ASYLUM [PART ONE]
___

"Rich of you to talk about him being secretive, when you've been exactly the same."
—
"What did you just say?"

• • •

Juliet sits at the table in their Motel room, Dean sits opposite her. Both of them watching Sam as he wraps up the conversation he's having on the phone.

"No, Dad was in California last we heard from him. We just thought...he comes to you for 'munitions...maybe you've seen him in the last few weeks."

There's a pause as the person Sam is speaking to speaks on the other line. Juliet watches as Sam then sighs before nodding his head, "Just, call us if you hear anything."

"Okay."

There's a hint of a smile on Sam's face as he thanks the guy on the other line before hanging up the phone and turning to where Dean and Juliet sit at the motel table. Harlow sits on her mother's lap as she draws on a piece of paper she had pulled out of Juliet and Dean's shared duffle bag. Dean sits opposite them, looking through John's journal, trying to find any tell tale sign to where daddy dearest might be. He flicks through the pages looking for any kind of clue.

He glances up at his little brother who sits on his motel bed, the one that is next to his and Juliet's. They all thought it'd be cheaper to all share a motel room instead of getting separate ones.

"Caleb hasn't heard from him?"

Sam shakes his head with a sigh, "Nope. Neither has Jefferson or Pastor Jim."

Juliet bites her lip before eyeing Sam, shooting him a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry Sammy, I'm sure we'll find him soon." She swallows the lump in her throat. She has this feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, like she knows it won't be long until both him and Dean know the truth and when that day comes, she'll have no choice but to suck it up and face the consequences. She just hopes that maybe they'll be understanding.

Too wrapped in her own thoughts, she doesn't notice the suspicious look Dean is giving her — green eyes narrowed, one eyebrow raised. He knows she's hiding something. He's had that feeling for a while now. He's tried to be patient — he really has — but even he has a limit. That patience is wearing thin, and that limit is close to breaking.

Little does he know, she's thinking the exact same thing — but for a different reason. His is patience; hers is the weight of a secret. Same tension, different cause.

Sam shoots Juliet a smile — not noticing the look Dean throws her. Dean quickly masks it, his expression settling back into something neutral just as Sam turns to him, flicking his gaze between his brother and the book in his hands.

"What about the journal? Any leads in there?"

Dean sighs and takes a swig of his beer before shaking his head, "No, same as the last time I looked. Nothing I can make out." He puts down his beer bottle and smiles, "I love the guy, but I swear, he writes like friggin' Yoda."

Juliet looks at Sam and mouths 'Yoda' with a dubious look on her face. Sam shrugs his shoulders as if to say 'don't look at me'. She shakes her head and sets Harlow on the ground, the five year old running off to play with her stuffed elephant as she's gotten bored of drawing and coloring in.

Sam's eyes follow his niece before looking back to his brother. He shoots Dean a look Juliet has seen a hundred times before. A look she knows is followed by words that will probably result in Dean annoyed with his brother.

"You know, maybe we should call the Feds. File a missing person's."

And just like she predicted, a frown pulls at her boyfriend's lips as an annoyed look sparks in his eyes. Dean looks at Sam and rolls his eyes, like he's heard Sam that a dozen times and that's because he has. He shakes his head like it's muscle memory and sighs, "We've talked about this. Dad'd be pissed—"

Dean is cut off mid setence by a pillow in the face, he doesn't make an attempt to catch it and it falls to the floor with a thud. He looks to his left and see's the pissed off look on Juliet's face and instantly know she's the one that threw the pillow. It was the motel pillow she was sitting on the chair withh . He sighs, looks back to Sam, who's now stiffling a laugh, and corrects his language.

"—Sorry. He'd be annoyed if we put feds on his tail."

Sam rolls his eyes in reply at his big brother's words. The way he says them like he's a child who's being told something obvious by a parent. He stands up and narrows his eyes, "I don't care anymore."

Juliet opens her mouth to intervene before an argument breaks out between the two but the sound of Dean's cell going off beats her to it. She watches as the father of her child waves his hands at Sam, physically waving his brother off, as he storms towards his duffel bag and moves things about as his phone continues to ring.

Sam ignores being dismissed by Dean and carries on, "After all that happened back in Kansas, I mean...he should've been there, Dean. You said so yourself. You tried calling him and...nothing." Juliet nods her head and looks to the older Winchester brother, who's still looking for his phone. "He's right, Dean. You called him, begging him for his help and he didn't pick up, never rang back. Never left a message."  She pauses her voice dipping lower, "And it's not just that. He never told you anything, just left a note saying "Gone hunting." He's being evasive and secretive but you still look up to the guy like he hangs the moons and the stars."

Dean puts a pause on searching for his phone to take the time to glare at Juliet before turning back to his task, muttering under his breath, "Rich of you to talk about him being secretive, when you've been exactly the same." Juliet glares at the back of Dean's head. "What did you just say?"

Her question is ignored as instead of repeating what he said, he continues searching through his duffel bag. "Where is my cellphone?" Juliet scoffs and shares a look with Sam before casting her eyes downward, cussing Dean in her head but Sam isn't one to back down so easily."

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

Deab turns on him, glaring at his brother, "Don't say that! He's not dead! He's just—he's..."

Sam raises a challenging eyebrow, "He's what? He's hiding? He's busy?"

Dean goes to reply but Harlow's small voice speaks up for all to hear. Her voice is small and cracks a little like she's holding back tears, "Grandpa might be dead?" Sam's eyes widen, his shoulders drop, he didn't realize he was speaking so loudly. Juliet glares at him, he winces as he gets the message loud and clear.

'Good going, moron.'

Dean glares at him as well as he finds and picks up his cellphone, "Nice one, Sam." The said Winchester swallows the lump in his throat as Dean flips open his cell, his face being illuminated by the glow of his screen as he reads the message he was sent. He see's Juliet rush to Harlow from the corner of his eye. Sam watches as she speaks with her quietly, trying to console her daughter who's now letting her tears fall. He winces again as Juliet sends him another glare over her daughter's head for good meassure.

Dean looks back down at his phone and continues reading the message that was sent to his phone when he didn't pick up the call

His eyes flick back and forth as he reads,

'From: Unavailable

Subject:

Msg: 42, -89'

Dean raises an eyebrow as he pulls a face, his eyes not leaving the message. The argument with Sam in the back of his mind for now. He sits down on the second bed that's in the motel room. The mattress springs creaking under his weight.

"Huh. I don't believe it."

Juliet and Sam share a look, Dean's earlier comment forgotten by Juliet as they both turn back to Dean, both tilting their heads like lost little puppies and say 'what' at the same time. They share another look, both pulling the 'poopface' as Dean likes to call it.

Dean shakes his head at the two best friends before answering their question.

"It's, uh... It's a text message. It's coordinates."

• • •

Harlow sniffles as she cuddles up with Juliet on the motel bed, her tears having finally stopped after much consoling from both Juliet and Dean, she watches as her father sits back at the motel table that's by the window, his laptop open once more. The little Winchester's eyes are red and her cheeks are tear stained but her mother's fingers threading through her hair helps calm her even more, she hiccups every now and again.

Sam looks at his niece, still feeling guilty for arguing with Dean and for upsetting Harlow. He didn't mean to, it's just sometimes he doesn't think before he speaks and Dean being the way he is, he can't help but feel frustrated with how he acts sometimes. Angry at Dean for always having faith in a man that was absent most of their childhood. He shakes his head, burying his thoughts as he looks so his said brother as he types someting on his laptop.

Sam raises an eyebrow, "You think Dad was texting us?"

Dean shrugs, "He's given us coordinates before."

Sam narrows his eyes, not accepting that as an answer. "The man can barely work a toaster, Dean?"

Juliet snorts at that which results in Dean giving her a look, she matches it with a sheepish one of her own as she shrugs her shoulder. "What? Tell me he's wrong. When was the last time you saw John make toast?" Dean opens his mouth but no words come out, causing Juliet to smirk in victory and send him a pointed look. "Exactly."

Dean rolls his eyes before looking to his younger brother, "Sam, it's good news! It means he's okay—" he looks to Harlow, seeing her eyes start to droop as Juliet continues combing her fingers through her hair. Satisfied she's not listening, he continues, "—or alive at least."

Juliet purses her lips, her thoughts running a mile a minute but she doesn't let it show. She's relieved John's alive for her daughter's sake—and so she can kill him herself when she sees him next—but the coordinates feel like a punch. Not a message. Not a check-in. A job. He's still out there, chasing the damn thing that killed Mary, keeping them at arm's length, and now tossing them a hunt like it's scraps from a table. And she has to keep pretending she doesn't know why. She focuses on Harlow's hair, smoothing it back with practiced ease, using the motion to ground not just Harlow, but also herself. She can't let it show—not the guilt, not the frustration, and especially not the secret that's pressing down on her like a weight on her chest.

She swallows her thoughts down and looks to Dean, a crease forming between her brows. "Wait—was there a number? On the caller ID? Maybe we could trace it? Find out where he is." She frowns when Dean shakes his head, "Nah, it said 'unknown'." Juliet sighs, "Well, that's just great."

Sam turns to Dean, his expression sharp with curiosity and a hint of caution. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, brows slightly drawn, the tension from the last few minutes still lingering in his shoulders —Juliet can't help but notice how the look on his face makes him seem older than twenty-two— His eyes search Dean's face, trying to gauge his reaction before asking, "Well, where do the coordinates point?"

The question gets a smile out of Dean—small, but unmistakably there—as he looks up at his brother. Juliet notices a spark behind his green eyes now, the kind that only comes when the puzzle pieces start to click. He points a finger at Sam, that familiar glint of excitement slipping into his tone. "That's the interesting part. Rockford, Illinois."

Juliet sits up a little straighter, not that either brother notices. She's careful not to disturb Harlow's head resting on her chest. The shift is subtle, instinctive—her body reacting before her mind can catch up. She keeps her hand moving through her daughter's hair, slow and steady, but her attention sharpens. Her mind ties it all together before the brother's do. Rockford. A hunt. John was still pulling the strings and she had to act like it didn't mean more than it did.

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly being a bit slow on the uptake. He looks at Dean with a mix of confusion and expectation, waiting for the part he's clearly missing to be spelled out. "Okay, and that's interesting how?"

Dean smirks, knowing he has his little brother at least a little bit curious. "I checked the local Rockford paper. Take a look at this." He spins the laptop round so Sam can look at the screen and read what he's reading.

Juliet raises an eyebrow, not exactly in a position to get up. Still lying on the motel bed she shares with Dean, she lifts a hand and waves it lazily in the air.. "Hello? My eyes can't read that from over here, and I'm kinda stuck unless I want to wake up Sleeping Beauty over here.."

Dean clears his throat, glancing at Harlow curled up against Juliet's chest, then back to the screen. "Right," he mutters, already turning the laptop back toward himself. "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."

Sam shakes his head, still not connecting the dots. Juliet sends him a dubious look that he doesn't catch as his green eyes are still trained on his brother. "Okay, I'm not following. What has this have to do with us?"

Juliet shakes her head, if she could face palm she would. Instead, she rolls her eyes and keeps her thoughts to herself. Thoughts which are as follows...

'And he wanted to be a lawyer? Seriously?'

Another thought then hits her as she gets up from the bed, wincing when Harlow groans but luckily she doesn't wake. Now standing up, she sighs as she stretches her back until it gives a satisfying click. She walks over to the boys and sits opposite Dean.

"Also, why does that asylum sound familiar? Like I've heard it before."

Dean nods his head, "Because you have. Well, you've read it before. Dad earmarked the same asylum in the journal. Let's see..." Juliet waches him as he grabs John's journal that's beside the laptop and flips through it before landing on the page he wants. He lays it down on the table between the three of them and taps the page with his index finger, twice. "Here. Seven unconfirmed sightings, two deaths— till last week at least. I think this is where he wants us to go."

Sam snorts in disbelief at his brother's words, he even rolls his eyes for good measure as he motions to John's hunting journal. "This a job... Dad wants us to work a job." Juliet notices he phrases the sentence as a statement not a question.

Dean shrugs his shoulders in reply, raising an eyebrow at Sam's reaction. "Well, maybe we'll meet up with him? Maybe he's there?"

Juliet scoffs, "Ha! Yeah, right. The day John meets us at a hunt he sends us on, will be the day pigs start flyin'." Dean glares at her but before he can retort, Sam shakes his head and exhales through his nose, the same frustration from earlier starts to bubble to the surface again. "Maybe he's not? I mean, he could be sending us there, by ourselves, to hunt this thing."

Dean's eyes snap to his brother, the glare shifting from Juliet to Sam in a heartbeat. It's sharp, pointed—more angry than exasperated—his jaw tightens, shoulders going stiff, and for a beat too long, he just stares before he snaps out of it and shakes his head, "Who cares! If he wants us there, it's good enough for me."

Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean's tone of voice, of course deep down he doesn't expect anything less. Dean has always been John's good little soldier, being there to catch him when he falls, to obey his every command like a dog does for their master. But he isn't like his brother, he's not just gonna roll over and show his belly like a dog submissing.

"This doesn't strike you as weird? The texting? The coordinates?"

Juliet turns and looks out the window, watching as thick and dark clouds roll in. It won't be long before the rain starts. To the boys, it looks like she's turning away from their argument—removing herself from the tension before it drags her in. But really, she's frowning at her own reflection in the glass. She doesn't respond to Sam, doesn't get involved, but her retort still rings bitter in her head

'If only you knew, Sammy.'

She knows exactly why John is sending them to Rockford. It's not about the case. It's a diversion—a way to keep them busy, keep them chasing ghosts while he stays one step ahead. He thinks that dropping them coordinates will throw them off his trail, give him time to close in on what killed his wife, and worst of all... he's right. It's working. It's always worked. She hates that it's caused this—Sam and Dean, snapping at each other like strangers instead of brothers. She hates that John's got a hold on them without even being here.

'Well done, John', she thinks bitterly, 'way to go, you bastard.'

Dean suddenly stands, the legs of his chair dragging across the wooden floor with a sharp, grating screech. Juliet winces—it's the kind of sound that sets your teeth on edge. She glances back, just in time to see the tight set of his jaw, the tension etched into every line of his face. His glare is locked on Sam, and his breathing is uneven, barely held in check.

"Sam!" His voice cuts through the room. "Dad's tellin' us to go somewhere, we're goin'."

The tone of his voice leaves no room for argument.

Juliet's brown eyes trail after him as he crosses the room toward the bed. She watches him crouch down, resting a hand gently on Harlow's shoulder. His touch is soft, his voice quieter now as he calls her name and gently shakes her awake. His body is still tight with tension, his shoulder's stiff—until the moment Harlow stirs. Only then do they ease, just slightly, in a way only Juliet would notice. She lifts an eyebrow, watching the subtle shift. He's still furious—but not her, not anymore. And definitely not at their daughter. Harlow doesn't feel the lasting weight of the tension in the room. But Juliet does.

She glances back at Sam just in time to catch him pulling a full-on bitchface behind Dean's back—over-exaggerated and dramatic, a look only a little brother could pull. Juliet bites back a laugh, lips twitching into a smirk as she quickly looks away before Dean can turn around. The tension still might hang in the room, but moments like this, with Sam pulling that face, it reminds her they're still them—still family, even in the thick of it.

She just hopes that they'll still remain a family when it all inevitably comes to light. Because she knows, deep down, a secret doesn't stay a secret forever. Maybe that's wishful thinking, she knows that the truth will either make of break her and Dean, she hopes to God it won't be the latter

• • •

Juliet sits in the passenger seat of the Impala, Sam's laptop open across her legs, the glow from the screen casting soft light across her features. Her fingers hover over the trackpad, her focus not on the article anymore, but on the slow trickle of people entering and exiting the bar just across the street. The neon sign above the door buzzes quietly, one of the letters half-flickering, casting intermittent shadows against the gravel lot.

The silence in the car has long since settled into something heavier. Not uncomfortable—at least not to anyone outside the situation—but charged. Thick with the weight of things left unsaid between her and Dean. They haven't circled back to that tension since it rose earlier, and maybe they won't. Not yet. Not while they're working. There were priorities. This was one of them.

In the back seat, Harlow is curled up against Sam's side, small legs tucked beneath her, her head resting lightly against his arm. She'd knocked out about twenty minutes ago, worn down by hours of being stuck in a car and motel-hopping. Sam had draped his flannel jacket over her like a blanket and was now doing his best not to move too much, eyes occasionally flicking from the laptop to the bar.

Juliet keeps watching. Waiting. Her eyes move between the screen in front of her and the door to the bar, the article she'd pulled up still sitting open—Daniel Gunderson's name highlighted twice. He was one of the two officers who had entered Roosevelt Asylum just five days ago, both responding to a call about trespassers inside the sealed-off building. What they found inside? No one knew. But one of them came out changed. He didn't even last the night.

His partner—Walter Kelly—had made it home by midnight. By one a.m., he'd shot his wife in the chest and then turned the gun on himself in their bedroom, no hesitation. The report had called it an "inexplicable act of violence," but Juliet knows better. Something in that asylum had clung to him—something he'd carried out with him like a disease.

That left Daniel Gunderson. And from the looks of it, he was still walking around in one piece. Which meant he might have answers, at least about the Asylum and what his partner was like when they left the Asylum.

A soft tap against her shoulder pulls her from her thoughts. Juliet blinks, glancing to the side where Sam sat beside Harlow in the back. He nods toward the windshield with a small jerk of his chin.

"What?" she asks, voice low, not wanting to disturb Harlow.

Sam doesn't answer. He just gestures again, eyes fixed on something outside.

Juliet turns back to the windscreen, narrowing her gaze through the fading sunlight and smeared glass. A man is walking across the lot toward the bar—hood up, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, head angled low like he doesn't want to be noticed. Stocky build, late thirties. The moment she lays her eyes on him, something clicks.

Dean leans forward in his seat, tracking her focus. "Well? Is it him?"

Juliet looks down at the photo on the screen—a slightly outdated department ID from five years ago. Same jawline. Same nose. The picture looks like a man who hasn't seen enough to be haunted. The one outside the bar now? He bears that weight on his face.

She gives a small nod. "Yeah. That's him."

Dean's hand was already moving for the door handle, ready to intercept the guy before he can disappear inside. But Juliet reaches out and lays a hand on his arm, stopping him before he can touch the latch.

He turns his head, brow pinched. "What?"

She takes her hand back and shakes her head, keeping her voice quiet. "I think we should wait. You go in there now, charging in with questions? He's going to shut down or bolt. Either way, we lose him."

Dean eases back in his seat, arms folding across his chest as he looks at her sideways, lips pressing into a tight line. "Alright," he says slowly. "So what's your plan?"

Juliet smirks, shifting her gaze from the man disappearing into the bar to the man sitting beside her. Her eyes meet his without flinching.

"Don't worry. I've got it covered."

Dean doesn't need to hear more. The look on her face was enough.

He sighs, already bracing himself. "I'm not gonna like it, am I?"

Juliet's smirk widens and she shakes her head. "Not even a little."

• • •

Dean stalks across the parking lot, muttering under his breath the entire way.

"Stupid plan," he grumbles, jaw tight. "Stupid girlfriend with her stupid smirk and her 'Don't worry, I've got it covered'."

He changes the pitch of his tone as it goes up an octave, trying to imitate the sound of Juliet's voice as he reiterates her exact words.

The gravel crunches beneath his boots with every step, each one sharper than the last. He shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets, scowling up at the bar's flickering neon sign like it's done something to personally offend him.

"Why's it gotta be me?" he mutters. "Why do I have to go in and poke the hornet's nest? She's the one with the genius plan—let her rile the guy up."

But he already knows why. Juliet had that look in her eye—the one she gets when she's five steps ahead and just needs someone to kick the first domino. And apparently, that someone is always him.

He keeps grumbling all the way to the door, stringing together more complaints in his head about plans, girlfriends, and people who smirk like they know they're right.

With a resigned sigh, he grabs the door handle and pushes it open, letting a blast of stale bar air hit him in the face—sweat, beer, and something vaguely fried.

Inside, the place is dimly lit, with a jukebox humming low in the corner and a handful of regulars scattered along the counter. Dean's green eyes immediately find him—Daniel Gunderson, seated at a table not too far from the bar with his back mostly turned, nursing a half-empty glass of something amber.

Dean makes his way toward him, keeping his pace casual. As he gets closer, he watches the man tip his head back and drain the rest of his drink in one smooth, practiced motion. The kind of drink you stop tasting after the third round.

Dean rolls his eyes. This is such a bad idea.

Still, with one last mental groan, he slides onto the stool opposite him and puts Juliet's plan into motion.

Dean looks at the cop with one eyebrow raised, his tone easy—curious, casual, like he's just trying to make conversation.

"You're Daniel Gunderson. You're a cop, right?"

Gunderson glances at him from the corner of his eye, suspicion already creeping into his expression. He gives a short, guarded nod. "Yeah."

Dean hears it immediately in his voice—this guy isn't in the mood to talk. But he has to push. Juliet told him to get under the guy's skin, rile him up. That's the plan. He just hopes she knows what she's doing.

He lets out a breathy chuckle, the sound light and fake in all the right ways.

"I'm Nigel Tufnel, Chicago Tribune." Dean clasps his hands together like this is something he's rehearsed in the mirror and not made up on the fly. "Mind if I ask you a couple questions about your partner?"

Whatever shred of politeness might've existed in Gunderson's eyes vanishes on the spot. His jaw tightens. "Yeah, I do. I'm just trying to have a beer."

Dean winces internally. Strike one.

Still, he leans in, keeping his voice low. "It won't take long. I just wanna hear the story in your words."

Gunderson doesn't answer right away. He stares at Dean, eyes darkening, then nods once—to the seat across from him.

"A week ago, my partner was sitting in that chair. Now he's dead." He gestures loosely to the bar. "And you're gonna ambush me here?"

Dean kicks himself inside but holds steady. He tries for sincerity, even if he knows it's not his strong suit. That's more Sam's lane. Still, he shakes his head slowly, brows drawing together just enough.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I need to know what happened."

Before Gunderson can reply, a voice cuts through from behind Dean.

"Hey, buddy. How about you leave the poor guy alone, huh?"

Dean doesn't even have to turn around. Phase two.

Before he can open his mouth, Sam grabs him by the collar and hauls him backwards, shoving him hard enough that Dean nearly trips over his own feet. He stumbles, catches himself, and spins around, shooting his brother an incredulous look.

Juliet definitely didn't say anything about shoving him that hard when they went over the plan.

He doesn't have time to react before Sam's voice rises above the low music in the bar, catching the attention of nearby patrons. A few heads turn.

Sam points at Gunderson as he throws Dean a sharp glare. "The man's an officer. Why don't you show a little respect?"

Dean looks at him—really looks at him—and instantly knows: not all of that anger was acting.

Sam's still riding the edge from earlier. The shove, the glare—some of that wasn't just for show. Dean adjusts his jacket with a quiet huff, gives one last look around the bar, and walks out. Cold air slaps him in the face the second the door swings shut behind him.

Juliet is already outside, leaning casually against the Impala, arms crossed, smirk written all over her face. Harlow still sleeps soundly in the backseat, still bundled up under Sam's flannel, oblivious.

Dean eyes Juliet as he approaches, tilting his head, thumb jerking toward the bar.

"Did you tell him to shove me?"

Juliet raises her brows, feigning innocence. "Of course not. Why, did he shove you?"

She tries to keep her voice steady, but Dean hears the smile tucked behind it. She's not even trying that hard to hide it.

She's also not about to admit she absolutely told Sam to go full linebacker on him—for doubting her plan, and for ignoring her when she asked what he said earlier.

Dean rolls his shoulder until it clicks. "Yeah, well, he didn't have to sell it that hard. I nearly fell on my ass."

Juliet snorts, glancing down at the ground to hide the grin tugging at her lips.

But when she looks back up, her amusement fades the moment she sees Dean's face—serious now, eyes narrowed just slightly as he studies her.

He clears his throat. "Juliet—"

Oh, no. Not Juliet. He only ever calls her that when something's wrong. Her stomach tightens, but she keeps her face neutral, pretending not to feel the way her heart skips a beat and not in a good way.

"We need to tal—"

The door to the bar swings open, saved by the bell or in this case saved by a 6ft something giant in plaid. Either way, Juliet nearly hugs Sam on the spot for saving her.

She clears her throat quickly and turns toward her best friend, pretending she doesn't feel Dean's gaze burning into the back of her head.

Dean sighs at the interruption, but doesn't comment on it and moves to lean against the Impala beside Juliet, eyes fixed on Sam with a deadpan stare.

"Shoved me kinda hard in there, buddy boy."

He doesn't miss the look that passes between Juliet and Sam before Sam shrugs, totally unapologetic.

"I had to sell it, didn't I?" he says with a smirk. "It's called method acting."

Juliet snorts again—louder this time. Dean blinks between the two of them, confused. Feeling like he's missed the punchline to a joke.

"What?" he asks, brows furrowed.

"Never mind," Sam replies smoothly.

Dean lets it go—for now. He pushes off the car and glances back toward the bar.

"What'd you get from Gunderson?"

Sam's smirk faded, his lips pressing together as he gathers his thoughts. He shifts his weight, leaning back slightly before speaking. "So, Walter Kelly was a good cop. Head of class, even-keeled, he had a bright future ahead of him."

Juliet tilts her head, one brow arching as he mulls his words over. Her arms are folded loosely across her chest, skepticism clear in her posture. "What about at home?" she asks, voice even and probing. "An even-keeled person wouldn't shoot his wife and then turn the gun on himself."

Sam nods slowly, acknowledging her point, his hand taps against his thigh before he continues. "He and his wife had a few fights." He flicks his eyes toward both Dean and Juliet, giving th elook weight. "Like everybody, but he was mostly smooth sailing. They were even talking about having kids."

Dean exhales through his nose, a quiet sound in the still night, and gives a slow nod as he processes his brother's words. His hand slips from his jacket pocket, fingers drumming an idle tune against his thigh—not hard, just enough to bleed of the restless energy he carries—a habit that betrayed the storm under the calm set of his face.

"Alright," he says at last, "so either Kelly had some deep-seated crazy waiting to bust out..."

Juliet leans foward just enough to pick where Dean's thought faltered, her gaze flicking between the brothers. "...or something else did it to him."

Sam glances between them, a faint crease deepening between his brows, He shifts his shoulders, his lips tugging into a smirk— and Juliet thinks it's strange when Dean and him speak at in sync. Finishing each other's sentences is stranger still, but he the thought aside, giving a small nod instead as his eyes linger on the two of them.

"Right."

Dean tips his chin toward Sam, his voice cutting into the night air. "So what did Gunderson tell you about the asylum?"

The smirk slips back onto Sam's face, the kind of expression that looks half amusement, half knowing. "A lot. I'll tell you on the way."

DeanDean gives a short nod and starts moving, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he heads toward the Impala. Juliet falls into step beside him, brushing her hair back from her face as the night wind picks up. Sam lags a beat before trailing after them, tugging his jacket tighter as he cuts across the cracked pavement.

Dean pulls open the driver's side door and slides in behind the wheel. Juliet rounds the hood and slips into the passenger seat, the door closing with a muted thud. Sam climbs into the back, careful not to wake Harlow, who's curled against the door with her head tilted on the glass. He settles in quietly, stretching his legs just enough without disturbing her.

The Impala rumbles to life, headlights spilling long beams across the lot. Dean shifts into drive, the engine's familiar low growl filling the silence, and just like that—they're back on the road, case in motion.

For the first few minutes, none of them say much. The hum of the tires on asphalt is steady, a rhythm that fills the quiet. Dean's grip on the wheel is firm, knuckles pale under the the dash glow. His eyes stay fixed on the dark stretch of road ahead, but every so often, his gaze flicks sideways—quick, searching glances at Juliet.

She stares out ot the passenger window, arms folded across her chest like she's trying to fold in on herself. But Dean notices the subtle way her shoulders tense—same as earlier, when John's name came up. She hadn't said anything then, not outright, but Dean caught it. He felt it. And he's not about to let it slide, not this time.

She might think she can dodge the conversation—bury it until it fades—but she's wrong. They're going to talk. Maybe not now, not with Sam and Harlow sitting in the backseat—the little Winchester now wode awake and watching the scenary go past—but soon. Dean knows it's coming. Whether she likes it or not.

• • •

Juliet sighs, planting her hands on her hips as she tilts her head back to stare up at the tall chain-link fence. Sunlight glints off the metal, sharp and unforgiving, and for a long moment she studies it, lips pressed thin. The only thing standing between them and the asylum looms right in front of them.

It should be easy—climb the fence, drop down on the other side, and go inside the asylum. A simple solution. Except nothing about their lives is simple, especially with a five year old. Not that Juliet's complaining, she wouldn't trade Harlow for the world. Her daughter is the best thing that's ever happened to her. Excluding Dean and Sam, of course.

Harlow stands close to Dean, her small hand wrapped tightly around his. She blinks hard against the daylight, trying to fight off the sleep that's still heavy in her eyes. Dean glances down at his only child, his grip steady, protective, before lifting his gaze back to the fence.

The morning is sharp and clear, sunlight burning down until the clouds drift past and cast them in shade. The long drive still clings to them, heavy in their bones, even with Dean's fast—sometimes erratic—driving. Now the asylum looms on the other side of the chain-linked fence, just out of reach.

Juliet lets her hands drop from her hips and glances sideways at Dean, then down at the little girl clutching his hand. She motions subtly toward Harlow, her voice low but edged with practicality.

"What do you want to do?"

Dean exhales through his nose, jaw ticking as he studies the fence. His grip on Harlow's hand tightens a fraction before he looks back at Juliet. "One of us is gonna have to carry her over."

At that, Harlow's eyes go wide with excitement. She looks between the three of them—her mom, her dad, her uncle—like she's weighing her options carefully. Before Juliet can even crouch down to ask her who she would like to carry her, Harlow blurts out with absolute certainty, "Uncle Sammy."

Sam blinks, taken off gaurd, then huffs out a quiet laugh. He shifts his weight, trying to hide the way his mouth curves at the corner, but Dean catches it anyway. Juliet shakes her head, the faintest smile tugging at her lips despite the tension in the air, the tension that still remains between her and Dean. The said man mutters under his breath, not quite able to mask the sting of being passed over.

The fence still looms, but for a moment, the three hunters—and the little girl between them—find themselves caught in something oddly ordinary, a decision made by a five year old. And then reality presses back in. The asylum waits, and they don't have time to waist.

Sam crouches down in front of Harlow, giving her an encouraging smile as he pats his back. "Alright, Harls. Hop on. We're going up piggyback style."

Harlow giggles as her green eyes light up at the idea, and with a little boost from Juliet, she climbs onto Sam's back. Her small arms wrap around his shoulders, and her small legs hook against his sides. Sam reaches back to steady her, adjusting her grip before straightening to his full height.

"Hold on tight, Angel," he warns gently, glacing over his shoulder. His voice is calm, but firm enough that she knows he means it. Sam feels her nod, her chin bumping lightly against his shoulder as she snuggles in closer.

Sam steps up to the fence, testing the metal with one hand. The chain rattles under his touch, but it holds. He places his boot against the lowest link and starts his climb, slow and deliberate. Each movement is careful, measured—he keeps his body close to the fence, one hand always anchoring them while the other moves up to the next hold.

Harlow tightens her grip instinctively, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her uncle's jacket when they get higher. Sam mumurs reassurances under his breath, the kind of steady rhythm meant to keep her calm as much as to keep himself focused.

When he reaches the top, the bar digs slightly under his palm as he pulls himself up. He pauses, shifting his balance with practiced ease, making sure Harlow is secure before swinging one leg over. The fence creaks beneath their weight, but Sam doesn't falter.

"Almost there," Harlow hears him mutter.

She squeezes tighter around his neck as he begins the descent, her face buried against his shoulder. Sam eases them down link by link, his boots scraping against the metal until he finally lands solidly on the ground on the other side. He bends his knees to absorb the impact, steadying them both before letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He crouches slightly so Harlow can slide off his back. He keeps a hand under her arm as she lands on her feet, he grins down at her. "First over the fence—looks like we're winning this race."

Harlow beams, brushing her hair out of her face as she straightens proudly, like she's just conquered the world. She turns back toward the fence, seeing Juliet still on the other side. Her eyes sparkle as she cups her little hands around her mouth.

"Your turn, mommy!" She calls, bouncing on her toes with excitement.

Juliet smiles before stepping up to the fence, brushing her palms against the cool metal links. She casts a quick glance at Dean, a flicker of challenge in her eyes, before gripping the wire. Unlike Sam, she doesn't hesitate. Her boot finds the first rung, and she pulls herself up with smooth, practiced movements.

The fence rattles softly under her weight, but she climbs fast—hand over hand, foot over foot , her muscles working with fluid precision. There's no five year old clinging to her back, no reason to slow down, and she knows it. By the time she's halfway up, she allows herself a small smirk, tossing her hair back as if to underline the ease of it. Besides, she has done with sort of thing a thousand times before, kinda comes in the job description—breaking into buildings.

Dean watches her from below, his arms folded across his chest, a wry look tugging at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't say a word, but she can feel his eyes on her—and maybe that's why she pushes herself a little harder, moving quicker, smoother, like she's got something to prove.

At the top, Juliet swings a leg over the bar with barely a pause. She balances there for a beat, steady and sure, her worn tan leather boots resting on either side of the fence as she straddles the top. Then she starts her descent. The metal rattles again as he boots find each link, but her movements stay controlled. She drops the last few with a soft thud, landing lightly beside Sam and Harlow.

Straightening, she brushes her hands together and flashes Dean a look through the fence—equal parts smug and defiant, as if to say your turn.

Dean steps up to the fence last, giving Juliet a sideways glance that borders a smirk. His hands close around the cold wire, fingers curling tight as the chain rattles under his grip. With one solid push of his boots against the links, he climbs fast, hauling himself upward with practiced ease.

When he reaches the top, he doesn't straddle it like Juliet did. Instead, he clamps both hands on the bar, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. His body swings foward, boots kicking off the metal as he uses momentum to carry himself over. For a split second he's upside down—jacket tugging against his shoulders, legs pitched high above him—before he releases. But for that split second Juliet can't help but check out his toned stomach as his shirt lifts when he's upside down. She berates herself for it, she's meant ot be mad at him. Lord knows, he's mad at her. She shakes her head, focusing back on Dean.

The descent is quick. Dean drops down in a clean arc, landing hard but sure-footed, knees bending to take the impact. Gravel crunches beneath his boots. He straightens smoothly, brushing his palms together—exaggerated, almost mocking—tye sam way Juliet had when she landed, like he's throwing the move back at her. He smirks at her, as if what he just did was nothing more than stepping off a curb.

Juliet watches him, her brown eyes narrowed at his mocking action. She raises a perfectly arched brow, lips quirking as she mutters under her breath, "Show off."

Dean hears it—of course he does—and lets the corner of his mouth curl into that familiar half-grin, the one that says he wouldn't be Dean Winchester if he didn't.

With that, they all enter the asylum.

• • •

Dean pulls open the door to the asylum, the hinges groaning in protest with a sharp creak, and holds it open long enough for Sam to step through first. Juliet follows with Harlow close at her side, and Dean slips in last, letting the door creak shut behind him as he takes the rear.

Juliet steps inside the bulding more and lets her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the tall, dirt-streaked windows at the far end of the room. The place smells of mildew and old dust, thick enough that every breath feels heavy. Torn curtains hang limp, their edges ragged and gray, swaying slightly with the draft that snakes in through the broken panes.

Her gaze drifts across the wreckage: overturned chairs splintered in corners, paper and trash scattered across the floor like leaves after a storm. Graffiti stains the walls in dark streaks, crude letters bleeding into one another, and what's left of a partition booth sits collapsed against the far side, its glass shattered into jagged teeth.

The silence presses in, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the building. Juliet's arms fold loosely across her chest as she surveys it all, unease prickling beneath her skin. It's not just abandoned—it feels like a palce that's been left to rot on purpose, the kind of ruin where the walls themselves seem to whisper about what went wrong here.

Even the Winchester boys notice the air inside the building feels heavier than it should, stale and damp, as if the asylum itself has been holding its breath for decades. Even in the daylight, the place seems wrong—light filtering through the dirty, broken windows only makes the shadows look sharper.

Sam scans the room, his eyes moving over the debris. "So apparently, the cops chased the kids here...into the south wing," He nods toward the faded lettering above a doorframe, the paint peeling but still legible.

Dean frowns at the peeling paint, "South wing, huh?" He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out John's worn leather journal. He flips the cover in his hands, undoing the small strap and button latch before opening it, "Wait a second—" He thumbs through the pages until, muttering the words 'south wing' over and over until he flips to page with a newspaper clipping. his finger traces the line of faded ink as he starts reading it aloud, "1972. Three kids broke into the south wing. Only one survived. Way he tells it, one of his friends went nuts and started lighting up the place."

Juliet shifts her weight, eyes sweeping over the room, once more. "Figures it'd be the south wing. Places like this...there's always a heart of it, and it's never anywhere bright or safe," she looks over at Sam and Dean, "Annoying isn't it?"

Sam glances at the door that leads where they need to go, but none of them make the move to walk through it just yet. Instead, Sam glances at Dean who still has the journal open in his hands. "So whatever's going on, the south wing seems like the heart of it."

Juliet rolls her eyes as she looks at her best friend, "Yes, I just said that," She smirks as she cranes her neck to look up at him, "Is the signal working up there, Sammy? Or is there a bit of a delay?"

The younger Winchester brother ignores her but Juliet can see the corner of his lips twitch as he holds back his retort. Dean rolls his eyes at the two as he looks at the two wooden doors in front of them, John's journal still open in his hands. "But if kids have been sneaking in here all these years, why aren't there a ton more deaths?"

Juliet suddenly feels more uneasy than before, her eyes survey the room again. She feels like she's being watched. Her eyes sweep from left to right but she doesn't see anything. A shiver crawls up her spine, she shakes her head. She feels a small tug at her jacket. She glances down to see Harlow pressing in close, her little hand curled into the fabric. Her daughter's wide green eyes dart across the ruined hall, unease etched across her face, too. Juliet lowers her free hand, gently brushing Harlow's knuckles with her thumb. "Stay close, baby," she mumurs, voice soft but steady.

Something catches Sam's attention, and his eyes follow a chunky and rusty chain that leads to the door to the south wing, only the chain is broken. He walks toward it as he talks to both Dean and Juliet. "Looks like the doors are usually chained," he says, glancing back at Dean and Juliet, "Could've been locked up for years."

Dean's gaze flicks to the chain, then back to Sam. His voice drops low, grim. "Yeah. To keep people out...or to keep something in." He closes the journal and walks over to Sam until he's standing beside him.

The words hang in the air like a chill, sinking into all of them. Juliet exhales slowly, eyes scanning the dim light seeping through the cracks in the doors. She doesn't like the feel of the place, the way the walls seem to hold secrets best left buried. Harlow presses tighter against her side, and Juliet curls her arm protectively around her daughter's shoulders, her own unease deepening.

Sam and Dean exchange a look, unspoken agreement passing between them. Sam sets his hand against the door, hesitates for only a beat, then slowly pushes it open. The hinges scream in protest—exactly like the doors to the entrance did—echoing down the empty corridor beyond.

Juliet's stomach knots, but she tightens her hold on Harlow. Daylight or not, every instinct is telling her this place isn't right, but she follows after Sam and Dean anyway.

• • •

The three hunters walk down the dim lit hallway, the only light being the light shining in from the windows and even that isn't enough to really brighten the place up. Juliet notices the peeling paint on the walls, the smell of mildew only seems to be getting stronger with every step.

'Well', she can't but think, 'beats the smell of digging up a grave.' Her nose wrinkles out of reflex at the thought. Her attention is brought to the Winchester brother's, walking in front of her and Harlow. She watches as Dean turns to Sam and smirks, "Let me know if you see any dead people, Haley Joel."

Sam sends him a look, annoyance flaring in his green eyes as he narrows them at Dean's comment. "Dude, enough."

Dean, in turn, just gives him a look of complete innocence after letting out a chuckle.

"I'm serious. You gotta be careful, all right?" He motions to his brother with his hand, "Ghosts are attracted to that whole ESP thing you got going on."

Harlow clutches Juliet's hand tightly, her small fingers wound so firmly around her mother's that Juliet can feel the slight tremor in them. She gives her mother's hand a tug, tilting her chin up to catch Juliet's eye with an expression that's both curious and uncertain. Juliet glances down, slowing her steps until she finally stops altogether. She crouches low, her boots scuffing against the concrete floor as she leans in closer, giving Harlow her full attention. The little girl cups a hand around her mouth, the way kids do when they're about to share something meant only for you, and leans in until her lips brush against her mother's ear. Her whsiper is soft, warm against Juliet's skin.

The five year old cups a hand over her mouth as she leans in close, "What does ESP mean?"

Juliet titls her head so she can look Harlow in the eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper just for her. "ESP means extrasensory perception," she explains softly.

Harlow blinks up at her, her little brows knitting together, confusion written all over her face. Juliet can't help the faint smile that tugs at her lips as she brushes a strand of hair from Harlow's cheek.

"Okay," she says gently, "that's a big word, huh? Think of it like...when someone knows something without being told. Like if Uncle Sam was thinking about ice cream and you somehow just knew it—without him saying a word. Or if you felt something was going to happen before it actutally did."

Harlow's eyes widen a little, still uncertain but curious now, like she's trying to picture it. Juliet gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's kind of like having a sixth sense, peach. Not something you see or hear, but something you just...feel."

Harlow tilts her head, still holding Juliet's hand as they resume walking. "So...does that mean Uncle Sammy has ESP?" She asks in a small voice, curiosity bright in her green eyes, the exact same shade of green that Dean's eyes are.

Juliet parts her lips to answer, but before she can get a word out, Sam's voice cuts sharp through the stale air ahead of them. "I told you, it's not ESP!" He snaps, his tone edged with frustration. "I just have strange vibes sometimes. Weird dreams."

Juliet straightens back to her full height, her gaze fixing on the brothers a few steps ahead. Sam has stopped, his shoulders tense, and Dean has turned slightly toward him, the air thick with  that familiar brotherly friction that Juliet has felt a hundred times over in her life. her eyes narrow, wary but not surprised.

Dean shrugs, his voice carrying that casual bite of dismissal. "Yeah, whatever. Don't ask, don't tell." He starts foward again, boots crunching over the debris-strewn floor.

Juliet squeezes Harlow's hand before speaking up, her voice calm but firm as she looks between them. "Maybe instead of labeling it, you two could just admit Sam's instincts are usually right. Call it what you want—vibes, dreams, gut feelings—they always end up right."

Sam shoots her a grateful glance, the tension in his jaw easing just slightly. Dean doesn't answer, but the flicker of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as they all fall back into step, moving deeper into the asylum as Dean's attention goes to the EMF meter in his left hand.

Sam also sets his gaze on the device, "You get any readings on that thing or not?" Dean shakes his head, "Nope. Of course, it doesn't mean no one's home." Juliet speaks up from behind them, having heard what Dean said. "Not every spirit can show up whenever it wants. Some of them are tied to certain times of the day."

Sam nods his head, as if Juliet took the words right out of his mouth. Dean's reaction, however, is different. He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, thanks for that, Velma." His attention drops back to the EMF, still stubbornly silent in his hand. "The freaks come out at night."

Sam nods his head, "Yeah." Juliet, meanwhile, shoots daggers at the back of Dean's head for the Velma comment. She bristles with annoyance but reins it in, rolling her eyes as she mutters under her breath, "We both know I'm more like Daphne."

Dean hears her but doesn't bite, his smirk only deepening as he shifts his focus to Sam. A thought sparks across his face, and with perfect deadpan delivery, her asks, "Hey Sam, who do you think is the hotter psychic: Patricia Arquette, Jennifer Love Hewitt, or you?"

Sam stops just long enough to glare at him before shoving him hard in the shoulder. Dean stumbles a step, laughing under his breath, the sound echoing faintly off the crumbling walls as they continue down the corridor together.

• • •

Juliet steps into another room, her boots crunching softly over the brittle leaaves and scraps of paper littering the floor as she follows behind Sam and Dean. The air is thicker here, heavier with the sour tang of disinfectant that's long since turned stale. Her eyes drift across the table at the center—glass jars cloudy with age, filled with yellowed liquid that distorts the shapes floating inside. She doesn't linger too long on them, though she catches sight of what looks like a preserved organ pressed against the glass. Beside the jars, a once white doll lies face down on the table, its cloth body stained and torn, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. Harlow reaches out to touch it, but Juliet pulls her hand back as she shakes her head. The whole setup feels wrong, like the asylum itself is parading its hsitory of cruelty.

Her gaze flicks to the back of the room: broken medical equipment rests in the shadows—a tipped-over chair, rusting trays, and a hulking machine with wires dangling from it, like it hasn't been touched in decades. Dust lies thick over everything—so much so, Juliet is thankful none of them suffer with asthma—but the feeling that lingers in anything but dead. She still can't help but feel like they're being watched.

Dean lets out a low whistle. "Man. Electro-shock. Lobotomies. They did some twisted stuff to these people." He throws Sam a sidelong grin. "Kinda like my man Jack in Cuckoo's Nest." Juliet rolls her eyes as Dean makes crazy eyes and widens his grin at Sam, causing Harlow to giggle.

Sam doesn't take the bait, He ignores him, scanning the room with a deeper frown. Dean's smile falters, slipping away as the silence stretches.

"So," Dean says, breaking it, "whaddaya think? Ghosts possessing people?" He watches as Sam shrugs his shoulders as he replies, "Maybe. Or maybe it's more like Amityville. Or the Smurl haunting."

Dean snorts. "Spirits driving them insane. Kinda like my man Jack in The Shining." His tone is lighter, but the grin doesn't quite reach his eyes like before.

Sam finally looks at him, hesistation in his voice. "Dean...when are we gonna talk about it?"

Dean glances back, feigning confusion. "Talk about what?"

"About the fact Dad's not here."

Juliet watches Dean's jaw tick as he draws in a slow breath. Then, with a forced ease, he says, "Oh, I see. How 'bout...never."

Sam shakes his head, frustration bubbling up. "I'm being serious, man. He sent us here—"

Dean cuts him off, his tone hardening. "Yeah, and so am I. He sent us here, Sam. That means her wants us here. We'll pick up the search later."

Sam presses, his voice low and tight, but Dean suddenly shifts, his eyes cutting toward Juliet. "Here's a deal—we'll talk about Dad as soon as Juliet explains why she tenses up every time he's the topic of conversation."

Juliet's heart skips a beat, cold running through her chest, but she forces her expression to remain nuetral. On the inside, the jab rattles her; on the outside, she only glares at him, her lips pressed into a hard, thin line. At her side, Harlow's small hand clutches tighter at her jacket, her wide eyes flicking between Juliet and Dean. She's heard her parents argue plenty of times, but never has it felt like this—sharp, brittle, like one wrong word could make the whole moment shatter.

Juliet's head snaps towards him, but she stays silent, her lips still pressed, her expression unreadable. Dean lifts his brows at her, letting the silence linger before his mouth twists into  a humorless half-smile." Huh. Would you look at that?" His words drip sarcasm. He turns back to Sam. "Sorry, Sammy. Looks like the answer's gonna be a no."

The silence hangs thick, pressing down on all of them. Even Harlow feels it, her little body stiff against Juliet's side, her hand still curled in the beige fabric of her mother's jacket.

Sam finally breaks it. His voice low but firm, cutting through the stillness. "It doesn't matter what Dad wants."

Dean's humorless smile twists into a smirk as he fixes his eyes on Sam. "See?" He points at his brother, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "That attitude? Right there? That is why I always got the extra cookie."

Sam doesn't rise to it. Instead, he levels his brother with a flat, unimpressed look, his hands braced on his hips as he gives a slow shake of his head. He isn't amused by Dean's attempt to make light of it—Juliet rolls her eyes, cleary not amused by him either. She exhales sharply through her nose, just loud enough for Dean to hear, "Really, Dean? You can never take anything seriously can you?"

Dean flicks his eyes toward her, the smirks softening into something closer to a glare, but uncharacteristically, he doesn't take the bait. He just shrugs one shoulder before Sam cuts in again, his patience fraying.

Sam narrows his eyes at his brother, "Dad could be in trouble, we should be looking for him. We deserve some answers, Dean. I mean, this is our family we're talking about."

Juliet swallows hard at that, the words hitting closer than she wants them to. She can feel Harlow shift beside her, her daughter's wide green eyes moving between the adults. The little girl doesn't understand all of it, but she knows tension when she hears it.

Dean's eyes soften as he looks back at his little brother, "I understand that, Sam, but he's given us an order."

Sam huffs, clearly not satisfied with that answer. His annoyance seeps into his tone. "So what, we always gotta follow Dad's orders?"

Dean doesn't miss a beat. "Of course we do." His tone is clipped, final.

Sam shoots him a frustrated look, his jaw tight, but Dean only stares back for a long moment before turning away, shutting the conversation down. The silence that follows is heavy, thick enough that Harlow continues to shift uncomfortably. She looks up at Juliet, tugging fantly on her mother's sleeve. but Juliet only gives her hand a squeeze, her own eyes locked with Dean.

Deam moves toward a dusty table, poking around until his hand brushes against a half-buried sign. He pulls it free, the wood groaning faintly in his grip as he wipes the dust off with the sleeve of his jacket. "Sanford Ellicot," he reads aloud, his voice hard. His eyes flick between Sam and Juliet before he slams the sign back down with a sharp thud. "You know what we gotta do. We gotta find out more about the south wing. See if something happened here."

Sam stares down at the sign, his face twisting into a scowl that's equal parts frustration and resignation. Juliet glances at him, sympathy softening her features, but she doesn't say anything.

Dean turns on his heel and stalks foward, boots echoing against the cracked concrete. Juliet gently guides Harlow to follow, her daughter pressing close to her side, still quiet but watchful as the tension simmers in the ait between the three adults

Sam lingers a beat, glaring down at the discarded sign before finally moving after them, his footsteps heavy as they figure out what to do next.

—

Author's Note

Hello! It's been a hot minute since I last uploaded a chapter to this book, huh?

I apologize for that, writers block hit me really hard for this chapter because I didn't know why direction to take it, but I'm happy with how it turned out.

It's A LOT of words, so if you want to read it parts, feel free to do so. If you're reading on your phone, I apologize if it caused it to crash or if it was laggy.

Well, this chapter was just full of angst wasn't it? I feel like it's only fitting to up the tension when the next chapter is 'Scarecrow' and the call from John.

Who will answer it? I wonder.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Please don't forget to vote and comment!

Until the next chapter...