The one bright spot to being locked up in the St. Stephens' police department's small holding cell, was the complete and utter confusion Dean's identity - or lack thereof - caused Sheriff Dunbar. Dean didn't go out of his way to help him figure it all out either. Instead he lounged on the bunk, feet up, head propped on up on a pillow, watching the sheriff sit at his desk with a trio of reports in front of him. Watching the sheriff's utterly perplexed expression as he struggled along trying to decipher this data was almost as good as Must See T.V.

When the good sheriff had opened Dean's wallet to look at his identification, he'd found a South Dakota driver's license and credit cards in the name of Robert P. Waters. When he'd run Dean's fingerprints he'd come up with Dean Winchester, who had been dead and buried since March. Finally, when she'd come around enough to talk, Missy had identified Dean as John Stanley, a student from Arkansas University.

To add insult to injury, Dunbar didn't really have enough evidence hold him. That had to be driving the man insane.

"You know," Dean said, getting up from his bunk to lean against the bars of his cage. "If you're going to call in a panel of celebrities to play To Tell the Truth with you, can you get Heather Locklear?"

Dunbar shot him a nasty look. He was a handsome man, Phil Dunbar, in his late forties. His dark hair was virtually free of gray save for a few streaks at each temple. Deep lines were etched into the edges of his eyes, betraying a man who either spent a lot of time squinting into the sun, or who smiled a lot. It was after dark now though, and he definitely wasn't smiling as he stalked over to the holding cell.

"You think this is funny?"

"This?" Dean shook his head. "Nah, this isn't funny. You're funny though - in a Barney Miller sort of way, but definitely not an Andy Taylor sort of way. You don't strike me as the kinda guy who would name their kid Opie."

"Shut up," Dunbar snapped. "Boy, you're lucky I don't come in there and punch your mouth so hard your tongue shoots out your asshole."

"Then I'd be able to kiss my own ass."

"You better be kissin' my ass if you ever want out of there. What's your name?"

"Bobby Waters," Dean said promptly. "Says so right on my driver's license." He grinned. "Isn't that a great photo? Man, I am so photogenic..."

"All right Bobby, you want to explain to me then, how you got the fingerprints of a dead man?"

"He wasn't using them anymore?"

The sheriff glared at him.

"Seriously, you can find anything on eBay..."

Phil Dunbar may have been twice Dean's age, but he was as quick as a man in his prime. Before Dean realized what was happening the sheriff had shot an arm through the bars of the cell and grabbed him by the shirt. He was jerked hard against the cell door so his face was just inches from that of the infuriated sheriff.

"You cut the crap and answer the question."

"You know, you could use a mint."

Dunbar gave a yank on Dean's shirt, a hard yank, and Dean didn't have time to prevent his forehead from bouncing off the bars. Yet again he wondered just why he never seemed to be able to rein in his mouth during situations where running it could get him seriously hurt. Dunbar didn't seriously hurt him, but he hit his head hard enough to see stars for a moment, and it made him realize he'd better answer the question.

"I don't know." Dunbar let go and Dean staggered back a step, rubbing his forehead where a knot was already forming. "Maybe it's a computer glitch or something."

"And the bullshit you told Missy?"

"I freelance for tabloids." Dean shrugged. "Figured she wouldn't talk to me if she knew I wasn't a serious reporter like her, not to mention wanting a story on her freaky friend. Look, I didn't attack her. Why would I have put my coat over her if I was up to no good?"

"How do I know that's your coat?"

"Oh, come on! You got nothing but a so-called psychic's mystic vision to prove I had anything to do with this. That's weak, man, real weak." Dean snorted. "You don't believe that crap do you?"

Dunbar rubbed his face. He was in between a rock and a hard place and it showed. "She's never been wrong."

"And you don't think maybe she's rigged it? Maybe Lisa attacked Missy and then ran to you claiming she saw it in a vision."

"Lisa?" The sheriff laughed.

"Sure. Freaky girl finally gets fed up with the pretty cheerleader getting all the glory, decides to get even. Haven't you ever seen Carrie?"

"This is reality, not the movies."

"Sure it is," Dean said. "So you need to make up your mind, sheriff. Do you believe in Lisa's hocus pocus, or are you gonna do your job and look at the hard evidence? If you drag me in front of a judge with nothing but Lisa's testimony you'll get laughed right out of that uniform and into a straight jacket."

It was weird, Dean thought, to take the opposite stand on the subject of the paranormal. He was usually trying to convince people it existed, not convincing them it was bullshit. It was much easier to convince them it was bullshit.

Sheriff Dunbar turned away, stepping over to his desk where he pulled his coat off the back of the chair. His expression was thoughtful as he put it on and reached for his keys. "You just chill here a while Mr. Waters, or whatever your name is. I'll be back later."

"Where are you going?"

"To do my job," Dunbar growled, and headed for the front door.

"What? Wait! Hey!" Dean waved an arm out between the bars. "Come on! Don't leave me in..."

The sheriff exited, slamming the door behind him.

"Here." Dean leaned his head against the cell door. "Dammit. He could have at least left the radio on or something." He patted himself down, as if he hadn't already been patted down. "Man..."

His coat was sealed up in Dunbar's evidence locker – along with the paperclip Dean kept in his pocket for these type of emergencies.

"Son of a bitch."

It was well after midnight before the sheriff came back. Dean had fallen asleep on the cot after a deputy had dropped by to check on him and to bring him something to eat. Cold pizza wasn't high on Dean's list of favorite meals, but he was used to it from being on the road so much. He didn't know how many times he'd eaten cold pizza for breakfast. The deputy hadn't said much. Dunbar, he said, was investigating the crime scene.

Dean sat up and regarded the sheriff warily as he approached the cell. In the few hours he'd been gone, Dunbar looked like he'd aged. He wearily unlocked the cell door and swung it open, but he shot Dean a nasty look.

"My gut says you're in this up to your eyebrows, boy."

"Hmm, maybe it's just gas. I heard Mylanta is good for that sort of thing."

The sheriff growled.

"Bicarbonate of soda?"

"Shut up and get the hell out of my jail."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. This was an unexpected turn of events. "Guilty to my eyebrows and you're letting me go? Maybe you better get a second opinion from your lower intestine." Dunbar grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt and began dragging him toward the door. "Okay, okay, I'm going!"

He stumbled as the sheriff shoved him out the door and onto the sidewalk. Dunbar vanished back into the building and returned with Dean's leather jacket, which he proceeded to throw at him as hard as he could. Dean caught it quickly.

"I'm gonna be watching you," the sheriff intoned. "Make damn sure you keep your scrawny ass here in town."

Dean had no intention of leaving, not until he and Sam figured out what the hell was going on in this freaky little hamlet. That didn't stop him from goading. "And if I don't?" he challenged.

"This is a small town, boy. You take one step across the border and I'll know about it in seconds."

"Couldn't Lisa tip you off before I left?"

Dunbar scowled darkly. Dean took his leave with a quick salute before his luck got pushed too far. Striding off down the sidewalk at a quick pace, he pulled his cell from his pocket. It occurred to him to wonder just why Sam hadn't come around the jail earlier to spring him, or at least to provide an alibi.

He got his brother's voice mail.

"Sammy? Where the hell are you? Dunbar let me go. Come pick me up outside the deli." He hung up, but paused before putting the phone back in his pocket. "Something's not right."

Without waiting for Sam to call him back, Dean stepped off the curb into the street and began making his way back to the motel on foot. He called a couple more times along the way. Both times he got voice mail again, heightening his unease. Sam didn't answer the phone, nor did the Impala cruise by with Sam behind the wheel. As a matter of fact, as Dean jogged the last block to the motel, the Impala was nowhere to be found. There was no sign of the car on the streets nor in the parking lot.

"Dammit, Sam..." Dean dug around in his jeans, withdrawing the card-key that would open the door to their room. "What the hell is going on?"

Abruptly Dean stopped and plastered himself up close to the wall of their building. He'd rounded the corner and seen a door hanging open, light spilling out onto the darkness where there should have been no light. A quick count confirmed that it was their room standing open, and Dean cursed the fact he had no weapon. Something was definitely wrong.

Carefully, quietly, he edged along the front side of the building, hugging the wall and occasionally ducking into a doorway for more, if meager, concealment. He cocked his head, listening. Aside from the chirp of crickets and the rustle of a breeze through nearby trees, he heard nothing. Only silence came from the room. Dean crept closer until he could risk a quick glance inside the open door.

The room was empty. Dean carefully entered.

It was obvious there had been a fight. The table had been knocked over, along with a chair, and the hanging lamp above it had been torn down from the ceiling. Bits of plaster lay scattered over a mess of papers, books and Sam's laptop that had been thrown from the table when it toppled. A knife, one of Sam's, was sitting atop one of the beds, its blade bloody. There was no sign of Sam anywhere.

Nothing had been taken. Dean pulled a gun from his duffel and made sure it was loaded. He went through every bit of the room. This had not been a robbery. The only thing missing besides Sam was, presumably, the car. Dean fervently prayed Sam had the car and was simply in hot pursuit of whomever/whatever had trashed their room. He glanced at the knife again, hoping the blood wasn't his brother's but that Sam had gotten a good lick in on his foe.

A sound at the door made him turn. The gun was in his hand, raised and cocked in an instant. He sighted down the barrel.

The woman standing in the doorway gave a small cry and covered her head with her arms. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Please!"

It was Lisa, and Dean's first instinct was to shoot her. He wasn't an overly sentimental person – he couldn't be in his line of work – but the sight of her tear streaked face gave him pause. As he slowly lowered the gun she began crying again in earnest. Her shoulders shook as she stumbled into the room and sank into a chair. Dean debated on whether or not he should get her a tissue. Recalling that Sam was missing and Lisa probably had a hand in it convinced him to just let her wipe her damn nose on her sleeve.

"Where's my brother?"

"Sh...she has him." Lisa looked up. Her gray eyes were swollen and puffy. "She's going to kill him."

"Who is she?"

"Missy."

"Miss..." Dean scowled. There was no time to worry about figuring that out, not when Sam's life was in jeopardy. "Did you see this? In a vision?"

Lisa nodded, and then yelped as Dean grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. There was no time for crying either. There was no time to waste at all.

"You're taking me to him, and you're going to tell me all about it on the way there."