Clark had been so tired throughout the night, and he'd felt so relieved when Sam and Dean suggested going back to bed, but once he got there, he found himself having a hard time getting to sleep. The ghost had made him hang up in the middle of the conversation with his mom. She'd probably been about to tell him that his dad was still at home.

He looked over at the clock—it was six in the morning. Both of his parents would be awake now.

Clark was sure he'd never get back to sleep until he could talk to them again. He reached over to the phone on the bedside table and dialed his home phone number for the second time that night.

This time, his mom answered on the second ring. "Clark, is that you?" she said.

"Yes, it's me. How did you know?"

"No one else would call this early in the morning. I tried to call you back when we got disconnected, but I couldn't get through."

Clark wondered if that was the ghost's doing. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. I've been worrying about you. You're sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah. Just . . . had some bad dreams." Clark wasn't sure if he was allowed to tell his mom the full truth or not, and he didn't want to take any chances. "I was just wondering if I could talk to Dad."

"He's out doing chores."

"I know, just . . ." Clark swallowed hard. "Please?"

She sighed. "I'll go get him."

Clark sat up a little straighter in bed, switching the phone to the other ear.

A moment later, his dad's voice said, "Son? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Did Mom tell you about . . . the lies?"

A short pause. "Yes, she did." His voice was a lot gentler than Clark would have expected. "Have you been up all night feeling guilty?"

"No, not exactly. But . . . I am very sorry."

"You know we love you, son. No matter what."

His throat felt tight. "I'm not a disappointment?"

"Of course not. Why would you say that?"

"I just . . ." Clark swallowed hard. "I needed to hear you say that."

"Okay, son, just calm down. You have a strong conscience, but I think sometimes it's a little overactive. You don't need to drown yourself in guilt. You're our kid, it's our job to discipline you. You don't get to punish yourself on top of that."

"Yes, sir." Clark took deep breaths. "Thank you. And I'll never lie to you again."

"We'll talk more when you get home, right?"

"Right."

"Go have fun with your friends."

"Yes, sir." Clark couldn't help the grin that spread over his face.

"We miss you, son. Um . . . hold on, your mother wants to talk to you again."

"Oh, okay."

There was a bit of shuffling on the other end, then his mother's voice asked, "Clark, is Lex still awake?"

"Um, I think so. We all just went to bed."

"May I speak with him?"

"Uh, sure. Let me get him, okay?" Clark put down the phone and went over to Lex's room. The door was slightly open, but Clark knocked on the doorjamb, and Lex came to open the door. "Lex, my mom's on the phone, she wants to talk to you."

Lex nodded and followed Clark into his room. He picked up the phone on the night stand. "Aunt Martha? This is Lex . . . Yeah, I think he might be a little homesick . . . yes, ma'am . . . Yes, ma'am . . . You too." Lex hung up.

"What did she say?" Clark asked.

Lex pulled Clark into the tightest hug he ever had, and he held on for a long while. Clark hugged back, letting all of the tension from the past few hours drain away.

"That's from your mom," Lex said. "And she says to get some rest."

Clark let go and lay back down in bed as Lex left the room, turning off the light as he went. Clark fell asleep smiling.

-------

Dean fell asleep quickly, but he didn't stay asleep for long. It wasn't even eight when he woke up, completely alert.

He groaned softly and rolled out of bed. The quicker he could figure out whose bones to burn, the quicker they'd be able to get back to their island paradise. The legend Lex had told was promising, but they needed some more solid evidence before they could just go dig up a random corpse. If Dean could learn something about the victim, he might find a clue about where to look next.

There were already several police officers in the lobby. That wasn't exactly surprising, considering the fact that an employee had died the night before. Real police tended to make Dean nervous, especially since his father so often pretended to be the police to get information, but they could be useful, too, if you could get them to talk.

One concierge—a pretty girl with long brown hair—was standing off in a corner, looking torn up about it. Maybe a little too torn up.

Dean couldn't just let her suffer. Besides, she would be easier to get information from than the cops might be.

"Hey," he said, giving her a winning, gentle smile. "You doin' alright?"

Her eyes shone. "He's the second one this week."

Dean would have to yell at Lex later for failing to look into that little detail before making the hotel booking. "Were you close?"

"Me and Randy?" She sniffled. "Just friends, really. I think he had a crush on me, but . . . well, he seemed like the needy type, you know? I was never into him. I can't believe he's gone."

Dean nodded. "What was he like?"

"You know, kind of . . . Momma's boy. Always texting his parents. I don't know why, they always seemed to fight and then he'd be all depressed." She shook her head. "I—I can't believe I'm talking about him like this. Like he's dead."

"Must be awful."

"Yeah." She picked up a tissue from the desk beside her and dabbed at her eyes.

When she'd settled down a little, Dean asked, "What about the other victim?"

"Well, that one was really sad. He'd actually run away from home to get this job. He seemed so happy about it—most of the time, anyway." She shuddered. "It was so freaky, too. They were both beaten to death. Who even does that?"

That matched the profile as well. If the ghost went after guys who had bad relationships with their dads, or maybe unfinished business with their parents—that matched Clark better—it probably was the guy who'd died here because his sons had abandoned him. He'd be going after sons who disappointed their fathers.

And a resort like this would be absolutely crawling with disappointing sons. He and Lex would be in more danger than anyone.

At least it had been a clear enough case. Dean just needed to find out where the body was buried. The museum might know.

Dean started back toward the elevator. He pressed the button and waited.

When the door opened, Lex stood inside. Dean hissed, "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you. Investigating."

"Leaving our brothers alone without telling me?"

"They're fine, Dean, they can take care of themselves. What'd you find out?"

Dean's jaw clenched, but he said, "Pretty sure it's Leery. Sounds like he's going after disappointing sons."

"Oh, great," Lex muttered.

"I know. There's a museum exhibit about him, I'm going to check it out. You head back to the suite and hold down the fort, this'll all be over soon."

"What are you going to do?"

"Usually, the way you stop a ghost is to salt and burn the bones."

Lex blinked. "You're gonna dig up a grave?"

"I hope not. I'm hoping the guy was cremated."

"But if he was cremated . . ."

"Spirits sometimes latch onto an object. If there's a museum exhibit—"

"You're thinking they might have whatever object he's latched onto."

Dean nodded.

Lex frowned. "Why now? This resort's existed for well over a year."

"Who knows? Some spirits are tied to different things. Time of the year, lunar cycle—"

"Anniversary of death?"

Dean shrugged. "You said he died in 1899, right? It's been 100 years."

"Okay," Lex said. "Well, hopefully this will be easy, then. Meet you back up there?"

"Yeah." Dean waved and got off at the next floor.

-------

By the time Sam woke up, Clark was still asleep, but both Lex and Dean had left the suite. He wasn't exactly surprised that they had left him behind. Everyone always underestimated him.

He assumed that at least one of them had gone to talk to the people at the front desk. That meant the best Sam could do was to search the hotel for more clues. He picked up the EMF meter and a salt shaker before leaving the suite. He was careful not to disturb the fresh salt lines when he stepped out.

He'd overheard Clark's conversation with his parents the night before, or at least Clark's side of it. The way Clark spoke to his dad, the smile in his voice at the end, the promise not to lie . . . Sam hadn't realized how much he wanted that kind of closeness with his father until he heard that conversation. It was enough to make Sam feel guilty for the way he always talked back to his own dad, and the fact that he and Dean had lied to come here in the first place. Clark had already been dropped off at the jet by the time Sam and Dean arrived, but presumably, Clark's dad—or maybe his mom—had actually driven him there, which meant Clark had had permission to come. Sam hadn't even asked permission. He'd just lied.

He was halfway down the hall when he started to feel unnaturally cold, and the lights began to flicker.

Sam turned to run. His father stood behind him.

"Samuel Winchester."

He gasped at how suddenly the spirit had appeared. He knew it wasn't really his father. It was a ghost, probably Charles Leery, maybe someone else, but it definitely wasn't Dad. But he still couldn't help but cower at that tone.

"H-hi, Dad." What had he been thinking, bringing a salt shaker? He should have grabbed a rifle with salt rounds.

The ghost, who looked exactly, exactly like his father, down to the expression he made when Sam was in deep, took a step closer. "You and Dean told me you were checking out a case, when really, you were coming here. To play."

Sam's voice caught. His dad came and grabbed him by the arm, reaching out for the doorknob to the nearest room with the other. The doorknob popped as he turned it—he must have broken the lock, which hardly surprised Sam, given the vice grip on his arm—and they both stepped inside the room. Thankfully, it was empty, the bed made and the room clean.

"What were you thinking, boy? Answer me!"

"Dad . . ." Sam winced. It didn't matter that this wasn't real. This was exactly how his dad was going to react if he found out about what he had done. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not good enough this time." The ghost began to fumble with his belt buckle.

Sam froze for a moment. If this had been his real father, the worst thing he could do at this point would be to run. But this ghost had enough strength to hurt Clark. This was going to be so much worse than anything Sam had ever faced. He bolted for the door.

It slammed shut, and the doorknob wouldn't budge.

Sam slammed on the wood. "Dean! Help me!"

"Wouldn't be calling for him so soon, Sam," his father called. "He's next."

Sam turned and faced his irate father, wracking his brain for how to get out of this. The ghost had just let Clark go. What had Clark done? He'd probably cried a lot, for one thing, and he hadn't fought back, but he'd also called home and made amends with his real parents. Sam couldn't get past this ghost to the phone right now, not that it would have helped. His father wouldn't be up for making amends over a single phone call.

Trouble was, the ghost seemed to be using similar tactics to the people they were mimicking. More extreme versions of those tactics, but still. Uncle Jon would never have really hurt Clark. A few words of admonishment, maybe a grounding or some extra chores, some time in his room. Even if Clark had been able to feel physical pain, Sam doubted Uncle Jon would ever have used his belt; the ghost hadn't when he was pretending to be Uncle Jon.

And that made Sam angry. He couldn't believe he'd just been feeling guilty for leaving his dad behind. He had the right to be a normal kid and have fun every once in awhile without getting whipped for it.

Sam could never say any of this to his real dad, but it would feel awfully nice to say it now. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

His father folded over his belt and reached for Sam. "What did you say to me, boy?"

Sam took a step back. "You're a bastard. You raised us in this life, even though I hate it, and you never let me go on school field trips or anything, and we travel all around the country but I never even get to see any of it, and one time, one time, I want to spend some time with my friends, and you're gonna whip me for it? You know what? I don't even care. Because I know I'm right. Beat me all you want, it's never going to change my mind."

Sam fully expected to be grabbed and thrown over the bed. Instead, his father lowered the belt. "Go," he said.

Sam blinked. "Really?"

"Get out. Now."

Sam didn't have to be told a third time. He stumbled a little on his way out, but he found the door slightly ajar. He sprinted down the hall and back to the suite.