Chapter Twenty-Four:

The next day I was crawling with an itching tickling feeling. It was anxiety either because I was on the first date of my life with a probable cursed guy or because I was on the job for the same reason—I couldn't differentiate between the two anyway. Maybe I was in the gray area, or maybe I had no clue. I was questionlessly solid on one thing, though. My estranged sundry emotions wouldn't interfere with my job.

"What should I wear?" I asked after rolling out of bed the next morning and throwing my hair roughly together in a rushed ponytail.

Sam opened his eyes, inhaling deeply and stretching before he shoved his rebellious tufts of hair back behind his ears. He yawned and stuck both hands in his sleep-ridden eyes to rub them into service. "Clothes?" he answered sleepily, the thin blanket loosening and falling around his waist as he sat up on the couch, which was on the wall opposite mine and Dean's bed.

"No, I mean," I jumped over to my duffel bag and wrenched the two shirts I narrowed my choices down to out of the belly of the bag. I held up both shirts for Sam to see.

He shook his head a bit, not knowing which one to choose, and too tired to sweat it anyway. Sam's eyelids sagged dangerously low and he limply tossed a finger at the blue and green plaid shirt in my right hand. I flung the other shirt on my bag.

In the bed next to mine, Dean stirred. He groaned some indistinct words into his pillow. The he rocked to the side, propping himself upright with his forearm and elbow. Dean glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand between us and then he starred at me a moment.

"What?" I asked, selecting a pair of jeans from my bag.

"It's only nine-forty," he told me like he'd love to knock a few of my screws loose, "Is your head on straight?"

"Yes of course it is. See?" I grabbed my head and turned it side-to-side between my hands to signify its attachment to my shoulders.

When he waved for me to come closer with two fingers, I went to sit on the edge of his bed.

He sat up, massaging his brow to wake himself up before placing his hands on either side of my head. He tilted my head one way with his hands, and then the other way, inspecting my cranium for marbles. He tilted my head to the side one last time and smiled meekly. "You're good." His hands fell back, but one lingered a second more so that he could nudge me in the jaw with his knuckle. It was a loving, intimate gesture.

A silent smile wisping across my lips, I then got to my feet to take a shower. I shot Sammy a look and mouthed, "Does he know?"

Sam gave a tiny shrug.

Just before noon, Dean, Sam, and I all sorted ourselves into the Impala. Dean and Sam were groomed; dressed in their finest FBI sham. I was armed to the tooth with the Hunter essentials. Oh, and some pizza money. I may be a murderer, but I'm a decent murderer. Anyway, it was time to get the ball rolling.

We found the Papa Abuelo's Pizzeria easily enough—it was the only pizza joint with a stout, funny-looking Mexican guy holding a tray of pizzas in one hand and a tray of tacos in the other painted on the front window. It was also the only pizza place in town…seriously, couldn't these just be a plain Pizza Hut around here?

Dean pulled up next to the door, "Okay, hop out. Be back in two, all right?"

"Gotchya," I said, climbing out. I turned to shut the door.

Sam met my eyes and gave a quick, furtive nod, each of us understanding what the other had to do.

The Impala lumbered away as I went inside the restaurant.

Indoors, it was like Italy and Mexico had a fiesta, did some things, and out popped this unfortunate medley (and they both would rather not talk about it). The wallpaper had a deeply colored backdrop with purple grapes on lush coiling grape vines, setting the room in a dim atmosphere. The light fixtures dangling from the ceiling had jalapeno peppers painted on them and aided the room with a bit of light separately over each table, and set the illusion of romance. Pictures of everything from donkeys in hats to the Leaning Tower of Pisa hung on the walls, and on every table was a wine bottle with a single (fake) rose in it.

Also included in this L-shaped floor plan, the take-out window was in front of me. A blaringly bright white light poured in to the room at that specific area and the zealous hustling of men at work carried through the rectangular window. Metal tapped on metal and food sizzled in their pans.

A smoke detector went off inside the kitchen when I saw Scott. In the long arm of the L-shaped restaurant, he sat next to a curtained window, reading a menu on the table. When he noticed me, his whole persona brightened and a friendly smile greeted me all the way to my seat.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he pulled his chair closer and set both arms on the table, still smiling widely.

I noted his naked wrist, where a leather bracelet had been the previous day. His hair was parted in a way it made me think he tried combing it but he didn't win the battle. His tweed jacket was combined with a plain avocado-green t-shirt this day.

"How are you?" he asked casually, still flooding his eyes with me.

"I'm good. And you?"

"Excellent. I ordered us a meat lovers pizza. Is that okay? You just seemed like the hearty-eater type to me."

The table was so small that I could feel his leg moving from side to side as if he couldn't contain how pleasant he was. The cuff of his pant leg brushed my shins every time his knee swept past mine.

"I am. Good guess," I said.

"So how are your brothers?" he inquired, his shoulders tipping in when he clasped his hands together. Scott concentrated everything on me, dead-set on accumulating every word I had to say into his memory.

"They're good. On business. They should be done in a few hours and then we'll be leaving."

"So soon?" his eyebrow dipped, showing concern.

"Yeah," I said, lowering my tone to appear melancholy. "My brothers work for a business that requires us to travel a lot. Hence why I don't go to school."

He leaned back in his chair when a waiter came by to get our order of beverages. He sat forward again when the waiter left. "All three of them work for the same business?"

"No, just the two. My oldest brother usually stays at an office, but sometimes he comes down to work in the field like my other two do. So we only see him when that happens," I answered. It sounded like an authentic and proper representation for Cas. "How's Addison?"

"Oh she's great. A ball of energy, that one…"

Through the course of the date, we only dwelled in conversations about books, movies, and music. I learned he really loved sci-fi and fantasy, but also loved a good movie where everyone gets ripped apart and eaten by zombies.

When the pizza came and Scott had a go at trying to cut the medium pizza, it wouldn't cut. I quickly offered him a fork to help him pry apart the sloppily done pieces.

Scott eyed the fork for a fraction of a second before declining, "No, it's alright. I got it."

I set the fork down. Underneath the table, I discreetly texted Sam a few words and tucked my phone back into my pocket.

The date resumed normally. We spoke of what Scott wanted to do beyond high school and his family life. When he asked me about all those things, I fabricated a picture-perfect story of who I was a where I was going. All blissful lies, unfortunately.

After consuming the entire pizza, Scott paid and I walked him out to his car. He parked his Ford Taurus out back near the dumpsters in the parking lot. As we neared his vehicle, he removed his keys from his jeans pocket.

"Listen, I really enjoyed seeing you today. I'm glad we got to do this before you left," Scott said.

"Yeah?" I looked at him, "Me too."

"Come an' see me next time you come to town, huh? Assuming I'm not at Princeton yet," a lopsided grin spread on his cheeks and the laugh lines submerged.

"Sure," I agreed, knowing it to be impossible.

He opened his car door, still smiling. A moment of awkward standing ended with a sharp inhale from me.

"Well, I've got to go and you probably do too, so I'll see you around," I said, doing some strange balancing act on the outsides of my feet, my ankles almost touching the asphalt.

"Yeah," he said, eyes planted elsewhere.

He cleared his throat, lingering a moment before swiftly planting his lips on mine. He lifted away, smiled again, as if he didn't know he could do that and let a relieved laugh out of his mouth.

A goofy grin stamped my face after I realized what happened.

"So," Scott started, his demeanor going from gentle dork to stiff and superior in .005 seconds. "What'll it be, Winchester? Dean or Sam first?"

"What?" I gaped at him.

As if on cue with his sickly grin, my knees gave out. Reflexes reacting rapidly, my arms shot out to grab the side of the tan Taurus and I pulled myself towards the metal shell, trying to keep myself up with my wavering upper body strength. My legs were numb, I couldn't feel them, and I felt weak everywhere—my arms, my stomach.

I gasped, eyes darting. "Wha—thu done tuth me?" My speech slurred and my arms finally gave out. My tailbone collided with asphalt and a zing of pain shot up through my spine. I slouched over, roughly wiping my mouth on my sleeve. "Poithon?" My lips felt inflated and I could not feel them.

My head whirled and moved on my neck of its own accord. My eyelids fought with themselves to stay open, fluttering madly as my vision failed me.

"No worries hun, I'll let you live long enough to die properly," Scott's hazy figure said.

I couldn't stand. I couldn't grab my gun. I could not move.

"Who-? Who are-?" I tried to speak, but nothing was reaching my tongue. Nothing could.

Scott's blurry form got down on one knee and careened over me. A hand brushed my hair behind my ear. "Shh," he said.

A moment later, I was taken hostage by blackness.

I awoke purely because I felt someone rummaging around in my pockets on my sides. I blinked. My head rolled.

"Hey!" I yelled, coughing. My throat itched and my mouth tingled as if it had fallen asleep.

"No use doing that down here sweetheart," Scott replied to my outburst. He admired the knife he swiped from me. "So don't make me gag you."

My jacket and shoes were missing from my body—my jacket was draped like a hand towel over his arm and my shoes were in his hand not holding my knife.

I blinked my eyes multiple times as I looked around the room, trying to pacify the itching in my eyelids. My head throbbed like it would with a headache and I was intolerably thirsty.

"Damn," I muttered.

Pipes. Water. Darkness. We were in the sewers. Somewhere in the heart of the system, I guessed, based on the simple existence of the six tunnels arranged about us in a circle. The smell was an insult to my nose-it was raw meat mixed unflavorfully with excrement. When my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, given to me by the few lanterns peppered around the cavern, I found out why it smelt as horribly as it did.

This asshole's previous skins lay in soggy, fleshy clumps all over the place. Gloppy bits of body and organ alike clung to pipes and lines and in large bulgy puddles carelessly grouped along the entirety of the floor. And the blood—the blood was everywhere, like the cherry syrup coating the ice cream. Sometimes found on the pipes overhead, but mostly found sucked into the vibrant bodily muck, where remnants of outfits of the victims he once stole the identity of. A boot here, a glint of a silver ring there—it was disgustingly horrific.

This thing was a shapeshifter.

My back was against a vertical pipe, it quickly came to mind, and I tugged. My hands screamed against the abrasions borne unto them by the rope securing me to the pipe. I pulled again, trying to use my unbound legs to lift me up from the floor.

"I wouldn't do that either," the shapeshifter told me, watching me closely before strolling over to a table on the wall opposite of where I was.

I noticed my phone was missing from my pocket and then I saw it on the table.

The shapeshifter placed the rest of my things on the table, looking over the objects with much of an aristocratic air. Pleased with his new possessions.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, trying to get over the foul odors that permeated all throughout the cavern. They were so strong, I was afraid they would seep into my skin and I would be a walking nasty for the rest of my life.

Which might not be so long, I thought. For a long time now, I thought Cas would be taking me to heaven. Reapers normally did the job, but God has made enough trouble for me thus far…and it's not like Cas was ever specific about the whole ordeal in the first place. I guess I've just been avoiding the idea because, now, the last thing I ever wished for was death. I wished to live.

"Tell me, Eve, have you ever had a hero? An idol you look up to in every possible way?" He was facing me now, leaning on the table with both hands on top of it. Comfortably, casually, as if we were chatting like good 'ole friends.

I glanced away, my teeth gritting against each other. Scott's eyes were pretty, but this freak's eyes were corrupt and unprincipled.

"You have one right now!" He lifted himself to his feet and stepped over to me. He knelt down in front of me, smiling as if he already won (I wanted very much to knock some teeth out). "Oh, how sweet. The little sister's heroes are her big brothers. How charming. How deliciously wonderful. Well," he ran his pointer finger down my cheek, curving around the bone of my jaw.

He withdrew his hand, "Heroes sicken me. Always have. They get in the way of business."

"So you've kidnapped me because you hate heroes. Sounds like a real tragic backstory—a real motivator for your diabolical plan."

"I'm glad you think this is funny. Not many do when they're on their deathbed," he said, sitting on the ground and crossing his legs to get comfortable.

I moved my legs away from him—I was not letting my only free limbs be contaminated by this sicko.

"And actually, I only saw this as a golden opportunity." The skinwalker's eyes lit up with a keen, twisted glow, "For a shapeshifter, I move around a lot and decided I'd drop into this little town. It was nice. Not too big. Secluded. You know, everything a shapeshifter has on their Christmas list. And wouldn't you know it? Some old hag bit the dust and left this multimillion inheritance to her weirdo grandson, Scott Cavender. Y'know right after I grabbed the rest of the loot from the rest of the family. I just saw it as a chance to gain a few bucks—"
"So you kidnapped him and took his form to gain the inheritance for yourself," I stated.

"Look who's a smart cookie," he said, his gaze flashing poisonously out of his story. He raised his arm and a hand crossed my face. My head shot to the side. It stung, but I was ready for it. It only fueled my hatred for this thing.

"Don't interrupt me. It's unbelievingly rude," he hissed. "Anyway," he continued normally, "I've heard of the Winchesters in my travels. A two-brother team of Hunters—smart, good-looking, people to be feared rather than befriended, just like the famous John Winchester. I always thought to myself how much of an honor it would be to meet these guys and yes, if you are wondering, kill them. And then I heard they were in town and they had a little sister that nobody even knew about! It truly is the best Christmas present! Just without the fruitcake, because nobody like that abomination."

"By that logic, that would make you the fruitcake of this situation," I retorted.

He stood up and moved across the room. His eyes pierced mine, never faltering from my gaze. "If there's one thing that I've learned from the stories it's that the Winchesters value family over everything. Which is exactly why this is going to be a piece of cake."

It was then when he began to shape shift. Skin dripped and drooled, oozing over itself in folds like the wax of a melting candle. Little by little, Scott Cavender melted onto the floor and the shapeshifter hunched over in pain, ripping gobs of skin off himself and flinging them away. Gasps from affliction echoed throughout the tunnels, along with the sounds of bones cracking, breaking, and reshaping. Bloody fingernails and teeth clattered to the ground and stuck into the goop he was shedding.

I saw it all. I was grossed-out and mesmerized at the same time—which is probably why I still watched.

He slowly changed. The whole process looked painful—the way his skin stretched and pulled away to make visible the raw under layer of lighter, reborn skin. The sounds of the bones cracking and sliding on one another made my nose scrunch (the only sign of a cringe I could muster), and the old skin piled in mushy mounds.

Then I realized who he was changing into. I wanted to hurl.

"You look surprised," said I. She stared back at me, my twin. Every last thing right down to the faded scar just below my eye. Every thing identical to the real deal. It was scary. It was a mirror.

"Yeah. I didn't know I looked so good," I remarked.

For the first time, I heard myself laugh when I wasn't the one doing the laughing. The noise was not human, not of this earth, and sounded like rocks scraping down across metal.

"Well now," she said, putting on clothes identical to the ones I would wear any other day. She pocketed my knife, my gun, and my phone, and slipped on my jacket. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You shouldn't," I muttered.

"Ah. Classic Winchester self-loathing. I'll take a note of that," she stood back, holding her arms out, "How do I look?"

"Like me," I answered coolly.

"Great. Now let's go get big brother number one."

Dean.

She walked away, a skip in her step, and disappeared into the enveloping darkness of the tunnel to my right.

My butt looks good in blue jeans, I have to say. But I was not thinking of that when I yelled into the black void, "You can't win! My brothers will kill you!"

"Why would they kill me? I'm you, sweetheart!" My voice echoed back to me.

Then there was a heavy scraping somewhere deep in the tunnel. A manhole cover. Then silence.

I immediately began writhing in my binds. It hurt, but I endured, scraping the rope up and down the pipe, twisting my fingers and hands to try to get free. I felt blood; I felt tears. Little consequences I had to pay.

After so long, I realized escape was futile. I leaned my head on the pole, giving up, and tried to seek sleep.

Some hours later (I gauged by the expenditure of the oil in the lanterns), I woke to the sound of the manhole cover being moved again. A body was dropped through the hole. I flinched when it hit the ground and I hoped to God that he was okay (after all, that could have only been Dean). The iron hatch was moved back to conceal my prison.

I could not see anything at all in the barrel of the passage, but I heard the scrapes of a body being dragged across the sewer floor and soon the skinwalker emerged, laboriously tugging along an unconscious Dean Winchester.

"Dean!" I exclaimed, "Dean! Wake up you sorry idiot! Wake up!"

The shapeshifter chuckled—a maniacal noise that maladied my ears. I never knew I was even capable of making such a noise. She dragged Dean by his wrists to an area past me; past where I could see either of them and tied him up.

I struggled, attempting to move myself to face Dean, gradually turning around the pole. "Get your hands off him shitstain, or I'll use your veins for teeth floss," I fumed, finally getting her and Dean in my sights.

A good nine or ten yards away there was another vertical pipe, to which Dean was fastened hands behind his back like she had fettered me, except he was tied facing away from me. All I could see was his black watch on his wrist and his head leaning slack off to the side. He was still out cold.

The doppelganger stood, finishing its work. Then she turned to face me, grinning a grin much too big for my face. She dusted off her hands, "He sure keeps his guard down around you, Eve. Just what I needed."

She halted at my feet, and brought her face only inches from mine. Slowly, she removed my knife from my jacket that she still wore. The doppelganger placed it to my neck, just under my jaw.

"Now tell me, sweetheart, where is Sammy? Where is your other brother?"

I really loathed being called 'sweetheart'. "I'm not telling you. Go to hell," I spat between my teeth.

She drew back her knife, seeing I had made my decision. In a flash, there was a streak of metal in the hushed glow of the lamplight. A slice on my cheek flooded with blood like thick water, warm and sticky down my face.

"That's for the name-calling and being rude. Anyway, it's not like I needed your help. I know exactly where your precious Sammy is. It'll be great," she told me, "A family reunion just before a family massacre. Three heroes down, the rest of the world to go." Then she left, cleaning the knife on a shirt she picked up from the ground.

"Dean…Dean…Dean…Dean," I repeated calmly, over and over again.

He moaned, stirring.

"Dean!"

"Eve?" he answered disoriented, "Eve, are you okay? Did it do anything to you?" Dean turned his head in the direction of my voice.

"I'm fine really. Calm down." I lied, even though I knew he would see through it.

"…I'm going to gank that son of a bitch. How long have you been down here?"

"Somewhere around four hours," I answered.

I saw him try to escape his binds. He tugged and twisted, grunted and groaned.

"Dean."

"Yeah?" he was still trying to worm his way to liberation.

"Give up. It's useless," I said, sounding defeated.

He dropped his hands completely and his body wiggled a bit when he replied, bewildered, "Am I hearing you right, right now?"

I gave him a confused look, even though he couldn't see it. "Uh, yeah."

He struggled some more, even more vigorously than before. "That's it. When I get out of these and we get free, I'm going to pump that asswipe full of silver and then I'm going to beat it into your pretty little head that we don't give up. You hear me? Never." Dean exhaled sharply and dropped his hands again, "What did it want with you?"

"Me? To get to you and Sam. It worked really well obviously and now it's up there again doppelganging aroung again."

Dean shook his head. "Smart motherfucker, I give it that. Twisted. But smart." He sounded more like he was talking to himself. "So how'd he nab you?"

"Poison on its mouth," I said.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You sucked face with a doppelganger?"

"Yeah. I guess I had it coming. I envisioned my first kiss happening to the sax solo of George Michael's 'Careless Whisper'," I said, my nose itching. "You?"

"Hit me upside the head."

"Don't worry—"

"Shh." Dean suddenly went stone still.

"What?"

"Shh!" he ordered, "Hey, anybody there?" Dean asked, "Eve, what's the kid's name?"

"Scott?" I offered. I listened harder, making our some panicked shuffling noises and screams into what was most likely a gag stuffed into their mouth.

"Scott?" I said louder, "It's uh, it's Natalie."

The person screamed into their gag again, making affirmative noises into the cloth.

"Scott, hey. Calm down. We're here to help. We'll getchya home alright? Just keep your head and leave the rest to us," Dean took control of the situation just like that. The leader of the pack.

Scott made a noise caught somewhere between a whine and a groan, still afraid and overcome with strenuous ambivalence, but less so with Dean's appeasing words.

"Why'd he gag Scott and not us?" I asked the open air.

Dean answered, "Maybe because he wouldn't stop shouting for help."

I heard more noises. This time they were mostly astringently pleading and choking breaths. Scott sounded like he was trying to fight back tears and was failing. He also sounded like he was somewhere behind me.

"Hey Scott?" I spoke into the dark, "That was a pretty awesome party. The bouncy house was a nice touch, I have to say. Never—never lose the child within you. That's a quality you want sticking around for a while," I said. Quickly changing subjects, I added, "And your family's okay. Your mom, Addison. They're safe. And we will get you out of here, so you will see them again. We will make sure of that. Just—"

"Shh!" Dean executed the short sound over his shoulder.

"Dude, I'm making a speech here."

"Shut your trap, it's coming." Dean sat up best to his ability, his head craned to the side while pulling his arms painfully against the constraints around his hands in his last endeavors to snap the rope.

I smiled, shameless and brazen. My reign of fiegnment was at its closing.

"Hey guys. I miss anything?" Sam came into view, suddenly standing in the mouth of the tunnel that was our route of exit. His flashlight was trained in front of him. The beam swam from me to Dean.

"Sammy! Thank God. Come untie me," Dean was relieved for a second. "Wait wait wait. Say something only Sam would say."

Sam switched bearing his weight on his left foot to his right, giving Dean his efficacious bitchface. "When you sing in the shower, you sound like a girl," he said abrasively.

Dean cocked his head to the side as if to say "Fair enough."

After sandwiching the flashlight in his armpit, Sam took a knife from his jacket pocket, obviously silver—doppelgangers' weakness—and drove the blade into his hand. He held his blood-coated hand in the air for Dean to see.

"Alright," Dean was convinced, "Come untie me."

Sam looked at his older brother, a smile creeping onto his face. "Sorry Dean," he made his way to me, "Ladies and masterminds first." Sam knelt behind me and untied the ropes around my hands. "You okay Eve?"

"Yeah," I said, finally released and rubbing my hurting wrists. "I thought you wouldn't see the trail I left you. It was all we were counting on and I'm glad it came through."

"I'm just surprised you caught it so quickly," Sam pulled me to my feet and walked over to untie Dean. "Nice work."

I untied and ungagged Scott where I found him secured to another pipe in the mouth of a tunnel behind where I had been tied.

He gawked at me, aphasia binding his tongue. I swiped the air, pushing his worries to the side, and grabbed his arms to help him to his feet. "I'll explain later. Just come on."

The four of us met up in the middle of the room, Dean saying, "Nice work?" He narrowed his eyes at Sam as he threw down his ropes. "You knew it was a shapeshifter? When did it occur to you to let me in on this little plan of yours? What trail did she leave you?"

"Blood, mostly. And a text message saying he would not touch the silver utensils," Sam replied. "And it made the acting more authentic. That's why we didn't say anything."

Dean's authoritative stare landed on me.

"After the jerk poisoned me, I fell over and cut my leg on the knife I hid in the bottom of my pants. I did it on purpose of course. The skin walker was too absorbed in its plan to notice the blood trail I was making—even while I was unconscious. It dragged me behind a building in an alleyway near the restaurant, I'm sure. The keys the skinwalker had were for a Toyota and the Ford he was 'driving' was already unlocked when we got there. He thought I wouldn't notice, but I did." I lifted my pant leg to show everyone the deep gash in the side of my calf and the dried rivers of blood sticking to it, my pant leg, and the outside of the sock on that foot. I jingled my leg a bit and the simple pocket knife fell out of my pants, along with the tape that kept it to my leg (hey, whatever gets the job done).

I continued, "Plus, Scott wore a leather bracelet the day of the party and halfway through, he wasn't wearing it anymore. I knew something was up, like he must've been nabbed because that bracelet had dog tags on it—"

"My dad," Scott elucidated mournfully, "died in Afghanistan. Car bomb. My mom got a bracelet made with them and I've never taken it off since."

"I don't understand how you were nabbed. The 'why' is easy. The freak wanted the money in your inheritance," I said.

"I took out the trash so my mom didn't have to."

"Good kid," Sam said to Scott. Then he addressed us all, "All right, so. The thing still thinks I'm ground floor," he pointed to the ceiling, "We have it outnumbered. We'll gang up on it when it gets back—it's not doing anything until it has all three of us."

When Scott realized he was being left out of that count, he gave Sam a questioning look.

Dean told him, "Don't worry. You're not Weirdo's Most Wanted."

"Strength in numbers though," Sam added.

"Good plan," I said. But my lips were not moving.

The four of us swerved to look at, well, me. More or less.

"Now that I have you all here," the shapeshifter folded her hands together as if to think, tapping the tip of her chin, "Who should we start with?"

Dean instinctively reached for his back pocket, but came back up empty.

The doppelganger grinned, tsking, "I'm smart enough not to leave weapons on my prisoners, Dean Winchester."

"Oh yeah?" Sam automatically had his firearm in hand and pointed it at the skinwalker's heart. "You didn't capture me."

"And you aren't as smart as you think," I said, holding up my red-stained pocket knife.

The skinwalker's eyes narrowed at me before she switched her attentions back to Sam. "Oh but didn't I?" she retorted, flashing her handgun as well (technically, it was my gun but…). The corners of her mouth peeled into a sickly sneer.

That got Sam thinking; all of us thinking.

Then it dawned on me. "You didn't wear the bracelet on purpose."

The shapeshifter said, "No shapeshifter like me is that stupid."

Scott bumped into me, fraught with anger. "Where'd you stash it, asshole?"

I kept him back with my arm. "Whoa. Stop. Not a good idea, man."

Scott glanced at me and stepped back behind me where he stood a moment before.

The skinwalker took its eyes from Scott apprehensively, "It's over there on the—"

Seconds became years. Sweating bullets, my heart rate climbing, I knew the outcome of what was about to unfold even before Scott made that first, clumsy step.

Scott looked at the table and dashed to it, not thinking of the consequences.

The skinwalker's eyes glinted, gun gliding into aim as Scott ran.

My fingers grope for his shoulders, then his clothes flying backwards in his wake, and then empty air because I failed to grab him in time.

Dean and Sam reacted like the soldiers they were. Dean dove for the shapeshifter's legs, tackling it to the ground just as the firearm went off—somewhere Scott yelped and collapsed to the ground. I quickly made my way to his side.

His shoulder was grazed with the bullet, the fabric of his tweed jacket split cleanly right down the seam. I yanked him by his jacket up on his feet, "Come on, get up!" I heaved him to his feet and then left him to crumple over the table and panic over his small injury.

I jumped when another shot was fired. My eyes were met with the sight of the doppelganger on top of Dean. Both of them were not moving, nor showing any signs of life. Sam held the gun, the one that was fired, his shoulders rising and chest expanding when he let out a huge exhale. For a moment, he was fearful.

"Dean?" Sam questioned.

"Dean!" Sam and I yelled in common.

The doppelganger moved.

Dean appeared beneath the monster and shoved it off of him. "Yeah?" he grunted, wiping his hands on his thighs to rid himself of skinwalker ick. He sat up.

Sam angled his weapon at the deceased monstrosity and pulled the trigger again.

"You good?" Dean asked him, getting to his feet.

Sam looked his older brother over, registering his upright, and otherwise unharmed, position and nodded. He was fine because Dean was fine.

I let out a relieved exhale and turned back to Scott.

Scott had his hand around his wrist, holding the leather bracelet he returned to it. He held both of his arms close to his chest as if we'd shoot him next. "Oh my God. You are spies."

"Not quite," I said, taking him by the arm and ushering him to the exit. "Sam, you have the matches?"

"Yep," Sam dug in his pocket a moment and then handed me the tiny cardboard box. "You okay?" Sam moved to address Scott.

I took the matchbox to the body of the doppelganger.

"Yeah, I think," Scott answered.

I tore my leather jacket off of the skinwalker—my jacket now had a bullet hole in the back. I then kicked the body to the side, rummaging for my carved knife and semiautomatic. I slipped my shoes off its feet as well.

"It's nothin'. You're just lucky we saved your bacon," Dean told Scott.

After regaining my belongings and Sam tossed me a container of kerosene, I drenched the sucker in the stuff and lit it up like the Fourth of July. Sam, Dean, and I watched it scorch a moment, while Scott's wide eyes darted to the three of us and the burning body.

"Who are you people?" Scott asked, when Dean turned to leave, satisfied with the torching.

"Sam, Dean, and Eve Winchester," Dean responded as he led the way out of the sewer system. We formed a line down the tunnel to our right.

Some minutes passed and Sam said, "Here."

Dean climbed a ladder and led the way up and out through a manhole. Scott went up after Dean, and I after Scott.

"You guys are awfully calm to have just committed murder in the sewers," Scott commented, rather disturbed.

Surfacing up behind me, Sam quickly moved the iron lid back into its groove in the ground in the back alley behind some buildings.

"Come with us, we'll get you cleaned up," Dean said to Scott, already moving to populated sunlight, out of the sequestered alien world of the alleyways.

"No," Scott took an opposing step back. His face was guarded when he told us, a hand on his bleeding shoulder, "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me who you are, what just happened, and what the hell that thing was back there."

Dean's eyes flicked to me. Sam tried to take a step forward, to tell Scott everything, but Dean's hand across his midsection, fingers splayed, stopped him. They both turned and walked away.

I faced Scott. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

As the evening mealtime was arriving, so did Eve and Scott arrive at Scott's residence.

Dean readjusted the rearview mirror and unlocked the car doors, expecting Eve to climb in a moment later. But she passed right by Sam and Dean both, accompanying Scott to the door of his house. The two talked quietly, Eve doing most of the talking and Scott doing most of the listening.

When they made it to the foot of the steps to the front porch, Scott stood in front of Eve, so that her back was to the boys. His mouth moved, his eyes downcast in a knowing reluctant farewell. Eve bent her head when he said a few gratifying words.

Sam and Dean watched.

"What do you think he's saying?" Sam asked.

"He's probably asking when he's going to see her again," Dean said, "The little shitstick thinks he's gonna get laid."

Sam grit his teeth, cursing Dean for putting that idea in his head. "I hope not. I'd have to kill him," he responded calmly, assuring.

"Yeah?" Dean gave a sturgeon face, "Get in line." Then, remembering something, Dean flipped a cassette in and blared the music, rolling down the windows of the car.

Eve turned to look at Dean as George Michael's saxophone solo played over the speakers of the Impala. Dean flashed her a smile and she rolled her eyes back at him.

Sam and Dean saw Scott take Eve's hand and lean down to kiss her—for real, this time—right on the mouth. The kiss only lasted a second and Eve was already walking down to the car now, but nonetheless, Dean was triumphantly patting Eve on her back in his mind.

The back car door opened and in Eve climbed.

Dean turned, putting the Impala in gear. "Pie?" he asked.

"Pie," Eve agreed, and the sleek black machine jounced forward.