Abigail Adams sat at her desk trying to motivate her self to care, even a little, about the programming exam she had coming up. She stared determinately at her computer screen, the blink of the cursor on the blank screen mocking her ineptitude. Come on, Abby, its important. This is you future! Can't screw this up, need to concentrate…

"Abby! Your phone!"

"Oh, thank God," Abby sighed, relieved at any distraction. Jumping up, she ran to the kitchen of the little two-room flat she shared with her roommate Jen, sliding on socked feet on the faux hardwood floors around the corner.

Jen was Abby's closest friend. They were both students at the University of Chicago, and had pretty much nothing else in common. Jen was a petite blonde blue-eyed flirt of an English major, with perfectly styled hair and a seriously stocked closet. Her shoe collection could put anyone to shame. At this moment, she was sitting at the kitchen table, a stack of books ignored for the sake of painting her toes an alarming shade of pink.

Abby, on the other hand, was a computing major with an unruly mass of brown waves ('No, you may not straighten my hair, Jen!) and a pair of thick-framed glasses over grey eyes ('I have contacts Jen, I just don't feel like wearing them!').

While Jen was wearing a pretty cardigan and a cute pair of jeans, Abby was sporting an oversized Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and a pair of old men's shorts. So stylish, as always. But regardless of their differences, Jen and Abby got along fabulously, each one grounding the other to make a happy medium.

Abby slid into the kitchen, grabbing her vibrating phone from the table and flipping it open dramatically. She grinned at Jen, waggling her eyebrows and ruffling her roommate's perfect hair. Jen rolled her eyes but smiled back, not even bothering to fix her hair before continuing with her toes.

"Halloo," the brunette sang into the phone, "this is Abby!"

There was a brief clamour of commotion on the other end of the line, and what sounded like a muted scuffle, before a man's voice came on the other end.

"Uh…is this Abigail Adams?" mystery man asked, his voice deep and slightly out of breath. Jen perked up at hearing a man on the other end of the phone. 'Who is that?' she mouthed, surprised at the idea of a man calling her dorky and somewhat socially inept friend. Abby found this shock somewhat insulting, and stuck out her tongue at her friend before heading back to her room. Jen clucked in disappointment. Abby knew she'd need to describe in detail each moment to her roommate later on.

"This is she! Please, call me Abby!"

"Okay. Uh. Hi, Abby."

"Hey!" An awkward silence followed.

Abby flopped onto her bed, starting to get a bit impatient, "Can I help you with anything, buddy?" If he starts breathing heavily I'm going to have to get angry.

"Uh, yeah. I mean I hope so. My name's Sam Winchester. I think you may have known my father, John?"

Abby sat up abruptly, surprised. "Yeah, I know John Winchester. Great guy!"

Sam interrupted, "You wouldn't have heard from him recently, have you?"

"Sorry, last time I saw him was about three weeks ago. You're saying he's your father? I never even knew John had kids."

She could almost hear this Sam guy's wry grin. "Yeah, I don't think he would have talked about me much. Listen, I'm calling because I found your name in Dad's journal under the heading 'Research Help', and I'm guessing that since he can barely work a toaster he must have had some help in doing the more technical side of research. I was hoping you might be able to help us out too. Me and my brother Dean, that is."

Abby grinned at his rambling. A distraction from that godforsaken exam! She hadn't heard from John in while and had missed all the supernatural paraphernalia she got to look into. It was more fun than programming, at least. She switched from her cell to a headset, and scooted onto her desk chair, spinning to her laptop.

"Of course, Sam. What can I help you with?"

"Can you look up some information on the Roosevelt Asylum in Rockford, Illinois?"

Abby was typing before Sam even finished speaking, cradling her phone on her shoulder.

"Do you want me to email you the info?" she asked, eyes scanning and fingers tapping away. She had compiled a pretty thorough database when working with John, and had a programme that made finding out nearly everything weird in the world a person could want to know like a walk in the park.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be great. Maybe read it out, too? I'll put you on speakerphone."

She heard a beep, and another man's voice came on. " – still think this is a shitty idea, Sam. What? Oh, shit. Uh, hi." This voice was gruffer than the last, and sounded at least somewhat embarrassed about being caught bad-mouthing the girl on the other end of the line.

"You must be Dean," Abby made her tone as friendly and unthreatening as possible. She knew these hunter types tended to be a bit paranoid. Bubbly charm usually did the trick. "Don't worry man, I think this is pretty weird. But I've done research for plenty of hunters, and I've yet to get a complaint!"

There was such silence on the other end that Abby started to get concerned that the call had been dropped.

"Uh…whaddya mean by 'hunters'?" asked Dean finally, sounding cautious.

Abby mentally smacked herself, hands stilling on her keyboard. "Oh, man. I mean…I assumed that since your Dad…wait, what do you need me to look up?" How awkward, she really needs to learn to stop and think before she speaks. Did I just out their father as a hunter?

"You, uh, know about hunters, then?" asked Sam, tentatively.

"Werewolves, shifters and ghosts, oh my? Yeah, I know."

"Well, that makes things easier then, I guess. Yeah, we're hunters," said Dean.

Abby sighed in relief, "Well, now that that awkwardness is over…" she heard Dean chuckle, "…I can tell you about Roosevelt Asylum."

Abby read off the seven unconfirmed sightings and two deaths in the past, describing the apparent cop murder-suicide that had happened a few days before. She skimmed through local newspaper archives, and found that in 1972 three kids broke into the south wing. There was only one survivor. After a bit more typing, Abby found something really interesting.

"Oh, this is good. Back in 1964, the patients in the south wing, the criminally insane, y'know, they rioted. Attacked the staff and each other."

Dean sounded interested. "Any deaths?"

"Some patients, some staff. It sounds pretty gory. Some of the bodies were never even recovered, including the chief of staff, a Dr. Sanford Ellicott."

"Whaddya mean, never recovered?" asked Dean.

Abby was about to answer when Sam interrupted.

"This is a job. Dad wants us to work a job." She could tell that this wasn't directed towards her.

Abby heard Dean reply, sounding excited, "Well, maybe we'll meet up with him? Maybe he's there?"

"Maybe he's not? I mean, he could be sending us there, by ourselves, to hunt this thing." Sam sounded angry, and Abby got the distinct feeling that she was listening in on an exceedingly personal conversation.

"Who cares! If he wants us there, it's good enough for me!"

Abby felt that maybe this would be a good time to remind them of her presence. "Hey, uh…can I get any more info for you guys?" She asked awkwardly.

There was a brief pause, and it was obvious that they had definitely forgotten that she was there.

Sam spoke up, voice overly chipper. "No, Abby, thanks! We'll give you a call if we need anything else." There was a click as the phone disconnected.

"Alrighty then," Abby said to herself, removing the headset and ruffling her hair. What a weird interaction that was. At least she now had someone to research the fun stuff for. It had been weeks since John last called, and Marty and Wade hadn't called in forever. She missed the excitement of looking up the weird of the world.

With a crack of her fingers she sank back into her research, determined to refresh her memory in case she was needed again. The fact that it would take all night and would leave no time for exam studying? That was a bonus.

It was a week before Abby heard from a Winchester again, and this time around it was John.

"Hey Abby," the warm, familiar voice spoke.

"John! Its great to hear from you! I spoke to your boys last week," she paused, worried about overstepping, but asked anyways. "I've never really heard you talk about them. They seem to be looking for you?"

"Yeah hun, don't worry about that. I'll be calling them tomorrow morning with a job. That's what I need your help with." His voice was still warm, but Abby knew enough about the man to know that he meant we're not talking about that anymore, and she conceded.

She pulled her hair up into a bun and switched to her headset, "Of course. What can I do for ya, John?"

It turned out he was looking into some disappearances of couples in small town Indiana. Some real Jeepers Creepers stuff. Abby got him some names from the archives of local papers and may have hacked into the police database, but got him the information he needed. And that was that. Not much for purposeless niceties, John.

The next afternoon, Dean Winchester called.

"Hey, Abby? Its Dean." He still sounded not quite sure about why he was calling her, or whether it would be well received.

"Hey Dean! She was trying to sound as cheerful as possible. This guy really needed to relax; he should know that she was here to help. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh, well I was hoping you might know something about Pagan ideology."

Abby started typing. "Alright, no problem. I love me some Pagan ideology. What about it?"

It turned out that Dean needed to know about 'Vanir,' the Norse gods of protection and prosperity who were known for keeping their local settlements safe from harm.

"Some villages built effigies of the Vanir in their fields. Other villages practiced human sacrifice. One male, and one female." Abby stopped. Well, that made John's call last night much more understandable.

"And do you think this particular Vanir can get its energy sprung from a sacred tree?"

Abby leaned back, ruffling her curls as she thought, "Well, Pagans believed all sorts of things were infused with magic. It might just work."

"Thanks, Abby." He sounded much calmer now, and Abby grinned to herself. Progress!

"No problem, Dean."

Over the next month, Abby took about half a dozen calls from the Winchester boys, and with each one they seemed to get more comfortable chatting. It's funny how phone calls can be more comfortable than face-to-face interactions.

The boys were less mysterious than their father, and occasionally mentioned facts about themselves. Abby learnt that Sam had gone to Stanford, pre-law, and he was excited when he found out she was at University of Chicago. They discussed the merits of academic life for a while, and Abby got the impression that he was pretty starved for university discussions. Dean usually interrupted these conversations; Abby thought maybe he felt a bit left out, and Sam brought up hair rock just to get Dean back into the conversation.

Dean, Abby found out, had what one might call a 'strong personality.' On their third or fourth conversation they got into an argument over bands. And Abby really wasn't the type to argue with anyone, usually opting for a you-have-your-opinion-and-I-have-mine approach. But Dean would just piss her off.

"Listen, Dean, I'm not saying ACDC isn't without merit," she tried to be diplomatic, "but there's just no comparing to Bob Dylan."

"Are you kidding me? The guy can't sing! Only pretentious hipsters would prefer Bob Dylan to some good Back in Black"

"Its not about the singing, dick, its quality. Dylan writes poetry, ACDC writes pop lyrics about boobs and butts." He was infuriatingly one-track minded.

"Oh, man, take that back you heathen-" Before Dean could finish his expletive Sam interrupted to make peace. And so it went, Dean and Abby scrapping over music and Sam and Abby discussing their favorite books in-between research and hunting.

Jen, being the nosy friend she was, wanted to hear about the mysterious men who were suddenly calling at all hours. Abby told her that they were just some old family friends who needed help with their research. It wasn't necessarily a lie, but Abby still felt guilty.

She hated lying to her best, and well, more or less only, friend. But you can't just spring ghosts and ghouls on some unsuspecting civilian. John had taught her at least that much.

Abby was born in 1984 in Jackson, Mississippi to Anne and Jake Adams. On her sixth birthday, her parents were killed by a demon that was presumably just looking for kicks. Abby didn't really remember much about it, other than that she would have died as well if it weren't for John Winchester. What she does vividly remember is being carried away from her burning house in a pair of strong arms, kicking and screaming for her mother. After that, John had brought her to an orphanage in Tennessee.

Even though John could have washed his hands free of her at that point, he didn't. He stopped by a couple times each year, checking up on her, bringing books and crazy stories. He also brought Abby her first laptop, although she was always pretty sure he had come by it by dishonest means. It didn't seem like John had much in the world, other than his beat up Impala.

Although by no means a father figure, he had been both a friend and one of the few constant relationships she had in her life. He had never really spoken much about his personal life, and Abby didn't press. She always knew it wasn't really her business, anyways. Abby still smiles whenever she thinks of how he seemed proud when she got into U of C, how in gruff words he affirmed that he knew she could do it.

And since then, Abby tried to help him out whenever she could. He had never lied to her about how her parents died, and Abby grew up knowing about all the things that went bump in the night. While the supernatural had never been the center of her life like it seemed to be for John and his boys, it was something she was comfortable involving herself in from a distance. That is, until the Winchesters brought it to her.