Her front half bent over the engine, hidden beneath the hood, balanced on one leg with the other poking out behind her, completely oblivious to the two young men watching her with their heads tilted to the side like curious puppies, she let out a loud curse.

"Not...GODDAMN...again!"

Clearing his throat to disguise a splutter of laughter, Dean stepped up beside her and leaned in over the engine. "What seems to be the problem ma'am?"

Yelping with another unabashed profanity, she straightened up, smacking her head on the heavy sheet of metal.

"Two things," she groaned, rubbing her head furiously, neither aware nor concerned about the grease covering her hands and now coating her hair. "One," she turned and looked at him, slamming her blackened fist into his arm. "And two, do not call me ma'am."

Blinking in a mild state of shock, standing back and looking at her wide-eyed, Dean threw a threatening glance at Sam, Sam flashing his biggest grin before collapsing against Dean's car in a fit of mad snickering laughter.

"Uh," Dean started, peering quickly at the athletic looking brunette's name tag. "Bronte? Sorry 'bout that, I didn't mean to scare you."

Still rubbing her head with the heel of her palm, Bronte looked at him, brow knitting into an agitated frown as she barked a laugh. "Then you shouldn't have walked up and stuck your head in next to me like that. Besides," she pulled her hand away from her head as though just noticing the grit staining her skin and wrinkled her nose up before sighing in resignation, turning her attention back to Dean. "Besides, you didn't scare me, you just...caught me a little off guard."

Running a hand through his spiky, close cut hair with a laugh, Dean nodded then jerked his head at the engine. "So, anything I can help you with?"

Before Bronte could answer, a loud, impatient cough split the air.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed reluctantly as he threw his gaze from Bronte to Sam and back again. "Actually, we need some help ourselves. We're looking for a , he's a couples' counsellor?"Shoving her hands into the deep pockets of her pale gray overalls with a glance at Sam, Bronte raised an eyebrow and jutted her lip out in a disappointed pout as she nodded and pulled one filthy hand from her pocket and pointed down the street. "Keep going that way and take the second right, Friedman's office is on the ground floor of the third building along on the left. You and your boyfriend will be snuggling back up together in loving, illegal matrimony in no time."

She flashed him a quick, forced smile and turned back to the engine, muttering beneath her breath. Frowning, Dean blinked rapidly and scratched his head before going wide eyed and shook his head frantically.

"Oh, no. No no. We're not," he resisted the temptation to pull a face and shook his head again. "We're just brothers. We're reporters, we're writing a paper on the good doctor."

Regarding him with more than a little trepidation, Bronte nodded slowly and shrugged. "Oh, well in that case, Friedman doesn't really like bad publicity, if you catch my drift. So careful what you write about him."

"No dissing the doc, got it," Dean complied, upping the wattage of his brightest smile and held his hand out to shake hers, eyes wandering down to watch as she scrubbed her palm against the backside of her overalls before wrapping her fingers around his and shook firmly. Her hand was warm and gritty, sticking a little to his as he pulled his hand back almost reluctantly. "Well, Bronte, it was great meeting you."

Nodding, Bronte returned his smile with one of her own dazzlers, a wide grin that plumped up the apples of her cheeks. "Ditto, uh?"

"Dean," he offered, starting to take a few steps backwards towards his car.

"Well it was great meeting you, too, Dean," Bronte laughed, looking over at Sam and tilting her head to the side as she looked at the black Chevrolet. "Hey, that yours?"

Turning up the volume of his grin again, Dean nodded proudly, nudging Sam away from the front grille to show his baby off.

"'67 Impala right?" Bronte probed, eagerly scrubbing at her hands with a clean rag as she circled the vehicle slowly, appraising it with an impressed grin. "Original parts?"

Nodding, Dean raised the hood, propping it open and waved a hand at the engine. "Restored her myself."

Peering in at the engine, whistling lowly, Bronte flicked her hair over her shoulder and reached in to examine it quickly. "427ci, right?" She looked at Dean for verification, even though her trained eye told her she was indeed correct. "Original sticker?"

Ignoring the growing look of exasperation on Sam's face, Dean nodded at Bronte, an eyebrow raised with an impressed smirk.

Still perusing the engine intently, Bronte rattled off specifications casually. "7lt, 4 inch pistons. How many horses she got?"

Blinking, not prepared for the question, Dean ruffled his hair and snuffed a laugh as he answered, "About 385, if I've treated her right."

A tiny, playful smile tweaked at Bronte's lips as she closed the hood lovingly and said, "You mean if you haven't left the paddock gate open and let them all go galloping out."

Dean snorted a laugh and shrugged. "Well, she has been round since the 60's."

Bronte dropped her chin to her chest with a chatter of laughter and nodded.

"Okay," Sam interjected wearily. "I think that's just about enough auto shop for one day."

Tugging open the Impala's passenger side door with an impatient sigh, he glared in agitation at Dean.

Rolling his eyes sideways, silently warning Sam that he would kill him later, Dean held his hand out to Bronte, eager to feel the warmth of hers in his again.

"Maybe I could swing by again later so you can take a better look under my hood, in peace," he added, glancing pointedly at Sam as his little brother threw his hands up in exasperation and slid his six foot plus frame into the passenger seat.

Swallowing a splutter of laughter, Bronte shook Dean's hand firmly, locking her eyes with his, beaming widely at him as she nodded.

"It's a date," she winked, looking in at Sam as she released Dean's hand and waved. "Nice meeting you!"

Forcing a smile, Sam raised a hand in a short, curt semi-wave.

Taking the hint at last, Dean flashed Bronte another mouthful of pearly whites and folded himself into the driver's seat casually. He started the engine, revving it a few times cheekily, earning another disgruntled roll of the eyes from Sam, and pulled the Impala out onto the street, following Bronte's directions.

Unable to resist a peek in the rear view mirror, catching a distant glimpse of Bronte turning and leaning back in over the engine she'd been working on, Dean exhaled a low whistle.

"She was somethin', wasn't she?"

Breathing out huffily, flopping his head to the side to look at Dean disdainfully, Sam simply glowered at his brother from beneath his messy mop of mousy brown hair.

"What?" Dean demanded indignantly. "She was!"

"Can you please keep your mind on the job for five minutes at a time, Dean?" Sam groaned emphatically, turning his head back to stare out the windshield with a sigh. "Look, let's just finish the job, then you can go get your freak on with the grease monkey."

Snorting a laugh, Dean inclined his head slightly to the side and shrugged his lips up at the corners in submission, choosing to keep his mouth shut for the remainder of the drive, despite the nagging desire to annoy Sam some more. Fortunately for both of them, they were pulling up opposite the counselling centre's office within minutes, both peeling themselves from the leather seats as they stepped from the car with an accompaniment of squawks and groans from the metal and heavy hinges of the doors.

Looking at the two storey red brick office building tucked in between a drug store and a record bin, Sam and Dean checked for traffic before crossing the street, letting themselves into the reception area and approached the young woman sitting behind the desk.

Hinting at a flirtatious smile, Dean rested an elbow on the pine desktop and leaned in as he introduced himself, addressing her by name, earning a broad cheeky smile from the slender blonde. "Hi, Michelle. My name's Dean Hagar," he threw her a grin and waved a hand at Sam. "And my partner Sam Forester. We're here to see Dr. Friedman."

Dropping the eager smile almost instantly, turning and tapping away at the computer in front of her disinterestedly, Michelle looked back at Dean and Sam with a tiny yawn of boredom. "Did you have an appointment? I can't find anything in our system for you and your life partner."

"No we didn't...wait what?" Dean blinked, scratching his head. "No. No no. We're not," he laughed, looking at Sam for confirmation that she'd been joking before elaborating, "We're not, 'together' together. We're straight."

Poking at her nails with a nail file, Michelle shrugged and muttered monotonously, "Sure you are, that's why you're here. Your boyfriend is tired of you denying your relationship yada yada yada. Don't need a PhD to figure that one out," she yawned again and shrugged. "Well you still need an appointment to see Dr. Friedman."

When she lifted her head from her self-administered manicure again, she was looking at an empty room. Shrugging, she went back to examining her varnish for chips.

Stepping back out onto the pavement hastily with Sam in step, Dean swore under his breath.

"Who would've thought it would be so damn hard to get in to see the good doc? And another thing, what's with all the chicks in this town thinking we're," he trailed off, nose wrinkling up, one eyebrow raised, "You know?"

Rolling his eyes, Sam snuffed a laugh. "I honestly have no idea, Dean," he said, monotonic sarcasm lacing his voice. "What I do know is that we need to find another way in. We could have asked when the next available appointment was, you know."

"And risk her thinking we were gay? Together? No thanks," Dean snorted, then snapped his fingers, smacking his hands together with a tiny thunderclap of ingenuity. "Meet ya back at the motel in about half an hour, I've got an idea."

With a widely stretched grin, he clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder and headed off down the street, leaving his younger brother standing stunned in the middle of the pavement.

Having snuck past Michelle as she reapplied her mascara and lipstick, forty-seven minutes after their first encounter with her, dressed in their smartest business suits, Sam reminded Dean of the etiquette professionals normally followed.

"Dude," he hissed as they crept down the corridor towards Friedman's office. "We can't just walk in on someone's session. We'll get thrown out in an instant!"

With an unconcerned shrug, Dean pulled a pair of fake, recently laminated ID's bearing their aliases and stating that they were board members for the state malpractice committee.

Wrinkling his nose up in uncertain distaste, Sam read the print on the card and groaned. "There's no such thing, Dean," he admonished. "What happened to, 'We're writing a paper on the doc'?"

Tossing Sam another nonchalant tilt of his shoulders, Dean said, "We'd probably still need an appointment for that. This gives us a license to just go barging in." Smacking the ID to Sam's chest, Dean held the knuckles of his fist to Friedman's door, pausing before knocking to add, "At least act like it does."

Sighing breathily, Sam gestured at the door in resignation.

"Alright then," Dean conceded, rapping his knuckles against the treated pine door.

A soothing, baritone voice greeted them. "I'm in session, whatever it is can wait."

With a quick look at Sam, Dean turned the doorknob with calm swiftness, swinging the door open and felling his gaze onto the barely legal couple seated in twin sofa chairs opposite a moustached man with barely a wrinkle in his forehead and not a crow's foot to be seen.

"Isn't this guy meant to be in his fifties?" Sam hissed in Dean's ear, Dean shrugging, scratching his head.

Clearing his throat, Dean pulled his ID from his pocket, holding it up for Friedman to evaluate, careful to only give him the briefest of glances so he couldn't dispute its authenticity.

"Dr. Friedman, I'm Mr. Hagar, my associate Mr. Forester. We're with the committee for hearings of," he paused, looking at the young couple still sitting stunned in their seats, clearing his throat again before articulating carefully, "Legal matters."

Frowning, with genuine creases in his forehead, Friedman turned to dismiss his teenage clients.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean leaned in to Sam and muttered, "Guess we can rule out botox as his secret."

Groaning lowly, Sam strained to keep a straight face, his own eyes on the doc as Dean's eyes slid across the room, landing on the young auburn-haired girl's rear end with an approving smirk. Digging an elbow into his elder brother's ribcage, Sam cleared his throat and gestured for Friedman to take a seat.

"We won't take too much of your time," he asserted calmly. "We just have a few questions to ask about some former clients of yours."

Looking only mildly concerned, Friedman sank into his oversized office chair slowly and nodded, resting his large, hairless hands on the armrest and fixing his gaze on the brothers. "You mean those unfortunate souls who committed murder-suicide last week?"

"And the ones from six months ago when you were practicing in Albany, and the ones seven months before that when you had an office set up in Kansas City," Dean elaborated, a little more callously than Sam would have liked, a harsh smirk on his face, nose upturned. "Not to mention a dozen others before that."

"Dean," Sam hissed warningly before turning to Friedman passively. "Of course we're not accusing you of anything."

"Yet," Dean interjected quickly.

Sighing, Sam nodded in resignation and continued, "But we obviously have to follow procedure. As each of the victims were clients of yours, we can only assume you might have some clue as to why they committed homicide."

"Before whoever pulled the O.J Simpson act decided to off themselves as well," Dean added, Sam throwing him another threatening look.

Passing his gaze between Sam and Dean carefully, Friedman drummed his fingers on the leather armrest rhythmically, crossing one leg over the other as he nodded slowly. Almost in unease, Dean glanced at Sam, eyebrow raised, before looking back at Friedman, waiting for some kind of verbal response.

Finally, after a long moment's pause, Friedman folded his spindly fingers over his lap and said, "Perhaps when we're finished with your questions, I could attend to the obvious hostility you harbour in your partnership."

Sam frowned and blinked a few times slowly before shaking his head at the doctor. "That's really not what we're here for. Now, about these former clients of yours. Do you or do you not have any helpful information regarding their relationships that may explain why they are now dead?"

With a slight incline of his head, Friedman pressed his fingertips together into a pensive peak, tapping both index fingers against his top lip.

"I really would like to explore this opposition I'm sensing between the two of you," he expressed again calmly. "There's a lot of unresolved anger here. I think I could help."

Losing what patience he had left, Dean stepped forward and planted the palms of both hands onto the doctor's desk violently and snarled, lifting the corner of his lip as he spoke. "Let's just cut through the crap and get back to business, shall we? Over a dozen people are dead. Now, we can't say with certainty why they went all cuckoo and pulled the gruesome double act. Maybe someone cut their beer and cable supply, who knows? But they're dead, and we want to know why."

"And all roads lead to you," Sam added, looking Friedman in the eye. "We need to know what you know."

Sighing seemingly with reluctance, Friedman shrugged deeply and regretfully. "I'm sorry, but that would be betraying doctor-patient confidentiality."

As Dean swore beneath his breath and stepped away from the desk, turning his back on the doctor, Sam stepped forward, a smirk on his face and a knowing sparkle in his eye.

"Actually," he said assertively, "As each of these patients are now deceased, confidentiality is overruled. And also," he laughed sardonically, "You're not a doctor in either the medical nor mental health field, therefore confidentiality would not hold up in court in any case. The files, Dr. Friedman."

With a self-satisfied, smug grin, Sam folded his arms over his chest and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

Betraying his calm exterior with the tiniest of grimaces, Friedman forced an acquiescent smile and stood up, turning his back on the brothers to sift through a large filing cabinet.

"You'd be the one from the committee's legal department then?" he said, pulling a few folders from the drawer.

Dean flashed Sam an almost impressed grin, eyebrow raised and turned back to face the doctor's desk as he clapped Sam on the back. "I never leave the office without him. Never know when you'll need a good lawyer."

With a deep, melodic laugh, Friedman nodded and handed a stack of folders to Sam with a curt, "Keep them. I've no need for them if the patients are dead. I've got my tape recordings for reference if I need it."

Slightly taken aback by his bluntness, Sam nodded, glancing at Dean and shrugging.

"Well," Dean breathed with a laugh, holding a hand out to Friedman. "Thankyou for your time, doc. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

Inclining his head again gently, Friedman shook Dean's hand firmly, never taking his eyes from Dean's. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again. Excuse me, I have clients waiting to see me."

Both nodding in eager compliancy, Sam and Dean vacated the doctor's office and headed back down the corridor.

Waiting until they were back out on the street again, Dean ran a hand through his hair and took a long slow breath.

"Is it just me," he theorized, "Or was the doc coming onto me?"

"Oh my God, Dean," Sam groaned, rolling his eyes and crossing the road quickly, letting himself into the Impala. "Suddenly you think you're God's gift to women AND men, too?"

Looking in at Sam through the window as he patted his pockets down for his keys, Dean shook his head. "Dude, the last thing on this planet I want is for middle aged old guys wanting a piece of white meat." He slid into the driver's seat and looked at Sam with a laugh of bemusement. "Although, that Friedman, he looks like he could've rocked it at my prom."

Sighing, Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered, "You didn't go to prom, Dean. You didn't make it out of the parking lot."

Unable to smother a smug, reminiscent grin, Dean shrugged in eager agreement as he pulled onto the road. "Man, prom was awesome."

Having endured a seemingly endless recount of Dean's memories of prom, Sam was glad to be back in their motel room with some space to think. With the TV buzzing quietly in the background, Sam spread the patient files out over his bed and filtered through the thick stacks of papers documenting their sessions with Dr. Friedman. Running a hand over his face with a yawn, he glanced up at the TV and sighed. There was something odd about their time spent with the doctor. He just couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Breathing out slowly again, Sam rubbed a fist to his eye and went back to looking for clues in the mountain of papers.

While Sam worked, Dean watched, head tilted to the side in admiration, as Bronte leant in over the Impala's engine.

"She's really well tuned," Bronte's voice drifted out with a tinny resonance. "You treat her well."

Grinning widely, Dean nodded and offered Bronte a rag to wipe her hands clean on. "I gotta. She's the closest thing to home I have some days."

Laughing, Bronte scrubbed spots of grease from her fingers and tucked the rag back into Dean's jeans pocket with a cheeky wink, turning back to the Impala and lowering the hood back into place.

"So I guess that means you're only passing through then? You don't live round here?"

Nodding again, Dean swallowed the stubborn lump that had risen in his throat, battling for attention against the blood rising between his legs.

"Well," Bronte laughed, plump pink cheeks sitting high with a seductive grin. "Guess I should make this a memorable visit then."

She took his hand with a reassuring grin and started to lead him away, a bounce in her step as she headed through the garage's yard towards the chain link fence at the far end. Before Dean knew what was happening, Bronte had exposed a hole in the fence and was pulling him through it, her hand still gripping his tightly.

"I love surprises as much as the next guy, but mind if I ask where exactly you're taking me?" he asked with a breathless laugh, marching at a brisk pace to keep up with her energetic skip.

Bronte shook her head with a large grin, weaving her way through the network of alleyways and abandoned yards on the outskirt of town.

"Is that a, 'No, you don't mind' or a 'No, you're not going to tell me'?" Dean laughed as he followed her, watching as she scrambled up and over a tall wooden fence casually. His eyes lingered on her backside as she vaulted over the top with practised ease.

Shaking his head with a grunt of approval, Dean clambered up and over himself, flipping himself over the top and landing in a crouch on his feet. When he stood up, he saw Bronte watching him with a smug smirk, her eyebrow raised and lips curled in a beguiling grin.

"Nice to know you can keep up with me," she giggled, flicking her long, mocha-coloured hair over her shoulder as she took off again, leaving a sweet perfume of her laughter in the air as she ran.

Exhaling a laugh, Dean raced after her, dodging trees and leaping over the occasional plank of scrap wood or carelessly disposed of electrical appliance in his path. Bronte had slipped from view, and Dean skidded to a stop as he tried to get his bearings. Cursing himself for following his libido instead of his sense of direction, he looked around, listening for any sign of her whereabouts.

"Bronte?" he called out, squinting in the moonlight.

Scratching his head, Dean licked his lips, fighting back that suffocating cage of panic that comes with realising you may have just walked into a trap. He called out again, heart pounding against his sternum fiercely when his ears caught the staccato snap of dry twigs.

"You coming or not!" Bronte yelled at him from the other side of a ditch, poking her head out from behind a tree and grinning at him cheekily.

Dean breathed out slowly with relief and hung his head laughing as he jogged to catch up to her again.

"Not often I have to work so hard to catch the girl," he laughed, falling back into step with her.

Tilting her head to look sideways at him, Bronte shrugged with a laugh. "I'm guessing normally there's not much of a chase at all. I'm guessing," she bit the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she looked at him properly and continued, "That usually the girls chase you."

Shrugging, Dean chuckled softly and tore his eyes from hers long enough to take in the view. Stretching out for a hundred square yards in front of him were dozens of decrepit and decaying tombstones, jutting out from the dirt of the dead, sparsely vegetated field. His mouth caught up with the scenario long before his brain did.

"You know, I've had girls take me to all sorts of weird places, but this is a new one for me."

Looking out over the field, Bronte giggled softly, folding her arms over her chest against the chill in the air and closing her eyes as she sighed, "Who are you?"

Staggering backwards a step, Dean glanced around, sensing an ambush.

"Look, I'm not going to shoot you or something, okay? I'm not some psycho serial killer," Bronte said with a slight, impatient roll of her eyes. "I just want to know what your deal really is. Because honestly, I didn't buy the whole, 'We're writing a paper on Dr. Friedman' bit you tried to pitch to me before. I wanna hear the truth from your lips before I pass any kinda judgement."

Relieved, Dean looked at her, digging his hands into his pockets as he chewed his answer over in his mind carefully. "We're investigating some murder-suicides. We think the doc was involved but we're not sure how exactly."

Peering at him from behind her side swept fringe, Bronte gnawed at her lip, nodding before casting her gaze over the graveyard again. "You're not the first hunters to have passed through here looking for answers, you know?"

"How'd you…how much do you know?" Dean breathed.

Shrugging, Bronte lowered herself to sit on the slant of the hill, tucking her knees up to her chest as she said, "I knew as soon as you said you were looking for Friedman. I nearly didn't want to give you the directions because the last three hunters who came asking about the doc never returned for a second date," she winked with a joyless laugh.

"I see," Dean sighed, ruffling his hair and crouching down before seating himself on the grass. "So, are you…?"

Bronte shook her head. "Not really. Mostly I just service their cars. But I've learnt things from them." She turned to look at him thoughtfully, head cocked to the side, before continuing, "I didn't believe them at first, but one day I saw it all first hand. Things I've seen, they change a girl."

"The bit about not giving Friedman a bad write up, that was your way of warning me?"

A trickle of laughter spilled from her lips as she nodded. "I didn't want to give the game away so soon. In case I was wrong about you and you thought I was crazy when I started going on about supernatural monsters and stuff."

Nodding, Dean ran a hand through his hair with a relieved chortle and sighed. "So what do you think we're dealing with here?"

"Do you always jump straight to business?" Bronte smirked, her infectious giggle lacing her words.

Dean's eyebrow shot up as he coughed a laugh. "Normally, no. This is a first for me, just ask my brother."

With another burst of giggles, Bronte turned her body to face his, resting a hand on his thigh as she leaned in slowly and brushed her lips against his. Squashing the desire to wrap his arms around her and take her in an instant, Dean swallowed the lump of lust in his throat and breathed out slowly, feeling his heart ramming against his ribcage like a maddened bull at the gate. The warmth of her hand on his leg, the scent of grease mixed with sweet deodorant on her skin, and the way her hair tickled his cheek when she kissed him, he drank it all in.

"This is meant to be a date, right?" Bronte murmured softly in his ear, that same hint of amusement bubbling up beneath her voice as she crawled her fingers around his thigh, slipping her hand in between his legs.

With a soft yelp, Dean nodded. "Uh, yeah, yeah it is." Licking his lips hungrily, he glanced around, casting his eyes over the sea of tombstones with a laugh. "I wouldn't normally be picky about where I enjoyed a girl's company, but I don't think I want to do this overlooking a bunch of six foot under stiffs."

"Don't want to do what?" Bronte frowned with a confused pout.

"Well," Dean started, licking his lips again, this time in panic.

Breaking into a cheeky grin, Bronte giggled madly and pressed her lips to his again. "Just yanking your chain, Dean."

Pulling him to his feet by his hand, Bronte started to lead Dean away, back through the trees, pausing to kiss him slowly and deeply every few feet that they travelled. Returning her enthusiasm in kind, Dean savoured the soft, moist heat of her sweet, naked lips against his each time. Following the winding, trampled trail back through the woods, clambering over palisades and crawling back under the chain link fence into the garage's yard, they laughed breathlessly as they ran for the privacy of the garage's office.

With a mad rush of giggles, Bronte bumped into the door as she walked backwards, leading Dean towards it. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip to squash the burst of laughter bubbling from the pits of her stomach, she dug a hand into her jacket's pocket, pulling out a heavily laden keychain, and thrust a key into the lock.

"Crap," she swore, pulling the ill-fitting key out and rifling through the other half dozen, trying each of them. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," she said to Dean, unable to smother the giggles surfacing again. "It's definitely one of these keys, I know it is."

Stifling a chuckle, Dean stepped up closer behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, leaning in to nuzzle at her ear. His warm breath tickled her skin as Bronte urgently jammed the last key into the lock, squealing triumphantly when the door swung open.

Another stream of laughter trickled past Bronte's lips as she pulled Dean inside by his hand, kicking the door shut as she span around and marched him backwards towards the paper coated desk. A knowing grin stretched across Dean's lips, mirroring the excitement curdling in the pit of his stomach.

"You treat all the hunters who pass through to this sort of hospitality?" he laughed, bumping into the desk and swiping an arm out behind him to clear papers from it.

Shaking her head, Bronte tossed her jacket to the floor and lifted her shirt off over her head swiftly. "Only the ones who really know their cars."

The playful giggle escaping her lips only made Dean's heart beat faster as he watched her saunter towards him. His eyes drew like magnets to the way her jeans hugged the curve of her hips, and the way they swayed gently with every step she took. Lifting his gaze, Dean released a low, playful growl of appreciation at the subtle bounce of her bust, trapped within the confines of her black and purple satin bra.

"You like?" Bronte grinned, tucking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans.

Nodding, his voice escaping him, Dean growled again and pulled her into his arms, squashing his lips against hers with a fierce urgency. Reaching her hands up, wrapping them around his throat tenderly, Bronte returned his embrace hungrily, grinning widely as he lifted her off her feet with ease.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, breaking off from his kiss with a gasp, Bronte tore his shirt from his shoulders, tossing it to the ground and immediately tugged the t-shirt underneath off, pulling it up over Dean's head with his help. Giggling excitedly, she leaned back in to taste his lips against hers again, soft shivers shuddering down her spine in response to Dean's fingers creeping up and down against her skin.

"You really know how to make a guy feel welcome," Dean murmured cheekily in her ear, turning around smoothly with her still in his arms to lay her down on the desk.

Biting her lip provocatively, Bronte nodded. "Just think what you'd be missing out on if you hadn't kept your sweet-ass car in top condition."

With a broad smirk, Dean walked his fingers over her stomach to the purple bow resting between her cleavage. "I knew there was a reason I loved my car."

As he leaned in to kiss her again, his fingertips creeping under the smooth satin cups of her bra, the unmistakable electric guitar riff of 'Smoke on the Water' thumped dully from Dean's back pocket.

"Not now," he groaned, attempting to ignore the muffled beat as it vibrated in his pocket.

Licking her lips with a laugh, Bronte drew Dean in and kissed him again slowly, taking his bottom lip between her teeth gently as she held his hand to her breast. "You better answer that. It could be important."

Sighing loudly, Dean nodded reluctantly, prying himself from the temptation of her half naked body to answer his phone.

"What!" he snapped into it through gritted teeth.

A squashed laugh rattled down the line before Sam's voice said, "Dude, it's Friedman. I'm sure of it."

Dean let out a slow, mildly irritated breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, licking his lips as Bronte sat up and ran her fingers up his chest slowly. "Can this wait? I'm kinda in the middle of something here, Sam."

Another snort of laughter was followed by Sam's voice again. "I figured as much. Look man, if we strike now we hold the element of surprise and can put an end to this tonight."

"But," Dean groaned, raising an eyebrow as Bronte wrapped her legs around his waist and began to nibble at his throat. "But it can wait, right?"

Sighing, Sam insisted again that it couldn't.

With Bronte's fingers tracing the warm contours of his abs and pecs as she dragged the tip of her tongue over his rapidly bobbing Adam's apple, Dean growled deeply and clenched his eyes shut.

"Okay! Fine! I'll meet you outside the doc's office in ten minutes," he conceded, hanging up and looking at Bronte with a slowly exhaled laugh. "Well that's going to be nice and awkward to explain to Sam."

"Oh, I'm sure his imagination has done all the work for you," she giggled, crawling up onto her knees on the desk and draping her arms around Dean's neck with a pout. "You have to go?"

Nodding, Dean bumped his forehead against hers gently before kissing her softly and slowly. "Duty calls."

Bronte brushed her fingers against the rough stubble on his cheeks and jaw gently with a soft sigh and pressed her lips to his one more time. "Be careful, okay? I wouldn't mind picking up where we left off if you come out of this alive."

She giggled again, Dean snuffing a laugh as he nodded.

"Expect a call from me before daybreak," he said with a wink, picking up his shirt and pulling it back on as he collected his clothes from the now paper-littered floor.

"Before daybreak huh? Cocky much?" Bronte smirked, sliding off the desk and slipping her shirt over her head.

"What can I say?" Dean grinned. "I'm the best of the best." Winking again, he paused at the door to kiss her cheek before sighing reluctantly and shrugging apologetically.

"You'll be seeing me," Bronte giggled, waving as he walked backwards from the office. "But you have to go first."

Licking his lips with a laugh, Dean nodded, offering a loose salute as he headed back to his car, breathing out slowly as he sunk into the driver's seat. Thumping his head against the steering wheel, he willed the circulation in his groin to stop flowing so forcefully, before finally turning the key in the ignition and pulling out.

In the shadows of Friedman's clinic, the pair of tall silhouettes crept down the corridor towards his office. Sam had successfully picked the lock while Dean disarmed the alarm, giving them free access to the building. Rays of torchlight sliced through the eerie dim as they entered the office, careful to aim the beams of their torches away from the window.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Dean hissed.

Pointing his flashlight at Dean's eyes briefly with an amused smirk, Sam tried to hide a snigger. "Still grouchy I interrupted?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean groaned. "Man you ever call me when I'm in the middle of something like that again, I'll shoot you myself."

Forcing himself to maintain a straight face, Sam nodded solemnly and returned his attention to Friedman's office. "We're looking for anything incriminating."

"Like what?" Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. "That could mean anything dude."

Shaking his head with a snort of laughter, Sam tucked his flashlight under his chin as he rifled through the small mountains of paper on the doctor's desk. Finding nothing of interest, he shoved Dean out of the way and started on the filing cabinets, picking the locks with expert ease and speed, before sifting through the countless files inside.

Glancing up from digging through Friedman's desk drawer, Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam and cleared his throat gently. "You really pulled off the whole law man thing before. You know, for a guy who's not a medical doctor, though, this guy sure goes to a helluva effort to keep his clients' secrets secret. The whole, doctor-patient confidentiality thing, you sure you weren't lying through your ass?"

Raising an eyebrow and swallowing a laugh, Sam shrugged. "Well, death does negate the rule. So either way, our asses are covered."

"'Death does negate the rule.' Dude, now you're really startin' to sound like a lawyer," Dean muttered, shoving everything back into its place inside the drawer. "Well I got nothing in here. Any luck?"

Shaking his head, Sam closed the cabinet drawers and locked them again carefully. Turning and look around the office with a sigh, his flashlight's beam fell on the large bookcase on the far side of the room.

Following his gaze, Dean aimed his own flashlight at the shelves. "You see something?"

"Not sure," Sam muttered, walking over to inspect a collection of odd artefacts lining one of the shelves in the centre of the bookcase. "Does this almost look like an altar to you?"

Frowning, Dean lifted the two halves of a torn photo from a decorative ceramic bowl at the centre of the suspected altar. "Sam, do these people look familiar to you?"

Taking one half of the photo, Sam shone his torch at the image of a young girl with copper tinted hair. His jaw dropped as he flicked his flashlight over the half Dean held in his hand. "The kids whose session we interrupted."

Dean nodded, jaw clenched grimly. "Question is, what's the doc doing with a photo of them torn in two like this?"

"I'd say that counts as something incriminating," Sam said, nodding at the well used candles lining the shelf, and the odd symbols embroidered into the altar cloth.

"Ever seen sigils like that before?" Dean asked, watching as Sam grabbed a pen and paper to sketch copies of them. "I'll take that as a no."

Sam shook his head. "They look Celtic, though. Definitely European in origin."

Taking his word for it, Dean took one last glance around the office before heading for the door. "Come on, man. I think we have all the proof we need. We gotta get to those kids before Freak-man does."

Sam paused, biting his lip. "We can't just go running in without knowing what we're up against. We don't even know if Friedman is human or not. And we have to destroy this altar."

"This is one of those times where we absolutely have to shoot first, ask questions later. And we have the photos," Dean shrugged. "It can't work without them right? Whatever kinda hoodoo this guy is working, you remove the link to the target, you remove the threat, right?"

Gnawing on his bottom lip, Sam sighed in disgruntlement, tucking his scribbled sketches into his pocket. "I'm not so sure it's as simple as that, Dean."

With his hand on the doorknob, patience wearing thin, Dean glared at Sam with a dangerous spark in his eyes. "Well I'm telling you it is. Now get your ass into gear and move it. We're leaving."

Without waiting for Sam to follow, Dean turned and marched out, switching his flashlight off as a precaution.

Sighing, Sam pocketed the other half of the photo and followed his brother back down the corridor and out onto the pavement. "I still think we should have torn that altar to pieces, Dean."

Making his way back to the Impala, Dean rolled his eyes emphatically. "Will you shut up about the damn altar! I told you, we've got the photos. It's fine." Seeing the approaching pout-fest on Sam's face as the engine purred to life, Dean sighed and said, "We'll swing by their place to check it out, make sure they're fine. Happy?"

Only barely sparing his brother a glance, Sam nodded, grunting in acquiescence and continuing to brood.

Rolling his eyes again, muttering under his breath, Dean pulled away from the curb, a dark silence creeping into the car, squashing even the thrumming beat of Foreigner blaring from the radio.

Having not said a word to each other the whole seven minute drive to the neatly maintained apartment complex where the young couple lived, Sam and Dean armed themselves in silence, retrieving their handguns from the trunk and tucking them into their waistbands casually.

"We go in, we scope it out, we leave," Dean said as they headed up the stairwell. Catching the exasperated look Sam threw him, he added reluctantly, "Unless there's hinky crap going down. Then we stay and help. But there won't be any hinky crap because I told you. Everything is under control."

Sam didn't even have time to answer back before a sudden, strangled scream pierced the air.

"I told you!" Sam snapped breathlessly as they bolted up a flight of stairs and along the corridor, guns drawn in anticipation.

Rearing back, Dean lashed a foot out, kicking the apartment door open with a loud splintering of the wood around the frame. They ran in, pistols raised, sweeping their sights around the room quickly. Another gurgled, almost muffled scream rang out from behind the closed bedroom door. Dean jerked his head towards it, Sam responding with a nod and creeping forwards with his brother covering his back.

With Dean covering the door from a good two feet away, Sam pressed his back up against the wall, reaching a hand across the door to turn the knob, waiting for a nod from Dean before throwing the door open, raising his gun in one swift movement.

"Holy crap!" Dean yelped, lowering his gun instantly and turning his back on the scene.

Another shrill scream followed, along with a train of profanities.

"Oh my God," Sam whimpered as he took in the young couple tangled up within their bed sheets, the copper-haired girl shrieking madly as her boyfriend fumbled to pull some pants up. "We're so sorry! We'll just…we'll just go."

Backing out of the room hastily, Sam spun round and marched out of the apartment, pausing only very briefly to attempt closing the door. Failing miserably, he concealed his handgun beneath his shirt again and ran to catch up with Dean, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

Outside on the street, heading back to the Impala in stunned silence, each brother searched for the right words to say. Dean ruffled his hair, dragging his hand down over his face and rubbed his jaw, while Sam shoved his hands deep into his pockets, staring at his feet as he walked.

Fumbling to extract his keys from his jacket pocket, Dean sighed loudly then looked at Sam in exasperation as he groaned, "Didn't I tell you it would be fine!"

"Well how was I supposed to know!" Sam snapped. "And you couldn't have been sure that just taking the photos would work. We had an obligation to check!"

"Obligation," Dean snorted. "What do I care about some goddamn obligation to a pair of strangers!"

Leering at his big brother with something resembling disgust, Sam slammed his door shut again and pointed an accusing finger at Dean. "No, oh no, you do not get to say that to me! You're the one who always said this was our job, this was our calling. I do this because of you! I do this because of you and dad, because of you convincing me it was the family business! So don't you turn around and say you don't care."

Throwing his arms up, Dean said, "Well, maybe I don't! We did our job, I don't see why I should waste a perfectly good night playing babysitter for some teenagers. Especially not when they're enjoying the one thing I came this close to getting myself tonight!"

"So that's what this is about?" Sam grimaced, walking around the car to stand facing Dean, face screwed up in annoyance. "You're still pissed that the job interrupted you're little play date?"

An indescribable fountain of anger swelled inside Dean as he stepped closer to his little brother, erupting from him as he shoved Sam backwards. "You're the one who interrupted, so don't try and blame it on the job. The one night I get to have a little fun and you insist that I have to come check out the doc. Who, by the way, is probably three counties away by now!"

"Does it matter though? We can track him down and catch him there," Sam hissed, jaw clenched as he shrugged his jacket back up onto his shoulders and shook his head at Dean before planting his palms on his chest and giving him an equally forceful push. "So why don't you just grow up and get over it."

Staggering backwards, Dean wrinkled his nose up, jaw clenched tightly as he curled his hands into white-knuckled fists. "You got something to say, say it, Sammy."

Shaking his head, Sam held his hands up, palms out. "I got nothin' to say, Dean."

He turned to walk away, enticing a snort of laughter from Dean.

"Pussy."

Before Dean could react, Sam spun around, fist raised and drawn back, landing it squarely on Dean's jaw. Dean stumbled again, a hand flying up to block a second blow before it could rearrange his face.

"Oh, so Sammy finally has some fight in him!" he taunted, rolling out and away from Sam, pushing himself to his feet and taking a defensive stance, balancing his weight on his front foot.

"Yeah," Sam smirked, "I have some fight in me."

Throwing his jacket to the ground, Sam flew at Dean, tackling him around his waist and forcing him to the ground. Pinning Dean down with his knees, Sam let fly with a medley of left and right hooks.

"For every time you've left me with the responsibility!" he grunted with each punch, his battered knuckles digging into the bruised flesh of Dean's cheeks. "For every time you left me alone!"Groaning, Dean tried to force some words past his lips, but the rattle of his teeth in his gums made speech impossible.

Raising his arm up high, Sam glared at him. "I'm better without you."

His chest heaved for each breath as he stood up, dragging Dean to his feet with him, fist curled. Just as he felt the strength to deliver the final blow, Dean grabbed his arm, twisting it around behind him and knocked Sam to his knees, drawing his pistol from his waistband in one swift, efficient move.

Keeping Sam's arm pinned to his back, Dean pointed his .22 at Sam's head, panting for breath and blinking through a swollen, bleeding eye.

"We're both better without me," he muttered around his split lip, cocking the hammer.

"No!" a scream rang out.

Almost from nowhere, Bronte sprinted towards Dean, crash tackling him and sending his gun skittering across the ground, the round discharging and echoing throughout the streets. Landing together with a heavy thud on the asphalt, Dean growled at Bronte with an animalistic ferocity.

"Get off!"

"No!" Bronte roared back at him, grabbing his lapels and forcing him to look at her. "Don't you get it!"

Staggering to his feet, Sam shook his head in disbelief, angered at the intervention. "Get what?"

With a groan, Bronte helped Dean to his feet, keeping herself between the brothers as she explained breathlessly, "Friedman played you like a fiddle on acid. You two were about to become his next victims!"

Looking at each other, Sam and Dean could see only hatred in each other's eyes.

"Look," Bronte gasped as she caught her breath. "Trust me, you don't want to kill each other. That's just Friedman playing some voodoo mind trick on you, I swear it!"

Tearing his eyes away from Dean long enough to address Bronte, Sam felt a wash of calm filter through him. "How do you know that?"

Shrugging, Bronte offered Dean a clean handkerchief from her pocket to hold to his lip, and said, "Like I told Dean, I've seen things, the sorta things that force you to change the way you see this world. When I started noticing hunters offing each other, or just randomly wasting hookers then themselves," she glanced briefly at Dean before continuing, "I realised it had to be Friedman covering his ass."

"But Friedman had no idea you were onto him," Sam muttered, catching on. "So you've watched all this go on and figured it out on your own."

Nodding only half-heartedly, Bronte helped Dean into the backseat of the Impala, checking his injuries before looking back at Sam. "I never thought he'd get to you two, though. I mean you were doing so well until, well," she raised an eyebrow as she glanced at Dean, and snorted a laugh as she continued, "Until about five minutes ago."

Snuffing a laugh, conceding to her point, Dean dabbed at his lip carefully, cringing a little at the twinge of pain, and shrugged. "Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

"Honestly," Bronte laughed softly, "I didn't have any proof, until I went through Friedman's car and found this."

She handed Sam a small moleskin notebook with an odd design embossed on the cover.

"Good job," Sam said, impressed as he turned it over in his hand, examining it carefully, his brow furrowing into a frown. "Hey wait a second. I know this."

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper. In his own scrawled rendition was the sigil he'd seen embroidered onto the altar mat at Friedman's office.

"Is it a match?" Dean asked, long legs dangling out the car door as he watched intently.

Nodding, Sam looked at Bronte and offered a smile. "Thanks."

"Well I couldn't let you go and kill each other, could I?" she laughed, punching Sam on the arm playfully before getting in the driver's seat.

"Whoa whoa wait a second," Dean muttered out of habit. "Who said you're driving?"

Sighing loudly, Bronte turned in the seat to look at Dean. "I did." Ducking her head down to look through the passenger window at Sam still standing in the street, she turned the key in the ignition. "Well, you coming to finish this sucker off or not?"

Blinking, Sam ran around and slid himself into the front seat, buckling himself in quickly as she pulled away from the curb, unable to resist a chuckle at Dean's obvious discomfort.

"We still don't know what his deal is though," he said to Bronte, flicking through the notebook to investigate the pages within properly. "We can't just kill him if he's human."

Resting his throbbing head against the window, Dean shrugged. "I think we can rest assured the altar at his office was a distraction, Sam. And I really don't think the world is going to miss this particular douche bag."

Sighing, Sam nodded, skimming the scrawled jottings on each page. A collection of names, dates, locations and other numbers filled every possible scrap of space.

"Anything?" Bronte probed as she drove, handling the Impala like a pro.

"I'm not sure," Sam sighed. "But these dates go back over a century, and this whole notebook is written in the same handwriting."

Meeting his brother's gaze in the rear-view mirror, Dean's eyes hardened as his jaw clenched.

"So he's not human. We can kill him now, right?"

Explaining as she navigated the black bullet through the quiet streets, Bronte filled the brothers in on what she had learnt.

"Friedman dropped the car off this morning to replace a punctured tire and repair what he called a dent in the rear fender. Looked like someone threw a spaz and kicked the whole thing in. I didn't say anything, just took his details and put the car in the garage with the others I'm being backlogged to work on, but that's another story entirely," she laughed grimly, fingers curling around the leather steering wheel gently, almost taking comfort in the smooth, softly veined texture of it. "Anyway, he gave me specific instructions to fix the damage and nothing else. So, I did. But when I got in the car to steer it back out into the holding bay, I did some rummaging around."

Dean snuffed a laugh. "You sure you're not a hunter? 'Cause you sure act like one."

Meeting his eyes in the rear view with a proud grin, Bronte nodded. "I'm sure. But I'll take that as a compliment." She grinned again, stomach fluttering as Dean grinned back. Throwing her gaze back to the road self consciously, she continued, "Yeah, so I did some rifling around in his car and found the notebook. Soon as I realised you boys would be walking straight into his hands, I had to come find you. You'd gotten too close, and if I could figure that out, no way Friedman would've overlooked it."

Looking mildly ashamed of himself, Sam nodded, eyes perusing the symphony of varied inks on the pages of the notebook again, some heavy with graphite and leaving powdery stains on his fingers, others vibrant and new. Written in the freshest ink, the same series of numbers repeated themselves across the page, jotted down hurriedly in a messy scrawl beside what appeared to be corresponding initials.

"Bronte, what else can you tell us about Friedman?"

Tearing her eyes from the road momentarily to glance at Sam, Bronte shrugged. "Not much. Only that he moved here about three months ago. Before that, I think he was living in some haggard back water hick town south of nowhere." She shrugged again and sighed. "Look, I know where he lives, that's about all I can offer to help. The rest is gonna have to be up to you boys."

"Three months ago you say? So, around about the fifteenth of March?"

Tilting her head in confirmation, Bronte threw her gaze to the rear view mirror before taking a left turn. "That sounds about right."

Nodding, Sam looked back at the notebook before asking quietly, "Bronte, what are your initials?"

Frowning, she said hesitantly, "B.C.L, why?"

Leaning forward in his seat, cringing against the bruising decorating his body and the throbbing in his head, Dean glared at Sam, face screwed up in concern. "Man, what is it?"

"I think," Sam licked his lips and swallowed deeply. "I think he's been stalking Bronte."

Both brothers turned to look at her, a hot anger rising in Dean's ribcage as he gritted his teeth.

A look of confusion crossed Bronte's face as she glanced over her shoulder at him, before clenching her fingers around the steering wheel tightly, eyes zoning back in on the road stretching out ahead of them as she let out a slow and uneasy breath. "I should have known."

Letting the Impala idle for a moment before cutting the engine beside the curb opposite Friedman's deceitfully modest-looking house, Bronte gripped the steering wheel tightly and gnawed at her bottom lip as she stared out the windscreen mutely.

"Uh, maybe you should stay here," Dean suggested, breaking the stony, cold silence settling itself between them. "If Franken-Freud is after you, it's probably safer for you here."

"No!" Bronte exclaimed instantly, hands leaping off the wheel as she spun in her seat to look at him with wide-eyed urgency. "I mean, I don't think I want to be left alone. What if it's a trap? He'd have me all wrapped up in a shiny metal gift box ready for the taking."

Churning it over in his mind, Sam finally nodded in acquiescence.

"We could always use the back up anyway," he smiled at Bronte conservatively, lips stretched taut with a nagging sense of impending doom.

Shrugging, Dean pushed his door open with a characteristic squawk of the metal hinges and stepped out onto the sidewalk, stretching his aching muscles with a roll of his neck. "Well, if that's okay with both of you, I suggest we move our asses before someone notices us sitting around with our thumbs up our butts."

Choking down a trickle of laughter, Bronte nodded, pulling herself from the car and staring at the house quietly. "Well, after you, boys."

Dim dribbles of light from the street lamps lining the sidewalk stretched their shadows across the asphalt as they crossed the road and crept cautiously through the meticulously maintained scrub surrounding Friedman's porch. Covering the rear, Bronte followed the brothers quietly, glancing around in fear of being seen.

Back pressed against the rough, weathered boards of the house, Dean pulled his chrome Colt from his waistband, fingering the smooth ivory tenderly as he braced it against his chest, and nodded at Sam as he gestured towards a small window sunk into the wall. With a subtle tilt of his head, Sam crept past, Bronte still guarding their backs silently. Her eyes peered through the darkness, falling on Dean as he snapped the safety off of his handgun and jerked his head towards her. Blinking uncertainly, Bronte glanced around quickly before sighing and slipping through the gap made by Sam cracking the window open, her own lithe figure wriggling through with ease. Already inside, after negotiating the dangerously narrow opening with some unease, Sam held his hands up and guided Bronte to the floor carefully.

"Thanks," she whispered softly, a hand flying to cover her mouth and nose against the dirt lingering the air.

Boxes, packing crates and numerous heavy trunks formed miniature skyscrapers around the blackened room, a tiny sliver of moonlight sifting in and dancing off of the specks of dust floating, suspended in the darkness.

"Looks like Quackzilla didn't plan on setting up the white picket fence here any time soon," Dean muttered as he landed agilely on both feet and shrugged his jacket back onto his shoulders properly, retrieving his Colt from his waistband once again.

Nodding, Sam swept his gaze over the room, gripping his 9mm comfortingly as he moved forward, taking the frontline. Despite the mountains of possession littering the floor, there was nothing out of the ordinary as he crept silently up the cellar stairs, Dean bringing up the rear with Bronte between them.

"You okay?" Dean whispered softly, eyes darting away from their surroundings to land on Bronte briefly.

Forcing down an anxious lump in her throat, she shrugged and curled her lips up into a small smile. Frowning, Dean sighed and ducked in front of her, Sam back-pedalling to fall into step with Bronte as they stepped out of the cellar into a poorly lit corridor. Making their way down the corridor, Sam and Dean leap-frogged positions constantly, covering each other with pistols raised.

Bursting out from the corridor into a candlelit room, the brothers' eyes landed on a robed figure hunched over the coffee table. Candles sat glued to nearly every surface, most on their last fiery breath, the curtains drawn shut tight, a log fire lit within the hearth, simmering on its last few embers. Hanging above the mantle like a unionist's flag, a cloth, embroidered with the same symbol they'd discovered in Friedman's office, shivered gently in the slight breeze drifting out from the fireplace. At the centre of the coffee table, a pewter chalice steamed ominously like a prop out of a mad scientist's laboratory. Friedman, hunched over double, face hidden by the hood of his robe, sucked in the vapours noisily, like a child slurping at a milkshake.

Throwing his gaze sideways at Dean, Sam muttered, "Do we shoot?"

Blinking at his brother, Dean cursed softly. "I have no idea, man."

Suddenly whipping the hood away from his face, Friedman looked up at the boys with piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow in their sockets. "Do you know the price for beauty gentlemen?"

Recoiling a little in shock at the deep, suffocating resonance of the doctor's voice, Dean and Sam glanced at each other, eyes going wide in confusion.

"It is our very own humanity," he continued. "But everything must come at a cost. The lives of a pitiful few are all it takes to keep me young, and all it costs me is my God given soul."

"Well that's a persuasive little sales pitch you got there," Dean snarled at him, "But I think we'll take a raincheck."

With an inhuman smirk, Friedman rose to his full height calmly and held his hands out over the chalice, intoning methodically in a language neither Sam or Dean were sure they recognised. The fog rising from the goblet seemed to breathe and expand, spilling out over the rims as Friedman drank it in, continuing to chant like some psychotic ventriloquist act.

Taking a few steps backwards, guns still training their crosshairs on the doc, the brothers exchanged confused grimaces, Dean catching his breath desperately between his Adam's apple and his tonsils. "Dude, where's Bronte?"

Groaning in annoyance, Sam spun on his heels to face Dean, eyes piercing him furiously. "This is the reason I don't like it when the girl gets involved, Dean."

Frowning, Dean stumbled back a few more steps as Sam raised his handgun, the barrel eyeing Dean off hungrily. Licking his lips, throat drying up with the taste of panic rising in his oesophagus, he held his hands up, fingers still wrapped around the grip of his Colt.

"She's involved whether we like it or not, Sam! She IS the job," Dean snapped, following his brother's movements cautiously as Sam edged between Dean and Friedman. "Sonuva bitch."

Continuing to spout the same voodooistic incantation, sucking in more of the vapours billowing from the chalice, Friedman snarled smugly, his eyes wide and bright. A gust of wind shot from the fireplace, whipping through the room, extinguishing each of the candles instantly, leaving the embers in the hearth untouched. With the room plunged into darkness, Friedman released a cackle that tore the sweat from Dean's body. Sam, seemingly oblivious, continued to mark Dean with his crosshairs, frozen in an odd trance and shielding Friedman mutely.

"This little intervention between you and your brother is rather fascinating, wouldn't you say?" the doctor purred, cutting off mid-chant. "How easily one turns against the other."

Grimacing, lowering his pistol to his side slowly, one hand held up, palm out cautiously, Dean muttered, "Only because of the Sigmund Freud mind crap you pulled on him!"

Head tilting to the side pensively as he inhaled the fog through his nose, Friedman raised a straightened arm, gesturing towards the corridor behind Dean.

"You know, the spell works so much better when a female is, how did your brother put it?" he paused for effect before hissing, "Involved."

Frowning, jaw clenching in an agitated grimace, Dean turned slowly, his ears pricking up at the sound of Bronte's voice behind him ringing with a rhythmic hum. Trigger finger tapping anxiously against the grip of his M1911, he faced the corridor, keeping his gun between himself and Sam. Staring back at him, voice gaining volume as she read from the doctor's notebook, was Bronte, tears glistening on her cheeks.

Spinning on his feet to glare at Friedman, Sam still standing stunned as a statue between them, Dean cried, "You sonuva bitch. Let her go!"

That same sweat-inducing cackle bubbled from Friedman's lips. "I'm interested to see how you might react to her potential death. It's intriguing to me who you choose to save. Your brother, or the girl."

Dean growled lowly, looking back at Bronte, his pulse leaping into the red as his heart battered his ribcage like a possessed jackhammer. "You don't have to do this, you can fight it!"

Shaking her head, Bronte whimpered, her voice faltering for only the briefest of moments, but never pausing her recital.

"Amazing really," Friedman murmured as though speaking to himself, "How easily you can trap a gullible, pretty little thing into doing your bidding. And all without the power of mind control."

Dean's heart flew to his throat, squeezing the oxygen from his windpipe as he threw his bewildered gaze back to Bronte, disbelief scrawled across his face.

"He's lying," he muttered, before snarling and growling at her. "Tell me he's lying!"

Shoulders sagging, Bronte let the notebook fall to her side, continuing to chant from memory, her eyes pleading with Dean for forgiveness. Face flushing a furious crimson, Dean looked away from her in shame, his eyes falling on Sam's motionless figure silhouetted against the pale glow of cinders in the fireplace behind Friedman. Without a word, Sam roared and flung himself towards Bronte, gun dropping to the floorboards with a neglected clatter.

"Sam, no!"

Throwing himself at his younger brother, Dean tackled him to the ground, grabbing Sam's lapels and shaking him.

"Snap out of it, Sammy! Listen to me," Dean pleaded, pinning Sam down with his weight. "Just snap out of it!"

Like a boom of unexpected thunder, Friedman chuckled gleefully. "That's right, Sammy, listen to your brother giving you more orders. Haven't you grown tired of him always telling you what to do? Of his constant derision, of his desire to fornicate taking priority over your work?"

Scowling, Sam nodded, shifting his weight beneath Dean just enough to knock him off. Planting a foot roughly on Dean's throat, Sam glowered down at him, twisting his foot just enough to make Dean gasp loudly for breath.

"She has to go," Sam grunted, tearing his foot away, leaving Dean choking for air, and moved swiftly towards Bronte, her voice quivering as she continued to chant.

With every step closer Sam took, Bronte edged away, coming further into the room, her eyes flitting towards Dean's prone body as he rolled onto his side, wheezing heavily. Her intoning grew louder as she crept closer to Friedman, changing rhythm and sincerity.

Basking in the satisfaction of his work, Friedman watched as Sam lunged at Bronte again, his hands wrapping around her neck easily, catching her mid-verse. The notebook fell to the ground as Bronte's hands flew to her throat, struggling against Sam's vice-like grip. Dean could only watch in horror as Bronte's feet lifted clear of the ground, squirming back and forth as she fought to escape. Short, desperate squawks were ripped from her lips by every extra ounce of pressure Sam applied.

"You see, Dean," Friedman began, sinking once again to his knees in front of the chalice, "She was under orders to kill you, but, as I've mentioned, the spell works so much better when a female's blood is spilt. I realised I could use you."

Tearing his eyes from Bronte's twitching body with a groan, Dean scowled fiercely and croaked breathily, "The graveyard, you mean she really was gonna shoot me or something?"

"I changed my mind and decided to let you live. I gave her a change of orders and she followed them," Friedman sneered, glancing up from the bubbling chalice to watch Bronte's subsiding struggle. "Well, to a fashion at least."

Staggering to his feet, Dean grimaced, every muscle burning in agony. "You said it would be interesting to see who I save. Well you're about to find out."

Mustering his strength, he hurled himself at Sam, dragging both his brother and Bronte to the ground. Instinctively, Sam released his death grip on Bronte's throat and flung his fist into Dean's jaw with a dull thud and sharp crack of knuckles against flesh. An insane grin of glee broadened Friedman's face as he observed the scene like some sick patron of the arts.

"Whomever's blood is spilt tonight, I will reap the benefits. You cannot win. There will be bloodshed and I shall have my youth."

Grunting as he wrestled against Sam, throwing his arms up to block another blow to the face, Dean coughed up a laugh. "Didn't you ever see what happened to Kenny Rogers? Grow old gracefully, it's just safer man."

"For everyone," a breathless voice muttered.

Looking past Sam's broad shoulders, knocking aside another right hook deftly, Dean squinted across the room at Bronte as she pushed herself to her feet, leaning against the wall weakly. He could barely make out her silhouette in the darkness, but he could hear her raspy breath forcing itself through her lips to her throttled windpipe.

"I'm sorry, Dean," she murmured, eyes locked on Friedman's as he leered at her. "It's true, I was taking orders from him. But now he's gonna get a taste of his own hoodoo."

Raising her arm, holding the notebook open, she began to read, voice pushing past her aching throat and filling the room. Friedman's icy blue eyes widened in fury as he leapt to his feet, sucking the fog in more urgently than ever.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, robes flaring out behind him dramatically as he shook his hands free from the sleeves. "Sam, kill her! Do it now before she ensnares your brother for good! Then kill yourself, end it all!"

Roaring in anger, Dean cocked his arm back, driving the heel of his palm up and into Sam's nose, forcing it back towards his sinuses with a sickening snap and knocking him out cold before he could reach Bronte. "Sorry, Sammy, but it's for your own good." Shaking out the pain in his hand, he turned and looked at Bronte, frowning. "Whatever the hell it is you're doing, keep doing it!"

Nodding curtly, Bronte resumed her intonation, growing louder and more confident with each syllable. Reciprocating, Friedman began chanting, different words and different tone but just as fierce, his voice rising above Bronte's and pushing it aside aggressively. The mist rising from the chalice seemed to shrink back from Friedman, sucking itself back into the pewter vessel as he slurped at it greedily. Shock registered on his brow, but only for a moment.

"You stupid girl, you can't outdo me!"

Pausing only momentarily to snarl at him, Bronte snapped, "I've been waiting five months to do this."

As her voice swelled in volume, the ashes in the hearth flared to life, shooting great amber flames up the flue before unexpectedly dying, dramatically casting the room into total darkness. Sparks appeared in the pitch black and danced across the fabric of the cloth dangling above the fireplace, seeking out the embroidered threads of the sigil and consuming them hungrily, igniting into an angry patchwork of spontaneous combustion. As the blaze spread from the centre of the cloth outwards, the vapours within the chalice exploded with an intense roar. Still breathing them in, Friedman screeched like a hell bound banshee as the searing inferno drove itself down his throat, lighting him up like an enormous gruesome jack-o'-lantern.

Dean watched with revolted captivation as the doctor crumpled to the floorboards, shrieking horrifically as the flames enveloped his entire body, consuming him from the inside out.

With Friedman's last breath extinguished by the fire, the room once again plunged into shadows, the flames disappearing just as suddenly as they had sprung to life. Bronte collapsed to the floor in a heap, once again gasping for air noisily.

"That was one helluva light show huh?" she chuckled throatily, coughing with the effort to speak.

Hanging his head with a laugh, Dean rasped back, "You, you have a lot of explaining to do. I'm talking full Spanish Inquisition. I mean, what the hell just happened here?"

Running a hand through her hair, Bronte laughed, nodding with a sigh as she squinted in the dim, eyes slowly adjusting. "Is your brother okay?"

Stepping towards Sam carefully, Dean nudged him with a foot. Grunting, Sam rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and spitting blood from his mouth.

"He's fine," Dean snorted, holding a hand out and helping his brother to his feet. "I think I may have improved your face, Sammy."

Groaning, Sam thumped him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, well, you look like crap, too, Dean." Wrinkling his nose up, he looked around. "Why does it smell like char grilled pork in here?"

Squashing down a laugh before it could escape, Dean clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder and started leading him past Friedman's fried corpse and through the house towards the front door. "I'll explain everything later. When I've figured it for myself."

With an emphatic glance tossed in Bronte's direction, he helped Sam limp back towards the car, ignoring the resounding bells in his own head.

"What do we do about the body?" Bronte enquired, chewing on her lip as she looked back at the house.

Turning to look at her, Sam's face tightened as he grunted, "You killed the bastard?"

"He killed himself," Dean muttered bluntly, getting in and turned the key in the ignition. "We leave it. Let the cops deal with it."

As the engine purred to life, Dean glanced in the rear view mirror at Bronte and sighed deeply as his head and heart competed for control. But deep down, he already knew which had won the fight.

Having dropped Sam at the local ER to get his nose snapped back into place, Dean leant against the grille of the Impala outside the garage, listening as Bronte tried to explain. His arms folded across his chest, brow furrowed sceptically as he kept his bruised eyes to the ground at her feet.

"I was living out in Baldwin, Michigan for a while last year, running a small garage with a family friend. Friedman rocked up in Pleasant Plains one night and by the end of the week, every couple within fifty square miles was seeing him for relationship counselling. It's like they just flocked to him." She took a breath and pursed her lips together as she chanced a look at Dean. His eyes stayed glued to the ground as she sighed and continued, "I'd met a few hunters before, when they were passing through wherever I was staying at the time and needed a service."

Dean snorted a laugh. "Did their service include the how's-your-father as well?"

Rubbing her temples slowly with an impatient sigh, Bronte snapped, "You weren't the first but you come pretty damn close okay! I don't normally get that involved." She looked at him, forcing him to lift his gaze. "I don't just crack onto any hunter, and for good reason. I know what you're like, you do the job and you skip town, and I never see you again."

Frown deepening, Dean unfolded his arms slowly and shoved his hands into his pockets. "You got involved and got burned."

Nodding, she continued, "He was passing through Baldwin, just this tiny, speck of nothing village in Lake County. He was having some issues with his muffler so I took a look for him. We got talking and I realised he was looking for Friedman. Like I told you, you weren't the first." She looked up at Dean, eyes brimming with tears. Blinking them away, she went on, "We went out for a few drinks, but when he left his number with me, I couldn't just walk away. I called him, we went out again, and then the next day he was gone. He called me from Pleasant Plains, told me not to come looking for him and that he was sorry."

Licking his lips slowly, Dean shuffled from one foot to the other and crossed his arms over his chest again. "He knew he was never coming back."

Rubbing her nose against the back of her hand, Bronte nodded as she resumed her story haltingly, exhaling slowly. "His name was Julian. He was a loner, worked alone, travelled alone. When Friedman realised he was being tracked, he worked his hoodoo mind control crap. Julian found a street prowler, took her back to his motel, did her then slit her throat before giving himself a dose of lead poisoning straight to the brain."

Dean's heart leapt straight to his throat and he had to force it back down with a gulp as he looked up at her, eyes wide.

"I wouldn't have even known," she whimpered softly, "But it made it onto the news. I was still so sure that all those stories hunters had told me were just tall tales, you know? Drunk old dudes trying to impress me and stuff. But when Julian went and ganked a prostitute I knew there had to be something hinky going on. So I tracked Friedman down, worked my way under his skin and became his new apprentice."

When she paused, wiping her face clean roughly on the back of her sleeve, Dean reached into his pocket and held out a handkerchief. "Don't worry, you're not gonna catch cooties or somethin' nastier, it's clean."

Snorting a soft laugh, Bronte nodded, flashing him a brief smile and took it from his hand, biting her lip as she toyed with it between her fingers.

As her face screwed up searching for the right words to say, Dean interjected, "You needed to get close to him to bring him down?"

Looking up quickly, Bronte nodded with wide-eyed agreement. "Exactly. I learnt a few tricks of the trade, did my homework, studied his hinky little notebook full of spells and potential victims and found an invocation to the spirits that would turn the souls Friedman stole against him."

Rubbing a hand over the blood splattered stubble covering his jaw, Dean frowned. "There's just one thing I need to know. Besides why your name was in that notebook. Was that some kinda employee record he had going?"

Hanging her head with a laugh, Bronte ruffled her hair and shrugged. "I didn't take any note of it before Sam mentioned it. All the names, dates and initials in the book were of his clients and potential victims. He kept track of their movements, appointments and birthdays for numerology. It's actually how he picked his victims." She trailed off, eyes clenching shut. "Damn it, I should have realised sooner. I'm sorry, Dean."

Shaking his head, Dean ran his fingers through his hair with a grim chuckle. "Guess that really backfired on him, huh?"

Looking at him, Bronte screwed her nose up, trying to stifle a laugh. "That was terrible, Dean. Just terrible."

"Still kinda funny though, right?" Dean grinned, ruffling his hair and pushing his weight off the grille, thrusting his hands back into his pockets.

"What was the one thing you needed to know, Dean?" Bronte laughed softly, stepping towards him slowly.

Smirking cheekily, Dean pulled his hands from his jacket's pockets and grabbed her by her waist, pulling her closer before whispering in her ear.

"Did you still wanna pick up where we left off?"