A story in 21 parts, featuring an Ancient Greek curse, an unexpected metamorphosis, adventures in pool sharking, numerous shots of tequila, a nun outfit, zombies, angels, demons, kidnappings, startling discoveries about old acquaintances, massage, a game of strip poker, girl-on-girl action, girl-on-boy action, and boy-on-boy action.

It's the kind of town where he and Dean stick out like sore thumbs, with their scarred-up hands and their clothes that won't get clean and their tendency to case a room when they walk through the door.

The high school is even worse. When Dean pulls over into the bus zone, they both grimace at the wholesome game of Frisbee going on out front, the girls sitting on the steps killing time by braiding each other's hair. It's like something out of a Norman Rockwell.

"Wow," Dean chuckles, drawing the word out long and slow. He slaps a hand down on Sam's thigh. "Have fun, Sammy."

[The Panabaker 'joke' is distracting, but otherwise it's near perfect - hot and awkward and real. Slightly underage Sam.]

"Wow," she said as she handed him another load of fries. "You're really chasing that heart attack."

"That and your beautiful self," he said, smooth like Hollywood, circa 1950.

"I don't get off until midnight."

"Then I'll just have to wait," Dean said gallantly. "Gorge myself on French fries until my stomach pops."

He swallowed. "Did you look at the cards?" he asked. She sighed. The bed creaked as she rolled over to face him, and in the dim her eyes were black.

"Cards are for amateurs," she said. "I didn't need to."

"What did they, what did you-- you know."

"There are some things you shouldn't know," she said, flat and final. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"That's cheery."

She kissed the side of his neck. "You think if you know what happens, you can change it?" He took a breath and she shook her head ever so slightly. "Honey, maybe that’s why I can't tell you."

“I’m goin’ for a run,” he swears at you, seething like it’s your fault, and slams the back door after himself hard enough that your african violet falls off the window sill, spills its dirt everywhere.

"They came, and they took me," he snaps, and just saying so brings back the recollection of hot breath, of tearing claws and teeth; it brings back the memory of the second when everything stopped. "And here I am." "In Kainopolis." She smiles again.

The walls smell like chop suey and chicken fried rice and when he slides his tongue up her throat as he’s fucking her hard and frantic on her small futon, he swears she tastes just like soy sauce; salty and heady, and it makes his head spin.

There's a winner at the big table, she spots him straight off, as soon as she walks in. She leans on the fireplace, cocks her hip and raises her chin. That's the one.

There are stories that wind around arms, lazily, eagerly, feeding into each other, down corded tendons and thin torso, curving onto hips and thighs and naked sex.

The first step is to get the hell out of Dodge.

"I'm gonna give you an education," Dean said. "Sit back and watch." He came back to the sofa and sat down on the edge of the cushion, grabbing for the remote.

That’s when she saw him. Out of her kitchen window, she saw him. White-skinned and freckled. Two haircuts away from tidy and a couple of meals short of bony.

“He won’t be gone for ever,” she says. He stops. So abruptly his boots skid and slip on the path. “How do you-” “Not everyone who leaves comes back, but he will,” she says. “He will.”

The first time she meets him, she kicks his ass at pool. Halfway through the game, she realizes he’s a hustler, too, and it makes the victory all the sweeter to see that stunned expression on his face.

Five times Dean Winchester nearly sells his soul, and the one time he does.

Dean blows into town twice, maybe three times a year.