Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I am, sadly, in no way, shape or form affiliated with the television show, actors or network. The following words were written as a form of cheep entertainment for fans like myself who can't get enough of the show/haven't found a way to inject/smoke/snort it. I don't profit off of it, yada yada yada

Set early Season 2 from Dean's POV. Contains an OC, but mostly SPN characters. Also flashbacks. Rated for swears and occasional tobacco use. I didn't think I included too many swears to warrant an R, but if you're offended by the "f" word, it does pop up a few times in a few chapters, so maybe set the curse word censor (that's still an option, right?)

I hope this is enjoyed (as I do with all of my stories). Reviews. I love them but they're always optional, so do as you please.

2006

There's this really cool chick I know. She's pretty badass but compassionate, indescribably unique and a little eccentric, sharp as a whistle and just as attractive. She's very much at home in the world of the weird and is a walking encyclopedia on the subject. She's also apparently dead, according to Bobby.

I'm driving the open roads that cut through wide fields of tall growing corn under a midday Iowan sun when the call comes.

"I'm real sorry to tell ya this," Bobby speaks over the phone, a mild hesitance in his voice. "All things considered. But Sterling... aw, shucks Dean. Sterling's dead."

There go the last remaining pieces of my already shattered heart. Dad's dead, the Colt is gone, Yellow Eyes is on the loose, the Impala is in ruins and now this? It's been a terrible month for me.

"Another one bites the dust, huh?" I choke down the rising sorrow from my voice as I speak into my chrome colored phone. "How'd she go?"

"Car wreck," Bobby sighs and my stomach twists.

The only thing this girl was really afraid of was dying a normal death. As weird as it sounds, she was looking forward to having her guts ripped out or her head torn off by some vile creature. I'm not joking. And she died in a car accident.

Whenever someone I know passes, I'm always thrown into flashback mode and Sterling's death is no exception. The particular memory that floods my mind is of the last time I saw her. It was a little more than a year ago, just days before I picked Sammy up from college, outside some thick forest along the side of a desolate highway. We had just taken care of a nasty werewolf problem and she stood before me covered in dirt, scratches and blood. And she couldn't look any happier.

I watched her light a victory cigarette with a silver zippo she had extracted from a pair of slim fitting black jeans, torn at the knees.

"That son of a bitch put up one hell of a fight," she commentated, wiping a bloodied silver blade on her blue plaid shirt, left unbuttoned to expose a black AC/DC t-shirt.

"No kidding," I agreed as I put my own weapons away in the trunk of my Impala. "It's a good thing we ran into each other."

"You can say that again," her full, brick red lips spoke around the cigarette.

"You know those things are gonna kill you one of these days," I casually informed her, motioning towards the cigarette and she rolled her large, round azure eyes.

"You and I both know I'm not gonna live long enough for that to happen," she responded with a bright smile plastered across her small, round face. I smiled at her comment, knowing she was probably right. Then again, she was one damn good hunter and, at that moment, I thought she would be one of the few to make it to old age before something finally got her.

"Where are you headed next?" I questioned, watching as she ran her fingers through her long, thick blonde streaked black hair.

"The bar," she told me with a small chuckle. "We'll see where that takes me. You should come with. We could pool shark some bikers out of their drug money."

"Naw," is what I told her. "I need a shower and some shut eye before I go see Sammy."

"Your loss," she said with a shrug. "I'll keep an ear out for news on your dad."

"Thanks," I said as she approached me for a quick, friendly embrace. "You take care of yourself."

"You too," she said as she pulled away. "Don't be a stranger."

"Yeah," I had agreed. "Keep in touch."

So, of course, we never did. I called her once, maybe twice since Sam returned to the hunter's life to ask her advice on a tricky case, but that was it. I guess I assumed she'd just always be there. I never even got to tell her...

"You still there?" Bobby's voice snaps me back to the present.

"Yeah, sorry," I mumble. "I was just... ugh, that sucks."

"Tell me about it," he agrees. "She was one hell of a hunter."

"Yeah. When'd she pass?"

"About three months ago," Bobby tells me. "No one knew until yesterday. We all thought she'd just fallen off the radar for a while."

"How'd you find out?" I ask.

"Hunter named Taylor got a flat just yesterday. When he pulled over to change it, he noticed her license plate all burned and crumpled up in the ditch. So he looked into it and, sure enough, discovered a '68 Mustang collided with an oil truck in that spot three months back. They could see the explosion ten miles off."

Oh good. It wasn't just a car accident, it was a flaming wreck.

And then that thing happens. That thing where you see someone who's just died in a random place. She's standing on the side of the road in a pair of torn, dark denim jeans, an unbuttoned red plaid shirt over a black Iron Maiden t-shirt and combat boots. Her giant, azure eyes stare at me while her black and blonde hair rustles in the breeze my temporary vehicle - a burgundy, 1989 Oldsmobile '88 - creates as it speeds by. When I blink, she's gone.

In my line of work, that can mean one of two things. Either I just saw the ghost of one Sterling Powers, a.k.a. "The Professor", or I'm cracking up.

"Say, Bobby," I shake my head, glancing back a few times in the rearview mirror. "You wouldn't happen to know where this happened would you?"

"Montana," Bobby says. "Somewhere along Highway 2. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," I shake my head.

Cracking up it is then. Even if she is a ghost, which seems unlikely given her fiery demise, she'd be in Montana or possibly even Michigan where she grew up. Not Iowa.

"Thanks for letting me know about the Professor," I say with a small sigh. "I'll talk to you later."

When I end the unpleasant phone call, I can't ignore the questioning stares Sammy sends me from the passenger's seat.

"What was that about?" he doesn't even wait for me to re-pocket my phone.

"A hunter named Sterling," I fill him in, my eyes on the road but my mind far from it. "She died."

"I take it you knew her?" Sam assumes and I nod.

"I worked a few cases with her when you were off doing the whole college thing," I share.

"Why'd you call her the Professor?" he's curious about her nickname.

"She was a lot like Bobby," I try to explain it. "In a much younger and attractive package."

"Were you two, you know, close?" he asks in a suggestive tone.

"Not like that," I roll my eyes, attempting to hide the disappointment I'll always feel for that small fact. "She was just one of those people you could go a year without talking to and, when you finally see each other again, it's like nothing's changed. You just pick up where you left off."

Sammy doesn't need to know about the giant crush I've harbored for her for the past few years. It doesn't really matter anymore. Besides, it'd just be something else he'd want to talk about and, honestly, I don't really feel like talking about any of it right now.

"You're telling me you had a friend?" Sam seems genuinely amused at the thought of me having not just a friend but a mostly platonic female one. "How did you even meet her?"

"Believe it or not," I vividly recall. "I met her in high school."

"High school?" Sam echoes, now more entertained than before. "Don't you have to attend high school to meet people there?"

"Ha ha," I dryly spit the sarcastic words. "She was in my class when we were staying in northern Michigan."

"I think I remember that," my brother slowly begins to recall the specific "incident" I'm referencing. "Dad dropped us off and you ended up digging up a windego case you tried to take care of yourself. Almost got that poor girl killed going after it, right?"

"First of all," I swing in with a defensive tone. "She wasn't a poor girl. She was fully aware of what she was walking into. Second of all, we had it under control. No one was gonna die that day. Dad didn't even show up until the thing was on fire." I pause to let out a saddened sigh. "That 'poor girl' was Sterling, by the way."

"I'm sorry," Sam offers a quiet condolence. "What was she like?"

"Look," I say, my eyes between the road before me and my brother next to me. "I know what you're trying to do and I appreciate it. Really, I do. I just don't really want to talk about it right now."

"Okay," Sam backs off his game of twenty questions. "If you ever want to talk about it..."

"I'll let you know," I finish for him. "Thanks, Dr. Phil."

I attempt to focus my eyes upon the clear horizons as my foot leans heavily upon the gas and my fingers crank up the volume to a Motörhead song. My mind begins to fog over with a rush of vivid memories I almost forgot I had as a subtle hint of regret settles deeper within my gut. I should have called her more often. Maybe if I called her more, she'd still be alive.