A/Ns: Heeeeeey guys, it's that time again. Time for the reminder (plea) that my muse lives via a straight-to-vein IV directly fed by your comments and reviews. And my muse is getting dehydrated, dear, beautiful audience. It is tough to see our viewership numbers continue to climb while reviews dwindle with every post. Worse yet, I am well aware that a two-week posting schedule equals an automatic drop in reviewership. And it is because of that that I need to whine for a minute, because that suuuuucks. When I have to delay posting it is because I am not writing up to par; I am discouraged, dealing with a bout of depression, in a rut, or, in this instance, genuinely recovering from illness and injury that makes writing difficult. None of those things do better from a drop in people willing to comment while I continue to post as reliably and often as I can. Now, I do take deeeeep breaths and remind myself don't get bitter, don't get bitter, don'tgetbitterSilence, but I'm also not good at listening to myself, like, ever.

So guys, please. I need you all to step up and remember that I do this for free, and all I ask in return is that you let me know, on occasion, that you are out there reading it. No more words needed than "like button pushed", "still here", "", "". Whatever you want to convey that you are out there.

(To the ten-to-fifteen people who let me know every chapter that you are out there, you are my mother-friggin-heroes, the reason this story is still on-going, and when I get bitter, I go read all your awesome, wonderful, beautiful words again.)

(And to all the readers who left a comment when they first joined the story, you my heroes too :)

Chapter Warnings: Andy, Dean, and Sam are playing a game of who can be the bigger brat, the boys get to be PIs on a murder investigation, memory is a bitch, and, oh, yeah, Dean's waking up in places he doesn't want to be, covered in blood.

Actual Chapter Warnings: Brief depictions of gore in this one.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Road So Far (This Time Around)

Season 2: Chapter 36

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Personally, Dean had never bothered contemplating what thirteen dwarves with pickaxes trying to bang out AC/DC's 'Back in Black' in the cavernous amphitheater of his skull might sound like. Partly because he already knew; having racked up eleven concussions in his life, Dean had ample experience with skull-drilling head dwarves.

Apparently, he could now bump that count up to lucky number twelve.

Ever the hunter (and therefore dismally used to waking up in unknown and less than ideal situations), Dean started categorically observing his surroundings while still feigning unconsciousness. Hard surface beneath him, uncomfortable but not enough to be cement or even floor. Bad mattress, then, or maybe a cot. It was quiet, but there was an echo to the silence that suggested a small space, walls probably concrete or brick, not much around to muffle even the lack of sound. There were distant sounds of life – movement, the scrape of a chair, the murmur of a conversation – but they were far off and muffled, likely by a stretch of space and at least one closed door.

Dean figured he was in a jail cell even before he opened his eyes.

"Mr. Warren."

The hunter groaned as he rolled over on the thin cot. The room was bright and yellow and godawful. Who painted cinder block that color? Whoever they were, they needed to be murdered.

It took a minute, but Dean eventually got the room to stop spinning enough to squint at the woman leaning casually against the bars of his little cell. She was middle aged, but wore it well: trim pant suit that meant business, blonde hair down around her shoulders (so not all business, then), and eyes that were trying to be cold but probably cared too much about humanity as a whole to really manage it. Kind of a cutie, if older women were Dean's thing.

She looked vaguely familiar, but the hunter couldn't place her.

"Kris Warren?" she asked in that tone that called bullshit faster than a bull could, in fact, shit. The cop (detective, given the pant suit) was holding up a small card, feigning dramatic interest in it. "That is your name, isn't it? Says so right here, on your impressively fake driver's license."

Shit. They'd probably already ran his prints. Which… was possibly, incredibly, devastatingly, oh-shit-how-do-I-get-myself-out-of-this-one problematic, depending entirely on what year it was. Double shit… what year was it? Dean raised the heel of his hand to his throbbing head, applying pressure. Like dwarves squished easily. Ha.

"We ran your prints through AFIS. No name popped up."

Oh, thank God. Alright, so it was 2006, his concussion wasn't that bad, and he hadn't lost his marbles completely. Just half his functioning brain power. That was fine. Dean had worked with less.

"More than a dozen possible hits, though. Looks like you certainly get around, Mr. Warren. Breaking and entering, grave desecration, kidnapping. And those are just the ones we've been able to link."

He was never time-traveling again. Mental note: tell Cas, never again. The angel could have warned him that dealing with two sets of memories, ten years of time difference, and never knowing when the hell he was when he woke up from unexpected unconsciousness was going to be a veritable headache.

Literally.

Dean stilled when something foreign and encrusted flaked off his forehead beneath the pressure of his palm. Confusion knotted in his stomach, but it was kinda staring to feel more like dread. The hunter pulled away, staring with growing horror at his hand. Both hands. And his clothes. T-shirt, pull over, jacket, pants, boots. All of it.

He was covered in dried blood.

"What the hell..."

"Well, whatever your name is." The woman – detective badge now clear on her waistline – straightened upright and looked at him like the worst of the worst criminals she'd ever put behind those bars. Dean was too busy having a panic attack over who the hell he'd apparently exsanguinated to really notice. "You're being detained for the suspected murder of Karen and Anthony Giles. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you-"

Dean slammed his eyes shut so he could focus purely on breathing. Had he said thirteen dwarves? Make it thirty. Oh, yeah, and one last thing. Who the fuck were the Giles?

-o-o-o-

-12 Hours Earlier-

"Anthony Giles."

Sam looked up from his breakfast of coffee and a plain bagel, a pathetically thin layer of cream cheese atop. Dean was holding up a newspaper, finger on the article in question. The headline read 'Man's Throat Slit Without a Trace' and Sam squinted at it.

"Who's Anthony Giles?"

Both brothers looked up as Andy plunked down between them, holding a coffee in both hands with the kind of gleeful expression only caffeine addicts and hypothermia victims got with a cup of hot jo between their fingers.

"Did you pay for that?"

Andy matched Sam's suspicious squint with one of his own. "What is the point of super powers if you don't use them?"

"Pretty sure super powers are meant to be used for good, hero," Dean quipped, resisting the urge to quote Uncle Ben. Andy, while an excellent student of all sci-fi nerdage, was woefully lacking in his comic book education. Although, even in 2006 there'd been enough damn Spiderman movies for the kid to get that one. However, it wasn't like any one of the men sitting at that table had handled great power or great responsibility all that well.

"Oh, right. Should I just go back and pay for it with my fraudulent credit card, then?" Andy's smile was of the shit-eating variety, and Dean harrumphed at the absolute pissy look on Sam's face.

Andy 1, Sam 0. Dean was seriously enjoying the fresh blood in this game.

The older hunter reached over and grabbed Andy's coffee, claiming it as his own with a long, slurping sip. The kid looked scandalized. "Next time, get us all one."

Sam's bitchface reached new levels. Maybe even beyond Ultimate.

Make that Andy 1, Sam 0, Dean 1.

Their resident super hero grumbled and got up from the table to go place himself at the back of the line once more.

Andy 1, Sam 0, Dean 2. He could practically hear the ding of the scoreboard in his head. Dean grinned over the rim of the cup. Sam just shook his head and nodded at the paper lying on the table.

"Who's Anthony Giles?"

The older Winchester resisted calling him a sore loser. They did have a job to do, after all. So Dean spread the newspaper out. "Baltimore lawyer. Working late in his office, throat slit, almost to the bone. No DNA, no prints. Room was completely clean. Security cameras caught zilch."

"So, invisible killer." Sam munched on his bagel. "Or someone tampered with the tapes. Still, could be a case. Does it sound familiar?"

"I think so." Even with a picture of the vic plastered across the page, Dean wasn't sure. Visual memory was generally stronger, but in this case, it wasn't doing him a lotta good. Not that he'd really remember a dead guy he only saw a picture of in the newspaper or maybe as a body on a slab in some morgue. Dean knew they'd been in and out of Baltimore for hunts at least three times that he could remember. Not that he could necessarily pair those visits up with individual hunts. Story of his life for the last year.

So he just shrugged, folding the paper in half and tossing it back on the table. "And if it turns out it isn't, it still sounds like our sort of thing."

"How do you not remember details like a dude with his throat slit practically in half?" Andy was back in his chair, new coffee in hand. Both Dean and Sam looked from him to the line and wondered how the hell he'd overheard them from there. The kid just sipped at his drink, keeping his body tellingly turned away from Dean and protectively hunched around the cup. "That doesn't happen every day."

Both hunters snorted. When Andy blinked at them, clearly missing the joke, Dean explained, "It does in our world, kid. There's been so many cases in the last thirty years- Hell, this one doesn't even make the top one hundred of weird shit I've seen. Probably doesn't make Sam's top fifty."

But it got the Timey Sense just barely tingling, and that was good enough.

Andy was making a face again, the one he made anytime he started thinking too hard on recent life choices and where exactly they were leading him, but didn't say anything. Sam went back to his breakfast and Dean started working out the quickest route to Baltimore.

After he stole the other half of Sam's bagel, of course. And made Andy go get him more cream cheese.

Andy 1, Sam 0, Dean 4.

-o-o-o-

When they got to Baltimore in the late afternoon, their first move was to check into a motel. It was item number nine on the list of John Winchester's Rules for Hunting. He hadn't actually numbered them, or kept them in any sort of order, but having a safe place to crash or hide out after a hunt was pretty high up on that list. There wasn't always time, of course, but when there was, the boys always dropped some gear and a med kit in a warded room, ready for them to return bloody if necessary.

Then they headed out. With Anthony Giles' office locked up tight and off-limits as a still-active crime scene, they'd have to wait until nightfall to check it out. So the Winchesters decided to interview the wife of their dead guy, to see if her husband had noticed anything out of the ordinary the past couple days. Talking about it on the way to her address, which Sam got off the hacked police report, the three agreed to go in as insurance agents. Well, Sam and Dean talked it out while Andy shot out suggestions, but ultimately it was the brothers who settled on insurance folk. It was an easy way to ask a lot of awkward questions about a loved one's death without setting off too many alarm bells. It was a good brainstorming session for Andy to start learning the ins and outs of hunting, though.

Not that he had to hunt, if he didn't want to. Which was what Sam kept telling him, despite the fact the kid continued to tag along. Dean had him pegged pretty well from the start. And not because he had a lack of self-preservation, or an abundance of self-loathing or anger, or a comfort with death and isolation, or any of the dozens of other issues that usually formed a soon-to-be-hunter. Nope. Andy was just too damn curious not to get answers, and too laid back to get himself out while he could. Terrible combo, really, but at least the Winchesters would be there to make sure a cat was the only collateral of his curiosity.

Of course, they'd had to stop and get Andy a cheap, quick suit to play the part. He looked… just wrong in it. Not that the kid couldn't clean up. It just really wasn't him. Lucky for them, he looked significantly younger than Sam, despite their matched age, so he got to be the rookie agent intern, tagging along for some experience. Fitting, Dean said, since he was the rookie.

"Come on, when do I get to play a cool role?" Andy picked at the slightly wrinkled, definitely baggy suit.

"When you're cool."

Andy 1, Sam 0, Dean 5.

They knocked on Karen Gile's front door, the three of them standing on the small porch like a gaggle of monkey suited insurance agents. Fun times. Dean was all ready with the pitch when the door opened, revealing a petite brunette with square framed glasses and red-rimmed eyes.

The wave of déjà vu all but stole his breath away. It was so damn strong it came with figgin' flashbacks this time. The hunter braced a hand against the porch wall as he lilted to the side. He had knelt beside this woman's corpse. Stared into her lifeless eyes. There was blood everywhere. Her throat was slashed, almost to the bone. Dean held her hand – no, not he her hand, her wrist. She was still warm. There were dual bands of ugly bruises layered on her skin, like shadows of restraints.

"Um, are you- is he alright?"

Karen Giles was their next victim.

Dean blinked as the images and accompanying wave of nausea passed, leaving him dizzy and propped up against the Giles' house, the widowed owner of which was standing there staring at him with something between concern and wariness. He forced a thin smile.

"Fine," Dean ground out with a nod of his head, forcing his spine to straighten. Sam and Andy were staring at him with equal parts worry and what-the-hell-dude. "Just heart burn. Must have been something I ate."

Mrs. Giles looked a little unsure of the three men standing on her porch. Her eyes were red and puffy. There was a tissue clenched in her hand. Right. She had just lost her husband, after all. Sam cleared his throat and offered a condoling smile.

"Karen Giles?" he asked. When she nodded hesitantly, he continued, "My name is Sam Frehley, these are my colleagues, Dean Simmons and Andy Criss. We're with the insur-"

Dean's hand shot out to grip Sam's bicep, interrupting him as he blurted out, "We're PI's."

Sam's eyebrows went up into his hairline, his head whipping to the side like a bad car crash victim to shoot his brother a look. Of course, pro that he was, the younger hunter covered it quickly, with more of a grimace than a smile, but whatever. Karen was busy frowning at the older Winchester anyhow.

"PI's?"

"Yeah," Dean continued, releasing Sam's arm. "My partner and I were working with your husband."

Karen's frown didn't lighten, and she glanced between the two brothers before settling on Andy. "And him?"

The kid didn't miss a beat, smiling. "Intern."

"Tony doesn't use PI's," she responded after another beat, eyes going back to the Winchesters. She seemed to realize what she'd said and bit her bottom lip as it trembled. Karen sniffed, looking off to the side as she tried to staunch the tears. She wiped briefly at her nose with the tissue. "Didn't. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Sam offered a much more believable smile, sympathetic as it was. "We know this can't be easy on you. We just… we need to speak with you, if you have a moment."

"I don't understand." Karen shook her head. "My husband worked with the police when he needed to. Why would he hire PIs?"

"We can't say any more right now," Dean explained, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. He knew the other two would follow his lead, Karen falling hook line and sinker as realization lit her face.

"Oh god." Her skin paled and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth in horror. "Do you think- Oh god, that's why he was-"

"We can't say, ma'am," Sam picked up their new roles easily enough. "Can we talk inside?"

"Yes, yes, of course." The grieving woman stepped back, and the three men passed into the house. She led them to a spacious, comfortable living room, with two designer couches separated by a sleek coffee table. She sat primly on one, dabbing at her nose again, as the boys settled opposite her. "Um…what- what case were you working on with Tony?"

"Mrs. Giles, I wonder if I could get a glass of water before we start?" Sam's smile was apologetic.

"Oh, uh, yes, of- of course." The poor woman stood, hesitated for a moment, and then left the room, purportedly headed for the kitchen.

Sam was on his brother the minute she was out of hearing range, Andy turning similarly to Dean from his other side, so he was literally surrounded.

"She's the next victim," Dean said in answer, rather than waiting for them to voice questions he knew they would. "We need a reason to stay and keep her safe this time."

"And as PI's we can express concern for her safety; whoever went after her husband is coming for her next." Sam was ever the quick one. "So, vengeful spirit?"

"I think so." Dean rubbed at his chin and jaw, but something about that wasn't quite sitting right. If only he could figure out what. He caught Andy staring at him from his peripheral and raised an eyebrow when the kid didn't follow up with a quip about his spotty memory.

Andy just shrugged. "Intern, remember? I'm just along for the ride."

New scoreboard count: Andy 2, Sam 0, Dean 5. Sam really needed to get a move on. It was like he didn't know how to play this game.

"What do you remember?" Sam interrupted before they could get side tracked, aloud or in Dean's mind. They didn't have a lot of time here; getting a glass of water only took so long.

"Not much. Just her, with a slashed throat. It was night. I think it was in a bedroom." Dean shook his head, the flashes clear, but everything surrounding them fuzzy as hell. Whoever designed human memory was going to get a strongly worded letter from him when this was all over. "Don't know why I was back here, but I was."

"Okay, and you're sure she's next?" Sam meant was he sure she wasn't victim number three, four, five, or etc. Which no, he wasn't sure. All he knew was Karen was going to die, and they had better stop it. Sam just held up his hands when he voiced as much.

"There was something else. Marks on her wrists-"

Dean cut himself off as Mrs. Giles returned from the kitchen, three glasses of water balanced on a wooden serving tray. Sam got up to help, taking the load to place it on the coffee table in front of them. He took a sip from one mostly for show.

"Did your husband ever share any of his cases with you?" Andy was the first to break the silence, and Dean was torn between way-to-go-rookie! and what-the-hell-happened-to-just-along-for-the-ride? "He was a criminal defense lawyer, right?"

"Yes." Karen's smile was watery. "He was good at it, too. Liked helping people."

Yeah, Dean seriously doubted that. Something told him Tony Giles hadn't been a good person in life. He didn't know if that was future recall or just intuition (vengeful spirits didn't usually kill innocent people, after all), but this poor lady was either a fantastic actor a total dupe.

"Had any of his recent cases been bothering him?" Sam asked, and Karen blinked owlishly before shaking her head. "Was he acting weird, or strange?"

"Strange?"

"Yeah, strange," Dean jumped in. "Did he feel like someone was following him, did he keep seeing someone? Experience cold spots or visions? You know, Karen. Weird."

Sam cleared his throat, clearly thinking they were pushing too hard, but the widow just shook her head, confused. "Anything at all, no matter how insignificant it may seem, ma'am."

"He…had- had a nightmare the day before he died. He said he woke up in the middle of the night and there was a woman standing at the foot of the bed. He blinked and she was gone." She stared at the three men, avidly listening to her babble on about a meaningless dream, and suspicion started to overtake her grief. "It was just a nightmare."

"What did she look like?" Andy looked a little too eager, but honestly, Dean had been about to ask the same thing, so it wasn't like he could exactly fault the kid.

"What the hell difference does it make what she looked like?"

The kid's mouth clacked shut and he looked properly chastised, turning to the brothers with a 'what do I say now' look. Dean cleared his throat, preparing to cover for their intern, but realized he didn't exactly have a reason for why nightmare-lady's description should matter if she was just a dream and not a blood thirsty ghost likely coming for this woman next.

Luckily, Sam had their backs.

"Stress sometimes shows itself in unpredictable ways," the pre-law student picked up their slack with another sympathetic smile. "Our, um, our brains don't really ever shut off, Mrs. Giles. Sometimes they keep working while we sleep, and that can influence your dreams. This woman might be involved in the case that got your husband killed."

Hot damn, Dean could always count on his genius kid brother.

….Damn it, Sam probably deserved a point for that, huh? Andy 2, Sam 1, Dean 5. He was still losing, so it was fine.

Karen's mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before she had to stop and breathe through the fresh wave of tears at the reminder of her husband's demise. "R-Right. Of course. That-That makes perfect sense." She let out a sharp breath, sniffling back the emotion clogging her throat. "He said she was pale and had… uh, dark red eyes. I- I don't know how that can possibly help. Tony didn't say he knew her, or anything."

"No, that's very helpful." Sam offered another smile, and Karen smiled weakly back. He glanced over at Dean. "We, uh, we need to go check your husband's office, see if he left anything behind on the case we're working, but-"

"What case was it?" Karen interrupted, lowering her handful of tissue. "Maybe I can help."

"That's very kind of you, ma'am, but it's too dangerous." Dean leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped. It was the standard Fed look he'd learned early. It almost always did the job. "If whoever went after your husband suspects you know anything…"

Karen's watery eyes widened, and her breath stuttered in sudden fear. "Oh god."

Sam drew a Kleenex from the box sitting on the coffee table and offered it to her. "Did Tony ever share case information with you?"

"No," she insisted, wiping at her eyes with the fresh tissue, this time out of agitation and anxiety. "Nothing recently. Nothing like this, that could have gotten him-"

She broke off again to fend off the next round of reserved tears.

The three hunters shared a look, and Dean cleared his throat. "If it's alright with you, Karen, I'd like to stay. My partner and the intern can check your husband's office."

Andy pulled a 'come on, man' face. Almost a bitchface, Dean thought. Not enough to change the score. He'd have to work harder.

Karen wasn't really all there enough to notice. "I-It's a crime scene."

Dean resisted the urge to sigh. Could this woman just cooperate and let them save her life already?

"We'll speak to the police," Sam said with a weaker smile. "We've done this before, Mrs. Giles."

"Of course. I- I have a spare key I can get you." She got up numbly before either of them could tell her that wasn't necessary. Dean wondered if she'd even heard his request to stay. As she left the room, he looked back at his brother and Andy, barely managing not to roll his eyes. She was grieving and in shock, after all.

"We'll check out Giles' office for any clues." Sam glanced at his watch, but he could tell by the diminishing light outside that they'd be good to go by the time they drove over there. "You're good here?"

"Assuming she's cool with me stickin' around to make sure she stays not-dead?" Dean's growl earned him a reprimanding look from his brother, which he didn't pay any attention to. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Let me know what you find."

"Did the description she give spark anything?" Sam asked, voice lowering.

Dean shook his head. It sounded like every description of a ghost ever. Super helpful. He got yet another one of those disappointed-soccer-mom looks when he voiced the thought aloud.

Sam and Andy stood from the couch as Karen came back in, working a little silver key off her keyring. She held it out to them, and Sam accepted it with a smile and appreciation for all her help.

"If- if you don't mind…" Karen trailed off as she released the key, arm falling limply back to her side. She sniffed again, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand, barely keeping it together. "There's a photo on Tony's desk. It's of us, in Paris." She let out a little self-deprecating laugh, and even Dean felt for this woman. "I…it's silly, but, I can't stop thinking about it..."

"We'll grab it for you." Sam's smile was entirely understanding. He placed a comforting hand on the widow's shoulder, which seemed to help.

After a watery smile, Karen broke away to lead them to the front door. Dean lagged behind the group, wondering whether or not the widow would ask him to leave. In which case, he'd have to camp out somewhere nearby where he could keep an eye on her and the house.

Lucky for him, Karen saw Andy and Sam out, and then shut and locked the door behind them, Dean still standing by her side. She let out a shaky breath.

"So what now?"

Dean smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. "Now we wait, and make sure no one comes after you."

The words were supposed to be comforting. Given the way Karen's throat moved as she tried several times to swallow, they sort of missed the mark.

-o-o-o-

"So what are we looking for?" Andy shone his flashlight around the neatly organized office. Sam slipped the key Karen had given them into his pocket, still marveling at actually getting into a place the legal way (sort of, they were still breaking the law by entering what was considered an active crime-scene). He glanced around the office quickly, eyes pausing on the puddle of dried blood to their left.

"Anything weird or out of place," he answered, still staring at the reddish-brown stain where Anthony Giles must have died.

The sound of paper crinkling came from his right, where Andy was pulling something off the top of a printer. He held the page up. "Weird like this?"

Sam got his own flashlight on and pointed it at the paper. He squinted at the eleven letters repeated, over and over again, no spaces. It filled the whole page. Sam frowned. "Dana Shulps?"

Andy turned the piece of paper back to look at it again, then nodded towards the printer. There were a dozen more pages sitting in the printout trey, and a couple more on the floor where they had fallen. "It's all over the place."

"A name?" Sam hazarded, taking the paper from Andy as he retrained his flashlight around the office, looking for other things out of place.

"Maybe someone involved in one of Tony's cases?"

Sam shrugged. "Or our pale, red-eyed, mystery girl. Maybe both."

The printer sat atop a filing cabinet that Andy now started digging through. He pulled out the first drawer and groaned at the endless rows of folders. "We're gonna have to check all of this, aren't we?"

Sam huffed something both sympathetic and disparaging, because he was definitely part of that 'we'. He headed for the desk and computer there. "Welcome to the job. We can check digital files first, they'll be faster."

They got to work, quickly discovering that the printer wasn't the only thing spitting out Dana Shulps' name. It was everywhere; written on the glass surface of the desk, on the windows, and lines and lines of it on every open program on Tony's desktop. Despite more than an hour of searching, though, neither Sam nor Andy found any mention of a Dana Shulps.

Andy closed the last filing cabinet with an annoyed noise. "Nothing. There wasn't a Shulps of any kind in there!"

"And no Dana Shulps has ever lived or died in Baltimore in the last fifty years." Sam sighed, equally frustrated. But he switched gears, getting back to cracking the password for Anthony Giles personal files. Maybe there'd be something in his notes.

"Awesome." Andy collapsed in the chair in front of the desk, watching Sam type away. He drilled his fingertips along his knees and thighs absently until Sam finally looked up, pausing his typing, eyebrow raised. "Sorry. Kinda bored."

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat. He leaned back in the chair in order to dig into his front pocket. He pulled out the Impala's keys and tossed them to Andy. "Here. I need at least another thirty minutes to crack Giles' password, and probably a couple hours after that to go through whatever's there. Why don't you go join Dean?"

Andy caught the keys with wide eyes. "Drive the Impala? You want me to drive the Impala?" He held the keys up like they were a ticking time bomb about to go off. "You could just save time and tell Dean to murderize me."

The younger Winchester huffed something close to a laugh. Yeah, he knew that panic well enough. "It'll be fine. Just don't ding her."

Andy kept staring, keys in hand, hand still raised. "Yeah, no, you know what, I'm good. I'll just wait here."

He set the keys back on the desk. Sam rolled his eyes, leaning forward to push the jumble of metal back towards Andy. "Go. You're not going to do anything here but distract me."

"Ouch, dude. I can be useful!" When silence followed that statement, Sam staring blankly at him and Andy twiddling his thumbs with nothing else to do, the kid finally sighed and grabbed the keys. He climbed out of the chair, walking towards the door more like a man on death row than a kid just given his big brother's car. "Fantastic. I'll work on my obituary on the way over. Re-write the will while I'm at it."

"Dean'll really will murder you if he finds out you crashed his car because you were busy writing your will."

Andy said something particularly snippy in response, but it was lost in part to his grumble and also Sam's resumed clacking of keys. The kid opened the office door, but turned back to jab a finger at the Winchester. "You tell him this was your idea."

"I'll be sure to do that," Sam answered, ignoring Andy's continued mutter with a quirked lip. The kid shut the door behind him, and Sam dug out his cell to call Dean and tell him Andy was on his way. And, you know, maybe that he'd stolen the keys right out from under him.

Andy 2, Sam 2, tie game. He did too know how to play this game, thank you very much.

(Dean cheated; his score didn't count).

-o-o-o-

Dean excused himself to the Giles' backyard to take the call from Sam. He didn't want Karen overhearing anything he'd have to figure out how to explain later. Telling her he'd only be a moment (and definitely close enough to hear her call if she needed anything in response to her nervous look), he left the widow on the couch with a box of tissues. He closed the patio door behind him and answered his phone.

"Tell me you have something. I am running out of crap to talk about with this lady and I have already re-salted every surface I can get away with twice."

He could practically hear Sam's eye roll. He could absolutely picture the bitchface. Number three. Definitely number three.

"Does the name Dana Shulps mean anything to you?"

Dean frowned sharply at the words, memory sparking, but the flame didn't take. He'd certainly heard the name before. He even remembered seeing it printed, over and over and over again. It had been… it had been at Giles' office. And Karen's bedroom. He'd been at both crime scenes.

There was…there was more to it than that, though.

Damnit, it was like an itch he couldn't friggin' scratch. An itch that was going to get Karen Giles' killed if he couldn't figure it out.

"Yeah, definitely. Can't remember who she is, though. Come on!" he growled into the phone as he slammed the flat of his palm into one of the pillars that supported the upper balcony and patio roof. "There's something about this case, man. Something not right. I can't put my finger on it."

Usually his déjà vu would have kicked into memories by now. It didn't take all that much to trigger memory, really. Thinking straight on it never seemed to work, but once one or two pieces fell into place, it was often enough to bring the rest flooding back. He had a name, two victims, and a damn description of their monster. What was he missing?

"Well, I'm close to cracking this guy's password, but it'll be another half hour, at least."

Dean sighed, running his hand through his short hair in frustration. "Great." Sam huffed in response and the older Winchester did not appreciate the lack of support, here. "What am I supposed to do, just keep hanging out at this lady's house?"

"Yeah, Dean, until our ghost shows up and tries to kill her."

That was bitchface number six right there. Oh goody, they'd upgraded.

"We don't even know if that happens tonight, man." Dean leaned back to glance through the glass of the fancy French doors. Karen was still lying on the couch. The hunter turned back to the conversation and the rest of the yard.

On the other end of the line, Sam was lecturing. "This was your idea, Dean. It's not even a bad one. If your 'timey senses' say she's next then…well, she's probably next."

Dean couldn't help the pessimistic grumble. "I'm been wrong before, Sam."

The distant sound of typing in his ear stopped and he heard his brother sigh. "Even if you are, this is still our best play. We gotta try to keep her alive. Besides, there's nothing else we can do tonight. Andy's on his way back to you. He'll…keep you company."

Dean snorted. "Oh, yeah, great."

"Also your idea, Dean." And they were back to the lecturing. Balance restored to the universe. "Let him talk to Karen. Or better yet, he can tell her to get some sleep."

"Right, because the grieving widow of a murder victim is totally going to sleep well while she's got two unknown men in her house claiming to be there for her protection. Genius plan, there, Mr. Bates." Dean started pacing the paved portion of the Giles' backyard. He glanced through the window again. Karen was sitting upright on the couch now. Dean went back to his pacing.

There was a telling silence on the other end of the line, followed by the resuming of key clacking. "That's why I said have Andy do it."

What? Why? Like the kid was gonna be any more persuasive than- oh. Oh.

"…That's kinda creepy, Sam."

"Not like she'll know. Besides, it'll probably be the only good night of sleep she gets for a while." There was bitterness in Sam's voice that Dean could sort of understand and maybe, just maybe, it wormed its way into his big-brother heart.

"Yeah, alright. Maybe we'll try that." The older hunter ran a hand down his face. He could use a good night's sleep himself. Or, you know, the answer to the world's most annoying riddle currently staring him in the face. "Just…call when you get into Giles' computer. Meanwhile I get to go back to playing Suzy homemaker."

Sam's laugh was the well-rehearsed amusement of a snot-nosed little brother. "I'm sure you'll do great with your easy bake oven."

"Shaddup. I'm a great cook." And an absolutely terrible baker, but Sam didn't need to know that. Not like they'd grown up with an oven for the kid to ever see catch fire while going for cookies. Nope. They'd made it to full grown adulthood in a bunker before Sam got to see that sight.

Dean was about to lower the phone and end the call when a stray thought flitted through his brain and he suddenly frowned, suspicion in his very narrowed eyes. "Sam. How exactly is Andy getting back here?"

That silence was telling too.

-o-o-o-

Karen reached forward for another tissue, a quiet sob escaping her. She missed Tony. And there was just so much she had to deal with now. How could it be right, that on top of the grief and misery and loneliness of losing your husband, you also had to deal with the paperwork, the finances, the people. Endless lines of people offering their well-intentioned but useless sympathy. And in front and behind them: the police, the insurers, the lawyers, the office realtors, the cleaners, the funeral planner, and now Tony's mystery PIs. God, Karen just wanted to be left alone, but she'd never been lonelier.

She hiccupped past another stifled sob and buried her face in the tissue. Ridiculous, really, to be annoyed with the people who came by to help. The PIs, the last in a long line of those visitors, were even offering protection. Because they thought whoever had killed Tony might come for her.

Which was just plain ridiculous. She'd never been involved in any of Tony's work, so really, why would anyone come after her?

Karen blew her nose and lowered the Kleenex, only to catch a glimpse of something moving across her periphery. She sat straight up, clutching the flimsy, damp material enough to tear it in two. Nothing moved.

"H-Hello?"

Practically shaking, Karen reached up and removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose and muttering to herself to calm down. Dean was just outside. And no one was coming for her, hadn't she just covered that? With a sniff, she put her glasses back on and straightened, only to rear back in shock at a fragmented, nightmarish figure standing across the living room.

Karen shot off the couch, clutching at her sweater. "Dean!"

It had been a woman. A woman with red eyes, broken into multiple reflections on the glass pane doors that led to the dining room. She was gone, like she'd never been there at all, but, but she had. No, Karen thought, as she edged her way along the couch, using the edge pressing against her calves as a guide. No way she was taking her eyes off of those doors. Of course it was just…just a figment of her imagination, probably. It was just Tony's nightmare, getting to her. That was all.

A door creaked on squeaky hinges, and Karen stopped breathing. That wasn't Dean. The patio doors didn't squeak; only the garage door did. Tony had been meaning to oil it for ages, now.

Karen didn't wait to find out who the hell was coming in through the garage, because it sure wasn't Tony. She ran for it, screaming for the PI still outside as she bolted up the stairs. She'd make it to the bedroom, lock herself in and call the cops. That's what she'd do.

-o-o-o-

Dean had just hung up the phone, having made Sam listen as he listed half the ways he planned to murder Andy if his Baby had even so much as one scratch on her, when he heard Karen's scream. The hunter shoved his phone into his pocket and all but barreled through the doors back into the house, almost taking one clean off the wall. He stumbled into the living room, gun drawn, but Karen wasn't there.

"Karen!"

He heard her reply, muffled, from upstairs. She didn't sound like she was in immediate danger, but something had definitely sent her running. Dean spun, but didn't see anything. No ghost lady, no red eyes. Still, no reason to risk it.

The hunter took a second to swing by the fireplace, grabbing one of the iron rod pokers from its stand before he took off up the stairs.

"Karen?" He spun at the top landing, but only one door on the second floor was closed. The bedroom door. Dean had made his excuses earlier to sneak through the house, a container of salt on him, and he'd made sure to get the windows in that room extra good. Now he could hear Karen's panicked voice coming from behind it, speaking to the police from the snippet he caught.

The hallway lights flickered and Dean stopped, glancing up at them. Crap. He doubled timed it for the door, but it was locked. He used the butt of his gun to pound on it. The other side had gone terrifyingly quiet.

"Karen!"

When she screamed, he said screw it and kicked the damn thing open.

Their red-eyed mystery bitch was standing over Karen, who'd backed into the closet, cowering beneath the ghostly woman. The lights went out completely, the printer in the corner stopped spitting out pages mid print. Dean didn't need to look to know what was written on those papers.

"Hey, lady!" The woman turned, and even the wash of déjà vu at the sight of her, red-ringed eyes lined by bags, pale and yellow as any ghost, blood pouring from a slit throat, didn't stop Dean from swinging true. The iron rod cut her in half, and her split, wispy form disappeared with a flicker.

Karen collapsed to the floor, sobbing even as she tried to keep it together. Dean kept his guard up, knowing the ghost would be back, as he stepped closer to the distraught widow.

"Wh-What was that?"

"The thing that killed your husband."

Karen gasped for breath, her tears choking her ability to speak, but not think. "Wh-What?"

"Uh…yeah. We're…sort of like ghost hunting PIs." Dean cast her a quick, weak smile, but kept his eyes trained on the room. Throat Slasher was gonna be back. The salt at the windows hadn't stopped her, so either Dean had missed a way in (possible, it wasn't like he'd had proper time to ward the place while playing babysitter), or she'd already been inside. Or attached to Karen, somehow. Dean had seen weirder. "We gotta get out of here."

He hauled the shaken woman up by the elbow. Karen's feet held beneath her as he steadied her against the closet door. "You gonna make it?"

She locked eyes with him, and he was surprised by the ferocity in her gaze. This woman planned to live. He hadn't expected it from her, meek as she'd been downstairs. Guess grief and fear did two very different things for some people. "Get me the hell out of here."

"You got it, ma'am."

There was something still bothering Dean as he started for the hallway, hand leading her by the elbow. Something about the ghost. She hadn't been attacking Karen in those brief seconds before he'd cut her down. Just standing over her. And he'd definitely seen her before. He just couldn't remember the context….

….It had been night. They were in the woods. His life was on the line. Some sort of confrontation…

But not with the ghost.

Dean halted so abruptly that Karen bumped into his backside with a little yelp.

It hadn't been a vengeful spirit. Wasn't a vengeful spirit. It had been-

"Karen? Karen, are you here?"

-a Death Omen.

Whether from his memory or the foreign voice – the very human voice – now coming up the stairs towards them in the dark, Dean didn't actually know, but he remembered. He remembered getting arrested standing over Karen's dead body because he'd come back to ask if she'd known anything about a Dana Shulps. Only it wasn't a name; it was an anagram. An anagram that led to a building where a dirty cop killed his drug-dealing partner by slitting her throat and burying her in a wall.

Oh god.

"Pete?" Karen seemed surprised by the voice, but hope chased the confusion right off her face. She ripped herself free of Dean's grip and ran for the stairs before he could stop her. "Peter!"

"Karen, no, wait-"

Dean didn't make it in time to save Karen Giles, for the second time. Her surprised cry as a knife flashed in the dark was cut short by gargled, bubbly terror that made Dean's heart seize. Karen stumbled back, right into his arms as he ran to catch up. She was clutching her throat, blood pouring from between useless fingers, eyes wide as she stared at the cop – her friend, Tony's friend – coming up the last step.

Dean went down with the dying woman in his arms, her weight, however slight, still taking him to his knees. He scrambled to get his gun arm out from under her without dropping her to the floor, but Detective Peter Sheridan, bloodied knife in one hand, precinct-issued gun in the other, had the drop on him. He'd had the drop on him long before Karen Giles had gone running from the death omen that was there to warn her. Dean hadn't stood a chance. Neither of them had.

Karen was still alive in his arms, choking to death on her own blood, when the cop pistol-whipped him into unconsciousness.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/Ns: It just hit me how many people I violently murder in this story… I'm, um…guys, I think I may be kind of evil. And apparently just realizing it now.

Tons of author notes this time. You'd think I didn't write the chapter well enough or something ;P

Concussion Count: I think Dean having only received eleven concussions in eleven seasons is probably ridiculously conservative (especially as I gave him an extra one back in Season 1…). Technically speaking, the current internet count of Dean being knocked unconscious is fifty by season 11. Some of them must have resulted in concussions, obviously not all of them or that poor boy would in vegetable coma land. So I wanted to balance a conservative number with how-are-their-brains-not-mushed-potatoes-by-now? Plus, I figure if it's too conservative for you, we'll just say those are the eleven concussions Dean actually remembers XD

Dean's Memory: Keeping Dean's memory of events realistic without it just becoming "convenient" that he does or doesn't remember things has been kinda tricky. Mostly I use my own faulty memory of episodes before I re-watch them as a guide to what is and isn't plausible when it comes to memory. Hopefully it's working out alright and Dean not remembering some of these key moments isn't coming across as contrived. If it's starting to become repetitive though, please drop a line and let me know. I'll balance it out by starting to emphasize the things he does remember instead of what he doesn't.

Minutiae: I ended up re-watching this episode for a multitude of reasons (the major one being I really didn't remember much about it _') But it's the first I've re-watched since 2.03 (meaning I skipped several or only watched them in pieces or read transcripts). So while I was watching this one, probably about fifteen minutes in, I suddenly sat straight up and went "When the hell did Sam BREAK HIS ARM!?" and was like, shit shit shit, I haven't been writing Sam with a broken arm!

Soooooo, Sam broke his hand in a fight with a zombie in 2.04, when that dude brings his girlfriend back from the dead and they notice because they go to visit Mary Winchester's grave after John's death? It was apparently to cover Jared breaking his hand in real life. Uh… so…. I'm gonna say that they didn't go visit their mom's grave this time around, didn't get on a case about zombies, and so no broken hand! There we go, solved! .'

Now there's just an unchecked zombie murderer running around out there….

Yup, no, I'm totally comfortable with that XD

Review: "Like Button Pushed" please! (or any variation of)