"What are we going to tell her?" Sam asks, staring out of the driver's side window at the pretty doctor with the hazel eyes drinking coffee and staring in to the night outside the ER doors. "I mean, about us. About what we are, what we do?"

Dean is silent. He can't answer that question. Can't answer any of the questions popping up constantly, like those annoying video bubbles, for the two months since they'd been to Lawrence. Since their mother, her spirit, her … whatever, told them to "Find Lilly" then turned and destroyed herself. So he ignores Sam and files the question with the rest of the questions-accusations-demands to throw at their father if they ever find him again. Another to add to the list he didn't realize he'd been composing since Stanford.

Given the enormity of what had been kept from them, it was almost silly how easy she had been to find. L. Rayne, M.D., Surgery/ER San Francisco Grace Hospital scribbled in a list of contacts in the back of the journal. Dean wasn't sure he'd ever even noticed the name before, though he'd read the fucking leather Winchester Bible often enough to recite it to himself by now. Sam had found her almost accidentally two weeks later, after the Rawhead. He'd been desperate and exhausted and looking for anyone who might help Dean. And he'd tried to call her. A doctor named Lilly. He didn't even put it together until they were leaving Nebraska.

As soon as the name had dawned on them, the car had pretty much turned itself toward California, compelled by their tacit agreement to check her out. God awful weather and a sense of something neither of them could put their finger on made the drive to San Francisco days longer than it should have been. Her identity had become kind of a driving game to pass the time. Maybe their father had helped her out at some point. Maybe she'd stitched him up. Maybe she was some kind of hunter friendly doc. None of it explained why the now immolated ghost of their long dead mother would ever have heard of her. Never mind why she would have used two of the only six words she had spoken to them in 22 years to tell them to find her. Maybe John Winchester was a lying coward who'd better have one fucking good reason for keeping this from them.

It had taken less than half an hour of surveillance to figure out not only which one she was, but who she was. They sat in the parked car in lot across from the ER doors deciding how best to approach, when the small brunette in surgical scrubs and white coat burst through the doors and headed for the ambulance pulling up. But for the dark hair she could have been Mary's twin. She could have been Dean's. They watched her disappear back through the doors, shouting orders at scurrying interns, keeping pace with the patient on the gurney. They pulled out of the parking lot five minutes after seeing her, drove to the motel and sat, staring at each other across the space between their beds, scrubbing their faces and sputtering out half finished sentences.

For three days they'd followed her around. Looked her up. Found out what they could without raising any red flags. She was on a nights rotation. She had a nice house, modern; a nice car, expensive. She ran before her shift, pushing herself hard for an hour through the park near her house. She was married, with a year and a half old daughter. Her husband travelled. Her slightly ragtag family was close - father, stepmother, stepsister, cousin. She was good at her job. Respected. Formidable was the word her interns used.

They sit now, Sam's question hanging in the air as they watch a man in a red '67 Mustang pull up to five feet from her and get with a lunch bag in his hands. She smiles and walks to him, kisses him and waves at the little thing in the car seat, pulling her out and twirling her around in the night air.

"We won't have to tell her much." Dean finally answers. "I know that guy. He's a hunter."