Typically, the Winchesters went in as FBI agents when investigating a case. But for the Bedford one, they were pretending to be lawyers—an unusual choice, but the only way they could gain access to the latest killer, who was already locked up and awaiting sentencing.

They'd hoped that the man might be desperate for legal counsel, but he was anything but. Despite the fact that he'd been free just days ago, he looked like someone who had been in prison for years. His once sharp features were now drawn, his face pale, and his eyes dimmed with a sadness that didn't seem to belong to someone who was even remotely interested in fighting for their freedom. He sat slumped in his chair, his posture defeated.

"Why does the PD keep sending you guys? I already said I don't want a lawyer," he muttered, voice low and resigned.

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, then spoke with a blunt edge to his tone. "They're lining up the firing squad."

"I'm pleading guilty," Benson replied with an air of finality, his eyes glassy.

Sam gave Dean a silent, warning look, then focused on the prisoner. "All right, look, you don't want us to represent you, that's fine. In fact, it's probably not a bad idea, between you and me," Dean said, dropping his sarcasm for just a moment.

Sam cleared his throat, nudging Dean with a soft glare. His voice softened as he continued, trying to navigate the delicate line between pushing for information and being empathetic. "We just wanna understand what happened, that's all."

"Mr. Benson. Please," Sam added gently, leaning in slightly to show his sincerity.

Benson's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he wrestled with the truth. He finally spoke, his words clipped and reluctant. "What happened was, I killed my wife. You wanna know why? Because she made plans without asking me."

Dean blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion, but the words hit him like a slap. He looked down at his hands, his usual quick wit swallowed up by the coldness of the confession. He didn't have a reply.

Sam pressed on, trying to make sense of it. "Now when it happened, how did you feel?" he asked. "Disoriented? Out of control?"

"Like something possessed you to do it?" Dean added, his voice tight with suspicion, his eyes scanning Benson's every movement.

Benson gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. "I knew exactly what I was doing," he said, an exhausted eye roll accompanying the words. "I was crystal clear."

"Then why'd you do it?" Dean pressed again, his voice hard.

"I don't know," Benson said, his voice cracking as the reality of his actions seemed to hit him. "I loved her. We were happy."

Dean glanced at Sam, sharing a moment of mutual understanding, but both men remained silent as they watched the man unravel in front of them.

Benson's eyes filled with unshed tears. "I didn't mean to do it," he whispered. "I just... I don't know what happened."

Sam nodded at Dean, signaling for him to move forward. Dean reached into his briefcase, pulling out a printed bill and setting it on the table in front of Benson with a deliberate motion.

Benson's eyes snapped to the bill, his expression turning serious. He knew exactly what it meant.

"Nine G's," Dean said, pointing to the bill with the end of his pen. "That's a hefty bill."

"Where did you get that?" Benson asked, his voice tight, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Doesn't matter. We have it," Dean replied coolly, his gaze unwavering.

Benson stirred again, discomfort rolling off him in waves. He shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact with Dean's piercing stare.

"See, certain charges, ones you don't want the missus to know about... they show up under shady names like 'M & C Entertainment'," Dean continued, leaning in slightly. His voice dropped to a low, knowing tone.

Benson's eyes widened, his breath quickening as he started blinking too much, the kind of overcompensating reaction that betrayed his guilt. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, voice cracking under the strain of his lie.

"Like dropping plastic at a nudie bar, for instance," Dean pressed, his tone turning sharper, more impatient.

Sam quickly cut in, taking the role of the calm, rational "good cop." "We... we just wanna know the truth, Mr. Benson," he said, his voice smooth but serious.

Benson gritted his teeth again, frustration building as he reluctantly shifted in his seat. His eyes darted around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Her name was... Jasmine."

"She was a stripper?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to clarify.

"Dude, her name was Jasmine," Dean muttered under his breath, exasperated.

"I didn't mean for it to happen, I don't like to go to strip bars," Benson mumbled, his eyes distant as he recalled the event. "My buddy was having a bachelor party, and... there she was."

"Jasmine?" Sam repeated, a hint of disbelief creeping into his voice.

"She came right up to me," Benson's face softened, his eyes lighting up with something akin to admiration. "And... I dunno, she was just... perfect. Everything I wanted."

Dean scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, you pay enough and anybody will be anything."

Benson's face darkened, his tone defensive. "It wasn't about the money," he retorted quickly, almost too quickly. "It wasn't even about the sex. It was... I dunno. I... I don't know what it was. It's hard to explain."

Sam's brows knitted together as he tried to follow the thread. "And your wife found out?"

Benson blinked rapidly, shaking his head. "No, she never had a clue."

"Then why'd you kill her?" Dean shot back, voice harsh as he pressed Benson for the reason behind his violent act.

Benson stared at the floor, almost ashamed. "For Jasmine," he muttered. "She said we would be together forever. If... if only Vicki was..."

"Muerte," Dean said under his breath, his tone knowing.

Benson swallowed hard, his body trembling as the confession spilled out. "Afterwards, me and Jasmine were supposed to meet, and she never showed. I don't know where she lives, I don't know her last name, I don't even know her real first name!" He scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm an idiot."

"And you didn't think to tell this to the cops?" Sam asked, his voice incredulous.

"What for? The stripper didn't do it, I did it. And I know what I deserve," Benson said flatly, as if resigning himself to fate.

His gaze turned cold and unfeeling, as if the weight of his confession had already settled in. He stared straight ahead, voice level and chilling. "The judge doesn't give me the death sentence, I'll just do it myself."

After the interview with Benson, Sam and Dean decided to split up.

Dean took on the task of questioning the other two husbands, while Sam headed to the Taylor County Medical Center. He was hoping to get some valuable insight from the toxicology reports of the victims.

The doctor handling the case was Dr. Cara Roberts.

When Sam pushed open the door to her office, he found the doctor sitting at her desk, popping an aspirin and rubbing her temples. His gaze instantly caught hers, and he was struck by her presence.

Dr. Roberts was a brunette with soft waves of hair cascading over her shoulders, and big brown eyes that conveyed both exhaustion and determination. Her appearance was effortlessly stunning despite her messy half-bun and tired posture.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Rough night?"

"Fun night," she replied, her voice warm but tinged with a touch of sarcasm. "Rough morning."

Sam chuckled, feeling a little self-conscious as he realized he'd been staring a little too long. He shifted slightly, trying to find something to say. His mind seemed a little distracted by her beauty.

She finally looked up at him, meeting his eyes with a raised brow. The air between them felt charged with that mix of curiosity and the shared weight of the case.

"Ahhh . . . yes." Sam stepped inside, putting his professional hat back on. He showed her his badge. "Um, I'm Special Agent Stiles, FBI. You Doctor Cara Roberts?"

"Far as I know," she shuffed papers around.

"Well, I have some questions about a case. Actually, about several cases." Sam paused, glancing at the cluttered desk, then back at her. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Dr. Roberts, who had been scribbling something on a file, motioned to the chair across from her with a casual flick of her pen. "Sure. Have a seat."

"Great." Sam pulled out his notepad, flipping to a clean page. "Adam Benson, Jim Wylie, and Steve Snyder."

She raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair as she placed the pen down. "Oh yeah, the men who killed their wives?"

"You handled their work-ups, right?" Sam asked, his voice calm, professional.

"Mhm." Dr. Roberts leaned forward on her desk, folding her arms casually. "Autopsies for the wives, tox screens for the perps. A real two-for-one special."

Sam nodded, focusing on her. "You find anything?"

"Not really." She shook her head. "I mean, the cause of death for the women was pretty clear. Nothing unusual in their systems. Pretty standard stuff."

Sam jotted some notes, then looked back up at her. "What about the husbands?"

Dr. Roberts' eyes shifted slightly, her expression changing in an instant. It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but Sam caught it. She leaned forward just a little more, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary. Almost like she'd suddenly realized how attractive Sam was, or maybe how close he was to asking questions that she might not be allowed to answer so easily.

Sam complied; she looked at the badge closely for a moment.

"There was one thing... um, an anomaly in the blood work." Dr. Marks leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping the edge of her desk as she thought, then she quickly stood up and moved toward a filing cabinet. She pulled out a stack of files, flipping through them until she found what she was looking for. "And I remember thinking how strange it was that it showed up in all three of the men."

Sam leaned forward, brows furrowing. "That what showed up?"

"Oxytocin," she said, still flipping through the papers with a look of curiosity. "Their levels were off the charts—way higher than normal. It was the same for all of them."

Sam blinked, taking the file she handed him. "Uh, oxytocin?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, gesturing for him to take a look at the other file. "It's a hormone that's produced during childbirth, lactation, and... well, sex." She flashed him a playful grin as she handed him the second file, her voice lingering on the "sex" part.

"Okay..." Sam's face twisted into confusion as he skimmed the papers. "I, uh, still don't get what I'm looking at here. What's the connection?"

Dr. Marks leaned against the desk, arms crossed, a look of mild amusement crossing her face. "People call it the 'love hormone,'" she explained patiently, her voice softer now, almost reminiscent. "You know how it feels when you first fall in love?"

Sam grinned, doing his best to maintain a professional demeanor, though it wasn't easy.

Dr. Cara Roberts was stunning, her confident smile and easy charm making it hard to focus.

"Of course, it eventually fades," she said, her voice light and teasing, "and then you're stuck with every relationship ever. That, and the painful regime of tattoo removal."

Sam chuckled, his grin widening as their eyes locked. For a moment, they shared an unspoken connection, their identical smiles lingering just a little too long.

The moment broke when Dean walked in, his presence immediately drawing Sam's attention, though Dr. Roberts' gaze lingered on Sam.

"What'd I miss?" Dean asked casually, his tone faintly amused as he glanced between the two of them.

Sam straightened a bit, his professionalism kicking back in. "Ahh, this is my partner, Agent Murdoch," he said, motioning toward Dean.

Dr. Roberts turned to Dean, her expression polite but less intrigued than it had been with Sam.

"Nice to meet you," Dean said, extending a hand with his usual confident charm.

Dr. Roberts shook it briefly, her focus drifting back to Sam almost immediately.

Realizing that she was too focused on his brother to even acknowledge him, Dean let out a subtle sigh and sat down, leaning back in the chair with crossed arms. It didn't take him long to catch on that Sam was just as smitten with the doctor as she was with him.

"So, um, can I help you with anything else?"

Sam handed the files back to her, his expression slightly bashful. "Uhh, sure, just one more thing. This chemical, this . . ."

"Oxytocin," she said, finishing for him.

While Sam's attention remained locked on the doctor, Dean's eyes scanned the room. He noticed a pot of delicate purple flowers sitting on the windowsill, their vivid color a stark contrast to the otherwise clinical setting. He smirked slightly, finding it amusing how Sam always seemed to get along so well with anyone willing to offer a warm smile.

"Oxytocin," Sam repeated, pulling Dean's attention back to the conversation. "What would cause those high levels that you found?"

She shook her head thoughtfully, her brow furrowed as she leaned against the cabinet. "Nothing that I've ever seen," she admitted with a slight shrug.

"Okay. That's it. Thanks, Doc," Sam said, flashing her another small, boyish smile.

The doctor returned it warmly, lingering just a second too long before turning back to her work.

Dean stood and gestured toward the door with a tilt of his head, and Sam followed. But as they reached the doorway, Sam suddenly hesitated, his steps faltering. A thought crossed his mind, and he hesitantly turned back toward her, one hand gripping the edge of the doorframe.

"Nice to see you still got some blood rushing down there," Dean quipped as they left the hospital, a smug grin plastered across his face.

"Shut up," Sam muttered, rolling his eyes as his cheeks reddened. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to brush it off. "So Whylie and Snyder totally fessed up, huh?"

Dean nodded, stepping off the curb. "One emptied his IRA, the other his kids' college fund—all on the same day."

"Live nude girls?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A club called The Honey Wagon," Dean confirmed, fishing his keys from his pocket.

"These guys have affairs too? With a stripper also known as Jasmine?"

"Yes and no." Dean stopped, turning to face Sam with a glint of intrigue in his eyes. "This is where it gets interesting. Each guy hooked up with a different chick."

"So, what?" Sam asked, his brow furrowing. "These girls all connected somehow?"

Dean tilted his head as they walked toward the Impala. "Well, they all described their stripper the exact same way. Perfect. Everything they ever wanted."

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice tinged with sarcasm, "at least until dream Barbie convinced them to murder their wives."

"There's that," Dean added dryly, opening the driver's side door.

"You know," Sam continued, leaning on the roof of the car, "it's almost like they were under some kinda love spell."

"Sure seems that way," Dean agreed.

"Which caused them to become totally psychotic."

"Absolutely."

Sam frowned a bit, glancing over at his brother before they got in the car. "I thought you'd be more excited."

Dean raised an eyebrow as he opened the driver's side door. "About what?" His expression mirrored Sam's.

"A case involving strippers," Sam replied, tilting his head. "I mean, c'mon, this has Dean Winchester written all over it."

Dean paused, his hand resting on the door frame, considering for a moment. Sam wasn't wrong—Dean had always had a weakness for women, especially the kind who danced under neon lights. But then he cracked a grin, his usual cocky charm replaced by something softer.

"What can I say?" Dean shrugged, sliding into the driver's seat with a smirk. "I'm off the market, Sammy. Spoken for."

Sam glanced at him, surprised but amused. "Wow. Who knew Dean Winchester could be tamed?"

Dean snorted as he started the Impala, the engine rumbling to life. "Tamed? Nah. Just found someone worth keeping around."