Hi everyone!

New on the board, just thought it would be nice to put my fanfic on here as well. At this moment I can't stop working on this story. I like to plot out storylines and this goes all the way up to Season 4 so far, so brace yourselfs! This isn't my first fanfiction, I'm wrote one about Pirates of the Caribbean before, but it is my first Supernatural Fic and I'd like to share it with you.

It's already posted on another board too and they love it, I hope you will too! Have fun reading this and don't forget to comment!


DISCLAIMER: I am not in any way affiliated with any of the Supernatural characters featured in this fiction, nor do I know or own any of them. However, all other characters - real or implied - are mine and persona's were created by me. I am no way associated with the owners of the show. No copyright infringement is intended.

RATING: PG-13 - includes some swearing and some sexual innuendo (but nothing off limit)

POSSIBLE SPOILER: If you've seen the first episodes of season 1, there is no spoiler warning.

SUMMARY: Zoë Sullivan thought it was her last night on the job, but at the end of the day, it’s Zoë who’s fleeing back to her motel, shot and not in a good mood. After she patches herself up again, she decides to give it another go and heads back to the possible hide out of a Shapeshifter. She doesn’t find the creature, but she does stumble on Dean and Sam Winchester.



1.01: Change

Rochester, Minnesota.

Rain falls down during a chilly night in September. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but the flashes of lightning are blocked by the heavy rainfall. Several miles outside the city in the wide open spaces, the world seems deserted at this hour. The atmosphere is threatening yet comforting, as nature shows it's presence. Straight roads crosses the farmlands, but not a living soul is riding them. No one is on his way home or driving away from it. Then again, with this weather, who would want to get out? Then, in the distance, what seems to be only one headlight appears, bright lights reflects in the water on the roads as the sound of the engine increases. It’s not an ordinary engine, not just a simple sound like those modern Korean cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car. A black Harley Davidson rides through the night, roaring like a lion. It’s headlight makes the chrome sparkle brightly as the classic motorbike leaves a trail of water spraying up from the back tire. The black paintjob shines despite its dark surroundings, proud and majestic. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica, has big whiskers, long hair and a beard, who rides from bar to bar, consuming nothing but fastfood and beer. Never the less this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman. Its rider seems to be in a hurry, despite the slippery roads, she speeds down the 75th street NW a 110 miles an hour. But then, this woman and her Harley have all reason to hurry.

She tries to focus on the road ahead, but keeps glancing in her back mirror, checking if she’s been followed. The sharp pain in her side keeps her awake as she muddles to herself. How could she be so damn stupid? She knows this kind, she knows how they operate, and yet she was caught off guard. She was totally prepared and ready, but somehow something changed between this encounter and the one before. The suburb of Rochester appears in the South; she’s almost there. She bends over her bike and clamps one arm around her waist.
“Son of a bitch”, she curses, fighting the pain that shoots through her body.
She refuses to look down and keeps herself together. Hopefully it’s not too bad, she can’t risk going to a hospital. It’s during moments like this she regrets falling in love with her 94’ Harley Davidson Road King, because a much faster bike like a modern Yamaha would be much more convenient at the moment. She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees along side as she trespasses through the small town called Douglas. Again she looks in her back mirror, but there’s nothing behind her. In front of her she sees several cars and trucks driving up Route 52. A sigh of relief escapes from her lips; she’s back in the civilized world.

She turns right just before the highway and speeds up again on the road parallel to it. Finally she sees the Motel in the distance. A building with a large neon light number ´6´ on the roof is located on the right side of the road, her bike slows down as she approaches it.  She parks her Harley in front of the Motel and turns off ignition. Not as elegant as she normally does, she gets of her bike and heads towards the entrance of the Motel. With her right hand in her painful side she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet. A flash of lightning lights up the area and is reflected on the cars parked in front. For a split second she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly she turns towards it, but it’s gone. Instinctively her hand goes to the gun on her waistband. Alert she scans on her surroundings, her intuition tells her that she’s not alone. Nervously she looks over her shoulder, trying to convince herself that’s she’s paranoid. He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, that would be insane, he’d be too exposed.  She lets go of the gun and makes a run for it. Hastily she enters the Motel and closes the door behind her. It’s warm inside, country music plays in the background. Standing in the light the hallway makes her feel a bit more comfortable. Which is total crap of course; if he wanted, he could strike right here, right now. An old man looks up from his paper, glancing over his reading glasses. An empty beer bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wraps which once beheld a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the paper wrap for a moment; hell, she would die for one of those.
 
“You’re behind in payment, Mrs. Johnson”, the old man notifies bored.
She throws a Mastercard on the desk, which the motel manager takes with a straight face without thanking her politely.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night too. It’s way past check out”, he claims.
“No worries, book two more, I’ll be sticking around for a few more days”, she sighs.
“Business taking longer than expected, ha?”, he comments while working the computer.
“Something like that, yeah”, she answers vaguely.
She's glad he doesn’t have any further questions, she’s not in the mood for a chat with grandpa. She looks outside, a bit out of breath, her face tensed. The motel manager glances over his screen every once and a while, observing her. The black leather biker jacket she’s wearing is wet through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Her brown straight hair is shoulder length, her dark eyes seem worried. A young woman, he’s surprised she's married at such a young age, she doesn’t really seem like the marrying type and he has seen a lot come and go. She looks pale, as if she’s ill or carrying a weight upon her shoulders, who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask. Despite her slim figure, she seems like a person you don’t want to mess with.

“Here ye go”, he hands her back her Mastercard, “You know the way”.
She nods, picks up her helmet from the desk and walks down the hallway. As she enters room number 82 , takes off her jacket carefully and hastens to the bathroom. When she looks in the mirror, she’s unpleasantly surprised by the bloodstain on her grey shirt. She lifts it up to reveal a bullet wound underneath, several inches to the right of her bellybutton.
“Crap”, she curses.
She takes off her shirt, grabs a towel and wipes away the blood around the wound with some water, after which she stumbles back to the bedroom. Still pressing the towel against her side, she takes a duffel bag from under her bed which beholds a small briefcase. She puts it down on the table in the corner of the room and sits down on the chair. A sigh escapes from her lips; then she opens the briefcase. Inside she finds surgical equipment, bandages, stitches, sterilizers, tape, painkillers and more. Enough medical equipment to do a minor surgery. For a moment she swallows apprehensively; this is gonna get nasty.
“Hell, I’m not doing this alone”, she whispers to herself.
Next to her bed, a bottle of whiskey lurks at her. With a moan she gets up, grabs the bottle and the glass next to it, turns on the radio on the cabin and walks back to the table, where she halts, facing the mirror in the briefcase. As she fills up the glass with alcohol she grabs a forceps as the first tones of About A Girl preformed by Nirvana come through the speakers. With the bottle of whiskey standby on the table and the forceps in her hand, she clears her throat and sighs; "here goes nothing".

Slowly the forceps enters her body as the pain increases. With her eyes focused on her reflection in the mirror and her jaw clamped together she tries to reach the bullet. She groans softly, fighting the intense pain, trying to maintain herself. It’s that she doesn’t wanna draw any attention, otherwise she would scream out at the top of her lungs. Then she feels something solid. While tears burn in her eyes, she tries to get a hold of it, then she carefully pulls back and drops the bullet in the glass. Quickly she grabs the whiskey and takes a few large swigs, after which she breathes out.
“Hell, that hurts”, she mumbles, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.
The worst part is done, but she’s not quite finished yet. Again she takes the almost empty bottle and pours the last bit of whiskey into the wound. It takes a few seconds before the high amount of alcohol sinks in, but when the heavily burning pain comes to her, she can’t keep her mouth shut. And the one thing that really pisses her off right now; she’s out of whiskey. Frustrated she walks back and forth through the room while the pain fades away. After several minutes she finally calms down and strolls back to the briefcase on the table, takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes the job. She doesn’t even feel much pain of the stitch needle piercing her skin, it feels like a tickle compared to the damn forceps. She tapes in her waist, cleans up an stumbles to the bathroom. Again she looks in the mirror.
“Well hello, Sunshine”, she moans sarcastic when she discovers the bags under her eyes, her ran down make up and messy hair.

She looks like crap and that’s an understatement. But considering she just got shot, she's lucky she’s not seeing the reflection of a ghost. She bends over the sink and opens up the faucet. Water circles down the drain and feels refreshing when she splashes it in her face. Her hands lean on the sink as the water streams down her face, for a moment she opens her mouth and closes her eyes. What a night, what the hell happened out there? Where did she go wrong? She found the patron, she found the next victim, at least she thought she did. She turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The decoration of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is nice and she has a television. She was pleasantly surprised when she discovered this Motel also has an outdoor pool, but she can forget swimming with her new war wound. She stops by the bed, where a whole bunch of newspaper articles, pictures, books, blue prints, maps and a Macbook are spread out over the mattress, as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think that this so called Mrs. Johnson is a murder investigator,  an FBI agent maybe. Undercover that is, because what investigator or fed would ride a Harley in full leather? But she is neither of that. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs. Johnson. Biting her lip, she tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the dude she expected to be the next target, turned out to already be one. Somehow her guy was on to her or made a change of plans for some reason, but what triggered it? Or maybe this is nothing like she has ever seen before, maybe this is really out of the ordinary.
“For as far as my cases aren’t”, she mumbles.

She picks up two articles, both from the local paper the Post-Bulletin. One is about a murderer with a iron clad alibi and one tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both have alibi’s and both don’t fit the profile of a killer and a thief.  Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.
“Crap”, she curses, knowing that she’s one step behind on her guy.
Then there’s that other question, maybe one of even bigger importance; how the hell did he shift that fast? She picks up a book from her bed and reads the passage again, which is titled “Shapeshifting”.
“’Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person or animal. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race, or general appearance or changes between human form’, Great, like I didn’t know that”, she sighs.
Still standing up she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for.
“Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items, yada yada yada. Damn it! Where the hell is it!”, she throws the book back on the bed, sits down and grabs her Macbook.
Concentrated she starts up her internet browser and looks up her archives. After a bit of searching, she finally finds what she was looking for.

“Shifting progress. The shifting progress takes several hours, but can be fastened by the shapeshifter by …. Oh, that’s just gross”, she stares at her screen full of disgust.
It might be gross, but that’s what’s going on. Something disturbed him, but she’s not sure if she was the one who did. Thinking of it, she didn’t gave herself away when they made an appointment, he couldn’t have known. She must go back to the roots of this case. She knows at least five people are connected to each other. Five people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common; they’ve all been at the 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester during the last month. So her shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road, somewhere…  She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Mac and observes the houses along side that road. The houses are spread out, have long driveways or even their own street, it would take months to figure out and he would be long gone by then. A few days ago she thought she had a lead. The shapeshifter has to leave his crime scenes fast. All the tracks just vanished into thin air, so it seemed, but when she took a better look, she discovered the shapeshifter travels by the sewer lines. More then 50% of the houses there aren’t connected to the sewer system but have their own scepter tanks, so she can write those off. Only nine houses of the remaining ones are empty.
The problem is, that she already checked those homes; she’s on a dead end.

“Come on, girl. What does your guts tell ya”, she whispers to herself, while checking out the satellite photo and maps.
Her eyes captures one house, deep into the forest. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling she might find something up there. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on right now; she has absolutely no lead. 
“This is insane”, she mumbles as she puts on a new top.
Insane, maybe. But she is not gonna sit on her ass and watch that son of a bitch get away with more crimes. What concerns her is that most of the people he spied on are now missing. They could be dead, but they could also be captured some place and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight, she has been hunting this dude way too long. Determined she grabs her stuff and leaves her room. Back into the dark night, back on the road, back into the hunting field…





Did you like it? I hope so! I know, I know, the boys haven't showed up yet, but they will in the next bit! Let me know what you think :lol:

story is good but the letters are a bit small and hard to read

Sorry about that! I modified it ;)

New bit! Hope you all like it!


“Just remind me, why are we here again, Sam?”, the driver of a ’67 Chevrolet Impala breaks and glances aside at his passenger, apparently not amused.
Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter comes from the speaker as the guy in his mid twenties observes his younger brother next to him. The motor of his car rumbles like the thunder in the distance. It’s still dark, but at least it stopped raining. The black Chevy stops on the driveway of an old house, clearly abandoned.
“Dean, let it go already. If we have a lead on our guy, we take it, even if it’s five in the morning”, Sam reacts annoyed.
“We don’t have a lead, you have a hunch. That’s my point, Char”, Dean argues.
“Okay, so we don’t have a lead, but that’s exactly why we should check this out and…”, Sam wants to continue his sentence, but Dean interrupts.
“You know what I should be doing? Sleeping, in… my... bed”, he glares at his brother.
“Come on...”, Sam sighs and looks away.
“No Sam, I can’t help it you’re up all night. We have an appointment with that Cliffer dude tomorrow during normal daytimes, we work from there, that’s what we agreed”, he looks Sam in the eye.
“We’re not even certain if he’s the next victim. If we find something here we might actually know what we’re dealing with”, his brother bounces back.
“I thought you already knew what we’re dealing with?”, Dean cries out.
“I’m pretty sure, but what did you expect?! We just got here. All that we know is because of my research, so back off”, Sam opens his door and gets out.
“Someone has to do the driving, if it was for you we’d end up in Texas!”, Dean raises his voice for Sam to hear him, who is walking up the driveway.

Sam halts and sighs, why does he have to be so damn stubborn? He turns around and stares at his brother through the front window. The headlights of the Chevy light him up, he has to squint to see Dean through the glass.
“We’re here, we might as well check it out”, Sam suggests.
He waits for Dean to react, but he just glares at his brother without saying a word, his left hand on the wheel, the engine still running.
“Fine”, he shrugs, turns back to the house and starts walking.
“Sam, where you going?”, Dean leans outside his rolled down window.
“What does it look like, Dean?”, Sam answers bored without looking back and walks on with his hands in his pocket.
“Sammy, get back here!”, Dean commands with stern voice.
But his little brother ignores his order and follows the road to the house. Dean waits for a little while, not wanting to give in and let him win, but he can’t let his little brother enter the house all by himself; what if there is something inside?
“Stubborn bastard..”, Dean curses, turns off the ignition and gets out of his car.
Irritated he opens his trunk, takes out a duffel bag and loads an extra gun, which he puts away behind his waistband. He tosses the bag over his shoulder, locks the car and catches up with his brother.
“Really responsible, walking into a possible hideout without a weapon”, he hands Sam a gun.
“I knew you’d come around”, Sam responds with a grin.
“Wipe that smile of your face, smartass. We’ve got work to do”, Dean takes the lead and walks up the front porch.

“Silver bullets?”, Sam asks as he checks his gun.
“Yep”, Dean confirms. “One of these to the heart and our chameleon is dead”.
“If it is a shapeshifter”, Sam questions.
“Well if it isn’t, silver will do fine and if it’s already dead, I still have this baby”, Dean shows the bag on his shoulder, from which a shotgun sticks out, loaded with rock salt.
He grabs the doorknob and opens the door, which slowly swings open with a shrieking sound.
“Wooh… scary”, Dean pretends to shiver.
He takes out his EMF device, which measures electromagnetic radiation. If anything out of the ordinary is going on in this house, the meter will go sky high.
“Cut it out and be serious for once”, Sam whispers annoyed as he checks the living room, holding up his flashlight and his gun in the other hand.
The rooms are still furnished, but a thick layer of dust covers the tables, couches and other furniture in the house. A few windows are broken, shattered glass is spread over the wooden floor. Paint is coming of the moldy walls. The place seems like an old Indian waiting for death; this house is old. No one has been here for ages. The brothers meet again in the kitchen.
“Nothing here”, Sam concludes with lowered voice, still precautious.
“See, told ya”, Dean rubs in.
“I’ll check upstairs, you check the other rooms down here”, Sam suggests, ignoring Dean’s comment.
“Alright…”, bored he strolls to the other room.

He looks through some paperwork, but there’s nothing interesting here. He shakes his head; he can’t believe he’s out in the woods five ‘o clock in the morning, doing absolutely nothing useful. Hell, he could be fast asleep right now.
“I’m all clear, Sam”, Dean puts away his gun and walks back to the hallway.
“Yeah, me too”, Sam looks down from the staircase, disappointed.
“Now let’s get the hell outta here before the…”
Sam doesn’t finish his sentence, because of a noise, coming from somewhere inside the house. Dean observes the area, alertly he takes out his gun again. Silently his brother comes down the stairs. They both have the feeling they’re being watched, but besides the sound they just heard, they can’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Dean’s eyes seek Sam’s, he looks back. It sounded like it came from the provision room. Carefully Dean approaches it, backed up by his brother. He has his gun in both hands and ready to fire. Concentrated he lets his left hand slip off the gun and grabs the doorknob, when a gun unlocks.
“What the..?”
A shot echoes through the house and Dean hits the wall. In a quick reaction, Sam fires his gun twice in the direction where the bullet came from, then he concentrates on his brother.
“Dean!”, Sam, startled by what just happened, kneels next to him.

His brother collapses against the wall, bleeding badly, he gasps for air. The shot to his shoulder almost makes him pass out, but he can keep it together. With his jaws clamped together he tries to fight the pain, breathing fast.
“That wasn’t rock salt, was it?”, Sam checks the wound.
“Damn sure it wasn’t!”, Dean moans frustrated.
Suddenly two flashlights shine on their faces. Sam quickly goes for his weapon, but he can hear the gun which shot Dean a moment ago unlock.
“Stop it, right, there”, a voice commands.
The bright light blinds the boys, Sam can’t see who’s pointing a gun at him and his brother. The only thing they hear is their own respiration. The tension in the room is high as they wait for their attacker to undertake action. The beams from the flashlights glide over their faces, as if the beholder tries to see something in their eyes. Then both guns lock, as she lowers them.
“Damn it”, she curses as she puts one gun away and takes the flashlight off the other.
“You can say that again…”, Dean groans.
“What the hell are you doing here?”, irritates she shines the flashlights back on the boys faces, but when it captures Dean, she keeps one in place.
“We could ask you the same thing”, Sam intends to get up, but immediately looks into the barrel.
“I told you not to move”, she repeats strictly.

“Who are you?”, Sam doesn’t seem to be impressed.
“None of your damn business”, she answers rapid and concentrates on Dean again. “I know you”.
“I hope not”, Dean reacts smartly.
“One of your mad exes?”, Sam asks with lowered voice.
“Don’t know, but if you’d stop shining that damn light in my face, I could have a better look!”, he squints from the blinding light and holds his hand above his eyes.
She lowers the flashlight in order for Dean to see her face. He stares at her, concentrated.
“No, I have absolutely no idea who you are, unless…”, he comes a bit closer. “Aren’t you that chick from Seattle with the weird piercing?”, he asks with a grin.
“Take a better look, Dean Winchester”, she throws him the flashlight, which he catches with one hand and aims at her.
In front of him stands a young woman, probably in her mid twenties with brown, short hair and dark eyes, wearing leather pants and jacket.
“Nice, but I’m not really into that kinda thing”, he nods doubting.
She looks aside and sighs, shaking her head. Dean looks up at her, she’s right; he knows that face. He observes her fine profile. Her hair is much shorter than it was back then, but those dark eyes, how could he forget.
“Zoë?”, he asks surprised.

She looks back at him, a satisfied smile appears on her face.
“Zoë Sullivan, I can’t believe it”, he grins, but clamps his hand around his bleeding shoulder, realizing his acquaintance is the one who caused it.
“You shot me!”, he cries out in disbelief.
“Who?”, Sam interrupts their intermezzo.
“Yeah, same question. Who is he?”, Zoë asks him as she kneels down next to Dean and takes a look at his injury.
“He’s my brother”, Dean answers with a tensed face, clearly in pain.
“Ah, Sam right? College boy”, she responds with a tone.
Sam glares at her and looks over to his brother.
“I can see how you two met”, he comments.
“We weren’t an item if that’s what you mean”, Zoë directly corrects.
“But we did look kinda cute, didn’t we”, Dean adds hopeful.
“You wish, Winchester”, without warning she tears up Dean’s sleeve to have a better look at his shoulder.
“Hey!”, Dean cries out stunned.
“You can buy a new one with your scammed credit cards, stop wining”, she says with motherly voice.

“If you’re not one of his dates”, Sam gets up and watches the two. “Then how do you know each other?”
“Well for one, Dean doesn’t date, he screws everything he can find”, she starts.
“I’m still in the room, you know?”, Dean intervenes irritated, but Zoë ignores him.
“Get up”, she commands.
Sam gives him a hand and helps his brother on his feet, who keeps his left hand clamped around his wounded shoulder, moaning softly.
“Let’s get the hell out of here”, he mumbles grumpy and heads for the door, leaning on his brother.
Zoë holds the door as they exit the house. She glances over her shoulder and takes a last look at the old place, a sigh escapes from her lips.
“Well, that didn’t got me any further”, she whispers to herself, but apparently loud enough for Dean to hear.
“You got me shot”, he comments pissed.
“Oh don’t be such a baby, it’s only a flesh wound”, she reacts bored, putting her gun away.
“Don’t you check your target before you fire a bullet at it?”, he looks over back, as Zoë follows them down the driveway.
“You were the one who taught me to shoot first and ask questions later”, she answers smartly.

“That does sound like you”, Sam agrees, after which Dean glares at him.
“Shut up, did you book a motel?”, he asks as he waits by the door on the passengers side as he tosses his brother the keys.
“What do I look like, a travel agency?”, Sam unlocks the Impala.
“Where are you staying?”, Dean turns to Zoë, who walks into the shade.
“Motel 6, down the 52”, she answers. “But forget your idea of sharing a room, get your own”.
“In that case I hope your motel has more than one room”, he sighs, not leaving her out of sight.
“Where did you park your car?”
“Who said anything about a car?”, she rides her Harley out of the shade as Deans jaw drops.
“You ride a motorcycle?”, he concludes surprised.
“I don’t ride a motorcycle, I ride a Harley Davidson”, she corrects while she puts on her helmet. “You think the leather’s for fun?”
“I don’t know you that well, yet. Nice ride”, he compliments and nods approving.
“Thanks”, she gets on the black bike.
“What do you think of mine?”, Dean lays his hand on top of his Chevy Impala 67, clearly proud of his baby, but Zoë doesn’t seem that impressed.
“It’s a car”, she comments dull.

She starts her Harley as the headlight switches on and drives off, leaving Dean in total shock. Her taillight disappears as she turns around the corner, letting out a roar from her engine when she accelerates. Stunned Dean glides in the passengers seat, stares at the road ahead and slams the door.
“Did she just shot me AND insulted my car?”, he asks his brother.
“Yep”, Sam answers as places his keys in the ignition.
“What a bitch”, Dean concludes.
“I don’t know, I think she’s kind of fun”, his brother smirks.
“Shut up, college boy”, Dean snipes.
Sam grins and starts the car. The mix tape in the cassette player automatically continues Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter as Sam sets the car into motion. Dean shakes his head disapproving.
“Just a car, how could she say that…”, he muddles insulted.
“Let it go, Dean”, Sam advises laughing as he turns on to the 110th Ave NW .
He follows the single red light in the distance and speeds up, before he loses her out of sight. It bothers Sam that their visit to the house didn’t get them any further, he really had a feeling something’s going on there, but apparently he was wrong. Oh well, at least they ran into Zoë. His brother won’t see that as a positive outcome, but she’s clearly a hunter, so she might have more information on this case. The sooner they solve this, the sooner they can continue their search for their father. It might not quite be the night they planned to have, but they can never say it wasn’t exiting.

No one? :(

Just found it!
Love it, that Zoe girl is something! funny and bitchy! The boys have met their match!
I have a confesion to make after i read it here I went snooping around and found it together with Cover up and now I am off to reading it!
I really like this story it's awsome! Great job!

Thanks Alexa!

I have a bit of hope that my fanfic might get picked up here, so I'll post another one! I hope people read it and enjoy it!

Maybe for some who don't wanna start on a fanfic that might never be finished: I've already thought the entire story through, so you don't have to worry about that. ;)

Anyway, here we go! Looooong bit!




Zoë pulls over and enters the parking lot of Motel 6. Thunder still rumbles in the distance, as if the thunderstorm can’t get passed.  A red glow colors the horizon in the East; the sun will rise within an hour or so. As she puts her bike on the centerstand, Deans black Chevy is parked next to her. Sam gets out of the car and walks around to help Dean, but he already manages to get out, muddling that he can do it himself. The brothers walk up to the entrance, Zoë follows, keeping a sharp eye. But when she glances at Dean who keeps a tight grip on his shoulder as he stumbles towards the door, she sighs annoyed. She walks up to him and smacks her hand against his wounded shoulder.
“AAH! You b…”, he cries out, but she intervenes.
“Don’t you dare call me that, or it will be your face my hand hits”, she warns.
“What is your problem?!”, he spits with lowered voice.
“You’re acting like your already seeing the white light. Stand up straight, let go of your shoulder and stay behind your brother, understand?”, she snipes and lays her hand on the door handle.
“Yes Mother”, he responds with a tone.
“Shut up, don’t make a scene, okay?”, she orders.
“Do you have any idea how much this hurts? Probably not, since you’re an amateur”, Dean lets go of his shoulder and shrugs.

“As a matter of fact, I know exactly how much it hurts. But I have a question for you, Dean”, she turns around and walks up to him, halting right in front of his face. “I believe I was the one you didn’t see coming inside that house, I was the one who shot you and not the other way around. So tell me; who’s the amateur here?”
She gives him a deep penetrating look and then goes back at the door, whipping her hair round as she turns. Dean grinds and watches her enter the lobby. Sam follows with his lips pressed together, trying not to laugh, but when his brother notices anyway and gives him a push in the back. The door closes behind them just as the thunder roars louder than it has all night. Dean, although not amused, does as told and stays in the shadow of his brother, so that the man behind the counter doesn’t notice his injury. Again the old man looks up from his magazine. He hasn’t done much, because the paper wraps and the beer bottle still remain on the desk. He did have coffee though, probably to get through the boring night.
“Well, at least I’m not just sitting here to become part of the furniture, thanks to you, Mrs. Johnson”, he comments, as it’s the third time this night that she enters the motel.
“Last time it will happen tonight”, she promises as she halts for a moment by the counter.
“That’s an easy one to keep, considering it’s morning”, he responds with a tone.
“Tell me ‘bout it”, Zoë yawns and continues her way to her room.
Sam clears his throat loudly and Zoë looks over her shoulder, when she realize she’s forgetting something.

“Oh, right. These are collegues of mine, they need a room”, she adds.
“Sorry, no can do”, the manager shakes his head and turns the page.
She halts and turns around, as both Sam and Dean await an explanation with a confused look upon their faces.
“Why not?”, Sam asks.
“Lots of folks coming for that Texas Holdem’ Poker Tournament  this weekend, I’m fully booked”, the old man explains.
“Great…”, Dean rolls his eyes.
Sam sighs and glances at Zoë, but she doesn’t blink.
“I guess we have to find ourselves another motel then”, he concludes and intends to turn around.
“Good luck with that, but I believe most of the motels are pretty much booked too, I think your best option is to take a few hours sleep in your car”, the manager advises, without looking up from his magazine.
“Well, you heard the man, good luck with that”, Zoë quickly turns around and walks on.
“Wait a minute, Zo”, the oldest of the two brothers steps towards her, as Sam tries to talk to the manager.
“Sir, isn’t there some sort of arrangement we can make here? Me and my brother, we’re road tripping and we haven’t seen a decent bed for weeks”, Sam’s words are calm and friendly.

The manager stands up and leans on the counter, biting on the plastic spoon from his empty coffee container, thinking for some kind of option.
“I have no rooms left, but I tell you what”, he turns over to Zoë en Dean, who are arguing down the hallway.
“Room 82 has a double bed and a couch, if Mrs. Johnson doesn’t mind, I will allow you two to spend the night without any extra payment”, he suggests while looking at the owner of the room.
“What? Like… share?”, she asks with a bit of disgust in her voice.
“That’s what social people do”, Dean whispers at her.
She glares at him and over at Sam, who looks at her with begging eyes. She sighs and glances back at Dean. He hints at his shoulder; the blood is coming through his leather coat. She can’t let him sleep in the car, he needs to be treated. Rejecting them would be absolutely cruel and although she doesn’t like Dean’s attitude, she was the one who did this to him. Then she rolls her eyes and nods approving.
“Alright then, that’s settled. Now I don’t want any trouble, this is off the books, so if anything occurs…”, the manager warns them, as he sits back into his chair.
“We understand, thanks very much”, Sam gives him a thankful smile before he joins up with his brother and Zoë.
The three of them walk through the hallway together, but as soon as they are around the corner, she smacks Sam.

“Hey!”, Sam puts his arm up in defense.
“Why do you think I let you walk in the middle?”, Dean comments.
“What were you thinking!”, she spits with lowered voice.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll sleep on the couch”, Sam offers.
“And let him sleep next to me? Not in a million years”, she glares at Dean and gives Sam a penetrating look afterwards, as she takes out her key.
“What a bummer”, Dean reacts with a tone, but Zoë can’t tell if his words are sarcastic or not.
To be honest, she doesn’t give a crap what he means by it. They walk into the room and Zoë switches on the lights, but before she can turn around, Dean has crashed on her bed.
“Get off”, she commands.
“I’m actually quite comfortable”, he nags.
“You are laying on my research”, she persists.
Dean is about to start another argument with her, but Sam interrupts them.
“Is that what I think it is?”, with wide open eyes he walks towards the bed and kneels next to it, staring at Zoë’s Macbook.
“The Macbook Pro, careful with that”, she warns hesitating when he picks it up.
“250 GB and 4 GB of RAM. Wow, this is amazing”, the icons enlarge on the screen enlarge as he moves the mouse over the menu bar.

“That’s not it, it has new Intel Core 2 Duo processors, speeds up to 2.6GHz, the whole shebang”, she walks over to Sam and with a few quick finger moves an entire database pops up.
“Everything I found on anything supernatural, right there”, she tells, slightly proud.
“This is sweet”, Sam eyes sparkle as he scrolls through the wiki.
“She’s worth the money, I tell ya”, Zoë ensures, looking over Sam’s shoulder.
A short silence follows, it’s just now that Zoë notices the fact that Dean hasn’t said a word for at least 20 seconds. Sam must have been thinking the same thing, because at the exact same time, both she and the youngest Winchester look up at Dean, who just stares at them puzzled.
“Oh God, this is Revenge of the Nerds 5, isn’t it?”, Dean says frightened.
Frustrated Zoë glances at Sam, as if she expects him to correct his brother, but he shrugs.
“Dean…”, he sighs.
“What?! I’m tired, hungry, my shoulder hurts like hell and all you can talk about is a damn computer. I just wanna have a whole bunch of painkillers and get some sleep”, he falls down on the bed, staring at the sealing.
“Do me a favor and take the entire bottle, but you’re sleeping on the couch or on the ground”, she decides, turning back at Sam. “You two figure out who sleeps where”.

Annoyed she lays down her helmet on the table and takes of her biker jacket, which she hangs to dry on the back of the chair. Dean eye catches the briefcase on the table and swallows apprehensively as he beholds what’s inside. Sam puts down the Macbook next to him on the bed and observes Zoë, who cleans her equipment efficiently, then he glances over at Dean.
“You know, it just occurred to me…”, Sam clears his throat and puts his hands together as he leans forward. “You never answered my question”.
“What question?”, Zoë doesn’t even look up, apparently not interested.
“How did you two meet?”, Sam asks curious.
Before she even says a word, Zoë looks up at Dean. She sighs, clearly she doesn’t wanna answer that. Dean keeps watching her with a questioning look in his eyes. She nods approving; he can tell him.
“Zo was a case, about five years ago when you were still in school”, Dean starts off.
“A case?”, stunned Sam glances from Dean to Zoë.
“She was possessed by a Diligo Vesco demon. Nasty son of a bitch, believe me”, he explains.
“Diligo Vesco… Don’t they feed on the loved ones of their victim?”, Sam checks with them.
“Yep”, Zoë answers shortly, obviously not glad about the fact that she’s the subject of this conversation.

“We hung out a bit while Dad was working the case, he took care of it”, Dean tells, while Zoë gets up.
She walks over to the kitchen cabinets and opens one.
“Crap”, she curses, looking inside.
“Now what?”, Dean, who just wants to get this day over with, sighs annoyed.
“I’m out of whiskey”, she declares, closing the cabinet doors.
“Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, but a beer will do it at this hour”, he comments.
“Not to drink, moron”, she places her hands in her side and watches him. “To fix you up”.
“Right…”, he clears his throat, but then suddenly realizes what she’s saying. “Wait, you’re gonna patch me up?”
She can read the doubt in his facial expression, even though he tries to hide it. Before she can answer his question, Sam intervenes.
“I can patch him up if you wanna get some sleep”, he offers.
“Can you fix up an axillary vein? Because I blasted his into oblivion”, she responds with an attitude.
“No, can you?”, Sam returns her question.
“She can, annoyingly enough”, Dean answers before Zoë can. “She studied meds”.
Sam looks at her surprised. Clearly he didn’t expect Zoë to have the brains, but apparently she’s a lot smarter than he thinks.

“You’re a med student?”, he asks stunned.
“Was”, she corrects shortly, walking to the bathroom to get a wet towel.
“Sam, do your brother a favor. Go down the 52 into Rochester and take the first right. You’ll find an Apollo Liquor store on 55th Street”.
“Got it”, Sam needs no further explanation and heads for the door.
“Johnny Walker”, she adds.
“Make that two in that case”, Deans eyes light up. “And while you’re at it, bring me a cheeseburger, extra onions.
“Make that two too”, Zoë’s hollow voice sounds from the bathroom, but then she walks out. “There’s a Wendy’s around the corner”, she nods in the direction of the fast food restaurant.
“Anything else?”, Sam sighs, as he glares at them both.
“Yeah, I’d like fries with that, and if you deliver within 10 minutes, I’ll pass you some extra tip”, she answers smartly, not appreciating his attitude.
Dean smirks, Sam shakes his head and leaves the room muddling. When the door slams, he leaves what should be an awkward silence, but Zoë doesn’t even feel a bit uncomfortable; clearly she’s not impressed.  Without a word she walks to the bed and sees Dean’s grin.
“What?”, she asks, not understanding his expression.

“I have to say, you are way more of a smartass than you were back then”, Dean notices about her when she sits down next to him with a wet towel in her hand.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still the same smartass as you were back then”, she bounces back. “Take off your shirt”.
Dean looks at her sideways, a bit overwhelmed by the sudden order.
“Oh, don’t get all awkward with me, it’s not like we made out or anything”, she pressures.
“Alright, but I normally don’t do this until the second date”, he takes off his shirt.
He moans as the fabric comes loose from his skin. Zoë feels his pain, although she won’t admit it. His shoulder doesn’t look so good, there’s too much bleeding for a clean shot.
“I bet you tell that to all the girls”, she responds to his earlier comment.
Without warning she presses the towel against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, letting it observe the blood. Dean swallows apprehensively and looks away, grinding his teeth. He feels uncomfortable.
“This is embarrassing”, he muddles.
“And why is that?”, she questions while she takes away the towel, flips it over and softly presses it against his shoulder again.
“I got my ass kicked by a girl and guess who’s patching me up”, he admits.

“True enough, I can see why your pride is damaged”, she smirks.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t ya?”, he notices.
“A bit, yeah”, she honestly answers. “But I’d rather be sleeping at this moment”.
“That makes two of us”, Dean groans and squints a few times, fighting the tiredness.
“You could have ended up far worse”, she brings to notice.
“Dead perhaps? You won’t get rid of me that easily”, he grins.
“That’s not what I meant”, Zoë takes a closer look at the wound. “Sam might be the brains of you two, but he couldn’t have fixed this”.
He looks aside for a moment, examining her. She turned out quite nice, that Sullivan. Her long eyelashes curled up, dark brown hair hanging in front of her eyes, nice full lips. Her skin seems soft, but there’s something about her that gives her a tough appearance. Lets put it this way; if he’d spot a girl like her in a bar, she would end up in his motel room. But not Zoë, there were more like distant friends, at least they were. Zoë changed.
“Thanks”, Dean mumbles with difficulty.
Zoë glances at him, he looks down.
“Did Dean Winchester just thank me?”, she smirks.
“Don’t push it”.
She chuckles.
“Here, hold this”, she lays his hand on the towel still pressing his shoulder and gets up.

“It’s way to quiet in here”.
As she walks to the radio on the small table next to her bed, Dean checks her out and nods approving without her seeing it. Definitely. She would definitely had ended up in his motel room.  She turns on the radio and the tunes of Heartbreaker by Led Zeppelin sound through it. A smile appears upon her face; she loves this song. With a swing in her walk she moves to the small kitchen and opens the fridge.
“Beer?”
He nods and she throws him a bottle. He lets go of the towel and skillfully catches his beer with one hand. Before Zoë opens hers, she searches the small fridge for something to eat. She bends forward to shove some cans and bottles aside in the back, fortunately for Dean.
“Dean, stop looking at my butt”, she gives him a sudden piercing look as she closes the door.
“I wasn’t…”, he quickly looks away.
“Yes you were”, with a grin she opens her beer bottle and takes a swig. “Like I said: you didn’t change a bit”.
He looks back at her, comparing the self-conscious girl he met seven years ago to the self-confident woman standing before him this day. Back then she was much more vulnerable, more open, or is this just a shell?
“You’ve changed”.

His eyes are serious. It was only three weeks that she spent with him, but she knows these moments are rare for Dean Winchester. She keeps looking back at him, not knowing whether to smile or act differently. The guitar solo of the Led Zeppelin song sets in and gives an awkward feel to the moment, which Dean decides to break up.
“So…”, he takes a look at the research on the bed behind him. “You’re a hunter now”.
“Looks like it”, she responds shortly.
Again an unpleasant silence, the tones from the guitar strings echo through the room as Dean seeks for words.
“Funny though”, Dean takes a swig from the bottle and continues. “Of all the girls I’ve met, you were about the last on earth I’d thought to become a hunter”.
“I see things differently now, I guess”, she thinks back of that time.
As she stares at the wall, her eyes change and become shallow. She doesn’t think about that period of her life that often, at least she tries not to. The beat comes back into the song and immediately gives a different feel to the moment.
“Why this sudden change of carrier, if I may ask?”, he looks up at her.
She snaps out of it and gives him a puzzled look.
“What, like being possessed by a demon wasn’t enough?”, she turns away and strolls through the room.
“No, most people would try to forget it ever happened and move on”, he claims.

“Well I’m not like most people, am I?”, she glares at him, suddenly irritated by the interrogation.
He makes her feel uncomfortable, obviously she doesn’t want to talk about it, but Dean digs deeper.
“You used to be”, Dean returns.
“People change, Dean. So did I”, annoyed she sets down the beer bottle on the table with a loud bang and gives him a penetrating look.
Dean shuts up for a moment, carefully observing her reaction. He can tell that the fact that she was possessed by a Diligo Vesco demon, wasn’t her main reason. There’s more to this and she’s not telling him.
“What happened?”, he asks directly, but calm.
“Damn it, Dean! Would you just drop it?”, she snipes, as the door of room 82 opens.
Sam walks in and detects the tension between the two them. Dean keeps looking Zoë in the eye with an curious expression upon his face; he’s not planning to let go. Zoë, on the other hand, stares back at him and doesn’t need words to tell him to shut the hell up.
“Okay… awkward”, Sam closes the door behind him and breaks the silence by holding up the bags. “I have booze and burgers”.
“Ah good, I’m starving”, Dean reaches out for the burger, but Zoë snatches it away.
“You’re not eating anything till I’m done with you”, she clears up, not amused.

“Ah come on!”, Dean objects while she walks away with his food. “That’s like dangling a bone before the eyes of a dog and tell it to get the paper first”.
“Well, if that mud is anything like you”, Zoë puts down the Wendy’s bag on the table and turns back. “I would have absolutely no problem with that”.
Pissed off Dean looks over at his brother and Sam has all the trouble to hide his smile. But Zoë doesn’t think of herself as funny or smart, she just thinks she’s right. Not giving Dean’s glares any attention, she sits down next to him on the bed and pulls the chair that stood next to the wall closer, probably in position to set up her instruments. First she takes away the soaked through towel. Sam frowns when he sees the bullet wound, takes out the whiskey and places it on the chair.
“Good luck with that”, he says, glad he’s not the one going through it.
“Yeah thanks, bro”, Dean comments sarcastic.
Zoë takes a serious look at his shoulder, making a unsatisfied sound with her mouth.
“Sam, get me some warm water and an empty glass”, she orders without lifting her eyes.
“Yeah sure”, Sam enters the kitchen.
Items shove in the sink cabin as Sam tries to find what Zoë asked for. The noises from the kitchen disturb the music on the radio, but also the silence between Dean and Zoë. He hesitates; shall he continue his questioning? He decides to wait, after all, she still has to patch him up.

It’s only now that he notices that I Wanna Be Sedated by Social Distortion is playing on the radio; ironic. Sam comes back with a bucket of water, some new towels and an empty glass.
“I’ll be honest with you”, Zoë starts off. “This will hurt like absolute hell, but I need you to keep completely still”.
She turns to Sam, who leans over against the wall and watches from a distance.
“Hand me over my medical kid, will ya?”, she points at the metal briefcase still on the table.
“If this goes wrong”, she gives Sam a serious look as she takes the opened briefcase and puts it down on the chair in front of her. “I need you to take him to the Mayo Clinic immediately. Got that?”
Sam nods, but seems worried.
“I thought you said it was ‘just’ a flesh wound?”, he recalls.
“Yeah, I lied”.
Zoë takes out the instruments she needs as the boys look at each other, Sam even more worried, Dean even more frightened. Then she looks up; it’s getting awfully quiet in here.
“What?”, she asks puzzled.
“You lied?”, Dean repeats.
“I had to say something to shut you up”, she declares bored.

Again Dean looks over at Sam, his mouth half opened, unable to say something back. His brother lowers his hand with a penetrating look, in other words; shut up about it. Apparently Zoë thinks her answer is good enough and has no reason doubt herself, but Dean isn’t so sure.
“You do know what you’re doing, right?”, Dean questions carefully as she takes a forceps in her left hand.
“Of course I know what I’m doing!”, she snipes.
“Okay, okay…”, Dean hushes.
But when he looks aside at his brother, Sam sees fear in his eyes, which is quite rare and even a bit amusing actually. He decides to jump in to help.
“Have you done this before?”, he asks calmly, just before she starts on Dean’s shoulder.
She stops, but doesn’t look up at him; this time her reaction isn’t as quick as usual. Sam and Dean wait for her to respond, but apparently she decides to ignore that question and intends to go to work. Dean pulls back, looking her straight in the eye.
“Before you stick that thing in my arm, answer the damn question”, he demands.
“I did this before, happy?”, she answers annoyed.
“On a human?”
Again silence. It’s Sam who’s on to her. His penetrating green eyes stare straight at her. After rolling her eyes, she sighs.

“On a dead pig, okay? What’s the difference?”, she snaps irritated.
“Hey!”, Dean says insulted, until he realizes what she’s actually saying. “Wow, wait… You’re actually gonna do some difficult pros secure on me you’ve never done on a living human being before?”
“Something like that, yeah”, she admits, not seeming even a bit worried. “But I know what I’m doing, you just have to trust me”.
“Trust you?!”, Dean cries out. “You shot me!”
“Dean, calm down”, Sam tries without much result.
“I am calm!”, he argues, raising his voice even more.
“Hey assface!”
Zoë calls Dean back to reality, forcing him to face her.
“You listen to me now, Winchester. ’Cause I don’t see another option here, unless you wanna end up in jail”, she gives him a piercing glare.
“What do you care?”, he returns.
She chuckles and stares at him stunned.
“You know, you’re absolutely right! I don’t give a damn”.
Mad she gets up, puts back the forceps and the other instruments in the briefcase. She slams the lid and heads for the door.
“Zoë, come on. Wait a minute”, Sam desperately tries to repair the damage.
“Nope, now get the hell out”, she turns around and opens the door, holding it for them.

“What? You’re kidding me right?”, Dean says startled.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?!”, she returns the question, not amused.
“Okay, fine”, Dean grabs his jacket and his shirt next to him and gets up, while Sam looks over from one to the other, a bit startled and completely helpless.
“Can’t we talk about this, guys?”, he tries.
“Nope”, both Dean and Zoë answer at the same time.
Dean stumbles to the door, it’s clear he isn’t feeling well. But neither he or Zoë even flinch.
“Okay, this is ridiculous!”, now it’s Sam’s turn to get mad.
Dean turns around and Zoë frowns; finally he has their attention.
“Listen to her, Dean”, he claims.
“Oh what, you’re on her side now?”, Dean reacts insulted.
“That’s not what this is about, damn it! There are no sides, we’re all hunters and we have job to do. Fighting like cats and dogs isn’t helping”, Sam states. “She has a point. We’re in Minnesota, remember?”
Dean needs a moment to think, but then remembers the case he and dad worked about on about a year ago, in Lafayette, a little over 100 miles west from here. The local police caught him with the victim of a poltergeist, they had a clear view of his face before he escaped. When they started digging, they found a list of scams, carjacking, robbery, suspect of several more crimes and now murder to top them all.

If Dean walks into a hospital and is listed as a patient, it won’t take long before the cops take him in.
“Crap”, he curses, realizing Zoë’s right; he has ‘wanted’ written all over him.
Sam looks over at the only woman in their company, who leans against the open door, her arms crossed in front of her.
“Can you fix him up?”, he asks gently.
“Of course I can, I wouldn’t get myself into things I couldn’t handle”, she answers annoyed.
He nods approving and looks deep into her eyes.
“Please”, he begs. “I know you won’t do this for him”…
“Obviously not”, she interferes pissed, glaring at Dean.
“Then do this for me, please fix him up”, Sam asks.
She watches Sam, still mad, but calming down. Dean realizes that for his best interests, he’d better shut up. Then she sighs and steps away from the door, which she closes.
“Cut if off with the puppy dog eyes, I’ll do it”, she muddles.
Dean slowly sits down on the bed while Zoë opens her briefcase again, getting out the things she need.
“Thanks, Zo”, Sam says grateful, words that Dean couldn’t possibly get out of his mouth at this time.

“Don’t mention it”, she says. “Ready?”
That last question is meant for Dean. He looks up at her as she takes his arm. She can see in his eyes he would’ve rather gone to the hospital and figure out a plan to bust out later, but at least he isn’t saying it out loud. Considering it’s Dean, that has to count for something.
“Alright”, he nods. “But if you mess up, I’ll kill ya”.
She glares at him, but finds a smile on his face.
“Not if I kill you first”, she bounces back grinning.
She swallows apprehensively, Dean prepares. Then she goes in…





Hope you like it!

Just found your story chic, I really like it! :hi5 zoe seems pretty cool too

Word of advice, if you dont get reviews right away or none at all, dont be too discouraged miens hardly gotton any reviews either. People on here sadoly donmt ceom to fan fiction section much :(

Cant wait for next part!

Hun, you know that I adore your fic. Love it soo much, Zoe is the best character in the story & with the Winchesters she is cooler.

Sunshine peaks through the red curtains, as a little kid spying around the corner. The beams illuminate motes of dust, playfully dancing in the air. Thunder and rain moved on and made room for the sun to shine. It’s passed noon and Sam’s sitting behind the small table, which is entirely filled with papers, books, files and both his and Zoë’s laptop. Concentrated he goes through documents which the Macbook’s wiki contains, preparing for the next encounter with the shapeshifter. Neil Young is singing Down By The River on the radio, so softly that you’d have to listen very carefully to make out the words. Besides traffic rushing by on Route 52 next to the motel, it’s peaceful. Dean turns on his back in the double bed, moaning softly. Sam looks up and grins. He’s not sure what’s funnier; the fact that Dean isn’t sleeping on the floor or on the couch as Zoë persisted earlier, or that she’s actually the one sleeping next to him. Just before 8 ‘o clock she finished up the last stitch on Dean. Sam still doesn’t know if Zoë actually knew what she was doing, but she did great. After a night like this neither of them gave a damn who slept next to who, they just wanted to finally get some rest in a decent bed. Not before they had their burgers, of course. It’s remarkable how much those two are alike, probably the reason why they can’t stand each other. Strange, they must have gone along fine, otherwise Dean wouldn’t have remembered her. Hell, he doesn’t even remember some of the girls he slept with, not to mention the girls he didn’t make love to.

If he may believe his brother, she was this fun, sweet and young student, loving life and enjoying every second of it. The typical Californian girl, loved to surf and hang out at the beach. Also a good artist, Dean told him, although he could have made that up, considering Dean doesn’t care less about that stuff. But above all, Zoë was a family person, she cared a lot about her family and friends, that’s what Dean told him on their way over to the motel anyway. Then that demon came along and screwed the whole thing up. Sam hates it, why do bad things always happen to good people? Now look what she has become. It turns out every hunter needs a history to become one. Whatever her history is, she became damn good at her job. The database she built is outstanding, especially when you take out for notice that the first file dates from 2000; she’s working the business a little over five years now. Zoë is dedicated, that’s for sure. He looks at her. She’s sleeping peacefully, curled up on her right side, her eyes closed, breathing calmly. It’s weird to see the strong woman like that; she seems so vulnerable. Not entirely though, because even in her sleep she seems to have the upper hand on Dean. She has pulled over the cover almost completely, not leaving much for his brother. He doesn’t seem to mind, on the other hand, it will take a lot to wake Dean up after a night like the last. The light from outside shines a graceful glow on Zoë’s pretty face, she seems to be smiling slightly. She might act like a bitch, but she’s an attractive girl in some strange way.

However, he has to be honest with himself. After what happened to Jess, he can’t think of her like that, not now. His eyes turn shallow as his thoughts go back to that moment a month ago. He doesn’t get the time to dwell in his sorrow though, because out of nowhere, Zoë jumps up startled and pulls a gun from under her pillow.
“Wow!”, Sam shows his hands.
Puzzled she stares at Sam, then aside at Dean and lowers the gun with a sigh.
“Guess it wasn’t a bad dream”, she indicates with raspy voice.
“No, I guess it wasn’t, damn…”, he relaxes again as Zoë locks the gun and puts it back under her pillow.
“I’m not use to having people around, that’s all”, she comments as she intends to get out.
“I think paranoid is a better description”, Sam comments.
“Shut up”, Zoë’s clearly not in a good mood. “What time is it?”
“Almost one”, Sam answers, concentrating on his computer screen again.
“Not even five hours”, she groans, realizing that although it’s past midday, she didn’t get much sleep.
She swallows, trying to get the bad taste out of her mouth. Not a great way to wake up, she still feels like crap. To be honest, the amount of whiskey she drank last night, followed by her fries and burger - with extra onions – didn’t help. Thankfully it’s still dark in the room, her eyes can’t handle the bright light from outside just yet. With a sigh she gets up. A moan escapes from her lips when she feels her painful side.

Gosh, it feels even worse than last night, but she’s not worried. It’s normal to feel soar, this is not the first time she’s going through this. Slowly she shuffles to the bathroom, Sam watches her enter.
“You alright?”, he asks, surprised by her condition.
“Yeah, a bit hung over, that’s all”, she lies.
Sam decides not to ask any more questions, he doesn’t know her very well, but he has learned she hates those. He turns back at his laptop, trying to get the image of Jess out of his head. He’s watching some kind of installation proceed. The governmental website of Rochester is hidden in the lowest toolbar, finally the slowly moving meter hits the 100 % . A program opens and asks for a password.
“Damn it!”, Sam curses.
“What?”
The sound comes from the bathroom, it’s just now that Sam hears the shower running.
“Nothing…”, he responds absent.
He rubs his face; how on earth is he gonna crack this? He works the computer as Zoë takes a warm but refreshing shower. The clean water feels like acid on her shot wound, but at the same time it relieves her. She forks her hands through her hair and lets the water rain down on her face.
For a long while they don’t talk at all, apparently the silence bothers Zoë.

“Could you turn on the radio?”
Still silence, Sam is working so concentrated he doesn’t hear her.
“Sam!”
“What?”, he snaps out of it.
“Could you turn on the radio”, she repeats.
“Dean’s asleep”, he reacts, typing strenuously.
“So?”
Again Sam fails to respond.
“Hello?!”
“What? No, I can’t work with music”, he mumbles thoughtless.
Zoë doesn’t ask again. Normally Sam would have noticed that unusual fact, but it’s not until Zoë walks by completely naked that she catches his attention.
“Holy sh…”, she swallows down the last word and looks away, almost falling off his chair.
Not even a bit uncomfortable she walks up to the table and turns on the radio, which sets in during Look But You Can’t Touch by Poison. Sam tries to avoid looking at her, feeling very awkward as she bends over him to turn the volume up.
“Never seen a woman before, geekboy?”, she notices he’s ill-at-ease, enjoying the moment.

“You could have warned”, he responds looking away with wide opened eyes.
“You could have turned on the radio”, she bounces back and turns away.
He breathes out and when he’s pretty sure it’s safe, then carefully glances at the bathroom. Thank God, she’s back in the shower. Again he robs his face and stares at his brother for a moment, who’s still asleep.
“Dean, you have no idea what you just missed”, he whispers.
“What’s that?”
Sam almost tumbles off his chair again and stares back at the bathroom.
“Nothing!”, he responds too fast.
Not a sound, for a moment he’s afraid she might come back out again. He swallows apprehensively and tries to focus on his work again, but he finds it difficult to do so. Wauw, really… wauw. As Dean would say: she might be a bitch, but she looks mighty awesome. He hits himself in the head; he can’t think of her like that. She’s a bitch, not sexy. Bitch, not sexy. Suddenly he hears her voice echo from the bathroom. At first is scares him, because for a moment it sounds like she’s right behind him, but then he’s pleasantly surprised as she joins in with Bret Michaels during the chorus. It turns out her singing voice isn’t bad.
“…Cause you can look but you can't touch, cause the best things in life ain't cheap. You can look but you can't touch, cause baby I ain't for keeps”, she sings.

Again Sam glares at the bathroom. He can see her pretty much perfect silhouette through the blurred glass, quickly he turns his head. Sam Winchester, keep yourself together! He’s almost disgusted by the fact that he can’t keep his eyes off her, but then again, every man who would, could be considered gay.
The song fades in to a new one, this time an easy listener; Changes by Black Sabbath.
“What’s up with the whole vampire lifestyle?”, Zoë asks out of nowhere.
Apparently she doesn’t feel like singing anymore; she closes the faucet and the sound of the water falling down on the ivory white tiles stops.
“What?”, Sam looks over at her, puzzled, although he can’t see her behind the glass.
“There are about half a dozen empty coffee containers on the table”, she explains.
Her voice sounds hollow in the empty bathroom, but Sam can hear her loud and clear. She opens the shower door en grabs her towel and some clothes. It takes Sam a while to answer her question, as if he’s trying to decide weather he should tell her or not. “I can’t sleep”, he answers shortly, apparently he chose his last option.
“Sure you won’t burn when I throw Holy water at ya?”, she jokes, while putting on a pair of jeans.
Sam looks up and glances at the bathroom, obviously half listening, then he gets the point. Zoë is still standing behind the blurry glass, putting on her bra; he quickly turns his head.

“It’s nothing like that really, it’s…”, he pauses, scratching his chin, finding it difficult to talk about it. “It’s Jessica…”
His thoughts wonder off as he folds his hands together and leans his elbows on his knees, staring in the distance. Suddenly it’s not that difficult to avoid the attractive Zoë. For a moment he pictures her, his pretty Jess. Long blond curly hair, a beautiful smile, God, she was beautiful in every way. He was in love with her, he still is.
“Girlfriend?”, Zoë asks, not seeming that interested.
“Yeah, well… she was”, he answers with difficulty.
“Oh, I see”, Zoë grins, thinking she got it figured.
She enters the main room while she buttons her white-grey blocked blouse.
“You dumped her, and now you regret it, right?”, she guesses.
Sam stays silent and leans back in his chair. He takes a sip from his coffee, still staring at nothing. Zoë sits down on her side of the bed and takes a pair of socks and black leather ankle boots out of a duffel bag underneath her bed and puts them on as she glances at Sam.
“She dumped you?”, Zoë tries again, concluding that her first guess was wrong.
He swallows apprehensively and looks her straight in the eyes. It spooks her, the sudden gaze, his penetrating green eyes. But Sam’s not angry, nor annoyed. She’s shocked by what she sees in them, so much sorrow. She knows that shallow gaze, she knows it way too well.
“She’s dead”.

Zoë knows, Sam doesn’t need to tell her, but he confirms with a nod, almost unnoticeable.
She looks down at the dark blue carpet, feeling sorry for him for the first time since they’ve met. She doesn’t know why, but she can’t show him much of her compassion, she just can’t show emotion.
“Because of something we hunt?”, she asks formal.
“A demon”, he answers shortly, looking at the empty coffee container in his hand.
A cold silence, as the image of Jessica shows up in front of him again, but this time he doesn’t see her smiling, but in the state that he found her. He grinds his teeth, but he’s not mad at Zoë for asking. He’s frustrated, hurting, trying to deal but unable to. She observes him, noticing something about Sam Winchester that feels familiar, something she recognizes.
“I’m sorry”, she says, but pronouncing the words like a doctor or undertaker would do.
It’s about as compassionate as Zoë ever becomes and although Sam doesn’t know her that well, he seems to realize it. He looks up, his eyes glister. He’s not saying a word, but gives her a thankful nod. Although this is a painful moment, she has to ask him again.
“I can’t help it to notice, but I think you’re not completely honest with me”, Zoë starts.
She gets up from the bed and shoves the curtains aside, letting the bright sunlight in. Dean, facing the window, moans and turns his head, but doesn’t wake up.

He breathes in deeply and lets out a sigh, his right arm of which his shoulder is bandaged, crossed before his chest. When Zoë’s sure he’s still sleeping, she continues.
“You see, you say you can’t sleep. I think you can, but just don’t want to. Otherwise you wouldn’t need six coffee to stay awake”, she notices smartly.
Sam glances at the empty coffee containers on the table and looks away; she’s got him all figured out. Strangely enough he doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Actually, he wants to tell her, he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t. Somehow he trusts her enough to open up to her, but there’s enough distance between them to avoid awkwardness about this subject. He looks over at his brother; he’s still sound asleep. Zoë notices he’s checking on him.
“You’re worried about him?”, she asks, looking back at the youngest brother. “Don’t, you’ll need to set off a bomb before he wakes up”.
Sam chuckles; seems like she got Dean figured out as well. She’s right; it’s okay to tell her. It might do him good.
“I have these nightmares…”, he starts off and pauses, as he seeks for words. “Let’s put it this way: I rather stay awake than sleep and go through them”.
Zoë strolls through the room and halts on the other side, leaning against the wall; she seems interested all of a sudden.
“Nightmares, huh?”, she repeats, crossing her arms in front of her. “What do you dream about?”

“All sorts of things, about bad things happening to people I don’t even know. Except for the first one”, he pauses, staring at the floor again; Zoë knows enough.
“You dreamt about Jessica, didn’t you?”
He nods. “Days before it happened”.
Zoë remains silent from that point, thinking through his words, imagining what they could mean. He glances over at Dean, checking if he’s still asleep, not wanting him to hear the conversation, then he continues with lowered voice.
“I can’t put my finger on it. How is it even possible that I see an event take place days before it actually happens? It almost seems like…”.
“… a vision?”, she asks.
“Yeah, exactly”, Sam whispers. “Come on, it’s weird. Even for people like us”.
“It is weird”, she agrees.
Zoë takes a moment to think and observe the information. She bites her lip again, it seems to be a habit.
“Do you have headaches?”, she asks out of the blue.
Puzzled Sam glances up at her and looks her in the eye, but she doesn’t blink.
“Yeah, I do actually”, he realizes. “But with everything going on with Jess and Dad…”
“Stop. Dad as in John Winchester?”, Zoë intervenes.
“Yeah, he’s missing”, Sam clears up, surprised that she’s so interested about his father.

“Aha, John’s good at that sort of thing”, she comments.
Sam notices the cynical tone, but doesn’t take the time to think about it.
“This is different. He just took off one night, he left Dean and disappeared. That’s when Dean came to Stanford”, Sam tells.
“To drag you back in the bizz?”, she asks confronting.
“Yeah, I guess that was his intention, but it isn’t the reason why I’m hunting again”, he says. “Mom was murdered and now Jess? It’s too much of a coincidence, especially with Dad gone. Something’s up”.
She walks back to the window and observes the area outside. It’s a great day, the sun is shining brightly, smiling down at her. It’s almost ironic, working on a dark case during this weather; it doesn’t fit the picture.
“Maybe a demon snatched him”, she says, not even considering that this conclusion actually might upset Sam.
“No”, he answers fierce. “Since when do demons make such an effort to cover the whole thing up? If they kill a hunter, they leave it for the others to find”.
“You’ve got a point”, she admits. “You think he’s on a hunting trip?”
“I think he’s hunting down the son of a bitch that killed Mom and Jess”, Sam speaks up.
Zoë looks away and bits her lip, thinking about it. She knows that he’s probably right.

John has always been obsessed with the demon that killed his wife and he’ll do anything to kill it, no matter what the consequence, no matter what the sacrifice.
“It’s the same demon”, she realizes as the pieces start to fall into place in her head.
She sits down on the bed again, this time facing the window but Sam. Sam’s girlfriend, his mother’s death, John Winchester’s disappearance, maybe even the nightmares, this could all be connected. She sighs as if the world is resting on her shoulders, without making eye contact.
“Are you absolutely sure, Sam? Cause this could be pretty damn important”, she brings to mind.
This time she does look straight at him, her brown eyes stare deep down his. He stares back, hurting, but confident.
“I saw my girlfriend, pinned on the sealing, bleeding on me, after which she caught fire, the same damn way Dad saw Mom burn”, he pronounces his words slowly, his voice trembles.
Zoë can almost see the scenario replay before his eyes, she knows he relives it, every day, every time he thinks of her. She frowns and sighs.
“Yeah, that does sound like him”, she concludes and gets up.
It’s the way she said it, her tone maybe, that forces Sam to look up. He would almost think that this demon isn’t just a story she heard from another hunter in some bar.
“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”, Sam realizes stunned.

She turns around to face him, but quickly stares back down, thinking her words through carefully before she speaks. Crap, she should have kept that to herself. She has to say something now.
“We had our dealings in the past”, she answers vaguely.
Sam observes her as she puts on a grey jersey she just picked up from the chair and heads for the door. It’s just now that he realizes she’s going out.
“Where are you going?”, he asks.
“I’m gonna check on my Dave, I thought I heard a rattle last night”, Zoë explains, but halts by the door. “One more question”.
Sam waits patiently, looking at her from behind the table. She seems to hesitate, but then continues without looking him in the eye.
“Do you have them during the day?”, she asks.
“What, the nightmares?”, he asks puzzled, she nods.
“Wouldn’t be nightmares then, would they?”, he answers, not understanding the immediate cause of the question.
“You’re right, never mind. I’ll grab some lunch on my way back in. Meanwhile you try to get that brother of yours out of his coma. Use a salt gun or something”.
She grins, Sam shakes his head while he chuckles. Just before she closes the door, he can see her eyes sparkle like those of a little boy who’s up to something. Then she closes the door behind her and leaves Sam with his brother.

She’s a strange girl, that Zoë Sullivan, that’s for sure. She’s so hardened and cruel, but her heart isn’t all black, not yet. She even has this weird sense of humor, sarcastic, cynical. Perkier than Dean, that’s a new one. He wasn’t even sure it was possible, but she manages to shut him up most of the time. They don’t come around often in that mixture. She’s a tough girl, a good hunter, not afraid to be by herself, independent and strong, but isn’t that just a shell? Sam believes there’s a lot more under the surface. Loneliness, anger, frustration, sorrow, fear, he knows those feelings and deep down, Zoë probably knows them too. There’s something about her that he recognizes; she once had a normal life like he and his brother had and all three of them lost it because of something supernatural. Dean was five years old when he was introduced to this world so little people know about and grew up with it, Zoë was in college when she found out, he himself stepped back from the hunting fields and went to go study as well, until now that is. All of them were normal once, that’s what they have to hold on to. That gives them the slightest bit of hope they need to keep going, hoping that one day they might be able to go back to that life. Whatever will happen, things will never be the same again. People died and won’t ever come back. They will always know, they will always be watching their backs, they will always be hunters.

Dean squints when he steps into the light. A plain blue sky stretches out to the horizon, the bright color slowly turns pale as it approaches the illusion between heaven and earth. He’s outside in the parking lot, which is almost completely filled with cars. It doesn’t have the sinister feel to it like it had last night, or should he say this morning. He needs coffee and he needs it bad. For some reason Sam drank it all and he refuses to drink the crap from the machine in the lobby. He left his coat in the motel room and is wearing a jacket over his shirt, expecting it to be chilly outside, but the sun feels pleasantly warm. He took a warm shower after Sam woke him up by turning up the volume completely as the wolf of Deep Purple started howling on the radio. That didn’t wake him up actually, but the drum solo of the song Hush following up did. A good wake up call, he has to admit, but he still feels like he’s hung over; tired, hungry and in desperate need of caffeine. Traffic rushes by, most of it entering the city of Rochester. It’s a big city, big enough for people to disappear in without others noticing. For a moment he thinks of those the shapeshifter, or whatever it is they’re hunting, already took. Sam found a string of at least seven disappearances and that conclusion was drawn from the information he had direct access to from his laptop while Dean was driving up North. These people, they could be anywhere. Dead? Probably. Going to die if they don’t find the hide out fast? Definitely. But before he can work, he needs some decent food and decent coffee; Taco Bell and Starbucks, now that would be the ultimate combination.

When he asked Sam where Zoë was, all he got was “out”, followed by “she’s already getting us lunch” when Dean grabbed his wallet and intended to leave. Dean went out anyway, he needed some fresh air. Slowly he strolls towards his car. The pitch black Chevy Impala blinks in the sun, chrome glisters. Dean smiles; what a sight. He’s honored to drive the car Dad gave him a while back. Not just because she’s such a joy to ride, but because it was Dad’s, Dad’s first car. He kind of owes it to his old man to take care of her. It’s what he expects him to do; to take care of the family.
“Hey baby”, he greets his Chev, letting his hand glide over the trunk.
“Since when have we reached the fase that you call me ‘baby’?”
Dean looks over the top of his car and finds Zoë’s Harley parked on the other side, but he can’t spot its owner. He walks around and finds her, laying on her back on top of a skateboard, underneath her bike.
“Who says I was talking to you?”, Dean says, leaning against the hood.
She rolls from under her Road King and observes him for a few seconds, then she grabs a socket wrench ands slips back under.
“Right, men talk to their cars. I forgot they do that”, she comments.
Dean decides not to respond; it’s still early and he’s not sharp yet. The rhythmical sound of the bolt being turned sounds like music to his ears and he suddenly has the ease to get his tools out of the trunk and get some work done himself. But his baby’s fine, she doesn’t need work right now.

“What’s wrong with it?”, Dean asks curious.
“I was in a bit of a hurry last night, probably hit a speedbump too fast. It’s just the packing, nothing serious”, she explains without pausing.
“And what’s wrong with you?”, he rephrases his question.
“Excuse me?”, Zoë asks caught off guard.
This time she does pause, but doesn’t make an effort to get from under her Harley.
“You heard me”, he doesn’t bother to repeat himself.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, short buss”.
Zoë continues tightening the bolt, faster than she did a moment ago; she’s annoyed about the fact that she doesn’t know where he’s going to with his questioning.
“Then what is that bullet wound doing there?”, he asks smartly.
Startled Zoë sits up and hits her head hard the chrome outlet of her bike, causing a loud bang. She curses like a sailor when she lands back on the skateboard. She didn’t realize her blouse has crawled up. Dean smirks, but hides his smile when she rolls from under the bike. Irritated she pulls down her blouse to hide the scar. She uncomfortably acts like neither he or she know about it and rolls the skateboard under her Harley again. Dean, of course, isn´t going to let it go.
“Did Sam shot you?”, he asks.
“What? Sam?”, she returns uninterested.
“Last night he fired two bullets at you. Did he shot you?”, he repeats.
“Ha, like that’s even theoretically possible”, she laughs.
“I’m not kidding”, he says serious.

She gives the bolt one last turn and appears from under the bike, this time without hitting her head. Annoyed she looks up at him. Crap; how the hell is she gonna talk her way out of this one?
“Don’t worry, your bro won’t get the credit”, Zoë comments sarcastic as she grabs a dirty cloth and cleans her hands, looking away.
“If he didn’t shot you, who did?”, he asks, clearly not excepting a smart answer.
“What does it matter? It’s nothing serious”, she muddles as she gets up.
“It is, you got shot, damn it”, Dean argues.
“So did you. How’s that shoulder by the way?”, Zoë quickly changes subject.
“No no no…”, Dean shakes his head an grins. “I’m not gonna fall for that. My shoulder’s fine, thanks, but you’re still answering that question”.
She sighs, damn it! Seems like there’s no way out of this.
“It’s not that bad, it was a clean shot”, she insures, still avoiding Dean’s question.
“Did you get the bullet out?”, he asks.
“Of course I got the bullet out”, she answers annoyed.
“Who shot you?”, he again questions.
She doesn’t answer him and walks over to him after which she leans against Dean’s Chevy besides him. Her dark hair is still wet from the shower she took earlier and seems black. When she looks aside, she finds Dean’s eyes, waiting for some kind of response. With a sigh she gives him an answer.
“The shapeshifter”.

Dean needs a moment to analyze her words, he doesn’t know which question he needs to ask first.
“So it is a shapeshifter”, he concludes. “You ran into him?”
Again she looks aside. Should she tell him everything? She knows he will keep digging till he does, but she could lie. Oh what the hell, she might as well give him the whole story.
“Yeah, yesterday evening. I had an appointment with a possible next victim, this guy called Cliffer or something. Turned out the son of a bitch already shed into him…”, she explains, but Dean intervenes.
“Wait, Cliffer? As in Terry Cliffer?”, he asks.
“Yeah”, suspicious she looks aside.
“Oh crap, you’re Sharon Evans”, he rubs his face, realizing what is going on.
“What? How the hell do you know my fed ID? ” Zoë asks puzzled, already with a tone.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Sam did got you shot”, he starts off hesitating.
“Excuse me?!”, she cries out, turning at him completely stunned.
“We rang Cliffer round five yesterday afternoon, to make an appointment”, he admits.

She stares at him as the missing links connect.
“Let me guess! FBI agent?”, she places her hand in her side and bites her lip; she’s pissed.
“Yeah… He asked if Sam was Sharon Evans’ partner or something. We didn’t realize we were on someone else’s case”, he admits.
“You son of a…”, she swallows down the last words and turns around furiously.
That’s why he changed! She didn’t gave herself away, they did! It’s a bit of a coincidence that two FBI agents call one day after the other, being on the same case without knowing if from each other. The shapeshifter was tailing Cliffer already, she was suspecting that, but when he heard about the appointments, he changed shape quicker than planned. He knew from that point on that there’s at least one hunter in town, he’s on to them.
“Crap!”, she curses out loud.
Mad she turns away and walks back and forth between Dean’s car and her bike. Dean’s just follows her with his eyes, not saying a word. He knows that everything he’d say, even if it isn’t even a smart attempt to lighten the mood, will only make her angrier.

“The bastard knows, that’s why he’s one step ahead”, now that she knows, she’s pissed she didn’t see this before. “What time’s that appointment?”
“Five thirty”, Dean answers shortly.
“Where?”
“Beetle’s Bar or something?”, he hesitates, not sure if the information he’s sharing is right.
“You don’t know?”, she asks annoyed.
“Sam knows, he’s the geek, not me”, he says offended.
Zoë closes her eyes and forks her fingers through her hair, staring at the passing traffic for a moment. She doesn’t seem amused.
“I don’t see why this is a bad thing”, Dean doesn’t get her sudden mood change.
“Why it’s a bad thing? It probably means the real Terry Cliffer is dead!”, she snipes, after which she lowers her voice as guests walk out Motel Six.
“You don’t know that”, Dean argues.
“Not for sure, but he’s not exactly happy at home with his wife and kiddies either, is he?”, her eyes penetrate his.
“Maybe not, but the shifter doesn’t know that we’ve met. That gives us the advantage, he doesn’t know we know about him”, he looks back.

“What was your major plan then, Hannibal Smith?”, she likes to know.
“I don’t have plan, like I said…”
“Sam’s the geek, I know. Djees, seems like your folks saved the brains for the second kid”, she sighs and finds her own balance again instead of leaning against the black car.
Dean rolls his eyes and glares at her, but she already turned her back on him. She picks up the tools she just used on her bike and puts them back in a small case, resting on the saddle. As she cleans up she tries to figure out some kind of plan, but if she’s not even sure with who Sam actually made that appointment, then how can she work out a plan? She stops with what she was doing and stares at the asphalt. Her eyes say nothing, just an empty gaze, going through the scenarios. Dean observes her for a moment.
“Did you eat?”, Dean asks out of nowhere.
“No”, she answers confused; what does that have to do with anything?
“Then how the hell can you think properly?”, he questions.
She shrugs, only just now realizing that her stomach sounds like as if there’s a war going on inside. It’s no fun to admit it, but Dean has a point.
“You’re right, I’m off”, she throws her right leg over her Harley and lands in the black leather saddle.
She picks up her old biker jacket from the steer and puts it on.

“Can I come?”
The way he asks is like a little boy would ask his father to come along for the ride. She chuckles and shakes her head.
“Sorry Dean, I fly solo”.
Her engine starts with a satisfying spur instead of the louder sputter it produced earlier on. She smiles contended and puts on her helmet. Dean on the other looks at her just like that little boy would do, disappointed. Then she takes off and exits the parking lot. Just before she turns on the parallel road to the 52 highway, she glances over her shoulder with a grin on her face.
“Thanks for lunch!”, she shouts to overrule the sound of her Harley.
Lunch? Puzzled Dean watches her drive off. He feels his pockets, knowing he’s missing something. Then the identical roar seem to come closer again; he looks up. The Harley Davidson isn’t exactly coming back, but drives down the 52 into Rochester. She heaves her hand victoriously holding his wallet as she drives by. Dean’s eyes follow her, his mouth half opened, completely flabbergasted. Dirty little thief, she just stole his wallet! He sighs pissed as Zoë and her Harley merge in the busy traffic in the distance. How could she…? When did this...? Stunned he stares and chuckles. Unbelievable. He, a Goddamn hunter, got pick-pocketed. While shaking his head he turns around and walks back to the lobby, muddling softly.
“Son of a bitch”…

:P

New bit! I hope you like it! :hug


Zoë slips her key in the door lock of room 82 and walks in.
“Finally!”, Dean says out loud.
He’s laying down on the bed with his shoes on the spread, his ankles crossed, sitting up against the back wall reading a magazine of which Zoë doesn’t want to know what it contains. Sam is behind his laptop, not surprisingly, [i]2+2 is on my mind[i] by Bob Seger plays softly in the background. Dean smiles happily when he sees the Taco Bell symbol on the paper bags she’s holding in her hand. It might took her a while to get back, but at least she brought in the good stuff. Without responding to his comment she throws him back his wallet with a subtle grin on her face. As if he hasn’t eaten for days, he attacks the taco Zoë hands over, quickly tearing away the paper wrap and taking a big first bite. Zoë isn’t surprised by his manors, she feels like stuffing the entire thing into her mouth herself to be honest. But Sam still can’t help to stare at his brother for a moment and shakes his head disapproving. Dean on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be bothered at all by the glare and lets out a satisfied ‘mmm’.
“Thanks Zo”, Sam also takes a bite from his lunch.
“Don’t thank me”, she nods at Dean. “He’s the one who paid”.

The youngest of the two frowns and looks over to his brother for an explanation. Dean and generous? That’s a big first. He doesn’t need to keep watching him for long before Dean looks away, clearing his throat as silently as he can, apparently ashamed. Zoë watches him, smirking.
“She… ehm”, he pauses, studying his taco for a moment. “she kind of… stole my wallet”.
Sam is just in time to stop himself from bursting into laughter and sniggers. He immediately receives a glare from his brother.
“That explains the new jacket”, Sam says after he swallows his bite.
Surprised Dean looks up, jacket? What jacket? Then he spots the black leather bomber jacket on Zoë, brand new by the looks of it.
“You didn’t”, he reacts shocked.
“Oh, I did”, she smiles at him, clearly enjoying herself.
“How much was it?”, he grinds, trying to keep calm.
“Not sure actually, I didn’t bother to check the prize tag when I slipped your card”, she says, utterly satisfied.
For a moment Dean just glares at her, his upper lip twitches for a moment as frustration builds. What would that jacket be worth? $ 600,- … $ 700,- maybe?

“Oh don’t be such a jerk about it”, she comments when she spots his face. “You have at least a dozen credit cards more hidden in the trunk with that arsenal of yours”.
“How the hell do you know that?”, Dean questions suspicious.
As she takes a bite of her taco she looks up, digs deep down her pocket and tosses him his keys. While she continues eating her lunch, Dean stares at the keys in his hand, trying to figure out how the hell she got those. Then his eyes seek hers.
“You touched my car?”, he asks, holding back.
“Obviously I had to, otherwise I couldn’t have taken these”, she holds up a demon protection amulet, some herbs and a silver blade.
“Give those back, Zoë”, Sam demands.
“Gardner here went through a lot of trouble to get a hold of that dead plant you’re holding there, I’d give it back if I were you”, Dean suggests.
“No, I need it”, she states and she puts it back in her pocket.
Sam glances at her with a puzzled look on his face. Why would she need that herb? He stares at it, two dried out plants tied together with a Devil's shoestring. It only works for one thing…
“Not for yourself, I hope?”, Sam asks carefully.
“A case I’m working on actually, can’t find the damn things anywhere”, she clarifies.

“Keep the damn plant, but I want the rest back, get your own supplies”, Dean gets up and holds up his hand, waiting for Zoë to hand the items over, which she does with a sigh.
He doesn’t thank her, in fact he's not happy with the fact that he has been sniffing around in his car without asking. The silence that follows is awkward, even for Zoë, and she decides to change the subject.
“Back to business, I reckon you updated Sam while I was out?”, she asks Dean.
“Yep, every detail”, he confirms.
“Let me get this straight”, Sam, sitting on the chair near the desk, leans forward.
“We’re sure it’s a shapeshifter, we know it knows you’re a hunter”, he glances at Zoë.
“He does, but he didn’t knew that at the time of the meeting. He knew one of the callers was, but for all he cared I could have been the FBI agent. He shot anyway”, she eats the last bit of taco, chews it and swallows.
“What’s your point?”, Dean asks.
“Say if we go out, pretending to know nothing, he won’t take any risks. He’ll try to kill us both”, Sam understands.
“So what then? Lure him out and shoot the bastard?”, Dean suggested.
“That’s a possibility, if it’s the shapeshifter”, Zoë answers as she walks over to the fridge.

Two puzzled faces follow her as she opens the door and looks inside.
“You’re not making any sense at all”, Dean apparently gives up to follow this conversation and lays back down on the bed again.
“You just said you’re sure it’s a shapeshifter”, Sam states.
“No, you said that. I said I was sure that this case involves a shapeshifter, but you might actually have made an appointment with the real Cliffer guy”, she explains as she takes out three beers.
“You mean that he might not have taken Terry Cliffer yet?”, Sam asks.
Then Dean spots the bottles in Zoë’s hand and interrupts.
“You read my mind”, Dean smirks.
But he receives another confused look from his brother. Dean hasn’t been following the conversation and now he suddenly reads Dean’s mind? Sam chuckles, thinking Dean’s just being smart.
“The beer, goof head”, Dean corrects after noticing his brother’s disapproving glare.
Sam looks back at Zoë, who heaves one of the bottles to him, but he rejects. Dean though, takes his and his brother’s beer without hesitation.

“You’re serious? You haven’t even been up for two hours”, Sam says, astonished by the both of them.
“It’s after 11, that’s fine by me”, Zoë puts the bottle against her mouth and takes a swig.
“Like I said: you read my mind”, Dean heaves his beer and does the same.
“Want anything else, Sammy boy? Choco or a Fristi perhaps?”, Zoë asks with a happy voice and a smirk on her face.
Dean chortles, almost choking in his beer, but when he sees Sam’s glare, he quickly takes another sip.
“Don’t call me Sammy”, he states pissed, but continues their conversation. “Back to the point. So there is a possibility we might actually have a meeting with Terry Cliffer…”.
“Wow, slow down. WE?”
Zoë leans against the table, her hands resting on the edge. Her body language is distant all of a sudden, apparently she wasn’t expecting Sam and Dean to join in on the case.

“You could use our help, Zo”, Dean jumps in with his brother.
“Help? Thanks to the big ‘help’ you’ve been, I couldn’t finish the case last night!”, she snipes.
“That happened, sorry about that. But as long as we’re here, we can help out. Besides, we have an appointment with Cliffer”, Sam argues.
“I’m going to that appointment myself”, she clears up.
A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s a little past three. She still wants to dig a little deeper on her guy. The boys better get going.
“No you’re not, that’s our appointment”, Dean bounces back.
“I don’t care, I was here first”, she crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“Oh come on, how old are you? Five?”, Dean frowns with an attitude.
“Knock it off, you two”, Sam comes between them. “It will be easier to catch that shapeshifter with three hunters than with one, Zoë. Why don’t we go there together, you lay low and when we find the shapeshifter, we shoot it. We know he’ll be in the bar anyway, as Terry Cliffer himself or as someone else imitating him”.
“No, I’m gonna deal with this and I do not need your help”, she makes clear.
“I can see that”, Dean comments, nodding at her shot wound.
“Who caused that again?”, she reminds him of the fact that she got shot because of their phone call.

“Look, whatever happened in the past, we can work together now. The sooner we get this guy the sooner we can all move on.
Zoë sighs irritated, how many times does she have to repeat herself before they get it?
“Listen to me, Sam. I fly solo. End of discussion”, she takes a last sip of her beer and sets the bottle down on the table.
“Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that with you “end of discussion”? Our dad?”, Sam argues back.
She suddenly turns her head, they can almost see the angry fire burning in her eyes as if they just lighted a fume that’s about to explode.
“I’m am NOTHING like your father!”, she spits.
“What the hell is that suppose to mean?”, Dean questions offensive.
“Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester”, she answers with a tone.
“What did he ever do to you? He exercised that evil son of a bitch back to hell, for crying out loud”, Dean gets up and steps towards her.
She chuckles sarcastically, looks away and places her hands in her waist.
“You owe him”, Dean pushes, halting before her.
“I do NOT owe him anything”, she reacts fierce, looking straight at him.

Their eyes almost seem to battle. They stare at each other, waiting for the other to look away, but both Dean and Zoë are determined not to be the first. The anger Zoë feels for John Winchester is enormous, the brothers can both see it.
“I want you out”, Zoë declares without a blink. “And I’m serious”.
“Fine”, Dean grinds, then turns away.
With a sigh Sam gets off the bed and grabs his duffel, Dean is already on his way out. The youngest of the two doesn’t feel like leaving her alone on this case, but Zoë clearly isn’t going to change her mind anytime soon.
“If you need us…”, he tries.
“I don’t”, she immediately intervenes.
“If you do, we’re going down south”, he leaves a card on the bed.
“Don’t bother Sam, the stubborn bitch won’t call us anyway”, Dean holds the door.
She ignores his words. In a quick glance Zoë sees that his phone number is written down on the card, but she doesn’t intend to pick it up and stays by the table. Sam looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t mad like his brother. His eyes ask her to please consider, but all she returns is a cold gaze. Then the door closes behind them and they walk down the hallway.

“Unbelievable…”, Dean says. “Just a damn waste of time”.
“I don’t know, I guess”, Sam responds absent.
Their footsteps echo through the hall as the pas the counter. Sam greets a younger guy who probably took over for the day as they exit Motel 6 and enter the parking lot. The sun is till shining and glisters on the cars passing by on the 52 highway, as their tires rush over the asphalt. Dean walks up to the drivers seat of his Impala.
“Where to?”, he asks, as he opens his door and gets in the car.
“We’re staying in town”, Sam sits down in the passenger seat.
“What? No! We have better things to do, Sam”, Dean argues, still pissed off by the entire situation with Zoë.
“I know we do, but I have a bad feeling about this”, Sam admits.
“On here we go again with the feminine intuition crap…”, Dean sighs.
Sam glares at him, but doesn’t respond to his words. He doesn’t know why, but somehow he feels like he has to look out for Zoë. Stupid of course, she has been fine by herself for five years, why should today be any different?

“Let’s just go, you said something about a possible case in Iowa yesterday. If she can handle this, why bother to stick around if we can hunt something else?”, Dean tests his brother.
“One night, we book a crappy motel somewhere, check on her and if she nails it, we leave. She doesn’t even have to know we’re there”, Sam suggests.
“I thought you were so determined to find Dad?”
Dean looks aside at his brother, waiting for a response.
“I still am, but we have no lead, not even a single clue were he is”, Sam brings to notice.
“Hey, that’s what I’ve been telling ya, but it didn’t stop you from looking. You were the one who was all “I gotta find Dad, it’s the only thing I can think of” and now you’re ditching him for some chick?”, Dean bounces back.
“I’m not ditching him for some chick!”, Sam denies offended.
“Ah come on, you like her and you know it”, Dean carries on.
“I do not like her, Dean! Jess just DIED”, he clears up mad as if Dean doesn’t know.

Dean looks away and turns the ignition. As he flips the key the engine starts and the V8 motor under the hood groans softly and satisfying, as if it’s waiting for Dean to back up and hit the road.
“You said it yourself, Dad doesn’t want to be found. I don’t see how it’s a bad thing to spend the night here, unless you have some kind of lead I didn’t know about”, Sam suggests.
“Fine, whatever. As long as that motel has a bed. I really need to get some sleep”, he puts his Chevrolet in reverse and looks over his shoulder as he guides the car out of it’s parking spot.
“Feeling alright?”, Sam checks.
“Yeah, just tired, need painkillers, that’s all”, he muddles, as he sets the car in forward motion.
Sam gets out his laptop and starts up his satellite internet, holding his phone in the other hand. He quickly googles a list of Motels and Hotels in Rochester, but he knows it’s gonna take a while before he finds a room during the poker event this weekend.





Let me know what you think!

“No, it doesn’t matter, any room. Alright. Thanks, Sir”, Sam removes his phone from his ear and presses the disconnect button.
That’s settled then, they have a room for the night. He’s not sure if Dean’s gonna be happy about the type of room, it being expensive as well, but at least they have a bed. He closes the screen of his laptop and puts it away in his backpack besides his feet, then he rests his head against his seat. The green neon of the pharmacy cross up the street flickers rhythmically. Dean left the engine running and The Passenger by Iggy Pop & The Stooges is playing on Laser 101.7. Sam has the urge to change channel; Rock is more Dean’s kind of thing than his. But as always, he doesn’t, knowing that if he would, he’d receive a - Dude, did you change channel? – comment when his brother gets back. He closes his eyes for a moment, but makes sure he doesn’t fall asleep. Man, he’s so tired. He feels like he could sleep for days, but a nightmare would probably spoil his moment of rest like they have for the last month. He sighs, listening to the cars driving by and the footsteps on the sidewalk next to their parking spot. Then he looks outside, dreamy, watching people hasten to their destination. Ordinary people, men, women, children. All with a certain goal, they all seem to know where they’re heading. Businesspeople in neat suits, mothers out shopping, kids hanging around after school. The lives of most of them are so simple, they don’t have a clue what’s really going on, what other world they’re living parallel to.

He remembers brief moments of the time he didn’t knew, he was still a kid back then. But if he had the smallest hunch of what he knows now, he would have never begged his brother to tell him. He watches a young couple walk by, clearly in love. The guy’s biggest problem; the father in law doesn’t like the kid dating his daughter. Her biggest problem; she’s not sure if he’ll stay with her if she tells him she doesn’t want to have sex yet. Minor problems, compared to staying alive while fighting demons, ghosts, shapeshifters and other supernatural creatures, trying to find their missing Dad who’s probably hunting down a demon who killed their Mom and his girlfriend. He closes his eyes again and breaths out; what a wonderful world. Out of nowhere a loud bang echoes through the car. Sam almost jumps out of his skin and looks outside startled, expecting something like a car crash, but instead he sees his smirking brother with his fist still resting against the window. Sam rolls his eyes while Dean walks around the car and gets in.
“You were out, man”, he grins as he opens the bag.
“No I wasn’t”, Sam denies. “Did you get something?”
“Vicodin”, Dean shows of his meds, pops one out of the package and takes it without even drinking water to swallow it.
“Don’t you need a proscription for that kind of stuff?”, Sam contemplates.
“Yeah, but the pharmacist was hot”, Dean grins, waving a napkin with a cell number written on it in the air.
Sam shakes his head and chuckles; typical.

“Shall I drive? I’m quite sure you’re not allowed to drive a car when you had that stuff”, he suggests.
Dean glares aside as if he just made the weirdest proposal ever.
“Dude, we face dead and death on weekly basics and you’re worried about my driving skills after one tincy wincy Vicodin pill?”, he glances in his back mirror before he turns his car back on the road.
“You’ve got a point”, Sam admits.
“Found a place to stay?”, Dean checks from his behalf.
“Yeah, some shady place downtown, close to the clinic”, Sam answers.
The black Chevrolet approaches traffic lights on the corner of S. Broadway and 2nd Street SW, as Dean looks aside at his brother, his left hand resting on the wheel.
“Where to?”
“Take a right here, then the second right and a final fifth left. It’s not that far”, Sam explains.
Dean does as told, but glares at Sam for a moment after he accelerates and makes the turn.
“What are you? A psychic extended with GPS?”, he chuckles.
“It surprises me that you know that word”, Sam bounces back, pretending to be surprised.
“Shut up, geek”, Dean cuts off with a slight grin.

Not even five minutes later, they park the car in a small parking lot, next to a three story red brick building what seems to have been a warehouse once. Now purple neon light flickers above the entrance: Deep Purple Inn.
“If the place is as good as the music, this is gonna be a hell of a stay”, Dean comments satisfied, glancing through the windshield.
“I though you just needed some sleep?”, Sam refers while he gets out and looks over the top of the car.
“I still do, but Stacy gets off at nine”, Dean closes the door with a smirk on his face.
“Stacy?”, Sam asks puzzled.
“Keep up, man. Vicodin-girl!”, his brother tips, pretending to be annoyed as he picks up the pharmacy bag from the back seat.
“Right, and your point?”, Sam asks.
He looks aside at his brother while they enter the motel. The Inn is well decorated, not surprisingly with purple as the main theme. The retro styled place is young and fresh, completely opposite of what the Deep Purple Inn looks from the outside, except for the neon lights of course.
“My point is that while you are out checking on Zoë, I’m gonna have some fun”, Dean clears up.
He leans his left arm on the counter, smiles and raises his brows as his eyes sparkle; seems like he’s gonna get lucky tonight.

“Can I help you guys?”
A young punk, probably in his mid twenties turns his office chair and faces the brothers. He’s wearing casual clothing with a gillette, his black hair is spiked with shiny gel.
“Yeah, we just called in for a room. Is it still open?”, Sam checks.
“You probably talked to my manager, but yeah”, he nods. “We have a room left”.
“We’ll take it”, Sam decides as he slips a creditcard.
The guy behind the counter gets up and takes the card. Impatiently Sam checks his phone for the time; it’s 4 PM. Zoë’s meeting Terry Cliffer in an hour and a half and he wants to be there before she does. His brother on the other hand already seems to have forgotten about his argument with their fellow hunter, as he steals his fifth caramel toffee from the counter, puts it in his mouth and looks around if no one saw it.
“So, you just drove back in from Canada or somethin’?”, the counter guy asks, as he passes the card back to Sam.
“Beg pardon?”, he asks puzzled.
The young guy captures Dean’s attention as well, who has about the same facial expression on his face as Sam, only he is having some difficulty chewing his toffee.

They won’t receive an answer through, at least not a direct one.
“Here you go”, the young guy puts a gift basket rapped up in glittery transparent paper on the counter.
He places the key of room 301 next to it as Sam reads the card which says: Just married. Dean frowns when he detects a pair of handcuffs inside, upholstered with purple fluffy fur.
“What is this?”, Sam looks from the gift basket to the guy behind the counter, a bit shocked.
“You just got married, right?”, the counter guy checks.
Dean chokes in his toffee and coughs as the youngest of the Winchester stares from one to the other flabbergasted. What did he just say?
“Dude! We’re brothers!”, Dean corrects with raspy voice.
“Is that legal these days?”, the young guy returns disgusted.
“What? Ew, no. We’re not married, we just want a place to spend the night”, Sam clears up.
“Nice going, Sam. That sounded even more gross”, the oldest of the two comments.
“You do know you rented the bridal suite, Mr. Gillan?”, he now carefully asks, reading the false name from the screen which he just got from Sam’s credit card.

“You rented the bridal suite?!”, Dean cries out.
“It was the only room I could find”, Sam answers.
“He rented the bridal suite”, Dean rolls his eyes and turns around.
“You brothers still want it?”, the guy behind the counter makes sure with a tone, clearly not impressed by all the fuss.
Sam waits for Dean to approve, it doesn’t take long before he sighs, signaling that they still want it. Sam takes the key and is followed by Dean, who snatches the gift basket of the counter as he walks by. When he receives a questioning look from the counter guy, he turns around to face him.
“I’m expecting company later this evening. Might be needing those”, he points out the handcuffs in the goody bag. “Her name is Stacy somethin’. Make sure she gets in”.
“Sure will”, he promises with a light nod.
While shaking his head he catches up with Sam, who’s waiting for him at the staircase. He glares at the gift basket and back at Dean, wondering what on earth he would want with that.
“Don’t worry, it’s for Stacy. Not for you, sweety pie”, Dean muddles, as he begins his climb to the third floor.

Sam chuckles, he almost forgot about that. Strange enough, Dean isn’t all happy with the fact that he has a cute pharmacist over for the evening, but is still bugged about them being called gay.
“Can you believe that guy?”, his elder brother continues.
Dean turns around at the top of the stairs and looks down on Sam.
“Come on, do I look gay to you?!”
Sam halts and looks up, he can’t help it to smile. Although Dean does his best to be all manly and tough, the thatched basket hanging from his arm gives a different idea. Dean notices Sam’s glare at the basket, rolls his eyes and moves on, mumbling "don’t answer that". A few stairs later, they arrive at room 301. Sam turns the key and opens the door, revealing the room for Dean. He lifts his eyebrows as his brother switches on the lights and walks into the room. Purple. The walls, the carpet, the sheets, the doors, everything is colored in different shades of purple. Several spotlights look down at them from the ceiling like tentacles of an octopus, abstract paintings with purple accents decorate the wall. The only thing that isn’t painted that color is the ceiling, which is in fact a giant mirror. The bedposts are made of steel and reach up to the ceiling and seem to go on into their reflection. Small cushions are carefully made up on the bedspread. Dean sets the basket down on the main table near the window, checks out the ceiling, the huge bed and it’s poles, imagining what he could see Stacy do hanging from on or with those and grins.

“This is awesome”, he concludes.
“There’s only one bed”, Sam notices.
“Hey Einstein, it’s a bridal suite. Not sure what you had in mind for your wedding night, but if you were thinking separate beds, you have a problem”, Dean laughs, walking up to the bed.
There’s no clever answer following up and Dean looks aside, apparently he was expecting one from Sam. When he sees his brother’s face, he realizes he just hit his weak spot. His smile disappears, Sam probably pictured his wedding night already, since Jessica was his longtime girlfriend. Not that he had asked her to marry him yet, but he knows Sam, he pictures his future. This might have slipped his mind once or twice.
“Sorry man”, Dean apologizes. “But now that we started on that subject; you don’t sleep, right?”
Sam closes the door behind them and turns at his brother. He decides to let it go.
“Right, not much anyway”, he answers hesitating, not sure where Dean is going.
“Good, then I’ll take this baby”, Dean sighs and falls down on the king size bed.
As he lands, a splashing sound comes from inside the mattress as Dean bounces up and down as if he’s riding small waves in a pool. His eyes light up as the eyes of a kid would do; it’s a waterbed.
“This is epic!”, he cries out, rocking the bed.
Sam chuckles and shakes his head, as Dean folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes.

“So, what are your plans for tonight?”, he asks his younger brother.
Sam checks his watch; it’s 4:15. Zoë will be at the bar probably in an hour or so.
“See how that conversation goes, check on Cliffer’s place maybe, it depends”, he tells, still considering his thoughts.
“Whatever, as long as you stay out, I’m good”, Dean mumbles.
As Dean falls asleep, Sam takes out his laptop and plugs it in. He decides to leave at 4:30, that gives him fifteen minutes to crack the Rochester website he was working on earlier. If he can get his hands on some recent blueprints and satellite photo’s, he could find a patron that isn’t visible on the older maps. He opens a few programs on his laptop and after a bit of work, he manages to get into the back of the website. Just before 4:30, he double clicks the button ‘download’ and his computer starts downloading a zipfile which should contain the newest information about the area. That should do it, but for now, he will make sure Zoë’s alright. Why? He’s not exactly sure, but he has a feeling he should. He mistrusted that ‘feminine intuition crap’ – as Dean likes to call it – before and Jessica ended up dead because of that. A hard lesson to learn and although Zoë isn’t nearly as important to him as Jess, there’s something about her that feels familiar, that he needs to protect. He gets up from his chair and walks to the door. Before he leaves, he glances at the bed. Dean is fast asleep and as Zo said, he would need to set off a bomb to wake him up. Sam’s not sure where he will stay tonight, but he can worry about that later. For now, he has some business to take care off. He leaves the room, closes the door behind him and heads off.