Dean had pulled the Impala off onto a quiet road near a bridge, the engine ticking as it cooled. I leaned against the back of the car, arms crossed, watching Sam as he buried his nose in whatever lore book he'd dug up this time. Dean crouched beside the trunk, flipping open the cooler. He pulled out a large bottle of whiskey with a satisfied grunt, then turned to face his brother, the glass catching the sunlight.

"Trust me. This will help," Dean said, handing over the chilled whiskey bottle to Sam. Sam took it without a word, placing it gingerly between his thighs and letting out a soft groan as the cold dulled the lingering pain. "That Ghost is dead. I'm gonna rip its lungs out!" Dean growled, his anger flaring as his voice rose. Classic Dean, ready to go full vengeance mode when Sam got hurt. I shot him a dry look, one brow arched. "Well, you know what I mean," he muttered, pivoting his attention to me.

"Let's find out who the ghost is before you go full Rambo," I said with a smirk. Dean's temper never helped the situation, but it sure made for entertainment.

"It knew my name Dean," Sam chimed in, his voice a mix of confusion and unease. "My real name." He glanced at Dean, who was now flipping through a file beside me, leaning against the Impala. "We burned Barry's bones. What the hell?"

"Maybe it wasn't Barry," Dean said, flipping through another page. "Maybe we missed something. We just got to go back," I didn't wait. My eyes caught something on the paper Dean was holding. Without hesitation, I snatched it from his hand and flipped back a page.

"You boys need an eye exam," I said, holding up the evidence like a prize.

"No way. How did we not see this before?" Dean announces, clearly disappointed in himself that he didn't clock it earlier.

I met his gaze, knowing he wanted to explain it to his brother himself. "Relax, Winchester. Still your case. I'm just along for the chaos."

Sam, still wincing slightly, narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Check it out," Dean stepped forward, standing in front of his brother, who was sitting on an icebox. Dean handed over the file to Sam. "Look, Martha Dumptruck, Revenge of the Nerds, and Hello Kitty, they all rode the same bus," Dean pointed to the paper Sam was looking at.

"Ok, so maybe the bus is haunted,"

"Well, that would explain why there's no EMF at the school, but not the attacks," Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and came back over to lean against the Impala. "I mean, Ghosts are tied to the places that they haunt they can't just bail," Dean read up on the lore, maybe not all of it, but he knew enough that Ghosts are tied to places where they died.

"Unless this one can," Sam spoke. "Dean, there's lore about spirits possessing people and riding them for miles. Then whenever they leave the body, they're bungeed back to their usual haunt. But until then, the Ghosts can go wherever they want," Sam explained, and he was right. I hate to admit it to myself, but he was.

"So, a spook just grabs a kid on the bus and walks right into Truman?" Dean wasn't convinced that it could happen.

"Possible," I chimed in from my spot.

"Ghosts getting creative. Well, that's super," Dean remarks. He bent down, grabbed a bottle from the cooler, and cracked it open. I reached out and swiped it from his hand before he could even take a sip.

"You two are a whole new breed of crazy.... Going to be a long day." I muttered, bringing the bottle to my lips. The cold stung in the best way as I downed half of it without pause. Dean blinked at me, impressed and maybe just a little turned on.  

"You want more?" he asked, cocking a brow.

I shoved the bottle into his chest, rolling my eyes. "Nope. I need something stiffer." I flashed him a wicked grin and bit my lip, letting the implication hang in the air. "Poor Sam's out of commission." Sam gave me a warning look, but I was already on the move. "I'll be in the car," I added with a shrug, pushing off the Impala and strutting around Dean. I could feel both sets of eyes glued to me as they should. Teasing those two? Far too easy, and way too fun.

...................................

The school buses were lined up in a row like tired soldiers at the end of a battle. Their chipped yellow paint glinted dully in the fading afternoon light, windows fogged slightly from the humidity. We moved down the line until we reached the one connected to all three incidents, the bus that had ferried the kids was now caught in something far darker than detention. It looked like any other: rust creeping up from the wheel wells, a faded STOP sign barely clinging to the side. But this one was haunted. You could feel it in your bones.

"Definitely ain't clean," Sam muttered, his eyes glued to the flickering, shrieking EMF reader in his hand. The needle was nearly vibrating off the dial. I walked ahead of the boys, scanning the interior with a hunter's eyes, looking for anything that didn't belong, any trace, or remnant.

"Here ghosty, ghosty, ghosty!" Dean called out, tapping the muzzle of his shotgun against the bus's ceiling with a hollow clang. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" His voice echoed off the metal interior, half-taunt, half-invitation. It was classic Dean, flippant, provoking, toeing the line between bravery and recklessness.

"Bang some more, maybe you'll piss him off. Oh, wait, you're just pissing me off," I snapped, throwing a glare over my shoulder. Dean narrowed his eyes right back at me, but said nothing. He turned his attention back to searching.

"Man, I don't get it," Sam muttered, running his fingers along the frayed fabric of a seat. "No one ever died on this bus, and it's not like there's a body hidden in here," Sam couldn't wrap his head around the Ghost being tied here; it didn't make sense to him right now.

"Yeah, but a flap of skin, a hair, I mean, hell, a hangnail. Something's got to be tying the ghost to this place. We just got to find it." His jaw was set. He wasn't going to give up, not with more lives on the line. That's the kind of person Dean was, gruff, but ultimately someone who gave a damn.

I moved to the back of the bus, my boots echoing softly against the ribbed floor. Candy wrappers littered the aisle, graffiti scrawled across seat backs in adolescent frustration and vulgarity. Gum hardened into fossils. But nothing screamed ghost anchor.

"Got a new driving permit," Dean's voice echoed down the bus, making me turn around and walk back down, seeing Sam do the same. "Issued two weeks ago," he spoke, eyeing the permit in his hand.

"Just before the first attack," Sam said, crouching beside Dean, the weight of the realisation starting to settle in.

"Yeah. Name of the bus driver is Dirk McGregor Senior. Thirty-Nine Central Avenue," Dean read aloud, glancing up just as I reached them.

"McGregor?" Sam repeated, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face.

"Yeah... Why?" Dean questioned.

"I knew his son," Sam replied, his voice quiet.

"Did you know everybody at this school?" Dean took the words right from my mouth.

"I thought you were the popular one, Dean," I quipped, smirking as I stepped past them and made my way to the bus door. "You two go talk to the dad. I'll stay behind and see what else I can find." Before they could argue, I slipped between them and down the metal steps, boots clanking as I hit solid ground again. But I wasn't going to investigate. Not really.

Night fell like a shroud, and I waited in the shadows, waited for Dirk to appear again. I'd done some digging. The kid had been a storm of unresolved rage and rejection. A powder keg with no fuse. Troubled, angry, ignored. And now, dead. But death hadn't quieted him.

By the time I arrived at the scene again, Sam and Dean already had the ghost contained, trapped in a circle soaked with salt water, glowing faintly under the bus's emergency lights. Dirk wore the janitor's body like a second skin. They'd texted me to meet them, but I hadn't replied. I had other plans.

"Where is it?!" Sam shouted, slamming Dirk into the side of the bus. The ghost looked at him with an expression equal parts pain and fury.

"Sam Winchester. Still a bully. You, you jocks... You popular kids. You always thought you were better than everybody else. And to you, I was just Dirk the Jerk, right?" He launched into a bitter monologue about how he was mistreated, how the world turned its back on him, and how he wanted revenge. I rolled my eyes from the shadows. Tragic, sure. But hardly unique. Life was full of misfits and broken kids. "Now you evil sons of bitches are gonna get what's coming to you," he was angry.

"I'm not evil, Dirk," Sam said, voice low and full of something raw. "I'm not... And neither were you. Trust me. I've seen real evil. We were scared and miserable, and we took it out on each other. Us and everybody else. That's High School. But you suffer through that, and it gets better. I'm just sorry you didn't get a chance to see that. You or Barry," It was a hell of a speech. Almost enough to make me care.

"Nothing is gonna get better for me. Not ever," he yells, and my eyes drift down to the rope that held him. That's when I moved. I saw the rope binding him, the salt that held him in place, and with a simple flick of my fingers, I severed the link. The rope unravelled, curling away like smoke.

Freed, Dirk lunged forward, but Sam was ready; he fired two shots of rock salt. They staggered him, but didn't stop him. He dove into another body, this time a broad-shouldered jock who had been watching from a distance.

"Dean! Find the hair!" Sam yells, allowing him the brief time to speak to his brother. The possessed boy tackled Sam hard, knocking the shotgun aside and slamming fists into his face, one after another. Dean moved fast, pumping two more shots into the kid's chest, but it barely slowed him. Dirk's rage made him strong. I watched from just behind Sam, invisible, yet feeling each strike like a phantom echo through my own hands.

Something inside me twisted. I'd told Dirk to kill the Winchesters. I wanted that. Or... had wanted that. But watching it unfold now, watching Sam on the brink of death, something felt wrong. I crouched beside Sam and reached out. My hand hovered between them, fingers splayed. Dirk froze mid-punch, body locked. Sam stilled beneath him, trapped but alive.

"Bitch!" He roars through clenched teeth. "Let me finish this," he wanted to kill Sam, and I was stopping that. I was conflicted with myself...

My smile was cold. "There's going to be a special place down in Hell for you," I whispered, only for him. "This? This was just buying time." Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it, a single hair, caught in the tread of the first boy's sneaker. That was the anchor. That was the tether.

I dropped my hand.

"We had a deal!" He yells, but he continues to strike Sam across the face. With a final strike, he stops and arches his back backwards and screams. And then, it happened. Dirk screamed, his back arched unnaturally, his mouth opened in a final, soul-wrenching roar. Fire erupted from his chest, consuming the spectral form. He exploded into a blinding flash of light and embers, torn from the host and banished to wherever vengeful spirits go when their tether is severed.

It was over. Dean lowered the shotgun, breathing hard. Sam sat up slowly, blood trickling from his nose, confusion and something else in his eyes. They'd solved the case. Saved the day. But I had made a deal with the ghost.

And they heard him say it. So what now? Was I sabotaging myself? Setting myself up to be caught? Maybe. Maybe I was tired of pretending, tired of playing the good guy, the hunter, the ally.

Only time will tell.

**************