Arch One: Goggles

Chapter Two: Shamu the Great Hunter

One week later and Dean was starting to obsess over the desecrator of the Impala.

"I want her, Sam," he said. "I want her drawn and quartered, bathed in holy water, and then decapitated. We can shrink her head and hang it from the rear-view mirror. Baby deserves that much."

Sam looked up from the beaten plastic menu he'd been examining, blown away, yet again, by his brother's stubborn refusal to see facts. "Dean," he said, making a serious effort to keep the conversation civilized, "she saved our lives."

"Yeah?" Dean slapped down his own menu and folded his arms over the table. "Well who's to say that wasn't just happenstance? She might've had a grudge match with that ugly screamer, and we just happened to be the handiest bait."

"If we were just bait then why did she try to ward our room and the Impala?"

Bad choice. The mere mention of the blasphemy done to his precious baby sent Dean into stiff-shouldered rigor. He would not be swayed. "As I've said. She's a sadistic bitch."

"Are you even listening to yourself anymore?"

The waitress approached, and the boys put their discussion on hold until the girl had taken their orders and moved along. Glinting in the bloody light of the setting sun, the goggles rested on the table between them, an innocent hostage in the war raging around them.

Dean leaned over the table. "She hurt my baby. She hid under the bed. Only boogie monsters hide under the bed. She is evil, Sam, and I'm gonna gank her if it's the last thing I do."

"If she's evil then I'll certainly help with that," Sam said. "But the least we can do is hear her out. We don't even know what she is yet."

Dean sniffed. "Already told you what she is, Sam."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

The usual burger and salad arrived, and they set to eating, each pretending the other was far, far away. Civil table conversation was a long lost art among the Winchester clan. At moments like these, Sam missed college. The conversation might not have been civil at times, but at least it was conversation. Whatever it was, it was a far cry from the silent treatment.

"If you're so set against ganking Goggles," Dean said, jamming a fry into his maw, "why are you helping me hunt her?"

"Because we need to know what she is," Sam said. "If she's working for a demon, she could be trouble. If she's a hunter…" he ignored Dean's derisive scoff, "…she might have some useful information about creatures like that banshee. And, who knows, maybe we can give her a hand with something."

"The only way Goggles is getting my hand is if she hacks it off my rotting corpse."

Sam paused as a thought struck him. His brother's last comment hardly even registered. "Goggles."

"Yeah. Goggles. Not helpful."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, what you said, goggles." He waited a moment, but Dean wasn't following his train of thought. He pointed to the hostage. "We have her goggles."

"Dude. She is not Geek-erella. We can't just try the goggles on every girl in the kingdom until they fit the right girl."

"We don't have to." Now Sam was smiling. "Someone obviously put a lot of work into them. I'm sure they're valuable – or at least hard to replace. She'll want them back. We just have to let her know we have them."

Finally, the light above Dean's head blinked on. He looked at his trophy with new understanding. "And then we just wait for the Invisible Nerd to appear."

"Exactly."

Dean kicked back in his chair, scrutinizing their bait. "So… how do we get the word out, exactly?"

"Try a few summoning spells, carry them around, just try to draw some attention, I guess."

"There's a lot of attention to draw that isn't Goggles'."

"Nothing we can't deal with."

"True that."

.O.O.O.

First came the trap. There was no point spreading the bait before the board was set, and it was one doozy of a board. Since they weren't sure what they were going up against, they had to be ready for everything. The laid two devil's traps – one under the rug, one on the ceiling just inside the door. Salt lines blocked every entrance. Over the first bed, they spread the better part of their arsenal, shot-guns loaded and knives cleaned. A gallon of holy water rested on the night stand, and scattered around the room was every sigil they knew that wasn't also a ward – they wanted her to stay in, not away.

As a final touch, Dean set the goggles on the rug covering the first devil's trap. He rested his hands on his hips and turned to survey the room. "This," he jerked his arm to encompass all of their labor, "had better be worth it."

From his place on the weapons-free bed, Sam hmmmed and spared a glance up from his book. "It will be."

Dean dropped into a gap between guns and tried to get comfortable on the other bed. "So, we start spreading the word tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Sam said, once more absorbed in his book. "We should start small, try just carrying the goggles around for a day or so. If that doesn't work, then we'll start summoning our own personal messenger service."

"You can carry the goggles," Dean said as his eyes drifted closed. "You're already a dork. I have an image to maintain."

"Sure you do," Sam drawled.

As he glanced over to berate his brother, Dean saw something very odd. The bed skirt on Sam's bed was moving. His reflexes took over, muscles growing taut in preparation for a spring. He signaled to Sam, who was already buried in his book. After a couple frantic waves, he caught Sam's eye, and he pointed at the place where the fabric had just moved. Sam leaned over to see what Dean was gesturing to, and Dean was improperly pleased at the way dear little Sammy blanched as the skirt around his bed moved yet again at the urging of an unseen hand. Dean reached for a gun, but Sam hissed. He looked Dean in the eye and gave his head a very slow, very meaningful shake. Think about this. It was like he could hear Sam's sanctimonious babble in his head.

Enough was enough. Dealing with a monster under the bed and his brother's Voice of Reason in his own skull was too much horror for one man. After this, he was getting drunk. Again. And he was never going to sleeping without checking under the bed, ever.

The foot of the bed was right by the devil's trap protecting the goggles. Dean wondered how long the bitch had been hiding under the bed. Did she already know about the trap?

Apparently not. Likely encouraged by the silence from the two hunters, the monster under the bed took her chance, and Dean watched as the bed skirt lifted to make room for more than just a peering eye or a groping hand. Three feet away, the goggles moved.

Dean lunged. He sailed over the bed like an awkward, boozy bird of prey. While he wasn't drunk at the moment, his dreams of foamy beers drank in victory over another creature's severed head were real enough to make him light-headed. The rapist of his beloved Impala was gonna get hers.

When he landed, he knew he'd hit pay dirt. Instead of the floor, he brought his full manly weight smashing down on something warm, soft and definitely alive. The something let out a pathetic croak (that sounded suspiciously like "Shit") as all the air was squashed from its lungs, and, in gradual flickers, a girl materialized underneath him, pinned face-down on the dirty motel carpet. As far as Dean knew, there was only one disappearing girl in the area, so this must be Goggles. The fact that aforementioned accessory was clamped in her grip was also a good sign.

Sam sprang up from bed and dropped down beside Dean, snatching a silver knife on his way.

"Not a demon," he said, kneeling. "The trap didn't even faze her." He glanced down the girl's body and snorted. "Her feet are still under the bed."

"Some big bad you are," Dean scoffed, keeping the vandal crushed beneath him. "You pervy little creep. Hiding under the bed? Seriously?"

Face buried in the carpet, Goggles tried to say something, but all the brothers got was, "MmhhrmmmfrrrRR!"

"Sorry?" Dean asked, just a little too pleased with the situation. "Couldn't make that out."

Sam gave him the Bitch Face, and with a mighty roll of his eyes, Dean shifted just enough for the thing to lift her head, gasp a breath, and try again.

"I said that I can't breathe."

In response, Dean dropped a little more of his weight down on her back, savoring the mewling wheeze as she tried to drag in another breath.

"Dean," Sam chastised.

Another eye roll, and he lifted himself enough to let the monster continue sucking air. It was a damn waste.

"So," Sam said, testing the silver knife against his thumb. "Let's start simple. What are you?" Dean was pleased that, despite his refusal to outright gank the ho, Sam was still playing rough. This was an interrogation, not an afternoon chat.

On the floor, Goggles turned her face so her cheek was resting against the ugly dun carpet, letting the air whoosh in and out of her lungs like she'd never experienced anything more life affirming. "Start easy?" She groaned. "If you want to start easy, you should pick another question."

Dean squinted down at her, considering Hulk smashing her ass again, but Sam gave him the face again, and he resisted.

"Fine." Sam kept playing with the knife. "Why did you put up the horseshoes in the room and the Impala?"

"Uh… duh?" She tried to get her hands under her, but Sam brought the knife down by her face, and she immediately stilled. "You already said yourself. I was trying to keep the banshee away from you."

"Why?" Dean asked. So help him, if she didn't have a good reason for desecrating his baby, he'd suffocate her nice and slow, her last breaths filled with the stink of trucker feet and old fries. That carpet was rancid.

"Because I thought you might enjoy keeping your souls in your bodies."

Considering recent events, Dean decided he didn't like that answer.

"Don't squash me again!" Goggles yelped. "Clearly I know where you sleep, you jerk, and I swear if you kill me I'll haunt you."

"I think I can deal with a pissy ghost for a few nights after what you did to my car," Dean replied. "It's not like you can follow us when we leave, dumbass."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that…"

"Enough." Sam pressed the knife against her cheek. Dean wasn't pleased with the look growing on his face. "Dean, she's not a shifter. No reaction to the silver."

"Cut her with it to make sure," he grunted.

Sam obliged, slicing through her sleeve to open a narrow slit down her upper arm.

"Ow! Seriously?"

"Still no reaction."

"Okay," Dean said, fighting down his rising ire. He wanted to gank something, but he couldn't gank Goggles until they a) knew what the hell she was and b) knew she wasn't just some idiot kid who'd stumbled on something too big for her to handle. Judging by the curves he was lying on, though, she wasn't really much of a kid anymore. "You tell us what you are. You tell us what you were doing with that banshee. And you tell us why you savaged my car. Then we'll see if we can let you live to see another day, you freak."

The answers came fast. "It's complicated. I was hunting it. I was saving you. Can you please get your fat ass off me now?"

"No." Dean dropped his full weight on her for an instant just to prove his point. The air rushed out of her again, and he tried not to enjoy her pain. Who was he kidding? Right now, her pain was beautiful. "Why'd you assault my baby?"

"Because the banshee was friggin' stalking you!" Goggles said, apparently at the end of her patience. "How many times do I have to say this? I was trying to protect you."

"Yeah, well, we're kinda thick sometimes, you know?" Dean said. "Care to explain with a little more detail, Goggles?"

Growling, the girl beneath wriggled for her freedom, but Dean wasn't willing to give her an inch, and he had the mass to enforce his will.

"Just explain it to us," Sam prompted, far more nicely than Dean approved of, but it seemed to calm the frustrated thing beneath him. "Help us understand."

"I don't know what kind of lives you guys lead," Goggles said – slowly, like she was afraid her words might fly back to smack her in the mouth, "but you must have ended a heck of a lot of crap, because that banshee was practically drooling once she caught sight of you. Banshees are traditionalists. I thought I could ward her away with the horseshoes."

"Because they're iron?" Sam asked. Dean could almost see the ex-legal student taking mental notes. Maybe Bobby would get enough material to write that book after all.

"Yes, but also because they're a traditional sign of awareness and respect for… things unseen."

"No need to be coy," Dean said. "I'm sure you've figured this out by now, but we're hunters. Things unseen are on the daily menu."

"I'm sure," Goggles scoffed, offering a final feeble wiggle. Clearly having decided that Sam was the more pliable negotiator of the two, she looked at him as she asked, "Can you maybe get Shamu off me now? I can't feel my legs."

"Finish answering the question first," Dean said. "Why would a mark of respect keep the screamer away?"

"Ugh." Beneath him, Goggles fought to restore blood flow. "I am never getting off this freaking floor. As I said, banshees tend to be traditionalists. A lot of fey are, but you must have just been too appetizing for her to…"

"Fey?" Dean asked. "What the hell is a fey?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, Dean." Shifting on the balls of his feet, he adjusted his crouch and gave his brother an almost apologetic look. "Fey is another word for… fairy."

His reaction was immediate. He went stiff as a board, and he could feel his nostrils flare. "Fairies? As in Tinkerbell and UFOs?" His feelings for Goggles just reached a whole new level of ugly.

"According to the lore…"

"Oh, come on, you have to know that most human lore is shit," Goggles said. "Even the true stuff is layered underneath so much crap it would take a shovel and some serious baby wipes to make it shiny again. Fairies and fey are not the same thing. Not from a hunting standpoint, anyway."

"Because you know all about hunting, Goggles," Dean scoffed.

"Yeah, actually. Fey hunting, anyway."

"You're right." Sam frowned. "This is going to take a while. Dean?" He nodded towards the room's one chair.

As much as he hated to give up his ability to cause pain by just relaxing, Dean grudgingly admitted that it would be smarter to get the monster bound up and have themselves a proper interrogation. He propped himself up and reached to grab the girl's arm. All those minutes of quiet compliance had lulled him into underestimating the little demon's speed, though. The second she had the space, she rolled out from under him and bounced to her feet, sprinting for the door.

"Not again!" Sam body slammed her into the door just as she was reaching to palm open the knob. Her fingers slipped over stainless steel, and she let out a pained yelp unlike the breathless profanities she'd muttered under Dean. Sam noticed. Keeping her pressed to the door, he grabbed her hand and twisted it around so that Dean could see the first degree burns blushing over her fingertips. "She's not human."

Dean tried not to look smug as he brushed himself off. "No shit? I figured that out when she turned invisible – the first time."

"Shut-up," Sam said. He seized the back of the creature's shirt and settled his knife against her throat, dragging her back to where Dean was dusting off the chair.

Once she was seated, Dean twisted a length of iron chain around her while Sam clipped her hands and feet to the chair's arms and legs with handcuffs. Now that he had a better view, Dean couldn't help noticing how she was dressed. Almost every square inch of skin was covered. She wore long black leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, a scarf and arm warmers. Only her head and fingers were exposed. The angry burns from her brush with the doorknob probably explained that.

"You know," he said, glancing back at the door, "this would all make a lot more sense if that knob wasn't stainless steel."

"Yeah." Sam leaned back and slipped his arms into a knot across his chest. Only pure iron was supposed to burn ghosts and demons. Steel had never been a problem for them before. "You said 'human lore' earlier. So does that mean…?"

"That I'm not human?" Their prisoner was sitting almost impossibly still, like she was afraid the iron chains would slither up and bite her if she so much as twitched. "Yeah. Good on you. Would you like a glass of milk with your cookie?"

Dean cast an eye over the armory on the bed. So many ways to gank her, and now that they'd confirmed her monstrousness, it was just a matter of picking which one would be most satisfying.

Then Sam opened his big stupid mouth. "You said it was complicated. Start talking."

Traitor. He was being stupid. Dean might have to hit him, the only question was whether he would do it before or after ganking the evil bitch with the iron allergy. "Are you serious?" he demanded. "She just confessed that she's one of the bad guys. It's ganking time, dumbass."

"Actually I just said I wasn't human," Goggles said. "I never said I wasn't a good guy." She paused. "Or good girl, I suppose, although…" she shrugged, pulling her attention back to her captors. "Semantics."

"Sure…" Sam said. "Only one of the key building blocks of a language."

"I compensate with my exceptional lexicon," Goggles said.

A knife would be the best way to do it. He could take his time skinning her. "English, Goggles," Dean said.

"That was English, doofus."

Just as Dean was winding up for a smack-down, Sam nudged his arm and nodded toward the room's one mirror. They could see their prisoner in perfect profile. She looked normal. Well, that took a few beasties off the list of possibilities.

Goggles turned to see what they were examining and rolled her eyes so dramatically she actually rolled her head. "You can't see through my glamour with a mirror, guys. Sorry, but no peeking for you."

"Tell us what you are," Sam said. "Enough beating around the bush."

"Er," Goggles had the good grace to blush at her inhuman condition, and she finally shifted in her seat. "I'm maybe, sorta, just a little bit of a changeling."

"Gross."

Goggles looked offended. "What?"

"We've dealt with changelings before," Dean said. "You must be a really ugly bitch under that pretty face."

"Aw, you're sweet, but what the heck are you talking about?" She grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned forward as far as the chains would permit. "I'm the only changeling on Earth right now."

"I find that hard to believe."

A light dawned in the girl's eyes. "Oh. Are you talking about those ugly little mommy eaters? Yeah, gross, not what I'm talking about."

Sam shook his head. "Look, we've gone up against changelings before, and we know…"

"Dude. No. You don't know." Each word was emphasized with a sassy bob of the head, and Dean began to wonder whether the chick was just trying to bull shit her way out of the chair or if they'd stepped in something a lot smellier than they'd thought.

"So what do you mean by 'changeling'?" he asked.

"Ah… semantics." Goggles spread her hands – at least, as far as she could spread them when they were cuffed to the chair. "Hello."

"Use your big words," Dean said, coaxing her like an infant. "We know you can spit out a straight answer."

The face she gave him was an insult in and of itself. "A changeling is a juvenile fey that hasn't been reclaimed yet by the Courts." When the hunters' faces remained blank, she grinned. "I'm sorry, are my words too big for you?"

"Eat me," Dean said.

"No thanks."

Trying to keep the conversation on a productive line of answers, Sam asked the obvious question. "What are the Courts?"

Rolling her shoulders, Goggles tried to dispel the mounting tension. But Dean wasn't having any of that. He doubted she would succeed, anyway. There was a reason he'd bound her with iron. If it burned on contact, it was probably making her nervous as hell to be wrapped in the stuff.

"The Courts are like countries, each governed by its own monarch."

"And, what?" Dean asked. "They serve as child services?"

"No," Goggles said, biting the word off in a sharp syllable. "Humans are child services. The fey can't be bothered with something so weak and powerless as an infant, so they dump them in cradles around the world, letting the little rug rats grow to maturity on someone else's watch."

Dean glanced at Sam and found his own reservation and horror written on his brother's face. Family was the core of their world. It was the core of the world for most people, actually. Would an entire race practice foster care just because they couldn't be bothered with diapers and teething rings? Could they?

"Even monsters care about their kids," Dean said, voice coming out a little rougher with emotion than he would've liked. He cleared his throat, just to chase some of the gravel away. "We've seen it on lots of hunts. Why would these 'fey' just ship their kids off to human-school?"

"You seem to misunderstand," Goggles said. She had turned serious, the bite of sarcasm and tangled word play bleached from her speech. It made Dean uncomfortable. "The fey aren't monsters, or at least not in the sense that you're thinking."

"So," Sam raised his eyebrows, "they foist their kids on unsuspecting families to raise, don't give a shit about missing their children's first steps, and they aren't monsters?"

Goggles eyes flashed to the ceiling in a sharp roll. "Semantics. They will be the death of me." Her gaze came down to Sam's face. "Yes, in the sense that they're horrible awful people, they're definitely monsters. Why do you think I hunt the ugly bastards? But fey aren't purgatory-bound. They were created as grounds crew for the Earth – until mankind got too feisty between the sheets and populated the entire planet. As humans grew to trust technology over folklore and superstition, they fey decided that, as a society, they just weren't interested anymore. Over the centuries, the fey withdrew to a… different plane of existence, like heaven or hell, but accessible by more than just spirits of the dead. Nowadays there's the occasional hungry rogue who comes looking to wreak some havoc, but nearly all fey live in that other plane, Tir na nÓg."

"Doesn't explain why they drop their babies at the bus station," Dean said. There was something uncomfortably cold about the idea of ditching a kid because the brat was inconvenient. It was too human. Monsters were animals, driven by instinct and hunger. This was all too… calculated.

"Whatever they were," Goggles said, "they've lost sight of it. In Tir na nÓg, the Courts have become inbred battlegrounds for domestic power struggles. Trade and social classes are built on strength. Nothing is weaker or more helpless than a child. Their parents don't want them; children do nothing but drain their time, energy and their ability to please the Lord or Lady of their Court. So the child is sent away to the humans, who the fey see as little more than glorified animals. Some humans are stolen to serve as mates, some are food for carnivorous fey – such as our friend the banshee – a few are secretly chosen to rear fey changelings, and most are just useless cattle who mill around, unaware of the monsters hiding behind the innocent blue eyes of their neighbors' babies.

"When changelings come of age, they are made aware of their true heritage, and are forced to join a Court. It's ugly. Lords and Ladies usually threaten rather than woo newcomers to their Courts. Usually those threats are enforced. And once a changeling joins a Court they have no rights. A fey only gains rights and freedom as he or she gains the strength to defend them." She stopped to glance between the two hunters. "I'm sure you can see why I'm not so chuffed about joining this shin-dig."

"Just because you don't want to become their butt-buddy doesn't mean you automatically have a burning desire to kill them all," Dean said.

With a groan, Goggles rolled her head around to face the older Winchester, the snark back in her expression. "This coming from Shamu, the great hunter. Think about it, brainiac."

Sam had moved to lean against the room's dresser during Goggle's explanation, head bowed as he sorted and analyzed the new claims. Now he looked up, and Dean knew the second he saw his brother's face that ganking was officially off the table. "It's self defense." He looked at Dean, who was leveling the mother of all frowns at him, and tried to explain himself. "Look at her. She's definitely an adult. I'm sure that means she's of age. But she's still here. Those ugly threats?" He nodded at her. "She's gotten some. She's hunting to take out any fey the Courts might send after her."

Goggles twitched a nod. "More or less. I won't lie. There's some revenge in there, too. I decided I'd rather break a few heads than kiss and make up."

"Why? What'd they do to you? You get propositioned by a fat ass Lord or something?" Dean stoutly refused to admit defeat. Just because ganking was out of the question didn't necessarily mean he couldn't prod her into a fight.

"Or something. You going to tell me why you started hunting?"

Dean didn't deign to answer her.

"There you go. I want to discuss my history as much as you want to discuss yours."

Even though Dean was still hung up over the Impala episode, Sam was getting excited. This was new information, stuff that could save lives and help hunters. "So why have we never run into fey before? Why have we never heard of them if they're so old?"

"I don't know." Goggles was moving less. Either she'd tired herself out, or the iron was having an effect on her. "Fey are sneaky, and like I said, they aren't around so much anymore. They're as diverse as monsters are, so it's possible you've run into some and just mistaken them for something else. And it's pretty easy for us to hide, in case you haven't noticed."

"Invisibility," Sam said. "Right."

"Right. Now, can I get out of this chair, please?"

Dean answered before his brother could say something stupid. "No."

She threw her head back with a bark of frustration. "Dude, seriously. This iron is making me queasy. I'm not above puking on your shoes. Especially yours, Shamu."

"The iron," Sam said, his face lighting up as he remembered a question. "Why do mixed iron alloys bother you? I'm assuming it's not just stainless steel."

"It's not just stainless steel," Goggles confirmed. "They fey have very little in common with monsters, so the reasons why we react to iron are very different. To us, it's like acid – or poison. Think of it like this: if you stir arsenic into a cup of orange juice, it's still poison, even though the juice isn't. The drink will still kill you."

"What I want to know," Dean said, running his fingers over a shotgun, "is why you didn't end up press-ganged like the other changelings you talked about."

"I told you, it's…"

"Complicated," the brothers chorused.

"Damn, I'm starting to hate that word," Dean said.

Lightheaded from the iron, the girl laughed. "I hate living it."

"Looks like you've finally found something you agree on, then," said Sam.

"Well, now that we all understand each other… can I take my goggles and get out of this chair?"

Sam's gaze dropped to the floor.

"Yeah, that's a definite no," Dean said.

"Fine." Goggles blinked out of existence.

Both Winchesters jumped to attention. Dean was already reaching for his gun as he realized the handcuffs were hovering in the air, still locked around invisible limbs.

"She's still… there… right?" Sam asked.

"Um…" Dean sidled cautiously over to the chair. With a single finger, he reached for the place Goggle's head should be and poked.

"Ow! That's my eye, you idiot."

Still there, then, just invisible. "I'm not sorry."

"Of course not, whales don't have consciences."

Since he'd apparently decided to let the freak live, Sam tried to make the conversation more civil. "So what's your name?" he asked.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," the invisible hostage chirped.

"I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean."

"Sam!"

"What?"

Dean grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Look," Sam argued, "we can't just kill her. We have to figure out who she is now, not just what she is. Then we have to verify her story."

"We don't have to verify anything," Dean said. "She's just another monster, Sam. We don't work with them. We don't make deals with them. They always screw us in the end. Haven't you learned that yet?"

"I'm not saying we should trust her, I'm just…"

"Nadine."

Their argument died, and the boys glanced back towards the invisible figure in the chair.

"My name," she clarified. "It's Nadine. Not Goggles."

Awkwardly, with Dean's fist still bunched in his shirt, Sam cleared his throat and said, "Nice to meet you, Nadine."

"Well, now that I've kept my word…" The cuffs dropped.

Dean grabbed at his pocket and realized that the keys were gone. When he poked her…

Goggles – Nadine – appeared at the door with her hand on the knob, her sleeves tugged down over her exposed fingers. Dangling from her other hand, which also had the sleeve tugged low over the fingers, were the keys to the handcuffs. "Goodnight."

Of course they ran out after her, but she'd turned Invisible Girl again, and there was no sign of her in the parking lot or anywhere else around the shoddy motel. They'd lost her the second she escaped the handcuffs.

Dean stormed back into the room and sent the empty chair flying with a kick.

"What the hell!"

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed (MB and DevonF) or added this story! I'm having great fun. I forgot to mention in the first chapter, but the name of this fic is actually a musical reference. Kudos if you know what it is.

Happy New Year!