"Sir Robert…!" Tracee greeted, nudging the door shut with one hand while setting her katana down on the counter with the other. Her entrance caused three pairs of eyes to shift in her direction. Bobby sat on the edge of one of the beds. Sam had dragged a chair over to the bed while Dean had sat on the bed opposite of Bobby. "You're already here."

"It's Bobby," he corrected as he stood from the bed he sat on. He gave her a nod of greeting and a slight quirk of his lips. "Really, I just got here a few minutes ago. How have you been?"

"… Fine," Tracee replied, approaching the three. She gestured towards the bed he had been sitting on, silently urging him to sit again. Once he was comfortable again, or as comfortable as he could be on the bed of a motel, she continued speaking. "So have they already told you about this bizarre case we've been working on?"

"We were just about to tell him before you walked in," Sam informed.

"I wasn't asking you," Tracee retorted. Sam narrowed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest and grumbling to himself. His grumbles were mostly ignored, save for the curious glance Bobby gave. "Since you've had many years of hunting and countless knowledge, we thought to contact you. Sorry if we pulled you from something important."

"It's no bother," Bobby stated. "Now, start at the beginning."

"Like I was saying," Sam began. "It all started when we caught wind of an obit. See, a professor took a nosedive from a fourth story window. Only, there's a campus legend that the building's haunted, so we pretexted as reports from the local paper…"

Sam made a show of being intrigued by the girl that sat across from him. Currently, he was in a bar, in Springfield, Ohio, gathering clues for this latest case he had stumbled on. The story went that a professor at a local college had committed suicide, which hadn't made sense to anyone who knew him. This girl in front of him had confirmed that the guy was married with kids, had tenure at the college, and apparently led a wholesome life. She had been a student in his Ethics and Morality class, and practically gushed that his book had been a big deal. Then, she went on to say that his death might not have been a suicide. That was the information that had peaked his true interest.

So Sam sat up straight and listened intently as the girl, Jennifer, told him about Crawford Hall's ghost story origin. Apparently, a student had been dating her professor around thirty years ago. An affair, really, and when the professor had broken it off, she had gone and thrown herself from a window. Admittedly, that tidbit of information would be grounds for a standard haunting. A spurned lover suddenly dying—being so dramatic like that—probably came back to wreak havoc on anyone that might had the same type of situation that happened. However, Jennifer went on to say that the story included the girl jumping from room six hundred and sixty nine. She had to explain around the last digit being flipped upside down to form triple six.

So she obviously believed in the hype about the haunting. But the embellishment of room 669 told Sam that the girl had been going off strictly what she had heard from someone else. Not exactly a key witness as she hadn't seen anything herself. The information wasn't really sufficient, and he doubted Jennifer could bring anything else to the table. At least, she had pointed towards the next direction. A dead girl might be the reason for the untimely death. They would just have to scope out the professor's office to see if they could find anything for further verification of a ghost.

Politely, Sam excused himself, and then stood up from the chair. Quickly, he looked around for Dean and Tracee. He spotted Dean over at the bar, downing shots. Tracee was still over at one of the pool tables, talking to some guy named Curtis, who had also been a student of this professor. Maybe she was getting more information, so Sam made a beeline for his brother. Clearly, Dean had not been worried about gathering information from another student like he was supposed to be. Sam approached him just as his brother slammed a third shot glass against the counter.

"Dean, what are you-? What are you drinking?" he questioned.

"I don't know, man," Dean slurred, and then let out a disgusting burp. Sam grimaced. "I think they're called Purple Nurples." Before Sam could comment on his brother's choice of liquor, a wail of pain caught his attention. He turned because the sound had come from where he had seen Tracee. His girlfriend calmly headed their way, leaving behind Curtis, who was grabbing his arm and staring at Tracee's back in shock. "What was that about?" Dean asked once she came to a stop.

"He bored me," Tracee replied, voice full on British. She crossed her arms. "What's our next move?"

"… Well, I was thinking we could check out the professor's office," Sam answered, glancing towards Curtis again, who had turned tail and run.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Dean protested. "I can't right now! I've got some feisty little wildcat on the hook." He thumbed behind him at a blonde woman. Sam tilted his head to get a good look at her. From her fishnet stockings to the crop top, even from the back, he realized this was a chick Dean would definitely go for in his drunken state. "I'm about to—zzzt—reel her in. Here—I'll introduce you." Before Sam could stop him, Dean turned around, catching the girl's attention. "Starla! Hey, Starla!" The girl turned around as she threw back her own shot. Her hair was more messy than curled, probably because she was already hammered, judging by her sloppy expression. "This is my shuttle co-pilot, Major Tom, and our Flight Engineer, Angela. Tom and Angela, Starla."

"Enchante…!" the girl giggled, wrapping an arm around Dean's neck.

"… Hi," Sam replied, not nearly as enthused with the introduction.

"I am right offended," Tracee muttered. Starla did not hear because she was too busy 'trying to keep her liquor down.' Once she managed that, she giggled and wrapped her arm around Dean's neck again. Tracee sighed heavily, rolling her eyes while his brother went on grinning, completely not minding the mess that had latched on to him.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Dean cut in, more than a little annoyed. "Hold on a minute!"

"What?" Sam asked, confused.

"Come on, dude! That's not what happened!"

"No?" Sam replied, drily. "So you never drank a Purple Nurple?"

"… Yeah, maybe that," Dean admitted. "But I don't say things like 'feisty little wildcat,' and her name wasn't Starla!"

"Then what was it?"

"I don't know!"

"Wasn't it Stella?" Tracee spoke up.

"Oh, like we're gonna go by what you think her name is," Sam retorted.

"Look—whatever her name was, she was classy," Dean interrupted before Tracee could snap back. He turned his attention back to Bobby. "A real classy chick. She was a grad student—Anthropology and Folklore. We were talking about local ghost stories…"

Standing at the bar, she couldn't keep her eyes off him. Dean had been chatting with this chick for a good five minutes now, and she had made her intentions very clear with her unwavering piercing gaze. Black heels, black stockings, little black dress that showed off her ample bosom. She was the kind of chick that wore a bit of makeup to enhance. The type of chick who knew who she wanted, how to get it, and flaunt it if need be. And she had had her eye on him since the moment Dean had walked into the bar. Smoking hot. The girl, smiling coyly, lifted her shot glass, prompting Dean to do the same with his.

"Here's to…" she began.

"Here's to us," he said, clinking his glass with hers.

Dean downed his shot, watching as she did the same. Soft and demure, she drank her shot slowly, tilting her head back to swallow every last drop. She licked her lips as she set her glass on the counter. Once again, her eyes returned to him, looking as though she could barely restrain herself. "My God, you are attractive," she purred, seconds away from reaching out to touch him.

"Thanks," Dean smirked. "But no time for that now." The girl let out a soft sigh of disappointment, but her focus remained her him. "You need to tell me about this urban legend. Please. Lives are at stake."

"Sorry," she breathed out. "I just can't even concentrate. It's like staring…" She paused, lifting her hand to slide around his neck. "… into the sun." Her fingertips lightly dug in, scratching for a few seconds. It was a familiar tingle—one he hadn't felt in a long time—but before he could really think about it, the girl's fingertips stopped moving, uncurling to push. Their lips pressed together in a slow, sensual kiss. Man, it had been awhile since he did something like this. Just relaxing and kissing on a hot chick. Why had it been awhile exactly? How could he have stayed away from something like this for so long?

"Dean, what do you think you're doing?!"

A familiar, grating voice caused Dean to halt his advances. He broke away from the smoking hot chick, wondering how Sam could be so clueless. Anyone could see what he had been doing. Most people wouldn't interrupt. Holding back a sigh, Dean dropped his hands from the girl's hips, and then turned to face his brother. Despite the interruption, he remained calmed. "Sam, please," he said. He lightly ran his thumb over his lower lip. "If you wouldn't mind, just give me five minutes here."

Sam didn't have time to retort. A shout from the other side of the bar caused the both of them to shift their attention towards the pool tables. Dean witnessed Tracee slamming a guy against the green surface, holding him down with her fingers wrapped around his throat. He winced, knowing more than the guy's back must have been bruised from the collision. "If't be true thee wish to end thy pitiful life hither, then speaketh another word. I would doth to end it." Everyone had stopped to stare at the spectacle. Even the music had stopped. But Tracee didn't care. "Anon, art thee going to apologize? 'r doth I has't to maketh thee?" The guy in the red athlete's jacket rapidly nodded his head in fear for his life. "Thither's a valorous lad. Don't maketh me findeth thou after this. Thou would rather not see me enchafed."

Tracee removed her hand from the dude's neck, and then sharply turned away, glaring at any who didn't part to make room for her. The Slayer glare did well in having people move aside. The guy scrambled to leave the bar, clutching his abused neck as he did. Unconcerned, Tracee made her way over to them, folding her arms as she did. "Why'd you do that?" Dean questioned as she approached.

"The gent insulted mine character. Should I has't hath left that gent wend unpunished? The poor fool didn't giveth any valid information without intention. Thee would doth well not to question mine motives." Dean made a face because honestly, he hadn't caught any of that. "Concluded, be it, what is our next moveth?"

"I'm in the middle of something, so why don't you two-?"

"Dean, this a very serious investigation!" Sam, in full Bitchface mode, rudely interrupted even though Dean had intended to be polite. "We don't have time for any of your blah, blah, blah… Blah, blah, blah, blah!"

"Thy brother's right, Dean. Save thy vices until after we hath found what we cameth hither to doth," Tracee said, firmly. Exasperated, Dean rolled his eyes. Both Sam and Tracee continued talking, but their voices blurred and faded as he turned back towards the smoking hot chick. She readily ignored the two and captured his lips once again.

"Right. And that's how it really happened!" Sam said sarcastically, nearly shouting. Dean only shrugged his shoulders. "I don't sound like that, Dean!"

"I definitely didn't use Elizabethan English!" Tracee protested. "And why do you both assume I physically assaulted that asshole?!"

"That's what you guys sound like to me," Dean said, carelessly. "Especially when you two get worked up."

"Don't listen to these dorks, Sir Robert," Tracee asserted, turning towards Bobby. "This is how it really went down."

This was a waste of time, and Tracee was hard pressed to not rub her temple to show how much she despised speaking with this guy. Upon coming to this bar in Springfield, Ohio, just a few miles away from the college campus, the three of them had decided to split up to see if anyone knew anything about the supposed suicide. Sam had gone for a sweet-looking brunette. Dean had practically jogged over to the bar to talk with a cute blonde with wild crimped hair. Tracee, herself, had only stopped this guy in particular because he had been the most eye-catching. His red leather athlete's jacket had been hard to miss. She was now regretting such a rash action.

This guy, Curtis, he had told her several times in the span of five minutes, had been a student's of the late professor. However, he hadn't been providing much insight in regards to what had happened. Not a witness. Not a concerned citizen with his own theories that somehow contributed to their work. Not even a single opinion on the dead guy. He had mentioned that he hadn't even heard about the death until later because he had skipped out on classes for a couple of days. Curtis seemed more concerned with himself and himself wanted to see how far he could go with in the jungle. Cue eye roll. "… And you know, I've always liked watermelon, so that's probably something we have in common," the guy continued, so unaware of how short Tracee's fuse had become. And that had been one of the tamest of his supposed flirtations.

"I actually don't like watermelon, so…" Tracee trailed off, shifting her gaze away from the very handy pool stick that she might be able to use as a weapon.

"Huh. That's weird… How about chicken? Can't go wrong with fried-"

"Okay, I'm going to stop you right there," Tracee said, forcing a smile. "I'm going to do you a favor and give you some advice. This is not how you approach a woman of color. This is not how you approach any woman, in fact. So let's just forget you called me a jungle bunny amazon queen, and end this conversation before I get the police involved."

"Hey, I'm just trying to get to know you!" Curtis exclaimed. "You're blowing this all out of proportion!"

"Oh, Russell," Tracee cooed. She leaned forward, dropping the smile. "When I mentioned the police being involved, I meant for murder." His eyes widened in shock. "So run along before I grab my big black boyfriend and he shoots you." With a yelp, Curtis ran away from her. Or rather her nonexistent gangsta boyfriend. Huffing lightly, she turned towards the bar. Upon seeing Sam talking with Dean, she folded her arms and began moving towards them. They both looked her way as she halted.

"Who'd you send packing?" Dean asked, voice sloppy like his grin.

"Are you drunk?" Tracee questioned instead. "We're supposed to be working."

"I am working!" Dean said. He slung his arm around the blonde beside him and pulled her close to his side. The girl laughed nervously, pushing her large-framed glasses up with her middle finger. "Working on this cutie right here! Isn't that right, Starla?"

"… Um, it's Stella," she replied, fiddling nervously with the hem of her t-shirt. Rolling her eyes, Tracee removed Dean's arm from around the poor girl. "He just wanted to know what was in the Purple Nurples. He didn't think he could get drunk on them and-and so he drank like ten shots in rapid succession. Look, I'm flattered by the attention, but I really have to get back to work." With a grateful nod towards Tracee, the girl took off somewhere. Dean whined and stretched his hand out towards where she had gone off to, but managed to trip over his own feet in the process. Embarrassing.

"Why you gotta run off or take all the girls I want?!" Dean complained. "I want sex, too!"

"Piss off, Dean!" Tracee found herself suddenly cross.

"Tracee, what happened with that guy?" Sam questioned. "He seemed pretty quick to get outta here. You know we can't cause a scene, so whatever it was, I hope you didn't bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!" Tracee didn't bother to translate the rest of his grilling because she was not in the mood.

"Right. Of course. What do we do now?"

"Hey!" Dean spoke up, offended. "I'm not some belligerent drunk who hits on unwilling women!"

"You're also not a smooth operator, Dean," Tracee retorted, glaring. "That girl couldn't wait to get away!"

"I did not grill you like that!" Sam interjected before Dean could dispute. "And if you told me he hit on you-"

"Nothing would have changed! It was already handled!" Tracee stated. "It's not like it was the first time something like this has happened!"

"Okay, what's going on with you three?" Bobby questioned. Sam sighed out sharply, forcing himself to relax in his seat. He assured the man that nothing was going on. "Come on. All three of you are at each other's throats."

"Nah, see, if we were really at each other's throats, one of us would be dead already," Dean mentioned, standing up and heading over to the kitchen area. "Which, at this point, wouldn't be so bad."

"Two of us would be dead," Tracee grumbled.

"Still wouldn't be so bad," Dean huffed.

"Look, it…" Sam sighed heavily. "We've just been on the road for too long. Tight quarters, all that. Don't worry about it." Bobby frowned, narrowing his eyes, but ultimately nodded his head. "So, anyway, we figured it might be a haunting so we went to check out the scene of the crime…"

They had to use disguises. It was a simple disguise—matching jackets with a company logo on them—but it had been enough for the on-duty janitor to let them in Crawford Hall this time of night. The man quietly led the three of them up to the room where the professor had jumped, pushed, or fallen from. Sam had a rising urge to fill the silence with conversation, so as they approached the door and the janitor began to unlock it, he opened his mouth. "So how long have you been working here?" he asked, politely. The man looked back him, eyebrow arching, but then he shrugged. The set of keys jangled and the click of the lock sliding out of place was heard even as the man began speaking.

"I've been moping these floors for six years," he replied. He pushed opened the door and flipped the light switch. "There you go." He moved further into the room, followed closely by Sam, Dean, and Tracee. Sam immediately removed the EMF from his jacket pocket and powered it on. It whirred to life and cause the attention of the janitor. "What the heck's that for?"

"Just finding wires in the walls," Sam lied. Truthfully, the EMF wasn't necessary, but it didn't hurt to have a confirmation or backup to Tracee's Slayer senses. Speaking of which, his girlfriend began moving throughout the room, brow puckered in concentration.

"Huh. Well, I'm not sure why you're wiring up this office," he murmured, leaning against the archway. "Not gonna do the professor much good."

"And why's that, luv?" Tracee inquired, turning her attention to the dark-haired man.

"He's dead," he stated.

"So blasé about it, you are," Tracee gave a smile as she walked by him. The man returned the smile with one of his own. His curious gaze followed her movements towards the desk. Sam narrowed his eyes, not sure what to make of that exchange.

"What happened?" Dean asked, distractedly moving to another side of the office. He disappeared around the corner, not entirely interested in the response.

"He went out the window—right there," the janitor pointed to the window behind the desk.

"Yeah? Were you working that night?" Sam asked.

"I'm the one who found him," he stated.

"You see it happen?"

"Nope. I just saw him come up here and… well…" The janitor seemed to find something amusing, and Sam picked right up on it. Suppressing his own grin, and not sure why he felt the urge to grin in the first place, he urged the man to go on. "He wasn't alone." Just then, Dean came back from the other side of the office, carrying a glass bowl of peanut brittle in one hand. He had already helped himself to quite a few of them judging by how stuffed his cheeks were. Despite how full his mouth was, Dean still managed—just barely—to ask who the professor had been with.

"Come on! I ate one, maybe two!" Dean complained.

"And no one called anyone luv, Sam!" Tracee grumbled.

"Just let me tell it, okay?" Sam retorted.

"He was with a young lady," the janitor continued with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I told the cops about her, but, uh… guess they never found her."

"A young lady, you say," Tracee said, frowning. "Not his wife, I'm assuming, or a daughter?" The man shook his head, eyebrows raised with implication. Tracee rolled her eyes and sighed. "Wonderful. Perhaps this was simply poetic justice then." The janitor snapped his fingers and pointed at her, nodding his head in agreement.

"She wasn't the only one I've seen come up here," he said. "I don't mean to cast aspersions on a dead guy, but… Mr. Morality here? He brought a lot of girls up here. Got more ass than a toilet seat." Tracee's frown deepened, and she suddenly swiped a book off the desk. The book had a picture of the late professor on the back of it. Dean, however, laughed outright, spraying spit and peanut brittle in front of him. Shaking his head in disbelief, Sam focused on the janitor again, who seemed more than a little tickled about it.

"So you saw this girl go in? But did you see her come out?" he questioned.

"Now that you mention it," the janitor looked up in thought. "No."

"Have you ever seen her before—around?" Sam asked. The janitor only shook his head. "One more thing, uh… This building—it only has four stories, right? So there wouldn't be a room 669?"

"Of course not. Why do you ask?"

"Ah, just curious. Thanks," Sam said.

"Yes, thank you for your help," Tracee smiled pleasantly. "We'll take it from here."

Dean went on chewing. The wet, sloppy sound of it made Sam think that perhaps it wasn't peanut brittle after all. Probably something with caramel. Uncaringly, his brother continued looking throughout the room. Shaking his head, Sam began seriously looking as the janitor made his exit. The three ended up staying for a while, if only to go along with their disguises. In the end, they hadn't found any signs of a haunting. Not with the EMF, and Tracee hadn't sensed anything either. So emptied handed, the three of them returned to their motel room.

"Well, no traces of EMF, that's for sure," Sam stated the obvious as he opened the door. He stuffed the key to the room in his pocket, sitting down at the table. Dean grumbled about the room 669 being a load of crap, pulling a beer out of the refrigerator. He set one down for Sam, and then grabbed his own. Tracee quietly began removing her jacket as she headed over to the beds. "So what do you think? The professor's just a jumper? Legend's just a legend?"

"Judging from what Jared told us, it might have been an accident," Tracee said. Jared probably hadn't been the janitor's name. Sam couldn't even remember if he had told them his name, now that he thought about it. His girlfriend liked to pull names out of thin air, it seemed, regardless of if she had been told or not. "Girl took off, probably scared that he fell, and didn't come back. Or she pushed him and ran away." She sat down on the edge of the bed and let out a sigh. "Either way, not our department."

"Yeah, but that janitor also said that he didn't see her leave the office," Dean mentioned. He took a few gulps before setting down the dark green bottle. "We oughta check out the history of the building. See if any coed ganked herself there."

Sam nodded his head as Dean headed into the bathroom. He had been about to pop the cap off his beer, but instead set down the bottle and made a grab for his laptop on the table. He opened it up, waiting for the screen to load. When it did, Sam furrowed his brow and frowned. "Dude, were you on my computer?" he called out. It took a few seconds, but Dean came out of the bathroom, looking confused. He looked at the laptop, and then Sam before giving a negative. The audacity of his lie caused Sam to stare incredulously. "Oh, really? Cuz its frozen now on-on !"

"Uh… I'm not the only one that uses that thing," Dean tried.

"Don't blame your preferences on me," Tracee called from her spot on the bed. She hadn't looked up from the book she was reading. Already, her interest in the case had seemed to vanish. "You don't always remember to delete your browsing history. I always delete mine." Dean pressed his lips together, winced, and then retreated back to the backroom. Sam scoffed.

"Dean-!" He sighed in frustration. Yes, he could yell, but it wouldn't help right now. "-Would you just… Don't touch my stuff anymore, okay?"

"Why don't you control your OCD?" Dean came back out, glaring.

The absolute nerve-!

"But did you dig up anything about the building? Or the suicidal coed?" Bobby interjected before Sam could go into rant mode. For which, Dean was grateful. The ensuing argument that had happened had been drawn out and tedious. Sam retelling it would have been the same, if not worse. Not having the chance to rant, Sam gave a simple answer. The history of the building had been completely clean. "Then it's not a haunting," Bobby summarized.

"Maybe not," Dean spoke up. "Tell you the truth, we're not really sure."

"What do you mean you're not sure?" Bobby questioned.

"Well, it's weird…" Sam commented.

"What's weird?"

"This next part," Tracee stated. "Now, we didn't see it ourselves, but Russell told us afterwards…" As the tiny tank retold the unbelievable story of how Curtis had been beamed up by an alien spaceship, somehow all of them had begun pacing throughout the room. Bobby only watched, expression growing more and more skeptic as Tracee talked. By the time she was finished, Bobby had been slack jawed. He kept repeating the word 'aliens' like he could not wrap his head around the concept. Well, in their line of work, his flabbergast had been expected.

"Look, even if they are real, they're sure as hell not coming to Earth and swiping people," Bobby insisted. He got three head nods in response. Dean, Sam, and Tracee had agreed that it had been bunch of nonsense, but hearing it straight from the guy had planted doubts. "My whole life, I've never found evidence of an honest-to-God abduction. It's all just cranks and pranks."

"Yeah, that's what we thought, but… we figured we'd at least talk to the guy…" Sam stated. Then he went on to tell Bobby what Curtis had told them. While he was telling it, Dean couldn't help the amusement. Even Sam couldn't repress the grin as he got to the part about the slow dancing. Tracee hadn't even tried. She chuckled, still entertained even now.

"You guys are exaggerating again," Bobby assumed.

"No," Dean and Sam answered in unison. "The bad thing was… we laughed at him," Dean continued. "Could barely breathe, and that was all Trace's fault."

"I was keeping it together until he mentioned the slow dance was to Lady in Red," Tracee mentioned. "So, shyeah, I busted out laughing. Then Samuel started, and then Dean. We laughed him right out of the bar, and he refused to speak with us after that." She chuckled again. "Afterwards, we found a perfect circle, right in front of Crawford Hall where this supposed abduction took place. We didn't want to believe that story, but what we found matched up, so we kept investigating."

"We talked to one of Curtis' dorm mates and found out the guy wasn't exactly a Good Samaritan," Dean continued. He might have exaggerated a little in regards to Sam's reaction to the guy, calling him a brave little soldier, and whatnot—hey, got a laugh from Tracee and a chuckle from Bobby; Sam, of course, hadn't appreciated it—but most of it had been the truth. "Guy was a dick, and so we found a connection between the victims."

"That's when I found my computer gone," Sam muttered. Dean rolled his eyes as he moved away from his brother. He sat down at the table in the kitchen, picking up a beer and taking a huge gulp. Here we go… Sam rehashed the argument, glaring the whole time. Dean chose to pay only half attention.

"Did you take his computer?" Bobby asked.

"Serves him right, but no," Dean answered.

"Well, I didn't lose it cuz I don't lose things," Sam retorted.

"Oh yeah…? Well, what happened to Trace's conditioner, Mr. Perfect?"

Maybe it had been a low blow, bringing that up again. But Dean was seriously fed up with being blamed for something he didn't do. Sam threw him a betrayed look as Tracee swelled up to begin the argument again. Dean couldn't bring himself to care for the look. He grinned around the mouth of his beer bottle as Tracee glared at her giant boyfriend. "He's right. My conditioner's still missing," she stated. Sam sighed harshly through his nose. "And someone has yet to replace it!"

"For the last time, I didn't use your conditioner," he said.

"So it just became sentient, poured itself out, and then jumped into the trash before covering itself with other trash then?!" Tracee asked sarcastically. "Funny that… because you smell an awful like like you used it!"

"No, I smell like it because we shower together, Tracee!" Sam barked.

"We shower together, Sam—not condition!" she yelled right back. Sam groaned dramatically covering his face with his hands. "I told you that my conditioner has been upgraded to very important ever since I started wearing my hair like this!" By this, she meant her curly hair, which leaned closer to afro than kinky. Apparently, the hair product was essential in keeping the style, and she was so worried she was going to ruin her hair because she wasn't used to it. She had freaked out when she had discovered bottles of conditioner empty at the bottom of the trashcan.

"You know what?! You wanna talk about what you told me? How about when I said not to wash my suit and tie with everything else—that it needed to be dry-cleaned—you went ahead and did it anyway?" Sam blurted, ripping his hands away from his face to glare at her. Tracee scoffed. Sam mock her with his own scoff. "Now there's a big spot on it, and I can't wear it again!"

"I said I didn't wash that!"

"Well, you're in charge of washing our clothes, Tracee! Who else could it have been?! Mr. I- like-to-throw-my-dirty-socks-in-the-sink? I don't think so!"

"Hey…!" Dean chimed in. He only received dual glares for his troubles.

"Okay, okay, enough," Bobby said. "Let's get back to the matter at hand. Why don't you tell me what happened next?"

"There was one more victim," Dean stated.

"Right. Now, we didn't see this one ourselves either," Sam explained. "We kinda put it together from the evidence. But this guy, he was a—he was a research scientist. Animal testing."

"Yeah, you know, a dick, which fits the pattern," Dean said. Bobby, patient as can be, listened to him about the alligator in the sewer bit. Some guy had gotten chewed on by Godzilla, and yet no one saw or heard anything. Honestly, all of it still seemed too weird. Thinking about it, saying it out loud—still didn't make a lick of sense. A ghost. An alien. An alligator. Mixed together, it wasn't a standard hunt. But it all had to be connected, right? Like Sam had said, these things were happening too close together.

"We decided to search the sewer anyway. So Dean and I split up, each taking one end of the campus," Sam stated.

"Where were you?" Bobby asked, looking at Tracee. Dean rolled his eyes again because he just knew that another shitstorm had formed from that simple question. As if sensing his eye roll, Tracee sharply cut her eyes towards him. Bobby, too, looked over in curiosity. "What happened?"

"I was too busy yesterday night," Tracee started. "Clawing at the bathroom floor, in utter agony, because I had been poisoned."

"Oh my God," Dean rolled his eyes again. Seriously, if he kept rolling his eyes this hard, they would be the strongest muscle in his body. "She means food poisoning. I ordered the food yesterday for lunch. Her order came wrong. She ate it anyway. Turns out the steak wasn't cooked all the way." Tracee huffed angrily from where she sat on the edge of his bed. "Hey, nobody told you to eat the wrong order!"

"No one told you to order the wrong thing either!"

"I didn't order the wrong thing, Trace! It just came wrong! Besides, you were just fine by morning!" Dean had to force himself not to yell. "Considered it payback for you leaving your bottles all over the place!"

"I didn't do that!"

"But you're literally the only one who drinks that crap!" Dean said. He idly rubbed his nose. Honestly, he still felt a bit of ache from running into a wall because of an empty bottle of carbonated water had been left on the floor. The spectacle had happened this morning, but he still felt it. Fortunately, his nose hadn't been broken, but it still ticked him off a little bit. Okay, a lot a bit. Seriously, Dean had thought she stopped leaving those damn bottles on the floor. "You probably did it on purpose because you think I had something to do with Sam's stupid computer, too!"

"I don't care about his stupid computer!"

"No? Because I'm pretty sure you spent your own money—three hundred dollars' worth—getting that stupid computer for his birthday!" Tracee opened her mouth, and then promptly shut it. "Yeah, thought so."

"That doesn't mean I purposely left bottles on the floor so you can trip over them, Dean!"

"Anyway…!" he continued before Tracee could defend herself with more lies. "We didn't find anything in the sewers, but I did find Sam's money clip right next to my Baby." Sam smacked his lips, looking annoyed. Dean didn't care, and woefully told Bobby how he had discovered all four tires of the Impala deflated and the engraved clip with Sam's initials next to the scene of the crime, which had led to the undignified physical squabble between brothers.

"Okay, I've heard enough," Bobby cut in before Dean could go into detail on who had won that fight. Obviously, it had been him.

"Anyway, you showed up about an hour after that," Dean stated. "Then Tracee came back from whatever it was she was doing."

"I was practicing with my katana so that I wouldn't practice on you," Tracee supplied with a sickly sweet smile. Dean let out mocking laughing as he gave her the bird. She, unaffected, returned the rude hand gestured.

"I'm surprised at you three," Bobby said. "I really am." Dean frowned, lowering his hand into his lap. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Sam had lowered his head. Tracee had begun scratching at her neck, turning her eyes away from the disappointed man. Apparently, all of them were ashamed. "Come over here, Tracee." Slowly, the tiny tank rose from the bed, and then sat down in the third chair at the kitchen table. She was now in between Dean and Sam, trying hard not to look at either of them. "Sam, first off, Dean did not steal your computer."

"But I-!"

"Shh!" Bobby commanded, causing Sam to deflate considerably. Dean grinned smugly. "Tracee did not wash something that was meant to be dry-cleaned." Sam frowned, but didn't say anything else in protest. "Tracee, Sam did not take your conditioner. Dean didn't order the wrong thing." The tank only huffed. "And Dean, Sam did not touch your car. Tracee did not leave her bottle on the floor." He was talking to them slowly, like they were kids. Dean realized that, but couldn't really blame him for it. "And if you bothered to pull your heads outta your asses, it all would have been pretty clear."

"… What?" Dean asked.

"What you're dealing with," Bobby said. For several long seconds, Dean drew a blank. Neither Sam nor Tracee seemed to have an answer either. "You've got a trickster on your hands."

"That's what I thought!" Dean quickly said with a snap of his fingers.

"No you didn't," Sam and Tracee spoke in unison. "In my defense, Sir Robert, I haven't encountered this… trickster creature before," Tracee continued. "What do they do? And how do you know?"

"Honestly, you three were my biggest clue," Bobby told her. "These things create chaos and mischief as easy as breathing. And it's got you so turned around and at each other's throats, you can't even think straight." Suddenly, everything made sense. The computer, the tires, the hair conditioner—everything! Yeah, the three of them had their fair share of arguments, but it had never escalated to the point of this level of annoyance.

"Well, what are they? Demon? Spirit?" Dean questioned.

"More like demi-gods, really," Bobby said. "There's Loki in Scandinavia. There's Anansi in West Africa. Dozens of them. They're immortal, and they can create things out of thin air. Things as real as you and me. Make them vanish just as quick."

"You mean like an angry spirit or an alien or an alligator," Dean translated.

"The victims fit the MO, too. Tricksters target the high and mighty, knock them down a peg, usually with a sense of humor. Deadly pranks. Things like that," Bobby explained.

"Poetic justice," Tracee said.

The offhanded remark sparked something in Dean's mind. Truthfully, he had had the same thought previously, but… "Bobby, what do these things look like?" Dean asked. Bobby shrugged, answering that they could appear like anything, but mostly, they disguised themselves as human. Right on the money. Dean turned towards the two on his right. "And what human do we know who's been at ground zero this whole time?" It took them both a few seconds, but they came to the same conclusion he had.

"That cute janitor?" Tracee muttered. "Huh."

"You couldn't sense anything weird about him?" Sam asked. Tracee shook her head. "Guess that makes sense… What good is a trick if a Slayer can see right through it?" He let out a sigh. "So what do we do?"

0-0

Night had fallen, and Sam hadn't returned. Tracee shivered, bracing herself against another wind shift. It had been hours since she and Dean had been tasked with keeping an eye on the janitor—i.e., walking the parameter of the building—and the man had not come out. She had gotten annoyed over two hours ago, and now she could barely feel her toes. Scowling, she made her way back to the front of Crawford Hall. This was getting absolutely ridiculous. This waiting around thing. They had their prime suspect, and yet they were still waiting around for actual hard evidence. Not that she thought they should go in guns blazing, but anything else had to be better than walking around outside, praying that the frostbite wouldn't get her first.

Tracee met Dean at the front entrance of the building. Having come from the opposite direction, he didn't look too keen on waiting any longer as well. They exchanged a look, his eyebrows raised with implication as he tilted his head to the front doors. It didn't take long for Tracee to agree. Between the warmth of a building on a cold, cold night and the exasperated scolding she would probably get from her lover at a later time, she was definitely going with the warmth. Tracee nodded her head, and Dean grinned, probably all too eager to rebel against cautious just because Sam had been a tight ass about assigning the task in the first place. Like they hadn't been adults who could make their own decisions. Sam had been way too convincing of a tight ass.

Side by side, Dean and Tracee jogged up the steps to Crawford Hall. He opened the door and the heat nearly blasted her in the face. It was absolutely glorious. She released a heavy sighed as she moved further in. Dean scoffed, throwing her a knowing smirk. Tracee ignored it. Of course he wouldn't appreciate being warm. After taking the time to actually warm up, the two of them began searching the inside of the building for the wily janitor. It was a bit of a shame they would have to kill him. He was cute, and apparently quite clever. It took true intellect to accomplish this brand of humor. But all the same, people were dying over his type of humor, so…

Tracee suddenly halted, a familiar tune grabbing her attention. She reached out to Dean, stopping him from going further up a flight of stairs. "You hear that?" she whispered. Dean turned around, eyes narrowed in concentration. He came down to her level, putting away his specially made stake. They both turned towards a set of double doors. "Is that…" Tracee furrowed her brow, trying to place the song. "… Barry White?" As Dean opened the doors to the auditorium, the words became clear. Yes, it was Barry White. It was an intro to one of his most popular songs. Tracee found herself cracking an amused smile as she followed Dean into the theater.

On stage, there was a spinning disco ball, along with a circular bed with two people on it. As they slowly moved closer, Tracee could see both were blond, but of opposite genders. The woman was clad in skimpy black lingerie. The man only wore black briefs. He was quite… well-endowed. Clearly, this had been set up. "We've been waiting for you," the woman purred. Dean rapidly slapped at Tracee's arm, breaking her rapt gaze. Clearing her throat, she turned to him, but his eyes remained focus.

"Look alive, Tracee—th-this isn't real!" he told her.

"Trust me, sugar…" the woman said. "It's gonna feel real."

The nervous giggle that erupted from Dean's mouth succeeded in snapping Tracee out of her… observation. She cleared her throat again. "Really, Dean? How long has it been for you to be acting like a schoolboy?" she questioned, smoothing down her hair. In response, Dean shoved her and told her to shut it. Tracee licked her lips as the man crawled forward on top of the bed. "Now, this is nice and all, but rarely do we mix business and pleasure." Both blonds visibly pouted, but in a seductive type way. Again, Dean giggled nervously. Hell, she might've, too. She had thrown a stone at him, but really… she was in a glass house, herself.

"They're a peace offering," a familiar voice caused both of them to whirl around. There, in one of the seats, sat a very casual trickster. He smiled smugly at them, wagging his finger a bit. "I know what you three do. I've been around awhile—run into your kind before."

"My kind…?" Tracee asked, feeling the corner of her lips twitch upward.

"Yeah, hunters," he said.

"Oh, sweetie…" she drawled, stepping towards him. "Let's not go assuming you've met anyone like me." His right eyebrow lifted, quietly appraising her yet again. She sure had spoken a good game, so perhaps he was wondering where her confidence stemmed from. "Still, you have realized why we're here, Loki."

"Loki…?" he repeated, appearing mildly impressed.

"Well, I sure as hell not going to call you Anansi, am I?" Tracee teased. He grinned widely. "The fact of the matter is… We can't continue to let you kill people." The trickster rolled his dramatically and sighed.

"Come on!" he exclaimed. "Those people got what was coming to them—hoisted on their own petards."

"For 'tis the sport to have the engineer hoist with his own petard. And 't shall go hard, but I will delve one yard below their mines, and blow them at the moon. Oh, 'tis most sweet when in one line two crafts directly meet," Tracee quoted. The trickster raised both eyebrows this time, looking pleasantly surprised. "Sweetie, if you keep this up, I'm going to end up liking you." The trickster barked out a laugh, pleasing to the ears and a bit infectious. Tracee had to smother her grin only because Dean had nudged her side. She turned to him, noting his baffled expression. "What? You didn't read Hamlet?"

"No…!" Dean seemed almost offended.

"Samuel would have caught that reference easily," Tracee stated.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the chuckling trickster. He wagged his finger again, leaning forward. "Yes, I think the feeling's mutual," he said. "See, I like you three. I do. So… treat yourselves. As long as you want." He gestured to the two gorgeous model-like creatures on stage. Tracee glanced behind her. The two were curling their fingers, silently urging them to climb on stage. "Just long enough for me to move on to the next town." She looked towards him again to see that he was unwrapping a chocolate bar. "I know you've both got some… pent up frustrations in this department."

"What's he talking about, Trace…?"

"It… It's been awhile…" she reluctantly admitted, scratching the side of her neck. Dean turned to her, brow furrowed in puzzlement. As far as he was concerned, his brother and she had a… pretty integrated and balanced relationship. In his words, Dean thought their sexual relationship was a huge chunk of the pie chart. "Well, I was injured for a little bit, and he said he didn't want to aggravate my stomach, so…" Dean made a face. "Anyway, afterwards, sometimes, I wouldn't be in the mood. Or he wouldn't. And it's gotten to this point, I guess."

"A-Are you guys okay?" he questioned. Part of his expression looked as though he couldn't believe they were having his conversation. Really, this was not the time, especially in front of a stranger, but here they were. The other part showed real concern for the slight change in their otherwise stable relationship.

"Personally, I just think they need to bone," the trickster chimed in.

"Can it, Loki!" Tracee exclaimed just as Dean hissed out a 'gross!' "Look, we're fine," she assured, returning her attention back to the older Winchester. "We've just…" She sighed a bit. "We've just gotten to the point where things are simmering. It's not a big deal."

"It's a pretty big deal," the trickster said. "I could sense the tension coming off you two in waves—so release some of that tension with my peace offering. Everybody goes home happy. What do you say?"

"… Yeah… I don't think we can let you do that," Dean said.

"Besides, that's not going to work," Tracee stated, thumbing behind her. "Blonds don't really do it for me."

"No…?" he leaned forward against, mouth open in a grin. "Let's see… How about something like this?"

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the music changed. Can't get enough of your love, babe transitioned to Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you. The trickster gestured towards the stage again, prompting both Dean and Tracee to turn in unison. Her mouth dropped open at the new attraction. Cassie had replaced the blonde woman, sitting on the edge of the circular bed with a white and blue plaid shirt over a grey tank top. She was not wearing pants, but black lacy panties. She was also barefoot.

However, what had caught and kept her full attention was the man. He had been transformed into Sam, only he was wearing a short, form fitting blue dress that nicely showed his thighs. Spaghetti strapped and shimmering, the dress looked damn good on him. Just like in her wildest dreams. Then Sam smirked, opening his mouth and sliding the tip of his tongue against one of his canine teeth.

"Guh…!" Tracee couldn't stop the strained groan in time before she clamped a hand over her mind. She was overheated, overstimulated, and overwhelmed. Admittedly, she just might start bleeding from her nose.

"You are so frickin' weird, Trace," Dean muttered beside. He must have noticed the copy of his brother, and yet his eyes remained on the copy of Cassie. "I swear, I'm the only one thinking with my brain here."

"Shyeah, your downstairs brain, maybe!" Tracee retorted, shoving his arm. That seemed to snap him out of it. He sharply faced away from the stage, face flushed, yet trying to look stern. Tracee stumbled to do the same, though she had quite the hard time tearing her gaze away from the copy of Sam. "You're being ridiculous, Loki! As if this ploy would work on me!" she exclaimed, voice unsteady.

"Oh, yeah…? Then why are you taking off your clothes?"

Tracee froze, but the large jacket still fell from her shoulders. Huh. She hadn't even realized. A nervous laugh shot from her mouth. She tried to ignore the incredulous stare Dean gave her. "Trace…!" he admonished. She pressed her lips together and lowered her head. Because it had been a shameful action. Still, she couldn't help but keep thinking about Sam in a dress. She imagined herself sliding a hand up his leg, fingertips teasing a toned inner thigh. She had to hold back a moan, thinking of the satisfying sound he would make. Guh. "Look, man, you're awesome. We dig your style, I mean-" He risked another glance at the stage. "Y-You're obviously a cool dude… And the, uh, slow-dancing alien-"

"One of my personal favorites," the trickster laughed out.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, also laughing. "But you're still killing people, and you already know who we are, so you know that we can't let you go. Even with this awesome peace offering, we're gonna have to—and she's already on stage, isn't she?"

"Yup…!"

"Trace!" Unapologetic, Tracee had climbed on stage and approached the copy of Sam. Whilst they had been talking, she had taken to observing the double. She had been about to reach out and touch when Dean had ruined her fun. "Priorities, please! We are not here to be tempted!"

"But he's making it so hard to resist!" Tracee whined out. Again, Dean shouted her nickname. She huffed in response, lowering her hand. "Fine. We won't accept your peace offering," she said like a petulant teenager being forced to apologize. The trickster sighed, and then took a bite out of the chocolate bar.

"Too bad," he said, after swallowing. "Like I said, I like you." The mirth left his expression, and his hazel eyes seemed to shift to iron. "But you shouldn't have come here by yourselves."

"Who says we're by ourselves?" Dean asked. As if they had been waiting for that signal, Sam and Bobby opened the doors of the auditorium and walked in. Each wielded large stakes, made specifically to kill tricksters. The trickster whirled around, obviously surprised to see the newcomers. "See, I'm thinking you haven't actually run into our kind before. If you had, you would have realized we're never by ourselves."

"… Why is there a clone of me in a dress…?" Sam asked, walking down the steps. Tracee adverted her gaze, grimace on her face. That was a question she didn't want to answer at the moment. Maybe not ever.

"So…" the trickster turned back in his seat. "That fight you guys had outside… That was a trick?" Dean shrugged his shoulders. Even from the back, Tracee could tell he was both smug and amused that his plan had worked. Tricking the trickster—the older Winchester reveled in the irony. "Hm… Not bad." Despite realizing his folly, the trickster seemed impressed. "But you wanna see a real trick?" He pointed behind him with his chocolate bar, and suddenly the sound of a chainsaw echoed in the auditorium. Cyndi Lauper abruptly shut off as Tracee looked towards where the new sound was coming from.

Panic filled her as she watched Sam narrowly dodge a swipe form the deadly weapon. A large masked man continued to try and slice through her lover. "Samuel…!" Tracee moved to intercept, but her wrist was grabbed. She turned back around to see the copy of Sam grinning at her. Her panic faltered for just a second, but it allowed the copy to yank her towards him as he stood up. Then quite unexpectedly, he grabbed a fist full of her shirt and lifted her off the floor, only to toss her over his shoulder and onto the bed.

She landed face first with her arm twisted behind her back. The weight of the clone pressed down on her caused her to gasp out. "Where you going?" he whispered in her ear, lips pressed to the crown. "Thought we were gonna have some fun." Stifling an approving moan, Tracee squeezed her eyes shut. Well, this was absolute bollocks. How was she to fight this sexy beast that wore Sam's face and had his throaty, flirty voice? Guh. Her body was already responding his body like a cat in heat. She might not be able to think straight soon, especially with him grinding against her. A yell broke though the dizzying want, and the bed shifted from a crash. Tracee opened her eyes to see Dean clawing at the edge of the bed, trying to stand up.

"This isn't gonna work!" he rasped. "I'm pretty sure I've got an awkward boner!"

"Dork, the fuck? Me, too!"

"Switch?"

"Switch."

With a grunt, Dean hefted himself from the stage floor, and then tackled the copy of his brother right off top of her. Even as she sat up, Tracee realized that Dean would probably never let her hear the end of it. For now, though, she had a copy of her best friend to worry about. 'Cassie' jumped on the stage and Tracee quickly moved from the bed. She dodged a straight jab by stepping to the side. Then she swung a right hook, nailing the copy's jaw. The clone snapped back quickly, lifting her arm in an elbow strike. Gritting her teeth, Tracee bent backwards just missing the hit intended for her nose. She moved a few steps backwards, ducking to avoid another punch. It continued on like that, the copy attacking and Tracee evading the strikes. She was fast and strong, but nothing like the real thing. The real Cassie would be insulted.

Thoroughly fed up, Tracee held her ground and when the copy came close, she lashed out. Her right foot lifted, kicking at the copy's left leg, crippling her. Her left hand already curled into a fist, Tracee struck the copy in the chest twice. Both palms caught her shoulders, pushing her away. Tracee rushed forward, twisting her body and raising her left leg in a roundhouse kick. The strike collided with the copy's face, causing her head to spring back. She continued with a barrage of punches, which further staggered the copy. Finally, she spun around once more, smashing the back of her left fist hard. The powerful strike was enough to send the copy soaring through the air. She flew all the way towards the last row of the auditorium.

The trickster, who had previously been cheering and jeering, had become silent, staring with a set of bemused eyes. Tracee, though, focused more on the next threat. She ran to the edge of the stage, dropping down directly in the path of the masked man, who had been targeting Bobby. The massive chainsaw came down and she smacked her hands together, catching the guide bar. She kneed the large man in the side three time with her right leg, and then lifted her leg higher, foot hitting against his masked head. In the same motion, she turned to the left, wrenching the dangerous weapon away. It clattered to the floor, still whirring.

The masked man reached out with both hands, grabbing the top of her shoulders. Tracee took a big step backward with her right foot. She wrapped all ten digits around the man's left her and brought her knee up. She snapped bone, causing the man to unleash a deafening shout. Her left hand released his arm, fist knocking against his face. Her fingers then curled around the man's jacket and shirt. She lifted him off the floor, swung his body around, and then threw him towards the stage. His body smacked against Sam's copy, taking the both of them down, right before Dean could be struck by another punch.

"Tracee…!"

Turning to her right, Tracee saw the real Sam tossing his large stake towards her. She caught it with one hand, spun around while transferring it to the other, and then launched it towards the seats. The projectile shot through the air, impaling deep within the trickster's chest. Wide-eyed, he stared at the large stake, and then he looked up at her, brow furrowed. Blood spilled from his mouth, sliding down his chin. For just a few seconds, tendrils of remorse coursed through her at the sight. Then, just as quickly, they vanished. The tricksters slumped back in his seat, dead.

Sam and Bobby approached on either side of her, staring at the body. Panting, Dean also came towards them. He hopped off of the stage, tapping Tracee's shoulder twice. She turned to him, seeing that the corner of his lip had been split and bleeding. "You guys okay?" he asked, even though he had suffered the most damage. A chorus of affirmations was the response, so he nodded his head. "Well… I gotta say, he had style."

"He put me in a dress," Sam replied flatly.

"Yeah, he put you in the dress," Dean said, amusement slipping into his tone. His focus was on Tracee, who avoided his gaze like the plague. She bloody well knew that he would lord it over her head. He grunted in pain as he turned. "Somebody grabbed that stake," he said as he began making his way towards the exit. Tracee sighed heavily as Sam silently volunteered. She watched as her lover yanked the stake from the trickster's chest, and flinched. Frowning, she wondered why. Sam slowly reached for his face, fingertips closing his eyelids. Tracee found herself nodding in agreement. Despite the trouble and the vicious pranks he pulled, he had been likeable. Refreshingly different from the other supernatural creatures they normally encountered. She sighed again, turning away from the sight.

"Balls…" Bobby murmured, following her. Tracee scooped up her large jacket as she moved. Hm. It had been the first time Bobby had seen her in action. She wondered if that remark had been awe, horror, or a blend of the two. Or maybe something else entirely. She hoped he wouldn't distance himself from her now that he knew what she was capable of. Hearing about it was one thing, but actually seeing it for himself… "Come on, cupcake," Bobby said, urging her towards the exit with a gentle brush to her shoulder. Oh. Okay. Holding back a smile, Tracee increased her pace.

The four of them hurried to the entrance of Crawford Hall, barely pausing their strides as Dean and Sam opened the doors.

"Bobby, thanks a lot!" Sam said. "We really could've-"

"Hey, save it…!" Bobby interrupted. "Let's just get the hell outta dodge before somebody finds that body!"

The four made it to the Impala, Bobby moving around the car to the driver's side. He opened the door and climbed in. Good thing it had been parked right out front. Sam opened the passenger side door in the back for her, but halted. "Look, um… Tracee, Dean…" Both halted, turning to look his way. "I just wanna say that I'm, uh… I'm sorry. I was being a tight ass, so I'm sorry—both of you."

"Hey, me, too," Dean said. "Maybe I'm not a complete joy to be around."

"I have been behaving ridiculously as well," Tracee stated. "I'm sorry for my frustrations." Sam turned, looking at her through narrowed eyes. She reached up and scratched at her neck and dipped her chin. "But water under the bridge, and all that."

"Hey," Sam's voice made her look up. "I'll make it up to you. I promise." Both eyebrows jerked with implication. Tracee smiled up at him. Dean, too, must have realized the implication because he groaned dramatically from his side of the Impala.

"You guys are breaking my heart," Bobby said popping back up. "Could we please just leave?" He pointedly looked at all three of them before getting back in the car. They chuckled in response, before they, too, climbed into the Impala. Dean started up the car, not bothering to wait for her to strap into her seatbelt.

They took off into the night, another case finished.

0-0

The trickster watched the body of his doppelganger disperse before taking a huge chuck out of his chocolate bar. Huh. So that was a Slayer? Admittedly, he hadn't run into one before. Had simply heard of the legend in all of his time on this plane. Slayers tended to stay in one place until the next one was called, and generally, he hadn't stayed in the same place for too long. However, he knew that something drastic had changed a few years ago. The activation of all Slayers. He had known, sooner or later, that he would run into one. Apparently, they were as deadly and brutal as the stories said. And this one was accompanied by hunters. The Winchester brothers, at that. Interesting. Not at all what he had expected.

"Gabriel." Flinching, he turned towards the stage. Gabriel. A name he hadn't been called in centuries had been so casually mentioned. There, sitting at the edge of the stage, was a man he hadn't seen before. He had a lean build with tanned skin and bright grey eyes. His hair, light brown and dreadlocked, was pulled into a half ponytail. He wore black cargo pants, a light green sweater, a jean jacket, and sandals. A vessel, maybe…? With a bizarre fashion sense. Perhaps, a single-minded angel had finally managed to track him? Unlikely, though, because he couldn't sense anything. For all intents and purposes, this was just a man. And yet, this just a man, had appeared without warning.

"Sorry, buddy, the name's Loki," the trickster corrected, casually. He tilted his head to the side, making a show of studying the man in front of him. "You've got the wrong guy."

"There's no mistake," the man stated. "You may be borrowing another's face, but I know who you are… brother." At the mention of their relation, he couldn't stop his eyes from widening. Shocked, and a bit fearful, he stared at the stranger's face, contemplating if he should demand answers or just run. Run far away, maybe lay low for half a century. Fake his death, maybe? Well, depending on which brother this was, he just might have to. How had he been found? He had been extra careful, completely immersing himself in the Trickster persona. No one had realized, so how? "There is nothing in this world that can be completely concealed from me. Unfortunately."

"What do you want?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"What I want is simple," the man said. "Whether or not you listen is entirely up to you. So… Shall we begin from the top?"

0-0