Dean Winchester has seen many a stomach-churning scene...he may have been horrified by this a few months ago...but now, all he can think of is the stench of Olivia Lowry's rotting body in her own bedroom.

Her stomach is ripped open...but like it burst. Like a buckshot from the inside. Blood is everywhere...and she's behind a thick line of salt. Horror and pain is etched into her face, the eyes that stare unseeing into the wall to her left. Her shotgun is near her right side, two-round chamber empty.

Looking at Olivia...he doesn't feel much at all, except the hollowness where horror and sadness should have been.

Dean picks up an EMF meter from the floor. "Spirit activity," he says.

"Yeah," Sam mutters. holding his hand over his mouth. "I've never seen a spirit do this to somebody." Dean shakes his head in agreement.

Bobby, looking as pale as he was five minutes ago, rounds the corner. "Bobby?" Dean asks.

"I called some hunters nearby," he says, almost out of breath.

Dean nods. "Good. We could use their help." He gestures to the gore three feet away.

"Well...they ain't answering their phones, either."

"Something's up," Sam mutters, stepping away from Olivia's body.

Bobby can only stare at it. "You think?"

Dean hadn't bore witness to Bobby's suffering much before. His wife had died years before their paths crossed...and while Bobby wasn't emotionless, the passing on of news of a hunter's death was never surrounded by much pomp and circumstance. Pour out a shot, drink it for them...something along those lines.

But Bobby hasn't stopped looking at Olivia.

"I need to make some calls."

The phone is going haywire.

Katherine groggily heaves a sigh through her nose. "Russ. The phone." The only response she gets is another muted trill. She opens her eyes, and is faced with a wall she wasn't expecting to see. It takes a moment for her brain to calibrate, for her to remember they're at Bobby's house.

She twists to look over her shoulder, only to find the other side of the bed is vacant, spare a piece of folded lined paper. 

Legs are restless, went for a run to that gas station down the road. Phone's dead but I promise I'll hurry.

7:02

Russ

She sits up on her elbows and turns her head to look at the clock on her nightstand. It's 7:45.

The gas station is three miles down the road. He should be back soon. Any minute, actually, if he's still running a seven minute mile. She briefly wonders how slow hers has gotten, what with all of this inactivity.

Katherine hangs her head and sighs again. She pushes her book away from her, one that was so wordy, apparently, she fell asleep in the middle of reading it.

The phone rings again.

"Dear God."

Katherine slides from the bed and makes for the stairs, carefully wiping jagged sleep from the corner of her eyes as she descends. She slips on the last stair, barely catching herself on the banister, and rushes to catch the phone before it ends again.

She doesn't remember how Bobby normally answers his phones, so she settles on a simple, "Hello?"

Someone sighs on the other end. "Jesus, Katherine," Dean seethes. "I've called you a million times."

"I fell asleep," she croaks.

"I can tell," he bites. Katherine's eyebrows wrinkle, and she thinks for a few moments.

"Olivia's not okay, is she?" She quietly asks. 

"No. She's dead." There's a pause, then Dean sighs, almost as if he's calming himself. "Jed Williston is dead, too. Bobby's tried to call some other hunters in the area, but they're not answering their phones either."

Katherine stares at the wall. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I just—" He scoffs. Katherine can picture him shaking his head. "I would've lost it if you weren't okay."

Her heart grows impossibly warm and thumpy in her chest.

"I'm okay." It hangs between them for a moment. "So, what...someone's killing hunters?"

"I don't think we've gotten that far yet," Dean sighs. "But it probably isn't a person, and it doesn't seem like whatever this is is going after active hunters. Jed and Olivia are both quasi-retired. She had a house, a secret stash, but she had a nine-to-five...Jed was into security."

Katherine shrugs. "What then, demon?"

"There was salt and an EMF reader on the floor, at Olivia's," Dean replies. "Jed's place was just fuckin'...covered in blood."

"Ghosts," she murmurs. "Vengeful spirits."

"Maybe. We're making some calls to warm other hunters in case something is actually happening. We don't know the scope of it off of two cases, but...I imagine we're going to stop by some more places to check on people. I need you to protect yourself. Lay down some salt, load all the shotguns. Hell, lock yourself in Bobby's cellar until he gets back. He left for his place a couple hours ago, so it shouldn't be long."

Katherine rolls her eyes. "I'll, uh...go with the salt option. And I'll call my people."

"All right, kid. See you in a few."

Katherine hangs up and lets out a frustrated, panicked growl. Russell's phone is dead, according to his note, so there's no calling him.

She tries their mental bridge of communication as she beelines upstairs for her cell. Russell? There's nothing in response. Not so much as a hum of an acknowledgement. 

Patrick is the first person she calls.

"I was just wondering how long it was going to be before one of you called me," he answers. "It's kinda lonely here."

Katherine smiles. "Patrick, missing me?  I never thought I'd see the day."

He clears his throat. "My brother, mostly."

"Oh, sure."

"Where is he, anyway? I've tried calling him twice in the past hour, it's gone straight to voicemail."

Katherine moves for the stairs again to lay down some salt. "His phone's dead. And—can you believe this—the little fucker went out on a run anyway."

There's a brief silence. "Not everyone is glued to their phone, Kit."

She rolls her eyes and rounds the corner into the kitchen. "Jeez, it's not like I'm blowing his phone up. This isn't the eighties, Pat. People take their phones with them because weird people exist."

"Men usually don't wind up on Forensic Files, though."

"Touché," Katherine scoffs. "Anyway, uh...the Winchesters are on a case, I guess."

"Winchesterssss?" He enunciates. "More than the one?"

"He has a brother, Sam. Anyway, listen to me. Apparently, some of their hunter contacts aren't answering their phones, a couple of retirees are dead. They're thinking ghosts. Throw down some salt and lay low until whatever this is blows over."

"How are you so sure anything's happening all the way out here?"

"I'm not, but I'm calling you anyway to warn you." She throws her hand up and lets it fall to her side. "Preparedness, you know?"

"Katherine, I haven't hunted in—"

"I know, Patrick, but can you please just do this?" She grabs the salt canister from the shelf in Bobby's pantry. "Even if it sounds silly."

He sighs. "Salt is not cheap, Katherine," he grumbles. 

She makes a face. "The house is relatively small. I'll buy some more when we come back."

"Yeah, yeah. Tell Russell to call me when he gets home."

"What am I, chopped liver?"

"Yeah. Love you." The line goes dead. 

She tuffs her phone into her back pocket before moving to the kitchen window to lay down some salt. Urgency and anxiety quickly put a tremble in her fingers as she tips the can over, a rushed line of thought circling in her head.

—salt, call other people, Russell can you hurry the fuck up?!

She takes the stairs two at a time to line the windows on the second floor. Why does Bobby's house have so many goddamn fuckin' windows?

Katherine's mother would hate how much she swears. It's practically every other word. So unbecoming. What was Russell's mom like?

The door opens and closes. 

Russell. "Oh, thank God," she calls out. "I'm driving myself nuts!" She finishes her salt line and leaves her room. "Next time, can you just do a cardio circuit in the back yard? Seriously, who goes for a run when it's about to get dark? And six miles, to boot." Then she huffs as she crosses the hallway, thinking back to Pat's Forensic Files comment. "Men do."

Russell hasn't responded. And now that she thinks of it, there isn't the familiar weight of his presence leaning into her mind, the comforting lull of his mental voice. 

"Hello?" She calls down.

No response. 

Intruder?

Fuck.

Instantly, her heart is galloping in her chest. Katherine rushes for the second spare room. She quietly closes the door, locks it, and drops a shaky line of salt for good measure at the foot of it before moving for the windows. Fear runs cold in her blood and clots in her stomach. If it's an intruder, she has no weapon. If it's a ghost...she has no weapon.

No fuckin' iron up here, caught with my fuckin' pants down—Jesus this fuckin' sucks! Russell?!

Tears fill her eyes. She's never been one to cry for help. But an entire summer of suicide missions has caught up to her, and she's afraid. 

Something in the closet creaks.

You're fucking kidding me!

It wasn't just fear making her cold. The room was already cold, and she was too panicked to notice. Fucking amateur hour.

Frantically, she searches the room for iron. Iron anything. Her bat would be really handy right now. The poker downstairs, even.

As she silently searches for anything to help, without alerting whatever's in the closet, a low, familiar voice murmurs back into her head, like radio static.

—should've got a water—

RUSSELL!

She gets the sense of falling, of panic, and she's seeing what he's seeing. Closer to the ground, sprinting on all fours. Incoherent thoughts are being shouted at her, but it's mostly the sense of panic. The oh fuck.

"This closet is a lot smaller than mine."

It's the voice of a girl, one she places immediately.

The door opens, and Josie Summers is in front of her, looking no different than the last time Katherine saw her. An early teenager, pale, under-eyes that seem bruised. Glassy, haunted dark brown eyes.  Dirty blonde hair cut to her chin. Powerpuff Girl pajamas.

"You remember?" Josie asks. 

Russell can't figure out what's going on. All he feels is anxiety and fear and guilt, all heavy emotions. He can see the girl in front of Katherine, but beyond that, there's no threat—

Ghost.

And he gets the sense all she has is some salt.

Well fuckin' throw it at her and run for the poker! He shouts. 

But Katherine is paralyzed, still staring with tear-filled eyes at the fourteen year old girl she couldn't save.

"What are you doing here, Josie?" She whispers. 

A half-smile is offered. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

Josie said that to her, all those years ago. That she was happy to see Katherine and Father Moran, to finally get help. 

It isn't every day that someone you lost comes back to haunt you. What do you do? What do you say?

"No," Katherine finally replies. "I'd hoped you'd found peace by now."

Josie's eyebrows raise. "Peace?" She echoes. "I was a hostage in my own head for weeks. Do you know how exhausting it is, fighting a demon for weeks?"

"Yes," Katherine whispers, and quickly nods. "Yes, I do."

Josie's smile is vicious, but Katherine can barely see it through the welling tears in her eyes. "Someone was able to save you."

It cuts like a knife. Deep, cold, sharp. Katherine absorbs it. Feels it. She deserves to. "Josie, I'm so..." Her voice betrays her, cracking and disappearing. She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry. You have to know that I—"

"What, you tried?" Josie spits. "You gave it your best shot?" Empty dark eyes look her over through her bones. "Nice shot. Getting me and the Good Father killed."

Katherine shakes her head, lips barely parting. "No," she croaks. "No, I...I tried. We had his book." She sniffs.

"Don't start crying," the teenager scoffs. "That's so selfish. My family lost me, and you're crying?!"

"Go easy on her, Josie," a new voice says. Father Moran stands in his black cassock beside Josie. His mouth...the corners are cracked. Ripped, all the way up to his cheekbone. "She tried."