Nadia opens a raspberry-flavored lollipop, tossing the wrapper carelessly into the passenger seat of her car. She was waiting for Sam and Dean to arrive at Dean's apartment to talk about the ghost.

Watching them save that guy had made it clear to her why the angels considered them so important—especially Dean.

Even in the midst of chaos, confused and unsure of what was happening, they not only investigated but also didn't hesitate to help a complete stranger. That was rare for humans. Putting your life on the line for the people you love is one thing; doing it for someone you don't even know is another.

"Where are you boys?" Nadia sighed, growing bored.

Her eyes flick to the radio. She turns it on, and Foreigner's I Want To Know What Love Is fills the car. She reaches to change the station but freezes as a sudden memory hits her: Dean and her, eating candy in the front seat of a classic car.

Nadia could feel the intensity of the emotions that memory brought up—the way she had looked at him, the way he had looked at her. The way they'd laughed and had deep conversations.

"You ever been in love, Dean?" she'd asked.

Another memory surfaces, this one of them alone in the car at night.

"You know, now that we're alone, you owe me that kiss," she tells him with a playful grin.

"Get over here, then."

Nadia shakes her head quickly, jolting the memory away as if trying to rid herself of it. She shuts off the radio, her fingers brushing her lips, still feeling the imprint of his fervent kiss.

It felt so real.

But it couldn't be real.

She'd never met Dean Smith in her life.

She touches her curly hair, furrowing her brow. I've never had locs before, either.

"... What the hell is going on?" Nadia mutters to herself, disgusted, tossing the lollipop out the window like it was the plague.

A car pulls up, breaking her from her thoughts. Sam and Dean's Prius.

"Okay, okay," Nadia grips the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes. "Don't freak out. It wasn't real. It can't be real. It doesn't make sense. You'd remember meeting someone like that." She opens her eyes, her gaze searching for reassurance. "At least, I think I would."

If she had met Dean before, why would Zachariah assign her to him? Especially if Zachariah had been so secretive about Sam and Dean. Something wasn't right, and Nadia couldn't shake the feeling that her uncle was hiding something from her.

And from the boys.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls it out, reading the message from Zachariah.

"Ironic," she chuckles to herself.

Any updates?

Instead of responding, Nadia closes her eyes, listening carefully. One of the perks of being an angel was being able to hear what was going on without being physically present.

Dean's apartment is nice—upscale, modern. It has a spacious patio with a nice view of the city. Everything is white and black, accented by neutral browns. Dean paces the room while sipping on his Master Cleanse, his adrenaline still pumping.

"Holy crap, dude."

"Yeah." Sam is sitting on the back of the couch. "I could use a beer."

"Oh, sorry, man." Dean apologizes, moving toward the kitchen. "I'm on the Cleanse. I got rid of all the carbs in the house."

Sam thinks for a moment. "Hey, how the hell did you know ghosts are scared of wrenches?"

Dean returns from the kitchen and hands Sam a bottle of water.

"Crazy, right? And nice job kicking that door too. That was very Jet Li. What are you, like a black belt or something?"

Sam chuckles. "No. I have no clue how I did that. It's like . . . we've done this before."

Dean's eyebrows drop. "What do you mean, before? Like Shirley MacLaine before?"

"No," Sam scoffs, fumbling over his words. "I—I just can't shake this feeling like I—like I don't belong here. You know? Like I should be doing more than sitting in a cubicle."

"I think most people who work in a cubicle feel that same way," Dean says, taking another gulp of his cleanse.

"No," Sam stands, casually walking around him. "Well, look, it's more than that. Like, I don't like my job. I don't like this town. I don't like my clothes. I don't like my own last name." Shrugging, he leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. "I don't know how else to explain it, except that . . . it feels like I should be doing something else. Like there's something in my blood. Like I was destined for something different."

Sam's eyes flicker to Dean. "What about you? You ever feel that way?"

"I don't believe in destiny," Dean answers honestly.

Sam looks down briefly, disappointment flickering across his face, though Dean doesn't seem to notice.

"I do believe in dealing with what's right in front of us, though," he adds, with a slight shrug.

Sam sighs deeply, nodding, but it's clear he's still wrestling with the weight of his feelings. "All right, so, what do we do now?"

Dean scowls. "Did I?"

Sam squints, tilting his head. "I think you did." He frowns, slightly disgusted. "Yeah. Don't."

Dean shrugs. "Sorry."

The two of them grab their laptops, each heading to their own spot—Dean at his desk, Sam at the dining room table.

Dean's the first to find something.

"Oh, jackpot."

"What'd you get?"

Dean leans back, excited. "I just found the best site ever. Real, actual ghost hunters."

Sam walks over to see.

"These guys are genius. Check it out."

Sam leans in, propping his hands on his knees. "Instructional videos?"

Dean hits play. The screen flickers, and Ed and Larry of the Ghostfacers pop up, wearing lab coats.

"We know why you're watching," Ed gestures with a pointer.

"You've got a problem," Harry rips off his glasses.

"A ghost problem."

"A ghost-related problem," Harry stumbles over his words to Ed's dismay. "It's—well, it's like a ghost-adjacent—no, it's—" He falters, trying to explain.

"Whatever," Ed interrupts, deadpan, cutting him off. He stares into the camera. "You've come to the right place. The only decent place, really, because the Ghostfacers know how to solve it."

"Period," Harry adds confidently.

"Watch and learn," Ed whispers ominously.

"See, the first step in any supernatural fight—"

"Figure out what you're up against," they say in unison.

The boys pause the video. Sam quickly scans an article about the death of Sandover's founder. Dean squints at the picture—despite the ghost looking terrifying, he recognizes him.

"That's him. That's the ghost."

"P. T. Sandover," Sam reads aloud. "Died 1916. Devoted his life to his work. No wife, no kids... Used to say he was the company, and his very blood pumped through the building."

Dean stands with his hand in his pocket, a casual gesture that contrasts with the grim situation. He paces a few steps, his mind working. "Wow, okay. So slight workaholic. Maybe he's still here, watching over the company... even killing for it." He turns to Sam for confirmation.

"Plus, turns out this isn't the first time people started killing themselves in the building. 1929. The crash," Sam adds, referring to the stock market.

"Yeah, but a lot of guys jumped off high-rises that year."

"How many companies had seventeen suicides?"

Sam's question takes Dean by surprise. He stops, blinking as the realization hits him. "Phew. Okay, so P.T. Sandover—protector of the company. His ghost gets active when the economy's in the gutter."

"Well, the worst time we've seen since the Great Depression—"

"Is now," Dean mutters, realization dawning on him. "Yeah, now sucks." His voice drops, and he closes his eyes in disappointment. "My portfolio's in the sewer. I don't even wanna talk about it."

Sam shakes his head, amused, but quickly moves on. "So, Sandover's helping the bottom line—"

"By zapping some model employees."

"Yeah. I mean, Ian and Paul," Sam says, shaking his head sadly. "It's like he turned them into different people." He continues reading.

"Perfect worker bees. Exactly." Dean flops onto the back of the couch. "So devoted to the company that they'd commit hara-kiri if they failed it."

Sam raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "One more interesting fact. The building wasn't always that high. It used to be fourteen floors. And the room where the ghost attacked—fourteen forty-four? That was the old man's office."

Now that the boys know who they're dealing with, they resume the Ghostfacers video. Ed and Harry explain that they need salt and iron, which is why the wrench worked. A shotgun would also be helpful—filling the shells with salt, of course.

Dean grabs two iron pokers and shoves them into a duffle bag with a grunt.

Sam came out of the kitchen with a canister of salt and a salt shaker.

"Right," Dean sighed in defeat. 

They would have to go without it. 

Finally, Ed and Harry gave them their final instruction: the only way to get rid of the ghost completely was to burn the bones. If the body had already been cremated, they would need to find something else the ghost might be bonded to.

Unfortunately, their ghost had been cremated. This meant they would have to track down another source of the remains within the building.