A/N: Alright, sorry for the wait. But here it is! Not going to lie, I wrote this while I was very ill so that's my excuse if there are any weird mistakes or continuity errors. WARNING for canon-type violence in this chapter. As always, thanks to floralisette, Alice of Scots, LeeMarieJack, Murakami no Kitsune, Rorke's Drift, SorcerersScone, CaraLee934, and BranchSuper for the awesome feedback! Onwards.

"I spy with my little eye, something green."

"Is it money?"

Hardison slapped a hand to his forehead. "Parker," he stressed, "girl, for the last time, it has to be something visible. And no."

"Is it the grass?"

Sophie glanced through the windshield at the grey sidewalk and grey road and grey building and the lone tree that could be seen from the rental. The only grass in sight was a sickly yellow color.

"No."

"Is it Dean's eyes?"

Hardison gritted his teeth at that one. "It's the tree! It's the only mother lovin' tree on the whole street!" He gestured wildly out the windshield.

Eliot looked up from re-wrapping his chest. "Keep it down, Hardison, it's called covert surveillance for a reason." He tugged his shirt back on, masking his grimaces.

The hitter kept one eye on the small butcher shop the Winchesters had disappeared into. The more he learned about the FBI's most-wanted living dead the foggier their story became. One minute they were killing women and children, and the next ten witnesses were swearing to Yahweh that two tall strangers with sawn-off shotguns saved their hides. It was confusing to say the least.

The journal Parker had swiped raised more questions than it answered. For one, half of it was written in some kind of weird short-hand code. Eliot vaguely recognized some words, but it was like trying to communicate with someone when you only knew how to say "thank you" and "where's the bathroom" in their language and they only knew "dumbass" in yours. Naturally, Parker understood everything. How she managed to get in the mindset of a paranoid ex-marine with a mind like a crossword puzzle, Eliot would never know, but she had translated ten coded pages in the time it took him to get through the first sentence.

The other half was partially made up of small blurbs of valuable information, but mostly loads of useless observations like one entry (written in red crayon of all things) that said, "If a werewolf sheds, it ain't a werewolf." Some entries were more mundane than appropriate for a monster hunter's journal. "Buy salt; pick up Sammy; call Jim." That was it, all there was; the single phrase wedged between a motel bill and a post card from Lawrence, Kansas. The sections that were written in any recognizable language were terrifyingly thorough. Also, just plain terrifying. Eliot couldn't believe people actually chose the hunting lifestyle, but at the same time… his job wasn't a cakewalk either. At least the Winchesters could say they knew they things they killed were evil. Eliot wouldn't say he could do the same.

Movement in the front window of the shop caught his attention. The taller one exited with a plastic bag in hand. Dean followed shortly after, features animated like he was talking about something of great importance.

"Here we go," Hardison said, noticing the brothers at the same time Eliot did. "Freaky giant monster slayers are a-go."

"Oh," Sophie remarked thoughtfully, head tilted to the side as she watched the Winchesters.

"What?" Hardison asked, blindly groping for his bottle of Orange Squeeze—he was down to his last one, it was time to ration.

"It's nothing," Sophie said lightly. "I just hadn't realized how pretty they are."

Eliot couldn't help but throw in his own dig. "I think they're taller than you too, Hardison."

"Y'all need therapy," Hardison replied grumpily. He shot a glance at Parker, who was watching the hunters with a calculating eye.

"They know where Nate is," she said confidently.

"Okay," Hardison shook his shoulders and cracked his neck like he was getting ready for a boxing match, "here's the plan: we follow them and get Nate out without having to look at their ugly mugs ever again."

"Or we could just walk up and say 'Hello boys, our friend was kidnapped by a monster, we hear you have some experience with that,'" the comment, surprisingly, came from Sophie. The age-old argument "To trust or not to trust" began anew.

Meanwhile, outside of the van something canine—but entirely undog-like—sniffed the front tire. It knew nothing of the first of its kind to respond to the whistle, though the smell of the other's blood was all over the van. The beast raised its invisible head and huffed. It whined.

Its master was here, it would not leave her side. But it had just picked up the scent of a condemned soul whose contract was three months short of due and the demons stalking towards the men who smelled of heaven and hell were so distracting.

The hellhound sat heavily on its rump. It would stay. It would wait. It would obey its master's call.

"That guy ripped us off," Sam said disgustedly, crumpling the receipt in his fist as he pushed through the butcher shop's door. "It doesn't cost twenty-five dollars for half a pint of lamb's blood."

"Don't care, Sam," Dean rubbed his palms together, eager to get started. "Let's dust this son of a bitch and get the hell out of Dodge. I hear Vegas has a huge witchcraft coven-gambling-ring-thing going on," he said.

"You hate witches," Sam reminded him slowly, wondering where he was going with his suggestions. They paused outside of the shop.

"Yeah, but Vegas," Dean said with reverence. "A weekend full of crazy drunks, casinos, wild nights, hung-over mornings, Elvis impersonators—"

"Witches…"

"Showgirls," Dean continued wistfully, happy smile on his face as he day-dreamed of the… opportunities Las Vegas offered. "What's not to love?"

"I don't know, it'll be hard to enjoy myself with this gum stuck to my shoe."

Like a flip of a light switch, Dean's expression darkened. To anyone else, Sam's comment wouldn't particularly stand out, but to the Winchester family that phrase meant shit was about to hit the fan. It meant they were being followed.

"What, Steve's party van?" the elder Winchester laughed derisively, shaking away his momentary dread. "Forgive me if I'm not cowering in my boots."

"I was talking about the two locals who've been tailing us since the diner."

"Ah," Dean said, letting his eyes fall behind him at the lurking "pedestrians" behind them. "That would be my second guess." His head tilted meaningfully towards the alley next to the meat market. "Anyway you were saying about your wife?"

Sam snorted and continued down the sidewalk as if he hadn't noticed the gesture. "My wife, right. Who is she, anyway? She a professional kleptomaniac and her friend reacted like a hellhound attack was just another day at the office. I mean, that's weird, right? Not our kind of weird but…"

"Weird," Dean finished, nodding his head. "Yeah, they rub me the wrong way too. Thick as thieves and just as trustworthy, if you ask me."

"This whole case is messed up," Sam said. He couldn't hold his tongue any longer, demon stalkers be damned. "It isn't right."

"You're tellin' me."

"No," Sam shook his head, trying to clear his head and explain properly. "I mean, this isn't normal Djinn behavior. They don't move around, but we've found at least three different nests in the area. It doesn't make sense."

"Multiple Djinn?"

"Not likely."

Dean accepted the information faster than his brother, not bothering to question why when he could be asking where. "Okay, so this thing isn't like other genies. It likes a change of scenery every now and then. The bodies in the warehouse weren't fresh kills, but they weren't old either so let's just say that was where it shacked up last before the quarry."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Right, but what I don't understand is why bother? The locals aren't exactly what I'd call sharp so why—"

Without warning they turned down the alley and disappeared from view. The two demons, wearing the local insurance agent and a hairstylist named Heidi, shared a confused look, then power-walked the rest of the distance. They cautiously approached the alleyway, eyes turning black. It was empty.

"Where'd they go?" the one wearing the hairstylist's meatsuit growled in a lispy soprano.

They edged further into the alley, peering into the lengthening shadows. Two pairs of hands grabbed the backs of the demons' shirts and threw them back against the side of the butcher's. The demons grinned at their attackers.

Dean switched his grip on Ruby's knife and didn't wait for the demons to make the first move. He launched himself at the possessed insurance salesman. He dodged the demon's first punch, but the second landed square on his jaw. His head rolled with the demon's fist and he glimpsed Sammy getting his ass handed to him by a five foot one bottle blonde. He grunted, throwing his arms around the demon's torso, and tackled him against the wall. His knee jerked sharply upwards between the demon's legs. Dean allowed himself a smug grin when the demon squeaked in pain (voice noticeably higher) —even demons didn't like getting hit in the stones. He swiftly drove the knife into the demon's jugular. A yellow light momentarily flickered from within the insurance salesman and the body slumped against the wall. Both demon and host had left the building.

Sam found himself on the defensive as the hairstylist-wearing demon swung a rotten two-by-four at his head. He stumbled backwards, ducking as the splintery board just missed him. The demon laughed and feinted left, only to swing right. Sam jumped back and the two-by-four skimmed his chest. He caught Dean's eye and clenched his jaw indignantly, knowing how he must have looked. The two-by-four hit him in the temple. Before he could blink away the pain, he found himself back to the cement with a demon straddling his waist. He looked up into the face of the sneering face of the hairstylist.

"I've heard about you," she said with a feminine giggle. "Can't say I'm impressed." Sam easily rolled them over until the demon's face was pressed into the grimy pavement and her arms were pinned behind her back.

"Took you long enough," Dean jibed, wiping Ruby's knife on his jeans. "Losing your touch a bit there, huh, Sammy?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't see yours come after you with a two-by-four," Sam grumbled, twisting the demon's arms harder than necessary. She hissed and arched her neck to glare up at the brothers.

"Get bent," she spat. Dean crouched down in front of her and innocently checked the edge of Ruby's knife.

"Hell-o, hell-bitch, " he said cheerily, tapping her cheek with the flat of the blade. "Today is just not your day, is it?" The demon was silent and Dean sobered. "Okay, so this is how this is going to go down: you're going to tell us who sent you and I'll kill you quickly. Promise. But if you don't…" Sam watched his brother's face twist into a grotesque smile and suppressed a shudder. Things had changed since Hell. "If you don't, I'll bless a river and drown you in it. Honestly, I'm hoping you'll choose option two."

The demon snarled. "If you're trying to scare me don't bother, my boss could dance circles around you."

"Lilith?" Sam questioned.

The demon laughed contemptuously. "Try the King of the Crossroads. And he wants his whistle back."

"Bully for him," Dean retorted. "We didn't steal nothing from any duke."

"King."

"Whatever."

Sam coughed, drawing the attention back to the issue at hand. He looked pointedly at Dean. "Stevie," was all he said. Dean groaned and let his head fall into his hands.

"I swear to God," he muttered. "You don't think she had anything to do with this, do you?"

"It makes sense," Sam said, shrugging. "I mean, the hellhound didn't attack her. Or us, but I think the whistle might've had something to do with that."

"She? She who?" the demon asked eagerly, tensing under Sam's hands.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sammy? Any time you wanna…"

Sam gave him a blank look. "Oh," he blinked. "Right. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus
omnis satanica potestas, omnis—" Dark smoke poured out of the hairstylist's mouth as he recited the exorcism verbatim. The woman gasped and her eyes rolled back in a faint. Sam released her arms and stood, dusting himself off. "I thought—I mean, it seemed like…"

"What, that I was going to gank her?" Dean asked. "Seriously, Sam? You believed that?"

"You were pretty convincing."

Click.

Their heads turned toward open end of the alley. A third stranger stood with a gun in hand. He tilted his trucker cap up enough for the brothers to see his black eyes.

"Ya know," he drawled, "most of my kind don't like these things, but they're just so damn efficient." He pointed the handgun at Sam and Dean braced himself to push his brother out of the way. The demon opened his mouth to gloat, but was cut short by a fist to his solar plexus. The redneck-wearing demon hunched foreword, betrayed by his meatsuit's human weakness.

Eliot's elbow collided with the surprised creature, his head thrown back with the force of the hitter's blows. Eliot grabbed the wrist of the demon's gun hand and twisted it sharply. The redneck hissed as a knee smashed into his chest again and again and again until he dropped to the ground. Eliot drew back a fist and hit the demon once on the temple, knocking him out cold. The hitter flicked his hair out of his face and with a final click the ammo slide from the handgun and clattered to the pavement.

It had taken him all of three seconds to take down the possessed man.

Eliot let out a breath. "Not a friend of yours, I hope?" The Winchesters stared dumbly at the hitter in awed silence. Sam's jaw dropped.

"Whoa," Dean breathed, then abruptly shook himself and cleared his throat. "I mean, not bad. For a civilian." He sniffed. "I've seen worse." He stood up straighter, suddenly aware of how much taller he was than the super solider—ah, he meant amateur—oh fuck it, that was awesome.

"Just so we're clear," Eliot interjected, pointing to the crumpled body of the insurance salesman, "that was the bad guy right?" Sam and Dean shared a looked.

"Well…"

Parker poked her head around the corner, saving the brothers from the awkward situation of explaining the meatsuit situation.

"Oh," she said quietly, eyes darting from the dead man to the woman on the ground to Trucker Cap's unconscious form. "That's not good."

"You said it, sister," Dean rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish shrug. God damn it. How were they going to talk their way out of this one?

"Parker," Eliot growled. "I told you to stay in the van."

"Yep," Parker said and stepped further into the alley. "You probably should have known bette—" Hands wrapped around her neck and the – not as unconscious as previously thought—demon dragged her into the street.

"One move," he hissed, breath tickling the thief's ear, "and I'll snap the bitch's neck."

Eliot froze, shoulders tensing. Parker schooled her expression to a cold mask, but her eyes widened and desperately locked onto the hitter's.

This thing, Eliot exhaled slowly, had his hands on Parker, threatened her, and called her bitch. He'd killed for less. He slowly followed them out of the alley; the demons hands tightened around Parker's throat. Dean's lips parted to tell the hitter to stand down when the demon let out a startled yelp.

"No," he released Parker and backed towards the hunters. This was the opposite of normal. "No, stop!" The plea wasn't directed to the humans.

Something out of sight growled.

Parker scrambled down the sidewalk away from the noise and the demon, dragging Eliot with her. "I haven't touched the whistle since that once in the car!" she said, wringing her hands and looking back and forth between the Winchesters. Dean, without taking his eyes off of the cowering demon, pressed his forefinger to his lips.

The demon collapsed with a scream as if something very large and very angry had just pounced on him. That very large and very angry something raked its claws into Trucker Cap and bit down on his leg. The demon cried out, reaching for the hunters—or possibly the Heidi-wearing demon—as he was dragged down the street by the hellhound. Parker flinched and turned her head away, eyes squeezed shut.

The van drove up and hid the sight from view, but it couldn't do anything about the screaming. A pale faced Sophie slide open the back door. "Get in," she commanded monotonously. Eliot nudged Parker towards the van, but she pushed him back, looking expectantly at the Winchesters.

"Look, Stevie, or Parker, or whoever you are," Dean waved his hands like he could ward off Parker's puppy dog eyes (which were giving Sam a run for his money, that's for sure). "We don't do the whole team thing. So uh, thanks but no thanks."

"And ditch the whistle," Sam added. "There's always more where they came from."

Behind them, the butcher shop's door swung open and several townies gaped at the bloody, torn up body in the middle of the street, still being mauled by the hellhound. One of them, a tall, elderly African American woman stared at them. Dean ducked his head and cursed under his breath.

"Sam," he warned, "we gotta get out of here."

Sam's brow creased. "That's what we're—" he caught sight of Mrs. Franklin. "Uh oh."

"What uh oh?" Parker asked warily. Sam cleared his throat and flickered his gaze to the landlady. "Oh, that uh oh." The thief grabbed each Winchester by the hand, pulling them towards the van. "Now you have to come," she said. "Let's find Nate."

"Nate?" Sam questioned uneasily as Dean groaned, "God, not another one."