Nevada was not America's best state for a lot of things. For Dean Winchester, it covered the four most important basics: food, booze, women, and work. Seated at the bar of a sleazy casino miles south of the Las Vegas Strip, Dean nursed both a double shot of scotch and an aching shoulder from the salt-n-burn he finished a couple of hours ago a few towns over. Slouched over, he was contemplating whether or not to join the poker game in the corner of the room when his phone began buzzing. Pulling it out, Dean belted back his double shot of cheap scotch and answered it.

"Hey dad."

"Glad to hear you're alive. You still in Nevada?" John Winchester was never one to waste time with social customs and pleasantries, especially not with his sons.

"Yeah."

"Good. Need you to take a trip. Looks like another haunting and you're closer."

Dean waved the bar tender over and mimed writing something out. The bar tender handed him a ballpoint pen with teeth marks on the end and a napkin. She shot him a coy smile as she moved to the other side of the counter to grab another patron a beer. Dean jotted down the details as his dad read them off. He was heading to a city in southern California where a string of strange deaths had been occurring in a local inn.

Dean listened as his dad explained that within the last ten years the inn has been home to a couple found with both their wrists slit lying in bed, a kitchen employee who was locked in the freezer and allegedly bit his own tongue off, and a small-time TV actress who had her throat cut. Over the course of the last decade, the inn has been owned by several different people and has been the subject of many police investigations.

The most recent death was the inn owner's teenage daughter who was found in her locked room three days ago, tucked into bed with a knife wound from the base of her neck down to her tailbone. John said that the police had few leads and no known suspects as most of the inn's patrons were doctors from out-of-town and were seen attending a medical conference in a nearby conference center. The only other occupants of the inn at the time of the girl's death were the girl's mother, a woman employed as the evening desk clerk, and an elderly couple in town to visit their newly born great-grandson. The police believe the alibis they gave to be truthful and were still on the hunt for a suspect.

"You got all that?" John asked.

"Yeah. I'll head out first thing tomorrow," Dean replied, tucking the napkin into his jacket and sliding the pen back to the bar tender who was wiping down the other end of the bar. The bar tender winked at him before putting the pen in the blonde bun she wore her hair in. She leaned on the counter in front of Dean, not-so-subtly drawing attention to her cleavage, and poured another double shot of scotch in Dean's glass.

"Good," was all John said before Dean heard the click of the phone call ending.

Dean tucked the phone back into his pocket and tossed back the fresh scotch. Putting glass down, he smirked at the bar tender, "When do you get off tonight gorgeous?"

"In about 15 minutes. Got something in mind?"

"I guess we'll find out in 15 minutes. Unless you can sneak away a bit sooner," Dean said, nodding to a nearby door that read 'Storeroom'.

The bar tender winked and began to strut toward the storeroom, whispering something into her co-worker's ear as she did. Dean tossed a twenty onto the counter, nodded at the second bar tender, and followed his new friend. As he opened the door, the woman grabbed his jacket lapels and yanked him inside, pushing him up against the door as she kissed him deeply. Dean buried his hands into her blonde hair, pulling it out of its bun, and kissed her back just as hard.

She pulled away from Dean's mouth and he began sucking his way down her neck towards her breasts. "I'm Emma," she said grabbing his head to direct his mouth where she wanted it, "What's your name?"

Dean pulled open her shirt, tearing a button or two off as he did, and smiling at her braless state. "Chuck," he lied as he drew her closer and latched briefly onto a dusky nipple. She moaned and worked on pushing Dean's jacket off his shoulders. Dean grabbed her hips and lifted her up, setting her on a nearby crate and shaking his jacket off before stripping his t-shirt off.

As he lost himself in the warmth and pleasure of a hook-up, he pretended for a moment that he didn't have to put himself in danger the following day. He pretended for a moment that there was another woman in his arms, one with smooth chocolate skin and wild, dark curls.

The Vale Lodge Inn in Santa Paula, California wasn't much to look at. It was less of a traditional inn and more of a large bed and breakfast. It was a three story cottage with wide, bay windows and long trails of ivy climbing the walls. Dean pulled the Impala into the small parking lot on the left of the inn and made his way into the inn. The front lobby was completely empty, so Dean took his time observing his surroundings. Dean knew that the victim was killed on the third floor where she lived with her mother and the bottom 2 floors housed a dozen rooms for rent along with a kitchen, office, and two seating areas. Dean pulled out his EMF meter and slowly walked around the lobby. Nothing.

Dean heard footsteps and shoved his EMF meter back into his pocket in time to see a middle-aged woman come down the stairs with a small green suitcase. The woman was thin and she had her long, dreadlocked hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes were watery, as though she were about to cry at any moment, and her face was deeply lined with grief. Upon seeing him, the woman set down her suitcase, smoothed down the front of her dress, and walked over.

"I'm sorry sir, but we are not renting any rooms. We are closed for the next week."

Dean held out his hand, "I'm actually not looking for a room. Are you the owner?"

"Yes," the woman said, shaking his hand, "Mara Jackson, how can I help you?"

"My name is Dean I'm with the Daily Gazette and I was hoping to be able to interview you for a piece I'm doing on Californian historic inns. Is it true this inn has been open since the 1930's?"

Mara's face twisted a bit, hearing Dean say he was from a newspaper, "Yes that's true and I'm sorry, but I'm not up for any interviews from any papers. Now please leave."

"I'm sorry Ms. Jackson, I had no intention of upsetting you. My boss only told me she wanted to add this inn to our article yesterday and my deadline is in 2 days. Please, can I just ask you a few questions?"

"Look son, I've had a very difficult week as you can imagine and my sister is on her way to pick me up, so this is not a good time."

"Difficult week? I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?" Dean asked, hoping to get a little information.

Mara crossed her arms, "You expect me to buy that crap? I've had dozens of journalists and papers contact me about my daughter and I find it hard to believe you are the only one who doesn't know what happened. I don't have the time or the inclination to deal with your questions. Now please leave."

Dean allowed himself to be herded out the door without fuss, already making plans to come back at night when Mara Jackson was gone with her sister. Dean got back into the Impala and headed into town, intent on finding the nearest library to try and figure out what sort of spirit he was dealing with.

Several hours and newspaper archives later, Dean had a lead. The land that the Vale Lodge Inn was built on used to be the site of the town gallows. Hundreds of criminals and outlaws were hung during the California gold rush in the 1800s. The last death at the gallows was a woman named Joanna Wright, convicted of adultery and murder and sentenced to death. According to the papers, Joanna discovered her lover had a wife and child in another town and, in a jealous rage, stabbed him to death with a butcher knife.

At her hanging, Joanna's last words were reported to have sounded like a string of Latin and the people of the town felt it was a curse. The gallows collapsed the moment Joanna ceased struggling and died. She was buried in an unmarked grave behind the gallows just like all the others that were hung. The gallows were not rebuilt and instead the land was purchased by an oil baron from Massachusetts who built the cottage that would later become the Vale Lodge Inn.

Newspaper after newspaper reported mysterious deaths and unsolved murders happening in that house every several years. The house was purchased and turned into an inn in 1937, but that did not stop the string of deaths. In 2000, Mara Jackson moved from Louisiana with her, then 11-years old, daughter to take ownership of the inn. Four years later, 15-year old Eloise Jackson was murdered.

Dean put that last of the newspapers away and checked his watch. 8:13 pm. Time to get to work.

Dean made his way out of the library and back to his car. Popping the Impala's trunk, Dean checked his salt and gas reserves as well as how many rock salt shells he had left. Good enough for the night. Dean made his way back towards the Vale Lodge Inn and parked the Impala around the block. Grabbing his flashlight, his rock salt shotgun, and his salt-n-burn kit, Dean hopped the fence behind the Vale Lodge Inn and walked up to the back door. Dean quickly picked the lock and walked inside, happy that there was no security system blaring. Pulling out his EMF meter, Dean began walking the lay-out of the first floor. Still nothing.

Dean slowly walked up the stairs and with each step, he watched as the EMF meter's needle moved to the red zone.

Closer.

Dean tucked the meter away and swung his shotgun around. He needed a look at what was causing all the trouble in the inn. Dean was pretty sure it was the angry spirit of Joanna Wright, but there was no need to go through the trouble of digging up her grave if it isn't. Dean felt the temperature in the hallway drop as he began opening doors and checking the rooms. The hair on the back of Dean's neck began to stand up as he reached room number 8. Double checking his shotgun, Dean reached for the door handle but stopped.

A door downstairs was being opened and footsteps sounded as someone walked into the front lobby. Moving quietly to the staircase, Dean could see a light on downstairs and the shadow of someone moving around. The subtle scent of something smoky and spicy floated upstairs. Incense maybe. Dean began contemplating his options but realized he was running out of time.

There were footsteps walking up the staircase.

Dean didn't have time to react as a slim, bespectacled man reached the top of the staircase, a stick of burning incense in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Dean watched as the man's gaze moved from Dean's face to the shotgun in his hand. Something that appeared to be panic crossed the other man's face and he dropped the spray bottle. The other man's hand reached into a small satchel Dean had not noticed hanging from the man's torso and pulled out a small cloth bag tied with a leather strip.

Dean trained his shotgun on the man's knees and held his other hand up in the universal sign of surrender, "Look man, I can explain—"

Dean didn't get a chance to finish as the other man quickly lunged forward and tossed the cloth bag into Dean's face. The leather tie came loose and Dean got a face full of some sort of powder.

"Dude!" he cried, wiping his face and staring at the yellowish powder in disbelief, "What the hell?"

Dean took a step towards the man and the hallway spun. Before he knew it, Dean was face-down on the floor and the man had taken his shotgun. Then everything went dark.

When Dean came to, he was lying on a couch and staring up at the wooden beams of the inn's ceiling. Dean attempted to sit up and panicked when all he got for his troubles was minor twitching in his arms and legs. A face came into view and Dean was staring at the man that had kamikaze-bombed him with cocaine's fucked-up, yellow cousin. Dean tried to speak and found that he could do little more than grunt.

"Don't bother," the man said, reaching down to lift Dean's upper body so he was propped upright. "That powder won't wear off for another few hours."

Dean was surprised by the man's thick British accent. He was wearing a pair of round glasses and had shaggy dark hair that reminded Dean a bit of his younger brother, Sam. The man was dressed in a leather duster with the Satchel of Doom draped over his torso. The man must have noticed Dean's stare as he swung the satchel behind him and out of sight. That is when Dean noticed he was wearing black, leather gloves on both hands.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hit you again. Too much and it would stop your heart."

At Dean's wide-eyed look, the man chuckled, "In the right doses, all that powder does is induce temporary paralysis. Like I said, it will wear off in a few hours. You'll be perfectly fine."

The man moved to sit in the armchair across from the couch Dean was seated in. Dean tested out how much movement he was capable of. He could move his eyes and even roll his head a bit. All he got out of his arms and legs were a few pathetic twitches and jerks. While testing out his mobility, Dean noticed that entryway into the room they were in was lined with a thick salt barrier. He stared pointedly at it and then turned his gaze to the man watching him.

"Blink once for yes, blink twice for no. Are you here to rob the inn?"

Dean blinked twice.

"Are you here for a place to stay?"

Again, Dean blinked twice.

"Are you here because of the murder?"

One blink that time. The man sat back and reached to the side to pull out a tea cup and saucer. The man took a long drink before setting it back down.

"Are you the murderer returning to the scene of the crime?"

That one got a roll of the eyes and two forceful blinks.

"Yeah, didn't think so," the man replied. "Are you with the police?"

Dean hesitated slightly before blinking once.

The man cocked an eyebrow, "Liar. Are you a private investigator? Did Mara Jackson hire you?"

Dean blinked once again, hoping this time the man believed him.

"Somehow I feel like you're lying to me again. How am I supposed to trust you if you keep lying to me, good sir?"

Dean rolled his eyes again and blinked twice.

"Excellent," the man said, reaching for his tea cup. "Are you here because—," the man's question was cut off as a piercing shriek echoed through the room. Both men turned toward the doorway where a spectral image of a woman stood, hampered by the salt line. She growled something inaudible in a gravelly tone, likely due to the deep bruising that was visible around her neck, and flickered before vanishing from view.

Dean turned to look at the man, expecting something akin to fear or surprise, but was shocked to find the man was still completely at ease, sipping from his tea cup.

"No shock, no fear, no panic. You've seen something like that before, haven't you?" the man asked Dean.

Dean blinked once.

"Hunter?"

Another blink.

The man stood and set his tea cup down, "Well that makes this easier. I understand you were likely here to rid the inn of this spirit. However, I was hired to take care of this. Miss Mara asked me to come cleanse the inn and even gave me a key. So I'm going to do my job and you can just rest easy."

Dean attempted again to move and his frustration grew as nothing happened. He watched as the man walked to the doorway and broke the salt line with his foot. A moment later, the ghost of Joanna Wright appeared, a bloodied butcher knife in her hand. Lights flickered around the room and the temperature dropped. Dean's struggles amplified as he turned his gaze to look for his shot gun.

"That will be enough Miss Wright."

Dean stopped moving and turned his gaze back to the hunter-wannabe. He was standing in between Dean and the ghost, no weapons in his hands and a calm expression on his face.

"Miss Wright, you should have moved on to the afterlife several decades ago. Because of your choice to refuse to move on, you have been causing the deaths of innocent people. I am here to put an end to your killings. Can you understand what I am saying?"

Dean was expecting to watch this man die and then suffer his own horrific death. He was shocked to witness the ghost send a mocking smile towards the man and nod. He was not so shocked to see the ghost move closer to the man and brandish the knife she held. The lights began flickering at a faster pace.

"I am going to give you one chance," the man said, "Put down the knife and I can ensure that you go on to the afterlife you should have when you died all those years before. I know that your parents and your sisters have been waiting to see you."

Dean was in for more shock as the ghost paused and the hand holding the knife fell to the side. Her expression was one of confusion. The lights ceased their wavering.

"And if I don't", the ghost of Joanna croaked in her gravelly voice.

The man began to slowly remove the leather gloves he wore, "If you refuse to move on peacefully Miss Wright, I will be forced to remove you in a more painful way. And you will not be able to reunite with your family."

The spirit laughed and the light flickering began again, "What can you do? Pathetic human, so weak in life."

The man sighed and tucked his gloves into the pocket of his coat. Joanna's spirit seemed to come to a decision rather quickly as she lunged toward the man with her knife. Dean was prepared for the man's death and resumed his struggles against the paralytic powder once more. It took Dean a moment before he realized what it was he was witnessing.

He was touching her.

The man had an actual hold on the spirit's arm, twisting it behind her back and forcing her to let go of knife. Dean had watched as the man side-stepped the ghost's attack and grabbed her instead. At least Dean wasn't the only one surprised, as evident by the look on the spirit's face. He watched it quickly morph from one of surprise to one of pain. Cracks appeared on the ghost's image, like someone had tossed a rock at a window. The cracks emitted a glowing light and Dean watched as they spread over her entire being. The spirit of Joanna Wright began shrieking in pain, thrashing in the hold the man had her in. Not once did he falter. Not once did he let go.

A bright flash and Joanna Wright was gone.

Hours later, Dean was shaking the last of the powder's effects as he went over what had happened that night for the hundredth time. None of it made sense. The man had vanished Joanna Wright's spirit with nothing more than a touch. The man could actually touch her.

After she was gone, Dean watched the man put his gloves back on, pack his things, clean up after himself, and leave. Before the man left, he stood over Dean and set a bronze key down on the cushion beside him. The man explained that it was the key Mara Jackson had given him and that he had promised to leave it under the potted plant outside, next to the front door. The man told Dean to lock up once he left and then the man walked out the door.

As if he had not turned Dean's world upside down.

Dean carefully stood up and rode the wave of dizziness that hit him. He managed a few steps before the world stopped spinning and he began feeling normal again. Dean found his things stacked neatly beside the front door and he grabbed the EMF meter. Walking through the entire inn, Dean found no signs of supernatural occurrences. Once of the first floor again, Dean headed into the door marked "Management", hoping to find some mention of who this man could have been in Mara Jackson's desk.

Another hour and much rummaging later, Dean felt he struck gold in what appeared to be the 3rd floor apartment Mara Jackson had shared with her daughter. He found an unassuming business card beside the landline in the kitchenette. In was plain white cardstock with no images or color. On the front, it listed the address and phone number for Harrison J. Potter. On the back, printed in red pen, it said "He Can Help."

Dean pocketed the card and made his way out of the inn. After locking up and placing the key where Mara Jackson was expecting to find it, Dean drove to the cheap motel he was renting a room in. Tossing his things on the bed, Dean sat down and pulled the business card out of his pocket. He dug out his cell phone as well and dialed.

The ringing gave way to a gruff voice, "What's wrong?"

"Have you ever heard of a man named Harrison J. Potter?" Dean asked his father, staring down at the card.

"No. Why?"

Dean was silent as he thought about how to explain what happened that night to his father. He thought about how his father would react to the idea of a man who can banish spirits with a touch walking around amongst normal people. He thought about how his father would react to the knowledge that this man got the drop on Dean.

"Dean?"

"No reason," Dean replied, putting the card away, "Anyway, the job is done. No complications."

"Good," John said, though Dean could hear suspicion in his voice, "I'm finishing up a werewolf hunt in Memphis. Once I'm done, there are rumors of a nasty poltergeist in Rockport, Texas. I'll be heading there in a few days. Meet me there."

"I've got a few things I want to follow up on nearby. Once I'm done I'll be there," Dean told his father.

"Four days Dean. That's not a request," John said before hanging up.

"Yes sir," Dean told the dial tone.

Dean tossed his phone onto the night stand and dug out some of the roadmaps he kept in his bag. He set aside the one of California in favor for the one of the continental US. He traced the highways between southern California and Rockport, Texas. It would take about a day's trip. Two days at most.

Dean opened his California roadmap and found Ventura, California in relation to his current location in Santa Paula. That gave him 48 hours to track down Harrison J. Potter and get some answers.

AN: This is my 1st attempt at writing fanfiction in over 5 years. This is also my 1st attempt at a crossover fanfiction. I have plans to expand this one-shot into a chapter-story, but only if there is interest. My plans include an eventual Harry PotterxDean Winchester pairing. If I do expand this, it will be within this story, so go ahead and like/follow if you are interested in reading more. If you are very interested, send me a review with suggestions, opinions, and more.