EPISODE 13x15: “THE MEDUSA TRIANGLE”

TEASER

EXT. CRAIGHEAD FOREST PARK. DAY.

PHONE CAMERA: INSTAGRAM LIVE

BOBBIE PATRICK, 26, a young Black woman with short, natural hair and a sun-faded baseball cap smiles into the camera. She's filming herself on an Instagram Live feed, standing in a sunny forest. Bobbie wears a windbreaker over a bright teal fleece.

A RADIO plays music distantly in the background.

BOBBIE

Hey guys! We're still here in Craighead Forest Park, in Jonesboro... We're expecting a little rain in the next few days, and then, after that, we'll pack up and head out. But honestly, it's been so nice, I wouldn't mind staying another week or two...

The way she speaks is natural, not over-cheerful or affected like a YouTuber. It feels like we're watching a video message from a friend. As she speaks into the camera, reactions pop up in the sidebar, mostly positive: smileys, hearts, cheerleader comments.

BOBBIE

...So we'll see. Mitch says he's up for whatever.

(louder)

Right, Mitch?

She pans, landing on MITCH ANDERSON, 26, a young Latino man with hair slightly longer than usual for a guy. He's sitting in a lawn chair, next to an old VW van with the awning out. The music is coming from the radio next to him--“DEDICATED TO THE ONE I LOVE” by The Mamas & The Papas.

Mitch looks up from his paperback.

MITCH

Yup. That's right.

BOBBIE

(to camera)

That's right. It's the weekend now, so the campers are here too...

As she speaks, we can see Mitch answer a call on his phone in the background.

MITCH

(distant)

Hello?

Bobbie swivels the camera--away from Mitch--to show other RVs parked close by in the trees.

BOBBIE

The people next to us have a really cute little preschooler. He took me salamander hunting this afternoon. Why don't more guys ask me if I want to go salamander hunting? The answer is obviously ‘yes.’

Bobbie breaks off, distracted by something off-camera. She raises her eyebrows, listening, then nods briefly.

BOBBIE

All right--duty calls. We'll catch you guys later.

One last smile, then the feed goes black.

END PHONE CAMERA POV.

Bobbie locks her phone and looks up expectantly at Mitch. He's standing now, hanging up his own phone.

BOBBIE

Go time?

MITCH

Yup. That was Holden.

BOBBIE

Oh, no.

MITCH

Oh, yes. They found the next one.

BOBBIE

(with aplomb)

All right. Pack it up. Let's roll.

SONG transitions to soundtrack:

Love can never be exactly like we want it to be...

Bobbie marches to the VW van while Mitch takes down the clothesline. Bobbie POPS the awning down, and then climbs into the cab, driver's side, SLAMMING the door shut.

SEASON 13 TITLE CARD

ACT ONE

EXT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPARTMENT. DAY.

A familiar RUMBLE. The Impala (viewed from behind) pulls up outside the Jonesboro Police Department and parks between two patrol cars. DEAN is in the driver's seat with a phone to his ear. He's alone.

He kills the engine.

DEAN

(to phone)

...Yeah. Sounds like it.

Dean climbs out, phone still to his ear. He's wearing his FBI suit. He rests his elbow on the roof of the car as he listens.

Behind the police station, fall is changing a couple of trees from green to yellow. The police station is an ugly concrete building, with an American flag waving out front and an over crowded parking lot.

DEAN

That's what Jody said. It takes the victims' eyes. Five so far.

CUT TO:

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

In the Bunker's library, SAM sits in front of his laptop, talking on his phone.

SAM

Yeah, eyes and sometimes other organs... Local cops got any suspects yet?

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

No, nothing. I talked to the detective on the phone, and he seemed like kind of a pushover...

BACK TO:

EXT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPT. DAY.

DEAN

(derisive)

...He said he didn't know why I was bothering to come down, but that he'd be "glad to have the extra help."

BACK TO:

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

SAM

Hm. Weird thing to say to the FBI.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone) (sarcastic)

Kinda. I don't know why I'm coming down either, Detective, maybe the five dead bodies?

SAM

Yeah. Well, I'll get to digging. I know I've heard of something like this before. Mom said she might pitch in too. I'll ask Cas.

EXT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPT. DAY.

Dean looks at his shoes, then the horizon.

DEAN

...Sounds good.

We turn along with Dean. Two rows away, parked among the patrol cars and SUVs, sits a VW van--cream with teal detailing.

Dean notices it, and squints at it--it's out of place. We recognize it as the influencers' van from the teaser.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Dean? You there?

DEAN

Yeah. How's Jack doing?

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

SAM

He's a little better. Mostly asleep, but he wakes up for meals, so...

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

That's good.

EXT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPT. DAY.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yeah. I'll call you when we come up with anything. Good luck with the weird detective.

DEAN

Thanks.

He hangs up.

TRANSITION TO:

INT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPARTMENT. DAY.

Dean enters the police station alone, flashing his badge to the front desk secretary. She points him back into the bullpen, and he nods thanks.

INT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPARTMENT - BULLPEN. DAY.

DETECTIVE LAWRENCE HOLDEN (30s) is just getting up from his desk.

DEAN

Detective Lawrence Holden?

DET. HOLDEN

That's me. Can I help you?

Dean flashes his fake badge.

DEAN

Special Agent Stills. We spoke on the phone yesterday?

DET. HOLDEN

Oh, it's you. Good to meet ya.

They shake hands.

DET. HOLDEN

Well, I hate to throw you right into the thick of it, Agent Stills, but another body turned up this morning.

DEAN

Another one of the--?

With his index and pinkie fingers, Dean pulls down his lower eyelids, rolling his eyes so they bulge out--like a zombie.

Det. Holden looks alarmed by this display.

DET. HOLDEN

Uh... Yes, it was another... one of the... those.

(disoriented)

Your colleagues have already starting the autopsy.

Dean's turn for confusion--

DEAN

My colleagues?

DET. HOLDEN

The field agents. From the Bureau.

DEAN

(uh-oh)

Oh.

DET. HOLDEN

I assume they're the ones who called you in? They've been down here helping us for the last few weeks, since the second body turned up.

DEAN

Oh, they--did. Yes. Well, not them. Their supervisor. I assume. I haven't met--we don't know each other. I'm from the--Headquarters. In D.C..

DET. HOLDEN

Oh. Bringing out the big guns, huh?

DEAN

That's right.

DET. HOLDEN

(after awkward pause)

So, you want to see the body?

DEAN

Lead the way, Detective.

As Holden turns away, Dean makes a "yikes" face to himself.

CUT TO:

INT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPARTMENT - MORGUE. DAY.

SNAP, flash--a camera takes a picture.

It's a corpse, mid-autopsy, Y-incised and laid out on the slab. The photographer moves around the table for another shot. Meanwhile, the man doing the autopsy--gloved, goggled, and masked, with headlamp on, selects a tool from the tray.

CLICK, the door opens--Dean and Holden enter. Behind Holden, Dean squares his shoulders and sets his expression, settling into the G-man performance.

DET. HOLDEN

Hi, agents. Your guy from D.C. is here.

(to Dean)

You said you haven't met--?

(when Dean nods)

This is Agent Patrick, and Agent Anderson.

We finally swing around to see the photographer head-on: It's Bobbie, from the teaser. She wears a neat pantsuit and latex gloves, and carries an SLR camera around her neck.

Beside her, the autopsy-ist removes his goggles--it's Mitch. He has an elastic hairband on to keep his longish hair back.

DEAN

Howdy.

BOBBIE

Hi... You are?

DEAN

Special Agent Stills. Like he said--I'm from D.C..

Mitch and Bobbie exchange a sidelong look.

BOBBIE

We weren't notified you would be... joining us, Agent Stills.

DEAN

Well here I am. Bureau sent me down to help. They figured you need the extra help, I guess. Seeing as...

He gestures, encompassing the situation at large.

Mitch and Bobbie exchange another look. Bobbie puts on a firm, defensive politeness:

BOBBIE

Well, I'll have to clear it with our A.D. in Little Rock. He didn't notify us about anyone coming down from Headquarters.

Mitch says nothing, but looks at Dean suspiciously.

DEAN

Of course. And you'll find everything is in order.

BOBBIE

I'll get your ID number and contact details after this--?

DEAN

(nodding stoutly)

Sure thing.

Det. Holden, watching the proceedings, CLEARS HIS THROAT.

DET. HOLDEN

Well... Good. Now that we've got that taken care of, what have we got here? Can you bring Agent Stills up to speed?

Bobbie shifts back into business mode. She explains:

BOBBIE

Adam Baldwin, 55, of Baldwin Chiropractic on Maple Street. Found in his office this morning. The M.O. is the same as the other victims. Killed, cause of death unknown, eyes missing.

DEAN

Anything else missing?

BOBBIE

No. As I'm sure you know from your briefing--?

(Dean nods)

--the killer sometimes takes other organs from the victims. We've had a missing liver and a missing...

(to Mitch)

What was it?

MITCH

(looking down into corpse)

Kidney. The last victim was missing a kidney. But this one is intact.

(looking up)

Except that he's dead.

DEAN

(nodding exaggeratedly)

...Right.

Dean looks at Det. Holden.

DEAN

Is there any connection between the victims?

DET. HOLDEN

Nothing so far.

BOBBIE

Different social classes, four men and one woman... All adults over 25. All white so far, but given the racial demographics of this city, that's not a surprise.

DEAN

Any witnesses for Mr. Baldwin here?

DET. HOLDEN

His receptionist found him in his office this morning. I'm about to head over there--I can show you the way, Agent?

DEAN

Thank you, that'd be great.

SHHLOP. Dean, Bobbie, and Holden look over.

Mitch is weighing an organ on the hanging scale. They stare at him.

He looks over, noticing the silence.

MITCH

Sorry.

BOBBIE

(to Holden)

I'll come too.

She looks at Dean.

DET. HOLDEN

Of course. If you're all set with the autopsy?

BOBBIE

Yeah. Mitch can take it from here.

CLUNK. Mitch weighs another organ--the heart.

CUT TO:

INT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPARTMENT - HALLWAY. DAY.

Dean exits the morgue, following Det. Holden. SOMEONE OFFSCREEN calls to Holden, who veers off.

Bobbie appears, and intercepts Dean, startling him.

BOBBIE

Hey.

DEAN

(recovering quickly)

--Hey.

"Don't ask about my ID number" is written all over his face. Instead, she goes for intimidation:

BOBBIE

Listen. I know you're just following orders by coming down here. But my partner and I have been on this case since day one. We may be young--by Bureau standards--but that doesn't mean we need a babysitter. And we don't appreciate being assigned one. I will be discussing this with my A.D..

Leaving Dean no time for a retort, she turns around and disappears after Holden. Dean watches her go, alarmed.

EXT. STREET. DAY.

The Impala (seen from the side) is parked on a residential street. Inside, Dean is hunched, talking on the phone. He is also looking down at something--scrutinizing it closely.

It's his fake FBI badge.

DEAN

(to phone)

Yeah, and she asked for my ID number. I don't have a goddamn ID number.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Just keep evading. You said they're young, right? Just pull rank. Meantime, I'll do some research, see what I can find out about them.

DEAN

I don't know, Sam. I don't know if I can keep up the charade for--

Holden walks by, and Dean jumps, HANGING UP. He puts the badge away and gets out, following Holden down the block.

EXT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC. DAY.

Dean, Bobbie, and Det. Holden stand on a suburban street, across from a yellow Victorian-style two-story house with a sign out front: Baldwin Chiropractic. Crime scene tape and police cars ring the scene.

On their side of the street is a forest. Holden holds a clipboard and goes over the facts for Dean and Bobbie:

DET. HOLDEN

Our victim, Mr. Baldwin, was found by his secretary early this morning. She's also the last person to see him alive, as far as we know--she talked to him last night before she went home. Time of death is likely yesterday evening, between 5 and 8 PM.

Holden lowers his clipboard.

DET. HOLDEN

We need to determine whether anybody else saw him before he was killed, and interview the secretary.

They look across the street.

Baldwin's secretary SUSIE (40s) stands out front, hugging herself. She looks lost and upset, uncertain where she's supposed to go.

BOBBIE

Got it.

She and Holden turn to walk up to the house. Dean watches them go, looking uneasy.

He glances at the forest. Something catches his eye--he does a double-take, walks over to some blackberry brambles.

Dean crouches down to look closer.

There's a scrap of black fabric stuck on one of the thorns.

DEAN

(muttering)

Bingo...

Dean reaches to pull it off the branch.

BOBBIE

(sudden)

What you got there?

Dean JUMPS, then gives her a look.

BOBBIE

You need an evidence bag? Or some gloves?

She looks at him expectantly.

DEAN

Right... Yeah.

He pats his pockets.

Bobbie holds up a bag helpfully.

DEAN

Be my guest.

He stands up while she crouches to collect the evidence-- properly, without touching it.

DEAN

I'm gonna follow this trail here, see where they went to.

BOBBIE

Okay. I'll tell Holden.

Dean heads into the woods. She watches him go, eyes narrowed.

EXT. WOODS. DAY.

A light drizzle has started falling from the gray sky overhead. In the woods, more leaves are changing. Dean walks slowly, eyes on the ground, following a trail we can't see.

He comes to a small brook, and steps over gingerly. He winces when his right foot touches down on the other side, and continues on. His limp is noticeable--he favors his left, stepping oddly on his right.

Eventually the trail intersects with a walking path. After letting a dog and its owner pass, Dean comes out on the main path. He stands, looking up and down the trail.

Which way did they go?

He looks up at the treetops, as if for a clue. Nothing. Beat. Sound of WIND IN THE TREES.

Dean SIGHS QUIETLY. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and unlocks it. We can't see the screen. He looks at it for a moment, then pockets it again.

He goes right.

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC. DAY.

Bobbie and Holden sit in cream-colored armchairs, facing Susie the Secretary, who wears her glasses on a chain. Her hands are clasped in her lap.

DET. HOLDEN

So Susie. You last saw Dr. Baldwin last night, before going home. Is that right?

SECRETARY SUSIE

(quiet)

That's right.

BOBBIE

Can you tell us how that conversation went?

SECRETARY SUSIE

Well, I had to leave early for an appointment. So I signed in his last patient, and then left. She came every two weeks, same time.

BOBBIE

Okay. That's good to know. What was her name?

SECRETARY SUSIE

Becca Toolan. She--do you think she's okay?

BACK TO:

EXT. FOREST / STREET. DAY.

End of the path. Dean emerges from the woods, onto the sidewalk. He looks across the street at the row of houses in the light rain.

BZZ. BZZ.

He pulls out his phone and answers the call.

DEAN

Hi, Detective. News?

DET. HOLDEN (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yes. Secretary told us the name of his last appointment last night--looks like she would have been the last one to see him alive.

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC. DAY.

Holden stands in a hallway, outside Baldwin's office door.

DET. HOLDEN

Her name's Becca Toolan. Local gal. Secretary says they knew each other from high school.

EXT. SUBURBAN STREET. DAY.

Dean is looking at the house across from street.

DEAN

Would that be Toolan, T-O-O-L-A-N?

DET. HOLDEN (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yep. She lives on Sycamore Street. That's not far from here.

The name on the mailbox is "Toolan."

The front door of the house OPENS, and BECCA TOOLAN (40s) comes out. She's a middle-aged mom, pretty, with reddish, shoulder-length hair. She looks around, furtively wiping her eyes--she's been crying.

She walks down to her mailbox.

DEAN

(to phone)

...You don't say.

COMMERCIAL BREAK

ACT TWO

INT. TOOLAN HOUSE - KITCHEN. DAY.

A white teacup full of black coffee slides across a marble countertop.

BECCA TOOLAN (O.S.)

Cream? Sugar?

Dean's hand takes the cup by the handle, delicately.

DEAN (O.S.)

Just black is fine.

Rise to look Mrs. Toolan in the face. She's hugging herself, a tissue in one hand, face dry now but red around the eyes. She is self-consciously withdrawn against the opposite counter, avoiding looking at Dean, seated across the kitchen island from her. He fiddles with his little teacup of coffee, ill at ease with her emotions.

BECCA TOOLAN

I heard this morning.

DEAN

Yeah. I'm sorry.

Beat.

DEAN

So you and Dr. Baldwin, you were--

Mrs. Toolan SNIFFS loudly.

DEAN

(searching for polite phrasing)

...seeing each other?

BECCA TOOLAN

Yes. Yes, it's--that obvious, huh?

She twists her wedding ring, then holds it up for Dean to see.

BECCA TOOLAN

I'm married, he isn't. Wasn't.

DEAN

Nobody else knows? About you two?

She shakes her head.

BECCA TOOLAN

Not a soul.

DEAN

So your appointment yesterday--?

BECCA TOOLAN

It was a real appointment. I have a bad back. It was for 4:30pm. Sorry, this is still so--surreal. That was less than 24 hours ago.

(gathering herself)

But--when I got there, I was late, and he was in his office with someone else.

DEAN

Another patient?

BECCA TOOLAN

...No. Another woman. I could see her through the frosted glass. And it sounded... It sounded like they were having sex.

DEAN

(surprised)

Oh. Was that--typical for him?

BECCA TOOLAN

No. Not at all. It was bizarre. Adam's a professional. I'd never heard of him doing something like that, at work. I didn't... know what to make of it. I was upset, I left, and walked back here. We had an argument, last week, and I thought, I don't know... I didn't know what to think. Maybe it wasn't him at all-- maybe it was someone else in his office. I couldn't really see inside.

She covers her eyes.

DEAN

I know you said you didn't get a good look at the woman, but what did you see?

BECCA TOOLAN

She... had reddish brown hair. A bob. About my length.

Dean nods, and belatedly notes it down in his notepad.

BECCA TOOLAN

I know it might sound like it was revenge or something. Because of our argument. But Adam wouldn't do that to me. He wasn't that kind of person.

DEAN

And what was your argument about? Last week?

BECCA TOOLAN

Me leaving my husband. Same old.

Dean nods, still writing.

BECCA TOOLAN

So it's him--they're really sure?

Dean looks up. She's looking at him.

DEAN

Yeah. They're sure.

She nods, holding back fresh tears.

BECCA TOOLAN

I'm sorry--it's hard. To talk about him. I-- nobody knew. We were friends, but, nobody knew--about.

DEAN

How did you two meet?

BECCA TOOLAN

(rallying)

Adam and I met in high school. We weren't really friends, back then. I hadn't seen him for... years, until our 25-year reunion. We hit it off. I don't know. Sometimes, you meet the right person at the wrong time. And then sometimes you meet the wrong person, at the right time.

DEAN

Which one was he?

Mrs. Toolan shakes her head.

BECCA TOOLAN

He was both. Adam was a very nice man. And he was good to me. He wanted good things for me, for us. But I... I couldn't. I couldn't leave my husband, I couldn't go public. My children would never speak to me again. The neighborhood would talk about me, our friends would reject me, I--

She shakes her head again, holding back tears.

BECCA TOOLAN

I thought... I kept trying to make myself break things off with him. To end it.

(voice breaking)

But he was so... He was so happy when we were together. You think my husband is that happy to see me when he gets home from work?

She lets out a SOB, and shakes her head.

BECCA TOOLAN

No.

She starts to CRY in earnest, hiding her eyes in the crumpled up tissue. Dean looks tensely around for something to do-- finally he spots a roll of paper towels on the island. He TEARS one off and reaches across to hold it out to her.

She doesn't notice, and continues crying.

Dean, reluctantly, gets off the stool and circles around the island to hand it to her.

Mrs. Toolan jumps a little when he touches her arm, then takes the paper towel, sniffing.

BECCA TOOLAN

(thickly)

Thanks.

Dean withdraws, leaning against the counter beside her with his arms protectively folded.

BECCA TOOLAN

There's going to be a memorial tomorrow. I know it's not about me, but I'm just--dreading it. I have to-- I have to go there tomorrow and pretend he was just a high school friend... My friends, my family, no one ever knew about us. And now they never can.

She looks up at Dean.

BECCA TOOLAN

You won't tell them, at the memorial? Or when you talk to his family? You don't have to put all this in your report, right?

DEAN

Does it matter?

BECCA TOOLAN

What do you mean? Of course it matters.

DEAN

I mean... He's gone.

BECCA TOOLAN

But I'm still here. I still have to live with all these--people, the way they look at me. This is confidential, isn't it?

DEAN

I... I'll tell my colleagues what you saw. You'll have to help us identify her, if you can. But--his family, no one else has to know.

She nods, reassured, looking away. Dean looks away too, uneasy.

CUT TO:

EXT. TOOLAN HOUSE. DAY.

Bobbie walks towards the house, texting.

BACK TO:

INT. TOOLAN HOUSE - KITCHEN. DAY.

Dean removes a little plastic bag from his pocket. Holding it up:

DEAN

Did you tear your jacket on your way back from his office last night?

Mrs. Toolan takes it, looking uncertain.

BECCA TOOLAN

I don't think so, no. I wasn't wearing anything black yesterday.

DING-DING, the doorbell rings. Both Dean and Mrs. Toolan look up.

INT. TOOLAN HOUSE - FRONT HALL. DAY.

Mrs. Toolan opens the front door.

BECCA TOOLAN

Yes?

BOBBIE

Hi, Rebecca Toolan?

BECCA TOOLAN

Yes?

BOBBIE

My name is Agent Patrick, I'm with the FBI. I'm looking into the death of Dr. Adam Baldwin. Do you have a few minutes?

BECCA TOOLAN

Oh--I--

She turns back to look at Dean, who steps into view beside her.

BECCA TOOLAN

I already... talked to the FBI.

DEAN

Hey, Agent. Sorry. Beat you to the punch. Mrs. Toolan and I were just finishing up here.

He steps a little in front of Mrs. Toolan, protectively.

Bobbie narrows her eyes.

BOBBIE

I see.

DEAN

Maybe I can give you a lift back to the station, fill you in on what we talked about?

BOBBIE

Of course.

TRANSITION TO:

INT. IMPALA. EVENING.

It's evening, and Dean sits alone in the Impala, looking out the windshield vacantly. He's parked downtown, in front of a pub. People pass by under the street lights, cars pass on the street going the other direction.

BZZ. His phone rings.

DEAN

(picking up)

Yeah.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Hey.

DEAN

How's the search for the eye-sucking wonder? Find anything?

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. NIGHT.

SAM

(to phone)

No. Nothing. Where are you right now, Dean?

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

Uh... sitting in my car.

INT. IMPALA. EVENING.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Are you alone?

DEAN

(suspicious)

...Yes. Why, Sam?

SAM (O.S.)

Did you talk any more to the FBI agents?

DEAN

Yeah, I gave the girl a lift. She's pretty green, but I think she's warming up to me...

SAM (O.S.)

Dean.

DEAN

What?

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. NIGHT.

SAM

When I hit a wall on ID-ing the monster, I background checked Agents "Roberta Patrick" and "Mitchell Anderson." There is no record of anyone by either of those names working for the FBI.

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

DEAN

...Oh. Crap.

SAM (O.S.)

Were they acting suspicious, at all, Dean?

DEAN

Why? What are you thinking?

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. NIGHT.

SAM

I'm worried they might be behind the killings.

DEAN (O.S.)

Oh. You think they're monsters?

SAM

Well, I don't know--does it add up? You're the one who's met them. What do you think?

DEAN (O.S.)

Maybe...

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

DEAN

The guy was doing an autopsy. I thought they were legit.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Anyone can learn how to do an autopsy, Dean.

Dean looks uneasily out his car window, at the people passing by on the street.

DON'T LET THE GOOD LIFE PASS YOU BY by Cass Elliot begins to play as we...

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. PUB. NIGHT.

Dean sits alone at a high-top near the window of the pub, nursing a bottle of O'Doul's (non-alcoholic) beer. The Impala is parked outside. Patrons pass by in a time-lapse blur.

As the song continues, we pull back, down the street, back to...

EXT. VW VAN. NIGHT.

The influencer van, parked a little ways back on the street.

TRANSITION TO:

INT. VW VAN. NIGHT.

Mitch and Bobby, out of their FBI clothes and back in outdoorsy getup, sit slouched in the front seat. Stakeout.

Mitch lowers his binoculars.

SONG transitions to RADIO, playing softly in the background.

MITCH

He's still just sitting alone.

BOBBIE

Hmm. Let me see.

He hands her the binoculars.

MITCH

Maybe he's not the killer.

BOBBIE

He's definitely hiding something.

MITCH

What FBI agent is allowed to drive a classic muscle car to work, anyway? That's not regulation.

BOBBIE

Yeah. It's bizarre. That whole drive back from Mrs. Toolan's house, in the car, he kept talking around and around something. What's the big secret? Why was he really there? ...Maybe she saw something, and he there to kill her, finish the job.

She lowers her binoculars.

BOBBIE

The car's pretty bomb, though.

Mitch makes an incredulous face at her. She shrugs, grinning.

BOBBIE

What? Just telling it like it is.

She lifts the binoculars back up to her eyes.

BOBBIE

Why, what, jealous, Mitch?

Mitch looks at her the way you look at someone when you know they can't see you.

BOBBIE

Don't worry. Our car is still cooler. That Chevy doesn't have a mini-fridge or a working gas range.

MITCH

...Right.

LATER:

INT. VW VAN. NIGHT.

Song fades out. HOURS LATER.

Mitch checks on Dean again. Bobbie dozes in the seat next to him. LCD clock reads 1:57pm.

MITCH

Last call, man...

Mitch nudges Bobby gently on the arm.

BOBBIE

(waking up)

...He still there?

MITCH

Yup.

BOBBIE

Does he not sleep?

MITCH

Eyeball-eating monsters might not need sleep.

BOBBIE

(sarcastic, groggy)

Well, they are an under-researched species.

Bobbie squints at Dean, sitting alone.

BOBBIE

Man, what is up with this guy? This is depressing.

Through the window, we see Dean pay his tab and exit the bar.

BOBBIE

Shall we call it for the night?

MITCH

Yeah.

EXT. STREET. NIGHT.

The Impala pulls away from the curb and drives down the mostly deserted street. After a moment, the VW van pulls out and follows.

TRANSITION TO:

EXT. STREET - MOTEL. NIGHT.

The Impala pulls into a motel parking lot. Dean exits the car, and as he shuts his door, he looks at the road, and notices the van drive past. He frowns, watching it.

BLACKOUT

EXT. CRAIGHEAD FOREST PARK. DAY.

INSTAGRAM STORY of @bobbie_on_the_road:

Boomerang shot: a camp stove, boiling water. Pan over to two travel mugs with tea bags, and two silicone bowls with steaming oatmeal. Cheerful morning stickers frame the shot: Sunshine sticker, alarm clock, “Up and at 'em!”

Next in the story: a photo of Bobbie, holding her mug of steaming tea, grinning fondly at the camera. She's dressed in her stylish camping clothes again, and baseball cap. She look happy and relaxed--very different from her fed persona.

END PHONE POV

Mitch lowers the camera from taking the photo. They’re sitting across from each other at the picnic table, next to their van.

BOBBIE

Can I see?

MITCH

You look fine. I promise you.

BOBBIE

(holding out her hand)

I will be the judge of that.

TRANSITION TO:

EXT. JONESBORO COMMUNITY CENTER. DAY.

Establishing shot. Sunny day over a brick building.

INT. JONESBORO COMMUNITY CENTER. DAY.

Mourners file in, past a photo of Dr. Baldwin on an easel, surrounded by bouquets of flowers.

Inside the main room, many plastic folding chairs are set up, with people settling down in them, talking in murmurs. Dean stands off to the side, in his fed suit. He's rubbing his eyes, looking out-of-it.

BOBBIE

Agent Stills?

Dean looks up. Bobbie and Mitch stand holding pamphlets (also in suits).

DEAN

Hey. Agents.

BOBBIE

You feeling all right?

DEAN

Yeah. I'm good. Just didn't sleep too well.

MITCH

(flat)

Is your leg okay?

Dean looks at him suspiciously, shifting his weight.

DEAN

What are you talking about?

MITCH

You're favoring one leg. Are you hurt?

DEAN

I'm fine. I rolled my ankle a few days ago stepping off a curb. All right?

Bobbie raises her eyebrows at the over-defensiveness. Mitch is unfazed.

BOBBIE

We'll be sitting over there.

She leads her partner away. Dean rubs his eyes again. When he looks up, he sees Becca Toolan, taking her seat with MR. TOOLAN (50s, unpleasant looking) and two TEENAGE KIDS (14, 16). She catches his eye and then looks away, down at the carpet.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. JONESBORO COMMUNITY CENTER. DAY.

The audience listens to a SPEAKER droning into the microphone.

SPEAKER

...and if there's one thing I want you all to leave here with, it's the knowledge that our time together is short...

Mrs. Toolan weeps silently.

Next to her, her husband WHISPERS something, too quietly for us to catch the words. She gazes ahead, stonily ignoring him.

SPEAKER

...and so you should cherish the time that you have with your loved ones. That time may be shorter than you realize. Adam would have wanted--

CREAK, a chair is pushed back. Heads turn to see Mrs. Toolan hurrying out of the room, hiding her face.

Bobbie cranes her neck to see her go. Dean, still standing off to the side, also watches her go.

MURMURS quiet down. The speaker continues, undisturbed:

SPEAKER

...and I know that he will be missed. The hole he left is one that can never be filled.

Dean stares at Mrs. Toolan's empty seat.

SPEAKER

Thank you.

Scattered APPLAUSE. Bobbie turns again, looking where Dean was standing--he's gone.

CUT TO:

INT. JONESBORO COMMUNITY CENTER - HALLWAY. DAY.

Bobbie hurries out the side door into the hallway, looking worried. The corridor is empty--no Mrs. Toolan, no Dean. She reaches for her holster, considers drawing...

BOBBIE

Mrs. Toolan? Rebecca?

SILENCE except for her HEELS on the tile.

She rounds a corner, pulling out her gun...

BOBBIE

...Agent Stills? Are you--

She rounds another corner and stops short.

Dean, seen from behind, leans against a wall with one arm. His head is bent.

Bobbie slows down, expression changing, and re-holsters her gun.

He doesn't seem to hear her approach. Then just as she's about to reach him--

BZZ... SMOKE ON THE WATER rings out. Dean's phone. She starts.

He regroups and reaches into his pocket--catching sight of her.

DEAN

Whoa!

BOBBIE

Hey!--sorry. I didn't mean to startle you--

DEAN

(unfriendly)

Don't sneak up on people like that.

BOBBIE

Sorry--

He's already answering his phone.

DEAN

(loudly)

Yeah.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

It's a gorgon.

DEAN

What?

SAM (O.S.)

A gorgon.

Bobbie makes a face. Can she hear?

DEAN

(covering mouthpiece)

Excuse me.

Bobbie backs off and leaves.

FADE TO...

EARLIER THAT DAY:

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

Sam walks into the library carrying two plates of sandwiches. Mary is hunched over a laptop, frowning as she reads. He sets one plate down in front of her, then sits at his seat with the other, next to two stacks of books.

MARY

Thanks.

He takes the top book down and opens it.

MARY

Is this the report from Arkansas?

SAM

Should be, yeah. Dean emailed it over from the precinct. Why?

MARY

(thinking)

This photo, the missing eyes...

SAM

That ring a bell?

Mary stares into the distance, thinking.

MARY

Yes...

She stands up, and walks quickly to the bookshelf. She runs her finger over the spines of the books, stopping at one.

Mary pulls it off the shelf and flips it open.

MARY

Aha.

SAM

Got something?

MARY

Yes. I knew I remembered this.

She returns to the table and drops the open book in front of Sam.

SAM

A gorgon?

BACK TO:

EXT. JONESBORO COMMUNITY CENTER. DAY.

Dean stands next to the Impala, outside the community center. Mourners mill around outside the building, behind him.

DEAN

(to phone)

A gorgon?

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yes.

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

Sam is on the phone, Mary sitting across from him. Their sandwiches are half-eaten.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

What, like Medusa?

SAM

Yeah. They poison their victims with a paralyzing agent, then they eat their organs. And check this out--consuming the eyeballs gives them 'visions of the future.'

BACK TO:

EXT. JONESBORO COMMUNITY CENTER. DAY.

DEAN

...Which is how he always stays one step ahead.

(impressed)

Huh. Nice work.

SAM (O.S.)

(on phone)

Mom's the one who found it.

BACK TO:

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

MARY

I remember my dad telling me about them. He hunted one once, but he never caught it.

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

So we don't know how to kill them?

SAM

No, not yet. But we do know how to detect them. You got a pencil?

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

Yeah. Hit me.

Sam's voice transitions to VOICEOVER as we follow Dean:

EXT. STREET. DAY.

The Impala (seen from behind) drives around the block, passing houses and woods--the victim's neighborhood.

SAM (V.O.)

Combine snake skin, hemlock, and ground-up quartz crystals into a hex bag. Go back to the scene of the murder. Make sure nobody's around...

EXT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC. DAY.

Dean, with duffel bag, approaches the office on foot (limping slightly), ducking under the crime scene tape. He's wearing flannels instead of the suit.

SAM (V.O.)

...And collect a sample of the blood. Just a flake should work. Put it on a mirror, hold the hex bag over it... And if it has the Gorgon's poison, it'll catch on fire. Got it?

DEAN (V.O.)

Okay. Got it.

Dean takes one last look around, then eases the front door open and slips inside.

CUT TO:

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. DAY.

Sam sets his phone down.

MARY

How did he sound?

Sam shakes his head. He SIGHS.

SAM

I don't know. Not great.

Pull back on the empty library, Sam and Mary sitting far apart at the same table. SILENCE. Mary surveys her son while he reads. When he looks up, she looks away.

BACK TO:

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC - OFFICE. DAY.

SILENCE. Dean steps quietly down the hall, ducking under crime tape, into Baldwin's office. He sets his duffel bag down on the couch. There's a big bloodstain on the carpet, behind the couch. He sets the hand mirror and hex bag down on the carpet, then crouches down and takes out a knife. He gets to work on the carpet, sawing off a few fibers.

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC - HALLWAY. DAY.

QUIET FOOTSTEPS.

POV SHOT: Moving down the hallway towards the office door. TWO SETS OF FOOTSTEPS.

BACK TO:

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC - OFFICE. DAY.

Dean is still at work. He pulls out a few fibers, caked in blood, lifting them up between thumb and forefinger. He pauses, frowning--listening.

All at once he whips around, knife out--too late, there's already a gun in his face, and a voice BARKING:

MITCH

FREEZE! Stay where you are.

DEAN

(shouting)

BACK OFF!

MITCH

Put the knife down!

Behind Mitch, Bobbie also has her gun drawn, but she's looking down at something.

MITCH

I said put it DOWN!

DEAN

YOU FIRST!

BOBBIE

Hey, hey! Stop!

They both freeze--

BOBBIE

Mitch, stop. It's okay.

Mitch turns to see what she's holding up--the hex bag.

BOBBIE

He's a hunter. Like us.

Tight on Mitch's reaction.

Tight on Dean's.

BLACKOUT

COMMERCIAL BREAK

ACT THREE

INT. BAR. NIGHT.

A hand scrolls down an Instagram feed. Bobbie & Mitch's #vanlife pictures scroll by... Lots of selfies in the woods, with mountain views; of pictures of the VW van, parked in different places.

DEAN (O.S.)

"Influencers"?

BOBBIE (O.S.)

(patiently)

Yes.

DEAN (O.S.)

What are you influencing?

(End phone shot.) Bobbie and Mitch exchange a look. The three of them are sitting at a high-top inside a hipstery bar--wood paneling, Edison bulbs, young patrons all around them. MUSIC plays quietly on the speakers.

BOBBIE

Um... It's like, a sponsorship thing.

MITCH

What were you doing with the hex bag?

Bobbie looks much more chill now, but Mitch does not.

DEAN

You guys got any idea what this thing is, that we're hunting?

Both shake their heads.

DEAN

Well, I've got a theory. Gorgon. You ever seen one?

MITCH

No.

DEAN

Well, I think--

BZZ. BZZ. Incoming call. He pulls out his phone.

DEAN

--that might be what we're dealing with here. Just a sec.

He turns away, putting the phone to his ear.

DEAN

Yeah, Sammy--I'm fine.

Dean walks off, EXITING out the front door.

Bobbie turns to Mitch.

BOBBIE

Wow, a gorgon. That's legit. That's serious Percy Jackson crap.

Mitch watches Dean go suspiciously.

BOBBIE

Mitch? What? You don't wanna work with him?

CUT TO:

EXT. BAR. NIGHT.

Dean talks on the phone, standing outside the bar on the sidewalk:

DEAN

(to phone)

...so yeah. Big misunderstanding. They're hunters, I'm hunters, it's all... yeah.

INT. BUNKER - LIBRARY. NIGHT.

Sam, on the phone:

SAM

And you said they're Instagram influencers?

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

Uh, yeah, that's what they told me...

Sam glances across the table at Mary, who's holding a book--she makes an uncomprehending face back at him.

JACK has joined them, sitting at the other end of the table. He's pale, wearing a hoodie, curled up in his chair, looking at his phone.

MARY

(whispering)

What is that?

SAM

(covering mouthpiece)

It's like... a marketing thing? I think?

MARY

I mean, what's "Instagram"?

SAM

(whispering)

Oh--uh. Instagram is--kinda like Pinterest? You know Pinterest?

DEAN (O.S.)

(on phone)

...but they're obviously the real deal.

(Mary shakes her head 'No.')

EXT. BAR. NIGHT.

DEAN

And I mean, when was the last time you met a hunter who could do an actual autopsy?

INT. LIBRARY. NIGHT.

Off Mary's perplexity--

SAM

(back to phone)

An autopsy, yeah, that's impressive.

DEAN (O.S.)

So, that'll be helpful. I'll try and get him to test the bodies for the gorgon poison.

JACK

Mitch went to medical school.

Sam and Mary both look at him.

Jack holds up his phone. Instagram.

SAM

Oh, you found them. Nice.

JACK

Yeah. Mitch used to be a medical student.

Sam looks impressed.

SAM

Neat. Wonder why he quit.

JACK

Hi, Dean.

SAM

(to phone)

Jack says hi.

EXT. BAR. NIGHT.

DEAN

I heard him. Hi, Jack.

INT. LIBRARY. NIGHT.

JACK

Is 300,000 a lot of followers?

SAM

Whoa. Uh--yes.

DEAN (O.S.)

I should get going. Text me if you guys figure out how to kill this bastard, okay?

SAM

Will do.

EXT. BAR. NIGHT.

Dean hangs up, and turns back to reenter the bar.

BACK TO:

INT. LIBRARY. NIGHT.

Jack continues to scroll through the pictures on Bobbie & Mitch's account.

JACK

Their life seems fun.

Mary scoots over to look over Jack's shoulder. He tilts the phone so she can see too. They pause on one of Mitch and Bobbie smiling together at a viewpoint, sun setting behind them.

MARY

Cute couple.

SAM

They're not a couple.

Mary and Jack look up, surprised.

MARY

Really?

SAM

Yeah. Dean said. They're just friends.

Jack frowns. Mary, disbelieving, takes the phone from Jack to look for herself.

MARY

(with skepticism)

...Huh.

JACK

(trying to understand)

You're saying they're... partners. But they're not a couple.

Mary raises her eyebrows at what she's reading.

MARY

The people in the comments are surprised by that too.

SAM

Yeah, Jack. They just work together.

JACK

But... they're friends.

SAM

Well yeah. They obviously like each other. But they're not together together. Like, as a couple. Like, boyfriend-girlfriend romantic. You get me?

JACK

(no)

Yes.

Mary returns Jack's phone, and he frowns down at it, mystified.

*

The bar was a hipster-type place, not Dean’s usual scene. Bobbie had picked it and given him directions from the precinct. The bar was paneled with unfinished wood and poorly lit by exposed lightbulbs, and populated exclusively by people under 30. Dean felt like an interloper, like it was obvious just from looking at him that he didn’t belong here—but as he walked back in, nobody gave him a second glance. He had his suit and tie on, and really, he looked like just any other middle manager coming home from a day at the office, if you didn’t notice the limp.

Bobbie was alone at the high-top—Mitch had disappeared. She had two bottles of beer in front of her, and was taking a picture with her phone. She angled the bottle so the label could be seen—craft beers with some fancy graphic design.

Dean took the other seat. Eyes still on her phone, she slid a bottle across to him. “Sorry, just a sec—business,” she said, typing fast. “That one’s for you.”

“Thanks,” said Dean. “I’m actually tryin’ to cut back.”

She nodded in acknowledgement. Dean flagged down the waitress and ordered a Shirley Temple.

“Okay,” said Bobbie a moment later, setting her phone aside, facedown. “The people want to know what brand of cute craft beer Mitch and I are drinking tonight. And even if they don’t... now they do.”

“Except I'm the one who's supposed to drink the second beer, because Mitch isn’t actually here.”

“No.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He went back to the precinct, to take samples and send them out for testing,” she explained, taking a drink. “To test for the gorgon poison.”

“But as far as your followers know, he’s having a drink.”

“Yep.”

“So it’s all a smokescreen,” Dean said.

Bobbie smiled crookedly. “That’s showbiz, baby. Ask any influencer.” She took a sip of her beer. “Or, anyone on Instagram, really.”

Dean chuckled. The song on the stereo changed—Dean recognized it. He cocked his head. “An oldie. Don’t expect that in a place like this.”

Bobbie listened too. “Oh, I love this song.”

“You know this song?”

“‘Make Your Own Kind of Music’? Of course I know this song, I love the Mamas and the Papas,” she said.

Dean raised his eyebrows, impressed. “I don’t doubt you, I’m just surprised. Someone your age...”

“Uh-huh,” Bobbie said, her smile unimpressed. “Spotify, man. Also, LOST? It’s the song from the hatch.”

He moved his arms as the waitress set down his drink. “Mitch was a med school dropout, that right?”

“Yeah,” said Bobbie. “He left around the time I hit the road. Decided to come with me. I think it was a hard decision. He was almost done.” She was still fiddling with her phone on the table.

“How long have you guys been hunting together?”

“A little more than a year,” she said. She sighed. “Honestly, I’m glad you’re here. I think Mitch is still a little offended, but the truth is, we do need the help. We’ve been here almost two weeks now, with nothing to show for it. Nothing except a couple more bodies.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, “But that’s not your fault.”

“No,” she said, “Not my fault. But I still feel responsible for the fact we haven’t stopped it.”

Dean nodded, studiously removing the cherry, straw, and drink parasol from his Shirley Temple, one by one. “I get that.”

“If we had... Dr. Baldwin would still be fixing people’s backs on Maple Street.” She sighed. “Mitch says I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

“Mitch is right,” said Dean. “You do your best. And that’s the most you can do. Right?”

“That’s a pretty positive spin on a pretty gory situation,” Bobbie said, almost challenging. “Maybe you’re the one who should be writing peppy Instagram posts.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t think I’d be any good at that.” He popped his maraschino cherry into his mouth. “So. You’re a hunter, pretending to be an FBI agent, while you’re also an Instagrammer, pretending not to be an FBI agent pretending to be a hunter. It’s an innovative business model, I’ll give you that.”

It was Bobbie’s turn to snort. “Thank you,” she said wryly. She clicked her ring against her beer bottle. “Yeah. I got loans to pay off, and the influencer thing just kind of happened.”

“Plus silver bullets ain’t cheap.”

She dipped her head. “Exactly.” She shrugged. “So I make up a story for the cameras, about myself, about our life... Oh, we drive around the country, we camp in all the national parks, we watch the sunset. And yeah, it’s a true story. It’s just not the whole story. I leave out one big piece.” Bobbie took a sip of beer. “Like any other influencer. Follow any of them, you’ll see.”

“I’m not on Instagram,” Dean said.

“Yeah. I can tell,” she said. “Well, the only difference between me and them is they believe their own story.”

“But not you.”

“No,” she said. “We get sponsorships, we put gas in the tank; the people get the content they crave, the other people get saved from the things that go bump in the night. Everybody wins.”

“Except Mitch,” said Dean. “Who gets stuck with tox-screen duty.”

Bobbie took another sip of beer, smiling. “He doesn’t mind,” she said. “Promise.”

*

EXT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC. DAY.

Establishing shot. Bobbie, alone, walks up the front steps, ducking under the crime scene tape.

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC - OFFICE. DAY.

Bobbie lets herself into dead man's office.

She sits down at Baldwin's computer and turns it on.

BOBBIE

Okay, Dr. B., show me what you've got.

She opens a browser window, and opens his recent history. Idly biting a nail, she scrolls.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. JONESBORO MUNICIPAL LAB. DAY.

The Impala (seen from behind, DO NOT show damaged front fender) pulls up to the curb. The municipal lab is in a brick office park.

Dean kills the engine and gets out. Mitch emerges from the passenger side.

MITCH

Thanks for the ride. I'll be out in a minute with the toxscreen results.

DEAN

I can come with you.

MITCH

You don't have to.

Dean puts his hands up, surrendering. Mitch enters the building alone.

DEAN

(to himself)

Friendly guy...

BACK TO:

INT. BALDWIN CHIROPRACTIC - OFFICE. DAY.

Bobbie browses Dr. Baldwin's bookmarks.

BOBBIE

Ballroom dancing? Okay... PGA livestream, sure...

(interested)

Now... what's this? OKCupid?

She opens his profile and reads.

BOBBIE

"Looking for a partner in crime." Well. Aren't we all, Adam.

CLICK.

BOBBIE

Aw. That's a cute photo.

(...)

Hey.

Bobbie leans closer.

BOBBIE

Who is this, chatting with you on Tuesday afternoon?

We see the message thread. Baldwin's account is chatting with another account--the profile picture is a woman with reddish-brown hair. And the username is MEDUSA606.

BEEP, Bobbie turns on the printer.

BACK TO:

EXT. JONESBORO MUNICIPAL LAB. DAY.

Dean leans against the Impala, staring vacantly into space.

The FRONT DOOR OPENS and Mitch exits, a manila envelope in hand.

DEAN

Any news?

Mitch holds up the envelope.

Reaching the car, he hands it to Dean wordlessly. Dean opens it and takes a look.

Slowly, his face transforms into a frown.

DEAN

What am I looking at here? I don't see anything.

MITCH

There's nothing to see.

Dean looks up.

MITCH

No evidence of poison.

Dean's eyes narrow. Mitch doesn't seem too perturbed.

DEAN

So it's not a gorgon.

MITCH

Guess not.

In fact, Mitch might be enjoying the fact that Dean is wrong.

Dean closes the folder, annoyed. Mitch takes it back from him.

DEAN

So we're back to square one.

Dean GROANS and closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Unconcerned, Mitch circles around to the passenger side to get back in the car.

He pauses in front of the car, eyeing the fender. There's a huge dent, almost bending it right off the front of the car.

INT. IMPALA. DAY.

Dean gets in beside Mitch.

MITCH

So what happened to your car?

Dean glances at him.

DEAN

The front fender?

MITCH

Yeah. You're just driving around with it hanging off like that?

Dean STARTS the car.

DEAN

It's nothing. Just a flesh wound.

He pulls away from the curb. CUT THIS!

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BAR. NIGHT.

Back in the hipster bar. Dean and Mitch sit across from each other in a booth, casework spread out on the table between them. Dean is slouching in an attitude of defeat, fiddling idly with the straw in his water glass.

Mitch, also slouching, is checking his phone.

MITCH

She said she's on her way.

DEAN

Good.

His eyes wander to the bar. The BARTENDER, brunette, 30s, attractive, is filling a pint glass from the tap.

DEAN

...I'm starting to think Holden's right, and we're just dealing with a serial killer here.

BOBBIE

Think again.

Both men look up--Bobbie stands over them, holding a packet of papers and looking excited to share it. Mitch straightens up, tucking his hair behind his ear.

BOBBIE

Hi guys.

SLAP, she drops her packet of papers onto the table. Dean and Mitch both lean in to look.

DEAN

What's this?

BOBBIE

Adam Baldwin's last OKCupid chat. With someone named...

(she TAPS the paper)

'Medusa606.' Scoot.

Mitch moves in so she can sit next to him. He takes up the packet and starts reading the OKCupid messages.

DEAN

You think this is our gorgon?

MITCH

(reading)

And you think she's.... catfishing?

BOBBIE

I think so.

DEAN

But the toxscreen came back negative.

Bobbie is eyeing the bar. Dean follows her gaze.

BOBBIE

What did you get?

MITCH

(distracted)

Some IPA.

Bobbie takes a sip of her friend's drink. She makes a 'not bad' face. Then, remembering, she takes out her phone.

BOBBIE

Better check in.

(then)

Oh, one new follower? Impala_67? Who could that be?

Dean smiles wryly.

BOBBIE

(to Mitch, faux-confidential)

Look. No profile picture... shady. Probably a bot. Should I block?

Mitch SNORTS.

DEAN

(good-natured)

Ha-ha. Mock the old man.

MITCH

Seriously, though, could you like, not figure out how to do it?

DEAN

I know how to take a picture, thank you very much.

BOBBIE

All right, prove it.

(passing her phone)

Take one of us, for the story. You know how to open the story, right?

DEAN

(dismissively)

Yes.

(He does not.)

Once he figures it out--

DEAN

Okay. Got it. Ready?

He holds it up as if to take a normal one, then swings around to take a selfie of all three.

CUT TO:

PHONE CAMERA: PHOTO ON BOBBIE'S INSTAGRAM STORY.

Bobbie is laughing. The upper half of Dean's face, cut off, grins exaggeratedly into the camera. Mitch does not smile.

CUT TO:

INT. BUNKER - KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Sam is looking at the picture on his phone, on Bobbie's Insta story. He gives a small SNORT.

MARY

What?

SAM

Check it out.

Mary and Jack sit across from him at the table. He holds up the phone, holding his thumb over it (to keep it active). Mary tries to take it out of his hand to get a better look.

SAM

Oh, you have to--hold down on the screen.

Mary frowns, looking down at the phone.

MARY

This is an ad for socks.

JACK

Here.

He taps the scree. The ad disappears and the selfie reappears.

MARY

(satisfied)

Oh.

(smiling)

Cute.

Jack holds onto the phone for another beat, looking at the photo sadly.

BACK TO:

INT. BAR. NIGHT.

Some time later. Two near-empty bottles in front of Mitch and Bobbie, still a water glass in front of Dean. Dean is reading the packet of OKCupid messages while Bobbie and Mitch discuss the case quietly.

BOBBIE

(murmur)

Did you try that...?

MITCH

No... You know what we could try, actually? Where's the profile...

Dean, attention drifting, eyes the bar.

MITCH

Look. Here's her email address. Do you think you could hack her inbox and see if she was talking to any of the other victims?

BOBBIE

Ooh. Let me try.

She appropriates his laptop.

Dean pulls his attention back to the OKCupid thread.

BOBBIE

(typing)

I'm in. Easy. Oh, too easy.

DEAN

(raising eyebrows)

He's talking to her about Becca Toolan?

BOBBIE

(looking up)

Yeah.

DEAN

He says she reminds him of Becca... Yikes, dude... Talking to a chick about your girlfriend is not a move.

MITCH

(to Bobbie)

Any other social media accounts?

DEAN

Looks like they had set a date for Tuesday. Lunchtime.

BOBBIE

(not answering Mitch)

And he was killed later that afternoon.

DEAN

So maybe they hit it off? Her took her back to his place, she--? Ate his eyeballs?

MITCH

(doubtful)

His workplace? That seems weird. Are you sure Mrs. Toolan wasn't lying to you?

DEAN

...Pretty sure.

BOBBIE

That timeline works out. I think Medusa606 is our strongest suspect. Should we call Holden?

MITCH

(annoyed she's talking to Dean instead of to him)

I'm going to the bathroom.

He leaves.

Bobbie goes back to typing.

BOBBIE

Facebook... Instagram... both under different names... Oh, this might be something. Match.com account. Another name...

CLICK, CLICK.

Dean finishes the packet and sets it down. He runs a hand through his hair, EXHALING, and looks at the bar again.

DEAN

All right, I'm just going to...

BOBBIE

Yeah.

Dean leaves.

Bobbie keeps clicking.

BOBBIE

Whoa... Oh. Holy crap. Mitch--

(looking around)

Dean?

He's gone. She looks back at the computer, clicking excitedly.

BOBBIE

(undertone)

I got you, girl...

We pan to follow Dean, heading up to the bar. He passes by other patrons, including A WOMAN with shoulder-length red hair. He leans over the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention. We hold on the woman, looking at her phone...

DEAN (O.S.)

Excuse me...

She's looking at Instagram. Bobbie's story. The selfie. Pan around to see her smile down at her phone--It's BECCA TOOLAN... or is it...?

COMMERCIAL BREAK

ACT FOUR

EXT. BAR - PARKING LOT. NIGHT.

Mitch stands on the back steps to the gravel parking lot, vaping. The night sky overhead is clear. Green trees rustle in the distance. CRICKETS SING.

Mitch SIGHS, and pockets his vape, about to go back in. He turns, and almost runs into--

BOBBIE

Hey.

MITCH

(glad to see her)

Oh. Hey. Did you find anything?

BOBBIE

(unperturbed)

No, nothing. I'm ready to call it a night. You wanna get out of here?

MITCH

...I thought you'd never ask.

Smiling, she offers him her arm. He looks surprised, but takes it. Together, they step off the stoop and walk off into the night.

BACK TO:

INT. BAR. NIGHT.

Dean returns to the booth, holding a bottle of beer--O'Douls non-alcoholic again--to find the table empty.

He looks around, confused. Wrong table? Where's Bobbie? Where's all their stuff?

DEAN

Uh.

BOBBIE (O.S.)

Dean?

Dean turns. Bobbie is frowning at him, laptop under her arm.

BOBBIE

I went to look for Mitch, I can't find him. I found something. Medusa606 was chatting with Christopher Owens last week, right before he died. I think she's our girl...

She looks past him, and notices the empty table--her eyes widen.

DEAN

As in, Christopher Owens, the previous victim? With the missing kidney?

BOBBIE

Where's all our casework?

DEAN

You don't have it?

Bobbie shakes her head, stricken.

DEAN

Crap.

CUT TO:

EXT. BAR - PARKING LOT. NIGHT.

Dean BURSTS out the back door, looking around the lot. Deserted. He looks left, to the alley. Someone is disappearing around the corner.

DEAN

HEY!

Dean takes off after them.

EXT. ALLEY. NIGHT.

Dean runs down a dark alley, through vents huffing steam.

EXT. STREET. NIGHT.

Dean comes out on the street in front of the bar. Empty. Bobbie is standing at the front entrance, looking around. She looks at him.

BOBBIE

Nothing?

He shakes his head.

DEAN

Nothing

Bobbie shakes her head too. She holds up her phone.

BOBBIE

Mitch isn't picking up.

TRANSITION TO:

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

Bobbie is on the phone in the passenger seat. Dean drives. SCREECH, he takes a corner a little fast.

BOBBIE

What?

DET. HOLDEN (O.S.)

(on phone)

You said Mitch is missing? But we just talked earlier.

BOBBIE

(to Dean)

Next right.

(to Holden)

On the phone. When?

DET. HOLDEN (O.S.)

Less than an hour ago. Don't you remember?

BOBBIE

What?

SCREECH, Dean takes the right.

EXT. CRAIGHEAD FOREST PARK. NIGHT.

The Impala swings past a sign for Craighead Forest Park.

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

Bobbie looks at Dean in confusion.

BOBBIE

You mean we talked on the phone, Detective, as in you and me?

INT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPT - BULLPEN. NIGHT.

Holden stands at his desk, talking on his phone.

DET. HOLDEN

Yes. You called me from Mitch's phone. You're freakin' me out, Bobbie.

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

Bobbie looks uncertain.

BOBBIE

Uh...

DET. HOLDEN

Have you been drinking?

BOBBIE

...No. I mean... yes.

Dean shakes his head at her--advising against this course of action. Outside, tents and RVs pass as they drive through the campground.

DET. HOLDEN

You're not driving, are you?

BOBBIE

No. Dea--Agent Stills is driving. Listen, Detective, what did I say to you?

INT. JONESBORO POLICE DEPT. NIGHT.

DET. HOLDEN

You told me that you two got called back up to HQ and that you were leaving town tonight.

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

Bobbie looks out the front window.

BOBBIE

(to Dean)

This is our campsite. Stop.

EXT. CRAIGHEAD FOREST PARK - CAMPSITE. NIGHT.

Bobbie SLAMS the passenger door and hurries towards the van. Dean follows.

JINGLE, she fumbles her keys, preparing to open the back camper door. Dean waits next to her with his gun drawn.

She looks up at him, and nods. Then she opens the door.

INT. VW VAN. NIGHT.

BOBBIE

Mitch?

She enters the dark camper slowly. It's very small. The lights are off--all we can see are shadows.

BOBBIE

Mitch, it's me... Are you here?

SILENCE.

Bobbie's silhouette looks around.

Finally, her arm reaches for the wall. CLICK. Lights come on.

It's a homey little space, with a two-burner stove, tiny sink, and cabinets; there’s laundry on the little couch, postcards stuck on the cabinets. It feels lived-in.

Slowly, Bobbie looks down towards the floor.

Empty. Just brown carpet.

Dean pokes his head in behind her, gun still drawn.

DEAN

Anything?

Bobbie stares at the floor, getting her breathing under control.

BOBBIE

Yeah. He's not here. I thought--

(breathless laugh)

For a second I thought for sure I was gonna find his body here.

Dean follows her gaze to the empty floor.

DEAN

Did Holden say “you” called him from Mitch's phone?

BOBBIE

Yeah.

DEAN

Do you think he still has it?

BOBBIE

Still has what? --Oh.

Bobbie squeezes quickly into the driver's seat of the van. Untangling a bunch of charging cords, she pulls up a tablet.

DEAN

You got him on Where’s my Friends?

BOBBIE

On--? Uh, yeah.

While she taps on the tablet, Dean looks around at the postcards. Someone has a rock collection in a large jar wedged between the back seats.

BZZ. Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket. He answers.

DEAN

(on phone)

Yeah?

SAM (O.S.)

Hey Dean. I got your text. How's it going?

Dean cranes his neck to look at the front seat, where Bobbie is still tapping on the tablet.

DEAN

Kind of in the middle of a situation.

SAM (O.S.)

So it's not a gorgon?

DEAN

Tox-screen didn't find any of that poison. And now Mitch isn't answering his phone.

SAM (O.S.)

He's not answering?

DEAN

Yeah. I'm starting to think we might actually be dealing with a shapeshifter here.

SAM (O.S.)

Why?

BOBBIE (O.S.)

Got a hit!

DEAN

All right, let's go!

(to Sam)

Gotta go, Sammy.

SAM (O.S.)

Okay, but text me when you find him, all right, and be care--

VROOM. As Sam speaks, the van's engine RUMBLES to life. They start moving. Dean, alarmed, grabs onto the nearest handle.

DEAN

Whoa, whoa!

(to Sam)

Yeah! Bye!

BEEP, he hangs up.

Around him the van shakes as it bumps over gravel, down the campsite driveway--Dean braces himself against a cabinet.

DEAN

(yelling)

Hey Bobbie, we have a normal car we could take!

BOBBIE (O.S.)

What's wrong with my car?

INT. VW VAN - FRONT SEAT. NIGHT.

Bobbie grips the steering wheel, concentrating as she drives. Dean appears next to her, contorting himself between the seats. With a GRUNT he settles in the passenger seat.

DEAN

You mean your house? Your house that you drive around in?

The road is BUMPY, and Dean, who has not buckled his seat belt, bounces up and down like a ping pong ball. He reaches up to grip the handle.

Bobbie thrusts the tablet at him without taking her eyes off the road.

BOBBIE

He's at a motel on South Street. You navigate.

CLACK, Bobbie slaps on the radio. "DON'T LET THE GOOD LIFE PASS YOU BY" by Cass Elliot plays (again).

DEAN

Right.

EXT. ROAD. NIGHT.

Song TRANSITIONS TO SOUNDTRACK as they speed through the night...

EXT. JONESBORO HOLIDAY INN. NIGHT.

The VW van pulls up into the half-empty parking lot of the Jonesboro Holiday inn. SONG FADES DOWN.

Dean climbs out, duffel bag over his shoulder, talking on his phone:

DEAN

Yep, South Street. Holiday Inn. Okay. Thanks, Detective.

He hangs up.

DEAN

Holden's on his way.

Bobbie circles around the front of the van. She has a gun drawn. Together they eye the door in front of them.

DEAN

Should we wait for the detective?

Bobbie looks at him.

CUT TO:

INT. MOTEL ROOM. NIGHT.

Inside the closed door.

BANG. The door bursts open. Dean and Bobbie enter, guns drawn.

Sitting on the bed, a few feet apart, both feet still on the floor, are Mitch and--BOBBIE?

She has her hand near his face, like she was about to push a long lock of hair behind his ear.

Mitch starts at the noise, and turns.

Tight on the real Bobbie, dumbstruck.

Tight on Mitch, eyes widening in horror.

DEAN

Hey! Back away from him.

Other Bobbie SIGHS HEAVILY.

OTHER BOBBIE

You gotta be kidding me.

She winks at real Bobbie.

OTHER BOBBIE

Hey, sweetheart. So you guys are hunters, huh?

BOBBIE

And you’re a shapeshifter?

OTHER BOBBIE

Something like that.

DEAN

You’re a murderer, is what you are.

OTHER BOBBIE

You think I'm doing something bad? See, I don't see it that way. I give people what they want, but can't have.

Mitch is slowly edging away from her on the bed.

OTHER BOBBIE

(to Dean)

You... you don't even know what you want.

She suddenly whips towards Mitch and grabs his hand.

OTHER BOBBIE

(to Mitch)

And you, you won't even take it.

She leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

Real Bobbie's mouth drops open. Dean grabs her arm to stop her moving forward.

Other Bobbie leans back, smiling. Mitch blinks, dazed. A glazed look comes over his face.

She’s a SIREN.

SIREN BOBBIE

Now you're going to do exactly what I say.

BLACKOUT

COMMERCIAL BREAK

ACT FIVE

“You’re a siren.”

Fake Bobbie turned to face him where he sat, tied to the chair, and flashed a smile. “Well spotted, tough guy.”

Dean spat out some more blood. She’d ordered Mitch to tie him up, and Dean had tried to wrestle him off—but the kid had two inches of height and 15 spry young years on him, and Dean’s injured foot had unbalanced him. Mitch had overpowered him and tied him up. While Mitch took care of him, the siren had knocked the real Bobbie out herself.

Dean was pretty sure his nose was broken. It wouldn’t stop bleeding, and with every breath, more blood got into his throat. “So,” he said, hoarsely, looking back up at Siren Bobbie. “You made yourself look like Adam’s girlfriend to get into his office.”

“...and tell him everything he wanted to hear.” She put on an affected voice: “Yes, Adam, I’ll leave my husband. Yes, Adam, I'll come live with you. Yes, Adam, I love you and only you.”

Dean’s heart was pounding, sending the blood pulsing out of his nose in waves. He tested the ropes tying him—pretty tight. He still had his knife on his belt, but it was clipped at a weird angle, far from his hands.

What he really needed was to get to his bag, which had fallen near the door. It had a bronze dagger in it. A bronze dagger, dipped in the blood of a victim. If the siren found it before he could get to it, then they were screwed.

He needed to keep her talking until Bobbie woke up.

“And Jeff before that? How long you been running the OKCupid scam? It’s clever, I’ll—” Dean coughed through his nosebleed. “I’ll—give you that,” he managed, rallying.

“Thank you,” said the siren, smiling the same way Bobbie had in the bar the night before. It was uncanny. Dean had seen a siren, and he’d seen shapeshifters take the form of those he knew; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell this wasn’t Bobbie. Maybe the siren had studied her social media page. She had her expressions, right down to the smile in her big brown eyes.

“When these two rolled into town, I thought, ‘Ooh, this’ll be a fun challenge.’ But it wasn’t even hard,” she said, derisive. “I took one look through those Instagram photos, and I could see what an easy target he’d make. It’s written all over his face.”

Mitch was hovering near the foot of the bed, silent and blank-eyed, hair in his face. He didn’t look love-struck anymore—he looked like he was getting his mugshot taken.

Dean looked back at the siren.

“Then you rolled in,” she said. “I checked you guys out at the bar last night. Three hunters. Scary! See, now I wasn't so cocky, 'cause you, you were tougher. Once I got a read on you, I almost pulled up stakes and left town.”

“Why?” Dean said through gritted teeth, struggling more obviously against the ropes to distract her from how he was twisting his hip to reach his knife. “'Cause you were afraid you might fall in love with me?”

Then the siren laughed, and it wasn’t like Bobbie’s laugh at all.

“No, Dean,” she said. She wandered closer to him, with the ease of one in control. “Because I could tell right away that my charms wouldn’t work on you,” she said.

Behind her, Dean saw something move on the floor.

Bobbie’s hand.

She was waking up.

Dean looked quickly up at the siren. She was considering him, a hand on her cheek, a pitying look in her eyes, like he was a stray dog in a cage at the pound.

“You know why?” she said.

“Enlighten me,” Dean said through gritted teeth. Behind her, Bobbie curled her arm towards herself on the floor.

She bent closer. “Take Mitch over there. I transformed into his dream girl, and I offered him everything he wanted... and he still couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make himself take it. Pathetic. You suffer from the same affliction, only worse. Maybe because you’re older, and you’ve lived like this for longer than little Mitch here—I don't know. But I could’ve transformed into your wildest fantasy, and you would have stabbed me right in the heart.”

Dean held her gaze fiercely, willing himself not to cough. Willing her not to look around.

Inches away, she murmured: “You think that what you want is wrong because you want it."

The siren patted his cheek. She straightened up.

“So, I decided not to waste my time on you,” she said. She turned to start pacing away.

“Wait—” Dean said, but his breath caught, and he started coughing on his blood again. Too late—she saw.

“Oh, Bobbie, baby,” said the siren, seeing Bobbie silently crouched over the duffel bag. “I don’t think so.”

“The bronze dagger, Bobbie!” Dean yelled.

Bobbie scrambled through the bag, tools and weapons jangling together as she searched. But before the siren could reach her, the door to the motel room banged open again, hitting the wall. Holden.

Gun drawn, the detective’s eyes swept over the scene, taking in Dean, tied up, Mitch, dazed, and “Bobbie,” staring at him with a hungry glint in her eye. Then he spotted the real Bobbie, on one knee next to the door. He swiveled his gun at her, then back to the first, confusion turning to horror in his eyes.

“Who—Bobbie?”

“Holden, that’s not me!” Bobbie said.

“Kill the detective,” the siren said, twitching her finger at Mitch.

Holden fired. The gunshot was deafening in the small space. And it did nothing but put a hole in the siren’s shirt. She looked down at it, over where Bobbie’s heart would be, then back up at the detective.

He stared at her, eyes wide. “What?”

“Mitch,” she said more loudly. “Kill him!”

Bobbie found the bronze dagger.

“Holden, look out!” Dean yelled.

A second gunshot. The detective dropped.

Mitch lowered Dean’s gun, a lock of hair swinging into his eyes. Dean thrashed against his restraints, trying to reach his knife. “God dammit!”

“That’s not going to work on me, sweetheart,” the siren said to Bobbie, who was holding the dagger, staring down at Holden’s body in horror.

“Mitch,” Bobbie said. “Mitch, help me.”

Mitch didn’t look. He stared blankly ahead of himself.

“Mitch, honey,” said the siren. “That’s the killer. She’s a siren, pretending to be me. Kill her.”

“No, it’s me!” Bobbie said. “Mitch, don’t listen to her!”

Slowly, Mitch looked up. He started slowly towards Bobbie, the gun still in his hand.

“Mitch...”

“Kill her,” the siren said.

Bobbie wasn’t waiting for that to happen. She lunged at Mitch, knocking the gun out of his hand, and jammed the hilt of her dagger into his jaw, sending him to the floor.

“Mitch!” she yelled, dropping to her knees beside him and grabbing the front of his shirt. “Mitch, it’s me. You need to snap out of it. She’s a siren. Listen, Mitch, can you hear me? It’s me, it’s Bobbie—”

She was shaking him. His eyes slowly found hers.

“...Mitch?”

He seized her wrist, and before she could stop him, he’d wrested the dagger from her hands. “No!” Bobbie tried to grab it back. Behind her, she heard the siren say, “Do it! Kill her!”

“Mitch, no, give me the dagger, don’t—”

He yanked it over his head, out of her reach. She tried to tear herself out of his grip, but he held fast. Mitch raised the dagger in the air.

“It’s me! Mitch, it’s me!”

He brought the dagger down with a sickening noise into his own side.

“No!” Bobbie screamed.

Mitch panted and gasped—but his eyes focused again.

“The blood of a victim, Bobbie!” Dean roared from the other side of the room.

Bobbie gasped. Without hesitation, she grabbed the hilt of the dagger with both hands. She yanked it out of her friend’s side, twisted on the floor, and threw it, sending it cartwheeling through the air. With a final thump, it hit the siren in the chest.

She fell to the floor, dead.

Bobbie turned back to Mitch, grabbing at his shirt again. His hair fanned out on the carpet below him. She slapped his cheek, and his eyes fluttered open again.

“Mitch! What do I—are you—” She held in a sob. “Tell me what to do!”

He groaned. “Put pressure on it,” he said. “Make him call 911. I—” He stopped talking to take several breaths. “I’m going into shock. I think I hit my kidney.”

She did as he said.

Dean freed himself, finally, and made his way unsteadily to the detective. He checked his pulse. Holden was dead. Dean was panting from his mouth; the blood in his nose had finally clotted. He unclipped the dead man's radio and made the call.

* * *

“Wow,” Sam said into the phone. “That’s rough stuff.”

Jack could hear Dean’s answer from the phone: “Yeah. It looks like Mitch is gonna be all right. They’re gonna discharge him tomorrow. I mean... today, I guess.”

“How about you?” Sam said. “You get patched up?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Not my first broken nose. Or my last, probably.”

Sam huffed a laugh. They were sitting in the kitchen. It was late. Jack had dozed off on the couch in the afternoon, and woken up six hours later with a fuzzy mouth and a rumbling stomach. He’d wandered through the dark bunker, not expecting to find anyone in the kitchen at this hour, but Sam had been at the table with a stack of books and a pot of tea. Now Jack was sitting up on the counter, socked feet dangling, eating a bowl of cereal. Sitting on the counter was strictly forbidden by Dean, but Sam usually let him do it.

“Well, I’ve been looking through the library for a way to kill an archangel,” said Sam. “Nothing yet.”

“Anything about...”

“No,” Sam said, cutting him off. “Nothing about that either.”

Jack sensed Sam’s flurry of anxiety, but couldn’t tell where it originated.

“Okay,” said Dean. “I gotta get going.”

“All right. You gonna head home tomorrow after you get everything wrapped up?”

Jack caught the last few little Frosted Flakes on his spoon. After a few more seconds of silence, he looked up.

Sam was frowning down at his phone. “He hung up.”

Then Sam shook his head, resetting.

“So they caught the siren?” Jack said.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Sounds like it turned into a mess. It shifted into Bobbie.”

“Instagram Bobbie?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “And tried to seduce Mitch.”

“Oh,” said Jack. “But I thought they weren’t... ‘together.’”

He said it slowly, hoping it would make more sense when said out loud than in his head. Sam had said they weren’t together, but from their pictures, they were together all the time, and the distinction Sam and Mary had made between “partners” and a “couple” was still unclear to him. Sam would probably explain it, if he asked, but sometimes Jack got tired of asking so many questions.

“They’re not,” Sam said. “The monster was messing with Mitch’s head.”

“Oh,” said Jack.

Sam looked over at Jack, drumming his fingers quietly on his black phone screen.

“How you doing, Jack?”

“Okay,” said Jack.

“Really?” Sam said.

“Yeah,” said Jack. And it wasn’t a lie. “Physically.”

“But... mentally?”

“I’m worried,” Jack said. “About Michael.”

Sam nodded, looking back at his phone.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re not the only one.” He sighed. “Have you seen Cas around?”

Jack stiffened. “No,” he said.

“Do you know where he is? I gotta talk to him about some stuff.”

“No,” said Jack again.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I’ve been asleep a lot.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Fair.” He stood. “I’m gonna go look for him. You going back to bed?”

Jack nodded. “Probably.”

“Okay. Good night, Jack.”

“Good night.”

* * *

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM. DAY.

Mitch lies in a hospital bed, hooked up to IV and oxygen, asleep. His hair is clean and neat again, fanned out on the pillow. The BEEP, BEEP, BEEP of his heart rate is steady. Outside, BIRDS are singing--early morning.

Dean appears in the doorway, KNOCKING gently. He has a bandage over the bridge of his nose, and the blood is cleaned off, but it's deeply bruised.

DEAN

Hello?

He enters and looks around before he spots her--Bobbie, curled in a chair in the window alcove. It's a secluded corner, almost out of sight of Mitch's bed.

She looks up. She's wide awake. One bandage on her forehead.

DEAN

Cleared for duty?

BOBBIE

(nods)

No concussion.

DEAN

Good. May I?

She nods again, and he takes the other seat, pulling up next to her to look out the window.

It's overcast again. Yellow leaves tumble across the hospital parking lot. The VW camper van is visible at the end of the lot.

DEAN

You get the camper towed?

BOBBIE

Someone from the station drove it over for us.

DEAN

That's nice.

BOBBIE

(hollow laugh)

Yeah. It is, considering Mitch was the one who shot Detective Holden.

Dean considers her.

DEAN

How's he doing?

BOBBIE

I don't know. Like I told you, he didn't damage any major organs. They didn't need to do surgery. But it's still... serious.

She looks over her shoulder at him, then away again. She watches the trees, expression stony.

DEAN

(after a pause)

You're mad at him.

Bobbie doesn't answer.

DEAN

He was just trying to save you. It's part of the job.

BOBBIE

No--no. That's not--not what I'm mad about.

(She shakes her head)

Mitch stabbing himself, or whatever. I know danger is part of the job. I'm mad because... because this never would have happened if he, if he wasn't...

She EXHALES, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples.

Dean watches her, his expression dropping.

BOBBIE

...Then Holden would still be alive.

(exhale)

He's like a brother to me.

DEAN

Holden?

BOBBIE

Mitch.

Dean looks upset. He tilts his head a little, trying to see her face. She stares resolutely out the window.

DEAN

(finally)

That's... not how Mitch sees you.

BOBBIE

Yeah. Apparently.

She turns to look at Dean.

BOBBIE

So what am I supposed to do about that?

Dean has no answer to offer.

*

The hospital kept Mitch until the next day, and Dean took the excuse to stay in town another day. He didn’t have any kind of plan after that, and staved off the dread by telling himself something would crop up. If it didn’t, his contingency plan would be to call Mary and take her on vacation—they could drive out to the coast, or something, or a lake cabin. She would want some time off, and she wouldn’t ask questions.

With that backup in his back pocket, Dean geared up to do what he did best: kill time. He went to the strip mall and wasted a couple hours between the sporting goods store and the Best Buy. He went back to the hospital and visited Mitch around dinner time, figuring the guy could use the company. But he was asleep. So Dean sat in the lounge and thumbed through some legal thriller, left on the end table, while half-watching an X-Files rerun on the old TV (it was “Monday”). He’d wait and see if Mitch woke up, and then he’d go eat some dinner. He didn’t want to go back to the motel, but he needed to, eventually, but he also needed not to go to a bar, and it was hard because there wasn’t much else to do, and he couldn’t avoid the motel forever.

But he could get pretty close.

A mother and her teenage daughter came into the lounge, ushered by a nurse. The mother had a stony look on her face; her daughter was crying silently. Dean hunched further over his book, turning away to face the window. He tried to make his back look very interested in the made-up legal case of the guy who’d killed his own twin.

The nurse shuffled out, leaving the mother and daughter alone with Dean. For a minute, there was silence. Then Dean heard it—quiet, suppressed sobs, coming from someone trying their hardest to be silent. He turned a page loudly, blindly. A chapter heading looked up at him. The person sobbing choked, and suddenly got much louder. A chair creaked, and the legs squealed on the tile floor. He heard the sound of a tissue being pulled out of a box. The sobs got muffled, but more violent, the vocalization after each one getting higher and higher, mounting towards hysterical. Slowly, Dean closed the paperback. He raised his eyes to the dark window in front of him, and looked at the dim reflections on the glass. There he was, hunched in the foreground, 5 o’clock shadowed, his broken nose a dark bruise in the middle of his face. Behind him, the daughter sat with her legs folded up in front of herself, sobbing violently into her knees. Her whole body shook, her fingernails dug into the flesh of her calves. And he saw, to his surprise, her mother sitting next to her, still and silent, hands loose in her lap. Not touching or comforting her daughter at all. She just stared fixedly ahead. It looked like she was looking at her own eyes in the glass, but Dean couldn’t tell. She took no notice of him looking. She was alone in the world.

The sight of the girl’s fingernails digging into her own legs made Dean’s stomach jump into his throat, and he stood quickly and left the room.

Outside the hospital, the air was cold and clear. The lights in the parking lot were ugly white LEDs. Dean could see his breath, coming in rapid clouds in front of his face. He walked blindly out and around a corner, stopping near some shrubs, and put his hand on the wall. The bricks were cool and smooth, the lines of mortar rough in between. The sensation grounded him. He counted back from ten.

Ten. Everything’s fine.

Nine. Not your responsibility.

Eight. Everyone’s alive.

Seven. Except for her husband.

His other hand moved, of its own accord, towards his pocket, but he stopped it.

Six. Don’t.

Five. He wasn’t going to throw his phone again. It was brand new. Four. Not going to kick another wall, either. Instead, he started scrubbing his thumb against the rough mortar between the bricks, like he was trying to scrape something off it.

Three. Everything’s fine. Two. Everything’s fine. One.

Pain in his thumb brought him back to reality. He had scraped the top layer of skin off, and pinpricks of blood bloomed between the flakes of white dead skin. The mixture of pain, anger, and whatever else still roiled nauseously in his ribcage, but he didn’t want to smash a window anymore. He wiped his hand on his jacket and exhaled.

“Okay,” he said to himself, and set off towards the car.

*

INT. BAR. NIGHT.

Ambient rock music plays. Dean sits in the same Jonesboro hipster bar, alone at the bar, looking at his phone. He finishes his whiskey and signals the cute bartender. She comes over.

DEAN

Could I get another one of these?

BARTENDER

Sure thing.

She smiles, flirtatious. Dean gives her a crooked grin.

BARTENDER

What is this, your third time this week?

DEAN

What can I say, I'm a creature of habit.

BARTENDER

I'm not complaining.

She gives him another smile before leaving to get the whiskey.

He goes back to looking at his phone. He's looking at Instagram--Bobbie and Mitch's #vanlife account.

He looks at their most recent picture: The van in a park at sunset. Below, the top comment says: Beautiful! I wish I had your life!

DEAN

You have no idea.

Dean scrolls down and watches their most recent video (2 hours earlier). The camera points out the window of the van. The sun has just set at the end of the highway. The geotag says Oklahoma.

MUSIC comes from the radio, mostly muffled by the wind. The person filming points the camera out the passenger window-- tall grass flies by. Cows. We catch a glimpse of Bobbie in the sideview mirror. “DEDICATED TO THE ONE I LOVE” by the Mamas and the Papas is the song playing, faintly.

He watches the camera turn the rest of the way to Mitch, in the driver's seat, his hair fluttering in the breeze.

BOBBIE (O.S.)

(on phone)

Say hey.

Mitch glances over. His face is somber.

MITCH

Hey.

Dean's smile fades.

The bartender reappears, and REFILLS his whiskey glass.

BARTENDER

Anything else I can get you? My number? Some ice for that?

She gestures to her nose.

DEAN

(appreciative)

Smooth.

BARTENDER

I try. What happened? Gonna tell me should I see the other guy?

DEAN

Sorry to disappoint, but the other guy is a pole I walked into.

BARTENDER

(laughing)

Well, if you don’t want any ice...?

DEAN

(diplomatic)

Thanks. Just the bill.

“DEDICATED TO THE ONE I LOVE” begins to play.

MONTAGE: BACK TO THE MOTEL, ALONE

INT. IMPALA. NIGHT.

Dean drives, alone. Orange streetlights flicker by. While I'm far away from you, my baby...

INT. MOTEL ROOM. NIGHT.

Dean's motel room door opens, and he walks in. He drops his duffel bag.

INT. BUNKER - KITCHEN. NIGHT.

Pan slowly around behind CASTIEL, sitting alone at the kitchen table. His hands are clasped in front of himself on the table.

I know it's hard for you, my baby...

Jack appears in the doorway. Cas looks over at him; we still don't see his face.

INT. MOTEL ROOM. NIGHT.

Because it's hard for me, my baby...

Overhead shot: Dean lies in bed, lights off, eyes closed, hands clasped over his chest, face screwed up in discomfort.

Zoom in, closer to Dean's face, closer...

And the darkest hour is just before the dawn...

The music SWELLS...

INT. NIGHTMARE.

Darkness. THUNDER CRASHES. A shadow splits the dark floor. An ornate mirror, cracked, leans against a dark wall. The CHORUS SINGS...

Each night before you go to bed, my baby...

Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby...

Lightning flashes, and we see--Dean's reflection in the mirror.

His hands are covered in blood.

His eyes flash silver.

MICHAEL!DEAN

Welcome back, Dean.

INT. MOTEL ROOM. NIGHT.

And tell all the stars above...

Lying in bed, Dean thrashes, eyes squeezed shut and face screwed up. The sheet twists around him.

THUNDER CRASHES.

Lightning flashes.

This is dedicated to the one I love...

BLACKOUT.

SONG CONTINUES AS CREDITS ROLL.