Author's Notes/Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor do I own any of the characters, they belong to creators. The only thing that does belong to me, is the plot and any characters that may show up.

Chapter one


Whiskey, gin and brandy
With a glass I'm pretty handy
I'm trying to walk a straight line
On sour mash and cheap wine
So join me for a drink boys
We're gonna make a big noise

Sam Winchester lifted his head up and glanced at the tape player. Another AC/DC song was playing. This was not his choice of music; he would never play Have a Drink on Me.

So don't worry about tomorrow
Take it today
Forget about the check
We'll get hell to pay

Sam turned his attention to his older brother, Dean. His finger tips tapping on the steering wheel, on beat, too. "Dean."

Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Yeah
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
On me

"Dean."

Dizzy, drunk and fightin'
On tequila white lightnin'
Yes my glass is getting shorter
On whiskey, ice and water
So come on and have a good time
And get blinded out of your mind

Sam sighed at the ignorance from his brother. "Dean!" he spoke louder this time, which seemed to snap Dean out of his music trance.

Dean turned head to Sam, a questioningly expression on his face. "What is it?"

"You really need to learn how to listen to music and still pay attention to other things,"

"I'm payin' attention."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sure."

"What is it you want?"

"Can we have some silence for a while? We've been listening to AC/DC songs for the last hour, and I really could do with some silence."

"House rules Sammy, driver picks the music—"

"Shotgun shuts his cakehole, yeah I know, Dean," Sam said, finishing his sentence. "Just come on, turn it off."

Sam watched him, waiting for any sign of him going to shut the music off…

So don't worry about tomorrow
Take it today
Forget about the check
We'll get hell to pay

The song stopped, and silence took over which made Sam sigh in relive, no more AC/DC blasting through his eardrums.

"So, tell me again what's been happening in Las Vegas?"

Sam lowered his eyes to his laptop that sat on his knees. The monitor light shined on him, making him have a light white glow to him. He fixed his eyes on the writing on the site he kept opened for when he would need to read from it again. Even though he had no internet access, he was glad he could still view the page without having to worry about changing the page to another part of the site.

"Two People have disappeared. Sources say it happened at The Plaza Hotel."

"When was the last disappearance?"

"Tuesday night… that was four days ago."

"Are there any witnesses? Dean asked glancing at him.

"None that are listed," he replied while he scrolled down the page. "According to this one is a man and the other was a woman."

"To be honest with you, this doesn't sound like our type of gig," Dean told him. "It could be some person kidnapping them for their own sick pleasure."

"We've checked out other cases like this, and it usually did end up being our kinda gig," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

--------------

Dean parked his '67 Chevy Impala in front of the Plaza Hotel later that evening just before it started to get dark. He shut the engine off before he leaned forward in his seat, glancing at the building through the windshield. "So this is it, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam answered opening his door and climbed out.

"From what I read about this place, one of the owners, Bryon T Mills, was uncertain about this place, and at one point wanted to demolish it, but never followed through with his plans," Sam told Dean while he stepped around to the front of the car. "To this day it's been reported that he revisits this place at night."

"Did this guy die?" Dean asked, looking at his brother.

"Yeah, he did."

"Maybe Bryon is the reason the people disappeared," Dean suggested as he stepped away from the car and toward the entrance of the building.

"I don't think so," Sam said following him.

"Think about it, Sam," Dean faced him, stopping in his tracks. "The guy comes back at night, and what for? It's not like he can do much now that he's dead. Spirits have ways of communicating to the living, whether it's through electronics; lights flickering, radios or TV's turning on suddenly. Some have a brief moment of having a human contact. We have dealt with things like that," he reminded him. "Hell, we've dealt with zombies."

"Yeah, true," Sam agreed. "So, I guess we could find out as much as possible and see how we can end the disappearances."

"We should split up," Dean said. "We'll meet back by the car in thirty-minutes."

"Alright," Sam agreed.

Dean walked down the wooden floor with long strides. He stopped and glanced down at his watch. Twenty-Five minutes and still haven't found anything helpful. He turned around the corner. Holding the E.M.F meter firmly in his hand, he waited for it to signal for any signs of a body or spirits. "Sam better have more luck than I am," he thought aloud.

The only sound he heard was the floorboard creaking under his weight, with the occasional sound of a rat running around, or the gust of wind outside, which made some of the windows whistle from the cracks in the corners.

Continuing down the hall glancing at the E.M.F meter at times when it would start making a light buzzing sound, indicating he was getting close to something, or something was getting close to him. He stopped in his tracks suddenly when a sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway. He listened to the footsteps, trying to figure out if it was man or woman. The person got closer to where he was, and he realized they were coming from behind him.

He shut the meter off and stuck it back inside his jacket. He began turning around to come face to face with the person, and when he did, they forcefully pushed him against the wall, his back hitting the concrete hard. Before he could make out the person in the dim light that shined through the windows, he felt a cold object touch his neck. Realizing it was a knife, he didn't try to push them off, not wanting to bring danger upon himself when he had no idea who the visitor was.

"Who are you?" the new comer asked, finally letting him know whom exactly he was dealing with.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he answered. "I now know you're a girl with a knife that will cut through my skin if you push any harder."

"Tell me who you are and what you're doing here?" she asked showing no signs of taking the knife away from his neck, or taking her hand off his chest, that held him against the wall.

"Dean Winchester," he told her. "Now tell me who you are?"

"Winchester?"

Dean raised an eyebrow when he heard the surprise in her voice when she spoke.

"I won't answer anymore of your questions until you answer mine."

Dean felt her hold on him loosen, and she stepped away from him, the knife finally off his neck.

"The name's Rachel," Rachel said sticking her knife inside the slot on the side of her pants.

"Rachel?" he repeated. "Johnson?"

Rachel pulled her flashlight out of her back pocket, and she flicked it on, she shone it on him. "I'll be damned…" she said a moment later. "Dean Winchester," she shook her head with a short laugh. "Dean, boy, it's been far too long."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised to see her.

"Probably the same thing as you," she said.

"You're a hunter now?"

"Yeah, I am," she said, now walking away from him and down the hall.

Dean quickly followed her. "Why are you hunting? You were always—"

"Against it, yeah, I know," she said stopping and faced him. "The demon that killed your mom killed Jake…"

"Rachel, I'm sorry."

She turned away from him and continued down the hallway. "After he died, I wanted to find that damned thing so I learned everything I could about hunting, guns and all that jazz," she said. "I'm going to find it and kill it."

"Rachel," Dean grabbed a hold of her arm, turning her around to face him. "That's not a good idea. Look, I understand you want to have revenge, but it's not a good idea. The yelled-eyed demon, it's nasty… you won't be able to handle it by yourself."

"So help me," she said staring him right in the eye.

Even in the dim light, he could see how dark her eyes seemed. The blue eyes he remembered seemed darker, almost grey. He wished she didn't have to go through what he went through. "I think maybe it might be best if you just—"

Rachel pulled her arm away from his grasp. "What, go home and do nothing? Forget it, Dean. There's no way in hell am I going to sit at home knowing that thing is out there."

"I understand you—"

"If you understand so much, why won't you help me?" she asked, interrupting him again.

He sighed. "Alright, I'll help."

She smiled. "Thank you."

He nodded in reply, and then they walked down the hall in silence.