Dean Winchester cursed under his breath as a blast of thunder reverberated throughout the upholstery of the Impala, the car jerking over a pothole in cohesive harmony with the storm. It was even the storm itself that was annoying him—it was the fact that Sam had seemed nearly one hundred percent positive in Accuweather's predictions of clear skies in the small town of Cave Creek, Arizona, the place where they were currently undergoing a case.

If you could even call it that. It was an online news article that had brought suspicions to the brothers' eyes originally, depicting a string of missing girls in Arizona who had apparently vanished without a trace. It wasn't anything too off-the-cuff. With all the saving the world shit that had been going on lately, a poltergeist would be a nice break.

Of course, the weather predictions weren't the only things Sam had incorrectly "foreseen". Not only the weather crappy, but the map that Sam had supposedly "bargain bought" from a gas station was turning out to be as useful as the iPod jack. If his cell phone wasn't in the glove compartment, Dean would've been half-tempted to wring his brother's ass out. But frankly, he was too tired, and as soon as a turn-aroundable piece of asphalt appeared, Dean would be headed back to the motel, ready for a high quality four hours.

The stretch of road he was on currently did not seem to have such favors planned out for him. Caught in an Industrial District of sorts, all side roads were blocked off by enormous amounts of signage, posing too risky to hurt Baby with. The current street seemed endless, so Dean figured there must be a turn-off somewhere.

"How can you get laid in this town," Dean murmured, "if you can't even find a decent piece of gravel to park in?" Switching the gear into neutral, he throttled the clutch, slowing the engine down slightly. Even though he appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, he hoped that the broad skies or something or other would allow some sort of cell reception to be possible. Slamming the Impala door shut, phone in hand, Dean raised the piece of plastic and silicone towards the sky.

"Son of a—"

A shriek in the distance cut off the trademark, and the cell phone was immediately flicked shut. A hand instantly resting on the inside pocket of his jacket where his trusty pistol lay, Dean took off running down the narrow sidewalk, avoiding ruts when he could.

The neighborhood was defined by crumbling brick buildings with thin alleys lacing between them, a secret network that may have once been a place for deliveries. Turning the corner between one of the more intact warehouses, he could sense the presence of another being almost instantly. But there was something else he was sensing as well—and in that same instant, he found his feet locked on the pavement, his eyes darting quickly in the darkness.

After regaining his composure, he slowly padded his way down the alley, his hand hovering over the pistol. Arching his back against the wall, he ducked under a window, sprinting around the corner in a blind rush.

A girl was being held by a large figure, which was cloaked with some sort of jacket. Her eyes were wide with panic, and the shriek Dean had heard earlier was being continuously suppressed. A faint glow was coming from the man's glow, an act that was nearly as familiar to Dean as the back of his hand. With an instinct that pulsed through his blood, Dean fired the gun, dissipating the figure into thin air. Sprinting to the girl, she collapsed into his arms, oblivious to any of the urgent words he yelled in her ear. Putting his fingers to her neck, he felt for a heartbeat, anything to single that she was alive. The thumping that he found was slow, and quickly fading.

Scooping the girl up in his arms, it was all he could to sprint to the Impala and pray for a miracle.