"I'm telling you, man, that Tunisian girl? Knock. Out." Dean laughed contentedly as he and Sam pored over a stack of files in their Cincinnati hotel room. "Deep red lipstick and a slit in that smokin' LBD that came all the way up to her hip." Dean raised his eyebrows and smirked.

Sam only scoffed. "Would you please work on finding a case and not some girl you met at a club?"

"Oh, I didn't just meet her there, Sammy, I-"

"Enough." The tired look on Sam's face was almost enough to shut Dean up.

"Don't be such a drag. I'm just tryin' to spice up your life. It's not like you've got any hookups to talk about."

"Dean. Please."

"Alright, alright. All I'm sayin' is if looks could kill..." He whistled, but it trailed off as his eyes made contact with the paper in his hands. "Woah."

"What's that?" Sam shifted in his seat to get a better look.

"Check this out," Dean pointed at a sentence in the middle of the newspaper he was holding and read it aloud. "The missing teen, thirteen, disappeared after a neighbor's reports of heavy footsteps followed by loud thumping noises heard in the family's home. Police searched the house and found no signs of forced entry or struggle."

Sam sat back and folded his hands. "So what? Could be some minor kidnapper. Not necessarily supernatural."

"Get this: house intact, no forced entry, muh muh muh. But- family moved out six hours after the tragedy, falling off the grid."

"Well, where was this?"

"Hm..." Dean scanned the paper. "Carbondale, Illinois. I say let's go pay 'em a visit."

Ten minutes later, the Impala roared to life and Dean shot the rear-view mirror a huge grin. "Love hearing you purr, baby," he said as his hand patted the door through the opened window.

Rolling into Carbondale at just after seven o'clock that night, talking to an old waitress set the two on the path to their target house.

The sun hung low, making the sky an odd bruised color when they reached the two-story house. It looked about a hundred years old, Dean remarked, having been recently dilapidated with the turn of events. Knocking wasn't met with an answer, so they climbed into the house through a nearby shattered window.

Searching returned very little evidence: the first floor yielded nothing, and on the second floor, the pair found signs of hurried packing and one window with a broken line of salt in front of it.

"What the hell? There's nothing here. Evidence, gone. Absolutely nonexistent," Sam said, throwing his arms up in defeat. "I mean," he sighed, "what do we do now? We got nothing."

At the sound of footsteps, the pair looked up at the ceiling, then at one another.

They busted through the french doors onto the second-story deck, guns raised, to find a woman on the roof, armed with a .45 ACP and dressed in leather, head-to-toe.

Her gun lowered as she began to speak in a thick, dusky Eastern accent. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Dean's shotgun stayed pointed at her head, ready to fire the second her eyes changed. "Y'know, I could ask you the same thing, princess."

"God," she scoffed, realizing what he was thinking, "put your damn gun down. You're the guy I met last week in Cincy at The Mad Frog."

Sam looked at him expectantly, waiting for his memory to confirm what she'd said.

Soon enough, Dean recalled the woman's face and obeyed her order. "Oh, man, do I remember you," he purred sweetly. But his mind was racing as he tried to recall her name. "I wanna say it starts with an.... An H?"

Sam whacked his arm. "Dude, you can remember that she's Tunisian, but not her name? C'mon. That's a new low, even for you."

"Well, it's not like she remembers mine!" He turned to her. "Do you?" He asked, slightly embarrassed.

"Of course I do. I never forget a name, Peter."

The brothers exchanged a glance, Sam annoyed and Dean ashamed, for a moment before Sam sighed.

"Why don't you come back with us to our motel? Seems like you and Peter here," he said, punching Dean in the shoulder a little too hard, "have a lot of explaining to do."

She scoffed loudly. "Are you absolutely out of your mind? You want me to get in that rusted piece of junk with a guy who can't remember my name and his mulleted cousin and go back to some sketchy motel that might not even exist?"

"Excuse you," Dean exclaimed. "That sweet '67 Chevy Impala may have some rust, but it is not a piece of junk, sweetheart." He caught the look on his brother's face and stated halfheartedly, "Oh, and don't be so cruel. I think Sammy's got more of an overgrown Bieber than a mullet."

The woman shoved her free hand into her jacket pocket and let the dark, soft waves of her hair fall over her shoulder as she tilted her head. "You said his name was Lee."

Sam gave Dean an exasperated look, which garnered a shrug in response.

"Nevertheless, I do want an explanation as to why you're here. Have you been stalking me, Peter?"

"No, no, absolutely not," Dean said, raising his arms in defense. "I'm not that ONS guy."

She crossed her arms, the ACP still cocked in her left hand. "Then get in my car. I'll follow you in yours to my motel, where we'll have a chat."

"What? You think you're driving my baby? No, no, no. No way in hell."

Sam yanked Dean, who protested loudly, by the collar a few feet away.

"Dude, we have to find out why she's here with a gun and salt."

Sam pointed with his eyes to the slanted shingles under the woman's feet. A small scattering of salt had fallen from a pouch tied to her belt and had formed by her feet.

"She knows. She's not here to find out if the place is haunted, she's here to find what took that kid."

Dean ripped away from his grasp.

"Fine," he called to the woman. "Fine. You take her and I'll take-" He looked around, caught sight of the only other car in the vicinity, and groaned. "Whatever that is."

She gave a small laugh. "It's okay to say the word Corolla. Now, head to The Heritage. Don't worry, your old thing won't have a single scratch."

Dean turned to head back inside. "Jesus. I just hope she's not a liar."