Tonight, bleeding from the holes in my face
But I don't want to give it away
You did it for the family name
Crash, collide into space
You, your favorite color, red
I guess that I'm the hypocrite
You're not responsible
I'm responsible
…

You call me Baby Blue
For all the evil schemes I pull
We sit and watch the waves break
I made a lot of mistakes
Crash, collide into space
…

Who's to blame?
Tell me, who's to blame?
Tell me who

I won't ever do that again
I've been all over the place
I watched the strawberry fields
Dry up and wither away

And if you ask me to stay
You know that's where I will be
Won't ever do that again
Don't wanna do that again

Cage The Elephant — Hypocrite

Following our departure from St. Louis, I automatically assumed that even the slightest whisper of a siren was meant for Dean. That someone recognized him and called the cops. Then the shrill noise would fade, and I would realize I had overreacted. However, that didn't stop the same thing from occurring three or four times a day. I was particularly fidgety this morning. I couldn't pinpoint why exactly; I just was, and the warm coffee slowly sliding down my throat did nothing to relax me. Usually, I'd have taken this opportunity—sitting outside at a cafe rather than cooped up in a stuffy motel room—to do some people-watching. Instead, I found myself staring at the wrought iron table my arms rested on, too caught up in our problems to care about what anyone else was doing. My nerves stood on end, spiking my senses like someone was watching me. I looked up, finding Dean staring at me over the open laptop. When our eyes connected, he forced a smile and returned to the screen. It wasn't the first time I caught him looking at the bruises on my neck in the vague shape of his hands. Although sections had already begun to fade into a sickening yellow, well on their way to disappearing, his self-accusations weren't budging.

We were interrupted each time I wanted to talk to him about it. Much like right now, when the chair beside me scraped across the concrete as Sam pulled it out and slouched into it with a heavy sigh.

"Your half-caf, double vanilla latte is getting cold over here, Francis," Dean jested.

"Bite me," Sam retorted, weakly pushing himself upright.

"Anything?" I asked with weary hopefulness. I didn't have many positive expectations concerning finding clues that led to John, but stranger things have happened.

Sam shook his head no, just like I figured he would. "I had them check the FBI's Missing Persons Data Bank. No John Doe's fitting Dad's description," he said. "I even ran his plates for traffic violations."

"I'm telling you." Dean leaned an elbow on the table. "I don't think Dad wants to be found," he said, again, for the third time today.

I ran my tongue across my teeth, tired of hearing that same excuse. It wasn't good enough for me. "He could at least let us know he's all right," I said. Dean looked as though he wanted to argue, but his eyes flickered to my neck, and he instantly backed down. I didn't want him to avoid stating his opinion—no matter how absurd I thought it was—because of injuries he didn't cause. Whether they shared a face or not, there was a clear and distinct difference between him and the shifter in my mind.

"Check this out," Dean changed the subject, turning the laptop. The scan of an Iowa newspaper article about the Mysterious Death of A Fraternity Brother was paired with a photo of the deceased. "It's out of Planes Courier. Ankeny, Iowa. It's only about a hundred miles from here."

"What killed him, some douchey hazing?"

"Tori," Sam scolded.

"What? All frat guys are dicks."

"That's not true," he said, looking away uncomfortably.

"Oh, my god." The corners of my mouth slipped into a teasing smile. "Did you try to join a frat?"

"N– no."

Dean's nose scrunched. "Dude."

I laughed, and Sam huffed, running his thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. Redirecting the subject, I gestured to the article. "What caught your eye?" I asked.

"They found this guy's mutilated body," Dean explained. "And the sole witness said that the killer was invisible."

"Invisible?" I looked up from the screen with squinted eyes.

"That's what they said." He shrugged a shoulder and tugged the laptop back in front of him.

"Seems interesting."

Dean sat proudly until Sam spoke and burst his bubble. "Or it could be nothing at all," he said. "One freaked-out witness who didn't see anything? It doesn't mean it's The Invisible Man."

"Aren't all ghosts technically The Invisible Man?" I wondered playfully. Sam pressed his lips together in displeasure, clearly not appreciating my joke. "Yikes," I mumbled, drinking more coffee.

"You know, Dad would check it out," Dean said. Two years ago—hell, two months ago—those words would've pushed Sam as far in the opposite direction as he could get. However, lately, he'd been so steadfast about finding John that he was becoming more like him each day, and he agreed to go.

An hour later, we pulled up in front of a two-story brick house set far back on a substantial property with a masonry fence lining its edges. The building was beautiful; the lawn was manicured. However, the hung-over college kids sitting on folding chairs, the well-used fire pit, and general junk lying around were a dead giveaway that this was a frat house. Nearby, a few guys worked on a beat-up car, resting over the sides of the frame and staring into the engine. We made our presence known by getting out of the Impala. One of the guys casually snacking on a banana—there's a joke in there, but I'll keep it to myself—looked our way questioningly, brows furrowed over squinted eyes.

"Nice wheels," Dean lied. Banana Man didn't speak, prompting him to continue. "We're your fraternity brothers," he gestured to Sam, "from Ohio. We're new in town. Transfers. Looking for a place to stay."

"What about her?" Banana Man gestured to me with said banana. "She can't stay here."

I folded my arms. "Wouldn't want to." I thought I'd said it quietly enough, but everyone in the immediate vicinity looked my way. I cleared my throat and tried to clean my mess. "I'm just helping them find a place."

Banana Man was quick to forgive and introduced himself as Trevor before leading us inside. Much like I'd imagined, the interior of the house was bare. In the living room were a couple of leather couches and a large TV over a fireplace. Any art hung on the walls was no doubt here long before all these dudes were. We followed Trevor's direction—up the stairs, first room on the left. The door was slightly ajar, and I peeked inside. A skinny, shirtless frat boy stood in front of a mirror in the middle of the room with a bucket of paint and a brush, coloring all his exposed skin bright purple. He'd made a huge mistake if he was trying to avoid the mustard-colored, far-too-big sweatpants he wore. There was paint smeared all over the waistband. Dean reached around me and opened the door. Its hinges creaked.

"Who are you?" Purple Dude asked, stilling his paint strokes.

Dean strode freely into the room. "We're your new roommates," he announced.

Purple Dude eyed me. "... all of you?"

"I was just tagging along," I explained again, fighting the urge to roll my eyes for a second time in five minutes.

"Oh. Cool," he nodded. "Do me a favor?" he held out his purple-stained brush and can of similarly bright paint. "Get my back. Big game today."

Dean sucked a sharp intake of air through his teeth. "He's the artist," he pointed to Sam. "The things he can do with a brush."

Mortified, Sam reluctantly took the things all but forced into his hands. I loved him to death, but there was no way in hell that I'd step in. So, instead, I pressed my lips together to hold in laughter at the discomfort in Sam's eyes as he dripped the brush into the paint can and started layering it on this stranger's lower back. "Thanks, man," Purple Dude smiled. Sam mumbled something similar to an agreement.

Dean crossed the room and plopped on a recliner in the corner, picking up a magazine from the side table. He flipped it around, inspecting the back. "So, Murph. Is it true?" he asked, casually cracking open the magazine. I craned my neck to peer inside and cringed, not due to the plethora of naked women but because of the bacteria that undoubtedly lived on its pages.

"What?" Murph asked.

"We heard one of the guys around here got killed last week."

"Oh," he quieted, his jovial spirit shrinking. "Yeah."

"What happened?" Sam wondered, trying to fill the flesh-colored gaps with violet as fast as he could.

"They're saying some psycho with a knife. Maybe a drifter passing through." Murph looked to the ground. "Rich was a good guy."

I leaned against the wall and asked, "Did anybody see what happened?"

"Not just anybody. Lori Sorensen." Murph said her name in awe, like she was some sort of goddess.

"Who's Lori Sorensen?" Dean asked, peering up from the magazine. "You missed a spot," he told Sam, pointing to the inch gap above Murph's ever-dropping sweatpants. "Just down there, on the back."

Sam shot him a dirty look, and Dean responded by grinning innocently.

"Lori's a freshman," Murph explained. "She's a local. Super hot. And get this; she's a reverend's daughter."

"You wouldn't happen to know which church, would you?"

We had about a half hour to kill before the next service started and decided to wait it out at a nearby park. Thankfully, it was pretty sparse as far as crowds went—only a couple of people jogged along the trail circling a lake. At the trunk of the Impala, I dug around the spare duffel I rarely ever touched, trying to find my makeup bag. It certainly wasn't my forte, but I had to do something to cover up the prominent marks on my neck. Stupidly, I didn't think of trying to cover up these bruises until our next stop was a church. If there was one thing I knew well, it was most churchgoers' self-inflated crusade for justice. Going every Sunday from ages two to thirteen makes you well aware. The absolute last thing we needed was someone trying to be a hero and bringing attention to the bruises or Dean. Who knows what it could lead to?

At a picnic table overlooking the water, I started digging around my makeup bag. I hadn't used most of these items in so long; I'm surprised there wasn't any dust on them. I dabbed some foundation on my fingers and blended it into my skin, layering it little by little before setting it with powder. Our half-hour was nearly up, so I deemed it good enough and was about to close the compact when the flash of a figure appeared in its reflection. "You scared me," I laughed, closing the compact with a snap and putting it back into the bag.

"Sorry," Dean murmured, keeping his eyes lowered. I patted the empty bench beside me, and he sat with his back to the table, resting his elbows on his knees. He wouldn't look at me; if he did, his eyes went straight to my bruises. Whether he realized it or not, he was careful around me, never moving too quickly or reaching for me when I couldn't see. I didn't say anything. Instead, I usually responded to his weariness by moving closer or holding his hand. I hoped he would realize that I didn't have some sort of post-traumatic stress without me having to talk about it. I was over it… pretty much, anyway There were moments when my brain would take an unplanned trip back to that bedroom, but they didn't last long. And it wasn't his fault.

This had gone on long enough. So, although Dean was treading the waters, I jumped in headfirst. "We need to talk," I said.

His already shallow breathing slowed to a stop. "About what?"

"You can't keep this up."

Dean finally looked at me. "Keep what up?"

I had no reason to spell it out for him; he already knew. "It's really not a big deal."

Remorseful eyes darted to my now-covered bruises. "It is to me."

"I've gotten knocked around before."

"Yeah, and I hated that, but this is–" he sighed heavily. "It's different."

"You didn't do anything."

"Exactly! I didn't protect you," he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He never gave himself a break, no matter what the situation. Everything was always his fault. I hiked a leg up onto the bench to face him. I wanted him to see me, to ensure he knew I meant every word.

"You're the one who taught me everything I needed to know to get out of that," I said. John might have been the one to show me how to kill monsters, but Dean taught me how to fight and defend myself—something arguably more critical, especially for a teenage girl in such a ruthless world. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. And listen, I know you, so I know it won't be easy, but you gotta stop beating yourself up over it."

Dean stationed his bottom lip between his teeth and bore down. "I'll try."

"No, you will. Please." I nudged his ribs with the toe of my boot, trying to make him smile. It worked. He would do anything for me, hopefully, even forgive himself.

The sermon had already started when we arrived at St. Barnabas Church. I carefully opened the door and slipped inside, leaving the boys to close it. The Reverend stood behind his podium. "Our hearts go out to the family of a young man who perished–" The door slammed, echoing loudly through the church and abruptly cutting off the Reverend. The whole congregation—hell, probably even the entire town—turned around to see who had caused the disturbance. Sam was the last inside but looked around as though he had no clue who could've done it. I smiled apologetically and gathered the boys, guiding them to the nearest pew.

Reverend Sorensen cleared his throat and started again. "And my personal prayers of thanks go out as well because I believe he died trying to protect my daughter." He intuitively gestured to a shy brunette in the first pew. "And now, as time heals all our wounds, we should reflect on what this tragedy means. To us as a church, as a community, and as a family."

Everyone had long since returned their attention to the Reverend except the brunette, who I now knew was Lori. She locked eyes with Sam and didn't let go until a few seconds passed.

"The loss of a young person is particularly tragic. A life unlived is the saddest of passings. So, please, let us pray," the Reverend requested. "For peace, for guidance, and for the power to protect our children."

All of us bowed our heads and closed our eyes. I wasn't going to pray, but I did it out of respect for those who were. Dean shifted beside me, hand brushing across my shoulder as he slung it over the back of the pew. I peered up, finding his head up and eyes wide open. I nudged his side, mouthing, Close your eyes, and gesturing to the bowed heads around us. His mouth fell into a small O, and he finally hung his head. When the sermon was over, part of me was surprisingly disappointed. Rather than the sour mood I feared it'd put me in, nothing but good memories flowed. It made me kind of… happy. I never thought that would be the emotion I felt stepping into a church after all this time. The congregation began clearing out; some held conversations in the courtyard, and others left altogether.

Despite all the people mulling around, Lori Sorensen stood alone in the parking lot, smiling at a few young boys who rushed by her playing tag. She seemed troubled underneath the bright spirit she put on. "Are you Lori?" Sam asked as we approached.

She turned at the sound of his voice, only glancing at Dean and me briefly before returning to him. "Yeah."

"My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and his girlfriend, Tori," he introduced us. We exchanged pleasantries, and Sam continued, "We just transferred here to the university."

Lying on hallowed ground, I scoffed internally. God's gonna strike us dead.

"I saw you inside."

"Oh, I think everyone did," I remarked. Lori chuckled; Sam's cheeks flushed pink at the sound. He was speechless, and we stood in silence until I took over. "We didn't want to bother you, but we heard about what happened. We just wanted to say how sorry we were."

Lori lowered her head. "Thank you."

Sam cleared his throat, finally regaining his ability to talk. "I kind of know what you're going through. I– I saw someone… get hurt once. It's something you don't forget."

A few feet behind Lori, Reverend Sorensen finished a conversation with a few churchgoers and made his way over. By the weary look in his eye, it was apparent he was protective of his daughter, perhaps suffocatingly. "Dad, this is Sam, Dean, and Tori," she told him. "They're new students."

Dean reached to shake the Reverend's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I must say, that was an inspiring sermon."

"Thank you very much," Reverend Sorensen replied appreciatively and relaxed his tense posture. "It's so nice to find young people who are open to the Lord's message."

"That we are. Listen, since we're new in town, we're actually looking for a church group." Dean led the Reverend away from us. We talked to Lori—or rather, Sam spoke to Lori. The topic was solemn, but their lingering glances were unmistakable, so I hung back, remaining behind the two as they walked side by side. She said she thought the police blamed her for their lack of information; being the only witness and having such an outlandish story did nothing for their investigation. Sam assured her that just because she thought she was seeing things didn't mean it wasn't real. I debated breaking away to give them space until she cited finding Rich strung up over their car. Upside down. That certainly wasn't in the article.

At the Impala, Dean leaned against the driver's side car. "How'd it go?" I asked about his conversation with the Reverend.

"Great. The next service is Sunday, and we're invited to sit in the front pew," he replied with faux excitement.

I matched his energy. "Can't wait!"

"I gotta say, I believe Lori," Sam interjected, looking for her in the crowd.

Dean appeared skeptical. "Because you really believe her or because you think she's hot?"

"No, man. There's something in her eyes. And listen to this; she heard scratching on the roof. Found the bloody body suspended upside down over the car."

"Wait, the body was suspended?"

"That's what she said." I shrugged. Lori sounded sincere. Really, she sounded terrified. But there was no real way for me to tell. "I couldn't see her face. She wouldn't look away from Sam."

"What?" Sam blushed again. "No, she–"

"Sounds like you should try and get more info out of her." Dean winked.

Sam puffed out an exasperated breath. "We have to get to the bottom of this before somebody else gets hurt," he said.

"Yeah, all right, all right," Dean waved him off, "a suspended body; sounds like the Hook Man Legend. But that's one of the most famous urban legends ever. You don't think that we're dealing with the Hook Man."

"Every urban legend started somewhere," I said. "Maybe this is where that one began."

"Yeah, but what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer?"

"Then the Hook Man isn't a man at all. He's some kind of spirit."

A trip to the library was unwanted but necessary. Since the computers didn't date back far enough, the librarian carried box upon box of arrest records as far back as eighteen-fifty over to our table, setting them down with a tired puff each time. Dean sighed heavily and opened one of the boxes, blowing the dust off the top of the folders. "So, this is how you spent three good years of your life, huh?" he asked Sam.

"Welcome to higher education," he grinned sarcastically.

About two hours later, I was more than ready to stop. My hands felt covered in grime; my eyes vibrated like they'd gone numb, which I did not know was possible. There wasn't a single bit of viable information in any of these damn books. The more I read, the more I craved a shot or five. "We should find a bar when we're done," I said and tossed another folder into the pile of finished ones.

"I'm with you," Dean said, dusting his hands off.

"If we ever get done, that is."

"Hey, check this out," Sam said abruptly, shoving a folder between Dean and me. "Eighteen-sixty-two, a preacher named Jacob Karns was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red light district in town that one night, he killed thirteen prostitutes. Right here," he pointed to a paragraph, "some of the deceased were found in their bed, sheets soaked with blood. Others suspended upside down from the limbs of trees as a warning against sins of the flesh."

"That's dark," I commented, resting my head in my hands, watching Dean sift through the folder and pull out an old, yellow-stained, crinkled piece of paper.

"Get this," Dean began after scanning it. I peered over at the form. On it was a sketch of a hook, similar to the one in the legend. "The murder weapon? Looks like the preacher lost his hand in an accident and had it replaced with a silver hook."

"And look at where it happened." I pointed to the location on the page.

"Nine-Mile Road."

"Same place where the frat boy was killed," Sam said.

Dean lowered the page and smiled, impressed. "Nice job, Dr. Venkmen. Let's check it out."

Night had settled over the small town, coating it in a blanket of dusk. Dean stopped the Impala just outside the stretch of Nine Mile Road. I'm sure the only thought on his mind was, God forbid, the Hook Man scratched the Impala. We collected what we'd need from the arsenal. Dean handed Sam a shotgun and extra rock-salt-packed ammo. "If it's a spirit, a buckshot won't do much good," Sam said, inspecting his gun.

"Yeah, rock salt," Dean explained, handing his brother two shells. "It won't kill 'em. But it'll slow 'em down."

"That's pretty good. You guys thought of this?"

"Dean did," I stated proudly.

"Really?"

"I told you, you don't have to be a college graduate to be a genius," Dean said, satisfied that he could one-up his brother.

Just as we reached a wall of dense brush, leaves rustled, prompting us to stop. Sam raised his gun, but rather than the spirit of Jacob Karns bustling through, a Sheriff appeared. "Put the gun down now!" he shouted, drawing his own weapon. "Now! Put your hands behind your head and get on the ground, all of you!"

"He had the gun!" Dean complained, gesturing to Sam as he got down on his knees alongside his brother and me. The Sheriff didn't care, cuffed us all, and led us to his cruiser. Of course, I got squished between the boys in the backseat. These stupid handcuffs were too tight and dug into my wrists. The five-minute ride felt like an hour. So, when we finally reached the station, I was glad to get out of that tiny backseat. I couldn't help but take note of how dreary all of the officers seemed. They barely perked up as we walked through. Since Sam was holding the gun and they found extra ammo on me, but Dean had absolutely nothing, the Sheriff opted to talk to him first, leading him into a separate room away from us.

In a rickety cell with bars so chintzy I could probably break through them with my bare hands, I sat on the metal bench lining the wall with my ankles firmly crossed. All the apprehension I'd had since we left St. Louis chose to crash down on me now. My head thumped with worry. What if, somehow, they found out who Dean was? What if they ran his name?

"All right," the Sheriff sighed, coming over to our cell. Dean trailed behind, wearing a cocky grin. The Sheriff took his keys from his belt loop and unlocked the cell door. "I don't want to see any of you in here again; you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Dean nodded once and pulled me close after the Sheriff took my cuffs off.

I'm not sure we've ever exited a building that quickly before. Fortunately, they towed the car here, so we made a beeline for it.

"Saved your ass!" Dean exclaimed, pointing back to his brother. "Talked the sheriff down to a fine. Dude, I am Matlock."

"What did you tell him?" I asked with a smile.

"That Sam was a dumbass pledge, and we were hazing him."

Sam couldn't overcome his disbelief long enough to look upset by the insult. "What about the shotgun?" he asked. "And the ammo?"

"I said that you were hunting ghosts, and the spirits were repelled by rock salt. You know, typical Hell Week prank."

"And he believed you?"

"Well, you look like a dumbass pledge," Dean jested.

A few half-asleep deputies suddenly sprinted from the station, all clamoring to their cars. The Sheriff was quick to follow them but somehow found enough time to shoot us a look on the way to his vehicle. I hoped they'd turn left out of the lot, but instead, they went right toward the campus. Dean tailed them close enough that we could keep up but far enough away that they couldn't see us. When we arrived, nearly every girl was outside. And sitting in the back of an ambulance was Lori. I'm relatively sure she was the only one who spotted us, and she looked too shaken up to say anything.

"I wonder what happened?" Sam asked in a low voice as we snuck in from behind the garage, carefully dodging the cops who led us to the sorority house.

"Hook Man?" Dean asked.

"Why would he come here? This is a long way from Nine Mile Road."

"Maybe he's not haunting the scene of his crime. Maybe it's about something else."

"What else could it be?" I wondered.

"I don't–" Dean clamped his mouth shut and pushed us back behind the corner of the house. I looked around his arm, following his line of sight to two girls in tight t-shirts and shorts. "Dude, sorority girls! Think we'll see a naked pillow fight?" he asked excitedly, turning to Sam. Only Sam was long gone, halfway up the balcony. So, instead, Dean found me and shrunk back from the look on my face.

"Boost me up," I instructed, gesturing to the ledge Sam had disappeared over.

"Okay, yeah," he said quickly and hiked me up so I could grab ahold of the railing. After I planted my feet, I waited until Dean was close enough for me to reach over the railing and take his hand, assisting him the rest of the way. Sam opened the only window accessible to us and dove through. I waited while Dean went next, gracefully tripping over his brother, almost knocking them to the ground. "Oops," Dean grunted, righting himself. "Sorry!"

"Be quiet!" Sam hissed.

"You be quiet!"

There was zero point in me trying to wrangle their bickering, so all I did was huff to express my annoyance. Rather than diving headfirst like the boys, I sat on the window sill and slung a leg into the bathroom. There was movement in the adjacent room. We all froze. How they didn't hear us, I'll never know. Sam opened the door just enough that we could see out into the bedroom. The cop did a once-over and then left, heading downstairs. When the coast was clear, we exited the bathroom. Two twin beds were on either side of the room—one flush against the wall with the window and the other's headboard against the wall closest to the door. It was that one that caught my attention; how could it not? Crime scene tape cut it off from the rest of the room. Blood coated the once clean, white sheets, sinking into the mattress below. Above it was writing and a hatched cross scratched into the wall, dripping with blood.

"Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light?" I read, looking back at the boys. "That's directly from the legend."

"It's classic Hook Man all right," Dean agreed. "It's definitely a spirit."

"Does that look familiar to you?" Sam asked, pointing to the symbol beneath the words.

Agreeing that it did, I took out my phone and snapped a picture of the wall.

Back at the Impala, we compared it to a scan of the old papers from the library. It matched the charm hanging from the hook Jacob Karns allegedly replaced his hand with. "Let's find the dude's grave, salt and burn the bones, and put him down," Dean said, getting up off the hood of the Impala.

"Don't get too ahead of yourself, there," I said, looking up at him from the second printout.

"Why not?"

"It says that after the execution, Jacob Karns was laid to rest in an unmarked grave."

Dean huffed, "Super."

"But, at least we know it's Jacob Karns," Sam interjected, trying to find the positive.

"Yeah, but we have no idea who he'll go after next," I pointed out. "Or why."

"I'll take a wild guess about why," Dean said, looking Sam's way. "I think your little friend Lori has something to do with this."

"Lori?" he asked, appalled. "How?"

"Is it really a coincidence that she was at both scenes?"

"Well–"

"Dude, I know you think she's hot, but–"

Sam pursed his lips. "No, Dean. It's not that. She was upset; you saw her," he said to me.

"Maybe she's not even sure she's doing it," I suggested.

"I think we gotta get a better feel on her. What do you say, Sammy?" Dean wagged his eyebrows at his brother and slipped into the driver's seat.

Getting a better feel somehow equated to dropping Sam off at the library for more research while Dean dragged me to crash a random college party. It became clear that we weren't here to find out anything about Lori when he left me in the living room and returned a few minutes later with two red cups. On his way back, Dean's stride faltered when he got distracted by a pretty girl in tight blue jeans and a low-cut, lace tank top. She rested on a pool cue, twirling a strand of straight bleach-blonde hair between her french-manicure-tipped fingers. An unusually strong pang of possessiveness struck me, and my face settled into a scowl. Even though he peeled his eyes off her and kept walking, my expression remained unchanged.

"What are we doing here?" I asked when he finally returned.

"You said you wanted to go to a bar."

"This isn't a bar."

"Well, it's the closest thing," he raised the cups pointedly, "and I figured we could use a minute."

"It certainly has nothing to do with Pamela Anderson over there," I said with disdain, nodding to the bottle-blonde at the pool table.

"I didn't even notice her," he claimed. "I was looking at you."

"Sure, yeah."

A sly smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. "Are you jealous?"

"No," I scoffed and tried to deflect by snatching one of the cups.

"You are," he persisted haughtily.

"Whatever," I huffed, lifting the cup to sniff its contents. A sting hit my nostrils, and I recoiled. "What is this, gasoline?"

"I think it's vodka." Dean brought the cup to his lips and downed it in one shot.

I stared at him, mouth agape. "This is how people get drugged, Dean."

"It's fine. I wouldn't let you drink it."

Flashing an eyebrow, I mumbled, "We'll find out," before taking a sip. It was bitter, medicinal, and burned the crap out of my throat as it slid down. He was right. It was vodka. Low-quality vodka, but still vodka.

After a couple more drinks and fewer inhibitions, Dean led me to an empty corner of the hallway. I didn't object when he pressed the length of his body against mine, hands tangling in my hair, bringing my lips to his. My shoulder blades dug into the wall; my heart thumped in time with the beat rattling it. It was a bad idea—we didn't know this place or the people in it—but all I could think about was finding a vacant room. "Come on," I smiled into the kiss, breaking away to lead the search for somewhere completely private.

Dean's eyes went wide and full of excitement. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

It only took a short tug on the front of his jacket for him to break out of his stupor and eagerly follow me. We found an ajar door down the hall. I peered inside, almost too distracted by Dean kissing slowly down my neck and his hands sliding across my hips, fingers dipping beneath my waistband, to notice the room was empty. I brought him closer, pulling his jacket off as we stumbled inside. Our lips found each other again, and Dean kicked the door shut while slipping my jacket off. It fell on the floor, but I didn't care. I only had one goal in mind.

"Is this all right?" Dean murmured breathlessly against my lips.

"Huh?" The buzz of the alcohol was making it hard to focus. Had I really drunk that much?

"I just want to make sure you're okay with this," he said, pulling slightly back to look at my eyes.

My shoulders fell. "Baby, of course I am," I assured through puffy lips. It hurt to see him so profoundly affected by what happened. Even more so than me. How could I make him understand? "I want this, okay? I want you."

Dean barely nodded, still unconvinced. No matter how unsure he may be, I'd consider it a challenge. If the only way I could prove it to him was to show it, then that's precisely what I'd do. I stood on my tip-toes and kissed him, trying to return the moment to its fervent state. Instead, Dean cupped my face, lips brushing against mine tenderly, rather than the frantic way it'd been moments ago. His hands slid down to grip my backside, lifting me. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He carried me to the bed, sitting on the edge while I straddled him.

With our shirts now discarded, our kisses slowly started to get more and more heated until I finally pushed him back onto the mattress, falling forward with him. One of his hands trailed up to the back of my neck, the other grabbing my waist. I planted my hands on his chest and pushed myself up, unclasping my bra and throwing it aside. Dean's eyes sparkled with adoration as his hands glided up my body, setting me ablaze. My hips bucked, drawing a moan from his lips; the sound made my skin tingle. Far too much fabric separated us, and I was desperate to remove the barriers. I undid his belt, taking it off as I moved to kneel beside him. Dean watched with bated breath as I unbuttoned his jeans. A sharp intake of air drove through his teeth as I gripped him. Before it became too much for him, he sat up and kissed me, gently guiding me onto my back as his lips trailed across my chest and then down my stomach until he reached the waistband of my jeans. I lifted my hips in the air so he could pull them off, my underwear following not long after.

Returning beside me, Dean kissed along my jaw while his fingers traced circles between my legs. I flushed as my release began to bubble, and suddenly, the pressure was gone. He stopped, drawing a huff from me. Dean smirked knowingly, placing a kiss on my lips as he settled between my thighs. The heat coming off him went straight through me and made my head spin with desire; I wanted to feel every inch and was prepared to beg him for it when he finally sank into me. I bit my lip to stifle the moan that so badly wanted to escape. Dean started slow, rocking back and forth and nipping at my neck. We both needed more, and it wasn't long before one of my hands gripped the edge of the mattress and the other dug into his shoulder blade. My chest heaved, heart pounding. Above me, Dean shifted his weight slightly as he continued to thrust, one hand on the mattress beneath my arm for balance; his other gripped my thigh, keeping my leg where it was curled around his waist.

"Dean," I panted, "I'm so close–"

"Good," he said, voice timbering through his chest. He smiled, leaning to kiss me fiercely, breath mingling with mine. His hand on my thigh moved higher, giving my backside a squeeze. I met his thrusts with my own as he picked up his pace. The pleasure built and built until it exploded. I cried out, arching my back and grasping at his arms. Dean followed immediately after, burying his face into the crook of my neck as he gave a few final thrusts. We remained like that for a few minutes until he rolled beside me, kissing my shoulder. His fingers trailed down my arm. Reaching my hand, he brought it to his lips.

"I love you," I declared, snuggling into him.

"Me too," he replied tenderly.

As much as I wanted to curl up in his arms and fall asleep, that wasn't an option. Sam would be here soon if he weren't already. So, we got up and collected our clothes, lazily pulling them back into place. I raked my fingers through my hair, hoping I could tame it somewhat before we left. "Do I look okay?" I asked.

"You look beautiful," Dean said, looking at me through half-open, blissful eyes.

"Thank you," I smiled. "But do I look like I just had sex?"

"Uh–" he looked me over and grinned proudly. "Yes."

"Great," I laughed and shrugged it off. At the end of the day, I suppose it didn't make a difference. Who cares if someone caught on? What we did was more important than that could ever be.

Peering out into the hall, Dean took my hand and led us back to the main room. Somehow, through all the commotion, I heard a faint, strained voice mutter, "Excuse me," in such a polite way that it could only be Sam. As I suspected, he was pushing through the crowd in the living room, looking like he had just sucked on the world's most sour lemon. When we reached each other, he gave us a quick "Hey." It was only one word, but it was drenched in discomfort.

"Man, you've been holding out on us. This college thing is awesome!" Dean clamored.

"This wasn't really my experience," Sam muttered, cramming his hands into his pockets. It was at times like these that I realized how badly I missed that annoyingly adorable kid who always had his nose in a book.

"Let me guess. Libraries, studying, straight A's?" Dean asked; Sam nodded. "What a geek."

"Where were you guys? I've been looking for, like, ten minutes!"

"Oh. Uh…" I trailed off, looking around for an excuse.

Sam grimaced when he realized what we'd been up to. "You're in a house full of strangers!"

"So?" Dean asked, unphased by the fact. "You gotta loosen up, Sammy."

"Sam," he corrected.

"Whatever." Dean rolled his eyes. "You do your homework?"

"Yeah. It was bugging me, right?" Sam's voice was cut off briefly when some dude slammed into him and kept going as if nothing had happened.

"Dick," I spat, shooting him a dirty look.

Dean grabbed my arm and directed me into the other room, mumbling, "Come on."

"I wasn't gonna start anything."

"No, but he would. And then I'd have to finish it," he said, ensuring we were a few feet away before letting me go. "What did you find?" he asked Sam.

"Well, I think I came up with how the Hook Man is tied to Lori," Sam said, unraveling a piece of paper and handing it to us.

Dean took it, holding it out enough for me to see as he read, "Nineteen-thirty-two, Clergyman arrested for murder. Nineteen-sixty-seven. Seminarian held in hippie rampage."

"There's a pattern here. In both cases, the suspect was a man of religion who openly preached against immorality and then found himself wanted for killings he claimed were the work of an invisible force. Killings carried out—get this—with a sharp instrument."

"Okay, great, but what does that have to do with Lori?" I asked.

"A man of religion? Who openly preaches against immorality? Except for this time, instead of saving the whole town, he's just trying to save his only daughter…" Sam trailed off with raised eyebrows, waiting for the moment the realization hit us.

"Ooh," I said, sharing a look of understanding with Dean, who was just as confused as me seconds before. "Right."

"Are you guys drunk?"

"No! A little tipsy," I confessed and was met with a look of displeasure from Sam.

"So, Reverend Sorensen," Dean began, "You think he's summoning the spirit?"

"Maybe," Sam said, glad to get back on track. "Or, you know how a poltergeist can haunt a person instead of a place?"

"Yeah, the spirit latches onto the reverend's repressed emotions, feeds off them."

"Without the reverend ever even knowing it."

"Either way, you should keep an eye on Lori tonight."

"What about you guys?"

Dean sighed. "I guess we're gonna try and find that unmarked grave."

Equipped with shovels, flashlights, and a bag of salt, lighter fluid, and matches, Dean and I entered the cemetery. A heavy fog settled just above the ground, weaving between the spontaneously placed headstones—all with names etched into their flat surfaces. We decided to split up and cover more ground, hoping to find Karnes' grave sooner than later. The last thing I wanted was to spend the entire night searching for a dead guy. That was most of my life, anyway.

Across the graveyard, Dean's flashlight flickered twice, so I headed back over, only talking when I got close enough just in case anyone was passing down the street. "Found it?"

"I think so," he replied, using his light to point to a short stone with the cross symbol from the sorority house wall and the drawing of the hook.

"Time to get started, I guess," I said. Dean dropped the bag from his shoulder and peeled off his jacket, breaking ground first with his shovel, tossing a mound of compact dirt to the side. About halfway done, I took a moment to rest on my shovel's handle and wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist.

Dean puffed, tossing the soil onto the growing mound of dirt. "This is not how I thought tonight would go."

I huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, me either."

We finally reached the brittle, wooden casket, so I hopped out of the grave. Dean smashed the boards into fragments with his shovel, revealing a crumbled set of human bones swimming in dirt and moss. Getting the bottle of kerosene and matches out of the bag, my fingers lingered on the leather-bound book underneath. The question that had been nagging at me since this morning returned in full force. Dean tossed the shovel aside and addressed the remains, "Hello, Preacher."

"Hey, Dean?" I called.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you think John doesn't want to be found?"

He looked taken aback by my sudden mention of his father and swallowed hard, thinking it over a moment before answering. "I don't know, but there's gotta be a reason. Something he wants to keep us away from. Because that's–" he stopped, gripping the shovel until his knuckles turned white. There'd be no reason for him to say it. I already knew. Protecting us was the only way he could justify John ignoring us.

"I'm sure you're right," I said. "You know him better than anybody."

"Yeah," he scoffed, much to my surprise.

"Look, whether he wants it or not, we'll find him, anyway," I insisted and returned to him with the items needed. "Now, come on. Let's burn this dead guy."

Dean cracked a smile and caught the pack of matches I threw him. I doused the bones with salt and lighter fluid. He lit one of the matches and said, "Goodbye, preacher," throwing it into the coffin. A flash of orange and yellow light erupted a foot high before dwindling to a more manageable fire as it burned away any remains of Jacob Karnes. We waited for it to dim entirely before refilling the grave, gathering our things, and heading back to the Impala. By now, the sun was beginning to rise over the tree line. Another sleepless night, I thought and got into the car. I needed a shower, but hopes of getting one were short-lived when Dean checked his phone and found a bunch of missed calls and texts from Sam telling us to meet him at the hospital. The ICU hallway had been blocked by two deputies who refused to let us through until the Sheriff who arrested us gave the green light. Sam met us halfway, eager to escape the man's clasp.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied, still appearing a little dazed.

"What the hell happened?"

"Hook Man," he answered quietly, ensuring we were far enough away that the Sheriff couldn't hear.

"What?" I asked. That just wasn't possible. "The Hook Man?"

"Why didn't you torch the bones?"

"What are you talking about? We did," Dean said. "You sure it's the spirit of Jacob Karns?"

"It sure as hell looked like him. And that's not all. I don't think the spirit is latching on to the reverend."

"Well, yeah, the guy wouldn't send the Hook Man after himself."

"I think it's latching onto Lori. Last night, she found out her father is having an affair with a married woman."

"So what?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's a crappy thing to do, Dean," I said.

"Well, yeah," he flashed an eyebrow in agreement and added, "What the hell does that have to do with Lori?"

"She's upset about the immorality of it," Sam explained pointedly. "She told me she was raised to believe that if you do something wrong, you get punished."

"Okay, so she's conflicted. And the spirit of Preacher Karns is latching on to repress the emotions, and maybe he's doing the punishing for her." Dean jutted a finger in the air, proud of his deduction.

I nodded and ticked off all the instances of Lori's link to Jacob Karnes. "The Frat Boy came on too strong, Taylor tried to make her into a party girl, and Mr. Holy is having an affair. Everyone that she judges gets it."

"Remind me not to piss this girl off," Dean commented. "But we burned those bones. We buried them in salt; why didn't that stop him?"

"You guys must have missed something," Sam said.

"We have done this before, you know." I folded my arms, slightly miffed. "We didn't miss anything in that coffin."

"Did you get the hook?"

Dean darted to me. "The hook?" he asked his brother.

"Well, it was the murder weapon," Sam said. "And in a way, it was part of him."

"So, like the bones, the hook is a source of his power."

"So if we find the hook..." Sam began, "We stop the Hook Man," both he and Dean finished simultaneously. God, again? I thought and forced my way between them for the exit.

Another round at the library resulted in Dean finding an Iowa State Penitentiary logbook on Jacob Karns and his personal effects. It stated that upon his execution, 'all earthly items shall be remanded to the prisoner's house of worship, St. Barnabas Church.' The same place Reverend Sorensen preaches. Not to mention, his and Lori's home was on that property. It seemed a bit impossible that two hundred years could have gone by without someone noticing a blood-stained, silver hook lying around, so we looked up the church's records on Dean's hunch that the items were destroyed. In eighteen-sixty-two, as soon as Jacob Karns was executed and St. Barnabas received his things, they burned them and reforged the hook. There was no indication of where they used the melted silver. The church heavily documented everything else, but that? There were no details whatsoever. Armed with what little information we could acquire, we arrived at the church prepared to break into both buildings. I took the empty duffel bag beside me in the backseat and got out with the boys.

"We can't take any chances," Dean said. "Anything silver goes into the fire."

I slung the bag over my shoulder. "Sounds good to me."

"All right, take your pick."

"I'll take the house," Sam said.

"I'll stick with you," I told Dean.

We'd only gotten about a foot apart when Dean suddenly stopped. "Hey," he called to get his brother's attention, "stay out of her underwear drawer."

Sam's face twisted at the very suggestion. I pressed my lips together to hide my smile and started pushing Dean toward the church until he walked on his own. Every silver item—whether it was actual silver or not—went in the bag to be burned in the basement furnace. There was no time for precision; it didn't matter if they returned to find things gone. A few missing items were nothing compared to more permanently missing people. About a half hour later, Sam entered the basement and started chucking what he'd collected from the house into the fire. The ceiling creaked with distinct footsteps wandering the floor above. If Jacob Karns were trying to stop this, it'd only make sense for one of us to stay down here and hopefully finish him off by burning what few items were left.

"Go," I quietly told the boys, moving into Dean's place in front of the furnace as he and Sam ventured upstairs.

Just as I tossed the last silver ring into the blaze, Dean came down the steps, calm and collected. "It's Lori," he said, answering my unspoken question.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

Dean shrugged, uncertain. "Sam's talking to her."

Lori's voice was muffled, but I could still make out what she was saying. "What are you doing here?"

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"I've been trying to understand what's been happening. Why? Now I know, so I'm praying for forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what?"

"Don't you see? I'm to blame for all this. I've read in the Bible about avenging angels," Lori cried.

"Oh God," Dean mumbled, rolling his eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. If there was one thing in this insane world Dean Winchester didn't believe in, it was angels.

"Trust me, this guy—he's no angel," Sam told her.

"I was so angry at my father," Lori insisted. "Part of me wanted him punished. And then he came, and he punished him."

"It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is. I don't know how, but it is. I killed Rich. Taylor, too. I nearly killed my father."

It got eerily quiet seconds before rushed footsteps bounded across the floor like cannons, knocking dust and cobwebs from the ceiling onto our heads. "Shit," Dean hissed under his breath. He bolted out of the basement so fast he was gone in the blink of an eye. I barely managed to keep up with him. The pews were empty in the center of the church—neither Lori nor Sam was anywhere in sight. There was a crash of glass breaking and rattling walls on the other side of the church. We followed it and arrived just in time to find Sam and a petrified Lori cornered in an office at the end of the long hallway. An ominous figure cloaked in a long, dark coat, his stringy raven hair covered by a black hat, loomed over them.

"Sam, drop!" Dean ordered. Sam ducked, and Dean took the shot, sending Jacob Karns away—temporarily, at least.

"I thought we got all the silver," Sam panted, favoring his left arm.

"So did I. Did you get everything in that bag?" Dean asked me.

"Of course I got everything!" I asserted. "But we must have missed something." I looked around, finding nothing even remotely silver in this room. Even the doorknobs were brass.

"Lori, where did you get that chain?" Sam asked. Until he mentioned it, I hadn't noticed the silver cross hanging from her neck.

"My father gave it to me," she answered shakily.

"Where'd your Dad get it?" Dean questioned.

"He said it was a church heirloom." Lori's eyes darted between us frantically. "He gave it to me when I started school."

"Is it silver?" Sam demanded.

"Yes!" she cried. Sam yanked the jewelry from her neck, about to stand when a rasping scrape gouged through the hallway's wall in a long line, slowly approaching us. Sam tossed the necklace to Dean, who caught it and gave me the shotgun and two extra slugs before taking off for the basement. I kept the gun aimed at the front of the line. It moved from the wall to the ceiling, getting closer. Whether I'd hit him or not, I took the shot, blasting a hole in the drywall.

In the lul of peace, I looked behind me, where Sam crouched protectively beside the terrified brunette. "Are you guys okay?" I asked.

Before either of them could answer, the Hook Man appeared and knocked the rifle out of my hand. An invisible force knocked me back onto the desk and held me there while he stalked toward Lori. He lifted the hook, ready to strike, when the silver started to melt. Orange flames began at his feet, slowly working upward until his entire spirit flaked away like a burning piece of paper. Footsteps hurried down the hall; Dean slowed when he saw that we were all okay but still inspected me for any injuries as soon as he was close enough. When he found none, he pulled me close and didn't let go.

A couple of deputies, followed by an ambulance, arrived on scene first, bandaging Sam's injured arm. Any hope of not dealing with the Sheriff again was squashed when he pulled up and marched over to Dean and me, bypassing Sam and Lori. I internally rolled my eyes. Whoever spoke to Lori must have told him what she said. He asked if we also saw a man with a hook for a hand. We said yes. That wasn't good enough.

"You're sure you saw him?" he questioned for the second time.

"Yes, I told you, we all saw him," Dean replied. "We fought him off, and then he ran."

"And that's all?" the Sheriff asked me.

I nodded. "That's it."

"Listen." He lifted a pointed finger our way. "You three–"

"Oh, don't worry, we're leaving town," Dean said disinterestedly, heading for the Impala. I gave the Sheriff a tight-lipped smile and left him standing there scowling. He thought we were troublemakers who wandered into his town to wreak havoc. If only he knew the truth, I bet he'd be much less cynical. At the back of the ambulance stood Sam and Lori. I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but she was smiling and holding his hand.

My fingers lingered on the door handle. "They're pretty cute together, huh?" I asked.

Dean bit the inside of his lip, never taking his eyes off them. "You know, maybe we can wait it out a couple days."

"Wait what out?"

"I mean, we've got no clue where Dad is," he said, finally looking at me. "It could be a while before we figure it out. Might not hurt to stay put. You okay with that?"

The last time we stayed in one spot for longer than a week was when we were teenagers, so it was safe to say his suggestion threw me, but I shouldn't be surprised; he'd do anything for his little brother. However sweet I thought it was, I wanted to make sure it was something he'd be happy with, too. "Do you want to?" I asked.

"If he does." He shrugged. "So, what do you think?"

It'd be strange, but I don't think I'd mind. "Sure," I said. "We can do that. As long as we stay away from that damn Sheriff."

The corner of Dean's lips turned down in a shrug. "I don't think that would be a problem."

"Oh, no, definitely not," I played along. "We never get in trouble."

Dean chuckled and shifted his weight to the other foot, moving just enough that I could see Lori reach up and kiss Sam's cheek. He lingered with his hand in hers momentarily before smiling and breaking away. As his brother made a beeline for the passenger door, Dean announced, "We could stay."

Sam paused on the other side of the car, gritted his teeth, and shook his head. It wasn't until he got in that Dean let his deep-seated worry show. I rubbed his arm, trying to offer comfort. Sam would be okay. He had to be; we all did.

Thanks to bookwriter123456 for your help! And thank you for reading! Please don't forget to review or message me; I'd love your feedback!

Tumblr: phoenixwritesfanfiction (lots of content here. Manips, gif edits, playlists, etc)
Twitter: phoenixwrites79
Instagram: phoenixwritesfanfiction