Once they reach the place the frat boy was murdered at, the three hunters quietly get out of the Impala and head to the trunk to load up on weapons. It's dark and spooky out, the perfect ambience for an urban legend come to life. The second one this month, she adds silently. Just my freakin' luck. Dean hands Sam a shotgun and Elizabeth a flashlight before bending back over to dig out some shells.

"If it really is a spirit, then buckshot won't do much good," Sam points out, checking that the shotgun is loaded.

"I know," Dean says, handing Sam two shells filled with rock salt. "Rock salt rounds won't kill 'em, but it sure as hell slows the bastards down." It had been a smart discovery on Dean's part just last year, giving him and John enough time to burn the spirit's bones before he could string them up like he'd done his last victim. Dean hauls a coil of rope over his shoulder and shuts the trunk, grinning at Sam's stupefied expression

"You and Dad think of this?"

"Nope," Elizabeth remarks," the Easter Bunny showed up and handed 'em to us, Sammy." He shoots her an unimpressed look and she winks in response, bumping his arm with her shoulder. She's feeling slightly better now that there are no stabbing sensations in her abdomen, and she can't wait until tomorrow when her body would go back to its regularly scheduled programming.

The sound of twigs cracking underfoot has the three of them coming to a stop, Elizabeth aiming the beam of her flashlight at the trees ahead of them. Normally they could put it off to animals or even themselves, but the night is silent and they're still in the gravel and dirt parking lot that precludes the woods.

Sam brings the shotgun up and slots it firmly against his shoulder, prepared for the recoil as his finger hovers over the trigger. Elizabeth fights to stay relaxed, knowing that tensing will only hinder her in a fight. Much like herself, Dean is rolling his shoulders and turning slightly so that he's in the stance Bobby had taught them all when they were kids. The air feels thick suddenly, the way it does when you know to expect some kind of fight. What they don't expect is to have a cop run out of the trees with his pistol raised, voice gruff as he begins to yell.

"Put the gun down! Hands behind your heads and get on your knees!" They're too shocked to put up any sort of protest, Sam setting the rifle gently on the ground as he lowers himself. Elizabeth has her fingers locked behind her head, suddenly wondering if it's too late to call it quits and spend about a month in the Bahamas.

"Don't shoot," Dean shouts back on instinct, green eyes wide. There's genuine fear in there, though Elizabeth knows it's more from the fact that a twitchy finger could mean a bullet in his brother's head. "We're goin', alright? We're goin'."

"Now on your bellies!" They do as he demands, the small rocks digging in through the soft blue cotton of Elizabeth's top. I'm too cute for my life to suck this much. She'll have to find a laundromat in the morning to keep the white skirt from being permanently stained, though that's low on the list of her priorities as Dean begins to grumble on her left.

"He had the gun."

When Dean walks into the motel room the next morning, the last thing he expects to see is Elizabeth wearing only a skimpy blue tank top and a pair of jean shorts that must've come right off the Dukes of Hazzard set. She's dancing and singing to some song, his eyes raking over her swaying form as he thanks whatever deity is listening that he'd told Sammy to wait in the car.

"Through missing keys and broken strings, the music was our own," she sings softly, eyes still shut," until the day we said our last goodbyes. The baby grand was sent away, a child all alone, to pray somebody else would realize that something secondhand and broken still can make a pretty sound…." She turns to face him completely, opening her eyes and pausing mid-word when she notices that she's no longer alone in the room.

"Wow," he says. "You're…. That was really somethin'." He means it too, she has a nice voice that kind of reminds him of his mom's when she would sing him her favorite Beetles song. He can feel himself begin to blush the longer she stares at him, obviously embarrassed that she's been caught. "Um, Sam's out in the car and we think Hook's struck again."

"Right," she nods, grabbing her duffle and running into the bathroom, coming out a few minutes later in what Dean has dubbed her FBI uniform; black skirt, purple blouse, and simple black heels that can be used as a weapon if the occasion calls for it. His friend seems to have only two extremes where shoes are concerned, pink Converse stained from past cases or heels that nearly put her even with Dean's height.

Dean bites back a groan, his imagination running rampant on what he'll do to her after the case is over. He'll have her in this outfit if she agrees to it, the skirt bunched up around her waist as he bends her over a table. I bet she'd even be up for roleplay, he adds silently, taking in the soft curves of her stomach that the silk shirt enhances.

"What are we waiting for," she asks, giving him a confused smile. Dean clears his throat, taking in the legs that are usually hidden by a pair of jeans or sweats, feeling himself begin to harden uncomfortably in his jeans. She's a beautiful woman in his eyes and he wants to kiss every scar she's ever gotten from this job.

Her eyes widen when Dean crosses the space between them in two long strides, one arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her against him while the fingers of his free hand tangle in the hair at the base of her neck as he pulls her into a deep kiss. It doesn't take her long to respond to his passion, her arms wrapping around his neck as she backs them up until his legs collide with the mattress.

The pair fall onto one of the beds—he doesn't even care which at this point, just that she's pressed so perfectly against him and those delightfully long nails are scratching lightly against his scalp. She pulls away long enough to straddle him, allowing him a teasing glimpse of pink lace beneath the skirt.

One of his hands goes to her thigh, squeezing and trailing higher until he can run a featherlight touch along the elastic band of her underwear. Elizabeth gasps at the sensation, grinding down against him instinctively as one of her hands move to his belt buckle.

"Oh, come on!" Elizabeth jolts back so suddenly that she would've fallen to the ugly blue carpet if Dean hadn't grabbed her wrist and jerked her forward at the last minute. Dean can feel a blush heating his cheeks as he meets Sam's disgusted gaze, his brother standing just inside the doorway. "You can't keep your dick in your pants long enough to go check out the dead girl's room? Jesus Christ!" Sam stalks back out to the car, grumbling under his breath as he goes.

Elizabeth buries her face in the crook of Dean's neck, her fingers curled in the soft material of his shirt. He knows without looking that her cheeks will be a bright pink and feels only slightly guilty as he wonders if the blush will match her underwear. She finally looks up at him after a moment, the pair bursting into laughter as they come to grips with what has just happened.

"Oh, man," she sighs," Sammy's gonna be scarred for life now." But the laughter fades after a moment and her smile follows suit, a contemplative expression there that she usually reserves for difficult crossword puzzles. Then she's leaning forward, lips soft as they brush against his own in a gentle kiss he hasn't felt since her senior prom. They've shared lots of kisses before, usually just lust-filled frenzies, but this one is somehow different.

It will be weeks down the road, when he's lying in a hospital bed with Elizabeth pressed against his side, that he realizes what that difference is.