Chapter 3 is finally here :D Special thanks to Zororenjilover and ariesrobin for reviewing.

Disclaimer: I own twenty pairs of mismatched socks, one pikachu hat and a Chuck Norris poster, but I unfortunately do not own Supernatural or anything else from this fanfiction that you might recognize.

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Chapter 3: Come On, Now

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Persuade: to prevail on a person to do something by urging or advising.

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One day later

New Orleans Morgue

"Poor bastard", the coroner noted, uncovering the body that had once been Jacob Durocher's.

What was left of him, anyways.

Large, jagged bite marks peppered his revealed torso and face, and his arms were nothing more than a mess of exposed muscle and ligaments.

"These teeth marks look too clean to be coyotes. Besides, aren't they scavengers? They feed on what's left by other predators, right?" I inquired, leaning in to closer observe the bites.

"That's the problem. I tried to convince the sheriff of the same thing, but there just isn't any other explanation for this."

I sighed. This was a ghoul. It had to be. Nothing else left this much behind.

Nothing else was this brutal.

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Frowning at the heavy heat outside, I stepped out of my Firebird and made my way over to the run-down bungalow belonging to the witness.

My sensible heels clacked along the pavement walkway, and my dress shirt, pencil skirt and matching business jacket were stifling to say the least. I don't think I'd ever hated the uniform more than in that very moment. Or having to pretend to be a fed.

My head was throbbing as a consequence to the stupor I'd drunk myself into last night after the run-in with Thing 1 and Thing 2. Something had been required to get me to sleep. And I'd run out of forged sleeping pill prescriptions.

But the job wouldn't do itself, and there were very few others out there willing to put in the work.

Biting my lip and squinting through the sun, I knocked on Maurice Hervelle's door.

"I told you for th'last time yesterday, I don' know nothin' else!" a deeply accented voice called out. "An' I'm sick of all your questions!"

"FBI, Mr. Hervelle", I stated in a firm voice, rubbing subtly at my temples. "I have a few… other things to ask that the police department didn't get around to."

The cracked door slid open, brought to a stop by a thin chain keeping it in place.

A man's face, tanned, worn and haggard peeked through in the slightest, his eyes shadowed by heavy circles and his chin covered in a thick white stubble. "What'chyou wan'?"

I flashed my badge. "Agent Frisk. May I come in?"

After what seemed like eternity, Maurice looked down and nodded, closing the door up. I heard the click of a lock being released and the door swung open again.

Stepping inside, I was greeted by a surprisingly neat home.

"Please, sit", Hervelle said quietly, motioning to an overstuffed loveseat, taking the worn armchair facing it for himself.

There was a thick silence before I thought to proceed with the questioning.

"Mr. Hervelle, as you have already deduced, I'm here to ask about your coworker, the late Jacob Durocher", I spoke, switching to a better manner of speaking for this part of the process. It was only fitting that an agent of the government, who would be fully qualified, would sound professional and well-educated.

The real me?

Not so much. Usually I said stuff like 'thingy', and other technical words like it.

They said Shakespeare's vocabulary stretched over 25,000 words. In comparison to him, I was a monkey holding a jumble of Scrabble tiles.

Okay, that was a lie. In comparison to anyone, I was a monkey holding a jumble of Scrabble tiles.

"So I guessed", he muttered, his heavy gaze on me. "Now, what d'you wan'?

"Mr. Hervelle, did Mr. Durocher have any enemies? Anyone who would've done anything to harm him?" I inquired, leaning forwards slightly to catch any elusive bits of speech that I could possibly miss.

His reaction to my question was pure shock. "You sayin' that Jake's death wasn't no accident?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, I'm just required to ask a few routine questions in order to confirm anything", I replied.

"No, Jake didn' have any enemies", Hervelle told me. "But he was actin' real weird b'fore he was attacked."

Is that so? In what way?"

Maurice was shaking his head. "Crazy stuff. Said he coul' hear a woman screamin'. But there wasn' anyone there. Jus' me an' him, doin' our work. An' then he jus' took off runnin' towards the woods, an' he never came back. Tha' was when I foun' him."

Well, if that wasn't a gamechanger, than I didn't know what was.

A scream, and an untimely death caused by bites too big to be animal.

People see what they want to see. The only exception to that rule is when the unseen wants to be acknowledged. That's why Durocher's death was classified as a coyote attack.

"And there wasn't anything strange going on in the days before Mr. Durocher's passing?" I asked. "No unexplained events? Did he see anything before that night that you would have called strange?"

Hervelle shook his head. "No. I'm 'fraid not."

I got to my feet, straightening my jacket. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Hervelle."

With that, I shook his hand briskly and walked out to the door, pondering what I'd learned here.

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Making my way over to my Firebird, I heard another car pull up.

A car whose engine purred like a '67 Chevy Impala.

"Shit", I cursed, glancing over to confirm my suspicions.

Dean, driving, and Sam, riding shotgun. Blue Oyster Cult blared from the speakers, and they were suited up. All prim and clean and ready to interrogate.

And judging from their expressions, they'd noticed whose car was blocking the driveway.

My guess was that they weren't too happy with my interference in this hunt. But I was caught like a deer in the headlights, and I could feel that Dean was changing from shock to anger pretty damn quickly.

I stuffed my keys into the pocket of my jacket. Swerving around my car's hood, I took off sprinting. My heels dug into the balls of my feet, causing me to wince in pain as I passed their Impala.

I heard a car door open and slam shut, and I realized that Sam was in pursuit. My strides were impeded by my skirt, so making a sudden turn down an alley, I slowed and ripped the seam up till my thigh. Cass had taught me how to sew. I'd fix it later.

My running now unobstructed, I could feel my breath entering and exiting my lungs, my legs moving over the concrete and I could hear Sam's running behind me.

I was flying. No one could catch me. I was invincible. Or at least, that's what my runner's high wanted me to believe. I wish I was that untouchable. It would save me a hell of a lot of bandages every time some nasty beastie wanted a bit of me to munch on.

And then I was really flying. But I landed in a sweaty, panting heap under my pursuer. Sam had tackled me.

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"You mind explaining what the hell you're doing?" Dean's annoyed voice came from above.

Sam had me pinned to the alley wall, his large frame felt smothering.

I could almost taste Dean's anger and suspicion because of their tangibility. They were heavy on my tongue, like the heat from Sam's arm, keeping me restrained.

"Investigating a lead", I answered through gritted teeth.

"That's not all you were doing", Dean said, his voice cold. "You aren't a fed. I know a forged badge when I see one. It's good, sure, but I know my fakes."

I exhaled. "I'm a hunter."

Sam turned to meet Dean's eyes. If anyone had ever been skeptical, it was Dean in this very moment. Sam? He was like a blank slate. I couldn't feel anything coming off of him. That's also why I didn't just try to do the pheromone thingy. He wouldn't be affected, just like I wouldn't be by his ability.

"And one of you is like me", I added, staring pointedly at Sam.

There was a pause, and Dean spoke. "Get her into the car Sammy. I'll follow her in the Firebird she's got parked over at Hervelle's."

"No! You are not driving my baby anywhere!" I exclaimed angrily, struggling.

"Keys, Sammy." Dean held out his hand. My keys were fished out of my pocket, and dropped into his awaiting palm.

There was only so much that I could take.

You could take my dignity, my pride, my self-respect and my reputation and step all over them, but you could never, ever, take my baby.

Sam had to drag me, kicking and screaming into the Impala.