The days following our departure from Kansas dragged on. We still hadn't heard a peep from John. I didn't want to lose faith; I didn't want to allow the hollow, hopeless feeling currently attempting to carve its way through me to take over—but it was, and I couldn't stop it. The final nail in the coffin for me was John blatantly ignoring Dean's tearful pleas. Even if he didn't want to show his face, the bare minimum of returning his son's call would've changed a lot. There was no reason—not in my mind, at least—for John to disregard him.

It's one thing not to be an overtly comforting person, something John Winchester certainly was not, but it's another to be heartless. As horrible as it sounded, I had to believe something was wrong—that something serious had happened—because I wasn't sure I could live with John being that callous.

"Dad was in California last we heard from him," Sam spoke into his phone. He was perched at the end of his bed, hunched over with his elbows planted on his knees.

Rather than aimless driving, upon my insistence, we got a motel for the night. Sam wasn't too happy with the idea. He wanted to keep going, keep searching, but we needed a good night's rest. Dean agreed with me and it was two against one. For the first time in over a week, we slept in a bed instead of cramped in the Impala. When I got up this morning, my body cracked in so many different places, it sounded like a firework show.

"We just thought since he comes to you for munitions, maybe you've seen him in the last few weeks," he continued, dejected. "Just call us if you hear anything. Thanks."

"Caleb hasn't heard from him?" Dean wondered, flipping through John's journal again, this time at the table across from me.

Last night, he had gone through the entire book twice until I turned off the light and demanded we go to bed. I rolled over a couple of hours later to find him with a flashlight propped on his shoulder, once again skimming through. When I confronted him about his obsessive page-flipping, he said, "If we missed the whole Missouri thing after all this time, what else were we missing?" And I agreed. I did—I do. But those are things John wrote years ago. They're not clues that get us further to finding him now.

"Nope," Sam replied, tossing his phone onto the mattress beside him. "And neither has Jefferson or Pastor Jim."

I tore my eyes from the newspaper articles I was skimming online to look at Sam. "Well, is there anybody else who might know something?" I asked.

"Not that I know of. What about the journal?" he nodded to his brother. "Any leads in there?"

"No, same as last time I looked," Dean sighed. "Nothing I can make out… I love the guy, but I swear, he writes like friggin' Yoda," he chuckled.

I rested my chin in my hand, watching him turn page after page, enthralled by the words written there. Despite John letting him down, he was still so captivated by him.

"You know, maybe we should call the feds," Sam suggested for the third time since we left Kansas. "File a missing persons."

Dean's shoulders lowered in exasperation. "We've talked about this. Dad would be pissed if we put the feds on his tail."

"I don't care anymore!"

Across the room, a tinny, muffled ring came from our bed. It wasn't my cell, as the silver flip phone was sitting beside me on the table. "Expecting a call?" I asked Dean, who shook his head. He set the open journal down to get up and retrieve his phone.

"After all that happened back in Kansas, I mean… he should've been there," Sam continued his crusade of convincing. He didn't need to; we already knew. Each of us just had varying levels of concern about the topic. "Dean, you said so yourself. You tried to call him and… nothing."

"I know," Dean mumbled, tearing through the duffel bag beside our bed. "Where the hell is it?"

"You know, he could be dead for all we know."

"Don't say that!" he ordered, suddenly stopping his search to address Sam's stream of negative thoughts. "He's not dead! He's– he's–"

"He's what? He's hiding? He's busy?"

The incessant ringing was getting on my last nerve, so I pushed up from the table and gently shoved Dean aside to find the source. After quite literally two seconds of looking, I found the phone at the bottom of the bag and held it out.

"I almost had it," Dean argued playfully.

"Sure you did," I replied in a similar tone.

He flipped open the phone and fell into disbelief. "I don't believe it," he smiled.

"Don't believe, what?"

A weight visibly lifted off of him as he sat on the edge of the bed. "It's a text message," he breathed. "It's coordinates."

"Coordinates?" I repeated, taking his phone to see for myself. The message had come from an unavailable number with no subject line, and the only thing in the body of the text were the numbers—42, -89.

Brushing past me, Dean returned to the table and sat in front of the laptop. He minimized my tabs and opened a new one, entering the numbers given to him by this mystery texter.

"Coordinates from who?" Sam asked, looking at the whirlwind before him with confusion.

Dean shot his brother a pointed look. "Who do you think?"

"You think Dad was texting us?" Sam scoffed in disbelief as he pushed to his feet.

"He's given us coordinates before."

"The man can barely work a toaster, Dean," he argued. Despite the serious situation, I chuckled. It was true. The one and only time John attempted to make toast, he nearly burnt the entire place to the ground.

"Listen, it's good news. It means he's okay, or alive at least."

"Well, was there a number on the caller ID?"

Dean shook his head no, keeping his eyes locked on the screen. "It said unknown."

My legs suddenly felt heavy and I sat on the corner of our bed, clasping my hands in front of me. I concentrated on the pressure there, probably squeezing harder than I should have. "Where do the coordinates go?" I asked. I wasn't sure I wanted to know. They could lead to John, or somewhere else entirely.

"That's the interesting part." Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Rockford, Illinois."

Sam glanced at me before looking back at his brother. "Okay… and that's interesting how?"

"I checked the local Rockford paper. Take a look at this." Dean turned the computer around for us to see the article. Since it was far away, and the brightness was up, I had to squint. "This cop, Walter Kelly, comes home from his shift, shoots his wife, then puts the gun in his mouth—blows his brains out. And earlier that night, Kelly and his partner responded to a call at the Roosevelt Asylum."

"Okay, I'm not following. What does this have to do with us?"

"Dad earmarked the same asylum in the journal," Dean said, cracking open the leather-bound book again, flipping through a few pages before stopping on the one he was looking for. I forced myself to get up and stand behind his chair, looking at the article John glued into the journal. "Here. Seven unconfirmed sightings, two deaths—till last week at least. I think this is where he wants us to go."

"This is a job," Sam scoffed, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. "Dad wants us to work a job."

"Well, maybe we'll meet up with him? Maybe he's there?"

When Dean looked at me, I plastered on an optimistic smile. I didn't want to burst his bubble—not after the week we had. However, with the way John had been acting as of late… I just see him suddenly showing up for some random hunt at a random asylum in Rockford, Illinois. All the other places he's sent us to, he was never there. Why would he be now? But more importantly, why was he trying so hard to keep us away?

"Maybe he's not," Sam argued, unknowingly for me as well as himself. "I mean, he could be sending us there, by ourselves, to hunt this thing."

"Who cares!" Dean asserted. "If he wants us there, it's good enough for me."

"This doesn't strike you as weird? The texting? The coordinates?" Sam addressed his questions to Dean but looked my way for an answer.

"Yeah, it's weird," I admitted. "But, I mean, what are we supposed to do?"

"Not go! Try and find him some other way."

"Sam, Dad's telling us to go somewhere; we're going," Dean said, slamming the laptop shut and leaving no room for argument.

The two-hour drive here was fairly quiet; the boys hadn't spoken too much until we arrived and formulated a plan to get as much information out of Daniel Gunderson as we could. Inside the stale-smelling, rundown bar, I sat at a stool a few feet away from the somber cop who was nursing his third beer in about twenty minutes. I couldn't figure out why he wouldn't go for something stronger when he clearly wanted to drink his sorrows away. It was probably for the best that he wasn't too drunk, at least for us. This way, he could coherently answer questions.

Seeming out of the blue, Dean popped out on the other side of the cop's table. "You're Daniel Gunderson. You're a cop, right?" he asked with a friendly smile. Daniel nodded, watching Dean without a word as he took the seat across from him. "I'm uh, Nigel Tufnel, The Chicago Tribune. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions about your partner?"

"Yeah, I do," Daniel said. "I'm just trying to have a beer here." He gestured to the bottle in his hand.

"That's okay, I swear it won't take that long. I just want to get the story in your words."

"A week ago, my partner was sitting in that chair. Now he's dead. You gonna ambush me here?" Daniel questioned in a shaky voice. He was a powder keg of emotions ready to blow at any moment. I began craning my neck in search of Sam. I hoped he wouldn't take too long.

"Sorry, but I need to know what happened," Dean insisted, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.

In the midst of the crowd playing pool, Sam appeared, towering over everyone else. He quickened his pace until he reached the table. "Hey, buddy, why don't you leave the poor guy alone?!" Sam exclaimed and grabbed Dean, roughly tossing him away from the cop.

My back went straight at the unnecessary force he used. That wasn't part of the plan. Dean stumbled back until he hit a pool table. Steam was practically blowing out of his ears, and I couldn't blame him.

"The man's an officer! Why don't you show a little respect!" Sam chastised with a puffed-out chest.

There was a moment in which I could see Dean nearly fight back until he glanced over at the cop and retreated through the crowded room, finally reaching me at the bar. His face was scrunched with irritation.

"You okay?" I asked, rubbing his lower back where he slammed into the corner of the table.

"He pushed me really fucking hard."

"I know. I saw. Is there anything I can do to make it better?"

Dean's eyes lit lasciviously. "Well, actually—"

"Come on," I chuckled, hopping off the stool and threading my arm through his. I nodded to the exit. "Let's go."

As soon as we stepped outside, I almost regretted the decision. Sure, the bar smelled like cigarettes and beer, but at least it was warm and dry. Out here, the streets were slick with a bout of rain that just ended and there was a chill in the air. I tightened my jacket around myself and hopped up on the hood. Dean stepped between my legs, hands resting on my thighs. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. Running my hands through his hair, I brought his lips to mine. My skin tingled in expectation as Dean slowly slid his hands to my waist and without warning, he pulled me to the edge of the hood and flush against him. I squeaked out a surprised moan at the contact but didn't break the kiss.

A loud bang rattled the hood of the car, and we nearly bonked heads as we hurriedly parted and looked for the culprit. Of course, Sam stood at the front end, chuckling mischievously.

"Dude!" Dean complained.

"You scared the shit out of us!" I griped, sliding down onto my feet as Dean stepped aside.

"Well, that's what you get for making out in a dark alley," Sam replied tauntingly.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, well, we had to leave the bar. By the way, you shoved me kinda hard in there, buddy boy."

"I had to sell it, didn't I?" Sam asked innocently, moving around to the passenger side. "It's method acting."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"Well, your method acting have better paid off," I said pointedly, folding my arms.

"It did. I found out some stuff; Walter Kelly was a good cop. Head of his class, even-keeled, he had a bright future ahead of him."

"What about at home?" Dean asked, already over the scuffle in the bar. I'd need more time to let it go.

"He and his wife had a few fights, like everybody, but he was mostly smooth sailing. They were even talking about having kids."

"Alright, so either Kelly had some deep-seated crazy waiting to bust out, or something else did it to him. What'd Gunderson tell you about the asylum?"

Sam took in a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. "A lot."

A lot, for once, really did mean a lot. Granted, Gunderson didn't know much about the older days of the asylum, but he did tell Sam that a few nights ago, a couple of teenagers broke into the large foreboding building we found ourselves in front of, and he and Walter Kelly chased them into the south wing. Of course, the mention of it got Dean thinking about what his father had written, so he broke out the journal and read a passage. In nineteen-seventy-two, three kids broke into the south wing—only one survived. Everybody thought he was crazy, but he stuck to his story. One second, they were all fine, then the next one of his friends went nuts and started stabbing.

This information culminated in us locating the south wing through a broken door at the back of the hospital—but not without struggle. That damn fence was a bitch to get over and a stray piece of metal tore my shirt. Almost immediately upon entry, the stale smell of rusted water hit my nose, followed by deteriorating metal and drywall. The early-morning sunrise filtered through the cracked, dirt-caked windows, illuminating the graffiti-covered, torn wallpaper. Green-topped puddles sat in various places on the uneven concrete floor. Above two double doors was chipped red paint reading South Wing Entrance.

"So, whatever's going on, this is the heart of it," Sam announced, his words echoing ominously in the dimly lit room.

"But if the kids are spelunking the asylum, why aren't there a ton more deaths?" Dean wondered.

Sam shined his flashlight on the double doors across the way, specifically on a set of large chains discarded to the side. "Looks like the doors are usually chained," he observed. "Could've been locked up for years."

"Yeah, to keep people out."

"Or maybe to keep something in," I added.

Sam pushed on one of the doors. It creaked as it swayed open, into the long hallway. Stray pieces of wet paper clung to the ground. The walls were covered in green muck and vines. An old wheelchair sat abandoned in the center of it all. It certainly fits the haunted asylum bill to a T.

Dean pulled out his EMF meter and quipped, "Let us know if you see any dead people, Haley Joel."

I shot him a look in the dark, which he pretended not to notice. He'd been making off-handed remarks about Sam's newfound abilities since Kansas, but most happened when his brother wasn't present. Whenever he was, though, Sam made his annoyance obvious.

"Dude, enough," he huffed.

"I'm serious. You gotta be careful, alright? Ghosts are attracted to that whole ESP thing you got going on."

"I told you, it's not ESP. I just have strange vibes sometimes. Weird dreams."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean shrugged. "Don't ask, don't tell."

"Dean," I scolded and turned to Sam. "Whatever it is, it's fine. Just an added layer of protection, you know?"

Sam stared at me blankly; my attempt to comfort him failed. "You get any reading on that thing or not?" he asked his brother.

"Nope," Dean said. "Of course, it doesn't mean no one's home."

"Some spirits can only appear during certain hours of the day," I said, careful to step over an empty can of spray paint.

"Yeah, the freaks come out at night." Not even two seconds passed before Dean spoke again. "Hey, Sam, who do you think is the hotter psychic—Patricia Arquette, Jennifer Love Hewitt, or you?"

Unlike before, Sam found the humor in his brother's comment. At least somewhat. All he did in response, was shove Dean's shoulder and walk in front of us.

At the far end of the hall was what I could only describe as some kind of experimentation room. Sam coughed, waving away the thick dust in the air. Medical supply tables were strewn around, along with gurneys, beakers, and jars filled with preserving liquid and various… items. I didn't look long enough to see what was inside. A few more wheelchairs sat, the fabric that made up the seat was torn and the rubber wheels were shredded. There were medical tools and instruments left in the open. I had no idea what most of them were used for, and I'm fairly certain I didn't want to find out.

Dean whistled. "Man. Electro-shock. Lobotomies. They did some twisted stuff to these people," he said and sharply turned to face me. "Kinda like my man Jack in Cuckoo's Nest," he smirked, doing his best Jack Nicholson impersonation.

"It's exactly like that," I chuckled and continued my inspection of the room.

"So. What do you think? Ghosts possessing people?"

"Maybe," Sam said, looking over an old, rusted tray. "Or maybe it's more like Amityville or the Smurl hunting."

"Spirits driving them insane." Dean nodded and a grin mischievous spread across his face. "Kinda like my man Jack in The Shining."

"Okay, Johnny," I laughed, patting his shoulder as I passed by. Dean gave me a smile, happy I was playing along with his little game.

"So, when are we going to talk about it?" Sam asked abruptly.

I stopped my examination of a decapitated baby doll and faced him. "Huh?"

"Talk about what?" Dean asked expectantly, almost like he knew where his brother was going.

"About the fact that Dad's not here," Sam said and my heart dropped. I was hoping he wouldn't bring that up.

"Oh. I see." Dean nodded. "How about… never."

"I'm being serious, man. He sent us here–"

"So am I, Sam. Look, he sent us here, he obviously wants us here. We'll pick up the search later."

"It doesn't matter what he wants."

"See. That attitude, right there? That is why I always get the extra cookie."

Sam's jaw set tight. "Dad could be in trouble, we should be looking for him. We deserve some answers," he pleaded his case to us both. "Don't you think? I mean, this is our family we're talking about."

"Obviously we do," I answered his question.

"But Sam, he's given us an order," Dean said, much to his brother's dismay.

"So what, we gotta always follow Dad's orders?" Sam asked.

"Of course we do!"

"Do we?" he questioned, brows raised above eyes that darted between Dean and me speculatively.

My heart leaped into my throat from the dagger he'd thrown. Whether he meant it to or not, it hurt. When the truth surfaced about what Dean and I had done behind John's back, I feared I ripped them apart. The Winchesters were a family long before I came along, but they accepted me with open arms. They were the ones I chose—the ones that chose me—and I felt like I betrayed that trust. Dean told me that if I did that, so did he, because we were both involved. I looked at it differently for a little bit until things smoothed over with John. He still wasn't happy that we lied, but he'd given us permission in his own way and that lifted a great deal of weight off our shoulders.

However, with all the feelings swirling in my stomach, I guess I wasn't as guilt-free as I'd thought.

Dean's teeth ground together and he narrowed his eyes at his brother. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snarled.

"You know, what?" Sam shook his head and waved a hand. "Nothing."

"Good," Dean snapped and turned on his heel. He started going through a pile of things on an old desk with a bit more force than necessary until he reached a plaque. "Sanford Ellicott," he read the name embossed on the front. "You know what we gotta do. We gotta find out more about the south wing. See if something happened here."

"Good idea," I said, crossing my arms to hold in my emotions.

As Dean passed by Sam, he shoved the plaque into his brother's arms and kept going, only breaking his stride to find my eyes, silently asking if I'd go with him. No words were needed, and I went, leaving Sam alone in the room until he decided to follow.

For the remainder of the morning, we didn't say very much to each other. I suppose, if I thought past my own hurt, and looked at it from his point of view, I could understand Sam's reasoning. Dean was always so steadfast in doing what their father wanted, but in this particular situation, he went against everything. However, Sam had broken John's rules his entire life, and by the time his brother decided to break one, he was long gone. It just didn't seem right to throw it in our faces.

Some light research at a local library didn't do much to lend to the lore of the asylum. It was all rainbows and butterflies in there. However, we did find out that Dr. Sanford Ellicot had a son, who became a fairly prominent psychiatrist in town. Perhaps it came from internal frustration at his comment this morning, but Dean and I elected Sam to be the one to get his brain picked apart by the shrink while we stayed in the car.

Long after Sam disappeared into the cold, grey building, I kept my eyes locked on the decorative plants outside its doors. Today was rather windy, and they swayed harshly in the breeze, looking like they were about to snap in half at any given second. Some rain started as a light drizzle and began pelting the car in no time, blocking my view of the fake plants I seemed to fixate on.

"Hey." Dean tapped my shoulder to get my attention. "What's the matter?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"You're making that little scrunchy face you do when you're stressed," he teased playfully. I snickered and actively tried to keep my eyebrows from furrowing. Dean gently knocked his knee into mine. "So, what is it?"

"It's nothing. I'm just… tired."

"Oh, come on, you're not thinking about what Sam said, are you?"

I scoffed. "You're not?"

"No," he insisted, but I saw straight through his lie. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, I knew he harbored guilt over the whole situation.

"Dean."

"Fine. I am," he admitted. "But he wasn't there; he bailed, remember? So, he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about." While his words should've been a comfort, all I could focus on was the fact that he looked as though he was trying to convince himself more than me.

"It brought up some old emotions, I guess."

"Look, Tor, Dad's fine with it," Dean convinced. "I mean if he wasn't, do you really think he would've left like he did? He knew what was going on."

"I know."

John Winchester didn't mince words—he didn't say something if he didn't mean it. So his, "Whatever happens, I don't wanna see it" statement was a crystal clear green light. For a while, my remorse took a backseat. Somehow now, it was back.

"Tor, you didn't force me into it," Dean said, knowing that's something I always feared. "What, did you seduce me or something? I mean, now you do," he smirked. "But not at first."

I couldn't help but smile. He always knew how to pull me out of a funk.

While I was thankful for the time alone with Dean, I began to wonder if Sam would ever make it out of there when the door finally opened. The rain had long since stopped and I could see through the windows again. Sam was pale and stalking straight for the car. I gave myself another once over, ensuring I had placed all my clothes back in their proper position before he hopped.

"You were in there forever," Dean commented. "What the hell were you talking about?"

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "Just the hospital, you know."

"That's all?" I asked.

"Yes."

I turned to face him. "Why are your eyes so big then?"

"Uh…" Sam's eyes darted. "Lots of info."

I shared a knowing look with Dean and righted myself in the seat while he pressed his brother for more information. "And?"

"And the south wing? It's where they housed the really hard cases. The psychotics, the criminally insane."

"Sounds cozy."

"Oh, yeah. One night in sixty-four, they rioted. Attacked staff. Attacked each other."

"The patients took over the asylum?" I asked.

"Apparently."

"What about deaths?"

"Some patients, some staff. I guess it was pretty gory. Some of the bodies were never even recovered, including our chief of staff—Ellicott. The cops scoured every inch of the place, but the patients must've stuffed the bodies somewhere hidden."

Dean's face crumpled in disgust. "That's grim."

"So, what happened to the patients that survived?" I asked.

"They were transferred and they shut the hospital down."

"So, to sum it up, we've got a bunch of violent deaths and a bunch of uncovered bodies," Dean tacked up the evidence. With all the anguish that filled that building, it's no wonder why there's such a horrific air to the place.

"And a bunch of angry spirits," Sam added.

"Good times. Let's check out the hospital tonight."

Instead of flashlights and an EMF meter, we were now armed with shotguns and a duffel bag full of supplies. I inspected the pitch-back hallway with my flashlight, making sure I kept it pointed mostly at the ground so we wouldn't trip over any debris. Sam had his camera out while Dean was monitoring the EMF again.

"This place is orbing like crazy," Sam said, leaning over to show me the camera screen. In the tiny monitor, several dust-like circles flew around the room, in and out of view of the device.

"Probably multiple spirits out and about," Dean said.

"And if these uncovered bodies are causing the haunting..."

"We gotta find them and burn them. Just be careful, though. The only thing that makes me more nervous than a pissed-off spirit… is the pissed-off spirit of a psycho killer."

Between the hum of the EMF and the whirr of the camcorder, I could make out faint footsteps coming from the hallway entrance. My flashlight lit the space, but nothing was there.

"You good?" Dean asked me.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I replied and straightened out to continue down the hall with the boys. "Thought I heard something."

He shrugged. "Probably did."

"Thanks," I retorted sarcastically.

On our trek through the asylum, Sam entered a room while Dean and I continued down the hall. Aside from the medical equipment, this place seemed pretty picked over. I can't imagine someone wouldn't have found the bones by now. Even if they discarded them, they shouldn't be this difficult to locate.

Save for a few creaks and chips of rats, the hospital was fairly quiet until Sam's panicked voice echoed down as he yelled for us. We abandoned our search and rushed back, skitting to a stop in front of the room Sam was in. A grotesque ghost in a hospital gown loomed before him. Sam threw himself out of the way as Dean readied his shotgun and blasted her away. Once it was safe, I entered the room to help him off the floor.

"That was weird," Sam puffed, brushing some dirt off of his jeans.

"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "You're telling me."

"No, Dean, I mean it was weird that she didn't attack me."

"Looked pretty aggro from where I was standing," he argued as we left the room.

"She didn't hurt me. She didn't even try!" Sam pushed. "So if she didn't wanna hurt me, then what did she want?"

"I don't know, Sam," I said. "Maybe she wanted to scare you, and then hurt you."

"Wait." Dean held up a hand to halt our movements. "You hear that?" he whispered.

Where? I mouthed. He nodded two rooms down and slithered by, leading us to the source. Inside the room, I couldn't see anything, not right away, but another quiet scuffle moved a turned-over metal bed frame covered in a dirty, striped sheet. Dean held his finger on the shotgun's trigger as we approached. On a silent count of three, Sam pushed the frame over. Instead of a ghost, there was a living, breathing teenage girl behind it. The blonde let out a yelp and curled into herself. Dean quickly dropped the gun to his side.

"It's okay," I reassured her, turning off my flashlight so it wouldn't shine in her eyes. "We're not gonna hurt you."

Trusting three strangers who just held a gun to her was a huge change to take, but thankfully, she did. Dean extended a hand, offering to help her to her feet. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Katherine," she said, accepting his assistance. She swallowed hard. "Kat."

At the end of his introduction of us, Dean barely finished before Sam asked, "What are you doing here?"

"My boyfriend, Gavin," she replied.

"Is he here?" Dean questioned, already losing his patience.

"Somewhere. He thought it would be fun to try and see some ghosts. I thought it was all just… you know, pretend." Kat struggled to take a full breath and wrapped her long sweater tightly around her body. "I've seen things. I heard Gavin scream and..."

"Alright, Kat, come on." Dean gently took her arm and started leading her toward the exit. "Sam's gonna get you out of here, and then we're gonna find your boyfriend."

"No!" she cried and dug her heels into the concrete. "No. I'm not going to leave without Gavin. I'm coming with you."

"It's no joke around here, okay? It's dangerous."

"That's why I gotta find him," she insisted, turning her attention toward me in hopes I'd understand. Unfortunately for her, I did.

"She can tag along, right?" I asked Dean, whose shoulders dropped. "It won't take long to find him, I'm sure. Then they can go."

"Yeah, aright," he relented. "I guess we're gonna split up then."

"Just stay by us, okay?" I told her. "Don't wander off."

"Believe me, I won't."

We remained a group until we reached the intersection of the hallway. Splitting up was never a good idea, but it was the best one we had right now if we wanted to find Gavin and get the teenagers out quickly.

"I got a question for you," Dean addressed Kat. "You've seen a lot of horror movies, yeah?"

"I guess so," she muttered.

"Do me a favor, next time to see one? Pay attention. When someone says a place is haunted… don't go in!"

Dean rolled his eyes at Kat's slack-jawed look and chose the right hallway to stalk down.

"Well, I guess we're going this way," I pointed in the direction he'd gone. "Stay safe, okay?"

"We will," Sam nodded. I kept looking over my shoulder to check on him and Kat until they rounded the corner and vanished.

"You know, for once I'd like to work a job without some dumbass getting in the way," Dean complained.

"Yeah, that's probably never gonna happen," I joked. In each room we passed, I peered in with my flashlight and called out for Gavin to no avail. "You know, this would really suck, but what if Gavin bailed on Kat?"

Dean looked shocked at the suggestion. "You think he would do that?"

I shrugged. "He's a teenage boy."

"So? I never would have bailed on you," he said as if the amount of loyalty he had was normal for everyone.

"Well, you're not like everyone else," I explained with a smile.

"Damn straight." Dean winked.

My flashlight began to flicker, bursting our bubble and forcing us back into reality. "Shit," I huffed, shaking the device. It stopped working altogether.

"It's alright, I got my lighter."

While Dean retrieved it, I took advantage of the bit of moonlight coming through the barred windows to inspect a section of graffiti. Its cursive loops were intricate. There were barely any smudges, a few drips of paint. An ice-cold grip took my hand and squeezed.

"God, Dean, why is your hand so cold?" I complained, trying to shrug out of his grasp.

"My what?" he asked.

The last thing I expected when I looked up was to find Dean standing a few feet away. Certainly too far to be touching me. A discolored, disembodied hand clutched mine so tightly, my fingertips turned bright red. I yelped and tried to break free, only to be jerked into a nearby padded cell. I stumbled to the wet, soot-covered ground as the door slammed shut behind me.

"Baby, are you okay?!" Dean cried, pounding on the metal door.

"I'm fine," I panted and used a non-moss-covered section of the wall to help me stand and found my way back to the door. I attempted to push it as he pulled, but it didn't shift. "It won't open!"

"Alright, back up!"

After I took a few quick steps backward, Dean's reassurance was instantly followed by a pounding scrape of metal against the door. Just as my breathing began to settle, a waft of cold air fluttered across my neck.

"I don't think I'm alone in here!" I tried to keep my panic to a minimum. It didn't matter that I had absolutely nothing on me I could use to defend myself. We'd get the door open, and I'd get out just fine. At least that's what I kept telling myself.

"I'm trying!" he shouted.

"Try harder!" I snapped, my calm facade crumbling within a matter of seconds.

From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I didn't want to look, but I had to. A large, heavyset man tall enough to tower over me stood on the other end of the ever-shrinking room. His eyes were gouged, leaving voids in their place. His thin brown hair hung to his shoulders and stuck to the blood that trickled down his face. I threw myself to the opposite wall, as far away from him as I could get. I kept my eyes glued to the floor, hoping that maybe if I didn't look, he'd go away. Somehow, it worked and he vanished, but I refused to let my guard down, and for good reason, because a fraction of a second later, he materialized right beside me. I screamed out of shock at his sudden proximity and leaped across the room again.

"Tor, what happened?!" Dean asked, still panicked, still trying to get in here.

"He's back!" I blurted shakily.

"What's going on?" Sam's voice came out of nowhere.

"Tori's inside with one of them," Dean explained breathlessly.

"Tori?" Sam called out through the door. "It's not going to hurt you. Listen to me, you've got to face it!"

"She's gotta what?"

"I have to what?!" I hollered in disbelief.

"You gotta listen to it," Sam repeated. "You gotta face it!"

"How about you come in here, and you fucking face it, Sam?!" I barked.

"No! It's the only way to get out of there! These spirits, they're not trying to hurt us, they're trying to communicate!"

My alarm paused, if only for a moment, and I thought about what Sam claimed—that the ghost he encountered wasn't trying to hurt anyone. And now, that this one isn't either. It goes against everything I know; it just isn't possible. However, in taking a moment to clear my head, I realized the spirit didn't follow me and instead simply tilted his head in calm curiosity. He had plenty of chances to hurt me, and he didn't do a thing. So, I had to try. I took a deep breath and turned back to the spirit. He almost looked thankful and he ambled over and leaned in close. Ait exited his mouth in a painful-sounding wheeze. I held my breath as he whispered one-thirty-seven into my ear.

Once he was done, he disappeared. I let out the lung full of air I was holding and opened the door. It unlocked and swung open with ease

"Oh, God," Dean sighed, discarding a crowbar. He inspected me for injuries, though I had none. Once he deemed I was okay, he pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. "What happened?"

"Sam was right," I mumbled into his chest. "It just wanted to tell me something."

Dean looked into my eyes but kept me in his arms. "What?"

"One-thirty-seven," I repeated what the spirit had said.

The boys exchanged a look and mumbled, "Room number," in unison. Dean bent down to re-pack the duffel bag. All its contents were sprawled across the floor, a side-effect of him hastily retrieving the crowbar to pry the door open.

"Alright, so is these spirits aren't trying to hurt anyone–" Sam began.

"Then what are they trying to do?" Dean finished.

"Maybe that's what they've been trying to tell us."

"Whatever they want us to know, it's gotta be in that room," I said.

"I guess we'll find out," Dean agreed and zipped the bag shut, tossing it over his shoulder as he faced the petrified couple. "So, now, are you guys ready to leave this place?"

Gavin nodded wildly while Kat replied, "That's an understatement." She was clutching onto Gavin, who didn't ditch her as I previously assumed. In fact, he was holding her just as tightly as she held him.

While Sam brought the teenagers to freedom, Dean and I went in search of room one-thirty-seven. He stuck close by, never letting me more than a foot away from him at a time. "You sure you're alright?" he asked me after a few minutes of silence. "He really didn't do anything to you?"

I looked at my hand that the spirit had in his clutches. There wasn't a single scrape. "Yeah, I'm fine. All he did was talk to me."

"A friendly ghost," Dean scoffed. "That's a new one."

Finding the room wasn't difficult, but getting inside proved to be. We tried unsuccessfully to open the door normally. It was stuck and wouldn't budge. A good hit to the center of it by Dean's shoulder probably bruised him, but popped it open, practically breaking the door off its hinges and pushing aside a wooden chair jammed under the handle.

The room was in a state of total disarray. It was musty and difficult to breathe. The walls were stained with… God only knows what. Wooden wardrobes and file cabinets were tipped over, their doors and drawers open. Folders and papers littered the concrete ground. We couldn't walk through without stepping on something. Though the room wasn't too large, it was packed, so to cover more ground, we split up to search for any possible useful information.

Every drawer I inspected or stack of papers I flipped through gave no more knowledge than we already knew. I began to wonder why that spirit wanted us here in the first place. There was nothing.

"Hey, Tor?" Dean called, shining his flashlight on a countertop. "Look at this."

"What'd you find?" I asked, joining him on his side of the room. On the grime-covered counter was a satchel containing a leather-bound book. Written on its first page in cursive were the words patient journal signed by Dr. Ellicot. "Whoa, Dean. Good job."

He smirked. "This is why I get paid the big bucks."

"Alright, don't let it go to your head," I commented, nudging him aside. Dean pulled up a chair beside me and sat down while we looked through.

Page after page, my stomach churned; each entry was worse than the last. Ellicot wrote in great detail about his experiments to better the psyche of his demented patients. As if jotting it all down wasn't enough, illustrations of his horrific actions and the tools he used broke up the monotonous ramblings of a madman. Eventually, random scribbles of black and red ink overtook most of the passages and sketches. Ellicot used these poor people as guinea pigs for his sick ego-trip fantasies. It was crystal clear who the truly demented individual was.

"Well, all work and no play makes Dr. Ellicott a very dull boy," Dean commented wryly, flipping another brittle page.

"This is horrible." I turned from the journal. I couldn't look anymore. "You know, we should go find Sam."

Dean agreed and packed up the book, stuffing it into our duffel bag. Nearing the exit, were met with Kat holding a gun. Thankfully, our survival instincts overpowered any confusion and we threw ourselves back, landing on the dusty floor as a shell flew from the gun and connected with the edge of the wall.

"Damnit, don't shoot!" Dean shouted. "It's us!"

"Kat, what the hell is wrong with you?!" I yelled.

"Sorry!" she cried. "I'm so sorry!"

Dean released a bristled breath. "Son a bitch," he huffed, standing to his feet before helping me to mine. "What are you still doing here!?" he asked the kids. "Where's Sam?"

"He went to the basement," Gavin said obviously. I was about to tell him to wipe that disgruntled look off his face when he added, "You called him."

"I didn't call anybody," Dean said.

"His cell phone rang," Kat defended. "He said it was you."

"And you haven't seen him since?" I asked and Kat shook her head.

"Alright. Watch yourselves. And watch out for me," Dean warned them. It wasn't until we reached the end of the hall that he stopped. "Maybe you should hang back," he told me. "Stay with them."

"And let you go alone?"

"Sam's down there."

"And we have no clue what got him down there. Dean, I'm not letting you go by yourself."

"Tor, they need–"

"You can handle it, can't you, Kat?" I asked her. "I mean, you're a good shot; you almost blew our heads off," I added bitterly, unable to stop myself.

"I got it, yeah," she nodded timidly and gripped the shotgun tight.

"I'm coming," I told Dean flatly and stepped around him. I'd be there; he didn't have a choice.

Faded directory signs on the walls gave us a fairly good idea about where to find the basement. We couldn't be sure who the imposter was that called Sam, but we had a fairly good idea. Two spirits in this asylum had the chance to hurt us and didn't take it. They were forced into outrage and it spiraled, but not because of them. They just wanted to put an end to it. There was only one spirit left who wanted to keep it going.

Though there were small spots of light filtering through barred windows at the top of the basement walls, it didn't help a whole lot in the seeing department. We called for Sam and got nothing in return. Eventually, the basement led to the boiler room and we still hadn't heard a peep. One second, the room in front of us was empty, and the next, Sam appeared. I gasped, startled by his sudden presence.

Dean raised and lowered his gun in a matter of seconds when he realized who was blocking our way. "Man, answer us when we're calling you!" he scolded. "You alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," Sam muttered despondently.

"Are you sure?" I questioned.

"Yeah."

"You know it wasn't me who called your cell, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I know. I think something lured me down here."

"I think we know who—Dr. Ellicott. That's what the spirits have been trying to tell us. You haven't seen him, have you?"

"No. How do you know it was him?" he asked, almost defensively.

"'Cause we found his log book. Apparently, he was experimenting on his patients, awful stuff. Makes lobotomies look like a couple of aspirin."

"But it was the patients who rioted."

"Yeah, against Eliicott," I said. "He was torturing them."

"Dr. Feelgood was working on some sort of, like, extreme rage therapy," Dean explained. "He thought that if he could get his patients to vent their anger then they would be cured of it. Instead, it only made them worse and worse, and angrier and angrier. So I'm thinking, what if his spirit is doing the same thing? To the cop? To the kids in the seventies, making them so angry they become homicidal. Come on," Dean stepped past his brother. "We gotta find his bones and torch them."

"How? The police never found his body," Sam said. I didn't miss how closely he watched me as I walked past him to meet up with Dean.

"The logbook said he had some sort of hidden procedure room down here somewhere where he'd work on his patients. So, if I was a patient I'd drag his ass down here, do a little work on it myself."

"I don't know, it sounds kinda..."

"Crazy?" Dean finished, disappearing into a room at the end of the basement.

"Yeah."

"Crazy's usually right." I shrugged. "You coming?"

Although he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, Sam tagged along and the three of us found ourselves in a small, grime-covered room. "I told you, I looked everywhere," Sam said. "I didn't find a hidden room."

"Well, that's why they call it hidden," Dean commented playfully. Something caught his attention and he turned to me. "You hear that?"

"What?" I asked, trying to tune in. A low whistle bounced off the walls, whipping underneath a section of rotted baseboard. "Is that wind?"

Dean nodded and crouched down, examining the wall. "There's a door here," he announced, pointing to a large crack at the base of the wall. It certainly appeared to be a walled-off room.

I began to look for something to break it down with when Sam spoke. "Step back from the door," he demanded.

Initially, I laughed it off, but my amusement plummeted when I saw him pointing a shotgun at us and realized he wasn't joking. A trickle of blood ran from his nose and rolled over his lips and he harshly wiped it away. I froze out of fear that any sudden movement, no matter how small, would set him off.

Slowly, Dean stood, eyes darting between his brother and the gun he had trained on us. "Sam put the gun down," he said.

"Is that an order?" Sam asked bitterly, shoulders squared in agitation.

"No, it's more of a friendly request."

"'Cause I'm getting pretty tired of taking your orders," Sam continued as though Dean hadn't spoken at all.

"Ellicott must have done something to you, Sam," I started gently, "But we can fix it okay?"

"For once in your life, just shut your mouth," he sneered, angrily aiming the gun at me.

"Don't talk to her like that," Dean said fiercely, calling his brother's attention. "Now, that's an order," he spat, ensuring the gun returned to him. "What are you gonna do, Sam? The gun's filled with rock salt. It's not gonna kill me."

"No. But it will hurt like hell," Sam taunted.

A bang of light and smoke filled the room as the bullet left the gun and hit Dean square in the chest. It sent him crashing through the thin wall separating us from the hidden room. I'd forgotten all about my fear-locked legs and attempted to reach Dean's side when Sam grabbed the back of my jacket and dragged me to him. He wrapped an arm across my chest and kept me there.

With the fact that he was a lot bigger than me, now combined with a spirit controlling him, I knew wouldn't get far if I tried to break away. I had to try and chip away at the tough exterior Ellicott placed over him first.

"I know you're in there, Sam," I said. "You have to listen to me–"

He dug his nails into my bicep. "I have to listen to everybody else, don't I?" he hissed. "What about what I want?"

"You can get what you want, but we have to end this."

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do! Sam, this isn't you!"

"Maybe you don't know who I am!" he spat and blood sprayed from his mouth.

Across the room, Dean began to stir, gasping and coughing. I ached to rush to his side. When he looked up at saw me in his brother's grasp, panic flew through his eyes.

"Sam, we gotta burn Ellicott's bones," he gasped, clutching his chest as he attempted to sit up, but couldn't. "All this will be over, and you'll be back to normal."

"I am normal," Sam said, ambling into the hidden room with me still in his grips. "I'm just telling the truth for the first time! I mean, why are we even here? 'Cause, you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? Because you always do what he says without question? You're that desperate for his approval! But see, I guess that's the difference between you and me. I'm not pathetic."

Dean swallowed hard from digesting the verbal blows. "This isn't you talking, Sam."

"It's sickening how you obey him. Well, except for that one time that you didn't. Of course, you'd only disobey him if it was beneficial for you. I'm sure it killed you to go against him like that, huh? You did it for her," he nodded to me, "But you wouldn't do that for me, would you? You didn't! You let me walk out; you didn't care! Neither of you cared."

"That's not true, Sam," I argued, though it was pointless.

"In fact, you pushed for me to go," he told me bitterly. "You just wanted me gone."

My eyes stung; my voice came out as a whisper. "You can't believe that. I just wanted you to be happy."

"So what are you gonna do, huh?" Dean asked, raking in unsteady breaths. "Are you gonna kill us?"

"You know what, I am sick of doing what you tell me to do," Sam scowled. "We're no closer to finding Dad today than we were six months ago."

"Well, then here." Dean reached into his pocket and my throat clenched at the flash of silver. "Let me make it easier for you."

"Dean," I breathed shakily. He shot me a look so subtle that Sam missed it. It told me to relax, that everything would be okay, but I couldn't feel that right now.

"Come on, take it," he pushed the pistol to his brother. "Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock salt." When Sam hesitated, Dean gritted, "Take it!"

Sam snatched the gun and pointed it at Dean while still holding me in place with the other arm.

"You hate me that much?" Tears filled Dean's eyes as he spoke. "You think you could kill your own brother? Then go ahead. Pull the trigger."

Seconds passed, but it felt like hours until the click of the trigger blasted through the quiet room and broke my resolve. Tears I'd kept at bay flowed freely now. Sam tried for a second time to shoot his brother and when that didn't work, he pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. I flinched, though I knew nothing would happen. In his frustration, Sam loosened his grip, allowing me enough space to ram my elbow into the center of his chest. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I allowed my anger and my sadness from all that had just occurred to impact the blow. When Sam doubled over in breathless pain, Dean punched him and knocked him to the ground.

Now that I was free, I was able to help Dean to his feet. "I'm not gonna give you a loaded pistol!" he told a resentful and bloodied Sam.

I'd never seen such a soulless, fury-charged look in Sam's eyes before and it sent a chill down my spine. Dean balled his fist and punched Sam once again, this time knocking him out cold.

"Sorry, Sammy," he said, patting his brother's shoulder.

Whether we had the time or not, I didn't care. I turned Dean to face me, lifting his shirt to inspect for any serious wounds. Thankfully, his shirt took the brunt of it, and his skin only had a few scrapes from the shrapnel.

"Are you okay, baby?" I asked, putting his shirt back into place.

"Yeah, I'll live," Dean grumbled with a shrug, wincing as he did so. "We gotta find those bones."

"I know, but Dean, just breathe a second, okay?"

"I can't," he snapped, his voice coming out much harder than intended, judging by the look on his face.

"Too bad."

Humoring me, he took a fraction of a second to pull in and release a sharp breath. "Good?"

"For now," I relented.

Despite all of Ellicott's experiments being done down here, oddly enough, it was the cleanest of all the spaces in the hospital. It wasn't spotless by any means, but nothing littered the floor and the surgical tables were in their upright positions. Clear dividing sheets hung from tracks on the ceiling, blocking our view of each compartmentalized operating room. Each time Dean pushed one aside with his shotgun, I expected Ellicott to be waiting there.

Eventually, I spotted a piece of what looked like white hair sticking out of the corner of a closed cabinet. I prayed it would be anything but that as I made my way over and opened it. The sickening smell of decay wafted through the stagnant air, coming from the mummified corpse of Dr. Ellicott. I covered my nose with my sleeve and called Dean over.

"Oh," he groaned in disgust and held in a gag. "That's just gross."

"Let's get this over with." I dug into the bag and pulled out the salt and kerosene, handing the former to Dean first so he could pour a hefty layer over Ellicott's body.

"Soak it up," he said, dousing the corpse in lighter fluid.

Suddenly, a gurney flew across the room and knocked Dean to the ground before pinning me to the wall. The duffel bag skidded to a stop nearby, but before Dean or I could react, Ellicott's ghost appeared, hovering over him.

"Don't be afraid," the spirit cooed. "I'm going to help you. I'm going to make you all better."

Ellicott grabbed Dean's face, hands lighting with sparks of electricity. Pinned to the wall and out of options, I resorted to reaching for the bag with the toe of my boot. Dean yelled out in pain as the shocks flowed from Ellicott's fingers and into his head. After far too many failed attempts, I finally kicked the bag close enough that I could stretch over the gurney and access the lighter. I lit it and tossed it onto Ellicott's remains in the cupboard. The ghost released him and watched his own hands crumble into flames before falling to the ground in a pile of ash. Once he was gone, I could finally move the obstacle keeping me in place and returned to Dean on the floor.

Though there were no detectable traces of it, Dean massaged the spot Ellicott shocked him. "It's been one hell of a night," he complained breathlessly.

Noise on the other end of the room called my attention back to Sam, who slowly began to wake. Spirits couldn't control someone once their bones were burned, but with the way life had been lately, I prepared myself for anything.

"You're not gonna try and kill us, are you?" Dean asked him.

"No," Sam replied, flexing his jaw.

"Good. 'Cause that would be awkward."

At least one of us could crack a joke right now.

If I were perfectly honest, as we stumbled out of Ellicott's secret room, I'd all but forgotten about Gavin and Kat at the exit. It seemed as though they could tell something was wrong, keeping their distance from us as we exited the hospital into the crisp morning air. I shouldn't be surprised that they picked up on our heaviness.

The teenagers gave us their thanks, and Dean instructed them not to go to any more haunted asylums. They both agreed and we went to our respective cars. I wished the sunlight peaking through the clouds could've lifted the melancholic pressure in my chest; it felt like an elephant planted itself there and wasn't planning on moving.

"Hey, guys?" Sam's apologetic eyes connected with ours from overtop of the Impala. "I'm sorry. I said some awful things back there."

"You remember?" Dean wondered, surprised and disappointed. I knew him—how he probably wished Sam wouldn't remember so we could sweep everything under the rug and go on pretending as though it didn't happen. That didn't seem to be in the cards.

"Yeah, I do. It's like I couldn't control it. But I didn't mean it—any of it."

Dean wore an expression of skepticism. "You didn't, huh?"

"No, of course not!" Sam's offended eyes darted between his brother and me. "Do we need to talk about this?"

"No. I'm not really in the sharing and caring kinda mood. I just wanna get some sleep."

Normally, I wouldn't think twice about it and I'd take Sam's word for it, but this time I found myself second-guessing his remorsefulness and the reason behind it. Was he regretful the spirit made him say what he did? Or was he ashamed his actual thoughts were revealed? Common sense told me it wasn't him—that it was Ellicott taking Sam's deepest, most negative thoughts and amplifying them as he'd done to everyone else, but as I tried to convince myself of that, all I could hear was the aggressive clicking of the gun as Sam tried to shoot Dean, and then me. Of course, the Sam I know would never do that, but it didn't change the image implanted into our brains. It didn't stop us from questioning what was real and what wasn't.

So even though I wanted to answer "Yes, we do need to talk about it," I stopped myself and decided to take a page out of Dean's book. I'd rather live in ignorance, at least for now.

Another one? Yes.

Thanks to bookwriter123456 for helping! And thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Song suggestions for this chapter are welcome :)

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