Nadia jolted awake, panic seizing her chest. They were supposed to be on the road by now, but it was nearly noon, and Dean wasn't in bed beside her. Instead, a note lay where he should have been:

Bringing back breakfast. Might have found a case.

"And we're back at it," she muttered. It had been a while since they'd had a case, not since Anna.

She stretched, the sheets falling from her body as she sat up against the headboard, a smile creeping across her face as she thought about the night before.

Ripping the covers off, she climbed out of bed, stepping over the scattered clothes they'd left behind. She flicked on the bathroom light and yawned, squinting at her reflection. Her hair—well, her locs—were growing out, and she tugged on a new strand, noticing the length of fresh growth.

"Sorry, boys, but I'm taking a hair day."

After brushing her teeth, Nadia stepped into the shower, scrubbing the sleep away, washing and moisturizing her hair. She threw on some shorts and one of Dean's flannels before grabbing her hair products and setting them on the bathroom counter.

As she started parting her hair, Dean appeared, carrying breakfast in his hands.

"Hey! I thought you'd be dressed by now." He caught a glimpse of her in the mirror. "Coffee and donuts?"

"Yes, please!" Nadia greeted him with a kiss and grabbed a glazed donut, savoring the first bite, followed by a sip of coffee. "I was going to get ready, but then I realized... my hair."

Dean raised an eyebrow, eyeing her hair. "What's wrong with your hair?"

Nadia laughed, pointing to her new growth. "This. You see it?"

Dean tilted his head, squinting. "Not really."

"I have to twist it so it looks like this." She gestured to the already-formed locs in the front.

"Mhm, right..." Dean nodded slowly, but his confusion was clear.

Nadia chuckled. "Don't let it give you a headache, Batman." She pecked him on the lips, finishing her donut. She grabbed her coffee and walked back to the bathroom.

Dean shrugged off his jacket and started getting dressed while Nadia began twisting her hair.

After a few moments, Nadia could feel Dean's gaze burning into the back of her head. He was sneaking glances in the mirror every few seconds. She finally dropped her hands to her sides and turned to face him.

"You're curious, aren't you?"

"Very," he admitted with a grin, adjusting his shirt.

"Alright, come here," Nadia gestured for him to join her in the bathroom. "Here's what you need: a spray bottle of water, a rat tail comb, loc gel, hair clips, and a towel. My hair's already washed and oiled, but the water's to keep it moisturized."

Dean's eyes were fixed on the items she was pointing to, taking it all in.

"So, you part, comb a little, gel, twist, clip—and boom. You're done."

"That's it?"

"Yep. Well, it takes a few hours to dry with the clips in, but yeah. Wanna try?" She handed him the comb.

"Can I?"

"Yeah, if you're good, I'll let you do it when I don't feel like it. I'll pay you back... somehow."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Somehow, huh?" He leaned in to kiss her, pulling her close.

"Focus, Winchester," Nadia said, gently pushing him back.

He grinned. "I was focused until you—"

"Stop it!" Nadia swatted at him, blushing. "Come on, try."

Dean cleared his throat and took the comb from her. His first attempt was a bit messy, but by the fourth try, they were in sync, twisting her hair together.

"You ever do this with your old boyfriends?" Dean asked, his curiosity piqued.

"No way. You know how guys are—this is considered 'girl stuff'."

Dean smiled proudly. "Guess I'm special."

"Or way too into me," she teased.

"No such thing." He kissed her temple just as a knock sounded at the door.

"Hey, it's me, Sam. You guys ready?"

"Comin'!" Dean called out, wiping his hands on the towel.

Nadia leaned in the doorway, watching as Dean buttoned his sleeves and donned his suit jacket. "Pray if you need me. Or call. I answer both these days."

"Will do." Dean kissed her and then stepped out to join Sam in the hall.

"Nadia's not coming?" Sam asked, eyeing the empty room.

"Nah, she's takin' a hair day."

"Oh, okay." Sam shrugged and sniffed the air. "Is that... mango and citrus?"

Dean smirked. "Hair gel. Smells amazing, right?"

Sioux City was buzzing with excitement as the annual Magic Week convention kicked off, and the air was thick with the kind of mystique only magicians and illusionists could bring. The streets were alive with the chatter of people headed toward the convention hall, the smell of street food mingling with the sharp scent of freshly printed flyers for the week's events. But last night had cast a dark shadow over the festivities.

Vance, a well-known magician, had dropped dead on the street just after performing a public stunt. Wounds to his stomach and chest, but oddly, no holes in his shirt. It wasn't the first time a magician had died under strange circumstances, but something about this felt different. His assistant was at the top of Sam and Dean's list of suspects, but they hadn't had a chance to speak with her yet.

The brothers were en route to the hotel where the convention was being held, hoping to gather more intel when they stumbled upon a curious sight. On the street corner, a crowd had gathered, and a man was performing what appeared to be a magic act, though it didn't feel quite like the usual sleight of hand.

The man was of average height, but his presence was anything but ordinary. His pale skin stood out under the harsh midday sun, and his bushy eyebrows were nearly lost in the jagged mess of black hair that looked as if it had been cut with a blunt object. His heavy eyeliner, smudged just enough to look like it had been intentionally smeared, gave him a haunting, almost otherworldly look. He wore all black: from the long, flowy coat that draped down to his boots, to the layers of goth-themed jewelry—rings, chains, and a necklace with a pendant shaped like a raven. It was a look that screamed theatrics and dark art.

The crowd was mesmerized, hanging on his every word. Sam and Dean stood off to the side, watching him for a moment, trying to make sense of the scene.

"This, this isn't a trick, okay?" the magician's voice rang out, laced with a thick accent that made his words sound more intense. He held up a deck of cards, flicking them nervously between his fingers. "I, I, I don't do tricks. This is a demonstration about demons and angels, love and lust. All that stuff mixed in my head."

Dean did a double-take, blinking as if he'd seen a ghost. "I don't even want to know how you know that."

Sam shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes still fixed on the strange magician in front of them. "He's famous," Sam said, voice casual but laced with a hint of disbelief. "Kind of."

"For what? Douchebaggery?" Dean scoffed, crossing his arms as he observed the performance with growing irritation. The magician was performing something bizarre, and Dean was already getting a bad feeling about it.

The magician, seemingly oblivious to the brothers' judgment, continued speaking to his captivated audience. "But whatever happens, no matter how messed up it gets, don't touch me, okay?" he said, his voice dropping to a warning tone, almost pleading. "For your own safety."

He exhaled deeply, stretching his neck with a series of cracking sounds, his eyes fluttering closed as if he were preparing for something intense.

Then, as if on cue, the magician let out a dramatic gasp, followed by a shuddering breath. His body started to shake violently, jerking and twitching like he was in the midst of some kind of seizure. His movements were exaggerated, over the top, but the crowd seemed to buy it, leaning in closer, eyes wide with anticipation.

Dean, watching with narrowed eyes, couldn't suppress a scoff. "Seriously? This is what we're dealing with?"

Jeb, the magician, grabbed his deck of cards with one hand, his fingers trembling as he flung them into the air with wild abandon. The cards spun and twirled, their movements chaotic but deliberate. Then, in a move that looked more like an uncoordinated tantrum than anything else, he flung his cards toward the store window behind him with a dramatic flourish.

"Go back to hell, demon!" Jeb shouted, his voice rising to a fever pitch. His body went rigid for a split second before he relaxed, wiping his sweaty brow.

One card, an ace of diamonds, flew perfectly through the air and stuck to the glass with a sudden thwack.

Jeb dragged his hand slowly across the window, as if conducting some invisible force, and when his palm made contact with the other side of the glass, the crowd gasped in astonishment.

"Is this your card?" he asked, as if he were the most important person in the world. He flashed a sly grin, his eyes gleaming with pride at his supposed skill.

The crowd went wild. Applause erupted, people cheering and clapping, completely enamored by what they thought was an impossible trick.

Dean, however, wasn't impressed. He rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "You've got to be kidding me. A fake demon possession?"

"I can't believe people actually fall for that crap."

"Oh, right, right, I forgot," Dean smiles, turning to him. "You were actually into this stuff, weren't you?"

Sam rolls his eyes. 

Dean's smile flips into a scowl as he shook his head. "Just—it bugs me. You know, playing at demons and, and magic - "

"Like a guy who drops dead of ten stab wounds without a single tear in his shirt?"

Dean nods, "That's what I'm talking about."

Once they arrive at the hotel, they interview the assistant in her room as she's packing up all the gear from their act into a trunk.

"So, did your boss have any enemies that you know of?" Dean asks. 

"Vance had plenty of enemies," she grabs a tied-together handkerchief.

"How so?" questioned Sam.

"He would steal from other magicians. All the time."

"What would he steal?"

Dean's eyes widened as she kept pulling the handkerchief. 

Finally, she got to the end and tossed it in the trunk.

"Stage effects, closeup techniques, anything he could get his hands on."

"Is that enough to get him killed?"

"These guys take this stuff pretty seriously." She picks up a white cloth, revealing a rabbit. "There you are," she picks it up, petting it softly with a smile. 

"Did you find anything weird in Vance's stuff?" Dean questions after exchanging a look with his brother. "Well, weirder?"

"Matter of fact, I did." The assistant puts the rabbit in a bag and pulls out a tarot card: the Ten of Swords. There was an illustration of a man with ten swords sticking out of his back.

"I'm guessing this didn't belong to Vance," Sam takes the card to get a closer look at the grim image. 

"He hated card tricks. Never wanted them around. Let alone in his precious cape."

Sam flips the card around, his brow furrowing as he examines the image. At first glance, it seemed like a regular tarot card, but the familiar, jagged pattern—almost identical to the stab wounds found on Vance's body—gave him pause.

There was a chance it wasn't ordinary at all.

"Is there anybody here that used tarot cards in their act?" Dean asked, his voice steady but curious.

"Actually, yeah," the assistant nods, her fingers still twitching as she ties off a bundle of handkerchiefs. "Vernon Haskell. He's an older guy, wears glasses, and usually hangs out with two other old guys. You should be able to find them in the theater."

"Thank you," Dean nods, glancing at Sam before they head for the door.

"You want to talk to him together?" Sam asks, falling in step with Dean.

"Nah," Dean replies, his tone casual. "You head back to the room. See if you can find somethin' on the net about magic tarot cards. I'll talk to Vernon."

Sam nods, pulling out his phone as Dean hits the elevator button. The doors slide open, and the brothers split up without a word.

True to the assistant's word, Dean finds Vernon in the theater. The air is thick with dust and stale popcorn smell. The stage is sparsely lit, and the hum of old theater lights buzzes in the background. Vernon is sitting with one of his friends, Charlie, on a faded couch near the back of the auditorium.

Vernon is a stocky man with glasses perched low on his nose, his eyes half-lidded as he peers over them with a skeptical gaze. His gray suit is slightly rumpled, and deep wrinkles form across his forehead when he's in deep thought. His thinning dark hair is combed back but receding sharply on top, leaving only the crown and the sides, which connect to his salt-and-pepper beard and mustache.

Charlie, on the other hand, is a silver fox through and through—tousled silver hair and a face free of wrinkles, save for a few lines around his eyes. The man radiates a calm but sharp presence.

The two are watching a screen intently, observing Jeb Dexter, the magician, as he argues loudly on the phone. Jeb's voice cuts through the room, grating and irritated.

"This is a lame gig!" Jeb rants into his phone. "I'm stuck in this fleabag hotel doing this man-of-the-people crap, and freaking Angel's in Vegas doing Cirque du Soleil! That should've been mine!"

With a sharp exhale, Jeb slams the phone down on the table, joining the other man who has been silently shuffling a deck of cards. The older man has voluminous silver hair and a pudgy, wrinkled face that wears an expression of pride tinged with irritation. His eyes narrow as he arranges the cards.

On stage, a table is set with swords hanging above it, and a sign reads: The Incredible Jay.

Dean walks up to Vernon and Charlie. "You Vernon Haskell?" he asks, voice low and deliberate.

Vernon tilts his head back, not quite looking at Dean, but there's a sharpness in his gaze. "Who's asking?"

"Federal agent. Ulrich," Dean shows his badge, his fingers tapping the edge lightly. "Looking into the death of Patrick Vance."

"I'm Jeb Dexter," the magician on the phone announces loudly into the camera, clearly unaware of the conversation happening nearby. "This is Devil Twist. We're chilling at the International Magicians' Convention, tipping my hat to the wicked cats who came before me. Smoking hot effect last night, Jim."

"Jay," the man seated at the table corrects, casually flashing a deck of cards in his hands.

"Huh?" Jeb looks confused.

"My name is Jay," the man repeats, barely looking up from his cards.

"Yeah, whatever," Jeb chuckles. "We'll loop it later."

Vernon rolls his eyes and mutters, "What a douchebag."

"Couldn't agree more," Dean replies, turning back to Vernon and pulling the tarot card out of his pocket. He holds it up. "Is, uh—this familiar to you?"

Vernon eyes the card for a second before shrugging. "Should it be?"

Dean's gaze sharpens. "Well, I heard that you used tarot cards in your act."

"My act?" Vernon laughs dryly. "That was a long time ago. Haven't touched a deck in years." He holds up his shaky hand, the fingers trembling slightly.

Dean raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Do you know someone who might be using them now?"

"Well," Vernon hesitates, then nods slowly, "There was a guy down on Bleeker Street."

Charlie pipes up, his voice low and gravelly. "Yeah, he peddles that kind of specialty stuff."

Dean takes a mental note. "Did he have a problem with Vance?"

"Matter of fact, Vance crossed him about a year ago," Vernon says, his tone darkening. "Probably cost him fifty grand in royalties."

Charlie, looking up from his card deck, nods in agreement. "Big falling out."

"You know the exact address?" Dean asks, slipping the tarot card back into his pocket.

"Four twenty-six Bleeker," Vernon says with a sigh, clearly not interested in the details anymore.

"Ask for Chief," Charlie adds, his voice oddly somber.

"Chief. Thanks." Dean stands up, nodding at both men before walking away.