Patience had not been her virtue when she was younger, but over the years Braeden had learned that waiting was part of this job. It was what made her good at what she did, that instinct to hold back. It was what kept her alive. Reflexively, she reached up, touching the thick scars over her jaw, trailing down her neck. Those were a reminder to always bide her time. Those few times she'd run in too quickly, with too little info, were the times she regretted the most.

So, she waited, a stake-out, like her old job as a U.S. Marshall had occasionally required. The Winchesters were, as to be expected, staying at a motel that looked like it had last been renovated in the 1970s. They'd brought food back with them, and she'd worried that they'd stay in all evening, but at dusk, she'd spotted movement at the door. The tallest, Sam if rumors of his stature were to be believed, rather loudly barked something at his brother about not wanting to go out, but Dean had come out, slapped him on the back, as if insisting.

Braeden wished she had Derek's senses, so she could hear exactly what they were saying, but the two were loud enough, even from her spot at the end of the long building. Their Chevy sputtered and roared and purred, and she turned her back to the road, pretending to play on her phone as they drove past. As soon as the car was out of earshot, she moved, not wasting any more time.

It didn't take long, breaking in to the motel room's front door. There was something to be said for the general uncaring nature of visitors to a run down place like this. She doubted anyone would say a word, even if they did notice her lack of a key card.

It was cleaner inside than she'd expected, but she doubted that the scent of mildew and old smoke belonged to the hunters who'd just checked in. Curling her nose, she went to task, looking for whatever notes the Winchesters had gathered on their case. Her first stop was at the small closet, where an oversized army duffle bag sat, still unpacked. She stooped down, tearing at the zipper.

"Try not to unfold the shirts."

The voice startled her, but her training kept her from making sudden movements. She turned, slowly, hands up and open. The hulking form of Sam Winchester blocked out most of the light from the bathroom behind him. She'd seen him leave with Dean, she was certain, but there he was, a handgun trained on her.

"You doubled back," she said, almost accusingly.

He shrugged. "You should always check these old motels for bathroom windows," he suggested. "But, then, you seemed in an awful hurry to get in here."

So much for patience, Braeden thought. "When did you clock me?"

"Not until we were getting our room," Sam answered. He gave her a crooked grin. "But, I get the feeling you've been following us for longer. Dean!"

The name startled her, but a second later, the front door clicked as it as unlocked. Dean Winchester strode in, gaze narrowed dangerously.

"You know, if you'd just tried to pick me up at the bar, you'd have been a hell of a lot more successful at whatever you're planning," Dean commented, a doggish grin on his face. It didn't meet his eyes. His attention shifted to his brother. "So, what is she?"

Braeden blinked, surprised. "I'm not a what. I'm a who."

"Witch?" Dean asked, ignoring her. "She slip any hex bags into our stuff?"

"Maybe," Sam replied. "She crossed the barriers, so not a demon."

Braeden rolled her eyes, relaxing somewhat, despite the gun. "Jesus, it's good I'm not just a thief, or this conversation would be stranger than usual. I'm a hunter, like you two. My name's Braeden. And you're the Winchesters, alive and kicking, apparently."

Dean blinked at her, but she could tell the surprise on his face was fake. She wasn't sure what had given her away, but he obviously wasn't shocked at the possibility of them sharing the same profession.

"And, you, what, were really interested in taking a job off our hands?" Sam asked, scoffing. He straightened slightly, as if sobering. "Or were you hunting us?"

"Because that didn't work out of the last guys who made that mistake," Dean cut in.

"I spotted you earlier, at the coroners' office, and knew we were on the same case. Thought I'd see what info you had before attempting small talk. No need to waste my time and yours if you're not who I'm looking for." Braeden shot Sam a dark look. "Would you mind lowering that?"

"The skinned body?" Sam asked, confused. His gun remained in place. "What do you know about it?"

Braeden sighed. Without waiting for permission, she eased down on the edge of the closest bed. "More than you do, I'm beginning to think. For starters, the skin was shed, then the flesh was carved after. The body belonged to a shifter."

The Winchesters' shared a look. When Dean crossed the room to pat down her jacket, she let him without a fight. After she let him take her pistol out of her shoulder holster, he settled in to the bed across from her, Sam moving to stand by his side.

"You know that how exactly?" Dean asked.

"Because someone tipped me off about a shifter a while back. A friend. That friend is missing now, and I think whatever killed the shifter has him."

Sam's brow wrinkled in thought. "How long's your friend been missing?"

Braeden hesitated. Even though she'd talked herself into making the gamble, there was a part of her that didn't think it was a good choice, telling them.

"I was away for a while, on a hunt," she said, "so I'm not sure of the exact day, but from interviewing his landlady, I'd say a little over a month. At least. He was the type to pay in advance and stay out of sight, so that's all I have to go with. That and I think he and the shifter went missing at the same time."

Dean raised a brow. "Because he was on the job? He's a hunter too?"

Braeden flinched when she imagined the look on Derek's face if he'd been called a hunter. "Not exactly, but if something dangerous was out there, he would have had pursued it. He knows about the supernatural, would know how to track it, find out who it was pretending to be. Take it down."

Dean leaned back slightly, a torn look on his face. "I don't have to say it, do it? This guy, Derek, if he was taken a month ago by something that could keep a shifter as a play thing for that long?"

"Dean," Sam chided, quietly.

"Normal circumstances," Braeden interrupted, "I'd agree with you, but there hasn't been another body recovered. And Derek isn't normal. He could survive." I hope, was left unsaid. "If the creature we're after is what I think it is, there's a chance he might be alive."

"Two questions first," Sam said, looking perturbed.

Braeden cut her eyes at him, stopping him before he could ask. Now or never. "Derek's a born pureblood werewolf and the thing we're after is a possibly a late generation wendigo. That answer your questions?"

Dean's eyes widened. "It really, really doesn't, lady."

Braeden nodded once to herself. Most days, her life didn't seem to make sense to her either. "It's a long story, and I know most hunters are the shoot first type. But I've heard stories about you two, they seem indicate you toe a line when it comes to the supernatural. I thought you might be willing to hear me out before you go hunting the wrong guy."

"You might have heard wrong," Dean answered, a gravel to his voice that seemed dangerous. "Awfully dangerous move, telling other hunters about your little pet project."

She wondered if she'd been wrong too, but honestly, at this point, it didn't matter. Either the Winchesters would or wouldn't help, and she could deal with the consequences when they found Derek, even if that meant getting out of the line of fire with the wolf in tow.

"How does a hunter end up trying to rescue a werewolf?" Sam asked, sounding genuinely interested. "And you said 'born werewolf'?" He gave Dean a meaning look before turning his attention back to her. "We've run across a pureblood. Recently. How much do you know about the species?"

"Like I said," Braeden replied, "long story."

Dean's grin looked a bit sour. "Well, lucky us, the night is young."

"And since when do wendigo reproduce? Is being cursed into being a beast just too cliche for people nowadays?" Dean snapped. "I don't think this Braeden chick knows the difference between a rugaru and a wendigo-it's not like she came with, shit, references. She could be a hack, for all we know. Did you ask Garth about her?"

He pretended not to notice the way Sam was biting down a grin as shook his head.

"Not answering. I don't know, man," Sam replied, clearing his throat. The Impala's passenger seat groaned as he sunk deeper into it. "Bobby had some notes from back when Eve was on the rise."

"Wendigo orgy," Dean commented, remembering, and shuttering.

Sam grimaces. "Exactly. Anyway, we never did get details-monsters weren't exactly behaving normally at the time. Anyway, the notes Bobby left, they said he and Rufus had more than a couple interesting wendigo hunts, including one in a suburb. He wrote about there being some sort of species that could look like people when they wanted to, as far as he could tell, if they weren't too 'gluttonous.' He wasn't sure at the time, but he theorized they became more…like us, when they grouped into families."

"That's just a heartwarming thought," Dean sneered.

"I mean, if that's true and they kept a low profile, they could blend in as well as ghouls. And we know wendigo like to keep the same prey for long periods. They're usually careful like that. Rugaru can't control their hunger that well," Sam noted.

"Maybe he's on a diet," Dean offered.

The sour expression dropped from his face when he looked up from his spot in the driver's side to see the female hunter still in the diner where they'd stopped for breakfast. Even while Sam and Dean had make excuses to escape the awkward meal quickly, she was still at the booth, on her phone, 'working contacts,' as she'd put it. Even in the distance he could see the distraught look on her face when she ended the call. Clearly her info wasn't panning out.

The hours they'd spent during the previous evening, mostly with Braeden explaining what she already knew about the hunt, hadn't brought much useful knowledge to the table either. Especially since the conversation kept circling back to the fact that she wasn't willing to give much more information on her friend's species of werewolf. As if the hunters might use his weaknesses against the missing wolf.

Not exactly an incorrect assumption, Dean thought, but he didn't like the way doubt settled in his stomach afterward. Purgatory had been… It hadn't offered much in the way of up-sides, but things had been clearer there. In a way, it had been much easier, just hunting, without thought or consideration. It was a monster's paradise, after all-Dean swallowed the taste of bile at the back of his throat and tried to clear his head.

"As much as I loved staying up all night for our little hunter sleep-over party, I'm not sure there's much we can do for her," Dean admitted. "Wendigo-cousin or not, that knowledge won't help her furry buddy." He glanced over at Sam. "We know the guy's dead. Now or when we find him."

"But that doesn't change the fact that we're hunting this thing, right?" Sam said. He sighed at the look on Dean's face. "And it's only a matter of time before it starts picking off human victims."

"If it hasn't already," Dean noted.

He looked back to the restaurant in time to see Braeden step out the front doors and wave in their direction, gesturing for them to follow. She hopped on her bike, bringing it to life, and spinning out of the parking lot.

Dean nodded, cranking the engine, and turning the wheel to follow. "The lady's going to be disappointed," he resolved.

Sam shrugged, pulling on his lap belt. "We can find her a body to burn. It's the least we can do for another hunter."

"That we can," Dean muttered. "Let's hunt."

"The shifter used his credit card at this convenient store nearly every day," Braeden said.

Her voice was a bit harsher after Dean commented on the first three stops they'd made after nearly an hour of travelling around the county. It hadn't been a polite comment, Sam knew, but he was used to dealing with frustrated and bored Dean more than she was. He decided to play the buffer before the hunters went to blows. Or, more importantly, the group made a spectacle of themselves in front of Ray's Gas and Grocery before they had any answers from the clerk.

"We're not arguing with your methods, here," Sam insisted, keeping his voice low. A family in a mini-van at the pump was staring at them, and he hoped it was just to admire the classic car and motorcycle parked beside the building. "I think it was a good idea, checking out the shifter's place, but there's no sign he was taken from there. Is there a reason we're focusing on Riverside, instead of Trussville, where we found the body?"

"And not splitting up, like we should have done before wasting the gas to get to this dump," Dean inserted.

Sam shot him a look to quiet him.

Braeden sighed. "I've been all over Trussville, but I'm sure it was just a body dump site…For starters, there were no signs the shifter was killed there. And then there's Derek. He was here in Riverside, staying just outside the town. I interviewed his landlady over the phone, and the last time she saw him lines up with the last time anyone say Benjamin Marrow, our insurance seller the shifter was pretending to be. Derek realized something supernatural was targeting people, that's why he left me a message about it. Which means both of them were probably in town when they were taken."

"And if our wendigo spotted them together, they were probably somewhere they frequented." Sam frowned. "But that doesn't really narrow things down."

"No," Braeden said, quietly, "it doesn't. But if the shifter was in here the last day he was seen, which his card transactions indicate…" She threw her hands up, glaring at the pair. "It's a shot in the dark, sure, but I'm going to take it. Now are you two in, or would you like to dick around a bit longer."

"We'll take the dicking option," Dean snapped. Catching himself, he sighed. "The clerk checked out your ass from the glass door twice already. I think you'll have better luck with him. We'll figure out where to go next."

"Such a gentleman," Braeden breathed, turning on her heel to leave the men behind.

Sam felt his brother's elbow in his side a second later and hissed in pain. "The hell, Dean?"

Dean snorted, amused. "If you'd like to go after her, make sure your girlfriend's feelings aren't hurt, I won't stop you."

"Dean!" Sam rolled his eyes. He was somewhat surprised by the, obvious, ribbing, and tried to pretend it still came naturally. "We're looking for her probably-dead boyfriend, if you forgot."

And, I just got out of a relationship, he wanted to add. He bit his lip to keep that part down. Neither of them needed a conversation about Amelia at the moment.

"She didn't say he was her boyfriend," Dean noted, a small smile on his face. After a second, he dropped it. "I'm being an asshole."

Sam blinked, surprised. "Yes. But, it's odd for you to notice."

Dean shook his head. "I prefer the simple jobs. Bad thing kills good people. We kill bad thing. Werewolves are becoming a bit of a gray zone. I don't like it."

"Feels like we've discussed this before," Sam said. "The day this is easy is the day we're not the good guys," he noted.

"Thanks for the wisdom, Tony Robbins," Dean said, slapping his brother across the back. "Now go apologize for me."

"Excuse me?"

Dean shrugged. "Make something up about me having a stick up my ass. Do your Sam thing. I'm going to stretch my legs, call that landlady back and see if Derek was a prize tenant." He pointed at the long stretch of buildings beside the corner convenience store. They seemed to lead to the old downtown section of Riverside. "Maybe we can slip in some light antiquing while we're here."

"You're a dick," Sam said.

"Would explain all the dicking around," Dean commented, walking away from the car.

The cold crept into his arms, trailing from his fingertips to his elbows, and it took him a few long seconds of wakefulness to realize that the room was actually stifling, and that the chill was from the prickling numbness radiating from his wrists. Dean's first clear thought was an acknowledgement; this was going to hurt like a bitch when he was free. His body was angled awkwardly, leaving him leaning forward while a strap kept his thighs secured to the seat of a chair, another keeping his legs to its wooden ones and his boots on the floor. Even through his jeans, the belts were chafing, so he could only imagine that he'd been struggling against the uncomfortable position.

Not that he could remember. He couldn't recall how long he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, only that the last crystal clear memory he had was of looking through a store's window and spotting an antique clown doll that he fully planned on photographing. Sam wouldn't appreciate the joke, but it would make him think things were ok between them. So, worth it.

Dean didn't know what it said about his life, that he could recognize a concussion quickly, that this wasn't the first time he'd woken up in a dank, dark room with a head wound. That he'd been in worse situations.

His instinct was to touch his scalp, and the attempted movement sent a shock of pain down his shoulder, reminding him that he couldn't move. He turned his head slightly, seeing little more than a brick wall behind a rickety wooden staircase. The space's single yellow bulb hung above the steps. His peripheral vision hinted at a rope pulley holding his arms, cuffed, straight behind him to limit his movement. If he had to guess, he was certain the pulley system could also be cranked to pull him upright, dislocating both his arms with no effort. The thought make him nauseous.

"Freak has a sex dungeon. That's great," he muttered, hearing the slur in his words. That head injury was going to be a problem.

"At least…you get to keep…your clothes."

Dean froze, fighting the urge to swear under his breath, and carefully turned his head to scope out the rest of the room, something pre-concussion Dean would have managed right away. Something told him the other occupant wasn't the one who'd put him down here, though.

In the darkness, the other man wasn't more than a lithe shadow, stretching high, his toes scraping the cement floor and his arms above him. Even the dim lighting didn't disguise the blood, dark and puddled beneath him and streaking the length of his body. The scent of it was heavy in the air.

Dean wanted to comment on the nudity like his fellow abductee, find a bit of levity, but he choked on the words as his eyes adjusted to the lighting. Those weren't just streaks of blood down the man's flank. Triangular strips of flesh were peeled back, the muscle still showing through.

For a split second, Dean thought he was having a nightmare, seeing visions of hell again, and he tensed to hold back a tremble.

Despite speaking, the other man wasn't moving, his body completely still, most of his face hidden by his bicep.

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Derek?" Dean finally managed.

The body shifted. The yellow light caught the man's eyes, and they glowed faintly, instinctively, like headlights finding an animal in the brush. There was a bit of blue in the glow, but it was gone in a second. If he didn't know better, Dean would have thought he'd imagined it.

"Braeden," Dean explained. "She's looking for you."

The werewolf was quiet a long moment, and Dean thought maybe he'd passed out. He wouldn't have blamed the guy. Neither he nor Sam had thought there was a chance of Derek even being alive. And if he was…Well, Dean had to admit, while they some experience with werewolves, helping them was not part of the job. Believing that one could control himself every day of the month? That was downright bizarre, even if Braeden vouched for his status as a good citizen.

Yet, the first instinct Dean had when he looked at the other man was get him down, help him. Shit, give the guy some whiskey and pain meds. Then, what? Put him out of his misery? Didn't seem right.

It was confusing. Remembering those college kids, that poor girl they let get away not too long back, didn't help matters. In fact, it fully conflicted with the part of himself that had clawed its way out of Purgatory, still buzzed by the neverending hunt.

Focus on the first problem, Dean reminded himself.

The first problem being the one that had struck him and strung him up.

"Braeden." Derek whispered the name, like the didn't quite believe it. His voice was hoarse, but Dean could hear him well enough. The werewolf's head lifted slightly. "Then you're a hunter."

There was a distinct lack of emotion in the words, and Dean reasoned that was to keep the fear from showing. Dean forced a grimace into a small grin.

"Yeah, how's that for a rescue party, wolf boy," he noted, then jerked his chin. "Dean Winchester."

Derek let out a long sigh. "I think I'd prefer an Argent."

Dean's eyes narrowed. The Argent name was familiar, but that wasn't information he was keen on sharing with the werewolf. Still… He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by a sound from above, footsteps.

"It's him," Derek confirmed. "He's coming down."