Sam

Sam looked through the blinds of the only real window in the cramped interrogation room to the city below, desperately pushing his mind to conceive some unimaginable means of escape for himself and his brother. Sure, they'd had run-ins with the law before, but nothing quite like this. Fighting demons was simpler than trying to convince the police that you were honestly just trying to keep the peace. Sam sighed as he heard the door open. God only knew what would happen if they knew the whole truth.

"Thought you might be thirsty," a middle-aged woman spoke, offering a styrofoam coffee mug.

"'Kay, so you're the good cop. Where's the bad cop?" He recognized her as Detective Ballard, having been his arresting officer from the hotel.

"Oh he's with your brother." She smiled.

"Okay, and you're holding us why?"

"Well he's being held on suspicion of murder. And you? We'll see."

"Murder!" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. They'd been a lot of things through the years, but murderers wasn't one of them.

"You sound genuinely surprised...or are you that good of an actor?" Ballard's smug look of skepticism gave Sam a sharp twinge of irritation.

"Who was he supposed to have murdered?"

"We'll get around to that."

"Well you can't just hold us here without formal charges!" Exasperated, Sam was immediately thankful for the leverage his short-lived pre-law education gave him.

"Well actually we can for forty-eight hours, but you being a pre-law student would know that." She retaliated, her beady gaze filled with suspicion. "I know all about you, Sam. You're twenty-three years old - no job, no home address. Your mother died when you were a baby; your father's whereabouts are unknown. And then there's the case of your brother Dean, whose demise was, well, just a little bit exaggerated. Feel free to jump in whenever you like."

Sam leaned against the desk placed at the far wall and defensively crossed his arms over his chest. She thought she knew it all - that his tragic life could be summed up in a depressing paragraph and explain why he and his brother had apparently turned into delinquents - but the truth was she didn't know the half of it. Forming the only respectable response he could give the investigator, Sam raised his brows and looked away.

"Should I? No problem, I'll keep going. Your family moved around a lot when you were a kid. Despite that, you were a straight A student. Got into Stanford with a full ride. Then about a year ago, there was a fire in your apartment, one fatality - Jessica Moore, your girlfriend. After she died you fell off the grid, left behind everything."

A sharp stab of pain radiated from the center of Sam's chest as he heard Jessica's name. As if her death hadn't left enough of an emotional scar on his soul, he needed this cocky detective to openly imply he had been the one to cause it. Sam met the officer's eyes and answered her honestly. "I needed some time off...to deal. So I'm taking a road trip with my brother."

Suddenly the door opened and another woman walked in. From the looks of it she could have been anywhere from her late twenties to early thirties, but Sam couldn't tell. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pulled into a messy bun, held together by stylish chopsticks. She wore a black Armani skirt suit that flattered her curves and complimented the copper tone of her skin, complete with matching black pumps. Dark, thin-rimmed glasses covered her mysterious emerald eyes Sam was surprised to see were trained on him. Her full lips pulled into a smile as she noticed his lingering gaze, and Sam quickly, yet very obviously, looked away.

"Detective Ballard, I'm Isabelle Marx from the Public Defender's Office. I'm Sam and Dean's lawyer, and I'd like a moment to consort with my client...alone." She smiled, adding a firm dismissal when Ballard looked reluctant to leave the interrogation room.

"I'll be back." With a quick look from Sam to the formidable lawyer, she left the room.

"Sam, I'm going to make this quick, so sit down, shut up, and listen." Isabelle turned to Sam, sitting on the edge of the table and offering the chair across from her with a quick wave of her hand.

Sam immediately sat, wondering what this curious woman could want with his brother and himself. He leaned closer to her, inhaling the sweet smell of honey and lavender that seemed to emanate from her body.

"She's not a vengeful spirit, Sam, she's a death omen," Isabelle smirked at the incredulous look on Sam's face. "and Dana Schulps isn't a name, it's an anagram."

"Wait...but...how?" Sam spluttered, incapable of assembling a complete thought.

"Look, Houdini, I'll explain everything later. Get your ass to Ashland St, toast that poor girl's corpse, solve your case, and meet me here." Isabelle pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of her blouse and borrowed the abandoned pen from the table. She quickly scrawled the location in her feminine handwriting and ripped the note from the pad, handing it to Sam.

With an overwhelming look of confusion, he took the note and glanced at the address. "110 Saint Paul St. You mean the Quality Inn?"

"Absolutely, gorgeous." Isabelle straightened, heading to the door. "And Sam," she turned, glancing at Sam over her shoulder, "don't keep me waiting."