A/N: Hello again! Thank you so much to those of you who took the time to review chapter one! Feedback is always greatly appreciated! I hope you all will enjoy chapter two as well and will take the time to share your thoughts.

Once again, InfinitySpring and The Tinglenator are the bees' knees and are the reason this story has finally come together! Go give their works a read! :)

Legacy

Part I: The Hound of Hell

Chapter Two: Paranoid

Mornings at the bunker had become a liminal time for the Winchesters. Carved deep into the Kansas bedrock, the bunker was devoid of any windows or natural lighting to indicate the time of day, and neither Sam nor Dean were in the habit of setting an alarm when they weren't working a case. Over the years, their circadian rhythms had been well-trained to allow only short bouts of sleep at a time, but the security of the warded bunker soon lulled them into the occasional habit of oversleeping. Sometimes Dean would wake to find Sam had already taken his morning run, eaten breakfast, and settled into researching a new topic before he could even get his own eyes open. Other days Dean would spend an eternity in solitude before Sam would finally wander into the kitchen searching for coffee, hair sticking up in all directions and eyes half-closed. The younger Winchester apologized each time it happened, as if he were inconveniencing his brother by taking advantage of the extra rest. Dean, however, accepted it as another advantage of their new base of operations. This was what it felt like to be safe. This was what it felt like to be home.

Today Dean awoke to his internal clock insisting it was later in the morning than he was used to, but his weary body suggested he take a few more hours to rest. He sat up and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to shake the dregs of sleepiness away. A glance at his watch revealed it was barely eight o'clock. Normally, this would suggest he was unusually well-rested. Now it only served to remind him of how restless his night had been. He'd finally dozed off in the early hours of the morning after constant tossing and turning, unable to shut his brain off and go to sleep. The reason for this was a few doors down the hall in room fourteen—unless she was already awake.

Dean had been less than delighted upon realizing the bunker's newest guest had decided to take up residence in the room directly around the corner from his own. He'd been tempted to tell Erica to buzz off and pick one of the bunker's other numerous bedrooms to sleep in, but then had thought it might not be such a bad idea for her to be close enough to keep under watch. He hadn't anticipated how the encroachment would mess with his own sense of security. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind constructed images of her stalking the halls to murder him and his brother in their beds or else conjuring up legions of evil to do her bidding while they slept. He had even found himself out of bed at one point, creeping to her door—just checking on her, he told himself—only to find she had locked herself inside. That had done little to reassure him.

As he stepped out of his room, the comforting aroma of fresh coffee teased his senses. He hoped that meant Sam was awake. Dean pursued the smell and its promise of black gold to the kitchen but found the room empty and the coffee pot half-full. Confirming that the bunker's other two inhabitants had been there, a pair of matched mugs with rings of coffee settled at the bottom had been abandoned on the counter next to a hastily scribbled note. Recognizing his brother's chicken-scratch, Dean decoded it with practiced eyes while pouring his own cup of coffee.

Dean,

Went for a run with Erica.

Be back soon.

-Sam

"I see the friendship train is still chugging right along," Dean grumbled to no one, shaking his head. "That's just fantastic."

Was he being unfair? Probably, he admitted as he crumpled the note and made his way to the fridge to see what he could scrape together for breakfast. He didn't care, though.

For the first time since Dean was four years old, he and Sam had a place where they felt secure, a place where they could rest and unwind from a hunt without looking over their shoulders for the next Big Bad trying to make their lives miserable. And now Erica had come along and ruined it. This was supposed to be their space, and yet now Dean was seeing traces of her everywhere. He couldn't even escape her in the fridge! Instead of the takeout and beer forming the cornerstone of the Winchester diet, it was full of groceries she had bought sometime in the two days she claimed to have been at the bunker prior to their arrival - not that being able to cook a hot, fresh, delicious meal wasn't awesome…but it wasn't the point!

It was even worse because the intruder was being so damn civil about the whole situation.

Erica had immediately agreed to share her dinner with the brothers as if they hadn't just interrogated her at gunpoint. While finishing the work on her motorcycle, she'd fished for more information about them and how they had come to call the bunker home. If their short, dodgy answers and the fact that she clearly wasn't being left alone had bothered her, she was very good at hiding it. Once the bike was reassembled and running to her satisfaction, she'd scrubbed the grease and oil from her hands and headed for the kitchen.

Belting an apron about her waist, Erica had bustled around as if unaffected by the two men watching her every move from the dinner table. Dean had decided maybe the woman was being willfully oblivious as she asked if either of them had any allergies and if there were any vegetables they didn't want in a salad. It'd been enough to win Sam over either way.

Tiring of the tension as she put the finishing touches on dinner, the younger Winchester had begun building a rapport with their guest. He started with an innocent offer to help chop vegetables. A breath Dean hadn't realized he'd been holding rushed from his chest as Erica passed the knife and cutting board over to Sam. He hadn't liked the effortlessness of her vegetable chopping. No one outside of a five-star restaurant kitchen should be so comfortable and quick with that heavy of a blade.

Sam, however, showed no signs of the same trepidation as he drew Erica into conversation. As skillfully as always, his little brother bobbed and weaved through the discussion in a way that had the woman revealing pieces of herself without even noticing she had done so. People always got loose-tongued around Sammy. It was a gift.

They learned her father disappeared when she was eight, leaving her to be raised by only her mother. Her relationship with said mother had been strained for years before her mother's death a few months prior. The death led to finding her father's letter and the bunker key while settling her mother's affairs. Before, Erica had been in the military, recruited into an Army intelligence division.

That explained a lot in and of itself. Blend in with a crowd. Don't draw attention to yourself. Suspect everyone. They were all part of the job description, and those habits were hard to shake. The brothers would know. John Winchester had learned similar routines during his own time in the military, and later found they were also useful in the hunting world. So many of Sam and Dean's daily rituals were remnants of habits their father had drilled into them during their childhood. Erica might not be a hunter in the supernatural sense of the word, but the instincts were there.

From a superficial viewpoint, Erica was average, with the same story spouted by thousands across the country. She had grown up in small-town America. She had joined the military straight out of high school because she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life and nothing better to do with her time. And maybe also to piss off my mom, Erica had admitted with a thin smile that was a mix of mischief and bitterness. Her mother hadn't approved of the decision—no homecoming parties after deployments or Proud Army Mom bumper stickers for her. Erica didn't seem worse off for it: independent and capable, though a bit cynical even for Dean's tastes. And she was a damn good cook. In fact—

Dean pulled the bowl of gumbo remaining from dinner out of the fridge, along with the side of rice. The salad was left for Sam. Why waste energy cooking when there were perfectly good leftovers available? He then reminded himself they needed to invest in a microwave for the place as he set the gumbo to warm on the stove. Stirring occasionally to keep his intended breakfast from sticking to the bottom of the pot, his thoughts returned to the current conundrum.

On the surface, Erica gave all the right answers and each of her actions made perfect sense. But Dean's instincts were still screaming a warning. He didn't like the way she watched everything, seeming to miss nothing even though she didn't say anything. He didn't like the way she studied him with narrowed eyes when she thought he wasn't paying attention. He didn't like the edge to her smile or the bite to her words, suggesting a double-meaning he couldn't decode. Trouble simmered beneath the surface of her carefully constructed façade. He was certain.

Sam, however, made it clear that he thought Dean was being paranoid, having said as much when Dean had voiced his concerns after dinner. Erica was nice. She had answered their questions. She had fed them. Now she had gotten Sam alone, out for a run through the woods where anything could go wrong.

Dean wondered if maybe his brother was having his own tactics turned against him. If so, Erica was good. But he trusted Sam to be better. His brother was capable of handling practically anything, and even if she managed to catch him off-guard, the younger Winchester had Erica more than outmatched in size. Still, that didn't mean Dean liked the idea of the two being alone with him having no idea of where to start looking if they didn't return in a timely manner. Almost losing his appetite at the thought of what could be happening outside the bunker, he settled in to wait.

The time spent pondering the myriad of ways Erica could kill Sam during their run while making it look like an accident was mercifully short.

Halfway through his bowl of gumbo, Dean heard the metallic scrape of the main door opening. He listened with bated breath, relieved by heavy thuds which could only be his brother's huge feet descending the stairs into the control room. Two voices cut through the quiet of the bunker. One he easily recognized as his brother's exasperated tone, while the other was an unfamiliar timbre he was beginning to associate with Erica. Were they arguing? Dean considered investigating, but they instead found their way to him.

"I won fair and square!" his brother was saying as he swept into the kitchen, not even noticing Dean sitting at the table. Sam made a beeline for the fridge, his mouth split into a wide grin despite his argumentative tone and his heaving breaths. Dean was of the opinion no one should look so amused when they were also sweaty and gross unless removal of clothes was involved.

"You gave yourself a head start!" Erica had followed his brother, though she paused at the top of the steps. As flushed and out of breath as Sam, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the threshold. "That's cheating!"

"Or maybe you aren't as fast as you think you are," Sam suggested with a smirk as he pushed the fridge closed with his hip and tossed one water bottle across the kitchen while keeping another for himself.

"Your legs are twice as long as mine!" Erica cried as she snatched the bottle out of the air and stepped down into the kitchen. "And I still almost caught you!"

Sam was too busy guzzling his water to reply. Erica followed his lead, but not before Dean noticed her narrowed eyes glance between Sam and the bottle he had given her as if judging whether its contents were safe, so fast he might have imagined it. As if they were the intruders not to be trusted rather than the other way around. Dean didn't like that. He didn't like her baggy grey hoodie and jogging pants that coordinated with his brother's like they were some kind of matched set. He didn't like the way she mirrored his brother's stance as the pair inhaled their water like some wannabe camels.

Sam didn't reenter the conversation until his bottle had run dry. "You know what they say about 'almost'"—he smirked as Erica quirked a single eyebrow—"It's for horseshoes, hand grenades, and sore losers."

The snarky hunter was rewarded by Erica's bottle cap zinging through the air. It would have pegged him squarely in the forehead if not for a last-second deflection. Sam was grinning, and the mouth of the stern ex-soldier he was aggravating twisted at the corners as if she were fighting a smile of her own.

His already grumpy mood fully soured, Dean decided that was enough. He cleared his throat to draw attention to himself and point out that the sweaty pair was not alone. For good measure, he wrinkled his nose as he added, "You two look disgusting."

"Good morning to you, too, Dean," Sam greeted warmly. He then cocked his head to the side, confusion furrowing his brows. "Are you…eating gumbo for breakfast?"

"Yeah, so? Got a problem with it?"

"Nope." Sam lifted his hands in surrender as he recognized his brother's morning grouchiness. He glanced at the room's third party as if hoping for help. "I'm sure Erica is happy you liked it so much. Maybe she'd even give you the recipe?"

"I would, if not for the fact that it came from a lady who considered herself bona fide Louisiana Cajun," Erica pointed out, her expression thoughtful. "She told me it was a secret family recipe and she'd hex me if I shared it with anyone. At the time, I thought she was kidding. After finding this place? I'm not so sure."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the kitchen island, curiosity softening his features. "If it's supposed to be secret, how did you convince her to give you the recipe in the first place?"

Erica shrugged. "I was dating her daughter at the time."

Wracking coughs echoed through the kitchen as Dean choked on his gumbo. Several seconds of undignified hacking, thumping on his chest with his fist, and gulps of hot coffee later, the hunter found the ex-soldier watching him, a single, finely shaped brow arched high and lips pressed in a thin line.

"Is there a problem?"

"Nope, no problem," Dean averted his eyes to his food. "The gumbo is a little spicy, is all."

"Right." Erica let the word drag out long enough to make it clear she didn't believe the older Winchester and caught Sam's eye from where he still leaned against the counter, silently chuckling at his brother's expense. "I'm calling dibs on the shower. Meet you back in the library after?"

"Absolutely."

Watching Erica leave the kitchen, Dean quickly vacated his seat once she had crossed the threshold and approached the same doorway on silent feet.

"You know, when I saw your note I was planning to let you know you were working way too hard to get laid," Dean kept his tone light and teasing, just in case their unwelcome guest was eavesdropping out-of-sight. He stuck his head into the hall and looked both ways but found it empty. "But learning she bats for the other team…man, I can't decide if I should rib you even more or feel sorry for you."

"Not everything has to be about sex, you know?" Sam returned from somewhere by the sinks, annoyance painting his tone. "People can do things just to be nice."

With a noncommittal grunt, Dean turned to reclaim his seat at the table, certain Erica was gone for the moment and he'd be able to talk to Sam in peace. His brother joined him, taking the seat across from him and setting down a steaming bowl of—

"What happened to gumbo not being a breakfast food?"

"It's not," Sam insisted even as he shoveled a spoonful down his gullet. "But you already reheated it and it'll go bad." He hummed in satisfaction as he chewed. "Wow. I think it's better today than it was last night!"

"Right?!" Dean agreed, brandishing his spoon between the half-eaten contents of his own bowl and Sam's full one. "With food like this, the meat proteins break down overnight and get absorbed by everything else. It makes the flavors bolder when you reheat the leftovers."

"Dude, why do you know that?" Sam asked around another mouthful of gumbo.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but then snapped it closed just as fast. He didn't want to tell Sam that sometimes he'd turn the TV on at night when he couldn't sleep. He didn't want to explain that all that was on during those hours was infomercials, porn, or cooking shows, or that he'd found the cooking shows soothing after Purgatory-induced nightmares had him awake and searching for the closest weapon. He definitely didn't want to admit that he had found himself thinking he was capable of imitating some of the methods, limited by the fact that they rarely had access to a real kitchen. Though he hadn't worked up the courage to put it to good use yet, he'd been eyeing the bunker's fully equipped kitchen since the day they had moved in. But they weren't kids anymore. Sam wouldn't be satisfied with burnt Spaghetti-O's or mediocre mac-and-cheese and Dean wasn't willing to subject himself to the scrutiny that would come with cooking a full meal just yet. Takeout had suited them fine for this long.

"I dunno. I read it somewhere," he said instead, shrugging off his brother's curiosity as he decided redirection was the best option. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low despite having confirmed Erica wasn't lurking nearby. "So. Notice anything suspicious about our new roommate while you were out training for the Olympics?"

"Other than she runs like a freaking gazelle?"

"Like a supernatural, monster-y kind of gazelle?" Dean sounded almost hopeful.

Sam chuckled. "More like the kind of gazelle that has been running every day for practically her whole life. I'm telling you, man, we ran five miles and she was hardly winded. Then she wanted to race back to the bunker!"

"Is that when you cheated?"

"I didn't cheat," Sam insisted, the corners of his mouth turning down as his shoulders rose. "I may have creatively manipulated the situation in my favor."

"Meaning?"

"She told me I could call the start and…I happened to already be running before I said 'go.'"

"So you did cheat!" A loud bark of a laugh heralded the return of Dean's teasing tone. "Sammy Winchester was scared to lose a footrace to a girl. What are you, twelve?"

"Screw you."

Sam's tone lacked genuine venom and only made Dean's smug grin widen. An almost-comfortable silence settled between the brothers as they each focused on their breakfast. Dean, however, was quick to notice that Sam seemed preoccupied, glancing off into space with a pensive look on his face as he chewed his food.

"Something on your mind, little brother?" he finally asked, but received no answer. "Sam?"

"Huh?" Jolted back from wherever his mind had wandered, Sam met Dean's concerned expression with one of slight confusion. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"Well, don't hurt yourself, man."

Sam scoffed. "I'm fine. It's just—do you have Dad's journal in your room?"

"Yeah, why? What are you thinking?"

"Well, I—" Sam hesitated, but decided to plow forward with a huff. "Alright, this is just a theory, but get this."

Even without Sam's trademark phrase, Dean could tell something big was rolling around that freakish brain as his brother leaned forward in his seat, pushing his breakfast to the side with something that wasn't quite agitation.

"You remember yesterday Erica mentioned that her father had left her a letter along with the bunker key?" Sam didn't wait for Dean's confirmation. "Well, I had the chance to ask her about it during our run."

"And?" Dean pressed. This was juicy.

"From what she says, it sounds like a written version of the 'truth is out there' speech. Demons and ghosts are real; monsters will kill and eat you…the whole nine yards. But it's more than that. He claimed a war was brewing between humans and demons. Supposedly, that's why he disappeared."

"A war?" Dean parroted, pausing with his spoon an inch from his mouth. "When? With who?"

"Erica doesn't know. The letter wasn't specific, I guess. She was convinced her father had gone crazy until she found this place." Sam leaned back and waved one hand in surrender, eyebrows rising in a clear invitation for Dean to speculate along with him. "But if he vanished when she was eight, that would have been the mid-nineties. And who was the major player then?"

Dean locked eyes with his brother as he rode the train of thought to the same station. "Azazel." The word was acid in his mouth. "You think maybe he was tracking the same patterns as Dad?"

"It fits, doesn't it? I thought Dad might have known him."

"Dad wasn't exactly a member of the hunters' social club," Dean noted, already rising from his seat. "But if they were after the same thing…it's possible."

Tossing his bowl into the sink on his way out of the kitchen, he marched to his room, eyes instinctually landing on a familiar, leather-bound journal as soon as he stepped through the door. He scooped it off the nightstand, pausing as the weight of Sam's theory settled in his gut.

Were they walking into another one of their dad's secrets? Dean hadn't had to think about their vendetta with the Yellow-Eyed Demon in years. It felt wrong to dredge it up again now.

With a heavy sigh, he tucked the journal under his arm and began the return trek to the kitchen. If Sam was right, they needed to know.

"You get a name?" Dean asked as soon as he rejoined Sam, sliding into his seat.

"Joseph. Joseph Jackson," Sam recited, leaning forward as Dean began flipping worn, nearly-memorized pages.

"That doesn't ring a bell." Dean scanned the 'Contacts' section of the book that had held almost every answer to any question he'd ever asked about all things spooky. "The list jumps from Harvelle to Jones. No Jackson."

"What about the journal entries?"

Hearing the disappointment in Sam's voice, Dean flipped through the pages despite his own intuition telling him that he wouldn't find anything. He started in 1990 for good measure, skimming every page up to the year 2000. Nothing. No Jacksons other than a routine salt-and-burn in Jackson, Mississippi.

"Alright, that doesn't necessarily kill the theory," Sam noted as Dean shared his results. "Like you said, Dad mostly kept out of the hunting circles. Erica's dad could have, too."

"Maybe," Dean conceded, though lacking sincerity. "But even if that is the case, where do the Men of Letters come into play?" He recalled the anti-hunter sentiments expressed by their late grandfather. "They wouldn't have handed that key over to just anyone—much less a run-of-the-mill hunter."

"They would have if he didn't start out as a hunter." Sam abandoned his seat, long legs carrying him from the kitchen and into the library, where he immediately started pulling books off a shelf.

"Talk to me, little brother." Dean recognized the signs of a research frenzy as he followed behind the younger Winchester. He picked up one of the books Sam had set on a table: Initiation Roster 1951-1955. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I'm thinking Erica is a legacy, like us," Sam declared, glancing between the books he held in each hand and returning one to the shelf while adding the other to his growing pile. "Maybe her father was one of the Men of Letters. Maybe after Abaddon wiped most of them out, he went on the offensive and tried to hunt her down. He wouldn't have found her, of course, since she got zapped here. But maybe he found Azazel's tracks instead."

"I dunno, Sam. Would Erica's father even be old enough to be a Man of Letters?" Dean considered the birthdate he remembered from Erica's ID. "Even if he was already forty when she was born, he would've been just a kid when Abaddon attacked."

"Maybe her grandfather, then. Maybe he taught her father and her father would have taught her if he hadn't disappeared."

"That sounds like a lot of maybes."

"But it makes sense, doesn't it?" Sam insisted. He was already flipping through one of the books, sparing a passing glance for his brother. "If I can find a Jackson in here, it's evidence that Erica's family was part of the organization."

"Is it? In that case, we'd better give Janet and the crew a call. Maybe even Sam L. He seems like the type to wanna gank some monsters between movies."

Dean's sarcasm didn't curb Sam's hunger for knowledge as he kept racing through pages of the ledger in front of him.

"So let's say you're right and someone in Erica's family—father, grandfather, great-uncle Charlie, whoever—is one of the Men of Letters and survives Abaddon's attack," Dean tried instead, waving his hands through the air to accentuate each point as he followed his brother's speculation. "They build a new life…wife and kid, white picket fence, the whole nine yards. But they want revenge for Abaddon gutting all their buddies. So they adopt the hunting life and go on the offensive, dragging the rest of the family along with them? And now Erica has been left the key because the rest of them didn't survive?"

Sam shrugged, not looking up from his search. "Maybe."

Dean decided he hated that word. "But why?"

Frustration boiled in his gut as he considered Erica's story. If her family thought themselves the last of the Men of Letters, why decide to hunt demons? Why not lay low? Teach their children and grandchildren what they knew, recruit some worthy hunters, and rebuild the organization from the ground up? He knew how easy it was to get caught up in revenge, but the Men of Letters were supposed to be people of knowledge and intellect. The librarians of the supernatural world. Charging into a war with demons seemed too reckless. As did leaving behind an ignorant child and expecting them to join the fight once they were grown. As if this world wasn't already dangerous enough for those who actually knew what they were doing….

Unless Erica's father was the most idiotic Man of Letters in history, something didn't add up. The whole story didn't sit right with Dean. There were too many holes—too much speculation. Too many of those damn maybes Sam liked so much. Not to mention the timing. Why now? So soon after they had just found the bunker for themselves? When they were still doing their own investigations into what this organization had meant to the supernatural world? It was all too convenient.

"That's the point of all of this, isn't it?" Sam observed once Dean had shared his misgivings. "To find the truth?"

"Is there even any truth to find?" Dean returned. "We still have to consider the possibility Erica is making all of this up to distract us."

"Then how do you explain the key? She couldn't create one out of thin air!"

"I don't know!" Dean slapped his palm against the table in frustration.

Taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to calm down. It wasn't Sam's fault, he reminded himself. His brother's instinct to root out the truth of Erica's connection to the Men of Letters was equally as strong as his own instinct to shove her out the door on her ass. It was part of who they were. It was why they worked together so well—to balance each other. But he had to find some way to make his brother understand this feeling of wrongness deep in his gut was more than just distrust.

"I don't know how she's done it," Dean tried again, keeping his voice steady as he locked eyes with his brother, hoping Sam could sense his urgency. "I only know she isn't supposed to be here. She doesn't belong, Sam. Does that make sense?"

Even before his brother spoke, Dean knew Sam hadn't understood. Not in the way he had intended at least. "I understand your instincts, Dean. I really do. But—"

"Am I interrupting something?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

The brothers found Erica hesitating in the doorway to the library, fresh from a shower and rumpling her damp hair with a towel. At their contrasting declarations, her eyes narrowed in that way Dean didn't like. How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard?

"No, you're not," Sam insisted again before Dean could say anything else. "Come on in. We were just collecting the Men of Letters rosters to see if we can find your dad."

"Oh." Easing forward on still-hesitant feet to join the brothers, Erica ran a hand across the open pages of the book Sam had been scanning, a vee deepening between her brows. "This isn't the most recent record, is it?"

"Well, yeah. The organization was…disbanded…in 1958," Sam said gingerly. "This is their last roster running from 1956 to then. See here?"—he pointed to two inked numbers, differing from those before them in that they were not accompanied by scrawled signatures— "Our grandfather would have signed here if his initiation hadn't been interrupted."

"You won't find my dad in here, then," Erica returned with a shake of her head. "Not unless this club of yours recruited seven-year-olds."

Sam deflated but was not ready for surrender. "What about your grandfather?"

"Possibly," Erica said with a vague wave of her hand. "I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. He was dead long before I was born and my father didn't talk about him much. John was his name."

Dean felt his blood pressure rising. More maybes. More convenient facts. "You aren't really buying this, are you Sam?"

His brother, however, had already unleashed that single-minded focus that served simultaneously as his best asset and greatest weakness.

"We'll give ourselves some room for error and start with the 1900s," he explained, glancing between Erica and the membership ledgers he had pulled from the shelves as he sorted them into three separate piles. "Why don't you take the aughts and teens since you're more likely to recognize one of your ancestor's names? Dean and I will look for your grandfather. I'll take the twenties and thirties. Dean, how do you feel about the forties and fifties?"

Dean didn't answer. Sam glanced up to find him already halfway back to the control room, his shoulders hunched and steps heavy with agitation. "Dean? Where are you going?"

"Doesn't matter," Dean returned shortly. "Somewhere I ain't playing third wheel to your little research project. But you and Erica dig through those records until your eyes cross if that makes you happy."

Dean knew he should have started looking through the ledgers and gotten this ridiculous investigation over with. The sooner Sam got his answers, the sooner he could send Erica on her way. He couldn't bring himself to do it, though. To sit at the same table as if she belonged there among the lore books and artifacts of the supernatural world. To play nice as if Erica were just another one of their friends or allies dropping by rather than a suspicious invader of their space and privacy. To pretend it didn't bother him that his own brother was more interested in helping her investigate than taking his misgivings seriously. Better to retreat while Sam was too preoccupied to follow.

Dean trekked the now-familiar path between the library and his room and slammed the door behind him, throwing himself across his bed with a weary sigh. He waited, certain a knock would sound at his door any second. Sam would want to talk it out. He would want Dean to give Erica a fair chance. He would try to make it sound like Dean was needed to get to the bottom of this investigation. Sam would remind him they were helping Erica and wasn't that important?

Dean didn't want to hear any of it. He wanted to hear, "You're right, Dean. We don't know enough about this near-total stranger to invite her into the closest thing to a home we've ever had. You're so smart!"

A stretch, but the sentiment was the same. Not that it mattered. No knock ever came. Dean couldn't decide if that was better or worse.

Of course, Sam couldn't be bothered with his brother's feelings. He was much too busy accommodating his new best friend. The "friend" they knew nothing about. The friend who was lying through her teeth. Dean couldn't prove it, but he could feel it deep in his gut.

The proverbial lightbulb flashed above Dean's head.

Rolling onto his back, he quickly dug his phone out of his pocket. Why had he not thought of this sooner? There was more than one way to skin a cat. And there was more than one way to get information about a person. Sam and Erica could have their dusty archives. He knew someone faster. And when this turned out just the way he thought it would, the 'I told you so' would trip off his tongue faster than a Kentucky Derby racehorse.

Scrolling through his contacts, the hunter selected the highlighted name and pressed the phone to his ear as the line began to ring.

"Hey, Charlie! Yeah, it's Dean. You said to call if I needed anything? No, no monsters this time, I promise. At least not yet. But I do have a question. How good are you at digging up someone's personal records?"

A/N: Thanks again for reading! Please review and let me know what you think! All feedback is welcome! :D

~Lauren