Dean hadn't grabbed much from his suitcase before heading out into the hallways of the hotel. He'd pocketed a salt shaker and an EMF meter, which gave a few high readings as he walked but didn't ring out consistently. He wasn't sure exactly what to make of that.

Aside from the few EMF bursts, he didn't notice anything. No cold spots, no flickering lights.

Of course, the resort was huge: if the hotel was haunted, the spirit (or spirits) could be anywhere. Dean could wander the whole premises and never cross their path. And there was no guarantee that it even was a ghost. Or that there was anything here. All he had to go on was a room service delivery guy who had never showed. Suddenly, it seemed ridiculous to him to think that he had believed there was a case at all.

This was exactly why Dean needed a vacation in the first place. He sighed and started heading back toward the suite.

That's when he noticed the scuff marks on the perfectly vacuumed carpet, next to the door of a supply closet. He also spotted a couple of cheese cubes on the floor. Dean pointed the EMF meter at the closet, and the dial went wild. Almost definitely a spirit, then.

He grabbed the doorknob; locked. He grabbed a paper clip from his pocket—that, he always had with him—and picked the lock.

A uniformed body tumbled out of the closet, his face bruised and bleeding. The blood was still wet.

Dean swallowed hard, checked his surroundings to make sure no one was coming, and inspected the body. It looked like the guy had been beaten to death. He'd clearly been trying to defend himself—his hands and arms were banged up worse than the rest of him. Other than that, though, he didn't have anything distinctive on him. Not even a wallet.

Dean cleared away his fingerprints and went back to the suite. He could find out more in the morning after someone else discovered the body. In the meantime, he was going to put some salt lines out at the door to the suite and maybe grab some iron rods and trade watch shifts with Lex and Sam, just to be safe.

No—not Sam. Just Lex. Like Lex had said, this vacation was for the younger brothers. The adults could take care of this.

Upon returning to the suite, Dean headed immediately to Lex's room. To his horror, he caught Lex in the middle of a nightmare thrashing beneath the covers, sweating and breathing hard, like he was fighting something.

"Whoa! Luthor!" Dean came over and put a hand on Lex's shoulder, shaking gently. "You okay?"

Lex's eyes snapped open. He untangled himself from his covers, panting, then fell back onto his pillow and wiped his forehead. "Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"You were doing a good enough job of that yourself."

"Night terrors. They're normal for me."

Dean frowned. That didn't sound normal at all. "All the money in the world and can't afford your meds?"

"Drop it, Dean."

Dean held his hands up.

Lex seemed to be pacing his breathing. "Why'd you wake me up in the first place?"

"Had a bad feeling about that delivery guy."

"You need a vacation." Lex rolled his eyes and sat up.

"That's what I thought. Then I found a dead body in a supply closet."

Lex's eyes widened. "Oh!"

"Yeah. And all the signs of spirit activity."

"You think the island's haunted?"

"Apparently."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Lex rubbed his face and stood. "Okay. Have you told Sam and Clark yet?"

"No. I thought you and I could handle this and let them enjoy their vacation."

Lex shook his head. "If they're in danger, they should know. We shouldn't keep it from them, that'll only make them angry when they find out we lied."

Dean sighed. He knew Lex was right, even though he really didn't want him to be. "Fine. I'll wake up Sam. You talk to Clark."

"Sure," Lex said. With that, they parted ways, but Dean was only halfway to Sam's room when he heart Lex call back, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Lex stood in Clark's doorway. "Did Clark switch rooms?"

"Uh . . ." Dean took a step closer. "Not as far as I know."

"He's missing."

Dean's blood ran cold.

-------

Clark stood facing the two walls for a long time, crying with his arms wrapped around himself. His dad had never, ever been so harsh with him. He'd never hurt him on purpose, and while he had told Clark his behavior was disappointing, he had never said that Clark himself was a disappointment. Clark would rather have to leave the island early than to have to hear those words from his father again. Clark knew his mom sometimes talked his dad into a less strict punishment after Clark misbehaved, but he hadn't realized exactly how much influence she had. His dad hadn't just been strict tonight; he'd been mean. He hadn't even reminded Clark about how much he loved him.

It felt like an hour had passed since his dad had left him in the corner. Clark dared to peek over his shoulder—his dad hadn't returned. Meanwhile, Clark felt like he was drowning in his own guilt. He desperately wanted to talk to his mom, just to apologize for everything.

There had been a phone in the room . . .

He would have to take the chance. If his dad came back into the room and found Clark out of the corner, he might get upset, but maybe his mom could talk to him and they could work something out. He slipped away from the corner, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

His mom's voice answered just before the outgoing message would have begun. She sounded like she had been asleep. "Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Sweetie? Is everything okay? It's almost two in the morning."

"I—" Clark's throat choked up. "Mom, I love you."

"I love you too, baby." Concern dripped from her voice. "Are you homesick?"

"No, I just feel terrible. About the cows, and about lying to you."

"You lied to me?"

"About cleaning my room. I just stuffed everything in my closet and under my bed."

"Oh, Clark. That's very disappointing."

Clark let out another sob. "I know. I'm really sorry."

"Okay, honey, just breathe. Can you do that for me? Deep breaths."

He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't quite pull it in all the way. "I—I know I'm a bad son, and a disappointment."

"No! No, no. Hey, Clark, I know you're feeling guilty, you have a good conscience, but . . . why don't we talk about this when you get home? Go enjoy the time with your friends."

"I c-can't. I feel t-terrible."

"I wish I could be there to give you a hug. Is Lex awake? Can I speak with him?"

"He's asleep."

"Okay." She sighed. "How can I make this better?"

"I'm a bad son. You should be mad at me, not nice to me."

"Clark, you're not a bad son. Do you understand me?"

Clark knew better than to talk back to that tone. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're a great kid. You made a mistake, and we're going to talk about it when you get back—"

"Are you going to ground me?"

"Well, yes, that's what we said, but you don't have to think about that right now."

"Are you going to give me extra chores?"

"Um . . . well, that's usually part of being grounded."

"Okay." Clark wiped his eyes and brought a finger to his ear. It didn't hurt any more, but it was still warm.

"You're okay with that?"

"Yeah." He'd messed up pretty bad. "Dad was threatening to leave me in my room and not take care of me or feed me."

His mom gasped. "Sweetie, I think your father was speaking in anger. We would never do that to you."

"I deserve it, though." Clark could feel the tears stinging his eyes again.

"No. No, you don't."

"Really?"

"It was a bad mistake, Clark, but it's one every kid makes. Your father did it all the time when he was your age."

"Oh." That made him feel a lot better. He still didn't want to repeat the mistake, and he wasn't looking forward to the grounding, but he didn't feel like he was drowning in guilt or a failure of a son, either.

"Hey," his mom said, "why don't you talk to your dad?"

"He's not back yet."

"What?"

"He left me standing in a corner and went to do something, I haven't seen him."

There was a short pause. "Clark—"

A dial tone.

Clark looked over and nearly jumped out of his skin. His father stood beside him with his finger on the telephone hook. Clark hadn't even heard the door open.

"I told you to stand in the corner, son."

"I know, I'm sorry, I just wanted to talk to Mom."

His dad frowned and crossed his arms. For some reason, he wasn't trying to yell at Clark anymore or grab at his ear.

"She said I'm grounded and have extra chores when I get home, but that . . . um, you made the same mistakes as me when you were a kid. And she said . . ." Clark willed himself to take a deep breath. "She wanted me to enjoy the rest of the week, and that we could talk about it when I got back home."

His father just stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "Go."

Clark perked up. "Really?"

"Before I change my mind."

"Thank you! Thank you!" Clark wanted to throw his arms around his dad, but his dad was just standing there, stiff, so Clark settled for a wide grin before he ran back to the suite.