back up straight, looking at Sam. "Let's go," he said.

If Sam's eyes could've gotten any wider, they would have fallen out. They both exited the car and I chuckled a little, bowing my head back down to my book. I hadn't been allowed to use fake ID's yet, because of my age, and I didn't really mind. I wasn't quite ready to go to prison at sixteen.

The crickets chirped and the putrid smell of the rushing water below us occasionally wafted up to the top of the bridge we approached. I scrunched my nose in disliking and kept my eyes trained on Sam and Dean as they walked a little ways in front of me. We had found out different things about the victim in the strange crime scene from two girls around town, one of which was the young man's girlfriend. They talked of a girl who had been killed on Centennial Highway and now haunts it. We went to the library after that and researched, finding that a girl hadn't been killed, but had committed suicide after murdering her children by drowning them in the bathtub. Now, we were back to the bridge where, coincidentally, the crime scene had been, along where the girl — Constance Welch — had jumped and killed herself.

As hunters, we didn't quite actually believe in coincidence.

"So this is where Constance took the swan dive," Dean mused, walking to the edge of the bridge.

I grimaced, leaning against the railing beside him to look down at the black water below us.

"So you think Dad would have been here?" Sam asked, settling in to the right of me and sandwiching me between the two. I looked up at Dean, wondering the same question.

"Well, he was chasing the same story, and we're chasing him," Dean answered, backing off of the railing. I shifted on my feet, returning my gaze towards the water. I hoped we were on the right track to finding Dad. I missed him a lot. A little after he went missing, I left about 25 messages on his phone and called him about 30 times until I finally realized that he wasn't going to be picking up and answering me. It worried me.

"So now what?" I heard Sam say, breaking my thoughts and causing my attention to be drawn to my now-walking brothers.

"We keep digging till we find something," Dean said over his shoulder, barely audible against the sound of rushing water below us, "It might take awhile." I huffed, tired of and worried because of the situation we were in.

Sam straightened himself a little, and I turned to look at him fully. He looked like he was preparing himself for a bomb-drop. "Dean, Ris, I told both of you. I gotta be back by-"

"Monday," I finished, pursing my lips once the word escaped. I nodded, disappointed (as I'll always be when it came to Sam leaving us) but somewhat understanding. He had a life at college, a life that he liked. Not like hunting.

But Dean didn't seem to get that, turning around to face us and responding with, "The interview… Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? What are you gonna do? Become some lawyer? Marry your girl? Live some apple-pie life?" I felt Dean's irritation, his hopelessness, and I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to push out the intrusion of his feelings.

Sam raised his arms in a sort of exasperated way. "Yeah, why not?"

"Does Jessica know the truth about you?" Dean shot back.

"No, and she's not ever going to," Sam said, finality clear in his tone. He took a threatening step towards Dean, and I cringed, anger now flowing into me. A fight. They were about to start a fight, right here, on a bridge that a ghost was probably haunting, while we were trying to find our father.

"Well that's healthy," Dean said sarcastically, his eyes flickering with a sort of mocking light. "You know, you can pretend all you want, Sammy," — he shrugged, turning away — "but sooner or later you're gonna have to face up to who you really are." Dean started to walk away, Sam and I trailing behind.

"And who's that?" Sam spat, speeding up his pace.

"One of us," Dean said, making a proud movement with his arm to gesture between him and me.

Sam tried to get in front of Dean. "No," he said, "I'm not like you. I'm not gonna do this with my life." I sighed audibly, trying to maybe get their attention back onto the situation at hand — finding our MIA father. They couldn't save this fight, this stupid insignificant thing for later? Anger started pulsing through me, and I knew it was just because of these two fighting, but I didn't care.

"You have a responsibility," Dean replied to Sam, ignoring me. Sam finally got in front of Dean, and the two stopped, facing each other.

Sam glanced at me, but then focused on Dean. "To Dad?" he questioned, "And his… Crusade? If it weren't for pictures, I would barely even remember what Mom looked like. And Ris, without the pictures, she would have no idea what she looked like, because she was six months old! What difference does it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone, and she isn't coming back."

The next thing I knew, Dean was grabbing Sam by the collar and shoving him up against one of the metal frames on the bridge. The tension that had been growing for the last few minutes was now at its peak, making the air feel so thick I felt like I couldn't breathe. I didn't only feel anger now; I felt hurt, and it killed me. "Don't talk about her like that," Dean said after taking two deep breaths, his voice barely above a whisper.

I flinched a little at his tone, the fire that had begun in me burning out. I always thought Dean sounded his angriest when it was obvious he was trying not to blow up, and even if he kept his voice at a quiet volume, it was still unsettling.

Something white caught my eye in my peripheral vision, bringing my attention away from my brothers and to the other side of the bridge. I turned my head and was faced with an image of Constance Welch standing on the bridge's frame, staring right back at me.

"Guys," I said, my tone urgent.

I heard Dean release Sam roughly.

"Guys." My tone became more stern.

"Wha-?" Dean started.

The ghost fell forward, as if she was reliving her death, but I knew that wasn't it. We knew that wasn't it. She was haunting Centennial Highway, not caught in an eternal loop of her death. This was a show. She was haunting us right now.

The three of us started sprinting towards her. The rushing water beneath us seemed to drum in my head as we reached the other side and looked over the edge. There was no sign of the ghost, which meant she was either back on the highway or back on the bridge. Both caused a chill to run up my spine, a chill that still hadn't gone away in my twelve years of knowing about this crap.

"Where'd she go?" Sam said, seeming slightly exasperated.

"Where do you think?" I said right as the engine of the Impala roared — purred — whatever.

Sam and I both turned to Dean. "Who's driving your car?" Sam asked.

Dean, his expression dumbstruck, then reached into his pocket, pulling out his keys.

Constance.

I turned my eyes back to the shiny black car, and it started speeding towards us, the tires screeching for emphasis. My eyes widened and my breath hitched. I was about to be dubbed the name Skidmark.

Instinctively, I turned on my heels and started running, adrenaline pumping through my veins and my heart hitting my ribs with a force I was sure would break them. Ghosts, werewolves, no problem. Outrunning speeding cars? Not so much.

Worry hit me like a ton of bricks, though, when I realized that I couldn't hear other feet hammering against the bridge over the sound of Baby's engine, the rushing water, and the blood pumping through my veins. I quickly looked over my shoulder, fear growing as I dreaded the sight my gaze could be met with, but there were my brothers, catching up with me. Their strides doubled mine, and they were fast. They-

I felt my Converse hit the tip of a board on the bridge and I quickly got off-balanced. Dean caught my left arm, preventing me from being roadkill, and then shoved me towards the side of the bridge.

"What-?!" I yelled, but I was already going over.

I tucked myself into a ball. Constance had died jumping off of this bridge. I could die. I had to protect myself somehow, and cannonballing into the shallow river seemed like my best bet to me.

I felt my body slice through the cold water, encompassing me in what felt like the frequent freezing showers I took when the hot water at the hotels didn't work. But then I felt something weird, something gross. It was mushy and all over my right side, including my face. I almost let out a sound of disgust, but I kept my mouth shut, reminding myself that I was not only under water but in something disgusting feeling.

I shook my head a little, releasing all of my hair from the heavy substance, and then raised my head above the water. The small waves created by the flow of the river beat against my face and the cool night air made me feel like I was lying face down in snow. Wanting to be free of the icky stuff on my face, I let the water splash me for a moment, removing most of the mud and whatever from my skin. Then I stood all the way up, hearing Sam's voice call to us from the bridge.

"Dean! Rissy!"

I looked up, standing waist-deep in the river, my Converse seeping deeper into the mud, and waved to let him know I was alright. I heard a squelching sound from a few feet away and looked over to see Dean pulling himself onto the bank.

"Hey!" Sam said, "You alright?"

Dean held up an OK sign and a cheesy grin spread across my face. This would be something to remember.

"One room please."

Dean placed the credit card on the desk, and the elderly man picked it up, studying it. I grimaced. One room. I'd probably be sleeping in the Impala tonight, depending on if there was a couch or not in the room, Sam using the argument that I was smaller again. Yeah, he'd been using that argument for a long time.

"You guys havin' a reunion or somethin'?" the man asked, looking at the three of us.

"What do you mean?" I asked, scrunching my eyebrows in confusion.

"There was another guy — Bert Aframian — bought out a room for the whole month."

I looked at Sam and Dean for a moment, knowing what they were thinking. "I'll be right back," I said before turning to go back out the door. I needed to get something to pick a lock with out of the Impala. Whatever Dean had probably fell out in the river.

I walked out to the Impala and opened the passenger side door, leaning in and going for the the glove box. I started digging around in it, past all the usual stuff and going straight to the bottom. Paperclips and junk always fell down to the bottom. Quickly, I found a bent paperclip. We must have already used it for picking a lock somewhere. I grinned in victory and then closed the glove box, backing out of the Impala and closing the door behind me. I walked around to the back seat and opened it, reaching for my duffel on the floorboard. I unzipped it and grabbed a pair of grey sweatpants, a white cami, a red and blue flannel, and underwear. Then I turned to see my brothers walking towards a hotel room.

"Hey!" I called, and they both turned to look as I held up the paper clip.

The both responded with a grin, Sam adding a thumbs up. I made my way over to them and we walked towards our destination, which I guessed was Dad's hotel room.

I gave Sam the paperclip once we reached it, because he was closest to the door, and he started to swiftly pick the lock, Dean and I standing there. I could tell he was trying to "look natural" but really, when did Dean ever look natural?

A small snort escaped me at my thoughts, and Dean gave me a weird look, and I only chuckled a little more until I felt a hand grab my jacket and yank me inside.

The room was filthy. Salt made a circle around the unmade bed, different papers having to do with the case lined the walls, and a half-eaten burger sat on the cluttered bedside table. It looked like he'd left in a hurry.

Dean walked over to the lamp next to the burger and turned it on, lifting up the burger and sniffing it. "I don't think he's been here for a few days, at least," he said, looking back at me and Sam.

Sam bent down to touch the ring of salt. "Salt, cats-eye shells, he was worried."

My stomach dropped. He was worried; Dad was worried.

Dean walked over towards the wall of papers, and Sam followed as I stood dumbstruck by the door. He couldn't be dead. I would have felt it. I would have known. I would already be mourning. He had to be alive. If he wasn't . . .

I shuddered at the thought, at the thought of being an orphan. I wouldn't be anyone's child anymore. I wouldn't belong.

"Dad figured it out."

Sam's voice tore me from my reverie, and I turned to look at him, putting the thoughts of my father away in my minds filing cabinet to bring out for another time.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked as I started walking towards Sam.

"He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She's a woman in white," he said. I came up behind him and looked at the article taped to the wall.

"You sly dogs," I heard Dean mutter from behind us. Then he started walking towards us. "Okay, so if we're dealing with a woman in white-"

"Dad would've finished the job and destroyed the corpse," I finished.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "She might have another weakness…"

"No, Dad would wanna make sure. He'd dig her up," Dean insisted, "It say where she was buried?"

Sam shook his head a little. "No, if I were Dad, I'd ask her husband."

"Yeah," Dean said, "hey, while you try to find an address, I'm gonna get cleaned up."

I turned on my heel and glared at Dean. "Please don't use all the soap."

Dean laughed. "No promises."

I didn't loosen up on my glare as he continued towards the bathroom.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, "Ris, about what I said earlier, on the bridge-"

Dean interrupted by raising his hand. "No chickflick moments."

I heard the light click off in the bathroom, and I shot out of my seat on the bed, grabbing the clothes I had and rushing into the bathroom, Dean walking past me and chuckling at my hastiness. I needed to be clean, now. I couldn't take the nasty sewer smell any longer.

Slamming the door behind me, I stripped and jumped into the shower, turning on the heat with minimal cold water. I let the water run over me, wishing it would soothe my constantly-tense muscles, but I knew it wouldn't; it never did. My eyes lit up at the sight of a white soap bar on the edge of a shelf in the shower, and I quickly grabbed it. Thank God; Dean didn't use all of the soap.

I started to lather the soap on, even putting it in my hair. It was all I could do to wash it, with no shampoo in sight. I stood there for a few seconds, thinking as the water began to rinse the soap off. My dad was missing, and though I was trained to cope in situations like this, I couldn't. He could be dead. He could be dead and it would be my fault. My fault because I didn't know he was dying, because if I was given this weird, freaky ability and I couldn't tell when my dad was in danger, then what was it for? It would be my fault because I didn't know how to use it, how to control it, how to keep my family safe.

I jumped and slipped a little at the sound of banging on the door, my heart nearly jumping out of my chest.

"Ris! We gotta go! Police are outside!"

My eyes widened and I shut the water off, stepping out of the shower as I did so. Then I pulled my clothes on, all of them sticking to me uncomfortably because of my soaked status, but I had to rush. The police could be in here in any minute. Once I finished, I threw my hair out of my face and yanked open the door, steam wafting into the hotel room.

"Let's go," I said to Sam, nodding to the window in the back of the room.

I ran over to it, carrying my soggy Converse with me and pulled myself through the small space, Sam following after. Then I started towards the parking lot, the asphalt digging into my feet. I heard Sam moving behind me, following closely. I finally came to the corner by the front of the motel room, and I poked my head out, watching the cops make their way into the hotel room.

"They're in," I said to Sam.

I heard him let out a breath of relief. "Alright, we gotta make a run for the Impala."

I nodded to show him that I understood, then said, "On three?"

"Yeah."

"One, two, three!" I whispershouted.

The pain of the asphalt digging into my feet made me cringe with each step, and I felt the skin being ripped from the balls of my feet. I gritted my teeth and continued to run to the Impala, keeping my eyes on the black body of the car. We were close, so close. My hands touched the sleek handle of the passenger side door, and I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.