Jessica woke up with the distinct impression that she had recently made some regrettable life decisions. She was naked and sweating, sandwiched between her boss and the back cushions of his broken down couch. Where her hand was stretched up above her, an old golden retriever was licking it and staring at her with judgmental eyes. To top it all off, her stomach was insistently informing her that whatever she ate last night had no intentions of staying down. This was definitely not her finest moment.

Sam Winchester had always been a problem. When she first got the job at PIU, his sweet brown eyes had been a major distraction. He brought her coffee in the morning; at first because he said she was new and didn't remember the machine was perpetually broken, but after a few months, he stopped making an excuse. One latte and one green tea with honey. Every morning like clockwork.

Aside from Kia, he was the only one she enjoyed talking to in the office, the only one whose meaningless chatter didn't drive her up a wall. He hadn't said anything, but she was pretty sure Sam was the one who saved Kia's job when she broke up with Charlie, threw himself under the bus to save her from the Chief's wrath. She'd bet anything that's why PIU was in this mess now, why this case was so important. It made her head hurt to think about it.

Now here she was trying to figure out how to extricate herself from the situation with as little damage as possible. She wrapped her hands around the back of the couch and started to wiggle out of Sam's grasp. Standing, she gently stepped onto the arm and off into the floor. Sam sighed in his sleep, shifting closer to where she used to be. Buddy whined at her, waving his yellow paw above him.

"Shh, it's okay." She reached over to scratch him behind the ears while she scanned the room for her clothes. The black cocktail dress and lacy bra she had worn last night were tossed on top of what looked suspiciously like half the files from the office. Damn, he needed to get out more. She hadn't thought about it last night, but the place did scream workaholic. The files stacked on the kitchen table, the desk in the corner, the floor; the take-out containers on top of those; the acoustic guitar by the bookshelf with a layer of dust on it two inches thick. The bookshelf was where she finally found her panties, hooked over a copy of Clarence Darrow's The Story of My Life that looked like it hadn't been touched for a couple of years.

She was just about to head for her purse when she heard Sam sleepily mutter, "Jess?"

"Hey. I was just about to call a cab. Chief wanted me to run some numbers at the office."

"On Sunday?" he asked, and then immediately seemed to regret it. She could see the beginnings of a headache forming in the crease in his forehead. He knew she was lying. The whole damn block probably knew she was lying.

"Yeah, it's about the 5th and Main shooting."

"Oh, ok," he paused for a minute processing this. He was the only man she knew who could make a hangover look good. "I can drive you, if you want. I've got to go by the office anyway. We could drive by Ollie's, get some breakfast."

Jessica winced. Leave it to Sam Winchester to run the gambit of guilt the morning after. "No thanks. I've got to stop by my apartment and take a shower, get a change of clothes." She gestured to the dress that she'd mercifully had time to put on.

"Right. At least, let me drop you off there. A cab across town on Sunday's going to cost an arm and leg." He stood up and walked to the bathroom, effectively ending the discussion. From her vantage point by the bookshelf, Jessica could see where she had dug her nails into his tight little ass last night. Classy.

The ride across town went about as well as could be expected. Sam made no mention of last night, nor did he suggest again stopping at Ollie's, the little diner down the corner from his house that served a mean Southwestern omelet on Sunday morning.

They rode in uncomfortable silence, listening to the Eagle's Greatest Hits, and when Sam pulled his Honda Accord up outside of her apartment building, she couldn't scramble out of the car fast enough. She turned around to tell him a hasty "Goodbye" and slammed the door on "Hotel California" and the image of his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Bobby Singer had been dead for approximately three centuries; in that time, he'd been passed around more than a hooker on dollar night. His skull was cursed. He knew it; for the most part, they knew it. Dean had certainly known it. It had been his grandfather, Samuel Campbell who had laid the curse in the first place. Warlocks were cocky bastards, and every last one had thought that he was something special. That he'd be the one to hold onto Bobby because he was too goddamn powerful to be defeated. Bobby Singer had a string of dead masters stretched out behind him for a mile. Idjits.

Dean Winchester, though, that one was a piece of work. He kept Bobby on a shelf in the closet next to a 5 foot glass bong that Bobby had considered knocking to the ground more than once in a fit of rage. Dean would lock him up in a curse box for that. He'd already threatened to do it.

Some days, he was every bit Samuel Campbell's grandson. A spiteful little bastard with a hand for dark magic and manipulation. Today… today he was Mary's son through and through. The dumbass.

If Special Agent Novak was human, Bobby would eat rock salt and iron shavings everyday for a month. The man glowed like Chernobyl after the explosion, and he'd be damned if he could identify just what wasn't right about the guy's aura. They'd had some weirdos in here before; hell, Dennis Subtle's aura had looked like a grainy 20's film, grey and fuzzy, the colors bleeding into one another.

Agent Novak was another story entirely. His aura shone bright, clear, sharp. The heat from him made it hard to land, to focus his energy in the store. He lurked upstairs in the loft until the damn man cooled enough to get close. His other form, the human one, at first looked unimposing, but then again, most dangerous things in the world of magic are at first glance unimposing. He was an Eastern European man, tan and dark and lean, dressed in a too big blue suit with a crooked tie and a beige trench coat, but his eyes were an icy blue, and they followed Dean's every move around the room.

"Anything in your coffee?" The boy hadn't bothered to put on a shirt; he was so damn predictable. After the coffee started brewing, he got a predatory look and leaned against the dirty Formica counter with his thumb in a pocket of his pants, pulling them down enough to offer his narrow hips out for Agent Novak's inspection. He might as well have been flirting with a stone. Novak's expression didn't change.

"No."

"Ok." The two stood in silence for a moment while Dean poured two cups of coffee. Black and one with a little kick. "Nothing like a little hair of the dog."

"I was unaware you had a dog," Novak said. His dark brows furrowed in confusion.

"Nevermind. "

After a minute or two of standing awkwardly in the center of the room with his steaming mug of coffee, Novak said, "You were telling me about Dennis Subtle and the Other Realm?"

"What about it?" Dean asked nonchalantly.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Dennis Subtle?"

Dean stared at the scuffed pine boards and traced the rim of his coffee. "I met him in a bar somewhere out by the gate. On this side. We had a couple of drinks, came back here and had a few more. That was it. One night." He shrugged. "Nothing major."

Idjit. Bobby had spent this interaction working out how to tell Dean to shut his trap. A pretty face made his mouth run off its rails. That had been the problem with the Jewish boy, his big brown eyes. What was his name? Aaron. His golem had wrecked half the street while Dean was upstairs with his pants around his ankles.

That's not even talking about the damn Cajun vampire. What a wreck that was and was still proving to be.

"Is there any way that Subtle could be involved with the robberies?"

"Anything's possible. I really don't know the guy."

"But it is likely that the thief is associated with the Other Realm?" the other man growled. His voice, normally deep, dropped with anger. Bobby watched Dean shiver, a small motion that went unnoticed.

"Probably. But that doesn't explain why the perp would want such low level stuff. It would take forever to get enough juice to do anything that way."

"There is a governing authority in this Other Realm? The White Council?"

Dean hesitated. "Yeah, kind of."

"They must be questioned. You mentioned a gate?" Dean's face went from half-interested to full defensive in a matter of seconds.

"A gate between the mortal and immortal realms. It's a separate dimension, yeah. But you can't just come and go as you please."

"We will set up a meeting."

"Like hell, man. The White Council tells me how high to jump, not the other way around. You can't just go barging in, guns blazing."

Finally, Bobby thought reaching out to feel the electric current in the walls and chose that moment to blow the lights.