Chapter 1 – I Spy With My Little Eye, Two Brothers Ending With Winchester (Pilot)

A black Chevy Impala…now there's something you don't see every day…

Leah lowered her binoculars and took a bite out of her sandwich. She'd located her dad's old car on the road a little ways off from Jericho, and tailed them to a gas station. She'd watched as a tall, dark-haired man got out from the car, coming back with a packet of crisps, a roll of candy and a bottle of soft drink, and a lighter-haired man stuck his head out from the window to talk to him. She looked at them, then down at the slightly dog-eared photo of her brothers.

Yup, that's them alright. The dark-haired one is Dean and the other one must be Sam.

She left them bickering over a box of cassette tapes and overtook them to Jericho, driving at almost double the speed limit. She had things to do before they were anywhere close.

"Just a room for one, please." Leah smiled at the old man over the counter as she handed him a credit card. She had found her way to the only motel in town – John was bound to have a room here.

"Melanie Sanders?" He read out the name on the card.

"That's me!" She gave a little toss of her head and flashed another dazzling smile at the guy. His expression became a little less sour.

Men… they never change. She sighed inwardly.

"Oh, and can I ask a favour? I'm here to meet the Aframians. I believe one of them already has a room here. Could you by any chance give me a room close by?"

"Yeah, sure. Let me see… Aframian...he's in Room 10, booked it out for a month, so I'll put you in Room 11 next door. That good?"

"That's perfect, thank you." She gave him a final smile for good measure as she picked up her luggage and made her way to her room, leaving him to daydream about his younger years.

Leah looked around to make sure no one was watching then inserted the pick into the lock. She jiggled it around for a few seconds, until she heard a satisfying "click", and let herself into the empty motel room.

Oh, urgh…geez dad, couldn't you at least try to keep this place clean? It's a mushroom farm in here. Leah wrinkled her nose as the stench of unwashed bed sheets, mothballs and rotting meat hit her in the face. She traced the rotting meat back to its source – a half-eaten burger lying on the bed-side table. He hasn't been here for at least a few days then. Her eyes roamed the room, picking up walls plastered with sheets of paper, an unmade bed and a circle of salt on the floor. Well at least she knew it was the right room.

She walked up to the wall, picking her way carefully through piles of junk, and scanned the contents – Centennial Highway victims. Her dad had put together each victim's profile, complete with their picture and history.

That's odd…none of the victims have anything in common. It's almost as if the killer chose them on purpose because they were all completely different, to make it difficult to find the link, find a motive and track him down. Goddamn it. Why do these bastards always have to make it harder for us?

She spun around in frustration…only to come face to face with another wall covered in images of women dressed in white. In the midst of it all was a newspaper article – "1981. Constance Welch, of 4636 Breckenridge Road, jumps off Sylvania Bridge at Mile 33 of the Centennial Highway and drowns in the river." Above the newspaper article, John had written 'Woman in white' in big, capital letters.

So, this woman commits suicide, comes back as an angry ghost, and haunts the stretch of road between the Centennial Highway and her house at the end of Breckenridge Road. She becomes a woman in white, hunts down and kills unfaithful men…unfaithful men…that's it!

Leah turned to look at the victim's portraits again. Men with nothing in common…except the fact that they had cheated on their partners. She looked at them in disgust.

You bastards had it coming all along. Now I'm gonna hunt this spirit down and kill her, but I can't say I don't agree with her. You men deserve what you got, every single one of you.

"Police have discovered an empty car on Mile 33 of the Centennial Highway, belonging to Troy Squire. There was blood on the windscreen and windows, identified as the victim's, but the body remains to be found…Police are urging anyone with information to step forward and rep-…"

Leah turned off the radio, picked up her coat and walked out the door. There was work to do.

Pulling over on the side of the road, she smiling as she saw the Impala parked just a few yards away. Never late for a party, eh, boys? She pulled out a little box from the glove compartment and shuffled through her collection of fake IDs until she'd found the one she wanted – Susan Diaz, detective. She stepped out of her car and headed onto the bridge.

"No sign of a struggle, no footprints, no finger prints…Spotless. It's almost too clean. So this kid Troy, he's dating your daughter, isn't he?"

"Ya."

"How's Amy doing?"

"She's been putting up missing posters downtown."

"You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?" Dean strode around the vehicle, examining it.

"And who are you?" The cop sounded unfriendly.

"Federal Marshals." Dean flashed his fake ID at the officer, long enough for him to see the crest and layout, but not long enough to read the details.

"You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?" He looked suspiciously at the brothers.

Dean gave a sarcastic little laugh. "Thanks, that's awfully kind of you. You did have another one just like this, correct?"

"Yeah, that's right, about a mile up the road. There have been others before that."

"So this victim" – Sam broke in, "You knew him?"

The officer nodded. "A town like this, everybody knows everybody."

"Any connections between the victims, besides that they're all men?" Sam wished Dean would knock off that pompous, arrogant tone of his. They were dealing with police after all – real police – and if they got caught out, they'd be in deep shit.

"No, not so far as we can tell," the cop replied shortly.

"So what's the theory?" Sam strolled to the other side of the car to join Dean.

"Honestly?" the cop shrugged, "We don't know. Serial murder…Kidnapping ring…"

"Well that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys," Dean drawled. Sam wanted to punch him, but instead stood on his foot – hard.

"Time's up, boys."

Tension broke as they all turned to look at the newcomer. Dean gave a whistle which was cut short as Sam stood on his foot again.

"Susan Diaz, detective." She flashed her ID at the group and caught sight of the officer's raised eyebrow. "Don't believe me? Here. Check for yourself."

She handed him her ID card and shook hands with the boys. "Now why don't you two fellas here take off while I keep the officer busy?"

One. Leah decided to keep a tally of how many times she saved the boys asses. Sam and Dean – zero, Leah – one and counting.

She turned her eyes away from their receding backs, laughing inside as they encountered the sheriff and real Fed. Marshals, and back towards the expectant police officer. "Now, I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind – "

"What was that all about?"

Sam raised an eyebrow – he was the only other person who'd seen the detective wink faintly at Dean as they shook hands, and noticed Dean's surprised expression.

"Hey, I just have that effect on the ladies," Dean grinned his signature crooked grin, "I'm telling ya, she totally had it in for me. But man, she was hot for a government agent. I'd like to see her out of work clothes. And out of any clothes." He winked suggestively at Sam.

"Did you hear what she said at the end though? 'Why don't you fellas take off while I keep the officer busy'…it'slike she knew we weren't real Fed Agents."

"Quit worrying, Sammy," Dean said as he head-banged to Metallica. Sam rolled his eyes.

After a pause…"Besides– if you're that worried, just call her later and ask."

Sam glanced at Dean, confused. Dean held up a folded slip of paper between two fingers and winked at Sam, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Oh God." Sam groaned. "Tell me it's not…what the hell man? She's a detective, not a bartender! How the hell did you get your hands on that?"

"She gave it to me – slipped it into my palm as we shook hands. Pretty smooth for a chick, huh?" –Dean was still grinning smugly – "No work and all play makes Dean a very happy boy. Check it out…"

Dean flipped open the slip of paper with a finger. His grin vanished. His eyebrows knitted together.

"Son of a bi-!"

Dean jumped as his hand slipped and hit the horn, cutting him off. "Goddamn it!"

Sam laughed. "What, an arrest warrant instead of her phone number?"

Wordlessly, Dean shoved the slip of paper at Sam – "Woman in White"

"Woman in white?" asked Sam, "But isn't that – "

"Yeah, it's a type of spirit." Dean confirmed Sam's unspoken question. He was serious now, his previous playboy attitude gone.

"I think you're right, Sammy. Something's not clicking. Somehow, she knows who we are –more importantly, what we are. I'm starting to think she even planned the meeting on the bridge. I mean, it's not like hot chicks always walk around carrying slips of paper with the name of pissed female spirits in their pockets, right?"

Sam laughed. "Not at all…in fact, it's about as likely as a girl just randomly giving you her phone number."

"Hey, shut up! I'm being serious."

Sam laughed again – Dean was obviously still pissed at having his fantasies smashed.

"So what do you think? Is she one of us?" asked Sam, now appropriately sober.

"Yeah, maybe. Better to know for sure though. I reckon we need to have a little chat with Miss…What was her name again?" Dean squinted at Sam as he tried to remember.

"Susan Diaz," Sam filled in, "Although that's probably not even her real name."

"And," he added, "Someone didn't get her phone number. So how do we find her?"

Dean groaned. "God knows. I'm not even sure I want to."