"Creepy."

"Creepy?" Sam repeated after his brother.

"Yeah," his brother nodded, rifling through the magazines on the coffee table. He soon gave up, making himself comfortable on the sofa with a tv changer on his hand. "She cooked us breakfast, offered us a place to stay, treats us like family and she doesn't even know us. In fact, I don't think it escaped her notice, that we were here to bust her but she still gave us keys to this pad and told us to make ourselves at home," he explained.

Sam crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back on his dining chair. "She's nice. So?"

"So?" Dean tore his eyes away from the television and stared at his confused brother. "So no hunter I know is that nice. Bobby might as well be family but you don't see him rolling out the red carpet when we come by. There's gotta be some trap or something. We have to watch ourselves, Sammy," he said, with more conviction. "Whatever it is, we're not falling for it, witch!" he declared to no one in particular.

Sam chuckled earning him a look from Dean that told him his brother was dead serious. "You do know that there are nice people in this world," he said in reply.

Dean snorted. " Who knows what we know? Right. We're all just sunshine and rainbows."

"You used to believe angels didn't exist," Sam stated.

"And they're heaven's a-holes."

"The point is they exist," Sam argued. "So there could be nice hunters out there we just haven't met yet."

"This kid," Dean picked up a picture frame and pointed at a younger Summer in the middle of a group of graduates, "is not a hunter."

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes. "Of course she is. In fact, she's probably more paranoid than Bobby," he said.

"Yeah? And how's that?"

"Well for one thing," Sam pointed at the floor tiles matter of factly, "her floor's made out of halite."

"Ooooh some fancy tiles from a girl. You want to discuss doily patterns with her too?"

"Dean, they're natural rock salt bricks," he explained. His brother gave him a small nod. Sam knew his brother was impressed, even just a little. Dean should be-- he certainly was. Halite bricks weren't cheap. It also hadn't escaped his attention that every door and window was surrounded by decorative wrought iron. Or that on her wrists she wore several protective bracelets like the dzi bead, a short form rosary, or the leather bracelet with a nazar charm to name a few that he name. She also had several silver rings and most importantly, a halite tear drop necklace. It was all subtle but they were all there.

But none would save her from the Apocalypse.

Sam shook the thought away. Summer had gone back to the hospital to do a quickly check on the situation and help if she could. She was a doctor. It was her job. Likewise, it was their job to find what was the cause and end it. The younger Winchester turned his own laptop on and started his research starting with the town's history.

It mirrored the histories of the bigger cities nearby-- Seattle and Tacoma, and most of the Pacific Northwest. Tribes of Native Americans shared the land until the "White men" came and stroke a deal. There were treaties, not all of them were honestly followed by the parties involved. The lumber economy picked up. The railroads increased trade. The city flourished for a time. There was a crime problem. Crime problem eventually resolved and everything was right with the world.

Sam sighed massaging his temples. He could feel a headache coming atop the one he already had. Nothing stuck out. In his experience, this means it could be any number of things. There were ancient curses since these were aboriginal lands. Or vengeful spirits from more troublesome times-- the treaties, the wars, the business fights, or crime. Scouring through centuries of detailed events wasn't his idea of fun. He knew his brother wasn't about to help, especially since something sounding like Real World was on.

"Okay," he resigned himself to his work. He was about to close all the windows open and start from the beginning when a picture caught his attention. There was a picture of a much younger sheriff taken nine years ago. The article basically said that he had just single handedly did the impossible-- he took on the gangs.

Possible in certain circumstances. But In less than a year?

"Dean," he called on his brother, "haven't we seen this guy in town?"

Dean bent over to check on the picture on screen. "That's the old doc's old friend."

-- -- -- -

"Well, holy drips didn't protect them for very long. It was fun while that lasted," she told herself while checking some of the children's charts. "Great," she sighed, making her way out of the ICU. She didn't even bother changing out of her civilian clothes when she came in the hospital. One look at the quarantine they finally set up and she knew she wasn't going to be there for very long. She was just going to check on some kids then be on her way. There was nothing else she could possibly do here-- not when the cause is out there.

"Doctor McKenzie," a voice made her stop in her tracks, "I thought I ordered you to take the day off."

She cringed. Doctor Washburne was one of those types that even the most disciplined soldier wouldn't impress him much. To say the man was strict was an understatement. Somehow, she always found herself in trouble with this guy. "Hey, Dr. Washburne," she slowly turned with a guilty smile, "you know me."

"Yes, I do," he replied, obviously not amused. "And I prescribe you to have a life."

"I have a life and I happen to like it," she defended herself.

"Summer," he said, looking up from his clipboard, "you've been here two years now?"

"I don't see a point, sir."

"You were in University when you were sixteen-"

"And?"

"-You're a MD by twenty three."

"It's a crime?"

"And you're twenty five finishing up your residency?" Dr. Washburne raised both his eyebrows at her. "Most people your age don't spend their two days off where they work. Most people your age haven't even finished med school. You're either here or at home. Staff tells me you rarely go out and when you do, you prefer to go that bar at the outskirts where old men go to tell their tales and troublemakers make their wares. Instead of the usual ones people your age go to," he stated, knowingly.

Summer crossed her arms. "Sir, you have a wife and two kids. Why are you stalking me?" she joked.

"Because you remind me of my good friend Paul Leslie," he replied. "He was the real determined type. He worked his way up the police force. In ten years, he only took one vacation-- a Mediterranean cruise with his then girlfriend. But his relationships tended to suffer because all he dedicated everything to his work. Now, don't get me wrong. This was before your time but this place was a dump and Paul did a real fine job cleaning this place up. He did it within a year too. Nobody knows how he did it, but he did. And what did he get in return?"

"I don't know, sir," She answered curiously.

"He ran for office and failed. Then he left town, ashamed of his loss," Doctor Washburne continued shaking his head. "Now he's around for the first time in a decade, reminiscing better times and still wearing that oboe pendant of his from when he was with that girl all those years ago. He's obviously still carrying a torch but it's too late. Everyone has moved on and he's alone," he recounted.

"That was a bit of an over dramatic over share, sir," Summer looked at her superior thoughtfully. "So your friend Paul-- this oboe necklace that he got with his girlfriend, does it actually work? When did he get here?" she asked.

Dr. Washburne's face fell. Summer saw the good doctor turn red and gripped his clipboard a bit more than usual. "The 21st," he answered trying to control himself. "And that's not the point of the story, Summer. I like you. You're a bit weird but you're a sweet girl and you work hard. You're a good doctor. The point is that your life," he gave her a quick pat on the head with a clipboard to emphasize his apparent point, "your life needs balance," he pointed out.

"Balance," she repeated. "Got it. Thanks, sir." She grinned, giving the old doctor a small hug.

"I don't want to see you here tomorrow unless I have you called in. Am I understood?" The man glared in reply.

"You got it, Dr. Washburne," she replied walking backwards to the door. "Balance right?"

"Balance," he nodded.

-- -- - -

Dean glanced at his brother quietly hanging out beside the car with a cup of coffee on hand. If it weren't for Metallica's Black album playing, he could probably hear a pin drop inside the Impala. He wanted to say something to break the ice but all he could think about was how weird the weather was. The Pacific Northwest supposed to be cloudy and muggy not sunny. Besides, how lame was it to talk to Sam about the weather? Sam was his brother, not a chick he wanted to pick up.

The ringing phone saved him from a potentially awkward conversation. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Summer," Sam replied, slightly surprised and a small smile.

"Well, stop playing hard to get," Dean teased. He saw the small smile grow bigger.

"You're just jealous. Jerk." his brother quipped before finally answering the phone.

"Bitch," he immediately shot back.

Staking out a police station was a new one on him. Normally, they would avoid the place at all cost. Their run ins with the law hasn't exactly panned out their way. Dean would personally rather drive around the city for a glimpse of the guy, but Sam insisted that it was a waste of gas. Instead, Sam had the bright idea of staking out his old place a business. "People visit their old place of employment all the time. It's like church," Sam had said.

Dean didn't have the heart to point out that if that were true, then Sam should've visited Stanford every time they were in the area.

Sam popped his head in the passenger window holding out his phone. "Summer thinks he's not possessed," he said, "I'm putting her on speaker."

Dean rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Fine," he agreed reluctantly.

"Winchesters?" Summer's voice came through the connection clearly.

"What kind of sicko hits on kids? He's gotta be possessed." he argued.

"The kind of sicko that wants revenge on the city. What can you do? Normal people are weird," she answered. "So how much do guys know about the Pied Piper of Hamlin?"

"There was a rat infestation. The pied piper got rid of it but he wasn't paid," Sam summarized.

"So he took it out on the kids," Dean finished, realizing what the girl was saying for the first time.

"Exactly. I was checking out the wrong lores because the Pied Piper killed all those kids. Not put them to sleep. There's time to stop this. Yay for us!" she said cheerfully.

"Dude, spirit possession means we have to salt and burn remains," Dean said narrowing his eyes in confusion.

"Well, it must be on him. We just have to find it," Sam replied.

"Guys, wait! I don't think you know---"

Dean looked up from the phone, past Sam and saw their mark shaking hands with a police officer. "Dude, there he is," he pointed at the man walking down the street.

"Winchesters? Hey guys, would you listen for a--"

"Don't worry about us, Summer," Sam replied while crossing the street, "Sit tight. It'll be over soon. I promise."

As much as the girl annoyed him, he must admit she was bringing out Sam version 1.0 complete with puppy eyes. Dean smirked, amused at the thought of one day hearing a uncomfortable conversation between Sam and Bobby about his godchild. Sam met his gaze briefly and frowned.

"Shut up," his brother told him.

"Dude, I didn't say anything," he replied.

"Yeah? Well you were not talking very loudly." Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes, further amusing his older brother.

They carefully trailed behind Paul trying to find an opportunity to strike. After several blocks, Dean was getting tired of the chase. He acted like the perfect gentleman. He opened doors, helped carry things, shook people's hands who recognized him. He smiled and laughed and chatted away like he was a human instead of the monster about to murder innocent children. "That overgrown boyscout's getting on my nerves," he muttered just as they crossed the street.

Paul Leslie turned a building corner leading to an alley and the boys stopped. "He knows," Sam said.

"Yeah, he does," Dean agreed, fingering the sawed- off shotgun pressing against his back. He nodded once he held it against the palm of his hand. Sam did the same. The counted to three and like so many times before, they entered the alley slowly with their guns leading the way.

The old officer just stood there in the middle, waiting for them. Gone was the man wishing the townspeople a good day. The way he stood and looked at them reminded Dean of a thug instead of a retired officer of the law. He didn't even bother playing the 'I'm innocent' card. He knew that they knew. "Boys, you've been trailing me since the station. You got something to say to me?" he inquired.

"Yeah," Dean replied rolling his eyes, "get over it."

"We know what you're doing to those kids. Stop it or we'll be forced to stop you," Sam threatened pulling the hammer of his gun.

Paul Leslie smiled. "Kids and their toys these days," he shook his head disappointed. "You boys don't have a silencer on those things. We're only four blocks away from the station. Get one shot out and police will be all over you."

"Been there, done that." Dean sang.

"Is that so?" The man grinned. "But have you been here and done this?"

Before Dean could pull the trigger, he saw the man blow into his whistle like pendant. Immediately, his hands went to his ears and he dropped to his feet. Beside him, he see the same thing happening to Sam. A shrill painful screaming was making his ears pound. Placing his hands on his ears didn't help block the sound at all. So Dean tried to steel himself and reach for his fallen shot gun. But another wave of sound hit him that even Sam's cry sounded muffled. He could feel his heart pounding as he gasped for breath as his lungs burned up. He was in pain but his hands and legs felt numb and cold as the world spun around him.

He had felt like this before when he accidentally electrocuted himself all those years ago.

This was what dying felt like.

Another ball of sound came crashing down on him. "Son of a--" he barely muttered watching a a figure of Paul Leslie victoriously backing away.

Just then, he saw something from above drop making the man fumble. He couldn't be sure because he was seeing multiple versions of the same thing swaying, but he was certain a small figure just used the fire escape to surprise the old man. Jabs were traded and blocked expertly. The old man grabbed the newcomer from behind just for the kid to kick off the wall sending them both fumbling backwards. Paul Leslie returned the favor with a right hook but it was deflected by the person's left hand. Using the officer's momentum, the smaller person slammed his right elbow on the man's cheek. Knee connected to the officer's abdomen and he was sprawled on the ground.

Dean almost smiled but another wave made him scream in pain. The figure turned standing still for the first time and Dean's eyes widened with shock. He recognized that black leather motorcycle jacket, ragged blue jeans, sneakers. More importantly, he met those blue eyes filled with worry--

-- and anger.

"Hand it over," her muffled voice seemed to demand.

"You have a choice here dear," Paul Leslie scampered backwards on the ground as the girl walked forward, the whistle on his mouth.

The girl paused, looked back then very reluctantly turned her back on their mark, letting him escape. The girl shook her head and knelt beside him. She quickly took her gloves off her hands and placed them on his neck as he trembled there on the ground.

"Sum...mer, Sam first... dying..." Dean managed to let out in gasps, feeling the darkness come closer.

"Listen to me," she said gently placing her warm on his cold cheek, "Sam's not dying. And neither are you." He met her gaze and she smiled. "Trust me, Dean Winchester. I've got you, I promise. You can let go."

Dean didn't know why but he believed her. Her hand on his cheek was the last thing he felt before he faded away.