The moon illuminated the dark sky, casting various shades of blue over the landscape. A chill hung in the air—not sharp, but enough to make a person shiver. Nadia stood across the street, her gaze fixed on Sam and Dean as they disappeared into Sandover Bridge and Iron Inc. Suddenly, a presence washed over her, the flutter of wings filling her ears.

"You didn't return my message."

"Sorry, I got distracted." Nadia turned to face Zachariah. "Everything's going according to plan. They should be finished with the ghost any minute now."

"Perfect." Zachariah stood with his arms behind his back, his gray eyebrows arching. "You're troubled... Care to—"

"Well, since you brought it up," Nadia interrupted, "do I know him?"

"Him?"

"Dean." She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Have we met before?"

"Of course not—"

"I have memories of us... together. And—"

"Protect and guide. Your only instruction." Zachariah's expression hardened, his voice turning cold. "Falling for him was not."

"Excuse me?" Nadia frowned, her confusion turning to frustration.

"This is bigger than you and your little crush. If I were you, I'd get your priorities straight."

"W-w-what are you talking about?" Nadia stuttered, her confusion deepening.

Realizing he'd said too much, Zachariah adjusted his tone. His face softened, but his eyes remained unyielding. "Don't let a little crush get in the way of his destiny."

"But—I—"

"You're no longer needed, Nadia. You're dismissed."

With a sudden flap of his wings, Zachariah was gone before Nadia could say another word.

"Set your cell phone to walkie-talkie in case we get separated," Dean says, pulling his Blackberry from its waist holster. Sam quickly follows suit, whipping his phone out of his pocket.

"How the hell are we gonna find some ancient speck of DNA in a skyscraper?"

"Well, that creepy storeroom used to be Sandover's office, right?" Dean presses the button for floor fourteen.

They move through room 1444, going through the piles of old paperwork and boxes. Dean searches the shelves, while Sam rifles through the drawers of an old desk. They're so focused on their search that neither of them notices the security guard who enters the room, quietly making his way toward Sam.

"What the hell are you doing here?" The guard's voice startles Sam, making him jump to his feet.

Dean ducks behind a shelf, quickly disappearing from view.

"Uhh... nothing. I just—"

"Come with me," the guard demands, grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Man, listen," Sam tries to reason, as the guard pulls him down the hall. "Look. It's okay. I—I work here."

"Whatever. Tell it to the cops."

The guard marches him to the elevator, slapping the "down" button. The doors open instantly, and they step inside. They descend in silence, though Sam is clearly annoyed. It's quiet for a moment, until the weather screen on the elevator wall begins to flicker and go static.

Sam frowns, noticing it first. Both their breaths become visible. The guard glances at Sam, now equally puzzled. Suddenly, the elevator lurches to a screeching halt, throwing them both against the walls.

The guard panics, repeatedly pressing the emergency button as if it will help. He pulls out an elevator key, unlocking the second set of doors and prying the first set open with his hands. They're stuck between floors.

The guard sighs in frustration. "Well, come on."

Sam's brow furrows. "What?"

The guard turns to him, exasperated. "Last time this happened, it took them two hours to get here."

Sam shrugs, trying to stay calm. "Let's just wait. It's safer, smarter."

The guard shoots him a look that says otherwise and climbs out of the elevator, nearly kicking Sam in the face as he does. Once outside, he turns back to Sam, panting.

"Seriously?" Sam chuckles nervously. "I'll wait."

The guard leans back into the elevator, clearly irritated. "Look, I don't have the rest of my life."

Without warning, the elevator jerks down again, its momentum building to a sickening speed. The guard's head is severed clean off, spraying Sam's face and shirt with blood.

Sam stares, frozen, in disbelief.

Sam gasped in horror with widened eyes. He heaved with his shoulders, his breath and body shaking.

Dean's voice spoke from the phone:

Sam slowly reached into his pocket for his phone. He gulped, forcing himself to speak.

After taking a moment to process, Sam steps off the elevator, his thoughts racing. He spots a small stack of napkins on a nearby desk and uses them to wipe himself down as best he can while walking past the cubicles on the IT floor.

"Dean, you there?" he asks into his phone, his voice low, wary.

"Yeah, listen, I think I got it. Meet me on twenty-two."

"Okay, yeah, uh . . . just, uh, take the stairs."

Sam heads for the lobby, his shoes clicking against the tiled floor. When he arrives, he spots Dean standing by the company's history display. The duffle bag, their duffle bag, is lying on the floor at Dean's feet, looking out of place in the sterile corporate environment.

"Whoa," Dean says, noticing Sam's shirt and the mark on his neck. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Right," Dean mutters, swallowing hard as he shifts his weight. "So, uh, in there," he points toward a pair of gloves displayed in a glass case.

"P.T. Sandover's gloves," Sam huffs, his tone flat.

"Yeah, how much you wanna bet there's a little smidge of DNA in there? You know, like a fingernail clipping or a hair or two? Something."

Sam raises an eyebrow, his expression hardening. "So you ready?"

Dean goes quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on the gloves as if expecting something to happen. He exhales shakily. "I have no idea."

"Me neither." Sam nods, feeling the same unease creeping up his spine.

The air between them feels thick with anticipation. They each grab a poker. Sam picks up the container of salt, cradling it with a steady grip.

"Go for it."

Dean takes a step forward and, with a swift motion, cracks the glass with his poker.

Instantly, Sam's breath comes out in a mist. Their hearts drop into their stomachs as it hits them—this is it.

Suddenly, Sandover materializes behind Dean, slamming him into the wall with a sickening crash. Dean's body thuds against the surface, face first. Before Sam can react, Sandover shoves him hard, sending him sprawling against the opposite wall.

The ghost approaches slowly, lightning crackling between his outstretched gray fingers.

Sam doesn't hesitate. He hurls a handful of salt at Sandover. The ghost howls, his form flickering before it dissipates into nothing.

Dean stumbles to his feet, gasping for air. He touches the blood trickling down from a small gash on his hairline. "Oh," he says with a grin, his voice shaky but amused. "Nice."

Before Dean can recover, Sandover reappears behind him, this time angrier, more volatile.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, tossing him the poker.

Dean spins, swinging the iron pole with all his strength. The metal cuts through the ghost, and Sandover vanishes once more.

Sam laughs, a breathless chuckle escaping him. "Nice catch."

"Right?" Dean grins, flipping the poker in his hand like a pro.

Sam gets up, a determined look in his eyes. He grabs the other poker, just in time for Sandover to materialize between them. In perfect sync, they both swing, the iron poles cutting through the air. The ghost disappears once again.

Sam and Dean share a quick smile, their relief short-lived as the ghost suddenly materializes behind Dean. He swings his weapon but misses, and Sandover reappears behind Sam.

Sam, too, swings but fails to make contact.

Sandover pushes Sam into a wall light, slamming his face against it, then flings Dean down the hall, sending him crashing into a framed construction manual. Dean is tossed inhumanely through the air, crashing into the wall as Sandover advances, revving up for his next attack.

Sam struggles to his feet, his eyes locking on Dean, who fights to stay conscious as the ghost closes in.

Sam grits his teeth, forcing himself up with a grunt. He pulls the lighter from his pocket, flicking it open and setting the gloves alight. The flames consume them quickly, and Sandover disappears in a burst of fire just as he's about to reach Dean.

Letting the burning glove drop to the ground, Sam moves quickly to Dean, who is still sprawled on the floor. Dean looks around in surprise, his expression shifting to one of relief.

Sam can't help but let out a stifled laugh. "That was amazing!"

"Right?" Dean grins, his face lighting up with delight.

Dean pulled a first aid kit out of his desk drawer, the familiar motion easing the tension that had built up during the hunt. After cleaning up the mess they'd made—blood, dirt, and ghost residue—they made their way to his office to tend to their wounds and process the night's events.

"Man, I gotta tell you," Dean said, a grin still tugging at his lips. "I've never had so much fun in my life."

"Me neither," Sam replied, sitting on the edge of Dean's desk with his hands clasped together. His expression was distant, his eyes unfocused as though his mind was somewhere else.

Dean chuckled, sitting beside him. "Was a hell of a workout too, wasn't it?"

"We should keep doing this."

Dean glanced over, still smiling. "I know," he laughed, opening the first aid kit. He pulled out two gauze pads, handing one to Sam.

"I mean it," Sam said, his tone more serious now. "There gotta be other ghosts out there. We could help a lot of people."

Dean paused for a second, gauze in hand. His smile didn't falter, though there was something slightly amused in his expression. "Right, we'd be like the Ghostfacers."

"No, really. I mean . . . for real."

Dean laughed softly, the sound rough from the adrenaline still running through him. "What? You wanna quit your job and hit the road full time?"

"Exactly."

Dean raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for a moment as he considered the suggestion. "How would we live?"

"Uh..." Sam shrugged slightly, his gaze flickering downward. He didn't have a solid plan, but his conviction didn't waver.

Dean exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. "You gotta be kidding me. How would we get by? With stolen credit cards? Huh? Eating diner food drenched in saturated fats? Sharing a crappy motel room every night?"

"That's all just details," Sam said, his frown deepening. His voice raised just a little as the conversation became more serious.

"Details are everything," Dean shot back, his voice firm. "You don't wanna go fighting ghosts without health insurance."

Sam looked away for a moment, his jaw clenching. He licked his lips nervously, then cleared his throat. "All right. Um. Confession."

Dean turned his head, furrowing his brows in mild confusion. "What?"

"Remember those dreams I told you about? With the ghosts?"

"Yeah?" Dean's expression softened, his interest piqued.

Dean's eyebrows raise at the revelation, his expression shifting from confusion to curiosity.

"We were these, like, hunters, and we were friends," Sam sighs, a wistful look crossing his face as he thinks back to the dreams. "More like brothers, really." He pauses, lost in the nostalgia, but snaps back to the present when he notices Dean frowning at him. "I mean, what if that's who we really are? You saw us back there, working together. The ghost was scrambling people's brains. What if it scrambled ours?"

"That's insane," Dean says, standing with a soft chuckle. He moves toward the window, his shoes clicking on the floor as he walks around his desk. The light from the window casts a faint glow on his features, but his posture remains tense.

"Is it?" Sam asks, his voice calm but insistent. He leans forward, trying to make Dean see his point. "Think about it for just one second. What if we think this is our life, but it's not?"

Dean hesitates for a moment before sitting on the drawer against the wall below the window. He crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on Sam, his expression unreadable. "Hey, man, the ghost is dead and we're still standing. I mean, I'm sorry, but—"

Sam cuts him off, standing and raising his voice again. "Look, all I know is—"

"Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo."

"When was the last time you talked to them?" Sam asked him with a frown. "To any of them?"

"Okay, you're upset," Dean stands up, calmly. "You're upset, you're confused—"

"Yeah, 'cause I only moved here 'cause I just broke up with my fiancée, Madison! But I called her number and I got a damn animal hospital!"

"Okay. What are you saying?" Dean asks him confused. "Are you trying to say that my family isn't real? Huh? That we've been injected with fake memories? Come on."

"All I know is, I got this feeling in my gut. And I know—I know that deep down, you gotta be feeling it too."

Dean chuckles again, more amused than anything. He briefly looks down.

"We're supposed to be something else," Sam tells him. "You're not just some corporate douchebag. . . This isn't you."

"Know me?" Dean questioned him. He shook his head. " You don't know me, pal . . . "

Sam stood there for a moment, quiet and visibly disappointed. Tossing the gauze on the table, he turned away, leaving.