Dean had never much cared very much for museums, but the "founding of the resort" museum had to be the most pathetic one he had ever seen. It was especially sad because the resort itself was so incredible; if one museum was going to be worth seeing, it should have been this one.

It didn't matter, though. He wasn't here to browse. He shifted the weight of his backpack a little—he'd brought a salt can, a little kerosene, and a lighter, as well as a shot gun loaded with rock salt just in case—and skimmed over the section about what the island had been like. He walked past the table showing a colorful topographical map, glanced only briefly at the poster with statistics about what it had taken to build the hotel, and finally settled on a little display case with a compass inside, along with a placard about Charles Leery.

Dean glanced around himself to see if anyone was working at the museum. There were no employees walking around, and definitely no guests; just a girl in all black behind the front counter, blowing bubbles in her gum and staring at the book in her hands.

Dean cleared his throat. She didn't look up. He cleared it louder. She seemed to be pointedly ignoring him.

Finally, he sighed. "Excuse me, ma'am."

She looked up at him without lowering her book.

"I was . . . very curious about some of your exhibits."

She popped her bubble. "Which one?"

"Um, what can you tell me about Charles Leery?"

The girl sighed heavily and said, in a voice that mocked enthusiasm, "He was an explorer. He died on this very island, because his sons didn't come rescue him, and they say his ghost haunts this place to this very day." She waved one hand on the last phrase, then looked back at her book. "I'm not even supposed to tell tourists the interesting part."

"What's the interesting part?"

"That the guy's skin melted off in the sun or whatever."

"Yeah, that would probably upset the kids." Dean would have to have a serious talk with Lex about checking to make sure there were no haunting legends nearby the places he brought them for vacations. "You think it's true?"

She gave him a look like he was crazy. "You're asking if I think the resort is haunted?"

"Right. Um, where was this Charles Leery buried?"

"Apparently they cremated him."

Dean almost audibly sighed in relief. "And that compass over there, that was his real compass?"

"Yeah." She continued to stare at her book.

"Great. Thanks."

This was going to be the easiest hunt of his life.

-------

Sam slammed the door behind himself when he returned to the suite, then leaned back against the door, breathing hard. He had gotten lucky. Too lucky. The ghost had just let Clark go the night before, and today it had just released Sam, too. What had he done right? More importantly, what had that hotel staff guy done wrong?

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Clark was the first one to come running into the entryway. "Sam? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Sam forced himself to straighten up. He didn't want to scare Clark, although he supposed Clark had already met the ghost.

Lex wandered in a moment later. "Did you see it?"

Sam nodded. "Did you?"

Lex shook his head. "I wandered around looking for it for a little while, but I didn't find anything. I'd think it would latch onto me right away."

"Why?"

"Well, Dean says it seeks out disappointing sons."

Sam winced. Dean had mentioned in passing that Lex's dad was awful. "Maybe it had already found me by then. Or maybe you're not as disappointing as I am."

Lex let out a short laugh, but he didn't continue.

Clark looked down at the salt line by the door, then back up at Sam. "What happened to you? Where's Dean?"

"I haven't seen Dean. But . . . the ghost found me. He looked like my dad, and I mean, just like my dad. Sounded like him, too."

"What did he do?" Lex asked.

"He . . ." Sam glanced down at Clark. He knew the kid was physically a lot stronger than he had ever been, but emotionally, he was still an eleven-year-old kid, and fairly innocent. Sam didn't want to scare him any more than he had already been scared on this trip. "He got really upset with me. He was yelling at me for running away and coming to the island and lying to him about where I was going. Then . . . he let me go."

"He let you go?" Lex took a step closer. "Did you call your real dad?"

"No."

"Did you . . . make peace with him?"

"No, I . . ." No matter how he wracked his brain, Sam couldn't figure out why the ghost had released him. Sam could sort of understand why it had given Clark up. Clark had spoken to his real parents, come clean, and apologized. Whatever he said had probably been enough to ease any disappointment his dad felt. Sam had yelled at the ghost. "I . . . kind of told him to back off, that I had the right . . . to be a kid and have fun every once in awhile."

Lex's breath caught. "Well, good for you, Sam, but . . . Well. I'm glad you're safe."

With that, Sam was finally able to smile, but the smile fell quickly when he remembered Lex's other question. "You asked me where Dean was."

"He was headed to the museum to see if he could find out about Charles Leery's remains. I was wondering if you'd seen him."

That was a good thing. That meant this was almost over. "No," Sam said. "So we can just wait for him here."

"Do we have to?" Clark asked. "I mean, if he's getting rid of the ghost, we're safe, right?"

Sam turned to Lex—Dean had said that when he wasn't there, Lex was in charge.

"There's a video arcade we haven't tried out, it's pretty close by," Lex said. "I'll leave a note for Dean to let him know where to find us."

Clark whooped, and Sam grinned.

-------

Checking the display case for security measures was easy enough. There really wasn't anything here to steal, so there wasn't even so much as a burglar alarm hooked up to the case. Dean didn't even have to break the glass. He just lifted the cover. He did check back in the direction of the front desk a couple of times, but the girl who worked there was immersed in her book.

He slipped the compass into his pocket and slipped out of the museum, then headed down to the beach. He found an empty barbecue pit and dropped the compass into it. A nearby family stared at him as he poured salt and kerosene into the pit; he gave them a smile and a wave, and they looked away.

The main shell of the compass didn't burn, not exactly, but the paper face did, and the wire holding the hinge together curled. That was as much as any cursed object ever burned, and it was enough. Dean's work was done. Now, he could enjoy the beach. The sun was high in the sky, and he could smell the salty waves. Maybe he'd try surfing today. He'd never been able to afford the lessons before.

The ordeal had been easy enough to clear up, but as Dean walked back to the room, he found himself feeling really guilty. He hadn't checked up on the hotel before agreeing to bring Sam here, and he hadn't brought anything resembling enough weapons to protect his brothers. His dad didn't even know the truth about where he was. If something happened to him, or to Sam, he'd never know.

Dean was just lucky everything had worked out okay. It definitely wasn't what he deserved.

He was halfway down the hall from the elevator to his room when a voice behind him said, "Dean."

Dean turned slowly.

It was his father.