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Citaat:

Episode 1: 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 sprinkling 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 found 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 give 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 105 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 alongside 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 than 50% of the houses aren’t connected to the sewer system but have their own septor 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 at a dead end.

“Come on, girl. What do your guts tell ya”, she whispers to herself, while checking out the satellite photo and maps.
Her eyes capture 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, are now missing. They could be dead, but they could also be captured someplace 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…

Citaat:

“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 engine 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 eyes.
“We’re not even certain if that’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 at 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 him 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 checks 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 beside 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?”, irritated 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?”, Same 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 instantly 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 whining”, she says with motherly voice.
“Well 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 looks around and takes a 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 shoulder hit”, she reacts bored, putting her gun away.
“Don’t you check your target before you fire a bullet at it?”, he looks over his 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, I’ve got my 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 mixtape 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 105.
He follows the single red light in the distance and speeds up, before she gets 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 exciting.

Citaat:

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 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 his brother, so that the man behind the counter doesn’t notices 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 collogues 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 in town 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 fix 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 stitch 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 Walkers”, 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.
“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…