The dark eyes scanned the computer screen, searching for anything that could be relevant. The thin face was set, determined, the lips parting only to mouth out the names of websites that housed information about body switching. Soft snores issued from the small room's other bed as its occupant stirred, half-awake.

"Sammy," he muttered groggily, "I had the weirdest dream. We were in a warehouse and this witch attacked us, and-"

"It sucked out our souls, you shot it, and we wound up switching bodies? Hate to burst your bubble, but that wasn't a dream," Sam interrupted, finally tearing his eyes from the laptop's glowing screen.

"Oh, no, I know that was real. But in the dream the witch started singing country tunes and then you and I hopped into a bright orange car, shouted some country saying, and then jumped a gorge."

Sam turned back to the computer. "You know, Dean, I think that's a sign."

"Really?' Dean asked, sitting up in bed and stretching, "what's it mean?"

"You need to stop watching CMT," Sammy grinned, hitting the 'enter' key and finding a webpage dedicated to the shtriga legend. He groaned. "Youth suckers, but nothing that can suck out a person's actual soul."

"Maybe you're not looking hard enough," Dean suggested, standing up and wandering toward the room's big mirror to gaze at his new reflection, "scroll down. And maybe try to work out a bit more on the weekends. Getting kind of flabby here, Sam."

Sam muttered something about midnight M&M runs, but did as he was told, and finally found what he'd been searching for since finishing his six o'clock shower. "They don't have a proper name," he reported, "but these soul-sucking witches are distant cousins to the shtriga. They kill you right away, though, no dawdling. It's vulnerable when eating, too."

"That doesn't sound too promising."

"It gets worse. No one's ever survived an attack. We're the first. If we want to get out of this I guess we have to find out how all on our own."

"Great. One question."

Sam closed the laptop and laid back on the bed. "What?"

"How do you deal with this hair? It's annoying."

Sam grinned and looked at his brother who, after pulling a torn-up pair of jeans on over his boxers and slipping an old shirt over head, had returned to the mirror and was trying unsuccessfully to clear the tangled mess of hair from his eyes. "Yeah, well, you're short."

Dean stopped messing with his hair and smirked, an unnatural expression on that face. "Gonna have to do better than that, Sammy. You told me the same thing last night."

Sam closed his eyes as his grin broadened. "I wasn't talking about your height."

His brother's good-natured expression faltered. "All right, smartass, if that's how you want to play," he mumbled, walking quickly up to the bedside table to grab his necklace before swiping his jacket from the chair, taking the car keys, and leaving the room.

Let him go fume, Sam thought to himself, sliding off the bed as the Impala's loud engine faded into the distance. He had something he had to do, anyway.