Questions

Rim pulled the arms of the navy blazer over her white button down and tucked the shirt tail into her suit-pants. She hated business clothes, she hated wearing heels, but she did have to admit that she looked damn good.

Not much in the way of detail had surfaced in the local papers. She suspected authorities were trying to keep it quiet in hopes that they might get suspects to volunteer matching information. Not likely.

She closed the trunk of her Father's old '63 forest green Porsche 911 coupe and checked to make sure her Springfield 1911 was loaded and the safety was on.

Impersonating an officer, one of her favorite felonies.

The only problem? She was an absolute disaster in tall shoes. Rim walked across the parking lot, into the morgue, attempting to carry herself with purpose up to the front desk. All the while she kept thinking to herself - don't fall, don't fall, don't fall…

"Good afternoon," she greeted the bald, middle aged man seated behind the desk inside the main office. He didn't even bother looking up. His head and respective liver spots shined brightly in the artificial light.

"Sir." Rim cleared her throat. Startled he shuffled his paperwork in a feeble attempt to look occupied. Was he napping?

"Yes. Yes, my apologies. How can I help?" He mumbled, looking up with a stale expression.

"Agent Crosby, here to see about the most recent casualties." She flashed her FBI badge quickly enough for him to acknowledge her credentials, but not so slowly that he could read the fine print.

"Two of you in the same afternoon?" He cocked his head, puzzled. Rim took 30 seconds to collect her thoughts before she realized who else could have arrived before she had.

Winchester.

"Of course, with seven deaths in two weeks you couldn't expect us to just send one agent. Especially not with the violent nature of the crimes…" Rim trailed off expectantly waiting for him to volunteer additional information. A pregnant, awkward pause followed.

"Steve." The mortician thrust out his hand, his skin near translucent under the fluorescents.

"Pleasure." Rim took his offered, dead fish, handshake. "Shall we, Steve? Forgive me, I don't mean to rush you, but my partner and I do have a lot to catch up on." She gestured to the metal double doors over his left shoulder. Steve stood, motioning with his hand for her to follow.

Rim trailed behind the mortician who's manners apparently failed to support the idea of holding doors open. The heavy metal door to the morgue nearly clocked her across the face on the backswing.

Irritated by the lack of common courtesy, Rim roughly shoved the heavy metal door out of her way and promptly lost her balance, stumbling directly into the chest of a tall man in a black suit.

"Oh my God, I'm so sor-" She was stunned into silence as she toppled, rather ungracefully, into the arms of her attractive motel admirer.

How did she not realize the resemblance before? Of course she wasn't looking for a resemblance to John Winchester the first time that she saw him in the motel parking lot, but now she could see the ghost of his father's features as plain as day.

Dean's jaw clenched and she could see and feel the muscles in his shoulders tense. He smelled faintly of hotel bar soap, whiskey, and oiled leather.

When his piercing hazel eyes locked on hers she was suddenly grateful to have strong arms holding her steady.


The Doors, really?

Dean had just finished looking over the bodies. They were in varying states of disfigurement. Some of them were mangled beyond recognition, chest cavities and abdomens flung open exposing organs, others were less viciously dissected.

The mortician clearly did his best to salvage what he could, but many of these poor bastards would be having closed caskets at their funerals. After seeing the damage, he understood why Sam wanted him to have someone sidecar this job.

Something wasn't right here.

Dean snapped the latex gloves off of his hands and tossed them unceremoniously into the garbage can. They were all missing their livers, but some of them looked torn out while others looked almost…surgically removed. He needed to see the autopsy files.

Sighing heavily he made for the metal doors so that he could pester Steve for copies to take with him back to the hotel. He was about to open the doors himself when the mortician walked in. Dean opened his mouth to ask for the paperwork when a blur of red and navy nearly bowled him over.

The metal doors swung open violently and a young woman lost her balance and staggered into Dean's chest. He managed to catch her just in time before she wiped out on the polished stone floor when he realized just who he was holding.

She was even more beautiful up close. Her auburn hair fell messily in front of her face, and her expression was one of shock, recognition, and embarrassment. When her amber brown eyes locked on his he realized in an instant that this was the other hunter he had been waiting for.

"I hope you're a better agent then you are a runway model, partner." Dean joked, trying to ease the tension in the room.

"I am so sorry!" Rim muttered and righted herself. "I just bought these shoes and I am clearly not a veteran heel wearer." She stepped out of Dean's embrace and straightened her jacket.

"Agent Crosby," She shook Dean's hand, it was still a little powdery from the gloves he had been wearing.

"Morrison." Dean returned the gesture, and the joke, before turning to Steve.

"I need your autopsy reports if you don't mind, copies of all seven victim files. Something isn't adding up here." Steve grumbled and marched back through the metal double doors without even acknowledging Dean's request.

"Morrison. The Doors, really?" Rim chuckled.

"I had to think fast, I wasn't exactly prepared for you to run me over." Dean shook his head, "Let me guess, Garth sent you?"

"You bet, I'm your backup. Karima Sundra, I go by Rim." Her face took on a pained expression. "I'm sure you hear this all the time, but you look a lot like your father Dean. He was a good man." Dean's eyes turned down to the floor and he nodded, obviously it was still a raw topic.

Rim took his reaction to mean there would likely not be much conversation around how she came to know John. The less Dean knew the better.

There was a reason Bobby and John never brought her on hunts or introduced her to the rest of the network. Explaining what she was never went over well with that crowd. Best to travel alone, avoid questions, and keep her head down. If Dean found out it wouldn't be just the hunters that would come looking for her….

"Lets not do this here. We've got a job to do and you need to take a look at these." Dean tipped his head in the direction of the drawers and pulled out the first three victims to illustrate his point.

Rim put on a pair of gloves, took off her blazer, and dug right in.