Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They are working on a voodoo thing in New Orleans when they realize something is wrong. Dean’s been on edge since no one really heard from John for a few days; he explained that it’s not exactly a red flag, but in their line of work, you never know.

Dean left his phone in the car when they stopped for lunch, and when they’re done, John Winchester has left them a voicemail about something big coming. And unfortunately, yeah, it sounded as ominous as one would think.

He also didn’t answer any of Dean’s calls after the fact.

Diego sighs heavily at the sound of a beep signaling the start of recording for a voicemail and drops the phone in his lap.

“Nothing,” he says, even though Dean already knows that by now.

Dean’s hands are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles almost white, and he’s staring at the road with focused determination. They are gunning down the interstate towards California, and they've yet to acknowledge it. Because, yeah, Diego knows exactly where they’re headed. And it feels like a fever dream.

He doesn’t understand what Dean’s plan here is; or more correctly, he doesn’t know what Dean thinks is going to happen. Because Dean and Sam haven’t spoken a word to each other in a long time. Sam left four years ago, and the only times he called Dean was when Diego stopped answering his calls; on that djinn case and after their blowup when Diego confessed to not being normal. And it’s not like Dean put much effort into keeping in touch either, however harsh that sounds. So Diego doesn’t know what Dean is thinking.

And he doesn’t know- has no idea- what’s going to happen when Dean does whatever it is he’s planning to do.

“So, we’re going to see Sam?” He asks when they stop at the gas station.

Dean rearranges his grip on the gas pump, doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he says.

Diego is leaning against the car next to him, crosses his arms. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, why not?” Dean says with a shrug.

Diego threads carefully. “Just. You haven’t talked in a long time.”

“Yeah, well, that was Sam’s choice. I think this is important enough to break our streak.”

Break their streak from Dean’s side, he means, considering that Sam was the one who called every time this far.

“What’s your plan?”

Dean looks at him, “What do you mean?”

Diego takes a breath, says, “I mean, you don’t know how Sam’s gonna react.”

Dean frowns, “How he’s gonna react? Well, hell, I’m gonna tell him our dad went missing, I sure as hell hope he’s gonna be concerned.”

“And?” Diego presses.

Dean sighs, says gruffly, “And he’ll come to help us find him.”

Diego breathes out, chest clenching because, of course. He knows how it feels, missing your siblings like a lost limb, and this is Dean’s chance; this is Dean’s opportunity to get Sam back. At least for a while.

“Dean, you don’t know if he’ll want to come,” he says and the words hurt going out but he has to make Dean aware of that. He doesn’t want him to get his hopes up.

“It’s our dad, Diego,” Dean tells him sharply, “He has to come.”

“Yeah,” Diego says.

They stop two more times, but they don’t talk more about the topic. Diego can’t sympathize with Dean’s worry, exactly; if it was his father who suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth, fuck, he’d get together with the rest of his siblings and they’d sing kumbaya in his office for the hell of it. But it’s not his father, it’s Dean’s. It’s John and as complicated as it is, Diego really hopes he’s okay. If anything, for Sam and Dean’s sake.

Of course, Dean’s “Yeah, why not?”, merry-go-lucky attitude cracks once they find themselves parked in from of Sam’s apartment.

It’s a decent-looking building; a bit on the old side but maintained so it’s not much of a problem. Sam mentioned he’s not living in the dorms anymore on one of their calls, but he never specified his new address; so Diego assumes John was keeping tabs on his youngest and relaying the information to Dean. Which is kind of nice, Diego supposes. He knows for the fact, that his father doesn’t really give a flying fuck about any of them, he’d never bother going such lengths to make sure they are okay.

Dean lets out a shaky breath, looking up at the looming outlines of windows in front of them.

Diego gets out, rounds the car to lean against the passenger’s door on Dean’s side, giving him a moment to collect his thoughts. He looks around, takes in rows of parking spots occupied by crappy little Volvos and station wagons and rusty pick-ups, and thinks how the Impala looks majestic and out of place among them all. They don’t fit in here and it’s obvious.

The driver’s door clicks open and Dean clambers out, a smidge more collected.

“You’re ready?” Diego asks.

Dean blinks at him, “You’re not going with me?”

“It’s a family reunion.”

Dean frowns, starts, “Diego, you’re-“

“You know what I mean,” Diego cuts him off with a slight smile, a bit warm in the face.

Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat. He skims his eyes over the windows again. The lights are out everywhere, only a faint, flickering glow emitting from a few, probably TV. Dean doesn’t fidget, exactly, but he clears his throat and rolls his shoulders in a very not chill way.

“So, uh, he probably won’t want to see me, huh?”

Diego’s shoulders slump. “Dean,” he says, reaches out to tug at Dean’s fingers and bring him closer. He put his other hand on Dean’s jaw, gives him a small kiss on the lips to soothe his nerves. “Like you said, he’s your brother,” he reminds him.

Dean breathes out in a huff, nods, his forehead bumping against Diego’s in the process. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” he agrees, fumbles with their joined hands to rub his thumb over Diego’s knuckles in appreciation.

“Okay, fuck, here goes nothing,” he says and peck’s Diego quickly before setting his shoulders and striding towards the building. He steers away from the entrance and heads for the fire escape on the side- because of course the idiot is not going to use the front door.

Diego watches him for a moment with a small grin, desperately hoping that he won’t have to do any damage control if this blows up in their faces. But ultimately, he decides it’s out of his hands now and gets in the back seat, lying down on his back, and plucks a knife out of his pocket to twirl between his fingers.

• ····

Getting inside the apartment is embarrassingly easy. A pocket knife wedged between the panel and the lock is enough to shimmy it open and Dean doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or angry at the lack of salt lining the inside board. Because wanting out is one thing and being just outright stupid is another. Sam should know better, he knows what’s out there.

It’s a nice apartment- as much of it as Dean can make out in the dark. It smells…homey. Like that one house in Ohio they rented for a summer back when Dean was still a kid. It was all pastel colors and hand-knitted curtains and table-cloths, kinda old-people-y, but it always smelled like fresh bread and clean sheets. At the time, Dean was little-kid offended by the pinkish walls of his and Sammy’s room- and he wouldn’t exactly be thrilled by that now either- but he still felt a pang of sadness when Dad told them they have to move again.

Anyway, the floorboards are the tiniest bit creaky under his boots, but no other sound is to be heard. He passes over the threshold into the hallway, peers at the front door that doesn’t even have a deadbolt- really, Sammy?

He rounds back to the living room, thinks the shapes he can make out in the dark is the adjacent kitchen.

And then something tackles him. He huffs out against the weight, slips way, blocking and throwing punches of his own, making noise because, okay, maybe he did underestimate Sammy. Just a tiny bit though.

He finally gets Sam in front of him, hooks his foot behind Sam’s ankle, and brings him down.

“Whoa, easy, tiger,” he says with a grin, hovering above his little brother.

Sam pauses, stills, then exhales, “Dean? You scared the crap out of me!”

“That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice.”

He can just make out Sam’s bitch-face in the moonlight. And then not anymore- because he ends up being the one on the floor.

“Or not,” he admonishes and smacks Sam’s shoulder, “get off of me.”

They clamber back on their feet with less finesse than Dean remembers; their heights and weights askew from what their bodies know, have practice with, and it sends a pang through Dean’s chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam whisper-hisses, squinting at him in the dark.

“Well, I was looking for a beer.”

Dean takes him in, neck craning up towards his face, the outlines of his moppy hair (at least that didn’t change. Dean is not sure what he’d do if Sam suddenly got a buzzcut).

Sam’s head tips to the side, “Grab a beer- Dean, it’s past midnight.”

Dean shrugs, the hostility getting to him. “Okay. Alright. We gotta talk.”

“Uh, the phone?”

“If I’d’a called, would you have picked up?”

Silence is the answer enough.

“Right. Well, this is not exactly something to talk about over the phone,” he says.

And then, the lights flicker on. Dean closes his eyes briefly at the onslaught of brightness, hears, “Sam?” in a decidedly feminine voice, and opens them to a sight of a pretty, tall blonde standing next to Sam, looking at him in confusion. Well. Tall but still somewhat tiny compared to his brother, coming up to his shoulder in her shorts and a blue crop top with Smurfs.

“Oh,” Dean says.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

Jess blinks at him. “Wait, your brother Dean?”

“The one and only,” Dean quips charmingly, adds, “Uh, I love the Smurfs,” consoled in this situation by the knowledge that Diego would snort at that. “You know, I gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother’s league.”

Jessica says, “Just let me put something on.”

“No, no, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. Seriously.”

After a pause where no one says anything but Sam’s stony-ness is palpable in the air, he adds, “Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business. But, uh, nice meeting you.”

Sam frowns at him, unhappy, and slings his arm over Jessica’s shoulders. It feels like he’s doing it to spite him. Yet another thing that hasn’t changed, apparently.

“No,” Sam says stubbornly, “whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her.” He faced Dean head-on, for a second, then his puzzled eyes skim over the room, looking for another person that is…probably lounging in the car with his booted feet on the windows, Goddamnit.

 “Dad hasn’t been home in a few days,” he says, mindful of the company despite what Sam just said- because whatever Diego might say, Dean knows how to be tactful. Sometimes.

At the mention of their dad, Sam’s no-bullshit expression sours even more. He rolls his eyes, says, “So he’s working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He’ll stumble back in sooner or later.”

Dean resists rolling his eyes, looks down at his boots and up, and tries again. If  Sam wants to play it like this, okay. Dean can play like this too.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

The change in Sam’s attitude is barely noticeable, just a flicker of his eyes as he says, “Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside.”

• ····

The first thing Dean is glad didn’t change is Sam’s efficiency in getting dressed on extremely short notice. Good to know those drills Dad made them run actually paid off.

Dean exits the apartment via the front door, waits on the first step of the stairwell leading down until Sam emerges from the apartment in jeans and a hoodie. No duffle bag, though, he notes somewhat grimly, because apparently their dad disappearing is not good enough reason to get back in the game. At least for a while.

“You didn’t pack,” he says.

Sam stops, huffs. “I mean, come on. You can’t just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.”

“You’re not hearing me, Sammy. Dad’s missing. I need you to help me find him.”

Sam looks around the stairwell helplessly as they descend. “You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil’s Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He’s always missing, and he’s always fine.”

Dean doesn’t know how to tell him he doesn’t think that’s the case this time.

“Not for this long. Now, are you gonna come with me or not?”

Sam swallows, says, “I’m not.”

Which- fuck.

“Why not?”

Sam shakes his head, resolute, “I swore I was done hunting. For good.”

He makes it sound like they lived through hell, which is complete bullshit. Sam knows what Diego went through, that much is clear to Dean, so he has no right to make it sound like they had it bad. Because they didn’t. Tough? Hell yeah. But not bad.

“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

Sam huffs, “When I told him I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45!”

“What the hell else was he supposed to do?”

“I was nine, Dean! He was supposed to tell me not to be afraid of the dark.”

“Of course you should be afraid of the dark! You know what’s out there!”

Sam splutters, “I know, but still. The way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad’s obsession with the thing that killed her…but we still haven’t found the damn thing. So we kill everything we can find.”

“We save a lot of people doing it, too” Dean cuts in, seeing that if anything justifies their work, then it’s that one small thing.

Sam doesn’t disagree, but he changes his approach. “You think Mom would have wanted this for us?”

And Dean breathes, reminds himself that Sam was too little to remember their mom, that he’s operating on movies and general knowledge and an occasional story from himself or Dad if he was in a mood to share. He doesn’t tell him that Mom would’ve wanted to be here for them and how that doesn’t matter anyway because dead people don’t want things. They are dead.

He shoves open the door and bursts into the cool night air of the parking lot.

Sam sighs, realizing he blurted out the wrong thing, and follows after him.

After a second, he timidly asks, “Where’s Diego?”

And that’s fine. That’s a good topic. Dean grins to himself, glad to a ridiculous amount that the two of them like each other. Maybe- maybe Diego can talk him into going. Just for a bit. Just until they find Dad.

Then he can go back to his perfect little normal life without Dean in it. Just like he wants.

“He’s close enough,” he responds, finally spotting Impala, beautiful in muted streetlights- and noticing with satisfaction that there are no boots on the windows. So Diego can listen when he wants to.

Outside the bedroom, that is.

“Dad lets the two of you on hunts alone?” Sam asks.

Ouch. Fucking rude, they’re not twelve.

“Are you implying that we’re incompetent?” Diego pipes up, pushing the backseat door open, legs out first before he heaves himself out to grin at Sam.

Sam chuckles and bypasses Dean to hug Diego. It doesn’t sting just because, over his shoulder, Diego rolls his eyes upwards to indicate Sam’s height and mouth at Dean, “What the fuck?”

And yeah, Sam hit his growth spurt after Diego saw him for the last time, so Dean’s been secretly hoping and looking forward to this reaction. Besides, Diego looks tiny compared to him and it’s a priceless image Dean will treasure forever.

“What the fuck do they feed you here?” Diego asks when they step back, squinting up at Sam. The light from the lamp is hitting him straight on and Dean admires the play of shadows on his face for a moment before coming over to join them.

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Just the usual stuff.”

Diego hums disbelievingly. “So?” He asks, the rest of the question wordless as he flits his eyes between the two of them. Dean shakes his head and Sam sighs.

Diego is quiet for a bit, then, bless him, says, “Well, just listen to the message, maybe you can give us some fresh insight.”

“There’s a message?”

And that’s Dean cue to start rifling through the trunk. He listens to the conversation while looking for the recorder and the case folder.

“How long was he gone?” Sam asks.

“About three weeks. We called around but nobody heard from him. Then he sent Dean this message and didn’t return any calls. And we called a lot,” Diego responds.

Dean finds the folder, hands it over to Diego wordlessly.  He plucks out a printout of an article from the Jericho Herald and hands it to Sam as Dean starts talking.

“Dad was checking out disappearances on this two-lane blacktop just outside Jericho. This guy,” he motions at the article, “disappeared about a month ago. The police found his car but he just…vanished.”

Sam skims his eyes over the article, says, “Maybe he just got kidnapped.”

Diego says, “Maybe. But then what happened to the others?”

“December ’04, ’03, ’98, ’92- ten of them over the last 20 years,” Dean explains, “and all men, and all on the same five-mile stretch of the road.”

Sam frowns, opens his mouth, clicks it shut, then ends up saying, “You said there was a message.”

Dean nods, fishes a handheld recorder from where it was nestled between a rock salt shotgun and a sheeted machete. He presses play.

“Dean…” John’s voice comes through, staticky and cracking, “something big is starting to happen…I need to try and figure out what’s going on. It may…Be very careful, Dean. We’re all in danger.”

They are all silent for a beat before Sam says, “You know there’s EVP on that?”

Dean tilts his head to the side slightly. “Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn’t it?”

Sam just breathes out and shakes his head at him. Alrighty.

“Alright. I slowed it down, ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss and-“

“I can never go home…” a woman’s voice drifts in, eerie in the night when he presses play again.

“Never go home,” Sam repeats.

Dean tosses everything back in the trunk, shuts it, and leans on it. He doesn’t want to say this, to stoop this low, but goddamn it, they are here. They are all here.

“You know, in almost two years I’ve never bothered you, never asked you for a thing,” he says, practically begs, feeling the heat of embarrassment on his face.

Sam looks down guiltily, stares at his feet like a scolded child. Then he looks up and Dean knows the answer before he says a word. It’s clear as day in his eyes and it, plainly said, breaks Dean’s stupid fucking heart.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters, turning, and heads back towards the building.

God. Dean was so stupid. Sam left them. He took off and left both Dean and Dad behind. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with them. Of-fucking-course. It’s Sammy and his pretty girlfriend and his apple pie, perfect life now. Fuck Dad. And fuck Dean.

He swallows, starts towards the driver’s seat because they have to get moving, they wasted enough time here and for nothing-

Diego seizes his hand, delicate, nimble fingers looping around his wrist to halt him. He tosses Dean a look, Just wait, give me a moment, let me try, and squeezes his fingers before rushing after Sam. Dean doesn’t know what Diego plans to do. If Sam won’t do shit to help finding their dad, Dean’s pretty sure that nothing short of knocking him out and kidnapping him will work.

• ····

Diego is not entirely sure what he’ll say when catches up with Sam. And yeah, that, fuck. He really hoped Sam would say yes. God, did he hope.

“Sam!” He calls out, snags his sleeve.

Sam slows down, stops, says, “Diego-“

“No, shut up, listen,” he tells him. “Think about it.”

Sam sighs and gives Diego hope with his miserable, gutted look. “I can’t, Diego. Dad told me to never come back, and I listened, and- I worked hard for this. This is-“

“This is your dad,” Diego says. “Dean needs you.”

“He has you! You can do this without me.”

Diego sighs, exasperated, “That’s not the point, Sam. Shit, I think we both know that if he wanted to, Dean could do this on his own. He doesn’t need any of us-“

“You just said-“

“He needs you because you’re his brother. He wants your help because your dad is missing. It’s different from needing your help because he can’t do this on his own.”

Sam shrinks. “Look-“

“No. C’mon, you think that we drove here for shits and giggles? That this was a pit stop?” He scoffs, “Sam, he missed you.”

And that does it.

Sam looks at him miserably.

Yeah, Diego is playing dirty.

Sam sighs.

And then he calls out, “I have to get back first thing Monday.”

If Dean is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Diego grins at him.

“What’s first thing Monday?” Dean calls back.

“I have this…I have an interview.”

“What, a job interview? Skip it,” Dean shrugs.

Sam rolls his eyes, “It’s a law school interview, and it’s my whole future on a plate.”

Dean’s smirk is audible when he says, “Law school?”

Sam ignores him, asks “So we got a deal or not?”

Dean doesn’t respond verbally; he taps the roof twice in quick succession and gets in the car.

To Diego Sam says, “I guess I gotta pack,” and throws him a look that clearly says this is all his fault. Diego can’t say he feels bad about this outcome.

When Sam runs up to grab his stuff, Diego returns to the Impala and gets in.

Immediately, Dean pulls him in, kisses him with so much gratitude that Diego’s heart clenches, hands on both sides of Diego’s face to hold him close and keep him still.

“Thank you,” he mutters between their lips, “I don’t know what the hell you told him, but thank you,” and kisses him again.

Diego doesn't respond, returns the kiss and when Sam comes back, climbs into the backseat, the pleasant silence gets interrupted by Dean's giddy tap on the wheel and opening of Back in Black.

Chapter Text

The conversation is slow and awkward in that 'we-haven't-seen-each-other-in-a-long-time' way, sentences and hums exchanged in lapses of silence between the songs. Dean drums his fingers on the wheel, masks nervousness with cheery comments and sudden bursts into the chorus that cause Diego to turn up the volume to drown out his intentional screaming. Diego’s heard him sing before; he’s…decent when he’s not trying to make their ears bleed on purpose.

Somewhere between the dark and the stars and the road stretching ahead in the headlights, Sam shuffles into a semi-horizontal position in the backseat (“Did he take his shoes off? Tell me he’s not pressing his damn shoes into the seat.” “I don’t think he can fold himself hard enough to fit his feet on the seat, Dean.”). Diego follows his example, to a certain degree; he toes off his boots and wedges his toes under Dean’s thigh as he slumps sideways on the bench, back against the door

“Wake me up to switch,” he tells Dean, eyes closed.

“Sure,” Dean responds, even though they both know he’d rather just caught a quick nap on the side of the road before continuing.

It’s strangely anticlimactic, to be honest. They spent so much time together in this car, just the two of them, and Diego expected to feel Sam’s presence like a mattress spring digging into his back. But he doesn’t.

Sam doesn’t snore and Dean still hums under his breath as Diego drifts into sleep.

• ····

They stop at a gas station early in the morning, dawn dusted across the sky. Diego lounging over the bench, the passenger door open so his feet can rest on the cracked asphalt outside and letting in the fresh air that smells of dew.

Sam is shifting around in the backseat, huffing, leather creaking. And then he says, “Hey, uh, Diego.”

“Hm?”

“Ah, can we trade places?”

“What?” He asks, pulling himself into a sitting position.

“Dude, I’m packed tighter than a can of sardines back here,” Sam explains.

And he is, indeed; his knees practically tucked up into his shoulders when Diego turns to look at him.

He snorts. “Looks like you outgrew this car.”

Sam snorts in response and starts a clumsy process of maneuvering himself out of the seat without causing it or himself any damage. Once he’s out, Diego vaults over the backrest to plop neatly into the backseat and watches as Sam drops into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief.

“Lord, I was born a ramblin' man/Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can,“ the voice on the radio sings.

Sam bends down to drop the box with Dean's cassette tapes in his lap and starts rifling through it.

Diego glances at the convenience store in time to see Dean exiting and walking towards them with a plastic bag swinging from his hand.

He throws himself into the driver’s seat, says, “Hey. You guys want breakfast?” And then does a double-take, his head rearing back as he looks between the two of them with a frown. “What the hell?”

“Sam doesn’t fit in the backseat,” Diego says casually, pulling him into the backrest by the shoulder so he can reach into the bag.

“Dude,” Dean says, not addressing anyone in particular and letting Diego dig through the contents of the bag.

He fishes out a bottle of water and a Mars bar, tears it open with his teeth.

“So how'd you pay for that stuff?” Sam asks, nodding at the bag. “You and Dad still running credit card scams?”

Dean shrugs, takes out a bag of chips and a can of soda. “Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro ball career. Besides,” he adds with a smirk, “all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards.“

“Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?“ Sam asks, closing the door on his side and Diego follows his lead with the back door as well.

“Uh, Burt Aframian and his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal,” he says, opens his soda with a hiss of bubbles.

“That sounds about right,” Sam says and then frowns. “And you?” He turns to Diego.

Diego smirks. “Nah, I’m living that trophy husband life. I just gotta look pretty and spend Dean’s money,” he says, batting his eyelashes for a good measure.

Dean shakes his head, says sadly, “And here I thought you love me for my dashing good looking and charming personality.”

Sam looks between them and barks out a surprised laugh. He switches topics soon, telling Dean, “I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection.”

“Why?” Dean frowns.

Sam arches an eyebrow at him, “Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two-“ he starts pawing at the tapes, “- Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica?”

Dean snatches the tape labeled Metallica from him.

“It's the greatest hits of mullet rock,” Sam says.

“Whatever, tapes rule.”

“No, they don’t. Diego?”

Diego shrugs, chewing on his Mars bar. “They’re pretty cool to me.”

Sam sighs like the last of his hope died with that sentence and Dean beams at him before popping the tape into the player.

To Sam, he says, “Well, house rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

He starts the engine and Diego basks in the initial shudder it sends through the car-frame.

Sam says, “You know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It's Sam, okay?”

Back in Black starts playing (again, Dean is in a good mood) and Dean turns to Sam with a grimace and, “Sorry, I can't hear you, the music's too loud.”

Sam scoffs good-naturedly and then they’re off again.

• ····

They zoom past the sign saying “JERICHO 7” and Dean casts his eyes at the rearview mirror for a second- only Diego’s bent knees visible over the bench- before glancing at Sam, phone pressed to his ear.

“Thank you,” his brother says into the speaker and hangs up. “All right,“ he says, directed at him. “So, there's no one matching Dad at the hospital or morgue. So that's something, I guess.”

Dean hums, eyes back on the road- and catching sight of two police cars parked in front of a bridge to their left.

“Check it out,” he says, parking on the side of the road and twisting in his seat to swat at Diego’s knee.

Diego lifts his head to shoot him a glare before he clambers up into a sitting position. He leans over the bench to take in the situation.

There are officers milling around the car in the middle of the bridge.

 “So,” Dean starts, “we going professional?”

Diego shrugs, the movement brushing against Dean’s shoulder. “Why don’t you and Sam take this?”

They both swivel around to face him.

“I don’t have my boots on yet.”

Dean rolls his eyes, fondly, and reaches over to the glove department. He takes the box with their fake IDs and plucks out the federal marshal one.

Sam stares at him, one eye almost twitching at “oh, no, the law getting broken”. Dean shoots him a grin.

“Let’s go,” he says and gets out.

As they start getting closer, Dean can hear, “You guys find anything?” and corresponding, “No! Nothing!”

One of the officers- a deputy, Dean corrects, close enough to tell apart his uniform- turns to the car. Another deputy is at the driver's side looking around the car’s interior.

He says, “No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints. Spotless. It's almost too clean.”

“So, this kid Troy. He's dating your daughter, isn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“How's Amy doing?”

“She's putting up missing posters downtown.”

Dean jumps in, finally in a reasonable talking distance, “You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?”

Noticing him, the first deputy straightens up. “And who are you?” He asks, eyeing them suspiciously.

Dean flashes him his badge. “Federal marshals.”

“You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?”

Dean chuckles, says cheekily, “Thanks, that's awfully kind of you.”

He walks around the car, subtly taking in the lack of…well. Everything. Squeaky clean, just like the other deputy said.

“You did have another one just like this, correct?” He asks to fill in the silence.

“Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.”

“So, this victim,” Sam interjects, “you knew him?”

The deputy nods. “Town like this, everybody knows everybody.”

Dean keeps inspecting the car. The paint and the interior- as much of it as he can see- are devoid of any symbols or fluids or powders. Nothing. “Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all men?”

“No,” the deputy shakes his head, “not so far as we can tell.”

“So what's the theory?” Sam asks, coming over to Dean’s side when he’s done circling the car.

“Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?”

“Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys,” Dean can’t help but comment- and then chokes down a yelp when Sam stomps down on his foot.

Sam gives the deputy a polite smile. “Thank you for your time.”

He turns and starts walking away. Dean follows, toes throbbing. Asshole.

He smacks Sam on the back of his head soundly.

Upon contact, Sam ducks his head and hisses, “Ow! What was that for?”

“Why'd you have to step on my foot?” Dean grumbles back.

Sam grits out, “Why do you have to talk to the police like that?”

Dean speeds up to get in front of Sam, turns, and stops him.

“Come on,” he starts, “they don't really know what's going on.” He doesn’t believe Sam already forgot everything about their lives. The important, basic things. “We're all alone on this. I mean, if we're going to find Dad we've got to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves.”

Sam clears his throat, eyes flickering over Dean’s shoulder. Fuck.

Dean turns to face a sheriff and two FBI agents.

“Can I help you boys?” The sheriff asks them, no pretense of hospitality in his voice, eyes hard.

“No, sir,” Dean says, “we were just leaving.”

As the FBI agents walk past them, Dean nods at each of them.

“Agent Mulder. Agent Scully,” he says, kinda bummed that Diego is not here to hear him. He’d find it funny, unlike Sam. All of his comedic genius is going to waste.

He feels sheriff watching them when they pass him, walking back towards the Impala.

They pile into their seats and Dean starts the engine.

“What have you got?” Diego asks, braced with his forearms on the backrest of the front bench.

“Definitely something weird. Police doesn’t know shit- as usual.”

Diego snorts.

“The victim was dating the daughter of one of the deputies. Amy,” Sam says. “Apparently, she’s putting up missing posters around the town.”

“We’re gonna talk to her?” Diego guesses.

“Yep,” Dean agrees, getting back on the road.

• ····

They spot Amy near the movie theater, sticking missing posters to the walls.

Diego bites down on a grunt when Dean's elbow nudges his ribs, says, “I'll bet you that's her.“

Sam peers down the street at her on Diego’s other side. “Yeah,” he agrees.

They walk up to her and Dean starts with, “You must be Amy.”

She looks between the three of them. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Dean repeats, “Troy told us about you. We're his uncles. I'm Dean, this is Sammy.” He points at Diego, “Our friend Diego.”

Amy dismisses them with a shake of her head, saying, “He never mentioned you to me,” as she keeps walking.

They follow.

“Well, that's Troy, I guess. We're not around much, we're up in Modesto.”

“So, we're looking for him too, and we're kinda asking around,” Sam says.

Another girl steps in, puts a protective hand on Amy’s arm. They’re both dressed in almost matching goth outfits.

“Hey, are you okay?” She asks her, looking at the three of them out of the corner of her eye unsubtly.

“Yeah,” Amy waves her off.

Sam faces her and employs his puppy eyes when he asks, “You mind if we ask you a couple of questions?”

Amy looks at them once again and sighs, says, “Okay, yeah. Let’s go sit somewhere.”

The girls lead them to a diner across the street and the five of them get a booth next to a window. Sam near the window, Dean on the other side and Diego sandwiched between them while the girls share a bench opposite to them. The waitress must know Amy because she dotes on her, immediately rushing over to take their orders and then bringing them back faster than Diego thought was possible.

“I was on the phone with Troy,” Amy tells them. “He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did.”

Sam, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, asks, “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?”

Amy shakes her head negatively. “No. Nothing I can remember,” she says, her fingers drifting to the collar of her shirt. There’s a pentagram pendant hanging from a necklace, resting just beneath the hollow of her throat.

“I like your necklace,” Sam says, noticing it.

Amy touches it gently before taking it between her fingers.

She looks down at it. “Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents with all that devil stuff,” she says with a little laugh.

Sam joins in, and Dean looks at him over Diego. His arm is draped over the backrest of their booth, reach out towards Sam and smushing Diego firmly against his side. It’s endearing and a little bitter because Dean is trying to get his fill before they find John and Sam goes back to college.

“Actually,” Sam says lightly, “it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful.” After a pause and a laugh, he adds, “I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

Dean sighs and swings his arm over Diego’s head to lean against the table with his forearms. “Okay,” he says in “my-brother-is-a-weirdo” tone (Diego is intimately familiar with it, especially when dealing with Klaus.), “thank you, Unsolved Mysteries.”

To the girls, he says, “Here's the deal, ladies. The way Troy disappeared-“ he shakes his head, “- something's not right. So if you've heard anything...” he trails off.

The girls exchange a look. Oh.

Diego asks, “What is it?”

Amy’s friend squirms. She says, “Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk.”

Sam and Dean almost perch themselves halfway across the table, shoulders pushing against Diego on both sides, as they chorus, “What do they talk about?”

Amy’s friend shrugs. “It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago.”

They all nod attentively.

“Well, supposedly she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

It’s a bit awkward to do the whole “exchanging-a-glance” thing between three people squeezed into a tiny booth bench, but they, ah, manage it. Mostly.

Anyway, it’s clear that they have some research to do. Yay.

• ····

The library is a musty, dark old thing. They huddle around a desk and wait until the ancient computer fires up so they can pull up a web browser.

Diego commandeered the chair when they came in and opens the archive search page for the Jericho Herald once they’re online. He types in "Female Murder Hitchhiking" into the search box and clicks  GO.

Zero results.

“Hm,” he says and then Dean nudges him to trade places so he gets up, stands next to the desk, and lets Dean replace "Hitchhiking" with "Centennial Highway".

Again, zero results. 

Sam says, “Let me try,” and reaches for the mouse.

Dean smacks his hand away swiftly and says, “I got it.”

Diego gets a nice view of Sam narrowing his eyes at the side of Dean’s head- and then yelps when Sam pushes Dean’s chair away and straight into his thigh.

“Dude!” Dean calls indignantly at the same time Diego hisses out, “Hey, collateral fucking damage!” and rubs at his sore thigh.

Dean pulls his chair closer again and hits Sam in the shoulder. The thwack is particularly satisfying to Diego.

“You're such a control freak,” Dean grumbles.

“So angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?” Sam asks, ignoring both of them.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Well, maybe it's not murder.”

Instead of "Murder", Sam types in "Suicide". The search engine spits out an article titled "Suicide on Centennial".

Okay. Maybe Sam did have the right idea.

But it’s not like the two of them wouldn’t get to it.

 Sam opens the article, dated April 25, 1981, and they skim over it.

 “This was 1981. Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river,” Sam says.

There’s a picture of her, black and white. Long dark hair that frames her face in waves, kind eyes.

“Does it say why she did it?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “an hour before they found her, she calls 911. Apparently her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die.”

Dean’s eyebrows arch and he hums.

Diego leans over them to read out loud, "'Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it,' said husband Joseph Welch."

Dean’s squints at the picture of the husband, the bridge in the background of it. “That bridge looks familiar to you guys?”

• ····

Diego keeps his eyes firmly on the water rushing beneath the bridge. There’s no that special sparkle on its surface as the moonlights glints off of it, which can only mean that it’s murky and muddy as hell.

Dean breaks the silence with, “So this is where Constance took the swan dive.”

After a beat, Sam asks, “So you think Dad would have been here?”

Dean stills next to him, thinking, contemplating, and Sam tears his gaze from the water to look at his brother expectantly.

“Well,” Dean starts with a shrug, “he's chasing the same story and we're chasing him.”

Dean pushes away from the railing and starts walking towards the car. Sam is fast at his heels and Diego drags behind, close enough to hear them but far away to give them a sense of privacy.

“Okay, so now what?” Sam presses.

“Now we keep digging until we find him. Might take a while,” Dean calls back.

Sam halts, blows out a breath. “Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday-“

Dean swivels on his heels to cut in. “Monday. Right. The interview.” His voice is the wrong side of “yeah, I just remembered”. Diego loiters in the background, near one of the big, metal support beams. Honestly, just waiting for everything to come out already.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out into the awkward silence.

“Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?” Dean asks bitterly, shifting on his feet, almost pacing.

Sam shrugs, his voice defensive when he says, “Maybe,” and asks, “why not?”

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing.

Sam takes a step closer as if warning Dean to say more about that. “No, and she's not ever going to know,” he says decisively.

Dean huffs. “Well, that's healthy. Secrets are the way to happiness!” He exclaims mock-cheerily and Diego knows there's a residue of their own fall-out in his tone but it doesn’t sting as it might when the wounds were still fresh. Now, it’s just Dean’s worry for Sam and Diego’s knowledge of how it feels to own up to a secret larger than your life.

“These secrets are keeping her safe, Dean,” Sam says sharply.

“You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are,” Dean grits out and keeps walking.

Sam shoots into motion after him, long, determined strides carrying him forward. Winchesters are fast walkers when they’re angry and Diego scrambles after them.

“And who's that?” Sam calls after Dean.

“You're one of us,” Dean tosses over his shoulder.

Diego sees Sam’s shoulder stiffening and then Sam runs to cut into Dean’s path, halting him.

“No,” Sam tells him, voice hard and angry, “I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.”

“You have a responsibility to-“

“To Dad? And his crusade?” Sam scoffs. “If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like.”

Diego realizes this will most definitely go to shit.

“And what difference would it make?” Sam continues. “Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.”

And, predictably, Dean snaps there. He grabs Sam by the collar, hoodie and jacket mashed together in his fists, and shoves him up against the railing of the bridge.

“Shit,” Diego hisses to himself, walking over because he’s not sure if the brothers were apart long enough that the punches won’t start flying. He knows he’d still deck Luther if given a reason even after all those years.

Dean grinds out dangerously, “Don't talk about her like that.”

Maybe he’d say something more. Maybe not.

But Diego notices a flash of white in his periphery and turns to see Constance standing at the edge of the bridge and says, “Guys.”

When they both look at him, he points at Constance.

Dean lets go of Sam and the three of them stay rooted on the spot until she looks over at them and then steps forward off the bridge.

They run over but when they look down, there’s nothing but water rushing by.

“Where'd she go?” Dean asks.

“I don't know,” Sam says.

And then, behind them, the Impala's engine rumbles to life and its headlights cast out long beams of light towards them.

“What the-“ Dean starts, trails off.

“Who's driving your car?”

Dean digs the keys out of his pocket in response and gives them a shake so they jingle.

Suddenly, the car jerks into motion, heading straight for them.

“Ah, fuck,” Diego says.

As it keeps getting closer- and faster- Sam shouts, “Go! Go!” and they take off in a run.

Diego can hear it gaining in on them and throws himself over the railing just in time to save himself from getting crushed, crouched on the outer side and one arm hooked into the metal beam. Another body flies past him and he snatches Sam’s hand before he ends up in the river.

The car comes to a halt and Sam’s palm is clammy against his when they realize Dean’s nowhere to be seen.

“Dean?” Sam calls out hesitantly. When there’s no answer, they both start yelling, eyes on the water.

“Dean! Dean!”

And then, movement. Under the moonlight, Dean crawls onto the riverbank like some sort of a mud-monster.

“You alright?” Diego calls down.

Dean flops over onto his back and holds up one hand in A-OK sign. “I’m super!” He shouts back.

Sam barks out a laugh and they clamber back over the railing.

Dean joins them by the car soon, footsteps splattering and squelching like his boots are full of water. Which, well. They probably are. He’s covered in mud head to toe, but just asks Diego to hand him a rag from the trunk so he can kinda wipe off his face and hands before he starts inspecting the engine.

“Your car all right?” Sam asks, peering over his shoulder.

Dean grumbles. “Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now.” After he closes down the hood, he turns and yells into the night, “That Constance chick, what a bitch!”

Diego snorts and Sam says, “Well, she doesn't want us digging around, that's for sure. So where's the job go from here, genius?”

The three of them settle on the hood and Dean throws his arms up in universal sign for “beats me”. And then he grimaces and flicks off the mud sliding over his jacket sleeves onto his hands.

Sam leans into him a bit, sniffs, and informs him, “You smell like a toilet.”

“Yeah, I mean, you can’t drive in the car like that, man. The leather,” Diego teases.

Dean throws him a narrow-eyed look and then sighs, looking down at himself.

Chapter Text

Considering Dean's general state of…stinkiness, they- mostly Sam and Diego- agree that he should stay in the car while they check in the motel. Diego volunteers, plucks a mud-caked credit card from Dean’s wallet, and scrubs it clean on the inside of his jacket. The mud is mostly dust by this point anyway and it’s easy to shake it off.

Inside the front office, an older man is hunched over a magazine on the desk, and Diego drops the card on a handwritten guest ledger.

“One room, please,” he says. He figures they’ll spend all the time together anyway; Sam is undoubtedly eager to get this over with and both Winchesters are ready to find their dad. There’s gonna be no much sleeping in near future, Diego guesses.

The clerk picks up the card and looks at it, his eyes jumping between Diego’s face, the scar on his right cheek, to the card in his hand. It’s the Hector Aframian one.

“You guys having a reunion or something?”

Diego blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I had another guy, Burt Aframian. He came and bought out a room for the whole month.”

Well, shit.

• ····

He raps his knuckles on Impala’s window and then bends down to be eye-level with the brothers in the front.

Dean rolls down the window and Diego says, “Guess who else has a room booked here.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look between them.

“You got a key?” Dean asks.

Diego clicks his tongue. “No. I’ve got the room number though.”

They park in front of their own room and then Sam crouches down to pick the lock while Dean and Diego keep watch. Dean is still completely caked in mud, smears of it on his face where he didn’t get it with a rag from the car, and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks beyond ridiculous and Diego bites down on a laugh that threatens to burst out of him. Still, Dean catches the look on his face and gives him a glare anyway.

Behind them, a lock clicks, and the motel room door swings open. Sam pockets his kit and stands up, grabbing the collars of both of their jackets and yanking them inside.

Diego closes the door behind them- and the sight when he turns has his head spinning. The walls the closet, the door, everything is covered in papers. Maps, newspaper clippings, pictures, notes tacked on in John’s sharp, precise handwriting. There are various books on the desk and the assortment of junk on the floor and the bed that would put even the Impala’s floor post-Dean’s munchies-raves to shame.

Sam is the first one to speak, just a quiet, “Whoa.”

They step over the untouched salt line on the floor. Sam moves to the wall to take a closer look at the papers and Dean steps over to the lamp by the bed and turns it on. There’s a discarded, half-eaten burger under the lamp and Dean picks it up, gives it a sniff just to recoil with his nose wrinkled up.

“I don't think he's been here for a couple of days at least,” he informs them, dropping the burger in the trash.

Diego crouches down and drags his fingers through the salt. It’s grainy and sticks under his fingernails. He looks up at Sam, who’s already watching him.

“Salt, cats-eye shells...he was worried,” Sam says with a frown. “Trying to keep something from coming in.”

Dean is standing in front of one of the walls opposite to them.

Sam tries to peer at it over him. “ What have you got here?”

“Centennial Highway victims.”

Sam and Diego walk over. The photos show some of the victims, all males but with different ages, different jobs…

“I don't get it,” Dean says, “I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”

While they ponder on that, Diego ventured away to another wall. There’s something about Bell Witch, scanned paintings of two people being burned alive and a skeletal person blowing a horn at several scared people with “MORTIS DANSE” written underneath. There’s a column about "Devils + Demons", another about "Sirens, Witches, the possessed", a wooden pentacle, and a note that says "Woman in White" above a printout of the Jericho Herald article on Constance's suicide.

He flicks on another lamp and calls out, “Hey, guys.”

There are footsteps nearing him and then both Winchesters are looking over his shoulders at everything at the display.

Sam whispers, “Dad figured it out,” as the realization seeps into his voice.

“He found the same article we did,” Diego says.

Dean breathes out next to his ear. “Constance Welch. She's a woman in white.” Then he turns to where the photos of her victims are taped to the wall. “You sly dogs.”

Diego turns to face them and Dean turns again, says, “All right, so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it.”

Sam says, “She might have another weakness.”

Dean tips his head to the side in consideration but says, “Well, Dad would want to make sure. He'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?”

Diego skims his eyes over the notes. “No, not that I can tell.”

Sam takes half a step closer and taps the photo captioned Joseph Welch. “If I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband. If he's still alive.”

They dip into silence, everyone taking in more details and Sam shuffles off to check out other notes. Dean stays at Diego’s back, warm breath ghosting over his nape while they both stare at the picture of a woman in a white dress taped under the article about Constance’s suicide.

“All right,” Dean says, taking a step back. To Sam, he says, “Why don't you, uh, see if you can find an address, I'm gonna get cleaned up.”

He turns towards the bathroom and Diego watches Sam’s pinched expression smooth out into determination before he spins on his heels and calls out, “Hey, Dean?”

Dean turns as well, giving him a questioning glance.

Sam gives him a half-shrug, says, “What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry.”

He might have a speech ready- Diego would not be surprised- but Dean halts him with a raised hand.

“No chick-flick moments,” he says.

Diego rolls his eyes and snorts soundlessly before starting to sift through some papers stacked over the table.

Sam laughs in response, relieved, and nods. “All right. Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam breathes out another laugh as Dean ducks into the bathroom and Diego feels his chest constrict with longing. Sam’s laughter is nothing like any of his siblings’ laughter, but the acute absence of it cuts through his mind like a singed blade. It wasn’t his fault, he reminds himself. It’s not his fault they couldn’t stand each other. He reminds himself that and shoves it all in the back of his mind.

It’s quiet, just a faint rush of water from the bathroom creating some noise, and Diego looks over to see Sam staring at the mirror on the dresser.

He comes over and takes a look over Sam’s shoulder. There’s a rosary hanging in front of the mirror and a photo stuck in the frame. He recognizes John immediately- though the smile looks strange on his face- sitting on the hood of the Impala. He recognizes Sam and Dean by affiliation; Dean sitting next to John, baseball cap tugged over his head, and Sam sitting on John’s lap, hair dark and falling over his ears and forehead.

Sam presses his fingers into the mirror to make space so he can slide the photo out and then just smiles sadly at it for a moment.

Diego wants to say that his family doesn’t have photos like that but decides to stay quiet.

• ····

Sometime later, Dean hollers from the bathroom, “Someone go grab my duffle from the car! I don’t have any clothes!”

Sam is fiddling with his phone so Diego heaves himself up from the bad and snatches the car keys from Dean’s outstretched hand through the door gap.

When he comes back with Dean’s bag, he pulls out a fresh change of clothes and trades it for Dean’s leather jacket at the doorway. It used to be John’s and it still hangs off Dean’s shoulders like it’s on a, well, a hanger. Just a little bit, Diego knows he’s gonna grow into it- God knows Diego’s jackets fit him like gloves, even though they’re not that much different in shape.

It’s warm and the tiniest bit damp, obviously due to the fact that Dean scrubbed it clean of the mud, and Diego drapes it over a chair before plopping back down on the edge of the bed.

Sam plonks down next to him with a sigh and presses his phone to his ear.

After a second, Diego can hear a whisper of a soft voice from the other side. “Hey, it's me, it's about ten-twenty Saturday night-“

Dean, mud-free, emerges from the bathroom, buckling u his belt. He spares them a glance and slings his jacket over one shoulder.

“I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You two want anything?”

“No,” Sam says absently, listening to Jess’s message.

Dean focuses fully on Diego and arches one eyebrow at him. “Di?”

Diego shakes his head.

“Aframian's buying,” Dean says with a smirk, swinging the door open.

Diego hums, a smile tugging at his lips as Dean leaves, and then falls back into the mattress. He runs his eyes over the walls again, taking in the enormity of dedication and information John put together. Honestly, it seems a bit excessive but then again, Diego didn’t really have a chance to work with John all that much- maybe this is just his preferred way of working a case. Having everything laid out.

He tunes back into Jess’s voice message in time to hear “So come home soon, okay? I love you,” and then a beep of an incoming call.

Sam pulls the phone away from his ear, glances at the screen, and then answers.

“What?”

Faintly, he hears Dean say, “Dude, five-oh, take off.”

Sam and Diego shoot up to their feet.

Diego snatches Dean’s duffle and looks around for anything else they might have lying around.

“What about you?” Sam asks.

He doesn’t hear Dean’s response clearly, just sees Sam’s nose wrinkling before he hangs up and stuffs his phone in his jacket.

“The cops got Dean,” he tells Diego.

“Perfect,” Diego deadpans, darts into the bathroom. There’s a small window opposite the door.

He looks back at Sam who is peering through the window at the parking lot and then swears and darts out of sight.

“Crap, a deputy is coming here.”

“We go out through the window,” Diego says simply, seeing how they really don’t have much of a choice now.

They cram into the bathroom and Diego opens the window, tosses out Dean’s duffle and then Diego goes after it. One leg, head, torso, shimmy so he can hold onto the frame while he pulls his other leg through and drops down.

He hitches the bag over his shoulder and looks back at Sam, already in the process of getting out himself.

“Please don’t get stuck,” he says. Mostly joking.

Sam tosses him a shrewd look and pulls himself through. He pulls the window closed as much as he can and dusts off his palms on his jeans.

Then they creep to the side of the motel. They peer around the corner just in time to see Dean’s smart-ass grin the indicates he just blabbed out something stupid- and then they both wince when the deputy turns him around and slams him face-first into the hood of a police cruiser.

They look at each other.

“Fuck.”

• ····

The worst of it all- Dean is still very much starving. He’s rubbing his, for now, cuffs-free wrists when the sheriff enters the room. He drops a box on the tabletop in front of Dean and walks around the table to sit across from Dean.

“So,” the sheriff starts, “you want to give us your real name?”

Dean shrugs. “I told you, it's Nugent. Ted Nugent.”

The sheriff’s face doesn’t change at all. “I'm not sure you realize just how much trouble you're in here,” he says. Like Dean hasn’t heard that a hundred times over already. And not just in this precinct.

“We talkin', like, misdemeanor kind of trouble or, uh, squeal like a pig trouble?”

“You got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall.”

Well. Straight to business, Dean supposes.

“Along with a whole lot of Satanic mumbo-jumbo.” Mumbo-jumbo. Ladies and gentlemen, the law enforcement. Dean feels safer already. “Boy, you are officially a suspect.”

Dean manages to roll his eyes just a little bit instead of letting them detach from his optic nerves and start spinning inside his head like those balls with lottery numbers. “That makes sense,” he deadpans. “Because when the first one went missing in '82 I was three.”

“I know you've got partners. One of 'em's an older guy. Maybe he started the whole thing. So tell me,” the guy pauses for effect and then adds, “Dean.”

And then he slaps a brown, leather-covered journal on the table. Dean feels himself paling.

“This his?”

Dena keeps his eyes on the leather covers.

The sheriff starts flipping through Dad’s journal, his grubby fingers prying through the pages, flying over Dad’s handwriting, the notes and paper clippings taped in.

“I thought that might be your name,” he says. “See, I leafed through this. What little I could make out—I mean, it's nine kinds of crazy,” he laughs. Dean imagines him running through the woods- huffing and puffing and bawling his eyes out because the ones with most bravado are usually the ones who cry the hardest- with a werewolf tearing after his ass.

He leans forward, instinctively trying to read what’s on the page that’s open right now.

And then the sheriff says, “But I found this, too,” and turns the pages until he reaches one near the end of the journal, empty except for “DEAN 35-111” written in Dad’s handwriting and circled with a quick stroke of a pen.

“Now,” the sheriff says, “you're stayin' right here till you tell me exactly what the hell that means.”

Coordinates, Dean thinks, staring at the numbers. And then he looks up and thinks, screw you.

• ····

As soon as the cops left, Sam and Diego high-tailed it for the Impala and tore down the road as far away from the motel as possible.

Diego keeps his eyes dutifully on the road until Sam’s eyes on the side of his head start making his temple itch.

He glances at him in the passenger seat and asks, “What?”

Sam blinks, “Dean lets you drive?”

Diego arches an eyebrow flicks his eyes over the interior of the car to communicate, “Well. Dean’s not here right now.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I mean, you know. Usually. He’s fucking anal about this car.”

Diego snorts.

“If he never let me drive, we’d have ended up in a ditch more than once by now. Besides, it’s not hard to trick him into the backseat if I get the timing right.”

Sam breathes out a laugh at that and then shakes his head. “Speaking of the timing, I think we just got put on a time limit. They know Dean’s not alone here.”

“Yeah,” Diego agrees.

Sam taps his phone against his chin in thought. “I’ll go see if I can dig up Welch’s address somewhere and you figure out how to get Dean out?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Sam snaps his fingers, muses, “You know, in a town this size, a 911 call could do enough to empty out the station.”

Diego grins. Sam definitely didn’t lose his touch for this stuff, that’s for sure.

• ····

The property has seen much better days. Sam is sure of that. He knocks on the door and eyes his reflection through a chain-link in a grimy glass of a window. He hears footsteps from inside, quiet pad-pad-pad, and then the door opens.

“Hi. Are you Joseph Welch?” He asks the man who, although older, is still undeniably the man from the article photo.

“Yeah,” Joseph confirms, watching him curiously.

Sam sprouts a few words about looking for a business associate and they make their way down a junk-filled driveway. Joseph is holding the photo Sam plucked from the mirror in Dad’s room.

“Yeah, he was older, but that's him,” he says, hands the photo back to Sam. “He came by three or four days ago. Said he was a reporter.”

Sam nods. “That's right. We're working on a story together.”

Joseph huffs. “Well, I don't know what the hell kinda story you're working on. The questions he asked me?” He shakes his head in disproval.

“About your wife Constance?” Sam guesses.

“He asked me where she was buried,” Joseph says in disbelief.

“And where is that again?” Sam asks.

Joseph whips his head to look at him. “What, I gotta go through this twice?”

“It's fact-checking,” he explains. “If you don't mind,” he tacks on.

“In a plot. Behind my old place over on Breckenridge,” Joseph tells him.

“And why did you move?”

The man looks at him like Sam’s insane. “I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died.”

Sam swallows and stops, thus halting Joseph as well.

“Mr. Welch,” he starts, “did you ever marry again?”

“No way,” Joseph shakes his head vehemently. “Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.”

“So you had a happy marriage?”

Joseph is quiet for a hesitant beat. “Definitely,” he says in the end. Sam doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Well,” he says, “that should do it. Thanks for your time.” He starts walking back towards the Impala, but something won’t give him peace, clawing at his gut. He stops, thinks about the “woman in white” scrawled on the post-it note in Dad’s handwriting.

He turns and calls out, “Mr. Welch, did you ever hear of a woman in white?”

Joseph turns around. “A what?”

“A woman in white. Or, sometimes, weeping woman?”

Joseph gives him a blank look.

“It's a ghost story,” he says and starts walking back towards Joseph. “Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really. Um, they're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women. You understand. But all share the same story.”

He stops in front of him.

“Boy, I don't care much for nonsense,” Joseph says dismissively and turns again, walking away.

Sam follows after him.

“See, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them.”

And that freezes him on the spot.

 “And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children.”

Joseph whips around.

Sam swallows. “Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him. And that man is never seen again.”

Joseph starts trembling. “You think...you think that has something to do with...Constance? You smartass!” He yells.

“You tell me,” Sam says resolutely.

Joseph breathes out harshly, shaking all over. “I mean, maybe...maybe I made some mistakes. But no matter what I did, Constance, she never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here! And you don't come back!”

Sam sighs and turns to walk away, cursing out stupid, selfish men.

• ····

Truth be told, if Dean squints, Sheriff Pierce kinda looks like his History teacher from high school. If Mrs. Cornell was a man, that is. Speaking of high school-

He shrugs, “I don't know how many times I gotta tell you. It's my high school locker combo.”

Sheriff’s eye twitches. “We gonna do this all night long?”

Dean grins and then a deputy sticks his head in the room. He says, “We just got a 911, shots fired over at Whiteford Road.”

Sheriff turns to Dean, asks, “You have to go to the bathroom?”

Dean frowns and shakes his head. “No.”

“Good,” the sheriff says curtly and cuffs him to the table before leaving.

Great.

He looks down at the journal and feels his eyes light up. He pulls a paper clip out of one of the pages and unfolds it halfway before pushing it all the way into the lock. He pushes it down against the flat side of the cuff so it bends slightly and then pushes down on the mechanism until it clicks open.

He opens the one on his other wrist too, footsteps rushing left and right in the hallway.

He gets up, grabs Dad’s journal, and watches through the window- ducking as a deputy breezes past the door- for his moment. Within minutes, he’s sneaking down the hallway to the window that’s facing the side of another building and climbs down the fire escape.

He grins and tucks the journal into the back of his jeans. He looks up at the open window and thinks, ha! Suckers.

“If you’re done staring at that lovely brickwork, your chariot awaits, sir,” Diego’s voice rings out from the street and Dean turns around to face him with a big grin.

“A chariot?”

“Yep,” Diego says, waving his hand dismissively. “We’ll hotwire something with wheels.”

Dean snorts.

“911 call?” He asks, walking over to him.

“Sam’s idea,” Diego grins.

“That’s my boy,” Dean says proudly, glad to see that college didn’t completely brainwash him.

Now Diego snickers and tugs at his sleeve with, “Let’s go before we both get arrested.”

And that’s a good enough reason for Dean; he’s gonna die a happy man if he never sees another sheriff again. Not very likely but a man can dream.

Chapter Text

Diego is working on prying open a Ford Fiesta when Dean comes over and fishes his phone out of his jacket.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I’m gonna call Sam,” Dean responds and cuts his eyes to Diego briefly. “I can’t believe you let him take Baby. If he crashes her, I’m blaming both of you.”

Diego rolls his eyes and pulls the door open. “At least put him on the speaker,” he says, sitting behind the wheel and leaning over to unlock the door for Dean on the passenger side. He plops down with a huff and presses the phone to his ear while Diego reaches down to make his way to the wires.

The car starts at the same time Dean says, “Fake 911 phone call? Sammy, I don't know, that's pretty illegal. Even if you did get someone else to do your dirty work.”

Diego doesn’t hear the response and thwacks Dean on the shoulder.

Dean mouths  “Ow” at him and then says into the phone, “Listen, we gotta talk. But let me put you on the speaker.”

Diego leads them onto the road and towards the address Sam gave him after his talk with Joseph Welch and before they split up.

Dean fiddles with the phone before saying, “Okay, listen-.”

“So,” Sam cuts him off, “the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should have been Dad's next stop. I’m going there right now, Diego knows where it is.”

Diego doesn’t so much listen to Sam- Sam already told him everything- as much as he’s watching Dean, who has just gone a bit pale, eyes skittish. “Sammy, would you shut up for a second?” He asks and Diego frowns.

He’s holding something in his hand, but it’s dark and Diego should in fact keep his eyes on the road, so he doesn’t see what it is. Something blocky and dark.

Sam just keeps talking. “I just can't figure out why Dad hasn't destroyed the corpse yet.”

“Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you,” Dean says sharply. Then softer, “He's gone. Dad left Jericho.”

Fuck.

“What? How do you know?”

“I've got his journal,” Dean says and it clicks. Diego glances over again and, sure enough, identifying the object as John Winchester’s precious journal is much easier this time.

Sam’s breath leaves him in a strong exhale. “He doesn't go anywhere without that thing.”

Dean swallows, says “Yeah, well, he did this time,” and drops it in his lap.

“What's it say?”

“Ah, the same old ex-Marine crap when he wants to let us know where he's going.”

“Coordinates,” Sam says with realization dawning in his voice, “Where to?”

Dean shakes his head even though his brother can’t see him and looks at Diego for a moment before casting his eyes down. “I'm not sure yet.”

“I don't understand. I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job?” Sam asks incredulously and Diego understands him. They haven’t worked a lot of cases with John, but on the ones that they did, John’s policy of seeing the job till the end no matter what was a very prominent feature. He wouldn’t leave a job unfinished unless it was for a serious reason.

“Dean, what the hell is going on?”

Dean’s jaw muscles jump and he’s not looking at Diego, eyes sweeping over the dashboard and the trees rushing past them instead. He opens his mouth to respond, though Diego is not sure how he could respond to that because they’re as much in the dark as Sam is- then the sound of breaks screeching cuts in through the speaker, closely followed by the phone clattering out of Sam’s grip and onto the floor.

“Sam?” Dean asks, going rigid in his seat. “Sam!”

Over the phone, they can hear a silky, whispery voice say, “Take me home.”

Dean looks at him with wide eyes, pale with fear, and Diego steps on the gas.

• ····

“Take me home!” Constance repeats firmer when Sam doesn’t make the move to get the car going again.

“No,” he tells her.

Constance glares at him from the backseat. There’s a series of clicks and when Sam turns to get out of the car, the door won’t give. He yanks a few more times, just as futilely, when the car begins to move. In a second, Sam gets a flash of the look on Dean’s face when he finds his precious car wrapped around the tree and jumps to grab the wheel- only to realize that it’s steering on its own. Though, he thinks as he looks at the apparition in the rearview mirror, that’s probably Constance’s doing.  He brings his attention back to the door but doesn’t get any more successful in opening it. When he looks over his shoulder, Constance flickers out of his sight and the Impala keeps gaining speed, going forward around the bend in the road.

She doesn’t appear again until the car rolls to a stop in front of a decrepit house cloaked in dust and cobwebs visible in the beams of light from the headlight. It looks like it’s barely standing, just bones of a home long lost.

The engine shuts off and so do the lights, effectively leaving them in the scarce light of the moon.

“Don't do this,” he tells her even though he can’t see her yet. He doesn’t think he’s been this nervous about a hunt since his early teens, when all of this was new and terrifying and seemed like it’s going to swallow him whole just like it swallowed his dad. He worked long and hard to get out, to make sure that doesn’t happen to him.

Constance flickers back into existence. Her eyes are dull as she stares at the house in front of them, voice hollow and dipped into sadness as she says, “I can never go home.”

Sam swallows. “You're scared to go home.”

She doesn’t answer and when he looks at the backseat, she’s not there. His heart skips a beat and then again when he turns back around and finds her in the passenger seat next to him. She gives him a dead look and then slinks into his lap, shoving him back against the seat hard enough it gives under force and reclines back. He tries to shove back but it’s as useless as it was with the door.

“Hold me,” Constance says, pressing close. “I'm so cold.”

Sam shivers at the cold her non-existent body emits, says, “You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been!”

She drags her eyes over his face, says, “You will be. Just hold me,” and winds one hand around his nape, her fingers like ice dragging over his skin. She surges in and kisses him with freezing lips, pushing against him while he struggles against her iron hold.

He stretches his hand towards the wheel, trying to reach the keys but he’s too far away.

Suddenly, she pulls back and vanishes, her face contorting into something skeletal and monstrous in a second before disappears.

Sam lets out a shuddering breath looking around blindly, and then yells as searing pain tears through his chest. His fingers fumble for the zipper of his hoodie and he yanks it open to find five points burned through the fabric of his shirt; it’s Constance’s fingers, her hand trying to reach into his chest while she flickers in front of him.

He can’t hear anything aside from his yells and his heartbeat pounding in his ears and then a gunshot goes off, shattering the window at his side and surprising Constance enough to let go of him.

His head whips to the side just in time to see Dean firing again from outside, Diego approaching quickly from somewhere on the left.

Dean keeps shooting until Constance disappears and then Sam lurches forward to twist the key in the ignition.

“I’m taking you home,” he grits out, inaudible to anyone but himself over the roar of the engine, and then steps on the gas, smashing Impala through the front side of the house.

Debris flies around him, cracking and shattering erupting in his ears and the whole car shakes before he stomps down on the brake before driving into another wall inside the house. He groans at the sudden motions the collision sent through his body.

“Sam!” Dean shouts from somewhere outside, his voice tangling with Diego’s, then Sam hears his boots crunching over the glass and the general wreckage he left behind. His head pops into view through the passenger’s window.

“You okay?” He asks, his eyes already scanning over him.

In the background, Diego is probably walking around, footsteps quiet over the mess on the floor. Sam hears him say, “Well, shit.”

Sam breathes out, feels a pang of pain in his chest. “I think...” He says.

“Can you move?” Dean asks him.

“Yeah,” he says. Then, because clambering out through all those wooden beams and scattered mess won’t be fun, he adds, “Help me?”

Dean leans in through the window and gives him his hand.

“There you go,” Dean tells him, squeezing his upper arm once they’re in the clear and closes the passenger door.

“Guys,” Diego calls out to them quietly.

They look up to find Constance looking down blankly at a photo in a picture frame in her hands. She looks up at them with a glare and throws it down carelessly.

A bureau scoots towards them across the floor and pins them against the side of the car, digging into Sam’s hipbones sharply. Diego looks like he’s bracing himself to be tossed away but then the lights start flickering and Constance freezes in fear, the emotion finally settling onto her face like she’s an actual human being.  From the top of the staircase next to her, water starts pouring down, the sound of wet feet splashing against the drenched carpet sound out among the noise of the water dripping.

Sam can’t see well from his position, but he thinks there are two silhouettes standing at the top of the stairwell.

He proves to be right when two voices chorus, “You've come home to us, Mommy.”

Suddenly, the pair- a boy and a girl- appear behind her and when she turns, they grab her into a tight embrace, arms winding around her waist like vines. Constance starts screaming, flickering, and in the burst of energy, she and her children melt into a puddle on the floor.

Sam glances at Dean and Diego, both staring at the spot where Constance and her kids were moments ago, and then helps Dean shove away the dresser.

Diego approaches the puddle, cautiously poking at it with the toe of his boot.

“So this is where she drowned her kids,” he says, looking up at the stairwell.

Sam nods even though Diego’s not looking at him. Verbally, he explains, “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

“You found her weak spot,” Dean says next to him. “Nice work, Sammy.” And then he slaps his chest, walking away as Sam laughs through the spike of pain.

“Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you,” he says, turning to face his brother. “What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?”

Diego snorts as he joins his side and Dean glares at him for a brief second before telling Sam, “Hey. Saved your ass.”

And then he leans down to inspect the paint job and find any dents Sam could’ve caused.

“I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car?” He starts, turning to look at Sam. “I'll kill you.”

Diego whispers it with perfect timing along with Dean, schooling his voice into something resembling Dean’s tone and Sam cracks up so hard he has to clutch at his stomach.

Suffice to say, Dean banishes them both into the backseat.

• ····

In the first town they pass through on their way back to Palo Alto, Dean stops at the car shop by the road to fix up the windows that he blew up in the first place.

He insists on doing all work by himself, so Diego and Sam take a spot at the edge of the lot, watching him do his thing under the light of a work lamp and a watchful eye of the shop owner.

Diego sits down on the curb, keeps his eyes on the focus in Dean’s expression and the easy, practiced movements of his body. He’s distracting himself, clearly; Diego is perfectly aware he would still want to do all the work on his own- he wouldn’t let Diego change a tire, for fuck’s sake- but he also knows that Dean’s ignoring his nerves, his mind running in circles, trying not to get too hopeful. And, knowing Dean, probably failing at it.

Sam plonks down next to him with a quiet groan, huffs out a breath before asking, “How is he doing?”

Diego looks at him slowly for a moment and cuts back to Dean. “Guess,” he says.

Sam sighs. “I know he wants me to come back to the life but-“

“It’s not- he doesn’t want you to come back to hunting. He wants you to come back to your family. It’s not the same.”

“Maybe,” Sam says with a bitter chuckle, “but it’s close enough.” Disappointedly, he adds, “I thought you would get it.”

Now he’s got all of Diego’s attention. He shifts to face the younger Winchester.

“I do get you. I get it, Sam.”

“Then, sorry, but what about your family?”

Diego flinches. “My family and yours are very different, Sam. I don’t think I’m wrong to assume you read the book,” he bites out.

Sam winces and turns pink in embarrassment. “Yeah, I- I swear I didn’t get it immediately. Diego, I wouldn’t read it if I knew, I-“

“I know, I know. It’s- nevermind. Forget it.” Vanya’s book is not something he’ll ever be in the mood for discussing. It’s a sore spot that just wouldn’t heal, no matter what Diego does about it. “Dean just misses you. And you know how he is, he’s not just gonna tell you.”

“But he has you,” Sam says weakly.

Diego gives him a flat look. “We both know that’s not the same.”

Dean loves his tough-guy persona but he’s just…he’s just a good person who loves his family. A family that’s just pulling each in their own direction while Dean stands in the crossroads.

Sam scratches his temple. “Yeah,” he agrees. Then he sighs again, heavily. “But I can’t- I can’t just go on the road with you guys. My whole future is right around the corner and I can’t mess it up.”

“I know,” Diego says, adds, “and Dean knows. He’s just,” he sweeps his hand loosely over Dean’s form across the lot, “Dean.”

It’s gonna break his heart, Diego thinks.

Sam huffs out a chuckle, then smiles sadly at his brother, who’s absolutely oblivious to their conversation. “You guys can do this on your own,” he says, nods slightly like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“Yeah,” Diego agrees and bumps their shoulders, “c’mon, we’re awesome. Of course, we can do this.”

Sam laughs again and then Dean’s yelling at them, “Alright, ladies, let’s get a move on.”

• ····

The Impala is tearing down the road, headlights throwing out beams of light ahead of them. Diego is curled up against the door in the backseat, pretending to sleep, and Sam is sprawled out in the passenger seat, Dad’s journal and a map spread over his lap. He’s hunched over it with a flashlight tucked between his chin and shoulder, tracing lines over it with a ruler.

“Okay, here's where Dad went,” he announces, “It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado.”

Dean nods, taking it in. He mulls the name over in his head. “Sounds charming. How far?”

Sam makes the noise that translates as “gimme a sec” and then says, “About six hundred miles.”

Dean grins, already calculating it into hours. “Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning.”

He sees Sam turning his head slowly to look at him, start hesitantly, “Dean, I- um...”

Dean flicks his eyes to him briefly before looking back at the road.

“You're not going,” he says for him.

Sam sighs, “The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there.”

He sounds mournful but that doesn’t prevent the stab of disappointment that hits Dean.

He nods. Eyes on the road, eyes on the road, of-fucking-course.

“Yeah. Yeah, whatever.”

Of course, Sam’s not going. He left once, there’s no reason for him not to leave again. Let Dean deal with Dad. Why the fuck not.

“I'll take you home,” he says, because he’ll always do what Sam wants. He’ll always be the fool.

Sam turns off the flashlight and the atmosphere that settles over them makes it feel as if neither of them got what they want.

• ····

Dean pulls up in front of the main entrance to the building and Sam feels like he can finally breathe again. He missed his brother and it was great seeing Diego after only exchanging texts and calls for so long- but Sam doesn’t want to get sucked back into this.

Dean, though, looks miserable. Sam wants to hug him and apologize- but they don’t do that anymore. Sam thinks he lost that privilege in Dean’s book when he left for Stanford four years ago.

Still, he asks, “Call me if you find him?”

Dean nods noncommittally and Sam gets out of the car. Sneaking a glance into the backseat, he catches Diego squinting at him through narrowed eyes, still slumped in his sleeping position.

He says their families are not the same, but Sam figures the two of them are not so different. He knows Diego misses his siblings too.

He gnaws at the inside of his cheek and bends down to ask Dean, “And maybe I can meet up with you all later, huh?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, all right.”

There’s nothing else to be said, so Sam pats the door twice and turns away.

“Sam?”

He turns to see Dean leaned over to the passenger side, forearm braced against the door.

“You know, we made a hell of a team back there,” he says, eyes sweeping over to Diego- who gave up on pretending to sleep and is watching their exchange intently and quietly, a small frown on his face- and back to Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees because it’s true. They did make a good team.

And now, really with nothing else to say from both sides, Dean rolls up the window and gets back into the driver’s seat. The Impala’s engine roars to life, AC/DC starts blasting, loud enough even through the rolled-up windows, and then Sam is left to watch it disappear into the night.

• ····

When they stop at the red light, Diego can’t keep in a huff of frustration anymore. He drops his feet from the bench and shoves them in his boots.

“What?” Dean asks from the front, looking at him through the rearview mirror.

He takes in a breath. “It’s just- I don’t know, I have a really bad feeling.”

“About what?”

Diego waves his hand through the air, “Generally. Like something’s about to happen.”

It’s a certain sense of déjà vu, but God help him, Diego can’t pinpoint it. He knows it’s familiar and he knows it doesn’t mean anything good. Like stifling pressure in his chest, the sense of dread, and the feeling of soot between his teeth.

“I think we gotta go back,” he blurts out, overcome with unexplainable anxiety.

“To Sam?” Dean asks in alarm.

“Yeah,” Diego says curtly and bends down to tie his laces.

The light turns green and Dean takes a sharp U-turn back towards Sam’s apartment.

• ····

The apartment is cloaked in darkness when he gets in, absolutely quiet except for his footsteps landing softly on the floor.

“Jess? You home?” He calls out, eager to see her smiling face and put this gloom and doom behind him. Dad will be fine; he’s got Dean and Diego looking for him.

He locks the door behind him and notices a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table with a note that says “Missed you! Love you!” in Jess’s cutesy handwriting. He leaves his bag by the table and takes one, bites into it on his way to their bedroom, a smile erupting on his face.

He can hear the shower running and closes his eyes with a sigh of relief. He loves Dean, but going with him wouldn’t do any good. He flops down onto the bed, settling down with a pillow under his head and thinks about how Jess will come out any moment now and greet him with a kiss and a hug.

Something drops on his forehead; one drop, then two, and he opens his eyes, expecting to see a wet spot on their ceiling from the apartment above.

Instead, air leaves him in a horrified gasp, eyes locked to Jess’s, almost as dead as Constance’s were. She’s pinned to the ceiling, her white nightdress soaking up the blood from the wound on her belly.

A shout tears itself from his throat, a hoarse, “No!” a moment before she bursts into flames.

The fire spreads fast, licking across the ceiling, down the walls, and turning the room into an inferno.

“No!” He screams again, shielding his face with his arm, even as he can’t peel his eyes away from her face, frozen in a silent scream. “Jess!”

Wood cracks somewhere, and then Dean is there, yelling, “Sam!” and yanking him to his feet.

“No! No!” He screams, feet rooted on the spot, eyes still trained on Jess.

“Goddamnit, Sam!” Dean yells close to his ear and shoves him out the door.

He collides with another body, pushes away to get back. “Jess! Jess!” He’s got to save her, he’s got to save her.

Diego grabs his arm and pulls him out of the apartment- Dean on their heels- with so much strength it sends pain shooting up his shoulder.

“No!” He screams again, fighting against them while they drag him away, smoke and fire engulfing the apartment.

• ····

Diego stands next to Dean in the back of the crowd that started circling the scene as soon as the sirens began howling in the night. There’s a fire truck parked near the building, sitting passively now that the fire has been put out and the only thing rising from the broken window is the smoke.

The firemen and police officers are keeping back people trying to get a closer look, trying to disperse them, and Diego feels Dean turning and then hears his footsteps retreating. He turns to follow at a slower pace.

Dean circles his car to come to a stop next to Sam, who’s standing behind the open trunk, loading a shotgun.

Diego leans against the backseat door with his shoulder, crosses his arms over his chest, and catches Dean’s eyes. The understanding passes between them.

This is serious.

Dean’s eyes turn back to Sam.

He finally looks up, his face set in furious determination, then sighs, nods, and tosses the shotgun into the trunk.

“We got work to do,” he grits out and shuts the trunk.

Blood will spill, Diego knows, and he damn well hopes it won’t be theirs.