There was an art to imitating government officials. All one had to do was know where to go, be confident, and act like you weren't doing anything you weren't supposed to.

However, wearing a suit also helped.

"Agent Patrick?" Sam asked, looking at his fake government ID. "Really?"

Both brothers were sitting in the Impala just outside the Santa Barbara police station.

"You get to be Swayze," Dean said. He checked himself in the visor mirror, adjusting his collar, in the way unique to a man who avoided any kind of stiff businesswear whenever possible.

"Patrick?!"

"Yeah, well, 'Bodhi' would've been too obvious."

"It's not even a last name!"

"Quit your complaining, alright? You get to be Swayze."

Dean, thinking he looked sufficiently enough like an FBI agent- as well as just looking good in general- stepped out of the car. Sam fell into step beside him with practiced ease. Through their work, they'd pretended to be everything from State Patrol officers to even Priests. Nothing made people open up to answer questions than authority figures. As long as nobody looked too closely.

Before they reached the front doors, Sam yawned.

"Not get enough sleep?" Dean asked.

"I just need some coffee," Sam said. Then, after a moment, he admitted, "I didn't sleep well."

"Nightmares?" Dean asked, as nonchalantly as he could.

Sam had a history with nightmares. Namely, for about two of the past three years, his dreams had turned into psychic visions of things that hadn't happened yet. That led them to find other psychics of similar if varying powers. They could even move items with their minds, some of them. Unfortunately, some of them were of the murderer variety- and there was the uncomfortable fact that some of their powers had, indeed, been granted by a demon.

It was unfortunate.

But, on the positive side of things, after they dealt with said demon responsible for granting said psychic powers, Sam didn't have the visions or abilities anymore. He never even got to use them with the lottery, Dean secretly lamented.

"Just nightmares," Sam said. "Normal nightmares. Okay?"

"Okay."

After talking with reception, a very eager officer led them to the detectives assigned to the 'Creepy Occult Case'.

One of them fit the picture of an uptight police detective perfectly, the kind whose social life involved pouring over cold cases.

The detective narrowed his eyes at the officer. "I'm sorry, McNab, I thought we weren't to be disturbed?"

"Sorry, ah-" the officer winced. "These two say they're from the FBI to help with the creepy occult guy you guys found?"

"Oh," the man said. He instantly straightened. He smiled, suddenly welcoming- or as welcoming as someone like him could be. "I'm Detective Lassiter." He paused, thoughtful. "You two look familiar. Have we worked a case before?"

This was because Lassiter's hobbies included reviewing wanted posters from around the country. Sam, and Dean, had been listed on those posters within the past two years. They had been charged with both crimes they did and didn't commit; although the things they were responsible for, it was to save innocent people. But the law didn't know that. They just knew the Winchester brothers had killed people. And took hostages at a bank in Wisconsin.

Fortunately, since then, they had also managed to fake their deaths.

Sam and Dean kept smiling. Dean chuckled. "I don't think so," he said smoothly. "We've been in and out of the state a few times. Maybe you've seen us around?"

"Huh," Lassiter grunted. His eagerness had all but vanished. The more he watched the men in front of him, the more his smile fell.

"I'm Agent Utah, FBI," Dean said. He flashed his counterfeit badge with a practiced hand, and Sam did the same.

Sam hesitated.

Dean cleared his throat.

"I'm… Agent Patrick," Sam said.

By then, the man was practically sneering.

"Uh- We're investigating a recent murder, the victim was marked by what seem like occult tattoos?" Sam asked calmly, with no hint of the worry he most likely felt. "We'll need to take a look at the body, if that's alright? And if we could see any files you have on the case, we'd appreciate it for our own investigation."

Lassiter narrowed his eyes.

"You guys are from the FBI?" a woman asked. A blonde detective walked up, files held in her hands. "You're here for the recent John Doe case, right?" She was young, and pretty, and she instantly had Dean's attention. And Sam's.

It took them both a little too long to answer. "Yeah. That's right," Sam said with a polite smile.

"I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara," she smiled.

"This is Agent Patrick and Agent Utah," Detective Lassiter said, as if the names themselves were foul.

"We're experts on occult-related crimes, that kinda thing," Dean smiled at O'Hara. It was less of a professional smile, and more of a charming one. Somehow, she didn't seem to notice.

Lassiter scoffed. "You're trying to steal our case, huh? Well-"

"We're happy for the help," O'Hara smiled tactfully, her gaze lingering on Sam. "Have we met?"

"I used to live in California a little while ago," he admitted. "Stanford area."

"Huh," she muttered idly. "That's probably not it. I only moved here couple of years ago from Florida," she smiled.

"Oh. Right," Sam smiled awkwardly.

After a moment, she tore her gaze away. "Officer McNab, would you show them to the morgue?"

"Sure thing! This way!" McNab said far, far too cheerfully, smiling in earnest. He led the two agents away.

Juliet frowned at her partner. She knew how he revered straight-laced, government agents, as if they were the star players on his favorite sports team. Juliet didn't think he had a favorite sports team, or watched any sports in general. Top performers at government agencies probably were his celebrity idols. Along with Clint Eastwood, maybe, since she'd once spied a picture of the man in Carlton's wallet. Did something change? It was exhausting trying to keep up with him, sometimes. "What's wrong? I thought you liked government types?"

He scoffed. "I have a great deal of respect for government agents. Proper, professional agents, who take their jobs seriously. Not those two clowns. They look like they just got off work at the surf shop," he sneered at the space the agents recently stood. One of them was wearing a ring, Lassiter thought. A ring that wasn't a wedding band. And some kind of leather bracelet? The other one was overdue for a haircut. They must've been FBI outcasts. Probably joined up because of the X-Files thinking they could go probe aliens, he thought. But there were more pressing matters at hand. His eyes flashed as he looked around the station, seeking anything out of place. Any hint of the rat. "I don't have time to deal with them right now."

Before Juliet could respond, he stormed off to interrogate a random woman placing files on a cart.

Juliet spent the next hour copying the files for the 'Creepy John Doe Cult Case', as she called it in her head. Normally, their station would be a little apprehensive in letting another agency get involved in what was clearly their case, but she was eager to be rid of that one. They could have it. She wouldn't complain. Especially if it took some of the burden off Carlton. They needed an easy win if he was going to get his sanity back.

Her computer was acting up again. It'd been doing that on and off for a little while now- how many days? She wasn't sure. It made a simple process far more frustrating than it needed to be. Her patience was already low because of Carlton's extreme paranoia lately. With a sigh, she gathered everything in a folder and wrote 'John Doe Suspected Occult Case' and the date on the cover.

She paused. They did seem fairly nice, though. Kind of charming, if she were to be honest. Then, realizing she was thinking like a high school girl, she shook her head and focused on other things.

"Hey, Jules!" Shawn and Gus strode over to her. They walked up to greet Juliet, but something gave them pause.

"Uh, is it me? Or is Lassie acting even worse than usual?" Gus asked. "I didn't even know that was possible."

Carlton was questioning an old lady. He held up a cookie, his voice bitter and sarcastic. "What were you doing with this?"

"Why, I baked it. To share at the station," she said, her voice quivering slightly.

"Right," he said, practically sneering. "And I suppose you wanted me to eat this, didn't you?"

She frowned. "Why, yes-"

"Ah-Ha!" he shouted. "So you could drug me?! Thought you could pull a fast one over me, did you? Well, I'm not going to-"

"Carlton!" Juliet called. She crossed over to them, snatched the cookie out of his hand, and put on a practiced smile for the old woman. "You'll have to excuse him. It's been a long week." Ignoring his glare, she gently tugged his arm away.

"O'Hara, I'm onto something-"

"Carlton, that's Officer Ronald's grandma!"

He frowned. "Oh."

"How about," she started, using the patient sort of tone perfected with her nephews, "...you go help with the inventory of the evidence room?"

"The evidence room…" It drew his attention like lightning to dancing hippies in a field. His eyes narrowed. Then, he was off on his new mission.

Juliet watched him go to the evidence room with all the intense precision of a robot. It was kind of impressive if you weren't the target of it. With a sigh, she returned back toward her desk, cookie still in hand.

"Yikes," Shawn muttered.

She shrugged. "I don't know what's happening. He was bad before, but… ever since yesterday it's like he's kicked into overdrive." They were watching her hand instead of her face. Every movement of her hand drew their gaze. She looked at the cookie.

"Yes, you can have it," she handed it over.

As if communicating via thought, they took it and broke it in half with perfect synchronization. Both started eating as if it was the first thing they'd eaten all day. She'd grown long desensitized to it.

"Snickerdoodle!" Shawn smirked between bites.

"I wonder what caused it?" Gus asked, covering his mouth politely as he chewed.

"Maybe someone stole his lucky charms?" Shawn asked, more messily.

Juliet sighed. "Who knows? Anyway, the chief asked me to deal with him."

"The Chief's putting a lot of pressure on you, huh?" Gus asked.

"Yes! I don't understand why his acting out always has to be on me- Yes, I'm his partner, but I shouldn't be responsible for making him behave himself. Is that so much to ask?" She looked at Shawn and Gus as if they knew the answer.

"Not at all," Shawn said. "It's exhausting being the normal one in charge of keeping your partner in line."

Gus nodded. "Amen to that."

Shawn chuckled.

Gus turned to stare at him, confused. "Wait. You're not talking about me, are you?"

Shawn gave another chuckle, this time small and belittling. "Well, I wasn't going to say it outright…"

"Oh, my gosh," Gus said, gaping. "I'm not hearing this."

"I know it's hard to hear, Gus-"

"Nope. I will not hear this. You're the one who tried to order a two-hundred-dollar magic set last week!"

Juliet seemed caught between being surprised, feeling sorry for Shawn, or being impressed. "Two hundred dollars? Really?"

"It's a very special one, with a top hat and a rabbit. It's a classic magic trick- I mean, really, anything below a hundred and fifty dollars is a total scam," Shawn said.

Gus' expression hadn't changed in the least, and he still regarded Shawn as one would a child in time out.

Juliet stared wistfully towards the evidence room. "I just wish I knew how to get him to calm down. Not… Not actually calm down, you know, but… calm for Carlton, I mean."

"Bring his level of crazy from an 'eleven' to an 'eight'," Shawn said.

"Maybe a nine," Gus said. "Sounds like he could use a spa day."

"A spa day?" Juliet asked.

Gus nodded. "Or something to relax. I know a spa day always does wonders for me. Especially when I get stressed out from work."

"Pharmaceuticals sure can be stressful," Shawn said.

Gus shot him a look, before turning back to Juliet. "Maybe there's something he likes to do?"

Shawn chuckled. "Lassie? Have hobbies? Impossible."

"He does Civil War reenactments, remember?"

"That's a good point," Juliet said thoughtfully. "Maybe he needs to relax more outside of work? He can be amazing when he's on a roll. It could help him get out of this slump."

Shawn couldn't help but notice two men in black suits coming up from the morgue. They both screamed 'government agents', except not entirely. One was tall-ish, but the other was somewhat freakishly tall. Both of them were too handsome for Shawn's taste- because Jules was there next to him, and he and Gus didn't need any more competition when to came to the ladies. They had enough trouble as it was.

"Is there an alien case we don't know about?" Gus asked.

The men approached Juliet. "Shawn," she smiled patiently, "This is Agent Utah and Agent Patrick of the FBI. They're here to help with the recent John Doe case-"

"Question," Shawn said.

"Do either of you surf?" Gus asked.

Both agents managed a low chuckle. The tall one- Patrick- shot his partner a look. "No, nothing like that."

Shawn and Gus shared a disappointed glance.

"This is Shawn Spencer, our resident psychic, and his assistant Burton Guster," Juliet said.

Both agents blinked with raised brows. "Uh, a psychic?" Utah asked, smirking.

Dean and Sam knew psychics existed, of course. The 'normal' kind could read thoughts and sense things beyond the physical realm. But those people were rare. And the rest were cheap fakes, as real as the 'cheese' used in gas station nachos. Dean shot Sam a look that said, 'Yeah, sure thing, I'll believe it when I see it.'

But Shawn didn't know any of that.

"Indeed I am. Shawn Spencer, for all your psychic needs. And Gus here makes wild blueberry pancakes, if anyone has the craving."

"You know that's right."

Agent Utah scoffed, smirking. "So, what, does that mean you can read our minds?"

The skepticism was something Shawn knew all too well. Shawn watched as Utah reached up to absently scratch his nose- giving a clear view of his hand. There were calluses in certain places, on certain fingers; like the ones next to rings from driving a steering wheel. One hand was slightly more tan than the other- the top of the left hand. Agent Patrick showed more tanning on his right hand. Passenger's side. Calluses from manual labor as well. Even some dirt under Utah's fingernails.

Then, there were slight bags under both agent's eyes. Agent Patrick in particular was blinking excessively, as if trying to stay awake. Creases could be seen across their pants and sleeves- not from normal wear, but from folding and unpacking.

Their shoes were more functional than uptight government, but there were trace remains of something at the bottom- dirt, and tiny pale crystals of some kind clinging to the soles.

And something about Agent Patrick seemed like he would be a computer geek, although Shawn had no idea why. He just had that look about him.

Shawn raised a hand to his temple, making his voice more mysterious. "The spirits come and go. Sadly, I cannot choose what they reveal to me. I'm… sensing skeptics, here."

"Really," Utah drawled.

Gus knew his cue. "Wait- I think he's getting something!"

"I'm sensing…" Shawn drifted off for dramatic effect. His arm shot in front of him, forming a fist. He moved it around in a circle. "Tokyo. Quick. Fast. Furiously fast. Sporks! No… Forks!"

"As in… Washington?" Agent Patrick asked.

Shawn shook his head.

"He's having one of his visions," Gus explained. "Something about… driving!"

"Moving right along! Footloose and fancy-free… Fozzy Bear and Kermit! Gahh!" Shawn shut his eyes, gritting his teeth.

"The Muppet movie! The first one, with the road trip!" Gus said.

"Yes, Yes!" Shawn's voice normalized, letting out a deep breath. "I'm seeing… lots of driving, going from place to place. A lot of packing, and unpacking. Then packing again. And… You." He looked at Agent Utah. "I'm sensing you're at home in the driver's seat."

Patrick glanced sharply at his partner, a faint look of alarm that was covered up quickly with cocky disbelief. Then, recovering, he scoffed. "Yeah, that's a fifty-fifty guess you made there. Gonna need to do better than that."

"Shawn and Gus have helped us solve a number of cases," Juliet added. "They're… indispensable, really."

"Thank you, Jules," Shawn smiled. Gus smiled as well.

"We understand," Agent Patrick said politely, clearly trying to offset his partner's behavior. "We'll keep that in mind."

"Here are the files," Juliet passed over a folder to Agent Utah. He nodded and smiled in appreciation.

"Anything else we should know about?" Utah asked.

"Besides the files? We don't know much, unfortunately. Shawn has a possible name but we weren't able to locate them in the system. Mostly, it's the tattoos we have to go off of."

"The body smelled of sulfur… And not from volcanoes, or visiting the land of pineapple," Shawn said mysteriously. "Probably because you can't get Dole Whip outside of Disneyland."

Gus rose a brow. "Actually, you can buy the pineapple mixture anywhere. All you need is a soft-serve machine. They sell cones of it by the pier."

"Sulfur?" Utah asked, attentive. "Anything else?"

"The autopsy and toxicology report think it might've been some kind of overdose, based on some preliminary findings. But that's just a theory. There's nothing concrete yet," Juliet said.

"Hold on," Shawn said, interrupting with a sober expression, his brows knit in concentration. He held up a hand in silence, deep in thought. He paused thoughtfully before he spoke. "That can't be right. I can't believe this." He turned to Gus. "You can get Not-Dole-Whip at the pier? You mean to tell me we could've been enjoying pineapply, dairy-free magic goodness this entire time?!"

Gus shrugged. "Technically, It's Dole-branded Pineapple Soft Serve."

Shawn gave a low hiss. "It's like I don't even know you anymore," he said, betrayed. But the pain was soon enough replaced with awed inspiration, like a child might have in a classroom when the teacher's back is turned. "We could get a machine for the office…"

"I think we'll be okay on our own," Agent Utah said. He passed a card to Juliet. "Let us know if you find anything else. No matter how strange."

"We'll keep in touch. Thanks," Agent Patrick said.

Shawn didn't like the way Juliet's gaze lingered slightly on Agent Patrick.

"Whoah!" Shawn shouted, making everyone jump. "I'm sensing, one more thing…" he squinted at Patrick. "You seek… energy. Caffeination. Fuel."

Patrick blinked, almost impressed. "Uh… Yeah, yeah, that's right."

Without looking away, Shawn's arm- seemingly of its own accord- moved and pointed to the coffee station just behind them, hidden behind a desk.

The agents exchanged looks. One of them was more believing than the other. "Thanks." Agent Patrick nodded. He trudged over to the coffee station and poured himself a cup. Agent Utah hovered behind.

Shawn shook his head. "Caffeine addicts, these government types, I tell you. But, seriously, Jules, there's no need- Gus and I can take it from here."

"We still need your help on this, guys. No one's replacing you," Juliet said.

Agent Patrick drank his coffee.

Shawn and Gus laughed, haughtily, as if she told the funniest joke in the world. It sounded eerily close to someone who felt threatened but strove desperately to cover it up. "Of course not!" Gus laughed.

Shawn laughed, then chuckled, also while laughing. "Of course you need us. A case like this requires a psychic. And-" He laughed again. "It's not like one of these guys is psychic or anything."

Patrick coughed, choking. Utah rushed over to him. "Hey- Hey!"

Patrick sputtered while Utah hit him on the back a few times. The moments dragged on. It was like a train wreck they couldn't look away from.

"I'm-" Patrick coughed again. He sputtered, again. "I'm-" More coughing. He flashed a thumbs-up.

Juliet winced. So did Shawn and Gus.

Utah hovered. "Hey, there any water around here-"

Patrick waved him away. He struggled to clear his throat, only to let out another cough. He finally nodded. "Fine," he croaked.

Utah remembered they had an audience. He faced them armed with an awkward smile. "…He's got a drinking problem, heh."

Shawn and Gus gave him a sober look. "Surely, you can't be serious?" Shawn asked.

Dean couldn't help but stare. He didn't know what the term 'finding his people' meant, but there was the faintest inkling of it at that very moment. Somewhat. "I am serious," he said automatically, without conscious thought.

"And don't call him Shirley," Gus finished, looking at Shawn knowingly.

Shawn and Gus smiled approvingly. Then, their kindred stares wore quickly away, as they remembered they were competing in some way. Recognition turned to suspicion, like elderly women suspecting a cheater at bingo. Their eyes narrowed.

Dean and Sam made their way out of the station. Shawn and Gus watched them go.

"That was weird," Dean said the moment they got back into the Impala.

"Which part? The body? Or those psychic guys?" Sam asked.

"Both."

Sam started to look through the files copied by the detectives. There were pictures of tattoos on the victim's body as well as other crime scene information. One tattoo in particular stood out the moment they'd seen it on the body itself- the star-like pentagram in a flaming circle. It was the same tattoo Sam and Dean had on their chests. "You think he was a hunter?" Sam asked.

"Maybe. He had an anti-possession tattoo. Guys don't exactly get that for fun. What about the others?"

"I'll have to do some digging. Some looked like Latin, others seemed to be of different origins. Ancient Egyptian, for one."

Dean watched warily as a couple of officers walked casually past. He wanted as little time as possible near the station. When officials recognized them, or even thought they looked familiar, bad things usually followed. And getting arrested would have been annoying. He started the car and drove them down the street, in the general direction he remembered their motel to be.

"What'd you think about that guy?" Sam asked. "That… Psychic?"

"You mean that fake psychic? That stuff was easy. Anyone could've guessed that."

"Maybe," Sam said, in a tone that meant all too clearly that he already had an opinion, and it was the opposite of Dean's. "But… He was pretty spot on though, you have to admit."

"Yeah, well, if he was really psychic he would've been able to know we weren't FBI."

"Unless he didn't want to expose us in the middle of a police station."

Dean thought about the supposed psychic and his assistant. One looked like he worked at a snow cone stand. The other looked like he belonged in an office. Or… working in the White House. Something boring and official. They also seemed an awful lot like the kind of guys who screamed like little girls when trouble came around.

Sam considered. "He did that weird, squinting thing, though… What was that about?"

"I dunno, guy forgot his glasses?" Dean paused. He smirked. "They knew their movies, though."

Sam's brows knit in confusion. "What? what are you talking about?"

"You know," Dean said, as if it were obvious, waiting for Sam to pick up on it.

Sam just blinked in confusion.

"'Surely you can't be serious? Don't call me Shirley'?"

Sam stared, shrugging.

Dean scoffed. "'Airplane!', man! Jeez."

After grabbing a bite to eat- Dean, eternally grateful to be able to eat food normally again- refused any tacos, Mexican, or even Tex-Mex. This was difficult, as they were in Santa Barbara. They settled on a burger joint instead.

Refueled, dressed back in their casual clothes of plaid button-up shirts and jeans, they settled back in the hotel room. Dean sat up on the bed with his back against the headboard, idly flipping channels on the TV. Sam researched on his laptop.

Sam had spent about two hours researching each of the tattoos, their origins, and uses in lore. The anti-possession tattoo was obvious at first glance. But the more he looked into all the details, the less things made sense.

"This doesn't add up," Sam said, shaking his head.

Dean leaned upright to listen and muted the TV. "What've we got?"

"Okay, so we've got the anti-possession tattoo, right?" Sam said, passing over the photo, "but it's… off. If you look at some of the lines around the edges, they're not quite right. Like someone mostly knew what it was supposed to look like but got careless on some details."

Dean frowned. "Would that even work?"

"To keep demons away? Maybe not. Anti-hex markings, demon traps, all of that doesn't need to be exactly precise, but they still need to be generally right."

"So this guy might've been wide open to gettin' possessed?"

"Maybe. It would explain the sulfur smell. Or at least, getting attacked by one."

"Demon's calling card."

"But it doesn't end there. I looked up his other tattoos and there doesn't seem to be any pattern- one of them is some kind of spirit trap, kinda like a demon trap, I think," He turned his laptop screen to show a complex, circular geometric symbol with Latin words within it. Their photo from the body matched it almost exactly- if a bit more stylized. "But it's a kind of seal normally used on the ground, or on a box meant to trap certain types of spirits. Using it as a tattoo doesn't make sense."

Sam continued. "Then, there's another one- it looks like ancient Phoenician? It has ties to warding away bad luck, but it's also used in a lot of new age healing circles."

"Okay… So what do those things have to do with each other?"

Sam shrugged. "You've got me. They seem pretty random. If he was a hunter looking to protect himself, there's a lot of better ways to do it. Hoodoo, anti-hex charms… There were a couple of other tattoos found during the autopsy. One was the eye of Ra from ancient Egyptian mythology. The other was supposed to be a crucifix. I think."

Dean looked at the photo. "Looks more like a plus sign."

"It… was in an awkward place," Sam winced.

Dean tossed the offending photo back on the table. "Maybe it was a 'T'?"

"...Like the letter? Why would he have the letter 'T' as a tattoo?"

"Beats me. If this guy's a hunter he was pretty bad at it."

"Well… He did die, Dean."

"Probably would've done better off with a shotgun."

"There wasn't any gun residue on him."

"Yeah, my point exactly."

Sam sighed. "He could've been a new hunter who didn't know what he was doing yet." They'd run into enough of those types- people got in over their heads very quickly. It was dangerous work. It wasn't like filming empty houses for TV and jumping when a door creaked open. If only it were that easy.

"And whatever it was probably killed him," Dean said.

"Yeah. Probably." Whatever it was, it was still out there, putting people in danger. And they needed to stop it. "Something that tried to dispose of the body, anyway. That rules out a few things."

"Okay. So whatever it was tried to cover up the murder. Probably not a vengeful spirit, then."

"Probably. Rules out werewolves, too." They both paused in thought, minds whirring. There were countless things that could've been responsible. They could sit there all day naming possibilities- but Sam knew it was pointless until they had more evidence. The monsters they hunted did a great job of going undetected or covering their tracks.

"Hey, what'd you think of that detective chick?"

Dean's question caught Sam completely off-guard, and he blinked, trying to make sure he heard his brother right. "What?"

"You know. That blonde detective." Dean found a bag of peanuts on the bedside table and started tossing them in his mouth.

Sam knew Dean was always thinking about women to some degree at any given time, no matter how crazy or dangerous the situation. But it always baffled Sam. He didn't look up from his laptop. "We're kind of in the middle of something here, Dean."

"Yeah, fine. Forget it." Dean tossed a piece high in the air, trying to catch it with his mouth.

Sam shook his head and went back to the case files, checking for any more clues. If this 'murder victim' really was a hunter, the question was- Who or what was he hunting?

The next morning, during a late breakfast (but not one that involved tacos in any way, shape or form) Sam's phone rang. After a moment: "Hi, Detective O'Hara," he answered. Dean listened.

Sam glanced at his brother, still talking on the phone. "Thanks, we're on our way."

Dean watched him expectantly.

"Looks like our 'John Doe' has a wife. She's at the station now."

Maybe they could finally get some answers.