A/N: Well, here it is. The Big Bang, the... other analogy I can't think up right now, but if I could, it would be awesome. I'm not sure what I think about this chapter, since it caused me a lot of stress over the tenth chapter, but it feels right. That's enough self-doubt for now. A huge, warm, thank you to Murakami no Kitsune, floralisette, LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots, LyleRay, and CaraLee934 for the reviews. Seriously, all the support I'm getting is amazing, I can't thank everyone who's reading this enough. Onwards!

The thing that Parker hated most about having Dean's gun an inch from the patch of skin between her eyebrows, was not having her team talking to her in her ear. Her eyes crossed upwards as she tried to keep the weapon in sight; she imagined what they'd say, just to get a sense of some normalcy. Hardison would be saying don't panic, girl all the while panicking himself. Keep them talking, Sophie would tell her. And Eliot would grunt, I'm on my way. Except he wasn't and she was going to die in the backseat of a '67 Impala at the hand of a real-life Ghostbuster.

Parker blinked back an annoying wetness from her eyes. This sucked.

"So how'd a pretty little thing like you get her hands on-" Dean looked incredulously at the little silver trinket, "on a whistle? Seriously?" he said to Sam. "A dog whistle is all it takes to get Rover to heel?" Sam shrugged.

"Since when does anything supernatural make sense?"

Dean considered it. "Good point." He pushed the barrel of the handgun against Parker's forehead. "Where'd you get it? Your boss?" Parker shook her head. "Demon holding your contract?"

"No!"

"Then where?" Dean hissed, emphasizing the last word by clicking off the safety. Sam nudged the gun off its mark and gave his brother a warning look.

"Dean," he interrupted the other man's protests, "she's human. Put the safety back on, you're scaring her."

Dean mumbled, "Good," but complied. He didn't, however, put away the gun. Parker eyed it warily. This Dean, with all his mood swings, was a looser cannon than she was, but she didn't think he'd shoot her (not fatally anyhow). And she would bet her best harness that Sam wouldn't let him rough her up. All of that considered, they had duct taped her.

"Where'd you find the whistle?" Sam asked, a little more kindly than his brother had. Parker fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I didn't find it," she conceded. Dean crowed triumphantly; his "I told you so" was cut short as Parker continued. "I stole it." Parker had to admit that the speechless expressions on the brothers' faces was worth revealing her real occupation.

"So you are a thief?" Sam recovered first.

"Like a thief that steals stuff with serious mojo?" Dean pried, thinking of another woman who stole things that got her into trouble.

"I didn't know any of this-" she gestured to the invisible hellhound on the hood of the Impala, "existed until last night!"

"Just a thief then?" Sam asked once more. Parker's jaw clenched.

"Not just a thief," she retorted, miffed that the giant had essentially called her a common pickpocket for the second time in twenty-four hours.

"Let me guess," Dean began drily, having gone through this before. "A great one?"

"The best," she said without vanity.

Dean snorted. "No need to brag, sister. We get your point." He twisted back to face the threatening empty space outside the wind shield.

Realizing it was now up to him to continue the interrogation (if it could be called that), Sam scratched his brow and squinted at the thief. The best thief. Whatever.

"Alright," he sighed, "who'd you steal it from?"

"I don't know, some guy in suit."

"Well, why did you steal it?"

"He was mean."

Sam massaged the crease in his forehead; he could almost feel the stress ulcer that was probably forming. "Did he seem, I don't know, demonic to you?"

Parker looked at him like he didn't know the difference between a Glen Reader and a Steranko. "Not unless you count his demonically bad manners," she retorted, giving her head a snarky shake.

"We got a problem," Dean said, saving Sam from having to continue the "interrogation". It didn't take long for Parker and Sam to hear said problem. The hellhound was growling again.

The weight leaped from the hood to the top of the car; the metal concaved below the beast's paws. The growling and snarling escalated as a grey van pulled up several car-lengths behind the Impala. Parker tried not to let her surprise or worry show in her expression, but she couldn't stop the blood draining from her cheeks. Pale, with lips pressed firmly in a line, Parker watched the indentations above her and heard the movements of the hellhound on the roof.

"Drive away," she heard Sam whisper. Whether it was directed towards Dean or the van, it was ignored by both.

"Stay in the car," Dean commanded the two in the backseat and gingerly got out of the car. Sam followed, of course, daring his brother to say anything about it. They stayed away from the tail end of the Impala, and kept a careful ear on the hellhound.

Parker tightly gripped the whistle in her palm. She was caught between joy that her team had found her and dread that they were in danger because of it. But the whistle had stopped the hound before, it would do it again. Probably. Maybe.

(Hopefully).

"Stay in the van," Eliot said. "I mean it," he looked pointedly at Sophie, "this doesn't feel right, stay back and let me handle it. You hear?"

Sophie held his gaze challengingly for a moment before dropping it with a resigned sigh. "Loud and clear."

"Aye aye, captain," Hardison agreed theatrically and mock saluted.

"Don't do that," Eliot said seriously. The hacker gulped, and it wasn't until the hitter cracked a grin that he realized Eliot was kidding.

"Hey," Sophie grabbed the hitter's arm before he could get out. Eliot pushed his brows together questioningly. "Bring her back safe, alright?"

"Always do," he winked and was gone. As Sophie watched the hitter cautiously approach the front of the rental van, she tried not think about why the exchange had felt like a good bye.

Eliot slammed the driver's side door shut and rounded the front of Not Lucille. He could see the back of Parker's head in the backseat of the vintage Chevrolet. She wasn't looking directly at him, but he knew she was watching. He wondered why she wouldn't put her earbud in.

He turned his attention to the two men on either side of the Chevy. Now that he could see them clearly, they looked more competent than they had in the warehouse. He shouldn't have underestimated them after they had referred to the... other room in such a flippant way, but in all honesty he hadn't expected them to have the look of experienced fighters.

Not trained fighters, per say, but Eliot could tell these men had seen their fair share of beatings. The "learn to fight by fighting" type of guys. So not military, but he could see traces of it in both of them, but mostly in the shorter one. If he had to guess, he'd say they were army brats.

He tried to place names to faces. If he remembered correctly, the tall one was "Sam" and the bow-legged one went by "Dean". But it had been dark in the warehouse, so he could have it backwards. Neither stepped closer to him, though Sam kept glancing at the top of the old car.

"Need any help, man?" Eliot asked, feigning concern. Dean watched his movements warily, weight on the balls of his feet like a boxer, clearly expecting a fight. The man's eyes flicked to the roof of the Chevy as well.

Curtly: "We're good, thanks."

"I insist," Eliot said, voice losing some of its good neighbor charm.

"Really, don't bother yourself, pal," Dean returned drily, barring his teeth in a humorless grin. Like a skull's. "The big guy just needed to take a leak."

Eliot paused, briefly meeting Parker's eyes. She looked pale, worried. "My mistake." Had they found her earbud is that what she was gesturing about? Wait. Eliot blinked. Parker was gesturing at him.

Go away, she mouthed repeatedly, waving a hand desperately at him. The hitter frowned. The men were dangerous, and Parker thought he couldn't handle them. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight, uncertain whether or not he should leave her.

"You stand there any longer and I'm gonna have to start charging you," Dean's jibe derailed his train of thought. Eliot forced himself to relax.

"I was just leaving," he said, smiling benignly, harmlessly. Just as long as neither were armed, he could have her back in less than fifteen seconds, give or take. Chances weren't good; he noticed the tell-tale bulge of a handgun tucked in Dean's waistband. The smartest move was to get back into van and drive away.

Too bad he wasn't the run-away-with-his-tail-between-his-legs specialist.

He launched himself toward Parker at a speed that made his calculations slow by several seconds. Dean swore and drew the hand gun, but didn't point it at the juggernaut racing towards him. That should have tipped off Eliot immediately.

He was about half way to the tall one when a savage snarl erupted out of empty air. Something that felt like the business end of a semi-truck pounced on his chest and knocked him to the ground.

Distantly, he heard Parker scream his name, but couldn't answer for the heavy weight crushing his lungs. The pressure didn't last long, because invisible knives—or were they claws? – ripped through his chest. He cried out and swung wildly above him. He was surprised when his fists connected with muscle… and was that fur? Hot breath that stung his eyes huffed in his face as the thing growled and dug its claws deeper into him. Eliot gasped, black spots dotting his vision. He bit down hard until he tasted copper to stop himself from shouting in pain. He heard a shot and the invisible creature yelped, raking its claws reactively into his torso.

Several shots went off, and now Eliot could see black blood oozing from the deceptively empty space above. He lashed out again, whipping elbows, fists, knees at the bleeding, impossible beast. Voices joined the sporadic gunshots, one rising above the rest.

"Help him!" Parker shouted desperately. Eliot couldn't see her, but there was movement in his peripheral vision. He heard someone swear and then the gunfire stopped. The creature snarled and dragged Eliot over the pavement. Another body (visible, thankfully) barreled into the creature, throwing it off Eliot and onto the shoulder of the road. Eliot clutched his shredded chest and rolled his head to get a good look at the idiot who saved him.

Dean wrestled uselessly with the creature; the only thing on his side was his momentum. In a matter of seconds, he was on his back, hands bracing up against what Eliot could only assume was the beast's neck. Parallel slices appeared over his biceps and sides, but the man kept the creature at arm's length. His muscles shook with the effort of it.

"Any day now, Sammy!" Dean said through clenched teeth. His tall companion hurriedly shut the trunk that had been opened when the hellhound attacked and tossed something to him.

"To your left!" Sam warned. Dean reached away just long enough to catch the knife, miscalculating the timing and grabbing it in the middle, half on the handle and half on the blade. Not missing a beat, he tightened his grip on the creature and swung the knife underhand in an arch. Black blood reeking of sulfur and decay poured from the deep gash and the creature whined, then went silent. Eliot heard a thud, and the slick sound of a blade exiting organs and flesh.

Eliot gritted his teeth and put pressure on the worst of the gashes. "What was that thing?"

"Hellhound," Dean grunted unsympathetically.

"Damn," Eliot replied and spat onto the pavement, saliva and blood mixing with black gore. He pushed himself to a seated position and took a closer look at – though he loathed to call him it – his savior.

Dean rolled the hellhound's dead weight into the ditch on the side of the road and wiped the black blood from Ruby's knife onto his jeans. Noticing the attention he was getting, he barred his teeth roguishly.

"See anything you like?" he winked at Parker. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, not noticing how Hardison frowned.

"Your knife is pretty," she said. Eliot laughed (only a little hysterically), though he regretted it when his injuries protested. Sophie was at his side in a heartbeat, fretting and worrying over him.

"How are you? Can you see me? Any black spots?" she fired off question after question, not really knowing what she was saying. "Get in the van, we're taking you to the hospital."

"No hospitals," Eliot said quickly. "Just get me back to the cat lady's house." He straightened, catching Dean's eye. He nodded once in acknowledgement. Owe you one, the gesture said. Eliot Spencer was not the type of man to fall down on his knees in gratitude, but a debt was a debt and only fools didn't pay their dues. Dean looked uncomfortable under the hitter's serious gaze.

Hardison stared at them like they had all started singing and dancing in unison. "Seriously? No one's going to talk about how Eliot was ripped to pieces by an invisible dog?!"

"Hellhound," Sam corrected. Parker let out a bark of nervous laughter, hoping Hardison wouldn't take it personally.

The hacker glared, eying the tall, muscular man who was standing too close to Parker (and yes, three feet was far too close). "Who asked you, Fabio?"

Sam hunched his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets upon hearing the hacker's scalding tone. What was his deal anyway? Sorry for saving your moron friend's sorry ass, Sam bit his tongue before the sass escaped him. And there was something about the guy that gave him the strangest sense of déjà vu. Whatever the reason, Sam didn't like him.

"That's what I thought," Hardison snapped, crossing his arms. Parker looked between the two men and bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the sudden need to get away from the waves of dislike coming off of both. She noticed that while Eliot was fending off the mother hen that was Sophie Devereaux, Dean was leaning against the bumper of the Impala alone, threading a curved needle. Sharp things sounded fun, she decided. Better than glares and angsty arm-crossing, anyway. Hardison sagged when she left his side.

"Does it hurt?" Parker asked, poking his injured arm. Dean winced.

"Nope," he said, clenching his jaw. He took off his jacket and his navy flannel so he could roll up the sleeve of his undershirt. The man wore far too many layers.

"You're bleeding," she told him and jabbed his side where he was, in fact, bleeding. He inhaled sharply, counted to ten, and tried not to kill her. She poked him again, pressing her finger into his side and twisting it until she got his attention.

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed," he quipped, squirming away from her prodding while trying to stitch up the souvenirs the hellhound left him with. He tied and bit off the unflavored floss he was using as thread and examined his work. Not the cleanest sewing he'd ever done, but he usually didn't have a sadistic blonde chick distracting him.

Hardison shouldered past the freakish giant-person (who was happily returning the hacker's stink-eye with one of his own) and trudged up to Parker. "We're leaving," he said without preamble.

"But—"

"Eliot's hurt, Sophie's going into shock, and I need to breathe into a paper bag," the hacker interrupted, raising an eyebrow at the pair's close proximity. He added this "Dean" to the (growing) list of People He Did Not Want Near Parker. "We are lea-ving," he emphasized the syllables of the last word.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. There was something about the man that rubbed him the wrong way, something familiar. It was on the tip of his tongue, but the harder he tried to place the feeling, the more it escaped him.

"Fine," she huffed. She took a few steps then paused. "Parker," she said simply, twisting to look over her shoulder. Dean blinked in response; the word meant nothing to him. Parker stalked away, heading towards the van. On the way, she bumped into Sam, mumbled an apology, and continued without stopping or looking at him. Hardison shook his head, watching her go. Dean misinterpreted the gesture and smirked.

"First hellhound's always the hardest," he said, more than a bit smugly. "But don't worry, it only gets worse." Hardison bit the inside of his cheek and walked towards Not Lucille until he was a safe distance away and Parker was in the van, then looked back.

"She stole your wallet," he replied triumphantly. Dean's eyes widened and he quickly patted his jeans' (empty) back pocket.

"Son of a bitch!"

Hardison cackled madly and dove into the rental. "Drive, drive, drive!" he shouted excitedly, relishing the sight of Dean kicking the Impala's back tire. Sophie stepped on the gas and did a U-ey at a speed you only see in action movies.

"How did you not notice her hand in your back pocket?" Sam asked him after the van and their devious little thief were long gone. "Seems like something you of all people couldn't miss."

Dean rubbed his (still unshaven) cheeks, feeling incredibly violated. "Dude, she's a witch."

"She's a pickpocket, Dean," Sam said slowly, as if he were explaining it to a child. "There's nothing supernatural about it." His brother wasn't convinced.

"Yeah, well, we're getting it back." He pursed his lips thoughtfully, thinking about the other hinky feeling he got from the odd bunch. "Did the black guy look familiar to you?"

Sam nodded, frowning a bit. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I feel like I've seen him before. Cleveland, maybe?" He rubbed the crease in his forehead as if it would jog his memory.

"No, that's not it. It'll come to me," he assured and bit off a hang nail, "Just wait." Dean threaded another needle to stitch up his sides. When he finished, the brothers drove towards town. Maybe stop and get a bite to eat, talk to some locals, figure out where Stevie and Co. were shacked up.

"Did she get yours?" the elder Winchester asked suddenly. Sam checked, holding up his wallet for Dean to see.

"Looks like it was just you," he grinned. "Maybe she isn't the best—" Sam froze, lips parted mid-sentence.

"What's up, doc?" Dean gave his brother an odd look.

Sam patted his waistband, then frantically rifled through his pockets. "It's-it's Dad's journal. I kept it on me so she wouldn't be alone with it, and…"

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean groaned, hitting his forehead against the steering wheel.

"It's gone," Sam let out a resigned sigh. "She stole the journal."