Kathryn jerks awake with a yelp of pain. She huddles tighter around herself in the darkness. A dirty blanket barely covers her body and her skin itches where the soiled fabric touches. Frail light slices through the gloom from doors that are not tightly shut. Kathryn leans forward until the light bisects her face. There is no heat and she is unable to see anything beyond the light. She shifts and the metal cuffs and chain secured around her ankles clink against the cold concrete floor.

Muffled footsteps break the silence. Kathryn holds her breath trying to determine if they are coming or going. When the slice of light becomes a blinding onslaught she raises her hands to cover her burning eyes. A scream rips from her throat when the chain around her ankles is jerked on. "No, please don't hurt me."

A vicious laugh makes her skin crawl and forces her to try desperately to move deeper into the tiny holding cell. Tears form in her eyes and slide down her cheeks to drip on the floor as she begs for her life. A large shadow cuts off the light before the sound of metal scraping concrete catches her attention. Kathryn screams in terror as the light reappears then morphs into a small slice.

"Let me go," she yells into the darkness between sobs. After a few moments the smell of food makes the rumble in her stomach take precedence. Feeling around with her trembling hands she finds a bowl of something warm and something that feels like bread. Kathryn picks up the bowl and holds it up to the light. It appears to be soup. She sniffs it before taking a hesitant sip. The bland taste of vegetable soup warms her lips and soothes her sore throat.

Dean rubs his eyes and leans back in the hard chair. The chairs at the Men of Letters bunker are more comfortable than these damn things. Hell, he could be doing research sitting in his own bed; being on the road sucks. Stretching his hands over his head a sigh escapes him when the kink in his back finally releases. "I can't look at this anymore." He pushes aside the files he'd been staring at for the last ten hours. It is dark outside he can see the neon sign of the hotel through a crack in the curtain. When did the sun go down? Everything just seems to run together. Alcohol will help get things straight and make it easier to sift through ten more hours of research. Standing up, he moves to grab a beer. He is disappointed to discover the refrigerator is empty. Dean turns and watches Sam scribbling in the margins of police reports he is reading. Sam scrolls through some information on the laptop. He looks up and notices Dean isn't sitting across from him. Scanning the room he finds Dean leaning against the counter behind him.

"We're out of beer. Do we have any more pie?"

"No." Sam answers as he picks up another file.

"Son of a bitch. It was good."

"I wouldn't know."

"You had a slice."

Sam turns around to look at Dean. "No, I reached for a slice and you pulled a gun on me."

"I did not."

Sam grimaces before turning back to the files, "You practically snarled at me."

"Whatever. I need a drink. I'm gonna hit the bar across the street. Want to join me?"

Sam shakes his head, "No. I want to follow up on something."

"Do you have a lead?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll call you."

Grabbing his jacket, Dean leaves pulling the door closed behind him. A few moments later he walks into the Shots and Brews bar. There are a few people huddled over drinks scattered around the bar. Booths along the sides are empty. In the center of the room is a large wooden bar with a padded railing and stools. There is a large mirror in the center with the name of the bar written in old English script along the top. Dean walks to the person leaning over the bar reading a paper. There is a silver chain nestled between her ample breasts and he would give almost anything to take its place.

As he approaches, she looks up and he is surprised to discover it is Emory West. A bright smile crosses her lips before she nibbles the edge of her lower lip. Emory folds up the paper and moves it to a cabinet behind her.

"Hi, Dean, from the look on your face it's not going well.

"We're following up on some leads."

"That makes me feel a little better." Emory wipes off the area in front of him. "What can I get you?" Dean reaches for his wallet. "No. You're looking for my friend. Your drinks are on the house."

"Whiskey."

"Do you like to sip it or slam it?"

"A little of both."

Emory's smile brightens. "A man after my own heart. I happen to have a bottle of my favorite." She saunters down the length of the bar. Dean watches her. Her long hair skims her waist in a tightly knotted French braid. Her worn blue jeans mold snugly to her lush body as she bends down and pulls a bottle out of the cooler. As she returns, the purple empire waist shirt does little to distract him from the silver chain hiding its secrets underneath. She places two glasses on the counter. Spinning off the cap she pours a couple of drams into each glass.

"I hope you like it." She clinks her glass against his and takes a good swallow. Dean sniffs the liquid before letting the strong sherry taste chase away the day's frustration. The liquid slides warmly down his throat.

"Damn, that's good."

"It's from my favorite distillery."

Dean takes the bottle and reads the label. It's a 16 year old whiskey from Scotland; the bottling date has been scratched off. "How did you get this?"

"I blew the owner."

Dean almost chokes on the whiskey in his mouth. Emory throws back her head and laughs. Warmth spreads through his body at the husky, joyous sound and the twinkle in her eye as she looks at him. "The look on your face," Emory shakes her head. "A wink, a smile and a friendly wager got me a case of what you're drinking."

"What was the wager?"

Emory winks and finishes off her drink before pouring them each another. "A lady never tells."

Dean can't help himself he smiles as he watches her and gulps down the smooth whiskey. She checks on a couple of the other patrons before returning to her spot near him. They continue to talk on and off as she serves up drinks. He quickly learns that she owns the bar and bought it from the previous owner five years ago. They start on a second bottle of whiskey; this one with a strong peat taste. The warmth flooding his body from the alcohol is helping to fight back the dark ever present void.

Before he realizes it his teeth are feeling numb. Emory is standing in front of him. He can hear her talking but he can't seem to respond or do anything but look at the silver chain around her neck. She leans forward until he can almost feel the warmth of her breath on his face and see into the depths of her shirt. "Would you like to see?"

Dean looks up. "Huh?"

He watches her hand move. The tips of her fingers disappearing into the front of her shirt; she pulls out the silver chain. It is a block medallion inscribed on both sides. She drops it into Deans' palm. He can feel her warmth on the metal as he slides his thumb over the three raised waves on one side and three raised Fleur de Lis on the other. Letting go of the chain he watches her return it to its resting place. Emory takes a sip of her whiskey, silently watching him. They assess each other for a few moments.

"Oh, sweetheart. It's been awhile since you've…docked, huh sailor."

Dean finishes his drink and licks his lips. She is the friend of a missing person, this isn't professional. Get up and walk away. All of these thoughts flood him and just as quickly disappear as he feels himself being drawn to her warmth. "You could say that."

Emory finishes her drink and leans on the bar. "It's not safe around these parts. I could walk you back to your room."

A whisper of a smile creeps across his face. She was going to protect him? If she only knew half the crap he was involved with. She would know a killer like him didn't need protection. His cell phone begins to ring before he can answer.

"Why don't you take that and I'll go lock up."

Dean grabs his cell phone. "Did you find something?"

"I think so." Excitement laces Sam's voice.

"Good, can you leave the room for a while?" A burning sensation starts throbbing in his right arm. He absently massages the area where the Mark of Cain is located. He can feel the raised skin through his flannel shirt.

"Why?"

"I've got company."

"It's two o'clock in the morning!"

Dean rubs his arm a little harder. He can feel warmth from the mark seeping through the fabric of his shirt. Son of a bitch his whole arm is starting to vibrate. What the hell is going on? He hopes this won't keep him from spending the night with Emory. That is one of the last clear thoughts that move through his mind before an icy rage sparks to life. Turning on the barstool he sees Emory with her arms raised and a man clad in blue jeans and a leather biker jacket pointing a small caliber gun at her. "Put the phone down and get over here."

"Dean what's going on?" Sam yells through the phone as Dean sits it on the bar. As he slides off the barstool the man fires a shot. Everything begins to move in slow motion. Dean sees smoke leaving the muzzle of the gun, the bullet barreling towards him and Emory jumping in front of the bullet before being thrown against him. Shock rockets through his body as he holds Emory to him and reaches for the gun holstered to his hip. By the time he has it raised and aimed the man is already out the door.