"Did you call Jody back and let her know we're here?" Sam asked as he brought his bags into the motel room. The Noces Motel was like all the others; same crappy places, just a different decor. White Spanish arches held up the roof over the manager's office, and the room's decorations would have made a Marachi band happy. Dean would be excited to see the magic fingers coin box between the beds; Sam was just happy the place boasted free wi-fi. He dropped the laptop case on the chair by the small table.

"Done. She's calling her friend to tell him to expect us. The sheriff's office is not far. We could head on over, see what we're up against," Dean replied as he plopped the duffle bag on the bed. Jody Mills had called them two days before with a head's up on some weirdness in Southwestern Pennsylvania; six bodies, drained of blood, ripped apart, all in a span of four weeks. The deaths reeked of vampires; since the final leviathans had been rounded up and disposed of, the monsters had been out in full force. Fear of Dick Roman and his minions had kept a lot of the other predators at bay; their demise meant the rats could come out to play. This vampire situation was par for the course.

"Sounds like a plan," Dean responded, unzipping his duffle to get his FBI suit and badge. "Let's see what our local leo has to say and then find some vamps to kill." He smiled as he kicked his boots off, anxious to get back to the fight.

"Thanks for coming," Deputy Martin Cosgrow said. He walked them through the office and down the stairs towards the morgue. "The last vics came in two days ago. They were found in the basement of the Olin Fine Arts Center on the W & J campus, in one of the storage rooms." The deputy was a young-looking man in his late 30s who kept himself in shape, and he moved briskly to one of the body drawers along the wall of the cold room. The metal slab slid open with its grisly contents. With a flick, he pulled back the sheet to reveal the body. "They were student workers, down there to organize some scenery and costumes. Greg Morgan and Andrew Little. Their necks were completely torn out."

Dean shared a look with his brother; the wounds were clearly the work of a vamp. "Jody said the bodies were drained of blood?"

"And there was little blood at the scene. Coroner's theory is that someone drained the blood and took it with them, though no one has a good answer for why anyone would do that and tear out the throat." The deputy spread the sheet back over the dead man's face. "A far reach for an explanation, if you ask me. I've known Jody since college; her husband and I went to school together. Ever since his and her son's death, well, I guess I've known there could be other reasons for the weird cases."

"The others were like this?" Sam prompted when the officer seemed to lose himself in thought, worry furrowing his brow. He nodded to them and the body disappeared as the deputy slid it back into the wall.

"The first was Robin Benet, a local farmer. His wife found him behind his barn. Then the whole Ambrose family," he paused and cleared his throat. "That one was the worst. Marley was just 8-years-old. She went to school with my youngest. They were all torn up, like the perps tortured them."

"And the destruction? Was that just at the last place?" Dean asked.

"Nothing at the Benet farm. He was found outside by the barn. But the Ambrose basement was tossed and walls ripped out in places. It's strange, like they were looking for something. But none of the victims had anything in common, other than living here. Jody said you guys handle these kinds of, um, cases."

"Yeah, strange cases are us," Dean said. "Can you give us the addresses of the other sites?"

Dean pulled the Impala up to the old farmhouse and cut the engine. The two-story white clapboard was a classic, despite the fact that the house had been added on to over the years. A broad roof covered the earliest section where the front door was perched in the middle of a wide porch. A set of wooden stairs, whose white paint job had seen better days, led up to the porch where honest-to-goodness wicker rockers sat. The brothers climbed up and knocked. When no one answered, Sam peeked into one of the front windows; there was no movement that he could see.

"I'll check around back," he said. "You want to take the barn?"

"Oh, yeah, I love barns. Maybe I'll find a cute farm girl in the hay loft," Dean wiggled his eyebrows at his brother. "Nothing like some daisy duke shorts to make my day." Sam watched him as he moved down the steps, glad to see his brother's good mood then headed around back of the house towards the garage.

The barn was perfect red Americana, with a hayloft door up above the entrance, complete with a braced beam that housed a rope and pulley to haul bales up; inside, horse stalls lined the walls, about half-filled with well-cared for animals. Dean had a soft spot for horses, mainly because he loved cowboy movies and liked to think of himself as a gunslinger from the Old West. A couple neighed softly as he moved by, checking out the interior for any signs of the tragedy that had happened. Out the back door was a fenced in riding ring; the deputy had said the body was found in the far corner of the ring, and Dean headed that way, but there was nothing to see except what might have been a few dark spots on the tamped down earth. The whole farmstead was out of town and isolated; the vamps might have chosen this guy simply because he was an easy target.

As he headed back through the barn, Dean paused just outside the doors, surveying the house and driveway. The main road was invisible from here and the house had no view of the back of the barn; perfect seclusion for an attack.

"Pretty isolated spot, isn't it?" A voice said, coming from above him. Dean jerked around, jumped back a step as he yanked the pistol from his waistband, looking up at the hayloft door. Leaning against the jamb was a man dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt. He had black boots, dirty and scuffed from use, and his jeans were snug, but worn, well-used and lived in. His sinewy arms were casually crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his elbows, and he wore what looked like a fingerless glove on his left hand. Dean judged him to be close to his own height, and the man's shirt pulled across his chiseled chest. Short, spiky brown hair was above the set of black sunglasses that hid his eyes. Dean's first impression was that this was not a man to be messed with, and the ease with which he balanced his feet on the threshold and his arm on the side jamb told Dean he had skills and training. But most of all, Dean was impressed by the man's attitude. Casual and calm, he was one smooth son of a bitch to not blink in the face of a weapon.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded. "I'm FBI. What are you doing here?" The man smiled at Dean's declaration, a mischievous grin that covered the tense readiness of his body.

"An interested party," he replied. "I'm looking into the recent deaths in the area. Came out here to check the site and saw you drive up. FBI, huh? They usually drive towncars, don't they?" He pulled himself upright and, before Dean even realized what was happening, grabbed the rope from the pulley and swung down to the ground, landing just a few feet away. He smoothly put his hands up as Dean kept the gun aimed in his direction. "Well, Agent ….?"

"May, Brian May," Dean answered. He took a quick measure of the man; slightly shorter than Dean, he was compact, and he held himself in a ready stance; he might seem relaxed and casual, but Dean bet he could draw that gun out of his thigh holster fast enough to be dangerous.

"Really? Brian May's one hell of a guitarist, I'll give you that, but did you know he's also an astrophysicist? I met him once. Nice guy. Terrible loss when Freddie died." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm Clint Barton. I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I can show you my credentials . . . if you show me yours." He smiled again, a wolfish smile that let Dean know he knew the FBI cover story was full of crap. Damn, but Dean was beginning to like this guy, whoever he was. He was a quick with an answer as Dean himself.

"Dean, there's a jeep behind the house," Sam said as he rounded the corner of the barn. He stopped when he saw the newcomer and raised an eyebrow in question.

"This must be your partner … ummm … John Deacon?" Clint dropped his hands and held out his left towards Sam, tilting his head back to look at the Winchester's face. "Clint Barton. I suspect we're all here for the same reason. Any chance you can get your brother Dean to lower that pistol?" Sam, unsure, shook the outstretched hand. "You guys favor each other you know. Well, except for the height difference. There are giants somewhere in the family tree, I take it?"

"Homeland Security?" Dean said as he lowered his weapon, keeping it out and ready. "What interest do they have in this?"

"Could be related to a current case I'm working on," Clint replied. "Then again it could not. That's why I'm here checking it out. What I find interesting is why two fake FBI agents would show up? Unless I'm you're hunters sniffing around what looks like vampire kills."

The Gabby Inn was almost empty at 3:30 pm on a Wednesday afternoon, aside from a few hardcore regulars who had their own permanent spots. Dean had picked his favorite kind of place; tucked in a corner on a side street with nothing but alcohol and a deep fryer, the local hangout certainly wasn't an upscale pick-up spot. Dean, Sam and Clint occupied a table in the corner, with a vantage point of the doors; there'd been an interesting little dance to see who got the chair with its back to the main entrance, settled only when Sam dragged the chair out and angled it partially away from the others. The youngest of the two waitresses, somewhere in her early 20s with white blonde tips in her dyed black hair and a very generous figure headed over to the table. Her white tank fit snugly, showing her tattooed shoulder and spray-on tan.

Dean watched Clint's every move; when the agent removed his sunglasses and slipped them into the neckband of his shirt, Dean examined the startling blue green eyes, trying to read more about this new variable. Hardness was there and a laser-like focus that narrowed in on Dean and made him feel both uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. But the lurking sense of humor Dean found appealing. Clint's mouth turned up on one side, a quirky little half-smile as he watched Dean watching him.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" the waitress said, smiling at each one of them, taking a moment to meet each man's gaze.

"What's local?" Clint asked. The waitress turned her attention to him, bending slightly to be closer to eye level with the seated men, but Clint's eyes never wavered from Dean and Sam.

"Oh, we have Iron City and Stoney's," she said. "We have both in bottle or draft, but we also have a number of others."

"Iron City's fine. Bottle," Clint ordered, and the waitress turned to the two Winchesters.

"What would you like, honey?" She asked. Dean's eyes took in her figure, and he winked before turned back to watch the man across the table.

"The same," he ordered.

"And you?" she asked as she turned to Sam. Sam brushed his brown hair back from his face as he turned slightly towards her.

"Same for me," Sam responded. The waitress eyed the tall Winchester with interest and gave a sexy smile as she really looked at him.

"Anything else, just let me know. I'm Susie, by the way," she offered as she left, one last lingering look at Sam.

"Well?" Dean said, sitting back in his chair and aiming his stare towards Clint, propping his boot up on the second rung of the chair, and hooking his left arm over the back of the seat. His posture was meant to be relaxed, but his distrust of Clint was evident. Still, Dean could see that Clint wasn't pushing the brothers; to Dean's senses, the agent was playing it straight.

"I need you to help me find these vampires and clean up this mess." Clint put his hands on the table and stretched his fingers, flexing each one at a time. Dean's eyes were drawn to the sinewy fingers as Clint began to tap an intricate pattern on the wood. The capable hands had seen hard work, fingers lined with calluses. "Resources are stretched pretty thin right now, and I'm on my own for the moment."

"Question is," Dean retorted. "What does the government care about a vampire nest? What are you looking for?"

"Dean," Sam cautioned, "the obvious answer is terrorism of some sort. That's what Homeland Security does. Think about it. If some terrorist group wanted to cause a lot of damage, riling up vampires or other monsters would make sense." The waitress arrived with three chilled bottles and sat them down carefully, and the conversation stopped as she put down a bowl pretzels, along with some snack mix.

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling at the young woman; Dean waited until she left before ribbing his brother.

"I think she likes you," he joked. "Bet she'll give you her number." Sam gave Dean a grimace at his brother's attempts to fix him up with girls.

Sam had called to check on Clint in the car, verifying the division Clint named was real since the brothers knew how easy it was to fake credentials. Clint had checked out, and Sam was interested in learning more about this S.H.E.I.L.D. that he worked for. He planned to spend some time on the laptop when they got back to the motel, seeing what he could dig up. If there was an agency actually aware of and working against the monsters, why were they so low profile? Frank never mentioned them, and he was the biggest conspiracy theorist Sam had known.

"I've put a lot of mileage in following what I think might be the trail of a potential new threat. The group's m.o. is to use local supernaturals as a front. I think they are involved in a break-in by arachne near the Vatican a few months ago, and a series of werewolf killings in D. C. In each case, the locations were tossed, as if someone was looking for something, and from the destruction left behind, they are getting increasingly desperate." Clint tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow of the cold brew; Dean did the same. The iced beer went a long way to shaking off the sweatiness of a muggy day. "So far, it's just been the supernaturals attacking, and In every case, they're dead by the time the other guys move on. If I can get a live vamp, I could ask some questions, see what's what, maybe find who's behind this."

"Well, first place to start is to figure out if the victims had anything in common; if what you believe is true, then there's got to be a reason they picked those places and people. We should ask around, see what we can learn about the victims, and check the local library and museums for background on the history of the town," Sam speculated. Clint nodded in agreement.

"So what are we talking about here?" Dean asked as he shifted forward, placing his elbows on the table and taking a drink. "Information? An actual physical item? What the hell could be in Southwestern PA that some terrorist group would want? The Vatican, D.C., sure, that makes sense. But sleepy suburb?" He hooked a handful of pretzels to go with the beer then offered the bowl to others who shook their heads.

"If I wanted to keep something safe, I'd pick an out-of-the-way place." Sam shrugged. He pulled at the knot of his tie, loosening it and unbuttoning the first button of his shirt. "What I don't get is if the vampires know they are being used or are they actively involved?"

"We don't have any firm information," Clint said. "They appear to be working in concert with the other group, but we don't know for sure."

"You mean you can't prove anything. But you suspect something. Cough up the theory." Dean scowled at Clint and tapped the table with his knuckles. His impatience was showing; Dean hated government types to begin with, and he wanted answers.

"You doing okay?" Susie asked, swinging by the table again. She put the bill on the table by Sam. "Take your time," she told them after they indicated they didn't need anything.

"Okay," Clint said after the waitress left again. "My guess? It's probably an item, something old that has ties to the supernatural community, maybe has legends or stories of power about it. I suspect they think if they can find it, they can learn from it and use it. A talisman or something."

Sam nodded, unfazed by the fact that they might be looking for a mystical artifact. "Yeah, seen a few of those in our time. That helps with the research end of things." He finished off his beer. "Okay, I'll hit the library and see if I can find anything the vics or the places have in common."

Dean slid aside the bill to pick up the napkin folded underneath. A name and number were on it. "I'll drop you on the way to the other sites. I bet Susie can tell you where the library is if you ask nicely," Dean gave his brother a knowing look as he passed him the napkin. "G-man here can come with me." Dean dug a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the table before he pushed back his chair. He gave Clint an unspoken look that said he wanted to keep an eye on him.

Clint looked at the brothers, then stood up and shrugged. "Works for me."

The brothers were an interesting pair, Clint mused to himself, Dean playing bad cop and Sam the softer, more open one. He sincerely doubted that either was a good read on them and figured they could switch on a dime, Sam becoming the hard ass and Dean being seductive and playful. Little did they know that Clint was a master at the game of misdirection himself. Dean's steady gun hand had impressed him at the farm, the stone-face of a man who had killed before and would again, if deemed necessary. Clint could understand a man like that.

"I'm just saying you can't discount all of British music. 'Daytripper' has a great riff and then there's the Stones," Clint said as Dean turned the Impala into the parking lot of the Fine Arts Building. "It's not all pop and punk, you know."

"Okay, I'll give you the Stones. Richards kicks ass," Dean acquiesced as they got out of the car. "But you've got to admit that Page rocked." He tugged at his suit jacket and pulled at his tie in the afternoon heat. "I hate suits. Why do feds have to wear suits in hot weather?" He shot a look at Clint in his snug t-shirt and tight jeans.

"Don't give me that look," Clint said as he pulled open the door to the theater. "You haven't seen the suit I get to wear. This is business casual for me. Neckties are for management types." As he held the door, Dean reached for the handle and their hands brushed. A fission of awareness jolted up Clint's arm as skin touched skin, and his surprise was mirrored in Dean's eyes. Clint drew back sharply, out of the way of the entrance; Dean moved by, avoiding contact. Letting him take the lead, Clint noticed how Dean's cheap suit pulled across his shoulders as he walked. The man did have an arrogance about him that was appealing and evident even in his cocksure walk.

The entryway led to a tiled hallway with concrete block walls, so typical of a university building. Double doors stood wide open into the theater space. A man walked out, in his mid-fifties, wearing ratty jeans, an old out-of-shape grey t-shirt and an open plaid shirt on top. His pockets were worn in the spots where keys and tools bulged. Slightly balding, glasses perched on his head, he squinted his eyes as he peered at them.

"Excuse me," Dean said, flipping out his fake id. "Agent May with the FBI. We have a few questions about the murders. And, um, this is Agent, …" He looked sideways at Clint.

"Barton," he supplied. Dean waited a beat for him to add more, but Clint only raised his eyebrows and stayed silent. If Dean wanted to take the lead, Clint had no problem letting him; actually it amused him to watch the other man work. Their styles were very different, but Dean was effective in his own way. Kind of like a wrecking ball in subtlety, but then Clint worked with people much more high-maintenance.

"FBI?" the man said, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Of course. You're here about the murders. You'll want to see the room, right? Let me get the key. The Deputy called, said you might be here." He patted his pockets, front then back then front, pulling out various rings of keys until he found the right one. "It's this way." Moving off, he headed towards a door that opened into a stairwell. Dean and Clint followed him down a set of stairs, back a small hallway to a storage room tucked under the stage. Crime scene tape cut across the open door, and the man handed Clint the key to the door. Once open, dark stains on the worn carpet could be seen just inside.

"It's a terrible thing," the man said as they paused outside the door. "They were only 19-years-old." He lapsed into silence, seemingly unable to continue.

"Why were they down here?" Clint asked as he ducked under the tape and entered the room. What had once been metal utility shelves were twisted and pulled down, and all the items that had been neatly organized in plastic tubs were strewn around the room: shredded costumes, smashed hats, ripped apart fake jewelry, torn posters, and more. Clint knelt near the biggest stains, eyeing the devastation in the small space.

"Putting away some props from the last play. We ended the run Sunday evening; they were stage crew. That's their job." Jingling keys constantly, the man averted his eyes from the blood and devastation. Clint shot Dean a look. Most people were rubberneckers, dying to get a look at death and its markers. Either this guy had already snuck into the room, or he, for some reason, didn't want to look.

"I didn't catch your name?" Dean asked the man, flipping open his little FBI-like notepad. "For the record."

"Oh, I'm Benjamin French, Professor French. Head of the Drama department." He shook his head as if confused by all of this. "I just don't understand. There's nothing here worth anything. It's all cobbled together, donated, leftovers. We don't have a big budget so we beg, borrow and steal."

"Any reason anybody would want to hurt Greg or Andrew? Any enemies?" Dean continued the questions, pressing the professor. Clint was just as suspicious as Dean appeared to be. Drama teacher or not, he wasn't the best actor; telltale signs gave away his nervousness, rubbing his right hand on his left wrist, circling over and over again.

"No, I mean, I don't really know. They were taking the class to fulfill their general education credits, so this was their first show with us. We get a lot of students that way. You should ask Martha, the secretary. She kept tabs on their hours. She'll know more about them." He backed away. "I've got class in a few. Can you let yourself out? Martha leaves at 4:30 if you want to catch her." He hurried away back down the hall.

"Well, that's not suspicious or anything," Dean muttered as he turned to Clint. "I think our drama prof is up to something or knows something. Maybe both." Dean stuck his head in the room. "Anything here?"

"They were killed first before the room was searched. The blood is under the material here, but not here. Probably knocked some things off the shelves in their struggle," Clint supplied, standing up and brushing his hands against his jean clad thighs. "My bet is the vamps didn't find what they were looking for. Too much rage and anger. They destroyed things just to cause damage." He ducked back under the tape and out into the hall.

"Yeah, I think Professor Brody here might get lost in his own building, but he knows something," Dean stopped when he saw Clint's grin. "What?"

"Brody, huh?"

"Hey, I watch movies, you know. I kinda like those. The first three. The fourth one was crap," Dean said in his defense. Clint's smile just widened; it was easy to get to Dean, to start an argument over the silliest things.

"Okay, let's check out this professor." Clint started back down the hallway. "But I get to be Indy."

"Uh, no, you can be that other guy, the helper dude," Dean argued.

"I know how to use a whip. Do you?" Clint asked, humor lightening his eyes.

"No, but I'm resourceful and can come up with a plan on the fly," Dean returned. "And I look really good in a leather jacket …." Clint laughed. He pictured Dean in the jacket, hat, with whip in hand, and he had to admit to himself that Dean just might be right.