There were advantages to having an overbearing, retired cop as a father. Not many, Shawn thought. But one of them was the way his mere presence could instantly shift the atmosphere of a room. Usually a little off-center. Or, occasionally, to the left.

In this case, virtually all fears of demons and the unknown were swiftly chased away from Shawn's frazzled mind, much like his father would actually chase away trespassing children. A crisis of faith was paltry in comparison to his father learning the details of their latest case and the company they kept. That, and dinner was at stake. Steaks, specifically. And dinner far outweighed any supernatural horrors wreaking havoc in Santa Barbara.

Sam and Dean stared at Shawn. "You mean this isn't your house?" Sam whispered.

Shawn scoffed and laughed. Gus did the same.

"This? You think this is mine? That VCR's older than I am. And that fish sculpture over there," he paused, pointing to a large, colorful bass artfully curving in the air. "It has eyes that scare me."

Everyone looked. Dean seemed unsettled.

"Shawn, did you invite someone else without telling me? Again?" the firm voice called from the kitchen.

The earlier uncertainly vanished. Shawn couldn't remember the last time he'd been so relieved at his Dad showing up unexpectedly. In fact, he wasn't sure it had ever happened. "We can explain!" he called.

They quickly looked at the brothers, who were not unlike two wild animals suddenly caught in the middle of a women's clothing store. A moose and a squirrel, perhaps.

"Just play along," Gus said quietly.

"You better have some answers, Shawn," Henry said as he walked into the living room. He was a balding man with a ring of blondish-silver left around his head, his skin well-tanned like leather. He had a lean, fit build despite being over fifty years old. His gaze was sharp just like a young cop, and despite just a quick glance at his surroundings, he seemed to instantly know quite a few things.

Fatherly energy flooded the room. Dean sat up straight. Sam scoffed reflexively, as did Shawn. Gus was unaffected.

"Shawn, who are these guys?" Henry asked. "Is this some case you're working?"

Shawn and Gus guffawed. "No, these are Dean and Sam Wippersham. Brothers in figurative crime, but also brothers. We hired them to take care of the rat problem at the office," Shawn smiled.

The brothers frowned at the name. Dean's twisted into some unholy mixture of offense and bewilderment. But he managed to recover. Both of them offered forced smiles. "Hi," Dean gritted out.

"I'm Henry. Shawn's father, in case you couldn't tell," Henry said.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said with a polite veneer. He nodded stiffly, which looked suspiciously like a grimace.

Henry looked over the brothers again. "You don't look like exterminators."

"They dabble," Gus said. "They're general handymen. They help out with a wide range of household services."

"They're the Swiss army knives of men," Shawn said.

"Except they're not Swiss," Gus said.

"Or in the army."

"But they probably carry knives."

"Not Swiss ones, though."

"Is that so?" Henry asked. He scrutinized them both, then stopped at Sam. "You look more like a computer guy to me."

Sam, inwardly, lost a little more faith in the world. Why did everyone keep saying that? Was there a Santa Barbara stereotype he didn't know about? It bothered him more than the case.

He was actually pretty good with computers. But that wasn't the point.

Sam forced a tense, flat smile. "Thanks."

Shawn shared a quick look with Gus. "They were just leaving," Gus said easily.

"Yes! They have many other handyman-ish jobs to get to," Shawn said.

The brothers all too readily stood up, nodding politely, before going straight for the kitchen- a little faster than necessary. Shawn and Gus hurriedly followed, all four of them crowding in the kitchen around the back door. Grocery bags were stacked on the counters next to a sack of potatoes and a six-pack of beer.

"Please tell me you didn't touch the rabbit's foot," Dean said in a rough whisper, all but glaring at the two.

Shawn and Gus exchanged a surprised glance. Gus recoiled. "Taxidermy is a disgusting practice!" he whispered.

"And we don't touch feet, as a general rule. Unless they're connected to a beautiful woman," Shawn said. Gus nodded.

Dean raised a brow but appeared to agree.

Sam let out a breath of relief. "Okay. That's good."

"Okay. Here's our number-" Dean fished out a small card with a handwritten phone number and passed it to Shawn, "And call us. We'll meet up as soon as you can, alright? A rabbit foot's no joke. If there's one out there, we need to know everything you know, got it?"

Shawn and Gus nodded.

"And, second- Wippersham? Really?!" Dean scoffed. "What the hell kind of name is Wippersham?"

Sam stared in bewilderment. "Weren't you the ones criticizing our cover names earlier?"

"It's whimsical, and possibly Slavic," Shawn said. "Now, get out of here before-"

Henry walked into the kitchen. He started to unload the groceries, seemingly unconcerned with the four men crowded around the back door. "You're not trying to rope me into inviting your new friends over for dinner, are you?" he asked.

"No, Dad," Shawn said loudly, impatiently. "They were just leaving."

"He's right. Thank you for the offer, though," Sam said.

"Exactly!" Gus said, eyeing the steaks. Shawn knew he was measuring portion sizes. "They have a busy schedule. Those rats won't exterminate themselves."

"Right!" Shawn smirked.

Sam opened the back door, but Dean hung back.

Dean watched as Henry tossed a tray of raw meat on the table.

He stared. "Is that steak?"

Shawn got a terrible feeling in his gut, which was very different from the dread he felt earlier.

"Skirt steak," Henry said.

Shawn and Gus silently motioned for them to leave. The look in Dean's eyes was one they knew all too well- the look of a man bewitched by a good meal. Panic flared in Shawn's chest. He counted the number of steaks, and then the number of people in the room. One per person, which was much less than two. "They're just leaving!" he chuckled, tense.

Sam smiled. "We should be go-"

"But we've got some time!" Dean grinned. "Isn't that right, Sammy?" he roughly patted Sam's shoulder.

Sam clenched his jaw as he shot Dean a questioning- if slightly venomous- look.

Dean didn't seem to care.

Henry paused in his unpacking. Then he let out a resigned sigh. "Figures. Glad I got extra."

Shawn's heart sank. He and Gus looked helplessly at the steaks.

Dean couldn't stop grinning. Shawn and Gus opened their mouths to protest, but Dean had already walked further into the kitchen with Sam very reluctantly following.

It had all happened so fast, Shawn lamented.


Sam pulled Dean aside and out of the kitchen. "What the hell, Dean?" he shook his head. "We're joining their family dinner now? We can't get involved like this."

"Skirt steak, Sammy." Dean said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the word. "Skirt steak. The real stuff. No heatlamps in sight. A home-cooked meal. You really gotta ask why we're sticking around?"

Sam knew all too well the look of a controlling, authoritative father who missed nothing. There was a gleam in the man's eye, just like what Sam remembered in their late father's piercing gaze.

To the Winchesters, family drama usually meant some kind of dangerous threat that may or may not be demonic in nature, or at least would involve chants or rituals in some way. The arguing would just complement it. Sacrificing someone's life for the other might also be involved.

Having dinner, freshly cooked, inside a non-haunted home, over beers, was certainly not part of it. That was something normal people did. Or so they assumed.

Getting mixed up in someone's family could make a simple hunt get very complicated, very fast. And the case was already more convoluted without adding an elder Spencer into the mix.

Sam scoffed. "You can't tell me this is really just over food." Even for his brother, it was a reach, putting up with the antics of the two possibly-fake psychic detectives just for a meal.

"Come on! We'll get the information out of 'em after. We know they're not going anywhere until then. And besides, a man's gotta eat."

Sam clenched his jaw, wanting to tear down his brother's paper-thin argument, but there was just enough sense sprinkled throughout that the words died in his throat. There was also the uncomfortable thought that the brothers would need to rely on the two 'detectives' to learn the next clue. Especially if it involved a rabbit's foot. Sam fought the shudder that threatened at the mere thought. He'd dealt enough with those for one lifetime.

"Okay… Fine," Sam said. "Whatever." It still didn't make sense, not really. But he knew his brother would be stupidly stubborn about it if he asked again. There had to be more to it than just skirt steak.

"Besides, I know your panties're in a twist cause everyone keeps pegging you for the Geek Squad," Dean smirked.

Sam clenched his jaw before shaking his head, stalking away to sit on the couch.

Dean shrugged and went back to the kitchen.


Juliet was fighting a battle with her paperwork, in that she was trying to focus on doing it. It was a losing battle because, when told that a traitor was working nearby, it unfortunately made you scrutinize every single person you came across. Every officer, clerk, or visitor made her pause. Her eyes followed them around the room, discreetly, while pretending to look at something on her screen. Each movement to a filing cabinet drew her gaze. She'd even started to note how often some of her coworkers went to the restroom or disappeared from view. She hoped desperately that Officer Dobson had a digestive problem, in that it meant he wasn't selling files out of the parking lot.

It had made the minutes crawl by. She shut her eyes and massaged her temples, leaning forward on her desk.

Over the past several hours, in the wake of Carleton's theory, Juliet had waifed between belief, then skepticism- mostly because he speculated the cookies were laced with truth serum- and then back to belief again. Her partner had his quirks, but she knew better than to doubt him. And as crazy as it sounded, as Juliet reviewed their cases over the past several weeks, a pattern started to emerge.

They weren't perfect detectives by any means. Occasionally, they missed something and arrested the wrong person by mistake. And sometimes Carlton's unique perspective meant they missed a clue. And, every once in a while, Shawn and Gus would swoop in at the end, pointing out all that was overlooked, and that the real culprit was most certainly not the person in the jail cell.

But that was only some of the time. And the rest of the time she and Carlton were fantastic at their jobs.

It just didn't make for the most riveting viewing experience, unfortunately.

That fact hovered in the back of Juliet's mind for the rest of the day, ebbing away doubts whenever they threatened. She sat at her desk, fueled by grim determination. A string of their recent unsolved cases was spread before her, covered by other papers for secrecy; the result of intense digging through everything they'd touched over the past three months. They weren't sloppy. They weren't incompetent. They just had an information leak. Or a mole. Or a rat. The exact label was, admittedly, unclear.

Stings didn't always work, but they usually worked at least some of the time. Instead, each of their attempts had been a complete failure, with no one showing up. Arrest attempts led them to empty offices or warehouses that were already cleaned out. Contacts went dry.

It would've been easy to avoid or mislead the police if someone knew they were coming. It was the only explanation. Well, not technically. But it was the one she preferred to believe. They were better detectives than that.

The room around her seemed very much a hive of moderate activity, each person going about their duties, roving the station, carrying files, and speaking freely with others. She recognized the people around her. They were proven cops that had been there for years, give or take a handful of exceptions. Was it a new recruit? Office staff? Cleaning crew? Or what if someone had turned dirty, shelling out info to criminals to make a buck?

Carlton arrived at her desk. His eyes skimmed the room with hawk-like suspicion. "Okay. I'm not sure-"

"I think you were right," she said quietly. "About the rat- or, mole. Whichever."

He froze. "I am?" he asked.

She nodded, acutely aware of the many people in the open room. With a silent exchange, she followed him into a supply closet.

"See? I told you!" he sneered. "I knew we were better than this. Some low-life bastard thinks he can-"

"Or she," Juliet said pointedly.

Carlton paused. He was about to say something Juliet knew he shouldn't. "We should tell the chief," she said quickly.

Carlton nodded.


In the time between arriving and actually eating a meal, there existed a form of liminal space that drove humans, instinctively, to seek out liquid refreshments- often of the alcoholic variety- and to chat about small, mundane things. It was an impulse that was difficult to resist, so firmly was it wired into the human brain.

Dean found himself drifting around the house, but never out of range of the steaks. He loitered, beer in hand.

In the kitchen, Henry marinated the steaks, then wrapped the potatoes in foil before placing them in the oven. Dean stayed back as Gus and Shawn hung around the kitchen like starving animals, circling the still-uncooked steaks, hoping Henry would move faster. They also helped sample some of the cheese.

Shawn was very helpful. He stood around, chatting, and commenting on Henry's every move, all while casually leaning against a wall with a beer. Gus added his own corrections, as it seemed Shawn lacked a toddler's grasp of how ovens worked.

Dean watched everything unfold with amused, if interested eyes. It was a strangely foreign sight. Terribly domestic. Mundane.

He didn't hate it.


After bickering with his dad over the best butter for the potatoes (Kerrygold, obviously, because otherwise what was the point?) and complaining about the lack of bacon bits, Shawn drifted out of the kitchen and into the living room. He found Sam sitting by himself on the couch, idly watching TV. This was contrary to the innate human instincts that came with the time leading up to a dinner. It was obvious enough that the man wasn't in his happy place, from his furrowed brow and the tinge of irritation in his gaze.

Shawn had easily seen how Sam's shoulders tensed as soon as Henry walked in the room. He recognized the look of irritation; the look of a grown man all too tired of being bossed around by his father. Shawn was an expert at that.

He strode over, his half-finished beer in hand. Normally, he didn't drink in the middle of working a case. But the concerning topics of supernatural origin led him to make an exception. He casually dropped into one of the chairs. "I'm sensing you're not very fond of father figures," he said.

Sam let out a low, bitter scoff. "Yeah. That's one way to put it, I guess."

Shawn flinched. It was harsher than he expected. "Let me guess- overbearing, bossy father who's always telling you what to do?"

Sam paused, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "Yeah… He was."

Shawn froze. "You… You mean-"

"We lost him two years ago."

Shawn, in a very rare instance, simply didn't know what to say.

Sam glanced over with a pained smile. "Guess you didn't 'sense' that, huh?"

"I'm- I'm sorry. Man, that's…" Shawn winced. He wasn't expecting that mood-killer. But he also couldn't imagine losing his dad so early.

"Thanks," Sam said with a stiff nod and a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I take it your dad's on the overbearing side?"

Shawn huffed a laugh, relieved at the break in tension. "The man practically had my whole life planned before I said my first word. And he had no respect for the sanctity of Zorro."

Sam snorted. He smirked. "Yeah… My dad had certain ideas about how my life was supposed to go, too. He wanted me to keep hunting. Said it was a 'family business' sort of thing. He was always bossing us around."

"Let me guess- never actually asking what you wanted to do?"

"You can't say 'no' if they never ask," Sam admitted wryly.

"It's funny how they seem to forget the whole 'asking what my son actually wants to do with his life' part. I, for one, did not want to be a police detective," Shawn chuckled. "I mean- Dude, can you see me as one of those guys?" he laughed.

Sam frowned. "But… aren't you a detective, though? You're still solving cases-"

"With my psychic abilities. It's completely different," Shawn said, as if it were obvious. "And I have a philosophy to never work a job where I can't wear jeans. Especially Levis. They're terribly comfortable."

Sam huffed a laugh. "I guess that's one way to approach life."

"It take it you followed your dad into the 'business'?"

Sam clenched his jaw- the question was obviously loaded. "Sort of. I kind of… Ran off to do my own thing, for a while. I left to go to Stanford. Pre-law."

"And yet, you've returned to the life of the hunt. The life of plaid," Shawn said a little dramatically.

"Something like that."

Shawn could see in the way his gaze drifted, in the far-off look of one dimly recalling past events, that there was much more to the story. But it was unfortunately difficult, he realized, to ask about monster hunting when he didn't believe in evil monsters to begin with.

The air in the room was far too heavy for Shawn's liking.

"Brothers, working together… Are you on a mission for God, by chance?" Shawn asked.

Sam let out a curt chuckle. "Uh… Not really."

Shawn leaned back in his seat, propping his feet on the coffee table, because his dad wasn't in the room to scold him. "I know all about having a difficult brother," he said confidently.

Sam frowned. "You have a brother?"

"Yes. A brother from a different mother. Although, not literally."

Sam stared, confused. Shawn appeared very much Caucasian. Gus was very much not. "Do you mean… Gus? Is he your…" he paused, at the crossroads between confusion and civility. "Is he a step-brother? Adopted?"

"What? Pfft. No, of course not! He has his own family. And a very hot sister. But, I digress." Shawn allowed himself to smirk at the thought before shaking himself of the reverie. "No… Gus and I've been best friends since forever. There's probably not a thing about him I don't know. Like his favorite movie- Top Secret. And, his real favorite movie that he doesn't tell anyone about, Erin Brochovich. Things only brothers would know," Shawn said, his voice smooth, with the utmost confidence, born from the experience of an only child.

Sam considered. Sam knew everything about his brother, so long as it wasn't anything deep, personal, or presently important. Almost everything else was locked behind a myriad of familiar excuses and forced smirks. There was always some secret of Dean's found tucked away in the shadows, justified by every excuse imaginable. 'It's for your own good.' 'It's better this way.' 'It's for your protection.' Or some variation thereof. Between his dad and his brother, Sam had heard every 'reason' for lying there was.

He did, however, know that Dean's favorite movie wasn't actually The Lost Boys, but was secretly Cool Runnings. Sam's life would be in jeopardy if Dean were to ever find out.

Sam offered a strained smile. "Yeah… Something like that."