Bit of an OC alert in this part. Don't worry, there is no flirting and it's a one-chapter appearance. oh, and reviews make for quicker updates and longer chapters! Enjoy.

After another day of fruitless investigation, the Winchesters sat in their grotty motel room in a comfortable silence. Sam sat on his bed, trolling through his dad's old journal, praying that it had some information on how to lure, or at least track, a wendigo. He'd read over every page of the battered old journal years ago when they were still hunting Azazel; he'd memorized the majority of it. Neither of them had even looked at it in years. Dean sat at the table, researching on the laptop. He was not searching for anything related to the case; his interest lay with an old friend.

If you were to take all of Dean Winchester's pent-up emotion and give it to another man, odds are that it wouldn't be long before that man cracked. There is only so much emotional stress a person can take before they're dragged, kicking and screaming, into a padded room and made to eat over-cooked slop for the rest of their days. Dean had learned to suppress these feelings. His outlets mainly lay with ganking demons and burning bones. This allowed him to release some built up anger, but it did not help the reservoir of guilt that forever lay t the back of his mind, threatening to overflow.

Dean closed the internet tab that displayed a local auction site and stood up.

"Hey, uh..." Dean ran his hand through his hair, "I'm gonna grab a bite to eat. Want anything?"

"Yeah, I'll come with," Sam closed the journal, yearning to stretch his legs.

"I think I can find my way to the store on my own, Sam," Dean snapped. He was on edge thanks to sleep deprivation. Sam didn't appreciate his older bother snapping at him for no good reason, but he knew as well as anyone what minimal sleep does to a guy. He just sat back and opened the journal again; which was now feeling the full force of the infamous "Sam Winchester bitch face."

Dean left the hotel and revved up the old cherry-red Mustang the he had hot-wired a few towns over. He was headed to a local hunter's house. Sharron Markman was a woman in her early forties. She was known among the hunters for having a huge amount of summoning supplies, rare weapons, and a well-stocked minibar. She'd managed to slip out of "the life" and became a valuable ally for many a hunter.

"Uh... Sharron?" Dean asked as the old wooden door swung open.

"Yeah, that's me," She beamed at Dean, "You look like a Winchester."

"Right... Dean Winchester," Dean was apprehensive. He had no idea how she knew his surname. She invited him into her sitting room. Sharron took her place in an old, worn armchair and Dean remained standing.

"I'm sorry about Bobby," Sharron's face grew sympathetic.

"Me too," Dean said, only a little louder than a mumble, "I need to ask you a favour."

"Whatever you need, honey," A smile was inked across her face once more.

Dean handed her a list of things he needed and she got to work finding them all. It didn't take long to gather all of the items on the list. Most of them were pretty standard ingredients; lambs blood and exotic plants and seasonings. Sharron handed Dean and picnic basket full of the things he needed.

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of carrier bags," She joked.

Dean felt that his masculinity has been somewhat insulted, but he got what he needed.

"You're summoning a big one by the looks," Her face dropped into something that resembled motherly concern. Dean didn't react, he was still glaring at the wicker basket in his hand.

"Yeah, I guess I am... if I don't get jumped by Yogi Bear first," Dean really was repulsed by what Sharron has chosen as a suitable means to transportation for the summoning materials.

Sharron laughed light heartedly. This is why the hunters loved this woman. You could burst into her home uninvited and covered with blood, but she would still welcome you with open arms, a warm smile, and a glass of whiskey. She used to be quite a hunter back in the day, but those days were long gone.