Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Rub it in my face, why dontcha? BTW, I'm not doing this every chapter, so consider this a blanket disclaimer for this fic. If I somehow gain possession of anything Supernatural-related, trust me, I'll brag here first.

Spoilers: Everything up through AHBL2 is fair game.

Reviews: I like 'em. They make me happpy. LEAVE 'EM! Please. :)

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She tried to ignore the incessant hammering on the front door. Rolled over and pulled the pillow tightly around her ears. But she could still hear the knocking. She groaned as waves of nausea rolled through her in time with the pounding in her throbbing head. Maybe she shouldn't have drunk the entire bottle of Jack Daniels the night before. Or that six-pack of Heineken. Or the full bottle of Jagermeister. The pounding continued, and she was beginning to have trouble determining whether it was the idiot at the door or the miniature drummer pounding away in her brain. Finally, giving up on sleep – or drunken oblivion, it made no difference to her – she dragged herself from the bed and stood, taking a moment to allow the dizziness to subside.

She trudged from the bedroom through the living room to the front door and yanked it open without even looking out the window first, eyes half closed against the mid-morning light. She hadn't bothered to find a robe to cover her white lace camisole and thin gray boy shorts, anxious as she was to give this annoying asshole at the door a piece of her mind about disturbing hung over grieving widows at ass o'clock on a Saturday morning. But the moment the door opened, the words froze in her throat. It wasn't just one asshole. It was two of them. Two men dressed in suits and ties, one very tall, at least six-foot-four, with shaggy brown hair and boyish good looks. The other was shorter, but still tall, a bit over six feet. His golden brown hair stood in somewhat unruly tufts on his head, but her attention was caught by his hazel green eyes. When he took in her sleepy and barely-clothed appearance, his face was split by a sultry smile that she would have recognized anywhere, even if she hadn't identified him by his face the second she opened the door.

"Dude. Seriously? Am I being punked? 'Cause I've gotta tell ya, I'm not famous. And I know you're not here to tell me I won the Route 666 challenge, 'cause I'm not even a Verizon subscriber."

The taller man looked confused. "I'm sorry, are you Mrs. Justema?" He pronounced it Jus-tee-ma. "It's 'Jus-tih-ma,'" she corrected automatically. "Accent on the 'jus.' And yes, I am. Call me Melody, though. Or Mel. Whatever."

She walked away from the door and dragged her body toward the kitchen. "You boys want some coffee?" she called over her shoulder. "'Cause I think I'm gonna need some." She missed the puzzled look the two men exchanged as they stepped warily into the living room.

"Uh, ma'am?" the angel with the sultry smile called after her. "I'm Agent Ford, and my partner here is Agent Hamill. We're with the FBI, and we're here to ask some questions about your husband's…accident."

She looked over from her place at the coffee pot, and snorted. "Uh-huh. French Roast okay?"

She didn't wait for an answer before pulling out the canister and pouring the coffee grounds into a waiting filter. She turned on the pot before returning to the living room. The men were still standing there looking bemused.

"Well, are y'all gonna sit down?" They didn't move.

"Do you usually invite strange men into your home without asking for ID?" the taller man asked.

"Well, Samuel Winchester," she drawled, "I could ask to see your Agent Hamill ID, but I reckon we both know it would be a fake. I mean, seriously, who would actually fall for that crap?"

Before she could blink, both men were pointing guns at her chest. She raised an elegant eyebrow and said, "Alright kids, it's a little too early in the morning, and I'm a little too hung over for you boys to come barging into my house waving pistols at me. Seriously, what the fuck is going on here? Why are Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki standing in my living room being Winchesters hard at work?"

The sultry-smiled sex god ground out, "Look lady, I don't know who Jason and Jared are, but I think you should explain how the fuck you know us."

"Oh, for God's sake. Okay, Dean, I'll play along. Why are you and Sam here, and what do you want to know about Isaac for? For one thing, the FBI doesn't usually get too involved in random attacks by wolves, so that was the wrong cover to use for this case. And for another, yes, it was a random attack by a wolf, according to the coroner, not a werewolf or a hellhound or a wendigo, or whatever it is you're insinuating with your presence. And finally, where the hell do you two get off coming to bother a grieving widow with this stupid game you're playing?! I want to know who put you up to this, and I want to know right fucking now!"

The men exchanged troubled glances. Melody stood before them, chest heaving in anger, fists clenched at her sides, shooting daggers at the two of them with her eyes.

Sam lowered his weapon. "There have been four other identical attacks in this area in the past two months. We suspect that it was a werewolf, or maybe even a pack of them."

"Dude!" Dean exclaimed. "Why are you telling her this?"

"Because she's obviously got some idea what's going on here, and I think she deserves answers to her questions."

"Yeah, that's all well and good, Sammy," she cut in, "but my real question is who put you two up to this. Because, as much as I admire the work you boys do on televisions across the country every Thursday night, I'd be mighty interested in knowing how two of the hottest actors in the galaxy came to be on my doorstep stirring shit about my late husband."

At that, Dean lowered his gun. "Yeah, I know I'm hot and all, but an actor?"

"This is getting old," she groaned. "It's real nice to meet y'all and everything, and I'll admit that I'm intrigued by whatever the hell is going on here, but honestly? I'm still a little drunk from last night, and I'd really like to end this particular prank so I can go finish sleeping off the damage Jack Daniels did to me."

Dean cast an eye over the coffee table. He raised an eyebrow at the empty liquor and beer bottles littering it and asked, "You drank all that by yourself?"

"Yeah," she snapped. "You got a problem with that? My husband died less than three weeks ago, and I didn't have shit else to do with my Friday night, so I got fucking plastered. Is that okay with you?"

He raised his hands and took a step back. "Hey, lady, it's your life."

"Yeah, it is. And it's my house, too, so unless y'all are planning on telling me what this is all about, you can go now. Come back tomorrow when I'm slightly less hung over."

"Actually," Sam cut in, "we'd like to get to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. If you know a little something about werewolves, you might know that they're only active around the time of the full moon, and that time is fast approaching. We'd like to get this pack taken care of before someone else gets hurt."

She closed her eyes and slowly counted to ten. When she opened them, Sam and Dean Winchester were still standing there looking at her.

"If I can show you cold hard proof that I know exactly who you two are, will you tell me who put you up to this, and maybe leave me alone?"

Dean shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

She stalked over to the cabinet where her DVD collection was stored and searched for the case for the first season of Supernatural. And didn't find it. Well, that was odd, but whatever. She still had House of Wax and season four of Smallville to fall back on. Pulling the volumes from the shelves, she glanced at the covers of the two DVD cases and felt the blood drain from her face. On the cover of House of Wax, where Jared Padalecki's face should have been, she saw instead James Franco. And where Jensen Ackles should have been on the Smallville cover, Wentworth Miller stood in his place.

She glared over he shoulder at the two men. "Okay, this is making me decidedly more uneasy than I really want to be right now. Somebody better start talking, and I mean This. Fucking. Second."

"Look, Melody," Sam said, "I think you must have us confused with someone else. But either way, that doesn't explain why you know who we are and what we do."

She slowly crossed the room, the two DVD cases still gripped tightly in her hands, and sank onto the sofa. She took several deep breaths. "Sam and Dean Winchester are the children of John Winchester. Their mother, Mary, died in a fire in their Lawrence, Kansas home when Sam was six months old. It was the second of November, 1983. Mary was killed by a demon with yellow eyes who pinned her to the ceiling above his crib. Dean carried Sam from the burning building and has been protecting him ever since. Dean was only four at the time. Their father began a search for what killed Mary, and that search showed him the true nature of things in their world. He found that demons, ghosts, poltergeists, angry spirits, vampires, and the like do exist, and he devoted his life, and the lives of his sons, to ridding the world of the evil beings that plagued it. Eventually, little Sammy grew up and went off to college, against the wishes of his family, especially John, who wanted him to keep hunting. The family business. But Sam wanted a normal life, and, being the genius that he is, he got a full ride to Stanford. There, he met a beautiful girl by the name of –"

"Okay, you just stop right there," Dean interrupted. He sounded pissed. Melody looked up from the spot on the carpet where she had been staring to find his gun pointed at her again. "How do you know that?" he demanded angrily. "How the fuck can you know that?" His face was red with rage, the muscles in his neck straining, and his beautiful hazel green eyes promised nothing but death and destruction. This was no act. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, God," she breathed, terrified, not so much of the gun in her face, but of the implications of the fact that this act was not an act at all. She began to shiver uncontrollably.

Sam stepped forward to pull Dean away and forced him to lower the gun again. "Look at her man, she's scared shitless. I don't know what's going on here, but she's definitely not a threat."

It was true. Melody, unable to stop shaking, had also begun to gasp for breath. She was stammering unintelligibly about how this was impossible and she must be going crazy.

Suddenly, Dean yelled, "Christo!" That snapped her out of her stupor. She glared at him. "I'm not possessed, asshole. In case you hadn't noticed, I keep a full holy water receptacle right next to my front door. How many demons do you know that do that?"

He glanced over his shoulder to confirm the fact. "Fine. Then how do you explain knowing all this about us?"

"For the love of God, Dean, I can't. If I could explain it, do you think I'd be this fucking freaked out? As far as I know, your real name is Jensen Ackles, and you're an actor on a television show called Supernatural. It's a fantastic show, and I watch it religiously, and it's a hundred percent fictional! There are no evil things that go bump in the night, just crazy-assed humans and the occasional bear or wild dog!"

She thrust the House of Wax DVD at Sam. "See where James Franco is standing? That's supposed to be you." She threw the Smallville DVD at Dean, who caught it easily. "And you're supposed to be playing Jason Teague there, not Wentworth Miller." She stood up suddenly and began to pace, rubbing her bare arms as if to keep herself from coming apart at the seams. As suddenly as she had started pacing, she stopped. "Coffee," she stated matter-of-factly, in a voice calm and empty of all emotion. "We should have coffee now." And she went back to the kitchen to start pouring.