For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Then...

Dean makes a solo trip to New Orleans to investigate the mysterious death of a prominent attorney, Alain Martin. With little to go on, he ventures to the morgue to try to take a look at the body, but can't get past Darcy, the girl at the front desk, who seems to know exactly what Dean is after.

Now...

The gauntlet had been thrown. Dean was facing off with someone demanding the truth, someone who seemed to see through his lies, his deception. The silence that lingered after her final question, wanting to know what it was he truly wanted, was tense.

Dean knew he didn't have much time to try to fudge an answer. And if he wasn't careful, it would look obviously like he was winging it. There was always the truth, but that would probably find his ass in a holding cell before the hour would be out. Flirting just wasn't working--normally it did! He was running out of options. He could hit her, knock her out, and drag her behind the desk. Maybe no one would come looking for her for a while, at least long enough for him to take a look at the corpse and get out.

"Don't you dare," she said warningly.

He looked at her. "What? I haven't done anything..."

"Just tell me the truth, huh?"

"Look, Darcy, I'm just a guy here, who's trying--and failing--in his attempts to impress a pretty girl."

"Sure you are. Get to the point!"

"I'm a private investigator, all right?" It was mostly the truth. "I'm looking into the Martin murder."

"Murder?"

"Well, the man is certainly dead. You could confirm that for me, I'm sure."

"Why the elaborate crap?"

"Would you let a PI in to see the body?"

"No. And I sure as hell wouldn't let some guy I just met who wanted a date either."

"So, I'm striking out really badly today."

"'Striking out.' Interesting choice of words." She stared hard at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"Were you really going to hit me?"

"Hit you?" he asked, frowning, playing dumb. In reality, his mind was reeling. What the hell? He hadn't even muttered that plan. He hadn't clenched a fist; he hadn't raised his arm to indicate he might hit her. Besides, he'd never really hit a girl before. That was one thing that John Winchester completely drew the line at, and heaven forbid Dean disobey his father.

She bit her lower lip and a look of--was it guilt? panic?--crossed her face.

There was no way, no natural way, she could've possibly known about what he'd been about to do. "Wait..." He looked at her, as all the pieces suddenly fell into place. "You're telepathic."

She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

"You are!"

She neither confirmed nor denied it, at least not outright. "And you're not really a private investigator. What are you doing here?"

"You tell me!" Dean said, trying to clear his mind of all thoughts, to make her job harder.

She didn't, necessarily, take the bait. "What makes you think Martin was murdered?"

"What makes you think he wasn't, Doc?"

She shook her head. "I'm not a doctor, not a coroner."

"What are you, then?"

"I keep track of the paperwork, admissions, releases. The gatekeeper, if you will. And you are not getting through to the freezer."

"Okay, okay..." He looked at her, holding her gaze while thinking about the truth. About what he thought killed Martin: voodoo.

She narrowed her eyes slightly then shook her head. "You have to be kidding," she muttered.

"You have to be reading my mind. I think we both dabble a little in the otherwise unthinkable. We should be on the same team, you and me."

"I could lose my job if I join your team."

"What's so great about working with a bunch of stiffs anyway?"

She merely looked at him.

He blinked, figuring it out. "Oh." 'Dead people don't think.'

"Bingo."

"Darcy, other people may be in danger from whatever it was that killed Perry Mason in there. While I'm sure you don't mind the extra paperwork, I think other people might. If I could just get in, take a peek at the body, see what reports have been written so far, that would really, really help me out."

"But, voodoo? Some of the city's workers thrive by palmistry, reading tarot cards... But, c'mon. It's not real."

"Maybe in the circles you run, but I think there's something more going on here than meets the eye."

Darcy sighed heavily.

"Look, the sooner you let me in there, the sooner I get out of your hair, but until then? I'm not leaving."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine."

He held back a smile as she led him down the corridor and into the cold storage.

"Preliminary reports showed there was no obvious trauma to the victim. Nothing out of the ordinary which made it, well, out of the ordinary," she said, stopping at a box to hand him a pair of latex gloves. "No fingerprints, Magnum."

A telepath and pop culture reference-dropper? He was in love. "Gotcha," he said, pulling them clumsily on. She sighed, which made him grin: he was getting to her.

"The police report had witness statements, who claim he complained of pains in his stomach, then legs and feet. All abdominal organs seemed normal. Toxicology reports from blood samples taken from the various organs have all come back normal. It doesn't make much sense."

"No ulcers or anything for this dude?" he asked, watching as Darcy pulled down the thin sheet covering Alain Martin.

"Nothing. Everything was in perfect working condition when he just keeled over."

"Gee, Scully, I think the answer must be something paranormal..." Dean said, crossing towards the dead guy. Most times, when he saw dead people, it was the result of a trauma: gunshot wounds, mauled, cut to pieces. Mr. Martin looked like he was just sleeping, albeit on a terribly uncomfortable bed. He gently poked at the man's stomach. "So, do you see pictures, like the future, the past, or...?"

She shook her head. "Just words. Lots and lots of words, lots of noise."

"Well, that's gotta suck."

"You have no idea," she said flatly, though she offered him a slight smile.

In all seriousness, he turned towards her. "Do animals think?"

She sighed. "Dean..."

"Just asking." He looked back at the dead guy, at the sewn incision on his chest, where the coroner had played Operation. "Theoretically, Doc, say someone has their very own Attorney Voodoo Doll, and they prick the prick in the stomach. Would it leave a mark?"

"I would imagine there would be a blood trail or something, but, again, that's just speculation on my part."

"I asked theoretically," he told her.

"Are you always this talkative?"

"I try not to think," he admitted.

"Is that a special pick up line just for telepaths?"

"Could be," he admitted, leaning in closer to Martin's legs, looking for pinpricks. He frowned slightly. "What about other means of torturing your voodoo doll? Matches, right? Fire? Could explain the feet and leg pains, lighting up Lawyer Ken's toes."

"I'm not an expert on the subject. I really don't know."

"You know anybody who is?"

"Before I dropped out of LSU, there was a professor there, of folklore, urban legends, the like. He might know something."

"What's his name?"

"Oliver Yates."

"You know this guy at all?"

"A little."

Good enough for him. "What time do you get off?"

"Midnight."

"Then you probably crash, right, get some sleep?"

"More or less."

He nodded. "I gotta find a place to hole up for the night, then. Maybe during the daylight hours, we can go see that professor."

Darcy glanced back. There was an empty slab.

Dean started shaking his head. "I'm not even a telepath and I know exactly what you're thinking. The answer to that is not only no, but 'oh, hell no.'"

"Just a thought," she said, offering, albeit briefly, a sweet smile that held traces of mischief.

That was intriguing, her somewhat sexy, playful smile, Dean thought, before wondering instantly if she 'read' that. Unfortunately, her expression offered him no hint.

"If you need a place to stay, we have a break room. There's a coffee pot, vending machine, table, some uncomfortable chairs, but there's also a couch. One that's not bad for sleeping on."

"Sleeping in the morgue?" he asked, wrinkling up his nose.

"Oh, sure, lots do. Sleep like the dead, too," she deadpanned.

"You have a very dark sense of humor, of looking at things."

"You develop a real sense of macabre working here."

"Defensive mechanism, right?"

She nodded. "What do you do? To protect yourself from what you do?"

He looked at her honestly. "Kill the hell out of unholy sons of bitches."

"A modern-day crusader?"

He shrugged. "Something like that."

"Sounds interesting."

"Well, the job has its perks," he said.

She looked at him knowingly. "But drawbacks, too..."

He rubbed his forehead, his thoughts landing on the loneliness that plagued him, on his estranged brother Sam. His job just wasn't conducive to long-term relationships. His crisscrossing the continental US made that rather hard. Not many long-distance romantic relationships ever worked, and, well, being the significant other of a ghost hunter was worse than being a military wife. Things attacked ghost hunters. People attacked the US armed forces. He lived in seedy hotels; they lived on well-kept bases.

"When I get off, you can come home with me. It's another couch, but... It's not a hotel."

He looked over at her, nodding. "Thank you."

She smiled softly. "C'mon. Break room is this way."

Dean removed his gloves, tossing them in a nearby trashcan, before following her out of the morgue's exam room. "I guess this makes us partners."

She glanced back at him, shrugging slightly. "I guess it does."

"I don't normally work with chicks. This'll be a brand new experience."

"I don't normally work with professional paranormal investigators. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience." When they reached their destination, she leaned against the open door jamb. "So, the break room..." It was a dimly lit room, with everything she'd described. Industrial coffee pot, round table, folding chairs, vending machines with a few snacks, and a lumpy looking couch.

"And that's comfortable?" he asked, looking disbelievingly at her.

"You would be surprised," she said, looking back at him, again with that playful little smile.

He shook his head slightly, a grin forming on his own lips. "The couch at your place... You swear its better?"

"Mmm... That's a good question."

He narrowed his eyes at her slightly. "I can't read your mind, y'know."

"In another couple hours, we'll be heading home. You can judge for yourself."

"Wait, wait… We? We're already a 'we?'"

"You did say we were partners."

He thought about that for a moment. "I guess I did, didn't I?"

"So, you made us a we, and I haven't even known you that long."

"I move pretty fast."

"It would appear that way," she said. "Make yourself at home."

"I'd rather do that in your apartment, truth be told."

She smiled slightly, looking up at him. "Tell me something... Do people really buy your schemes?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes, the people I talk to have convinced themselves that they were seeing things, that their eyes were playing tricks on them. If it helps them sleep at night, that's fine. But I still need to know it. So, I'll tell them anything I can in order to figure it out."

She nodded, tucking her dark hair behind her ear.

"So, where are you from, Darcy?"

"You want to know my story?"

"Yeah." He genuinely did want to know.

"Unfortunately, that story is a very long one. One I probably shouldn't get into just yet."

She crept through the dank woods, carrying only a small flashlight. In the darkness, she knew she was vulnerable, being watched. She tried not to think about the mysterious sounds surrounding her. She tried not to jump at the ones that scared her, the ones that she didn't recognize. In fact, that particular area seemed to be filled with unearthly, unholy sounds of all kinds. The howling wind that whipped through the trees sounded more like the screams of tortured souls.

She crept quietly along, trying to focus on her steps instead; that was the only way she knew how to navigate. Where she needed to go was exactly six hundred steps due north from where she entered the bayou. From there, she turned to the east for four hundred and thirty seven more. Her last turn was to the northeast, for one hundred and twelve. And then, she would be there, at the hidden cabin.

She pulled her sweater coat around her tighter as she maneuvered along, sloshing through puddles, feeling the vines and brush pull at her legs, poking her through her thick jeans.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she started counting aloud: "Eighty-two... eighty-three."

Maybe, she could convince herself it was all a bad dream. Once she reached the hidden cabin, everything would be right again, she knew. She wasn't far now either, less than twenty paces.

The closer she got, however, the louder the sounds became. She had experienced this every other time she had made this journey, but each time, it was something that was nearly unbearable. It was something she had to overcome. The fear threatened to consume her, to petrify her. But, being glued to the spot in the darkened wood, away from any civilization whatsoever, was a frightening thought in and of itself. What if something got her? No one would ever find her. The bayou would simply swallow her whole. The police might form a few search parties, but they'd never venture down to the right spot, and certainly not until Mother Nature had several days' head start.

She could die there, and no one would ever find her. Her soul would never be put to rest. She would probably become one of those howling winds, keeping most visitors from the depths of the darkness there. She quickened her steps, not wanting to think about the eternity that might consume her.

"One-oh-eight, one-oh-nine, one-ten, one eleven..." As she took her last step, she looked up, her dim spotlight shining on something that could be generously described as a shack.

The lean-to leaned against an old, thick tree trunk. The roof was metal; the walls, wooden planks. The small front porch had a broken railing. The front door was fabric, billowing in the breeze.

Both dread and comfort overtook her instantly. Comfort that she was now safe at the hidden cabin, but dread, because she was fairly certain the one who resided within the thrown-together home controlled the rest of the bayou.

"I'm here," she announced, in as strong a voice as she could muster. Her voice held a slight New Orleans brogue.

The female voice that answered her, however, had a thick Cajun accent. "Come in, chil'. Come in..."

Swallowing hard, she made her way to the doorway, pulling back the curtain. She knew there was no electricity out there, but the room within was bright, and not lit by any discernible candles. In fact, she wasn't sure of the source at all. She had tried to figure it out the last time she had been there, but had been too scared to look too closely at anything.

The air was thick with incense. The smell was so intense it was almost dizzying. She figured that combated what she was sure would've been an otherwise horrific smell, one of decaying flesh or animal sacrifices. Pelts of furry creatures hung along the back wall, along with a shelf filled with mason jars. She'd never been so curious as to try to figure out what was in them, afraid she would find eyeballs or bat wings or other disgusting ingredients for dastardly potions and poultices.

As she finally stepped inside, she saw her, seated at the long table. A glass goblet sat before her, along with a selection of old, hand-hewn tools--knives, spoons, scrapers, and the like. The woman wore a torn, dirty dress that might've been popular a century ago. Her dark hair was tangled and matted, streaked with gray. Her skin was ashen, and her eyes seemed to be sunken, missing. Her teeth were rotted. Long, grimy fingernails topped bony, thin fingers.

"What dija bring me dis evenin'?"

"Another picture," she answered, pulling a framed photograph from her pocket. She took one last look at it, at herself, smiling, next to the other person before she handed it over.

The woman tilted her head, appearing to examine it with her missing eyes. "Chil', again?"

"Please," she said. "This is... this is what needs to be done."

"An' you're certain you can live wit' da consequences?"

She nodded earnestly.

The woman then smashed the frame on the table, shattering it. Her fingers deftly pulled the photograph from the glass shards and broken wood pieces. She carefully tore the photograph in half. "More of you belongs to me now, chil'," she said, placing one half of the photograph in her glass goblet.

"I know," she managed quietly.

"Give me your hand," she said, holding her bony hand out to the girl.

Hesitantly, she placed her hand within it. She was yanked closer to the table, watching as the strange woman picked up the bone knife on the table. "Wh... Wait, what are you..." The first time she had come, the old woman had only pricked her finger, adding a few drops of her blood to the goblet. The time before, her palm had been cut. Before she had time to finish her question, she was screaming out in pain, as the knife slashed her wrist. Her blood flowed into the goblet freely. She started to feel light headed. "Doing...?" she managed. "Stop... Don't..." She was certain she heard... chanting? It sounded like hundreds of voices. The language was one she didn't recognize. She had no idea what they were saying, and it scared her.

The older woman smiled, showing off her yellowed, rotting teeth. "Easy, chil'. Easy."

The Road Ahead...

In the coming years, he'd had trouble, trying to locate what he learned had been a demon. A demon itself had done that to his family. But now, while trying to focus on the Woman in White who seemed to be killing dozens of young men, he could think only of his two young men, his Dean and his Sammy.

He'd vowed to avenge their mother's death. And he hadn't done it yet.