"Dean, you're trashed, and it's not even noon!" Sam reprimanded as the three walked (well, Dean kind of staggered) to the car.

"You had your joy rides when I was away, Sam. I'm driving."

"What if we get pulled over?"

"What if the moon really is made of green cheese?"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

Placing a hand on Sam's upper arm, Lory nodded sagely, "Let him drive, Sam. We'll be fine."

She ended with a reassuring smile, which Sam matched with a trusting one as he relented.

"While you're at it- what are tonight's winning lottery numbers?" he joked, good-naturedly putting his arm around her shoulder.

0000000000000000000

"Hi…May I help you?"

The lanky redheaded woman that answered the door was the poster-child of yuppies' wives. The three examined her briefly from her brown oxfords, up her khakis, to her crisp white button-up shirt and her lavender sweater-draped shoulders. Things seemed neat and orderly up to that point, but once their eyes met her face it was apparent that all was not well. Under her hazel eyes were bags, not too unlike the color of her sweater. Her pale face said "thirty-eight" when it really meant "twenty-sevenish" with its worry lines and slowly forming crow's feet. But most of all, she looked tired.

"Mrs. Fisher?" Sam inquired.

"Yes?"

"I spoke to your husband on the phone about your… problem?"

"Oh… " she trailed as she cocked her head in a way not too unlike Lory's, "I completely forgot. You must be the Winchester brothers… And sister?"

Her eyes fell to the round brown girl in the generic clothes that were reminiscent of a jogging outfit, and then between the mundanely charming-looking young men.

"This is Lory, our associate," Sam nodded with a polite smile.

"Our psychic friend," Dean added squarely.

"Like- like Miss Cleo?" the tired-looking woman asked, looking utterly confused.

"More like Dionne Warwick… eighty years ago," Dean corrected.

"May we come in?" Sam asked, eager to put an end to this.

"Why can't I be Sylvia Browne?" Lory muttered as was she was the last to straggle inside.

"Dave!" the woman called into the depths of the house as she politely ushered the three inside.

Upon entering the house, the Winchester boys (even Dean in his buzzed state) felt something not quite right about the place, which looked pleasant enough, but seconds after stepping into the dwelling, the hairs on Lory's skin began to raise. She had tasted a few days' relief from the eerie and she had allowed herself to be flung right back into it without thinking.

A short man (dressed similarly to his wife but sans the sweater) emerged from the kitchen holding a roughly three-month old baby in his arms. He looked almost as tired as his wife, but while her eyes were squinted for want of sleep, his were wide and vigilant- the results of either intense unease, caffeine or a combination of the two.

"Shhhh. Derek finally went to sleep," he snapped in his jittery way before acknowledging the company with a nod.

"Dave, this is Sam and Dean Winchester, the specialists, and their..?"

"Associate," Sam coached, "Lory Fletcher."

After handing the child off to his wife, who side-by-side, dwarfed him, David shook hands with Lory, Dean and Sam in succession.

"Thank you for coming out."

"No trouble. No trouble at all," Sam assured.

"We didn't catch you at a bad time, did we?" asked Lory, outdoing her usual soft tone out of consideration for the sleeping baby.

"Oh, no you're just fine. Actually, we, uh, just got back from my mother-in-law's. We couldn't take staying here another night."

"Why, is the spirit violent?" Lory inquired, her head cocking to the side.

"Only just recently," David nodded, "Up until a couple nights ago, it was angry. It liked to break things and sneak up on us- scare the hell out of us. We lost nights of sleep. But when Angela woke up screaming, getting scratched in her sleep, I knew we had to leave."

"Can you describe the spirit for me?"

"We already briefed you on this," Dean interjected, "Besides, aren't you supposed to be psy-"

"I want to hear Mr. Fisher tell me, Dean," she cut abruptly but not at all disrespectfully before turning back to Fisher and asking with her eyes for him to proceed.

"She's a girl…No older than about twenty, twenty-one… When I first bought this place, she appeared beautiful to me. Not at all threatening. Then again, she would only let me catch glimpses of her. Sort of like she was, I don't know…"

"She was being coy with you," Lory nodded, "flirting."

Angela Fisher visibly waned comfort at this.

"Yeah, exactly. How'd you know?"

"Hunch… Is the spirit ever hostile toward you?"

"No, not me personally. Mostly Angela…And sometimes, the baby."

Looking into the air and exhaling deeply, Lory sighed, "She's pissed."

"Gosh, really?" Dean sneered as he folded his arms across his chest.

"And," she continued, looking at Dean before bringing her attention back to the Fishers, "She's hurting. Big time. Like she wants to curl up with a carton of Rocky Road and watch As the World Turns. Her heart is broken."

"She lost a lover?" suggested Sam

"Is this a therapy session or are you going to get rid of this thing?" Fisher urged with his hands on his hips.

"We have to assess the situation," Sam said defensively.

"Assess, not over-analyze," Dean chimed in gruffly.

"We should talk outside…" Lory advised the group, her hairs raising once more and her voice inevitably losing its temporary confidence.

Angela nodded to her husband, "You go. It's too cold out there for Tyler."

When the heavy door left a barrier between the group and Angela Fisher, Lory looked David in the eye.

"I didn't want to ask you this in front of your wife…"

"What?"

"Exactly how does one get…involved with a ghost?"

"What the hell are you implying?" he snapped.

Sam and Dean exchanged dumbfounded glances.

"She feels like you used her. For what, I can't even begin to comprehend-"

Looking up angrily at Sam and Dean, David Fisher snarled in an accusing tone, "I thought you said you were professionals!"

Sam tried to defend, "We are-"

"Apparently not! First of all, you only said there were two of you-"

"Well, there was, as of a few days ago," Dean said, looking up at his brother with "I told you so" written all over his face.

"And you bring this hoodlum to my house-"

Even Dean had to furrow his brow and dispute, "Hoodlum?"

"That's right, with her baggy pants and sweatshirt- Where did you find this girl? The slums of North Philadelphia?"

"I'm from Yeadon, you racist jackass!" she snapped shrilly with her small brown fists clenched, causing all three men to jump back a little from the sheer surprise of it.

The fact that the hummingbird windchimes clanged angrily added to the effect.

A bit shaken, Fisher pointed to the Impala.

"Take her back to wherever she came from. Then we can talk."

"…You do realize we're doing this for free, right?" Dean asked out of curiosity.

Fisher let out an angry little grunt, which was rather squeaky for a man, and stormed back inside, slamming the door.

Dean turned on his heel toward Lory.

"Smooth, Dolores."

"Did you hear the way he spoke to her?" Sam interjected.

"I would have said a whole lot worse if someone accused me of freak-a-leeking a ghost!"

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" said Lory, turning to face Dean matter-of-factly before stepping a little bit closer to him, looking directly in his eyes.

"It's so ridiculous in fact- wouldn't the only reason a person would get so offended by something so silly is if it were true?"

Looking away from Lory, Dean moistened his lips, at a loss for anything else to do or say.

"You should know more than anyone, Dean," she said with a crooked smile," the truth is stranger than fiction."

.