"You know, I really don't think we need a baby sitter, Bobby."

Dean kicked at a small pebble near his boot and let out what must have been the most audible sigh ever heard.

"Yeah, Bobby," Sam agreed. "I don't think we need any extra help with this case. We've always done fine on our own."

Bobby coasted his wheelchair down the ramp at the front door and joined the boys on the porch. He sipped from the coffee mug in his hand and let out a sigh of his own. "You boys haven't been on a real hunt in months," he began.

Dean opened his mouth, but Bobby stopped him with a simple, raised hand. "I know, I know. You've been busy with the end of the world and having an archangel on your butt, but that's no excuse. You've gotten rusty."

Sam nudged Dean and smiled smugly.

"Both of you," Bobby added, quickly. Sam frowned. "So who is it we're waiting for?" he asked.

"Another hunter," Bobby answered from behind his mug. "A specialist, you might say."

"A specialist?" Dean scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean? This case is just a crazy, demon possessed, eight-year-old, little girl. What's so special about that?"

"You boys aren't always great with kids," Bobby chuckled. "This hunter only works with kids and their families."

"Well, if this hunter's so great, then how come we've never heard of him before, Bobby?" Sam asked. "Plus, you've never even mentioned him before now."

Bobby smiled to himself, unwilling to correct Sam in his assumption that the hunter they were waiting for was a male. In fact, she was a girl. Well, a woman now, but Bobby always had trouble admitting that she was actually grown up. It was always easier to remember her as the awkward, pretty little fifteen-year-old girl she'd been when he had first met her seven years ago.

"This hunter is way under the radar. Doesn't keep contact with any other hunters, works alone, and keeps to…" Bobby paused, not wanting to give too much away too quickly. "Himself. And like I said, he specializes in cases dealing with kids. But he's good at what he does. Really good. He gets in, does exactly what needs to be done, and moves on to the next case. Simple as that."

Bobby hoped that would be enough for them. But as always, Sam needed more.

"Why just kids and families?" he asked, joining his brother in kicking nearby rocks.

"He has his reasons," Bobby answered, simply. "They're personal."

Dean seemed to understand that. Truth was, he didn't know of any hunter who wasn't in the business because of something personal. But if he was going to be working with this guy, and he had something to hide, Dean certainly wanted to know about it.

"What's his name?" he asked.

Bobby took another sip of coffee and thought for a moment. "Ken," he finally grunted.

McKenna, really. Kenna for short, but the boys didn't need to know that yet.

After hearing the details of the boys' struggle with this case, Bobby had called her immediately. After at least twenty minutes of arguing, he finally convinced her to come. But of course there was one stipulation. Bobby was to do what he had always done: keep his mouth firmly shut about who she was.

And he had done that for the past seven years. No other hunter on the face of the earth, besides him, knew who she was. As far as the other hunters were concerned, she didn't even exist.

And despite the boys' constant argument that they had no qualms with female hunters, Bobby knew they would immediately judge McKenna's ability as a hunter because of her gender. Especially Dean.

So for now, McKenna would be a man named Ken.

Off in the distance, the three men heard the loud rumble of an engine. It was an impressive motor, whatever it was. A roaring beast mixed with the humble purr of a kitten.

Dean smiled and jerked his head at Sam, silently daring him to guess the vehicle's make and model based on the engine's sound, alone.

"Seventy-one Mustang," he guessed with an uncaring shrug, mainly answering to simply appease Dean and his superior knowledge of cars.

"Dead wrong, little brother," Dean smiled. "That would be the heavenly sound of a 1970 Chevelle. Awesome car. You might even call it a cousin to my baby." Dean nodded toward the Impalla and for a moment, Sam wondered if his brother was going to blow a kiss to his beloved car. He shook his head with a chuckle.

"You're both wrong," Bobby piped up. "It's a 1989 Harley. A dang motorcycle, you idjits."

Sam and Dean looked up and waited for the ever-nearing vehicle to come into view. A blur whizzed behind the trees lining Bobby's driveway. It was much too slim and far too small to be a car. Bobby had been right and both boys let out a defeated sigh.

They looked on with interest as a gorgeous, mint condition Harley Davidson pulled up in front of the house.

Dean let out an impressed whistle and stood to his feet. "Well, I like this guy already," he smiled.

The helmeted rider turned off the engine, steadied the bike on its kickstand, and easily dismounted. Bobby's mouth broke into a grin that neither of the brothers recognized. He shoved his coffee mug into Sam's empty hands and quickly wheeled his way down the porch ramp and into the driveway.

Sam and Dean looked up and watched as the rider pulled off his helmet. A long mass of thick, blonde hair shook free and fell around…her shoulders.

It was a woman. Bobby had lied.

"Bobby, you lyin', no good, son of a…" Dean's curse faded away as he watched the girl toss the helmet aside and run towards Bobby. She dropped to her denim-clad knees and wrapped her arms around Bobby's shoulders, wheel chair and all. The boys knew they were talking, but couldn't hear their words. And for some reason, they knew they obviously weren't supposed to.

Dean frowned at Sam as he felt his chest tighten. He had been wrong about this hunter being a guy, but he had been right about something else. Especially with Bobby's ability to lie about everything, right to their faces.

Apparently this chick had an awful lot to hide.