Battle Creek, Michigan

The pretty brunette stood by the bar; obviously uncomfortable at being alone in the meat market. Various men had tried chatting her up, to no avail. Around her, men and women got ready to do the mating dance; some getting lucky, some not so. Alcohol helped anyway.

She crossed her arms, nursing the martini she had ordered ages ago, her fingers fiddling with her mobile phone. When it rang, she picked it up immediately.

"Where the hell are you?" she snapped into the phone. An indistinct voice on the other end of the line answered.

The brunette rolled her eyes. Obviously the answer wasn't what she wanted.

"This was your idea, you know," she retorted into the receiver, biting her lip.

She sighed. Nat wasn't going to come running over just because she threw a hissy fit.

"Fine. I'll just go home."

She paused, listening to the reassuring tones on the other side.

"Sure, Chicago for the weekend sounds good. I'll talk to you later."

Feeling slightly mollified, Sara Weis tucked her cell phone in her purse and looked at her watch. It was just past 11pm. If she left now, she could catch David Letterman.

"Good night, Mike," she said to the bartender.

"Nat not coming?" he asked.

"What do you think?" she retorted, smiling. "Anyway, I'm off. I'll see ya next week."

Mike nodded. "You tell that friend of yours she owes me a date, Sara."

Sara laughed. All these years and Mike still had a crush on Nathalie. Picking up her purse, she waved good bye to him, making her way slowly past assorted men and women, enjoying their weekend.

It was early November but unusual for Michigan, it wasn't freezing. Nevertheless, she pulled her coat closer to her and walked briskly to her car.

She had parked it a few blocks away; the bar not having a dedicated parking area. There weren't that many people about but that didn't bother her. This was her town.

Which was why the sudden change shocked her, turning the familiar into the unfamiliar. Sara felt it before she heard it. The temperature seemed to have plummeted suddenly, her breath coming out as steam. She looked around, curious.

There was no wind, nothing.

Damn Michigan weather, she thought. She picked up her pace anyway; for some reason, she felt afraid. After what felt like hours, she saw her red Prius, looking ghostly under the streetlight.

Her fingers trembling slightly, she dug in her purse for her keys, while berating herself for being silly.

But she couldn't shake off the feeling that someone – something – was watching her. Wanted to harm her.

She pressed the unlock button and her car beeped in response. Hah! Take that, horror movies! They always make the heroine drive an old car that requires keys to unlock, she thought. Silly.

She got into her car and breathed a sigh of relief. She laughed, feeling stupid for being so afraid for nothing.

She shook her head and put on her seat belt. She adjusted her rearview mirror and that was when she saw the woman. Pale and ghostly; she had a red gash around her throat.

"You left us …." Sara wasn't sure if she heard it, or whether the words arrived in her mind without the virtue of vocalization.

She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. A red gash appeared as if by magic over her throat; spilling a dark red liquid over her white blouse.

Sputtering, she slumped over the steering wheel. The horn blared, a lonesome sound in the cold November night.

"Agents Barrett and Waters," a deep voice intoned.

Nathalie Merrill looked up. Two men in suits were talking to the officer manning the desk. Two tall and very fit men from what she could see. Her eyes took in every detail; from their height – one easily 6'4 while the other stood at 6'1 – the width of their shoulders to their muscular legs, which their trousers could not disguise.

Her eyes rested on their cowboy boots.

She looked up again, only to see the shorter one, the one who had spoken, staring at her. She caught her breath.

He was gorgeous. His eyes were green with long lashes any woman would die for, his lips full. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, adding to the appeal. He wore a mischievous grin, and once he was sure that she knew he had caught her checking him out, he winked.

Nathalie blushed angrily and looked away.

Dean Winchester grinned again. The honey blonde sitting on the wooden bench at the station looked feisty, she might be an interesting distraction once they solved this case.

An elbow to his ribs brought his attention to his brother, Sam. He looked meaningfully at Dean, gesturing to the officer.

"The Sara Weis case?" the officer asked.

Dean nodded.

"Why are the Feds interested in a carjacking case?" the officer asked.

Dean cleared his throat. "We think it might be related to a case we're working on in Ohio. Thought the guy might have fled to Michigan."

The officer shrugged. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but we already got the guy who did it," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," the officer replied, showing the two the case file. "Copped to everything."

Sam browsed through the file.

"But not the murder," he pointed out.

The officer sighed. "We found the victim's purse, plus some stuff from her car when we arrested him. Of course he's not gonna admit to killing the girl; he's on parole – for another carjacking."

"Do you mind if we talked to him anyway? He might have seen our guy," Dean said. The officer stared at the two and nodded, sighing in exasperation.

"Come this way," he said, opening the barricade.

Dean snuck one last look at the honey blonde on the bench, checking out the long, shapely legs that her skirt could not cover. She was not looking at him; instead she was scribbling something in her notebook.

Nathalie finished writing down everything she heard the officer telling the agents.

Agents, my ass, she scoffed. No FBI agent went around in cowboy boots. But she was intrigued. These two seemed unwilling to accept the official version of Sara's death. Maybe they could help her.

She blamed herself for Sara's death. After all, she was the one to stand Sara up that night. They had made a date to hang out at the bar; a much-needed R&R after Sara's fiancé dumped her for being "too boring". Sara had been heartbroken.

Nathalie had wanted to take her out to cheer her up. Sara had been moping for days in her sweatpants – it was so unlike the confident, cheery girl Nathalie knew that she didn't take no for an answer.

And as luck would have it, she got called in to work when she was supposed to meet Sara. She thought she'd wrap up her story fast, but it required some heavy re-writing and editing, and before she knew it, she was pulling an all-nighter.

And while she was busy re-writing her story, Sara was being killed.

Nathalie bit her lip, willing the tears to go away. She had cried enough when she heard about Sara's death five days ago. She felt – knew—she was guilty. And she was angry, with herself, the world and the police for easily dismissing her best friend's death as an "opportunistic crime".

She didn't believe that Tom Jolson was guilty. She had known the guy in high school. He was a loser and a juvenile delinquent, but most of all, he was a rat. He always avoided confrontations, preferring to get back at people only when there was no danger to him. There was no way he could have hidden in the car and killed Sara.

She had to find a way to talk to him. She had asked the police, but they had refused.

"Wait for the arraignment," they said, smirking, always happy to turn down a journalist's request. But there was a little sympathy mixed in too, knowing the dead girl had been her best friend.

Well, if the police weren't going to help her, she'd have to find another way. And like an answer to her prayer, the two of them had walked in.

Nathalie looked at her shoes. They were Gucci stilettos, very expensive and one of her favorites. She sighed.

Ah well, it's for a good cause, she thought.

"I didn't do it," Tom Jolson sniveled. The man looked like a trapped rat, cowering in his chair. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"I admit, I took her purse, but that's it, I swear," he said.

Sam pointed to the case file. "They police also found her iPod and her jewelry when they arrested you."

Tom hung his head. "OK, maybe other stuff too. But, I swear, I didn't kill her. She was already dead when I found her."

Dean sighed. "Why don't we take it from the top? And don't spare any details, no matter how weird."

Tom took a deep breath. "I was just hanging around the area, minding my own business –"

"Doing what?" Dean barked. Tom looked embarrassed.

Peeing, Sam mouthed. Dean nodded. Meh, been there, done that. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

"Go on," he said.

"Then I saw her, walking to her car. She was practically running."

"Was there anyone after her?"

Tom shook his head.

"And then what?"

Tom hesitated. "You want to hear everything?"

Sam and Dean nodded.

"Then it got really cold. I know it's November and this is Michigan, but it was a weird kind of cold."

The guys sat up, interested. Tom looked at them, trying to gauge their response. None was forthcoming. Tom sighed and continued.

"And then I heard a horn. It kept going on. I went to the car and that's when I saw her. Her throat cut, her head slumped over the steering wheel, her eyes wide open and staring," Tom said, his eyes wide with the recollection.

Sam kept the guy on track. "And that's when you took her items?"

Tom gulped. "Yeah." He shrugged. "Well, she didn't need them anymore."

Dean bit down a retort. There was nothing he'd like better than to punch this rat in the face, but he held his temper. Guy's scum but he was innocent scum.

Sam asked Tom kindly, "In the report, you said you saw someone?"

Tom hesitated. Sam added, "We may be able to help."

"OK," Tom said haltingly. "There was someone. I told the police but they didn't believe me."

Sam gave him an encouraging look.

"I thought I saw someone at the back of the car. A woman. But when I looked again, she was gone."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"The police only found your fingerprints in the car," Sam pointed out.

Tom slumped against the chair, hopeless. "I know," he said, looking miserable. "It doesn't make any sense."

"What did she look like, this woman?" Dean asked.

Tom frowned. "That's the weird part. I thought it looked sort of like her, the dead girl."